quest of thig by basil wells thig of ortha was the vanguard of the conquering "horde." he had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world--only to meet on earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories fall 1942. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby ship from another planet with the upper air. he looked out across the heaving waters of the sound toward connecticut. he stared appraisingly around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully because of the lesser gravitation. thig was shorter than the average earthman--although on ortha he was well above the average in height--but his body was thick and powerfully muscled. his skull was well-shaped and large; his features were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. oddest of all, he wore no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. the orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the little-used highway on the other side. here he patiently sat down to wait for an earthman or an earthwoman to pass. his task now was to bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's mentality of all its knowledge. in this way they could learn whether a planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of orthans. already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them all only three had proven worthy of consideration. this latest planet, however, 72-p-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every respect. sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope made of 72-p-3 a paradise among planets. the explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a leafy shrub. a creature was approaching. its squat body was covered with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal and wood in its paw. it walked upright as did the men of ortha. thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's stupid face. it was as though he was looking into a bit of polished metal at the reflection of himself! the earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious time. the mighty muscles of the orthan sent him hurtling across the intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped across the mouth and neck of the stranger.... * * * * * lewis terry was going fishing. for a week the typewriter mill that had ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed west and the frigid desolation of the northwoods had been silent. lewis wondered if he was going stale. he had sat every day for eight hours in front of that shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. feebly he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. he hadn't dared touch the machine since. for mr. terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never been further west of long island than elizabeth, and he had promised his wife, ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on a trailer tour of the _west_ that very summer. since that promise, he could not write a word. visions of whooping red-skinned apaches and be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out of his subconscious. yet he _had_ to write at least three novelets and a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great adventure--or the trip was off. so lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a salable yarn.... "hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the road. "what's the trouble?" then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech and his wind. he fought futilely against trained muscles. the hand clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of his head. blackness flooded the brain of lewis, and he knew no more. * * * * * "there it is," announced thig, dropping the limp body of the captured earthman to the metal deck-plates. "it is a male of the species that must have built the cities we saw as we landed." "he resembles thig," announced kam. "but for the strange covering he wears he might be thig." "thig will be this creature!" announced torp. "with a psychic relay we will transfer the earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to the brain of thig! he can then go out and scout this world without arousing suspicion. while he is gone, i will take kam and explore the two inner planets." "you are the commander," said thig. "but i wish this beast did not wear these clumsy sheathing upon his body. on ortha we do not hamper the use of our limbs so." "do not question the word of your commander," growled torp, swelling out his thick chest menacingly. "it is for the good of our people that you disguise yourself as an earthman." "for the good of the horde," thig intoned almost piously as he lifted terry's body and headed for the laboratory. service for the horde was all that the men of ortha knew. carefully cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their horde, they knew neither father nor mother. affection and love were entirely lacking in their early training and later life. they were trained antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the horde were of any moment. men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling robots of flesh and bone for the horde. the horde was their religion, their love-life, their everything! so it was that the bodies of the earthman and the orthan were strapped on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their heads. for ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked terry's brain dry of knowledge. the shock upon the nervous system of the earthman proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped completely. twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured brain, but after the third suspension of life thig removed his helmet. "there is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades. "now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. my new body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is aroused. and when i return i will take along some of the gleaming baubles we found on the red planet--these people value them highly." an hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and painless, thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running inland to his home. memory was laying the country bare about him, terry's own childhood memories of this particular section of long island. here was the place where jake and ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that old 'notch-ear' beggs had told them so exactly about. remembrance of that episode gave thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his pocket. he had found them in a chest along the beach! he was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. an odd sensation, that his acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from around his heart. then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. men had no mates on ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding the emotions that swept through his acquired memory. unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed, trembling, against his own. that same hot wave of pulsing blood choked achingly up into his throat. "lew, dear," ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? i called up at the landing but you were not there. i wanted to let you know that saddlebag publications sent a check for $50 for "reversed revolvers" and three other editors asked for shorts soon." * * * * * "shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted thig, and gasped. for the moment he had been lewis terry and not thig! so thoroughly had he acquired the knowledge of terry that he found himself unconsciously adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. all the better this way, he realized--more natural. "sorry i was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the glittering baubles, "but i was poking around on the beach where we used to hunt treasure and i found an old chest. inside it i found nothing but a handful of these." he flashed the jewels in front of ellen's startled eyes and she clung, unbelieving, to his arm. "why, lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! we can buy that new trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. we can go west right away.... hollywood, the grand canyon, cowboys!" "uh huh," agreed the pseudo lewis, memories of the ferocious savages and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. sincerely he hoped that the west had reformed. "i saved some kraut and weiners," ellen said. "get washed up while i'm warming them up. kids ate all the bread so i had to borrow some from the eskoes. want coffee, too?" "mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. * * * * * "home again," whispered ellen as she stood beside thig twelve weeks later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. she knelt beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. "the west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water." thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the exposed rafters of the porch roof. he looked down at the dusty gray car and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living quarters for almost three months. strange thoughts were afloat in the chaos of his cool orthan brain. tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows and report that earth was a planetary paradise. no other world, including ortha, was so well-favored and rich. an expeditionary force to wipe the grotesque civilizations of earth out of existence would, of course, be necessary before the first units of new hordes could be landed. and there thig balked. why must they destroy these people, imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the hordes? thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the dead earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. for three months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed for reasons that he had never known existed. he had learned the heady glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. he had experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against the wits of other unpredictable human beings. there was no abrupt division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. a laborer thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. uncertainty added zest to every day's life. the orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to the horde to the exclusion of all other interests. what, he wondered, would one new world--or a hundred--populated by the hordes add to the progress of humanity? for a hundred thousand years the orthan civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain well-defined channels. they were mindless bees maintaining their vast mechanical hives. there was that moment on the brink of the grand canyon when ellen had caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath them. there were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and cactus slopes. there was the little boy, his body burning with fever, who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept--the son of ellen and the man he had destroyed. thig groaned. he was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better of his judgment. he would go now to the space ship and urge them to blast off for ortha. he sprang off the porch and strode away down the road toward the beach. the children ran to him; wanted to go along. he sent them away harshly but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. ellen came to the door and called after him. "hurry home, dear," she said. "i'll have a bite ready in about an hour." he dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she would have known something was wrong. she was a very wise sort of person when something was troubling him. he waved his stubby paw of a hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the sound. oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that lived no longer. he mentally titled it: "rustlers' riot" and blocked in the outlines of his plot. one section of his brain was that of the careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be sapping the life from his own brain. he knew that the story would never be written, but he toyed with the idea. so far had thig the emotionless, robot-being from ortha drifted from the unquestioning worship of the horde! * * * * * "you have done well," announced torp when thig had completed his report on the resources and temperatures of various sections of terra. "we now have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to ortha at once. "i will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-p-3 at once and the complete destruction of all biped life upon it. the mental aberrations of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. i imagine that three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient for the purposes of complete liquidation." "but why," asked thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and exile them on one of the less desirable continents, antarctica for example or siberia? they are primitive humans even as our race was once a race of primitives. it is not our duty to help to attain our own degree of knowledge and comfort?" "only the good of the horde matters!" shouted torp angrily. "shall a race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these earthmen, stand in the way of a superior race? we want their world, and so we will take it. the law of the horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking." "let us get back to ortha at once, then," gritted out thig savagely. "never again do i wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet. there are forces at work upon earth that we of ortha have long forgotten." "check the blood of thig for disease, kam," ordered torp shortly. "his words are highly irrational. some form of fever perhaps native to this world. while you examine him i will blast off for ortha." thig followed kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the squat scientist's desk. his eyes roamed over the familiar instruments and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the walls. his gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. a blast of the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. the ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. thig's broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. suddenly he knew that he must go back to earth, back to ellen and the children of the man he had helped destroy. he loved ellen, and nothing must stand between them! the hordes of ortha must find some other world, an empty world--this planet was not for them. "turn back!" he cried wildly. "i must go back to earth. there is a woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! the horde does not need this planet." kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its case. he approached thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac of the finest members of the horde. "no human being is more important than the horde," he stated baldly. "this woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we must eliminate for the good of the horde." then it was that thig went berserk. his fists slashed into the thick jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying the orthan's vital throat tubes. his fingers and thumb gouged deep into kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it could be uttered. kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness and dragged his blaster from it. thig's other hand clamped over his and for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly struggle. the fate of a world hung in the balance as kam's other hand fought against that lone arm of thig. * * * * * the scales swung in favor of kam. slowly the flaring snout of his weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of thig's waist. thig suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. a sudden reversal of pressure on kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling about full upon its owner's thick torso. thig's fingers pressed down upon kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the decomposition blaster, and kam's muscles turned to water. he shrieked. before thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated matter. horror for what he had done--that he had slain one of his own horde--made his limbs move woodenly. all of his thoughts were dulled for the moment. painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the narrowed icy eyes of his commander. he saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way. his body seemed paralyzed. this was the end, he thought as he waited stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for ellen and the kids and all the struggling races of earth. he would never write another cowboy yarn--they would all be dead anyhow soon. then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly toward the deck. blows rained against his skull. he wondered if torp would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon upon him. blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... * * * * * bam, bam, bam, the blood pounded in his ears. like repeated blows of a hammer they shook his booming head. no longer was torp above him. he was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of bruised flesh and bone. he was unfettered and the blood was caked upon his skull and in his matted hair. torp must have thought he had killed him with those savage blows upon the head. even torp, thought thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now owed his life. a cool-headed robot of an orthan would have efficiently used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his unconscious body. thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control room. torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies through the refuse lock. already the body of kam was gone. he wondered why he had been left until last. perhaps torp wished to take cultures of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible for his sudden madness. the cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. association of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack beneath them. his hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the weapon. he tugged it free. in a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck toward the door. halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face, the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. he heard the feet of torp scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled out into a senseless whinny. thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length of the blaster in front of him. his eyes sought the doorway and stared full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. torp leaned there watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten lips. the clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and chest. he was a madman! the deadly attack of thig; his own violent avenging of kam's death, and now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove. the shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of the orthan. so thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. then he stepped over the skeleton-thing that had been torp, using the new strength that victory had given him to drive him along. he had saved a world's civilization from extinction! the thought sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. after all, it had been the earthwoman and the children he had been thinking of while he battled kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. he went to the desk where torp had been writing in the ship's log and read the last few nervously scrawled lines: _planet 72-p-3 unfit for colonization. some pernicious disease that strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent there. thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and destroyed kam. in turn i was forced to slay him. but it is not ended. already i feel the insidious virus of...._ and there his writing ended abruptly. thig nodded. that would do it. he set the automatic pilot for the planet ortha. unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's path she would return safely to ortha with that mute warning of danger on 72-p-3. the body of torp would help to confirm his final message. then thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's hull, and cut free from the mother vessel. he flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving him from the parent ship. the sensation of free flight against his new body was strangely exhilerating and heady. it was the newest of the emotions he had experienced on earth since that day, so many months before, when he had felt the warmness of ellen's lips tight against his. [illustration: _thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving him from the parent ship._] he swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away ortha, and there was no regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first existence. he thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the monotonous routine of existence that had once been his--and his heart thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days he had spent on his three month trip over earth. he made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. the rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching the ship echoed through the hull-plates. he thought of many things in those few moments. he watched the roundness of earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion that all planets had for an incoming ship. he reduced the drive of his rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that crowded his mind. he shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys below. and there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that, despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer space. he fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight differences in his appearance from an earthman's, and his fingers trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. he said a brief prayer in his heart to a god whose presence he now felt very deeply. there were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories were hot, bitter pains. * * * * * earth was not far below him. as he let gravity suck him earthward, he heaved a gasp of relief. he was no longer thig, a creature of a horde's creation, but lewis terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the west. he must remember that always. he had destroyed the real terry and now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. the knowledge that ellen's love was not really meant for him would be a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. her dreams and happiness must never be shattered. the bulge of earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines of long island in the growing twilight. a new plot was growing in the brain of lewis terry, a yarn about a cowboy suddenly transported to another world. he smiled ironically. he had seen those other worlds. perhaps some day he would write about them.... he was lewis terry! he must remember that! old lady number 31 by louise forsslund author of "the story of sarah," "the ship of dreams," etc. 1909 to my mother contents i. the tea-table ii. "good-by" iii. the candidate iv. one of them v. the head of the corner vi. indian summer vii. old letters and new viii. the anniversary ix. a winter butterfly x. the turn of the tide xi. mental treatment xii. "a passel of meddlers" xiii. the prodigal's departure xiv. cutting the apron-strings xv. the "hardening" process xvi. "a reg'lar hoss" xvii. the deserter xviii. samuel's welcome xix. exchanging the olive-branch xx. the fatted calf xxi. "our beloved brother" i the tea-table angeline's slender, wiry form and small, glossy gray head bent over the squat brown tea-pot as she shook out the last bit of leaf from the canister. the canister was no longer hers, neither the tea-pot, nor even the battered old pewter spoon with which she tapped the bottom of the tin to dislodge the last flicker of tea-leaf dust. the three had been sold at auction that day in response to the auctioneer's inquiry, "what am i bid for the lot?" nothing in the familiar old kitchen was hers, angeline reflected, except abraham, her aged husband, who was taking his last gentle ride in the old rocking-chair--the old arm-chair with painted roses blooming as brilliantly across its back as they had bloomed when the chair was first purchased forty years ago. those roses had come to be a source of perpetual wonder to the old wife, an ever present example. neither time nor stress could wilt them in a single leaf. when abe took the first mortgage on the house in order to invest in an indefinitely located mexican gold-mine, the melodeon dropped one of its keys, but the roses nodded on with the same old sunny hope; when abe had to take the second mortgage and tenafly gold became a forbidden topic of conversation, the minute-hand fell off the parlor clock, but the flowers on the back of the old chair blossomed on none the less serenely. the soil grew more and more barren as the years went by; but still the roses had kept fresh and young, so why, argued angy, should not she? if old age and the pinch of poverty had failed to conquer their valiant spirit, why should she listen to the croaking tale? if they bloomed on with the same crimson flaunt of color, though the rockers beneath them had grown warped and the body of the chair creaked and groaned every time one ventured to sit in it, why should she not ignore the stiffness which the years seemed to bring to her joints, the complaints which her body threatened every now and again to utter, and fare on herself, a hardy perennial bravely facing life's winter-time? even this dreaded day had not taken one fraction of a shade from the glory of the roses, as angeline could see in the bud at one side of abraham's head and the full-blown flower below his right ear; so why should she droop because the sale of her household goods had been somewhat disappointing? _somewhat?_ when the childless old couple, still sailing under the banner of a charity-forbidding pride, became practically reduced to their last copper, just as abe's joints were "loosenin' up" after a five years' siege of rheumatism, and decided to sell all their worldly possessions, apart from their patched and threadbare wardrobes and a few meager keepsakes, they had depended upon raising at least two hundred dollars, one half of which was to secure abe a berth in the old men's home at indian village, and the other half to make angeline comfortable for life, if a little lonely, in the old ladies' home in their own native hamlet of shoreville. both institutions had been generously endowed by the same estate, and were separated by a distance of but five miles. "might as waal be five hunderd, with my rheumatiz an' yer weak heart," abraham had growled when angy first proposed the plan as the only dignified solution to their problem of living. "but," the little wife had rejoined, "it'll be a mite o' comfort a-knowin' a body's so near, even ef yer can't git tew 'em." now, another solution must be found to the problem; for the auction was over, and instead of two hundred dollars they had succeeded in raising but one hundred dollars and two cents. "that air tew cents was fer the flour-sifter," inwardly mourned angy, "an' it was wuth double an' tribble, fer it's been a good friend ter me fer nigh on ter eight year." "tew cents on the second hunderd," said abe for the tenth time. "i've counted it over an' over. one hunderd dollars an' tew pesky pennies. an' i never hear a man tell so many lies in my life as that air auctioneer. yew'd 'a' thought he was sellin' out the empery o' rooshy. hy-guy, it sounded splendid. fust off i thought he'd raise us more 'n we expected. an' mebbe he would have tew, angy," a bit ruefully, "ef yew'd 'a' let me advertise a leetle sooner. i don't s'pose half shoreville knows yit that we was gwine ter have a auction sale." he watched the color rising in her cheeks with a curious mixture of pride in her pride and regret at its consequences. "it's no use a-talkin', mother, pride an' poverty makes oneasy bed-fellers." he leaned back in the old chair, creaking out a dismal echo to the auctioneer's, "going, going, gone!" while the flush deepened in angy's cheek. again she fastened her gaze upon the indomitable red rose which hung a pendant ear-ring on the right side of abraham's head. "yew wouldn't 'a' had folks a-comin' here ter bid jest out o' charity, would yew?" she demanded. "an' anyhow," in a more gentle tone,--the gently positive tone which she had acquired through forty years of living with abraham,--"we hain't so bad off with one hunderd dollars an' tew cents, an'--beholden ter nobody! it's tew cents more 'n yew need ter git yew inter the old men's, an' them extry tew cents'll pervide fer me jest bewtiful." abraham stopped rocking to stare hard at his resourceful wife, an involuntary twinkle of amusement in his blue eyes. with increased firmness, she repeated, "jest bewtiful!" whereupon abe, scenting self-sacrifice on his wife's part, sat up straight and snapped, "haow so, haow so, mother?" "it'll buy a postage-stamp, won't it?"--she was fairly aggressive now,--"an' thar's a envelop what wa'n't put up ter auction in the cupboard an' a paper-bag i kin iron out,--ketch me a-gwine ter the neighbors an' a-beggin' fer writin'-paper--an' i'll jest set daown an' write a line ter mis' halsey. her house hain't a stun's throw from the old men's; an' i'll offer ter come an' take keer o' them air young 'uns o' her'n fer my board an' keep an'--ten cents a week. i was a-gwine ter say a quarter, but i don't want ter impose on nobody. seein' that they hain't over well-ter-do, i would go fer nothin', but i got ter have somethin' ter keep up appearances on, so yew won't have no call ter feel ashamed of me when i come a-visitin' ter the hum." involuntarily, as she spoke, angy lifted her knotted old hand and smoothed back the hair from her brow; for through all the struggling years she had kept a certain, not unpleasing, girlish pride in her personal appearance. abraham had risen with creaks of his rheumatic joints, and was now walking up and down the room, his feet lifted slowly and painfully with every step, yet still his blue eyes flashing with the fire of indignant protest. "me a-bunkin' comfortable in the old men's, an' yew a-takin' keer o' them halsey young 'uns fer ten cents a week! i wouldn't take keer o' 'em fer ten cents a short breath. thar be young 'uns an' young 'uns," he elucidated, "but they be tartars! yew'd be in yer grave afore the fust frost; an' who's a-gwine ter bury yer--the taown?" his tone became gentle and broken: "no, no, angy. yew be a good gal, an' dew jest as we calc'lated on. yew jine the old ladies'; yew've got friends over thar, yew'll git erlong splendid. an' i'll git erlong tew. yer know"--throwing his shoulders back, he assumed the light, bantering tone so familiar to his wife--"the poorhouse doors is always open. i'd jest admire ter go thar. thar's a rocking-chair in every room, and they say the grub is a no. 1." he winked at her, smiling his broadest smile in his attempt to deceive. both wink and smile, however, were lost upon angy, who was busy dividing the apple-sauce in such a way that abe would have the larger share without suspecting it, hoping the while that he would not notice the absence of butter at this last home meal. she herself had never believed in buttering bread when there was "sass" to eat with it; but abe's extravagant tastes had always carried him to the point of desiring both butter and sauce as a relish to his loaf. "naow, fur 's i'm concerned," pursued abe, "i hain't got nothin' agin the poorhouse fer neither man ner woman. i'd as lief let yew go thar 'stid o' me; fer i know very well that's what yew're a-layin' out fer ter do. yes, yes, mother, yew can't fool me. but think what folks would say! think what they would say! they 'd crow, 'thar's abe a-takin' his comfort in the old men's hum, an' angeline, she's a-eatin' her heart out in the poorhouse!'" angeline had, indeed, determined to be the one to go to the poorhouse; but all her life long she had cared, perhaps to a faulty degree, for "what folks would say." above all, she cared now for what they had said and what they still might say about her husband and this final ending to his down-hill road. she rested her two hands on the table and looked hard at the apple-sauce until it danced before her eyes. she could not think with any degree of clearness. vaguely she wondered if their supper would dance out of sight before they could sit down to eat it. so many of the good things of life had vanished ere she and abe could touch their lips to them. then she felt his shaking hand upon her shoulder and heard him mutter with husky tenderness: "my dear, this is the fust chance since we've been married that i've had to take the wust of it. don't say a word agin it naow, mother, don't yer. i've brought yer ter this pass. lemme bear the brunt o' it." ah, the greatest good of all had not vanished, and that was the love they bore one to the other. the sunshine came flooding back into mother's heart. she lifted her face, beautiful, rosy, eternally young. this was the man for whom she had gladly risked want and poverty, the displeasure of her own people, almost half a century ago. now at last she could point him out to all her little world and say, "see, he gives me the red side of the apple!" she lifted her eyes, two bright sapphires swimming with the diamond dew of unshed, happy tears. "i'm a-thinkin', father," she twittered, "that naow me an' yew be a-gwine so fur apart, we be a-gittin' closer tergether in sperit than we 've ever been afore." abe bent down stiffly to brush her cheek with his rough beard, and then, awkward, as when a boy of sixteen he had first kissed her, shy, ashamed at this approach to a return of the old-time love-making, he seated himself at the small, bare table. this warped, hill-and-dale table of the drop-leaves, which had been brought from the attic only to-day after resting there for ten years, had served as their first dining-table when the honeymoon was young. abe thoughtfully drummed his hand on the board, and as angy brought the tea-pot and sat down opposite him, he recalled: "we had bread an' tea an' apple-sass the day we set up housekeeping dew yew remember, angy?" "an' i burned the apple-sass," she supplemented, whereupon abe chuckled, and angy went on with a thrill of genuine gladness over the fact that he remembered the details of that long-ago honeymoon as well as she: "yew don't mind havin' no butter to-night, dew yer, father?" he recalled how he had said to her at that first simple home meal: "yew don't mind bein' poor with me, dew yer, angy?" now, with a silent shake of his head, he stared at her, wondering how it would seem to eat at table when her face no longer looked at him across the board, to sleep at night when her faithful hand no longer lay within reach of his own. she lifted her teacup, he lifted his, the two gazing at each other over the brims, both half-distressed, half-comforted by the fact that love still remained their toast-master after the passing of all the years. of a sudden angy exclaimed, "we fergot ter say grace." shocked and contrite, they covered their eyes with their trembling old hands and murmured together, "dear lord, we thank thee this day for our daily bread." angy opened her eyes to find the red roses cheerfully facing her from the back of the rocking-chair. a robin had hopped upon the window-sill just outside the patched and rusty screen and was joyfully caroling to her his views of life. through the window vines in which the bird was almost meshed the sunlight sifted softly into the stripped, bare, and lonely room. angy felt strangely encouraged and comforted. the roses became symbolical to her of the "lilies of the field which toil not, neither do they spin"; the robin was one of the "two sparrows sold for a farthing, and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your father"; while the sunlight seemed to call out to the little old lady who hoped and believed and loved much: "fear ye not therefor. ye are of more value than many sparrows!" ii "good-by" when the last look of parting had been given to the old kitchen and the couple passed out-of-doors, hushed and trembling, they presented an incongruously brave, gala-day appearance. both were dressed in their best. to be sure, abraham's sunday suit had long since become his only, every-day suit as well, but he wore his sabbath-day hat, a beaver of ancient design, with an air that cast its reflection over all his apparel. angeline had on a black silk gown as shiny as the freshly polished stove she was leaving in her kitchen--a gown which testified from its voluminous hem to the soft yellow net at the throat that angeline was as neat a mender and darner as could be found in suffolk county. a black silk bonnet snuggled close to her head, from under its brim peeping a single pink rose. every spring for ten years angeline had renewed the youth of this rose by treating its petals with the tender red dye of a budding oak. under the pink rose, a soft pink flush bloomed on either of the old lady's cheeks. her eyes flashed with unconquerable pride, and her square, firm chin she held very high; for now, indeed, she was filled with terror of what "folks would say" to this home-leaving, and it was a bright june afternoon, too clear for an umbrella with which to hide one's face from prying neighbors, too late in the day for a sunshade. angy tucked the green-black affair which served them as both under her arm and swung abe's figured old carpet-bag in her hand with the manner of one setting out on a pleasant journey. abe, though resting heavily on his stout, crooked cane, dragged behind him angy's little horsehair trunk upon a creaking, old, unusually large, toy express-wagon which he had bought at some forgotten auction long ago. the husband and wife passed into the garden between borders of boxwood, beyond which nodded the heads of angy's carefully tended, out-door "children"--her roses, her snowballs, her sweet-smelling syringas, her wax-like bleeding-hearts, and her shrub of bridal-wreath. "jest a minute," she murmured, as abe would have hastened on to the gate. she bent her proud head and kissed with furtive, half-ashamed passion a fluffy white spray of the bridal-wreath. now overtopping the husband's silk hat, the shrub had not come so high as his knee when they two had planted it nearly a half-century ago. "you're mine!" angy's heart cried out to the shrub and to every growing thing in the garden. "you're mine. i planted you, tended you, loved you into growing. you're all the children i ever had, and i'm leaving you." but the old wife did not pluck a single flower, for she could never bear to see a blossom wither in her hand, while all she said aloud was: "i'm glad 't was mis' holmes that bought in the house. they say she's a great hand ter dig in the garden." angy's voice faltered. abe did not answer. something had caused a swimming before his eyes which he did not wish his wife to see; so he let fall the handle of the express-wagon and, bending his slow back, plucked a sprig of "old-man." though he could not have expressed his sentiments in words, the garden brought poignant recollections of the hopes and promises which had thrown their rose color about the young days of his marriage. his hopes had never blossomed into fulfilment. his promises to the little wife had been choked by the weeds of his own inefficiency. worse than this, the bursting into bloom of seeds of selfish recklessness in himself was what had turned the garden of their life into an arid waste. and now, in their dry and withered old age, he and angy were being torn up by the roots, flung as so much rubbish by the roadside. "mother, i be dretful sorry ter take yew away from your posies," muttered abraham as he arose with his green sprig in his hand. with shaking fingers, angy sought a pin hidden beneath her basque. "father, shall i pin yer 'old-man' in yer buttonhole?" she quavered. then as he stooped for her to arrange the posy, she whispered: "i wouldn't care, 'cept fer what folks must say. le' 's hurry before any one sees us. i told everybody that we wa'n't a-gwine ter break up till ter-morrer mornin'." fortunately, there was a way across lots to the old ladies' home, an unfrequented by-path over a field and through a bit of woodland, which would bring the couple almost unobserved to a side gate. under ordinary circumstances, angeline would never have taken this path; for it exposed her carefully patched and newly polished shoes to scratches, her fragile, worn silk skirt and stiff, white petticoat to brambles. moreover, the dragging of the loaded little wagon was more difficult here for abraham. but they both preferred the narrower, rougher way to facing the curious eyes of all shoreville now, the pitying windows of the village street. as the couple came to the edge of the woodland, they turned with one accord and looked back for the last glimpse of the home. blazing gold-red against the kitchen window flamed the afternoon sunlight. "look a' that!" angy cried eagerly, as one who beholds a promise in the skies. "jest see, father; we couldn't 'a' made out that winder this fur at all ef the sun hadn't struck it jest so. i declar' it seems almost as ef we could see the rocker, tew. it's tew bad, abe, that we had ter let yer old rocker go. d'yew remember--?" she laid her hand on his arm, and lifted her gaze, growing clouded and wistful, to his face. "when we bought the chair, we thought mebbe some day i'd be rocking a leetle baby in it. 't was then, yew ricollec', we sorter got in the habit of callin' each other 'father' an' 'mother.' i wonder ef the young 'uns had come--" "le' 's hurry," interrupted abe almost gruffly. "le' 's hurry." they stumbled forward with bowed heads in silence, until of a sudden they were startled by a surprised hail of recognition, and looked up to find themselves confronted by a bent and gray old man, a village character, a harmless, slightly demented public charge known as "ishmael" or "captain rover." "whar yew goin', cap'n rose?" the old couple had drawn back at the sight of the gentle vagabond, and angy clutched at her husband's arm, her heart contracting at the thought that he, too, had become a pauper. "i'm a-takin' my wife ter jine the old ladies over thar ter the hum," abe answered, and would have passed on, shrinking from the sight of himself as reflected in poor ishmael. but the "innocent" placed himself in their path. "yew ain't a-goin' ter jine 'em, tew?" he bantered. abe forced a laugh to his lips in response. "no, no; i'm goin' over ter yaphank ter board on the county." again the couple would have passed on, their faces flushed, their eyes lowered, had not ishmael flung out one hand to detain them while he plunged the other hurriedly into his pocket. "here." he drew out a meager handful of nickels and pennies, his vacant smile grown wistful. "here, take it, cap'n rose. it's all i got. i can't count it myself, but yew can. don't yew think it's enough ter set yew up in business, so yew won't have ter go ter the poorhouse? the poorhouse is a bad place. i was there last winter. i don't like the poorhouse." he rambled on of the poorhouse. angy, panting for breath, one hand against the smothering pain at her heart, was trying, with the other, to drag "father" along. "father" was shaking his head at ishmael, at the proffered nickels and pennies--shaking his head and choking. at length he found his voice, and was able to smile at his would-be benefactor with even the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. "much obliged, cap'n rover; but yew keep yer money fer terbaccy. i ain't so high-toned as yew. i'll take real comfort at the poorhouse. s' long; thank yer. s' long." ishmael went on his way muttering to himself, unhappily jingling his rejected alms; while angy and abe resumed their journey. as they came to the gate of the old ladies' home, angy seized hold of her husband's arm, and looking up into his face pleaded earnestly: "father, let's take the hunderd dollars fer a fambly tombstun an' go ter the poorhouse tergether!" he shook her off almost roughly and lifted the latch of the gate. "folks'd say we was crazy, mother." there was no one in sight as he dragged in the express-cart and laid down the handle. before him was a long, clean-swept path ending apparently in a mass of shrubbery; to the left was a field of sweet corn reaching to the hedge; to the right a strong and sturdy growth of pole lima beans; and just within the entrance, beneath the sweeping plumes of a weeping-willow tree, was a shabby but inviting green bench. abe's glance wandered from the bench to his wife's face. angy could not lift her eyes to him; with bowed head she was latching and unlatching the gate through which he must pass. he looked at the sun and thoughtfully made reckon of the time. there were still two hours before he could take the train which-"lef 's go set deown a spell afore--" he faltered--"afore we say good-by." she made no answer. she told herself over and over that she must--simply must--stop that "all-of-a-tremble" feeling which was going on inside of her. she stepped from the gate to the bench blindly, with abe's hand on her arm, though, still blindly, with exaggerated care she placed his carpet-bag on the grass beside her. he laid down his cane, took off his high hat and wiped his brow. he looked at her anxiously. still she could not lift her blurred eyes, nor could she check her trembling. seeing how she shook, he passed his arm around her shoulder. he murmured something--what, neither he nor she knew--but the love of his youth spoke in the murmur, and again fell the silence. angy's eyes cleared. she struggled to speak, aghast at the thought that life itself might be done before ever they could have one hour together again; but no words came. so much--so much to say! she reached out her hand to where his rested upon his knee. their fingers gripped, and each felt a sense of dreary cheer to know that the touch was speaking what the tongue could not utter. time passed swiftly. the silent hour sped on. the young blades of corn gossiped gently along the field. above, the branches of the willow swished and swayed to the rhythm of the soft, south wind. "how still, how still it is!" whispered the breeze. "rest, rest, rest!" was the lullaby swish of the willow. the old wife nestled closer to abraham until her head touched his shoulder. he laid his cheek against her hair and the carefully preserved old bonnet. involuntarily she raised her hand, trained by the years of pinching economy, to lift the fragile rose into a safer position. he smiled at her action; then his arm closed about her spasmodically and he swallowed a lump in his throat. the afternoon was waning. gradually over the turmoil of their hearts stole the garden's june-time spirit of drowsy repose. they leaned even closer to each other. the gray of the old man's hair mingled with the gray beneath angeline's little bonnet. slowly his eyes closed. then even as angy wondered who would watch over the slumbers of his worn old age in the poorhouse, she, too, fell asleep. iii the candidate the butcher's boy brought the tidings of the auction sale in at the kitchen door of the old ladies' home even while angy and abe were lingering over their posies, and the inmates of the home were waiting to receive the old wife with the greater sympathy and the deeper spirit of welcome from the fact that two of the twenty-nine members had known her from girlhood, away back in the boarding-school days. "yop," said the boy, with one eye upon the stout matron, who was critically examining the meat that he had brought. "yop, the auction's over, an' cap'n rose, he--don't that cut suit you, miss abigail? you won't find a better, nicer, tenderer, and more juicier piece of shoulder this side of new york. take it back, did you say? all right, ma'am, all right!" his face assumed a look of resignation: these old ladies made his life a martyrdom. he used to tell the "fellers" that he spent one half his time carrying orders back and forth from the old ladies' home. but now, in spite of his meekness of manner, he did not intend to take this cut back. so with machiavellian skill he hastened on with his gossip. "yop, an' they only riz one hundred dollars an' two cents--one hundred dollars an' a postage-stamp. i guess it's all up with the cap'n an' the old men's. i don't see 'em hangin' out no 'welcome' sign on the strength of that." "you're a horrid, heartless little boy!" burst forth miss abigail, and, flinging the disputed meat on the table, she sank down into the chair, completely overcome by sorrow and indignation. "you'll be old yerself some day," she sobbed, not noticing that he was stealthily edging toward the door, one eye on her, one on to-morrow's pot-roast. "i tell yew, tommy," regaining her accustomed confiding amiability, as she lifted the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, "miss ellie will feel some kind o' bad, tew. yer know me an' her an' angy all went ter school tergether, although miss ellie is so much younger 'n the rest o' us that we call her the baby. here! where--" but he was gone. sighing heavily, the matron put the meat in the ice-box, and then made her slow, lumbering way into the front hall, or community-room, where the sisters were gathered in a body to await the new arrival. "waal, say!" she supplemented, after she had finished telling her pitiably brief story, "thar's trouble ernough ter go 'round, hain't thar?" aunt nancy smith, who never believed in wearing her heart on her sleeve, sniffed and thumped her cane on the floor. "yew young folks," she affirmed, herself having seen ninety-nine winters, while abigail had known but a paltry sixty-five, "yew allers go an' cut yer pity on the skew-gee. i don't see nothin' ter bawl an' beller erbout. i say that a'ny man what can't take kere o' himself, not ter mention his wife, should orter go ter the poorhouse." but the matriarch's voice quavered even more than usual, and as she finished she hastily bent down and felt in her deep skirt-pocket for her snuff-box. now the amazonian mrs. homan, a widow for the third time, made sturdy retort: "that's jest like yew old maids--always a-blamin' the men. yew kin jest bet i never would have let one of my husbands go ter the poorhouse. it would have mortified me dretful. it must be a purty poor sort of a woman what can't take care of one man and keep a roof over his head. why, my second, oliver g., used ter say--" "oh!" miss ellie wrung her hands, "can't we do somethin'?" "i could do a-plenty," mourned miss abigail, "ef i only had been savin'. here i git a salary o' four dollars a month, an' not one penny laid away." "yew fergit," spoke some one gently, "that it takes consid'able ter dress a matron proper." aunt nancy, who had been sneezing furiously at her own impotence, now found her speech again. "we're a nice set ter talk erbout dewin' somethin'--a passel o' poor ole critters like us!" her cackle of embittered laughter was interrupted by the low, cultivated voice of the belle of the home, "butterfly blossy." "we've _got_ to do something," said blossy firmly. when blossy spoke with such decision, every one of the sisters pricked up her ears. blossy might be "a shaller-pate"; she might arrange the golden-white hair of her head as befitted the crowning glory of a young girl, with puffs and rolls and little curls, and--more than one sister suspected--with the aid of "rats"; she might gown herself elaborately in the mended finery of the long ago, the better years; she might dress her lovely big room--the only double bedchamber in the house, for which she had paid a double entrance fee--in all sorts of gewgaws, little ornaments, hand-painted plaques of her own producing, lace bedspreads, embroidered splashers and pillow-shams; she might even permit herself a suitor who came twice a year more punctually than the line-storms, to ask her withered little hand in marriage--but her heart was in the right place, and on occasion she had proved herself a master hand at "fixin' things." "yes," said she, rising to her feet and flinging out her arms with an eloquent gesture, "we've got to do something, and there's just one thing to do, girls: take the captain right here--here"--she brought her hands to the laces on her bosom--"to our hearts!" at first there was silence, with the ladies staring blankly at blossy and then at one another. had they heard aright? then there came murmurs and exclamations, with miss abigail's voice gasping above the others: "what would the directors say?" "what do they always say when we ask a favor?" demanded blossy. "'how much will it cost?' it won't cost a cent." "won't, eh?" snapped aunt nancy. "how on arth be yew goin' ter vittle him? i hain't had a second dish o' peas this year." "some men eat more an' some less," remarked sarah jane, as ill-favored a spinster as ever the sun shone on; "generally it means so much grub ter so much weight." miss abigail glanced up at the ceiling, while lazy daisy, who had refused to tip the beam for ten years, surreptitiously hid an apple into which she had been biting. "le' 's have 'em weighed," suggested a widow, ruby lee, with a pretty, well-preserved little face and figure, "an' ef tergether they don't come up to the heartiest one of us--" miss abigail made hasty interruption: "gals, hain't yew never noticed that the more yew need the more yew git? before jenny bell went to live with her darter i didn't know what i should dew, for the taters was gittin' pooty low. yew know she used ter eat twenty ter a meal an' then look hungry at the platter. an' then ef old square ely didn't come a-drivin' up one mornin' with ten bushel in the farm wagon! he'd been savin' 'em fer us all winter fer fear we might run short in the spring. gals, thar's one thing yew kin depend on, the foresightedness of the lord. i hain't afraid ter risk a-stretchin' the board an' keep o' thirty ter pervide ample fer thirty-one. naow, haow many of yew is willin' ter try it?" every head nodded, "i am"; every eye was wet with the dew of merciful kindness; and mrs. homan and sarah jane, who had flung plates at each other only that morning, were observed to be holding hands. "but haow on arth be we a-goin' ter sleep him?" proceeded the matron uneasily. "thar hain't a extry corner in the hull place. puttin' tew people in no. 30 is out of the question--it's jest erbout the size of a cinderella shoebox, anyhow, an' the garret leaks--" she paused, for blossy was pulling at her sleeve, the real blossy, warmhearted, generous, self-deprecating. "i think no. 30 is just the coziest little place for one! do let me take it, miss abigail, and give the couple my great big barn of a room." aunt nancy eyed her suspiciously. "yew ain't a-gwine ter make a fool o' yerself, an' jump over the broomstick ag'in?" for blossy's old suitor, samuel darby, had made one of his semiannual visits only that morning. the belle burst into hysterical and self-conscious laughter, as she found every glance bent upon her. "oh, no, no; not that. but i confess that i am tired to death of this perpetual dove-party. i just simply can't live another minute without a man in the house. "now, miss abigail," she added imperiously, "you run across lots and fetch him home." iv one of them ah! but abraham slept that night as if he had been drawn to rest under the compelling shelter of the wings of all that flock which in happier days he had dubbed contemptuously "them air old hens." never afterward could the dazed old gentleman remember how he had been persuaded to come into the house and up the stairs with angeline. he only knew that in the midst of that heart-breaking farewell at the gate, miss abigail, all out of breath with running, red in the face, but exceedingly hearty of manner, had suddenly appeared. "shoo, shoo, shoo!" this stout angel had gasped. "naow, cap'n abe, yew needn't git narvous. we 're as harmless as doves. run right erlong. yew won't see anybody ter-night. don't say a word. it's all right. sssh! shoo!" and then, lo! he was not in the county almshouse, but in a beautiful bright bedchamber with a wreath of immortelles over the mantel, alone with angy. afterward, it all seemed the blur of a dream to him, a dream which ended when he had found his head upon a cool, white pillow, and had felt glad, glad--dear god, how glad!--to know that angy was still within reach of his outstretched hand; and so he had fallen asleep. but when he awoke in the morning, there stood angeline in front of the glass taking her hair out of curl papers; and then he slowly began to realize the tremendous change that had come into their lives, when his wife committed the unprecedented act of taking her crimps out _before_ breakfast. he realized' that they were to eat among strangers. he had become the guest of thirty "women-folks." no doubt he should be called "old gal thirty-one." he got up and dressed very, very slowly. the bewildered gratitude, the incredulous thanksgiving of last night, were as far away as yesterday's sunset. a great seriousness settled upon abe's lean face. at last he burst forth: "one to thirty! hy-guy, i'm in fer it!" how had it happened, he wondered. they had given him no time to think. they had swooped down upon him when his brain was dulled with anguish. virtually, they had kidnapped him. why had they brought him here to accept charity of a women's institution? why need they thus intensify his sense of shame at his life's failure, and, above all, at his failure to provide for angeline? in the poorhouse he would have been only one more derelict; but here he stood alone to be stared at and pitied and thrown a sickly-satisfying crumb. with a sigh from the very cellar of his being, he muttered: "aye, mother, why didn't yew let me go on ter the county house? that air's the place fer a worn-out old hull like me. hy-guy!" he ejaculated, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, "i'd ruther lay deown an' die th'n face them air women." "thar, thar!" soothingly spoke angy, laying her hand on his arm. "thar, thar, father! jest think haow dretful i'd feel a-goin' deown without yer." "so you would!" strangely comforted. "so you would, my dear!" for her sake he tried to brighten up. he joked clumsily as they stood on the threshold of the chamber, whispering, blinking his eyes to make up for the lack of their usually ready twinkle. "hol' on a minute; supposin' i fergit whether i be a man er a woman?" her love gave inspiration to her answer: "i'll lean on yer, abe." just then there came the loud, imperative clanging of the breakfast-bell; and she urged him to hurry, as "it wouldn't dew" for them to be late the first morning of all times. but he only answered by going back into the room to make an anxious survey of his reflection in the glass. he shook his head reprovingly at the bearded countenance, as if to say: "you need not pride yourself any longer on looking like abraham lincoln, for you have been turned into a miserable old woman." picking up the hair-brush, he held it out at arm's length to angy. "won't yew slick up my hair a leetle bit, mother?" he asked, somewhat shamefacedly. "i can't see extry well this mornin'." "why, abe! it's slicked ez slick ez it kin be naow." however, the old wife reached up as he bent his tall, angular form over her, and smoothed again his thin, wet locks. he laughed a little, self-mockingly, and she laughed back, then urged him into the hall, and, slipping ahead, led the way down-stairs. at the first landing, which brought them into full view of the lower hall, he paused, possessed with the mad desire to run away and hide, for at the foot of the stairway stood the entire flock of old ladies. twenty-nine pairs of eyes were lifted to him and angy, twenty-nine pairs of lips were smiling at them. to the end of his days abraham remembered those smiles. reassuring, unselfish, and tender, they made the old man's heart swell, his emotions go warring together. he wondered, was grateful, yet he grew more confused and afraid. he stared amazed at angeline, who seemed the embodiment of self-possession, lifting her dainty, proud little gray head higher and higher. she turned to abraham with a protecting, motherly little gesture of command for him to follow, and marched gallantly on down the stairs. humbly, trembling at the knees, he came with gingerly steps after the little old wife. how unworthy he was of her now! how unworthy he had always been, yet never realized to the full until this moment. he knew what those smiles meant, he told himself, watching the uplifted faces; they were to soothe his sense of shame and humiliation, to touch with rose this dull gray color of the culmination of his failures. he passed his hand over his eyes, fiercely praying that the tears might not come to add to his disgrace. and all the while brave little angy kept smiling, until with a truly glad leap of the heart she caught sight of a blue ribbon painted in gold shining on the breast of each one of the twenty-nine women. a pale blue ribbon painted in gold with--yes, peering her eyes she discovered that it was the word "welcome!" the forced smile vanished from angeline's face. her eyes grew wet, her cheek white. her proud figure shrank. she turned and looked back at her husband. not for one instant did she appropriate the compliment to herself. "this is for _you_!" her spirit called out to him, while a new pride dawned in her working face. forty years had she spent apologizing for abraham, and now she understood how these twenty-nine generous old hearts had raided him to the pedestal of a hero, while she stood a heroine beside him. angy it was who trembled now, and abe, gaining a manly courage from that, took hold of her arm to steady her--they had paused on a step near the foot of the stairs--and, looking around with his whimsical smile, he demanded of the bedecked company in general, "ladies, be yew 'spectin' the president?" cackle went the cracked old voices of the twenty-nine in a chorus of appreciative laughter, while the old heads bobbed at one another as if to say, "won't he be an acquisition?" and then, from among the group there came forward blossy--blossy, who had sacrificed most that this should come to pass; blossy, who had sat till midnight painting the gold-and-blue ribbons; blossy, the pride and beauty of the home, in a delicate, old, yellow, real lace gown. she held her two hands gracefully and mysteriously behind her back as she advanced to the foot of the stairs. looking steadily into abraham's eyes, she kept a-smiling until he felt as if the warmth of a belated spring had beamed upon him. "the president!" her mellow, well-modulated voice shook, and she laughed with a mingling of generous joy and tender pity. "are we expecting the president? you dear modest man! we are welcoming--_you_!" abe looked to angy as if to say, "how shall i take it?" and behold! the miracle of his wife's bosom swelling and swelling with pride in him. he turned back, for blossy was making a speech. his hand to his head, he bent his good ear to listen. in terms poetical and touching she described the loneliness of the life at the home as it had been with no man under the roof of the house and only a deaf-and-dumb gardener, who hated her sex, in the barn. then in contrast she painted life as it must be for the sisters now that the thirty tender vines had found a stanch old oak for their clinging. "me?" queried abraham of himself and, with another silent glance, of angy. but what was this? blossy, leading all the others in a resounding call of "welcome!" and then blossy drawing her two hands from behind her back. one held a huge blue cup, the other, the saucer to match. she placed the cup in the saucer and held it out to abraham. he trudged down the few steps to receive it, unashamed now of the tears that coursed down his cheeks. with a burst of delight he perceived that it was a mustache cup, such as the one he had always used at home until it had been set for safe-keeping on the top pantry shelf to await the auction, where it had brought the price of eleven cents with half a paper of tacks thrown in. and now as the tears cleared away he saw also, what angy's eyes had already noted, the inscription in warm crimson letters on the shining blue side of the cup, "to our beloved brother." "sisters," he mumbled, for he could do no more than mumble as he took his gift, "ef yew'd been gittin' ready fer me six months, yew couldn't have done no better." v the head of the corner everybody wore their company manners to the breakfast-table--the first time in the whole history of the home when company manners had graced the initial meal of the day. being pleasant at supper was easy enough, aunt nancy used to say, for every one save the unreasonably cantankerous, and being agreeable at dinner was not especially difficult; but no one short of a saint could be expected to smile of mornings until sufficient time had been given to discover whether one had stepped out on the wrong or the right side of the bed. this morning, however, no time was needed to demonstrate that everybody in the place had gotten out on the happy side of his couch. even the deaf-and-dumb gardener had untwisted his surly temper, and as abraham entered the dining-room, looked in at the east window with a conciliatory grin and nod which said as plainly as words: "'t is a welcome sight indeed to see one of my own kind around this establishment!" "why don't he come in?" questioned abe, waving back a greeting as well as he could with the treasured cup in one of his hands and the saucer in the other; whereupon sarah jane, that ugly duckling, explained that the fellow, being a confirmed woman-hater, cooked all his own meals in the smokehouse, and insisted upon all his orders being left on a slate outside the tool-house door. abe sniffed disdainfully, contemplating her homely countenance, over which this morning's mood had cast a not unlovely, transforming glow. "why, the scalawag!" he frowned so at the face in the window that it immediately disappeared. "yew don't mean ter tell me he's sot ag'in' yew gals? he must be crazy! sech a handsome, clever set o' women i never did see!" sarah jane blushed to the roots of her thin, straight hair and sat down, suddenly disarmed of every porcupine quill that she had hidden under her wings; while there was an agreeable little stir among the sisters. "set deown, all hands! set deown!" enjoined miss abigail, fluttering about with the heaviness of a fat goose. "brother abe,--that 's what we've all agreed to call yew, by unanimous vote,--yew set right here at the foot of the table. aunt nancy always had the head an' me the foot; but i only kept the foot, partly becuz thar wa'n't no man fer the place, an' partly becuz i was tew sizable ter squeeze in any-whar else. seein' as sister angy is sech a leetle mite, though, i guess she kin easy make room fer me t' other side o' her." abe could only bow his thanks as he put his gift down on the table and took the prominent place assigned to him. the others seated, there was a solemn moment of waiting with bowed heads. aunt nancy's trembling voice arose,--the voice which had jealously guarded the right of saying grace at table in the old ladies' home for twenty years,--not, however, in the customary words of thanksgiving, but in a peremptory "brother abe!" abraham looked up. could she possibly mean that he was to establish himself as the head of the household by repeating grace? "brother abe!" she called upon him again. "yew've askt a blessin' fer one woman fer many a year; supposin' neow yew ask it fer thirty!" amid the amazement of the other sisters, abe mumbled, and muttered, and murmured--no one knew what words; but all understood the overwhelming gratitude behind his incoherency, and all joined heartily in the amen. then, while mrs. homan, the cook of the week, went bustling out into the kitchen, aunt nancy felt that it devolved upon her to explain her action. it would never do, she thought, for her to gain a reputation for self-effacement and sweetness of disposition at her time of life. "son, i want yew ter understand one thing naow at the start. yew treat us right, an' we'll treat yew right. that's all we ask o' yew. miss ellie, pass the radishes." "i'll do my best," abe hastened to assure her. "hy-guy, that coffee smells some kind o' good, don't it? between the smell o' the stuff an' the looks o' my cup, it'll be so temptin' that i'll wish i had the neck of a gi-raffe, an' could taste it all the way deown. angy, i be afraid we'll git the gout a-livin' so high. look at this here cream!" smiling, appreciative, his lips insisting upon joking to cover the natural feeling of embarrassment incident to this first meal among the sisters, but with his voice breaking now and again with emotion, while from time to time he had to steal his handkerchief to his old eyes, abe passed successfully through the--to him--elaborate breakfast. and angy sat in rapt silence, but with her face shining so that her quiet was the stillness of eloquence. once abe startled them all by rising stealthily from the table and seizing the morning's newspaper which lay upon the buffet. "i knowed it!" caviled lazy daisy _sotto voce_ to no one in particular. "he couldn't wait for the news till he was through eatin'!" but abe had folded the paper into a stout weapon, and, creeping toward the window, despatched by a quick, adroit movement a fly which had alighted upon the screen. "i hate the very sight o' them air pesky critters," he explained half apologetically. "thar, thar's another one," and slaughtered that. "my, but yew kin git 'em, can't yew?" spoke miss abigail admiringly. "them tew be the very ones i tried ter ketch all day yiste'day; i kin see as a fly-ketcher yew be a-goin' ter be wuth a farm ter me. set deown an' try some o' this here strawberry presarve." but abe protested that he could not eat another bite unless he should get up and run around the house to "joggle deown" what he had already swallowed. he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the family: on his right, generous-hearted blossy, who had been smiling approval and encouragement at him all through the repast; at his left, and just beyond angy, miss abigail indulging in what remained on the dishes now that she discovered the others to have finished; aunt nancy keenly watching him from the head of the board; and all the other sisters "betwixt an' between." he caught mrs. homan's eye where she stood in the doorway leading into the kitchen, and remarked pleasantly: "ma'am, yew oughter set up a pancake shop in 'york. yew could make a fortune at it. i hain't had sech a meal o' vittles sence i turned fifty year o' age." a flattered smile overspread mrs. homan's visage, and the other sisters, noting it, wondered how long it would be before she showed her claws in abraham's presence. "hy-guy, angy," abe went on, "yew can't believe nothin' yew hear, kin yer? why, folks have told me that yew ladies--what yew hittin' my foot fer, mother? folks have told me," a twinkle of amusement in his eye at the absurdity, "that yew fight among yerselves like cats an' dogs, when, law! i never see sech a clever lot o' women gathered tergether in all my life. an' i believe--mother, i hain't a-sayin' nothin'! i jest want ter let 'em know what i think on 'em. i believe that thar must be three hunderd hearts in this here place 'stid o' thirty. but dew yew know, gals, folks outside even go so fur's ter say that yew throw plates at one another!" there was a moment's silence; then a little gasp first from one and then from another of the group. every one looked at mrs. homan, and from mrs. homan to sarah jane. mrs. homan tightened her grip on the pancake turner; sarah jane uneasily moved her long fingers within reach of a sturdy little red-and-white pepper-pot. another moment passed, in which the air seemed filled with the promise of an electric storm. then blossy spoke hurriedly--blossy the tactician, clasping her hands together and bringing abe's attention to herself. "really! you surprise me! you don't mean to say that folks talk about us like that!" "slander is a dretful long-legged critter," amended miss abigail, smiling and sighing in the same breath. "sary jane," inquired mrs. homan sweetly, "what 's the matter with that pepper-pot? does it need fillin'?" and so began the reign of peace in the old ladies' home. vi indian summer miss abigail had not banked in vain on the "foresightedness of the lord." at the end of six months, instead of there being a shortage in her accounts because of abe's presence, she was able to show the directors such a balance-sheet as excelled all her previous commendable records. "how do you explain it?" they asked her. "we cast our bread on the waters," she answered, "an' providence jest kept a-handin' out the loaves." again she said, "'t was grinnin' that done it. brother abe he kept the gardener good-natured, an' the gardener he jest grinned at the garden sass until it was ashamed not ter flourish; an' brother abe kept the gals good-natured an' they wa'n't so _niasy_ about what they eat; an' he kept the visitors a-laughin' jest ter see him here, an' when yew make folks laugh they want ter turn around an' dew somethin' fer yew. i tell yew, ef yew kin only keep grit ernough ter grin, yew kin drive away a drought." in truth, there had been no drought in the garden that summer, but almost a double yield of corn and beans; no drought in the gifts sent to the home, but showers of plenty. some of these came in the form of fresh fish and clams left at the back door; some in luscious fruits; some in barrels of clothing. and the barrels of clothing solved another problem; for no longer did their contents consist solely of articles of feminine attire. "biled shirts" poured out of them; socks and breeches, derby hats, coats and negligees; until aunt nancy with a humorous twist to her thin lips inquired if there were thirty men in this establishment and one woman. "i never thought i'd come to wearin' a quilted silk basque with tossels on it," abe remarked one day on being urged to try on a handsome smoking-jacket. "dew i look like one of them sissy-boys, er jest a dude?" "it's dretful becoming," insisted angy, "bewtiful! ain't it, gals?" every old lady nodded her head with an air of proud proprietorship, as if to say, "nothing could fail to become _our_ brother." and angy nodded her head, too, in delighted approval of their appreciation of "our brother" and "my husband." beautiful, joy-steeped, pleasure-filled days these were for the couple, who had been cramped for life's smallest necessities so many meager years. angy felt that she had been made miraculously young by the birth of this new abraham--almost as if at last she had been given the son for whom in her youth she had prayed with impassioned appeal. her old-wife love became rejuvenated into a curious mixture of proud mother-love and young-wife leaning, as she saw abe win every heart and become the center of the community. "why, the sisters all think the sun rises an' sets in him," angy would whisper to herself sometimes, awed by the glorious wonder of it all. the sisters fairly vied with one another to see how much each could do for the one man among them. their own preferences and prejudices were magnanimously thrust aside. in a body they besought their guest to smoke as freely in the house as out of doors. miss abigail even traded some of her garden produce for tobacco, while miss ellie made the old gentleman a tobacco-pouch of red flannel so generous in its proportions that on a pinch it could be used as a chest-protector. then ruby lee, not to be outdone by anybody, produced, from no one ever discovered where, a mother-of-pearl manicure set for the delight and mystification of the hero; and even lazy daisy went so far as to cut some red and yellow tissue-paper into squares under the delusion that some time, somehow, she would find the energy to roll these into spills for the lighting of abe's pipe. and each and every sister from time to time contributed some gift or suggestion to her "brother's" comfort. it "plagued" the others, however, to see that none of them could get ahead of blossy in their noble endeavors to make abraham feel himself a light and welcome burden. she it was who discovered that abe's contentment could not be absolute without griddle-cakes for breakfast three hundred and sixty-five times a year; she it was who first baked him little saucer-cakes and pies because he was partial to edges; and blossy it was who made out a list of "don'ts" for the sisters to follow in their treatment of this grown-up, young-old boy. "don't scold him when he leaves the doors open. don't tell him to wipe his feet. don't ever mention gold-mines or shiftless husbands," etc., etc. all these triumphs of blossy's intuition served naturally to spur the others on to do even more for brother abe than they had already done, until the old man began to worry for fear that he should "git sp'ilt." when he lay down for his afternoon nap and the house was dull and quiet without his waking presence, the ladies would gather in groups outside his door as if in a king's antechamber, waiting for him to awaken, saying to one another ever and again, "sh, sh!" he professed to scoff at the attentions he received, would grunt and growl "humbug!" yet nevertheless he thrived in this latter-day sunlight. his old bones took on flesh. his aged kindly face, all seamed with care as it had been, filled out, the wrinkles turning into twinkles. abraham had grown young again. with the return of his youth came the spirit of youth to the old ladies' home. verily, verily, as blossy had avowed from the first, they had been in sore need of the masculine presence. the ancient coat and hat which had hung in the hall so long had perhaps served its purpose in keeping the burglars away, but this lifeless substitute had not prevented the crabbed gnomes of loneliness and discontent from stealing in. spinster, wife, and widow, they had every one been warped by the testy just-so-ness of the old maid. now, instead of fretful discussions of health and food, recriminations and wrangling, there came to be laughter and good-humored chatter all the day long, each sister striving with all her strength to preserve the new-found harmony of the home. there were musical evenings, when miss abigail opened the melodeon and played "old hundred," and abraham was encouraged to pick out with one stiff forefinger "my grandfather's clock." "hymn tunes" were sung in chorus; and then, in answer to abe's appeal for something livelier, there came time-tried ditties and old, old love-songs. and at last, one night, after leaving the instrument silent, mute in the corner of the parlor for many years, aunt nancy smith dragged out her harp, and, seating herself, reached out her knotted, trembling hands and brought forth what seemed the very echo, so faint and faltering it was, of "douglas, douglas, tender and true." there was a long silence after she had finished, her head bowed on her chest, her hands dropped to her sides. abraham spoke first, clearing his throat before he could make the words come. "_i_ wish i could git a husband fer every one of yer," said he. and no one was angry, and no one laughed; for they all knew that he was only seeking to express the message conveyed by nancy's playing--the message of love, love triumphant, which cannot age, which over the years and over death itself always hath the victory. vii old letters and new blossy left the room without a word, and went stealing up the stairs to the little cupboard where she now slept, and where was hung on the wall, in a frame of yellow hollyhocks, painted by her own hand, a photograph of captain samuel darby, the man who had remained obstinately devoted to her since her days of pinafores. the picture betrayed that captain darby wore a wig designed for a larger man, and that the visage beneath was gnarled and weather-beaten, marked with the signs of a stubborn and unreasonable will. even now the aged belle could hear him saying: "here i be, come eround ter pop ag'in. ready ter hitch?" samuel's inelegant english had always been a source of distress to blossy; yet still she stared long at the picture. six months had passed since his last visit; to-morrow would be the date of his winter advent. should she give the old unvarying answer to his tireless formula? she glanced around the tiny room. ashamed though she was to admit it even to herself, she missed that ample and cozy chamber which she had so freely surrendered to abraham and his wife. she missed it, as she felt they must crave their very own fireside; and the thought that they missed the old homestead made her yearn for the home that she might have had--the home that she still might have. again she brought her eyes back to the portrait; and now she saw, not the characteristics which had always made it seem impossible for her and samuel to jog together down life's road, but the great truth that the face was honest and wholesome, while the eyes looked back into hers with the promise of an unswerving care and affection. the next morning found blossy kneeling before a plump, little, leather-bound, time-worn trunk which she kept under the eaves of the kitchen chamber. the trunk was packed hard with bundles of old letters. some her younger fingers had tied with violet ribbon; some they had bound with pink; others she had fastened together with white silk cord; and there were more and more bundles, both slim and stout, which blossy had distinguished by some special hue of ribbon in the long ago, each tint marking a different suitor's missives. to her still sentimental eye the colors remained unfaded, and each would bring to her mind instantly the picture of the writer as he had been in the golden days. but save to blossy's eye alone there were no longer any rainbow tints in the little, old trunk; for every ribbon and every cord had faded into that musty, yellow brown which is dyed by the passing of many years. abraham discovered her there, too engrossed in the perusal of one of the old letters to have heeded his creaking steps upon the stairs. "didn't see yer, till i 'most stumbled on yer," he began apologetically. "i come fer the apple-picker. thar's a handful of russets in the orchard yit, that's calc'latin' ter spend christmas up close ter heaven; but--say, blossy," he added more loudly, since she did not raise her head, "yew seen anythin' o' that air picker?" blossy glanced up from her ragged-edged crackly _billet-doux_ with a start, and dropped the envelop to the floor. for the moment, so deep in reminiscence was she, she thought captain darby himself had surprised her; then, recognizing abe and recalling that samuel's winter visits were invariably paid in the afternoon, she broke into a shamefaced laugh. "oh, is that you, brother abe? don't tell the others what you found me doing. these," with a wave of her delicate, blue-veined hands over the trunk and its contents, "are all old love-letters of mine. do you think i'm a silly old goose to keep them cluttering around so long?" "wa'al,"--abe with an equally deprecatory gesture indicated angy's horsehair trunk in the far corner of the loft,--"yew ain't no more foolisher, i guess, over yer old trash 'n me an' angy be a-keepin' that air minin' stock of mine. one lot is wuth 'bout as much as t'other." recovering the envelop that she had dropped, he squinted at the superscription. "not meanin' ter be inquisitive or personal, sister blossy," a teasing twinkle appearing in his eye, "but this looks dretful familitary, this here handwritin' does. when i run the beach--yew've heard me tell of the time i was on the life-savin' crew over ter bleak hill fer a spell--my cap'n he had a fist jest like that. useter make out the spickest, spannest reports. lemme see," the twinkle deepening, "didn't the gals say yew was a 'spectin' somebody ter-day? law, i ain't saw cap'n sam'l fer ten year or more. i guess on these here poppin' trips o' his'n he hain't wastin' time on no men-folks. but, blossy, yew better give me a chance ter talk to him this arternoon, an' mebbe i'll speak a good word fer yer." blossy, not always keen to see a joke, and with her vanity now in the ascendant, felt the color rise into her withered cheek. "oh, you needn't take the trouble to speak a good word for me. any man who could ever write a letter like this doesn't need to be coaxed. just listen: "the man you take for a mate is the luckiest dog in the whole round world. i'd rather be him than king of all the countries on earth. i'd rather be him than strike a gold-mine reaching from here to china. i'd rather be him than master of the finest vessel that ever sailed blue water. that's what i would. why, the man who couldn't be happy with you would spill tears all over heaven." blossy's cheek was still flushed, but no longer with pique. her voice quavered, and broke; and finally there fell upon the faded page of the letter two sparkling tears. abraham shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other; then, muttering something about the "pesky apple-hook," went scuffing across the floor in the direction of the chimney. blossy, however, called him back. "i was crying, brother abe, because the man i did take for a mate once was not happy, and--and neither was i. i was utterly wretched; so that i've always felt i never cared to marry again. and--and samuel's wig is always slipping down over one eye, and i simply cannot endure that trick he has of carrying his head to one side, as if he had a left-handed spell of the mumps. it nearly drives me frantic. "brother abe, now tell me honestly: do you think he would make a good husband?" abe cleared his throat. blossy was in earnest. blossy could not be laughed at. she was his friend, and angy's friend; and she had come to him as to a brother for advice. he too had known samuel as man to man, which was more than any of the sisters could say. stroking his beard thoughtfully, therefore, he seated himself upon a convenient wooden chest, while blossy slipped her old love-letter in and out of the envelop, with that essentially feminine manner of weighing and considering. "naow," began abe at length, "this is somep'n that requires keerful debatin'. fust off, haowsomever, yew must remember that wigs an' ways never made a man yit. ez i riccollec' sam'l, he was pooty good ez men go. i should say he wouldn't be any more of a risk tew yew than i was tew angy; mebbe less. he's got quite a leetle laid by, i understand, an' a tidy story-an'-a-half house, an' front stoop, an', by golly, can't he cook! he's a splendid housekeeper." "housewifery," remarked blossy sagely, as she began to gather her missives together, "is an accomplishment to be scorned in a young husband, but not in an old one. they say there hasn't been a woman inside samuel's house since he built it, but it's as clean as soap and sand can make it." "i bet yer," agreed abe. "hain't never been no fly inside it, neither, i warrant yer. fly can't light arter sam'l's cleanin' up nohaow; he's got ter skate." "he says he built that little house for me," said the old lady, as she closed down the lid of the trunk. there was a wistful note in blossy's voice, which made abraham declare with a burst of sympathy: "'t ain't no disgrace ter git married at no time of life. sam'l's a good pervider; why don't yew snap him up ter-day? we'll miss yew a lot; but--" "here's the apple-picker right over your head," interrupted blossy tartly, and abe felt himself peremptorily dismissed. scarcely had he left the attic, however, than she too hastened down the steep, narrow stairs. she spent the remaining hours before train-time in donning her beautiful lace gown, and in making the woman within it as young and ravishing as possible. and lovely, indeed, blossy looked this day, with a natural flush of excitement on her cheek, a new sparkle in her bright, dark eyes, and with her white hair arranged in a fashion which might have excited a young girl's envy. the hour for the train came and went, and, lo! for the first time in the history of twenty years captain darby did not appear. blossy pretended to be relieved, protesting that she was delighted to find that she would now have an extra hour in which to ponder the question. but the second train came and went, and still no captain darby. all the afternoon long blossy wore her lace gown, thinking although there were no more trains from the eastward that day, that samuel would still find his way to her. he might drive, as he usually did in june, or he might even walk from his home at twin coves, she said. at night, however, she was obliged to admit that he could not be coming; and then, quivering with honest anxiety for her old friend, blossy dipped into her emergency fund, which she kept in the heart of a little pink china pig on a shelf in her room,--a pink china pig with a lid made of stiff black hair standing on edge in the middle of his back,--and sent a telegram to captain darby, asking if he were sick. the answer came back slowly by mail, to find blossy on the verge of a nervous collapse, under the care of all the women in the house. that letter blossy never showed to brother abe, nor to any one else. neither did she treasure it in the sentimental trunk beneath the attic eaves. the letter ran: dear betsy ann: i never felt better in my life. ain't been sick a minute. just made up my mind i was a old fool, and was going to quit. if you change your intentions at any time, just drop me a postal. as ever, sam'l darby, esq. "this, captain darby, makes your rejection final," vowed blossy to herself, as she tore the note into fragments and drowned them in the spirits of lavender with which the sisters had been seeking to soothe her distracted nerves. viii the anniversary about this time blossy developed a tendency to draw brother abraham aside at every opportunity, convenient or inconvenient, in order to put such questions as these to him: "did you say it is fully thirty-five years since you and captain darby were on the beach together? do you think he has grown much older? had he lost his hair then? did he care for the opposite sex? was he very brave--or would you say more brave than stubborn and contrary? isn't it a blessing that i never married him?" fearful of the ridicule of the sisters, blossy was always careful to conduct these inquiries in whispers, or at least in undertones with a great observance of secrecy, sometimes stopping abe on the stairs, sometimes beckoning him to her side when she was busy about her household tasks on the pretense of requiring his assistance. on one occasion she even went so far as to inveigle him into holding a skein of wool about his clumsy hands, while she wound the violet worsted into a ball, and delicately inquired if he believed samuel spoke the truth when he had protested that he had never paid court to any other woman. alas, blossy's frequent tete-a-tetes with the amused but sometimes impatient abraham started an exceedingly foolish suspicion. when, asked the sisters of one another, did abe ever help any one, save blossy, shell dried beans or pick over prunes? when had he ever been known to hold wool for angy's winding? not once since wooing-time, i warrant you. what could this continual hobnobbing and going off into corners mean, except--flirtation? ruby lee whispered it first into aunt nancy's good ear. aunt nancy indulged in four pinches of snuff in rapid succession, sneezed an amazing number of times, and then acridly informed ruby lee that she was a "jealous cat" and always had been one. however, aunt nancy could not refrain from carrying the gossip to miss ellie, adding that she herself had been suspicious of abe's behavior from the start. "oh, no, no!" cried the shocked and shrinking spinster. "and angy so cheerful all the time? i don't believe it." but whisper, whisper, buzz, buzz, went the gossip, until finally it reached the pink little ears at the side of miss abigail's generously proportioned head. the pink ears turned crimson, likewise the adjoining cheeks, and miss abigail panted with righteous indignation. "it all comes of this plagued old winter-time," she declared, sharply biting her thread, for she was mending a table-cloth. "shet the winders on summer, an' yew ketch the tail of slander in the latch every time. naow, ef i hear one word about this 'tarnal foolishness comin' to angy's ears, or brother abe's, or blossy's either, fer that matter, we'll all have to eat off'n oil-cloth sundays, the same as weekdays, until i see a more christian sperit in the house." she gave the sunday damask across her lap a pat which showed she was in earnest; and the rebuked sisters glanced at one another, as if to say: "suppose the minister should walk in some sabbath afternoon and find oil-cloth on the table, and ask the reason why?" they one and all determined to take aunt nancy's advice and "sew a button on their lips." fortunately, too, the february thaws had already set in, and the remainder of the winter passed without any severe strain on the "buttonholes." and at length the welcome spring began to peep forth, calling to the old folks, "come out, and grow young with the young year!" with the bursting forth of the new springtide the winter's talk seemed to drop as a withered and dead oak-leaf falls from its winter-bound branches; and abe stood once more alive to the blessings of renewed approval. angy went out of doors with miss abigail, and puttered around among the flowers as if they were her own, thanking god for abe's increasing popularity in the same breath that she gave thanks for the new buds of the spring. the anniversary of the roses' entrance into the home drew nearer, and blossy suggested that the best way to celebrate the event would be by means of a "pink tea." neither angy nor abe, nor in fact half the sisters, had any clear conception of what a tinted function might be; but they one and all seized upon blossy's idea as if it were a veritable inspiration, and for the time jealousies were forgotten, misunderstandings erased. such preparations as were made for that tea! the deaf-and-dumb gardener was sent with a detachment of small boys to fetch from the wayside and meadows armfuls of wild roses for the decorations. miss abigail made pink icing for the cake. ruby lee hung bleeding-hearts over the dining-room door. aunt nancy resurrected from the bottom of her trunk a white lace cap with a rakish-looking pink bow for an adornment, and fastened it to her scant gray hairs in honor of the occasion. blossy turned her pink china pig, his lid left up-stairs, into a sugar-bowl. pink, pink, pink, everywhere; even in angy's proud cheeks! pink, and pink, and pink! abe used to grow dizzy, afterward, trying to recall the various pink articles which graced that tea. but most delightful surprise of all was his anniversary gift, which was slyly slipped to his place after the discussion of the rose-colored strawberry gelatin. it was a square, five-pound parcel wrapped in pink tissue-paper, tied with pink string, and found to contain so much virginia tobacco, which blossy had inveigled an old southern admirer into sending her for "charitable purposes." after the presentation of this valuable gift, abraham felt that the time had come for him to make a speech--practically his maiden speech. he said at the beginning, more suavely at his ease than he would have believed possible, secure of sympathy and approbation, with angy's glowing old eyes upon her prodigy, that all the while he had been at the home, he had never before felt the power to express his gratitude for the welcome which had been accorded him--the welcome which seemed to wear and wear, as if it were all wool and a yard wide, and could never wear out. the old ladies nodded their heads in approval of this, every face beaming; but as the speech went on the others perceived that abe had singled out blossy for special mention,--blind, blind abraham!--blossy, who had first proposed admitting him into this paradise; blossy, who had given up her sunny south chamber to his comfort and angy's; blossy, who had been as a "guardeen angel" to him; blossy, who as a fitting climax to all her sisterly attentions had given him to-day this wonderful, wonderful pink tea, and "this five hull pound o' virginny terbaccer." he held the parcel close to his bosom, and went on, still praising blossy,--this innocent old gentleman,--heedless of angy's gentle tug at his coat-tail; while blossy buried her absurdly lovely old face in the pink flush of a wild-rose spray, and the other old ladies stared from him to her, their faces growing hard and cold. when abraham sat down, aglow with pride over his oratorical triumphs, his chest expanded, his countenance wrinkled into a thousand guileless, grateful smiles, there was absolute silence. then blossy, her head still bowed as if in shy confusion, began to clap her hands daintily together, whereat a few of the others joined her half-heartedly. a sense of chill crept over abraham. accustomed as a rule to deferential attention, did he but say good-morning, by no means aware that his throne had toppled during the winter, he was still forced to perceive that something had gone amiss. as always when aught troubled his mind, "father" turned to angy; but instead of his composed and resourceful little wife he found a scared-faced and trembling woman. angy had suddenly become conscious of the shadow of the green-eyed monster. angy's loyal heart was crying out to her mate: "don't git the sisters daown on yer, abe, 'cuz then, mebbe, yew'll lose yer hum!" but poor angeline's lips were so stiff with terror over the prospect of the county house for her husband, that she could not persuade them to speech. abraham, completely at sea, turned next to her whom he had called his guardian angel; but blossy was rising from her seat, a baffling smile of expectancy on her face, the rose spray swinging in her delicate hand as if to the measure of some music too far back in youth for any one else to hear. blossy had worn that expectant look all day. she might have been delightedly hugging to herself a secret which she had not shared even with the trusted abraham. she was gowned in her yellow lace, the beauty and grace of which had defied the changing fashions as blossy's remarkable elegance of appearance had defied the passing of the years. "brother abe,"--in her heedlessness of the mischief she had wrought, blossy seemed almost to sing,--"i never shall forget your speech as long as i live. will you excuse me now?" she swept out of the door, her skirts rustling behind her. abe collected himself so far as to bow in the direction she had taken; then with lamblike eyes of inquiry met the exasperated glances cast upon him. not a sister moved or spoke. they all sat as if glued to their chairs, in a silence that was fast growing appalling. abe turned his head and looked behind his chair for an explanation; but nothing met his eye, save the familiar picture on the wall of two white kittens playing in the midst of a huge bunch of purple lilacs. then there broke upon the stillness the quavering old voice of aunt nancy, from her place opposite abe's at the head of the board. the aged dame had her two hands clasped before her on the edge of the table, vainly trying to steady their palsied shaking. her eyes, bright, piercing, age-defying, she fixed upon the bewildered abraham with a look of deep and sorrowful reproach. her unsteady head bobbed backward and forward with many an accusing nod, and the cap with its rakish pink bow bobbed backward and forward too. abe watched her, fascinated, unconsciously wondering, even in the midst of his disquietude, why the cap did not slide off her bald scalp entirely. to his amazement, she addressed not himself, but angy. "sister rose, yew kin leave the room." implacable purpose spoke in aunt nancy's tone. angy started, looked up, going first red and then white; but she did not move. she opened her lips to speak. "i don't want ter hear a word from yew, nor anybody else," sternly interposed aunt nancy. "i'm old enough ter be yer mother. go up-stairs!" angy's glance sought miss abigail, but the matron's eyes avoided hers. the little wife sighed, rose reluctantly, dropped her hand doubtfully reassuring on abe's shoulder, and then went obediently to the door. from the threshold she looked wistfully back; but an imperious wave from aunt nancy banished her altogether, and abe found himself alone--not with the sisters whom he loved, but with twenty-eight hard-visaged strangers. ix a winter butterfly "cap'n rose," began aunt nancy. brother abe pricked up his eats at the formal address. "cap'n rose," she repeated, deliberately dwelling on the title. "i never believe in callin' a man tew account in front of his wife. it gives him somebody handy ter blame things on tew jest like ole adam. naow, look a-here! what i want is ter ask yew jest one question: whar, whar on 'arth kin we look fer a decent behavin' ole man ef not in a old ladies' hum? would yew--" she exhorted earnestly, pointing her crooked forefinger at him. "would yew--" abraham caught his breath. beads of sweat had appeared on his brow. he broke in huskily: "wait a minute, aunt nancy. jest tell me what i've been an' done." the ladies glanced at one another, contemptuous, incredulous smiles on their faces, while aunt nancy almost wept at his deceitfulness. "cap'n rose," she vowed mournfully, "i've lived in this house fer many, many years, an' all the while i been here i never hearn tell o' a breath o' scandal ag'in' the place until yew come an' commenced ter kick up yer heels." lazy daisy, who had long been an inmate, also nodded her unwieldy head in confirmation, while a low murmur of assent arose from the others. abraham could only pass his hand over his brow, uneasily shuffle his maligned heels over the floor and await further developments; for he did not have the slightest conception as to "what they were driving at." "cap'n rose," the matriarch proceeded, as in the earnestness of her indignation she arose, trembling, in her seat and stood with her palsied and shaking hands on the board, "cap'n rose, yer conduct with this here mis' betsey ann blossom has been somethin' _ree_diculous! it's been disgraceful!" aunt nancy sat down, incongruously disreputable in appearance, her pink bow having slipped down over her right ear during the harangue. over the culprit's countenance light had dawned, but, shame to tell! it was a light not wholly remorseful. then silent laughter shook the old man's shoulders, and then--could it be?--there crept about his lips and eyes a smile of superbly masculine conceit. the sisters were fighting over him. wouldn't mother be amused when he should tell her what all this fuss was about. now, kindly, short-sighted miss abigail determined that it was time for the matron's voice to be heard. "of course, brother abe, we understand perfectly that yew never stopped ter take inter consideration haow susceptible some folks is made." there being plain evidence from abe's blank expression that he did not understand the meaning of the word, ruby lee hastened to explain. "susceptible is the same as flighty-headed. blossy allers was a fool over anything that wore breeches." abe pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his legs comfortably. for him all the chill had gone out of the air. suppose that there was something in this? an old, old devil of vanity came back to the aged husband's heart. he recalled that he had been somewhat of a beau before he learned the joy of loving angy. more than one long island lassie had thrown herself at his head. of course blossy would "get over" this; and angy knew that his heart was hers as much as it had been the day he purchased his wedding-beaver; but abe could not refrain from a chuckle of complacent amusement as he stroked his beard. his very evident hardness of heart so horrified the old ladies that they all began to attack him at once. "seems ter me i'd have the decency ter show some shame!" grimly avowed sarah jane. abe could not help it. he sputtered. even miss abigail's, "yew were a stranger an' we took yew in" did not sober him. "ef any one o' my husbands had acted the way you've acted, abe rose," began mrs. homan. "poor leetle angy," broke in the gentle miss ellie pityingly. "she must 'a' lost six pounds." abraham's mobile face clouded over. "angy?" he faltered. "yew don't mean that angy--" silence again fell on the group, while every glance was fastened on abraham. "see here," he flashed his faded blue eye, "angy's got more sense than that!" no one answered, but there was a significant shrugging of shoulders and lifting of eyebrows. abraham was distressed and concerned enough now. rising from his place he besought the sisters: "yew don't think angy's feelin's have been hurt--dew yew, gals?" their faces softened, their figures relaxed, the tide of feeling changed in abraham's favor. miss ellie spoke very softly: "yew know that even 'the lord thy god is a jealous god.'" abraham grasped the back of his chair for support, his figure growing limp with astonishment. "mother, jealous of me?" he whispered to himself, the memory of all the years and all the great happenings of all the years coming back to him. "mother jealous of me?" he remembered how he had once been tormented by jealousy in the long, the ever-so-long ago, and of a sudden he hastened into the hall and went half-running up the stairs. he took hold of the latch of his bedroom door. it did not open. the door was locked. "angy!" he called, a fear of he knew not what gripping at his heart. "angy!" he repeated as she did not answer. the little old wife had locked herself in out of very shame of the rare tears which had been brought to the surface by the sisters' cruel treatment of abraham. when she heard his call she hastened to the blue wash-basin and began hurriedly to dab her eyes. he would be alarmed if he saw the traces of her weeping. whatever had happened to him, for his sake she must face it valiantly. he called again. again she did not answer, knowing that her voice would be full of the telltale tears. abe waited. he heard the tramp of feet passing out of the dining-room into the hall. he heard blossy emerge from her room at the end of the passage and go tripping down the stairs. the time to angy, guiltily bathing her face, was short; the time to her anxious husband unaccountably long. the sound of wheels driving up to the front door came to abe's ears. still angy made him no response. "angy!" he raised his voice in piteous pleading. what mattered if the sisters gathered in the lower hall heard him? what mattered if the chance guest who had just arrived heard him also? he had his peace to make with his wife and he would make it. "angy!" she flung the door open hastily. the signs of the tears had not been obliterated, and her face was drawn and old. straightway she put her hand on his arm and searched his face inquiringly. "what did the gals say ter yew?" she whispered. "abe, yew made a mistake when yew picked out bl--" "poor leetle mother!" he interrupted. "poor leetle mother!" a world of remorseful pity in his tone. "so yew been jealous of yer ole man?" angeline, astonished and indignant, withdrew her hand sharply, demanding to know if he had lost his senses; but the blinded old gentleman slipped his arm around her and, bending, brushed his lips against her cheek. "thar, thar," he murmured soothingly, "i didn't mean no harm. i can't help it ef all the gals git stuck on me!" before angy could make any reply, blossy called to the couple softly but insistently from the foot of the stairs; and angy, wrenching herself free, hastened down the steps, for once in her life glad to get away from abe. he lost no time in following. no matter where angy went, he would follow until all was well between her and him again. but what was this? at the landing, angy halted and so did abe, for in the center of the sisters stood blossy with her sunday bonnet perched on her silver-gold hair and her white india shawl over her shoulders, and beside blossy stood captain samuel darby with a countenance exceedingly radiant, his hand clasped fast in that of the aged beauty. "oh, hurry, sister angy and brother abe!" called blossy. "we were waiting for you, and i've got some news for all my friends." she waited smilingly for them to join the others; then with a gesture which included every member of the household, she proceeded: "the pink tea, i want you all to know, had a double significance, and first, of course, it was to celebrate the anniversary of brother abe's sojourn with us; but next it was my farewell to the home." here blossy gurgled and gave the man at her right so coy a glance that samuel's face flamed red and he hung his head lower to one side than usual, like a little boy that had been caught stealing apples. "i left the tea a trifle early--you must forgive me, brother abe, but i heard the train-whistle." abe stood beside angeline, rooted in astonishment, while blossy continued to address him directly. "you gave samuel so many good recommendations, dear brother, that when the time approached for his june visit, i felt that i simply could not let him miss it as he did in december. last year, on the day you entered, he was here through no desire of mine. to-day he is here at my request. my friends," again she included the entire home in her glance, "we'll come back a little later to say good-by. now, we're on the way to the minister's." the pair, samuel tongue-tied and bewildered by the joy of his finally won success, moved toward the door. on the threshold of the home blossy turned and waved farewell to the companions of her widowhood, while samuel bowed in a dazed fashion, his face still as red as it was blissful. then quickly the two passed out upon the porch. no one moved to see them off. abe looked everywhere yet nowhere at all. not a word was spoken even when the carriage was heard rolling down the drive; but the sound of the wheels seemed to arouse angy from her stupor of amazement; and presently abraham became conscious of a touch,--a touch sympathetic, tender and true,--a touch all-understanding--the touch of angy's hand within his own. x the turn of the tide from time immemorial the history of the popular hero has ever been the same. to king and patriot, to the favorite girl at school and the small boy who is leader of the "gang," to politician, to preacher, to actor and author, comes first worship then eclipse. the great napoleon did not escape this common fate; and the public idol who was kissed only yesterday for his gallant deeds is scorned to-day for having permitted the kissing. oh, caprice of the human heart! oh, cry of the race for the unaccustomed! from that first anniversary of his entrance into the home, abraham felt his popularity decrease--in fact more than decrease. he saw the weather-vane go square about, and where he had known for three hundred and sixty-five days the gentle, balmy feel of the southwest zephyr, he found himself standing of a sudden in a cold, bleak northeast wind. the change bewildered the old man, and reacted on his disposition. as he had blossomed in the sunshine, so now he began to droop in the shade. feeling that he was suspected and criticized, he began to grow suspicious and fault-finding himself. his old notion that he had no right to take a woman's place in the institution came back to his brain, and he would brood over it for hours at a time, sitting out on the porch with his pipe and angy. the old wife grieved to think that father was growing old and beginning to show his years. she made him some tansy tea, but neither her persuasions nor those of the whole household could induce him to take it. he had never liked "doctoring" anyway, although he had submitted to it more or less during the past year in unconscious subservience to his desire to increase his popularity; but now he fancied that where once he had been served as a king by all these female attendants, he was simply being "pestered" as a punishment for his past behavior with blossy. ah, with its surprising ending that had been a humiliating affair; and he felt too that he would be long in forgiving mrs. darby for not having confided to him her actual intentions. now he was afraid to be decently courteous to one of the sisters for fear that they might accuse him of light dalliance again; and he scarcely ever addressed the new member who came to take blossy's little room, for he had been cut to the quick by her look of astonishment when she was told that he belonged there. in his mental ferment the old man began to nag at angy. sad though it is to confess of a hero honestly loved, abraham had nagged a little all his married life when things went wrong. and angeline, fretted and nervous, herself worried almost sick over father's condition, was guilty once in a while out of the depths of her anxiety of nagging back again. so do we hurt those whom we love best as we would and could hurt no other. "i told yer i never could stand it here amongst all these dratted women-folks," abe would declare. "it's all your fault that i didn't go to the poorhouse in peace." "i notice yew didn't raise no objections until yew'd lived here a year," angy would retort; but ignoring this remark, he would go on: "it's 'brother abe' this an' 'brother abe' that! as ef i had thirty wives a-pesterin' me instid of one. i can't kill a fly but it's 'brother abe, lemme bury him fer yew.' do yer all think i be a baby?" demanded the old gentleman with glaring eye. "i guess i'm able ter do somethin' fer myself once in a while. i hain't so old as some folks might think," he continued with superb inconsistence. "i be a mere child compared with that air plagued nancy smith." it took very little to exhaust angy's ability for this style of repartee, and she would rejoin with tender but mistaken efforts to soothe and comfort him: "thar, thar, father! don't git excited neow. seems ter me ye 're a leetle bit feverish. ef only yew 'd take this here tansy tea." abraham would give one exasperated glance at the tin cup and mutter into the depths of his beard: "tansy tea an' old women! old women an' tansy tea! tansy tea be durned!" abe failed perceptibly during the summer, grew feebler as the autumn winds blew in, and by november he took to his bed and the physician of the home, a little whiffet of a pompous idiot, was called to attend him. the doctor, determined at the start to make a severe case of the old man's affliction in order that he might have the greater glory in the end, be it good or bad, looked very grave over abraham's tongue and pulse, prescribed medicine for every half-hour, and laid especial stress upon the necessity of keeping the patient in bed. "humbug!" growled the secretly terrified invalid, and in an excess of bravado took his black silk necktie from where it hung on the bedpost and tied it in a bow-knot around the collar of his pink-striped nightshirt, so that he would be in proper shape to receive any of the sisters. then he lay very still, his eyes closed, as they came tiptoeing in and out. their tongues were on gentle tiptoe too, although not so gentle but that he could hear them advising: one, a "good, stiff mustard plaster"; one, an "onion poultice"; another, a "spanish blister"; while aunt nancy stopped short of nothing less than "old-fashioned bleeding." abe lay very still and wondered if they meant to kill him. he was probably going to die anyhow, so why torment him. only when he was dead, he hoped that they would think more kindly of him. and so surrounded yet alone, the old man fought his secret terror until mercifully he went to sleep. when he awoke there were the sisters again; and day after day they spent their combined efforts in keeping him on his back and forcing him to take his medicine, the only appreciable good resulting therefrom being the fact that with this tax upon their devotion the old ladies came once more to regard abe as the most precious possession of the home. "what ef he should die?" they whispered among themselves, repentant enough of their late condemnation of him and already desolate at the thought of his leaving this little haven with them for the "great haven" over there; and the whisper reaching the sickroom, abe's fever would rise, while he could never lift his lashes except to see the specter of helpless old age on one side of the bed and death upon the other. "what's the matter with me?" he demanded of the doctor, as one who would say: "pooh! pooh! you're a humbug! what do you mean by keeping me in bed?" yet the old man was trembling with that inner fear. the physician, a feminine kind of a bearded creature himself, took abe's hand in his--an engaging trick he had with the old ladies. "now, my friend, do not distress yourself. of course, you are a very sick man; i cannot deceive you as to that; but during my professional career, i have seen some remarkable cases of recovery and--" "but what's the matter with me?" broke in abe, by this time fairly white with fear. the doctor had assured him that all his organs were sound, so he could only conclude that he must have one of those unusual diseases such as miss abigail was reading about in the paper yesterday. maybe, although his legs were so thin to-day, he was on the verge of an attack of elephantiasis! "what's the matter with me?" he repeated, his eyes growing wilder and wilder. what the doctor really replied would be difficult to tell; but out of the confusion of his technicalities abe caught the words, "nerves" and "hysteria." "mother, yew hear that?" he cried. "i got narvous hysterics. i told yer somethin' would happen ter me a-comin' to this here place. all them old woman's diseases is ketchin'. why on 'arth didn't yer let me go to the poorhouse?" he fell back on the pillow and drew the bedclothes up to his ears, while angy followed the doctor out into the hall to receive, as abe supposed, a more detailed description of his malady. he felt too weak, however, to question angy when she returned, and stubbornly kept his eyes closed until he heard mrs. homan tiptoe into the room to announce in hushed tones that blossy and samuel darby were below, and samuel wanted to know if he might see the invalid. then abe threw off the covers in a hurry and sat up. "sam'l darby?" he asked, the strength coming back into his voice. "a man! nary a woman ner a doctor! yes--yes, show him up!" angy nodded in response to mrs. homan's glance of inquiry; for had not the doctor told her that it would not hasten the end to humor the patient in any reasonable whim? and she also consented to withdraw when abe informed her that he wished to be left alone with his visitor, as it was so long since he had been face to face with a man "an' no petticoat a-hangin' 'round the corner." "naow, be keerful, cap'n darby," the little mother-wife cautioned at the door, "be very keerful. don't stay tew long an' don't rile him up, fer he's dretful excited, abe is." xi mental treatment little samuel darby paused at the foot of the bed and stared at abe without saying a word, while abe fixed his dim, distressed eyes on his visitor with a dumb appeal for assistance. samuel looked a very different man from the old bachelor who used to come a-wooing every six months at the home. either marriage had brought him a new growth of hair, or else blossy had selected a new wig for him--a modest, close, iron-gray which fitted his poll to perfection. marriage or blossy had also overcome in samuel that tendency to hang his head "to starb'd"; and now he lifted his bright eyes with the manner of one who would say: "see! i'm king of myself and my household! behold what one woman has done for me!" and in turn abe's unstrung vigor and feeble dependence cried out as loudly: "i haven't a leg left to stand on. behold what too much woman has done for me!" "ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands?" inquired abraham at last, wondering at the long silence and the incomprehensible stare, his fears accentuated by this seeming indication of a supreme and hopeless pity. "ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands? er be yew afeard of ketchin' it, tew?" for a moment longer samuel continued to stare, then of a sudden he roared, "git up!" "huh?" queried abe, not believing his own ears. "why, cap'n sam'l, don't yew know that i'm a doomed man? i got the 'narvous hysterics.'" "yew got the pip!" retorted captain darby contemptuously, and trotting quickly around to the side of the bed, he seized abe by the shoulders and began to drag him out upon the floor, crying again, "git up!" the sick man could account for this remarkable behavior in no way except by concluding that his old captain had gone into senile dementia--oh, cruel, cruel afflictions that life brings to old folks when life is almost done! well, thought abe, he would rather be sick and die in his right mind than go crazy. he began to whimper, whereupon samuel threw him back upon his pillows in disgust. "cryin'! oh, i swan, he's cryin'!" darby gave a short laugh pregnant with scorn. "abe rose, dew yew know what ails yew?" he demanded fixing his eyes fiercely upon the invalid. "dew yew know what'll happen tew yew ef yew don't git out o' this bed an' this here house? either yer beard'll fall out an' yew'll dwindle deown ter the size o' a baby or yew'll turn into a downright old woman--aunt abraham!--won't that sound nice? or yew'll die or yew'll go crazy. _git out er bed!_" the patient shook his head and sank back, closing his eyes, more exhausted than ever. and he himself had heard angy warn this man in a whisper not to "rile him up!" remorselessly went on the rejuvenated darby: "hain't a-goin' ter git up, heh? yew old mollycoddle! yew baby! old lady 31! kiffy calf! but i hain't a-blamin' yew; ef i had lived in this here place a year an' a half, i'd be stark, starin' mad! leetle tootsie-wootsie! _git up_!" abe had opened his eyes and was once more staring at the other, his mind slowly coming to the light of the realization that samuel might be more sane than himself. "that's what i told angy all along," he ventured. "i told her, i says, says i, 'humbug! foolishness! ye 're a-makin' a reg'lar baby of me. why,' i says, 'what's the difference between me an' these here women-folks except that i wear a beard an' smoke a pipe?'" "then why don't yew git up?" demanded the inexorable samuel. "git up an' fool 'em; or, gosh-all-hemlock! they'll be measurin' yew fer yer coffin next week. when i come inter the hall, what dew yew think these here sisters o' yourn was a-discussin'? they was a-arguin' the p'int as to whether they'd bury yew in a shroud or yer sunday suit." abraham put one foot out of bed. samuel took hold of his arm and with this assistance the old man managed to get up entirely and stand, though shaking as if with the palsy, upon the floor. "feel pooty good, don't yew?" demanded samuel, but with less severity. "a leetle soft, a leetle soft," muttered the other. "gimme my cane. thar, ef one o' them women comes in the door i'll--i'll--" abraham raised his stick and shook it at the innocent air. "whar's my pipe? mis' homan, she went an' hid it last week." after some searching, samuel found the pipe in abe's hat-box underneath the old man's beaver, and produced from his own pocket a package of tobacco, whereupon the two sat down for a quiet smoke, samuel chuckling to himself every now and again, abe modestly seeking from time to time to cover his bare legs with the skirt of his pink-striped night-robe, not daring to reach for a blanket lest samuel should call him names again. with the very first puff of his pipe, the light had come back into the invalid's eyes; with the second, the ashen hue completely left his cheek; and when he had pulled the tenth time on the pipe, abe was ready to laugh at the sisters, the whole world, and even himself. "hy-guy, but it's splendid to feel like a man ag'in!" the witch of hawthorne's story never gazed more fondly at her "feathertop" than samuel now gazed at abraham puffing away on his pipe; but he determined that abraham's fate should not be as poor "feathertop's." abe must remain a man. "naow look a-here, abe," he began after a while, laying his hand on the other's knee, "dew yew know that yew come put' nigh gittin' swamped in the big breakers? ef i hadn't come along an' throwed out the life-line, yew--" "sam'l," interrupted the new abraham, not without a touch of asperity, "whar yew been these six months? a-leavin' me ter die of apron-strings an' doctors! of course i didn't 'spect nuthin' o' yew when yew was jist a bachelor, an' we'd sort o' lost sight er each other fer many a year, but arter yew got connected with the hum by marriage sorter--" "connected with the hum by marriage!" broke in samuel with a snort of indignant protest. "me!" words failed him. he stared at abe with burning eyes, but abe only insisted sullenly: "whar yew an' blossy been all this time?" "dew yew mean ter tell me, abe rose, that yew didn't know that aunt nancy forbid blossy the house 'cause she didn't go an' ask her permission ter git spliced? oh, i fergot," he added. "yew'd gone up-stairs ter take a nap that day we come back from the minister's." abraham flushed. he did not care to recall samuel's wedding-day. he hastened to ask the other what had decided him and blossy to come to-day, and was informed that miss abigail had written to tell blossy that if she ever expected to see her "brother abe" alive again, she must come over to shoreville at the earliest possible moment. "then i says ter blossy," concluded captain darby, "i says, says i, 'jest lemme see that air pore old hen-pecked abe rose. i'll kill him er cure him!' i says. here, yer pipe 's out. light up ag'in!" abe struck the match with a trembling hand, unnerved once more by the speculation as to what might have happened had samuel's treatment worked the other way. "i left blossy an' aunt nancy a-huggin' an' a-kissin' down-stairs." abe sighed: "aunt nancy allers was more bark than bite." "humph! barkin' cats must be tryin' ter live with. abe," he tapped the old man's knee again, "dew yew know what yew need? a leetle vacation, a change of air. yew want ter cut loose from this all-fired old ladies' shebang an' go sky-larkin'." abe hung on samuel's words, his eyes a-twinkle with anticipation. "yes--yes, go sky-larkin'! won't we make things hum?" "thar's hummin' an' hummin'," objected abe, with a sudden show of caution. "miss abigail thinks more o' wash-day than some folks does o' heaven. wharabouts dew yew cak'late on a-goin'?" "tew bleak hill!" abraham's face lost its cautious look, his eyes sparkled once more. go back to the life-saving station where he had worked in his lusty youth--back to the sound of the surf upon the shore, back to the pines and cedars of the beach, out of the bondage of dry old lavender to the goodly fragrance of balsam and sea-salt! back to active life among men! "men, men, nawthin' but men!" samuel exploded as if he had read the other's thought. "nawthin' but men fer a hull week, that's my perscription fer yew! haow dew yew feel naow, mate?" for answer abe made a quick spring out of his chair, and in his bare feet commenced to dance a gentle, rheumatic-toe-considering breakdown, crying, "hy-guy, cap'n sam'l, you've saved my life!" while darby clapped his hands together, proud beyond measure at his success as the emancipator of his woman-ridden friend. neither heard the door open nor saw angy standing on the threshold, half paralyzed with fear and amazement, thinking that she was witnessing the mad delirium of a dying man, until she called out her husband's name. at the sound of her frightened voice, abe stopped short and reached for the blanket with which to cover himself. "naow don't git skeered, mother, don't git skeered," he abjured her. "i'm all right in my head. cap'n sam'l here, he brung me some wonderful medicine. he--" "blossy said you did!" interrupted angy, a light of intense gratitude flashing across her face as she turned eagerly to darby. "lemme see the bottle." "i chucked it out o' the winder," affirmed samuel without winking, and abe hastened to draw angy's attention back to himself. "see, mother, i kin stand as good as anybody; hain't got no fever; i kin walk alone. yew seen me dancin' jest naow, tew. an' ef i had that pesky leetle banty rooster of a doctor here, i'd kick him all the way deown-stairs. cap'n sam'l's wuth twenty-five o' him." "yew kept the perscription, didn't yer, cap'n?" demanded angy. "naow ef he should be took ag'in an'--" samuel turned away and coughed. "mother, mother," cried abe, "shet the door an' come set deown er all the sisters'll come a-pilin' in. i've had a invite, i have!" angy closed the door and came forward, her wary suspicious eye trailing from the visitor to her husband. "hy-guy, ain't it splendid!" abe burst forth. "me an' cap'n sam'l here is a-goin' over ter bleak hill fer a week." "bleak hill in december!" angy cried, aghast. "naow, see here, father," resolutely, "medicine er no medicine--" "he's got ter git hardened up," firmly interposed dr. darby; "it'll be the makin' o' him." angy turned on samuel with ruffled feathers. "he'll freeze ter death. yew shan't--" here abe's stubborn will, so rarely set against angy's gentle persistence, rose up in defiance: "we're a-gwine on a reg'lar a no. 1 spree with the boys, an' no women-folks is a-goin' ter stop us neither." "when?" asked angy faintly, feeling abe's brow, but to her surprise finding it cool and healthy. "ter-morrer!" proclaimed samuel; whereupon abe looked a little dubious and lifted up his two feet, wrapped as they were in the blanket, to determine the present strength of his legs. "don't yer think yer'd better make it day after ter-morrer?" he ventured. "or 'long erbout may er june?" angy hastily amended. samuel gave an exasperated grunt. "see here, whose spree is this?" abe demanded of the little old wife. she sighed, then resolved on strategy: "naow, abe, ef yew be bound an' possessed ter go ter the beach, yew go; but i'm a-goin' a-visitin' tew, an' i couldn't git the pair o' us ready inside a week. i'm a-goin' deown ter see blossy. she ast me jist naow, pendin', she says, cap'n sam'l here cures abe up ernough ter git him off. i thought she was crazy then." samuel knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the window-sill and arose to go. "waal," he said grudgingly, "make it a week from ter-day then, rain shine, snow er blow, er a blizzard. ef yer ever a-goin' ter git hardened, abe, naow's the time! i'll drive over 'long erbout ten o'clock an' git somebody ter sail us from here; er ef the bay freezes over 'twixt naow an' then, ter take us in a scooter." a "scooter," it may be explained, is an ice-boat peculiar to the great south bay--a sort of modified dingy on runners. "yes--yes, a scooter," repeated samuel, turning suddenly on abe with the sharp inquiry: "air yew a-shiverin'? hain't, eh? waal then, a week from ter-day, so be it!" he ended. "but me an' blossy is a-comin' ter see yew off an' on pooty frequent meanstwhile; an', abe, ef ever i ketch yew a-layin' abed, i'll leave yew ter yer own destruction." xii "a passel of meddlers" angy's secret hope that abe would change his mind and abandon the projected trip to the beach remained unfulfilled, in spite of the fact that cold weather suddenly descended on the south side, and the bay became first "scummed" over with ice, and then frozen so solid that all its usual craft disappeared, and the "scooters" took possession of the field. abe and samuel held stubbornly to their reckless intentions; and the sisters, sharing angy's anxiety, grew solicitous almost to the point of active interference. they withheld nothing in the way of counsel, criticism, or admonition which could be offered. "naow," said mrs. homan in her most commanding tones at the end of a final discussion in the big hall, on the evening before the date set for departure, "ef yew're bound, bent, an' determined, brother abe, to run in the face of providence, yew want tew mind one thing, an' wear yer best set of flannels ter-morrer." "sho, thar hain't no danger of me ketchin' cold," decried abe. "i didn't say yer thickest set of flannels; i said yer best. when a man gits throwed out onto the ice ker flump, the thickness of his clo'es ain't goin' to help him much. the fust thing i allus taught my husbands was to have everything clean an' whole on, when thar was any likelihood of a sudden death." "yew 'spect me tew go an' prink up fer a sudden death?" thundered abraham. "i hain't never heard tell on a scooter a-killin' nobody yit; it's them plagued ice-boats up state what--" "that's all very well," persisted mrs. homan, not to be diverted from her subject; "but when old dr. billings got run over by the train at mastic crossin' on fourth o' july eight year ago, his wife told me with her own lips that she never would git over it, cuz he had his hull big toe stickin' out o' the end of his stockin'. i tell yew, these days we've got tew prepare fer a violent end." the patient angy somewhat tartly retorted, that during the last week she had spent even more time upon father's wardrobe than she had upon her own; while abe inwardly rejoiced to think that for seven days to come--seven whole days--he and angy would be free from the surveillance of the sisters. mrs. homan, in no way nonplussed, boomed on: "thar, i most fergot about his necktie. 'course, they don't dress up much at the station; but jest the same that air tie o' yourn, brother abe, is a disgrace. i told yew yew'd spile it a-wearin' it tew bed. naow, i got a red an' green plaid what belonged to my second stepson, henry o. he never would 'a' died o' pneumony, either, ef he'd a-took my advice an' made himself a newspaper nightcap last time he substituted with the 'savers. an' yew kin have that necktie jest as well as not. naow, don't say a word; i'm better able to part with it 'n yew be not to take it." no one ever attempted the fruitless task of stopping mrs. homan once fully launched; but when at last she permitted her back to rest against her chair, folding her arms with the manner of one who makes a sacrifice in a worthy cause, abe broke into an explosive protest. if any one fretted him in his somewhat fretful convalescence, it was this grenadier member of the household, who since blossy's marriage had endeavored to fill the vacant post of "guardeen angel." "mis' homan," he sputtered, rising to his feet, "i wouldn't wear a red an' green plaid tie to a eel's funeral!" then with a somewhat ungracious "good-night" to the company in general, he trudged across the hall and up the stairs, muttering something to himself about a "passel of meddlers." well-meaning miss abigail, who had been nodding half asleep, roused herself to call after him, and he paused unwillingly to heed. "naow, don't yew lose no sleep ter-night," she admonished, "a-worryin' erbout the change in yer vittles. i told cap'n sam'l that hardtack an' sech like wouldn't never do fer yer weak stummick, an' he promised me faithful he'd send somebody tew the mainland every day fer milk." "dew yew think i be a baby?" shouted abraham, turning on his heel. "i know now what makes my teeth so sore lately," mumbling to himself; "it's from this here arrer-root an' all these puddin'y messes. they need hardenin', tew." xiii the prodigal's departure abraham was up betimes in the morning to greet a day crisp and cold, quiet, yet with sufficient breeze stirring the evergreens in the yard outside to make him predict a speedy voyage. the old man was nervous and excited, and, in spite of his buoyant anticipations, somewhat oppressed, now that the day had actually come, with a sense of timidity and fear. still, he put on a bold face while angeline fastened his refractory collar and tied his cravat. this was neither mrs. roman's offering nor abe's own old, frayed tie, but a new black one which had mysteriously been thrust through the crack under the door during the night. so, the last finishing touches having been put upon his toilet, and angy having made ready by lamplight for her own trip, even before the old man was awake, there seemed nothing left to be done until the breakfast bell should ring. abe sat down, and looking hard at his open carpet-bag wondered audibly if they had "everythin' in." the last time they two had packed abe's wardrobe for a visit to bleak hill had been many years ago, when samuel darby, though somewhat abe's junior, was keeper of the life-saving station, and abe was to be gone for a whole season's duty. then all of his possessions had been stowed in a long, bolster-like canvas bag for the short voyage. both angy and her husband recalled that time now--the occasion of their first, and almost of their last, real separation. "a week'll pass in no time," murmured angy very quickly, with a catch in her voice. "lookin' ahead, though, seven days seems awful long when yer old; but--oh, law, yes; a week'll pass in no time," she repeated. "only dew be keerful, abe, an' don't take cold." she perched herself on her little horsehair trunk which she had packed to take to blossy's, looking in her time-worn silk gown like a rusty blackbird, and, like a bird, she bent her head first to one side and then the other, surveying abe in his "barrel clothes" with a critical but complimentary eye. "wonder who made that necktie?" she questioned. "i'll bet yer 't was aunt nancy; she's got a sharp tongue, but a lot of silk pieces an' a tender spot in her heart fer yew, abe. ruby lee says she never thought yew'd bring her around; yew're dretful takin' in yer ways, father, thar's no use a-talkin'." abraham glanced at himself in the glass, and pulled at his beard, his countenance not altogether free from a self-conscious vanity. "i hain't sech a bad-lookin' feller when i'm dressed up, be i, mother? i dunno ez it's so much fer folks ter say i look like abe lincoln, after all; he was dretful humbly." "father," angy said coaxingly, "why don't yer put some o' that air 'sweet stuff' miss abigail give yer on yer hair? she'll feel real hurt ef she don't smell it on yer when yew go down-stairs." abe made a wry face, took up the tiny bottle of "jockey club," and rubbed a few drops on his hands. his hands would wash, and so he could find some way of removing the odor before he reached the station and--the men. "i'll be some glad ter git away from these here fussy old hens fer a spell," he grumbled, as he slammed the vial back on the bureau; but angy looked so reproachful and grieved that he felt ashamed of his ingratitude, and asked with more gentleness: "yew goin' ter miss me, mother?" then the old wife was ashamed to find herself shaking of a sudden, and grown wretchedly afraid--afraid of the separation, afraid of the "hardening" process, afraid of she knew not what. "i'm glad 't ain't goin' ter be fer all winter this time," she said simply; then arose to open the door in order that he might not see the rush of tears to her foolish, old eyes. according to the arrangement, captain darby was to drive over from twin coves with his hired man, and ezra, after taking the two old men to the bay, was to return to the home for angy and her little trunk. when samuel drove up to the front door, he found abe pacing the porch, his coat-collar turned up about his neck, his shabby fur cap pulled over his brow, his carpet-bag on the step, and, piled on the bench at the side of the door, an assortment of woolen articles fully six feet high, which afterward developed to be shawls, capes, hoods, comforters, wristlets, leggings, nubias, fascinators, guernseys, blankets, and coats. abe was fuming and indignant, scornful of the contributions, and vowing that, though the sisters might regard a scooter as a freight ocean-liner, he would carry nothing with him but what he wore and his carpet-bag. "an' right yer be," pronounced samuel, with a glance at the laden bench and a shake of his head which said as plainly as words, "brother, from what am i not delivering thee?" the sisters came bustling out of the door, mrs. homan in the lead, angy submerged in the crowd, and from that moment there was such a fuss, so much excitement, so many instructions and directions for the two adventurers, that abraham found himself in the carriage before he had kissed angy good-by. he had shaken hands, perhaps not altogether graciously, with every one else, even with the deaf-and-dumb gardener who came out of his hiding-place to witness the setting-out. being dared to by all the younger sisters, he had waggishly brushed his beard against aunt nancy smith's cheek, and then he had taken his place beside samuel without a touch or word of parting to his wife. he turned in his seat to wave to the group on the porch, his eyes resting in a sudden hunger upon angeline's frail, slender figure, as he remembered. she knew that he had forgotten in the flurry of his leave-taking, and she would have hastened down the steps to stop the carriage; but all the old ladies were there to see, and she simply stood, and gazed after the vehicle as it rolled away slowly behind the jog trot of samuel's safe, old calico-horse. she stood and looked, holding her chin very high, and trying to check its unsteadiness. a sense of loneliness and desolation fell over the home. piece by piece the sisters put away all the clothing they had offered in vain to abe. they said that the house was already dull without his presence. miss abigail began to plan what she should have for dinner the day of his return. no one seemed to notice angy. she felt that her own departure would create scarcely a stir; for, without abraham, she was only one of a group of poor, old women in a semi-charity home. slowly she started up the stairs for her bonnet and the old broche shawl. when she reached the landing, where lay the knitted mat of the three-star pattern, the matron called up to her in tragic tones: "angy rose, i jest thought of it. he never kissed yew good-by!" angy turned, her small, slender feet sinking deep into one of the woolly stars, her slim figure encircled by the light from the upper hall window. she saw a dozen faces uplifted to her, and she answered with quiet dignity: "abe wouldn't think of kissin' me afore folks." then quickly she turned again, and went to her room--their room--where she seated herself at the window, and pressed her hand against her heart which hurt with a new, strange, unfamiliar pain, a pain that she could not have shown "afore folks." xiv cutting the apron-strings the usual hardy pleasure-seekers that gather at the foot of shore lane whenever the bay becomes a field of ice and a field of sport as well were there to see the old men arrive, and as they stepped out of the carriage there came forward from among the group gathered about the fire on the beach the editor of the "shoreville herald." ever since his entrance into the old ladies' home, abe had never stopped chafing in secret over the fact that until he died, and no doubt received a worthy obituary, he might never again "have his name in the paper." in former days the successive editors of the local sheet had been willing, nay, eager, to chronicle his doings and angy's, whether abe's old enemy, rheumatism, won a new victory over him or angy's second cousin ruth came from riverhead to spend the day or--wonder indeed to relate!--the old man mended his roof or painted the front fence. no matter what happened of consequence to captain and mrs. rose, mr. editor had always been zealous to retail the news--before the auction sale of their household effects marked the death of the old couple, and of abe especially, to the social world of shoreville. what man would care to read his name between the lines of such a news item as this? the old ladies' home is making preparations for its annual quilting bee. donations of worsted, cotton batting, and linings will be gratefully received. mr. editor touched his cap to the two old men. he was a keen-faced, boyish little man with a laugh bigger than himself, but he always wore a worried air the day before his paper, a weekly, went to press, and he wore that worried look now. touching his hand to his fur cap, he informed samuel and abe that news was "as scarce as hens' teeth"; then added: "what's doing?" "oh, nawthin', nawthin'," hastily replied samuel, who believed that he hated publicity, as he gave abe's foot a sly kick. "we was jest a-gwine ter take a leetle scooter sail." he adjusted the skirt of his coat in an effort to hide abe's carpet-bag, his own canvas satchel, and a huge market-basket of good things which blossy had cooked for the life-savers. "seen anythink of that air eph seaman?" samuel added; shading his eyes with his hand and peering out upon the gleaming surface of the bay, over which the white sails of scooters were darting like a flock of huge, single-winged birds. "eph's racing with captain bill green," replied the newspaper man. "captain bill's got an extra set of new runners at the side of his scooter and wants to test them. say, boys," looking from one to the other of the old fellows, "so you're going scootering, eh? lively sport! cold kind of sport for men of your age. do you know, i've a good mind to run in to-morrow an article on 'long island and longevity,' taking head-line, eh? captain rose," turning to abe as samuel would do no more than glower at him, "to what do you attribute your good health at your time of life?" abe grinned all over his face and cleared his throat importantly, but before he could answer, samuel growled: "ter me! his health an' his life both. i dragged him up out of a deathbed only a week ago." the editor took out his note-book and began scribbling. "what brought you so low, captain rose?" he inquired without glancing up. again, before abe could answer, samuel trod on his toe. "thirty mollycoddling women-folks." abe found his voice and slammed the fist of one hand against the palm of the other. "if you go an' put that in the paper, i'll--i'll--" words failed him. he could see the sisters fairly fighting for the possession of the "shoreville herald" to-morrow evening, as they always scrambled each for the first glance at the only copy taken at the home, and he could hear one reading his name aloud--reading of the black ingratitude of their brother member. "jest say," he added eagerly, "that the time fer old folks ter stick home under the cellar-door has passed, an' nobody is tew old ter go a-gallivantin' nowadays. an' then yew might mention"--the old man's face was shining now as he imagined angy's pleasure--"that mis' rose is gone deown ter twin coves ter visit mis' sam'l darby fer a week, an' cap'n darby an' cap'n abraham rose," his breast swelling out, "is a-goin' ter spend a week at bleak hill. thar, hain't that cap'n eph a-scootin' in naow? i guess them air new runners o' bill green's didn't work. he hain't nowhere in sight. he--" "le' 's be a-gwine, abe," interrupted samuel, and leaving the editor still scribbling, he led the way down the bank with a determined trudge, his market-basket in one hand, his grip in the other, and his lips muttering that "a feller couldn't dew nuthin' in shoreville without gittin' his name in the paper." but a moment later, when the two were walking gingerly over the ice to the spot where eph had drawn his scooter to a standstill, samuel fell into a self-congratulatory chuckle. "he didn't find out though that i had my reasons fer leavin' home tew. women-folks, be it only one, hain't good all the time fer nobody. i come ter see blossy twict a year afore we was married reg'lar; an' naow, i cak'late ter leave her twict a year fer a spell. a week onct every six months separate an' apart," proceeded the recently made benedict, "is what makes a man an' his wife learn haow ter put up with one another in between-times." "why, me an' angy," began abe, "have lived tergether year in an' year out fer--" "all aboard!" interrupted captain eph with a shout. "it's a fair wind. i bet on making it in five minutes and fifty seconds!" seven minutes had been the record time for the five-mile sail over the ice to bleak hill, but samuel and abe, both vowing delightedly that the skipper couldn't go too fast for them, stepped into the body of the boat and squatted down on the hard boards. they grinned at each other as the scooter started and eph jumped aboard--grinned and waved to the people on the shore, their proud old thoughts crying: "i guess folks will see now that we're as young as we ever was!" they continued to grin as the boat spun into full flight and went whizzing over the ice, whizzing and bumping and bouncing. both their faces grew red, their two pairs of eyes began to water, their teeth began to chatter; but samuel shouted at the top of his voice in defiance of the gale: "abe, we've cut the apron-strings!" "hy-guy!" abe shouted in return, his heart flying as fast as the sail, back to youth and manhood again, back to truant-days and the vacation-time of boyhood. "hy-guy, sam'l! hain't we a-gwine ter have a reg'lar a no. 1 spree!" xv the "hardening" process the life-saving station was very still. nos. 3 and 5 had gone out on the eight-o'clock patrol. the seventh man was taking his twenty-four hours off at his home on the shore. the keeper was working over his report in the office. the other members of the crew were up-stairs asleep, and abe and samuel were bearing each other company in the mess-room. abe lay asleep on the carpet-covered sofa which had been dragged out of the captain's room for him, so that the old man need not spend the night in the cold sleeping-loft above. he was fully dressed except for his boots; for he was determined to conform to the rules of the service, and sleep with his clothes on ready for instant duty. "talk erbout him a-dyin'!" growled samuel to himself, lounging wearily in a chair beside the stove. "he's jest startin' his life. he's a reg'lar hoss. i didn't think he had it in him." samuel's tone was resentful. he was a little jealous of the distinction which had been made between him and abe; and drawing closer to the fire, he shivered in growing distaste for the cot assigned to him with the crew up-stairs, where the white frost lay on the window-latches. what uncomfortable chairs they had in this station! samuel listened to the mooing of the breakers, to the wind rattling at the casements,--and wondered if blossy had missed him. about this time, she must be sitting in her chintz-covered rocker, combing out the ringlets of her golden-white hair in the cheery firelight. now, that would be a sight worth seeing! abe opened his mouth and began to snore. what disgusting, hideous creatures men were, reflected samuel. six months' living with an unusually high-bred woman had insensibly raised his standards. why should he spend a week of his ever-shortening life with such inferior beings, just for abraham's sake--for abraham's sake, and to bear out a theory of his own, which he had already concluded a mistake? abe gave a snort, opened his eyes, and muttered sleepily: "this is what i call a a no. 1 spree. naow, ter-morrer--" but mumbling incoherently he relapsed into slumber, puffing his lips out into a whistling sound. samuel reached for a newspaper on the table, folded it into a missile, and started to fling it into the innocent face of the sleeper. but, fortunately for abraham, it was captain darby's custom to count ten whenever seized by an exasperated impulse, and at the ninth number he regretfully dropped the paper. then he began to count in another way. using the forefinger of his right hand as a marker, he counted under his breath, "one" on his left thumb, then after a frowning interval, "two" on his left forefinger, "three" on the middle digit, and so on, giving time for thought to each number, until he had exhausted the fingers of his left hand and was ready to start on the right. count, count, went samuel, until thrice five was passed, and he began to be confused. once more abe awoke, and inquired if the other were trying to reckon the number of new wigwags and signals which the service had acquired since they had worked for the government; but on being sharply told to "shet up!" went to sleep again. what the projector of the trip was really trying to recall was how many times that day he had regretted saving abe from the devastating clutches of the old ladies. "him need hardenin'?" muttered samuel blackly. "why, he's harder now 'n nails an' hardtack!" again he ran over on his fingers the list of high crimes and misdemeanors of which abe had been guilty. first,--thumb, left hand,--abe had insisted on extending their scooter sail until he, samuel, had felt his toes freezing in his boots. second,--forefinger, left hand,--on being welcomed by the entire force at bleak hill and asked how long they expected to stay, abe had blurted out, "a hull week," explaining that samuel's rule requiring at least seven days of exile from his wife every six months barred them from returning in less time. the keeper was a widower, all the other men bachelors. how could they be expected to understand? they burst into a guffaw of laughter, and abe, not even conscious that he had betrayed a sacred confidence, sputtered and laughed with the rest. samuel had half a mind to return to-morrow, "jest to spite 'em." let's see, how many days of this plagued week were left? six. six whole twenty-four hours away from blossy and his snug, warm, comfortable nest. she wasn't used to keepin' house by herself, neither. would she remember to wind the clock on thursday, and feed the canary, and water the abutilon and begonias reg'lar? grimly samuel took up offense no. 3. abraham had further told the men that he had been brought over here for a hardening process; but he was willing to bet that if samuel could keep up with him, he could keep up with samuel. then followed offense on offense. was samuel to be outdone on his own one-time field of action by an old ladies' darling? no! when abe sat for a half-hour in the lookout, up in the freezing, cold cupola, and did duty "jest to be smart," samuel sat there on top of his own feet, too. when abe helped drag out the apparatus-cart over the heavy sands for the drill, samuel helped, too. and how tugging at that rope brought back his lumbago! when abe rode in the breeches-buoy, samuel insisted on playing the sole survivor of a shipwreck, too, and went climbing stiffly and lumberingly up the practice-mast. abraham refused to take a nap after dinner; so did samuel. abe went down to the out-door carpenter-shop in the grove, and planed a board just for the love of exertion. samuel planed two boards and drove a nail. "we've got two schoolboys with us," said the keeper and the crew. "ef i'd a-knowed that yew had more lives 'n my maltese cat," samuel was muttering over abe by this time, "i'd--" count, count went captain darby's fingers. he heard the keeper rattling papers in the office just across the threshold, heard him say he was about to turn in, and guessed samuel had better do likewise; but samuel kept on counting. count, count went the arraigning fingers. gradually he grew drowsy, but still he went over and over poor abe's offenses, counting on until of a sudden he realized that he was no longer numbering the sins of his companion; he was measuring in minutes the time he must spend away from blossy and twin coves, and the begonias, and the canary, and the cat. what would blossy say if she could feel the temperature of the room in which he was supposed to sleep? what would blossy say if she knew how his back ached? whatever would blossy do to abe rose if she could suspect how he had tuckered out her "old man?" "he's a reg'lar hoss," brooded samuel. "oh, my feet!" grabbing at his right boot. "i'll bet yer all i got it's them air chilblains. that's what," he added, unconsciously speaking aloud. abe's lids slowly lifted. he rubbed his eyes and yawned. he turned his head on his hard, blue gingham-covered pillow, and stared sleepily at the other. "yew been noddin', sam'l? ain't gittin' sleepy a'ready, are yer?" he glanced at the clock. "why, it's only half past nine. say, what's the matter with me an' yew goin' west ter meet no. 5? leetle breath o' fresh air 'll make us sleep splendid." he started up from the couch, but dropped back, too heavy with weariness to carry off his bravado. samuel, however, not noticing the discrepancy between speech and action, was already at the door leading up-stairs. "yew don't drag me out o' this station ter-night, abe rose. yew 're a reg'lar hoss; that 's what yew be. a reg'lar hoss! a reg'lar--a reg'lar--" he flung open the door and went trudging as fast as his smarting feet could carry him up the steep and narrow steps, wherein the passing of other feet for many years had worn little hollows on either side. abraham limped from the couch to the door himself, and called after him: "sam'l, don't yew want tew sleep by the fire? yew seem a leetle softer than i be. let me come up-stairs." there was no answer beyond the vicious slamming of samuel's boots upon the floor above. abe raised his voice again, and now came in answer a roar of wrath from the cot next to samuel's. "go to bed!" shouted no. 6, a burly, red-headed irishman. "go to bed, wid ye! th' young folks do be nadin' a little schlape!" xvi "a reg'lar hoss" abe flung himself back on his hard couch, drew the thick, gray blanket over him, and straightway fell into a deep, childlike slumber from which he was aroused by the rough but hearty inquiry: "say, cap, like to have some oyster-stew and a cup of coffee?" abe sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering since when they had begun to serve oyster-stew for breakfast on the beach; then he realized that he had not overslept, and that it was not morning. the clock was striking twelve, the midnight patrol was just going out, and the returning "runners" were bidding him partake of the food they had just prepared to cheer them after their cold tramp along the surf. the old man whiffed the smell of the coffee, tempted, yet withheld by the thought of angy's horror, and the horror of the twenty-nine sisters. "cap'n abe"--clarence havens, no. 5, with a big iron spoon in his hand and a blue gingham apron tied around his bronzed neck, put him on his mettle, however--"cap'n abe, i tell yew, we wouldn't have waked no other fellow of your age out of a sound sleep. cap'n darby, he could snooze till doomsday; but we knowed you wouldn't want to miss no fun a-going." "cap'n sam'l does show his years," abe admitted. "much obliged fer yew a-wakin' me up, boys," as he drew on his boots. "i was dreamin' i was hungry. law, i wish i had a dollar apiece fer all the eyester-stews i've et on this here table 'twixt sunset an' sunrise." under the stimulus of the unaccustomed repast, abe expanded and began to tell yarns of the old days on the beach--the good old days. his cheeks grew red, his eyes sparkled. he smoked and leaned back from the table, and ate and drank, smoked and ate again. "a week amongst yew boys," he asserted gaily, "is a-goin' tew be the makin' of me. haow sam'l kin waste so much time in sleep, i can't understand." "i don't think he is asleep," said no. 3. "when i was up-stairs jest now fer my slippers, i heard him kind o' sniffin' inter his piller." the laugh which followed brought the keeper out of the office in his carpet slippers, a patchwork quilt over his shoulders. his quick eyes took in the scene--the lamp sputtering above the table, the empty dishes, the two members of the crew sleepily jocular, with their blue flannel elbows spread over the board, the old man's rumpled bed, and his brilliant cheeks and bright eyes. "boys, you shouldn't have woke up cap'n rose," he said reprovingly. "i'm afraid, sir," turning to abraham, "that you find our manners pretty rough after your life among the old ladies." abe dropped his eyes in confusion. was he never to be rid of those apron-strings: "well, there's worse things than good women," proceeded the captain. "i wish we had a few over here." he sighed with the quiet, dull manner of the men who have lived long on the beach. "since they made the rule that the men must eat and sleep in the station, it's been pretty lonely. that's why there's so many young fellows in the service nowadays; married men with families won't take the job." "them empty cottages out thar," admitted abe, pointing to the window, "does look kind o' lonesome a-goin' ter rack an' ruin. why, the winter i was over here, every man had his wife an' young 'uns on the beach, 'cept me an' sam'l." again the keeper sighed, and drew his coverlid closer. "now, it's just men, men, nothing but men. not a petticoat in five miles; and i tell you, sometimes we get mad looking at one another, don't we, boys?" the two young men had sobered, and their faces also had taken on that look engendered by a life of dull routine among sand-hills at the edge of a lonely sea, with seldom the sound of a woman's voice in their ears or the prattle of little children. "for two months last winter nobody came near us," said havens, "and we couldn't get off ourselves, either, half the time. the bay broke up into porridge-ice after that big storm around new year's; yew dasn't risk a scooter on it or a cat-boat. feels to me," he added, as he rose to his feet, "as if it was blowin' up a genuwine old nor'-easter again." the other man helped him clear the table. "i'm goin' to get married in june," he said suddenly, "and give up this here blamed service." "a wife," pronounced abe, carrying his own dishes into the kitchen, "is dretful handy, onct yew git used to her." the keeper went into the office with a somewhat hurried "good-night," and soon abe found himself alone again, the light in the kitchen beyond, no sound in the room save that of the booming of the surf, the rattling of the windows, and now and again the fall of a clinker in the stove. the old man was surprised to find that he could not fall back into that blissful slumber again. not sleeping, he had to think. he thought and thought,--sober night thoughts,--while the oysters "laid like a log in his stummick" and the coffee seemed to stir his brain to greater activity. "suppose," said the intoxicated brain, "another big storm should swoop down upon you and the bay should break up, and you and samuel should be imprisoned on the beach for two or three months with a handful of men-folks!" "moo! moo!" roared the breakers on the shore. "serve you right for finding fault with the sisters!" come to think of it, if he had not been so ungracious of miss abigail's concern for him, he would now be in possession of a hop pillow to lull him back to sleep. well, he had made his bed, and he would have to lie on it, although it was a hard old carpet-covered lounge. having no hop pillow, he would count sheep-one sheep going over the fence, two sheep, three--how tired he was! how his bones ached! it's no use talking, you can't make an old dog do the tricks of his puppy days. what an idiot he had been to climb that practice-mast! if he had fallen and broken his leg? four sheep. maybe he was too old for gallivanting, after all. maybe he was too old for anything except just to be "mollycoddled" by thoughtful old ladies. now, be honest with yourself, abe. did you enjoy yourself to-day--no, yesterday? did you? well, yes and--no! now, if angy had been along! angy! that was why he could not go to sleep! he had forgotten to kiss her good-by! wonder if she had noticed it? wonder if she had missed him more on account of that neglect? pshaw! what nonsense! angy knew he wa'n't no hand at kissin', an' it was apt to give him rheumatism to bend down so far as her sweet old mouth. he turned to the wall at the side of the narrow lounge, to the emptiness where her pillow should be. "good-night, mother," he muttered huskily. mother did not answer for the first time in nights beyond the counting. mother would not be there to answer for at least six nights to come. a week, thought this old man, as the other old man had reflected a few hours before, is a long time when one has passed his threescore years and ten, and with each day sees the shadows growing longer. abraham put out his hard time-shrunken hand and touched in thought his wife's pillow, as if to persuade himself that she was really there in her place beside him. he remembered when first he had actually touched her pillow to convince himself that she was really there, too awed and too happy to believe that his youth's dream had come true; and he remembered now how his gentle, strong hand had crept along the linen until it cupped itself around her cheek; and he had felt the cheek grow hot with blushes in the darkness. she had not been "mother" then; she had been "dearest!" would she think that he was growing childish if he should call her "dearest" now? smiling to himself, he concluded that he would try the effect of the tender term when he reached home again. he drew his hand back, whispering once more, "good-night, mother." then he fancied he could hear her say in her soft, reassuring tone, "good-night, father." father turned his back on the empty wall, praying with a sudden rush of passionate love that when the last call should come for him, it would be after he had said "good-night, mother," to angy and after she had said "good-night, father," to him, and that they might wake somewhere, somehow, together with god, saying, "good-morning, mother," "good-morning, father!" and "fair is the day!" xvii the deserter at dawn the station was wide-awake and everybody out of bed. samuel crept down-stairs in his stocking-feet, his boots in his hand, his eyes heavy with sleeplessness, and his wig awry. he shivered as he drew close to the fire, and asked in one breath for a prescription for chilblains and where might abe be. abe's lounge was empty and his blankets neatly folded upon it. the sunrise patrol from the east, who had just returned, made reply that he had met captain abe walking along the surf to get up an appetite for his griddle-cakes and salt pork. samuel sat down suddenly on the lounge and opened his mouth. "didn't he have enough exercise yist'day, for marcy's sake! put' nigh killed me. i was that tired las' night i couldn't sleep a wink. i declar', ef 't wa'n't fer that fool newspaper a-comin' out ter-night, i'd go home ter-day. yer a-gwine acrost, hain't yer, havens?" havens laughed in response. samuel glowered at him. "i want home comforts back," he vowed sullenly. "the beach hain't what it used ter be. goin' on a picnic with abe rose is like settin' yer teeth into a cast-iron stove lid covered with a thin layer o' puddin'. i'm a-goin' home." the keeper assured him that no one would attempt to detain him if he found the station uncomfortable, and that if he preferred to leave abraham behind, the whole force would take pleasure in entertaining the more active old man. "that old feller bates a phonograph," affirmed the irishman. "it's good ter hear that he'll be left anyhow for comp'ny with this storm a-comin' up." samuel rushed to the window, for up-stairs the panes had been too frosty for him to see out. a storm coming up? the beach did look gray and desolate, dun-colored in the dull light of the early day, with the winter-killed grass and the stunted green growth of cedar and holly and pine only making splotches of darkness under a gray sky which was filled with scurrying clouds. the wind, too, had risen during the night, and the increased roar of the surf was telling of foul weather at sea. a storm threatening! and the pleasant prospect of being shut in at the beach with the cast-iron abraham and these husky life-savers for the remainder of the winter! no doubt abe would insist upon helping the men with the double duties imposed by thick weather, and drag samuel out on patrol. "when dew yew start, havens?" demanded samuel in shaking tones. "le' 's get off afore abe gits back an' tries ter hold me. he seems ter be so plagued stuck on the life over here, he'll think i must be tew." but, though havens had to wait for the return of the man who had gone off duty yesterday morning, still abe had not put in an appearance when samuel and the life-saver trudged down the trail through the woods to the bay. as he stepped into the scooter, samuel's conscience at last began to prick him. "yew sure the men will look arter the old fellow well an' not let him over-dew?" but the whizz of the flight had already begun and the scooter's nose was set toward twin coves, her sail skimming swiftly with the ring of the steel against the ice over the shining surface of the bay. "law, yes," samuel eased his conscience; "of course they will. they couldn't hurt him, anyhow. i never seen nobody take so kindly ter hardenin' as that air abe." xviii samuel's welcome the shore at twin coves was a somewhat lonely spot, owing to stretches of marshland and a sweep of pine wood that reached almost to the edge of the water. samuel, however, having indicated that he wished to be landed at the foot of a path through the pines, found himself on the home shore scarcely ten minutes after he had left bleak hill--havens already speeding toward his home some miles to the eastward, the bay seemingly deserted except for his sail, a high wind blowing, and the snow beginning to fall in scattered flakes. samuel picked up his grip, trudged through the heavy sand of the narrow beach, and entered the sweet-smelling pine wood. he was stiff with cold after the rough, swift voyage; his feet alone were hot--burning hot with chilblains. away down in his heart he was uneasy lest some harm should come to abe and the old man be caught in the approaching storm on the beach. but, oh, wasn't he glad to be home! his house was still half a mile away; but he was once more on good, solid, dry land. "i'll tell blossy haow that air abe rose behaved," he reassured himself, when he pictured his wife's astonished and perhaps reproachful greeting, "an' then she won't wonder that i had ter quit him an' come back." he recollected that angy would be there, and hoped fervently that she might not prove so strenuous a charge as abraham. moreover, he hoped that she would not so absorb blossy's attention as to preclude a wifely ministering to his aching feet and the application of "st. jerushy ile" to his lame and sore back. the torture of the feet and back made walking harder, too, than he had believed possible with the prospect of relief so near. as he limped along he was forced to pause every now and again and set down the carpet-bag, sometimes to rub his back, sometimes to seat himself on a stump and nurse for a few moments one of those demon-possessed feet. could he have made any progress at all if he had not known that at home, no matter if there was company, there would at least be no abe rose to keep him going, to spur him on to unwelcome action, to force him to prove himself out of sheer self-respect the equal, if not the superior, in masculine strength? abe had led him that chase over at the station, samuel was convinced, "a-purpose" to punish him for having so soundly berated him when he lay a-bed. that was all the thanks you ever got for doing things for "some folks." samuel hobbled onward, his brow knit with angry resentment. did ever a half-mile seem so long, and had he actually been only twenty-three hours from home and blossy? oh, oh! his back and his feet! oh, the weight of that bag! how much he needed sleep! how good it would be to have blossy tuck him under the covers, and give him a hot lemonade with a stick of ginger in it! if only he had hold of abe rose now to tell him his opinion of him! well, he reflected, you have to summer and winter with a person before you can know them. this one december day and night with abe had been equal to the revelations of a dozen seasons. the next time samuel tried to do good to anybody more than sixty-five, he'd know it. the next time he was persuaded into leaving his wife for over night, he'd know that, too. various manuals for the young husband, which he had consulted, to the contrary notwithstanding, the place for a married man was at home. samuel sat down on a fallen tree which marked the half-way point between his place and the bay. the last half of the journey would seem shorter, and, at the end, there would be blossy smiling a welcome, for he never doubted but that blossy would be glad to see him. she thought a good deal of him, nor had she been especially anxious for that week of separation. his face smoothed its troubled frowns into a look of shining anticipation--the look that samuel's face had worn when first he ushered blossy into his tidy, little home and murmured huskily: "mis' darby, yew're master o' the vessel naow; i'm jest fo'castle hand." forgetting all his aches, his pains, his resentments, samuel took a peppermint-lozenge out of his pocket, rolled it under his tongue, and walked on. presently, as he saw the light of the clearing through the trees, he broke into a run,--an old man's trot,--thus proving conclusively that his worry of lumbago and chilblains had been merely a wrongly diagnosed case of homesickness. he grinned as he pictured abe's dismay on returning to the station to find him gone. still, he reflected, maybe abe would have a better time alone with the young fellows; he had grown so plagued young himself all of a sudden. samuel surely need not worry about him. more and more good-natured grew samuel's face, until a sociable rabbit, peeping at him from behind a bush, decided to run a race with the old gentleman, and hopped fearlessly out into the open. "ah, yew young rascal!" cried samuel. "yew're the feller that eat up all my winter cabbages." at this uncanny reading of his mind, mr. cottontail darted off into the woods again to seek out his mate and inform her that their guilt had been discovered. finally, samuel came to the break in the woodland, an open field of rye, green as springtime grass, and his own exquisitely neat abode beckoning across the gray rail-fence to him. how pretty blossy's geraniums looked in the sitting-room windows! even at this distance, too, he could see that she had not forgotten to water his pet abutilon and begonias. how welcome in the midst of this flurry of snow--how welcome to his eye was that smoke coming out of the chimneys! all the distress of his trip away from home seemed worth while now for the joy of coming back. before he had taken down the fence-rail and turned into the path which led to his back door, he was straining his ears for the sound of blossy's voice gossiping with angy. not hearing it, he hurried the faster. the kitchen door was locked. the key was not under the mat; it was not in the safe on the porch, behind the stone pickle-pot. he tried the door again, and then peered in at the window. not even the cat could be discerned. the kitchen was set in order, the breakfast dishes put away, and there was no sign of any baking or preparations for dinner. he knocked, knocked loudly. no answer. he went to a side door, to the front entrance, and found the whole house locked, and no key to be discovered. it was still early in the morning, earlier than blossy would have been likely to set out upon an errand or to spend the day; and then, too, she was not one to risk her health in such chilly, damp weather, with every sign of a heavy storm. samuel became alarmed. he called sharply, "blossy!" no answer. "mis' rose!" no answer. "ezra!" and still no sound in reply. his alarm increased. he went to the barn; that was locked and ezra nowhere in sight. by standing on tiptoe, however, and peeping through a crack in the boards, he found that his horse and the two-seated surrey were missing. "waal, i never," grumbled samuel, conscious once more of all his physical discomforts. "the minute my back's turned, they go a-gallivantin'. i bet yer," he added after a moment's thought, "i bet yer it's that air angy rose. she's got ter git an' gad every second same as abe, an' my poor wife has been drug along with her." there was nothing left for him to do but seek refuge in his shop and await their return. like nearly every other bayman, he had a one-room shanty, which he called the "shop," and where he played at building boats, and weaving nets, and making oars and tongs. this structure stood to the north of the house, and fortunately had an old, discarded kitchen stove in it. there, if the wanderers had not taken that key also, he could build a fire, and stretch out before it on a bundle of sail-cloth. he gave a start of surprise, however, as he approached the place; for surely that was smoke coming out of the chimney! ezra must have gone out with the horse, and blossy must be entertaining angy in some outlandish way demanded by the idiosyncrasies of the rose temperament. samuel flung open the door, and strode in; but only to pause on the threshold, struck dumb. blossy was not there, angy was not there, nor any one belonging to the household. but sitting on that very bundle of canvas, stretching his lean hands over the stove, with samuel's cat on his lap, was the "old hoss"--abraham rose! xix exchanging the olive-branch the cat jumped off abe's lap, running to samuel with a mew of recognition. abe turned his head, and made a startled ejaculation. "sam'l darby," he said stubbornly, "ef yew've come tew drag me back to that air beach, yew 're wastin' time. i won't go!" samuel closed the door and hung his damp coat and cap over a suit of old oilskins. he came to the fire, taking off his mittens and blowing on his fingers, the suspicious and condemnatory tail of his eye on abraham. "haow'd yew git here?" he burst forth. "what yew bin an' done with my wife, an' my horse, an' my man, an' my kerridge? haow'd yew git here? what'd yew come fer? when'd yew git here?" "what'd yew come fer?" retorted abe with some spirit. "haow'd yew git here?" "none o' yer durn' business." a glimmer of the old twinkle came back into abe's eye, and he began to chuckle. "i guess we might as waal tell the truth, sam'l. we both tried to be so all-fired young yesterday that we got played out, an' concluded unanermous that the best place fer a a no. 1 spree was ter hum." samuel gave a weak smile, and drawing up a stool took the cat upon his knee. "yes," he confessed grudgingly, "i found out fer one that i hain't no spring lamb." "ner me, nuther," abe's old lips trembled. "i had eyester-stew an' drunk coffee in the middle o' the night; then the four-o'clock patrol wakes me up ag'in. 'here, be a sport,' they says, an' sticks a piece o' hot mince-pie under my nose. then i was so oneasy i couldn't sleep. daybreak i got up, an' went fer a walk ter limber up my belt, an' i sorter wandered over ter the bay side, an' not a mile out i see tew men with one o' them big fishin'-scooters a-haulin' in their net. an' i walked a ways out on the ice, a-signalin' with my bandana han'kercher; an' arter a time they seen me. 't was cap'n ely from injun head an' his boy. haow them young 'uns dew grow! las' time i see that kid, he wa' n't knee-high tew a grasshopper. "waal, i says tew 'em, i says: 'want ter drop a passenger at twin coves?' 'yes, yes,' they says. 'jump in.' an' so, sam'i, i gradooated from yer school o' hardenin' on top a ton o' squirmin' fish, more er less. i thought i'd come an' git angy," he ended with a sigh, "an' yer hired man 'd drive us back ter shoreville; but thar wa' n't nobody hum but a mewin' cat, an' the only place i could git inter was this here shop. wonder whar the gals has gone?" no mention of the alarm that he must by this time have caused at the station. no consciousness of having committed any breach against the laws of hospitality. but there was that in the old man's face, in his worn and wistful look, which curbed samuel's tongue and made him understand that as a little child misses his mother so abe had missed angy, and as a little homesick child comes running back to the place he knows best so abe was hastening back to the shelter he had scorned. so, with an effort, samuel held his peace, merely resolving that as soon as he could get to a telephone he would inform their late hosts of abe's safety. there was no direct way of telephoning; but a message could be sent to the quogue station, and from there forwarded to bleak hill. "i've had my lesson," said abe. "the place fer old folks is with old folks." "but"--samuel recovered his authoritative manner--"the place fer an old man ain't with old hens. naow, abe, ef yew think yew kin behave yerself an' not climb the flagpole or jump over the roof, i want yer to stay right here, yew an' angy both, an' spend yer week out. yes, yes," as abe would have thanked him. "i take it," plunging his hand into his pocket, "yew ain't stowed away nothin' since that mince-pie; but i can't offer yer nothin' to eat till blossy gits back an' opens up the house, 'cept these here pepp'mints. they're fine; try 'em." with one of those freakish turns of the weather that takes the conceit out of all weather-prophets, the snow had now ceased to fall, the sun was struggling out of the clouds, and the wind was swinging around to the west. neither of the old men could longer fret about their wives being caught in a heavy snow; but, nevertheless, their anxiety concerning the whereabouts of the women did not cease, and the homesickness which abe felt for angy, and samuel for blossy, rather increased than diminished as one sat on the roll of canvas and the other crouched on his stool, and both hugged the fire, and both felt very old, and very lame, and very tired and sore. toward noontime they heard the welcome sound of wheels, and on rushing to the door saw ezra driving alone to the barn. he did not note their appearance in the doorway of the shop; but they could see from the look on his face that nothing had gone amiss. samuel heard the shutting of the kitchen door, and knew that blossy was at home, and a strange shyness submerged of a sudden his eagerness to see her. what would she say to this unexpected return? would she laugh at him, or be disappointed? "yew go fust," he urged abe, "an' tell my wife that i've got the chilblains an' lumbago so bad i can't hardly git tew the house, an' i had ter come hum fer my 'st. jerushy ile' an' her receipt fer frosted feet." xx the fatted calf abe had no such qualms as samuel. he wanted to see angy that minute, and he did not care if she did know why he had returned. he fairly ran to the back door under the grape arbor, so that samuel, observing his gait, was seized with a fear that he might be that young abe of the beach, during his visit, after all. abraham rushed into the kitchen without stopping to knock. "i'm back, mother," he cried, as if that were all the joyful explanation needed. she was struggling with the strings of her bonnet before the looking-glass which adorned blossy's parlor-kitchen. she turned to him with a little cry, and he saw that her face had changed marvelously--grown young, grown glad, grown soft and fresh with a new excited spirit of jubilant thanksgiving. "oh, father! weren't yew s'prised tew git the telephone? i knowed yew'd come a-flyin' back." blossy appeared from the room beyond, and slipped past them, knowing intuitively where she would find her lord and master; but neither of them observed her entrance or her exit. angy clung to abe, and abe held her close. what had happened to her, the undemonstrative old wife? what made her so happy, and yet tremble so? why did she cry, wetting his cheek with her tears, when she was so palpably glad? why had she telephoned for him, unless she, too, had missed him as he had missed her? recalling his memories of last night, the memories of that long-ago honeymoon-time, he murmured into his gray beard, "dearest!" she did not seem to think he was growing childish. she was not even surprised. at last she said, half between sobbing and laughing: "oh, abe, ain't god been good to us? ain't it jist bewtiful to be rich? rich!" she cried. "rich!" abe sat down suddenly, and covered his face with his hands. in a flash he understood, and he could not let even angy see him in the light of the revelation. "the minin' stock!" he muttered; and then low to himself, in an awed whisper: "tenafly gold! the minin' stock!" after a while he recovered himself sufficiently to explain that he had not received the telephone message, and therefore knew nothing. "did i git a offer, mother?" "a offer of fifteen dollars a share. the letter come last night fer yew, an' i--" "fifteen dollars a share!" he was astounded. "an' we've got five thousand shares! fifteen dollars, an' i paid ninety cents! angy, ef ever i ketch yew fishin' yer winter bunnit out of a charity barrel ag'in, i'll--fifteen dollars!" "but that ain't the best of it," interrupted angy. "i couldn't sleep a wink, an' blossy says not ter send word tew yew, 'cuz mebbe 't was a joke, an' to wait till mornin' an' go see sam'l's lawyer down ter injun head. that's whar we've jest come from, an' we telephoned ter quogue station from thar. an' the lawyer at fust he didn't 'pear tew think very much of it; but blossy, she got him ter call up some broker feller in 'york, an' 'gee whizz!' he says, turnin' 'round all excited from the 'phone. 'tenafly gold is sellin' fer twenty dollars on the curb right this minute!' an' he says, says he: 'yew git yer husband, an' bring that air stock over this arternoon; an',' says he, 'i'll realize on it fer yer ter-morrer mornin'.'" abe stared at his wife, at her shining silk dress with its darns and careful patches, at her rough, worn hands, and at the much mended lace over her slender wrists. "that mine was closed down eighteen years ago; they must 'a' opened it up ag'in"; he spoke dully, as one stunned. then with a sudden burst of energy, his eyes still on his wife's figure: "mother, that dress o' yourn is a disgrace fer the wife of a financierer. yew better git a new silk fer yerself an' miss abigail, tew, fust thing. her sunday one hain't nothin' extry." "but yer old beaver, abe!" angy protested. "it looks as ef it come out o'the ark!" "last sunday yew said it looked splendid"; his tone was absent-minded again. he seemed almost to ramble in his speech. "we must see that ishmael gits fixed up comfortable in the old men's home; yew remember haow he offered us all his pennies that day we broke up housekeepin'. an' we must do somethin' handsome fer the darbys, tew. ef it hadn't been fer sam'l, i might be dead naow, an' never know nothin' erbout this here streak o' luck. tenafly gold," he continued to mutter. "they must 'a' struck a new lead. an' folks said i was a fool tew invest." his face lightened. the weight of the shock passed. he threw off the awe of the glad news. he smiled the smile of a happy child. "naow, mother, we kin buy back our old chair, the rocker with the red roses onto it. seems ter me them roses must 'a' knowed all the time that this was a-goin' ter happen. they was jest as pert an' sassy that last day--" angy laughed. she laughed softly and with unutterable pride in her husband. "why, father, don't yer see yew kin buy back the old chair, an' the old place, too, an' then have plenty ter spare?" "so we kin, mother, so we kin"; he nodded his head, surprised. he plunged his hands into his pockets, as if expecting to find them filled with gold. "wonder ef sam'l wouldn't lend me a dollar or so in small change. ef i only had somethin' ter jingle, mebbe i could git closer to this fac'." he drew her to him, and gave her waist a jovial squeeze. "hy-guy, mother, we're rich! hain't it splendid?" their laughter rang out together--trembling, near-to-tears laughter. the old place, the old chair, the old way, and--plenty! plenty to mend the shingles. aye, plenty to rebuild the house, if they chose. plenty with which to win back the smiles of angy's garden. the dreadful dream of need, and lack, and want, of feeding at the hand of charity, was gone by. plenty! ah, the goodness and greatness of god! plenty! abe wanted to cry it out from the housetops. he wanted all the world to hear. he wished that he might gather his wealth together and drop it piece by piece among the multitude. to give where he had been given, to blossom with abundance where he had withered with penury! the little wife read his thoughts. "we'll save jest enough fer ourselves ter keep us in comfort the rest of our lives an' bury us decent." they were quiet a long while, both sitting with bowed heads as if in prayer; but presently angy raised her face with an exclamation of dismay: "don't it beat all, that it happened jest tew late ter git in this week's 'shoreville herald'!" "tew late?" exclaimed the new-fledged capitalist. "thar hain't nothin' tew late fer a man with money. we'll hire the editor tew git out another paper, fust thing ter-morrer!" xxi "our beloved brother" the services of the "shoreville herald," however, were not required to spread the news. the happiest and proudest couple on long island saw their names with the story of their sudden accession to wealth in a great new york daily the very next morning. a tall, old gentleman with a real "barber's hair-cut," a shining, new high hat, a suit of "store clothes" which fitted as if they had been made for him, a pair of fur gloves, and brand-new ten-dollar boots; and a remarkably pretty, old lady in a violet bonnet, a long black velvet cape, with new shoes as well as new kid gloves, and a big silver-fox muff--this was the couple that found the paper spread out on the hall table at the old ladies' home, with the sisters gathered around it, peering at it, weeping over it, laughing, both sorrowing and rejoicing. "this'll be good-by ter brother abe," aunt nancy had sniffed when the news came over the telephone the day before; and though miss abigail had assured her that she knew abe would come to see them real often, the matriarch still failed to be consoled. "hain't you noticed, gals," she persisted, "that thar hain't been a death in the house sence we took him in? an' i missed my reg'lar spell o' bronchitis last winter an' this one tew--so fur," she added dismally, and began to cough and lay her hands against her chest. "that was allus the way when i was a young 'un," she continued after a while; "i never had a pet dog or cat or even a tame chicken that it didn't up an' run erway sooner or later. this here loss, gals, 'll be the death o' me! naow, mark my words!" then followed a consultation among the younger sisters, the result of which was that they met abe in the morning with a unanimous petition. they could neither ask nor expect him to remain; that was impossible, but-"hip, hooray! hip, hip, hooray!" cried abe, waving an imaginary flag as he entered. "sam'l dropped us at the gate. him an' blossy went on ter see holmes tew dicker erbout buyin' back the old place. takes blossy an' sam'l tew dew business. they picked out my clothes between them yist'day arternoon deown ter injun village, in the emporium. haow yew like 'em? splendid, eh? see my yaller silk handkerchief, tew? we jest dropped in ter git our things. we thought mebbe yew'd want ter slick up the room an' git ready fer the new--" he was allowed to say no more. the sisters, who had been kissing and hugging angy one by one, now swooped upon him. he was hugged, too, with warm, generous congratulation, his hands were both shaken until they ached, and his clothes and angy's silently admired. but no one said a word, for not one of the sisters was able to speak. angy, thinking that she divined a touch of jealousy, hastened to throw off her wrap and display the familiar old worn silk gown beneath. "i told abe i jest wouldn't git a new silk until you each had one made tew. blossy sent for the samples. blossy--" "all i need's a shroud," interrupted aunt nancy grimly. angy and abe both stared at her. she did look gray this morning. she did seem feeble and her cough did sound hollow. the other sisters glanced also at aunt nancy, and sarah jane took her hand, while she nudged mrs. homan with her free elbow and mrs. homan nudged ruby lee and ruby lee glanced at lazy daisy and lazy daisy drawled out meaningly: "miss abigail!" then miss abigail, twisting the edge of her apron nervously, spoke: "much obliged to you i be in behalf o' all the sisters, brother abe an' ter angy tew. we know yew'll treat us right. we know that yew," resting her eyes on abe's face, "will prove ter be the 'angel unawares' that we been entertainin', but we don't want yew ter waste yer money on a cart-load o' silk dresses. all we ask o' yew is jest ernough tew allow us ter advertise fer another brother member ter take yer place." who could describe the expression that flashed across abe's face?--hurt astonishment, wounded pride, jealous incomprehension. "ter take my place!" he glanced about the hall defiantly. who dared to enter there and take his place?--_his place_! "this is a old ladies' home," he protested. "what right you got a-takin' in a good-fer-nuthin' old man? mebbe he'd rob yew er kill yew! when men git ter rampagin', yew can't tell what they might dew." sarah jane nodded her head knowingly, as if to exclaim: "i told yer so!" but miss abigail hurriedly explained that it was a man and wife that they wanted. she blushed as she added that of course they would not take a man without his wife. "no, indeed! that'd be highly improper," smirked ruby lee. then abe went stamping to the stairway, saying sullenly: "all right. i'll give yew all the money yew want fer advertisin', an' yew kin say he'll be clothed an' dressed proper, tew, an' supplied with terbaccer an' readin'-matter besides; but jest wait till the directors read that advertisement! they had me here sorter pertendin' ter be unbeknownst. come on, angy. let 's go up-stairs an' git our things. let's--" aunt nancy half arose from her chair, resting her two shaking hands on the arms of it. "brother abe," she called quaveringly after the couple, "i guess yew kin afford ter fix up any objections o' the directors." angy pressed her husband's arm as she joined him in the upper hall. "don't yer see, abe. they don't realize that that poor old gentleman, whoever he may be, won't be yew. they jest know that _yew_ was _yew_; an' they want ter git another jest as near like yew as they kin." abe grunted, yet nevertheless went half-way down-stairs again to call more graciously to the sisters that he would give them a reference any time for knowing how to treat a man just right. "that feller'll be lucky, gals," he added in tremulous tones. "i hope he'll appreciate yew as i allers done." then abe went to join angy in the room which the sisters had given to him that bitter day when the cry of his heart had been very like unto: "_eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani_!" after all, what was there of his and angy's here? their garments they did not need now. they would leave them behind for the other old couple that was to come. there was nothing else but some simple gifts. he took up a pair of red wristlets that mrs. homan had knit, and tucked them in his new overcoat pocket. he also took abigail's bottle of "jockey club" which he had despised so a few days ago, and tucked that in his watch-pocket. when he bought himself a watch, he would buy a new clock for the dining-room down-stairs, too,--a clock with no such asthmatic strike as the present one possessed. all his personal belongings--every one of them gifts--he found room for in his pockets. angy had even less than he. yet they had come practically with nothing--and compared with that nothing, what they carried now seemed much. angy hesitated over the pillow-shams. did they belong to them or to the new couple to come? abe gazed at the shams too. they had been given to him and angy last christmas by all the sisters. they were white muslin with white cambric frills, and in their centers was embroidered in turkey-red cotton, "mother," on one pillow, "father," on the other. every sister in the home had taken at least one stitch in the names. father and mother--not angy and abe! why father and mother? a year ago no one could have foreseen the fortune, nor have prophesied the possession of the room by another elderly couple. angy drew near to abe, and abe to angy. they locked arms and stood looking at the pillows. he saw, and she saw, the going back to the old bedroom in the old home across the woods and over the field--the going back. and in sharp contrast they each recalled the first time that they had stepped beneath that roof nearly half a century ago,--the first home-coming,--when her mother-heart and his father-heart had been filled with the hope of children--children to bless their marriage, children to complete their home, children to love, children to feed them with love in return. "let's adopt some leetle folks," said angy, half in a whisper. "i'm afeard the old place'll seem lonesome without--" "might better adopt the sisters"; he spoke almost gruffly. "i allers did think young 'uns would be the most comfort tew yew after they growed up." "a baby is dretful cunnin'," angy persisted. "but," she added sadly, "i don't suppose a teethin' mite would find much in common with us." "anyway," vowed abe, suddenly beginning to unfasten the pillow-shams, "these belong ter us, an' i'm a-goin' ter take 'em." they went down-stairs silently, the shams wrapped in a newspaper carried under his arm. "waal, naow,"--he tried to speak cheerfully as they rejoined the others, and he pushed his way toward the dining-room,--"i'll go an' git my cup an' sasser." but miss abigail blocked the door, again blushing, again confused. "that 'tew-our-beloved-brother' cup," she said gently, her eyes not meeting the wound in his, "we 'bout concluded yew'd better leave here fer the one what answers the ad. yew got so much naow, an' him--" she did not finish. she could not. she felt rather than saw the blazing of abe's old eyes. then the fire beneath his brows died out and a mist obscured his sight. "gals," he asked humbly, "would yew ruther have a new 'beloved brother'?" for a space there was no answer. aunt nancy's head was bowed in her hands. lazy daisy was openly sobbing. miss ellie was twisting her fingers nervously in and out--she unwound them to clutch at angy's arm as if to hold her. at last miss abigail spoke with so unaccustomed a sharpness that her voice seemed not her own: "sech a foolish question as that nobody in their sound senses would ask." abe sat down in his old place at the fireside and smiled a thousand smiles in one. he smiled and rubbed his hands before the blaze. the blaze itself seemed scarcely more bright and warm than the light from within which transfigured his aged face. "gals," he chuckled in his old familiar way, "i dunno how sam'l darby'll take it; but if mother's willin', i guess i won't buy back no more of the old place, 'cept'n' jest my rockin'-chair with the red roses onto it; an' all the rest o' this here plagued money i'll hand over ter the directors, an' stay right here an' take my comfort." angy bent down and whispered in his ear: "i'd ruther dew it, tew, father. anythin' else would seem like goin' a-visitin'. but yew don't want ter go an' blame me," she added anxiously, "ef yew git all riled up an' sick abed ag'in." "pshaw, mother," he protested; "yew fergit i was _adopted_ then; naow i be _adoptin_'. thar's a big difference." she lifted her face, relieved, and smiled into the relieved and radiant faces of abe's "children," and her own. generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 42102-h.htm or 42102-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42102/42102-h/42102-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42102/42102-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?id=1pexaaaayaaj the boy scouts' mountain camp by lieut. howard payson author of "the boy scouts of the eagle patrol," "the boy scouts on the range," "the boy scouts and the army airship," etc. with four original illustrations by r. m. brinkerhoff new york hurst & company publishers copyright, 1912, by hurst & company contents chapter page i. a typical boy scout 5 ii. two mysterious men 16 iii. the major explains 30 iv. the narrative continued 39 v. a midnight auto dash 51 vi. in direst peril 66 vii. adrift in the storm 76 viii. eagles on the trail 86 ix. what scout hopkins did 97 x. a rescue and a bivouac 109 xi. the mountain camp 121 xii. captured 132 xiii. rob finds a ray of hope 144 xiv. a thrilling escape 155 xv. out of the frying pan 167 xvi. into the fire! 177 xvii. "we want you." 187 xviii. jumbo earns $500.00--and loses it 197 xix. the forest monarch 206 xx. the canoes found 216 xxi. "the ruby glow." 225 xxii. the buccaneer's cave 238 xxiii. trapped in a living tomb 248 xxiv. two columns of smoke 264 xxv. the heart of the mystery--conclusion 276 the boy scouts' mountain camp. chapter i. a typical boy scout. "hullo, rob; what's up?" merritt crawford stopped on his way past the hampton post-office, and hailed rob blake, the leader of the eagle patrol, of which merritt was corporal. both lads wore the natty scout uniform. "not a thing is up or down, either," rejoined rob, with a laugh; "it looks as if things had stopped happening in hampton ever since that schooner was blown up." "and jack curtiss's hopes of a fortune with it," added merritt. "well, i'm off home. going that way?" "yes, i'll be with you in a---hullo, what's happening?" from farther up the street, at one end of which lay the glistening sheet of water known as hampton inlet, there came excited shouts. then, suddenly, into the field of vision there swept, with astonishing rapidity, a startling sight. a large automobile was coming toward them at a rapid rate. on the driver's seat was a white-faced young girl, a cloud of fair hair streaming out about her frightened countenance. she was gripping the steering wheel, and seemed to be striving desperately to check the onrush of the machine. but her efforts were vain. the auto, instead of decreasing its rate of progress, appeared every minute to be gaining in speed. it bumped and swayed wildly. a cloud of yellow dust arose about it. behind the runaway machine could be perceived a crowd of townsfolk shouting incoherently. "oh, stop it! i shall be killed! stop it, please do!" the young girl was shrilly screaming in alarm, as the machine approached the two boys. so rapidly had events progressed since they first sighted it, that not a word had been exchanged between them. all at once, merritt noticed that he was alone. rob had darted to the roadway. as the auto dashed by, merritt saw the young leader of the hampton boy scouts give a sudden flying leap upon the running-board. he shot up from the road as if a steel spring had projected him. for one instant he hung between life and death--or, at least, serious injury. the speed with which the auto was going caused the lad's legs to fly out from it, as one of his hands caught the side door of the tonneau. but in a jiffy rob's athletic training triumphed. by a supreme effort he managed to steady himself and secure a grip with his other hand. then he rapidly made his way forward along the running-board. but this move proved almost disastrous. the already panic-stricken girl took her attention from the steering-wheel for an instant. in that molecule of time, the auto, like a perverse live thing, got beyond her control. it leaped wildly toward the sidewalk outside the hampton candy store. a crowd of young folks--it was saturday afternoon--had been indulging in ice cream and other dainties, when the shouts occasioned by the runaway machine had alarmed them. instantly soda and candy counters were neglected, and a rush for the sidewalk ensued. but, as they poured out to see what was the matter, they were faced by deadly peril. the auto, like a juggernaut, was careening straight at them. its exhausts roared like the nostrils of an excited beast. young girls screamed, and boys tried to drag them out of harm's way. but had it not been for the fact that at that instant rob gained the wheel, there might have been some serious accidents. the lad fairly wrenched it out of the hands of the girl driver, who was half fainting at the imminence of the peril. a quick, savage twist, and the car spun round and was on a straight course again. that danger, at least, was over. but another, and a deadlier, threatened. right ahead lay the spot where the road terminated in a long wharf, at which occasional steamers landed. every second brought them closer to it. if rob could not stop the machine before it reached the end of the wharf, it was bound to plunge over and into the sea. all this flashed through the boy's mind as he strove to find some means of stopping the car. but the auto was of a type unfamiliar to him. one experiment in checking its motion resulted instead in a still more furious burst of speed. like objects seen in a nightmare, the stores, the white faces of the alarmed townsfolk, and the other familiar objects of the village street, streaked by in a gray blur. "i must stop it! i must!" breathed rob. but how? where had the manufacturer of the car concealed his emergency brake? the lever controlling it seemed to be mysteriously out of sight. suddenly the motion of the car changed. it no longer bumped. it ran terribly smoothly and swiftly. from the street it had passed out upon the even surface of the planked wharf. only a few seconds now in which to gain control of it! "the emergency brake!" shouted rob aloud in his extremity. "your foot! it works with your foot, i think!" the voice, faint as a whisper over a long-distance telephone, came to the ears of the striving boy. it belonged to the girl beside him. glancing down, rob now saw what he would have observed at first, if he had had time to look about him--a metal pedal projected through the floor of the car. with an inward prayer, he jammed his foot down upon it. would it work? the end of the pier was terribly close now. the water gleamed blue and intense. it seemed awaiting the fatal plunge overboard. but that plunge was not taken. there was a grinding sound, like a harsh purr, the speed of the car decreased, and, finally, it came to a stop--just in time. from the landward end of the pier a crowd came running. in front were two or three khaki-uniformed members of the eagle patrol. behind them several of the hawks were mingled with the crowd. beyond all the confusion, rob, as he turned his head, could see another automobile coming. it had two passengers in it. as the crowd surged about the boy and the girl, who had not yet alighted, and poured out questions in a rapid fusillade, the second car came "honking" up. a murmur of "mr. blake" ran through the throng, as a tall, ruddy-faced man descended, followed by a military-looking gentleman, whose face was strongly agitated. mr. blake was rob's father, and, as readers of other volumes of this series know, the banker and scout patron of the little community. it was his car in which he had just driven up with his companion. the latter hesitated not a moment, but in a few long strides gained the side of the car which rob's efforts had stopped just in time. "bravely done, my lad; bravely done," he cried, and then, to the girl, "good heavens, alice, what an experience! child, you might have been killed if it had not been for this lad's pluck! mr. blake," as the banker came up, "i congratulate you on your son." "and i," rejoined the banker gravely, "feel that i am not egotistical in accepting that congratulation. rob, this is my friend, major roger dangerfield, from up the state." "and this," said the major, returning rob's salutation and turning to the girl who was clinging to him, "is my daughter, alice, whose first experience with the operation of an automobile nearly came to a disastrous ending." rob blake, whose heroic action has just been described, was--as readers of the boy scout series are aware--the leader of the eagle patrol, an organization of patriotic, clean-lived lads, attracted by the high ideals of the boy scout movement. the patrol, while of comparatively recent organization, had been through some stirring adventures. in _the boy scouts of the eagle patrol_, for instance, we read how rob and his followers defeated the machinations of certain jealous and unworthy enemies. they repaid evil with good, as is the scout way, but several despicable tricks, and worse, were played on them. in this book was related how joe digby in the camp of the eagles, was kidnaped and imprisoned on a barren island, and how smoke signaling and quick wit saved his life. the boys solved a mystery and had several exciting trials of skill, including an aeroplane contest, which was almost spoiled by the trickery of their enemy, jack curtiss. in the second volume, _the boy scouts on the range_, we followed our young friends to the far west. here they distinguished themselves, and formed a mounted patrol, known as _the ranger patrol_. the pony riders had some exciting incidents befall them. these included capture by hostile indians and a queer adventure in the haunted caves, in which tubby almost lost his life. in this volume, jack curtiss and his gang were again encountered, but although their trickery prevailed for a time, in the end they were routed. a noteworthy feature of this book was the story of the career and end of silver tip, a giant grizzly bear of sinister reputation in that part of the country. _the boy scouts and the army airship_, brought the lads into a new and vital field of endeavor. they met an army officer, who was conducting secret tests of an aeroplane, and were enabled to aid him in many ways. in all the thrilling situations with which this book abounds, the boys are found always living up to the scout motto of "be prepared." how they checkmated the efforts of stonington hunt, an unscrupulous financier, to rob a poor boy of the fruits of his inventive genius--a work in which he was aided by his unworthy son, freeman hunt--must be read to be appreciated. in doing this work, however, they earned hunt's undying hatred, and, although they thought they were through with him when he slunk disgraced out of hampton, they had not seen the last of him. as the present story progresses, we shall learn how stonington hunt and his son tried to avenge themselves for their fancied wrongs at the hands of the boy scouts. chapter ii. two mysterious men. "tell us all about it, rob!" the eagles and the hawks pressed close about rob, as, after the two machines had driven off, the scouts stood surrounded by curious townsfolk on the wharf. "not much to tell," rejoined rob, with a laugh. "major dangerfield is, it appears, an old friend of my father. he comes from essex county, or rather, he has a summer place up there. on an automobile trip from albany, to take his daughter to visit some friends down on peconic bay, he decided to stop over at hampton and see the governor. "he entered the bank to give dad a surprise, leaving his daughter outside for a few minutes, in the machine. she became interested in its mechanism and pulled a lever, and--the machine darted off. and--and that's all," he concluded modestly. "except that the leader of the eagles covered himself with laurels," struck in bob--or tubby--hopkins, another member of the eagles. "better than being covered with fat," parried rob, who didn't relish this open praise. "three cheers for rob blake!" yelled fylan fobbs, a town character. "hip! hip! hooray!" the cheers rang out with vim, the voices of the young scouts sounding shrill and clear among them, giving the patrol call: "kree-ee-ee-e!" rob, coloring and looking embarrassed, made his way off while the enthusiasm was at its height. with him went merritt crawford, tubby hopkins and tall, lanky hiram nelson, the new england lad, who had already gained quite a reputation as a wireless operator and mechanical genius of the all-round variety. "reckon that was a right smart piece of work," drawled hiram in his nasal accents, as the four of them trudged along. "al-ice, where art thou?" hummed tubby teasingly, with a sharp glance at rob. "say, what a romance for the newspapers: gallant boy scout rescues bee-yoot-i-ful girl at risk of his life, and----" he got no further. the tormented rob grabbed the rotund youth and twisted his arm till tubby yelled for mercy. with a good-natured laugh, rob released him. "bet-ter sue him for damages, if he's broke your arm," grinned the practical-minded hiram, in consolatory tones. "no, thanks; i've got damages enough, as the fellow said who'd been busted up in a railroad accident and was asked if he intended to sue," laughingly rejoined tubby; "but"--and he dodged to a safe distance--"that was a mighty pretty girl." as he spoke, they were passing by the railroad station. a train had just pulled out of it, depositing two passengers on the platform. but none of the boys noticed them at the moment. instead, their attention was attracted by the strange action of merritt, who suddenly darted to the center of the roadway. the next instant his action was explained, as he bent and seized a big leather wallet that lay there. or, rather, he was just about to seize it, when one of the two men who had alighted from the train also dashed from the small depot, in front of which they had been standing. he was a broad-shouldered, rough-looking fellow, with a coarse beard and hulking shoulders. his clothes were rather poor. "what you got there, boy?" he demanded, as the other boy scouts and his own companion came up. "a wallet," said merritt, examining his find; "it's marked 'r. d.--u. s. a.'" a strange light came into the rough-looking man's eyes. his comrade, too, appeared agitated, and gripped the bearded fellow's arm, whispering something to him. "let's have a look at that wallet, young chap," quoth the bigger of the two strangers, almost simultaneously. "i don't know that i will," rejoined merritt; "it's lost property, and may contain valuables. i had better turn it over to the proper authorities." but the rough stranger, without ceremony, made a snatch for it. merritt, however, was too quick for him, and the fellow missed his grasp. he growled something, and then, apparently thinking the better of his ill-temper, said in a comparatively mild voice: "guess that's my wallet, boy. i must have dropped it coming across the street. my name's roger dangerfield, major roger dangerfield, of the united states army, retired." "then there must be two of them," exclaimed rob sharply. "how's that? what are you interfering for?" growled the rough-looking man, while his companion--a much younger individual than himself, though quite as ill-favored--edged menacingly up. "because," said rob quietly, "i had the pleasure of talking to major dangerfield a few minutes ago. moreover, there's no doubt in my mind that the wallet is his. he probably dropped it on the way up the street." the bigger and elder of the two strangers looked nonplussed for an instant, but he speedily recovered himself. making a snatch for the wallet, which merritt for an instant had allowed to show from behind his back, he upset the lad by the sheer weight of his attack. flat on his back fell merritt, the bearded man toppling over on top of him. but, as they fell, the boy scout's assailant seized the wallet from him and tossed it hastily to his companion, as one might pass a football. this action was unnoticed by the boy scouts, and the younger man of the two strangers darted off instantly, with the pocketbook in his possession. in the meantime, merritt, by a wrestling trick, had glided from under the bearded fellow, and, despite his struggles, the man found himself held in the firm grip of four determined pairs of young arms. he was remarkably strong, however, and the situation speedily assumed the likeness of an uneven contest, when another detachment of the eagles, headed by little andy bowles, the bugler of the patrol, came up the street on their way from the exciting scene on the wharf. aided by these reã«nforcements, the man was compelled, despite his strength, to give in. all about him surged his excited young captors. at this moment an individual came hurrying up. he wore a semi-official sort of dress, adorned with a tin badge as big and shiny as a new tin pie-plate. it was si ketchum, the village constable. "hoppin' watermillions!" he gasped, "what's all this here?" it took only a few words to tell him. si assumed his most terrific official look, which consisted of partially closing his little reddish eyes and screwing up his mouth till his gray goatee pointed outward horizontally. "ef so be as you've got that thar contraption uv a wallet, in ther name uv ther law i commands yer to surrender said property," he ordered ponderously. the bearded man, still panting from his struggle, rejoined with a grin. "surely you're not going to believe a pack of irresponsible boys, constable. i know nothing about the wallet, except that i saw that lad there pick it up." "um--hah," said si, wagging his head sagely, "go on." "naturally, i was anxious to see what it was. i demanded to have a look at it, thinking it might be some of my property that i had dropped. what was my astonishment, when this young ruffian attacked me. in self-defense, i resisted, and then they all set on me." "that story is a fabrication from start to finish," cried merritt, while the others shouted their angry confirmation of his denial. "let me----" for the second time he was about to relate the true circumstances. but si interrupted him. "only one way ter settle this," he said. "any way you like, officer," said the bearded man suavely, "anything that you say, i'll agree to." "air yer willin' ter be searched?" "certainly. but not here in the public street." "all right, then; at the calaboose, ef that'll suit yer better." "it will. let's proceed there," said the man, with a sidelong look at the boys, who began to wonder at his assurance. followed by a small crowd, si and his prisoner led the way to the "calaboose," a small, red-brick structure on a side street not far from the station. the boys waited eagerly outside, while within the walls of si's fortress the search went on. before long, the constable emerged with an angry face, and very red. the stranger, cool and smiling, was beside him. "what kind uv an april fool joke is this?" demanded si loudly, while the boys, and the townspeople, who had been attracted by curiosity, looked at him in astonishment. "you boys ain't tole me the truth," he went on, waxing more furious. "you--you haven't found the wallet?" demanded merritt. "why, i distinctly felt him snatch it from my hand." "wall, it ain't on him." "the other man!" cried rob, suddenly recalling the bearded man's companion, and perceiving, likewise, for the first time since merritt's adventure, that the fellow had vanished. "he's gone!" cried half a dozen voices. in the same instant, they became aware that the bearded man had also vanished in the excitement. almost simultaneously, major dangerfield put in an unexpected appearance. he was out of breath, as if from running. "is this the police station?" he demanded of si, and, receiving a nod from that stupefied official, he hastened on: "i wish to report the loss of a pocketbook. i must have dropped it on main street. has it been found?" "it wuz found all right," grunted si, "but--it's bin lost agin." "corporal crawford here, found it, sir," struck in rob, seeing the major's evident agitation at si's not over-lucid explanation, "but while he still had it in his hand, a man--a rough-looking customer--demanded to see it. as soon as merritt told him of the initials on it, he----" "tried to seize it," exclaimed the major excitedly. "why, yes," rejoined rob, wondering inwardly how the major guessed so accurately what had occurred, "there was a scuffle, and in it the man who had attacked merritt must, in some way, have found a chance to pass the pocketbook to his companion." "was the man who first inquired about the book a big, bearded man, with sun-burned face and rather shabby clothes?" inquired the major. rob's astonishment increased. evidently this was no ordinary case of ruffianism. it would seem now that the men were known to the major, and had some strong object in taking the book. the boy nodded in reply to the major's question. "do you mind stepping aside with me a few minutes, my lad? i'd like to ask you some questions," continued the retired officer. he and rob conversed privately for some moments. then the major strode off, after authorizing si to offer a reward of five hundred dollars for the return of the wallet. "he asked me to thank all you fellows for the aid you gave in trying to hold the man," said rob when he rejoined his comrades, "he added that it would not be forgotten." nor was it, for it may be said here, that a few days later a fine launch, named _eagle_, was delivered at hampton harbor with a card from the major, begging the eagle patrol to accept it as their official craft. but we are anticipating a little. as rob walked away with merritt, tubby and hiram, the lanky youth spoke up: "it beats creation what there could have been in that wallet to upset him so," he commented; "he doesn't look like a man who's easily excited, either." "well, whatever it was," rejoined rob, "we are likely to learn this evening. i rather think the major has some work on hand for us." "hooray! some action at last," cried merritt enthusiastically. "haven't had enough to-day, eh?" inquired tubby sarcastically. "i should think that seeing a runaway auto stopped, being knocked down and plunged into a mystery, would----" "never mind him, merritt; the heat's sent the fat to his head," laughed rob. "i was going to say," he continued, "that major dangerfield has invited us to the house this evening to hear something interesting." "all four of us?" "yes. i rather think then we shall learn some more about that wallet." soon after, the boys, following some talk concerning patrol matters, separated. each went to his home to await, with what patience he might, the coming of evening, when it appeared likely that some light would be shed on what, to them, seemed an interesting puzzle. rob, on his return home, found that the major had motored on to his friend's with his daughter, but he had promised to return in time to keep his appointment. chapter iii. the major explains. "well," began the major, "i suppose you are all naturally curious concerning that wallet of mine." the four lads nodded attentively. "i must admit we are," volunteered rob. they were gathered in the library of mr. blake's home. the banker was seated in his own pet chair, while the major stood with his back to a bookcase, a group of eager-eyed boy scouts surrounding him. "in the first place," continued the major, "i think you would better all sit down. the story is a somewhat lengthy one." the boys obeyed, and the major began: "i shall have to take you back more than a century," he said, "to the days when the first settlers located adjacent to the south banks of lake champlain. among the colonists were my ancestors, chisholm dangerfield and his family. chisholm dangerfield was the eldest son of the dangerfield family, of chester, england. he had been left an ample fortune, but having squandered it, decided, like many others in a similar case, to emigrate to the new country. "on arrival here, he and his family went up the river to albany, and there, hearing of new settlements along the lake, decided to take up land there. they went most of the way by water, being much harassed by indians on the journey. but without any serious mishaps, they finally arrived at their destination, and, in course of time, established a flourishing farm. but chisholm dangerfield had a younger brother, a harum-scarum sort of youth, to whom, nevertheless, he was much attached. when quite young, this lad had run away to sea, and little had been heard of him since that time. "but while his family had remained in ignorance of his whereabouts, he had joined a band of west indian pirates, and in course of time amassed a considerable fortune. then a desire to reform came over him, and he sought his english relatives. they would have nothing to do with him, despite his wealth, and in a fit of rage he left england to seek his brother--the only being who ever really cared for him. in due time he arrived at the farm with quite a retinue of friendly indians and carriers. "he was warmly welcomed. possibly his money and wealth had something to do with it. i don't know anything about that, however. at any rate, for some years, he lived there, till one day he fell ill. his constitution was undermined by the reckless, wild life he had led, and he died not long after. he left all his gold and jewels to his brother. "indians were many and hostile in those days, so in order to be secure in case of an attack, the elder brother had no sooner buried his kin with due reverence, and received his legacy, than he decided to secrete the entire amount of the old pirate's treasure in a cave in a remote part of the adirondacks." "gee!" exclaimed tubby, who was hugging his knees, while his eyes showed round as saucers in his fat cheeks. "did the indians get it?" asked hiram. "wait a minute, and you shall hear," continued the major. "well, as i said, the treasure was buried in a cave so securely hidden that nobody would be able to find it again, except by a miracle, or by aid of the chart of the spot, which chisholm dangerfield carefully made. a few nights after that, a tribe went on the warpath, landed in canoes near to the dangerfield farm, and massacred every soul on the place but one--a young boy named roger dangerfield, who escaped. "this roger dangerfield was my great-great-grandfather. with him, when he fled from the burning ruins, he took a paper his father had thrust into his hands just before the indian attack came. all this he wrote in his diary, which did not come into my hands till recently. well, roger dangerfield, left to his own resources, proved so able a youth that he was, before very long, a prosperous merchant in albany. but in the meantime he made several expeditions to the mountains to try to find the hidden wealth. "i should have told you that the paper was in cipher, and a very elaborate one, so that it had never been completely worked out. this, no doubt, accounts for roger dangerfield's failure. "well, in course of time, the cipher became a family relic along with roger dangerfield's diary. his descendants moved to virginia, where i was born. i recollect, as a youngster, being enthralled by the story of the old piratical dangerfield's hidden gold, and resolving that when i grew up i would find it. we had, in our employ at that time, a butler named jarley. i was an only child, and he was my confidant. i naturally told him about the cipher and what its unraveling would mean. "this happened when i was about eighteen and home on a vacation. jarley seemed much interested, but after both he and i had puzzled in vain over the cipher, we gave it up. when i came home on my next vacation, i learned that jarley had left. his mother and father had died, he declared, and he was required at his home in maine. well, i thought no more of the matter, and forming new acquaintances in our neighborhood, which was rapidly settling, i soon forgot jarley. but one day a notion seized me to look at the cipher and the diary again. "but when i came to look for them, they had gone. nor did any search result in my finding them. it at once flashed across my mind that jarley might have taken them. so fixed an idea did this become, that i visited the place in maine to which he said he had gone, only to find that he had removed soon after his return from virginia. however, pursuing the trail, i found that he--or a man resembling him--had visited the spot on the lake where the old-time house had stood, and had made a mysterious expedition into the mountains. the spot was at that time known as dangerfield, and was quite a flourishing little town, with a pulp mill and a few other local industries. in that quiet community they recollected the mysterious visitor well. "however, as i learned, jarley had left the town without paying his guides or the man from whom he had hired the horses, i concluded that the expedition had not been successful. then i advertised for the man, but without success. then i was appointed to west point, and for a long time i thought no more of the matter. in fact, for years it lay dormant in my mind, with occasional flashes of memory; then i would advertise for jarley or his heirs, but without success. "the last time i advertised was about a year ago. after six months' silence i received a letter, asking me to call at an address near the erie basin in brooklyn, if i was interested in the long-lost jarley. all my enthusiasm once more at fever heat, i set out for the place. the address at which i was to call i found to be a squalid sailors' boarding-house. on inquiring there for james jarley, the name signed to the letter, i was conducted into a dirty room, where lay a rough-looking sailor, evidently just recovering from the effects of a debauch. "so dulled was his mind, that it was some time before i could explain my errand, but finally he understood. he frankly told me he was out for money, and wanted to know how much i would give him for some papers he had which his father--our old butler, it transpired--had left him. his father, he said, had told him that if ever he wanted to make money with them he was to seek out a major dangerfield, who would be likely to pay him well for them. "but it appeared that his father had also told him that he stood a chance of arrest if he did so, and that it might be a dangerous step. however, he told me that he had at length decided to take that chance, and on a return from a long voyage, during which he had encountered my advertisement in an old newspaper in a foreign port, he had made up his mind to find me on his return. "his father, it appeared, had always kept track of me, but fear and shame had kept him from trying to arrange a meeting. the son, i gathered, both from his conversation and the situation in which i found him, had always been a ne'er-do-well. well, the matter ended with my paying him a sum of money for the papers, which as i suspected, proved to be the yellow-paged old diary and the well-thumbed, tattered cipher. then i had him removed to a hospital, where a few days later he died in an attack of delirium." chapter iv. the narrative continued. "but it appeared that even while on his deathbed the man had been playing a dishonest game. before he had made his bargain with me, he had revealed the secret and tried to sell it to a certain money-lender at a seaport in maine. this man had refused to have anything to do with what he thought was a chimerical scheme, but later confided the whole thing to a friend of his by name stonington hunt--a former wall street man, who had been compelled to quit in disgrace the scene of his financial operations." "stonington hunt!" gasped rob, leaning forward in his chair, while the others looked equally amazed. "yes, that was the name. why, do you know him?" "know him, major!" echoed mr. blake. "he was concerned in some rascally operations in this village not so long ago. that he left here under a cloud, was mainly due to activities of the boy scouts, whose enemy he was. we heard he had gone to maine. is he engaged in new rascality?" "you shall hear," pursued the major. "well, as i said, this seaport money-lender told stonington hunt of the chart and cipher and the old diary recording the burial of the treasure. hunt, it would seem, placed more importance on the information than had the money-lender, for he agreed, provided the latter would help to finance an expedition, to try to solve the cipher, or else have some expert translate it. he set out at once for brooklyn, arriving there, as i subsequently learned, just after i had departed with the diary and the papers which young jarley had carried in his sea-chest for some years. "he lost no time in tracing me, and offered me a large sum for the papers. but my interest had been aroused. for the sake of the adventure of the thing, and also to clear up the mystery, i had resolved to go treasure hunting myself. with this object in view, i rented a bungalow on a lake not far from the range in which i suspected the treasure cave lay, and devoted days and nights trying to solve the cipher. at this time a college professor, an old chum of mine, wrote me that his health was broken down, and that he needed a rest. i invited him to come and visit me in essex county, at the same time suggesting that i had a hard nut for him to crack. professor jeremiah jorum arrived soon after, and his health picked up amazingly in the mountain air. one day he asked about 'the hard nut.' i produced the cipher, and told him something of its history. perhaps i should have told you that professor jorum has devoted a good deal of his life to what is known as cryptology--or the solving of seemingly unsolvable puzzles. he had translated egyptian cryptograms and inscriptions left by vanished tribes on ruins in yucatan and old mexico. "he worked for several days on the cipher, and one day came to me with a radiant face. he told me he had solved it. no wonder i had failed. it was a simple enough cipher--one of the least complex, in fact--but the language used had been latin, in which my ancestor, as a well-bred englishman of that day, was proficient. as he was telling me this, i noticed a man i had hired some days before, hanging about the open windows. i ordered him away, and he went at once. but i had grave suspicions that he had overheard a good deal more than i should have wished him to. however, there was no help for it. i dismissed the matter from my mind, and we--the professor and i--spent the rest of the day discussing the cipher and the best means for recovering the treasure. we agreed it would be dangerous to take men we could not absolutely trust, and yet, we should require several people to organize a proper expedition. "but, as it so happened, all our plans had to be changed that night. i was awakened soon after midnight by a noise in my room. in the dim light i saw a figure that i recognized as our gardener, moving about. the lamp beside my bed had, for some reason, not gone out when i turned it down on retiring, and i soon had the room in a blaze of light. the intruder sprang toward me, a big club in his hand. i dodged the blow and grappled with him. in the struggle his beard fell off, and i recognized, to my amazement, that our 'gardener' was stonington hunt himself. "the shock of this surprise had hardly been borne in upon me when the fellow, who possessed considerable strength, forced me back against the table. in the scuffle the lamp was upset. in a flash the place was in a blaze. hunt was out of the room in two bounds. he seized the key, as he went, and locked the door on the outside, thus leaving me to burn to death, or chance injury by a leap from the window, which overhung a cliff above the lake. i had just time to throw on a few clothes and grab the papers, which i had luckily placed under my pillow, before the flames drove me out. the wood of the door was flimsy, and without bothering to try to force the lock, i smashed out a panel. crawling through, i aroused my friend jorum and my old negro servant, jumbo. "we saved nothing but the precious papers, but as the bungalow was roughly furnished, i did not much care. we made our way to a distant house and stayed there the night. the next day we took a wagon to the shore of the lake and went by boat to whitehall. there we embarked on a train for albany, where my daughter was at the home of friends. i, too, have a residence there, but, having received an invitation from friends to visit them on long island, i decided to give my little girl a motor trip. "but while in albany i perceived i was being followed, and by the two men whom you have described to me as taking part in the filching of the wallet. i thought i had thrown them off, however, but your adventure to-day proves that i have not been as successful as i hoped. the most unfortunate part of it is that the cipher was in that wallet." "and it's gone," groaned tubby dolorously. "i'm not so sure of that. i am hopeful that we may recover it," said the retired officer. "i have wired my friend jorum, who, with jumbo, is now in new york, and i am in hopes that he can recollect something of his translation of the cipher. if not--well, there's no use crossing bridges till we come to them." "if you do recover it?" asked rob. "if i do, i am going to ask your parents to let me borrow a patrol of boy scouts to aid in the treasure hunt," smiled the major. "my dear major," cried mr. blake, holding up his hands, "mrs. blake would never consent to----" "but there would be such a lot of fun, dad," urged rob. "think of a camp in the mountains. we'd have to camp, wouldn't we, major?" "certainly. it would be a fine opportunity for you to perfect yourselves in----" "woodcraft," said tubby. "signaling," put in merritt. "i've got a field wireless apparatus i'd like to try out," put in hiram, his voice a-quiver with eagerness. "well, the first thing to be done is to recover that cipher," said the major; "at present all we know of it is that it is in the hands of two rascals." "in the employ of another rascal, stonington hunt," put in rob. "well, we can do nothing more to-night," said the major. "no. we were so interested in your story that i think none of us noticed how the time flew by," said mr. blake, and mrs. blake, entering just then, announced that there was supper ready for the party in the dining-room. tubby's eyes glittered at this news. soon after the sandwiches, cakes and lemonade had been disposed of, the boy scouts set out for home, agreeing to meet the major next morning after breakfast. they had not gone many steps from the house when tubby stopped as suddenly as if he had been shot. "gingersnaps!" he exclaimed. "i've just thought of something." "goodness! must hurt," jeered merritt unsympathetically. "no--that is, yes--no, i mean," sputtered the fat boy. "say, fellows, i heard this afternoon that sam phelps from aquebogue told a fellow in the village that he had seen freeman hunt over there this morning." "you double-dyed chump," exclaimed rob, who was walking a way with them, "and you never said anything about it. if freeman was there, i'll bet his father was, too, and that's where those two men have gone." "gee whiz, if they have they must be there yet, then!" exclaimed merritt, excitedly, "unless they left by automobile." "how's that?" demanded rob. "it's this way. there was no train after those chaps took the wallet, till almost eight o'clock. they must have hidden in the woods and caught it some place below, unless si arrested them." "he'd have been at the house to get the reward if he had," rejoined rob. "very well, then. he didn't catch them, and if the hunts are at aquebogue, that's where they've gone." "yes, but what's to prevent them leaving there?" "no train after nine-thirty till to-morrow morning, and the eight o'clock from here doesn't get to aquebogue till after that time; so they must be stranded there, unless they have a car." "cookies and cream cakes! that's right!" cried tubby, "let's phone the police at aquebogue to look out for them." but the lads found that the wire between hampton and aquebogue wasn't working. the telegraph office was closed. they exchanged blank glances. "what are we going to do?" demanded tubby. "what all good scouts ought to do--the best we can,"--rejoined rob. "and that is, under the present circumstances?" questioned merritt. "to go to our garage--blenkinsop's--on main street, and get out the car." "it'll be closed," rejoined tubby. "i've got a key," replied rob; "i'll 'phone the house that i'm going for a night spin. we can get there, notify the police, and be back in two hours." "forward, scouts!" ordered merritt, in sharp, "parade-ground" tones, "and 'be prepared' for whatever comes along." rob found that the telephone to his home was also out of order, owing to repairs which were being rushed through by night. so ten minutes later, when the car glided out of the garage on main street and slipped silently through the sleeping town, there was nobody in hampton who knew the boy scouts' night mission. chapter v. a midnight auto dash. the auto, a fast and heavy machine, plunged along through the night at a great rate. its bright searchlight cast a brilliant circle of radiance far ahead into the darkness. occasionally frightened birds could be seen flying out of the inky hedges, falling bewildered in the path of the white glare. it was exhilarating, blood-stirring work, all the more keenly delightful from the sense of adventure with which it was spiced. rob was at the wheel, steering straight and steady. he knew the road well. part of it had been the scene of that thrilling night ride described in _the boy scouts and the army airship_, when the boys had overtaken the two thieves who had stolen the aeroplane documents. on that occasion, it will be recalled, an accident had been narrowly averted by a soul-stirring hair's breadth, as a train dashed across the tracks. rob's three companions sat back in the tonneau and conversed in low tones. only the irrepressible tubby was not duly impressed with the momentousness of the occasion. from time to time a snicker of laughter showed that he was cracking jokes in the same old way. "say," he remarked, as they bumped across the railroad tracks, "even if we do find out where these fellows are, i don't know just what we're going to do with them at this time of night. reminds me----" "oh, for goodness' sake, tubby," groaned merritt. "let him go ahead," struck in hiram, "the sooner he blows off all his steam the sooner he'll shut up for good." "reminds me," went on the unruffled tubby, "of what a little girl said to her mother when the kid asked her what sardines were. the mother explained that they were small fish that big ones ate. then the little girl wanted to know how the big fish got them out of the tins." there was a deathly silence, broken only by a low groan from merritt. "call that a joke?" he moaned. "don't spring any more. my life ain't insured, by heck," put in yankee hiram. "well, that got a laugh in the minstrel show where i heard it," responded the aggrieved joke-smith. before long, lights flashed ahead of them, and, descending a steepish hill, they chugged into the town of aquebogue. it was a fairly large town, and here and there lighted windows showed that some of the low resorts were still open for business. far down the street shone two green lights, which marked the police station. the auto glided up to this, and rob jumped out, accompanied by merritt, leaving tubby and hiram in the car. "let's get out and stretch our legs a bit," said tubby presently. it was taking some time for rob to explain his errand to a sleepy police official. "all right, my boy," drawled hiram. "i'm not averse to a bit of leg-stretching." the two lads got out and strolled as far as the street corner. "h's'h!" exclaimed tubby suddenly, as they reached it. he seized hiram's arm with every appearance of excitement. "wa-al, what is it now?" asked the down-east boy; "more jokes and didoes?" "no. see that chap just sneaking down the street from the opposite corner?" "yes; what of it? are you seeing things?" "no. but it's freeman hunt--i'm sure of it." "by ginger, i believe you are right! it does look like him, for a fact. but what can he be doing here?" "i've no more idea than you. but he must be up to some mischief." "reckon that's right." "i tell you that where freeman hunt is, his father is not far off, and the rest of the gang must be about here, too. i guess it was a good thing we came out here." "well, what shall we do? go back and tell the police?" "no. while we were gone he'd sneak away, and we might miss him altogether. i've got a better plan." "do tell!" "we'll follow him at a distance and see where he goes. then we can come back and report." "sa-ay, that's a good idea. come on." freeman hunt was almost out of sight now. but as the two scouts took up the trail, they saw him pause where a flood of light streamed from the window of a drinking-place. he paused here for an instant and gave a low whistle; presently the boys' hearts gave a bound. from the doors of the resort issued three figures, one of which they recognized, even at that distance, as stonington hunt. with him were the two men who had played such a prominent part in the filching of the wallet belonging to major dangerfield. "keep in the shadow," whispered tubby, crouching in a convenient doorway; "they haven't seen us. hullo, there they go. keep a good distance behind--as far back as we can, without losing them." the men the scouts were trailing struck into a lively pace. they seemed to be conversing earnestly. through the shadows the two boys crept along behind them. presently they were traversing a residence street, edged with elms and lawns and white picket fences. it was deserted and silent. the occupants of the houses were wrapped in sleep. "maybe they're going to turn into one of these houses," whispered hiram. but the men didn't. instead, they kept right on, and before long the last electric light had been passed and they were in the open country. "hadn't we better turn back?" murmured hiram. "it looks as if we were going too far for safety." "let's keep on," urged tubby. "there's no danger. if we gave up the chase now we'd have had all our work for nothing." hiram made no reply, and the two boys, taking advantage of every bit of cover--as the game of "hare and hounds" had taught them--kept right on dogging the footsteps of their quarry. all at once tubby began sniffing the air. "we're getting near the sea," he proclaimed. "i can smell the salt meadows." aquebogue lay some distance back from the open waters of the ocean. it was situated, like hampton itself, on an inlet. in the dim light of the stars, the two boys presently perceived that they were traversing a sort of dyke or raised road leading across the marshes. "where can they be going?" wondered hiram. "don't know. but there are lots of fishermen's huts and shacks dotted about in the marshes. maybe they are making for one of them." "maybe," opined hiram, "but if you weren't so all-sot on following them, i'd be in a good mind to turn back." "not yet," persisted tubby, and the chase continued. but it was soon to end. all at once the faint glimmer of a watercourse, or inlet from the sea, shone dimly in front of them. upreared, too, against the star-spangled sky, they could see the inky outlines of a structure of some kind. "crouch down here," said tubby suddenly, as the men ahead of them came to a halt. a bunch of marsh grass offered a convenient hiding place, and behind it the two boys lay flat. pretty soon they heard the scratch of a match, and then the grating of a lock, as the door of the dark building they had remarked was opened. the men entered the place and slammed the door to. a few instants later, from the solitary window of the shack, a light shone out. the window was toward the creek, and the glare from it showed the two watching boys the mast and rigging of a large sloop. at least, from her spars, they judged her to be of considerable size. "gee whiz!" exclaimed tubby, "we've found the place, all right. they must have come in that sloop. maybe that's the way the two men who took the wallet got out of hampton unobserved." "but the wind's against the sloop, and she couldn't have beaten her way down here in that time," objected hiram. "she might have an engine, mightn't she?" whispered tubby in scornful tones. "that's so. lots of boats do have gasoline motors. i guess you're right, tubby. what are you going to do now? go back?" "not much," rejoined the fat boy. "we'll just have a look into that hut and see what's going on. we might even get a chance to get that wallet back." "say, you're not going to take such a chance! if you looked through that window----" "did i say i was going to look through the window, stupid? don't you see that chimney on the roof? now, the roof comes down low, almost to the ground. i'm going to climb up on it, and, by leaning over the chimney, i can hear what is said." "but they'll hear your feet on the roof," objected the practical hiram. "i'm going to take my shoes off." "it's awfully risky, tubby." "say, look here, hiram," sputtered the fat boy, "if this country was to go to war, you'd want to go to the front and fight for old glory as a boy scout, wouldn't you?" "of course." "well, then, don't you suppose that if you were scouting after an enemy you'd have to take bigger chances than this?" hiram said no more. kicking their shoes off, and leaving them by the grass hummock, the two boys crept forward as silently as two cats. in the yielding sand their feet made no noise. as tubby had surmised, at the rear of the house the roof came almost to the ground, for the sand was heaped up against that particular wall, being driven in big dunes by the winds off the ocean. "up with you," whispered tubby, giving hiram a "boost." the yankee boy's long legs carried him onto the roof in a jiffy. then came tubby. already the two boys could hear below them the low hum of voices, freeman hunt's sharp, boyish tones mingling with the bass drone of the elder men's conversation. the roof was formed of driftwood and old timbers, and was as easy to climb as a staircase. before many seconds, the boys were at the chimney. with beating pulses and a heart that throbbed faster than was altogether comfortable, in spite of his easy-going disposition, tubby raised himself and peered down the flue. it was of brick. but to his astonishment, as he peered over the edge, he found he had a clear view of the room below. the chimney, as is often the case in rough dwellings, did not go all the way down to the floor. instead, it was supported on two beams, so that, peering down it, the boy could command a view of the room below, just as if he had been looking down a telescope. round a table were seated stonington hunt, the two rough-looking men who had stolen the wallet, and freeman hunt. a smoky glass lamp stood on the rough box which served for a table. spread out on the table, too, was something that almost made tubby let go his hold of the chimney and go sliding down the roof. it was the wallet, and beside it lay the paper covered with figures and markings, which, the boy had no doubt, was the precious document of the major. "we'll have to get out of here early in the morning," stonington hunt was saying. "i don't fancy having the police on my heels." "no. and jim here says that those pesky boy scouts are mixed up in the search for the wallet," struck in freeman hunt. "well, this is the time we give those brats the slip," growled his father. "come on, let's turn in. we'll get the motor going and drop down the creek before daylight." "better leave the light burning then," said one of the men who had been in hampton that afternoon. this was done, and presently snores and heavy breathing showed the men were asleep. tubby could not see what resting places they had found, but assumed that there must be bunks around the edge of the hut, as is usual in such fishermen's shelters. before retiring, the men had shoved the paper into the wallet, but for some reason, probably they didn't think of it during their preparations for sleep, the wallet had been left on the table. it was almost directly below the chimney. as tubby looked at it, he had a sudden idea. "got a bit of wire, hiram?" he asked, knowing that the mechanical genius of the eagle patrol usually carried such odds and ends with him. "guess i've got a bit of brass wire right here," rejoined hiram, "but it isn't very long." "long enough," commented tubby, scrutinizing the bit handed to him, "now, if you had some string----" "got a bit of fish line." "couldn't be better. give it to me." much mystified, hiram watched the fat boy bend the bit of wire and tie it to the string. "going fishing?" he asked in a sarcastic tone. "yes," replied tubby quite seriously. his quick eye had noted that the straps that closed the wallet had not been placed round it but lay in a loose loop on the table. if only he could entangle his improvised line in the loop, it would be an easy matter to fish up the wallet. if only he could do it! very cautiously, for he knew the risk he was running, tubby lowered his line. then he waited. but the breathing below continued steady and stentorian. swinging his hook, which was quite heavy, the stout boy grappled cautiously for the wallet. it was tantalizing and delicate work. but after taking an infinity of pains, he finally succeeded in getting it fast. tubby at this moment had difficulty in suppressing a shout of "hooray!" but he mastered his emotions, and slowly and delicately began to haul in his "catch." hiram, fascinated, crept close to his side. perhaps it was this fact that was responsible for the disaster that occurred the next instant. without the slightest warning, save a sharp, cracking sound, the roof caved in under their feet. in a flash, both boys were projected in a heap into the room below. as they hurtled through the rotten covering of the hut, shouts and cries resounded from the aroused occupants. chapter vi. in direst peril. the wildest confusion ensued. fortunately, the drop was a short one, and beyond a few scratches and bruises, neither boy was hurt. the lamp, by some strange fatality, was not put out, but rolled off the table. as stonington hunt sprang at him, tubby seized it. he brandished it threateningly. "the boy scouts!" shouted stonington hunt, the first to recover from his stupefaction at the sudden interruption to their slumbers. he dashed at tubby, who swung the lamp for an instant--it was his only weapon--and then dashed it, like a smoky meteor, full at the advancing man's head. it missed him by the fraction of an inch, or he would have been turned into a living torch. crash! the lamp struck the opposite wall, and was shattered into a thousand fragments. instantly the place was plunged in darkness, total and absolute. at the same instant a sharp report sounded. it seemed doubly loud in the tiny place. the fumes of the powder filled it reekingly. "don't shoot!" roared stonington hunt. "guard the door and window. don't let them get away." "all right, dad," the boys heard freeman hunt cry loudly, as he scuffled across the room. "keep the doorway and the window," shouted stonington hunt. "i'll have a light in a jiffy. we've got them like two rats in a cage." as he struck a match and lit a boat lantern that stood on a shelf, a low groan came from one corner of the room. hiram was horrified to perceive that it was tubby who uttered it. the shot must have wounded him, fired at haphazard, as it had been. the man who had aimed it, the bearded member of the gang, stood grimly by the doorway. almost beside himself at the hopelessness of their situation, hiram gazed about him. all at once he noticed that on tubby's chest a crimson stain was slowly spreading. the stout boy lay quite still except for an occasional quiver and groan. without a thought as to his danger, hiram disregarded stonington hunt's next injunction: "don't move a step." swiftly he crossed to his wounded comrade. he sank on his knees beside him. "t-t-t-tubby," he exclaimed, "are you badly hurt, old man?" to his amazement, the recumbent tubby gave him a swift but knowing wink, and then, rolling over on his side again, resumed his groaning once more. mystified, but comforted, hiram was rising, when a rough hand seized him and sent him spinning to an opposite corner. it was the burly form of the bearded man that had propelled him. "not so rough, jim dale," warned stonington hunt. "we've got them where they can't escape. lots of time to get what we want out of them." "the pesky young spies," snorted jim dale, "i wonder how much they overheard of what we said." "it don't matter, anyhow," put in his beardless companion of the afternoon. "they won't have no chance to tell it." "guess that's right, pete bumpus," struck in the bearded man. suddenly hiram felt a stinging slap across the face. he turned and faced young freeman hunt. "how do you like that, eh?" snarled the youth viciously. "here is where i pay you out for what you scout kids did to me when we lived in hampton." he was stepping forward to deliver another blow, when hiram ducked swiftly, and put into execution a maneuver rob had shown him. as freeman, a bigger and heavier lad, rushed forward, hiram's long leg and his long left arm shot out simultaneously. the leg engaged freeman's ankle, and the yankee lad's fist encountered the other's chin with a sharp crack. freeman hunt fell in a heap on the floor. hiram braced himself for an attack by the whole four. but it didn't come. instead, they seemed to think it a good joke. "that will teach you to keep your temper," laughed the boy's father roughly; "plenty of time to punch him and pummel him when we have them tied up." "maybe i won't do it, too," promised freeman, gathering himself up, with a crestfallen look. stonington hunt stepped up to hiram. "tell me the truth, you young brat," he snarled; "are the police after us?" hiram pondered an instant before answering. then he decided on a course of action. possibly it was a bad one, judging by the immediate results. "yes, they are," he said boldly, "and if you don't let us loose, you'll get in trouble." stonington hunt paused irresolutely. then he said: "get the sloop ready, boys. we'll get out of here on the jump." a few moments later hiram's hands were bound and he was led on board the craft the boys had noticed lying in the creek. a plank connected it with the shore. tubby, still groaning, was carried on board and thrown down in the bow beside hiram. "we'll attend to him after a while," said hunt brutally; "if he's badly wounded it's his own fault, for meddling in other folks' affairs." one of the men went below. presently there came a sharp chug-chug, and the anchor being taken in, the sloop began to move off down the creek. as tubby hopkins had surmised, she had an engine. hunt, jim dale and peter bumpus stood in the bow. hiram leaned disconsolately against a stay, and tubby lay at his feet on a coil of rope. the shores slipped rapidly by, and pretty soon the creek began to widen. freeman hunt was at the wheel, and from time to time jim dale shouted directions back at him. "port--port! hard over!" or again, "hard over! starboard! there's a shoal right ahead!" a moon had risen now, and in the silvery light the darker water of the shoals, of which the creek seemed full, showed plainly. "this crik's as full of sand-bars as a hound dorg is uv fleas," grunted jim dale. "it won't be full tide for two hours or more, either. if----" there came a sudden, grinding jar. "hard over! hard over!" bellowed jim dale. freeman hunt spun the wheel like a squirrel in its cage. but it was too late. the sloop had grounded hard and fast. leaving peter bumpus to guard the boys, jim dale and the elder hunt leaped swiftly aft. they backed the motor, but it was no use. the sloop was too hard aground to be gotten off till the water rose. "two hours to wait till the tide rises," grumbled jim dale; "just like the luck." slowly the time passed. but never for an instant was the watch over the boys relaxed. tubby lay still, and hiram, almost carried out of himself by the rapid rush of recent events, leaned miserably against the stay. at last, just as a faint, gray light began to show in the east, they could feel the sloop moving under their feet. with reversed motor, she was backed off the sand-bar, or mud-shoal, and the journey resumed. as the light grew stronger, hiram saw that they were dropping rapidly down toward the sea. right ahead of them could now be seen the white foam and spray, where the breakers of the open sea were shattering themselves on the bar at the mouth of the creek. the channel was narrow and intricate, but jim dale, who seemed to be a good pilot, and who had assumed the wheel, brought the sloop through it in safety. before long, under her keel could be felt the long lift and drive of the open atlantic. by gazing at the sun, hiram saw that the sloop's head was pointed west. by this he judged that her navigators meant to head down the long island shore toward new york. the sunrise was red and angry. hiram, with his knowledge of scout-lore, knew that this presaged bad weather. but the crew of the sloop did not seem to notice it. after a while they began to make preparations to hoist sail, as the breeze was freshening. "take those kids below," ordered stonington hunt suddenly. under the escort of jim dale, who had relinquished the wheel to freeman hunt and pete bumpus, the lads--tubby being carried--were presently installed in a small, dark cabin in the stern of the sloop. this done, the companionway door was closed, and they heard a key grate in a lock. they were prisoners, then, at sea, on this mysterious sloop? "what next?" groaned hiram to himself, sinking down on a locker. "why, i guess the next thing to do is for me to come to life, my valiant downeaster," cried tubby, springing erect from the corner into which he had been thrown. the apparently badly wounded lad seemed as active and chipper as ever. chapter vii. adrift in the storm. at the same instant the sloop staggered and heeled over, sending hiram half across the dingy cabin. he caught at a stanchion and saved himself. then he turned his amazed gaze afresh on tubby. the stout youth stood by the companion stairs, regarding him with a grin. presently he actually began to hum: "a life on the ocean wave! a home on the rolling deep! "yo ho, my hearties," he added, with a nautical twitch at his breeches, "we're going to have a rough day of it." as if in answer, the sloop heeled over to another puff. a tin dish, dislodged from the rusty stove, went clattering across the inclined cabin floor. but still hiram stood gaping vacantly at tubby. "well, what's the matter?" inquired that individual cheerfully, "have you lost that voice of yours?" "no, b-b-b-but i thought you were badly wounded!" hiram managed to sputter. "so i was, but in reverse english only," said tubby cheerfully; "the bullet just nicked me and knocked the breath out of me for a minute. when i came to, i saw that the best thing i could do was to act like br'er rabbit and lay low." hiram looked his admiration. "wa-al," he drawled, dropping, as he seldom did even in emotional moments, into his new england dialect, "ef you ain't ther beatingist! "but, say," he added quickly, "what about that red stain on your shirt? look, it's all over the front of your uniform." "jiggeree, so it is. i guess that fountain pen of mine must have been busted cold by that bullet. i had it filled with red ink, because i'd been helping rob fill out some reports to mail to scout headquarters. ho! ho!" the fat boy broke into open mirth, "it certainly does look as if some one had tapped my claret. yo-ho! that was a corker!" the sloop lurched and dipped deeper than ever. they could see the green water obscure the port hole for an instant. "that sea's getting up right along," said tubby presently, as he unbound hiram's hands. "say, hiram," he added anxiously, "you don't get seasick easily, do you?" "n-n-n-no, that is, i don't think so," sputtered hiram rather dubiously. "well, don't, i beg from my heart! don't get seasick till we get on land again." "i'll try not to," said the downeast boy seriously, ignoring the fine "bull" which tubby's remark contained. "reminds me," said tubby presently, "of what the sea captain said to the nervous lady. she went up to him and told him that her husband was scared of getting seasick. 'my husband's dreadfully liable to seasickness, captain,' she said. 'what must i tell him to do if he feels it coming on?' 'you needn't tell him anything, ma'am,' said the captain; 'no need to tell him what to do--he'll do it.'" but somehow this bit of humor did not bring even a wan smile to hiram, willing as he usually was to laugh at tubby's whimsical jokes. instead, he turned a pale face on his companion. "i--i--do feel pretty bad, for a fact!" he moaned. "oh, jiminy crickets!" wailed tubby, "he's going to be seasick!" hiram, with a ghastly face of a greenish-yellow hue, sank down on one of the lockers, resigning himself to his fate. the sloop began to plunge and tumble along in a more lively fashion than ever. overhead tubby could hear the trample of feet, as her crew ran about trying to weather the blow. suddenly, above the howling of the wind, tubby heard a sharp click at the companionway door. the next instant the companionway slide was shoved back and a gust of fresh, salt-laden air blew into the close cabin. stonington hunt's form was on the stairway the next moment, and tubby, with a quick dive, threw himself on the floor in a corner, carrying out once more his rã´le of the badly wounded scout. lying there, and breathing in a quick, distressed way, tubby, out of the corner of his eye, watched the man as he moved about. hunt's first idea was evidently to rouse hiram. perhaps he needed him to help in navigating the storm-buffeted craft. but he soon gave up the task of instilling the seasick lad with ambition or life. then came tubby's turn, but after bending over the fat boy for an instant, hunt muttered: "he's no good," and without offering to aid the supposedly injured boy, moved away. he ascended the steps and presently the companion slide banged to, and the padlock clicked once more. tubby arose, as soon as he was convinced the coast was clear, and, despairing of arousing hiram, sat on a locker and began to think hard. rather bitterly he went over in his mind the circumstances leading to their present predicament. in the first place, he could not but own he had had no business to embark on such an enterprise at all without a bigger force. in the second place, if he had lived up to the scouts' motto of "be prepared," there was a strong possibility that they would not have been so disastrously precipitated through the roof of the lonely hut. however, before long, tubby's naturally buoyant temperament asserted itself. as became a boy who had won a first-class scoutship, he did not waste any further time on vain regrets. instead of crying over spilled milk, he began to figure on finding a way out of their predicament. casting his eyes about the cabin, he suddenly became aware of a small door in the bulkhead at the forward end of it. curious by nature, tubby opened it, and peered into a dark, cavernous space. a strong odor of gasoline saluted his nostrils, and presently--his eyes becoming used to the light--he could make out the occasional glint of metal. in a flash he realized that this was the engine-room of the sloop, and housed her auxiliary motor. a button-switch being made out by the boy at this moment, he turned it. instantly two incandescent lights shone out, illuminating the place. by their light tubby made out another door beyond the motor. determined to investigate the sloop thoroughly--come what might--he thrust it open, and found himself in what seemed to be the hold. but it was too dark to perceive much. besides, the sloop was pitching and rolling so terribly that the lad had all he could do to hold on. returning to the engine-room, he almost stumbled across an electric torch secured to a bracket on the bulkhead. it was evidently used for examining the motor without exposing an open light to the fumes of the gasoline. armed with this, tubby once more investigated the hold. it was a capacious place. stanchions, like a forest of bare trees, supported the deck above. so far as the boy could make out, the place was empty. far forward was a ladder leading up to a hatchway. tubby, following out his naturally inquiring bent of mind, was about to examine this, when his heart gave a great bound and then stood still. he had not thought to cast a glance behind him in his eagerness to examine the hold. this had proved to be a fatal bit of oversight on his part, for stonington hunt and his son, descending to the cabin for some purpose, had observed his absence. a brief investigation showed them the open door into the engine-room and thence they had glimpsed the flash of tubby's torch. the boy turned, warned by some instinct, just as they tiptoed up behind him. freeman hunt, with a grin on his face, rushed straight at the boy scout. but tubby was prepared this time, at any rate. he dashed the torch, end down, on the floor of the hold, extinguishing it instantly. at almost the same instant, he rushed straight at the place where he had last seen freeman hunt. to his huge satisfaction, he felt the other go down in a sprawling heap under his onrush. as he fell, freeman gave a shout of: "he ain't wounded at all, dad! he was fooling us!" "yes, the brat! he was!" shouted stonington hunt, blundering about in the black hold and striving to keep his footing on the pitching, heaving floor. tubby, guided by instinct, dashed forward toward the spot, as nearly as he could judge its location, where he had noticed the ladder. he found it, and had placed his foot on the bottom rung, when there was a sudden shock. the motion of the sloop seemed to cease, as if by magic. tubby felt himself hurled forward into darkness by the shock. his head crashed against something, and a world of brilliant constellations swam in a glittering array before his eyes. then something in his head seemed to give way with a snap, and young hopkins knew no more. chapter viii. eagles on the trail. "hullo! wonder what's become of those two fellows?" merritt voiced the inquiry, as he and rob emerged from the police station. the sergeant in charge had promised to do all he could to apprehend the stealers of the pocketbook if they were anywhere within striking distance of aquebogue. rob looked about him. there stood the automobile. but of the two lads they had left to guard it there was no sign. after waiting a reasonable time, the two boy scout leaders began to feel real alarm. "somehow i feel as if hunt and his gang have got something to do with this," murmured rob uneasily. "it does seem queer," admitted merritt. "let's look around a bit more, and then, if we find no trace of them, we'll go back to the police station and look for aid." "all right; i guess that's the best thing to do." but, as we know, it was impossible that their search could terminate in anything but failure. not a little worried, rob informed their friend, the sergeant, of what had occurred. that official at once galvanized into action. before this, he had not seemed to take much interest in their affairs. but now he really moved quickly. by telephone he summoned two detectives, and the lads soon put them in possession of the facts in the case. "pretty slim grounds to work on," remarked one of them with a shrug. rob could not but feel that this was true. after their consultation with the detectives, who at once set out to scour the place for some trace of hunt and his crew, the two lads, much dispirited, and with heavy hearts, set out for home. they arrived there in the early morning, and turned in for a brief sleep. as rob had expected, his father was not at all pleased when he learned of the nocturnal use made of his car, and of the serious consequences which had ensued. but major dangerfield, who had listened to the lad's story with interest--it was related at the breakfast table--was inclined to take a less serious view of the matter. "after all, mr. blake," he said, "the boys behaved like true boy scouts. it was their duty to try to aid in the matter of the pocketbook, and they did their best. i think that it was cleverly done, too." "but young hopkins and hiram are missing," protested mrs. blake. "what will their parents say?" "i don't think, from my observation of master hopkins, that he is the kind of lad to get into serious difficulties," said the major. "in fact, i am convinced that he has stumbled across some clew and is following it up." "i hope it may be so, and that both of them are safe," said mrs. blake fervently. the first duty, after the morning meal, was to call on mrs. hopkins, who was a widow, and also on hiram's parents, and explain the case. it was not a pleasant task, but rob saw it through with spartan courage. he succeeded in quelling the first vivid alarm of the lads' parents, however, and promised to return with news of them before the day was over. this done, major dangerfield, merritt and rob set out in the blake car for aquebogue. "it is your duty as boy scouts to find your missing comrades," said mr. blake, as the car started off. "we'll do it, if it's possible----" began merritt dolefully. "we'll do it, anyway," said rob stoutly. "that's the right scout way to talk," said the major commendingly, "that is the spirit that will win." no news greeted them on their arrival in aquebogue. the two detectives were still out on the case, and the officials in charge had nothing to report. this was discouraging, but before long one of the detectives arrived with an important clew. he carried in his hand a paper package. on being opened, it proved to contain two pairs of shoes, of boy scout pattern. rob and merritt immediately identified them as belonging to hiram and young hopkins. the major seemed much impressed by the value of this bit of evidence, and before many minutes had passed they were all in the auto and spinning toward the spot where the articles of apparel had been discovered. the detectives, it transpired, had not yet explored the hut, and rob's keen eyes were the first to spy the jagged hole in its roof. he at once set his scout training to work. the first thing he observed was that the hole had been freshly torn. an investigation of the inside of the hut showed the traces of the fight between hiram and young hunt. all at once rob gave a sharp exclamation, and pounced on some object in a corner of the place. its bright glitter, as the light fell on it through the hole in the roof, had attracted him at first. true scout as he was, rob did not allow even the minutest object to escape his scrutiny. in this case, he was richly rewarded, for what he had seen turned out to be a scout button. it was one that had been torn from hiram's coat in the struggle. "this is conclusive evidence that the two lads were here," decided the major. "what else can you deduce from what you have seen, rob?" the leader of the eagle patrol pondered a moment. then he spoke. "in the first place," he said decidedly, "it is evident that tubby and hiram in some way got on the track of our enemies in the town. they followed them here. that is proved by the finding of their shoes on that dune near the hut. they took their shoes off for some object, of course. evidently it must have been to silently observe the men who occupied this shanty. by looking at the footmarks in the sand outside, i traced them to the wall of the place. the steps did not turn in at the door, therefore, obviously, they must have climbed on the roof, for the steps ended at the low-hanging eaves, and they do not go back. "an examination of the roof shows that it must have given way under their combined weight. see, that beam is as brittle as match-wood, from dry rot. they could not have been hurt--at least, i don't think so--or this button, which must have been torn off in a struggle, for they are tightly sewn on, would not have been found." "very good," approved the major. "i have seen indian scouts on the border who could not have done much better. but what is the next step?" "to find out what has become of them, of course," put in merritt. "well, let's see how close we can come to deciding that," said the major, with a side glance at the detectives, who seemed puzzled and bewildered at the swift deductive work of the young scout. merritt left the hut and made a hasty examination of the numerous tracks without. he then scrutinized the muddy banks of the inlet closely. the tide was not yet full, and the marks of the sloop's keel still showed. also sand had been tracked on to the little wharf. it was evident that a vessel of some sort had lain there between tides. equally plain did it appear, that the two missing lads had been carried on board her. merritt lost no time in communicating his discoveries to his companions. "you have done well," commended the former army officer, "i am convinced that your deductions are, in the main, correct. but now the thing is to get some craft to go in pursuit of these fellows." "ike menjes, up the creek a little way, has a big gasoline launch he lets out," volunteered one of the detectives. "we'll get it if possible," said the major instantly. "is she a fast boat?" "none quicker hereabouts," said the other arm of the law. ten minutes later a bargain had been struck, and with ike menjes at the engine, and rob at the wheel, the swift launch _algonquin_ was dashing off down the winding creek headed for the open sea. as she tumbled and rolled through the rough waters of the bar at the creek's mouth, rob's eye swept the sky. "bad weather coming," he remarked. "no need to worry in this craft," declared ike; "she's weathered the worst we ever get off here." "i expect so," agreed the major, with an approving glance at the craft's broad lines and generous beam. before many moments had passed, rob's prediction came true. the _algonquin_, without any diminution of speed, was being pushed along through a rapidly rising sea, while the wind howled about her, growing stronger every moment. rob caught himself wondering what sort of a craft the kidnappers of the boys possessed. he hoped it was staunch, for in his judgment the blow was going to be a bad one. "it'll get worser before it gets betterer," opined ike menjes, coming forward from his engines and peering ahead at the tumbling masses of green water. the rising wind caught their tops and feathered them off in masses of snowy spume. overhead, dark, ragged clouds raced along. so low did they hang that they seemed almost to touch the crests of the angry waves. each time the _algonquin_ topped a roller and then staggered down into a deep trough, rob scanned the surrounding sea eagerly. but no sign, had, so far, appeared, of any craft resembling the one which they knew must have left the creek. seaward some sails showed, but they were all those of large coasting schooners. the craft they were in search of was, no doubt, a smallish vessel, otherwise she could not have negotiated the narrow, winding creek, with its innumerable bends and shallow places. "keep more in shore," advised ike. "they may have hugged the land to get the benefit of the weather shore." rob headed closer in toward the low-lying coast. he could see the waves breaking angrily in white masses on the sandy beach. all at once, above a distant point of land, he sighted the gray shoulder of a sail. the next instant it had vanished. had it found an opening through which to slip into an inlet in the bleak coast, or had it foundered in the wild breakers? the question agitated rob hugely. some intuition told him that the craft he had glimpsed had been the one they were in search of, but of its fate they could have no immediate knowledge. chapter ix. what scout hopkins did. when young hopkins came to himself, he was dimly conscious that the driving motion of the sloop had ceased. instead, lying there in the pitchy darkness of the hold, he could feel the vessel being struck with what appeared to be mighty blows from a titanic hammer. tubby guessed instantly, from the sensations, that they were aground, and that what he felt was the terrific bombardment of enormous breakers. a swift "overhauling" of himself soon showed the lad that he was not hurt, although the blow on his head, when he had been hurled from the ladder, had stunned him. of how long he had been unconscious, he had, of course, no knowledge. worse still, he could not form any idea of how to get out of his dark prison, and he realized that he had no time to lose if he wanted to save hiram and himself. risking the chance that their enemies were prowling about, waiting for the lad to declare himself, tubby set up a shout. "hiram! oh, hiram!" in the intervals of the crashing blows that shook the frail sloop from stem to stern, tubby listened intently. but for some time no answering cry came to greet him. then all at once he thought he caught a feeble shout. he responded, and the cry came more distinctly. guided by it, he made his way aft with considerable difficulty. presently a dim, gray light, filtering through the blackness, apprised him that he was nearing the door in the bulkhead through which he had blundered into the hold. a moment more and he had passed through the engine-room and was in the cabin. hiram, looking pale and wild, was clinging to a stanchion. water had come into the cabin through a broken port, and was washing about the floor. "oh, tubby, i'm so glad you've come. where have you been?" breathed the unfortunate hiram, weak and shaky from his bout with seasickness. "what is happening?" "i guess we're aground somewhere," rejoined tubby. "i'm going to see." he made for the companionway and rattled the door at the top. as he had dreaded, it was locked. they were prisoners on board a doomed vessel. for an instant even young hopkins' resourcefulness came to a standstill. his heart seemed to stop beating. his head swam madly. was this to be the end of them, to be drowned miserably, like two captive rats? but the next instant the thought of their plight acted as a stimulus. "a true scout should never say die," thought the boy, and then, retracing his steps, he joined hiram. "what's become of hunt and his outfit?" he asked. "why, stonington hunt and freeman passed through the cabin a few minutes ago," replied hiram, "right after that terrible bump----" "when the sloop struck," thought tubby. aloud he said: "well?" "i heard them say that you were done for, and that i could be left to drown." "yes, yes, hiram; but did they say anything about escaping themselves?" "yes. i heard them shouting on deck to cut loose the boat. then i heard a lot of noise. i guess they launched her. that's all, till i heard you shouting back in there." "humph!" ejaculated tubby; "so they left us to perish on this old sloop, eh? well, hiram, we'll fool 'em. we'll get away yet in spite of them." in talking thus, young hopkins assumed a confidence he was far from feeling, but he deemed it best to stimulate hiram with hope. "got any matches?" was his next question. hiram nodded, and presently handed out a box. "good. now follow me. by the way, how's the seasickness?" "oh, better, but i feel shaky yet. i can manage, though." "that's the stuff--wough!" a heavier blow than usual had been dealt the sloop. the two lads could feel her quiver and quake under the concussion like a live thing. "come on, we've got to move quick," said tubby. striking a match, he set off into the hold. hiram followed. before long they stood at the foot of the ladder from which tubby had been so violently flung a short time before. the stout youth darted up it with an agility one would not have expected in a boy of his girth. with the strongest shove of which he was capable, he pushed up the scuttle above. to his great joy, it gave, swinging back on hinges. but, as he opened it fully, tubby came nearly being hurled from the ladder for the second time. a great mass of green water swept across the deck at that instant, and the full force of the torrent descended into the hole through the open hatch. luckily, tubby had seen it coming in time to warn hiram, and the downeast lad clung on tightly enough to avoid being carried from his foothold. in a jiffy young hopkins clambered through, shouting to hiram to follow him. it was a wild scene that met both boys' eyes when they emerged on the deck of the stranded sloop. she lay in a small inlet which, though partially sheltered, in hard storms was swept by the seas from outside. the sloop was heeled over to one side at so steep an angle that standing on her wet decks was impossible without clinging to something. about three hundred yards away lay the shore, a wild, uninhabited expanse of wind-swept sand dunes, overgrown with dull, green and prickly beach-grass. no sign of a human habitation could be discerned. outside on the beach the big seas thundered, flinging masses of white foam skyward. it seemed almost impossible that she could have been navigated through the narrow inlet leading into the small bay where she had stranded. as a matter of fact, it had been more by luck than by design that she had accomplished the passage. all at once, as the two castaways stood looking about them, a figure bobbed up from behind one of the sand hills. it was instantly recognized by tubby as stonington hunt. the lad now saw that a boat lay on the beach; evidently then, that was how they had reached the shore, as hiram had surmised. hunt had apparently been seeking shelter from the storm behind the dune, with the rest of his band. as his eyes fell on the figures of the two boy scouts standing on the deck of the stranded sloop, he beckoned toward the dune. instantly there appeared the rest of the lads' enemies. they stood staring for a few minutes, as if amazed to see the boy scouts. but before they had time to take any action, an astonishing thing happened. the sloop began to move. the incoming tide, which had been steadily rising, had floated her, and she gradually reeled off the sand bank, on which she had struck, into open water. as she did so, tubby suddenly ducked low, and something whistled by his head. above the wind came the crack of a firearm's report. gazing toward stonington hunt, tubby saw that the man held a revolver in his hand. it was from this weapon, evidently, that the projectile had been discharged. "get out of the way, hiram, quick!" exclaimed the stout lad, for he now saw that the others were preparing to discharge pistols at them. it was apparent that they did not mean the boys to escape if they could avoid it. but tubby had suddenly thought of a plan. it had been born in his mind when the sloop rolled off the shoal into deep water. he knew something of gasoline engines from his experiences on board the _flying fish_. why would it not be possible to get out of the little and dangerous bay under motor power? the shots hastened his decision. clearly if they remained where they were, destruction swift and certain threatened. stonington hunt did not mean to let them land, so much was only too apparent. before the men left the sloop they had hauled down the canvas, probably in an effort to keep her from grounding. it was the work of an instant for tubby to dash below and give a turn to the rear starting device on the engine. it worked perfectly. then he turned on the gasolene, easily finding the connection, and threw on the switch. a blue spark showed that the current was on. then, with a beating heart he turned the starting device once more. bang! the engine moved. to the lad's delight it worked steadily. this done, he darted back on deck and took the wheel. he was not a moment too soon, for, with no one at the helm, the craft was heading once more for the sand bank. crouching beneath the stern bulwarks, and ordering hiram to do the same, young hopkins navigated the sloop skilfully ahead, steering straight for the open sea. tempestuous as it was, the sloop seemed still staunch, and he felt they were safer there than in such close proximity to hunt. especially since they were followed by an unceasing fire from the pistols of the gang. but although some of the shots splintered the bulwarks, sending showers of slivers about the two crouching lads, neither were hit. at last, after a dozen hair-raising escapes on the choppy bar, the sloop gained the outside, and throwing showers of spray high over her bluff bows, began to breast the sweep of the seas. "go below and take a look at the glass oil cups," ordered tubby as soon as they were safe from the firing, "if any of them are empty fill them. there is an oil can on a shelf beside the motor." glad to do anything to help out, hiram hastened on this errand. he was below about ten minutes. when he returned on deck his face was white, and he was breathing quickly. tubby's quick eye noted, too, that the lad was wet to the waist. "what's up below?" he demanded. "the cabin's half full of water, and it seems to be rising every minute;" was the disquieting reply. at the same instant the sloop's motion stopped and she began rolling in a sickening fashion in the troughs of the mighty seas. "jehoshaphat!" exclaimed scout hopkins, "we're in for it now. the water's reached the engine and it's stopped!" as he spoke a gigantic mountain of green water suddenly towered right above the helpless sloop. its crest seemed to overtop the mast tip. automatically tubby crouched low and reached out a hand for hiram. the next instant the wave swept down on them enveloping the lads in a turmoil of salt water. the two boys were swept away in the liquid avalanche like feathers before a gale. when the wave had passed, the wreck of the sloop could be seen staggering and wallowing like a stricken thing. but of her two recent occupants there was no trace upon the wilderness of heaving waters. chapter x. a rescue and a bivouac. from the bow of the _algonquin_ rob kept his eyes riveted on the spot at which he had seen the sloop vanish. but for some time he could see nothing but the billowing crests of the waves. suddenly, to his astonishment, from the midst of the combing summits, there was revealed the swaying mast of the sloop, cutting great arcs dizzily across the lowering sky. as the _algonquin_ climbed to a wave top the entire length of the sloop was disclosed to the lad's gaze. on her deck he could now plainly see two figures. "got a glass?" he inquired of ike. "sure," responded that individual, floundering forward with a pair of binoculars. rob clapped them to his eyes. the figures of hiram and tubby hopkins swam into the field of vision. at the same instant, or so it seemed, rob made out the wall of green water rushing downward upon the sloop. while a cry of alarm still quivered upon his lips, the sloop rallied an instant, and then--was wiped out! the others had pressed forward too, and the _algonquin_ had, by that time, gotten close enough for them all to witness the marine tragedy. "steady, rob," exclaimed the major, his hand on rob's shoulder, "they may be all right yet." rob's face was white and set, but he nodded bravely. it seemed impossible that anything living could have escaped from the overwhelming avalanche of water. merritt seized the glasses as rob set them down to take the wheel again. he peered through them with straining eyes. "hullo, what's that off in the water there?" he shouted suddenly, pointing. the next instant the object he had descried had vanished in the trough of a sea. "could you make out anybody?" asked the major anxiously. "it looked like a spar with--yes, there are two figures clinging to it." "here, let me look!" rob snatched the glasses out of his comrade's hand. "hooray!" he cried the next instant, "it's tubby and hiram!" "are you sure?" asked the major, "perhaps it's some members of hunt's crew." "no, it's tubby and hiram. i can make out their uniforms," cried rob. as he spoke he swung the wheel over, and the _algonquin's_ head was turned in the direction of the spot where a spar with two objects clinging to it had last been seen. "wonder what can have become of hunt and his crowd?" said merritt presently. "maybe they've met with a watery grave," conjectured one of the detectives, "and from what you've told me it would be a good end for them." "if they hain't taken that pocket-book with them," put in his companion, "the kidnapping of those boys was as desperate a bit of work as i've ever heard tell of." in a brief time the two lads, none the worse apparently for their immersion, had been hauled on board the _algonquin_, and were being plied with eager questions. "i guess i caught on to that boom more by instinct than anything else," explained tubby, "when i got the water out of my lungs i looked about me and saw that hiram had grabbed it too." "that's what i call luck," said one of the detectives in a wondering tone. "it surely was," agreed hiram, "but i guess there's a bigger bit coming." "what do you mean?" asked the major, struck by something odd in the lad's tone. for answer tubby thrust a hand into an inside pocket of his coat and drew forth something that, dripping with water as it was, could be easily recognized as--the missing pocket-book! "i guess they forgot to search me for it in the excitement following the collapse of the roof. i'm sorry it got wet, major," he added. but the major and the others could only regard the fat boy with wondering eyes. suddenly the major, the first to recover his senses, spoke: "i don't know how i'm ever to thank you for this, hopkins----," he began. "tell you how you can," spoke the irrepressible tubby swiftly. "how, my boy?" "by taking us some place where we can get something to eat," quoth tubby, "i'm so hungry i could demolish the left hind leg of a brass monkey without winking." * * * * * * * * from the tumbling waves of an angry sea to the cool shadows of a magnificent forest of chestnut and oak may be a long distance to travel, but such is the jump over time and space that we must make if we wish to accompany our boy scouts to their mountain camp. the evening sun, already almost touching the peaks of the nearest range, was striking level shafts of light through the forest as our party came to a halt, and major dangerfield ordered the canoes, by which they had traversed the smooth stretches of echo lake, hauled ashore. it was more than three days since the party had left the shores of lake champlain. the passage of the lake from its lower end had been made by canoes. the same craft they were now using had transported them. there were three of the frail, delicate little vessels. one was blue, another a rich indian red, and the third a dark green. the canoes had been purchased by major dangerfield at lakehead, a small town at which they left the railroad. they had been stocked with provisions and equipment for their long dash into the solitudes of the adirondacks. reaching dangerfield, the canoes had been transported overland till the first of a chain of lakes, leading into the interior, had been reached. here, to the boys' huge delight, they once more took to the water. in the party were rob, merritt, young hopkins, hiram and little andy bowles, the bugler of the eagles. andy had been brought along because, as rob had said, he was so little he would tuck in anywhere. of course there had been keen regret on the part of the lads who were, of necessity, left behind. but they had borne it with true scout spirit and wished their lucky comrades all the good fortune in the world, when they embarked from hampton. travel had bronzed the lads and stained and crumpled their smart uniforms. but they looked very fit and scout-like as they bustled about, making the various preparations for the evening's camp. two members of the party have not yet been mentioned. one of these was a tall, lanky man with a pair of big horn-rimmed spectacles set athwart his nose, and arrayed in a queer combination of woodsman's clothes and a pedant's immaculate dress. he had retained a white lawn tie and long black coat, but his nether limbs were encased in corduroys and gaiters, with a pair of big, square-toed shoes protruding beneath. on his head was an odd-looking round, black hat, which was always getting knocked into the water or caught on branches and swept off. this queer figure was professor jeremiah jorum. the second addition to the party was the major's factotum, christopher columbus julius pompey snaggs. but for purposes of identification he answered to the name of jumbo. jumbo was a big-framed negro, intensely black and with a sunny, child-like disposition. he had a propensity for coining words to suit his convenience, deeming the king's english insufficient in scope to express his emotions. standing on the sandy strip of beach as he emerged from the red canoe, with a load of "duffle," jumbo gazed about him in an interested way. "dis sutt'in'ly am a glumpferiferous spot to locate a camp," he remarked, letting his big eyes roll from the tranquil expanse of lake, fringed with feathery balsams and firs, to the slope above him clothed in its growth of fine timber, some of it hundreds of years old. "here you, jumbo, hurry up with that bedding and then clean those fish!" the voice was the major's. it hailed from a level spot a short distance above the sandy beach. on this small plateau, the canvas "tepees" the boy scouts carried were already erected, and a good fire was burning between two green logs. "yas, sah, yas, sah! i'se a comin'," hailed the negro, lumbering up among the loose rock, and almost spilling his load in his haste, "i'se a coming so quintopulous dat you all kain't see muh fer de dus' i'se raisin'." before long the fish, caught by trolling as they came along, were frizzling in the pan, and spreading an appetizing odor abroad. the aroma of coffee and camp biscuit mingled with the other appetizing smells. "race anybody down to the lake for a wash!" shouted rob suddenly. in a flash he was off, followed by merritt, hiram and tubby. little andy bowles, with his bugle suspended from his shoulders by a cord of the eagle colors, hurried along behind on his stumpy little legs. "i win!" shouted rob as he, with difficulty, paused on the brink of the lake. but hardly were the words out of his mouth before merritt flashed up beside him. "almost a dead heat," laughed rob, "i----but hullo, what's all this?" above them came a roar of sliding gravel and stones that sounded like an avalanche. in the midst of it was tubby, his rotund form dashing forward at a great rate. his legs were flashing like the pistons of a racing locomotive as he plunged down the hillside. "here, stop! stop!" shouted rob, "you'll be in the lake in a minute!" but the warning came too late. tubby's heavy weight could not be checked so easily. faster he went, and faster, striving in vain to stop himself. "he's gone!" yelled merritt the next instant, as a splash announced that tubby had plunged into the lake water. in a flash the fat boy was on the surface. but he was "dead game," and while his comrades shouted with laughter he swam about, puffing like a big porpoise. "come on in, the water's fine," he exclaimed. "even with your uniform on?" jeered hiram. "sure! oh-ouch! what's that?" the fat boy had perceived a queer-looking head suddenly obtrude from the water close to him. it was evident that he was not the only one to enjoy an evening swim that day. a big water snake was sharing his involuntary bath with him. tubby struck out with might and main for shore, and presently reached it, dripping profusely. the major, when he heard of the occurrence, ordered a change of clothes. when this had been made, andy's bugle sounded the quick lively notes of the mess call, and the boy scouts and their elders gathered round the table which the boys' deft hands had composed of flat slabs of birch bark supported on trestles of green wood. they sat on camp stools which they carried with them. how heartily they ate! they had the appetites that are born of woods and open places. "mah goodness, dose boys mus' have stumicks lak der olyphogenius mammaothstikuscudsses!" exclaimed jumbo as he hurried to and from his cooking fire in response to constant demands for "more." chapter xi. the mountain camp. supper concluded, the talk naturally fell to the object of their expedition. the chart or map of the treasure-trove's location was brought out and pored over in the firelight, for the nights were quite sharp, and a big fire had been lighted. "how soon do you think we will be within striking distance of the place?" inquired rob. "within two or three days, i should estimate," replied the former officer, "but of course we may be delayed. for instance, we have a portage ahead of us." "a-a--how much?" asked tubby. "a portage. that means a point of land round which it would not be practicable to canoe. at such a place we shall have to take the canoes out of the water and carry them over the projection of land to the next lake." "anybody who wants it can have my share of that job," said tubby, "i guess i'll delegate andy bowles to carry out my part." there was a general laugh at the idea of what a comical sight the diminutive bugler would present staggering along under the weight of a canoe. "andy would look like a little-neck clam under its shell," chuckled merritt. "well, you can't always gauge the quality of the goods by the size of the package they come in," chortled andy, "look at tubby, for instance. he----" but the fat boy suddenly projected himself on the little bugler. but andy, though small, was tough as a roll of barbed wire. he resisted the fat lad's attack successfully and the two struggled all over the level place on which the camp had been pitched. finally, however, they approached so near to the edge that rob interfered. "you'll roll down the slope into the lake in another minute," he said. "two baths a day would be too much for tubby. besides, he'd raise the water and swamp the canoes." the fat youth, with a pretence of outraged dignity, sought his tepee and engaged himself in cleaning his twenty-two rifle. after a while, though, he emerged from his temporary obscurity, and joined the group about the fire, who were happily discussing plans. "one good thing is that we have plenty of arms," volunteered hiram, "in case hunt and his gang attack us we can easily keep them off." "good gracious!" exclaimed the professor, "surely you don't contemplate any such unlawful acts, major?" "as shooting at folks you mean," laughed the major. "no indeed, my dear professor. but if those rascals attack us i hope we shall be able to tackle them without any other weapons than those nature has given us." "i owe freeman hunt a good punch," muttered tubby. "i'd like to make the dust fly around his heels with this rifle." "goodness, you talk like a regular 'alkali ike'," grinned hiram. "bet you i could hit an apple at two hundred yards with this rifle, anyway," asserted the stout youth. "bet my hunting knife you can't." "all right, we'll try to-morrow. this rifle is a dandy, i tell you." "pooh! it won't carry a hundred yards." "it won't, eh? it'll carry half a mile, the man who sold it to me said so." "minds me uv er gun my uncle had daown in virginny," put in jumbo who had been an interested listener, "that thar gun was ther mos' umbliquitos gun i ever hearn' tell uv." "it was a long distance shooter, eh?" laughed the major, scenting some fun. "long distance, sah! why, majah, sah, dat gun hadn't no ekil fo' long distancenessness. dat gun 'ud shoot--it 'ud shoot de eye out uv er lilly fly des as fur as you could see." "it would, really, jumbo?" inquired andy bowles, deeply interested. "it sho' would fer sartain shuh, massa bowles." "pshaw, that's nothing," scoffed tubby, with a wink at the others. the fun-loving youth scented a joke. "my uncle had a gun that once killed a deer at three miles." "at free miles, massa hopkins?" "yes. it sounds incredible i know, but they had the state surveyor measure off the ground and sure enough it was three miles." "um-ho!" exclaimed jumbo, blinking at the fire, "dat's a wun'ful gun shoh 'nuff. but mah uncle's gun hed it beat." "impossible, jumbo!" exclaimed the major. "yas, sah, it deed. mah uncle's gun done cahhey so fah dat mah uncle he done hed ter put salt on his bullets befo' he fahed dem." "put salt on his bullets before he fired them, jumbo! what on earth for?" demanded rob while the others bent forward interestedly. "jes' becos of de distance at which dat rifle killed," explained jumbo. "yo' see, and especially in warm weather, dat salt was needed, 'cos it took mah uncle such a time te git to it after he done kill it dat if those bullets weren't salted the game would hev spoiled. yes, sah, da's a fac', majah." a dead silence fell over the camp at the conclusion of this interesting narrative. you could have heard a pin drop. at last the major said, in a solemn voice: "jumbo, i fear you are an exaggerator." "ah specs' ah is, majah. i specs' ah is, but you know dat zaggerators is bo'n and not made, lak potes." then the laughter broke loose. the hillside echoed with it, and jumbo, who deemed that he had been called a most complimentary term by the major, gazed from one to the other in a highly puzzled way. "reminds me of old uncle hank who keeps a grocery store near my uncle's farm up in vermont," put in hiram. "one night in the store they were talking about potato bugs. one old fellow said he had seen twenty potato bugs on one stalk. "''pshaw!' said an old man named abner deene, 'that's nothing. why, up in my potato patch they've eaten everything up and now when i go outdoors i kin see 'em sitting around the lot, on trees and fences, waitin' fer me ter plant over ag'in.' "then it came the turn of an old fellow named cyrus harper. cyrus laughed at abner. "'sittin' roun' on fences,' he sniffed, 'that's nuffin'. nuffin' at all. why whar i come from the potato bugs come right into the kitchen, open the oven doors and yank the red hot baking potatoes out of the stove.' "my uncle hadn't said a thing all this time, but now he struck in. "'gentlemen,' he said, 'all these potato-bug stories don't begin to compare with the breed they had down near brattleboro, where i come from. down there i used to clerk in si toner's grocery and general store. well, the potato bugs used to come into the store in the spring and look over si's books to see who'd been buying potato seed.'" "funny thing your uncle never met the wonderful rifle shot, philander potts," said the professor musingly, after the laughter over hiram's yarn had subsided. "philander potts," exclaimed the boys, "never heard of him." "too bad," said the professor musingly, "he was the best shot in the world, too, i guess. why, once he undertook to fire at a rubber target 2,000 times in two minutes. the way he did it was this. he had a repeating rifle and kept firing as fast as he could at the india-rubber target. the bullets would bounce off and he caught them in the muzzle of his rifle as they flew back and fired them over again." "but what about the bullets that were coming out? didn't they collide with the ones coming back?" asked andy bowles in all seriousness. "no," said the professor gravely, "you see, philander was so swift in his movements that he was able to fire and catch alternately." "i'll have to practice that," laughed tubby. soon after the narration of this surprising anecdote, the major looked at his watch. "bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "nine o'clock. time for lights out. andy, sound 'taps' and we'll post the sentries for the night." tubby and hiram were selected for the first watch. the major and young andy were to stand the second vigil while the third period of sentry duty fell to merritt and rob. it seemed to the latter that they had not been asleep half an hour when the major entered their tepee and aroused them for their tour of duty. he reported all quiet, and a clear moonlight night. hastily throwing on their uniforms the boy scouts turned out. for some time they paced their posts steadfastly without anything occurring to mar the stillness of the night. the moon shone down brightly, silvering the surface of the lake which could be glimpsed through the dark trees. suddenly rob, who had reached the limit of his post, which was not far from where the canoes had been hauled up, was startled by a slight sound. it ceased almost instantly, but presently it occurred again. cautiously the boy crept through the forest toward the water's edge. he took every advantage of his scout training and carefully avoided treading on twigs or anything that might cause a sound of his approach to be made manifest. gliding from tree trunk to tree trunk he soon arrived at the spot in which the canoes had been dragged ashore. at the same instant he became aware of several dark figures moving about among them. suddenly, right behind him, a twig snapped. in the stillness it sounded as loud as the report of a pistol. rob wheeled round swiftly, but not before a figure leaped toward him from behind a tree trunk. before rob could raise a hand in self-defense another form sprang at him. the lad tried to cry out and discharge his rifle, but before he could accomplish either act he was felled by some heavy instrument, and a gag thrust into his mouth. the next instant, bound and incapable of uttering a sound, he was borne swiftly toward the canoes. chapter xii. captured. but silently as the attack upon rob had been made, it had not taken place without causing some disturbance. moreover, the sharp crack of the snapping twig which had attracted rob's attention to his trailers, had also reached merritt's sharp ears. in the silence of the night-enwrapped forest sounds carry far. merritt was all attention in a flash. the snap of the twig might have been caused by some prying animal or---"gee whiz! that's the scuffling of feet!" exclaimed the young sentry the next moment as the sounds of the tussle came to him. his first act was to fire a shot. it should have been aimed in the air, but in his excitement merritt fired low. the bullet whizzed in the direction of the camp, struck a tin kettle which was piled up with a number of other tin utensils, and brought the whole pile down with a crash. now jumbo's chosen sleeping place was right behind this barricade of tin hardware. when it fell it came crashing about the colored man in an ear-splitting avalanche. jumbo leaped to his feet with a howl. he was attired in his shirt, trousers and shoes, not having bothered to remove these when he retired. "fo' de lan's sake what dat gum gophulous racket?" he yelled. in a flash his long legs began to move. "ah'll bet a pint uv peanuts dat's injuns!" he shouted as he sped along, "mah goodness, ah wish ah had mah uncle's gun. but as ah ain't ah's jes' a gwine te trus' ter mah laigs." jumbo, in great leaps and strides, arrived at the lake-side in a few instants. in the meantime, the camp behind him was in an uproar of excitement over the midnight alarm. the negro had already reached the waterside before he felt himself knocked flat by a heavy blow on the head. now jumbo's head, like all negroes', was about as hard as a bit of adamant. but the cowardly fellow deemed it better to lie perfectly still when he was knocked flat. presently he felt himself being picked up and thrown into something that the next instant began to move off. he realized in a flash that he was lying in the bottom of one of the canoes. "hailp! hailp!" he began to yell, but was silent instantly as a harsh voice breathed in his ear: "you shut up if you don't want a bullet in your black head." jumbo lay silent after that. but his thoughts were busy. "bullet in mah haid, eh?" he mused, "mah goodness, ah don't want nuffin' lak dat. mah cocoanut feels now laik ah'd done tried ter butt a locusmocus off'n de track. wondah what deportentiousness uv all dis unusualauness done mean?" his meditations were interrupted by a shout from the shore. "bring back those canoes at once!" "mah goodness, dat am de majah," exclaimed jumbo, but to himself. "he shuh am po'ful mad. wondah if dem boys is playin' pranks. if dey is dey'll be sorry fer it." the black ventured to raise his head a little and peep up to see who was in the canoe with him. in doing so his eyes fell on another figure lying beside him. in the moonlight he could see the cords that bound it. the radiance of the moon also revealed the boy scout uniform. "gabriel's ho'hn! dat's one of dem boy scrouts!" he exclaimed, "an' mah gracious, ah wondah who dat fierce lookin' man am whose paddlin' dis yar boat. reckon ah'd better lay quiet. he looks pretty frambunctious." in the meantime, the aroused inmates of the camp had rushed to the shore. they reached it just in time to see their entire flotilla of canoes being paddled swiftly off across the smooth, moonlit waters. tubby and hiram raised their rifles when a hoarse laugh of defiance greeted the major's command to the marauders to halt. but in a flash the officer saw what they were about to do. "none of that, boys," he ordered sharply, "put down those rifles." "no use for them now," grumbled tubby, "see, they've disappeared round that point." "let's get after them," suggested hiram. the major shook his head. "over this rough ground they could easily outdistance us," he said, "is anyone missing?" it took but a few minutes to ascertain that both rob and jumbo were not among them. "this is even more serious than the theft of the canoes," exclaimed the professor, "do you suppose that it was hunt's gang that took them?" "i don't doubt it," said the major, "who else would be interested in annoying us? but let's hear merritt's story. what did you hear, my boy?" merritt soon told his narrative of the crackling twig and the struggle. a visit to the beach showed that there had, indeed, been a struggle before rob had been landed in the canoe. a disconsolate silence fell on the little party. "what are we to do now?" wondered hiram. "get in pursuit of them as quick as possible, i should think," opined tubby. the major shook his head. "not much use in that," he decided, "we would not be likely to find them. no, the best plan is to wait right here. if rob escapes he will be able to find his way back again." "do you think they mean him harm?" inquired little andy bowles tremulously. "i hardly think so," responded the major, "they wouldn't dare to do much more than keep him prisoner. but even that's bad enough." "but what object can they have in all this except to annoy us?" asked the professor. "simple enough," said the major, rather bitterly, "i guess they are going to hold rob as a hostage." "what do you mean?" "that if they manage to keep him prisoner we shan't see him again till i have given them the plans to the location of the dangerfield treasure cave." "they wouldn't dare----" began the professor. but the major interrupted him. "we have already had a proof of what they will dare," he said, "they are as desperate a band of ruffians as i have ever heard of." "i guess that's right," agreed tubby, "but i'll bet," he added stoutly, "that rob will find a way out of it yet." in the meantime the canoes sped on through the night. rob mentally tried to keep some track of the distance traversed, but he was totally unable to do so. he judged, however, when the paddles finally ceased their splashing, that they must have come some distance, for it was day-break when the canoes came to a halt. rob was roughly jerked to his feet and then, for the first time, became aware of jumbo. for his back had been toward the negro in the canoe. "mah goodness, marse blake," exclaimed the black, "ain' dis de mostes' parallelxillus sintuation dat you ever seen. ah declar'----" but further remarks on jumbo's part were roughly checked by the man who had paddled the two prisoners to their present situation. he was none other than the big-limbed rascal, jim dale, who had played such a prominent part in the theft of the pocket-book. "shut your black head, nigger," he ordered gruffly. "ah ain't no niggah. ah's a 'spectabilious colored gent"; protested jumbo, "'nd i kain't shut mah haid nohow 'cos it keeps openin' an' shuttin' of its own accord whar you busted me on it." but a fierce look from the man made even the garrulous negro subside. as for rob, he disdained to talk to the fellow, or bandy words with him. instead, he gazed around while the other canoes, filched from the boy scout camp, were coming up. he noted that one was paddled by peter bumpus, while the third one contained stonington hunt and his son freeman, the lad who had already given the boy scouts so much trouble. it was a curious place in which the boy found himself. but rob, with his scout instinct, could not but admire the skill with which it had been chosen as a retreat. the spot was like a large basin with steep rock walls on all sides but one. on the open side a narrow neck of the lake led into this natural fortress. great trees and luxurious water growth masked the entrance and anybody, not knowing of it, might have passed by it on the lake side a hundred times without noting its presence. the canoes had been paddled through this natural screen of water maples and rank growth of all kinds, which had closed like a curtain behind them. a beach, narrow except at the far end of the cove, ran round the water's edge at the foot of the rocky walls. a small tent was pitched there, and a fire was smoldering. evidently the place had been occupied for some little time as a camp. rob found himself wondering how the men, in whose power he now was, had ever found the place. he did not know then that jim dale and pete bumpus had once been associated with a gang of moonshiners, whose retreat this had been before the officers of the revenue service broke the gang up and scattered them far and wide. hunt had gleaned enough knowledge from the plan, during his brief possession of it, to divine which route the party would take to the hidden treasure trove. he had, therefore, sought out this place when dale and bumpus told him of it. the boys' enemies had made straight for it, and had been encamped there some days awaiting the arrival of the party. the notes of andy bowles' bugle floating out across the lake the night before had apprised them of the arrival of the party, and plans had immediately been made for a hasty descent on the boy scouts' mountain camp. how successful it had proved we already know. but of course, to rob, all this was a mystery. the canoes were grounded at the end of the cove on the broad strip of beach. rob and jumbo were at once ordered to get out, and rob's leg-bonds being loosened and gag removed, he followed jumbo on to the white sand. hardly had their feet touched it before stonington hunt and his rascally young son, the latter with a sneer on his face, also landed. "fell neatly into our little trap, didn't you?" jeered stonington hunt, staring straight at rob with an insolent look. "yo' alls kin hev yo' trap fo' all i wants uv it"; snorted jumbo indignantly, as rob disdained to answer. "be quiet, you black idiot!" snapped hunt, "we didn't want you, anyhow. i've a good mind," he went on with a brutal sort of humor, "to have you thrown into the lake." "by golly yo' jes bring on de man to do it," exclaimed the negro with great bravado, "ah reckon ah kin tackle him. ah'm frum vahgeenyah, ah is, an----" but hunt impatiently checked him. he turned to peter bumpus. "cook us up a meal," he ordered. "for them, too?" asked bumpus, jerking his thumb backward at rob and jumbo. "of course. you may as well get used to it. i expect they'll make quite a long stay with us." rob's heart sank. he was a lad who always schooled himself to look on the brightest side of things. but no gleam of hope lightened the gloom of their present situation. things could not have been much worse, he felt. chapter xiii. rob finds a ray of hope. the meal, a sort of stew composed apparently of rabbits, partridges and other small game, was despatched and then rob, who had been released from his bonds while he ate, was tied up once more. "these fellows don't think much of breaking the game laws," he thought as he ruminated on the contents of the big iron pot from which their noon-day meal had been served. then came another thought. if they so openly violated the laws, the country was surely a lonely one, and seldom, or never, visited. indeed, the thick forest of hemlock and other coniferous trees that fringed the cliff summits, would seem to indicate that the spot was well chosen. jumbo was not confined. the gang seemed to esteem him as more or less harmless for, although a sharp watch was kept on him, he was not fettered. once or twice he caught rob's eye with a knowing look. but he said nothing. one or another of the men kept too close and constant a watch for that. and so the hours wore on. tied as rob was, the small black flies and other winged mountain pests made life almost intolerable. with infinite pains the lad dragged himself to a spot of shade under a stunted alder bush. he lay here with something very like despair clutching coldly at his heart. the canoes had been anchored, with big stones attached to ropes, at some distance out in the little bay. only one remained on shore, and by that jim dale kept an unrelaxing vigil. jim and peter were talking in low voices. rob overheard enough to know that their talk was of the old lawless days when the moonshine gang made the hidden cove their rendezvous. "those were the days," dale said with a regretful sigh, "money was plenty then. by the way, pete, did you ever hear what became of black bart and the others after the revenues broke us up?" "no, i never wanted to take a chance of inquiring," rejoined peter, puffing at a dirty corn cob. "i did hear, though, that they had resumed operations some place around here." "they did, eh? i suppose they figgered that lightning don't never strike twice in the same place." "just the same, they are taking a long chance. with revenues against you it's all one sided--like the handle of a jug." "that's so. but there's good money in it, and black bart would risk a lot for that." the conversation was carried on in low tones. rob, intent though he was, could not catch any more of it. but he pondered over what he had heard. if what jim dale and peter had said was correct, a gang of moonshiners still made the mountains thereabouts their habitat. "it's a strange situation we've stumbled into," thought the boy. then he fell to observing stonington hunt and his son, freeman. the man and the boy were talking earnestly at some distance from peter and jim dale. from their gestures and expressions rob made out that the conversation was an important one. from the frequent glances which they cast in his direction he also divined that he himself, was, in all probability, the subject of it. all at once stonington hunt arose and came toward him. freeman followed him. they came straight up to rob and stood over him. "well, rob blake," sneered young hunt, "i guess things are different to what they were the time you drove me out of hampton and forced my father to profess all sorts of reformation." "i don't know," rejoined rob coolly and contemptuously, "you seem to me to be very much the same sort of a chap you were then." the inference, and rob's unshaken manner, appeared to infuriate the youth. "we've got you where we want you now," he snarled, "it would serve you right if i took all the trouble you've caused us out upon your hide. you and that patrol of yours cost us our social position, then that hopkins kid lost our sloop for us----" "the sloop in which you meant to decamp with the major's papers," put in rob in the same calm tones, "don't try to assume any better position than that of a common thief, freeman." with a quick snarl of rage the boy jumped on the helpless and bound boy. he brought his fist down on rob's face with all his force. then he fastened his hands in rob's hair and tugged with all his might. but suddenly something happened. something that startled young hunt considerably. rob gave a quick twist and despite his bonds managed to half raise himself. in this position he gave the other lad such a terrific "butt" that freeman was sent staggering backward, with a white face. unable to regain his balance he presently fell flat on the sand. he scrambled to his feet and seized a big bit of timber, the limb of a hemlock that lay close at hand. he was advancing, brandishing this with the intention of annihilating rob when stonington hunt, who had hitherto been an impassive observer, stepped between them. "here, here, what's all this?" he snapped angrily. "this isn't a fighting ring. put down that stick, freeman, and you, young blake, listen to me." "i'm listening," said rob, in the same cold, impassive way that had so irritated freeman. "you want to regain your freedom and rejoin your friends, don't you?" was the next question. "if it can be done by honorable means--yes. but i doubt if you can employ such, after what i've seen of you." "hard words won't mend matters," rejoined hunt with a frown, "after all, i've as much right to this hidden treasure as anyone else--if i can get it." "yes, if you can get it," replied rob with meaning emphasis, wondering much what could be coming next. "your liberty depends on my getting it," resumed hunt. "my liberty?" echoed the boy, "how is that?" "i want you to write a note to major dangerfield. he thinks a good deal of you, doesn't he?" "i hope so," responded rob, mightily curious to know what hunt was driving at. "he's responsible, too, in a way, for your safety, isn't he? i mean your parents rely on him to bring you back safe and sound?" "i suppose so. but why don't you come to the point. tell me what it is you want." "just this: you write to the major. i'll see that the note is delivered. you must tell him to give my messenger the plan and map of the treasure's hiding place. if he does so you will be returned safe and sound. so will the nigger and the canoes. we didn't want that nigger anyhow. in the darkness we mistook him for the major." rob could hardly repress a smile at the idea of the dignified major being confused with the ubiquitous jumbo. "are you willing to write such a letter?" "you mean am i willing to stake my safety against the major's hopes of recovering his relative's hidden fortune?" "that's about it--yes." rob's mind worked quickly. it might be dangerous to give a direct negative and yet he certainly would have refused to do as the rascal opposite to him suggested. "i--i--can you give me time to think it over?" he hesitated, assuming uncertainty in decision. "yes, i'll give you a reasonable period. but mind, no shilly-shallying. don't entertain any idea of escape. you'll be guarded as closely here as if you were in a stone-walled prison." "i know that," said rob, feeling an inward conviction that hunt's words were literally true. the cliff-enclosed cove was indeed a prison. hunt turned away, followed by his son. the latter cast a malevolent look back at rob as he went. "my! his father must be proud of that lad," thought rob. hunt and his followers fell to playing cards. rob was left to his reflections. jumbo sat gloomily apart and yet in full view of the card players. after a while rob's thoughts reverted to the conversation he had overheard between dale and peter bumpus. in this connection he suddenly bethought himself of something. jim dale had spoken of the revenue officers raiding the moonshiners' plant. if that was the case, and the miscreants had all escaped, how did they go? the revenue officers probably attacked the place from the lake side of the cove. this would have effectually shut off all hope of escape in that direction. the only conclusion left, to account for the freedom of the gang was a startling one. the cove must have some secret entrance or exit. if such were the case it could only be by a passage or by steps cut in the seemingly solid rock. rob's heart began to beat a bit faster. there might be a chance of escape after all, if only he could discover the means of exit he was now certain must exist somewhere in the cove. but a careful scrutiny failed to show any indications of such a device as he was looking for. the walls were bare and clean as cliffs of marble. not more than two or three stunted conifers grew out of an occasional crevice. the enclosing walls would not have afforded footing to a fly. "guess i was wrong," thought rob to himself and lying back on the sand he closed his eyes the better to concentrate his thoughts. but what with the strain of the early hours and the warm, sultry atmosphere, the lad found his ideas wandering. presently, without knowing it, he had dropped off into a sound slumber. when he awoke it was with a start. the long shadows showed him that the day was far spent. all at once voices near at hand struck in upon his half awakened senses. rob heard a few words and then, with wildly beating pulses, he fell to simulating sleep with all his might. from what he had heard of the conversation he believed that a hope of escape lay in the words of the talkers. chapter xiv. a thrilling escape. it was peter bumpus and jim dale who were talking. from their first words rob gathered that stonington hunt and his son had gone fishing, and that jumbo, like himself, was asleep. "you're sure that kid is off good and sound, too?" asked dale. "soon find out," rejoined bumpus. rob felt the man bend over him, his hot breath fanning his ear. it was a hard job not to open his eyes, but rob came through with flying colors. "he's sound as a top," decided pete, "and old hunt and the kid won't be back for half an hour anyway. now's our time to see if the old rope ladder is still there." "it sure did us a good turn the night the revenues came," said jim dale. "let's see, it was over this way, wasn't it? right under that big hemlock on the top of the cliff?" "that's right." rob heard them cross the sandy strip of beach. luckily, he was lying with his face toward that side, and by half-opening his eyes could observe their movements without danger of being discovered. they approached a clump of bushes and fumbled about in it for a brief time. peter did most of the searching, for that was what it seemed to be, while dale stood over him. "well?" demanded dale at length, "is it there?" "is what there?" wondered rob. "it's here, all right," responded peter bumpus and in triumph he held up something which only by great straining of his eyes rob was able to recognize as a strand of wire. it was so slender that if his attention had not been drawn to it he would never have seen it. "i'd like to give it a yank and bring the rope ladder down," said dale. "i wouldn't mind a run in the old woods myself," said peter. he seemed half inclined to pull the wire, which rob judged, though he could not distinguish it against the dull background of rock, must lead to the cliff summit. on that cliff summit the boy also assumed, from what he had heard, there must lie a rope ladder. the mystery of the escape of the rascals from the revenue officers was solved. they had mounted by the rope ladder on the first alarm and pulled it up after them. rob could hardly help admiring the strategy that had conceived such a scheme. suddenly, while peter bumpus still hesitated, there came the sharp "splash" of a paddle. "here comes the boss," warned dale. instantly the two men strolled aimlessly across the beach, as if their minds were vacant and idle. evidently then, hunt was not aware of the existence of the rope ladder, and the two men had some strong object in wishing to hide it from him. the two hunts brought back several fish, perch and pickerel, which were cooked for supper. after that meal the men sat about and talked a while, and then preparations were made for bed. jumbo was tied hand and foot, much as rob was. but not content with these precautions, dale was stationed to watch the captives. from what rob could hear he was to be relieved by bumpus at midnight. that dale took his duty seriously was evident by the fact that, beside him, as he crouched by the fire, he laid out a ready cocked rifle, and kept one eye always upon the two prisoners. to amuse himself during his vigil he drew out a big case knife and began whittling a bit of driftwood into the likeness of a ship--a reminder of his old seafaring days. rob, watching the ruffian at this innocent employment while the firelight played on his rough features, caught himself wondering what sort of childhood such a man could have had, and how he came to drift into his evil courses. "i'll bet that the boy scout movement in big cities is keeping hundreds of lads out of mischief," he thought, "and helping to make good men out of them. after all, or so dad says, most bad boys are only bad because they have no outlet but mischief for their high spirits." after a while, dale finished his carving. then he darted a cautious look about him. "wonder if any of that old moonshine is still in the hiding place?" he muttered. for a while he remained still. then he once more cast a scrutinizing look around him. rob interpreted this as a meaning that dale was anxious to see if everything was quiet. the boy lay still and silent and dale evidently assumed he was asleep. after a careful inspection of the spot where the others slumbered, the fellow cautiously made for the base of the cliff near the clump of bushes where he and bumpus had investigated the wire that afternoon. reaching toward a stone he pulled it aside, and thrust his arm into a recess which was suddenly revealed. when he drew his hand out it clasped a demijohn. the recess was the hiding place formerly used by the moonshiners to conceal their product. with a swift glance about, to make sure he was not observed, dale raised the demijohn to his lips. it stayed there a long time. he set it down and looked about him furtively once more. then he raised the jug again and took another long swig of the poisonous stuff. rob, through lowered lids, watched him with a shudder of disgust. when dale finally thrust back the jug into its hiding place and returned to the firelight, his step was unsteady and his eyes had a strange, glassy light in them. he sank down on the log which served him as a seat, and once more drew out his knife. his intention, apparently, was to resume his whittling. but after a few unsteady strokes at the bit of wood he had selected, he gave over the attempt. his head lolled limply forward and the corners of his mouth drooped. one by one his fingers relaxed their grip on the knife, and, resting his head on his hands, he allowed himself to sink into oblivion. instantly the boy scout's faculties were alert and at work. the firelight played temptingly on the knife the liquor-stupefied man had dropped. very cautiously the fettered rob rolled over upon his stomach and, slowly as a creeping snail, began a tedious progress toward the weapon. how he blessed the days he had spent practicing such stealthy means of advance. it was the old scouting crawl of the indians he used. a means of approach as silent as that of a marauding weasel. it was ticklish, scalp-tightening work, though. but rob did not dare to hurry it. the rattle of a misplaced stone, the snap of a twig, might spoil all. to add to the peril at any moment, either the drowsy man by the fire, or one of the sleeping men beyond, might awaken. but at last, without a single accident, rob reached the proximity of the precious knife. it was a heavy weapon and lay on the rock-strewn ground with its blade upward. the boy noted this with a quick gulp of thankfulness. for, fettered as he was, he could not have manipulated it till he got his hands free. with infinite caution he rolled his body so that his wrists were close to the keen blade. then he began sawing at the ropes, rubbing them back and forth against the blade. at length one of the strands parted. then another was severed, and, with a strong jerk, rob tore loose the rest. then, cautiously picking up the knife in his freed hand, he slashed his leg-bonds. in less time than it takes to tell it he was free. his next task was to liberate jumbo. and then---rob had allowed his thoughts to dwell on the daring possibility of recovering the canoes and paddling away with them. but on second thoughts he deemed this too risky. instead he determined to trust to the rope ladder. it had flashed across his mind in this connection, that the strands of the ladder might be too weak to support his weight, or the much greater avoirdupois of jumbo. but the lad felt that they must risk it. jumbo very nearly ruined everything. for, as rob bent over him, he awakened with a start. "oh, fo' de lan's sake, massa, don' you go to confustigate dis yar----" but in a flash rob had clapped his hand over the garrulous black's capacious mouth. jumbo's first fear that his last hour had come was speedily relieved as he saw who it was. rob, after a quick look about, assured himself that jumbo's words had not aroused any of the sleepers. then, taking his hand from the negro's lips, he quickly slashed his bonds. in another instant jumbo, too, was at liberty. "wha' you go fo' ter do now, marse blake?" he whispered. "hush! not a word. follow me," breathed the boy. "dis suttingly am a pawtuckitus state of affairs," muttered the black, "don' see no mo' how we can git out uv this lilly place dan er fly kin git out of a mo'lasses bar'l." however, he followed rob, who, on tip-toe, approached the clump of bushes where he knew the wire he had observed that afternoon lay hidden. with beating pulses he poked about in the scrub-growth till, suddenly, his fingers encountered the filament of metal. the most dangerous step of their enterprise still lay before him. what would happen when he pulled it? would the ladder come down with a crash that would awaken their foes, or---rob lost no time in further indulging his nervous thoughts, however. he gave the wire a good hard tug. simultaneously, from out of the blackness above them, something came snaking down. rob dodged to avoid it. he could have cried aloud with joy as, in the faint glow cast by the fire, he saw that, right in front of him were the lower rungs of a rope ladder. it was padded at the bottom so that its descent, abrupt as it had been, was almost noiseless. rob noted, too, with inward satisfaction, that the ropes seemed strong and in good condition. "up with you, jumbo," he ordered in a tense, low whisper. the black turned almost gray with apprehension. "ah got ter clim' dat lilly ladder lak massa jacob in de bibul?" he whimpered. "you certainly have, or----" rob made an eloquent gesture toward the camp of hunt and his gang. the hint conveyed proved effectual. "mah goodness, dis am suffin' dis coon nebber thought he hab to do," muttered jumbo, "but all things comes to him who waits--so heah goes!" he set his foot on the ladder and, rapidly ascending it, soon disappeared in the darkness above. as soon as the slackness of the appliance showed rob that the negro was at the cliff summit, the boy prepared to follow him. but as he set his foot on the lower rung the man by the fire awakened with a start. before rob, climbing like a squirrel, could mount three more steps he became aware that his prisoners were missing. snatching up his rifle he ran straight toward the rope ladder. the next instant rob, with a hasty glance backward, saw that the weapon was aimed straight at him. his blood chilled as he recollected having heard dale that afternoon boasting of his ability as "a dead shot." chapter xv. out of the frying pan. for only an instant did rob remain motionless. then, as if by instinct, he suddenly crouched. it was well he did so. a bullet sang above his head as he clung, swinging on his frail support, and flattened itself with an angry "ping!" against the rock wall above him. the report brought the rest of the sleeping camp to its feet. in an instant voices rang out and hastily lighted lanterns flashed. rob, taking advantage of even such a brief diversion, sprang upward. but with a roar of fury, dale sprang to the foot of the ladder. desperation gave rob nimble feet. he literally leaped upward. in his mind there was a dreadful fear. the ladder was hardly strong enough to bear two. by placing his weight on the lower part of it, it was dale's intention to bring him down to the ground. that in such an event he could escape with his life, seemed highly improbable. but fast as he went, he felt the ladder quiver as dale's hold was laid upon it from below. at this critical instant a sudden diversion occurred. from right above rob's head, or so it seemed, a voice roared out through the night. "tak' yo' dirty paws off'n dat ladder, white man, or, by de powers, it's de las' time you use 'em!" it was jumbo's voice. but dale answered with a roar of defiance. he shook the ladder violently. rob felt himself dashed with sickening force against the cliff-face. but all at once there was a warning shout. something roared past his ears, just missing him. "haids below!" sung out jumbo as he watched the huge rock he had dislodged go crashing downward. it missed dale by the fraction of an inch. but his narrow escape unnerved the fellow for an instant. in that molecule of time rob gained the summit of the ladder, and jumbo's strong arms drew him up to safety beside him. "well done, jumbo," he exclaimed. "oh, dat wasn' nuffin'," modestly declared jumbo, "if dat no-account trash hadn't uv leggo i'd have flattened him out flatter'n dan a hoe cake. yas, sah." "i guess you would, jumbo. but there's no time to lose. come, we must be getting on." "one ting we do firs' off wid alacrimoniousness, marse blake," said jumbo. "what's that?" "jes' len' me dat lilly knife you take frum dat pestiferous pussonage below an' i shows yoh right quick." rob had thrust the knife into his scout belt. he now withdrew it and handed it to the negro. with two swift slashes, jumbo severed the top strands of the ladder. a crash and outcry from below followed. rob, peeping over, saw that dale, who had just begun to mount after them, was the victim. he was rolling over and over, entangled in the strands of the ladder, while stonington hunt stood over him in a perfect frenzy of rage. "now den, marse blake, ah reckin' we done cook de goose of dem criminoligous folks," snorted jumbo as he gazed. "he! he! he! dey is sure having a mos' fustilaginal time down dere." "i guess they'll have plenty to think over for a time," said rob, rather grimly; "come, let's set out. have you any idea in which direction the camp lies?" "no, sah. but i raickon if we des foiler de lake we kain't go fur wrong." "we must go toward the south, then. see, there's the scout's star, the north one. the outer stars in the bucket of the dipper point to it." "wish ah had a dippah full ob watah. i'm po'ful thirsty," grunted jumbo. "we'll run across a stream before very long, no doubt," said rob. with these words the lad struck off through the forest of juniper and hemlocks. the moon had not yet risen, and it was dark and mysterious under the heavy boughs. jumbo held back a minute. "come on. what's the matter, jumbo?" exclaimed rob. "it look powerful spooky in dar, marse blake." "well, i guess the spooks, if there are any, will do us less harm than that gang behind us," commented rob. jumbo, without more words, followed him. but he rolled his eyes from side to side in evident alarm at every step. on and on they plunged, making their way swiftly enough over the forest floor. from time to time they stopped to listen. but there was no sound of pursuit. in fact, rob did not expect any. with the ladder destroyed, there was not much chance of the hunt crowd clambering over the cliff tops. at such moments as they paused, rob felt, to the full, the deep impressiveness of the forest at night. above them the sombre spires of the hemlocks showed steeple-like against the dark sky. the night wind sent deep pulsations through them, like the rumbling of the lower notes of a church organ. all about lay the deeper shadows of the recesses of the woods. they were shrouded in a rampart of impenetrable darkness. "i hope we're keeping on the right track," thought rob, as it grew increasingly difficult, and finally impossible, to see the north star through the thick mass of foliage above them. the boy knew the danger of wandering in circles in the untracked waste of forest unless they kept constantly in one direction. without the stars to guide him, it grew increasingly difficult to be sure they were doing this. "golly! ah suttinly hopes we gits out of dis foliaginous place befo' long," breathed jumbo stentorously, stumbling along behind rob over the rough and stony ground that composed the floor of the adirondack forest. all at once, as rob strode along, he stopped short. some peculiar instinct had caused him to halt. just why he knew not. but he was brought up dead in his tracks. "wha's de mattah, marse blake?" quavered jumbo, "yo' all hain't seein' any hants or conjo's, be yoh?" rob replied with another question. "got a match, jumbo?" he asked. "yas sah, marse blake, i done got plenty ob dem lilly lucilfers." he dived in his pocket and produced a handful of matches, which he handed to rob. the boy struck one, and, as the yellow flame glared up, he uttered a little cry and stepped back with a perceptible shrinking movement. no wonder he did so. at the young scout's feet the flare of the match had revealed a yawning abyss. one more step and he would have been over it. gazing into the ravine he could hear the subdued roar of a stream somewhere far, far below. a cold blast seemed to strike upward against his face. "gracious, what a narrow escape!" he exclaimed. then, stirring a small stone with his foot he dislodged it and sent it bounding over the edge. bump! bump! tinkle! tinkle! plop! plop!--and then--silence. "golly, goodness, dat hole mus' be as deep as de bad place itself!" exclaimed jumbo, shrinking back in affright, "dat hole mus' go clean frough de middle of de world an' come out de odder side in china." "it certainly does seem as if it might," agreed rob; "at any rate, if we'd gone over it we'd have had no time to investigate--ugh!" rob gave a shudder he could not subdue as he thought of their narrow escape. the only thing to be done under the circumstances, was to turn aside and keep on slowly, awaiting the daylight to see where they were, and the nature of their surroundings. they had progressed in this fashion perhaps half a mile or so, when jumbo gave a sudden cry: "look, marse blake! wha' dat froo de trees dere? look uncommon lak a light." "it is a light. although i don't know what any habitation can be doing in this part of the world," answered rob. "maybe even ef it's only er camp we kin git suffin' ter eat dar," suggested jumbo hopefully, "ah'm jes' nacherally full ob nuttin' but emptiness." "you'd never make a scout, jumbo." "don' belibe i wants ter be no skrout nohow," retorted jumbo, "dar's too much peregrinaciusness about it ter suit me." rob did not reply. but a moment later he cautioned jumbo to progress as cautiously as possible. the boy could see now that the light proceeded from the open doorway of a hut. within the rude structure he could make out a masculine figure in rough hunting garb bending over a stove at one end of the primitive place. all of a sudden rob's foot encountered something. he tripped and fell, sprawling on his face. at the same instant the sharp report of a gun rang out close at hand. the wire over which the boy had tripped, and which was stretched across the pathway, had discharged the alarm signal. as the echoes went roaring and flapping through the forest, the man who had been bending over the stove, straightened as if a steel spring had suddenly sprung erect. he was a small, dwarfish-looking fellow, with a clay-colored skin, beady, black eyes, shifty as a wild beast's. the animal-like impression of his face was heightened by a shaggy beard of black that fell in unkempt fashion almost to his waist. he wore blue jean trousers, moccasins and a thick blue flannel shirt. with a swift, panther-like movement, he snatched up a rifle that stood in one corner of the hut. his next move was to extinguish the light with a sharp puff. then, with every sense wire-strung, he stood listening. chapter xvi. into the fire! the moon had just risen. her light silvered the dark hemlock tops, and, by bad luck, fell in a flood full upon rob and jumbo. the man who had sprung into such sudden activity was, on the contrary, completely shrouded in the black shadow of the hut. even had they had weapons they would, situated as they were, have been completely in his power. to use a slang term, but one full of expressiveness, he had "the drop" on them. "who are you?" rasped out the inmate of the hut in a harsh, startled voice. "speak quick, for i'm right smart on the trigger." "we are two wanderers who have lost our way," rejoined rob, "we have no weapons and have no wish to harm you." "come forward a bit while i look you over," said the man, his suspicion mollified a bit by the boyish tone. but the next instant, as his eyes fell on rob's uniform, he seemed to bristle with suspicion again. "what's that uniform?" he demanded; "be you some new-fangled revenue?" "i'm a boy scout," rejoined rob, and then, thinking it best not to relate his whole story at once, he added, "i got lost on a scouting expedition. our camp is not far from here on the other side of the lake. all we want is some food, drink and shelter." "boy scout, eh?" said the man, eyeing him curiously, "um, ay, i've read of 'em. to my mind you'd be best at home instead of gallivanting around the country and getting lost. but who's that black fellow?" "ah'se a 'spectable colored gen'ulman, suh," began jumbo indignantly in his usual formula. but the black-bearded man checked him with a gesture. "you're just a nigger, nigger, don't forget that. i come from south of the mason and dixon line." "yas, sah, yas, sah," grinned jumbo. the big black shivered and showed all the gleaming white of his teeth and eyes in his alarm at the bearded little man's fierce looks and gestures. "s'pose i feed yer," was the bearded one's next question, "kin you pay? i'm a poor woodsman and----" "oh, we can pay," rob assured him. foolishly he drew out a rather well-filled purse. the next moment he wished he hadn't. for a brief instant the hut-dweller's keen, serpent-like black eyes had kindled with an avaricious flame. but he cleverly masked whatever emotion it was that had swept over him at sight of the money receptacle. "guess that'll be all right," he said, "come on in." rather troubled in his mind, but deciding that it was best to accept the situation as it unfolded, rob followed his conductor into the hut. jumbo ambled along behind, his black face expanded in a grin of wonderment. the hut, within, proved to be a roughly constructed affair of raw logs. the chinks were plastered with clay, mixed with grass to give it consistency. a few skins hung on the walls and some rough, home-made furniture stood about. at one end of the place was a huge, open fireplace, with a big hearthstone. it was not used, however, the cookery being done upon the stove, which also provided the heat. at the end of the hut opposite to the chimney a rough flight of steps led to an attic. after the two half-famished wanderers had concluded a hearty meal, washed down by strong, hot, black coffee, their host motioned to the steps. "ef you want a shake-down you'll find straw up thar," he said. rob thanked him civilly and he and jumbo climbed the stairway and found themselves in a low-ceiled loft. the floor was of unnailed boards. through the chinks between them the ruddy lamplight below could be seen. "dere's wusser beds in dis wale ob tears dan nice clean straw," observed jumbo philosophically as he threw himself on his heap. rob agreed with him. the straw did, indeed, seem soft and grateful after their recent hard knocks and experiences. following jumbo's example, the lad made for himself a kind of nest. curling up in it he was soon off in the deep, dreamless slumber of healthy boyhood. voices awakened rob. he sat up sharply. they were coming from below. the sounds of the conversation floated up through the wide chinks in the rough floor. rob rolled on his side and peered through the most convenient crack. three men were now in the room below him. as he gazed he was amazed to see the hearthstone swing bodily backward, on some concealed hinges, and a fourth man emerge from some secret passage. "wall," said the newcomer, a huge figure of a man with a big, blond viking-like beard, "the last keg is headed and fixed up. we've finished our work. to-morrow----" but the black-bearded man checked him with a sharp gesture. "shut up, sims," he warned, "not so loud. go ahead, watkins," he went on, turning to one of the men with whom he had been talking. "what i ses is," resumed this fellow, a squatty-built, loosely-hung little fellow, with close-cropped sandy hair, and a bristly growth on his chin, like the stubble on an old tooth brush, "what i ses is, don't take no risks." he paused impressively and then added in a lowered voice, but one that reached rob, nevertheless, with thrilling clearness: "fix 'em." "great abraham lincoln!" gasped the boy, "this is a nice nest of hornets we've stumbled into. 'fix 'em,' that must mean us." but the talk went on, and rob strained his ears for the continuation. "but if they was guvn'ment men they wouldn't hev walked in like they done, i reckon," put in another man, a pallid, sickly-looking chap, with pink-rimmed eyes and a ferrety, furtive manner. "best be on the safe side," counselled the black-bearded man, who had introduced the travelers to the hut, "they've got money, too." "money?" questioned the blonde-bearded man. "yes. the boy has. and they haven't got any weapons. i guess we'll have an easy time of it with them." "that nigger looks pretty hefty, and the kid's no weakling." it was the pink-eyed man who spoke. rob felt a shiver run through him. so they had been observed while they were asleep and never knew it! "oh, i'm a fine scout!" thought the lad bitterly. "seems kind of tough on the kid," said the blonde-bearded man, "but you never did have no sense of pity, black bart." black bart! rob's heart stood still and then beat furiously. these men then, were the moonshiners of whom dale had spoken that afternoon. it seemed, too, from their talk, that they suspected him and jumbo of being government spies. in that case they would stop at nothing. and they were four to one. the boy scout felt for the knife he had filched from dale, but in their passage through the woods it must have been lost, for he could not find it on him. "kid or no kid," retorted black bart, viciously, "he can tell the revenues a story jes' as well as anybody else, can't he?" "that's so," agreed the red-headed man, "and if they get us this time they'll make it hot for us." this argument seemed to extinguish all regrets in the blond-bearded man's mind. "when air you goin' ter do it?" he asked. his voice was perfectly matter-of-fact and cold-blooded. "no time like the present. but it's best to get 'em asleep. we don't want no noise," said black bart, with deliberation. "pinky," to the pink-eyed man, "jes' take a look upstairs and see if they are asleep." rob laid down and crouched still as a mouse while he heard pinky ascend the creaking stairs, satisfy himself that the intended victims were asleep, and retreat again. then the boy awakened jumbo. in a few words he apprised him of the situation. to rob's great relief, the negro, in this dire emergency, seemed to be as self-possessed as he was cowardly in minor matters. many natures are so constituted. "what we gwine ter do, marse rob?" he breathed, crawling noiselessly about on his straw. "there's a window over there," whispered rob; "we'll have to drop through it and chance coming out safely." "lawsy sakes! s'posin' it looks out on one ob dem bottomless pitses lak yo' all near fell inter ter-night?" "can't be helped, it's the only way we can escape. hark! they're coming now. get over to the window with as little noise as you can." "how 'bout you alls?" "i'll follow. you get it open first." without another word the negro noiselessly wriggled across the floor to the window--a mere opening in the wall--that rob had observed. at the same instant there came the "creak! creak!" of the staircase as one of the men below began to ascend the stairway. there was a big bit of loose timber lying near rob's straw. with a sudden flash of anger at the thought of the men's treachery, the lad snatched it up. "they shan't get off scot free, anyhow," he decided within himself. with the bulk of timber clutched in both his hands, ready poised for a blow, rob waited by the opening at the head of the rickety stairway as the midnight assailant ascended. chapter xvii. "we want you." a stubbly red-head protruded itself through the opening. the crucial moment had come. "take that!" cried rob bringing down the bulk of timber with a resounding crack on the fellow's pate. he grunted, clutched at the sill of the opening for an instant, and then went toppling down the stairway in a heap. a roar of fury and a rush of feet from below followed. but rob did not wait for the sequel. "hope i haven't seriously injured the chap," he thought, as he sprinted for the window, "i hit a bit harder than i meant to." but the next instant, when red-head's voice was added to the uproar below, rob knew that he had, at least, not impaired the miscreant's talent for profanity. all need of concealment was gone now. rob's heart leaped to the adventure. jumbo was half way through the window as the lad reached it. rob hastened him with a shove and a quick word. the black held for an instant, clutching the sill, and then he dropped. the next moment rob had followed him. he fell in a sprawling heap on top of the black. both were up in a jiffy. "which way?" gasped out jumbo. "any way--this!" cried rob, dashing across a moonlit strip toward a dark belt of woods. a fusillade of shots rang out behind them. rob heard the bullets screech as they spun by. "law'sy, marse rob, dem bullets talk ter me mighty plain," gasped jumbo as they gained the comparative security of the dark hemlocks. "what did they say?" asked rob, breathlessly. "dey say jum-bo, we'se ah lookin' fo' you, chile!" whatever rob's reply might have been it was forestalled the next instant by an entirely unsuspected and startling happening. from the woods _ahead_ of them, came a sudden trampling of feet. "quick, jumbo. down in here!" exclaimed the boy scout, dragging the quaking negro down into a clump of bushes. they were just in time. the next moment half-a-dozen dark figures rushed by them through the woods, going in the direction of the hut they had just vacated so summarily. "what on earth does this mean?" gasped rob, half aloud in his utter astonishment. parting the bushes a bit, he could perceive the dark outlines of the hut and the newcomers deploying across the moonlit strip in front of it. a loud crash echoed through the sleeping woods as the door of the hut was suddenly slammed shut. almost simultaneously, the walls of the hut and the space in front of it seemed to spit vicious flashes of fire. "gee whiz!" cried rob, excitedly, "they're attacking the hut, jumbo! what under the sun does this mean?" "dunno," said the negro, "but mah hopes is dat dey jes' nachully exterminaccouminicate each other like dem killarney cats." "kilkenny cats, you mean, don't you?" "it's all de same," retorted jumbo, "but say, marse rob, we'd bettah be clearing out ob here." "no, let's stay awhile. we're in no danger here. in fact i've an idea that this may all turn out to be a good thing for us." the attacking party now dropped back a bit. "they're well armed and desperate," rob heard one of them say, "better breathe a bit, boys, and then we'll go for 'em again." "let's get a log and smash the door down," said a voice. "good idea, o'malley," was the response, "here's an old hemlock trunk. it's just the thing. lay hold, boys, and we'll smoke out that nest of rats in a jiffy." willing hands laid hold of the big stick of timber, and the next instant they were staggering with it toward the hut. there was a low word of command and a sudden dash. the log was poised for an instant and then: smash! crash! the massive door stood for a moment and then toppled inward, falling with a splintering crash. but a dead silence followed the fall of the door. no more pretence of defense was made by the inmates of the hut. could they be going to give up so tamely? then a sudden voice floated through the night. the voice of one of the attacking party. "say! there's nobody here, boys!" "confound them! have they escaped us again?" came another voice. "look's like it. scatter and find them--back for your lives, all of you!" the warning cry was followed almost instantly by a deafening explosion. a vivid flash of blue flame occurred simultaneously. "gollyation!" gasped jumbo, "de end ob de worl' am comin'." the whole hut seemed to burst into flame at once. lurid, vivid fire seemed to gush from every window and opening in the place. in color it was an intense blue. "shades ob massa george wash basin!" yelled jumbo, "all de debils in dat pit we see back dar is on de job! come on, marse rob. let's git out ob here in double quick jig time." "nonsense," said rob sharply, "i see it all, now, jumbo. that place was a moonshine joint--an illegal distillery. those men who just attacked it are revenue officers. the explosion was caused by hundreds of gallons of spirits. i guess the moonshiners set it on fire to destroy the evidence." each instant the blaze rose higher. the hut, within its four walls, was a mass of flames. it glowed like a red hot furnace. rob watched it with fascinated eyes. the whole clearing was bright as day. the dark woods beyond were bathed in a blood-red glare from the flames. the intense heat fairly blistered the trunks of the nearest hemlocks. resin ran from them freely. "let's get further back, jumbo, it's too hot here," said rob presently. "golly goodness! it am dat," declared jumbo in awed tones, "dat fire dere puts me in mo' fear ob dat bottomless pit dan all de preachifying i ever listened to." but their retreat into the woods was checked in a strange manner. rob, who was in advance, recoiled suddenly. a whole section of the woodland floor seemed to uprear itself before his eyes, and a wild figure, with a tangled black beard and shifty, wicked eyes, emerged. rob realized in a flash that it was a trapdoor cleverly concealed by brush and earth that had just opened. simultaneously he recognized the figure that was crawling from it as that of black bart himself. the man was too much perturbed to notice their nearness to him. but suddenly his eyes fell on them. with a furious oath he dashed at rob. "you young fiend! you're responsible for this!" he yelled in a frenzy. a knife glittered in his hand, but before he could use it jumbo's black fist collided with his jaw. black bart fell sprawling back upon the trap door which he had just opened. "reckon jack johnson himself couldn't hev done no bettah!" grinned the negro. "oh, no you don't, sah!" he exclaimed the next instant as black bart struggled to rise; "ah reckon you can repose yo'self right dar fo' a peahriod ob time." so saying he pinioned the ruffian's arms to his sides and held him thus. as he did so, violent knockings began to resound from under the trap-door. evidently somebody was imprisoned there. "hey! let us out! let us out!" came sharp cries from below, albeit they were considerably muffled by the trap-door. "yo' all come an' sit on hyah too, marse rob," urged jumbo. "ah reckon den dey kain't git dat door open till we am willing dat dey should conmerge inter terrier firmer." rob guessed at once what had happened. the moonshiners, following the attack of the revenue officers, had realized that continued resistance would be useless. they had, therefore, made their escape by the secret passage, led into by the swinging hearthstone. its outlet evidently being by the trap door on which they were then stationed. but first, with wicked craft, they had ignited their whole stock of spirituous liquors, hoping in the consequent explosion, that the revenue men would perish. this much seemed clear. indeed, it was confirmed afterward, and--but we are anticipating. the boy scout had just reached these conclusions when a sudden stir in the brush behind him made him look up. two men stood there, the light of the conflagration showing every detail of their figures and countenances plainly. they were regarding the group on the top of the trap-door with peculiar interest. rob started up toward them but was abruptly checked as two rifles were jerked to two shoulders, and aimed straight at him. "don't move a step!" warned one of the men, "i guess we want you." chapter xviii. jumbo earns $500.00--and loses it. "guess you do want us, but not exactly in the same sense as you mean," retorted rob with a chuckle. "what do you mean, boy?" asked one of the men sharply, as several others of the revenue officers--as rob had guessed them to be--came up. "i mean that we've got the whole gang you were after bottled up in a tunnel under this trap door," rejoined rob breezily. "yas sah, misto arm-ob-de-law," grinned jumbo, "ah reckin no coon up a tree was eber moh completely obfusticated dan dose same chill'uns." "what does all this mean?" asked another of the group, a gray-moustached man of stern appearance, "this boy is either one of the gang or he has been reading dime novels." "nebber read a bit ob dat classification ob literachoor in mah life," snorted jumbo indignantly, "ef yo' alls don' want dese men we got obfusticated under hay'ah, why we jes' gits off dis yar trap door an' lits dem skeedaddle." "who's that you're sitting on, nigger?" demanded the gray moustached man, who seemed to be in authority. "why, dis am a genelman what answers to de ufoinious name ob black bart," grinned jumbo amiably, "an' ah's not a nigger, ah's a 'spectable----" "do be quiet, jumbo," exclaimed rob, as the inevitable protest came into evidence. "the case is just this, gentlemen," he continued. "i am a boy scout. this man is attached to our camp. we wandered away and got lost." rob did not tell all that happened, for he foresaw that such a procedure might lead to questions which would bring out the fact of their treasure hunt. "i see that you wear a scout uniform now," said the gray-moustached man. "yes, and boy scouts don't lie," put in another man, "my sons are both in the organization." "what troop?" asked rob. "the curlews of patchogue." "why, we've met them in water games at patchogue," exclaimed rob, "my name is rob blake." "and mine's sam taylor," said the man, advancing, "glad to meet you, rob blake, i've heard of you. this lad is all right," he said, turning to the leader. "i'll vouch for him." "all right," rejoined the gray-moustached revenue officer, "but we can't be too careful. well, rob blake, what's your story? go ahead." "as i said, we lost our way," went on rob. "we stumbled on that hut. we were tired and faint, and for pay this man, on whom jumbo is sitting, took us in. i awoke in time to overhear a plot to rob us. we escaped and while hiding in the brush--not just knowing who you were, friend or foe, we saw that trap-door open and nailed that man--black bart. at least jumbo did." "then it looks as if jumbo gets five hundred dollars reward for the capture of black bart, and more may be in store. you say that the rest are in that passage?" "yes." "some of you fellows tie black bart," ordered the leader. when this was done, the sullen prisoner not uttering a word, the order to open the trap-door was issued. "no monkey tricks, you fellows," warned the revenue officer, as it swung back, "we'll take stern measures with you." one by one the occupants of the hut crawled out and were promptly made prisoners. they were almost exhausted, and could not have put up a fight had they been so inclined. "glad to get out," said the blonde-bearded man as he submitted to being handcuffed, "it was hot enough in thar to roast potatoes." "so you got scorched by the same fire you intended should destroy us," said the chief revenue officer dryly. "young man," he went on, turning to rob, "i shall bring this bit of work to the attention of the government. in the meantime, i may tell you, that besides the five hundred dollars offered for black bart's capture, there was a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of the gang as a whole. i shall see that you and your companion get it." "but--but----" stammered rob, "you had all the trouble and risk----" "hush, marse rob! don' be talkin' dat way. dey may take dat reward away ag'in," whispered jumbo, whose eyes had been rolling gleefully. he could hardly credit his good fortune. "we're paid for our work," said the revenue man briefly, "i'm not saying that we always get much credit for the risks we take. half the time they don't even mention our raids in the papers. but we do our duty to uncle sam and that's enough." soon after, a search having been made of the ruins of the hut, the revenue men set out with their prisoners for the lake, where they had a boat and two small bateaus. rob and jumbo accompanied them. jumbo walked like one in a trance. he saw money fairly hanging to the trees. "what will you do with all that money, jumbo?" asked rob amusedly as they strode along. under the skilled leadership of the revenue men the path to the lake was a simple matter to find. "ah reckon's ah'll buy a 'mobile, marse rob, an' a pair ob patent lebber shoes--dem shiny kind, an' some yaller globes (gloves) an'--an' what's lef' ober ah'll jes' spend foolishly." "if i were you i'd put some of it in a savings bank," advised rob, smiling at the black's enumeration of his wants. "you get interest there, too, you know." "wha' good dem safety banks, marse rob? dey calls dem safety but dey's plum dangerous. fus' ting yo' know dey bus' up. ah had a cousin down south. some colored men dey start a bank down dere. mah cousin he puts in five dollars reposit. 'bout a munf afterward he done go to draw it out and what you think dat no-good black-trash what run de bank tole him?" "i don't know, i'm sure, jumbo," answered rob. "why, dey said de interest jes' nacherally done eat dat fibe dollars up!" as rob was still laughing over jumbo's tragic tale there came a sudden shout from ahead. then a pistol shot split the darkness. it was followed by another and another. they proceeded from the knot of revenue men who, with their prisoners, were a short distance in advance. "gollyumptions! wha's de mattah now?" exclaimed jumbo, sprinting forward. a dark form flashed by him and vanished, knocking jumbo flat. behind the fleeing form came running the revenue men. "it's black bart! he's escaped!" cried one. rob joined the chase. but although they could hear crashing of branches ahead, the pursuit had to be given over after a while. in the woods he knew so well the revenues were no match for the wily black bart. with downcast faces they returned to where the other prisoners, guarded by two of the officers, had been left. "i'd rather have lost the whole boiling than let black bart slip through my fingers," bemoaned the leader, "wonder how he did it?" "here's how," struck in one of the officers, holding up a strand of rope, "he slipped through the knots." "serves me right for taking chances with such an old fox," muttered the leader, self-reproachfully. "anyhow we got the rest of them," said the man who had recognized rob, "better luck next time." "dere ain't agoin' ter be no next time," muttered jumbo disconsolately, "dat five hundred dollars and dat gas wagon i was a-gwine ter buy hab taken de wings ob de mawning!" the lake was reached shortly before dawn. true to their promise, the revenue men put rob and jumbo ashore at the boy scouts' camp. the amazement and delight their arrival caused can be better imagined than set down here. anyhow, for a long time nothing but confused fusillades of questions and scattered answers could be heard. much hand-shaking, back-slapping and shouting also ensued. it was a joyous reunion. only one thing marred it. the canoes were still missing, and without them they could not proceed. chapter xix. the forest monarch. "say, what's that up yonder--there, away toward the head of the lake?" tubby, standing on a rock by the rim of the lake where he had just been performing his morning's ablutions, pointed excitedly. "i can't see a thing but the wraiths of mist," rejoined merritt, who was beside him. the lads were stripped to the waist. their skin looked pink and healthy in the early morning light. "well, you ought to consult an oculist," scornfully rejoined tubby, "you've got fine eyes for a boy scout--not." "do you mean to tell me you saw something, actually?" "of course. you ought to know me better than to think i was fooling." "what were they then--mud hens?" "say, you're a mud rooster. no, what i saw looked to me uncommonly like our missing canoes." "you don't say so," half mockingly. "but i do say so,--and most emphatically, too, as professor jorum says," rejoined the stout youth, "there they've gone now. that morning mist's swallowed 'em up just like i mean to swallow breakfast directly." "but what would the canoes be doing drifting about?" objected merritt. "from rob's story yesterday, hunt and his gang had them in that cove. do you suppose they'd have let them get away?" "maybe not, willingly," rejoined tubby sagely, who, as our readers may have observed, was a shrewd thinker, "but it blew pretty hard last night. the canoes may have broken loose from their moorings." "jimminy! that's so," exclaimed merritt, "i'll go and tell----" "no, you won't do anything of the kind," said tubby, half in and half out of his boy scout shirt. "why not?" "because if they did turn out to be mud hens we'd never hear the last of it." "h'um that's so. what do you advise, then?" "we'll wait till after breakfast. then we'll say we're going to take a tramp and sneak off toward the head of the lake. if they are the canoes they'll still be there." "and if not----" "we'll have had a tramp." "say," exclaimed merritt as a sudden idea struck him, "how do you propose to get them, even if they do turn out to be the canoes. stand on the bank and call 'come, ducky! ducky!'" tubby looked at his corporal with unmixed scorn. "we can swim, can't we?" "i see you have every objection covered, like a good scout, tubby. well, we'll try after breakfast. if they're not the canoes there's no harm done, anyhow." "except to our shoe leather," responded tubby finishing dressing. the morning meal over, and jumbo washing the tin plates in silence--he was still regretting that five hundred dollars--the two lads, in accordance with their plan, got ready for their tramp. they buckled on their belts, saw that their shoe-laces were stout and well laced, and equipped themselves with two scout staves. it was against the rules to carry firearms unless the major or one of the leaders was along. no objection was interposed to their going. in fact, the major, worried as he was over the vanished canoes, was rather glad to have an opportunity for a quiet talk with the professor. rob was still rather fagged by his experiences of the preceding night and day, and hiram and andy bowles had decided to indulge in signal practice. "well, good-bye," called the major as the young scouts strode off. "bring back the canoes with you," mockingly hailed rob. "sure. we'll look in all the tree tops. i'm told they roost there with the gondolas," cried the irrepressible tubby, with a wave of his hand. the next instant the two adventurers had vanished over the ridge. "say, what a laugh we'll have on them if we really do bring the canoes back," chuckled tubby merrily, as they plodded along. distances in the mountains are deceptive. from the camp it had not looked so very far to the head of the lake. but the two lads found that, what with the innumerable ridges they had to cross, and the rough nature of the ground before them, it was considerably more of a tramp than they had bargained for. of the canoes too, there was no sign. the mists had now vanished and the sun beat down on the smooth surface of the lake as if it had been a polished mirror. "maybe they've drifted ashore," said tubby, hopefully. "if they have i'll bet they chose the other one," said merritt, "it's what they used to call at school 'the perversity of inanimate things.'" "phew!" exclaimed tubby, "don't spring any more like that. i didn't bring a dictionary." it was about noon when they came to a halt in a ravine near the lake shore and sat down on a log to rest. "gee, i wish we had something to eat," groaned merritt. "ever hear of a fairy godmother?" inquired tubby, gazing abstractedly up through the tree tops. "well, if you aren't the limit, tubby. what on earth have fairy godmothers to do----" "they were always on the job with what was most wanted, i believe," pursued tubby. "oh, don't talk rot. let's---gee whiz! i'll take it all back, tubby. you are a real, genuine, blown-in-the-glass fairy godmother." merritt's exclamation was called forth by the fact that tubby had produced, with the air of a necromancer, two packets of sandwiches and ditto of cake. "there's water in that spring, i guess," he said laconically ignoring merritt's open compliments. the two lads munched away contentedly. they were seated at the head of the little ravine which ran back from the shore of the lake. above them towered a rocky cliff from which flowed the spring. ferns of a brilliant green and almost tropical luxuriance festooned its edges. the water made a musical tinkling sound. it was a pleasant spot, and both boys enjoyed it to the full. they would have appreciated it more though, if they could have stumbled across the canoes which tubby was beginning to believe were a figment of his imagination. "wonder if there were ever indians through here?" said merritt, after a period of thought. "guess so. they used to navigate most of these lakes," said tubby, stuffing some remaining crumbs of cake into his mouth. "why?" he added, staring at merritt, with puffed out cheeks. "i was just thinking that if we were early settlers and an indian suddenly appeared in the opening of this canyon or ravine or whatever you like to call it, that we'd be in a bad way." "yes, we couldn't get out. that's certain," said tubby, looking around, "i guess the red men would bury the hatchet--in our heads." "i'm glad those days are gone," said merritt, "i should think that the early settlers must have--hark! what's that?" a sudden crunching sound, as if someone was leisurely approaching had struck on his ear. "sounds like somebody coming," rejoined tubby. his heart began to beat a little faster than was comfortable. what if some of the hunt gang were prowling about. "what do you think it is?" he asked, the next moment, in rather a quavering tone. "jiggered if i know," said merritt; "let's go toward the beach and investigate." "better do that than stay here," agreed tubby. picking up their scout staves both boys cautiously tip-toed toward the mouth of the ravine. but before they could reach it a sudden shadow fell across the white strip of sand at the outlet. the next moment a huge body came into view. its great bulk loomed up enormously to the eyes of the excited boys. "it's a big deer!" exclaimed tubby; "what a beauty! look at those horns!" the deer, a fine antlered beast that was moving leisurely along the beach, looked up at the same instant. it gazed straight at the boys for a moment. then it began pawing the ground angrily, and tossing its head. "what can be the matter with it?" said merritt in a whisper. "bothered if i know," rejoined tubby, "it looks kind of mad, doesn't it? maybe we'd better try to climb up that cliff." "i think so, too," said merritt, as the stag buck lowered its head and its big eyes became filled with an angry fire. "quick, tubby!" he cried the next instant, "it's going to charge!" hardly had he voiced the warning before, with a furious half-bellow, half-snort, the buck rushed at them at top speed, its antlers lowered menacingly. chapter xx. the canoes found. merritt made a spring up the side of the steep-walled little ravine. he succeeded in grabbing an outgrowing bush and drawing himself up to a ledge about ten feet above the ground. tubby followed him. but the fat boy's weight proved too much for the slender roots of the plant. it ripped out of the cleft in which it grew, and tubby, with a frightened cry, went rolling over and over down the steep acclivity. he fell right in the path of the advancing stag. the creature saw him and prepared to gore him with its horns. but just as tubby was giving himself up for lost, an inspiration seized merritt. a big stone lay close at hand. he grabbed it up and hurled it with all his might at the buck. the lad's experience on the baseball diamond stood him in good stead at this trying moment. the rock, with all the power of merritt's healthy young muscles behind it, struck the buck between the eyes. the animal staggered and snorted. for one critical instant it hesitated, its sharp forefeet almost on the recumbent fat boy. then, with a shrill sort of whinny of terror, it swung, as swiftly and gracefully as a cat, and clattered off, running at top speed. merritt lost no time in clambering down to tubby, who was sitting up and looking about him in a comical dazed way. "h-h-h-has it gog-g-g-gone?" he stammered. "i should say so," laughed merritt, "it stood not on the order of its going, but--got! as they say in the classics." "i'm glad of that," remarked tubby, getting up slowly, "i could almost feel those antlers investigating my anatomy. let's see how far he's run." the two boys made for the entrance of the ravine. gaining it they had a good view up and down the beach in either direction. on a distant projection of rock stood the buck. he was looking back. as he saw the boys he wheeled abruptly and dashed into the forest. "too bad," said tubby shaking his head with a serious air. "what's too bad?" asked merritt, struck by the other's pensive air. "why, if he'd stood still a little longer and we'd had a gun we might have shot him," rejoined tubby with a perfectly serious face. they turned, and as they did so a shout burst from the lips of both. bobbing about serenely on the placid water, not half a mile in the other direction, was the red canoe. "i'll bet the others are ashore right there, too," cried tubby. as he spoke the stout boy dashed off at surprising speed for one of his build. it was all merritt could do to keep up with him. it was as tubby had suspected. the blue and the green canoes lay on the beach, their bows just resting on the sand. the paddles were in them and it was an easy task to embark and capture the red craft. this was made fast to the one tubby paddled and the boys, congratulating each other warmly, set out for the camp. as they glided along tubby uplifted his voice. "r-o-o-w, brothers, row! the stream runs fast! the rap--ids are ne-ar and the day--light's past." "ro-o-w----" "but it isn't rowing, it's paddling," objected merritt. "whoever heard of a rhyme to paddling?" demanded tubby, "you might as well expect one to motor boating," and he resumed his song. as they drew near to the spot where the camp had been pitched they saw the black figure of jumbo on the beach. tubby hailed him in a loud voice. instantly the negro looked up, and as his eyes fell on the canoes he tossed the frying pan he was scouring high into the air. it descended on his head again with a resounding whack. but that african head seemed hardly to feel it. bounding and snapping his fingers in joy, jumbo raced up to the camp, electrifying everybody with the glad news that the canoes had been found. "how on earth did you discover them, boys?" demanded the major, as the prows grated on the beach and a glad rush of excited feet followed. "simple," said tubby, with a grand air and a sweep of his hands, "simple. they were up in a tree, just as i suspected." before long merritt had to tell the real story. but when they looked about for tubby to congratulate him that modest youth had slipped away. he was found later, devouring a raisin pie of jumbo's baking. "you deserve pie and anything else you fancy," said the major warmly. "there's only one thing i'd fancy right now," rejoined tubby. "what is that?" "i'd like to have hold of freeman hunt for about ten minutes." an examination of the canoes showed that, as tubby had guessed, their mooring ropes had chafed through during the wind storm of the night before. this set them wondering how hunt and his companions could have escaped from the cove. the next day on resuming their journey they examined the place--the entrance to which was not found without difficulty--but of hunt and his gang no trace was found but the embers of the camp fire. rob and jumbo viewed with interest the rope ladder which lay in a heap at the foot of the cliff, just as it had fallen on the night that they made their escape. further investigation showed that, by walking along the lake shore, the rascals who had harried the boy scouts must have managed to find a place to climb up to the forests above. "i'm sorry they got away," said merritt. "so are we all, i expect," said the professor. "i don't suppose we shall ever see them again now." "i hardly think so," agreed the major. "dere's only one man ah'd lak ter see ag'in," put in jumbo. "who is that?" inquired rob. "dat five hundred dollah baby wid de black whiskers," was the prompt rejoinder; "de nex' time ah gits mah han's on him ah'm gwine ter fin' de bigges' chain ah can, den ah'm gwine ter fasten dat to de bigges' rock ah kin fin' an' den ah's gwine ter k'lect!" "i hope for your sake and for that of law and order that you succeed," said the major, "liquor is vile stuff, anyhow. it's bad enough that it is made legally in this country. it is ten thousand times worse when laws are broken to distil it. i'm afraid, however, that all the rascals have slipped through our fingers. we shall hardly set eyes on them again." how wrong the major was in this supposition we shall see before long. such men as stonington hunt and his chosen companions are not so easily thrown off the trail for a rich prize. the thought of the treasure was in hunt's avaricious mind day and night, and already he was plotting fresh means of wresting the secret from its rightful possessors. possibly, if the major had seen an encounter which took place in the woods not so many hours before our party landed in the hidden cove, he might have felt less easy in his mind. black bart, in his flight, had encountered hunt's party. creeping through the woods he had seen the light of their camp fire. he had approached it cautiously. but as he neared it, keeping in careful concealment, he recognized his erstwhile comrades, dale and pete bumpus. hesitating no longer to declare himself in his half-famished condition, he had come forward and been greeted warmly. what he had to tell of his meeting with rob and jumbo, held, as may be imagined, the deepest interest for hunt and the others. the consultation and plan of campaign that resulted therefrom, were fraught with important results for our party. what these were we must save for the telling in future chapters. but stirring events were about to overtake the boy scouts and their friends. chapter xxi. "the ruby glow." camp, that night, was made at the portage of which the major had spoken. although strict watch was kept all night nothing unusual occurred. bright and early the work of the portage was commenced. the major, jumbo and professor jorum, each burdened themselves with a canoe, which they carried across their shoulders, turned bottom up and resting on a wooden "yoke." the lads carried the "duffle" and provisions. the portage, connecting the lake they had traversed with the one beyond, was over rough ground. in fact, at one place, they had to clamber up quite a ridge. it was rocky and grown with coarse undergrowth interspersed with scanty trees. further on the trail ran beside quite a deep ravine. tubby, with his load of duffle, was slightly in advance of the other lads, and humming a song as he trudged along. with the curiosity natural to the stout youth, he could not refrain from wandering from the path to peer over into the depths of the gulch. "my goodness!" he exclaimed to himself, as he gazed interestedly, "it would be no joke to fall in there." as he spoke he drew closer to the edge of the rift and craned his short neck to obtain a still better view of the abyss below him. at this juncture the others, laboring along the trail, caught up with him, and rob gave the stout scout a hail. "better come away from there, tubby," he warned, "you know what happened out west, when you went rubbering about the haunted caves." "it's all right," retorted the fat boy, "it looks nice and cool down in there. i'd like to----" the rest of his speech was lost in an alarmed exclamation from the onlookers. as tubby uttered his confident remark he seemed to vanish suddenly, like an actor in a stage spectacle who has dived through a trap door. only a cloud of dust and a roar of stones sliding into the ravine told of what had happened to the over-confident youth. standing too close to the edge he had stepped on an overhanging bit of ground and had been precipitated downward. "good gracious!" cried rob, in real alarm, "he's gone over!" with a swift fear that tubby's accident might have resulted fatally, rob was at the edge of the ravine in two jumps. the rest were not far behind him. rob experienced a feeling of intense relief, however, as he gazed into the depths. some time before, a tree had become dislodged and slid into the rift. it lay upon the bottom of the place. tubby, luckily for himself, had fallen into its branches and was, except for a few scratches, apparently unhurt. "are you injured?" demanded rob, anxiously, nevertheless. he wanted to hear from tubby's own lips that he was all right. "nothing hurt but my feelings," the stout youth assured him. "say, it _is_ cool down here." "well, if nothing's hurt but your feelings you're all right," cried merritt; "you couldn't hurt those with an axe." "just you wait till i get out of here," yelled tubby from his leafy seat. "well, how are we going to get you up?" demanded merritt. "guess you'll have to stay there till we get a ladder." "tell you what we'll do," said rob, "we'll take the ropes off the packs and join them together. then we can knot one end to one of the staves and haul tubby up." "that's a good idea," called the stout youth, who had overheard, "and hurry up, too." "gracious, it needs an elephant to haul your fat carcass out of there," scoffed merritt. "i guess we'll take our time over it." "take as long as you like, so long as you get me out," parried tubby, "you always were slow, anyhow, as the fellow said when he threw his dollar watch into the creek." it did not take long to rig up an extemporized life-line with the pack ropes. this done, one end was made fast to the staves, and the other lowered to tubby. at rob's orders the rope was passed round a tree trunk, and when tubby had adjusted the rope under his arm pits the young scouts began to haul. as merritt had said, tubby was no lightweight. once they had to stop, and the rope ran back quite a way. a yell from tubby ensued. "hey! keep on hauling there!" he roared, "what do you think i am, a sack of potatoes?" "you feel like a sack of sash weights!" shouted rob, "keep still now, and we'll have you out in a jiffy." a few minutes later tubby's fat face, very red, appeared above the edge of the rift over which he had taken his abrupt plunge. rob seized him by the shoulders and dragged him into safety. "there now, for goodness sake don't fall in again," he said. "as if you aren't always telling me to fall in," scoffed tubby. "when, pray?" "every time we drill," said the stout youth solemnly, flicking some dust off his uniform with elaborate care. owing to the length of time occupied by extricating tubby from his difficulties, the canoe bearers had become apprehensive of harm to the following body and had halted. of course questions ensued when the rear guard came up. "what happened?" demanded the major, noting the suppressed amusement on the lads' faces. "oh, tubby fell in again," answered merritt. "fell in?" asked the professor in an astonished tone. "i went hunting for botanical specimens at the bottom of a ravine, professor," said tubby gravely. "for botanical specimens? most interesting. pray did you find any?" "nothing but a bumpibus immenseibus," replied tubby with perfect gravity. the other boys had to turn aside and stuff their fists in their mouths to keep from laughing outright. even the major's lip quivered. but the professor displayed immense interest. as for jumbo, he was lost in admiration. "dat suttinly am de mos' persuasive word i've done hearn in a long time," he exclaimed. "blumpibusibus commenceibus. what am dat, fish, flesh or des corned beef?" "it's a pain," rejoined tubby, "and usually follows a fall. but not a fall in temperature, or----" "ah, hopkins, i fear you are making merry at my expense," exclaimed the professor, good-naturedly. "well, i took a tumble, anyhow," said tubby. "about time you did," came in merritt's voice. in the chase that ensued a wave of merriment burst loose. but time pressed, and the march was speedily resumed, with but a short interruption for lunch. late that afternoon they emerged on the shores of the other lake. it was a beautiful sheet of water, narrow and hemmed in by high hills which shot up abruptly on every side. at the far end could be seen a series of three peaks, jagged and sharp against the sky. the major turned to the professor, and both consulted the map and the translation of the cipher. "when the ruby mound masks the three brothers take a course by the great dead pine. four hundred to the west, three hundred to the north, and below the man of stone." such were the words which the major read aloud from the professor's translation. "how do you interpret that, professor?" he asked. "why, plainly enough: the three brothers referred to are those three similar peaks," said the professor; "the map indicates them. the ruby mound is not quite so clear. but i don't doubt that we shall stumble across its meaning, and also that of 'the man of stone,' which, i confess, i cannot make out." "may be it's some mass of rock that looks like a man," volunteered rob, who, like the others, had listened with eager attention while the major read. "an excellent idea, my boy. that is possibly the correct meaning, although the old buccaneer may have spoken in riddles. such men frequently did. however, we are at the gateway of our venture. to-morrow we shall know if it meets with success or failure." "to-morrow!" echoed the boy scouts. "ef ah could cotch dat five-hundred-dollah-pusson to-morrow dat would be all de treasure ah'd want," mumbled jumbo as he set down his canoe. he had kept it on his back up to now, like a shell on a black turtle. "ah don' lak dis business ob interfussin' wid a dead man's belongin's. no good ain't gwine ter come uv it." "what are you mumbling about, jumbo?" asked the major, overhearing some of this last. "why, majah, i was jes' a communicatin' to myself mah pussonal convictions on de subjec' ob dead men's gold." "why, jumbo, are you superstitious?" inquired the professor. "no, sah. ah's bin vaccinated an' am glad to say it _took_. we ain't neber had no supposishishness in our fam'bly. but dis yar meddlin' an monkeyin' wid what belongs to dem as is daid and buried is bad bis'nis, sah--bad bis'nis." "i thought that you had more courage than that," said the professor seriously. "ah got lots ob dat commodity, too, sah. ah dassay dat ah is de bravest man in de--oh! fo' de law's sake, wha' dat? oh, golly umptions! majah! you boy scrouts, help!" jumbo suddenly cast himself down on the ground and began rolling over and over, trying to seize the major's feet in his paroxysm of real alarm. "get up!" ordered the major curtly, "get up at once, you cowardly creature. what's the matter?" "oh, mah goodness, majah, you didn't see it. you had yo' back to der bushes. so did de odders. but ah seed it." "saw what, sir?" "oh, golly gumptions! de ugliest lilly face wid black whiskers an' eyes dat i ebber seed. it was lookin' frough de bushes an' listening to you alls." "where? show me the place at once." the major's tone was curt and fraught with a deeper meaning. "right hyah, sah, majah. right hyah, dis am whar i seen dat homely lilly face. yas sah." but although they made a thorough search of the vicinity no trace of a concealed listener could be found. "i'd be half-inclined to put it down to jumbo's foolishness if it wasn't that we know we have enemies in the mountains," said the major, after supper that night. "but as it is, sir?" asked rob. "as it is," replied the major, "i think we had better keep a sharp look out and 'be prepared.' jumbo's description of that face seems to tally pretty closely with the countenance of black bart." "just what i think," rejoined rob; "if he hadn't got so frightened jumbo might have secured that five hundred dollars after all." "marse rob," said jumbo, who had been listening intently, "you ebber hyah dat lilly story 'bout de man wot caught de wild cat?" "no; heave ahead with the yarn, jumbo," said the major. "well, sah, onct upon a time two men was campin'. one went to der spring ter git watah. pretty soon de one lef' behin' hearn de awfullest racket and caterwaulin' by dat spring you ever hearn tell ob. "'what de mattah?' he call. "'i got a wild cat!' holler de man by de spring. "'kain't you hole him?' hollers his fren'. "'i kin hole him all right,' hollered de udder feller, 'but i don't know how ter let him go ag'in'." after the laughter excited by this narration had subsided, jumbo rolled his eyes solemnly and cleared his throat. then he spoke: "an' dat lilly nanny-goat (anecdote) applies sah, dat applies ter me and dis yar black bart or whateber his name am." chapter xxii. the buccaneer's cave. "the three peaks are in line, but no trace of the 'ruby glow' the cipher speaks of." the speaker was rob blake. he and merritt, in the red canoe, were in advance of the other craft. the first level rays of the early sun were slanting down over the precipitous hills surrounding the lake and gilding the placid sheet of water with a glittering effulgence. the canoes seemed to hang on the clear water as if suspended. right ahead of the adventurers, the three jagged peaks seen the previous evening had gradually swung into line, until the first and nearest one veiled the other two. "let's run the canoe ashore. may be we shall come across something to make the meaning of the cipher plainer," suggested merritt. presently the bow of the canoe grazed the beach, and the two active young uniformed figures sprang out. for an instant they looked about them. then suddenly merritt gripped rob's arm with such a tight pressure that it actually pained. "look!" he cried, "look!" rob followed the direction of merritt's gaze and was tempted to echo his cry. through the trees a rectangular mound of rock, with a dome-like summit, had just caught the rays of the sun. in the early morning light it glittered as redly as if bathed in blood. "the ruby glow!" breathed rob poetically, gazing at the wonderful sight. "must be some sort of mica or crystal in the rock that catches the sunlight," said the practical merritt; "good thing we didn't come here on a dull, cloudy day." "i guess so," rejoined rob; "we might easily have missed it." "let's get the others!" exclaimed merritt. "see, the ruby glow is masking the three brothers." "that's so," agreed rob, "this is the place, beyond a doubt." by this time the other canoes had been beached and their occupants were presently gazing in wrapt wonder at the spectacle. as the sun rose higher they could see the glow diminishing. "your ancestor chose his hiding place well," said the professor to major dangerfield, "only at sunrise and at sunset can the glow be visible. at any other hour of the day there would be nothing unusual about that rock but its shape." suddenly tubby broke into song. he caught at the others' hands. in a jiffy the boy scouts were dancing round in a joyous circle, singing at the top of their lungs: "ruby glow! ruby glow! we have sought you long, you know! now you're found we won't let go till we get the treasure--ruby glow!" "rather anticipating, aren't you, boys?" asked the major, "there is still quite a lot to be done before we discover the cavern where the treasure is supposed to be buried." but despite his calm words they could see that the major was quite as much excited as themselves at the idea of being on the threshold of great discoveries. "suppose we press forward," suggested the professor presently; "i think that the base of the ruby mound is the place to start from." the canoes were hauled up on the beach and concealed in a high growth of tangled water plants. they did not wish to risk having them stolen for a second time. then they struck forward into the gloom of the woods lying between the ruby mound and the lake. as they went the boy scouts hummed tubby's little song. even jumbo seemed to have cast off his gloom. his great eyes rolled with anticipation as they pressed on, ambition to find the treasure cavern lending wings to their feet. before long they were at the base of the ruby mound. it was quite bare, and rose up almost as if it had been artificially formed. the professor declared it to have been of glacial origin. certain markings on it he interpreted as being indian in design. "they seem to indicate that at one time the indians, who formerly roamed these mountains, used this mound as a watch tower," he said. "it must have made a good one, too." "too high colored for me," said tubby in an undertone. but by this time the glow had fled from the conical-shaped top of the mound. it was a dull gray color now, and, except for its shape and barrenness, looked just like any other rock pile. "there's the dead pine!" cried hiram suddenly. "so it is!" exclaimed the major, as his gaze fell on an immense blasted trunk soaring above the rest of the trees, "boys, we are hot on the trail." "looks so," agreed rob. "now, then," exclaimed the professor, as they stood at the base of the pine, which appeared to have been blasted by lightning at some remote period, "now then, one of you boys pace off four hundred feet to the west." rob drew out his pocket compass and speedily paced off the distance. this brought them into a sort of clearing. it was small, and circular in shape, and dense growth hedged it in on all sides. by this time the boys were fairly quivering with excitement, and their elders were not much behind them in eager anticipation. "now, three hundred to the north," ordered the major. "we'll have to plunge right into the brush," said rob. "all right. go ahead. in a few minutes now we shall know if we're on a fool's errand or not." the former army officer's voice was vibrant with emotion. followed by the others, rob pushed into the brush, pacing off the required three hundred feet as accurately as he could. all at once he came to a halt. "three hundred," he announced. as they looked about them a feeling of keen disappointment set in. tall brush was hemming them in on all sides. no trace of a stone man, or anything else but the close-growing vegetation, could be seen. "fooled again!" was the exclamation that was forcing itself to tubby's irrepressible lips when he stopped short, struck by the look of keen disappointment on the major's face. "it looks as if we had had all our trouble for nothing, boys," he began, when rob interrupted. "what's that off there, major, through the bushes yonder. you can see it best from here." the major hastened to the young leader's side. "it's a sort of cliff or precipice," he cried. "maybe the man of stone is located there," suggested rob; "it's worth trying, don't you think so, sir?" "by all means. this growth may have sprung up since the treasure was hidden away, and so have concealed the place." once more the party moved on. a few paces through the undergrowth brought them to the foot of a steepish cliff of rough, gray stone. it appeared to be about thirty feet or more in height. above it towered the rugged peak of the first of the three brothers. "now, where's the man of stone?" asked the professor in a puzzled tone, gazing about him. "there's certainly no indication of a man of that material or any other," opined the major, likewise peering in every direction. "what's that mass of rock on the cliff top?" asked merritt suddenly; "it looks something like a human figure." they all gazed up. a big mass of rock was poised at the summit of the cliff. there was a large rock with a smaller one perched on the top of it. to a vivid imagination it might have suggested a body and a head. "it's worth investigating, anyway," decided the major; "we'll look at the face of the cliff directly beneath it. maybe there is an opening there." but this decision was more easily arrived at than carried out. thorny brush and thick, tall weeds shrouded the base of the cliff for a height of eight or ten feet. but the boy scouts had their field axes with them, and before long the blows of the steel were resounding. in a few minutes they had cleared away a lot of the brush directly beneath the two poised stones. the major and the professor, with jumbo looking rather awe-stricken at the major's side, stood watching. "these balanced stones prove my theory that all this is of glacial origin," the professor was saying. "some antediluvian water course must have left them there. why, it wouldn't take much of a push to shove them over." "that is true," agreed the major; "in that case, supposing that an entrance does exist at this spot, they would block it effectually." "very much so," agreed the professor dryly; "in fact----" "hoo-r-a-y!" the shout rang gladly through the silent woods. the boys had thrown down their axes and stood with flushed, triumphant faces turned toward the elder members of the party. the major was quick to guess the cause of their excitement. "they've found it!" he cried, springing forward. the professor and jumbo followed. as they came up rob was pointing to an opening at the base of the cliff which the cleared brush had revealed. "the entrance to the cavern of ruby glow!" he exclaimed dramatically, while the rest of the boy scouts swung off into tubby's extemporized song of triumph. chapter xxiii. trapped in a living tomb. after the first excitement and confusion had quieted down a bit, the major and the professor began discussing ways and means for exploring the cavern. "when shall we start?" asked merritt. "at once, i think," said the major. "i agree with you," said the professor; "no time like the present." "that being the case," declared the major with a smile, "jumbo had better set out for the canoes at once, and bring some provisions and the lanterns." the lanterns referred to were of the variety used by miners, which had been brought along for the special purpose in which they were now to be employed. but jumbo was not allowed to set off alone on his expedition. the eager boy scouts raced off with him. they soon returned with a supply of canned goods, plenty of matches and some firearms and the lanterns. the latter were quickly lighted and, each member of the party shouldering a burden, the dash into the cave was begun. it was a creepy, mysterious sensation. the light seemed to go out with a sudden snap as they passed the portals of the cave entrance. only the yellow light of the lanterns, pale after the bright sunshine, illumined the damp walls. a queer, dead, musty smell was in the air. "better proceed carefully," said the professor; "we may encounter a pocket of poisonous air before long." "i thought we were looking for a pocket full of money," whispered tubby to merritt, behind whom he was pacing. the party had to advance in single file, for beyond the entrance of the cave was a narrow passage. "i wonder how your ancestor ever located this place?" said rob, wonderingly, as they proceeded cautiously. "the family legend has it that he came in here in pursuit of a wounded wild animal he had shot, and which sought refuge here," said the major. it was a strange, rather uncanny feeling to be treading the long unused path leading into the bowels of the cliff. they talked in whispers and low tones. a loud voice would go rumbling off in a weird way, not altogether comfortable to listen to. "gee! i wouldn't much care to be trapped in here," said tubby, as they pressed on. all at once the path they had been following took a sudden dip. right under their feet was a narrow chasm. if they had not had lights they might have been precipitated into it, but luckily their lanterns showed them the peril just in time. for a short time it looked as if the treasure hunt would have to end right there. there seemed to be no means of crossing the chasm, and they had brought none with them. "so near and yet so far," breathed merritt. but presently the major discovered a stout plank resting against the wall of the passage. it was worm-eaten and old, but a test showed it would support them. it had evidently been left there by the old buccaneer. it caused an odd thrill to shoot through rob, as he stepped upon it, to reflect that the last foot to press it had been in the tomb for many scores of years. on the other side of the chasm the cave widened out. in fact, it developed into quite a spacious chamber. the rock walls, imbedded with mica, glistened brightly in the yellow glow of the lanterns. "we look like a convention of lightning bugs," commented tubby, gazing about him at the unusual scene. the professor drew out a paper. he and the major bent over it, while the others listened breathlessly to ascertain the outcome of this inspection of the plan of the long lost treasure trove. "according to the plan the treasure is located in this chamber," said the major at length. "at any rate," added the professor, "the plan does not give any further details of the cave." "do you think it extends further?" inquired merritt. "impossible to say. some of these caves and their ramifications extend for many miles. when the major has concluded his quest, i think it would be of scientific interest to explore the subterranean thoroughfares at length." all agreed with this view. but the present business speedily banished all other thoughts from their minds. like so many hounds on the scent, the boys ran about the place, seeking for clews to the hiding place. but to their bitter disappointment all their efforts resulted in nothing. no trace of any hoarded stock of precious articles could be found. "we had better have something to eat and then we can determine on our further course," said the major, looking at his watch; "i am convinced that the treasure is here, however, and equally positive we shall find it." when they sat down to their meal it was discovered that, in their haste, they had forgotten to bring any water. tubby, hiram and jumbo at once volunteered to fetch some in the canteens which had been left in the canoes. "ah'm jes' pinin' ter see dat ole massa sol once mo';" confessed the negro. "all right," said the major, "you can be one of the party, jumbo. but hurry back, hopkins, for i am anxious to waste no more time than necessary." "we'll hurry," tubby assured him. the trio, the two boys and the black, hastened off, retracing their steps through the dark passage of the cavern. it was a distinct relief to regain the sunlight and open air. so much so that perhaps they lingered by the concealed canoes rather longer than they should have done. "come on. we've wasted enough time," said tubby at length; "let's hurry back." they set out at a good pace. but as they pushed through the brush separating them from the cliff; in the face of which was situated the cave entrance, a sudden sound brought them to an abrupt standstill. tubby, who was in the lead, raised his hand for silence. in the hush that followed they could distinctly catch the sound of voices ahead of them. at first tubby thought that they were those of some of the party in the cave who had come out to see what had become of them. but he was speedily undeceived. one of the voices struck suddenly on his ear with an unpleasant shock. it was a harsh, grating voice, and tubby, to his dismay, recognized it in a flash as being that of stonington hunt. he had heard it too often to be mistaken. "are you all ready?" hunt was saying. a sort of growl of assent followed these words. "what can they be up to?" asked hiram, who was also aware now of the identity of the voices in front of them. "i don't know," rejoined tubby in the same low tones; "as well as i can see, they are all on that cliff top alongside those balanced stones." "wonder what they are doing up there?" mused hiram; "i suppose that----" his voice was drowned in a loud crash as the larger of two stones was pushed over the edge of the cliff. in a flash tubby perceived the fiendish object of stonington hunt and his followers. the great rock fell directly in front of the opening of the cave. the way in or out of the underground chamber was effectually blocked, unless the obstruction was blasted with dynamite. cold chills ran up and down tubby's spine. hiram shuddered and turned white, and jumbo groaned. "oh lawsy! lawsy! i knowed no good 'ud come uv meddling wif dat ole dead teef's money." "be quiet," ordered tubby, sternly. with every nerve on the alert he watched hunt peer over the cliff-face. the next moment their enemy retreated with a chuckle of laughter. "they're all sealed up good and tight," he said. "we'll let them stay in there a day or two and then we'll blast the rock away." "gee, that fat kid will be thinner when he gets out," tubby heard freeman hunt say as his father rejoined the group. "ho! ho!" thought the lad, "'that fat kid' as you call him is on the outside, master hunt. and it's a good thing he is, for the outside is where help will have to come from." the watchers concealed in the brush below saw a new figure join the group on the cliff summit, a man with a great, bushy, black beard and shifty black eyes. "mah goodness!" exclaimed jumbo; "dat am de pussonage who peeked frough dem bushes las' night. i thought i knowed him. dat's black bart, the sun-shiner." the party at the cliff summit turned and vanished. apparently they had a camp up there from which they had observed every movement of the boy scout party. it was plain enough now, since jumbo's recognition, how they came to be there. black bart must have overheard the major discussing the plan the night before. by making a forced march by night the rascals had arrived ahead of the rightful searchers for the old buccaneer's hoard. "we'd better get back toward the boats before they take a notion to investigate," said tubby. "i don't fancy sticking around here much longer." "nor i," said hiram; "come on." "golly knows ah'm willin'," breathed jumbo. snugly hidden in the thick growth into which the canoes had been dragged, the two scouts and the negro discussed the situation. it was a desperate one. for the present, at least, hunt and his party dominated it. one unpleasant thought, too, kept obtruding itself. the party in the cave had no water. "and hunt says he won't blast it open for two days, anyhow," put in hiram; "i suppose he figures that the major would be too weak to oppose him then." "guess that's it. what a rascal that hunt is! but what are we going to do to help them? we can't move that rock, and we've got nothing to blast it away with." tubby's face showed the dismay, the almost despair, that he felt. "tell you what, hiram," he said at length, "you'll have to take one of the canoes and get off down the lake. when you reach the foot of it make a dash to the westward, where there is a village. i'll wait here with jumbo till you return." "but it will take two days, at least, maybe a week," objected hiram. "can't be helped. we've got to do something. you are lighter and can travel quicker than i. take food and a rifle and get through as quick as you can." ten minutes later the red canoe, well stocked with food, and paddled by the young scout, shot out from the shore. by hugging the rim of the lake the boys had figured that he would be able to undertake the first stage of his journey without running much risk of being seen by their enemies. besides, it was unlikely that hunt or his cronies would be keeping a very keen lookout as they evidently believed that all the party was imprisoned in the cave. tubby and jumbo watched the canoe while it remained in sight, and then returned to their hiding place. toward the middle of the afternoon they saw smoke on the cliff top and well back from the edge. "at any rate," thought tubby, "they are camped at a good distance back from us. i reckon there's no danger of their seeing us moving about." with great caution the lad wormed his way through the brush, leaving jumbo to guard the canoes. he had formed a daring determination to examine the rock and see if it was not possible in some miraculous way to move it. but an examination confirmed his worst fears. the great stone was as immovable as if it had formed a part of the living rock. tubby actually gave a groan of despair. "there's not a thing we can do," he moaned disconsolately. a sudden footfall above him made him dive into the brush. he flattened out, immovable, in a flash. the next instant hunt strode into the glade, followed by his son. they also examined the stone. "if they won't come to our terms," said hunt, as they turned away again, "we can immure them in a living tomb." tubby hopkins, lying as quiet as a rabbit in his place of concealment, could not but feel the bitter truth the words held. * * * * * * * * "those fellows are a long time getting that water, and i'm as dry as a jar of salt," said merritt, as they munched on their provisions. "i guess we're all pretty thirsty," said the major. "perhaps you'd better go and hurry them up, my boy." merritt sprinted off on this errand. he had almost reached the ravine and was about to step on the narrow bridge across it when there was a sudden crashing jar that shook the earth. though, of course, he did not know it, the noise was occasioned by the falling rock dislodged by hunt and his followers. "wonder what that was?" thought the boy, little guessing the real cause. "if we were in the west i should think it was an earthquake. but i never heard of any in the adirondacks." before long he gained a point in the passage where he knew he should have seen a disc of daylight ahead of him. puzzled by its absence, the boy pushed on. every minute he expected to see the light, but the darkness continued to prevail. sorely perplexed, he took a few steps more, when he was abruptly confronted by a mass of solid rock. the passage appeared to have terminated. it was several moments before the meaning of this conveyed itself to the boy's mind. when he mastered the situation it was with a sense of shock that for an instant almost deprived him of his senses. recovering his wits he lost no time in communicating his alarming intelligence. incidentally, the cause of the noise he had heard was abundantly explained. it required but a brief examination by the major, to make known the full extent of their calamity. "we are walled in," he said hoarsely. "is there no hope of escape?" gasped the professor. the boys were too much overcome to speak. the major shook his head. unconsciously he repeated tubby's words. "help, if it is to come, must come from the outside," he said. his words rang hollowly in the musty, subterranean passage. chapter xxiv. two columns of smoke. through the deep woods a boyish figure was creeping. it was hiram, footsore, sick and despondent. it was the second day since he had left the scene of the boy scouts' misfortune. behind him lay the lake. and that was about all he knew definitely of his situation. for the last hour of his slow progress over the cruelly rough ground, the lad's heart had almost failed him. but he had kept pluckily on. at last, though, he was compelled, from sheer exhaustion, to sink down under a big hickory tree. he was lost, hopelessly lost in the midst of the adirondack wilds. few men or boys who have ever been in a similar fix will not realize the extreme danger of hiram's position. there are still vast tracks in these mountains untrodden, except, perchance, at long intervals, by the foot of man. the predicament of one who misses his way in their lonely stretches is serious indeed. hiram was a nervous, sensitive boy, moreover, and, as the dark shadows of late afternoon began to steal through the woods, he felt a sense of keen fear, and alarm. he even thought he could make out the forms of savage beasts prowling about him. at last the boy determined, by a brave effort, to make the best of it. he ate a meal of bread and salt meat from his haversack and washed it down with water from his canteen. then he set himself to thinking about a way out of his position. but as is often the case with those hopelessly lost in the wilderness, his brain refused to work coherently. a sort of panic had clutched him. to his excited, overwrought imagination it appeared that it was his fate, his destiny to die alone in these great, silent woods, stretching, for all he knew, to infinity on every side of him. "i must brace up and do something," thought hiram desperately; "maybe i haven't wandered as far as i think. perhaps a signal fire might be seen by somebody. i'll try it, anyhow." the thought of doing something cheered him mightily. the task of gathering wood and bark to make his fire also helped to keep his mind off his predicament. the young scout built his fire on the summit of the highest bit of ground he could find. it was a bare hillock, rocky and bleak, rising amid the trees. the fire hiram constructed was, properly speaking, composed of two piles of sticks and dry leaves and bark. close at hand he piled a big armful of extra fuel to keep it going. for he had determined to watch by the fires all night, if necessary. it was, he felt, his last hope. the fires arranged to his satisfaction, the boy set a match to each pile in turn. from the midst of the forest two columns of smoke ascended. the afternoon was still. not a breath of wind ruffled a leaf. in the calm air the columns of smoke shot up straight. hiram piled green leaves on his blazing heaps and the smoke grew thicker. the message the two smoke columns spelled out, in scout talk, was this: "i am lost, help!" hiram knew if there were any scouts within seeing distance of the two smoke columns, that he would be saved. if not--but he did not dare to dwell on that thought. the late afternoon deepened into twilight, and still hiram sat on, feeding his fires, although the flames of hope in his heart had died out into gray ashes of despair. as the darkness thickened and a gloom spread through the woods, his fears and nervousness increased. it is one thing to have a companion in the woods and the surety of a camp fire and comfort at night, and quite another pair of shoes to be lost in the impenetrable forest. anybody who has experienced the dilemma can appreciate something of poor hiram's state of mind. it grew almost dark. the two fires glowed in the twilight like two red eyes. all at once hiram almost uttered a shout of alarm. then he grew still, his heart beating till it shook his frame. somewhere, close to him, a twig had cracked. he was certain, too, that he had seen a dark form dodge behind a tree. "who's there," he cried shrilly. as if in reply, from behind the surrounding trees, a dozen dark forms suddenly emerged and started toward him. half beside himself with alarm, hiram, his mind full of visions of moonshiners, indians and desperadoes, leaped to his feet and started to run for his life. but he had not gone a dozen steps before he stumbled and fell. as he did so his head struck a rock and the blow stunned him. the men who had emerged with such suddenness from behind the trees hastened up. "we needn't have feared a trap," said one; "it was a genuine scout signal. i'm glad my boys taught them to me or we might have been too late to save this boy." the speaker was the same man who had recognized rob blake, and whose two sons were members of the curlew patrol. he picked hiram up. "lost and half scared to death," he said tenderly; "and just to think that we crept up on him like a bunch of prowling indians." "well, we've got to look out for traps, you know," put in the leader, the gray-moustached man; "those two smoke columns that you knew the meaning of might have been a trick to decoy us. i'm glad we approached stealthily, but i'm sorry we scared this poor kid so badly." "oh, he'll be all right directly," was the easy reply. "sam, you and jim get a kettle boiling and make coffee. we'll camp here to-night," said rob's friend. he set hiram down at the root of a big tree just as the lad opened his eyes and gazed with astonishment on the group of stalwart, kind-eyed men gathered in wonderment about him. * * * * * * * * it was moonlight, and almost midnight, before tubby deemed it safe to reconnoitre the vicinity of the cave mouth. followed by jumbo, who was quaking with fear, but accompanied the stout youth in preference to being left alone, tubby cautiously made his way through the undergrowth. a spot of bright light above showed him the location of the camp fire of hunt's gang. it was hardly likely that they would be patroling the entrance to the cave, effectually blocked as it was. but tubby took no chances. with the skill and silence of an indian he wormed his way along. he had almost reached the open space where they had chopped down the brush when, without an instant's warning, the figure of stonington hunt strode into view. at the same unlucky instant jumbo, lumbering along quite silently, stubbed his toe against an out-cropping rock. he fell headlong with a crash. "gollygumptions! i'm killed dead!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, utterly regardless of consequences. tubby turned and was about to dodge back into the shelter of the dense growth when hunt espied him. with an angry oath he sprang at him, pointing a pistol. but tubby, in a flash, changed his tactics surprisingly. converting himself into a human battering ram, he lowered his head and rushed full tilt at hunt. completely taken by surprise by tubby's onslaught, hunt stopped and hesitated. the fat boy, at the same instant, rushed between the man's legs, seizing them in a firm grip as he did so. the unexpected assault resulted in hurling hunt violently forward. he fell sprawling in a heap. at the same instant his pistol was discharged in the air. as the report rang out from close at hand half a dozen figures sprang into being. they were those of his followers who had been behind him at some distance on this nocturnal visit of inspection. dale and bumpus instantly recognized tubby. "that's the fat kid who wrecked our sloop!" cried dale. "a hundred dollars to the one that gets him!" shouted hunt from the ground where he still lay. "how under the sun did he escape?" shouted freeman hunt, taking up the chorus of cries and exclamations. but before dale, agile as he was, could reach him, tubby had darted nimbly off. he was heading for the bushes. in another instant he would have reached them but a second figure suddenly dodged into the moonlight and blocked his way. it was black bart. he outspread his long arms to catch the hunted youth. the next instant he had shared hunt's fate. tubby, for the second time that night, executed his skillful tackle. black bart, with a string of bad words accompanying his fall, was upset without ceremony. but dale was close on tubby's nimble heels. as the lad dodged from his fallen foe dale reached out, and his big hand grabbed the fleeing lad's collar. tubby gave a dive and a twist but he could not get away. "good boy, dale. hold him!" came freeman hunt's voice. suddenly another figure appeared. the newcomer sprang out of the shadows behind them. with one blow this personage knocked dale sprawling beside black bart, and the next instant, as pete bumpus essayed to take part in the fray, he was sent to join the other two. tubby felt himself snatched up and carried swiftly off into the darkness of the friendly brush. "gollygumptions!" chuckled jumbo, for it was he, as he ran, "but it shuah did feel good to swat dem no-good trash." "hullo, jumbo, is that you?" asked tubby as he heard; "i'll forgive you for almost getting us captured." "tank you, marse hopkins," rejoined jumbo gravely; "but we bes' keep our words till we get furder away. hark!" behind them they could hear angry voices, and shouts and trampling in the brush. the strong-muscled black, bent almost double, ran swiftly with his burden for some distance further. then he set tubby down and rested, breathing heavily. the sounds of the chase came from afar to them, much fainter now. "ha! ha!" chortled jumbo; "dey look an' look, but dey no find us." "that's all right, too, jumbo," said tubby, sitting down on a decayed log; "but it doesn't help to get the major and the rest out of that hole in the ground." "maybe marse hiram got frough," suggested jumbo hopefully. "i hope so, i'm sure," said tubby with a mournful intonation; "it looks now as if that was our only chance of saving them. "where are we?" added tubby, suddenly gazing about him. there was something familiar about the scenery. especially about a tall, cone-shaped rock that loomed up close at hand. "that's ruby glow!" he exclaimed the next instant. "and gollygumptions, ef dere ain't a spook or suthin' on top of it," cried jumbo. he pointed to a dark figure standing upright in the white moonlight that flooded the isolated mass of rock. chapter xxv. the heart of the mystery--conclusion. we left the major and his party marooned in the cave, and overcome by the suddenness of the disaster that had overtaken them like a bolt from a clear sky. we must now return to them. after the first shock of the discovery the major suggested that they retreat to the chamber and talk things over as calmly as possible. each one of the party, with a strong effort to master his feelings, followed the advice. a long consultation followed, the result of which was that they determined that the first thing to be done was to institute a search for water. the far end of the cavern had not yet been explored and it was decided to begin with that. headed by the major, they started for what seemed a blank wall at the end of the chamber. but on nearing it, it proved that its appearance of blankness was chiefly caused by a sort of screen of rock that masked an opening as effectually as if it had been placed there by someone anxious to conceal it. "we'll penetrate beyond this," announced the major, and holding his lantern high, was stepping forward when he stopped. one word came to his lips: "water!" from a tiny rift in the rock, sure enough, a small but blessed stream of clear water was flowing. the delight with which the imprisoned party hailed the discovery may be imagined. for a short time, while they assuaged their pangs of thirst, already painful, they almost forgot the seriousness of their situation. while the others drank, andy bowles, who had been one of the first to taste the cool water, strayed further into the passage. presently his voice was borne back to the others. "say!" he cried; "there's a funny sort of box in here." "what kind of a box?" hailed the major, alert in an instant. "why, it's awful old by the looks of it. it's all bound with iron, and nails are stuck all over it. and--say! there are two more back beyond it." "the treasure trove!" gasped the professor. "beyond a doubt," said the major. then he added gloomily, "but what good is it to us now? if we cannot escape from here before long we shall perish miserably, and nothing but dynamite can release us." "at any rate we must not give up hope," counselled the professor; "suppose we investigate these boxes. at any rate it will give us something to do. it is better than doing nothing." "that is right," declared the major; "it may keep us from dwelling on the situation." merritt's axe was called into requisition, and, as the others stood round with upraised lanterns, the boy swung the weapon down on the iron lock of the first of the old chests. it was old and rotten, and, after a few blows, it gave way. with trembling, nervous hands the lid of the box was pushed back. but a surprise greeted the fortune hunters. instead of a mass of gold objects or coins meeting their eyes only a faded piece of red velvet, covering the contents of the box, met their gaze. "pull it off!" ordered the major. merritt and the professor raised the bit of fabric and then started back with startled faces. under the velvet was a picture. a grim portrait of a tall man in black garments holding a skull in his hands, while he knelt beside an open grave. under it was painted in old fashioned letters: "the end of the quest for riches." "good heavens," exclaimed the major, who had paled a little under his tan, "that seems almost like a warning." mastering a feeling of dread, merritt helped the professor to raise the picture. under it was an old sea cloak, a brass spy glass of antique make, and an old-fashioned compass and--that was all. "it begins to look as if my ancestor had played a grim joke on posterity," said the major; "however, let us see what is in the other two boxes." crash! down came merritt's axe on the first of the remaining two chests. the lid flew open with such suddenness that it startled them. it was operated by concealed springs. as the light of the lanterns fell on the contents of this box, however, all doubt as to the success of the quest was removed. it was filled to the brim with golden candlesticks, vases, plates and cups of priceless value. some of them flashed with gems. the hoarded treasure of the wicked old pirate of the spanish seas lay before them. "now the other," said the professor in a faint voice, "i can hardly believe my eyes." "it does seem incredible," commented the major. the contents of the other chest, which was speedily opened, proved to be of the same nature as that of the second one rifled. on the interior of the lid, however, there had been a secret chamber. the spring of this, rotten with age, gave way as the cover was lifted. a niagara of coins of all nations, spanish doubloons, french crowns, english rose nobles and florins, and queerly-marked oriental wealth, flowed out. "what should you think was the value of all this, professor?" asked the major when he recovered his voice. "at least two million dollars," was the rejoinder in tones the man of science tried in vain to render steady. "i'd give half of it now if we could get out of here," said the major. "perhaps there is a way." it was merritt who spoke. "what makes you think so, my boy?" "why, while we've been standing here i've noticed a draught. look at the lantern flames flicker in it. it comes from further down the passage. we might explore it, anyway." "i think so, too," said the major, and followed by the others, still dazed by the sight of the hoarded fortune, he struck out into the darkness. for some distance the passage into which he had plunged was level. then his feet encountered rough steps. calling to the others to follow him the major mounted them. up and up they climbed, the wind blowing more freshly in their faces every instant. all at once, without any warning, the major emerged into the open air. he looked about him amazed. the others, as they joined him, heard his astonishment. they seemed to be on the summit of a small island in the midst of a sea of woods. gazing over the edge, they soon ascertained that they were at the summit of a high cone-shaped mass of rocks. the sides were steep as church walls, and offered no foothold. all at once the explanation burst upon the major. "we are at the summit of ruby glow!" he cried. astonishing as it appeared, this was the truth. the professor regarded it as a proof of his theory that the place had been used as an indian watch tower. "i know now what puzzled me before," he said, "and that was the manner in which they gained the summit of the cone." "but that doesn't help us to get down," said merritt, "it looks as if we are as badly off as before." "i'm afraid you're right," said the major; "no living being could scale those walls." "and no living being could move that rock from the entrance to the cave," echoed rob miserably. they retraced their steps. the hours passed slowly in the cavern. but in order to employ them somehow they made an inventory of the contents of the treasure boxes. supper was eaten from their fast diminishing store of eatables. nobody talked much. they did not feel inclined for conversation. at length nature asserted itself. rob actually began to feel sleepy. andy and the professor had already flung themselves down and were fast asleep. "guess i'll take one more look out from ruby glow before i turn in," thought rob to himself. with this intention in mind he left the cave. he did not take long to reach the top of the cone. moonlight flooded it, and the surrounding forest. rob looked about him. it was a lovely scene, but somehow its beauty didn't impress him much just then. all at once he became aware of two figures below the cone gazing curiously up at it. one was oddly familiar to him. in fact they both were. "who is it?" he asked, feeling that there was no danger in speaking clearly. "hush!" came up the answer in tubby's voice, in a low, but penetrating whisper, "it's me, tubby. jumbo's with me. how under the canopy did you get up there?" "it's a long story," responded rob, in the same cautious tones; "the question is how are we going to get down again?" "gee whiz! that's so. there's no way of clambering down the sides. if only we had a rope." "we've got one. the canoe ropes joined together would be long and strong enough," said rob, "but how could you get them up to us? no trees grow close enough. i don't see how----" he stopped short. tubby had suddenly begun to execute a grotesque sort of war-dance. his figure capered oddly about in the moonlight. "wait there till i come back!" he exclaimed, and suddenly darted off, followed by jumbo. "well, if that isn't just like tubby," said rob; "what in the world is he up to now?" but rob knew tubby well enough to divine that the lad would not have told him to wait if there had not been some good reason for it. so he sat down with what patience he could. it was some time before tubby reappeared. when he did, he had something in his hands. "watch out!" he cried to rob. the leader of the eagle patrol watched his scout carefully. suddenly he realized what tubby was doing. he had made a bow and arrow out of springy wood. then he had attached one end of a light string to the arrow. to the other extremity of the string, which was long enough to reach the summit of the cone, was attached the knotted lengths of canoe and pack rope. rob had hardly time to take in the details of this clever trick before the arrow came whizzing by his ear. he grabbed the string as it followed and began hauling in. before long he had reached its end, and started pulling on the rope. he made one end fast about a projecting pinnacle of rock, and then called down his congratulations to tubby in a low but hearty voice. "i always told you i could do something else than fall in," was the message tubby sent back as he strutted about below. rob's next act was to arouse the sleepers and major dangerfield. they were all naturally warm in praise of tubby's clever device. it was tested by rob who slid down it in perfect safety, but landed with barked shins and scraped hands. that was a cheap price to pay for deliverance, though, and the others, when they followed him, felt the same way about it. "now what are we going to do?" said the major as they all stood in a group on the ground. "i think----" began the professor. but the words were taken out of his mouth. rob made a hasty sign to the others to conceal themselves. a sudden heavy rumbling sound had echoed through the air. it was followed by a red flash from the direction of the mouth of the cave. "they've blown the rock up!" cried the major. "that's why they were all prowling around there to-night, i suppose," exclaimed tubby. "let's get to the canoes and arm ourselves," said the major; "we can catch them all red-handed." first the rope by which they had escaped was cut as high as possible from the ground, and then the major's suggestion was carried out. they reached the entrance of the cave just in time to hear footsteps approaching down the passage. they crouched quietly till dale emerged from the cavern entrance, stumbling over the shattered fragments of the big rock that had blocked it. his arms were full of plunder from the chests, and he was able to offer little resistance. he was seized and bound and gagged without his having any opportunity to make an outcry. one after another, as they came out, the rest of hunt's gang were served the same way. hunt and his son, however, in some manner became alarmed as they neared the entry. they dashed back, outfooting the lads who pursued them. down the passage they fled and stumbled blindly, in their fear, along the further passage and up the steps to the top of the ruby glow peak. arriving here they spied the rope. in a flash they were over the edge and down it. although they had bad tumbles when they reached the part where it had been cut off, they managed to make good their escape. it would have been folly to pursue them in the woods at night. black bart's capture deserves some mention. it was effected by jumbo, who literally threw himself on the black-bearded man as he emerged. it was probably the noise of this scuffle that alarmed hunt and his son. "you looks like five hundred dollahs to muh," grinned jumbo, as black bart, sullen and defiant as a wild cat, was manacled. the remainder of that night was spent in the cave, the prisoners being closely guarded. the next day dale was induced to tell how they had stolen the explosive from the hut of an eccentric old character who did some experimental mining not far away. "we figgered we'd find some use for it," he said cheerfully. that day was occupied in packing the precious articles, in bags brought for the purpose. by evening all was complete. if they had known how hiram was faring they would have felt perfectly content. it was decided, if he did not reappear, to leave some of the party in camp to await his return, while the others pushed on to give the prisoners up to the proper authorities. but at midnight that night they had a great surprise. rob, who was on watch, heard a sudden hail out of the darkness: "k-r-r-r-e-e-e-e!" it was the cry of the eagle patrol. "who can be giving it, i wonder," he exclaimed. the next minute he knew. hiram and the revenue officers, who had made a night march of it, burst in upon the camp. hiram had, in his wanderings, retraced much of his way back toward the camp so that they had not had so very far to tramp. the officials were delighted to learn of the clever manner in which the moonshiners had been apprehended. they had been searching for black bart, when they sighted hiram's signal fires. jumbo was assured that his five hundred dollars would be awarded to him at the earliest opportunity. had we space, or opportunity, we would like to tell of the journey back to civilization, of the share that each boy scout, much against his inclination, was forced to accept of the treasure, and of alice dangerfield's thanks to the boy scouts for the brave way in which they stood by her father in time of peril. they really valued this--like true scouts--more than the monetary reward. but further adventures impend in the boy scouts' eventful lives,--exciting, as well as amusing, incidents "by flood and field." if our readers care to follow further the careers of our young friends, they can find them set forth in detail in the next volume of this series: the boy scouts for uncle sam. the end. reasons why you should obtain a catalogue of our publications _a postal to us will place it in your hands_ 1. you will possess a comprehensive and classified list of all the best standard books published, at prices less than offered by others. 2. you will find listed in our catalogue books on every topic: poetry, fiction, romance, travel, adventure, humor, science, history, religion, biography, drama, etc., besides dictionaries and manuals, bibles, recitation and hand books, sets, octavos, presentation books and juvenile and nursery literature in immense variety. 3. you will be able to purchase books at prices within your reach; as low as 10 cents for paper covered books, to $5.00 for books bound in cloth or leather, adaptable for gift and presentation purposes, to suit the tastes of the most critical. 4. you will save considerable money by taking advantage of our special discounts, which we offer to those whose purchases are large enough to warrant us in making a reduction. hurst & co., _publishers_, 395, 397, 399 broadway, new york. oakdale academy series stories of modern school sports by morgan scott. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 60c. per vol., postpaid ben stone at oakdale. under peculiarly trying circumstances ben stone wins his way at oakdale academy, and at the same time enlists our sympathy, interest and respect. through the enmity of bern hayden, the loyalty of roger eliot and the clever work of the "sleuth," ben is falsely accused, championed and vindicated. boys of oakdale academy. "one thing i will claim, and that is that all grants fight open and square and there never was a sneak among them." it was rodney grant, of texas, who made the claim to his friend, ben stone, and this story shows how he proved the truth of this statement in the face of apparent evidence to the contrary. rival pitchers of oakdale. baseball is the main theme of this interesting narrative, and that means not only clear and clever descriptions of thrilling games, but an intimate acquaintance with the members of the teams who played them. the oakdale boys were ambitious and loyal, and some were even disgruntled and jealous, but earnest, persistent work won out. oakdale boys in camp. the typical vacation is the one that means much freedom, little restriction, and immediate contact with "all outdoors." these conditions prevailed in the summer camp of the oakdale boys and made it a scene of lively interest. the great oakdale mystery. the "sleuth" scents a mystery! he "follows his nose." the plot thickens! he makes deductions. there are surprises for the reader--and for the "sleuth," as well. new boys at oakdale. a new element creeps into oakdale with another year's registration of students. the old and the new standards of conduct in and out of school meet, battle, and cause sweeping changes in the lives of several of the boys. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company -publishers -new york bungalow boys series live stories of outdoor life by dexter j. forrester. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the bungalow boys. how the bungalow boys received their title and how they retained the right to it in spite of much opposition makes a lively narrative for lively boys. the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics. a real treasure hunt of the most thrilling kind, with a sunken spanish galleon as its object, makes a subject of intense interest at any time, but add to that a band of desperate men, a dark plot and a devil fish, and you have the combination that brings strange adventures into the lives of the bungalow boys. the bungalow boys in the great north west. the clever assistance of a young detective saves the boys from the clutches of chinese smugglers, of whose nefarious trade they know too much. how the professor's invention relieves a critical situation is also an exciting incident of this book. the bungalow boys on the great lakes. the bungalow boys start out for a quiet cruise on the great lakes and a visit to an island. a storm and a band of wreckers interfere with the serenity of their trip, and a submarine adds zest and adventure to it. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company -publishers -new york border boys series mexican and canadian frontier series by fremont b. deering. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the border boys on the trail. what it meant to make an enemy of black ramon de barios--that is the problem that jack merrill and his friends, including coyote pete, face in this exciting tale. the border boys across the frontier. read of the haunted mesa and its mysteries, of the subterranean river and its strange uses, of the value of gasolene and steam "in running the gauntlet," and you will feel that not even the ancient splendors of the old world can furnish a better setting for romantic action than the border of the new. the border boys with the mexican rangers. as every day is making history--faster, it is said, than ever before--so books that keep pace with the changes are full of rapid action and accurate facts. this book deals with lively times on the mexican border. the border boys with the texas rangers. the border boys have already had much excitement and adventure in their lives, but all this has served to prepare them for the experiences related in this volume. they are stronger, braver and more resourceful than ever, and the exigencies of their life in connection with the texas rangers demand all their trained ability. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company -publishers -new york motor rangers series high speed motor stories by marvin west. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the motor rangers' lost mine. this is an absorbing story of the continuous adventures of a motor car in the hands of nat trevor and his friends. it does seemingly impossible "stunts," and yet everything happens "in the nick of time." the motor rangers through the sierras. enemies in ambush, the peril of fire, and the guarding of treasure make exciting times for the motor rangers--yet there is a strong flavor of fun and freedom, with a typical western mountaineer for spice. the motor rangers on blue water; or, the secret of the derelict. the strange adventures of the sturdy craft "nomad" and the stranger experiences of the rangers themselves with morello's schooner and a mysterious derelict form the basis of this well-spun yarn of the sea. the motor rangers' cloud cruiser. from the "nomad" to the "discoverer" from the sea to the sky, the scene changes in which the motor rangers figure. they have experiences "that never were on land or sea," in heat and cold and storm, over mountain peak and lost city, with savages and reptiles; their ship of the air is attacked by huge birds of the air; they survive explosion and earthquake; they even live to tell the tale! any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company -publishers -new york molly brown series college life stories for girls by nell speed. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 60c. per vol., postpaid molly brown's freshman days. would you like to admit to your circle of friends the most charming of college girls--the typical college girl for whom we are always looking but not always finding; the type that contains so many delightful characteristics, yet without unpleasant perfection in any; the natural, unaffected, sweet-tempered girl, loved because she is lovable? then seek an introduction to molly 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maids series wholesome stories of adventure by katherine stokes. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the motor maids' school days. billie campbell was just the type of a straightforward, athletic girl to be successful as a practical motor maid. she took her car, as she did her class-mates, to her heart, and many a grand good time did they have all together. the road over which she ran her red machine had many an unexpected turning,--now it led her into peculiar danger; now into contact with strange travelers; and again into experiences by fire and water. but, best of all, "the comet" never failed its brave girl owner. the motor maids by palm and pine. wherever the motor maids went there were lively times, for these were companionable girls who looked upon the world as a vastly interesting place full of unique adventures--and so, of course, they found them. the motor maids across the continent. it is always interesting to travel, and it is wonderfully entertaining 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especially true in relation to the manufacture and manipulation of their aeroplane, and peggy won well deserved fame for her skill and good sense as an aviator. there were many stumbling-blocks in their terrestrial path, but they soared above them all to ultimate success. the girl aviators on golden wings. that there is a peculiar fascination about aviation that wins and holds girl enthusiasts as well as boys is proved by this tale. on golden wings the girl aviators rose for many an exciting flight, and met strange and unexpected experiences. the girl aviators' sky cruise. to most girls a coaching or yachting trip is an adventure. how much more perilous an adventure a "sky cruise" might be is suggested by the title and proved by the story itself. the girl aviators' motor butterfly. the delicacy of flight suggested by the word "butterfly," the mechanical power implied by "motor," the ability to control assured in the title "aviator," all combined with the personality and enthusiasm of 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of their experiences on their tour around the world. there is not a dull page in this lively narrative of clever boys and their attendant "chinee." the motor cycle chums in the gold fields. the gold fever which ran its rapid course through the veins of the historic "forty-niners" recurs at certain intervals, and seizes its victims with almost irresistible power. the search for gold is so fascinating to the seekers that hardship, danger and failure are obstacles that scarcely dampen their ardour. how the motor cycle chums were caught by the lure of the gold and into what difficulties and novel experiences they were led, makes a tale of thrilling interest. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company -publishers -new york harry castlemon books the popularity enjoyed by harry castlemon as a writer of interesting books for boys is second to none. his works are celebrated everywhere and in great demand. we publish a few of the best. boy trappers frank at don carlos rancho 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anywhere. hurst & co., publishers, new york log cabin to white house series a famous series of books, formerly sold at $2 00 per copy, are now popularized by reducing the price less than half. the lives of these famous americans are worthy of a place in any library. a new book by edward s. ellis--"from ranch to white house"--is a life of theodore roosevelt, while the author of the others, william m. thayer, is a celebrated biographer. from ranch to white house; life of theodore roosevelt. from boyhood to manhood; life of benjamin franklin. from farm house to white house; life of george washington. from log cabin to white house; life of james a. garfield. from pioneer home to white house; life of abraham lincoln. from tannery to white house; life of ulysses s. grant. success and its achievers. tact, push and principle. these titles, though by different authors, also belong to this series of books: from cottage to castle; the story of gutenberg, inventor of printing. by mrs. e. c. pearson. capital for working boys. by mrs. julia e. m'conaughy. price, postpaid, for any of the above ten books, 75c. a complete catalogue sent for the asking. hurst & co. publishers, new york * * * * * * * * transcriber's note: --obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment. the boy scouts of the eagle patrol by lieut. howard payson contents i scouts on the trail ii a cruise to the island iii boy scouts to the rescue iv sam in dire straits v the bully springs a surprise vi an island mystery vii some strange doings viii the stolen uniforms ix the hydroplane queerly recovered x winning the contest xi a fortunate discovery xii jack forms a plot xiii the "flying fish" on her mettle xiv the eagles in camp xv the chums in peril xvi lost in the storm xvii almost run down xviii joe digby missing xix sam rebels xx the hunt for tenderfoot joe xxi saved by "smoke morse" xxii the escape of the bully xxiii scouts in need are friends indeed xxiv a meeting in the fog--conclusion chapter i scouts on the trail the dark growth of scrub oak and pine parted suddenly and the lithe figure of a boy of about seventeen emerged suddenly into the little clearing. the lad who had so abruptly materialized from the close-growing vegetation peculiar to the region about the little town of hampton, on the south shore of long island, wore a well-fitting uniform of brown khaki, canvas leggings of the same hue and a soft hat of the campaign variety, turned up at one side. to the front of his headpiece was fastened a metal badge, resembling the three-pointed arrow head utilized on old maps to indicate the north. on a metal scroll beneath it were embossed the words: "be prepared." the manner of the badge's attachment would have indicated at once, to any one familiar with the organization, that the lad wearing it was the patrol leader of the local band of boy scouts. gazing keenly about him on all sides of the little clearing in the midst of which he stood, the boy's eyes lighted with a gleam of satisfaction on a largish rock. he lifted this up, adjusted it to his satisfaction and then picked up a smaller stone. this he placed on the top of the first and then listened intently. after a moment of this he then placed beneath the large underlying rock and at its left side a small stone. suddenly he started and gazed back. from the distance, borne faintly to his ears, came far off boyish shouts and cries. they rose like the baying of a pack in full cry. now high, now low on the hush of the midsummer afternoon. "they picked the trail all right," he remarked to himself, with a smile, "maybe i'd better leave another sign." stooping he snapped off a small low-growing branch and broke it near the end so that its top hung limply down. "two signs now that this is the trail," he resumed as he stuck it in the ground beside the stone sign. "now i'd better be off, for they are picking my tracks up, fast." he darted off into the undergrowth on the opposite side of the clearing, vanishing as suddenly and noiselessly as he had appeared. a few seconds later the deserted clearing was invaded by a scouting party of ten lads ranging in years from twelve to sixteen. they were all attired in similar uniforms to the leader, whom they were tracing, with but one exception they wore their "be prepared" badges on the left arm above the elbow. some of them were only entitled to affix the motto part of the badge the scroll inscribed with the motto. these latter were the second-class scouts of the eagle patrol. the exception to the badge-bearers was a tall, well-knit lad with a sunny face and wavy, brown hair. his badge was worn on the left arm, as were the others, but it had a strip of white braid sewn beneath it. this indicated that the bearer was the corporal of the patrol. as the group of flushed, panting lads emerged into the sandy space the corporal looked sharply about him. almost at once his eye encountered the "spoor" left by the preceding lad. "here's the trail, boys," he shouted, "and to judge by the fresh look of the break in this branch it can't have been placed here very long. the small stone by the large one means to the left. we'll run rob blake down before long for all his skill if we have good luck." "say, corporal merritt," exclaimed a perspiring lad, whose "too, too solid flesh" seemed to be melting and running off his face in the form of streaming moisture, "don't we get a rest?" a general laugh greeted poor bob or tubby hopkins' remark. "i always told you, tubby, you were too fat to make a good scout," laughed corporal merritt crawford, "this is the sort of thing that will make you want to take some of that tubbiness off you." "say, tubby, you look like a roll of butter at an august picnic," laughed simon jeffords, one of the second-class scouts. "all right, sim," testily rejoined the aggrieved fat one, "i notice at that, though, that i am a regular scout while you are only a rookie." "come on, cut out the conversation," exclaimed corporal crawford hastily, "while we are fussing about here, rob blake must be halfway home." with a groan of comical despair from poor tubby, the boy scouts darted forward once more. on and on they pushed across country, skillfully tracking their leader by the various signs they had been taught to know and of which the present scouting expedition was a test. their young leader evidently intended them to use their eyes to the utmost for, beside the stone signs, he used blaze-marks, cut on the trees with his hunting knife. for instance, at one place they would find a square bit of bark removed, with a long slice to the left of it. this indicated that their quarry had doubled to the left. the slice to the right of the square blaze indicated the reverse. suddenly corporal crawford held up his hand as a signal for silence. the scouts came to an abrupt stop. from what seemed to be only a short distance in front of them they could hear a voice upraised apparently in anger. replying to it were the tones of their leader. "seems to be trouble ahead of some kind," exclaimed crawford. "come on, boys." they all advanced close on his heels--guided by the sound of the angry voice, which did not diminish in tone but apparently waxed more and more furious as they drew nearer. presently the woodland thinned and the ground became dotted with stumps of felled timber and in a few paces more they emerged on a small peach orchard at the edge of which stood rob blake and a larger and older boy. as crawford and his followers came upon the scene the elder lad, who seemed beside himself with rage, picked up a large rock and was about to hurl it with all his might at rob when the young corporal dashed forward and held his hand up to stay him. "here, what's all this trouble?" he demanded. "you just keep out of it, merritt crawford," said the elder lad, a hulking, thick-set youth with a mean look on his heavy features. "i'm just reading this kid here a lesson. this orchard is my father's and mine and you'll keep out of it in future or suffer the consequences, understand?" "why, we aren't doing any harm," protested rob blake heatedly. "i don't care what you are doing or not doing," retorted the other, "this is my father's orchard and you'll keep off it. you and the rest of you tin soldiers. i don't want you stealing our peaches." "i guess you are sore, jack curtiss, because you couldn't get a boy scout patrol of your own! i guess that's what the trouble is," remarked tubby hopkins softly, but with a meaning look at the big lad. "you impudent little whipper-snapper," roared jack curtiss, "if you weren't such a shrimp i'd lick you for that remark, but you're all beneath my notice. all i want to say to you is keep away from my orchard or i'll give you a trimming." "suppose you start now," said rob blake quietly, "if you are so anxious to show what a scrapper you are." "bah, i don't want anything to do with you, i tell you," rejoined curtiss, turning away, with a rather troubled expression, however, for while he was a bully the big lad had no particular liking for a fight unless he was pretty sure that all the advantage lay on his side. "it was too bad you didn't get that patrol of yours, jack," called the irrepressible tubby after him as the big youth strode off across the orchard toward the old-fashioned farmhouse in which he lived with his father, a well-to-do farmer. "never mind; better luck next time," he went on, "or maybe we'll let you into ours some time." "you just wait," roared the retreating bully, shaking his fist at the lads, "i'll make trouble for you yet." "well," remarked rob blake, as jack curtiss strode off, "i guess the run is over for to-day. too bad we should have come out on his land. of course he feels sore at us; and i shouldn't wonder but he will really try to do us some mischief if he gets a chance." as it was growing late and there did not seem much chance of restarting the "follow the trail" practice, that day at least, the boys strolled back through the woodland and soon emerged on a country road about three miles from hampton inlet, where they lived. while they are covering the distance perhaps the reader may care to know something about the cause of the enmity which jack curtiss entertained toward the lads of the eagle patrol. it had its beginning several months before when the boys of hampton inlet began to discuss forming a patrol of boy scouts. they all attended the hampton academy, and naturally the news that rob blake was going to try to organize a patrol soon spread through the school. jack curtiss, as soon as he heard what rob--whom he considered more or less a rival of his--intended doing he also forwarded an application to the headquarters of the organization in new york. as rob blake's had been received first, however, and on investigation he was shown to be a likely lad for the leader, he was appointed and at once began the enrollment of his scouts. the bully was furious when he realized that he would be unable to secure an authorized patrol, and he and his cronies, two lads about his own age named bill bender and sam redding, had been busy ever since devising schemes to "get even" as they called it. none of these, however, had been effective and the encounter of that day was the first chance jack had had to work off any of his rancor on rob blake's patrol. young blake was the only son of mr. albert blake, the president of the local bank. his corporal, merritt crawford, was the eldest of the numerous family of jared crawford, the blacksmith and wheelwright of the little town, and tubby hopkins was the offspring of mrs. hopkins--a widow in comfortable circumstances. the other lads of the patrol whom we shall meet as the story of their doings and adventures progresses were all natives of the town, which was situated on the south shore of long island--as has been said--and on an inlet which led out to the atlantic itself. the scouts trudged back into hampton just at twilight and made their way at once to their armory--as they called it--which was situated in a large room above the bank of which rob's father was president. at one side of it was a row of lockers and each lad--after changing his uniform for street clothes--placed his "regimentals" in these receptacles. this done the lads broke up and started for their various homes. rob and his young corporal left the armory together, after locking the door and descending the stairs which led onto a side street. "i wonder if that fellow curtiss means to carry out his threat of getting even?" said crawford as they made their way down the street arm in arm, for their homes were not far apart and both on main street. "he's mean enough to attempt anything," rejoined rob, "but i don't think he's got nerve enough to carry out any of his schemes. hullo!" he broke off suddenly, "there he is now across the street by the post office, talking to bill bender and sam redding. i'll bet they are hatching up some sort of mischief. just look at them looking at us. i'll bet a doughnut they were talking about us." "shouldn't wonder," agreed his companion. "by the way, i've got to go and see if there is any mail. come on over." the two lads crossed the street and as they entered the post office, although neither of them had much use for either of the bullies' two chums, they nodded to them pleasantly. "you kids think you're pretty fine with your eagle patrol or whatever you call it, don't you," sneered bill bender, as they walked by. "i'll bet the smell of a little real powder would make your whole regiment run to cover." "don't pay any attention to him," whispered the young corporal to rob, who doubled up his fists and flushed angrily at the sneering tone jack curtiss' friend had adopted. rob restrained his anger with an effort, and by the time they emerged from the post office the trio of worthies--who, as rob had rightly guessed, had been discussing them--had moved on up the street. "i had trouble with those kids myself this afternoon," remarked jack curtiss with a scowl, as they wended their way toward a shed in the rear of bill bender's home, which had been fitted tip as a sort of clubroom. "what did they do to you?" incautiously inquired sam redding, a youth as big as the other two, but not so powerful. in fact he was used more or less as a tool by them. "do to me," roared the bully, "what did i do to them, you mean." "well what did you do to them then?" asked bill bender, as they entered the clubroom before referred to and he produced some cigarettes, which all three had been strictly forbidden to smoke. "chased them off my land," rejoined the other, lighting a paper roll and blowing out a cloud of smoke, "you should have seen them run. if they want to play their fool games they've got to do it on the property of folks who'll let them. they can't come on my land." "you mean your father's, don't you?" put in the unlucky sam redding. "sam, you've got a head like a billiard ball," retorted the bully, turning on the other, "it'll be mine some day, won't it? therefore it's as good as mine now." although he didn't quite see the logic of the foregoing, sam redding gave a sage nod and agreed that his leader was right. "yes, those kids need a good lesson from somebody," chimed in bill bender. "i think we had better be the 'somebodies' to give it to them," rejoined jack curtiss. "they are getting insufferable. they actually twitted me this afternoon with being sore at them because i didn't get my patrol--as if i really wanted one. that blake kid is the worst of the bunch. just because his father has a little money he gives himself all kinds of airs. my father is as rich as his, even if he isn't a banker." "i've been thinking of a good trick we can put up on them, but it will take some nerve to carry it out," announced bill bender, after some more discussion of the lads of the eagle patrol. "out with it, then," urged the bully, "what is it?" in a lowered tone bill bender sketched out his scheme in detail, while jack and sam nodded their approval. at length he ceased talking and the other two broke out into a delighted laugh, in which malice as much as merriment prevailed. "it's the very thing," exclaimed jack. "bill, you're a genius. we'll do it as soon as possible. if that doesn't take some starch out of those tin soldiers nothing will." half an hour later the three cronies parted for the night. sam went to his home near the waterfront, for his father was a boat builder, and jack started to walk the three miles to his father's farm in the moonlight. his way took him by the bank. as he passed it he gazed up at the windows of the armory on which was lettered in gilt: "eagle patrol of the boy scouts of america." "that's a slick idea of bill's," said the bully to himself, "i can hardly wait till we get a chance to carry it out." chapter ii a cruise to the island "whatever are you doing, rob?" it was the morning after the consultation of jack curtiss and his cronies, and corporal crawford was looking over the fence into his leader's yard. rob was bending over a curious-looking apparatus, consisting of a bent stick held in a bow-shape by a taut leather thong. the appliance was twisted about an upright piece of wood sharpened at one end--which was rotated as the lad ran the bow back and forth across it. presently smoke began to rise from the flat piece of timber into which the point of the upright stick had been boring and depositing sawdust, and rob, by industriously blowing at the accumulation, presently caused it to burst into flame. "there i've done it," he exclaimed triumphantly, arising with a flushed face from his labors. "done what?" inquired young crawford interestedly. "made fire in the indian way," replied rob triumphantly. "i thought they made it by rubbing two sticks together." "only book indians do that," replied rob, "i'll tell you it took me a time to get the hang of it, but i've got it now." "it's quite a stunt, all right," commented the corporal admiringly. "you bet, and it's useful, too," replied rob. "i'll put the bow and drill in my pocket, and then any time we get stuck for matches we'll have no trouble in making a signal smoke or lighting cooking fires." "say, i've got some news for you," went on young crawford, "did you know that sam redding has entered that freak motor boat he's been building in the yacht club regatta? he's out for the club trophy." "no, is he, though?" exclaimed rob, keenly interested. "then the crew and skipper of the flying fish will have to look alive. i know that sam's father helped him out with that boat and put a lot of new wrinkles in it. i didn't think, though, he'd have it ready in time for the races." the boys referred to the coming motor-boat races which were to take place shortly on the inlet at hampton. like most of the other lads in the seashore town, merritt and rob had a lot of experience on the water and some time before had built a speedy motor boat from knock-down frames. the flying fish, as they called her, was entered for the main event referred to, the prize for which was a silver cup, donated by the merchants of the town. there were several other entries in the race, but rob and his crew, consisting of merritt and tubby hopkins, confidently expected the flying fish to easily lead them all. "i wonder if the sam redding can show her stern to the flying fish?" mused rob. "i'd like to lake a good look at her." "let's go down to redding's boat yard," suggested merritt; "she's lying there on the ways. i don't suppose any one would object to our sizing her up." rob hailed the suggestion as a good one. "we can call in for tubby on the way," he said, as he darted into the house after his hat. the boys dropped in at tubby's house on their way to the water-front, and received from the stout youth some additional details regarding sam's boat. "she's a hydroplane," volunteered tubby, "and tom jennings, down at the yard, says she's as fast as a race horse." "a hydroplane?--that's one of those craft that cut along the top of the water like a skimming dish, isn't it?" asked merritt. "that's the idea," responded rob. "they're supposed to be as speedy as anything afloat in smooth water." thus conversing they reached the boat-building yard of sam redding's father and were greeted by tom jennings, a big good-natured ship carpenter. "hullo, tom! can we see that new boat of sam's?" inquired rob. "sure, i guess there's no objection," grinned tom, "come right this way. there she is, over there by that big winch." report had not erred apparently as to the novel qualities of sam redding's speed craft. she was about twenty-five feet long, narrow and painted black. she was perfectly flat-bottomed, her underside being deeply notched at frequent intervals. on the edge of those notches she was supposed to glide over the water when driven at top speed. "she certainly looks like a winner," commented rob, as he gazed at her clean, slender lines and sharp bow. "she's got wonderful speed," tom jennings confided. "we tried her out the other night when no one was around. but i don't think that in rough water she'll be much good." "no, i'd prefer the flying fish for the waters hereabouts," agreed rob, "it's liable to come on rough in a hurry and then a chap who was out in a dry-goods box, like that thing, would be in trouble." "what are you calling a dry-goods box?" demanded an indignant voice behind them, and turning, the lads saw sam redding with a menacing look on his face. a little way behind him stood bill bender and jack curtiss. "oh, i beg your pardon, sam," said rob. "i really admire your hydroplane very much, and i think it will give us a tussle for the trophy, all right; but i don't think she'd be much good in any kind of a sea-way." "that's my business, you interfering little runt," snapped sam, who, with bill bender and jack curtiss to back him, felt very brave; though ordinarily he would have avoided trouble with the young scouts. "what are you doing spying around the yard here, anyhow?" he went on insolently. "we are not spying," indignantly burst out merritt. "we asked tom jennings if we couldn't look at your hydroplane, as we were naturally interested in her, and he gave us permission." "well, he had no business to," growled sam; "he ought to be attending to his work instead of showing a lot of nosy young cubs my new boat." "they are capable of stealing your ideas," chimed in jack curtiss, "and putting them on their own boat." "that's ridiculous," laughed rob, "as i said i wouldn't want to have anything to do with such a contrivance except on a lake or a river." "well, you keep your advice and your ideas to yourself, and get out of this yard!" roared sam, waxing bolder and bolder, and mistaking rob's conciliatory manner for cowardice. "i've a good mind to punch your head." "better come on and try it," retorted rob, preparing for the immediate onslaught which it seemed reasonable from sam's manner to expect. but it didn't come. muttering something about "young cubs," and "keeping the boat-yard gate locked," sam turned to his chums and invited them to come and try out his new motor in the shop. as the three chums had no desire to "mix it up with sam on his own place," as tubby put it, they left the yard promptly, and walked on down the water-front to the wharf at which lay the flying fish, the fastest craft in the hampton motor boat club. rob's boat was, to tell the truth, rather broad of beam for a racer and drew quite a little water. she had a powerful motor and clean lines, however, and while not primarily designed solely for "mug-hunting," had beaten everything she had raced with during the few months since the boys had completed her. the money for her motor had been given to rob by his father, who was quite indulgent to rob in money matters, having noticed that the lad always expended the sums given him wisely. "let's take a spin," suddenly suggested tubby. "nothing to prevent us," answered rob; "we've got plenty of time before dinner. come on, boys." the lads were soon on board and examining the gasoline tank, to see how much fuel they had on hand, and oiling up the engine. the fuel receptacle proved to be almost full, so after filling the lubricant cups and attending to the batteries, they started up the engine--a powerful, three cylindered, twelve-horse affair capable of driving the twenty-two foot flying fish through the water at twelve miles an hour or better. just as rob was casting off the head-line there came a hail from the wharf above them. "ahoy, there, shipmates! where are yer bound fer this fine, sunny day?" the lads looked up to see the weather-beaten countenance of captain job hudgins, one of the characters of the vicinity. he was a former whaler, and lived on a small island some distance from hampton. on his little territory he fished and grew a few vegetables, "trading in" his produce at the hampton grocery stores for his simple wants. he, however, had a pension, and was supposed to have a "snug little fortune" laid by. his only companion in his island solitude was it big newfoundland dog named "skipper." the animal stood beside its master on the dock and wagged its tail at the sight of the boys, whom it knew quite well from their frequent visits to the captain's little island. "hullo, captain!" shouted rob, as the veteran saluted his three young friends. "where's your boat?" "oh, her engine went--busted, and i had to leave her at the yard below fer repairs," explained the captain. "i wonder if yer boys can give me a lift back if yer goin' near topsail island?" "surest thing you know," rejoined rob hastily. "come right aboard. but how are you going to get off your island again if your motor is laid up here to be fixed?" "oh, i'll use my rowboat," responded the old mariner, clambering down into the flying fish. "say, this is quite a right smart contraption, ain't she?" "we think she is a pretty good little boat," modestly replied rob, taking his place at the wheel. "now, then, merritt, start up that engine." "hold on a minute!" shouted tubby. "we forgot the dog." sure enough, skipper was dashing up and down the wharf in great distress at the prospect of being deserted. "put yer boat alongside that landin' stage at the end of the wharf," suggested his master. "skipper can get aboard from there, i reckon." rob steered the flying fish round to the floating landing, to which an inclined runway led from the wharf. skipper dashed down it as soon as he saw what was happening, and was waiting, ready to embark, when the flying fish came alongside. "poor old skipper, i reckon yer thought we was goin' ter maroon yer," said captain job, as the animal jumped on board with a bark of "thanks" for his rescue. "i tell yer, boys, i wouldn't lose that dog fer all the money in rob's father's bank. he keeps good watch out an the island, i'll tell yer." "i didn't think any one much came there, except us," said rob, as the flying fish headed away from the wharf and began to cut through the waters of the inlet. "oh, yes; there's others," responded the old man. "that jack curtiss lad and his two chums are out there quite often." "bill bender and sam redding, i suppose you mean," said tubby. "those their names?" asked the captain. "well, i don't know any good uv any uv 'em. old skipper here chased 'em away from my melon patch the other day. i reckon they thought old scratch was after them, the way they run; but they got away with some melons, just the same." the old man laughed aloud at the recollection of the marauders' precipitous flight. that jack curtiss and his two cronies had made a rendezvous of the island was news to the boys, and not agreeable news, either. they had been planning a patrol camp there later on in the summer, and the bully and his two chums were not regarded by them as desirable neighbors. however, they said nothing, as they could not claim sole right to use the island, which was property that had been so long in litigation that it had come to be known as "no man's land" as well as by its proper name. the captain was only a squatter there, but no one cared to disturb him, and he had led the existence of a semi-hermit there for many years. the flying fish rapidly covered the calm waters of the inlet and was soon dancing over the swells outside. "i'm going to let her out a bit," said rob suddenly; "look out for spray." "spray don't bother a brine-pickled old salt like me," laughed the captain. "let her go." the flying fish seemed fairly to leap forward as merritt gave her the full power of her engine. as rob had said, it did indeed behoove her occupants to look out for spray. the sparkling spume came flying back in sheets as she cut through the waves, but the boys didn't mind that any more than did their weather-beaten companion. as for skipper, he barked aloud in sheer joy as the flying fish slid along as if she were trying to live up to her name to her utmost ability. "this is a good little sea boat," remarked the captain, as they plunged onward. "she's as seaworthy as she is speedy, i guess." "she'll stand a lot of knocking about, and that's a fact," agreed rob. "well," remarked the old man, gazing about him, "it's a good thing that she is, fer, if i'm not mistaken--and i'm not often off as regards the weather--we are goin' ter have quite a little blow before yer boys get back home." "a storm?" asked tubby, somewhat alarmed. "oh, no; not what yer might call a storm," laughed the captain; "but just what we used to term a 'capful uv wind.'" "well, so long as it isn't a really bad blow, it won't trouble the flying fish," rob assured him. "hullo!" exclaimed the old man suddenly. "what queer kind uv craft is that?" he pointed back to the mouth of the now distant inlet, from which a curious-looking black craft was emerging at what seemed to be great speed. "it's that hydroplane of sam redding's, for a bet!" cried rob. "here, tubby, take the wheel a minute, while i put the glasses on her." the lad stood up in the heaving motor craft, steadying himself against the bulwarks by his knees, and peered through his marine-glasses. "it's the hydroplane, sure enough," he said. "by ginger, but she can go, all right! sam and jack and bill are all in her. they seem to be heading right out to sea, too." "say!" exclaimed tubby suddenly, "if it comes on to blow, as the captain said it would, they'll be in a bad fix, won't they?" "in that ther shoe-box thing," scornfully exclaimed the old captain, who had also been looking through the glasses, "why, i wouldn't give a confederate dollar bill with a hole in it fer their lives." chapter iii boy scouts to the rescue "hadn't we better put back and warn them?" suggested merritt rather anxiously, for he was alarmed by the confident manner in which the old seaman prophesied certain disaster to the hydroplane if the weather freshened. "no; see, she's heading toward us. i guess they want a race," cried rob. "we'll slow down a bit and let them catch up." in a few moments the hydroplane was alongside. the yellow hood over her powerful engines glistened with the wet of the great bow-wave her speed had occasioned, and her powerful motor was exhausting with a roar like a battery of machine guns. crouched aft of the engine hood was sam redding, who held the wheel. jack curtiss and bill bender were in the stern. they sat tandem-wise in the narrow racing shell. "want a tow rope for that old stone dray of yours?" jeered jack curtiss, as the speedy little racer ranged alongside. he did not know that the flying fish was slowed down, and that although the hydroplane appeared to be capable of tremendous speed, she was not actually so very much faster than rob's boat. "say, you fellows," warned rob, making a trumpet of his hands, "the captain says it's coming on to blow before long. you'd better get back into the inlet with that craft of yours." "save your breath to cool your coffee," shouted sam redding back at him, across the fifty feet or so of water that lay between the two boats. "we know what we are about." "but you're risking your lives," shouted merritt. "that thing wouldn't live ten minutes in any kind of a sea." "well, we're not such a bunch of old women as to be scared of a little wetting," jeered jack curtiss. "so long! we've got no time to wait for that old tub of yours." before the boys could voice any more warnings, the hydroplane, which had been slowed down, dashed off once more. "i don't know what we are to do," spoke up merritt. "we can't compel them to go in, and, after all, the captain may be mistaken." "no, i'm not, my son," rejoined the veteran. "i can smell wind--and see them 'mare's tails' in the sky over yonder. they're as fall uv wind as a preacher is uv texts." "well, we've done our best to warn them," concluded rob. "if they are so foolhardy as to keep on, we can't help it." in half an hour more the boys had landed the captain at the little pier he had built on his island, and to which his rowboat was attached, and were ready to start back, good-bys having been said. "hark!" exclaimed the captain, as rob prepared to give the order to "go ahead." the boys listened, and heard a low, distant moaning sound, something like the deepest rumbling notes of a church organ. "that's the wind comin'," warned the captain. "yer'd better be hurryin' back." with more hasty good-bys, the lads got under way at once. as they emerged from the lee of the island they could see that seaward the ocean was being rapidly lashed into choppy, white-crested waves by the advancing storm, and that the wind was freshening into a really stiff breeze. "those fellows must be wishing they took our advice now if they are fools enough to have kept out," said merritt, as he slowed down the engine so as to permit the flying fish to ride the rising seas more easily. "yes, i guess they're doing some tall thinking," agreed tubby, as a wave caught the little flying fish "quartering" on her port bow, and sent a white smother of spray swirling back over her occupants. "that's the time we got it," laughed rob, from the wheel, peering straight ahead. suddenly he uttered a shout and pointed seaward. "look there!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "there are those three fellows, and they're in trouble, from the looks of it." the others looked, and beheld, half a mile or so away, on the roughening waters, the hull of the hydroplane. she was tossing up and down like a cork, and apparently was drifting helplessly, with her motor broken down, in the heavy sea. her occupants seemed to be bailing her; but as they caught sight of the flying fish they stood up and waved frantically. "yes, they're in trouble, all right," agreed tubby. "and i suppose we've got to go and get them out of it." rob had already put the flying fish about and headed her for the distressed craft. as they drew near, sam redding began shouting: "help, help! we're sinking, we're sinking!" jack curtiss and bill bender, drenched to the skin with spray and white with fright, said nothing, but a look of great relief came over their faces as the chums' boat ranged alongside. "i don't want to risk ramming my boat by coming right alongside," shouted rob. "you'll have to jump for it. don't be scared. we'll pull you aboard." the three youths on the water-logged hydroplane looked somewhat alarmed at the prospect, but rob knew that jack and bill could swim. he was not sure of sam, but assumed, from the fact that he had lived by the sea all his life, that he was equally at home in the water. the hesitation of jack curtiss and his chum was over in a minute, as the hydroplane gave a plunge that seemed as if it would be her last. lightly dressed as they were, in canvas trousers, sleeveless jerseys and yachting shoes, it was no trick at all for them to swim the few feet to the flying fish. as they leaped overboard, sam lingered. "come on, sam," shouted jack, as the boys lugged the two dripping, sputtering castaways on board. "i--i can't swim. you'll have to come alongside for me," stuttered the badly-scared sam. "all right. hold on, and we'll do what we can," hailed rob, starting to carry out the risky maneuver of getting alongside the plunging hydroplane in the heavy sea. in some never-to-be-explained manner, however, the frightened sam suddenly lost his balance in the tossing racing boat, and, clawing desperately at her bulwarks to save himself, shot over the side. "he'll drown!" shouted jack curtiss. "he can't swim, and he'll drown." "if you knew that, why didn't you stand by him?" truculently growled tubby. without an instant's hesitation, merritt threw off the jacket he had put on when it started to blow, and slipped off his shoes. he was overboard and striking out for the drowning boy before those in the flying fish even realized his purpose. with swift, powerful strokes he got alongside sam just as the owner of the hydroplane was going down for the third time. as the brave boy seized the struggling, frightened youth he felt himself gripped by the panic-stricken sam in a frenzied hold of desperate intensity. his arms were pinioned by the drowning wretch, and they both vanished beneath the waves. as they went under, however, merritt managed to get one hand free, and recalling what he had read of what to do under such conditions, struck the other boy a terrific blow between the eyes. it stunned sam completely, and, to his great relief, merritt felt the imprisoning grip relax. he could then handle sam easily, and as they shot to the surface he saw the flying fish bearing down on them, with four white, strained faces searching the tumbling waters. in a few moments the unconscious lad and his rescuer were hauled on board, and rob, after congratulations, headed the flying fish for the mouth of the inlet, which was still some distance off. tubby and bill bender laid sam on his stomach, across a thwart, and started to try to get some of the salt water, of which he had swallowed great quantities, out of him. he soon gave signs of returning consciousness, and opened his eyes just as jack curtiss was demanding to know if the boy scouts weren't going to take the hydroplane in tow. "not much we're not," responded rob. "i'm sorry to have to leave her; but this sea is getting up nastier every minute, and there's no way of getting a line to her without running more risk than i want to take. we've had one near-drowning and we don't want another." "if this was my boat, i'd pick sam's boat up," sullenly replied the bully. "you ought to be mighty glad we came along when we did," indignantly spoke up tubby. "you'd have been in a bad fix if we hadn't. instead of being thankful for it, all you can do is to kick about leaving the hydroplane." an angry reply was on the other's lips, but bill bender checked it by looking up and saying: "i guess the kid's right, jack. let it go at that." the bully glowered. he felt his pride much wounded at having been compelled to seek the aid of the boys whom he despised and hated. "i suppose you'll go and blab it all over town about how you saved us," he sneered, as the flying fish threaded her way through the tumbling waters at the mouth of the inlet and began making her way up it. "i don't think we shall," replied rob quietly. "i mean to recommend merritt, though, to headquarters for his red honor." "oh, you mean that cheap, bronze medal thing on a bit of red ribbon!" sneered jack. "why, that isn't worth much. you couldn't sell it for anything but old junk. why don't they make them of gold?" "that 'bronze medal thing,' as you call it, is worth a whole lot to a boy scout," rejoined rob in the same even tone. "more than you can understand." on their arrival at the yacht-club pier the boys were overwhelmed with questions, and a doctor was summoned for sam, who, as soon as he found himself safe, began to groan and show most alarming symptoms of being seriously affected by his immersion. the boys were not able to conceal the fact that they had accomplished a brave rescue, and were overwhelmed with congratulations. merritt especially came in for warm praise and commendation. "you will certainly be granted your red honor," declared mr. wingate, who, besides being commodore of the yacht club, was one of the gentlemen whom rob had persuaded to act as scout master for the new patrol. merritt escaped from the crowd of admiring motor-boat men and boys as soon as he could, and hastened home for a change of clothes. on the arrival of dr. telfair, the village physician, he pronounced that there was nothing whatever the matter with sam but a bad fright, and prescribed dry garments and hot lemonade. "don't i need any medicine?" groaned sam, determined to make the most out of his temporary notoriety. "no, you don't," growled the doctor; "unless," he added to himself, "they put up 'courage' in bottles." "i suppose those boys will be more stuck up than ever now," said jack to bill bender, as, having perfunctorily thanked their rescuers, they started for home with the almost weeping sam. "sure to be," rejoined bill. "it's all your fault, sam, for taking us out in that fool hydroplane." "my fault! well, i like that," stuttered out sam. "you asked me to come, and you know i wanted to come back when the boys told us it might come on to blow; but you called me a 'sissy,' and said i was too timid to own a boat." "um--er--well," rejoined bill, somewhat confused, "that's so. but anyhow, to return to what we were talking about, it's given those kids a great chance to set up as heroes." "well, we can work that scheme we were talking about last night on them just as soon as you're ready," suddenly remarked jack. "that will give them something else to think about." "oh, say, jack, cut it out, won't you?" pleaded sam. "i don't like the kids any better than you do, but one of them saved my life to-day, and i'm not going into anything that will harm them." "hear him rave!" sneered jack. "why last night, when we talked it over, you thought it would be a prime joke. it isn't as if it would hurt them. it'll just give them something to study up, that's all. they think they're such fine trailers and tracers that it would be a shame not to give them a chance to show what they can do." "that's right, sam," cut in bill; "it's more of a joke than anything else." "well," agreed sam weakly, "if you put it in that way, i suppose it's all right; but i tell you i don't like it." "why, you'll have the laugh of your young life after we've pulled the stunt off," remarked bill. "when will we do it, jack?" "not to-night, that's certain," responded the other. "i've had enough excitement for one day." "what's the matter with to-morrow night, then?" "i'm agreeable. how about you, sam?" "i wish you fellows would leave me out of it," rejoined the bully's timid chum. "like they left you out of their patrol, eh?" sneered bill, knowing that he was touching the other on a tender spot. "all right, to-morrow night suits me," snapped sam, flushing angrily at bill's remark--as that worthy had intended he should. "here's my house. we'll meet at bill's 'boudoir."' "right you are," chuckled jack. "oh, say, it's going to be the joke of the century!" chapter iv sam in dire straits "kree-ee-ee!" merritt paused the next morning in front of tubby's home, and gave the "call" of the eagle patrol with a not uncreditable resemblance to the scream of a real eagle. the cry was instantly echoed--though in a rather thicker way--from inside the house, and in a minute tubby, who knew that some one of the patrol must have uttered the call, appeared at his door, munching a large slice of bread and jam, although it was not more than an hour since breakfast. "say, you, did you ever hear an eagle scream with his mouth full of bread and jam?" demanded merritt, as the stout youth appeared. "eagles don't eat bread and jam," rejoined tubby, defending his position. "have some?" "having had breakfast not more than an hour ago, i'm not hungry yet, thank you," politely rejoined the corporal; "besides, i'm afraid i'd get fat." dodging the stout youth's blow, the corporal went on: "heard the news?" "no--what news?" eagerly demanded the other, finishing his light repast. "why, the dolphin--you know, that fishing boat--picked up sam's hydroplane at sea and towed it in. it's in pretty good shape, i hear, although the engine is out of commission and it was half full of water." "he's a lucky fellow to get it back." "i should say so," replied merritt; "but it will cost him a whole lot to reclaim it. the captain of the dolphin says he wants fifty dollars for it as salvage." "gee! do you think sam's father will give him that much?" said tubby, with round eyes. "i don't know. he can afford it all right. he's made a lot of money out of that boat-building shop, my father says; but he's so stingy that i doubt very much if he will give sam such a sum." "why, here's sam coming down the street now," exclaimed the good-natured tubby. "i wonder if he's heard about it. hullo, sam! get all the water out of your system?" "i'm all right this morning, if that is what you mean," rejoined the other, with dignity. "heard the news about your boat?" asked merritt suddenly. "no; what about her? is she safe? who picked her up?" "wait a minute. one question at a time," laughed merritt. "she's safe, all right. the dolphin picked her up at sea. but it will cost you fifty dollars to get her." "fifty dollars!" gasped sam, turning pale. "that's what the skipper of the dolphin says. he had a lot of trouble getting a line fast to her, he says, and he means to have the money or keep the boat." "oh, well, i'll get it from my father easily enough," said sam confidently, preparing to swagger off down the street. "i've got to get my boat back and beat rob's flying fish, and that hydroplane can do it." "can you match that?" exclaimed merritt to the fat youth, as sam strolled away. "here he was saved from drowning by the flying fish only yesterday, and all he can think of this morning is to promise to beat her. what makes him so mean, i wonder?" "just born that way, i guess," rejoined the stout youth; "and as for the flying fish saving him, if it hadn't been for a certain corporal crawford, he--" "here, stow that," protested merritt, coloring up. "i heard enough of that yesterday afternoon." as the boys had surmised, sam's father was not at all pleased when he learned that his son wanted fifty dollars. in fact, he refused point blank to let him have it at all. "that boat of yours has cost enough already, and i'm not going to spend any more on it," he said angrily, as he turned to his work. "but i can't get the hydroplane back if i don't pay it," urged sam. "i've seen the captain of the dolphin, and he refuses absolutely to let me have her unless i pay him for his trouble in towing her in." "i can't help that," snapped the elder redding. "what have i got to do with your boat? look here!" he exclaimed, turning angrily and producing a small memorandum book from his pocket and rapidly turning the leaves. "do you know how much i've given you in the last two months?" "n-n-no," stammered sam, looking very much embarrassed, and shuffling about from one foot to the other. "then i'll tell you, young man; it's exactly--let me see--ten, twenty, five, three, fifteen and eight. that's just sixty-one dollars. do you think that money grows on gooseberry bushes? then there'll be your college expenses to pay. no, i can't let you have a cent." "that means that i will lose my boat and the chance of winning the race at the regatta!" urged sam gloomily. "well, you should have had more sense than to take that fool hydroplane out into a rough sea. i told you she wouldn't stand it. there, go on about your own affairs. i'm far too busy to loaf about, arguing with you." and with this the hard-featured old boat builder--who had made his money literally by the sweat of his brow--turned once more to his task of figuring out the blue prints of a racing sloop. sam saw that it was no use to argue further with his father, and left the shop with no very pleasant expression on his countenance. "i'll have to see if i can't borrow it somewhere," he mused. "if only i was on better terms with rob blake, i could get it from him, i guess. his father is a banker and he must have plenty. i wonder--i wonder if mr. blake himself wouldn't lend it to me. i could give him a note for it, and in three months' time i'd be sure to be able to take it up." with this end in view, the lad started for the hampton bank. it required some courage for a youth of his disposition to make up his mind to beard the lion in his den--or, in other words, to approach mr. blake in his office. for sam, while bold enough when his two hulking cronies were about, had no real backbone of his own. after making two or three turns in front of the bank, he finally screwed his courage to the sticking point, and timidly asked an attendant if he could see the banker. "i think so. i'll see," was the reply. in a few seconds the man reappeared, and said that mr. blake could spare a few minutes. hat in hand, sam entered the ground-glass door which bore on it in imposing gilt letters the word "president." the interview was brief, and to sam most unsatisfactory. the banker pointed out to him that he was a minor, and as such that his note would be no good; and also that, without the permission of his father, he would not think of lending the youth such a sum. much crestfallen, sam shuffled his way out toward the main door of the bank, when suddenly a voice he recognized caused him to look up. "a hundred and twenty-five dollars. that's right, all shipshape and above board!" it was the old captain of topsail island, counting over in his gnarled paw one hundred and twenty-five dollars in crisp bills which he had just received from the paying teller. "you must be going to be married, captain," sam heard the teller remark jocularly. "not yet a while," the captain laughed back. "that ther motor uv mine that i left ter be fixed up is goin' ter cost me fifty dollars, and the other seventy-five i'm calculating ter keep on hand in my safe fer a while. i'm kind uv figgerin' on gettin' a new dinghy--my old one is just plum full uv holes. i rowed over frum the island this mornin', and i declar' ter goodness, once or twice i thought i'd swamp." sam slipped out of the bank without speaking to the captain, whom, indeed, since the episode of the melon patch, he had no great desire to encounter. as he made his way toward his home in no very amiable mood, he was hailed from the opposite side of the street by jack curtiss and bill bender. "any news of the boat?" demanded jack, as he and bill crossed over and slapped their crony on the back with great assumed heartiness. "yes, and mighty bad news, too, in one way. she's safe enough. the dolphin--that fishing boat--found her and towed her in. but--here's the tough part of it--it's going to cost fifty dollars for salvage to get her from the dolphin's captain, the old shark!" "phew!" whistled jack curtiss. "pretty steep. but i suppose your old man will fork over, eh?" "that's just it," grumbled sam; "he won't come across with a cent. i suppose, if i don't pay for the hydroplane's recovery pretty soon, she will be sold at auction." "that's the usual process," observed bill. "isn't there any way you can raise the wind?" "no, i've tried every one i can think of. i don't suppose either of you fellows could--" "nothing doing here," hastily cried jack, not giving the other time to finish. "i'm cleaned out, too," bill also hurriedly assured the unfortunate sam. "it looks like everybody but us has coin," complained that worthy bitterly. "while i was in the bank trying to get old man blake to take up a note of mine for the sum i need, who should i see in there but that old fossil of a captain from topsail island." "who grows such fine, juicy melons and keeps such a nice, amiable pet dog," laughed jack, roaring at the recollection of the piratical expedition of which the island dweller had told the boys. "ha, ha, ha!" shouted bill in chorus. "we'll have to give him another visit soon." "but what about the old land crab, sam?" demanded jack the next minute. "what was he doing in the bank?" "why, drawing one hundred and twenty-five dollars. just think of it, and we always figured it out that he was poor." "a hundred and twenty-five dollars! i wonder what he's going to do with it?" wondered jack, with whom money and its spending was always an absorbing topic. "why, i overheard that, too, as i passed by," rejoined sam. "he's going to spend some of it for the repairing of his motor, which broke down yesterday, and the rest he's going to keep by him." "keep it on the island, you mean?" demanded jack, becoming suddenly much interested. "that's what he said--keep it in his safe," replied sam. "but what good does that do us?" "a whole lot, maybe," was the enigmatic reply. "see here, sam, you can win that race if you get your hydroplane?" "i'm sure of it." "you are going to bet on yourself, of course." "sure. i've got to raise some money somehow." "well, i've thought of a way you can borrow the money to get your boat back, and when you win the race you can return it. come on, lees go to bill's den, and we'll have a smoke and talk it over." chapter v the bully springs a surprise that afternoon, in reply to a notice sent round by a runner, the lads of the eagle patrol assembled at their armory, and on leader rob's orders "fell in" to hear the official announcement of the coming camping trip. as a matter of fact, they had discussed little else for several days, but the first "regimental" notification, as it were, was to be made now. the first duty to be performed was the calling of the roll after "assembly" had been sounded--somewhat quaveringly--by little andy bowles, the company bugler. beside rob merritt, tubby and andy, there were hiram nelson, a tall, lanky youth, whose hands were stained with much fussing with chemicals, for he was a wireless experimenter; ernest thompson, a big-eyed, serious-looking lad, whose specialty in the little regiment was that of bicycle scout, as the spoked wheel on his arm denoted; simon jeffords, a second-class scout, but who, under rob's tutelage, was becoming the expert "wig-wagger" of the organization; paul perkins, another second-class boy, but a hard worker and a devotee of aeronautics; martin green, one of the smallest of the eagle patrol, a tenderfoot; walter lonsdale, also a recruit, and joe digby, who, as the last to join the patrol, was the tenderest of the tenderfeet. rob's announcement of the program for the eight days they were to spend on the island was greeted with cheers. the news that turns were to be taken by two scouts daily at washing dishes and cooking did not awaken quite so much enthusiasm. everybody cheered up again, however, when rob announced that the flying fish would be at the disposal of the boys of the patrol. corporal merritt took rob's place as orator then, and announced that each boy would be assessed one dollar for the expenses of the camp, the remainder of the money necessary for the providing of tents and the provisioning of the camp having been donated by rob's father, mr. wingate, of the yacht club, and the other representative citizens of hampton who composed the local scout council. further excitement was caused by the announcement that following the camp the local committee would pass upon the applications for promotions and honors for the lads of the patrol, and that it was likely that another patrol would be formed in the village, as several boys had expressed themselves as anxious to form one. the gentlemen having charge of the local scout movement, however, had decided that it would be wiser to wait and see the result of one patrol's training before forming a second one. "i'm going to try for an aviator's badge," announced paul perkins, as rob declared the official business at an end. "say, rob, what's the matter with our fixing up a wireless in the camp? i'm pretty sure i can make one that will catch anything in a hundred-mile radius." "that's a good idea," assented rob; "if you can do it we can get a lot of good out of it, i don't doubt." "what's the good of wireless when we've got wig-wagging and the semaphore code," spoke up simon jeffords, who was inclined to doubt the use of any other form of telegraphy but that in which he had perfected himself. as for martin green, walter lonsdale and joe digby, they contented themselves with hoping that they might receive their badges as second-class scouts when the camp was over. "i can take the whole tests except cooking the meat and potatoes in the 'billy,'" bemoaned young green, a small chap of about thirteen. "somehow, they always seem to burn, or else they don't cook at all." "well, cheer up, martin," laughed rob. "you'll learn to do it in camp. we'll make you cook for the whole time we're out there, if you like--that will give you plenty of practice." "no, thank you," chimed in andy bowles. "i've seen some of mart's cooking, and i think the farther you keep him from the cook fire, the better for the general health of the eagle patrol." at this moment there came a rap on the door. "come in!" shouted rob. in reply to this invitation, the door opened and a lad of about fifteen entered. his face was flushed and he bore in his hand a long sheet of green paper. "hello, frank farnham," exclaimed rob glancing at the boy's flushed, excited face. "what's troubling you?" "oh, hello, rob. excuse me for butting in on your ceremonies, but i was told paul perkins was here." "sure he is, frank," exclaimed paul, coming forward. "what's the matter? it's much too warm to be flying around the way you seem to have been. come in under this fan." he indicated an electrically driven ventilator that was whirring in a corner of the room. "quit your fooling, paul," remonstrated frank, "and read this circular. here." he thrust the green "dodger" he carried into the other's hand. "what do you think of that, eh?" demanded frank, as paul skimmed it with delighted eyes. the circular contained the announcement of a lecture on aeronautics by a well-known authority on the subject who had once been a resident of hampton. to stimulate interest in the subject, the paper stated that a first prize of fifty dollars, a second prize of twenty-five, and a third prize of ten dollars would be given to the three lads of the town making and flying the most successful models of aeroplanes in a public competition. to win the first prize it would be necessary for the model to fly more than two hundred feet, and not lower, except at the start and end of the flight, than fifty feet above the ground. the second prize was for the next best flight, and the third for the model approaching the nearest to the winner of the second money. "now, paul, you are an aeronautic fiend," went on frank, "so am i, and hiram has the fever in a mild way. what's the matter with you two fellows forming a team to represent the boy scouts, and i'll get up a team of village boys, to compete for the prizes." "that's a good idea," assented hiram nelson. "i've got a model almost completed. it only needs the rubber bands and a little testing and it will be o.k., or at least i hope so. how about you, paul?" "oh, i've got two models that i have got good results from," replied the boy addressed. "one is a biplane. she's not so speedy, but very steady; and then i have a model of a bleriot. i'm willing to enter either of them or both." "and i've got a model of an antoinette, and one of a design of my own. i don't know just how well it will work," concluded frank modestly, "but i have great hopes of carrying off that prize." "let's see who else there is," pondered hiram. "there's tom maloney. he'll go in, i know; and ed rivers and two or three others, and then, by the way, i almost forgot it, i met sam redding, jack curtiss and bill bender, reading a notice of the competition, just before i came up. of course, as there is a chance of winning fifty dollars, jack is going to enter one, and bill bender said he would put one in, too." "what do they know about aeroplanes?" demanded paul. "not a whole lot, i guess; but jack said he was going to get a book that tells how to make one, and bill said he'd do the same." "how about sam?" inquired rob. "oh, i guess he's got troubles enough with his hydroplane," responded rob, whose father had told him at dinner that day of sam's vain visit to the bank. "it would be just like those fellows to put up something crooked on us," remarked paul, who had had much the same experiences with the bully and his chums as his schoolmates generally. "oh, there'll be no chance of that," frank assured him. "a local committee of business men is to be appointed to see fair play, and i don't fancy that even jack or bill will be slick enough to get away with any crooked work." "how long have we got to get ready?" asked hiram suddenly. "just a week." "wow! that isn't much time." "no; my father told me that professor charlton, whom he knows, would have given a longer time for preparation but that he has to attend a flying meet in europe, and only decided to lecture at his native town at the last moment. lucky thing that most of us have got our models almost ready." "yes, especially as this notice says," added paul, who had been reading it, "that all models must be the sole work of the contestants." "if it wasn't for that it would be easy," remarked hiram. "you can buy dandy models in new york. i've seen them advertised in the papers." "well, come on over now and put your name down, as a contestant. the blanks are in the office of the hampton news," urged frank. "i guess we're all through up here, rob, aren't we?" asked hiram. "yes," rejoined the young leader; "but you study up on your woodcraft, hiram, and devote more time to your signaling. you are such a bug on wireless that you forget the rest of the stuff." "all right, rob," promised hiram contritely. "by the time we go camping i'll know a cat track from a squirrel's, or never put a detector on my head again." piloted by frank, the two young scouts made their way to the office of the local paper, which had already placed a large bulletin announcing the aeroplane model competition in its window. quite a crowd was gathered, reading the details, as the three boys entered. they applied for their application blanks and walked over to a desk to fill them out. as they were hard at work at this, jack curtiss and his two chums entered the office. "you going into this, too?" asked the proprietor of the paper, ephraim parkhurst, as jack loudly demanded two blanks. "sure," responded jack confidently, "and we are going to win it, too. hullo," he exclaimed, as his eyes fell on the younger lads, "those kids are after the prize, too. why, what would they do with fifty dollars if they had it? however, there's not much chance of your winning anything," he added, coming up close to the boys, with a sneer on his face. "i think that i've got it cinched." "i didn't know that you knew anything about aeroplanes," responded paul quietly. "have you got a model built yet?" "i know about a whole lot of things i don't go blabbing round to everybody about," responded the elder lad, with a sneer, "and as for having a model built, i'm going to get right to work on one at once. it'll be a model of a bleriot monoplane, and a large one, too. i notice that there is nothing said in the rules about the size of the machines." soon after this the three chums left the newspaper office together. "say," remarked paul, in a rather worried tone, "i don't believe that there is anything said about the size of the models. bill may build a great big one and beat us all out." "i suppose that the big machines would be handicapped according to their power and speed," rejoined frank. "however, don't you worry about that. i don't believe that jack curtiss knows enough about the subject to build an aeroplane in a week, and anyhow, i think it's all empty bluff on his part." "i hope so," replied paul, as they reached his front gate. "will you be over to-night, hiram, to talk things over? bring your models with you, too, will you?" "sure," replied hiram; "but i've got to do a few things at home after supper. i'll be over about eight o'clock or half-past." "all right. i'll be ready for you," responded paul, as the lads said good-by. a few minutes later jack curtiss and his chums emerged from the newspaper office, the former and bill bender having made out their applications. sam seemed more dejected than ever, but there was a grin of satisfaction on jack curtiss' face. "well, we sent the note, all right," he laughed under his breath, to his two chums. "he'll have got it by this time, and will be in town by dark. you know your part of the program, sam. don't fail to carry it out, or i'll see that you get into trouble." "there's no need to worry about me, jack," rejoined sam, with an angry flush. "i'll get the boat as soon as he lands, and keep it out of sight till you've done the trick. "nothing like killing two birds with one stone," grinned bill bender. "my! what a time there'll be in the morning, when they find out that there's been a regular double cross." "hush! here come those three kids now," warned sam, as rob, merritt and tubby came down the street. after what had passed they did not feel called upon to give the bully and his companions more than a cold nod. "well, be as stuck up as you like to this after-noon!" sneered jack, after they had gone by, taking good care, however, that his voice would not carry. "i guess the laugh will be on you and your old friend of the island to-morrow." chapter vi an island mystery "hullo, hiram; where are you bound for?" it was rob who spoke, as hiram hastened by his house in the early darkness. "oh, hullo, rob," responded the other. "i was wondering who that was hanging over the gate. why, i'm going to paul's house. i'm going to talk over that aeroplane model contest with him. i think that we stand a chance to win if jack curtiss doesn't make good his boast." "what was that?" inquired rob. "oh, he says that he is going to build an aeroplane that will beat us all." "and have it ready in a week?" was rob's astonished query. "that's what he says," responded hiram. "it all looks kind of suspicious to me. fifty dollars is a large enough sum to tempt jack to do almost anything. well, so long. i've got to hurry along. i'm late now." and the lad hastened away to keep his appointment. rob was about to go into the house and get a book, when his attention was arrested by a figure coming up the street at a smart pace whose outlines somehow seemed familiar to him. the next minute his guess was confirmed, when a hearty voice hailed him: "waal, here i am, lad--all shipshape and in first-class trim. now, what is it? what do yer want? yer didn't explain in the note, but old captain job hudgins'll always stand by a shipmate in distress." "why, whatever do you mean, captain?" exclaimed rob, amazed, and thinking that the captain must have taken leave of his wits. "who do you mean is in distress?" "mean?" echoed the captain, in his turn, it seemed, surprised. "why, that note yer sent me. here it is--all written on one uv them new-fangled machines." rob took the crumpled paper the old seaman drew out of his coat and scanned it hastily by the light of the street lamp. the following note met his puzzled gaze. "dear captain: please come over and see me at once. something serious has happened at the bank. i need your aid and advice. "yours, "rob blake." "hum! the signature is typewritten, too," mused rob. "what kind of a joke is this? i don't know, but i'll bet anything that jack curtiss is at the bottom of it." "well," demanded the captain, "what is it, a bit of gammon? i'll keel-haul the man as did it if i can find him." "it looks like a hoax of some sort," admitted rob, sorely puzzled; "but i can't for the life of me see the object of it. come into the house a minute, captain, and we'll try to figure it out." seated beneath the lamp in the library of his home, rob scrutinized the letter closely, but could find absolutely no indication about it to betray who could have typewritten it. "how did you come to receive it?" he asked suddenly. "why, old hank handcraft come out in that crazy launch uv his and guv it ter me," rejoined the captain. "i ought ter hev told yer that in the first place, but i was all took aback and canvas a-shiver when yer tole me yer never wrote it." "hank handcraft," repeated rob. "he's that queer old fellow that lives in a hut away down the beach?" "yes, and a bad character, too," replied the captain. "he used ter be a smuggler, and done a term in jail fer it." "well, it's pretty certain that he didn't write this," said rob. "he couldn't get hold of a typewriter, even if he could use one. what did he tell you about it? did he say who gave it to, him?" "no, he just handed it ter me, and says: 'a young party in hampton says ter give yer this and hurry.' i was just gettin' my supper when i heard his hail of 'island, ahoy!' i hurried out, and there he was in that old teakettle uv his, at the end uv my wharf." "and he left before you read the note?" "i should say. he hurried right off ag'in." "well, i don't see any way to get at the bottom of this mystery but to go and see old hank himself," mused rob, after a period of thought. "what do you think, captain?" "that's the tack ter go about on, youngster," agreed the man of topsail island; "but if yer are goin' down ter his place at this hour uv night, we'd better take somebody else along. he's a bad character, and i'm only a feeble old man and yer are a lad." "i'll go round by merritt crawford's house," proposed rob; "then we'll pick up tubby hopkins. i guess we can handle any trouble that hank wants to make, with that force on hand." "i guess so," agreed the old man. "i must say i'd like ter get ter the bottom uv this here mystery. 'all fair and above board' is my motto. i don't like these secret craft." the two young scouts were both at home, and after brief explanations the four started off at a lively pace for hank handcraft's hut, which was situated about two miles along the beach. as they hastened along, rob explained to the others in more detail the nature of their mission, but though they were as much mystified by the sudden summons of captain hudgins as rob and the captain himself, they could hit upon no plausible explanation for it. it was a little over half an hour before they reached the dilapidated hut where old handcraft, a beach-comber, made his dwelling place. a short distance off the shore they could see by the moon, which had now risen, that his crazy old motor boat lay at anchor. this was a sign that hank was at home. lest it be wondered that such a character could have owned a motor boat, it may be explained here that the engine of hank's old oyster skiff had been given him by a summer resident who despaired of making it work. hank, however, who was quite handy with tools, had fixed it up and managed to make it drive his patched old craft at quite a fair speed--sometimes. when it broke down, as it frequently did, hank, who was a philosopher in his way, simply got out his oars and rowed his heavy craft. as an additional indication that the hut was occupied, light shone through several of its numerous chinks and crannies, and a knock at the door brought forth a low growl of: "who's there?" "we want to see you," said rob. "this is no time of night to call on a gentleman; come to-morrow and leave your cards," rumbled the gruff voice from inside the hut. "this is serious business," urged rob. "come on, open that door, hank. this is rob blake, the banker's son." "oh, it is, is it?" grumbled the voice, as the clank of the door-chains being taken off was heard from within. "well, i ain't had much business deals with your father lately, my private fortune being somewhat shrunk." with a muffled chuckle from the speaker, the door slowly opened, and hank, a ragged figure, with an immense matted beard, long tangled hair and dim blue eyes, that blinked like a rat's, stood revealed. "come in, come in, gentlemen," he bowed, with mock politeness. "i'm glad to see such a numerous and representative party. now, what kin i do you for?" he chuckled once more at his little jest, and the boys involuntarily shrank from him. there was nothing to do, however, but enter the hut, and hank accommodated his guests with a cracker box apiece as chairs. on a table, roughly built out of similar boxes, a battered old stable lamp smoked and flared. a more miserable human habitation could not be imagined. "hank," began the captain, "speak me fair and above board, mate--who give yer that letter ter bring ter me ter-night?" "what letter?" blankly responded hank, a look of vacancy in his shifty eyes. "oh, yer know well enough; that letter yer give me at supper time." "captain, i'll give you my davy i don't know what you're talking about," returned the beachcomber. "what!" roared the captain: rising to his feet and advancing threateningly. "yer mean ter tell me, yer rapscallion, that yer don't recall landin' at topsail island earlier ter-night and givin' me a note which says ter come urgent and immediate ter see young rob blake here?" "why, captain," calmly returned hank, with an indulgent grin, "i really think you must be gettin' childish in your old age. you must be seeing things. i hope you ain't drinking." "you--you scoundrel, you!" roared the old captain, almost beside himself with rage, and dancing with clenched fists toward hank. the beach-comber's filthy hand slipped into his rags in a minute, and the next instant he was squatting back on his haunches in the corner of the hut, like a wildcat about to spring. in his hand there glistened, in the yellow rays of the lamp, a blued-steel revolver. "don't get angry, captain. it's bad for the digestion," grinned the castaway. "now," he went on, "i'm going to tell you flat that if you say i came to your island to-night, you're dreaming. it must have been some one else. "come on, boys," directed the captain, with an angry shrug. "there's no use wastin' time on the critter. i'm inclined ter think now that there's somethin' more than ordinary in the wind," he added, as they left the hut, with the half-idiotic chuckles of its occupant ringing in their ears. chapter vii some strange doings it was not far from midnight when the boys, sorely perplexed, once more reached hampton. the main street had been deserted long since, and every one in the village had returned to rest. the boys left the captain by the water-front, while they headed up the main street for their respective homes. rob remained up, pondering over the events of the evening for some time, without arriving at any solution of them. he was just about to extinguish his light when he was startled by a loud: "his--s--st!" the noise came from directly below his open window, which faced onto the garden. he put out his head, and saw a dark figure standing in the yard. "who is it?" he demanded. "it's me, the captain, rob," rejoined the well-known voice. "i wouldn't have bothered yer but that i saw a light in yer window." "what's the trouble, captain?" asked the boy, noting a troubled inflection in the old man's voice. "my boat's gone!" was the startling reply. "gone! are you sure?" "no doubt about it. i left her tied ter the l wharf when i come up from the island, and now there ain't hide nor hair uv her there." "i'll bet anything that that fellow curtiss is at the bottom of all this," cried rob. "i remember now i heard some time ago that he was thick with that hank handcraft." "i don't know what ter do about it at this time uv ther night," went on the distressed captain, "an' i can't go round waking folks up ter get another boat." "of course not," agreed rob. "there's only one thing for you to do, captain, and that is to put up here to-night, and in the morning we'll see what we can do." "that's mighty fair, square, and above board uv yer, lad," said the captain gratefully. "punk me anywhere. i'm an old sailor, and can aways find the softest plank in the deck." "you won't have to do that," said rob, who had slipped downstairs by this time and opened the door; "we've got a spare room you can bunk in to-night. i'll explain it all to father in the morning. perhaps he can help us out." "gee whiz! almost twelve o'clock," exclaimed hiram nelson, looking up at the clock from the dining-room table in paul perkins' house. the chamber was strewn with text books on model aeroplane construction and littered with figures and plans of the boys' own devising. "how time flies when you're on a subject that interests you." "yes, it's a good thing it's vacation time," agreed paul. "we wouldn't be in much shape to work at our books to-morrow, eh?" "i should say not!" rejoined hiram with conviction. "well, so long, paul. i guess we've got it all figured out now, and all that is left to do is to go ahead." "that's the idea," responded paul. "we'll get the prize for the glory of the eagle patrol, or--or--" "bust!" hiram finished for him. hiram's way home lay past the bank, and as he walked down the moonlit street he thought for a minute that he perceived a light in the windows of the armory. almost as he fancied he glimpsed it, however, it vanished, and the lad was convinced that he must have been mistaken, or else seen a reflection of the moonlight on the windows. "queer, though," he mused. "i could almost have sworn it was a light." another curious thing presently attracted his attention. as he neared the bank a dark figure seemed to vanish into the black shadows round the corner. something familiar about it struck hiram, and the next moment he realized why. "if that wasn't bill bender, i'm a dutchman," he muttered, his heart beating a little faster. "but what can he be doing round here at this time of night?" as he put the question to himself, bill bender, walking rapidly, as if he had come from some distance, and had not dodged round the corner a moment before, suddenly appeared from round the angle of the bank building. "good evening, bill," said hiram, wondering if his eyes were not playing him some queer tricks; "wasn't that you just went round the corner?" "who, me?" blustered bill. "you need to visit an oculist, young man. i've just come from a visit to my aunt's. it was her birthday, and we had a bully time. sat up a little too late, though. good night." and with a great assumption of easiness, the crony of jack curtiss walked rapidly off up the street. "i guess he's right," mused hiram, as he hurried on home. "but if that wasn't bill bender who walked round that corner it was his ghost, and all the ghosts i ever read about don't wear squeaky boots." if hiram had remained he would have had further cause to be suspicious and speculative. the lad's footsteps had hardly died out down the street before bill bender cautiously retraced his way, and, going round to the side street, upon which the steps leading to the armory opened, gave a cautious whistle. in reply a sack was lowered from a window to him by some person invisible above. although there was some little light on the main street by reason of the moon and the few scattering lamps along the thoroughfare, the spot in which bill now stood was as black as the proverbial pocket. "is the coast all clear?" came down a voice from the window above. "yes; but if i hadn't spotted young hiram nelson coming down the street and warned you to put out that light, it wouldn't have been," responded bill in the same cautious tone. "well, we're safe enough now," came back the voice above, which any of his acquaintances would have recognized as jack curtiss'. "i've got the rest of them in this other sack. here, take this one when i drop it." bill made a bungling effort to catch the heavy receptacle that fell following jack's warning, but in the darkness he failed, and it crashed down with quite a clatter. "look out!" warned jack anxiously, "some one might hear that." "not in this peaceful community. you seem to forget that eleven o'clock is the very latest bedtime in hampton." after a brief interval jack curtiss himself slipped out of the side door of the armory and joined his friend on the dark sidewalk. "well, what's the next move on the program?" asked bill. "we'll sneak down bailey's lane--there are no lights there--to hank's place. sam will be waiting off there with the boat," rejoined jack. "yes, if he hasn't lost his nerve," was bill's rejoinder as they shouldered their sacks and slipped off into the deep blackness shrouding the side streets. "well, if he has lost it, he'll come near losing his head, too," grated out jack, "but don't you fear, he wants that fifty too badly to go back on us." silently as two cats the cronies made their way down the tree-bordered thoroughfare known as bailey's lane and after a few minutes gained the beach. "say, that's an awful hike down to hank's gilded palace," grumbled bill, "why didn't you have sam wait for us off here?" "yes, and have old man hudgins discover him when he finds his boat is gone," sneered jack, "you'd have made a fine botch of this if it hadn't been for me." the two exchanged no further words on the weary tramp along the soft beach. they plodded along steadily with the silence only broken by a muttered remark emanating from bill bender from time to time. "thank heaven, there's the place at last," exclaimed bill, with a sigh of relief, as they came in sight of the miserable hut, "i began to think that hank must have moved." jack gave a peculiar whistle and the next instant the same light the boys had seen earlier in the evening shone through the chinks of the hovel. "well, he's awake, at any rate," remarked jack with a grin, "now to find out where the boat is." as the wretched figure of the beach-comber appeared jack hailed him roughly. "where's that boat, hank?" "been cruising off and on here since eleven o'clock," rejoined the other sullenly, "ah! there she is now off to the sou'west." he pointed and the boys saw a red light flash twice seaward as if some one had passed their hands across it. "all right, give him the answer," ordered jack. "we've got to hurry if we're to be back before the captain and those brats of boys get after our trail." hank at jack's order dived into the hut and now reappeared with the smoky lantern. he waved it four times from side to side like a brakeman and in a short time a steady "put-put!" told the watchers that a motor boat was approaching. "now for your dinghy, hank," urged jack, "hurry up. you move like a man a hundred and ninety years old, with the rheumatism." "well, come on, then," retorted hank, "here's the boat," pointing to a cobbled dinghy lying hauled up above the water line, "give me a hand and we'll shove off." the united strength of the three soon had the boat in the water and with hank at the oars they moved steadily toward the chugging motor boat. "well, sam, you're on the job, i see," remarked jack as the two craft ranged alongside and sam cut off the engine. "oh, i'm on the job all right," rejoined sam, feeling much braver now that the other two had arrived, "have you got them all right?" "right here in this bag, and some more in this, my bucko," chuckled jack as he handed the two sacks over to sam. "ha! ha! ha!" chortled bill under his breath as he climbed out of the cobble into the motor boat, "won't there be a fine row in the morning." "well, come on; start up, sam. we've no time to lose," ordered jack as he and bill got aboard, "good night there, hank." "good night," rejoined hank quietly enough, as the motor boat moved swiftly off over the moonlit sea. he added to himself, "it won't be a very 'good night' for you, my lad, if you don't pay me as handsomely as you promised." and chuckling to himself till his shoulders shook, hank resumed his oars and rowed back to the miserable shanty he called home. chapter viii the stolen uniforms rob and his old friend lost no time the next morning in getting down to the water-front to make inquiries about the captain's missing boat. to their astonishment, however, almost the first craft that caught their eyes as they arrived at the l wharf to begin their search was the old sailor's motor dory, to all appearances in exactly the same position she had occupied the preceding night when the captain moored her. "have i clapped deadlights on my optics, or am i gone plumb locoed?" bellowed the amazed captain, as he saw the little craft dancing lightly on the sunny waters. "you are certainly not mistaken in supposing that is your boat. i'd know her among a thousand," rob assured him. "are you quite certain that she was not here last night, captain?" "just as sure as i am that yer and me is standin' here," rejoined the bewildered captain. "i've sailed the seven seas in my day, and man and boy seen many queer things; but if this don't beat cock fightin', i'm an inky senegambian!" the captain's voice had risen to a perfect roar as he uttered the last words, and a sort of jack-of-all-trades about the wharf, whose name was hi higgins, came shuffling up, asking what was the trouble. "trouble," roared the hermit of topsail island. "trouble enough fer all hands and some left over fer the cat! say, shipmate, yer hangs about this here l wharf a lot. did yer see any piratical humans monkeyin' around my boat last night?" "why, what d'yer mean, cap'n," sniffled hi higgins. "i seen yer tie up here, and there yer boat is now. what d'yer mean by pira-pirawell, them parties yer mentioned? yer mean some one took it?" "took it--yes, yer hornswoggled longshore lubber!" bellowed the captain. "i thought yer was hired as a sort uv watchman on this wharf. a find watchman yer are!" "well, yer see, cap'n," returned hi higgins, really alarmed at the captain's truculent tone, "i ain't here much after nine at night or before five in the morning." "well, was my boat here at five this mornin'?" demanded the captain. "sure it was," rejoined hi higgins, with a sniffle; "the fust boat i seen." "rob, my boy, i'm goin' crazy in my old age!" gasped the captain. "i'm as certain as i can be that the boat wasn't here when i came down to the wharf last midnight, but the pre-pon-der-ance of evidence is against me." the captain shook his head gravely as he spoke. it was evident that he was sorely puzzled and half inclined to doubt the evidence of his own senses. "douse my toplights," he kept muttering, "if this don't beat a flying dutchman on wheels and with whiskers!" "i certainly don't believe that your eyes deceived you, captain," put in rob, in the midst of the captain's rumbling outbursts. "it looks to me as if somebody really did borrow your boat last night, and that the decoy note supposed to be from me had something to do with it." "by the great horn spoon, yer've got it, my boy!" roared the captain. "and now yer come ter speak uv it, my mind misgives me that all ain 't right at the island. i didn't tell yer, but i left a tidy sum uv money in that old iron safe off the sarah jane, the last ship i commanded, and all this what's puzzled us so may be part uv some thievish scheme. "i'm going ter hurry over ter the island and make certain sure," he went on the next minute. "the more i think uv it, the more signs uv foul weather i see. good-by, my lad, and good luck. will yer be out ter see me soon? the bluefish are running fine." "we may be out this afternoon, captain," responded rob. "i am curious myself to see if any mischief has been done on your island. if there has been," he added earnestly, "you can count on the eagle patrol to help you out." "thanks, my boy!" exclaimed the old man, who was bending over his gasoline tank. "hullo!" he shouted suddenly. "i wasn't crazy! this boat was took out last night. see here!" he held up the gasoline measuring stick which he had grabbed up and plunged into the tank. the instrument was almost dry. the receptacle for fuel was nearly empty. "and i filled her before i started out!" thundered the captain. "whoever took my boat must have run her a long ways." fresh fuel was soon obtained, and the captain, after more shouted farewells, started for the island to try to obtain some clue to the mysterious happenings of the night. rob, after watching him for a few moments, as he sped down the blue waters of the sunlit inlet, turned away to return to his home, just recollecting that, in their eagerness to search for the boat, both he and the captain had entirely forgotten about breakfast. he was in the middle of the meal, and eagerly explaining to his interested parents the strange incidents of the missing boat and the decoy note, when merritt crawford burst into the room unannounced. "oh, i beg your pardon!" he apologized, abashed. "i didn't know you were at breakfast. but, mr. blake--rob--something has happened that i just had to come and tell you about at once." "good gracious! more mysteries," mr. blake was beginning in a jocular way, when the serious look on the boy's face checked him. "what is it? what has happened, merritt?" he asked soberly, while rob regarded the spectacle of his usually placid corporal's excitement with round eyes. "the uniforms are all gone!" burst out merritt. "what uniforms?" "ours--the eagle patrols'." "what! stolen?" "that's right," hurried on merritt. "i met old mrs. jones in a terrible state of mind. you know, mr. blake, she's the old woman who scrubs out the place in the morning. i asked what was the matter, and she told me that when she went to the armory early to-day, she found the lock forced and all the lockers broken open and the uniforms gone!" "have you seen the place?" asked mr. blake. "yes, i followed her up. the room was turned upside down. the locks had been ripped right off and the lockers rifled of everything. who can have done it?" "i'll bet anything jack curtiss and his gang had something to do with it, just as i believe they put up some crooked job on the captain!" burst out rob, greatly excited and his breakfast entirely forgotten. "be careful how you make such a grave accusation," warned his father. "i know it's a tough thing to say," admitted rob; "but you don't know that bunch like we do. they'd--" he was about to explain more of the characteristics of the bully and his cronies when a fresh interruption occurred. this time it was hiram nelson. he was almost as abashed as merritt had been when he found that his excitement had carried him into what seemed a family conference. "it's all right, hiram. come right in," said mr. blake cheerfully. "come on out with your news, for i can see you can hardly keep it to yourself." "it's going round the town like wildfire!" responded the panting boy. the others nodded. "i see you know it already," he went on. "well, i think i've got a clue." "you have! come on, let's hear it quick," cried rob. "well, i was up late with paul perkins last night, talking over the aeroplane model competition, and didn't start home till about midnight. as i was approaching the armory i thought i saw a light in one of the windows. i couldn't be certain, however, and i put it down to a trick that my eyes had played me." "well, that's all right as far as it goes," burst out rob. "it probably was a light. i wish you'd investigated." "wait a minute, rob," said his father, noting hiram's anxious face. "there's more to come, isn't there, hiram?" "you bet! the most exciting part of it--the most important, i mean," went on young hiram, with an important air. "oh, well, get down to it," urged the impatient rob. "what was it?" "why, right after i'd seen the light," went on hiram, "i thought i saw a dark figure slip around the corner into that dark street." "a dark figure! hum! sounds like one of those old yellow--back novels," remarked mr. blake, with a smile. "but this was a figure i recognized, sir," exclaimed hiram. "it was bill bender!" "jack curtiss' chum! they're as thick as two thieves," burst out merritt. "and i believe they are two thieves," solemnly put in rob. "well," went on hiram, "the next minute bill bender came walking round the corner as fast as if he were coming from somewhere in a great hurry, and was hastening home. he told me he had been to a birthday party at his aunt's." "at his aunt's," echoed mr. blake. "well, that's an important point, for i happen to know that his aunt, mrs. graves, is out of town. she visited the bank yesterday morning and drew some money for her traveling expenses. she informed me that she expected to be gone a week or more." "i knew it, i knew it!" shouted rob. "that fellow ought to be in jail. he'll land there yet." "softly, softly, my boy," said mr. blake. "this is a grave affair, and we cannot jump at conclusions." "i'd jump him," declared rob, "if i only knew for certain that he was the thief!" "i will inform the police myself and have an investigation made," mr. blake promised. "we will leave no stone unturned to find out who has been guilty of such an outrage." "and in the meantime the eagle patrol will carry on an investigation of its own," declared rob sturdily. "what do you say, boys?" "i'll bet every boy in the corps is with you on that," rejoined merritt heartily. "same here," chimed in hiram. "the first step is to take a run to topsail island and see if all the queer things that happened last night have not some connecting link between them," suggested mr. blake. "i am inclined, after what you boys have told me, to think that they have." "i am sure of it," echoed rob. chapter ix the hydroplane queerly recovered seldom had the flying fish been urged to greater speed than she was a short time after the discovery of the looting of the scouts' armory. she fairly flew across the smooth waters of the inlet and out on to the atlantic swells, leaving a clean, sweeping bow-wave as she cut her way along. her four young occupants, for tubby had been called on and notified of the occurrences of the night, were, however, wrapped in slickers borrowed from the yacht club, so that the showers of spray which fell about them had little effect on them. the run to topsail island was made in record time, and as they drew near the little hummock of tree and shrub-covered land the boys could perceive that something unusual had happened. a figure which even at a distance they recognized as that of captain job hudgins was down on the little wharf, and had apparently been on the lookout there for some time. a closer view revealed the captain waving frantically. "something's up, all right," remarked tubby, above the roar of the motor-boat's engine. the others said nothing, but kept their gaze riveted on the captain's figure. with the skill of a veteran boatman, rob brought the flying fish round in a graceful curve and ran her cleanly up to the wharf without the slightest jolt or jar. "ahoy, lads, i'm glad yer've come!" exclaimed the captain, as he caught the painter line thrown out to him by merritt, and skillfully made the boat fast. "why, what has happened?" demanded rob, as he sprang on to the wharf, followed by the others. "happened?" repeated the captain. "well, in a manner of speakin', about twenty things has happened at once. lads, my spirits and emotions are in a fair chinese tornado--every which way at once. in the first place, i'm seventy-five dollars poorer than i was last night; in the second, poor old skipper's been given some kind av poison that's made him so sick i doubt he'll get over it." "you've been robbed?" gasped merritt. "that's it, my lad. that's the word. my poor old safe's been scuttled and her hold overhauled. but i don't mind that so much--it's poor old skipper i'm worried about. but come on up ter the house, lads, and see fer yerselves." followed by the sympathetic four, the old man hobbled up from his little wharf to a small eminence on which stood his neatly whitewashed hut. he opened the door and invited them in. a first glance discovered nothing much the matter, but a second look showed the boys poor old skipper lying on the floor in front of the open fireplace which was filled with fresh green boughs--and evidently a very sick dog indeed. he gave the boys a pathetic glance of recognition as they came in, and with a feeble wag or two of his tail tried to show them he was glad to see them; but this done, he seemed to be completely exhausted, and once more laid his head between his forepaws and seemed to doze. "poor old dog," said the captain, shaking his head. "i doubt if he'll ever get about again." the safe now engaged the boys' attention. it is true that it was a rickety old contrivance which might well have been forced open with an ordinary poker, but to the captain, up to this day, it had been a repository as safe and secure as a big wall street trust company's vaults. "look at that, boys!" cried the captain, with tragic emphasis, pointing to the door, which had been forced clear off its rusty hinges. "just busted open like yer'd taken the crust off'n a pie! ah, if i could lay my hands on the fellers that done this, i'd run 'em tip ter the yardarm afore a foc'sle hand could say 'hard tack'!" "why, we think that--" began tubby, when rob checked him. the captain, who had been bending over his dog, didn't hear the remark, and rob hastily whispered to tubby: "don't breathe a word to anyone of our suspicions. our only chance to get hold of the real culprits is to not give them any idea that we suspect them." after a little more time spent on the island, the boys took their leave, promising to come back soon again. first, however, rob and his corporal made a brief expedition to see if they could make out the tracks of the marauders of the previous evening. whoever they had been, however--and the boys, as we know, had a shrewd guess at their identity--they had been too cunning to take the path, but had apparently, judging from the absence of all footmarks, made their way to the house through the coarse grass that grew on each side of the way. "well, what are we going to do about it?" tubby inquired, as they speeded back toward home. "just what i said," rejoined rob. "keep quiet and not let jack or his chums know that we suspect a thing. give them enough rope, and we'll get them in time. i'm certain of it." how true his words were to prove, rob at that time little imagined, although he felt the wisdom of the course he had advised. as they neared the inlet, rob, who was at the wheel and scanning the channel pretty closely, for the tide was now running out, gave a sudden shout and pointed ahead. as the others raised their eyes and gazed in the direction their leader indicated they, too, uttered a cry of astonishment. from the mouth of the inlet there had stolen a long, low, black craft, gliding through the water at tremendous speed. in the strange craft the boy scouts had little difficulty in recognizing sam redding's hydroplane. "so he's got her back," exclaimed merritt, recovering from his first astonishment. "yes, and she seems little the worse for her experience," remarked tubby. "it doesn't appear, though, that they are going to profit by their lesson of the other day, for there they go out to sea again." "probably consulted the glass this time," remarked rob. "it read 'set fair' when we started out." "well, that's the only kind of weather for them," commented merritt; "though as both jack and bill can swim, i wouldn't mind seeing them get a good ducking." "i suppose the coincidence has struck you fellows, too?" remarked rob suddenly, as he skillfully twisted and turned the dancing flying fish through the devious ways of the channel at low water. "what on earth are you talking about?" demanded merritt. "why, that it seems rather queer that sam, who was round town desperately trying to raise money with which to get his boat out of pawn suddenly manages to redeem her, and that on the very day after the robbery of captain hudgins hut." "by hookey, that's right!" shouted tubby. "i'll bet your guess was correct, rob--that gang of jack's robbed the old captain." "and stole our uniforms," put in merritt. "yes; but how are we going to prove it?" was rob's "cold water" comment which silenced further speculation for the time being. each boy, however, determined then and there to do his share in running down the persons responsible for the vandalism. by the time they got back to hampton the news had spread among the entire eagle patrol, and an indignation meeting was called in the devastated armory. mr. blake entered in the midst of it, and offered, in conjunction with the rest of the local council, to furnish new uniforms. on the matter being put to a vote, however, the lads all agreed that it would be better not to accept such an offer till they had made a determined effort to run down the plunderers. "very well," said mr. blake; "your spirit does you great credit, and if you need any help, don't fail to call upon me at any time." "three cheers for mr. blake and the members of the council!" shouted merritt, jumping on a chair. they were given with such roof-raising effect, that people outside in the street, many of whom knew of the robbery, began to think that the uniforms must have been recovered. as the lads surged out of the armory, all talking at once about the robbery and its likely results, whom should they encounter on the street but jack curtiss and his two chums, evidently, from the fact that they carried waterproof garments over their arms, just back from their trip in sam's newly-recovered hydroplane. it might have been fancy, but as the eyes of the boy scouts met those of the three lads who would have so much liked to belong to the organization, rob thought that a look of embarrassment spread over jack curtiss' heavy features, and that even bill bender's brazen face took on a shade of pallor. if this were so, however, it could have been only momentary, for the next minute jack, with what seemed very much overdone cordiality, came forward with: "why, hullo, boys. i just heard about your loss. any news?" "no, not a word," chirped little joe digby, one of the few lads in the eagle patrol who had never run afoul of the bully. "well," went on jack, affecting not to notice the silence with which his advances had been greeted, "i hope you find the fellows who did it, whoever they were." "same here," chimed in bill bender, now quite at his ease, "although, at that, i guess it was only a joke, and you'll get 'em back again before long." "do you think so, bill?" asked merritt, looking the bully's crony steadily in the eye. "i hope so, i'm sure. by the way, hiram nelson here says that he saw you hurrying up main street at just about the time the robbery must have taken place. you didn't hear any unusual sounds or see anything out of the way, did you?" "i--why, no--i--you see, i was on my way home from my aunt's home," stuttered bill, seemingly taken off his guard. "yes; your aunt, who left home yesterday afternoon to be gone a week," shot out merritt. "queer that she should have changed her mind and come home in such a hurry." "oh, come on, bill," stuck in sam, seeing that things were getting very unpleasant. "we've got to hurry up if we're to get out to jack's in time." without another word, the three hurried off, seemingly not at all unrelieved to escape from what merritt was pretty sure were embarrassing questions. chapter x winning the contest the day which was to witness the tests of the aeroplane models for the prizes offered by the professor of aeronautics dawned still and fair. it followed several days of storm, in which the boys had been unable to make any excursions in their motor boat, or into the country, or, indeed, even to devote any time to the engrossing subject of tracing the theft of the uniforms to its source. early in the morning a small field in the rear of mr. blake's house was well filled with boys of all ages and sizes, watching the contestants in the model contest trying out their craft. the models were of all sorts and sizes. some were freak craft that had been constructed in a hurry from pictures, without any attention being paid to scale or proportions, while others were carefully made bits of mechanism. among the latter class were paul perkins' monoplane--silver arrow, he called it,--hiram nelson's two models, the monoplane of tom maloney, a lad of about sixteen, and ed river's little duplicate of a curtiss biplane. the contest was to take place on the main street of the town, in front of the bank, and in the middle of the course two poles had been erected, one on each side of the street, between which a brightly colored tape had then been strung, forming a sort of aerial hurdle. the tape was fifty feet above the ground, and to qualify at all it would be necessary for the contesting models to clear it. the lecture which took place in the village hall came first and was well attended, most of the young folks of hampton being there. if the truth must be told, however, while the lecturer was expounding his subject, illustrating it on the blackboard with chalk drawings, the majority of his young hearers were wishing that it was over and the contest really begun. especially was this true of the boys of the eagle patrol, who were every one of them anxious to see what kind of aeroplanes jack curtiss and bill bender would have produced. the lecture, however, at last came to an end, and the gentlemen on the platform shook hands with the professor and the professor shook hands with them, and somebody called for three cheers for "hampton's distinguished son." everybody then lost no time in filing out into the afternoon sunlight, where they found quite a crowd already on the streets, and a small wooden grand stand, which had been erected near what was expected to be the finishing line, seating several guests. the committee and the professor, led by the hampton brass band, blaring away at patriotic airs, made their way to the front seats in the structure, and everybody was requested to line up on each side of the street, so as to make a clear lane for the models to fly in. the starting line was about a hundred yards from the red tape, and the contestants were compelled to stand back of this. mr. wingate, the president of the yacht club and member of the boy scout council, had already shuffled the numbers of the contestants in a hat, and they were to fly their models in the order in which they drew their figures. up to this time there had been no sign of jack curtiss or bill bender, but the boys now saw them hastening up to a member of the committee and whispering to him. a moment later a man, with a megaphone boomed out from the grand stand: "william bender announces that he has withdrawn from the contest." "aha! i'll bet jack's got cold feet, too," whispered hiram, nudging paul, who was kneeling down and winding up the long rubber bands which drove the propellers of the silver arrow, an antoinette model. but a short interval showed him to be mistaken, for jack, with his usual confident air, repaired to the buggy in which he had driven into town from his father's farm, and speedily produced a model that caused loud sighs of "ohs!" and "ahs!" to circulate through the juvenile portion of the crowd. however he had managed to accomplish it, the bully had certainly produced a beautiful model. it was of the bleriot type, and finished perfectly down to the minutest detail. every wire and brace on it was silvered with aluminum paint, and it even bore a small figure at its steering wheel. beside it the other models looked almost clumsy. the faces of the boy scouts fell. "if that machine can fly as well as she looks," said rob to merritt, "she wins the first prize." "not a doubt of it," was merritt's reply. "oh, well," put in tubby, for the three inseparables were standing together, "if he can win the prize fairly, don't knock him. he certainly has built a beautiful machine. you've got to give him credit for that." and now, as jack, with a triumphant smile at the glances of admiration his model excited, strode to the starting point, elbowing small boys aside, and drew from the hat, the man with the megaphone once more arose. he held in his hand the result of the drawing and the order in which the models would fly. "the f-i-r-s-t model to com-pete for the big p-r-ize," he bellowed, "will be that of thomas maloney--a bler-i-ot!" poor tom might have called his machine a bleriot, but it is doubtful if the designer of the original machine of that name would have recognized the model as having any more than a distant relationship to the famous type of monoplane. it was provided with a large tin propeller, however, and seemed capable of at least accomplishing a flight. in fact, at the trials in the morning it had flown well, and by some of the lads was regarded as a sort of "dark horse." as tom was on the village team, as opposed to the boy scout contingent, he was greeted with loud cheers and whistles by his friends as he stepped to the starting line, and, holding his already wound up machine in his hand, made ready to launch it. "crack!" went the pistol. at the same instant tom, with a thrusting motion, released his model; but, alas! instead of darting forward like the sparrow hawk it was named after, the craft ingloriously wobbled about eccentrically, and finally alighted on an old lady's bonnet, causing her to exclaim as the propeller whizzed round and entangled itself in her hair: "no good'll ever come of teaching lads to meddle with these here contraptions." the model having finally been extricated, amid much laughter, and poor tom having offered mortified apologies, the announcer made known that hiram nelson's doodlebug monoplane would essay a flight. as the pistol sounded, hiram launched his craft, and amid cheers from the crowd it soared up, and, just clearing the red tape, settled gracefully down a few feet the other side of the two hundred foot line. "good for you, hiram!" exclaimed ernest thompson, the bike scout, who was acting as a patrol on the course. "whose turn next?" "you kids wait till i get my bleriot started," sneered jack. several small boys near him, who were mortally afraid of the big fellow and rather admired him as being "manly," set up a cheer at this. "wait for jack's dandy model to fly!" they cried. "edward rivers--model of a curtiss biplane!" came the next announcement through, the megaphone. another cheer greeted this, as young rivers was also on the "town team." the little curtiss darted into the air at the pistol crack and flew straight as an arrow for the red tape. it cleared it easily and skimmed on down past the grand stand, and alighted, fluttering like a tired butterfly, beyond hiram's model. "three hundred feet!" cried the announcer, amid a buzz of approval, after the measurers of the course had done their work. "paul perkins--bleriot!" was the next announcement. a hum of excitement went through the crowds that lined the track. it began to look as if the record of ed rivers' machine would be hard to beat, but from the determined look on his face and his gritted teeth it was evident that paul meant to try hard. before the report of the pistol had died out, the yellow-winged dragonfly soared upward from paul's hand and darted like a streak across the red tape, clearing it at the highest altitude yet achieved by any of the models. "hurrah!" yelled the crowd. on and on sped the little bleriot, while paul watched it with pride-flushed cheeks. it was evident that it was going to out-distance the record made by ed rivers' machine. the boy scouts set up their patrol cry: "kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" as the little machine settled to the ground, far beyond the grand stand, the officials ran out with their tapes, and presently the announcement came blaring down the packed ranks of the onlookers: "three hundred and fifty feet!" what a cheer went up then. "i guess you've got it won. congratulations!" said ed rivers, pressing forward to paul's side. "thanks, ed," returned the other; "but 'there's many a slip,' you know, and there are several others to be flown yet." now came in rapid succession several of the smaller models and freak designs. some of these wobbled through the air and landed in the crowd. others sailed blithely up toward the red tape and just fell short of clearing it. another landed right on the tape and hung there, the target of irreverent remarks from the crowd. while this was going on, bill bender, jack curtiss and sam were in close consultation. "remember, you promised that if you won the prize you'd give that money back," sam whispered to jack, "and for goodness' sake, don't forget it. i half believe that those boys suspect us already." "nonsense," returned the bully. "and what if they do? we covered up our tracks too well for them to have anything on us. they can't prove anything, can they?" "i--i--i don't know," stammered sam, and was about to say more, but the clarion voice of the announcer was heard informing the crowd that: "john curtiss' bleriot model will now make a flight for the great prize." with a confident smile on his face, jack stepped forward and held his model ready. the murmur of admiration that had greeted its first appearance was repeated as he held it high in the sunlight and the afternoon rays glinted and shimmered on its fittings and wings. "that's the model for my money," remarked a man in the crowd. "it's going to win, too," said jack confidently. just at that moment the pistol cracked, and jack released his much-admired air craft. its flight showed that it was as capable of making as beautiful a soaring excursion as its graceful outlines and careful finish seemed to indicate. in a long, sweeping glide, it arose and cleared the red tape by a greater margin than had paul perkins' model. "jack curtiss wins!" yelled the crowd, as the machine soared right on and did not begin its downward swoop for some distance. after it had alighted and the measurers had laid their tapes on the course, the announcer megaphoned, amid a perfect tornado of roars and cheers: "the last flight, ladies and gentlemen--and apparently the winning one--accomplished the remarkable distance of four hundred and fifty feet--four hundred and fifty feet." "three cheers for jack curtiss!" shouted bill bender, slapping jack heartily on the back and giving most of the cheers himself. "i guess those cubs won't be quite so stuck up now," commented sam, shaking jack's hand warmly. "i was pretty sure i'd win," modestly remarked the bully, as he began shouldering his way through the press toward the judges' stand. he was closely followed by the boys, as it looked as if paul perkins might have won the second prize and ed rivers the third. urged by bill bender, the band began puffing away at "see, the conquering hero comes," and jack, nothing averse to appearing in such a role, bowed gracefully right and left to the admiring throngs. the professor shook hands warmly with the victorious jack, and remarked: "you are to be congratulated, young man. i have rarely seen a better model, and your skill does you great credit. are you thinking of taking up aeronautics seriously?" the bully, his face very red, stammered that he had entertained some such thoughts. the professor was about to reply, when there came a sudden sound of confusion among that portion of the crowd which had surrounded the delegates deputed to pick up the aeroplanes and bring them to the stand. this was in order that they might be exhibited as each prize was awarded. a small boy with a very excited face was seen struggling to get through the mass, and he finally gained the judges' stand. as he faced the congratulatory professor he stuttered out: "please, sir, there's something wrong about jack curtiss' machine." "what do you mean, you impudent young shaver!" shouted the bully, turning white, nevertheless. "let the lad speak," said mr. blake, who as one of the committee was standing beside the professor. "what is it, my boy? let me see. you're joe digby, of the eagle patrol, aren't you." "yes, sir; and i live out on a farm near jack curtiss. i was watching him fly his machine this morning, from behind a hedge, and i heard them saying something about 'their store-made machine beating any country boy's model.'" "he's a young liar! pay no attention to him," stammered jack, licking his dry lips. "silence, sir!" said mr. blake gravely. "let us listen to what this boy has to say. if he is not speaking the truth, you can easily disprove it. go on, my boy." "well, i guess that's about all i know about it: but i thought i ought to tell you, sir," confusedly concluded the small lad. "you young runt, i'll half kill you if i catch you alone!" breathed jack, under his breath, as the lad sped off to join his companions. "of course, you are not going to pay any attention to that kid's--i mean boy's--story," demanded jack, addressing the professor. "it's made out of whole cloth, i assure you." in the meantime the machines had been brought to the grand stand and were being examined. naturally, after young digby's statement, jack's was one of the first to be scrutinized. the committee turned it over and over, and were about to pass on it, when mr. wingate, who had been bending attentively over the bully's model, gave a sudden exclamation. "look here, gentlemen," he cried, pointing to a small tag which jack had evidently forgotten to remove, "i think this is conclusive evidence. here is the label of the 'manhattan model works' pasted right under this wing." "somebody must have put it there. it's a job those boy scouts put up on me," protested tack. "i made that model every bit myself." "i regret to say that we must regard the price tag as conclusive evidence that this machine comes from a store," said the professor sternly, handing jack his unlucky model. "you are disqualified for entering a machine not of your own workmanship. "stand back, please," he went on, as jack tried to protest. "i want to say," he went on in a loud tone, holding up his hand to command attention, "that there has been a grave mistake made. the machine which actually flew the longest distance is disqualified, as it was made at a new york model factory. the first prize of fifty dollars, therefore, goes to paul perkins, of the boy scouts, the second to edward rivers, of hampton, and the third to hiram green, also of the boy scouts. "hold on one minute," he shouted, as the crowd began to cheer and hoot. "there is an additional announcement to be made. the committee has decided to offer a further reward of five dollars to thomas maloney, whose model shows evidence of praiseworthy and painstaking work." as the cheers broke loose once more, jack curtiss and his cronies slunk off through the crowd, and having placed the rejected model in the buggy, drove off into the country in no very amiable or enviable frame of mind. "well, you made a fine mess of it," grumbled bill bender savagely. "i told you to look carefully and see that all the tags were off it." "it's no more my fault than yours," grated out jack, lashing the horse savagely, to work off some of his rage. "it's all the fault of those young cubs of rob blake's. let them look out, though, for i'll get even with them before long, and in a way that will make them sit up and take notice." "don't forget that young mischief maker, joe digby," suggested bill bender. "it was all his fault--the young spy!" "oh, i'll attend to him," jack assured his chum, with a grating laugh that boded no good for the youngest member of the eagle patrol. chapter xi a fortunate discovery "want to go fishing?" rob inquired over the telephone of merritt crawford a few days later. "sure," was the response. "we can run into topsail island and get a site for the camp picked at the same time," suggested rob. "bully! i'll meet you at the wharf. going to bring tubby?" "you bet! we'll be there in ten minutes." "all right. good-by." at the time set the three boys met on the wharf of the yacht club, and were speedily ready to start on their trip. rob brought along bluefish squids and lines, and tubby--never at a loss to scare up a hurried lunch--had a basket full of good things to eat. the run to the island was made without incident, and the boys were glad to see that, contrary to the captain's fears, his dog skipper was all right again, for the animal came bounding and barking down the wharf as they drew near, in token of his gladness to see them. attracted by his dog's barking, the old captain, who was at work in a small potato patch he cultivated, came hobbling to meet the boys as they tied up and disembarked. "well, well, boys; come ter stay?" he cheerily remarked, as the three lads shook hands. "no, we're off after 'blues,"' said rob; "but we thought we'd drop in and see how things are coming along with you, and if you have heard any news yet concerning the robbery." "not a thing, boys, not a thing," said the old man. "in fact, i haven't left the island since my old safe was busted open. skipper, as yer see, got over his sickness. it's my belief that them fellers fed him poisoned meat or something." "i shouldn't wonder," remarked rob dryly. "it would be quite in their line." "by the way," exclaimed the old man suddenly, "a queer thing happened the other day. skipper had been a-skirmishin' round the other side uv the island after rabbits and critters, and he brought home this- wait a minute and i'll show it to yer." after some fumbling in his pocket, the old man produced a torn strip of yellow material with a brass button attached to it. "i wonder where that come from," he remarked, as he handed the fragment to rob for his inspection. "why, it's khaki," exclaimed rob, as he felt it. "and, by hokey!" he ejaculated the next instant, "it's a piece of a boy scout uniform!" old skipper was jumping about in great excitement, and endeavoring to sniff the bit of torn material as rob examined it, and a sudden idea struck the boy. "i wonder if skipper could pilot us to where he found this bit of material." "are you sure it's a bit of uniform?" asked tubby doubtfully. "certain of it. no one else wears khaki in these parts. hey, skipper, hey, good dog! sic 'em, sic 'em!" cried rob, holding up the khaki for the intelligent creature to see. the animal seemed to be greatly excited and gave short, quick barks as he danced about the boys. "well, we might try and see if he will lead us anywhere." remarked merritt somewhat dubiously. "at any rate, there's no harm done, except wasting a little time; and if we can get on the track of our uniforms, it's not such a much of a waste, after all." "he sure wants ter be off somewhere," observed the old captain, watching the antics of his dog, whom he regarded in the light of a human being. "he never acts nor talks that way unless he's got suthin' on his mind. yer boys follow him, and i'll bet he'll lead yer ter suthin'. it may be nothin' more than a dead rabbit, and it may be what ye think. i'll stay here an' dig my pertaters, fer my rheumatiz is powerful bad today." "very well, captain. we shan't be long," rejoined rob, calling to the dog. "hey, skipper, hey, old boy! after 'em, skipper--after 'em!" the dog bounded on ahead of the three boys, occasionally looking back to see if they were following and then plunging on again. "as the captain said, he 'sure has got suthin' on his mind'!" laughed merritt. after traversing about a mile of beach, the dog suddenly bounded into a thicket overhanging the shore and began barking furiously. "he's treed something, all right," remarked rob, pushing the branches aside. the next minute he gave a loud shout of triumph. "look there, boys! old skipper sure did 'have suthin' on his mind'!" peering over rob's shoulder, the other two were able to make out two hidden sacks, the mouth of one of which had been torn open, evidently by the investigating skipper. from the aperture appeared the torn sleeve of a boy scout's uniform, and a brief searching of the sacks after they had been lugged out on the beach revealed the entire stolen equipment. "bones for you, skipper, for the rest of your life!" promised tubby, as the dog, evidently well pleased with the petting he received and the admiration showered upon him, pranced about on the beach and indulged in a hundred antics. the only one of the uniforms damaged was the one that skipper had torn. the others were all intact, but badly crumpled, having been hastily thrust into the sacks, and, as it appeared, tamped down to make them fit more compactly. "well, what do you know about that?" was merritt's astonished exclamation, as one by one rob drew forth the regimentals and laid them on the beach. "you mean what does jack curtiss and company know about that," seriously returned rob. "however, we found them--that's one thing to be enthusiastic over," observed tubby sagely. "i'd like just as well almost to find out exactly who hid them there," was merritt's reply. "the same folks that stole the old captain's seventy-five dollars, i guess," returned rob, thrusting the garments back into the sacks preparatory to carrying them to the boat. "here, tubby, you carry this one--it'll take some of that fat off you to do a hike along the beach with it. i'll shoulder this one." "well, boys, yer certainly made a haul, thanks ter old skipper here," declared captain job, after the delighted boys had made known their discovery. "he's a smart one, i tell yer. no better dog ever lived." "that's what we think," agreed merritt warmly, patting old skipper's black and white head. the recovery of the uniforms had quite put all thoughts of blue or any other fishing out of the boys' heads, and after bidding farewell to the captain, who promised to point out to them a good site for a camp on their next visit, they made their best speed back to hampton. on their way to the armory they spread the news of their discovery broadcast, so that in a short time the town was buzzing with the information that the boy scouts' lost uniforms had been found under most surprising circumstances; and the editor of the hampton news, who was just going to press, held his paper up till he could get in an item about it. it was this item that caught jack curtiss' eye, the next morning as he and bill bender and sam were seated in bill's "club room." "confound those brats, they seem always to be putting a spike in our schemes!" muttered jack, as he handed the paper to bill for that worthy's perusal. "which reminds me," he went on, "that we haven't attended to the case of that young digby yet." "i wish you'd leave those kids alone for a while, jack," objected sam, in his usual whining tones. "you've had your fun with them. they've had to do without their uniforms for a long time. now let up on them, won't you?" "oh, you're feeling friendly toward 'em, now, are you?" sneered jack. "oh, no, it isn't that," sam hastened to assure him; "nothing of the kind. what i mean is that we are liable to get into serious trouble if we keep on this way. i saw hank handcraft the other day, and i can tell you he's in no very amiable mood. he wants his money for the other night, he says, and he intimated that if he didn't get it he'd make things hot for us." "he'd better not," glowered bill bender, looking up from his paper. "we know a few things about friend hank." "yes, and he knows a good deal about us that wouldn't look well in print," retorted sam gloomily. "i wish i'd never gone into that thing the other night." "pshaw, it was just borrowing a little money from the old man, wasn't it?" snorted jack. "we'll pay it back some time." "when we get it," rejoined sam more gloomily than ever; "and i don't see much immediate chance of that." "oh, well, cheer up; we'll get it all right somehow," jack assured him. "and in connection with that i've got a scheme. why shouldn't we three fellows go camping after the motor-boat races?" "go camping--where?" asked bill, looking up surprised. "well, i would have suggested topsail island, but those pestiferous kids are going there, i hear. however, there are plenty of other islands right inside the upper inlet. what's the matter with our taking possession of one of those?" the upper inlet was a sort of narrow and shallow bay a short distance above topsail island, and was well known to both bill and jack, who had been there in the winter on frequent ducking expeditions. "we might as well do something like that before school opens," said sam. "i think that jack's suggestion is a pretty good one." "i don't know that it's so bad myself," patronizingly admitted bill; "but what connection has that with your scheme for getting money, jack?" "a whole lot," replied the bully. "i'm going to get even with that young digby if it takes me a year. he cost me the fifty-dollar prize, and, beside that, all the kids in the village now call me 'cheater,' and hardly anybody will have anything to do with me." "well, how do you propose to get even by going camping?" inquired bill. "i plan to take that digby kid with me," rejoined jack calmly. "you're crazy!" exclaimed bill. "why, we'd have the whole country after us for kidnapping." "oh, i've got a better plan than that," laughed jack coolly, "and we won't need to be mixed up in it at all. it'll all come back on hank handcraft, i owe him a grudge for bothering me about money, anyhow, the old beach-combing nuisance!" "but where do we come in to get any benefit out of it?" demanded sam. "i'll explain that to you later," said jack grandiloquently. "i haven't quite worked out all the details yet; but if you'll meet me here this evening i'll have them all hot and smoking for you." chapter xii jack forms a plot the next morning jack lost no time in making his way toward hank handcraft's tumble-down abode. he found its owner in, and likewise disposed to be quarrelsome. "'oh, here you are at last!" exclaimed the hairy and unkempt outcast, as the bully approached heavily through the yielding sand. "i'd about given you up, and was seriously contemplating making a visit to your home--" "if you ever did," breathed jack threateningly. "well," grinned hank impudently, with his most malicious chuckle, "if i did, what then?" "i'd have you thrown out of the house," calmly replied jack, seating himself on a big log of driftwood, once the rib of a schooner that went ashore on the dangerous shoals off hampton and pounded herself to pieces. "oh, no; you wouldn't have me thrown out!" chuckled hank, resuming his task of scaling a mackerel. "cause if you did, i'd go to the chief of police and tell him something about the robbery of the armory and the cracking of old man hudgins' safe." "you wouldn't dare to do that!" sneered jack. "you are implicated in that as badly as we are." "that's a matter of opinion," rejoined hank, industriously scraping away at his fish, and showing no trace of any emotion in his pale eyes. "anyhow, what i want right now is some cash. you agreed to pay me well for what i did the other night, and i haven't seen the money yet." "be a little patient, can't you?" irritably retorted the other. "money doesn't grow on trees. now listen, hank. how would you like to get a nice little sum of money--more than i could give you--for camping out on kidd's island, in the upper inlet, for a few days?" hank's fishy eyes showed some trace of feeling at this. "what do you mean?" he asked. "is this a new joke you're putting up on me?" "no, i am perfectly serious. you can make a good sum by following our directions, and i'll see that you get into no trouble over it." "well, if you can do that, i'll keep my mouth shut," chuckled hank in his mirthless way; "but if i don't get some money pretty quick, i'm going to make trouble fer somebody, i tell you!" "haven't you got some place where we can talk that is less exposed than this?" said jack, looking about him apprehensively. "sure, there's my mansion," grinned hank, pointing over his shoulder with a fishy thumb. "that's the place," said jack, "although i wish you'd clean it out occasionally. now listen, hank, here's the plan--" still talking, the ill-assorted pair entered the ruinous shack. * * * * * * motor-boat engines were popping everywhere. the club house was dressed in bright-colored bunting from veranda rail to ridge pole. ladies strolled about beneath their parasols with correctly dressed yachtsmen, asking all sorts of absurd questions about the various boats that lay ready to take part in the various events. it was the day of the hampton yacht club's regatta. among the throng the boy scouts threaded their way, watching with interest the events as they were run off, one after the other. but their minds were centered on the race for the trophy which, although there were several other entries, had been practically conceded to sam redding's hydroplane. "she's a wonder," said one of the onlookers, pointing from the porch to the float, where jack curtiss, bill bender and sam were leaning over their speedy craft, stripping her of every bit of weight not absolutely necessary. on the opposite side of the float the crew of the flying fish, the snark, the bonita and the albacore were equally busy over their craft. "douse the engine with oil," directed rob, as merritt gave the piece of machinery a final inspection; "and how about that extra set of batteries?" "they're aboard," rejoined tubby, who was perspiringly removing cushions and other surplus gear from the fleet boat. "that's right; if it comes to an emergency, we may need them," said rob. "nothing like being prepared." "do you think we have any show?" asked tubby, who was to be a sort of general utility man in the crew. rob was to steer. "i don't see why not," rejoined the other, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste. "the race is a handicap one, and we get an allowance on account of our engine not being as powerful as the hydroplane's." the course to be run was a sort of elongated, or isosceles triangle. the turning point was at the head of the inlet, a buoy with a big red ball on it being placed just inside the rough waters of the bar. it made a course of about five miles. the race for the hampton motor boat club's cup, for which the boys and the others were entered, was twice round. the waters about the club house were so dotted with motor craft which darted about in every direction that commodore wingate of the club and the other regatta officials had a hard time keeping the course clear for the contestants. on the threat, however, that the races would be called off if a clear course was not kept, order was finally obtained. the boys were too busy to pay much attention to the results of the other races, but a member of the club who had won the blake trophy for the cabin cruiser boats, warned the boys to beware of the turn above the far buoy. "it's choppy as the dickens there," he said, as he made his way to the club house, "and you want to take the turn easily. don't 'bank' it, or you'll lose more than you gain." the boys thanked him for his advice, and laid it to heart to be used when the race was on. sam's boat having been tuned up to the last notch of readiness, jack curtiss strolled consequentially about on the float, making bets freely on the hydroplane's chance of winning. "i'll bet you twenty-five to any odds you like that the hydroplane wins the race," he said, addressing colin maxwell, the son of a well-to-do merchant from a neighboring town. young maxwell had heard nothing of jack's mean trick in the aeroplane contest, and therefore didn't mind talking to him. "i like the look of the flying fish pretty well," was the response, "and i'll take you up. you'll have to give me odds, though." "oh, certainly," responded the bully, with a confident grin; "twenty-five to thirty, say." "make it thirty-five." "all right; done," said jack. "you know me, of course; no necessity of putting up the money." "oh, not the least," rejoined the other politely, though had he known the state of jack's finances he might have thought differently. the bully went about making several bets at similar odds, until finally bill bender came up behind him and in a low voice warned him to be careful. "what are you going to do if we lose?" he breathed. "you haven't got a cent to pay with." "oh, it's like taking gum from a busted slot machine," rejoined the bully, with a laugh. "they can't win. we know what their boat can do, and the race is practically conceded to us. besides--" he placed his hand close to bill's ear and whispered a few minutes. "i guess that's a bad scheme, eh?" he resumed in a louder tone, though his voice was still pitched too low for those about to hear him. "if it's done right, we'll ram them and it'll never be noticed." "hum, i'm not so sure," grunted bill. "however, if we really perceive we are losing, i don't see what else we are to do. are you going to steer?" "sure. sam lost his nerve at the last moment--like him, eh? it's a good thing, though, i'm to be at the wheel, because i don't think sam would have had the courage to carry out my plan." "not he," said bill, with a shrug. "he's got the backbone of a snail." more of this interesting conversation was cut short by the "bang" of the pistol which warned the contestants of the racing boats to get ready. "the race for the hampton yacht club's trophy will take place in five minutes!" cried the announcer. the five contestants cast off from the float and slowly chugged out to a position in the rear of the starting line and behind the committee boat. then came the nervous work of awaiting the starting gun. the boys had all donned slickers, and the crew of the hydroplane wore rubber coats which covered them completely. a sort of spray hood had been erected over the hydroplane's engines. "that means she's going to do her best," remarked rob, pointing to this indication that great speed was expected. "that's what we want to do, too, isn't it?" at last came the gun that started off the snark, the bonita and the albacore, which were all of about the same speed. "our turn next," said rob, who had previously received his instructions from the committee. "well, i'm all ready," said merritt, nervously twisting a grease cup. chapter xiii the "flying fish" on her mettle "bang!" with a nervous twitch, rob threw in the first speed clutch, for the engine had been kept running on her neutral speed, and was able to take up way as soon as the propeller began to "bite." rapidly the boy increased the speed up to the third "forward," and the flying fish darted through the water like a pickerel after a fat frog. "bang!" came behind them once more, as the sound of the cheers which greeted them as they shot across the line grew faint. "crouch low!" shouted rob back to his crew. "we'll need every inch of advantage we can get." the white spray shot in a perfect fountain from the sharp bow of the flying fish, and her every frame and plank quivered under the vibration of her powerful engine. "she's doing better than she ever did!" shouted merritt to tubby, who crouched in the center of the boat, ready to take any part in an emergency. the other nodded and kept his eyes ahead on the white wake of the other three craft. suddenly the albacore began to fall back. as the flying fish roared by her, rob heard a shout of something about "missing fire." a steady downpour of spray was drenching the occupants of the racer, but they paid scant heed to it. rob dived in his pockets and put on a pair of goggles. the spray was blinding him. he waved to tubby to go further astern and keep the rear part of the boat well down when they made the sharp turn at the red buoy. in an incredibly short time, it seemed, the turning buoy faced them. rob set his wheel over and spun the flying fish through the rougher water at the mouth of the inlet at as sharp an angle as he dared. in a few seconds more they had passed the snark and the bonita, which were racing bow and bow. the crew of the flying fish, though, knew that both boats had a time allowance over them, so that the mere passing didn't mean much, unless they could increase the lead. faster and faster the boy's craft forged ahead. a thrill shot through rob's frame. the flying fish was showing what she was made of. but as he turned his head swiftly he saw that the hydroplane had rounded the stake and was coming down the straight stretch of water like an express train. a great wave of water shot out on either side of her bow. so low in the water had her powerful engines dragged her that she seemed to be barely on the surface, and yet, as the boys knew, she was actually "coasting" over the surface. try as he would, rob could not get an ounce more speed out of the flying fish, and as the speedy hydroplane roared by them they heard a mocking shout from her crew. rob, more determined than ever to stick it out, sent the flying fish plunging at top speed through the wash of the speedy craft, hoping to keep up the distance between them at least equal. but as he saw the hydroplane gradually drawing away and heard the great roar that went up from the thrilled spectators as she shot by the club house, his heart sank. it looked as if the plying fish was beaten. and now the club house loomed near once more. "go on, plying fish, go on!" "you've got a time allowance on her!" "push along, rob!" "kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" a tumult of other shouts roared in rob's ears as they tore past the crowded porch. "kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" screamed back merritt and tubby, with waves of the hand to the brown uniformed figures they could see perched on every point of vantage. suddenly the flying fish began to creep up on the hydroplane, which had slowed down for some reason. "hurrah! we've got'em now!" shouted merritt, as he saw, far ahead, jack and the other two occupants of the seeming winner leaning over the craft's engine, the hood having been raised. rob said nothing, but with burning eyes clung to the wheel and shot the flying fish straight ahead on her course. as they thundered past the hydroplane, the slender craft lay almost motionless on the water, with a great cloud of blue smoke tumbling out of her exhausts. "looks like they've flooded her cylinder," said merritt, observing these signs. "kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" it was tubby giving utterance triumphantly to the eagle scream. jack curtiss straightened up angrily as he heard, his face black and greasy from his researches into the engine. he shook a menacing fist at the others as they tore by. the next minute, however, a quick look back by rob showed that the hydroplane was coming ahead again, and that the engine trouble, whatever it was, had been adjusted. as they neared the turning point, rob saw, to his dismay, that the hydroplane was creeping up faster and faster. it was the last lap, and if sam redding's boat passed them at the stake the race was as good as over. "come on, flying fish! come on!" shouted rob, as the hydroplane crept ever nearer and nearer to his boat's stern. rob noticed, as he swung a trifle wide of the stake raft, that it seemed to be the intention of jack curtiss, who was at the wheel, to swing the hydroplane round the sharp angle of the course inside of the flying fish. guessing that this would mean disaster to her ill-advised occupants, he waved his hand at them to keep out. "when we need your advice we'll send for it. this is the time we've got you!" yelled jack curtiss, bending low over his wheel, as he grazed by the flying fish's stern to take the inside course. at the same instant, so quickly that the boys did not even get a mental picture of it, the hydroplane overturned. taking the curve at such a speed and at such a sharp angle had, as jack had surmised, proved too much for her stability. her occupants were pitched struggling into the water. "shall we pick them up?" yelled merritt. "no," shouted rob; "they've all got life belts on. a launch from the club will get them." indeed, as he spoke a launch was seen putting off to the rescue. the accident had been witnessed from the club, and as the water was warm, the boys were satisfied that no harm would come to the three from their immersion. but the delay almost proved fatal to the flying fish's chance of winning. close behind her now came creeping up the speedy albacore. but a few hundred feet before the finish the flying fish darted ahead once more, and shook off her opponent amid a great roar of yells and whoops and cheers. an instant later she shot across the line--a winner. "bang!" went the gun, in token that the race was finished. "i congratulate you," said commodore wingate, as the boys brought their craft up to the float. "it was a well-fought race." and now came the captains of the albacore, snark and bonita. "you won the race fairly and squarely," said the former, shaking rob's hand. "i presume, commodore, the time was taken?" "it has been," replied that official. "the flying fish wins by one minute and four and seven hundredths seconds." more cheers greeted this announcement, mingled with laughter and some sympathy, as the club launch, towing the capsized hydroplane, puffed up to the float. from the launch emerged three crestfallen figures with dripping garments. but wet as he was, jack curtiss was not going to surrender the race without a protest. "a foul! we claim a foul! the flying fish fouled us!" he shouted. "my dear young man," calmly replied the commodore, "i was watching you every foot of the way through binoculars, and i should rather say that you fouled the flying fish. anyhow, you should have better sense than to try to shave round that turn so closely." more mortified, and angrier than ever, jack strode off to put on dry clothes, followed by his equally chagrined companions, who, however, had sense enough now not to make any protests. they knew well enough that jack, in his hurry to grab the prize, had attempted a foolish and dangerous thing which had cost them the race. "a great race, a great race," said mr. blake, as the boys, followed by the crowd, entered the club house, where the awards were to be distributed. "you boys certainly covered yourselves with glory," he went on. "yes, and here is your reward. i hope it will stimulate you to put up a fine defense for it next year," said commodore wingate, handing to the elated boys a fine engraved silver cup, the trophy of the hampton yacht club. "get up and make a speech!" shouted some one. the boys felt inclined to run for it. "go ahead! make some sort of a talk," urged rob, helping tubby on to the platform from which the prizes had been handed out. "ladies and gentlemen," puffed the stout youth, "we want to thank you for your congratulations and thank the club for the fine cup. er--er--er--we thank you." and having made what was perhaps quite as good a speech as some of his elders', tubby stepped down amid loud and prolonged cheering. up in the dressing room jack and his cronies, changing into other, garments, heard the sounds of applause. "it's high time something was done," said bill, as he gazed from a window at several of the yacht club attendants bailing out the unlucky hydroplane. "those young beggars will be owning the town next." chapter xiv the eagles in camp the next few days were full of excitement and preparation for the boy scouts. their headquarters resounded all day to the tramp of feet, and the manual of instructions was consulted day and night. the official tents had arrived, and every boy in the patrol was eager for the time to arrive to put them up. so much so that two or three confessed that they could hardly sleep at night in their impatience for the hour when the embarkation for topsail island was to take place. besides the tents, there was much other equipment to be overhauled and set in order, for, before their departure, the boys were to be reviewed by their scout master and a field secretary from new york. there were haversack straps to be replaced, laces mended, axes sharpened, "billys" polished and made to shine like new tin, and a hundred and one things to be done. at last, however--although it seemed that it would never come--the eventful monday arrived, as eventful days of all kinds have a habit of doing; and the eagle patrol, spick and span and shining from tan boots to campaign hats, fell in line behind the band. proudly they paraded up the street, with their green and black eagle patrol sign fluttering gallantly in the van. the "reviewing stand" was the post-office steps, around which most of the citizens of hampton and the proud parents and relatives of the young scouts were assembled. plenty of applause greeted them, as, in response to rob's orders, given in the sharp, military manner, they drew up in line and gave the boy scout's salute. this done, the young scouts went through a smart drill with the staffs they carried. then, after saluting once more, and being warmly complimented on their appearance by the field secretary, they marched off to the wharf where they were to embark for their camp. the day before merritt, hiram nelson, paul perkins and the three "tender feet"--martin green, walter lonsdale and joe digby--had been told off by rob as on "pioneer service"; that is to say, that they had gone down to the island in the flying fish. arrived there, they selected a good spot for the camp, aided by commodore wingate's and captain hudgins' suggestions, and set up the tents and made the other necessary preparations. the camp was therefore practically ready, for the "army" to move into. at tubby's special request, a list of the rations for the week's camp had been made out by rob and affixed to the bulletin board in the headquarters of the eagles. as perhaps some of my young readers may care to know what to take on a similar expedition, is the list, exclusive of meat, which was to be brought from the mainland, and fish, which they expected to catch themselves: oatmeal, 8 lbs.; rice, 4 lbs.; crackers, 35 lbs.; chocolate, 1 1-2 lbs.; tea, 3 lbs; coffee, 1 lb.; lard, 6 lbs.; sugar, 8 lbs.; condensed milk, 10 cans; butter, 4 lbs.; eggs, 12 dozen; bacon, 20 lbs.; preserves, 14 jars; prunes, 8 lbs.; maple syrup and molasses, 4 quarts; potatoes, 1 bushel; white beans, 6 quarts; canned corn, 6 tins; canned tomatoes, 6 tins; flour, 35 lbs.; baking powder, 2 lbs.; salt, 4 lbs.; pepper, 2 ounces. "well," tubby had remarked, as he gazed attentively at the list, "we won't starve, anyhow." "i should say not," laughed rob; "and besides all that, i've got lots of lines and squids, and the blues and mackerel are running good." "can't i take along my twenty-two rifle--that island's just swarming with rabbits, and i think i heard some quail when we were there the other day," pleaded merritt. "not in season," answered rob laconically. "laws not up on them till november." "oh, bother the law!" blurted out merritt. "however, i suppose if there wasn't one there wouldn't be any rabbits left." "i guess you're right," agreed tubby. "still, it does seem hard to have to look at them skip about and not be able to take a shot at them." "maybe we can set a springle and snare some," hopefully suggested tubby, as a way out of the difficulty; "that wouldn't be as bad as shooting them, you know, and i can build a springle that will strangle them instantaneously." "no fair, tubby," laughed rob. "you know, a boy scout promises to obey the law, and the game law is as much a law as any other." arrived at the l wharf, the boys found the flying fish and captain hudgins' barracuda waiting for them. with much laughter they piled in--their light-heartedness and constant joking reminding such onlookers, as had ever seen the spectacle, of a band of real soldiers going to the front or embarking for foreign stations. with three ear-splitting cheers and a final yell of, "kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" the little flotilla got under way. they arrived at the camping ground at the northeast end of the island before noon, and found that the "pioneers" appointed by rob had done their work well. each tent was placed securely on a level patch of sandy ground, cleared from brush and stamped flat. the pegs were driven extra deep in anticipation of a gale, and an open cook tent, with flaps that could be fastened down in bad weather, stood to one side. a small spring had been excavated by the pioneers, and an old barrel sunk in place, which had filled in the night and now presented sparkling depths of cool, clear water. "i suppose that water is all right, captain?" inquired leader rob, with a true officer's regard for his troops. "sweet as a butternut, son," rejoined the old man. "makes the sick strong and the strong stronger, as the medicine advertisements say." for the present, the cooking was to be done on a regular camp fire which was built between two green logs laid lengthwise and converging toward the end. the tops of these had, under commodore wingate's directions, been slightly flattened with an axe. at each end a forked branch had been set upright in the ground, with a green limb laid between them. from this limb hung "cooking hooks," consisting of green branches with hooked ends at one extremity to hang over the long timber, and a nail driven in the other from which to hang the pots. "that's the best form of camp fire, boys," said commodore--or perhaps we would better call him scout master now--wingate, who had accompanied the boys to see them settled. "now, then, the next thing to do is to run up the stars and stripes and plant the eagle flag. then you'll be all o.k." little andy bowles made the woods behind them echo with the stirring call of "assembly," and halliards were reeved on a previously cut pole, about fifteen feet in height. the stars and stripes were attached, and while the whole company stood at attention and gave the scout salute, scout master wingate raised the colors. three loud, shrill cheers greeted old glory as it blew bravely out against the cloudless blue. "that's a pretty sight now, shiver my timbers if it ain't," observed old captain hudgins, who had stood, hat in hand, during the ceremony. "i've seen old glory in many a foreign port, and felt like takin' off my hat and givin' three cheers fer the old flag; but i never seen her look better or finer than she does a-streakin' out from that there bit of timber." "now, patrol cooks," was scout master wingate's next command, "it's only an hour to dinner time, and we want the first mess to be right. come on, and we'll get the pot boiling." cook duty fell that day to hiram nelson and walter lonsdale, and under the scout master's directions they soon had potatoes peeled, beans in water, and a big piece of stew meat chopped up with vegetables in a capacious pot. after every errand to the store tent, walter was anxious to know if it was not yet time to light the fire. "never be in a hurry to light your fire when you are in the woods," rejoined the scout master; "otherwise you will be so busy tending the fire you won't be able to prepare your food for cooking. now we're all ready for the fire, though, and you can bring me some dry bark and small sticks from that pile of wood the pioneers laid in yesterday." this was promptly done, and the lads watched the next step with interest. they saw the scout master take a tiny pile of the sticks and then light a roll of bark and thrust it into them. "i thought you piled them up all criss-cross," remarked hiram. "no woodsman does that, my boy," was the rejoinder. "now get me some larger timber from that pile, and i'll show you how to go about it like regular trappers." the fire builder shoved the ends of the sticks into the blaze and then the bean pot was hung in place. "we won't put the potatoes on now, as they take less time," he remarked; "those beans will take the longest." soon the heat was leaping up about the pots, and the cheerful crackle and incense of the camp fire filled the air. as the sticks burned down the scout master shoved the ends farther into the blaze, instead of throwing them on top of it. "now, then, boys, you've had your first lesson in camp fire making and cooking," he announced. "now go ahead, and let's see what kind of a dinner you can produce. i'm going for a tour of exploration of the island." among the other things the pioneers had accomplished was the building of a table large enough to seat the entire patrol, with planks set on logs as seats. hiram put walter to setting this, while he burned his fingers and smudged his face over his cookery. long before the beans seemed any nearer to what experience taught the young cook they ought to be, walter announced that the table was all set, with its tin cups and dishes and steel knives and forks. suddenly, while hiram was considering putting the potatoes on their hook, there came from the rear of the store tent the most appalling succession of squeals and screams the boy had ever heard. springing to his feet, he dashed to the scene of the conflict--for such it seemed to be though not without a heart that beat rather faster than usual. he bad no idea what the creatures could be that were producing all the uproar, and for all he knew they might have been bears. behind him came walter, rather pale, but determined to do his best as a boy scout to fight off any wild beasts that might be attacking the camp. as he dashed behind the tent, however, hiram was impelled to give a loud laugh. the contestants--for he had rightly judged they were in high dispute--were two small black pigs which had looted a bag of oatmeal from under the flap of the store tent and were busily engaged in fighting over their spoils. "get out, you brutes! scat!" shouted the boy, bringing down a long-handled spoon he carried over the backs of the disputants. the spoon, being almost red-hot, the clamor of the porkers redoubled, and with indignant squeals and grumblings they dashed off into the dense growth of scrub oak and pine that covered the island in its interior. at the same moment the captain, who had been taking a snooze under some small bushes, awoke with a start. "eh--eh--eh! what's all that?" he exclaimed, hearing the yells. "why, it's that plagued betsy and jane, my two young sows," he cried the next moment. "consarn and keelhaul the critters, they're breakin' out all the time. i reckon they're headed fer home now," he added, when hiram related how he had scared them. "i'm glad that they were nothing but pigs, captain," said hiram, going back with flushed cheeks to his cookery. "i was afraid for a minute they were i hardly know what. we'll have to fix that store tent more snugly in future." "and i'll have ter take a double reef in my pig pen," chuckled the captain. chapter xv the chums in peril even the epicurean tubby hopkins voted dinner that day a great success, and hiram, with becoming modesty, took his congratulations blushingly. in mid-afternoon, after seeing that the camp was in good working order, the scout masters started for the home shore in captain hudgins's boat, which was also to bring back some additional supplies for the next day. after dinner rob had assigned merritt and tubby to form a "fishing squad," to range seaward in the flying fish and "halt and detain" all the bluefish they could apprehend. the others were given the afternoon to range the island and practice up their woodcraft and landmark work, while rob busied himself in his tent, which was equipped with a small folding camp table, in filling out his pink blank reports which were to be forwarded to commodore wingate and dispatched by him to the headquarters of the boy scouts in new york. merritt and tubby were both ardent fishermen, and in response to hiram's pleadings, they allowed him to accompany them on their expedition. the fish were running well, and the boys cast and pulled in some time without particularly noticing how far out to sea they had gone. suddenly the stout youth, who was fishing with an unusually heavy line and hook, felt a hard tug on his apparatus, so powerful a tweak, in fact, that it almost pulled him overboard. he tried to haul in, but the resistance on the other end of his line was so great that he was compelled to twist it about a cleat in order to avoid either letting go or being dragged into the sea. "what in the name of sam hill have you hooked?" gasped merritt, as the flying fish began to move through the water faster than even her engine could propel her. "i've not the least idea," remarked tubby placidly, "but i rather think it must be a whale." "whale nothing!" exclaimed merritt scornfully and with superior wisdom. "whales sound, don't they?" "well, there's not been a sound out of this one so far," truthfully observed hiram. "what kind of a sound do they make, corporal?" "oh, you chump," responded merritt good-naturedly, "you've lived by the sea all your life, and you don't know how a whale sounds. sound means when a whale blows, spouts, sends up a big fountain of water." "oh, i see," responded hiram, much enlightened. "but see here, merritt, whatever we are fast to is beginning to pick up speed pretty rapidly. don't you think we'd better cut the line or try to haul in?" "haul in! not much!" exclaimed tubby indignantly. "we'll just hang on till we tire him out, that's what we'll do, and then haul in." "but we're getting a good way out from shore," objected hiram, who, however much at home he was at the key of a wireless apparatus, had no great relish for blue water in a small motor boat. "don't you worry, sonny," put in merritt patronizingly. "we'll be all right. my, that was a plunge!" as he spoke the bow of the flying fish dipped till she shipped a few gallons of green water. "i'll pay out some more line," said the unperturbed tubby. "i guess whatever we're onto begins to believe that he has swallowed something pretty indigestible." faster and faster the flying fish began to cut through the sea. the water sprayed out from both sides of her cutwater in a steady stream. "she's doing as well as she did the day of the race," said merritt, with a laugh, gazing at hiram's rather pale face. the wireless youth was casting longing glances at the shore. "well, i wish mr. whale, or whatever he is, would come up and let us have a look at him!" exclaimed tubby suddenly. "this is getting pretty monotonous." as he spoke the boy paid nut a little more line. he had only just time to belay it round the cleat to avoid its being jerked out of his hand, so fast was the creature they had hooked now traveling. "say, tubby," spoke merritt at length, "i'm beginning to think myself that it might not be a bad idea to put back. those clouds over there on the horizon look as if they meant trouble." "oh, let's keep it on a little while longer pleaded tubby; cutting through the water like this, without any expenditure of gasoline or power, is the real luxurious way of ocean traveling. it beats the mauretania. just think if liners could hitch a whole team of things like whatever has got hold of us to their bows! why, the atlantic would be crossed in four days." for some time longer the boat shot along over the waves, towed by its invisible force. the boys, with the exception of tubby, began to get anxious. the shores of the mainland were dim in the distance behind them, and topsail island itself only showed as a dark blue dot. suddenly the motion ceased. "he's free of the line!" shouted hiram, inwardly much relieved to think they had got rid of what to him was an alarming situation. "no, he's not," replied tubby, bending over the line. "he's still fast to us. the line's as tight as a fiddle string." he was standing up as he spoke, and as the flying fish gave a sudden, crazy jerk forward, he was almost thrown overboard. in fact, he would have toppled into the sea if merritt had not bounded forward and grabbed the fleshy lad just as he was losing his balance. "we're off again!" exclaimed hiram, as the flying fish once more began to move through the water. but now the creature that had seized tubby's big hook started to move in circles. round and round the flying fish was towed in dizzy swings that made the heads of her young occupants swim. "start the engine on the reverse, and see if that will do any good," said tubby, bending anxiously over his line. merritt brought the reverse gear to "neutral," and then started it up, gradually bringing back the lever governing the reversing wheel till the flying fish was going second speed astern, and finally at her full gait backward. the tug thus exercised seemed to have no effect on the monster that had caught tubby's bait, however. with the exception that the speed was diminished a trifle, the flying fish was still powerless to shake off her opponent. suddenly, and without the slightest warning, a huge, shiny, wet body shot out of the water almost directly in front of the amazed and startled boys, and settled back with a mighty splash that sent the spray flying in a salt-water shower bath over their heads. "whatever was it?" gasped hiram in awed tones. "a shark," replied merritt, "and a whopper, too. what are we going to do, tubby--keep on or cut loose?" "just a little longer," pleaded the other. "he must be tiring by this time. if we can only wear him out, we can tow him ashore and make a little money out of him. you know shark skin is valuable." "i'd rather have a whole skin of my own," quavered hiram, who had been considerably alarmed by the momentary glimpse he had had of tubby's quarry. "he's off again!" shouted merritt, as the sea tiger started straight ahead once more. suddenly the line slackened again. "look out!" tubby had just time to shriek the warning before a mighty shock threw them all off their feet in a heap on the bottom of the boat. "zan-g-g-g!" the line twanged and snapped under the sudden strain, and a great rush seaward showed the boys, as soon as they recovered their senses, that they had lost their shark. "and a good line," moaned tubby. "what are you kicking about?" demanded merritt. "it's a lucky thing the beast didn't start some plank of the boat when it charged; but as far as i can see, the flying fish stood the shock all right." "it felt like an earthquake," murmured hiram, whose face was white and eyes frightened. "well, i suppose we'd better head for home," said tubby at length. "those bluefish will go fine for supper." "spoken like a tubby," laughed merritt. "all right, i'll start up. hullo--" he looked up with a puzzled face from the reverse lever. "i can't get her on the forward speed." "what's the matter?" gasped hiram. "i don't know. something's stuck. shut off that engine, will you, tubby, while i see?" tubby promptly shut down the motor, and merritt struggled with the refractory lever. it was all in vain, however; he could not get it on the forward speed. "i've got to investigate," puffed the perspiring corporal; "something must be wrong with the reversible propeller." "well, whatever you are going to do, hurry up about it," spoke tubby, with unwonted sharpness in his tones. "why, what's the--" began merritt. tubby checked him with a finger on his lips. "don't scare the kid," he whispered, leaning forward, "but we're in for a storm." he pointed seaward. rolling toward them was a spreading wall of heavy clouds traveling at seemingly great speed, while below the wrack the water darkened ominously and became flecked with "white horses." chapter xvi lost in the storm "the trouble's in the reversible propeller. i always told rob he was foolish not to have a regular reverse gear on the shaft itself and a solid wheel," said merritt. "well, never mind that now," urged tubby anxiously. "i'll shift all the cushions and stuff up in the bow, and hiram and i will get as far forward as we can. that will raise the stern and you can hang over and reach the wheel." when the stout lad had done as he suggested there was quite a perceptible tilt forward to the flying fish, and merritt, hanging over the stern, could feel about the propeller better. "just as i thought," he shouted presently. "that shark when he came astern fouled that heavy line on the propeller." he got out his knife, and in a few minutes succeeded in cutting the entangling line free. it was not any too soon. from far off there came a low sound, something like the moaning of a large animal in pain. it grew louder and closer, and with it came an advancing wall of water crested with white foam. the sky, too, grew black, and air filled with a sort of sulphurous smell. "it's a thunder squall," shouted tubby, as merritt shoved over the lever and started the engine. as he spoke there came a low growl of thunder and the sky was illumined with a livid glare. "here she comes!" yelled merritt; "better get out those slickers or we'll be soaked." tubby opened a locker and produced the yellow waterproof coats. the boys had hardly thrust their arms into them before the big sea struck them. thanks to tubby's steering, however, the flying fish met it without shipping more than a few cupfuls of water. the next minute the full fury of the storm enveloped the boy scouts and the flying fish was laboring in a heaving wilderness of lashed and tumbling water. "keep her head up!" roared merritt, above the screaming of the wind and the now almost continuous roar and rattle of the thunder. it grew almost dark, so overcast was the sky, and under the somber, driving cloud wrack the white wave crests gleamed like savage teeth. hiram crouched on the bottom of the boat, too terrified to speak, while tubby and merritt strove desperately to keep the little craft from "broaching to," in which case she would have shipped more water than would have been at all convenient, not to say safe. as if it were some vindictive live thing, seized with a sudden spite against the boat and its occupants, the storm roared about the dazed boys. the flying fish, however, rode the sweeping seas gallantly, breasting even the biggest combers bravely and buoyantly. "it's getting worse," shouted tubby, gazing back at merritt, who was bending over the laboring motor. "yes, you bet it is!" roared back the engineer; "and i'm afraid of a short circuit if this rain keeps up." "cover up the engine with that spare slicker," suggested tubby. "that's a good idea," responded the other, rummaging in a stern locker and producing the garment in question. in another moment he had it over the engine, protecting the spark plugs and the high-tension wires from the rain and spray. but the wind was too high to permit of the covering remaining unfastened, and with a ball of marlin the young engineer lashed the improvised motor cover firmly in place. hiram, with a white face, now crawled up from the bottom of the boat. in addition to being scared, he was seasick from the eccentric motions of the storm-tossed craft. "do you think we'll ever get ashore again?" he asked, crawling to merritt's side. "sure," responded the corporal confidently. "'come on, buck up, hiram! you know, a boy scout never says die. we'll be back in camp in three hours' time, when this squall blows itself out." "i--i don't want you to think me a coward, merritt," quavered hiram, "but--but you know this is enough to scare any fellow." indeed, he seemed right. the flying fish appeared no more than a tiny chip on the immense rollers the storm had blown up. time and again it looked as if she would never be able to climb the huge walls of green water that towered above her; but every time she did, and, as the storm raged on, the confidence of the boys began to grow. "she'll ride it out, tubby!" yelled merritt, dousing the engine with more oil. "sure she will!" yelled back tubby, with a confidence that was, however, largely assumed. the stout youth had just been assailed by an alarming thought that flashed across his mind. "would the gasoline hold out?" there was no opportunity on the plunging, bucking craft to examine the tank, and all the boy could do was to make a rapid mental calculation, based on what he knew of the consumption of the engine. the tank, he knew, had been half full when they came out, and that, under ordinary conditions, would have sufficed to drive the flying fish for five or six hours. but they were not ordinary conditions under which she was now laboring. tubby knew that merritt was piling in every ounce of gasoline the carburetor could take care of. suddenly, while the stout youth's mind was busied with these thoughts, and without the slightest warning, there came a sort of wheezing gasp from the motor. merritt leaned over it in alarm. he seized the timing lever and shoved it over and opened the gasoline cock full tilt. but there was no response from the motor. it gasped out a cough a couple of times and turned over in a dying fashion for a few revolutions and then stopped dead. the boys were adrift in the teeth of the storm in a crippled boat. "what's the matter?" roared back tubby from the wheel. "she's lost steerage way!" "motor's gone dead," howled back merritt laconically. "great scott, we are in for it now! what's the matter?" "no gasolene," yelled merritt. "sosh-osh-soh!" a huge green wave climbed on to the flying fish's bow, shaking her from stem to stern like a terrier shakes a rat. "we've got to do something quick, or we'll be swamped!" roared merritt. "the cockpit cover, quick!" shouted tubby, steadying himself in the bucking craft by a tight grasp on the bulwarks. "that's it. now the oars. hurry up. here, you hiram, grab that can and bail for all you're worth!" the fat youth seemed transformed by the sudden emergency into the most active of beings. "what are you going to do?" yelled merritt, framing his mouth with his hands. "make a spray hood. come forward here and give me a hand." with the oars the two boys made a sort of arched framework, secured with ropes, and over it spread the canvas cockpit cover, lashing it down to the forward and side cleats. this work was not unattended with danger and difficulty. time and again as they worked the boys had to lie flat on their stomachs and hang on while the flying fish leaped a wave like a horse taking a barrier. at last, however, their task was completed, and the improvised spray hood served to some extent to break the waves that now threatened momentarily to engulf the laboring craft. "now to get out a sea anchor!" shouted the indefatigable tubby. he seized up an old bait tub, a boat hook and a "swabbing-out" broom, and lashed them all together in a sort of bridle. then he attached the flying fish's mooring cable to the contrivance and paid it out for a hundred feet or more, while the storm-battered craft drifted steadily backward. instead, however, of lying beam on to the big sea, she now headed up into them, the "drag," as it is sometimes called, serving to keep her bow swung up to the threatening combers. "there, she'll ride for a while, anyhow," breathed tubby, when this was done. "what's to be done now?" shouted merritt in his car. "nothing," was the response; "we've got to lie here till this thing blows over." "it's breaking a little to the south now," exclaimed merritt, pointing to where a rift began to appear in the solid cloud curtain. this was cheering news, and even the seasick but plucky hiram, who had been bailing for all he was worth, despite his misery, began to cheer up. "hurrah! i guess the worst of our troubles are over," cried tubby. "it certainly looks as if the sea was beginning to go down, and the wind has dropped, i'm sure." that this was the case became apparent shortly. there was a noticeable decrease in the size and height of the waves and the wind abated in proportion. in half an hour after the rift had been first noticed by merritt, the black squall had passed, and the late afternoon sun began to shine in a pallid way through the driving cloud masses. the lads, however, were still in a serious fix. they had been driven so far out to sea that the land was blotted out altogether. all about them was only the still heaving atlantic. the sun, too, was westering fast, and it would not be long before darkness fell. without gasoline and with no sail, they had no means of making land. worse still, they were in the track of the in and out-bound steamers to and from new york--according to tubby's reckoning--and they had no lights. "well, we seem to have got out of the frying pan into the fire," said merritt in a troubled voice. "it's the last time i'll ever come out without lights and a mast and sail." "that's what they all say," observed tubby grimly. "the thing to do now is to get back to shore somehow. maybe we can rig up a sail with the cockpit cover and the oars. we've got to try it, anyhow." after hauling in the sea anchor, the lads set to work to rig up and lash the oars into an a shape. the canvas was lashed to each of the arms of the a, and the contrivance then set up and secured to the fore and aft cleats by the mooring line they had utilized for the sea anchor. "well," remarked tubby, as he surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction and pride, "we can go before the wind now, anyhow--even if we do look like a lost, strayed or stolen chinese junk." "say, i'm so hungry i could eat one of those fish raw!" exclaimed hiram, now quite recovered, as the flying fish, under her clumsy sail, began to stagger along in the direction in which tubby believed the land lay, the wind fortunately being dead aft. "great scott, the kid's right!" exclaimed merritt. "we forgot all about eating in the gloom but now i believe i could almost follow hiram's lead and eat some of those fellows as they are." "well, that's about all you'll get to eat for a long time," remarked tubby, grimly casting an anxious eye aloft at the filling "sail." chapter xvii almost run down it grew dark rapidly and the night fell on three lonely, wet, hungry boys, rolling along in a disabled boat under what was surely one of the queerest rigs ever devised. it answered its purpose, though, and under her "jury mast" the flying fish actually made some headway through the water. none of the boys said much, and tubby, under the cover of the darkness, tightened his capacious belt. it spoke volumes for his boy scout training that, though he probably felt the pangs of hunger as much or even more keenly than the others, he made no complaint. hiram, the second-class scout, complained a bit at first, but soon quieted down under merritt's stern looks; as for the latter, as corporal of the eagle patrol, it was his duty to try to keep as cheerful as possible; which, under the circumstances, was about as hard a task as could well be imagined. the eyes of all three were kept strained ahead for some sign of a light, for they had been so tossed about in the squall that all sense of direction had been lost, and they had no compass aboard, which in itself was a piece of carelessness. suddenly, after about an hour of "going it blind" in this fashion, young hiram gave a shout. "a light, a light!" "where?" demanded tubby and merritt sharply. "off there," cried the lad, pointing to the left, over the port side of the boat. both the elder lads gazed sharply. "that's not the direction in which land would lie," mused tubby. "the light's pretty high up, too, isn't it?" suggested merritt. "it might be a lighthouse. we may have been blown farther than we thought." tubby offered no opinion for a few seconds, but his ordinarily round and smiling face grew grave. a sudden apprehension had flashed into his mind. "tell me, merritt," he said, "can you see any other lights?" "no," replied merritt, after peering with half closed eyes at the white light. "i can," suddenly shouted young hiram. "you can?" "yes; some distance below the white light i can see a green one to the right and a red one on the left." "shades of father neptune!" groaned tubby. "it's just as i thought, merritt--that light yonder is a steamer's mast lantern, and the fact that hiram can see both her port and starboard lamps beneath shows that she's coming right for us." this was alarming enough. without lanterns, without the means of making any noise sufficiently loud to attract the attention of those on the approaching vessel, the occupants of the plying fish were in about as serious a predicament as one could imagine. to make matters worse, the wind began to drop and come in puffs which only urged the flying fish ahead slowly. tubby made a rapid mental calculation, and decided that hardly anything short of a miracle could save them from being run down, unless the steamer saw them and changed her course. "can't we shout and make them hear us?" asked hiram in an alarmed voice. he saw from the troubled faces of both the elder lads that something serious indeed was the matter. "we might try it," responded tubby, with a bitter shrug. "but it's about as much use as a mouth organ in a symphony orchestra would be. better get on the life belts." with hands that trembled with the sense of impending disaster, the three boys strapped on the cork jackets. "now all shout together," said merritt, when this was done. standing erect, the three young castaways placed their hands funnel-wise to their mouths and roared out together: "ship ahoy! st-eam-er a-hoy!" they were alarmed and not ashamed to admit it. "no good," said tubby, after they had roared themselves hoarse. "when she strikes us, jump over the starboard bow and dive as deep as you can. if you don't, the propellers are liable to catch us." it was a grim prospect, and no wonder the boys grew white and their faces strained as the impending peril bore down on them. they could now see that she was a large vessel--a liner, to judge from the rows of lighted portholes on her steep black sides. her bow lights gleamed like the eye of some monster intent on devouring the flying fish and her occupants. on and on she came. the air trembled with the vibration of her mighty engines, and a great white "'bone" foamed up at her sharp prow. not one of the boys spoke as the vessel came nearer and nearer, although it speedily grew evident that unless a wind sprang up or the lookout saw them, it was inevitable that they would be cut in two amidships. "remember what i said," warned tubby, in a strange, strained voice. "dive deep and stay tinder as long as you can." and now the great vessel seemed scarcely more than two or three boat lengths from the tiny cockleshell on which she was bearing down. as a matter of fact, though, her towering bulk made her appear much nearer than she actually was. "can't we do anything, merritt?" gasped hiram, with chattering teeth. "we might try shouting once more," suggested tubby in a voice that quivered in spite of his efforts to keep it steady. "all together now--come on!" "ship ahoy! you'll run us down! st-eam-er a-hoy!" suddenly there were signs of confusion on the bow of the big vessel. men could be seen running about and waving their arms. "by hookey, they've seen us!" breathed merritt, hardly daring to believe it, however. the others were speechless with suspense. suddenly from the bow of the oncoming steamer a great fan-shaped ray of dazzling light shot out and enveloped the boys and their boat in its bewildering radiance. "hard over, hard over!" the boys could hear the lookout roaring, and the command rang hoarsely back along the decks to the wheelhouse. slowly, very slowly, as if reluctant to give up her prey, the bow of the mighty liner swung off, and the boys were safe. "look out for the wash," warned merritt, as the great black bulk, pierced with hundreds of glowing portholes, ploughed regally by them, her deck crowded with curious passengers. a voice shouted down from the bridge: "what in blazing sea serpents are you doing out here in that marine oil stove?" the boys made no attempt to reply. they had all they could do to hang on, as the flying fish danced about like a drifting cork in the wash of the great vessel. they could see, however, that several of her passengers were clustered at her stern rail, gazing wonderingly down at them in great perplexity, no doubt, as to what manner of craft it was that they had so narrowly escaped sending to the bottom. for had the vessel even grazed the flying fish, the small boat would have been annihilated without those on board the liner even feeling a tremor. it would have been just such a tragedy as happens frequently to the fishing dories on the foggy newfoundland banks. "wh-ew!" gasped merritt, sinking down on a locker. "that was a narrow escape if you like it!" "i don't like it," remarked tubby sententiously, mopping his forehead, on which beads of cold perspiration had stood out while their destruction had seemed inevitable. so thoroughly unnerved were the lads, in fact, by their experience that it was some time before they could do anything more than sit limply on the lockers while the flying fish rolled aimlessly with an uncontrolled helm. "come on," said tubby at length; "we've got to rouse ourselves. in the first place, i've got an idea," he went on briskly. "i've been thinking over that gasoline stoppage, and the more i think of it the more i am inclined to believe that there's something queer about it. it's worth looking into, anyhow." "you mean you think there may be some fuel in the tank, after all?" asked merritt, looking up. "it's possible. have you tried the little valve forward of the carburetor?" "why, no," rejoined merritt; "but i hardly think--" "it wouldn't be the first time a carburetor had fouled, particularly after what we went through in that squall," remarked tubby. "it's worth trying, anyhow." he bent over the valve he had referred to, which was in the gasoline feed pipe, just forward of the carburetor, and placed there primarily for draining the tank when it was necessary. "look here!" he yelled, with a sudden shout of excitement. "no," he cried the next moment, "i don't want to waste it--but when i opened the valve a stream of gasoline came out. there's plenty of it. that stoppage is in the carburetor. oh, what a bunch of idiots we've been!" "better sound the tank," suggested merritt; "what came out of the valve might just be an accumulation in the pipe." "not much," rejoined the other, "it came out with too much force for that, i tell you. it was flowing from the tank, all right." "we'll soon find out," proclaimed merritt. "give me the sounding stick out of that locker, hiram." armed with the stick, merritt rapidly unscrewed the cap of the fuel tank and plunged the sounder into it. "there's quite a lot of gasoline in there yet," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, as he withdrew and felt the wet end of the instrument. the carburetor was rapidly adjusted. the rough tossing about the flying fish had received had jammed the needle valve, but that was all. presently all was in readiness to get under way once more with the little boat's proper motive power. the "jury rig" was speedily dismantled merritt swung the flywheel over two or three times, and a welcome "chug, chug!" responded. "hurray! she's working," cried hiram. "as well as ever," responded merritt. "now for the shore. by the way," he broke off in a dismayed tone, "where is the shore?" "i know now," rejoined tubby in a confident tone. "off there to the right. you see, that steamer was hugging the coast preparatory to heading seaward--at least, i'm pretty sure she was, and that would put the shore on her port side, or on our starboard." they chugged off in the direction tubby indicated, and before long a joyful cry from hiram announced the sudden appearance of lights. "what are they?" asked merritt. "don't know--they look like bonfires," rejoined the other lad. "i wonder if we have been lucky enough to pick up topsail island?" as they drew nearer the lads soon saw that it was the island that they were approaching, and that the lights they had seen were campfires ignited by order of the anxious young patrol leader to guide them back. in a short time they had anchored the flying fish opposite the camp, and jumped into the dinghy left at her moorings when they embarked. "a fine scare you've given us," cried rob, as they landed and flung down their afternoon's catch. "we were afraid for a time that you were lost in that black squall--it blew two of our tents down, and we were mighty anxious about you, i can tell you." "you did not alarm our folks?" asked hiram anxiously. "no, i thought that it would be best to wait. somehow, i thought you'd turn up safe. where on earth have you been and what has happened? you look as pale as three ghosts." "towed to sea by a shark--caught in a squall--almost run down by a liner--and so hungry we can't talk now," sputtered out tubby comprehensively. "all right; come on up to the fire and get dried out and pitch into the grub." after such a meal as it may be imagined the young scouts indulged in, they told their whole yarn of their adventures to the listening patrol. a short time after they concluded--so long had it taken to relate everything and answer all questions--the mournful call of "taps" sounded and it was time to turn in. little digby alone, who was to do sentry service, remained on duty. merritt's dreams were a strange jumble. it seemed to him that he was being towed to sea on the back of a huge shark, by a big liner with a row of blazing portholes that winked at him like facetious eyes. suddenly, just as it seem he was about to slip off the marine monster's slippery back, he thought he heard a loud cry of "help, scouts!" so vivid was the dream and so real the cry that he awoke trembling, and listened intently while peering out through the tent flap. there was no sound, however, but the ripple of the waves on the beach and the "hoot hoot" of an owl somewhere back in the woods on the island. "funny," mused the boy, as he turned over and dozed off again, "that certainly sounded loud enough to have been a real, sure enough call for help." chapter xviii joe digby missing "merritt! merritt, wake up!" the boy sleepily opened his eyes and saw bending over him the pale features of rob, whose voice quivered with suppressed excitement as he shook the other's shoulder. "i didn't hear reveille blow yet. what's up? have i overslept?" murmured the young corporal. "no, it's not six-thirty yet--barely after half past four, in fact. but young digby--he had the night watch, you know--and was to have been relieved at three o'clock. well, ernest thompson, his relief, roused out at that hour, but not a trace of digby was to be found!" "what!" the sleepy boy was drowsy no longer. "digby gone?" "hush! we don't know yet. don't wake any of the others. thompson and i have skirmished around ever since it began to get light, and we have not been able to find a trace of him." merritt was out of his cot while his leader was still speaking, and ten minutes later, during which time the boys exchanged excited questions and answers, he was in his uniform and outside the tent. the sun was just poking his rim above the western horizon and the chilly damp of early dawn lay over the island. the sea, as calm almost as a lake, lay sullen and gray, scarcely heaving. behind the sleeping camp a few shreds of mist--the ghosts of the vapors of the night were arising like smoke among the dim trees. at the further end of the assemblage of tents, and beyond the smoldering fire, stood a silent figure, that of ernest thompson. "have you explored the island thoroughly?" asked merritt under his breath. somehow the dim hour and the situation seemed to preclude the idea of loud talking. "of course not. not yet," breathed the other in the same tones. "we will break the news to the rest of the patrol after breakfast. it's no use alarming them yet." "it isn't possible that he went off on an early fishing expedition?" for answer, rob waved his hand toward the water, where the flying fish lay rocking gently at her anchor. ashore the dingy lay as merritt and his companions had left it the night before. "but what can have happened to him?" burst out merritt, as they made their way over to ernest thompson's side. "i cannot think. it is absolutely mystifying. i am going to start for the captain's place now. he may be able to throw some light on the affair." merritt shook his head. "hardly likely. if there is no trace of joe digby on this side of the island, it is improbable that captain hudgins knows anything about him." "well," rejoined rob in a troubled voice, "we've got to try everything. i am responsible for his safe keeping while he is in camp. i blame myself for allowing the kid to go on sentry duty at all." "no use doing that," comforted merritt; "there's one thing sure, he can't have melted away. he must be somewhere on the island. there are no wild beasts or anything like that here to carry him off, so if we keep up the search we must come upon him sooner or later." "that's what makes the whole affair the more mystifying," rejoined rob. "what can have become of him?" "well, if he's on the island, we'll find him," he continued; "and if he isn't--" "we'll find him anyway," declared merritt in a determined voice. "that's the stuff!" warmly exclaimed the other. "and now i'm going to take a cruise round to the other side of the island, and see if i can find out anything there." a few seconds later he was in the dinghy and sculling out over the water to the speedy flying fish. in a short time he was off. as the "chug chug" of the motor grew fainter, merritt turned to young thompson. "don't breathe a word of this to the others till we know for certain that digby has vanished," he said. the other boy nodded. "i understand," he said, and the look with which he accompanied the words rendered merritt perfectly confident that he would be obeyed. "and now let's rouse out andy bowles and get him busy with that tin horn of his," cheerfully went on merritt, walking toward andy's tent. that youth was much surprised to find that it was morning, but tumbled out of his cot in double-quick time, and soon the cheerful notes of reveille were ringing out over the camp, on which the sun's rays were now streaming down in that luminary's cheerful morning way. the soldier who immortalized himself by sing the words: "we can't get 'em up, we can't get 'em up, we can't get 'em up in the morning--, we can't get 'em up, we can't get 'em up, we can't get'em up at a-a-l-l-l!" to the stirring notes of the army's morning call had never been in a camp of boy scouts. if he had he wouldn't have written them, for before the last notes had died away the camp was alive and astir, with hurrying lads filling tin washbasins and cleaning up. the cook and "cookee" for the day--jim jeffords and martin green--soon had their cooking fire going, and presently the appetizing aroma of coffee and fried ham and eggs filled the camp. "give the breakfast call, andy," ordered merritt, as the proud if flush-faced cooks announced their labors complete, and with a clatter and bang of tin dishes and cups the boy scouts sat down to breakfast. "where's rob and digby?" demanded andy bowles, as he dug his spoon into an island of oatmeal completely surrounded by an ocean of condensed milk thinned down with warm water. the moment that merritt had dreaded had arrived. "why, he and rob went off early to see the captain," he said. "i guess they'll be back soon." "pretty early for paying social calls," commented andy, too busy with his breakfast, however, to give the matter more attention, for which merritt was duly thankful. after breakfast merritt ordered a general airing of bedding, and the side walls of the tents were raised to let the fresh air blow through them. still there was no sign of rob. merritt grew so anxious that he could hardly keep from pacing up and down to conceal his nervous state of mind. however, he stuck to his duties and oversaw the first routine of the morning without betraying his anxiety to any of the lads under his charge. at last there came the awaited chug chug of the returning boat, for which he had been so eagerly listening, and rob appeared rounding the little point below the camp. in the craft was another figure, that of the captain himself. merritt's first hope when he saw the two persons in the boat--namely, that one of them might be the missing boy--was promptly dashed, and he instinctively guessed by rob's silence as he dropped the anchor and he and the captain tumbled into the dinghy that there had been no news. "no," said rob, shaking his head dejectedly as they reached the shore, "there isn't anything to tell. the captain is as much in the dark as we." "well, you'd better have some breakfast," said merritt, after he and the captain had exchanged greetings, "then we can go ahead and notify the others and institute a thorough search." "that's the stuff, my boy," agreed the veteran. "overhaul ship from bilge ter royals, and if not found, then take a cruise in search uv." rob ate his meal with small appetite, but the captain, urging on his young companion the necessity of "filling his hold," devoured prodigious quantities of food, and then, arising, suggested that the time had come to "pipe all hands aft and read orders." the boys had been so busy about their morning tasks that fortunately none of them, except tubby, whom merritt had told of the disappearance, had found time to notice rob's return or ask questions; so that when he announced to them that joe digby was missing it came as a stunning shock. "now, boys," said rob, after he had communicated the full details, so far as he knew them, of the circumstances of the disappearance, "there is only one thing to do, and that is turn this island inside out. it won't take long, but i want it done thoroughly. don't leave a stone unturned. if after a painstaking search we find nothing on the island, we'll know we have to look elsewhere. you are all fairly good woodsmen by this time, and can trail by signs as effectively as first-class scouts. use your eyes, and good luck." merritt at once assigned searching parties, he and rob and tubby taking the center of the island and the others being detailed to search along the shores in two separate squads for any trace of their missing comrade. "call me a lubber if this ain't the most mystifyin' thing i've run my bow into since the two janes, uv boston, brig, lost her bearings in a fog and fetched up off iceland," declared the captain, who had elected to accompany the three leaders of the patrol. "but drown or swim, sail or sink, we'll find that kid if he's on deck." the searching parties construed this speech as a sort of valedictory to them as, indeed, the captain intended it--and greeted it with a cheer. "the first scout that finds a trace of joe is to light the four 'smokes', meaning come to council," was rob's last order. "light them on as prominent a place as you can find and we will all meet in camp to hear the news." the searching parties at once separated, one striking off to the right, the other to the left and the three young leaders and their grizzled friend making a dead set for the center of the island. if joe digby was to be found, the look of determination on the face of each scout showed that it would not be the fault of his young comrades if he were not. chapter xix sam rebels in the meantime on a small island in the upper inlet a strange conference was taking place. three youths whom our readers will recognize as jack curtiss, bill bender and sam redding; were in earnest consultation with the unkempt and unsavory individual whom we know as hank handcraft, the beach-comber. "well, the job's put through, all right," hank was saying, as the three sat outside a small tent in front of which was a smoldering fire, about which the remnants of a meal were scattered. "yes, but now we've got to tackle the hardest part of it," said jack, knitting his brows. "i've got the letter written and here it is." as he spoke he drew from his pocket a sheet of paper. "the question is who to send for the money when the time comes." "oh, hank is the man," said ben, without an instant's hesitation. "we must not appear in this at all." "oh, i am the man, am?" put in hank, with no very gratified inflexion in his voice; "and what if i am caught? i'm to go to prison, i suppose, while you fellows get off scot-free." "as for me," said sam redding, who was pale and looked scared, and whose eyes, too, were red-rimmed and heavy as if from lack of sleep, "you can count me out. i want nothing to do with it. you've gone too far, jack, in your schemes against the boys. i'm through with the whole thing." "well, if you're that chicken-hearted, we don't want you in it at all," sneered jack, although he looked somewhat troubled at his follower's defection. "all we want you to promise is not to split on us." "oh, i won't peach," promised sam readily. "it will be better for you not to," warned bill bender; "and now let's figure this thing out, and quickly, too. we haven't got any too much time. they'll have discovered the kid has gone by this time and the alarm will be spread broadcast." "i thought, when he yelled like that last night, we were goners sure," remarked jack, scowling at the recollection. "it's a good thing those kids sleep as hard as they do, or we'd have been in a tight fix." "oh, well, no good going back to that now," dissented bill. "how was the young cub when you left him, hank?" he asked abruptly. "oh, he'd got through crying, and was lying nice and quiet on his bunk," remarked hank, with an amiable chuckle, as though he had just performed some praiseworthy act, instead of having left little joe digby locked in a deserted bungalow on an island some little distance from the one on which the conversation related above was taking place. "well, that's good," said bill; "although crying, or yelling, either, won't do him much good on that island. he could yell for a week and no one would hear him." "no; the water's too shallow for any motor boats to get up there," agreed hank. "i had a hard job getting through the channel in the rowboat, even at high water." "is the house good and tight?" was jack's next question. "tight--tight as the tombs," was hank's answer, the simile being an apt one for him to use. "the door has that big bolt on the outside that i put on, besides the lock, of which i carried away the key, and the shutters are all nailed up. no danger of his getting away till we want him to!" "couldn't be better," grinned jack approvingly. "now, here's the letter. tell me what you think of it?" opening the sheet of paper, the bully read aloud as follows: "mr. and mrs. digby: "your son is safe and in good hands. i alone know where the men who stole him have taken him. but i am a poor man, and think that the information should be worth something to you. suppose you place two hundred dollars under the signpost at the montauk crossroads to-night. i will call and get it if you will mark the spot at which you place it with a rock. look under the same rock in the morning and you will find directions how to get your boy back. captain nemo." "what do you think of that?" inquired jack complacently, as he concluded the reading of his epistle. "a bee-yoo-tiful piece of composition," said hank approvingly, with one of his throaty chuckles; "the only thing is--who is captain nemo?" "why, so far as delivering the letter and getting the money is concerned, you are," said jack decisively. "eh, bill?" "oh, by all means," assented bill. sam was not included in the conversation, and gazed sullenly straight in front of him as he lay where he had thrown himself on the fine white sand. "oh, by no means," echoed hank derisively. "say, what do you fellows take me for, the late lamented mr. easy mark? if you do you have another think coming." "now look here, hank," argued jack, "what's the objection? all you've got to do is to take this note ashore, give it to some boy to deliver, and then go to the crossroads at whatever time to-night you see fit and get the money." "of course," bill hastened to put in, "you've got to bring it to us for proper division." "oh, i have, have i?" chuckled hank. "well, what do you think of that? i'm to do all the work and you fellows are to get the bacon! that's a fine idea--not! four into two hundred doesn't go very many times, you know." "not four," corrected jack, "three. sam is out of this. he's too much of a coward to have anything to do with it," he added, mimicking sam's tone. the boat-builder's son reddened, but said nothing in reply to the bully's taunt. "well, three, then," went on hank; "that's not percentage enough for me. if i'm to have anything to do with this here job, i want half the money. you fellows can split the rest between you!" jack and bill exchanged blank looks. "now, look here, hank, be reasonable," began jack in a tone meant to be conciliatory. "now, look here, jack, be sensible," echoed hank mockingly. "you seem to forget that you owe me something for the job we did on those uniforms the other night, and that other little errand you performed on the island. you've got a very convenient memory, you have. why, i daresay those kids would have given me a nice little wad of tobacco money to have told just who took their sunday-go-to-meetin' suits, but did i peach? no, you know i didn't; but," he added, with rising emphasis, "if i don't get what's coming to me pretty soon, i will." "well, you idiot," began jack truculently; "haven't you got your chance now?" "if i choose to take it--yes," was the rejoinder; "but i don't know as i will. it seems to me i hold all the trumps and you are at my mercy." "why, you insolent dog!" bellowed jack, rising to his feet from the position in which he had been squatting. "for two cents i'd knock your bewhiskered head off!" he advanced threateningly, but bill, seeing the turn matters were taking, and realizing that more was to be gained by peaceful methods, intervened. "now, jack, shut up. stow that nonsense," he ordered sharply. "look here, hank, we'll accept your terms. half to you if you carry it out successfully." "and if i don't?" "then we'll all have to shift for ourselves. this part of the country will be too hot to hold us. i mean to go out west. i've got a cousin who has a ranch, and i think i could get along all right there if the worst comes to the worst." "see here, i don't agree with your way of dividing the money," began jack, an angry light in his eyes. "look--" "look here, jack," cut in bill sharply, "if you don't like it, it doesn't do you any good. if you object to it, keep out. hank and i form a majority. you chump" he added, quickly, under his breath, as hank turned away and began to "skip" flat stones over the water, "don't you see he takes all the responsibility? it's a cinch for us to get away if anything goes wrong." "yes, it's a cinch we get cheated out of our share of the money," argued jack, with an angry glare in the direction of the unconscious hank. "beggars can't be choosers," argued bill. "you know, as well as i do, that if we are implicated in this affair it means serious trouble. our parents wouldn't stand for it, and we should be disgraced. by doing it this way we get some of the proceeds--i admit not our fair share but what's to be done?" "well, i guess you are right, bill," assented jack, with a shrug. "it's go ahead now; we've gone too far to draw back." "that's the line of talk," grinned bill, "and when we've each got fifty dollars in our pockets, silenced hank with a golden gag and had our revenge on those kids, we'll be able to talk over future plans. i'm sick of school. i hate the idea of going back there. i've half a mind to strike out for the west anyway." "do you think i could get a job on your cousin's ranch?" asked jack. "i don't doubt it a bit," rejoined bill. "you're a good, husky chap, and brawn and muscle is what they need in the west." "yes, i'm husky, all right," conceded jack modestly. "sometimes i think that i don't get full opportunities to expand here in this wretched country hole." "no, the west is the place," agreed bill, with an inward smile, "as the newspapers say--one can expand with the country out there." their conversation was broken in upon by sam, who demanded in no very gentle tones: "well, who's going ashore? i'm off." "no hurry, sam," said jack in a more amiable tone than he had yet used that morning. "let's sit around here a while and enjoy the sun--we might take a swim after a while." "if you don't come now you'll have to swim ashore," grunted sam, arising and brushing the sand from himself. "i'm going back to hampton. i'm tired of camping out here." he walked toward the beach and prepared to shove off the dinghy, preparatory to sculling out to the hydroplane, which lay a few rods off shore in the channel. "hold on, sam," cried bill; "we're coming. don't go away sore." "i'm not sore," rejoined sam, in a tone which belied his words, "but i don't think you fellows are doing the right thing when you maroon a kid like joe digby on a lone island, in a deserted bungalow in which you'd be scared to stop yourselves." "why, what's got into you, sam?" protested jack. "it's more a lark than anything else." "fine lark," grunted sam, "scaring a kid half to death and then writing notes for money. it's dangerously near to kidnapping--that's what i call it, and i'm glad i'm not in it." both the others looked rather uncomfortable at this presentation of the matter, but jack affected to laugh it off. "pshaw!" he exclaimed, "it's a little bit rough, i know, but such things do a kid good. teach him to be self-reliant and--and all that." "sure," agreed bill, "you don't look at these things in the right light, sam--does he, hank?" hank, who had shuffled toward the dinghy at the conclusion of these edifying remarks, agreed with a chuckle that sam had no sense of humor, after which they all got into the dinghy and we sculled off to the unlucky hydroplane. it didn't take long to get under way, and the little craft was soon scudding through the water at a good pace, towing the dinghy behind her. "better put us ashore before we get into hampton," suggested bill. "we don't want to be seen about there more than can be helped." "that's where you are wrong," objected jack. "we'll put hank ashore up the coast, but the more we are seen about the place the better. it won't look as if we had anything to do with the digby kid--in case things do go wrong." so it was agreed that hank was to be landed in a small cove a few miles farther down the coast, from which it was a short cut across country to the neighborhood of the digby farm. then he was to waylay the first likely-looking messenger and entrust the note which jack had read to him for delivery. after that he was to spend the time as best he could in suitable seclusion, and after dark conceal himself near the sign-post. he was not to make any attempt to secure the money if any one hovered about the place, but if the coast was clear he was to go boldly in and take it. hank was landed at the spot agreed upon, a short time later, and the other three then resumed their journey for the hydroplane's home port. as they turned seaward jack pointed mockingly to topsail island, which lay a short distance on their port bow. "i'll bet there's plenty going on there right now," he grinned. "right you are," assented bill. "hullo," he added hastily the next moment; "what's that?" he pointed toward the island, and the occupants of the homing hydroplane saw, slowly rising from it in the still air, four straight columns of blue smoke. "looks like a signal of some kind," suggested jack after a scrutiny. "it's coming from about the place where we grabbed the kid," added bill, a note of apprehension in his voice. "i wonder what it signifies?" demanded jack, whose face began to bear a somewhat troubled look. "i can tell you," said sam shortly, turning round from the wheel. "you can?" "yes." "well, hurry up, then--what does it mean?" jack spoke sharply at sam's deliberation. "it means," said sam slowly, as if he wanted every word to sink in, "that the boy scouts have picked up your trail." chapter xx the hunt for tenderfoot joe rob, merritt, tubby hopkins and captain hudgins rested, perspiring under the noon-day heat, on a group of flat rocks at the highest point of the island. their search had been fruitless, and their downcast faces showed it. "how ever are we going to break the news to his parents?" merritt it was who voiced the question that had been troubling all of them. before any one had time to frame a reply the captain, whose keen eyes had been gazing about him, gave a sudden shout: "there's that smoke yonder yer boys were lookin' fer," he exclaimed, pointing. "four columns of it," shouted rob, "hurray, boys, that means news! it's 'come to counsel.' come on, don't let's lose any time in getting back." rapidly the boys stumbled and ran forward over the rocks and pushed on among the dense growth that covered the hillside they had climbed. they hardly noticed the obstacles, however, so keenly were they bent on getting back to camp and learning the news which they knew must be awaiting them. they covered the distance in half the time it had taken them to ascend the hillside and were met in the camp by the body of searchers--andy bowles, sim jeffords and ernest thompson--who had swung off to the left or mainland side of the island. "well, boys, what news?" breathlessly exclaimed rob, "we saw the counsel smoke and hurried down at top speed." "well, there's not very much, i'm afraid, rob," began andy, "but we found something that may give us a clue. about half a mile down the beach there's the distinct mark of a boat keel where it was drawn up on the hard sand and the marks of three separate pairs of feet." "good," exclaimed rob, "that's something and half confirms my suspicion. go on, andy, what else?" "well, we examined the marks carefully and found that two pairs of feet wore good shoes and the third a very broken, disreputable pair." "yes," exclaimed rob, while the others listened breathlessly. "of course that indicated to us that three persons must have carried joe off--for i don't think there's much doubt now that he was carried off, do you?" "i don't," said rob sadly, "but for what possible motive?" "i have it," suddenly exclaimed tubby hopkins, snapping his fingers, "you remember the day of the aeroplane model contest?" "yes, but what--" began rob. "has that to do with it," finished tubby for him. "everything. it was joe who first told the committee that jack's model was a bought one and so lost him the fifty-dollar prize." "by cracky, that's right!" assented rob, "and you think that jack and his gang have carried him off in revenge for it?" "looks that way to me," nodded the stout youth. "why, they wouldn't dare," began andy bowles. "oh, yes, they would," amended rob bitterly, "they'd dare anything to get even on us for their fancied wrongs. but whose could have been the broken ragged shoes?" he asked, suddenly taking up another train of thought. "hank handcrafts, the beach-comber's," suggested tubby. "gee whillikens! i'll bet a cracker that's the solution," cried andy, "and now i come to think of it i heard, before we left, that jack and his gang had gone camping." "where?" "up around the upper inlet somewhere. you know that's full of islands and as there's no drinking water there few people ever think of frequenting the place. if they wanted to do anything like carrying off joe that is where they would have been likely to go." "you may be right, andy. it's worth looking into, anyway," declared rob. "i'll leave a note here for the others and we'll take a run over there in the flying fish. if joe is there we'll get him out." "and in jig time, too," chimed in ernest thompson. "come on, boys, get some gasoline, hop in the dinghy and let's get aboard. we've got to move fast if we're to accomplish anything. you get the boat, andy, while i write a line to tell the others what we've gone after." the young leader hastily ran into his tent and sitting down at the table dashed off these lines: "boys, we think we have a clue to joe's whereabouts. have gone after him. keep camp in regular way while we are gone. hiram nelson is leader, and paul perkins corporal, in our absence. "rob blake, leader, "eagle patrol, b. s. of a." with a piece of chalk the boy marked a rough square and an arrow on a tree--the arrow pointing to a spot in the sand in which he buried the letter. "now, then, come on," he shouted, dashing toward the boat, "shove off, boys, and if joe's in the upper inlet we'll find him." "hurray," cheered the others, much heartened by the prospect of any trace of the missing boy, however slight. "give way, boys," bellowed the captain, who had insisted on coming along armed with a huge horse pistol of ancient pattern which he had strapped on himself in the morning when the news of joe digby's disappearance reached him. "this reminds me uv the time when i was a. b. on the bonnie bess and we smoked out a fine mess of pirates in the caribees." "regular pirates?" inquired andy as rob and merritt bent to the oars. "reg'lar piratical pirates, my boy," responded the old salt, "we decorated the trees with 'em and they looked a lot handsomer there than they did a-sailin' the blue main." further reminiscences of the captain's were cut short by their arrival at the flying fish's side. they had hastily thrown two cases of gasoline into the dinghy before they shoved off so that all that remained to be done was to fill the fast craft's tank and she was ready to be off. "hold on," warned rob, as tubby hopkins was about to secure the dinghy to the mooring buoy, "we'll tow her along. we may need her. there's lots of shoal water in that upper inlet." "right yer are, my boy; there's nothin' like bein' forehanded," remarked the captain as merritt bent over the flywheel and rob threw in the spark and turned on the gasoline. after a few revolutions an explosion resulted and the flying fish was off on the mission which might mean so much or so little to the anxious hearts on board her. "do you know the channel," asked merritt as rob with his eyes glued on the coast sent the flying fish through the waves, or rather wavelets, for the sea was almost like a sheet of glass. "i've been up here once or twice after duck," rejoined rob, "but it's a tricky sort of a place to get through. however, i guess we'll make it." as they drew nearer the shores the boys made out an opening which rob said was the upper inlet channel. "say, tubby, get out the lead line and let's see how much water we have," directed rob as the color of the ocean began to change from dark blue to a sort of greenish tinge, lightening in spots, where the shoals were near to the surface, to a sandy yellow. the stout lad took a position in the bow and swinging the lead about his head cast it suddenly ahead of the flying fish's bow. "slow down," ordered rob, and merritt cut down the motor to not more than two hundred revolutions a minute. the lead line, tagged with different colored bits of flannel at each fathom length, sang through the stout lad's fingers. "by-a-quarter-three," he called out the next instant. this meant that three fathoms and a quarter or eighteen feet three inches of water was under the keel of the little craft. "nough fer a man-uv-war," grinned old captain hodgins. slowly the flying fish forged ahead till right under her bow lay a patch of the yellow water. "by-a-half-two," came a sharp hail from the fat youth, who had once more heaved the lead. "cut her down some more," sharply ordered rob, without turning his head, "we draw only three feet so i guess we'll do nicely for a while." "great hop-toads, there's regular shark's teeth ahead," commented captain hudgins, pointing to the still shallower water indicated by the lightening tint of the channel. "by-one-by-a-quarter-one!" came sharply from tubby, as the flying fish seemed hardly to crawl along the water. "by-a-half!" came an instant later, meaning that only three feet of water lay right ahead. "stop her," roared out rob. but he was too late. instantly, almost as merritt's hand had flown to the lever, the nose of the flying fish poked into the sandbank and her motor with a gentle sigh came to a stop. "hard a-ground!" roared the captain, "too bad and with a fallin' tide, too." "full speed astern," came the next order. the propeller churned up the water aft into a white turmoil. the flying fish trembled in her every timber, and began to slide slowly backward from the treacherous shoal. "safe, by the great horn spoon!" roared the captain, fetching andy bowles a slap on the back that almost toppled the small bugler into the water. "for a time," said rob quietly, "come ahead a bit, merritt." slowly the little vessel slid ahead once more. rob seemed fairly to feel his way through the narrow channel he had picked out and finally the flying fish, after as much coaxing as is usually bestowed on a balky horse, floated in the deep water beyond the sandy bar. eagerly the boys looked about them as they "opened up," as sailors call it, the narrow stretch of water known as the upper inlet. it did not take them long to spy the island with the tent on it in which the conversation between jack and his cronies, and the mutineer to his plans, had taken place. "there's their camp!" shouted rob, eagerly sending the flying fish ahead at full speed, "now we'll find out something." "and, maybe, use this." the captain, as he spoke, grimly produced his formidable weapon and flourished it about. "no, none of that," sternly rejoined rob, "the boy scouts can take care of those fellows--without using firearms." "you bet," rejoined merritt, grimly "muscling up," "we'll show 'em if it comes to a fight." but bitter disappointment awaited the boys. as we know, the camp was deserted and no trace or clue of the whereabouts of its occupants was to be found. in the tent, however, lay a piece of blotting paper with ink-marks on it. it was the material with which jack had dried his letter. "anybody got a mirror?" asked rob. "this blotter may help some if we can read what's on it." "i've got a pocket one," said andy bowles, who was somewhat particular about his person and always carried a small toilet case. "that will do; let's have it." rob seized the bit of looking glass and held the blotter to it. "just as i thought," he exclaimed a minute later, with a cry of triumph. "it's jack curtiss' writing, though he has tried to disguise it, and they've got joe hidden somewhere. look here, they want $200 for his return." "yes, but what good does it do us to know that," objected merritt, when the sensation this announcement caused had subsided. "they evidently had him here overnight and then deserted the camp for fear we'd pick up their trail. they've taken joe with them." "by the great sea-serpent, that's right," grunted the captain, "it's a blind trail, boys!" chapter xxi saved by "smoke morse" each member of the party regarded the other blankly. the captain was right. the deserted camp was only a blind trail and they had all their work to do over again. "the first people to communicate with are joe's parents," mused rob. "that note will be delivered very shortly, as the longer they delay the more dangerous it will be for them." "that's right," agreed merritt, "jack and his gang will not let the grass grow under their feet now that they know the chase must be on. what can they have done with joe?" rob had been looking about him with the instinct of the boy scout. he was anxious to ascertain if there were not something tangible, some clue on which they could base a search for the missing member of the patrol. suddenly something remarkable struck him about the tracks that lay about the tent. they were all four those, of persons of larger growth than joe digby and mingling with them unmistakably was the broken-shoed track of hank, the beach-comber. "boys," announced rob suddenly, "joe has not been here at all." "not been here at all," echoed merritt, amazedly. "i mean what i say. look at these tracks. there is not a footmark here that could by any chance be his." the others scrutinized the maze of foot-prints with the same care as had rob and were forced to come to the same conclusion. there was no question about it--they would have to seek elsewhere for a trace of the lad. but where? they gazed about them at the stretch of lone bay or inlet, the sparse scrub grass and vegetation fringing it on the shore side and wheeling sea-gulls swooping and soaring above the shoal waters. then rob's gaze rested carelessly on a closed and seemingly deserted bungalow, occupying the island above them. as his eyes fell on it they suddenly became riveted and then grew wide with surprise. a stream of smoke was issuing from the fieldstone chimney roughly constructed at one end of the apparently deserted dwelling. "there's some one living in that bungalow," he exclaimed, as he made the discovery, "maybe whoever it is can give us some clue to where joe digby is." they all gazed intently at the weather-beaten old house from which the paint was scaling, adding to the note of desertion sounded by its closed shutters and forlorn-looking yard. as they looked, astonished at the idea that the barren structure should actually house a human being, a sudden thought struck merritt. "suppose jack curtiss and his gang are there?" he said. "hardly likely," rejoined rob, "however, we'll get over there and find out just who is making that smoke." suddenly the old captain, who had been watching the smoke closely, gave an astonished snort. "what's the matter, captain?" asked rob, who was about to walk to the water's edge and get ready to shove off the dinghy. "why, there's somethin' queer about that thar smoke," responded the old salt. "queer--how do you mean?" "well, watch it a minute--there--see! now stops--now it starts ag'in--then it stops--wha, do yer suppose is happenin' to it?" rob knitted his brows and watched the phenomenon to which the captain had called attention with narrowed eyes. there was no question about it the smoke was certainly behaving "queerly" as the captain put it. the blue vapor emerged from the chimney now in a copious puff and then, for a space, would cease, only to roll forth once more in larger volume. the boys watched it in some astonishment. "what can they be doing, do you suppose?" merritt asked. "i have no idea. it's past me to say," responded rob, "it comes out in puffs like--like--by hookey! i've got it!" he broke off with a shout, "like the morse code!" "somebody signaling?" stammered merritt. "that's it--watch!" the smoke, which had not been visible for some seconds, now emerged from the stone chimney once more and the boys, fascinated, watched it closely with burning eyes. there was no doubt whatever about it now. it was signaling. four short puffs. "four dots--that's h," exclaimed rob, trembling with excitement. the smoke ceased. "here comes some more," shouted merritt. one short puff from the chimney. "e, one dot, that's e sure enough," translated rob. the others stood like figures carved in stone as their leader read off the strange signals. puff! a longer period of smoking by the chimney--then two sharp puffs. "that's l," interpreted the leader of the eagles. before they could say a word the chimney took up its message once more. puff--a long puff--another long one, and then a short one. "dot--dash--dash--dot," exclaimed rob. "that's the letter p," put in merritt. "that's right, old man," shouted rob, slapping him on the back, "and we've found joe digby. that smoke signal spelled help in the morse code." "you're right," shouted merritt, "come on, cap, come on, boys, we've got to get a move on and get it on quick!" they dashed toward the dinghy and a few seconds later had once more embarked and were speeding toward the desolate and forsaken bungalow. somehow they managed to get ashore in the dinghy without anyone being spilled over the side in their desperate hurry and a minute later were pounding at the door. "joe--joe digby," shouted rob in a strange, strained voice. "here," came back the answer in a feeble tone, "oh, boys, i'm glad you've come." furiously rob shook the door. "it's locked," came the voice from inside, "i tried to break it down. too weak, i guess. try the shutters." at each window in turn the boy scouts sought to effect an entrance, but in vain. the owner of the place had screwed up the window coverings too tightly for them to be opened without tools. the rescue party came to a momentary halt. "i've got it," shouted the captain suddenly, "we'll have him out uv there in two shakes uv a drake's tail." he produced his formidable old pistol and waved it grimly. "come on, boys," he yelled, darting round to the front of the house--the side on which the door was. "what are you going to do?" demanded rob, as much mystified as the rest at the old eccentric actions. "watch me," grinned the captain as he gained the door. "stand clear!" he bawled at the top of his lungs, "stand clear uv the door inside there, joe!" "all right," came back the reply, "i'm in a corner." "now, stand by ter receive boarders!" roared the veteran as he placed the muzzle weapon at the lock and pulled the trigger. "bang!" there was a roaring explosion from the wide mouthed weapon and a cloud of smoke filled the air. but simultaneously there came a sound of ripping, tearing and splintering and the lock of the door, shot clean out by the heavy charge, clattered down to the floor on the inside of the room. an instant later joe digby, pale and trembling from privation, surprise and happiness all mingled in one, was in the midst of his friends and fellow scouts. "i don't know what made me think of it," he explained in answer to eager questions about the smoke telegraph message. "it was what the books call an inspiration, i guess. there were plenty of loose boards--fragments of old packing cases lying about, and luckily they had not taken my matches. i built a blaze and then, while it was still smoldering, i covered it with an old strip of sacking that i wetted with some water out of the bottle they left me." "it made about as good a signal, as one could want," responded rob warmly, "but now tell us about your capture, joe, how did it happen?" "why, you see," exclaimed the lad, his voice growing stronger as he proceeded, "i was just thinking it was about time to wake my relief when i heard a rustling noise in the bushes back of the camp. i walked up there to investigate, for i thought it might be some animals--maybe the captain's pigs." "keel haul them lubberly swine," from the captain. "but, as you shall hear, i was mistaken. hardly had i reached the edge of the dark shadows than i was seized and a hand put over my mouth. i had only time to let out one yell for help." "the one that woke me," put in merritt, in parenthesis. "that was it; i guess," went on the small lad, "well, i was picked up and carried some little distance to where they had a boat, and thrown into it. then the three men who were in the boat rowed to an island with a tent on it and there two of them got out. the other, a fellow with a big beard and very dirty, then rowed over to this place with me and, after putting some bread and a bottle of water inside the door, closed and locked it. "i carried on like a baby, i guess. i cried for a long time and shouted, but no one came. then i grew quieter and tried to find some way of escape but the shutters were all fastened and the door was too strong for me. i tried to clamber up the chimney once but i had to give it up. then suddenly the thought of making a smoke came to me and then i improved on that idea and used the morse code that rob has been drumming into me. i never thought that i might be able to use it to save my life maybe--or at least a lot of hunger and misery." "could you recognize the men who took you if you saw them again?" asked rob earnestly. "i'm not sure," responded the small lad, "one of them i would know--the one with the beard. the other two wore masks. but i think their voices sounded like bill's and jack's. i'm sure of the man with the beard though." "hank handcraft," exclaimed merritt. "oh, that's who it was," cried the small lad, "i thought somehow the voice and something about the man seemed familiar. he's that old beach comber who lives outside hampton." "that's the son uv a sea-swab," roared the captain, "oh, if i could only get my hands on him, i'd--" the fate the captain had reserved for hank was doomed not to be known, for as he was speaking paul perkins gave a sudden shout: "look--look there!" he cried, pointing. sneaking up to the tented island was the familiar outline of sam redding's hydroplane. chapter xxii the escape of the bully the group standing about the newly rescued lad on the veranda of the deserted bungalow galvanized into instant action. "jack curtiss and bill bender are in her!" shouted rob, "come on, scouts, we'll get after them while we can." with a shout the boy scouts ran for the boat and speedily pulled out to the flying fish. hastily as they executed this move, however, the two in the other boat had had time to head her about and start at top speed for the mouth of the inlet. "clap on more sail, my hearties," roared the captain, almost beside himself with excitement, "i want ter get my hands on them two piratical craft." rob, with a look of grim determination on his usually pleasant face, held the flying fish true on her course, but, heavily laden as she was, she could not make her usual speed and the hydroplane soon distanced her. jack curtiss stood in her stern and waved a mocking hand at the boy scouts as the light-draft craft shot over the shoals and shallows with case while the flying fish had to lose much time and way by threading in and out seeking the deeper water. "douse my toplights, i can't stand that," bellowed the irate captain hudgins. "i'll put a shot in that jackanapes' locker." with these words, and before any of the boys could stop him, he rose to his feet and sent a bullet from his ponderous revolver flying in the direction of the fleeing motor boat. it missed and hit the water near by, sending up a little fountain of spray. even at the distance they were the occupants of the flying fish could see the fear which this warlike move inspired in the bully and his companion. they threw themselves flat in their boat till only the hands of bill, who was steering, were visible. they need not have feared, however. the captain's hasty move brought down on his head rob's wrath, though the young leader could not find it in his heart to be really angry with the old man who had been irritated past endurance by the bully's mocking defiance. "shiver my garboard strake," he exclaimed contritely, when rob pointed out to him that he might have killed one of the occupants of the hydroplane, "shiver my garboard strake, lad, i saw red fer a minute just like i did that time the chinese pirates boarded the sarah jane butts in the yellow river." although there was not much hope of catching the two, rob stuck to the chase even when he realized the scouts were outdistanced, and in fact kept his attention so closely riveted on the other craft that when there came a sudden jar and jolt and the flying fish stopped with a grunt and a wheeze, he realized with a start that he had not been watching the treacherous channel and was once more fast on a sand bar. with a last shout and a yell of defiance the bully and his companion, who had by now got over their fright, shot out on to the ocean and rapidly vanished. "there goes our hope of catching those two crooks," cried tubby angrily, while the engine of the flying fish was set at reverse. "it's all off now. they know that we have rescued joe and they'll fly the coop for some other part of the country." "i suppose they came down here to get their tent, not realizing we'd be here so soon," observed andy, which indeed was the fact. fortunately the flying fish was not very hard aground and a little manipulation got her off into deep water once more. "i guess those two chaps are almost in hampton by this time and getting ready to leave town," observed rob as the motor boat forged ahead, once more. "this will be the safest thing for them to do," exclaimed merritt, "they are in a serious position this time. kidnapping is a dire offense." "i wonder what they came back for?" said tubby suddenly. "no doubt to get their tent and the few things they had left on the island," vouchsafed rob, skillfully dodging a shoal as he spoke, "maybe, too, they intended to see how joe was making out." "i wasn't making out at all," said the small lad, with a shudder at the recollection of his imprisonment. "never mind, joe, that's all over now," put in merritt. "i'm glad it is," answered the small lad, "and just think, if i hadn't been a boy scout and understood that code i might have been there yet." "that's true enough," said rob, "for we had about made up our minds that the bungalow was deserted, and were not going to bother investigating it, till we saw the smoke." about an hour later the boys landed once more in camp, where their reception by the others may be well imagined by my young readers. "and now comes the final chapter in the career of messrs. jack curtiss and bill bender," said rob decisively, "i'm going to take a run up to hampton. joe, you'll come along, and you, merritt, and tubby. if that letter was delivered, as i imagine it was, joe's parents must be in a terrible state of anxiety by now and we must hurry up and see them at once." "right," agreed merritt, and a few moments later, having left the captain and the others ashore, the boy scouts and their young leader were speeding toward hampton. with the craft lightened as she was, they made good time and arrived at the yacht club pier speedily. news of the events which had transpired at the island had evidently reached the town, for mr. wingate himself, with mr. blake and merritt's father were at the landing as the flying fish glided up to it. the three elders were almost as enthusiastic as the boys had been over the safe recovery of joe, the details attendant on which rob rapidly sketched to them. he had hardly concluded and had not had time to ask how they knew of the kidnapping when a wild-eyed man in faded old farm clothes, accompanied by an equally distracted woman, came rushing down to the wharf. "where's them boy scouts? i allers knew no good would come of my son joining 'em," the man shouted. "i'll give a hundred dollars fer a boat that'll take me ter topsail island in ten minutes." "'no need of that, mr. digby," said rob quietly stepping forward with his hand on joe's shoulder, "here is joe safe and sound." "great hopping watermelons!" yelled the farmer, rushing at his son followed by his wife. together the worthy souls almost squashed the small lad like a butterfly under a harrow. but at last the first greetings were over and the farmer turned to the somewhat amused group of boys and men who were looking on. "my, what a fright we had," exclaimed mrs. digby, a motherly-looking woman, dabbing at her eyes with capacious pocket handkerchief, "we gets a letter tellin' us that our boy be kidnapped." "yes we know all about that, mrs. digby," put in mr. blake, "you recollect your husband telephoned to the chief of police here about it, and expecting news from the island, we came down here." "so he did, so he did," cried mrs. digby, "oh, dear me, mr. blake, i'm in such a takin! i hardly know what i'm sayin'." "consarn them boy scouts," sputtered the farmer, returning to his original grievance, "if joe hadn't a joined them none of this would have happened." "oh, yes it would and worse in fact," said mr. blake quietly, "from what i have learned of the affair it was your lad's knowledge of the morse code, which every boy scout must know, that saved him when he was confined on the island." "that's right, pop," piped up the lad himself. "wall, i don't know nothin' about horses, codes," grunted mr. digby, somewhat mollified, "but if it saved joe here it must be all right." "then your animosity toward the boy scouts is somewhat modified," smiled mr. blake, "let me tell you just what happened. as a matter of fact the whole trouble dates back to the day your son exposed the contemptible trick by which jack curtiss hoped to win the aeroplane model prize contest." the banker drew the farmer aside and related to him the story that had been previously narrated by rob. "i want ter shake yer hand, boy," exclaimed the fanner, darting at rob at the conclusion, "i want ter shake all yer hands," he yelled in his enthusiasm. "bless my soul," exclaimed commodore wingate suddenly, "we are clean forgetting about those two young rascals who tried to extort the money from mr. digby. we must get after them at once and their accomplice who, i suppose, is, the man delegated to take the money from under the rock." "what do you suggest?" asked mr. blake. "that we hasten to the office of the chief of police and then get into my car and ferret them out if possible," said the commodore briskly, "they must be made to suffer for this." "i don't believe that sam redding had any hand in it," put in rob as merritt mentioned the name of the boat-builder's son. "you know that all our investigation only pointed to two persons, jack and bill, and their assistant, hank handcraft." a short time later merritt, tubby and the digbys being left behind on the landing, a high powered car, containing rob, his father, commodore wingate and the chief of police of hampton shot out on to the road leading to the farm owned by jack curtiss' father. inquiry at the bender home had already developed the fact that jack and bill had left there hurriedly a short time before, saying they were going out to the curtiss place. the party was doomed to disappointment, however, so far as the hope of catching jack or his accomplices at the farm was concerned. old mr. curtiss informed them that his son had taken the family buggy and driven furiously off down the road with bill bender a short time before. "he got a hundred dollars from me," explained the old man simply, "he told me he was goin' ter invest it in some rich mining stock his friend bender had promoted but--what's the matter, gentlemen," he broke off, noticing the half-pitying look on the faces of the men in the automobile. mr. blake hurriedly explained the attempted extortion of which jack had been guilty. "what, jack--my son!" exclaimed the old man in half daze at the stunning intelligence, "my boy jack do a thing like that? why, it can't be true. i don't believe it." "i'm afraid, nevertheless, it is," rejoined mr. blake, but the old man only shook his head. "i'll not believe it," he kept repeating. "i wish that so good a father had a worthy son," remarked mr. blake as the car shot out of the farm and out upon the highroad in the hope of overtaking the buggy. at the digby farm the machine was turned off to take the cross roads and at this spot they encountered a buggy coming toward them driven by a farmer friend of mr. blake's. "seen a rig with jack curtiss and bill bender in it?" shouted the banker as the car was slowed up by commodore wingate. "down the road a piece driving like the mischief," responded the rustic pointing back with his whip, "but you're wrong 'bout ther' bein' only two of them; that no-good beach-comber, hank handcraft, was in there with them." with a shouted word of thanks the car dashed forward once more. it was evident that, realizing that their game was up, jack and bill had picked up hank, and, with a sense of loyalty for which rob certainly would not have given them credit, were trying to save him too. "where can they be headed for?" wondered mr. blake as the car dashed forward. "i can hazard a guess," exclaimed commodore wingate, "for the sunnyside railroad station. if they make a train they may escape us yet." "je-rus-a-lem," exclaimed the chief of police, a man named applegate, pulling out a huge old-fashioned silver watch, "there's a train due in a few minutes now; if we don't make it, they'll slip through our fingers!" faster and faster the car roared forward and suddenly as it shot round a curve the little station of sunnyside came in sight. tied outside it was the buggy and horse of farmer curtiss and on the platform stood three figures that the party in the auto made out at once as jack curtiss, bill bender and their unsavory ally. the road took a long curve at this point and while they could see the station the pursuers had the mortification of knowing that it would be some minutes before they could reach it. as the car bounded forward, swaying like a rocking ship over the rough roads, there came a sudden sound that made rob's heart bound. the long whistle of an approaching train. faster the machine shot onward roaring like a battery of machine guns going into action. its occupants leaned forward with eyes glued on the group on the platform. the trio of whom the autoists were in pursuit had by this time realized that they were the objects of the chase and were nervously staring up the track down which was fast approaching the train by which they hoped to escape. the auto was still a good two hundred yards from the station when the train rolled in and, hardly stopping, started to move out again. "stop! stop!" yelled chief applegate, at the top of his lungs, and the others waved their hands frantically. the engineer looked back at them with a grin. "some more idiots missed their train, jim," he remarked to the fireman, "i might have waited for them but we're five minutes behind schedule time now." the fireman nodded understandingly and as the auto, in a cloud of dust, dashed up to the little depot the train, with a screech that sounded like the last defiance of the bully, shot round a curve and vanished with a cloud of black smoke. "beaten!" gasped the chief. "we can telegraph ahead and have them arrested in new york," suggested rob. "no, perhaps it is all for the best," counseled mr. blake, "the parents of both those boys are respected citizens, and it would be a cruel grievance to them were their boys to be publicly disgraced. let them work out their own salvation." and so jack curtiss, bill bender and hank handcraft vanish for a time from the ken of the boy scouts, leaving behind them no regrets, except it be those of their parents who were for many months bowed down with the grief and humiliation of their boys' misdoings. chapter xxiii scouts in need are friends indeed "ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! ta-ra-ta-rata! ta-ra-ta-a-a!" andy's bugle briskly announced the last morning of the boy scouts' camp on topsail island. already the first breath of autumn had begun to tint the leaves of the earlier fading trees, and the chill of the early dawn was noticeable. during their stay in camp the lads had profited in every way. the scout program as sent out for camps by headquarters had been gone, through with some modifications, and sim jeffords had qualified as a first-class scout while martin green, walter lonsdale and joe digby, once more as merry as ever, were all fitted for their second-class scout diplomas. the prospect of another patrol in hampton had been discussed and the outlook for one seemed favorable. as the last notes of andy's call--to turn to the subject of the opening of this chapter--rang out the tousle-headed, sleepy-eyed scouts appeared from their tents and found themselves enveloped in a fleecy mist--such a light fog as is common on that part of the atlantic coast at this season of the year. "pretty thick!" was rob's comment as he doused his face in his tin basin. "hull-o-o-o!" suddenly hailed a voice from the water, "got any breakfast fer an old shipmate?" through the fog the boys could make out the dim outline of the captain's motor boat even if it's apoplectic cough had not already told them it was there. "sure, come ashore," hailed merritt. a few moments later the hearty old seaman was sitting down with the lads and performing miracles of eating. "it's a good thing we haven't all got your capacity," remarked rob, laughing, "or that provision tent wouldn't have held out very long." "wall, boys," observed the captain, drawing out a black pipe and ramming some equally black tobacco into it with a horny thumb, "a full hold makes fair sailin', that's my motto and 'be prepared' is yers. a man can be no better prepared than with a good meal under his belt. give me a well-fed crew and i'll navigate a raft to hindustan, but a pack uv slab-sided lime juicers couldn't work a full-rigged ship uv the finest from here to ban-gor." having delivered himself of this bit of philosophy, the captain passed on to another subject. "hear'n anything uv them varmints what slipped their moorings on the train?" he asked. "we heard that they had gone west," rejoined merritt, "but to just what part i don't know." "that thar sam reddin' boy clar'd himself uv all suspicion, did he?" went on the old man. "yes, after he had admitted that jack curtiss and bill bender and himself stole our uniforms and robbed you--" "consarn him," interrupted the captain. "you needn't grumble, his father paid you back all that was taken," observed merritt. "that don't lessen the crime," grunted the captain, "heave ahead with yer yarn, my boy; yer was sayin' that that reddin' boy admitted everythin'." "well," continued rob, "in consideration of his confession, it was agreed not to prosecute him and he seems to be a reformed character. he absolutely denied, though, having had anything to do with the kidnapping of joe digby here, and i believe he is telling the truth." "the truth ain't in any uv them fellers, that's my belief," snorted the captain, "and if ever i get my hands on that thar jack curtiss or bill bender i'll lay onto 'em with a rope's end." "oh, we'll never see them again," laughed rob. it may be said here, however, that in this he was very much mistaken. rob and his friends did meet the bully again and under strange circumstances, in scenes far removed from the peaceful surroundings of hampton. "fog's thickenin'," observed the captain squinting seaward. as he remarked, the mist was indeed increasing in density, shrouding the surroundings of the camp completely and covering the trees and bushes with condensed moisture, which dripped in a slow, melancholy sort of way from their limbs. "bad weather for ships," observed merritt. "yer may well say that, my lad, and this is a powerful bad part uv the coast ter be navigatin' on in a fog. i've heard it said that there's a lot uv iron in the long island shoals and that this deflects the compasses uv ships that stay too near in shore in a fog. i don't know how that maybe, i don't place a lot uv stock in it myself, but i do know that steamers and vessels uv al kinds go ashore here more than seems ter be natural." as he finished speaking there came, the fog a sound that fitted in so well with subject of his conversation that it almost an accompaniment to it. "who-oo-oo-oo!" "a steamer's siren," exclaimed rob. "that's what it is, lad," assented the old sailor, as the sound came again, booming through the fog with a melancholy cadence. "who-o-o-o-o-o!" roared the siren once more. "i'll bet the feller who's on the bridge uv that ship is havin' his own troubles just about now," remarked the captain, "hark at that!" the whistle was now roaring like a wounded bull, sending distinct vibrations of sound through the increasing fog billows. "thick as pea soup," commented the captain, refilling his pipe, "reckon i'll have ter stay here till she lifts a bit. wind's hauled to the sou'west too. bad quarter means more fog and smother." "who-o-o-o-o!" boomed the siren of the hidden vessel once more, and this time it was answered by another whistle somewhere further off in the fog. "two uv 'em now. stand by fer a collision," shouted the captain, while the scouts, intensely interested in the development of this hidden drama of the fog, clustered about him. "who-o-o-o-o! who-o-o-o-o! who-o-o-o-o!" came the nearest siren. "she's standin' in shore," shouted the captain, "boys, she's in grave danger." "what's she coming in for?" asked merritt. "i suppose her skipper thinks he's got plenty uv water under his keel and wants ter give a wide berth ter the other vessel," explained the captain. "boys, if only we had a big bell or a steam whistle we could warn them poor fellows uv their peril." "it does seem hard to hear them blundering in and not be able to warn them," agreed rob, "there should have been a lighthouse put on these shoals long ago." "right yer are, boy, but the government is a slow movin' vessel and hard ter get under way." the boys had to laugh at this odd way of expressing the difficulty of getting new lights erected, but they knew as well almost as their companion the dangers of the ocean off this part of long island. the whistle boomed out its wailing note again. "closer and closer," lamented the captain, "what's the matter with those lubbers? yer'd think they'd have a leadsman out." all at once the catastrophe for which they had been more or less prepared happened. so quickly did it come that they had not time to speak. the echoes of the last note of the siren had hardly died out when there came a loud explosion. "bang!" "a signal gun," roared the captain. "they are calling for help?" asked rob. "that's it, my boy. they've struck, just as i thought they would." the distress gun sounded again. "they're in a bad mess by the sound uv that," said the captain. "it doesn't sound as if they were more than half a mile or so out," remarked rob. "i guess they're not. hark at that! they must be scared ter death." the gun was fired three times in rapid succession. "they'll never hear that at lone hill life savin' station," grimly commented the captain, "and this fog's too thick fer them ter see her." "do you imagine she is badly damaged, captain?" asked rob anxiously. the idea of the stranded ship lost in the dense fog affected him strangely. "can't tell," the captain replied to his question, "may have stove a hole in herself and be sinking now." "can't we do something to help them?" asked merritt eagerly. "only one thing we can do, boy, and that's full uv danger." "what is it?" demanded rob, ignoring the last part of the captain's speech. "get in ther boat and go out thar to 'em. if they're sinkin' we can help 'em a whole lot, and--" the captain stopped short in amazement. rob, merritt and tubby had already started for the beach and hiram, "the wireless scout", was close on their heels. "well, douse my toplights," exclaimed the captain, rising to his feet and lumbering after them, "yer can't beat the boy scouts." chapter xxiv a meeting in the fog--conclusion "can you make her out?" five pairs of eyes peered through the mist that hung like a white pall an every side of the flying fish. "stop that motor a minute, while i listen!" in compliance with rob's order merritt shut down the panting engine. "what's that noise off there?" asked hiram suddenly. "that sort of throbbing sound?" rejoined tubby hopkins. "that's it, sounds like a big heart beating," put in rob. "i guess that's their engine. they're tryin' ter back her off," suggested the captain. "give them a blast on that fog-horn and see if they answer," said rob suddenly. hiram took up the big brass fish-horn, used as a fog signal on the flying fish, and blew a loud, long call. after an interval of waiting, from out of the mist came the wail of the stranded ship's siren once more. "there she is, right in there," declared the captain, pointing seaward into the mist. "steer right on that tack, rob, and we'll pick her up pretty soon." the motor was started up once more and the flying fish forged ahead through the smother. suddenly rob, with a sharp cry of: "stop her!" swung his wheel over sharp and the flying fish headed about. the gleaming black rampart of a large vessel's side had suddenly loomed up dead ahead of him. "ahoy! aboard the steamer," roared the captain, framing his mouth with his hands, "what ship is that?" "the el paso from london to new york," came back a hail from somewhere above them in a somewhat surprised tone, "who are you?" "the flying fish of hampton, long island," responded rob, with a laugh. "never heard of her," responded the voice, "we're hard aground on one of your long island shoals it seems." "that's what yer are," exclaimed the captain, "how come yer ter be huggin' the shore so hard?" "trying to avoid a collision with another vessel." "are yer all right?" bellowed the captain. "seem to be. so far as we can find out there's not a plate started, but if you're from the land we've got a couple of passengers we'd be thankful if you'd take ashore. will you come on board?" "sure, if yer'll drop a jacob's ladder," bellowed the captain at the invisible speaker. "in a minute." the conversation had been carried on without either of the parties to it being able to see one another, but the captain of the vessel--for he had been the boy's interlocutor--now came off the bridge and with some of the crew watched two sailors lower a jacob's ladder and make it fast to the rail. "now we go aboard," said captain hudgins, clambering up the swaying contrivance as nimbly as an athlete, "make our painter fast ter the ladder, rob." this being done, the boys followed the veteran on board. the steamer, when they gained her deck, puzzled them a good deal and it was not till her captain, a genial blond-bearded britisher, explained to them that she was a cattle ship that they understood the utility of the wooden structures with which her decks were obstructed. the captain explained that these were pens for the cattle she expected to take back to england, from which country she was returning after having taken over a large consignment of steers. "which," went on the captain, "brings us to my passengers. they are mr. frank harkness and his son, of lariat, a small cattle town in the west, where mr. harkness has a large ranch. they were his cattle that we took over and as he had difficulty in engaging a berth on a liner at this time of year, when the passenger ships are crowded, he decided to return with us. here is mr. harkness now," he added, as a tall, bronzed man, with a long coat draped over a pair of broad shoulders, and a wide-brimmed sombrero above keen eyes, approached. "visitors from the shore, captain?" he inquired, a pleasant smile illuminating his clean-shaven, sun-browned face. "that's what they are," rejoined the captain, "just dropped in on us, don't you know." "you mean we dropped in on them," amended the other with a laugh, "come here, harry," he called, raising his voice, "we've got some company out of the fog." in response to his call a lad about the age of rob appeared from the after-end of the ship, where the cabins were, and greeted the boys with a smile and a nod. he, like his father, wore a sombrero and was quite as sunburned. for the rest he was well-knit and athletic looking and had evidently lived an out-door life. "well, we are getting plenty of experiences away from the ranch, eh, harry?" observed his father, after the boys and the captain had introduced themselves and there had been a great and ceremonious hand-shaking all round. "we just naturally are," responded the rancher's son. "say, captain," he went on, "when do you expect to get off?" "if we are not too badly hung up we ought to get off at high-water," rejoined the britisher. "that won't be till late to-night," observed rob. "if i could only get a tug we might do better," observed the captain, "in fact, since i've had the engines going i don't think we can back off under our own power." "have you got a wireless?" asked hiram, his pet subject uppermost. "yes, but our operator went ashore in london and i guess he had too good a time; anyhow he never showed up so we had to cross without one." "is she working?" asked hiram interestedly. "sure, there's plenty of 'juice' as the operators, call it. i tried to work it coming over," laughed harry, "but outside of getting a proper shock, i didn't do much." "i'll send out a signal for a tug," said hiram quietly, "there's a station at island. they'll pick up the message and transmit it." "what--you can work a wireless?" "a little bit," said the lad modestly. "come on, i'll show you the way," said the delighted captain, starting off with hiram, and followed by the others. "say, don't think it personal of me, will you?" remarked harry harkness to rob as they followed, "but would you mind telling me what you all are wearing those uniforms for?" "why, we're boy scouts," rejoined rob proudly, and went on to explain just what the organization is. "say, that's great," exclaimed harry enthusiastically, "i'd like to form a patrol out at lariat. do you reckon i could?" "i don't doubt it," rejoined rob, smiling the western enthusiasm. "by cracky, i'll do it," went on harry harkness, "i'll make it a mounted patrol and if we don't get old 'silver tip' then, besides all the other sport we'll have, call me a coyote." "who or what is old silver tip?" asked rob, somewhat interested in his breezy new acquaintance. "silver tip is a grizzly," explained harry, "a grizzly bear you know. dad says he's the biggest he's ever seen and he seems to bear--excuse the pun, please--he seems to bear a charmed life. all the boys on the ranch are crazy to get a shot at him, but they've never been able to." "say, that sounds bully," agreed rob, "i wish i could get out west for a while." "it's a great country," said harry sagely, as they entered the wireless room, where hiram was already bending over the instrument sending out a message for aid, while the blue spark leaped and crackled across its gap. the others gazed on admiringly as hiram, having completed his message, adjusted the detector on his head and awaited an answer. it soon came. tugs would be dispatched as soon as the fog lifted, the operator at fire island announced. "that's a weight off my mind," breathed the captain, while harry hastily confided to his father that the lads who had boarded the vessel out of the mist were boy scouts. "the fog is lifting," announced rob, as they streamed out of the wireless room. "yes, the wind has shifted," remarked captain hudgins. "i guess it was that sou'west breeze that brought the mist. she's hauled ter the nor'west now, and in an hour's time it will be clear." "i wonder if you boys can put us ashore," said mr. harkness, as the group walked aft to the captain's cabin; "i would be very grateful if you could. it seems that it will be some time before the steamer is cleared, and i am anxious to make a train for the west." the boys agreed to land the ranchman and his son as soon as the fog cleared off, which, as the captain had prophesied, it did in about an hour's time. the boys had spent the interim in exploring the ship and listening to harry harkness' tales of the ranch and the marvelous exploits of silver tip, the huge grizzly, who derived his name, it appeared, from a spot of white fur on his breast. in fact, so fast did they get on, that by the time harry and his father were called by captain hudgins to embark in the flying fish, the boys had become fast friends. the run to the shore was made quickly and by landing the two travelers at a point above hampton they were enabled to make a train that would land them in the city in time for dinner. mr. harkness whiled away the trip by plying the boys with all sorts of questions about the boy scouts and seemed greatly interested in their answers. altogether the boys felt quite sorry when it came time to part at the wharf at farmingdale, the place where the rancher and his son were put ashore. "well, good-bye, boys," said mr. harkness, holding out a big hand to rob, who took it and was amazed to find a twenty dollar gold piece slipped into his palm by the ranchman. "oh, i couldn't think of taking that," he said, insisting on handing it back despite the ranchman's protests, "i appreciate your motive, but i couldn't think of taking any money for an ordinary courtesy." "by sam hooker, you're right, boy," cried the ranchman heartily, "and it's a privilege to meet such a bunch of fine lads. i thought all you easterners were a bunch of stuck-up tenderfeet, but i find i'm wrong--anyhow so far as the boy scouts are concerned." a few minutes later the rancher and his son were hastening to the railroad station, followed by the boys' eyes. as they entered the depot, just in time to catch the new york train--they waved a hearty farewell and the boys waved and shouted in return. "we've only known them a few hours, but i feel as if i'd just said good-bye to two friends," said rob as they turned away and prepared to go back to the island in their boat and break camp. "so do i!" said tubby; "i wonder if we'll ever see them again." "no, i guess they're kind of ships that pass in the night,"' laughed merritt, "however, i'm glad we did them a good turn." the boys, however, were destined to meet the ranchers again and to have many strange and exciting adventures, among which the ultimate downfall of silver tip was to be one. could they have looked into the future, too, they would have seen that in the far west they were to face dangers and difficulties of which they had as yet never dreamed and were to be the victims of the malicious contrivings of bill bender and our old, acquaintance, jack curtiss. a few weeks after the events related above there was great excitement in hampton over the announcement that merritt's courageous act of life-saving and the achievements of the other young scouts of the eagle patrol were to receive official recognition. a field secretary of the organization arrived at the village one evening and was met at the depot by the patrol in full uniform, and with the village band drawn up at their head. proudly, under the eagle standard, they marched to the town hall, which had been illuminated in a style the villagers would never have believed possible and were greeted by the local committee headed by commodore wingate and mr. blake. "three cheers for the boy scouts!" came from a voice in the back of the crowded hall after the honors had been distributed and the advances in rank announced. the shout that went up cracked the plaster on the ceiling of the venerable building. "speech, speech," shouted one of those individuals who always do raise that cry on the slightest excuse. rob blake, very red and protesting, was hustled to the front of the stage on which the scouts had been drawn up. "i can't make a speech," he began. "hear! hear!" shouted the crowd, most of whom couldn't. "but on behalf of the boy scouts i want to thank you all and--and--" the rest was drowned by the band which, having been quiescent for ten whole minutes, could maintain silence no longer and blared out into that favorite of all village bands, "hail to the chief." "come on, let's get out of here," whispered rob to merritt, whose breast was decorated with the coveted bronze cross and red ribbon, which is the highest honor a scout can attain. as they slipped out upon the darkened street a boy came up to them with an outstretched hand. "i want to tell you i'm sorry for the part i played in the mean tricks jack curtiss and bill bender put up on you fellows," he said contritely, "will you shake hands?" "sure we will, sam redding," responded merritt, extending his palm, while rob did likewise. "at that," added merritt, "i guess we win." and here, with their former enemy become a remorseful friend, we will, for the present, leave the boy scouts to renew our acquaintance with them in the next volume of this series which will be called: "the boy scouts on the range." the end https://archive.org/details/dreamyhollow00britiala dreamy hollow to the girl of my dreams --f. a. b.-[illustration: she gazed upon his kindly face, and then with the joy of youthful spirits, placed her hands over his eyes.] dreamy hollow by sumner charles britton a long island romance [illustration: decoration] new york world syndicate company, inc. copyright, 1921, by world syndicate company, inc. printed in the u. s. a. contents chapter page i the house of mystery 1 ii william parkins arrives 19 iii a message from winifred 40 iv a sudden departure 49 v the hawk seeks its prey 61 vi secret service 77 vii the new winifred 96 viii henry updyke drops in 115 ix forces beyond the skies 133 x the nurse takes a chance 144 xi mary johnson 166 xii the third degree 188 xiii winifred meets updyke 216 xiv george carver's bride 242 xv parkins runs amuck 259 xvi the hut across the bay 279 xvii the wolf hound 288 xviii flight of a soul 301 dreamy hollow chapter i. the house of mystery dreamy hollow may be reached three ways--by automobile, aeroplane or boat through great south bay. but to go there without invitation would have spoiled the welcome, for, at the time of which we write, the master of this magnificent acreage was a man of square jaw, protruding forehead, and very punctilious. he also possessed two deep blue eyes that set far back under brows of extra overhang--eyes that reflected the soul when tranquil, but in heat of passion, turned to lead. a forest of trees and kindred foliage protected his gleaming villa from the prying gaze of curious tourists. only from the water side could it be seen at all. when it was learned that the great concrete walls topped by heavy iron pickets admitted of no entrance except by invitation, the sight-seeing tourist scorned the gatekeeper's apology and scurried away along the gasoline trail. for quite a long period much mystery existed as to the ownership of the magnificent estate, but this much was known: that for five straight years the great house stood empty. no one was seen to come or go, save the watchman at the ornate iron gates opening upon the motor parkway, and his fellow guardsmen in charge of the estate far in behind the trees and bushes,--out of sight. it was built by a trust company, and whoever might be the owner, he came by sea at rare intervals and sailed away at night. only a chosen few had visited him there, but they came as he came, and departed with him as he went away. thus the wondrous white home with its wealth of trees and shrubs came to be known to the families of neighboring estates as "spooky hollow." drury villard, after amassing a most prodigious fortune, suddenly appeared before his directors one bright june morning, and announced his retirement forthwith, whereat there was great consternation. for a time the silence following his announcement became so tense that, as president, he felt it necessary to say something more definite. gathered about him were men who had carried his message all over the world and had sold it for cash. never had they known a human specimen of such overwhelming energy of body and mind. although strong in themselves, individually, and as a group, they knew they were merely "spokes in the wheel" of a giant intellect. they had carried his banner into every port, and that banner had spelled prosperity for every agency that held it aloft. but the master mind would quit! now he would lay aside his life work and "desert" the greatest organization of its kind in the world! it amounted to just that--desertion--to those who had grown up with the business--their all was involved. the stern faces of the strong men about him finally brought president villard to his feet and caused him to walk nervously to and fro across the room. every eye was upon him, and he knew in advance each man's thoughts, so intimate had his relations been with them. it was his intention to be frank. he meant to tell them everything about his future plans, but he who had always dominated now halted, ill at ease. for once in his life he exhibited a diffidence of speech in the presence of his directors. they would most likely think his reasons silly--perhaps they would think him crazy! above all else he wanted, as he well deserved, their lasting good will. under no circumstances would he forfeit that; but there were certain men in the organization who might feel that he was in the act of jeopardizing their future welfare. each was a special partner and entitled to the truth, therefore he determined to put his case squarely up to them as a group, regardless of their attitude toward himself. with his hands clasped behind him he finally came to a standstill before them and dreamily peered into their faces. "boys," said he, his lips curving into a queer little smile, "i've got to quit--but i won't desert you. i shall do nothing that will subtract from what you have, nor will i retard your progress in pursuit of your goal. i have enough--more than i ever wanted--more than is good for any one man to possess. but for you, untiring faithfuls that you are, i should have said 'good-bye' to this great business five years ago." being a man of few words he stopped short and leaned back against the wall where he stood as one at bay until the silence became awkward. then in a soft sympathetic voice a member of his board of directors spoke. "why, mr. villard--why would you have done this, when at that time your zeal was at its height?" vice-president parkins asked this question in all good humor. "because i feared to lose my soul in pursuit of riches that i did not need. besides, i was building my future home at dreamy hollow. i felt that i should need one as i was on the point of marriage. none of you know that, however," concluded the president, with a far-away gleam in his eyes. man of silence and strength, he paused for a moment and again paced the floor. finally he said, simply, a whimsical expression lighting up his face: "she died--but i went ahead and built a home for her just the same. it has taken years to make it into a place she would have loved. now, at last, it is ready. maybe she will hover about it some of the time, so i want to be there. i want to be near at hand, so that----" president villard stopped suddenly and looked helplessly about him, for there were strange lights in the eyes of more than one member of the board, and by each man's sobered face was shown a deep sympathy. he looked upon them in amazement, and, suddenly taking his seat at the head of the directors' table, broke out in his accustomed voice. "gentlemen," said he, "we must now come to order and proceed with matters to be passed upon by the board. the first thing is my resignation. in support of that i most earnestly bespeak your hearty concurrence. i must be relieved. parkins is the man. he has been the real head of this corporation for years--yes, you have bill," said he, insistently--"and all of us know it. you are the 'system sam' of the concern, and i won't desert you by any means. make me chairman of the board, if you think best, and i'll come to the annual meeting, or any time you really want me, but i trust that you will find my presence unnecessary. there need be no outside talk. just say that i am playing with my new home, but am still in the ring. go on with the business, boys. it's yours from now on. i'll gradually draw out and let go of some stock from time to time in equal shares to you who have carried the hod. i shall keep some of it always just to be one of you, but at my death my executors will find advices from me to dispose of any remaining interest equitably between you. also allow you time to work it out, if need be. it's all up to you." what the retiring president had to say was so entirely unexpected that no member of the board found words for reply, although it was patent to all that a great good fortune had been handed them in a fashion never to be forgotten. after a tense period of silence vice-president parkins arose from his seat and, walking forward, grasped the hand of the retiring president. a look into each other's eyes told of their mutual trust and esteem; and then one by one, the directors passed in review, several of whom put an arm about villard's broad shoulders and peered through the mist of their own eyes into his serious face. it was plain that he wanted to be sure that each man was satisfied, and when all had paid their tributes of respect he stood before them irresolutely for a moment--then, without looking back, walked out of the room. drury villard carried no heart upon his sleeve. his was a vigorous nature and he was determined that his first real attempt at home life should light his path toward contentment. no one could have dreamed that this indefatigable specimen of the strenuous life could so easily adjust himself to the new order of things. the usual servants, male and female, amply vouched for by expert agencies, had entered quickly and at once became a part of his orderly household. there had been no fussy superintendence on the part of any one, each member of the menage quietly walking into an appointed place, to take up the duties belonging thereto. all this was to the liking of the master, whose "stock" was soon "taken" by the experienced coterie of servants who forthwith gave him their approval. thenceforward his time was his own. he would lead a new life; he would make it his sole business to solve the problem of the real gentleman of leisure. to accomplish this he must discard by degrees all superfluous endeavor. every habit of haste and impatience must be thrown overboard. tranquillity of mind and body must be transplanted in their stead. he had a vague notion that his loneliness would soon vanish and that certain seeds of contentment implanted by fixed habits, together with forces not hitherto encountered, would, in time, lead him "beside the still waters,"--away from the storms of life. he welcomed the thought. it stood out as a rainbow of promise before his mind's eye, and took root within his bosom. as days followed his occupancy of the great home he had builded, he became aware of the perfect solace which now permeated his inner being. although assured that he had control of his every faculty he did not gloat over his sudden surcease from sorrow. there was a reason for everything and consequently no need of haste in forming "half-baked" conclusions. he had been helped along by a process yet to be fathomed--most probably _the will to do_. his great homestead, a marvel of exquisite taste, also performed its part in the transformation. but there was something deeper still, an underlying cause, that mystified him. then, all at once, a great thought crept forward--was _she_ near? did _she_ know _all_--everything about his great longing for _her_? his heart seemed to stand still! he gazed out of the window; evening shadows had fallen. he had been seated in a huge cushioned chair seemingly for a long time. the room was noiseless but for the deep moaning of the waters of great south bay lapping at the beach. then--vaguely--he thought he heard a voice; "drury!" it seemed to call. villard roused himself and stood upon his feet. he wondered at the calm within him, and with glad voice shouted back: "winifred! you have called to me! speak again, dear one! i----" "_there is no death!--there is no death!_" came the answer clear and joyous--and then a stillness fell upon the room, so intense that through a heavy metal door could be heard the ticking of a clock in an adjoining room. shaken by the experience drury villard fell back into the soft upholstery from which position he had heard the voice. he must have time to think! what did it all mean? how much was fact--how much was fancy? had he been asleep? would it not be best to walk out along his private beach and breathe the salt air of the evening tide, thus to tranquilize his mind? there was nothing to brood about--that was his thought. he had witnessed a certain phenomenon, the secret of which time must disclose to him. he would wait, "patiently and without stress of mind," was his sober conclusion. in fact, as he walked out along the sandy path leading to the water's edge he found himself supremely happy over his wonderful adventure. his winifred had kept the tryst!--such was his impression. from within the great obscuring veil she had spoken, had called his name,--had fulfilled the promise she had given while in the life! "'tis naught for sun to shine," he quoted. "god works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform. there is no death, says my winifred. then must i strive with all my soul to meet her in the great beyond! but i must not brood over this matter. i feel the need of fellowship. i'll send for parkins and put my story before him. i must have some one in whom to confide," and forthwith he put his plan into action. never was a man more seemingly delighted than william parkins when a "long distance" call from the master of dreamy hollow invited him over for the week-end. "i'm just beginning to want to pal with somebody i know. five weeks is a long time to wait for friends to invite themselves, so i'm going to start in from my end. you're first on the list, and the first invitation is yours. i won't take _no_ for an answer." "you will not have to, my dear fellow. i'm most happy to have the opportunity. which way shall i go out?" "my boat will take you on board at your pleasure any time after noon on friday, and will land you back at the same forty-second street pier at such time as you suggest." "well, now, that would be perfectly bully! let's see--your estate joins the sawyer place, does it not?" "yes--on the east. his hedgerow is the dividing line between us." "then i know exactly how to get to you, so i shall taxi over," replied parkins with enthusiasm. "you see i can kill two birds with one stone by stealing away friday afternoon and motoring over to my fishing hut at patchogue--wonderful flounders down there! i have my own boat and i want to see what condition she's in, so i'll get over to your place by noon on sunday. how does that suit your convenience?" "nothing could be better." "then it's a go--and many thanks. bye, sir," concluded parkins, in his usual courteous way. "bye, old boy. i await you with great impatience. speed the day--s'long--keep yourself good." a delightful sense of anticipation came into the mind of drury villard as he hung the receiver. he felt the need of fellowship and upon parkins' acceptance his great frame took on a certain vigor that called for action. he must hurry the time away that intervened before parkins should arrive on sunday. he must make plans. perhaps doctor sawyer of the adjacent estate would join him in a dinner of welcome. such a plan would brush away all business talk, sure to take place if parkins and himself were left alone the first evening. his idea was to dodge business altogether. parkins needed a rest, and, as for himself, he had no heart for ordinary commercial chit-chat. he held a great secret in his bosom, a precious secret, and even with so good a friend as parkins he would be chary of sharing it. for the present, pending the arrival of his visitor, he had much in mind with which to occupy himself. parkins must find an improvement in him, therefore he would hasten his plan of mastering the secret of composure. his great experience of the afternoon might be repeated if he could but put his mind in condition to receive it. wonderful thought!--and he would strive to bring it about. first of all, for the sake of health, another walk along the beach seemed practical, and obeying the impulse, villard soon found himself strolling leisurely over the path leading to the waters of the bay. he could hear the heavy intonation of the milling tide as it broke upon the sands, long before he reached his destination. its deep muffled roar was not unlike the reveille of a drum corps in a far-away encampment. as he neared his destination, such was his serenity of mind that he felt himself in tune with all nature from earth to sky. his whole being thrilled at the wonderful message from his dead love. "there is no death!" he murmured--and then, in lower tone, almost a whisper, he repeated--"there is no death--my beloved knows the truth!" "oh, winifred," he cried aloft, "speak again to me! tell me that you are near--that i may hope--that i may----" and then a chilling blast swept over the sands that sent a shiver through his body. a voice shouted--a voice he knew and loved so well. it seemed to say--"life never dies!"--as clear as ever a human tongue could bear a message. it was the same sweet voice as of old, but all-pervading, seeming to completely encompass the eager man on all sides--and from below, and from above. his eyes opened wide in amazement as he put forth his whole strength to control his senses. a man of iron will, he would not fail himself at such a supreme moment! near unto him was the spirit of his dead, the soul of his loved one--a second visitation. "speak on, my winifred!" he whispered hoarsely, while attempting to shout his words. "life, itself, is everlasting!" rang out the voice once more. "the body dies when the soul takes flight--it is no more in being." "yes, go on, my loved one! tell me----" "life is a common fund--endless--vast as the heavens--encompassing all space. life is universal--it permeates, and through constant vibration animates all living things, from the blade of grass to the human soul--but the body dies, and returns to earth." "and of the soul, my winifred? tell me all that i should know, that i----" "within the last moment of your life, when your soul prepares to take its flight, all shall be revealed to you. your soul is the mentor of your brain, and the master of your conscience. by virtue of its quality will its destiny be governed.... so live, my drury, that when your body dies your soul shall take the flight which leads to everlasting life." "and we shall meet again, winifred?--and know each other----" "the test lies with you. i'll be waiting, drury--waiting----" the voice ceased, and villard, startled by the unfinished sentence, heard a faint sound as if a silken kerchief had fluttered forth upon the breezes. at once the air seemingly regained its usual warmth, the chilling blast following along in the wake of the departing spirit. greatly agitated the astonished man looked about him as one who had but just awakened from a dream. nevertheless he nerved himself into a full control of his faculties as one of his great mental poise is ever capable. he felt sure that his sanity was perfect. he had experienced an extraordinary visitation, but it had left no uncanny feeling within his bosom. his real anxiety, if any, was the fear that the spirit of his loved one had revealed too much--such was her love for him--and that future visitations might thereby be thwarted. against that possibility he compelled himself to concentrate every force of his intellect and every ounce of his soul--and with that resolve he turned his footsteps toward his home, his body erect, his face illumined--his heart enraptured. "winifred!" he whispered, over and over again, and, as he neared his stately mansion--all quiet, serene, and beautiful to look upon--a great wave of regret seized him because _she_ had never crossed its threshold "in the life." chapter ii. william parkins arrives the arrival of william parkins on schedule time, all energy and activity, completely changed the atmosphere of the peaceful home at dreamy hollow. parkins could not sit still. his face, red with sunburn, seemed that of a dissipated man. he fidgeted in his chair, or paced the floor while talking incessantly about the business and its prospects. he had, since villard's retirement, become its "steering wheel," according to his own estimation. others in the great organization who, with no shouting of self-praise, had suddenly become open game for his shafts of criticism. with blearing eyes he asserted that if left to himself he would buy out the interest of two or more stockholders--"dead ones"--he called them, but for the fact that his own contract with villard had foreclosed upon the possibility. in less than half an hour he had, by hint and innuendo, thrown a wet blanket over the future prospects of the company. the morale was "bad." a strong man was needed at the helm--that was his verdict. and in amazement villard listened without a word from his lips. had the man suddenly gone crazy!--that was his first thought, but--as parkins continued, villard became convinced that he was a knave. "with your approval, drury," said parkins, assuming a new familiarity, "i can make a great institution out of the company. it would be no trick for me to put all competition out of business. in fact, i have a plan----" "what would you do with the present organization?" drury villard asked softly, but with a glint in his eyes that should have warned his guest of a lack of sympathy toward such a scheme. "i'd scrap it!" replied parkins, with energy. "scrap it!" villard raised himself to a straight-up sitting posture. "completely--and i'll tell you why," replied parkins, with an air of finality. "the boys are getting along in years. they are old-fashioned. business has hardened since they started in, away back there, and they don't seem to know it. 'let well enough alone' is the invisible motto they seem to see hanging upon the wall. it makes me sick--this nonchalance. they golf saturdays, go to the shows at night, dine out with their wives, spend a lot of money and come down to business next morning unfit for their duties." "i'd think they would work with more energy for having taken a little pleasure as they go along--and their wives should share in it!" villard smiled into the eyes of his visitor as he awaited his answer, although his soul revolted at the change in the man he had made vice-president of "villard incorporated." "perhaps they might--more likely they won't," replied parkins, his voice snappy and hard. "business is good, all right. sales are bigger, but that comes from my work, and as complete head of the company, i could give it not only greater national scope but greater international scope as well. i tell you this because you hold the key to the situation, and you'll agree that it takes a blood and iron policy to succeed on a big scale." "yes, partly true," replied villard, whose facial expression gave no clew to his real thoughts. but had william parkins known the trend of the villard mind he would have packed his apparel and returned to new york. for a man of his shrewdness his blunder had been colossal. having enthused himself to believe he was on the right track, and failing to note downright objection on the part of his host toward the trend of his conversation, he began a long drawn out indictment against each member of the company. "it isn't a case of let well enough alone, even if it is true that we have done especially well," said he. "but my plans mean millions, not hundreds of thousands, and nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of them--not even the men who have grown up with the business. with your help i can buy every interest, and if you consent i'll quadruple your fortune in a couple of years. of course, i'd keep some of the men. all i need is the nucleus from which to expand--and your consent to proceed." parkins' face glowed with pride at the manner in which he had presented his case. "there is a certain change in your appearance, william, since i last saw you. anything happened to disturb your mind?" inquired villard. "not a thing, sir. i've been working hard--very hard, drury. this little trip to patchogue over the week-ends is about all i do. i like to fish, and drive my car. they are the extent of my pleasures. that's what makes my face red--sunburn!" laughed parkins. villard smiled affably and agreed that the ozone from salt water was almost the elixir of life. then, referring to parkins' aspirations to become president of the company, he said: "i'll think the matter over and let you know before you return to the city. at the moment i'm thinking of the jolly good dinner we're going to have. i've invited doctor sawyer to join us. he lives across the hedge and i screwed up the courage to introduce myself. when two sit at a table alone they are apt to talk over business matters, but a third person makes it a party. how's that for an idea?" "all right, i suppose--three--yes, of course. it is all right, and very thoughtful of you, to be sure, although i've heard it said that two is company, and three is a crowd. however, i'm delighted at the prospect of meeting the doctor. is he an old resident--one of our plutocrats?" "that, i do not know," replied villard. "his estate is magnificent and his home beautiful. i do hope he will turn out to be sociable. it is not well to dwell too much alone. we must not blight our minds through lack of exercise. the brain should have its share as well as the body. and also a certain amount of rest." "i presume you are right, although this is the first time i have considered the subject. i give no thought to those matters--time wasted, i'd say." parkins, the impatient, did not relish such conversation and would have taken the short cut back to business talk had not the announcement of doctor sawyer's arrival stopped him. the introduction to the doctor was without warmth on either side; the regulation pump handle shake of the hands left both without a word or a smile for each other. drury villard was quick to notice that neither guest regarded the other more than casually. "mr. parkins is connected with our company, and since my retirement from business has presided over the board meetings," volunteered villard. "indeed!" responded the doctor gravely. "yes, and i am making things hum!" added parkins. "it will be a long time before i shall want to hibernate, even in such a lovely spot as this. action, action--i crave it! i must keep on the jump. very pretty down here, though. both of you have been prodigal with your money, but i'll wager neither of you could sell for the amount you've spent." for several long seconds no answer came from either the host or his neighbor. finally the latter broke the silence by saying, "ahem!" drury villard, however, did give parkins a sharp look; then almost rudely said: "perhaps each of us should decide for himself how he shall spend his means. 'one man's food is another man's poison'--according to an old saying that still holds true." "yes, all very well," persisted parkins, "but the wealth both of you have poured into your estates might easily have endowed a great hospital, or capitalized a huge business, giving employment to many people." at this point mr. sawyer frowned, and with his fingers nervously thrumbed the arm of his chair. but he said nothing in reply. fortunately announcement was made that dinner was ready to be served,--and much to the relief of the host, whose amazement at parkins' poor taste was only equaled by his embarrassment. at once he rose from his seat and led the way to the dining hall, a great amphitheater with high ceiling starting from the main floor and reaching to the top of the second story. never before had the master of dreamy hollow dined "in state" in his own home, preferring as he did the breakfast room, unpretentious and more inviting--or a nook on a side portico overlooking the garden of roses, and the inlet from the bay. every appointment at this great dining hall was in keeping with its huge dimensions and the acoustics accentuated the voices of those gathered at the very large table in its center. "i have never summoned the courage to dine at this table since i came here to live," laughed villard. "i have been so long completing the house that i have not had time to try it on to see how it would fit." "most generous and beautiful," said dr. sawyer. "i am deeply impressed with your construction plan. i made a failure of my main dining room. too small by far. i must do some tearing out and rebuilding. by the way, have you given your estate a name?" queried the doctor. "dreamy hollow," replied villard. "i've heard it called spooky hollow," laughed parkins, whose humor ever contained a dash of acid. then noting the frown upon dr. sawyer's brow the subject was changed, parkins taking the lead. evidently the doctor had failed to appreciate the little joke at the expense of his host. "by the way," said parkins, "there is a large institution out west called the sawyer dietariam. was it named after you, doctor?" "now, ah--i believe it was, although i beg you to believe that i was opposed to the idea," replied sawyer, who added--"although i am a medical doctor i did not practice medicine. my specialty was that of scientific diet, but they would call me doctor." parkins' face flushed red at the thought of his recent rudeness toward his fellow-guest. in an effort to straighten out matters he slapped his hands upon the table and gave voice to a nervous sort of laughter. "well, well! i did you a great injustice, dr. sawyer, and i beg your pardon," said he, most courteously. "you have really been useful to mankind, after all." "no apologies, please," replied sawyer, affably. "i am always sympathetic with those who jump at conclusions. ah--by the way, i have heard that mr. villard, our host, was most prodigal when he retired from active business, going so far as to turn over to his organization the complete running of the institution in order that each man should have the ready made opportunity of becoming substantially rich. i don't know the facts, nor did i hear them from our modest host. the point is this, that whether or not he may ever endow a charity his record for generosity toward the men who helped him to build his great business has been warmly complimented by many leading financiers who know the facts. unless his example should yield poor results i am prone to believe that other rich men, on retiring, will follow his lead. no plan should be followed wholesale, as it were, until some sort of tabulation as to its merits are consulted. the villard experiment is being watched with great interest." "spied upon?" questioned parkins, sharply. "i wouldn't be surprised if it is!" "nonsense, mr. parkins! business is reputable in these happy days. no one concern can get it all. old animosities and jealousies have been cast aside. business is becoming standardized, and, i am happy to hope--humanized. mercantile warfare is all but a thing of the past. only the upstart and the unsophisticated engage in cut-throat competition these days. the stronger the organization in brains and honesty, the greater the outlook for success." strange to say, william parkins found no words with which to combat the logic set forth by dr. sawyer. that he felt himself to be entirely out of the argument showed in his demeanor. being no fool, however, he saw that his advantage lay in getting away from the subject, and that he proceeded to do. he could feel the searching eyes of the veteran as spotlights upon himself, eyes that were unafraid--stern but fair, as shown by the kindly twinkle that crept into them--likewise the smile that seemed to bid for good-fellowship all around. that there should be no awkward period of silence, dr. sawyer changed the subject. "i am very much interested in a book i picked up recently, entitled, 'the naked truth'--most readable indeed. i try to laugh it out of my mind, but still find myself reading along without being bored. thus far the author has made a pretty fair case in behalf of eternal life. there is no death, he says, and puts up an argument that i am not able to cope with. i have no license, no desire to dispute his statements." "all rot!" exclaimed parkins. "of course you took no stock in it! there is positively nothing known beyond the grave--i'd bet my head on that." as he looked around for support parkins noted that his host had suddenly turned pale, also that his hand trembled, and his fork had fallen into his plate. fearful that he might have antagonized villard in some ardent belief, he was glad when dr. sawyer came to the rescue. "i do not believe any one is competent to designate this author's theories as rot," said the visitor. "he might be as well assured of his ground as mr. parkins is of his. perhaps he has had experience not yet a part of mr. parkins' stock of knowledge! as a fact, we have all been taught from childhood of a great reunion in store for us. the bible is authority for that. is mr. parkins able to support a theory to the contrary?" sawyer tried to catch parkins' eyes, but they were fixed upon his plate. he then turned toward his host with a remark when he noticed the pallor of villard's face, and the trembling of his hands resting upon the edge of the table. "are you ill, mr. villard?" he inquired, solicitously. the host looked up and attempted to smile away the inference. but instead, something from within prompted him to say: "i have every reason to believe that the dead have power to communicate with the living." "you have!" exclaimed doctor sawyer, looking sharply at his host. "it is true--i have experienced----" then drury villard halted abruptly and looked anxiously into the faces of both guests. each seemed greatly surprised at his partial answer. perhaps they doubted. therefore, to a certain extent he would enlighten them. "i have witnessed the greatest phenomenon possible to occur. within a few days i have talked with some one whom i knew in the life!" after villard's solemn declaration there followed a long pause. parkins' face became very grave, but there was a sharp, quizzical look in his eyes. there sat the paramount stockholder of the corporation over which he craved ultimate control. once in that position complete ownership might easily be made to pass along to himself. a person in drury villard's state of mind surely needed legal guardianship--that was his notion--therefore, "why not, by legal action, become that guardian!" this thought, on the spur of the moment, took root at once, and craftily, and through semblance of friendly credulity, parkins began to work upon the good graces of his host. he at once decided to humor villard in all things put forth in behalf of his uncanny belief. as to sawyer he could, perhaps, through subtle diplomacy, make of him an innocent ally. but extreme caution would be necessary--he would have to change his tactics, agree to the sawyer code of ethics, and above all, build up in him a strong sympathy for villard, because of his affliction. "while i am much surprised at your declaration, drury," said parkins, "i can truly say that you have struck the one chord nearest my heart. brain, body and soul, i believe in immortality." parkins' voice had now become soft and gentle, and a winning smile was upon his lips. he observed villard's keen eyes searching him for the truth. it was a dangerous test to invite but it was successful, the host finally relaxing into a state of calm. having accepted parkins' overture as bona fide, villard, with a sigh of relief, proceeded. "i do not know why i have disclosed my secret," said he, looking calmly into the placid face of dr. sawyer. "probably because it reflected the yearnings of my soul. involuntarily i seem to have sought the loyalty of my guests toward the truth of my statement." "of course, it is true, mr. villard," responded sawyer. "why not? while i have never actually heard voices from the outer world i have always yearned for, and expected, a message from my wife. also i have believed with certainty that i would hear her voice in all naturalness--sometime. indeed i have prayed for just that. it is bound to come--i am sure of it," he finished with a gulp. "there is nothing more strange than our own living presence as we sit here at this table," declared parkins soberly. "truly the phenomena of death and resurrection are no greater than life itself. but it is all so very unaccountable that i have only my unshakable belief to make me steadfast in behalf of my senses." "would you care to say more in relation to your communication with a spirit from the other world?" asked sawyer, addressing himself to villard. "perhaps, sometime--but not to-night. i must make sure that i am perfectly sane, and that what i say will be regarded as truth--not a mirage of the brain. i must not be set down by either of you as a crazy man--or even a morbid thinker." "quite right, mr. villard," responded sawyer, who had begun to notice parkins' nervous attitude. "that would be most unfair, considering your successful career." "the world is not ready to believe in the return of souls to comfort the living," continued drury villard. "i shall strive the harder for another contact with the presence of that wonderful spirit. i knew her in the life, and i loved her. she would have been my wife years ago, but for her untimely death. now that i so greatly need her she has found a way through the great veil to give me cheer." as villard finished his declaration, dr. sawyer gave vent to an audible sigh. his sympathy was bona fide; a fellowship for his host had taken root in his heart. parkins had become most solemn in his attitude, his face denoting a real sympathy for the older men who were striving for knowledge concerning their departed loved ones. a guilty feeling of disloyalty caused him to wonder if his plans might not be disclosed to both villard and sawyer through the same voice drury had heard. a creepy sensation ran through him at the mere thought of exposure. notwithstanding his misgivings he believed both men were suffering under a delusion born of a desire to hear from their dead. of the two, sawyer was the more nearly sane. this was his estimate between them, but villard seemed the more pliable. parkins' own plans were far too important to himself to spoil with overhaste, therefore he resolved that all necessary time should be taken, might it be a day, a month, or a year. the game was worth the candle. he would play in this one according to the opportunity offered by each, patiently awaiting the moment when he might safely spring his legal trap on drury villard. "i have often tried to find the _open sesame_ to the spirit world but perhaps i am too earthly to succeed," volunteered parkins after a lengthy pause. "what can you tell me, gentlemen, that will give me a lead toward the door of the unknown?" "i know nothing whatever," averred dr. sawyer, with lips tightened. "perhaps mr. villard may have something to offer." "absolutely nothing, gentlemen. i've told you of my experience without going into detail. i do not claim to know anything, which is exactly the attitude of those great thinkers, edison, lodge, and conan doyle. edison is said to believe that he can invent an apparatus so delicate that it may record communications from the outside. but i had no such instrument. i simply heard a voice that i knew, and i'd give everything i have in the world to hear that voice again--there! did you hear that?" drury villard looked up, and around about him. parkins' face grew pale but he avoided the searching eyes of his host. "winifred!" shouted villard, as he gazed abstractedly about the great dining hall, and into the eyes of his guests. but he did not see them. on hearing the name winifred, parkins' eyes opened wide, as he searched villard's face. "yes--yes, i hear you," continued villard--"yes, dear heart--go on--you say to--what! my god! can it be true?" then, glaring at parkins, he exclaimed:--"yes, it is true--i can see the situation clearly. no!--it shall never be!" parkins shuddered with apprehension, as villard's jaws snapped together, and for a full half minute his eyes looked down upon the white damask table covering. when he raised them he glanced swiftly at his host and then turned with an apologetic smile toward sawyer. "i have an acquaintance by the name of----" the sentence remained unfinished--villard's face flaming with anger. "i know you will pardon me if i ask that we change the subject," said the host in his usual tone of voice, and without a tremor of excitement. "with no volition of my own i have undergone another experience. i have nothing to say on the subject and will beg that no questions be asked at this time. let us have coffee and cigars, jacques," said he, addressing the head servant, at the same time eyeing his guests in an open, cordial way. his glance at parkins was searching, but the latter seemed entirely at ease, and in full sympathy. "permit me to say that i intuitively comprehend all that has occurred," said dr. sawyer to his host. he then turned his eyes upon parkins, but that gentleman avoided the gaze, although from no real understanding of its significance. "you heard no strange voice, mr. parkins?" questioned sawyer. "voice! i heard drury talking to some one, or something, invisible to me. i heard no reply--seemed to me as though he had suddenly gone crazy!" "crazy--yes! most likely you would think that!" replied sawyer, sternly. "sometimes old friendships dissolve through lack of sympathetic understanding." "but i don't understand, sir!" replied parkins with a composure well feigned. glancing hastily toward villard he asked with eyes widely opened--"what has happened?" villard gazed back at him soberly before replying. then finally after due thought he said, somewhat harshly-"we will talk the matter over at another time. by the way, let us have the coffee and cigars outside, gentlemen. i have wonderful outlook that will give us a glimpse of the rising of the moon, now due. its glow over the waters of good old south bay lends wonderful effects." chapter iii. a message from winifred from a nook balcony and for more than an hour the three men bathed in the beauty of a gorgeous moonlit night. over their coffee and cigars they drank in a grandeur of gleam and shadow over sea and land with little in the way of conversation to mar the serenity of a perfect night. each had thoughts personal to himself and the inclination of all seemed to be that of introspection. of the three, parkins maintained the more silent mood. had he been incautious? he wondered if villard had really been warned against him by a message of some sort, or was he subject to vagarious meditations by reason of his loneliness? as for himself, he was far too practical to admit that there might be such a thing as real spiritual communication. at any rate, there was yet a preponderance of belief to the contrary. he knew of certain persons who had been confined in sanitariums for asserting queer notions on the order of "pipe dreams." thus next friends had, by order of court, taken them in charge and put them where, in his opinion, they belonged. if friends refused to act the law stepped in and managed the case in behalf of the public welfare. it was along this line of reasoning that parkins finally made up his mind to execute his plans at all hazards. his consuming idea of becoming tremendously rich depended upon his success in securing control of a majority holding of "villard incorporated." he longed for wealth and power, to gain which he must use the weapons best fitted to the task--diplomacy first, force if called for--and he would lose no time! it would be necessary to watch sawyer carefully--"a very canny old gentleman, who might cause trouble," was his thought. to win him would require a diplomacy of the highest order. he must be primed with the right sort of propaganda concerning the villard hallucination and prove it to sawyer's satisfaction--then all would go well. he would first turn them into "old cronies," as it were; cause them to strike up a most intimate acquaintance wherein the strength of sawyer's will power could be utilized in behalf of the villard weakness. indeed, sawyer must be so convinced of villard's need of a next friend, wholly disinterested, except for his mental welfare, that no court in the land would deny him legal guardianship. thenceforth the path would be clear of obstruction. having formed in outline a plan of action, parkins broke the silence by saying-"never have i seen so much beauty in moonlight. it is almost as bright as day." "glorious!" responded sawyer, after several moments of hesitation. enthralled by the peacefulness of the situation he had not cared for small conversation. villard, evidently buried in thought, remained silent. he wondered what manner of girl was the winifred of whom parkins had spoken, but he asked no questions. he also wondered as to parkins' intentions toward her. "if the sunrise over the alps is half as grand as the sheen on the waters reflecting this moon, i can see myself buying a ticket that way soon," said parkins, airily. "would you care to go along, drury?" the question went unanswered overlong, so absorbed was villard with his own thoughts. reminded of the fact that he had guests to entertain he sat up quite suddenly and gave attention to parkins' query. "all that is in the background with me. i've seen every part of it; been everywhere worth going. this is the spot where my dreams will come true. here i will live--and here i will die." "right," agreed sawyer. "i am glad you have come to stay. if ever a man needed comradeship it is myself. i shall haunt you, mr. villard, and your beautiful home, unless you agree to become a downright good neighbor who will swap visits often." "i shall esteem it a high privilege to visit you, often," replied villard. "you must come over the hedge every time you have the courage to choose a poor companion. of late i have been so much alone that i need a course of training in order to become sociable. i'm willing to make a great try of it and will hope for success. you have seen me at my weakest to-night--perhaps you may never catch me again in the same mood, dr. sawyer. but i know you are a man of deep sympathies and that we shall be good neighbors." "that, we must be," replied sawyer fervently, "and now i shall be going for i am old enough in years to practice regularity. it is my bedtime--a little past the accustomed hour, so i will shake hands and be gone! we must get together soon again." then turning toward his fellow guest he bowed stiffly, but made no offer of his hand in parting. "an ill omen," thought parkins, as he threw himself into bed an hour later. "things were not working just right," he admitted to himself, but that his goal should be reached in due time, he promised himself. "the pyramids were not built over night"--were his last muttered words before the cool air crept in from the sound and sent him into a restless sleep. out on a window balcony drury villard, thoroughly awake, and protected from the cold by a heavy steamer blanket, sat motionless, with eyes wide open and mind obsessed with the incidents of the evening. of the parkins episode he very much desired to rid his mind, for, after all, he most likely stumbled into an awkward position by reason of his too practical nature. on thinking over the past he could not help but give him credit for having earned his promotion to actively head the villard company. he had known him as a boy--and he was now the active head of villard incorporated--an expert financial man. all through their years together he had been loyal, good natured, and successful in the big part he had undertaken. no higher compliment could have been paid him than that villard's mantle of authority should fall upon his shoulders. in the light of events the question was whether or not parkins would be capable of standing up under prosperity and great future prospects. had an exalted ego taken possession of his once cool, analytical mind? was he now loyal to all hands in the organization, and to villard himself? or had he turned traitor through anxiety to become the master of a great fortune? after much weighing of the situation villard decided that the matter warranted certain tests continued over a goodly period of time. he held in reserve a wholesome pity for the man who so lightly esteemed the golden opinion that he had honestly won, and he pledged himself toward leading him back to his normal self. with that in mind as a policy to be pursued, he rang for light inside and wandered his way to bed. when drury villard had laid his head upon his pillow all forebodings passed away, leaving him at peace in mind and body. there was no weariness because of his duties as a host. he owed himself a good night's rest and with every intention to obey the call he shut his eyes and calmed his brain. almost at the point of complete repose a vague and dreamy impression that some one was calling from far away came into his mind. he seemed to hear his name, and whispered so softly as to be almost inaudible. apparently it was the voice of winifred, and the very stillness of the night seemed boisterous by comparison. her nearness had the effect of tingling the blood in his veins as she breathed his name--and then, with the softness of a leaf falling upon the grass beneath a low hung bough, the voice continued-"all that is good is saved--the dross goes back to earth to enrich the soil--but the soul is divine! it never dies! its homeward flight is nature's plan of purification--but once returned it rests, and awaits the call to go forth and serve a new-born babe of corresponding mould. thus is inclined the congenital tendency of the human strain when mixed, and provides a natural deviation by which no two human beings are exactly alike. all nature adheres to the selfsame principle." "and we both shall live again, my winifred?" breathed villard. "we shall, but worlds there are without number, and the same universe holds all. what shall be my further progress i do not know. enough to say of the great beyond that it offers rest and requitement to all souls released from the ills and sorrows of earthly habitation. farewell, my drury; another winifred will come into your life ere long. i shall strive to hover near when you need me most. meanwhile watch thy way and beware of the pitfalls that will beset thy path." now, suddenly, villard raised himself to sitting posture. so intent had been his mind upon the whispered words of his loved one that her spirit had gone its way before he could command his voice to speak. as in a dream he buried his face upon his pillow, thereby to control his pent up emotions, and also to recount and memorize the exact words that she had spoken. this accomplished, he sighed deeply and lapsed into slumber. later on he became restless and was startled into partial wakefulness. the one word "_beware_"--was faintly whispered, but drowsiness overcame his effort to understand although he rolled and tossed from side to side. chapter iv. a sudden departure drury villard was not the only one at "dreamy hollow," who failed to enjoy a full night of repose. there was william parkins, guest, and erstwhile trusted friend, whose brain teemed with plans by which he might get control of the villard estate. a score of times he turned over in bed to escape the penalty of a sleepless night. somewhere among the small hours approaching the light of a new day he succumbed to fatigue and had fallen into a weary doze. his last thought on going to sleep was the urgency of quick action if his plans were to succeed. his advantage lay in the present mental state of drury villard, whose mind, he was convinced, must border upon the edge of insanity. hence the need of restraint, and no sane judge would dare deny a writ of sequester to a next friend pending a period of isolation while awaiting the final decree of the court. villard's great fortune should not be allowed to "dangle" in plain sight of "jack-leg lawyers," while he, parkins, awaited final results of the proceedings. during the hours he had given himself over to thoughts concerning the villard matter parkins' mind had been cold toward any conscientious scruple. in his judgment villard's foolish notion that he could communicate with the soul of a dead sweetheart was as good as a free ticket to a sanitarium. any judge would have to admit that. nothing less than providential interference could defeat the plan. the first thing to be done was to select a lawyer of reputation and prestige. until that was decided, no important step could be taken, except to find out how sawyer would regard the situation. if he balked, naturally complication would ensue, but the lawyer parkins had in mind would brook nothing in the way of nonsense. he could, if desirable, put villard in an asylum. as for sawyer, he would be given to understand that any interference from him would result in an investigation of his own peculiar views, he having practically coincided with villard's belief that the latter had heard the voice of his dead love. dr. sawyer had intimated plainly that he, too, had heard that voice and understood the warning words about outside influences. he wondered if jacques, the servant who served the dinner, had witnessed villard's excitement and understood the cause of it. he decided to find out about that matter on the following day. meanwhile he would take one more pill--then he would rest--"sleep"--he muttered. "i must be ready for 'big game' hunting to-morrow." with this determination he closed his eyes and fell into a nervous slumber. but an hour later parkins found himself sitting upright in bed and screaming with fear at the top of his voice. several servants and a night watchman soon surrounded him, the watchman holding an electric torch with which he flashed a flood of light into the face of the guest. santzi, the japanese attendant, and personal servant to drury villard, had awakened his employer, and together they rushed to the chamber occupied by the guest. the latter, wild-eyed and disheveled, stared at his host and moaned. then wildly, he shouted-"it was you who planted a spook in this chamber! you have tried to frighten me into your insane belief, but you've missed your guess! you'll pay for this--you'll----" "there now, william," soothed villard--"calm yourself, my boy. your digestion is off--you've had a bad dream! don't give way to such unworthy thoughts. don't you see that everything is all right?" "a put up job--that's what i see! neither you nor any one else in this world can make a fool out of me! it's _you_ that is crazy--not i. it's you that pretends to talk with dead people! in fact, it was you who put up this scheme to scare me. you wanted to win me over into a looney state of mind like yourself, but it didn't work! now, sir, i'm done with you!" parkins' eyes blazed with a mad light in each and his breath smelled of drugs. in his rage he had thwarted his own plans and now comprehended to the full extent the mess he had made of them. he demanded privacy from the servants that he might clothe himself and be ready to take his leave by first conveyance. he also demanded that villard remain with him for a conference, which was granted. once the door was shut against all witnesses, parkins sat upon the edge of the bed and cried like a child. "there is nothing i can say to remove the prejudice i must have aroused within you, drury. of course you will acquit me of bad intentions. it must have been a nightmare," he whimpered. the bravado had entirely gone out of the parkins' voice. several moments elapsed as villard eyed him carefully. "just what did you see, william? tell me exactly what caused your fright." villard's words were measured. they lacked warmth, a fact that parkins could not have failed to take into account. "some one stood by my bedside--a woman's form--not in the flesh----" "yes--go on!" "it stood there, motionless, and the room became as cold as ice. i tried to shout but my voice refused to respond. all i could do was to gasp for breath!" "how long did the apparition remain in view?" demanded villard, his eyes gleaming his disgust toward parkins. "a half minute or a minute--seemed like an hour!" he replied, his teeth chattering from sheer fright. "did the spirit talk--say anything at all?" "not a word--just held up a hand as if warning me of something----" "ah! there i have it," broke in villard. "you were warned that your plans were known to me. and that is true. you have lost your soul, william, and were you to die without repentance, it would roam through the ages, lost to all chance of redemption." "but i don't owe repentance to any dam'd spook! i----" "enough of that, sir!" snapped villard wrathfully. "i'll have no nonsense of that sort! another insult and your baggage will await you at the carriage entrance." "but, drury----" "hereafter you will address me as mister villard. our intimacy is at an end!" warned the master of dreamy hollow. his eyes blazed as he glared at the man on whom he had showered his trust and esteem. "to-morrow morning you will return to new york. by the time you reach there i shall have made up my mind as to your future usefulness to the company." having delivered this ultimatum villard on second thought punched the button for jerry, a colored servant, long in his employ. he responded at once. "send santzi to me," said he,--"and return with him. i have duties for both of you. also arouse the housekeeper and tell her to provide tea and toast immediately for a departing guest." when santzi, the japanese body-servant to drury villard, presented himself a few moments later he was told to order out the limousine and prepare to accompany mr. parkins to new york. "it is urgent that the trip be made as quickly as possible--but safely," said villard, and as santzi started to obey, the master walked along beside him until both were out of hearing of the parkins suite. "i want you to sit inside facing this man. he is not well, and should get back into a milder temperature. if he tries to get out of the car just see that he doesn't. his mind is rather upset, because of his illness. jerry knows where he lives and will drive him straight to his door by early morning." "i'll attend, sir," replied santzi. "then come back home, and get some sleep--but don't shut your eyes while mr. parkins is in your care!" "i not sleep, 'ntil start back. must i use jiu-jitsu?" "if necessary--but be safe. do him no real harm. see that he harms neither you nor himself--that's all." as parkins, in sulky mood, came out of his comfortable quarters into the great hall leading to the porte cochã¨re, villard walked along beside him, his hand upon his shoulder. following came several servants, santzi in advance, jerry, jacques, and mrs. bond, the housekeeper, who carried a hamper filled with food. parkins had refused to partake of anything to eat before leaving and as he stepped inside the car the top light illumined his ashen face. he took the handshake offered by his host who smiled reassuringly and wished him safe journey. "you'll be down again, soon, i hope," said villard, his voice kindly. "these cold nights get on one's nerves until one becomes used to them. call me up soon, i'll be glad to know that you have recovered. don't try to report at the office to-morrow. i will phone up that you are not well, but will be in a few days--meanwhile i'll look in on you at your home. i'll let you know when. keep your mind clear, and don't worry." parkins' last peep into drury villard's eyes brought each mind into full understanding. parkins knew that he must not go near the general offices of the villard corporation without invitation from villard himself. looking the situation squarely in the teeth he cursed the drugs that had crazed him, and at once resolved to carry out orders. his future depended upon his acceptance of the suggestions offered, which, in fact, were orders. so tense were his nerves at the moment he could have cried out against his absurd folly, but the placid face of santzi appeared as a full moon with eyes ever alert. the best thing to do was to draw the robe about him and snuggle down to sleep. the next he knew the big limousine had halted before the entrance of the huge apartment building in park avenue. there he maintained a suite of rooms richly furnished and thoroughly equipped for the kind of life he led. having slept all of the way home he had fairly recovered from his delirium of the night, and after gulping down a full portion of "whiskey sour," he aroused his man-servant and ordered his breakfast. then, methodically, he began to repack his suit case, a very large affair with double hand-grips, capable of holding enough clothing for a trip to london. but such a journey was farthest from his thoughts. patchogue was his destination, and the object of his haste was "the prettiest little country girl on long island!" he had promised her a trip to the great city, and her father was to accompany her--"and that makes everything all right," he exclaimed aloud, holding up a kodak picture of a beautiful young woman, plain of dress but graceful of form, and a face of idyllic charm. "poor little motherless child," said he, softly--"and what a devilish cur i am growing into!" he growled warningly at his weakness. shaking his head soberly as if steadying himself against a great folly, his eye again caught sight of the big black bottle on the sideboard and he rushed toward it and grasped it with trembling hands. this time he took several great swallows, then rushed to the kitchenette for water which he gulped down his throat until its parched surface had been appeased. "poor little country maid," he mumbled after recovering from a spell of hiccoughs which suddenly seized him. "i'll send her old man on a bus ride while i show her a good time along the great white way--and then to zim's place! poor little motherless girl--never has been to the big town in all her life--and lives only fifty miles away! the old man can drift for himself, after his bus ride. ye gods! long island holds thousands of them who never have seen lil' ol' n'york--hic! poor lil' country baby--i love her--no use to marry, she hasn't any money. love gets cold when you run out o' gold--sounds like a song-hic!" parkins now stripped himself for a bath and was soon out of the tub and under the shower. all this had a sobering effect upon him, and by the time he had shaved and dressed he looked the part of a well groomed gentleman. his eyes caught glimpses of the big black bottle now and then, but he stood firm, and turned his back upon it. once he waved his hand toward it and hoarsely whispered--"never again!" then suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed immoderately. "never again--hell!" said he, "i'll drink when i want to! whiskey hasn't anything on me! i can take it or leave it alone," saying which, he stepped over to where the bottle stood and took several swallows just to prove his assertion. then, calling to his servant, he ordered two full quarts placed in his suit case, and to phone mcgonigle's garage for his four seated roadster. a half hour later he was steering his car amid the traffic of the williamsburg bridge on his way to a little house in the heart of patchogue, the home of alexander barbour, and his daughter--winifred. chapter v. the hawk seeks its prey as far back as he could remember, alexander barbour had fished for the new york market in the waters of great south bay--likewise his father and grandfather before him. a vast area of fishing ground stood just off patchogue, then a tiny village, near which flounders were seined in enormous quantities. they were nearest in flavor and delicacy to the famous sole of english waters, and the great restaurants and hotels of the day vied with each other in devising new ways to serve them. alexander barbour, with all of the vim and courage of youth, took the business when his father died and forthwith married the girl of his choice, whose personality and charm made of him a fond and loving husband. his greatest hope was that she might bear him a male child, that the line of succession in the barbour family should go on through another generation. unhappily for him the first born was a girl, and before a week had rolled around the mother died--and barbour, the fisherman, drooped into a physical and mental decline. only a winsome baby girl was left to cheer his lonely heart. he strove hard to conceal his disappointment but the habit of brooding increased, for he had prayed for a son, but alas, his prayers had been denied. before her death mrs. barbour gave to her babe the name of winifred, and, as the end drew near, a village parson performed a christening service in the presence of weeping neighbors who pledged loyalty to the mother's memory, and to the welfare of her little one, thus comforting the dying woman as she passed on to another world. from the shock of it all alexander barbour shrank into a pitiful state, having failed in his attempts at reinstating his prestige. finally competitors controlling great storage warehouses and banking facilities drove him practically out of the field. the interest on his savings did not suffice to live upon the liberal basis of past years, and as patchogue grew in population the name of barbour receded from public concern. as a babe in arms little winifred cooed her way, laughed as a child, and as a school girl finally sang herself into her father's good graces. at ten years of age she had mastered the art of housekeeping, and with a wisdom far beyond her years, encouraged her father, as best she could, to keep up his spirits and not give way to despair. "i know where you can gather some wild cherries," she volunteered to him one day; "they are just thick along the inlet, and everybody is out picking them for the market. they bring a good price in patchogue." by the time winifred reached her fifteenth birthday she had graduated from high school, and in addition to that had "kept the home fires burning" with a knowledge that surprised her friends. but all through those years under the home roof she had maintained the practice of conversing with her dead mother. this she began in her eighth year, as a child would talk with its doll and answer back as its mother. the habit had continued through girlhood into young womanhood, minus the doll, but at the age of eighteen she made the startling claim to her father that she could converse with her dead mother at will. while humoring her belief, he nevertheless was skeptical, and shook his head indicating his doubt. "but there are certain hours of the night, when the great stillness comes on, that i can hear her voice just as plainly as i can hear yours now," said she, quite convincingly. "why, i talked with mamma last night!" she declared with girlish vehemence. "what did she say, winifred?" mr. barbour allowed himself to appear somewhat convinced by her statement. it would do her no real harm, and she would outgrow the vagary of such dreams as she grew older, according to his belief. then, too, thoughts about her mother were for the good of the girl--an influence that should be encouraged. "she told me to study hard and become a teacher--and----" "yes, dear--and, what?" "well, i've been thinking how to tell you--the last message was about you," said she, smiling up into her father's eyes. "are you at liberty to tell me?" he asked, bracing himself against the choking grief which suddenly seized him. "yes, indeed--but you mustn't mind her solicitude for your future. she thinks you are aging too rapidly and that you must find a way out of your sorrow. she asked me to give you more companionship, and to lead you into a firm belief of the hereafter. your lack of sincere belief leaves a gap in the way of your communicating directly with her." all this was said in a voice of sweet modulation and assuredness, a smile lighting up her face as she spoke. there was no question of her absolute convictions. "what would you suggest, winifred?" replied her father, his voice broken, and his eyes filmed with tears. "i don't know, but mother thinks the waters of south bay hold the solution. what could she mean by that?" "i hardly know what to think. did she suggest any particular reason for that answer?" "oh, yes--she said that they would bring you back to the land in time. i am glad i didn't forget that," said winifred, jubilantly. "let us think it out some way. perhaps she meant that you should keep on fishing and sell your catch to the market men. afterwards buy a farm with your earnings." in the conversation that followed winifred took no small part in calculating a plausible solution to her dead mother's advice. the waters of great south bay at once suggested fish, oysters--wild ducks in the fall of the year, and in the early spring. these would sell to local buyers for ready cash. but what of the land? they had none! in her own heart she knew that her mother had meant to arouse her father into physical activity. "couldn't we rent some ground?" suggested winifred--"and send our produce to market by boat from patchogue? other people do." "indeed we could, my dear child," exclaimed alexander barbour, straightening his shoulders. "we will do that very thing, with the city of new york to back us in our enterprise. we can sell all we raise, surely, for there is no vegetable trust to squeeze us out of business, as there is in fish and oysters." "and when i begin teaching school we will put my earnings away, too," echoed winifred--"and, oh, won't mother be glad when i tell her of our plans?" with that enthusiastic speech she jumped from her chair and wound her arms about her father's neck. the kisses she showered upon him electrified him, and from that moment his resolve to succeed never waned. and all went well with the barbours, father and daughter clinging to each other, avoiding all tendencies toward extravagance, so that within the space of a few months they found themselves in more comfortable circumstances. throughout the next two years "messages from mother" inspired them and cheered their way, and all of a sudden the village of patchogue began to grow by leaps and bounds. substantial hotels sprang up, subdivisions were platted, cottages and villas builded up on every side. taking advantage of "the boom" the barbours bought lots and sold them at a profit, and barbour himself built a refreshment booth on the motor parkway near the beach, and winifred helped in its management. no longer could she devote her time to household duties, for sales at the booth dropped off when she was away, whereupon a housekeeper was selected and put in charge of the home. winifred's bright face and unfailing humor had worked wonders financially. people came back to the stand from time to time, mostly automobilists, who always seemed to know where the best could be had, and--never mind the price! one of winifred's most persistent and profitable customers, mr. william parkins of new york, had expressed the same thought in another way. "we want what we want and we get it," said he, with a jolly laugh, at the young girl in charge. "better look out, little sister, or some one will come along and steal you!"--and that was the first effrontery winifred had ever experienced. abashed she turned her attention to other customers, but the heightened color in her cheeks showed her indignation. nevertheless parkins stood around, picking out this box of candy, and that bag of salted almonds, to say nothing of homemade pies and cakes, each to be wrapped separately, thus to gain her attention as many times as possible. "i need these out at my fishing hut over on the ocean side," said he smiling into her eyes, but they were cold. "don't be angry," he pleaded. "i had no intention of being rude--i apologize most sincerely." parkins' voice was so kindly and his smile so winning that winifred's face relaxed into its natural sweetness of expression. but she said nothing and found things to do which kept her busy. parkins, gay new yorker, with money galore, was not of the kind who accepted defeat. here was a dainty little maid and he wanted to know her. "i'll stay here until you tell me i'm forgiven," he persisted. "why, little woman, i am the last man on earth to suspect of willful rudeness. i'd rather jump in the bay, and say to myself 'here goes nothing,' than to offend you. honor bright! now do please say it's all settled, so i won't go away feeling ashamed of myself." unused to familiarity from strangers winifred remained silent for a time in order to think out the best plan to pursue. she wished her father had been there, then the incident would not have occurred. but he was absent--therefore the necessity of taking care of herself. "no further apology is necessary, sir," she found herself saying. "i presume you live in new york, and your ways are different from our ways. our men folk are always respectful to women, and we very naturally cling to the amenities even though we are country folk." "of course you do!" exclaimed parkins, "and that is the right course, always--but this is the holiday end of a busy week of hard grind, and my outing has been so delightful i just feel friendly to everybody. do you live here?" "i was born here, and have always lived here. for three generations my people have been settled in this locality," she concluded, as customers were crowding her stand; but when the rush was over she found, to her surprise, that the man she had upbraided still remained. "i have been coming to patchogue for several years but i never saw you until to-day. i thought you might be one of the new crowd. the place is having a sort of boom period, lots of new home builders, and all that. hard work, standing up all day, isn't it?" he suggested, with a little touch of sympathy in his voice. "not very, sir--my father relieves me several times during each day, and if there is anything going on at night, he attends to the stand." "good money in this business while the season is on, i imagine," persisted parkins, by way of keeping the conversation going. "strange i have never seen you until to-day," he reiterated. "we are new in this business. heretofore our family has been in the fishing industry. and latterly, truck farming also. we still ship some vegetables to new york by boat, and sometimes by express. but we are practically out of that business now." "i suppose you run over to new york once in a while," he smiled. "no, the farthest trip we've made was to riverhead, and it's beautiful! such a pretty park--and a tremendous court house! but we've never been off of the island, none of us--except mother, who was born in connecticut." parkins, a man of quick discernment, caught a sad expression in the eyes of the girl behind the counter of "the goody shop," so named on a neat little sign hinged to the eaves of the sheltering overhang. "i suppose your mother stays at home and takes care of the family?" he suggested, enquiringly. "mother is dead," replied the girl, calmly, a far-away expression in her eyes, as she glanced at the sky. "she died when i was a baby." now was parkins' chance to impress the girl with his "sympathetic" nature. he sighed deeply, and for several moments looked at the ground and said nothing. when, finally, he did speak there was pathos in his voice. "my mother died when i was a child in arms. i have no memory of her whatever, but her photograph seems to speak to me at times," said he, dreamily. "i talk to my mother every night," replied winifred, happily. "she sends messages through me to my father, and tells me what to do for him. he isn't very strong, but that comes from grief over her death. now he is much better. it was such a long time before she could reach us," she confided, artlessly. and so began the acquaintance of a man of the world and a country lass, the man halting between two emotions. in determining the course of his further acquaintance with the sweet little maid the best bargain he could make with himself was--"i'll think it over." so, with perfect decorum, and bowing and scraping he bade the young woman good-by, adding the hope that all was square between them--since his apology. he reached out his hand as a final test of his theory that he "had won out with her," and was delighted when she accepted his overture politely. he bowed most courteously as he sprang into his wonderful new roadster and plunged forward along the asphalt road. for miles winifred could hear the roar of its exploding cylinders, as, with mufflers "cut out," the car raced along to his fishing hut on the ocean side of the bay. "i'll be back to-morrow," he had said on leaving, but she only smiled in reply, for "to-morrow" would be sunday, and her duties were elsewhere--at church and sunday school--where she taught a class--and then home to a noon dinner with her father. as time went on parkins' week-end excursions increased, and various were the cars he used. a big black mahogany limousine and a two-seated roadster, with rakish hood and brass trimmings that glistened like gold, were his favorites. he never failed to call at "the goody shop," and after an acquaintance of several weeks with winifred she accepted an invitation for a spin along the outer drive which she had never seen. henry barbour, now well acquainted with the wealthy new yorker, esteemed him a gentleman, and consented to her going. when she returned with face aglow, and with enthusiastic praise for the skill of the owner of the car, her father patted her cheeks and smiled. he was glad of her happiness and his trust in parkins became absolute. as the season advanced and profits had been large, henry barbour expressed his opinion to the effect that to buy direct from new york wholesalers would save him much in the way of extra earnings upon his capital. buying from salesmen gave him no chance to bargain. they sold from printed lists, but by going to new york he could make selections and find right places to trade. "i'll take you over any time you want to go," said parkins, affably--"and miss winifred, too, if she so desires." "oh, i do so want to go, father!--say that i may, won't you dear?" she pleaded, putting her arms about his neck. "but who will take care of the stand?" he queried. "we can't close it up for two days. our friends will think we have quit, and we'll lose trade!" "oh, i can manage that beautifully," pleaded winifred. "one of the girls in my sunday school class, julie hayes--you know her, father--she can be taught in an hour just what to do." "by all means allow her to come along," seconded parkins, and his appeal seemed to settle the matter. winifred was to wear her new blue silk coat suit, and a retrimmed hat that had been retired, despite the fact that parkinson suggested--"we never put on our best when we ride in a touring car." but to winifred the trip was more than an outing, for her father had some business to attend to, and happily, there would be plenty of time to see the "greatest little town in the world," as parkins called his new york. and so the date was set, and as fate often decides, it fell upon the second day following parkins' ride from dreamy hollow, under the watchful eye of santzi--japanese body-servant to drury villard. had his plans gone through, villard, by now, would have been an inmate of a certain long island asylum, whose proprietor parkins well knew, but in his jaded condition, he decided to run his car straight out to his hut and thereby thoroughly refresh himself for the excursion to new york--planned for the following day. his inner consciousness troubled him more than he could account for, man of the world that he was, whose morals had long since hardened against the scruples of his younger days. chapter vi. secret service under fire drury villard always appeared to great advantage. he knew nothing of defeat. his life work had been a succession of victories, and among his acquaintances there were those who credited his achievements to luck. as a young man he came very near having imposed upon him the sobriquet "lucky" villard--but he frowned upon it until his intimates felt the unwisdom of that sort of familiarity. parkins alone of the directory continued the practice long after the business had grown into vast importance and the villard name had become known all over the world. while credited with being the brains and motive power of the huge concern drury villard had never allowed any one to say it to his face without protest on his own part. said he-"if i've done anything particularly well it is to have surrounded myself with clever men of brains and honesty. with that foundation the rock of gibraltar had nothing on us, except age and advertisement. the latter we supplied in a measure suitable to our needs--but youth must be served. we must now revitalize or inevitably fall before the young college trained men now running the country." always modest, never oversanguine, self-reliant and honest to the core, were attributes upon which to build a happy old age free from care and strife. one of villard's beliefs was that god never intended everything to run smoothly--"all of the time." reactions were necessary. foundations, no matter how solid in the beginning, must be looked after, and kept solid. nothing should be left to chance. and so it was on going back to bed, after parkins' departure, that his mind reverted to the affairs of his company. on these his thoughts concentrated. he wondered if he had exhibited the right policy in turning its management over to his co-partners. not if the parkins' case was an example of further consequences. that was his thought. he wondered if others in the organization were susceptible to non-loyal utterances concerning himself and his paramount interests. the best way to get at the facts was to "look in on the boys every little while"--and that was about the last worry he indulged in preparatory to going to sleep. then suddenly he felt the nearness of his loved one, and breathing softly he awaited her sweet voice. at last it came, in the form of a whisper, seemingly very close to his ear, but strangely difficult to locate. "drury--again i warn you. the man you sent away must never enter your life again. dishonesty is fastened upon him. attend at once. there is folly in waiting." villard, though startled, lay quite still. then, after a long pause, he answered-"yes, winifred--but for you i should have been taken unaware. your warning gave me time to formulate a plan of action." "drury, my darling--you shall not live alone. you must marry a kindred spirit, a woman upon whom you may lavish the love that was mine. it is your nature to revere womankind." "but what of my love for you, my winifred--i----" "and it is myself, _incarnate_, that you would marry," interrupted the invisible spirit. "how shall i know?" he faltered, overwhelmed at the suggestion. "you will meet her--soon." "yes, yes--go on!"--he whispered hoarsely, but he waited in vain. the spirit of his dead love had gone back to its resting place among the stars. drury villard accepted the theory that when a man is forty he is in the prime of life, and after that his physical powers wane. nevertheless there were those who, by obedience to nature's laws, remained young at sixty. he knew that every five years a normal brain and a normal body become attuned to the next five-year period, and upon this theory villard, now emerging into his forty-seventh year, had planned his activities. by virtue of his early training he had worked hard in working hours, and played hard during the daylight overlapping. thus was served his grand physique and his growing brain, each getting its share of natural restoration. during his first years in business his effort had been prodigious. just out of college he had plunged into a new enterprise, the child of his own brain. unique, and head and shoulders above those whom he drew about him--from a mental and physical standpoint--his leadership never was questioned. each new acquisition to his organization was picked by virtue of his seemingly unerring knowledge of men. as he brought in a new recruit, that person had only to make good in order to become a "special partner." under the contract with each man his continuance with the company hinged upon the will of villard, and by common consent his fiat was law. of all the men chosen, parkins, the brightest of the lot, had been the one man to flunk. now, secretly, villard was on his way to new york for the one purpose of bringing him back to the fold. driving directly to the apartment in park avenue, where parkins maintained his living quarters, he was informed that the gentleman had gone away. the superintendent was not quite sure that he had a right to give out information concerning his tenants. when asked as to when mr. parkins would probably return he declined to give an opinion. "but where did he go?" demanded villard. "i do not know. he left no address," was the reply. "then tell me what you do know. when did he leave? did he move his effects?" "he left soon after he returned here in the early morning. his furnishings are all here--and he left a check for next month's rent. that's all i know." "are you in full charge here?" inquired villard, peering wistfully in the eyes of the man before him. "yes," replied the agent, shortly. "tell me then, in what condition was he when he arrived--and when he went away." "very angry on his arrival--very much upset on going away. i thought he might have taken something for his nerves." "did he speak to you on leaving?" "yes, i came in as he was leaving. he gave his check for rent to the exchange girl--to be handed to me. i got it all right. and that's all i know." "and your name, please?--'bender?'--thank you, mr. bender. i may wish to speak with you again. my name is villard, a very close friend of mr. parkins, and i have business matters requiring his presence at my office. if he shows up, kindly ring my phone--private, one hundred. it will be to his advantage, i assure you." villard was soon within his own office and nervously pacing the floor. with his hands behind him he twiddled his thumbs and gave way to deep thought. "parkins must be saved!" he said to himself, and quickening his stride, he rushed out of his private office into the counting room. "ring my chauffeur," said he, seeing and speaking to no one in particular, then returned to his office. shortly afterward his car was announced and he was soon headed for the wall street district. at the updyke detective agency, twentieth floor of the universal exchange, he asked for updyke personally and was ushered in. the two shook hands cordially and at once got down to business. "do you know william parkins--one of my special partners?" questioned villard. "i'd say i do--what's up?" "i can't find him." "where have you looked?" "called at his apartment--he'd gone from there, leaving a check for a month's rent!" replied villard. "when?" "early this morning--left no word--but paid the month's rent in advance--which was unusual." "um--any reason to be anxious about him?" "i'll give you the whole story." then, careful as to details, drury villard recited the facts briefly and wound up by declaring that he was "bent on saving parkins from any untoward act that might lead to his downfall--financially, morally or physically." "that's a big order to take down," replied updyke, laconically. "why?" "do you assume to know bill parkins from hat to shoes? do you know that he is speculating upward on a downward market? do you know that he is a drunkard, that he takes dope, patronizes low places, and is a disgrace to your high class concern?" villard, aghast, stood up and walked to and fro, across the room. finally he turned and said-"he must be saved!" "saved! saved hell! why, man alive, he is beyond redemption!" yelled updyke, whose forcefulness caused villard to eye him critically. evidently there were matters concerning his vice president of which he was unaware. "how long has he been beyond redemption?" questioned villard in an even tone of voice striving to conceal the alarm within him as best he could. "i'll look up his record," replied updyke, ringing a bell and ordering out a certain page from a loose-leaf book of records. as he placed it in villard's hands, he glanced at it to make sure it was the right document. "here we have his travelogue for five years back," said updyke, airily. "it began with a gay party in which he was accused of short changing a fifty dollar bill that he was asked to break. there was a resort to blows, in which parkins got licked and owned up to his dishonesty. read his whole record--here it is--take it." villard did take it, and as he read along his eyes filmed until tears ran down his cheeks and fell upon the page containing the record. then suddenly he threw it upon updyke's table in disgust. "why didn't you inform me?" demanded villard in tremulous voice. "i'm your client--am i not?" "you are, mr. villard, but--i thought i could save him without prejudicing his outlook with you. i got soft hearted--same as you are at this minute; and i got a worse dose, and more of it for my trouble. i tried my utmost to show him that you were the best man in shoe leather, and would forgive anybody, anything, any time. but there is a breaking point that will not stand repair, and parkins had gone through the crevice. don't try to save that man, mr. villard. he is not worth the tarnish that he will spread upon your good name. send me his 'walking papers' and i'll see that he gets them. make it brief--no accusations, giving him a chance to sue you for damages in large amount. he's tricky, and crazy. get rid of him! stay rid of him! he is a bad actor!" updyke was telling the truth, as villard, having read the report, was now convinced. "what shall i say? what can i say? the report from your files leaves me helpless in defense of my most efficient partner. surely the report cannot be wrong? i've never had one from you that was the least bit out of line with the facts. what shall i say to him if i conclude to communicate with him?" "better write me a note, stating that mr. parkins has not been about the office with regularity, and that you fear he lacks interest in the affairs of the company. send me the cash for all you owe him, and a receipt for him to sign, made out in full legal wording to the effect that it is a final settlement--and that his services are no longer needed. if he owns any stock in your concern, and he does, unless he has hocked it, send me a check to cover its full market value, and i will buy it back, and turn it over to you." villard sighed deeply as he agreed to the plan. "i did so want to save this man, but i've been warned before, from a sacred source, to have done with him forever," said he wearily. "what do you mean by 'sacred source'?" "oh, i must not go into that!" replied villard sharply. "i get you--some of that 'over the river jordan' stuff. i get you," laughed updyke. "just what are you hinting at, mr. updyke?" villard's voice trembled as he spoke. "now, drury villard! don't you know by this time that an up-to-date agency like this has a page on every business man worth while, as well as the worthless? let me show you your sheet. wait, i'll get a leaf out of a different book--here it is and you may read it yourself. skip the biographical--that shows you to be first class, but you've recently given cause for alarm. read article seven. read it aloud, and comment as you will. we're friends, and you might need me as a witness some day." glancing quizzically at updyke, villard began to read the report-"article 7--drury villard has recently developed an obsession of mind regarding the future estate. he has long grieved over the death of a sweetheart who passed away some years ago and at this writing he suffers under the delusion of hearing her voice. on retiring from active duty in connection with the villard corporation, he was very generous in his treatment of his special partners. he allowed them to buy stock at a very low price, and later on, is to let them have more, if they succeed with the business. villard still owns a three-fourths holding but all partners were treated alike and are well satisfied with the deal. william parkins is also vice-president, but the office of president has been abolished, drury villard becoming chairman of the board. he now lives in a retired way in long island on his private estate which he has named 'dreamy hollow.' his fiancã©, now dead, given name, 'winifred'--surname unknown. his nearest neighbor (sawyer), a retired doctor, lives on adjoining estate, said to be very wealthy." "now what miserable cur could have written all of that rot!" exclaimed villard. "point out all that is in error and i'll change the report. we must keep up our records," said updyke, sharply, with a wave of his hand. "there isn't a chance in the world that this record will be observed by any one not connected with our office. i give nothing out on death notices, or biographies." "then for what purpose?" demanded villard. "oh, if you became a crook, or went crazy, we would be queried by certain interests. we ask no favors. this business is mine. i made it what it is, and it's worth a million as it stands. if i was crooked i could say it's worth a hundred million." "god--what a power you hold! in case of your death, what a cruel use could be made of those leaves from your records! what a chance for certain slimy little blackmailing publications!" "my body will be cremated, and with it my books of record. that's part of my will. now i'm going to ease your mind--you have the page containing the facts about you. it is the only copy on earth. the notes from which it was made up have been destroyed. if you desire i will destroy the page in your presence, right now," proffered updyke. villard was astonished at the proposal. "i wouldn't care one way or the other, if it wasn't for----" "yes, i know," responded updyke, "you're thinking of the dead. you don't want her name bandied about." "that's it--i am thinking of her--to memory dear. it's good of you, updyke. downright generous! but why do you propose it without my asking?" villard began to pace the floor. "sit down, please," said updyke gently, as he twisted his watch chain, and cleared his throat of a great lump of hesitancy. "i once had a sweetheart, mr. villard, and she went away, too--somewhere up in the skies, just like your winifred. and like you i have never married. i cannot spare the memory of her--i'll die single!" every doubt of updyke's genuine friendliness was now discarded by drury villard, as his eyes lighted with reciprocal understanding. "wonderful, old fellow! let us find joy in the fact that we have both loved, and both of us have been loved. now we will burn this record. that shall be the seal of our lasting friendship." villard's eyes spoke for his heart. "here, take it--burn it yourself, drury. i shall call you by your first name hereafter." turning upon his heel, henry updyke walked to a window and looked down twenty stories upon the great metropolis, its streets agog with people and traffic. when he heard the click of the latch on the door, he turned about. villard had gone. it was no longer necessary for updyke to hide his emotion. but there were things to be done immediately. parkins must be found and delivered to villard. updyke pressed a button and immediately one of his operatives entered and approached his desk. "here's a name on this card--i want this man brought to me as soon as possible--by all means before night. do you know him?" "very well by sight. i've looked him up before--don't you remember?" "oh, yes--the peabody case. while drunk parkins hit him over the head with a champagne bottle--yep--you brought parkins in. it is a shame we didn't send him over at that time but he begged me to straighten him out and see that he reported for business next morning. i did it--and did it more than once since then. but this will probably be the last time we'll need hunt for him. his boss has something on him that will bring him to time--i hope. parkins is a bad egg, so watch out for him, especially if he is in his cups. now go to it--bring him to me if you have to give him a teaser." for four hours updyke sat in his chair, or paced the floor, awaiting word from his operative. he smoked incessantly while reading the evening papers and at six thirty o'clock ordered ham and eggs, and coffee. these had been set before him when the night telephone gong gave three loud clangs. that meant updyke himself--in a hurry. he sprang to the receiver and in a quiet unruffled voice answered, "shoot." "number twelve speaking--your party dashed through patchogue about eleven this morning and was last seen going east at high speed. lost trace until just a few minutes ago. find that he has a fishing hut across south bay on the ocean side. he's bound to come back this way--the question is, when?" "where are you now?" "patchogue." "what do you advise?" "well, i have my motorcycle, and i feel certain he will come back this way. if i went over on the ocean side i might have sand trouble. he has four wheels and a ninety horse roadster. i think i'd better stay here," concluded "number twelve." "i believe you are right," replied updyke. "how about the sayville road? he might, for a change, cut across and run in by way of the sound. i think i'll put two other men out on this, you to carry out your plan, one to watch the merrick road, the other on the detour along the sound." "that might be wise although it seems certain he will come back this way. what shall i do when i locate him?" "serve a 'john doe' on him and bring him to my office, otherwise trail him to the jumping-off place--in other words, get him!" "by the way, there is a fine looking girl at patchogue who runs a stand. i wonder how it would do to feel her out about him," queried the operative. "you bet your boots--that's a parkins lead as sure as you live, even if it does turn out bad." "then i'd better run back there before she closes up for the day. she's a humdinger to look at," said "number twelve" with enthusiasm. "well, see that she doesn't get your goat. keep your head on your shoulders and don't be led into any girl trap. get me at my hotel after seven, through my private wire--'updyke'--will be here until six-thirty--so long." chapter vii. the new winifred when "number 12" reached patchogue "the goody shop" was on the point of being closed. the girl in charge, and a man she called "father," were instructing a young woman how to run the stand for the next two days. they had all but put up the night shutters as the operative climbed off of his machine. "any sandwiches left?" he enquired, racing to the stand. "oh, yes--a few nice ones, and some very fine blueberry pie," replied the older girl as smilingly she displayed several huge wedges of assorted pies. "and here's a lovely slice of lemon meringue, the last one left," she urged, and at a nod from her customer, handed it to him on a pasteboard plate, together with a dainty paper napkin. as the operative put his plate upon the sill of the stand and began to eat, the two girls and "father" continued their conversation about a grand ride over to new york next day. listening in on the conversation he learned which girl was going on the trip--her friend called her winifred--and when she spoke to the man she addressed him as mr. barbour. "i wish you were going along, julie," said the girl winifred, very much delighted. then she said--"mr. parkins is taking us in his big four-passenger roadster--how many horse powers has it, father? it must be a lot--something like several hundred i would think from the noise it makes sometimes." "no, it's a ninety," corrected her father who seemed proud of his better knowledge. "what time do you leave for new york?" enquired the girl, julie. "mr. parkins is to pick us up at the house at ten to-morrow morning. and then, away we go!--just whizzing along merrick road so we can see all of the beautiful homes along the bay--and the sound coming back! my, but he drives fearfully fast! i expect to be frozen with fright by the time we arrive in the city." having fallen into all of the information he could have wished for, "number 12" suddenly quit on his second wedge of pie and asked which was the best hotel nearby. "roadside inn" was pointed out just across the street, and rolling his motorcycle beside him he walked over and went inside. once in his room "number 12" got busy. looking at his watch he concluded that updyke would be at his hotel, but that was up to central. "updyke" was all he needed to say and in less than a minute he had his man. "all right, shoot," came the regular answer by which "the big boss" announced himself--"number 12?" he queried. "yep--got the whole works. am at patchogue, roadside inn, phone patchogue--twenty. the father rather old and solemn, neither ever saw new york before, and never off of the island. has a pie stand on the parkway--darn good pies too." "soft enough, i'd say," replied updyke. "shall i run a man out to you to-night?" "why not come out yourself--if it's an important case?" "no--if he gets away from you i'll nab him here. he's up to his regular tricks--the scoundrel!--now don't you fail to nail that fellow!" warned updyke, to whom the whole situation was as plain as daylight from darkness. "trail him and keep me posted on the route he has taken. no doubt he'll cross on the queensborough bridge." running true to form the parkins roadster roared its way into patchogue next morning, and the operative quietly registered on his tab--"one brandy and soda at roadside inn." immediately afterward parkins jumped into his car and ran slowly two streets west and turned north one block. the updyke man did not have to leave his chair on the porch of the hotel in order to witness the movements of the big car. there was a hasty carrying out of two suitcases, and a hamper probably containing luncheon. then the big car turned back to the south on the merrick road and proceeded west at a lively clip. shortly thereafter, "number 12" trailed in at a safe distance behind, and it was with much skill that he kept the roadster in view, but never in a way to attract parkins' notice. the girl sat in front, and by the way she turned her head and indicated pretty homes to her father it was evident that her mind was carefree. not knowing the inside history of the case, the operative rode stolidly along behind. coming to a roadhouse in one of the villages he stopped and phoned updyke, all done in less than three minutes--then he crowded on the gas until he came in sight of the party. almost at once he lost them again by reason of sharp turns in the road, but all was well, and he had no fear of losing them, for miles ahead there was no other road to turn into. three minutes later he came upon a sight that made his blood run cold. there, around the curve, in a hollow just ahead, were two cars overturned and smashed beyond repair! strange are the ways of providence. there are times when coincidence and circumstances blend into episodes for which there is no accounting--an act of god--in terms of legal phrasing. as parkins' car took a curve in the road at high speed going west, drury villard and his neighbor, dr. sawyer--out for a leisurely spin with santzi at the wheel--were on the same road heading east. the day was especially fine, and with top down the villard car sped along the concrete road without a jolt or a jar. sawyer, in a most excellent mood, was inclined to speak jokingly of the parkins episode at dreamy hollow two days previously. but to all of his sallies villard failed to answer in kind. certain "messages" were on his mind, and along with them a mixture of joy and sorrow combined. could another winifred answer the call of his yearning? could his heart go out to any other than the winifred of old? he doubted it, but he owed it to his dead love to await certain events, since she had urged the duty upon him. so absorbed was he in contemplating the situation that he was quite unprepared for the sudden application of the emergency brakes. his car was rounding a curve at a healthy speed when suddenly santzi pulled up short, just in time to avoid the wreckage of two monster machines overturned in collision. each had been smashed into a veritable mass, and the silence of the scene served to accentuate the gruesome aspect of the otherwise beautiful surroundings. suddenly a tall man with hair of iron gray staggered to his feet and shouted--"winifred!" "winifred!" echoed villard, jumping from his car. in a second more sawyer, hastening to alight, called upon santzi to rush along for a doctor, and to notify the motor police. villard, who stood spellbound on hearing the name he adored, soon forced himself into action. instantly the words that were whispered to him in the early morning hours came to mind. "it is myself, incarnate, that you will marry--you will meet her soon--there will be an accident--you will give assistance." he saw a man, hatless and bleeding, rushing madly about calling the name winifred. villard again took up the cry. "winifred!--winifred!" he shouted, running from point to point amid the wreckage. his search was soon successful. of several persons strewn about the roadside he knew instinctively, when he had stooped over the form of the one he sought. he dropped to his knees and seized her hands, chafing them vigorously to renew suspended animation. he placed his hand upon her brow, and raised an eyelid--then bent over and put his ear to her heart. "winifred," he whispered softly. "wake up, dear child!" then jumping to his feet he shouted to her father: "here she is, sir--and she's coming back to life! water, sawyer--find a thermos bottle! there must be one somewhere in the wreckage." to villard all else in the world was naught but this beautiful child woman whose head and body rested against his breast. as if paralyzed her father looked on, mute and despairing. "splash some on her cheeks," he commanded of sawyer, who hastened forward with the bottle from one of the upturned cars. "more--more--ah--that's the stuff--water! see? she is breathing again, and i doubt that she is very much injured. we'll soon know," he said to himself as he began, ever so gently, to raise her arms, and nether limbs one by one. then he laid her, full length, upon the grass, and pillowed her head with his motor coat. "she doesn't cry out--no bones broken--thank god!--just bruised, and shocked by the impact after fall," he explained to the dazed father with quiet gentleness. "get some cushions out of the wreck and we'll make her comfortable under the shade of a tree." almost immediately a man on a motorcycle dashed upon the scene and with difficulty stopped in time. throwing his machine to one side he ran quickly to the big roadster--"number 12" had literally run his man to earth. there lay the inanimate form of william parkins with the pallor of death upon his face, and a bleeding wound well back of his left ear near the occipital bone. his body was pinned beneath his heavy roadster. "the man is alive--give me a hand!" shouted "number 12" to barbour, who, still dazed, had fallen to his knees in prayer for his daughter's life. but, he made no answer, thereupon sawyer responded as best he could for a man of his age. it was more than a one-man job to raise the tonneau of the big machine in order to allow sawyer to drag the limp body from beneath the wreck. a retired doctor himself he knew how to manage the situation better than the man who still called for his girl. "i know this fellow," said sawyer, breathing hard from his effort in helping to release the unconscious man under the roadster. "who is he?" demanded the motorcycle man, incredulous. "his name is parkins, unless i am greatly mistaken," replied sawyer, still puzzled, but practically sure. "you're right," agreed the man who had been trailing the victim for nearly an hour. "he is a bad actor, and it was my intention to arrest him on the new york side of williamsburg bridge. i'd hate to have him croak before my boss sees him," he concluded, and then fell to his knees and began the work of bringing parkins back to life. "what is he wanted for?" asked sawyer, after several moments of hesitation. "i'll have to refer you to my boss as to that. i was told to get him, and it's up to me to find a way to deliver him. you can bet that he is going to have a long dry spell after the old man gets through with him," sneered the operative as he looked upon the limp figure now stretched out upon the grassy roadside. "whom do you mean by 'old man'?" enquired sawyer. "my boss--and what he doesn't know about people! well, what's the use to speculate? i had a hard time keeping parkins in sight. forty to sixty miles was his gait. pretty fast for a narrow concrete roadbed." parkins now began to breathe heavily, and moan. anxious that villard should be apprised concerning him, sawyer walked hastily over to where he sat, still holding the girl's wrist and counting the pulsations. "the man we took from under the big car is william parkins," said he, laconically. "he will live--probably." drury villard looked up in amazement. "you don't mean it!" he exclaimed. "yes--it's parkins--still vice president of your company!" sawyer looked steadily into villard's upturned eyes, and shook his head ominously. "bad news to get into the papers, drury. what do you suggest?" receiving no answer sawyer stood thoughtfully stroking his chin until his mind had settled the matter. "i will take parkins into my home until we can think out a plan of action," he said, finally. "you take the girl and her father into your home for the present. then there will be no chance for news to leak. mrs. bond will look out for her." "how about the doctor?" replied villard, thoughtfully. "he might----" "doctors are like lawyers; they serve well those who pay well--especially when the public interest is better served thereby." "first-class reasoning, friend sawyer. our plan is made. when santzi returns we'll take both patients and the girl's father into my car and race for home. what about the other machine--any one hurt?" "no, just a colored chauffeur returning with an empty car from the city. he jumped in time to save himself and is now waiting for some one to take the wreck to the nearest garage. it is pretty well smashed, but the boy is unscathed." with plans all mapped out they were quickly put into execution. upon the return of santzi with doctor benton, who followed in his runabout, the medical man at once put his ear to the girl's heart--then, to make sure, used his stethoscope. "we'll get her over to dreamy hollow at once," said he, glancing at villard, who nodded affirmatively. "her heart is beating strong enough, but she must not see this wreck when she comes out of her present state. put her into your car at once, while i take a look at the man lying on the grass. who is the old fellow over there praying?" he inquired sharply. "the girl's father," replied sawyer, shaking his head sadly. his sympathy was genuine. "i'll take him in with me," volunteered doctor benton, but villard objected as he wanted to talk with the father of the girl. under orders santzi drove back to dreamy hollow without a bump against his tires. during the short time occupied by the trip the father of the girl gave his name as alexander barbour, of patchogue, and also stated that his daughter winifred was his only child. her mother, long since dead, left her, a tiny new-born babe, to remind him of her own dear self. without the child, he might easily have gone crazy from grief and loneliness, but little winifred had steadied him every step of his way by her sweetness of disposition and her loving consideration. "i dread the time when the right man comes for her," he sighed. "now, she is mine, but some day her mate will call and she will go to him." alexander barbour was deeply moved by the thought of the sad fate in store for himself. "but that should not worry you," said villard. "make a bargain with the man she marries that you are privileged to live near by and may visit your daughter as often as you desire. no decent husband would deny that right," he concluded, smiling into the father's eyes. "i'll be glad if it turns out that way--usually it doesn't. but in any event i should miss her sadly. she hears from her mother every little while." "what!" drury villard could hardly realize that this unconscious little child-woman possessed such powers. "yes, her mother tells her what to do, and gives her messages from others to be delivered to earthly friends. she got word through her mother last night from some one by the name of winifred. she is reticent on the subject, but i know that she regards the advice as sacred." running his fingers through his hair nervously, barbour admitted that her power was, to him, a great mystery, but as to the revelations he remained silent, as if in awe concerning them. twenty minutes later mrs. bond, the housekeeper at dreamy hollow, stood speechless at the porte-cochã¨re as she beheld her master alighting from his car with a woman in his arms. amazed, the good lady reached out as if to take the fair burden from him, but villard demurred. he had held her in his arms during the ride and he would risk no accidental stumble on the stairway. turning to santzi he ordered him in a low voice to drive dr. sawyer to his home, and to help him with parkins until the doctor arrived. "he's coming on behind us and will be here any moment. he will go to dr. sawyer's as soon as he gets through here," added villard. so saying, the master of dreamy hollow, with careful step mounted the grand stairway leading to the second floor. mrs. bond had rushed on ahead to the "hospital" suite, so-called, because of its equipment for emergencies and its wonderful outlook over south bay, with its miles of magnificent gardens. ever so gently he laid his fair burden upon the bed prepared for her and after gazing into her beautiful face, turned and left the room. as he approached the head of the stairway he met doctor benton coming up, and with him, mr. barbour, whose face still showed the agony of his mind. to him villard said-"don't go in--she is being put to bed by mrs. bond. we'll wait in the room next door, until the doctor gets through. this room you will occupy until all is well with your daughter," he concluded as he smiled into the troubled face of the anxious father. doctor benton, after a brief examination, arose from his chair beside the patient, a broad smile lighting up his face. "no medicine, plenty of fresh air, water if she asks for it. i'll be back in an hour. i must get to that man parkins. he is bad off, and may not get through," said he, hastening away. at once mrs. bond went to the room occupied by the father of the girl and beckoned villard into the hall. as he appeared she motioned him to follow her into the room where winifred had been tenderly placed on a downy bed, and a coverlet thrown about her. "she's all tucked in and looks like an angel," she whispered, tip-toeing up to the bedside, with villard closely following. "isn't she the sweetest thing you ever saw?--the doctor left no medicine--says she's all right!" villard stood silent for more than a minute before replying, but it was evident that he yearned for the speedy recovery of the charming creature. "i wish she would open her eyes--i've never seen them yet, although i held her in my arms for ten minutes," he replied, whimsically--and strange to say winifred's eyes did open--bright as diamonds they were, but with no sense of recollection until she had gazed upon the face of drury villard. at once a vague expression of happiness came over her fair features, but faintly smiling and with eyes closed, she went back to sleep. villard, now buoyant, grasped mrs. bond's arm and led her out of the room. when they were safely out of hearing he stopped abruptly and looked into her face. "did you observe that she recognized me?" he asked eagerly. "i did," replied mrs. bond. "it gave me a start, for i felt that neither of you had seen each other before to-day." "that's true--we have not met before. but how may we account for the fact, that after she looked into each of our faces, mine was the one she thought she knew?" "i give it up, unless she was directed by that divinity which shapes our destinies," replied the housekeeper, with much feeling. hastening to barbour's room he opened the door without formality and found his guest upon his knees in silent prayer. touched at the sight he went forward and knelt beside him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. then he whispered into his ear-"she is safe--the doctor says so--your prayer has been answered even as you made your wishes known. you should look upon her sweet face--come with me," appealed villard as he helped the grief-stricken father to his feet and escorted him to the bedside where his child, with a smile on her lips, still slept. but the fact that she lived was enough joy for alexander barbour. chapter viii. henry updyke drops in wondering what might be going on at sawyer's home, villard went into his study and gave him a ring over the phone. sawyer personally answered the call. evidently the episode of the morning had been trying, for his voice was gruff--much deeper than usual. "who calls?" he demanded in a rasping tone. "villard speaking--i have been wondering how matters stood over your way. all serene over here. the girl has opened her eyes, but immediately went back to sleep." "i'm glad to hear that--over here the situation is terrible! this man parkins is a ruffian--at death's door his oaths are blasphemous, and to those who are trying to save his worthless life he shouts defiance and demands his revolver that he may 'kill the whole bunch'--to use his words, expurgated. his language toward doctor benton was vile!" "well, well--that must be stopped! wouldn't it be safe to move him to a sanitarium--or something?" "yes--an asylum for insane drunkards--that's what you meant to say--wasn't it?" "approximately that--why not drop over for a while and we will have a chat? you can count on me--you know that. i'm awfully sorry that you're mixed up in this, but when you come to know the girl you'll forgive everything." "i'll do that now, and i will be right over," said sawyer, slamming the receiver back in its place in pure spite against the upheavals of the day. it was well along toward evening before dr. sawyer took leave of villard's happy hospitality. he had even been invited to take a peep at the beautiful winifred barbour, who still slept, but would soon be normal--according to the doctor whose second call had brought complete assurance to the household. but the ever recurring subject between them was william parkins. what should be done with him? more than once villard showed signs of irresolution regarding him. perhaps if he were sent to one of the far-off branches--cape town, for instance--but sawyer threw up his hands and shouted "pish--tush!" "why man alive--he would kill the business of all your foreign connections. asylum!--put him in a place where he may reflect at his leisure--and, say!--here's an idea--send for henry updyke!" exclaimed sawyer, banging the arm of his chair. without a word villard stepped into the booth and rang up his man--promptly making connection. "i wish you'd run down here, henry," said he, "i have a problem to solve." "you bet you have--same old problem--parkins!" "of course you would know all about our trouble," laughed villard. "you surely have a nose for news." "yep--parkins is at sawyer's pretty well smashed, but still keeping his eyes open. we are watching the place--night and day shift from now on--but we've got nothing on him. you can't jail a man for a smash-up unless it was by premeditated defiance of the speed laws. and you'd have to prove it. how is the girl?" "resting easily--benton says she'll come through all right." "wonderful girl--eh? i've seen her off and on since she was a little child. i've known the father quite well--a dull sort, but easy to extract information from--if he has any. if he ever had any he didn't know it--just gave it up by way of general conversation. i guess i'll run down after a while, probably be at your house about eight--that gives you time for your dinner." "bless you, yes--come down at once and break bread with me--i'll wait." "no--can't leave now--see you to-night at eight--have sawyer there if you can." "he's here now--i'll have him dine with us. he's pretty well broken up over the day--but--my boy!--it has been a great day for me!--can't talk now--good-bye!" turning to his friend sawyer, villard again appealed to him to stay for dinner, but his neighbor felt that that day had worn him out. bed was the place for him, as early as possible, after his dinner. he urged that updyke be coaxed to stay over night, and take a look at parkins. dreading the presence of the man in his home he stood in need of courage, and villard agreed to hold updyke if such a thing were possible. promptly at eight the big fellow rode into the driveway at dreamy hollow, accompanied by two men, a chauffeur and an operative. having been expected, villard himself met updyke at the porte-cochã¨re along with the servant. santzi hovered near, but was not obsequious. when the guest had alighted, he jumped upon the running board and showed his man the way to the garage. it had been a glorious day for santzi as he had served his employer well, which made him very happy. when the car was garaged he led the way to his small kitchenette and served the two men a japanese dinner. meanwhile the big mansion showed no lights, villard and updyke having gone into consultation in villard's office. big men that they were, each eyed the other solemnly, and then, simultaneously they broke out with a hearty laugh--and that relieved the tension. "life is a great experience," said villard, his big open face radiating his good humor--"one little thing right after another." "and the more we laugh the more we live," replied updyke, lighting his usual black cigar. "a big day for me, henry!" exclaimed the host; "a great day indeed!" "yep--little winifred--your luck is phenomenal, old fellow. i congratulate you with all my heart." "but suppose she wakes up and asks for parkins?" queried villard, anxiously. "i had thought of that, and my hope is that something else will occur. but that very thing might happen. better be prepared for it," said updyke, his face denoting his serious thought on that subject. "please particularize, henry. what precedent have you to offer?" villard's interest was from the depths of his heart and the uncertainty of the girl's attitude on awakening was already forming a dread in his mind. "i gauge my thoughts on what has gone before in numerous cases. consider yourself in my car seated in front beside me. i'm loaded with booze but it is inside of me, so i do not catch the odor of it myself. but you, who have never touched liquor, catch a whiff of it, and instantly your suspicion is aroused to the fact that i'm a drinking man." "but there are----" "yes, i know there are moderate drinkers, but girls brought up carefully, as winifred has been, have nevertheless come to know the terrorism of old john barleycorn. she lives near a great artery of automobile traffic. most of it perfectly respectable, but some of it vile and besotted. she reads the riverhead paper probably, and a magazine of some sort, appealing to her feminine viewpoint. in other words, now that she is a business woman, her vision has enlarged, and not a day goes by that she does not witness something that reminds her that she is opposed to drunkards. but she is sorry for them, nevertheless. given her choice, she surely would not associate with a man who drinks." "undoubtedly parkins had been drinking. dr. benton admitted as much to me," volunteered villard. "the odor was still on his breath." "yes, but winifred may not have sensed it, for parkins uses the old fashioned eau de cologne on his lips, eyebrows, handkerchief, and his hair always smells of pomade and tonic. a country girl might easily believe that perfume used by a fascinating fellow like parkins was quite the thing, but no girl would sit beside a man who drove into a curve at a fifty or sixty mile gait without sensing danger--would she?" "i dare say no sophisticated girl would--probably no girl, sophisticated or otherwise, would fail of being apprehensive," agreed villard. "very well--now comes the point you originated. you asked me to guess what she will say when she comes to her senses. she will not say what you think she will. the last thing she thought about just as the cars collided will be the thoughts she will wake up with." "sounds logical," agreed villard. "statistics prove it in hundreds of cases. as her senses left her she felt a shock akin to death," said updyke, soberly. "and as she went into what looked to be certain death she must have wondered if parkins was insane. it was all so sudden, her thoughts may not have been entirely formulated, but even in the zone of coma the brain functions in a weird sort of way, incomprehensible to the victim, but remembered afterward--if the victim survives." "doctor benton thinks a little soft music from the organ might be helpful in bringing her out of her present state. under your theory it might not help," said villard. "would you experiment?" "surely i would," exclaimed updyke, "but i'd soft pedal at the start. as i understand the situation she hasn't opened her eyes since the accident, therefore i would go slow in startling her sensibilities for the present." "i'm going to make a confession, henry, but don't say anything to the doctor about it when he comes in shortly. my housekeeper and i stood by her bedside and she was so beautiful i said to mrs. bond, 'i wish she would open her eyes'--i hadn't seen them, you know, although i had held her in my arms for awhile just after the accident--and all the way home. well, believe it or not, i'll be switched if the little creature didn't do it--and by jinks--she seemed to recognize me!" updyke was plainly at a loss to account for the recognition. "very strange, indeed," he conceded as he gave villard a sharp look. "sure you didn't have a little brain trouble when you saw those bright eyes?" laughed updyke. "i can't account for her recognition of a person whom she had never seen or heard of before." "nevertheless, what i say is bona fide, as mrs. bond will attest. she saw the girl's eyes open, and the look of recognition--and more, the girl smiled at me, and went back to sleep. now, old sleuth, 'what do you make of that'?--as sherlock used to say." "well, let's see if we can figure it out," replied updyke soberly. "why, it's perfectly plain--the message from your dead sweetheart, and the father running around calling his girl by name. my operative phoned me the circumstances. he saw and heard everything." "you are right--as usual. i'll have to buy a medal for you, but for the present i am going to ask you to look at her. sometimes a man of your experience may have intuitions that doctors may not have. benton was here on his second visit just before you came, and is coming back again to-night. parkins is in very bad shape, so he is giving a larger share of attention to him. he feels sure of winifred's recovery and is not uneasy about her. now you come with me and tell me what you think after you've studied her face." "lead the way," said updyke as they ascended the stairway. the night nurse had arrived, and she came to the door, as the two men looked into the sick room. she glanced up inquiringly. "i am mr. villard and this is mr. updyke--a specialist in his way. i want him to look at the patient." "come in please," invited the nurse. "she is still asleep and i've kept the night lights on in order that she shall not wake up in too much darkness." "has she opened her eyes since you came on duty?" asked updyke. "no--only once has she opened them i'm told, and then only to close them again," was the reply. "that happened earlier in the day. her father was in several times, and it was pitiful the way he prayed for her life. i just couldn't help crying." updyke went over to the bedside and bent over the white face, scrutinizing it carefully. for nearly a minute he peered steadily at the eyelids until finally his patience was rewarded--they twitched! noting the fact, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered as softly as his voice would carry--"winifred," he breathed--and the eyelids fluttered. "wonderful!" whispered the nurse, but updyke raised his hand indicating his desire for complete silence. "it's time to wake up little girl--your father wants his breakfast and the booth must be opened--it's going to be a busy day." updyke's voice, gentle at first, was almost natural in tone at the finish. a perceptible movement of the hand and lips indicated that her condition was not so serious as villard had feared, and his solemn face became radiant--but immediately afterward, glum, when updyke said: "that's all for the present--she'll wake up naturally bye and bye. it's dangerous to force the issue." a servant bearing a message suddenly took both men out of the sick room--"mr. updyke is wanted on the phone." an operative had some important news for him. "have put parkins' valet through a sweat bath--got everything he knew. 'number nine' was with me and took down the whole story. shall i shoot it?" "shoot" replied updyke, winking at villard. then to the latter he said: "he is going to give me the confession of parkins' valet--and the valet is one of my men."--"go, ahead--i am listening," said he, as he removed his hand from the mouthpiece. "here goes," said the operative--"parkins, drinking heavily as he got himself ready for a run over to long island licked up two-thirds of a quart of straight whisky while he shaved, bathed, and dressed. had been brought home in villard's limousine guarded by a jap. though jaded he didn't try to sleep, but began to change his clothes, and talked to himself in a maudlin way. the valet said he continually referred to a poor little motherless girl--who evidently lived on long island. he was to bring the girl and her father to new york--neither had ever been to the city--although lifelong residents of long island. parkins talked of sending 'the old man,' meaning the father, on a bus ride to the end of the line and back, probably for the purpose of losing him. the girl was to stay with parkins and be shown the town, the big stores--tall buildings and so on, with a probable wind up at dinner at some shady joint. while parkins had not actually unfolded his intentions toward her, the inference was that he would see that she took something that would put her out for a time. nothing indicated as to the father after the ride on the bus--sequence would naturally suggest that he would be allowed to drift. what do you make of it?" "the plan seems plausible up to the word 'sequence,'" replied updyke. "parkins was known to the girl's father, who trusted him. he could not afford to let the old man drift for he knew parkins by name, and would naturally make inquiries. parkins could not have risked that. more likely he would take the girl to a sporty restaurant, and order a private dining room. if possible he would slip something into the coffee, or whatever he got her to drink. parkins is a damnable villain, and, thank god! we got him before he had a chance to succeed!" updyke, whose wrath took on new vigor, fairly snorted as he sensed the real story. "i've got a 'john doe' on the valet," replied the operative. "fifteen is in charge of him, here in the office. what shall i do with him?" asked number twelve. "just hold him over night in one of the rooms--it might be risky to jail him. make him feel at home, and that he is doing us a great favor, for which he won't lose anything--see? better put a man in the entrance hall, next to his room." "i got you--good night," said the operative. "good night, twelve. you've done a big stunt. see you to-morrow afternoon or evening," replied the chief, turning to villard with a broad grin on his face. not wishing to further upset villard's mind, he said that the information was second-hand, therefore he would reserve it for the present. parkins being in such a serious condition the case might be settled through his death. meanwhile, bad off as he was, he should be "watched like a hawk," and any attempt at escape should be balked at all hazards. the evidence of the valet was conclusive, but always there loomed the chance of newspaper notoriety. therefore, the necessity of great care. "now we'll make a call on parkins," suggested updyke, to which villard agreed, although the doctor was overdue. a last call for the night on winifred had been agreed upon, but evidently the case over at sawyer's home was too critical--perhaps an operation had been necessary. on reaching the sawyer home updyke and villard were informed that the host had retired, but that doctor benton and a surgeon from new york had experimented upon parkins, and were awaiting results which might call for a more dangerous operation in the region of the brain. one of the two nurses had volunteered the information. the situation was grave. "i'd rather he died than come out of it a cripple for life," said villard, as they strolled back to dreamy hollow in a roundabout way. "don't worry as to that--he will pull through, and the more crippled he is the more dangerous he will become," said updyke. "he will steal the girl one of these days if you are not everlastingly on the alert." from that thought villard, who saw the truth in the prophecy, became silent, as a new fear seized his heart. by every means in his power he would frustrate such an eventuality, and with his last drop of blood he would stand between the girl and the evil genius whose touch would defile, and whose snares would destroy. updyke, "mind reader" that he was, had just grounds for planting the seed of everlasting vigilance in villard's brain. "there is an old saying that 'it takes a rogue to catch a rogue,' drury, and i've spent years in acquiring a rogue's viewpoint. just make up your mind that parkins can never assume the rã´le of a saint, except as a subterfuge, and that every hour that he isn't asleep, he is dangerous." "i place the whole matter in your hands, henry. i have not the wits for the job, and would probably lose in any fight against any man with the mind of a crook," replied villard. the worries of the day had been great and rest was important in view of the duties of to-morrow. a peep into winifred's suite found the nurse in good cheer. the sleep of the patient was more normal, and signs of a desire to awaken had been noted. all was well, as the two men took their separate ways to comfortable beds and a well-earned rest. chapter ix. forces beyond the skies gloomy days followed along the path of drury villard during the week succeeding his last interview with updyke. the invalid upstairs was in bed, devoid of memory. she laughed, talked, sat up in bed, or in a perambulating chair was taken out among the flowers and trees each day. she recognized no one by name, not even her father, whose health was giving away under the strain. her talk was of flowers and birds by day--and the stars by night. "i'm going to be with them soon," said she, gaily--referring to the stars. "my mother is up there." "and where is your father?" asked villard, trying to aid her memory. "i don't know--i'm expecting him any time," she answered eagerly, and mr. barbour, standing near and in plain sight, turned about sadly and walked away. his child no longer knew him. upon this situation, he brooded in silence. he felt himself an interloper upon the hospitality of a man he did not know. but villard, farseeing and well disposed, invited him to stay on and gave him courage to do so. "my home is your home," said he. "some day she will come into complete recollection--and then, if my hopes are fulfilled, we shall become man and wife." "god speed the day!" exclaimed alexander barbour fervently. "everything is being done for her. you have placed us under great obligations." but villard would not have it that way. "the good fortune is all mine," said he, emphatically--"and i have reason to believe that she will become my wife, even if i am some years her senior. there are forces beyond the skies that are working out my salvation, and that of your daughter. i won't go into the matter further than to say that i am sure the fates are on our side. when all is settled, you, who are creeping on in age, may call my home your own. you may come and go at will--no one will oppose your coming or your going. you will be a unit unto yourself." villard was never cheerful when showered with thanks. when the older man tried to express his gratitude the master of dreamy hollow simply smiled and waved his hand. a few minutes later he stood on the sands of his private beach and watched the waves as they swirled and pounded on the shore line. his thoughts, however, were far away, but the very faith he put behind them turned them into messages to his dead. but he anticipated no word in reply. his own reasoning counseled him that the _new_ winifred had released the _old_ from further strenuous effort in his behalf. "it is myself incarnate, you will marry"--she had told him. then--"you will meet her soon." and it had all come about just as _she_ said, and now she could rest forevermore in peace--the darling of his early love! her effort at self-effacement, were it possible to erase herself from his memory, had been sublime, but to her reincarnated soul he would hinge his destiny through the instrumentality of winifred barbour. she had now become the winifred of his earlier devotion, and he would lavish his love as a true man should--but there would be no relaxation of his loyalty to the memory of the dear one gone before. "i shall always revere your memory," he had whispered hoarsely. "the new winifred will never attempt to obscure your likeness from my heart. together you will entwine my soul and become as one great love. farewell beloved. go to thy rest!" as villard spoke he bared his head and stood quite still. then, as he walked his way back he quickened his pace, but halted abruptly as alexander barbour came running toward him. "she's all right again--her mind has been suddenly restored!" he shouted. "the lord be praised!" shouted villard with a glad light in his eyes. resuming his rapid gait, he left barbour puffing along, behind. "and she has asked for 'drury'--and insists upon seeing him," panted barbour. "how could she know of you? i tell you, sir, it's very strange! she has always lived in one place. she knows nothing of your helpfulness in rescuing her from the wreck. all she realizes is that there was a collision and that she has waked up in a palace. she seems not to know that her memory has been lost since the accident." "when did this change take place--and where?" demanded villard, soberly. "she was in the hammock on the west veranda--and had dozed off after playing like a little child among the flowers." villard stood quite still for a few moments and looked up into the skies. then turning toward barbour he said: "a miracle has taken place before our very eyes. it would be sacrilege to even try to fathom such mystery. but we will never cease to thank that wonderful spirit which has helped your daughter into a normal condition. come let us hurry along!" he commanded of the mystified father, after the fashion of those born to rule. a moment more and drury villard stood looking down into the eyes of the lovely creature whom god had sent to him--"to have and to hold, until death do us part." "do you know me, little woman?" he asked tenderly. "yes, you're mr. drury!" "right--but when you awoke from your lapse of memory you asked for 'drury'--and that is my given name," said he, his eyes twinkling. "now isn't that strange, sir? i had never heard that name until just a few moments ago. of course, i must have dreamed it. what has happened to me, and my father? i remember i was in a dreadful accident--did you know that? it occurred this morning--where am i now? it seems like heaven!" said she, smiling up into villard's face. their eyes met, but after a searching glance, the new winifred withdrew her beautiful gray-blue orbs from the contest and gazed out upon the gardens where gay flowers bloomed and flitting birds winged their way from tree to tree. "and you are sure that you have quite recovered?" he asked, solicitously, wondering whether or not he should tell her of the real lapse of the time since in his arms he had borne her to his home. "oh, entirely so, and i feel so grateful, and so fortunate. i am sorry indeed to be wearing borrowed clothing. the dress i wore this morning was perfectly new--the first time i had worn it. we were going to the big city and i was so happy. i have never visited new york, but i'm satisfied with this dreamland--only it will be hard to come back to earth, all in one short day." drury villard smiled at the thought, and releasing her hand he drew up a great lounging settee which afforded him a seat beside her. "perhaps i should tell you something about the accident," said he, looking into her eyes for consent. "oh, do--please! i've been wondering--i seem to be in another world," said she, dreamily. "to begin with, you have been here several days, much to our delight," he replied, watching the effect of his words. "indeed!" she exclaimed, blushing with embarrassment; "think of all the trouble i've caused!" "but we haven't been troubled in the least, and we have grown to think of you as our own," said villard. "i have asked your father to live with us--we are so lonesome in this big house. i love the place, but at times it is so dreary that i lose myself in grief." the eyes of the new winifred opened wide in sympathy. "you must have had a deep sorrow," said she, in a low voice. "indeed that is true, but i think i know a road to happiness," he replied, tenderly. "when you grow stronger i will tell you what i mean. but there is something i want to know at once--how did you guess my name?" "oh--now i remember! i have heard your name--my mother sent me word. she talks to me quite often." "your mother is dead, is she not?" queried villard. "yes, on earth, but now she _lives_ in heaven!" replied the girl, simply. "winifred told her to tell me that there would be an accident and that drury would aid--and--and----" "oh, please go on, dear girl, and what? tell me about this second message." villard's great strength of character proved his mastery over the young woman, who, awed by his commanding voice, had no power to refuse his request. "but it's all so sacred!" she protested. "yet, if you insist, i feel that i must. don't think it unwomanly, will you?" she pleaded. "never--i promise you that, on my sacred honor!" replied villard, fervently. then came the story that he had awaited so eagerly--a story not for those who would doubt, or laugh to scorn, but for those who believe in a life to come--the life everlasting. tears gathered in winifred's eyes as she began to speak. "my mother came to me monday night," said she, tremulously. "i was ready to retire at an early hour because of my great happiness concerning my first trip to the big city. i had knelt to say my prayers, when suddenly i heard my mother's voice. although i have had frequent visits from her i never actually see her. her voice, which i so dearly love, came into the room and called to me by name, but i could not locate the direction from whence it came. so i bowed my head again, and waited. shortly she spoke, saying--'there will be an accident, my child, but no real harm will come to you--be not afraid. tell drury that his winifred wants him to marry the person whom he saves from death.' that was all, and of course you are the mr. drury, and if you were instrumental in saving a woman from death, your winifred wants you to marry her." villard struggled with his emotions after winifred barbour had bared the great secret he so longed to unravel, while she, in sympathy, buried her face in her hands and sobbed. villard's mood was so like her own that he dared not try to comfort her. he had no words with which to soothe, nor power to check the sorrow and joy that mingled within his own bosom. he simply stood by, resolutely restraining his emotion, until he had mastered it--then walked away until the new winifred had composed herself. on his return he lifted her into his arms and kissed her cheeks and lips, and beautiful dark brown hair. "you are my winifred, now," he whispered, hoarsely. "god has willed it so--and your dear mother in heaven has sanctioned it. my dead winifred is yourself, incarnate. i shall keep and guard you during all of my remaining days on earth. you will become mistress of dreamy hollow, and we will share all blessings as long as we each shall live." taken by storm, winifred's eyes opened wide in astonishment, but she made no answer. if in her secret heart she had ever thought of a marriage proposal, it was not of the kind that had just been spoken. but villard was a law unto himself and he took winifred's hand into his own, and together they strolled along the wooded path leading toward the ever wonderful beach. this path was seldom used because of its density of foliage and the low hung branches of the trees and bushes. at last they came upon the sands where the waters pounded and the roar of the sea beyond the bar spoke messages from far away lands. and there they halted, each mind in deep contemplation of the other, while gazing far out where the blue sky and the waters of the deep merged with the shadows of a waning day. as yet the answer had not been spoken, but the love of the man was fast winning the heart of the girl. the verdict seemed not far away. chapter x. the nurse takes a chance parkins' escape from death owed itself to a surgeon's skill, the operation upon his head having been successful. now he sat up in bed, after seven days at the sawyer home. he talked very little, but the furtive roving of his eyes during his wakeful hours denoted his mental activity. aside from the injuries to his head, all harmful results had disappeared. the wound on his scalp was rapidly closing up, and according to the surgeon, would never be noticed, owing to the dense growth of his hair. roached back and parted nearer the middle, the wound would be obscured. according to both doctors, another week would find him strong enough to walk about the grounds, but parkins secretly knew that he had plenty strength with which to escape. he had no way of knowing villard's views concerning him, but he was aware that updyke only visited places where something unusual was going on. he could feel without seeing the villard satellites--minions of the law!--they were unremitting. so far as they could prevent there would be no chance for his escape. one thing parkins had done well. he had made a fast friend of his day nurse. by degrees he had won her confidence, until finally he asked her if she would not prefer a good salary as his housekeeper rather than slave on as a nurse. "i'd go mad with such work on my hands," said he. "only the faithfulness of kind-hearted women toward those who suffer makes life worth living. how much do you average per week?" he inquired abruptly. "oh, it's hard to tell, all owing to circumstances. in order to get anything like steady work i have to take what the doctors offer. some weeks i scarcely make anything--other weeks twenty-five dollars, and sometimes fifty. last year my weekly average was a little over twenty dollars. i could hardly make ends meet," she concluded. "well, i should think as much!" exclaimed parkins, with a frown at the ways of humanity. "how would you like to become housekeeper for me at fifty dollars a week, with all you can eat, and a christmas present for good measure?" "are you married?" she asked as if doubtful upon that point. "no, not yet, but i'm soon to be married--and to the sweetest little lady in the land. we would have been married now but for the accident. we were on our way to new york, eloping, as a matter of fact, although her father was along. we were going to surprise him by suddenly going to the little church around the corner, and with him as a witness, have the ceremony performed. he would have been delighted," said parkins, with enthusiasm. "surely he would--and a lovely surprise, indeed!" replied the nurse, gaily. "was she hurt very badly?" "no, just shocked, i gather from listening to the doctors. she's out and around, and the place she is stopping is beautiful--just look out of that west window into those grounds. see the big white mansion through the opening? well, the man that owns that home is many times a millionaire, and i am vice president of the company in which he made all his money." "you don't say!" exclaimed the nurse. "yes, he is the one who picked us up after the wreck--he and mr. sawyer were out for a drive. villard took the girl to his home and i was brought here. the doctor said it would be best not to have two invalided people in the same house." "well, that's a fact, especially when they are so close to one another," replied the nurse thoughtfully. "but it won't be long before you will be ready to go your way. of course you will take the little sweetheart along." "your last cent can go on that," replied parkins. "but we're going to fool them, just the same, as soon as i can get out of this--and i'm almost ready now. we are going to elope, and this time her father will be none the wiser until it's all over. he is pretty much broken up over the accident, but the home he is in is a dream, so he'll be happy there until we come back for him--see? he knows i'm rich, and that i have a big standing in the business world." "how will you manage so grave a matter as an elopement?" inquired the nurse, soberly. "i'll think it out--oh, now that you are going to be our housekeeper, and all that, you can help us easily, and no one will ever know it," concluded the patient, his face lighting up as if inspired. parkins knew how to smile, and to appear the soul of honor. the nurse, mrs. duke by name, as given to him by dr. benton when he introduced her, at once approved him. "i might be helpful, and would be willing to aid, but i wouldn't want to be left here to be blamed for it," said she soberly. "why, that's easy to avoid," said parkins. "during your daily exercise, manage to meet her, and get acquainted. but don't tell her of our plans, because she is a nervous little soul and might see difficulties in the way. naturally she'd want her father along, but that would spoil the elopement," said the patient, with a sly wink. "i see that clearly, but what about me? i----" "i was just going to tell you what to do. first, get acquainted with her, and on a certain day i'll have a car waiting at a certain place near by. as you walk along with her you could suggest a pretty place you'd like to have her see. when she arrives there the car will be waiting, and you and my sweetheart will jump in, and away you'll go. meanwhile, as the car passes this place i will be where i can jump in and become manager of the affair." "i'm so afraid of anything like that!" exclaimed mrs. duke. "we might be arrested." "oh, pshaw! nothing of the kind. she's of age--she loves me--and we are going to be married! the only thing i'm afraid of is that the old bachelor who owns the place where she is now might want to marry her, and she is so sweet and obliging, her father might coax her into marriage with this man villard," explained parkins. "villard! is that his place?" asked the nurse, sharply as she again looked out upon the beautiful home. "yes, it's worth a couple of millions, including the land and beach property," replied the patient. "why, he was the man over here last night, was he not?" "that was drury villard. you saw how friendly he was with me, and how concerned he was about my condition, and everything." "yes, indeed, a fine looking man--but too old for that sweet little girl," said the nurse, shaking her head in deprecation of even the thought of such a match. "he may be a nice man, and all that, and seems kindly, but an old man's love is no love at all, so i'm going to help the girl to escape such a fate," she concluded, shaking her head as she meant it. "and if you do, i'll give you one thousand dollars in cash!" whispered parkins, as the nurse looked into his eyes. they held true, disclosing not the least appearance of deceit. whereupon mrs. duke nodded her head affirmatively. "i'll do it," she said, "and if you don't mind, i am going out for a little fresh air"--all of which was accompanied by a knowing smile--the smile of a skillful accomplice. to mrs. duke a millionaire was a living crime. want, perpetually barking at her heels, gave her no charity of feeling toward the rich man--his kith or his kin. she likened such men to a huge net stretched across the river of life to which human souls were drawn unerringly by man-made currents, until caught in the meshes and held in despair. naught but death could come to their rescue. to her, the knowledge that a man of william parkins' goodness of heart could be accounted a chattel of the great villard was unthinkable. as she walked along among rare trees and flowered bushes her heart turned cold and her eyes dilated indignation at the inequality of human destinies. had she but known the man, his kindly nature, his open purse, and great benefactions, her hatred of drury villard would have been turned into admiration. good woman that she was, her intuition had failed her in her estimate of parkins' veracity. she had yet to learn the depravity of the man, who, by the mere use of five magic words--"one thousand dollars in cash"--had won her hatred toward the best friend he ever had. so far as mrs. duke was concerned it was easy to meet up with winifred barbour. the girl loved to look upon the waters of the bay, and during her convalescing days she sat for hours on the sands of the beach and breathed the ozone borne in upon the breezes from the great atlantic. she had wondered about parkins, still bedfast, but no inkling had come to her ears of his perfidious intentions toward herself. no gentleman of villard's high ideals would have failed to shield the innocent young woman from a knowledge of the perfidy of the man--but the nurse had not been taken into account. mrs. duke instinctively knew winifred at first glance. there she was seated upon the sands, gracefully poised and tossing pebbles into the waves. "why, bless me!--aren't you winifred barbour of patchogue?" inquired mrs. duke, smiling down upon the girl. "yes, that is my name, and patchogue is my home. won't you sit down and listen to the roaring tide coming in? i adore the splashing of the waves! i do not remember meeting you before," she added, as if in apology. "indeed, i will sit down--it is such a charming spot. you would hardly remember me, for i left patchogue years ago, when you were a very sweet little girl. i begin to recall your features. i am mrs. duke." "do you live in this vicinity, mrs. duke?" asked winifred, politely. "no, indeed, sorry as i am to say it. i'm too poor for that--i am at mr. sawyer's at present," said she, as if it didn't matter particularly where she was. "oh, indeed! some one ill there?" "yes, but improving very fast. it's a man, thank goodness--a brave man, too. i seem to prefer to nurse a man, for they are so much more patient than women. not so delicate, you know, and they have more fortitude. but i must confess i've nursed women, too, who were remarkable!" exclaimed mrs. duke. "do you live hereabouts?" she asked in a naã¯ve sort of way. "no, i still live in patchogue," replied winifred, dreamily. "it is so beautiful here, almost like heaven. i wonder if one could always be happy with every craving of the heart entirely satisfied?" "positively not, unless the right man is at hand. the man i'm nursing now is such a gentleman! oh, dear--a week or so, and away he goes to his home of plenty, while i go back to my poor little tenement. rents are so awful, aren't they?" "we have never rented--father and mother always owned a little home, and since she died, we've continued to live there. i love the little place!" said winifred, looking far out beyond the bay. "of course you do, my dear child," purred mrs. duke, arising to go back to her charge. "i hope i'll meet you here to-morrow, miss barbour, when i come out for my airing. it's desperately trying to have no one to talk to." "thank you, mrs. duke, i'll try to be on hand," was winifred's reply, as the nurse sighed and arose to go. "that's a dear--you can't imagine the dreariness of a life like mine," sighed the nurse, turning to go. on hearing mrs. duke's story, parkins' mind fairly sizzled with plans. it was a case of now or never so far as winifred was concerned. he figured that no matter how much she might be frightened at the plans he had in mind, that she would calm down, once she saw how much he really cared for her--and the risk he took to save her from the fate of becoming the bride of a man so many years her senior. "youth for the young--age cannot hold out against it," he soliloquized. "now for a plan of action," said he, in lowered voice, to mrs. duke. "take these memorandums, please," he whispered, reaching under the top mattress. "read them carefully, and by all means live up to them. go to your room and lock yourself in while you memorize each item of the plan. now is the time--quick!" he whispered, his eyes afire with suppressed excitement. mrs. duke was amazed at the skill of her patient. she read the pages thrice over, each time in a whispered monotone, her lips moving rapidly. the instructions read: 1. during your afternoon walk, go to telephone booth in murray's wayside lunch room--half a mile east, on the opposite side of the motor parkway. 2. call up daniel mcgonigal--murray hill 10011--be sure that you talk to dan--no one else--tell him who you are, and whom you represent. also tell him about the accident. 3. read him the note addressed to him. 4. if he seems uncertain tell him its $500 if successful; $250 if we lose. 5. he is to have a high-power limousine at the beach end of the private road on the east hedge line of the sawyer home--to-morrow morning at eleven sharp--with instructions to take on two women--if not there to wait one hour--then go home. you will be the other woman. 6. the driver to be accompanied by a uniformed assistant who will sit beside him unless you need him inside--if there is a struggle. 7. you will meet the girl at the beach on your morning walk, same as to-day. if she doesn't show up within an hour--come back. 8. if she comes, suggest a walk, east along the beach--for fine view of wonderful gardens--not to be seen in any other way. 9. my room faces right for full observation--i will be in readiness to escape, and will be at the parkway corner by the time the car arrives. if i fail, go on without me to herman's--the chauffeur will know. 10. reassure the girl--soothe her--tell her of my great love--and don't forget the $1000 you will receive--if successful! thus was disclosed to mrs. duke the processes of the parkins' mind, and--"wonderful!"--that was her thought as she tucked the instructions in the bosom of her dress. she gloried in the part she was to take in defeating the purpose of the rich villard--and later on--when taking her fresh air ramble she walked into the booth at murray's and telephoned mcgonigal. at first he refused the job, but finally relented upon the grounds of old friendship. the price was too low for the job, even if it turned out to be a mere elopement. he very much doubted that version, for he knew parkins too well. but mrs. duke succeeded in every way and arrived back in the sick room with triumphant eyes and a thumping heart. "you have served me well!" said parkins, patting the hand she laid on his forehead in search of fever. there was none, whereat her eyes beamed with delight. "to-morrow," he continued, "is a fateful day for both of us. it means joy or sorrow. i'm putting all of the 'eggs in one basket'--we must win or die! villard is not asleep! neither is updyke! they think i'm too ill to try anything--so we will show them a thing or two." "i'll help you against that money shark to my dying breath," replied the nurse, her eyes envenomed with hatred for such as he. "the girl is yours--you saw her first, and no doubt she loves you. i'll see that you get her, too!" whispered the nurse with emphasis. and so it came about that on the following day, around the hour of eleven, parkins looked out upon great south bay from a window in a servant's chamber of dr. sawyer's home and what he saw thrilled him to the marrow of his bones. there they were, two women, easily recognizable, strolling leisurely along the shore line, stopping now and then to admire the beauty of the landscape. a closed car stood off a hundred yards or so at the foot of the east line road. one last sweep of his eyes and parkins ran to his room and tore off the bath robe and pajamas, thus displaying the fact that he was all dressed and ready for action. one hour later the sawyer telephone rang and villard's excited voice shouted for the master, who came forward forthwith. "this is villard, dr. sawyer. have you seen winifred?" the voice, while familiar, hardly matched that of the owner of dreamy hollow. "not since yesterday--what is the matter? anything wrong?" "she's missing--can't be found on the premises--searched everywhere--all hands joining. we are simply groping in a blind alley. she walked over toward the beach about ten o'clock, according to jerry, but that is the last thing known of her. he thinks the parkins' nurse went over that way a few minutes afterward. go up in his room, please, and see if the nurse has returned." villard's voice was husky and impatient, but when sawyer returned and reported that neither parkins nor nurse was to be found, and that a bath robe lay on the floor--also sleeping garments--his voice roared with anger. "where is updyke's man?" he shouted, stifling the ominous forebodings that were boring in upon his brain. "i'll see--hold the wire--and keep steady. calm yourself, i'll be back in a minute," said sawyer. it was a long drawn-out minute, but the situation was clear. updyke's operative had looked in on parkins at ten minutes of eleven. the nurse was out for a walk. he came back and sat down on the west corner of the front veranda, and at ten minutes after eleven returned and found that the room was empty. the operative's first act was to inform the new york office from an outside phone, at murray's, not a minute from the sawyer home--by motorcycle. he was now carrying out updyke's personal orders, which were--"stick around until i phone you!" one thing that had a bearing on the case was dr. benton's talk with parkins, earlier in the morning. the updyke man was in the sick room at the time the doctor made his call and heard everything that was said. parkins pleaded to be allowed to take a walk in the garden. the doctor opposed the idea, and stated that the patient could not walk a hundred feet without falling in a heap. also, that another week in bed was necessary before making an attempt. it was now quite evident that parkins had been "playing 'possum," and had succeeded in fooling the doctor by his apparent weakness of voice, as he plead for out-of-door exercise. "that's him all over!" panted villard, as the particulars of the escape came to an end. "i'll talk with updyke--that's all i can do. i'll see you later and let you know what i find out. your help has been bully, as usual. always grateful--see you later," said he, banging the receiver into place. for a moment villard stood mutely, with hands locked and eyes shut. then, with the rage of a lion he sprang into action. updyke's office was phoned, and "the big fellow" was on deck. "i thought i'd be hearing from you pretty soon," said he, in reply to villard's ring. "don't worry--sawyer's butler is one of my men--he got fooled the same as the rest of you. it shows that parkins has more brains than one certain operative. i know one who is going to get shanghaied. the doctor's pessimism as to parkins condition in the presence of my man simply threw him off his balance." "never mind the story, old boy. you did your best, but my winifred is gone! she is in the hands of a villain!" shouted villard. "well, keep your shirt on, old chap. raving doesn't get you anywhere. my man got the news to me before you knew anything had happened--or sawyer either. what more do you expect in an instant?" the growl in updyke's voice was becoming noticeable, as villard started in to apologize. "i'm just about crazy--don't mind what i say. what else"--but updyke ignored the interruption. "i'm making no promises, but i'm expecting quick results," he continued. "parkins is still on the island, and the big limousine from mcgonigle's garage isn't a racing machine. it can't take to the woods like a small car unless there is an accomplice who knows the way. i have twelve motorcycle men out on the job, and three high-speed roadsters. every ranger that can be reached by the chief forester will assist, and many secret service men are already alert. i expect to hear news any moment." "where do you think he will head for?" inquired villard. "i don't think--i know where he is going--but i don't know when he will get there? i'm not going to tell you now, anyhow. you'd go up in the air like a balloon," said updyke with emphasis. "then tell me how you know he is going to a certain place. that will help some. you can see that i am almost crazy!" "well, then, brace up and listen. i called up mcgonigle and asked him where parkins was going in his big limousine and he fell for it. he stuttered, and hemmed and hawed, until i shouted a real message into his ear. i said, 'talk quick or you will be in a hurry-up wagon on your way to police headquarters!' that's what did the business." "what did he say to that?" "my god! on what grounds can i be treated in such a manner, he came back to me, but his voice was broken. i had him all right, and he knew i had him. so i answered back--'because you're an accomplice, and by turning in evidence that will help convict parkins you will soften the charge against yourself.' then i said i'd help him, most probably, but he must first tell me the story from beginning to end, or shift for himself." "terrible!" sighed villard. "and he had sold himself to a counterfeit gentleman! i always thought well of mcgonigle. i've known him for years." "well, to make a long story short, he told me everything--how parkins' nurse had called him up, and told him of the plan, which was spoken of as an elopement, offering five hundred for a successful venture, and two-fifty in any event. regarding parkins as a rich man, and sporty, he took the offer. now here is the real joker in the pack, and it shows that luck is still with me," laughed updyke. "let's hear it," said villard, in a voice less restrained. "i had another matter on my slate having to do with mcgonigle's garage, so i had sent one of my men over to apply for a job. he entered the place and found mac all worked up because a man he had depended on to go out on a swell limousine job hadn't shown up. the upshot of it was that he took on my man and gave him a uniform to put on--one of the regular chauffeur turnouts. that's why i know that we're going to get parkins, and get him soon." "henry, you are a wonder!--what is the next step?" demanded villard, chuckling in spite of his fears. "the next step is for you to go and sit down with your morning papers," shouted updyke. "i've got other phones waiting on me." "just one thing more--tell me where he's taking her," begged villard. "what's the use? he won't get her there?" "tell me anyhow--i'm stronger when i know the worst," pleaded villard. updyke hesitated. he loathed the thought of letting his friend know the truth. but finally, in a rasping voice, almost choking with the rage that he had been trying to conceal, updyke replied: "well, if you must know, the car started for herman's road house--otherwise known as 'the mad house.'" with that updyke threw his receiver on the hook, and asked his switch-board operator for the call next in line--but he was more than furious with himself for having yielded to villard's entreaty. chapter xi. mary johnson "no news" reports coming in from operatives, and new instructions going out from "the old man" himself, was the routine of updyke's office for the next hour. mary johnson, his secretary, of only a few months' experience, came timidly over to his desk and asked if he had looked over the parkins record during the past month or so. "i think there were some notations made by miss carew just before she left," said she. "bring it," snapped updyke, abstractedly. then as the girl turned to go he called her back. "i'm sorry to have been cross with you, little woman, but you'll forgive me i know. this is a bad case, and every moment is precious. hurry back with the report," said he, smiling into her alert blue eyes. on her return he seized the record eagerly, and the girl bent over his shoulder and pointed out three memorandums, which he carefully read. the addendum was in the handwriting of miss carew, and read as follows: 6-12-1919--has built shack on the ocean side of south bay, opposite smith point. two rooms, stove, kitchenette--goes there during summer months--at week-ends--place is made comfortable for duck shooting in late fall. double bed--5-15-1920--joined the indian head social club, near jamesport, east of riverhead. membership composed almost entirely of divorcees, both men and women. single men and pretty women, eligible. golf club--card games--liquor lockers--thirty suites--baths--swimming pool--indoor athletics--free and easy--no questions asked--no interference. open all year--once known as the mad house, then herman's road house. herman still owns it, but has modernized the place and bids for better clients under the guise of a social country club. "get riverhead, and ask for george carver, head clerk at the white house," said updyke to the girl beside him. "glad to note that some one is on the job around here," he added gruffly. in less than three minutes the connection was made, but even to the man at the helm, minutes seemed hours--such was his mental strain. "hello, george--this is updyke--yes--fine, thank you--do you know william parkins?--only by sight--eh?--he belongs to indian head social club--find out if he is over there--call me back quickly--thanks--hurry boy!" the next five minutes dragged along at a snail's pace, so overwrought was updyke--and no less the efficient mary johnson. but the right tingle came along in due course of time. "this you, henry--all right--he telephoned from yaphank for a parlor and bath suite--expected very soon--can i help you in any way?" "you are still a deputy sheriff?" queried updyke. "yes--they wouldn't take my resignation." "listen carefully, george--this is a serious matter. this man parkins has kidnapped a beautiful, chaste girl, and is taking her to indian head, if i am not in error. you have a motorcycle?" "oh, yes--can't get along without one over here," replied carver. "then hop it instantly, and ride for your life to that club. if parkins hasn't arrived--thank god!--you stop him before he gets there, and save a great scandal that would ruin the girl. she is as pure as snow, and is betrothed to the best friend i have on earth. help me out, boy! get that man parkins--serve a 'john doe' warrant on him and take him to the home of drury villard at dreamy hollow. it's a big black limousine, two men in front, and parkins, with a woman accomplice, inside. the chauffeur is mcgonigle's man, but the other fellow is my man. he may need help--he might be killed--but you save the day from scandal." "i'll do my best, old-timer. what you have told me makes me see red. i may shoot the skunk," said he in a rasping voice. "if it was a riverhead case, we'd tar and feather him." "go like the wind, george--and don't fail," replied updyke, a husky tone in his deep voice. when george carver swung into the jamesport road a cloud of dust trailed behind him until he stopped in front of the clubhouse. parkins had not arrived, so everything was safe thus far. turning back along the road he traveled leisurely and muffled the "cut-out." updyke had figured matters out almost to a nicety. two miles west of jamesport a limousine hove in view. the car was coming fast, head-on for passage against all-comers. but carver was an old hand at stopping speeders. he jumped from his machine and laid it crosswise of the narrow road. then with his feet on the wheel and his revolver pointed straight at the oncoming chauffeur, he shouted: "halt! or i'll kill you!"--and at once the emergency was applied to the brakes of the big machine, causing thereby a most gruesome noise. [illustration: "halt! or i'll kill you!"] "hands up, chauffeur! step off of your car--lie down on the roadside--belly to the ground!" to the updyke man he said--"if he makes a move kill him!" parkins, not yet discovered by either officer, had dropped to the floor and pulled a dust robe over his body. carver tried to open the door, but it was locked from inside. the door on the other side was also bolted from within. "all right, parkins, you are going to have the merriest little test put up to you that a rascal of your stamp could conceive of in a life time!" shouted carver. "at this moment you and your accomplice are shielding yourselves at the expense of a frail girl. she need have no fear--you infernal coward! but unless you and that woman come out instantly, i'll break in the doors and hang both of you up by the thumbs. i am counting ten--one--two--three--four--five--get ready, 'updyke man'--six----" the door opened, and mrs. duke screamed as she saw carver's badge. parkins came out first, with palms turned outward and was made to lay face-down, his arms stretched above his head. then came the woman, to find, at the point of a revolver, that she had forfeited the chivalry of honest men. "now you, updyke man, slip a pair of bracelets on both the man and the woman, while i do the same with the driver. now, little lady," he added, addressing winifred, "could you ride behind me on my motorcycle to riverhead?" carver stood with hat in hand, smiling into her pallid face. "oh, i am sure i could," she whispered, frightened to the point of nervous breakdown. "then walk back along the road a little way while i prepare these kidnappers for a safe journey," said he, sneering down upon the prisoners. "i wouldn't want you to see what i may have to do to them." at the suggestion of the updyke man each prisoner was handcuffed with arms behind, instead of in front, as was the usual practice in extreme cases. "that's the safest way," said the operative, "and now we'll tie their feet to the foot rest--parkins in front, by himself, and the woman and the chauffeur on the rear seat. i'll drive the car back to new york. updyke will be waiting for them, all right enough!" when the job was completed, the curtains were drawn and the doors locked from outside. then the updyke operative mounted the chauffeur's seat and headed the car toward the west. carver now helped the girl to mount his wheel, and then jumped into the saddle in front of her. "hold on to me tight--we're going to speed some!" said he, gaily, then he shot in the gas, and they were off for riverhead, the limousine trailing in the dust close behind. for a time the male prisoners eyed each other in sheepish fashion, but mrs. duke cried bitterly as the car skipped along. with her arms behind her she had no means of wiping the tear-drops that plowed ridges through the dust on her face. "i don't see how i ever got into this dreadful affair!" she moaned. "shut up!" shouted parkins sharply. "they can't do anything with us. that would ruin the girl's reputation." "but that man updyke!--how did you ever conceive the idea that you could frustrate that brute's plans?" "what do you know about him?" snapped parkins. "i've seen him, and that's enough! oh, such a face!--such strength of purpose!--such----" "cut it out i tell you--or you will lose your chance, as a woman, to say that you had no thought of breaking the law. the girl and i were eloping and you were along as a friend. do you get that?" "you are so wonderful, mr. parkins--indeed you are," sighed mrs. duke, as her tears slackened. "i knew it the moment i saw you, all bruised and torn. certainly she was eloping with you, and now i remember how sweetly she talked about you as we walked along the beach. you had always been so kind to her father, and all that." "see that you don't forget it," replied parkins, already planning his way to freedom. "and also remember this--that when she was seized by these men, and we were arrested like kidnappers, i was taking her to one of the swellest country clubs in the land. we were to be married there, and you were to be the witness--see?" parkins' eyes flashed, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he thought of the revenge he would take upon villard and the girl, if called to the witness stand. how the reporters would enjoy it! and how villard's face would burn with shame as lawyers for the defense drove home his crazy notions about spiritual communications! the thought almost made him happy. at riverhead telephoning was in order. the car containing the prisoners was, by updyke's order, to be driven through to new york and the culprits brought to his office. the girl, winifred, would await the arrival of villard's car at yaphank, carver gladly agreeing to convey her that far, changing to his runabout at riverhead--thus adding to her comfort until she would meet up with her friends. sawyer was so overcome with joy at "the news from the front," as he called it, that he insisted on being taken along with villard. so, with santzi as a mascot, and jacques at the wheel, they were soon on their way. but aside from the joy in each breast, there was a grim thought in each mind--and small charity for parkins and the nurse he had used as a foil. then, too, the shock of winifred's strange disappearance had so upset the nerves of alexander barbour that he now hovered near "the great crossing." but the ever kindly mrs. bond had his case in hand, and the doctor had been called, although he had not arrived when villard's party left for yaphank. "if winifred will agree, we will be married to-night," said villard, in an undertone, to sawyer. the latter did not reply, although he remained in deep thought for almost a mile, as shown by the speedometer. "no, my friend," said he, finally, and with an effort to tell the truth without offending--"her youthful dreams must not be wiped out in any such rough-shod manner. i know the big heartedness of your intentions, but winifred is a girl and she must have the say. there are her old-time friends at patchogue. those she cares for should by all means be invited. she must have a fling of some pretensions or she will brood in silence at your lack of sympathy." "alas, you are right--as usual," sighed villard. "however, my pessimism is newly born from the fruits of this evil day." "there you go again--evil day! why, it's the greatest day of your life! the girl over there among the stars has again reached out in your behalf, and this time the proof is positive of her watchfulness over you." "forgive me, sawyer," said villard simply, patting his friend on the knee. "my little girl shall take her own time and have a wedding after her own heart. then dreamy hollow will wake up and amount to something!" it was a wide-eyed and dusty little heroine that george carver handed over at yaphank. santzi jumped out of the roadster and fairly lifted her into the place between the two men on the back seat, who stood up to greet her. at once she snuggled closely to villard, and shivered, until finally he put his big arm about her and soothed her with gentle words of sympathy. sawyer looked away from it all, his eyes moist at the girl's sweet simplicity, but villard motioned carver to his side of the car and leaned over and whispered--then put a card in his hand. "well, i may call in on you at your home some day, but i seldom go to new york. i've seen a little of dreamy hollow while riding by at times. the young lady sitting beside you has a strong heart and she knows how to keep up her nerve," said he, laughing up at her pale smiling face. "most women would have had a sure enough fit, if placed in the same situation." then, doffing his cap, he said-"good-by, all," and offered his hand to the girl. kissing the tips of her dainty fingers winifred held them out to him, and said-"good-by, sir. i shall never forget your kindness, and your bravery--nor will any of us," she added, glancing from carver to villard, and back to carver again. and then, with a little sigh, she fell back between villard and sawyer and closed her eyes. within a few minutes she was sound asleep. the adventure had taxed her beyond her strength. that night villard shivered in his sleep, but not from cold. there was a certain dread of misfortune--he knew not what--that filled his mind. publicity, from a gossip standpoint, was his pet aversion. the thought of its blight upon his name, and the haunting fear of being pointed out as the man whose sweetheart had been kidnapped by one of his partners, simply brought out a cold sweat over his body. at midnight he could stand it no longer, whereupon he turned on his reading lamp and reached for the bedside telephone--then called up the hotel where updyke lived, and was connected with his room. the big fellow was just retiring when he answered the call. "i expected to hear from you earlier in the evening," said he by way of greeting. "hot old day, eh?" "a great day, as it turned out to be--and how i am ever going to get even with you i don't know!" said villard with much feeling. "come off of that, or i'll send you a bill for services the first of the month," shouted updyke. "well, you'd better, or i'll send you something you won't like--an insult of some sort about people who have big hearts and no wits for making money to 'feed the old gray mare' with." "don't worry--you're not out of the woods yet--but i won't check in on that until i get through with 'so and so' and a few of his crooked friends. i'm going out to see you to-morrow night and talk things over. i'll say that it's going to be some trick to keep this thing out of the papers," said updyke, his voice carrying conviction. "it's a thousand dollar scoop if 'so and so' wants the money bad enough. i think he is 'all in' so far as ready cash is concerned. he didn't pull this trick just for the--you know what i mean." "yes--go on!" "no, we will talk it out, with less danger. i'll run down later. i had one terrible time in third-degree stuff and have put him away for the night. me for the mattress and a pillow, for awhile. get some sleep, yourself!" "all right--and god bless you!" replied drury villard, as he shut off the light and settled down in bed. but there is no such thing as sleep for a wide-awake man. a very small incident of the day kept creeping into his thoughts--young carver! had not his winifred kissed her dainty hand as she held it out to him? was it just a girlish impulse?--or was it the blood of youth responding to the call? once planted, this tiny seed of uncertainty began to grow. the clock struck one--brooding time, for middle-aged men who roll and toss, and think dark things in the black hours of the night. "it's only natural that youth responds to youth," said he to himself--"but i too am young in years, although my crowded life has made me old and out of tune with youth itself. i wonder if i have been fair to this child?" he mumbled impatiently. "i wonder, i----" then, suddenly, his mind relaxed, and over he went--"to the land of nod and dream." on the following day winifred spent the entire morning in her father's room. he was ill at heart and in body. the events of the day before, coupled with those of the ten days preceding had worn him down to a frazzle of his old self. he longed for the peace and quiet of his own home. he missed his old acquaintances with whom he exchanged salutations each day from the standpoint of the weather--"fine day,"--"looks like some sorter change"--"it's about time for the rains to set it," and the like. the good man was lonesome in the big villard home, and added to that, a deep cold had settled on his chest and continuous coughing had exhausted his powers of combativeness. but at last he was asleep, coaxed by the soft hands of his daughter who gently smoothed his forehead and face, and combed his hair and scalp, all of which induced new circulation--and finally, a most welcome drowsiness, which terminated in peaceful slumber. tired almost to the point of exhaustion, winifred sought the quiet of her cosy portico, on the second floor, overlooking the west garden, and there in a huge lounging chair sat drury villard, his eyes shut tight, and fast asleep. she gazed upon his kindly face, and then, with the joy of youthful spirits, she put her hands over his eyes. then in a voice deep as she could command she whispered into his ear. "who dares to break the stillness of my solitude when i am sleeping over a dull magazine article about the future prospects of rubber"--and that was as far as she got. the big man reached out and closed his giant hand over her soft, dainty wrists, and drew her to a place beside him--tired little girl that she was. and there she sat and closed her eyes while he stroked her hair and whispered endearing words into a small pink ear--and told her a tale about "_the old man of the sea_," who--"whistled up the winds, and called for davy crockett, and together watched the fury of the waves." indeed, drury villard was a gentleman of the old school, and there are many, many verses to that rollicking old song, just right for a tired little "mother girl" who had attended her sick father for many long hours. it was no wonder that her eyelids closed and her body relaxed, when dreamland hove in sight. and for more than an hour villard held her thus, while his brain teemed with plans for her happiness. and when she awoke they walked out among the flowered bushes and watched the sun go down. "now i must go to my father--i've neglected him too long, and he is so lonely!" said she; "and i am all he has left to comfort him." feeling that the end was near for alexander barbour, villard shook his head, as sadly he reckoned upon the grief of the daughter. a matter of days, or a month at most, and his winifred would become an orphaned child. once more the thought came into his mind that the sick man would be less distraught if he knew that his daughter had the protection of a husband. he would settle the matter after advising with updyke, who held opposite views to his own. with that in mind he went to his study and shut himself in. just as villard was about to sit down he heard a gentle knock upon the panel of the door, an unusual occurrence, for the rule laid down by the master was that no one should be announced at this particular room except by phone. disturbed he jumped to his feet and stalked forward. "who's there!" he demanded, his hand gripping the knob. "alexander barbour, sir," came the answer in a weak tone of voice. "oh--come right in, mr. barbour," said villard, affably, as he threw the door wide open. "i very seldom hear a knock when i am in this room. all of the folks around the house know that i'm 'out' when i'm in here. but you are welcome." "i'm sorry to have disturbed you," replied winifred's father, who coughed as gently as he could, but his face turned red from the effort. "i didn't know," he said by way of apology. "sit down, dear man, and tell me what you have on your mind," encouraged villard. "you may be sure of my interest." "sir, i--i want to go home--to die. my wife might not know where i was if i passed out here! she wouldn't likely think of finding me in this big mansion. i am dying sir--i must go home! it's only----" "yes, dear man, it's only a little while before we all must take the same road. it is our fate--we can't dodge the issue. but what of winifred?... you...." villard's voice broke off suddenly when he considered what he was on the point of saying. "she will want to be near me during the crossover," said barbour, nodding his head, indicating his certainty of his daughter's devotion. villard was upon the verge of humoring barbour at any cost of time or trouble, when suddenly he thought of parkins. what if he were to regain his freedom before the death of barbour! although now under restraint, the scapegrace had not been legally tried and convicted. the court might easily decide that the case was tantamount to an elopement, and parkins, if arrested, allowed to give bail. "i'll tell you what i think is best for the present, mr. barbour," said he, smiling into the eyes of the stricken man. "mr. updyke is coming out to-night, and of the three of us, he is most capable of judging the proper thing to do. i am sure he will find a way to safely bring about what you have suggested. but neither you nor i know just how. now, isn't that a better plan?" alexander barbour smiled feebly, but evidently approved of the idea. he had seen updyke and knew he must be a power in his line of business, whatever that might be. "you ought to know what is best, sir," replied the sick man. "i am not up in such matters--but i trust you with all my heart. my daughter is one of the sweetest young women in the world, and she must be protected wherever she is," he replied. "maybe she'd be safer in a little town like patchogue than among these grand homes on the parkway." "but she was more than just stolen when the accident occurred, friend barbour. you can hardly realize the trap you both were headed for. but, of the two, your daughter would have fared the worst. even if you had been killed by the man you trusted, you would have been better off than your innocent daughter," concluded villard. "don't say another word, please," begged the father, who could not bear to have the subject referred to. "it isn't that i don't trust you, sir, it's because my child is my life, and i can't spare her--yet. only a little while will i need her. you can see that for yourself. i am on my way to her mother--i'll soon be with her. then you may come for winifred, and she will go with you. she loves you from the depths of her heart!" wearied by his effort, alexander barbour gave himself over to another spell of coughing, and failing to stop it, retired from the room. he had said his say about winifred and there was nothing left for villard to do but accede to his point of view. after all he had awaited so long the advent of the girl of his dreams, that he could afford, for the sake of all concerned, to accede to the father's wishes. but his winifred should be safeguarded by day and night! chapter xii. the third degree drury villard waited impatiently and well into the dark of the night for the arrival of henry updyke at dreamy hollow. and when he did arrive, he was worn and weary to the point of brain fag. parkins had been given the "third degree" and was now "a master crook"--according to the man who for two hours had raked him fore and aft with scathing contempt and pitiless ridicule. hour after hour updyke had battered at the portal of his victim's brain, until, at last, it creaked--then, opened wide to the flood of light that revealed the manner of man he was. the big fellow was glad, indeed, that villard had not been present. soft-hearted men had no place in such proceedings. updyke was not the only one to ply the questions. the updyke "system" was there in force--certain lawyers--trained for the work, who came to browbeat and cajole, to threaten and scorn. to none of these had the case of winifred barbour been confided--that was a job which the master mind reserved for itself. old matters long since condoned were exhumed whereby to wear the culprit down to a full confession of his most recent exploit. when that moment arrived the man was limp, dazed and completely shorn of combativeness. then came updyke himself, and along with him five additional operatives, fierce of eye, solemn, and noiseless, as they arranged their chairs in semicircle formation, the better to confront the would-be kidnapper. two shorthand men took seats, one on either side of the witness--then the steel door, to the great concrete "sweat room," was closed with a bang--and locked against further admissions. all this had been done within three minutes, and with studied intent, that the witness should not have the advantage of an unnecessary moment of respite. the barbour matter was updyke's own case and he went about it "hammer and tongs." to the stenographers he said-"every word must be taken down verbatim--see that your notes compare, rigidly alike, at the close of the confession." then to parkins he bawled-"sit up like a man and tell the truth! don't try to lie, for we know every side of the case and you will only serve yourself a bad turn if you try any smart-aleck subterfuge. the more you tell of your deviltry the fewer the witnesses that will be brought in to testify against you. it's up to you, whether or not you gain credence with those who confront you--all sworn officers of the law--who have no prejudices to start with, but will give you all that is coming to you should you lie in an attempt to save yourself. for once in your life it will pay you to be honest! talk out loud so every one present can hear you plainly, or you will get a bucket of ice water in your face! no foolishness--we will now begin--sit up straight and don't look annoyed. you are the star actor in this drama." to martin leroy, one of the stenographers, a public notary, he winked. then said--"swear this man to tell the truth!"--and turning toward the much-perturbed parkins he shouted--"stand up and raise your right hand!" the notary knew full well that such an oath had no legal force--but it was part of the sweating process. weak from mental anxiety, parkins struggled to his feet. when he had repeated the last words of the oath--"so help me god"--he fell back into his chair exhausted. all bravado had left him. "sit up straight, and answer the questions that are put to you," commanded updyke, whose deep voice and ominous frown bore down upon the wilting degenerate until he squirmed in his chair. "stop that fidgeting, and make up your mind that the truth will serve, but the lie will condemn!" he shouted. "now sir"--began the man whose iron blood coursed through veins of corresponding vigor--"state your full name, your age, place of birth, residence, and avocation." "i was born in new york city--and, er----" "speak up!" shouted the inquisitor. "a brave kidnapper would never cringe like a starving puppy." "i am thirty-five years old, and i was born----" "here in new york--we managed to get that. go on with the rest," said updyke, gruffly, well knowing the advantage of getting in a quick first blow. then came the answers to the other questions in sequence from the beginning. "now tell us the story of your life--the good--and the bad--the indifferent," commanded updyke. "we know it, pretty well now, but we want it from your own lips, so, by comparison with our records, we will know whether or not you are lying." parkins' face turned purple at the thought of his predicament. to be stigmatized as a liar in the presence of men was as a blow in the face. "it's--it's a long story--not all bad," said he, reminiscently. "there was a time when none could say anything against me. i am a victim of drink and narcotics. if i could go somewhere--find a place in which i could be cured, i would begin over again. often the feeling comes to me to run away from it all--but where could i go? the stuff is found everywhere! most men drink, to some extent, but are moderate. to one of my temperament, one drink means a drunk, for i cannot quit until i become a sodden rotter." "that is a sad state of affairs, parkins, but interesting--go on with your story," snapped updyke, his eyes fixed cruelly upon the man in the witness chair. "there are many things and many angles, to a life such as mine," began parkins, nervously. "i was orphaned when a small boy, and grew up on the streets of the city. i sold papers, slept in delivery wagons, tended furnaces, did odd jobs--anything to keep going--but they were happy days. after a time i became a messenger boy, in uniform, and to find myself in decent clothing gave me an uplift. but that job was my ruination. it took me into vile places as well as the best of homes, clubs and hotels. a messenger boy goes where he is sent--into a saloon, a house of shady repute, or a home on the avenue." here parkins paused and wiped his face with a silken kerchief. at a glance he could see that his story, thus far, had been listened to attentively. "but it was not at any of those places that i took my first drink," he continued. "a stag dinner of young college fellows at one of the leading hotels required some one to attend the door. a ring for a messenger took me out on the job. they had expected a man, and here was i, with my brass buttons, red stripes, and cap to match the blue coat and trousers. the party was well under way when i arrived, and when i opened the door and announced who i was, and what i was wanted for, a big howl of laughter took place. 'the doorman!' shouted one fine big fellow, as he grabbed me and stood me in the center of a very large dining table. at once they proposed a toast to 'the doorman,' and i was 'it' from then on. they served me a tiny cocktail, which i drank without trouble, although it was my first. one man protested, and was brushed aside. but another fellow handed me a glass half filled with champagne. that appealed to me, and i asked for more, whereupon several guests shook their fists at the man who gave it to me. to stop the fight i shouted in regular newsboy language--'what's de matter wid you'se fella's. i drink dis stuff wid me breakfas' ev'ry day of me life!'--then i began to feel dizzy." "very interesting," observed one of the operatives to another in a whisper. "then what happened?" grunted updyke, less gruffly. "the next thing i knew i woke up in a wonderful room. it was part of a suite in one of the swell hotels of those days--the old fifth avenue--and a kindly faced woman arose and came over to me. i was all right--and i told her so. i wondered why she had on nurse's clothing, but later on learned that all hotels had a head nurse. a few hours later a very bright faced, well dressed young man, not over twenty-one, came rushing in. his eyes twinkled, and he patted me on my cheeks--'never again for you--young fellow!' he said--then--'i nearly got my jaw broke last night at the fraternity smoker. i'm only a freshman, and unfortunately the man who was serving you wine was a senior. don't you ever let another drink go down your throat as long as you live!' he urged--and i promised." "who was that man? did you learn his name?" asked updyke. "yes--drury villard," sighed the witness. "he did not drink, and had his senses about him. if i had stuck to his advice, this situation would never have come about." a blank expression came over the face of updyke when the name of villard was spoken. in a brown study he paced the concrete floor for several moments, then suddenly he turned toward his operatives and dismissed them from the room. "the inquiry will be private between this man and myself--except the stenographers, who will make of this case a separate verbatim report. they will be kept on file for further reference," growled updyke, scowling at parkins. when the door was shut upon the operatives, parkins, relieved, again took up the history of his life. "the upshot of my meeting with drury----" "mister villard!" corrected updyke. "you have forfeited, many times over, his respect for you. he is no longer an intimate friend of yours--now proceed." "mr. villard got me a place in an office downtown--an investment company, now merged with another concern. there is where i learned to figure in a financial way. i----" "yes--and you stole a ten-dollar bill, and was caught at it!" bellowed updyke, breaking in on the testimony. "don't miss anything--i know your record, and it won't hurt you to refresh your memory of your rascality." parkins winced, but he had no courage with which to combat his interrogator. "that one overt act made an honest man of me for several years. when drury--i mean mr. villard--came out of college as a graduate, he returned to new york, bent on going into a business that was entirely new. we met on broadway one day, and he was very cordial. he asked all about myself and i told him i was still at the old place." "didn't tell him about the ten spot, though--did you?" leered updyke, intentionally. he would leave no loophole for sentimental nonsense by which parkins might try to crawl back into his good graces. "no," said the witness, dully. "i had learned a lesson that i thought unforgettable. i had become an honest man, and i would be yet--only for drink," he added, sadly. "yes--and for drugs, and bad companions, and the natural-born tendencies of a crook," snarled updyke. "perhaps so," responded parkins wearily. "as i was going to say, i met mr. villard, and after a most friendly conversation he seemed to think i was the right man to help steer the new organization he had in contemplation. his mind was that of a dreamer of great projects, while my own was full of the figures with which to carry out big financial undertakings. i had practical experience against his theoretical college training. we were well met, at the time. he had personality and tremendous energy, to say nothing of wealthy acquaintances--fathers of his college chums. so he----" "yes--i follow," said updyke. "he took you in as an expert in financial figures, and made you treasurer, also gave you his whole hearted support in every way, and finally gave up active work in the business, thus practically turning it over to you to run," sneered updyke. "but that is all off now. you are done for--where you will land is not yet decided upon. but you may be well assured that you will miss the golden opportunity that was yours only a short while back. you are a failure--a dishonest, worthless drunkard!" concluded the big fellow who now advanced to a position where he could look into parkins' eyes and fill them with fear. the witness, already faint from updyke's relentless tongue lashing, wavered in his chair, though making great effort to steady himself. he craved a stimulant--wine, beer, whisky--anything to quench the parching thirst within him. at this point updyke handed him a drink of cool water, and he swallowed it down at a gulp. the effect was carefully noted, the demeanor of parkins almost immediately changing back to normal. he asked for another and that was given to him. then he sat up, quite refreshed, and indicated that he was ready to proceed. "did you ever consider the fact that water is one of nature's greatest stimulants?" queried updyke. "i never thought of it as a stimulant, but rather as a necessity," was parkins' reply. "now then, i'll ask you a question that might help you if you ever test its meaning. you have just drank two glasses of cool, fresh water--would you care to take a drink of liquor on top of them? would your appetite call for whisky, now, if you saw it before you?" parkins carefully considered the matter, remaining in deep thought for several moments, as he analyzed his desire for strong drink. "no, i wouldn't care for any sort of liquor, at the moment," he replied. "i seem to have appeased my thirst for the present." "then why not drink your fill of water the next time your stomach craves an intoxicant," suggested updyke. "of course your dissipation has undermined your powers of resistance and you might have some trouble at first--but it's worth a try-out. anyhow you will be afforded the opportunity," suggested the big fellow. at this point of the inquisition updyke found himself approaching the main issue--the affair concerning winifred barbour. all else had been more or less the paving of the way to that subject, and taking the combativeness out of the witness. now the time had come when updyke felt compelled to take the chance. parkins' testimony was necessary to his plans, and if successfully brought out the case against the man himself was "nailed down and copper riveted," a time-worn expression, that updyke often used. before starting on the subject he drew a table between himself and the witness, and placed upon it an automatic revolver. this action very naturally caused parkins to look up in alarm, and also the stenographers. "no one need be afraid of that little thirty-eight. it's harmless," said updyke. "i've carried it for years and have never shot any one with it--yet. but i am always prepared to use it instantly, as i carry it in a hidden holster just under the left side of my coat. now i am going to leave it there, in plain view on the table, at present, for i am about to question the witness concerning his intentions toward a certain young woman, on a certain day, not long since. the name of the girl is not to be spoken. parkins will speak of her as 'the girl,' and the stenographers will write it that way. if parkins, either by accident or design, speaks her name i'll shoot him the moment he utters it! what i am now saying is a personal matter, and must not go into the record. when i hold up my hands the recorders will proceed." immediately updyke raised his hand. "now then, parkins, i want nothing but the truth out of you. lying will be your undoing, if you expect clemency. you remember the day of the accident?" "yes, sir--i do," replied the witness. "a few days before that you invited the girl, and her father, to take a trip to new york with you in your automobile, did you not?" "i did, sir. they had never been to new york, and being friends of long standing i invited them to go in my car--and the date was set." "why do you sit there and lie in answer to my first question!" yelled updyke, his face denoting extreme anger. parkins grew pale at the sudden fury of his inquisitor. "i meant to tell you the truth," he replied meekly. "parkins, your habit of lying is constitutional. maybe you don't know how to speak the truth--even under oath. you said the girl and her father were old friends of yours, didn't you?" "that was a mistake--unintentional," said parkins, now thoroughly alarmed. "you had known them for about six weeks," snapped updyke. "no more lying, or there will be some one hung up by the thumbs so he will remember to tell the truth thereafter. now then--i'll ask you to tell me how and when you got acquainted with her?" "i bought some cakes, and pies, at her stand on the motor parkway at patchogue," said the witness. "started in by kidding her, didn't you?" "perhaps--i don't quite recall," replied parkins, mystified as to updyke's source of information. "yes you do recall--and you also remember apologizing to her for calling her 'little sister'--now don't you? speak up--say yes or no," growled the big fellow, as he stared the witness out of countenance. "yes"--replied the witness, his face now almost purple. "you have a so-called hut on the ocean side--did you ever drive her out that way?" "yes--once." "showed her all the conveniences, too--didn't you?--the kitchenette and everything?" "i presume i did--that would have been the natural thing," replied parkins. "you really think so--eh? don't you know that you are lying again? well, now, you quit that stuff! i wasn't born yesterday," snarled updyke as his eyes sought those of the man on the witness stand. "now i'm going to ask you a question," he continued, "that is going to stagger you!--what were your intentions toward her had you got her safely to new york? be careful--say nothing but the truth!" updyke's steady eyes caused parkins to shut his own and consider well before answering. how his persecutor could know so much was beyond his power to reckon. but he had to answer. the question was categorical. "i meant to marry her," he blurted. "open your guilty eyes and tell me that again," shouted updyke, bending over the table where lay the automatic. "it was to be a mock marriage--now wasn't it?--'poor little country maid!' do you remember your maudlin conversation with yourself in your apartment the morning you were fired out of dreamy hollow? of course you do--and only an act of god saved her from experiencing a try-out of your scheme. you had won her trust, and that of her father, who was to be allowed to 'drift'--wasn't he? zim's midnight inn was a fine place to sup and drink--and tempt! you--scoundrel!--but god saved the girl by upsetting your car--her father is at death's door!" "oh, merciful heaven--stop this cruel torment! i am going crazy! i'm----" but parkins could go no further. he put his face in his hands and sobbed, while updyke pulled forth a long black cigar and lighted it. he was "dying" for a smoke, and now was his chance. the stenographers, used as they were to "third degree" work, showed signs of pity for the wretched man on the stand. they watched updyke, too, and saw him touch a button on the wall near the door. then they saw him go to a speaking tube and heard him say--"send him in...." during the interim parkins never lifted his head, until he heard the rasping noise of the steel door as it opened and closed. when he raised his eyes to see what was going on, there stood his valet and man of all work, talking with updyke. they shook hands cordially and stood near the door, talking to each other for several minutes. by that time parkins, red eyed and sullen, had assumed an air of defiance. his own man had trapped him, and a desire to kill crept into his mind. there lay the automatic--one jump would be sufficient, and it would be "all off" with updyke! a wonderful chance, and he would take it--but his mind moved slowly. updyke, standing at the far end of the room, knew his thoughts and laughed at him, mockingly-"no use, parkins--it isn't loaded. here's it's mate," he said, flashing it quickly, "and it's all set for action." then, walking toward the table, he picked up the other weapon and emptied it of six cartridges, and put them in his pocket. "it was loaded, after all," said he. "very careless of me--eh--parkins? allow me to introduce you to one of our most valuable operatives--mr. parkins--mr. michael curran. he says you have the best equipped sideboard in the city." parkins was dumfounded. the trusted servant was an updyke "plant," and his case now seemed hopeless. there was nothing to say, and his eyes sought the floor. "look up, and face the music," nagged the relentless updyke. "a brave fellow like you who connives against young women and sickly fathers surely must be a courageous man! what were your real intentions toward that girl?" yelled the big fellow, pointing his finger at the wilted parkins. "i had no real plan," said he finally. "i was sober when i took her into my car, and i meant to keep sober. no man in his right mind would offer insult to an innocent girl." "is that so!--then why did you, absolutely sober, and after ten days in bed with a wounded scalp--kidnap her and start for herman's roadhouse?" snarled updyke. "for the sake of counterfeiting respectability the name has been changed to fool decent people. it is called a social club--bah!" "i--i--ah--or rather i should say--we were eloping--we were going to be married! she and i are engaged, and----" "stop right where you are! now i want you to look me squarely in the eye and tell me that lie over again." updyke's lowering face at once took on the look of a demon. his right hand stole slowly under the left side of his coat and his eyes seemed to be turning green. "it was a lie! don't shoot me! i'll tell the truth, sir," screamed the witness. "you already know every move, every thought, every act--what's the use? do what you will but don't ask more questions--i'm done for!" he ended, as he swooned and fell forward, but updyke caught him in time to save him from injury. the erstwhile "valet," stepped forward and helped to lift the limp body to the table in front of him, the barrier that had stood between him and his tormentor. "the jig is up!" said updyke, grimly, two big tears rolling down his rugged cheeks. "we have it all. his guilt cannot be questioned. and that's the only reason why the so-called third-degree inquisitions are to be tolerated. slap cold water on his face. he'll come out of it in a minute or so." turning to curran, he whispered--"stay with him, and when he is fully aroused help him up to my suite upstairs and put a guard in with him. he can't get out, but he needs company," said he significantly. "i'm going out to dreamy hollow as soon as i get first copies of the testimony. order my car around as soon as you can--no hurry--tell miss johnson to phone for it to be ready in an hour." with that the big fellow left the "star chamber" with its windowless walls and concrete floor, a sigh of relief escaping from between his yawning jaws. he was tired, dead tired, and victory won, left no feeling of elation in his breast. "justice is hell for some and joy for others," said he to himself as he stole his way through to the private door into his office. updyke's mind was upon the man that had collapsed under his lash and the cruelty of it had left its imprint upon his own heart. a few hours later he was welcomed by the master of dreamy hollow. "i've come to stay until the day after to-morrow. i need a day off," said updyke, as he grasped the welcoming hand of drury villard. "i'm all in and i want to go to bed at once." villard scrutinized him carefully, and decided that his friend and guest knew what was best for himself. "i'd planned for a lively evening--what is the news of the day? did you----" "yes--here it is, all typewritten, and will afford you an evening of varying emotions. show me a room--that's all i ask. to-morrow we will both be fresh, and will talk things over. no food--i snacked in my office," said the master inquisitor. and so it was settled, and a short time thereafter villard sat alone in his office, reading the testimony of his old-time friend, now a self-confessed pariah, and a conscienceless scoundrel. when he had finished his lips trembled, and his heart cried out against the villainy of his once trusted partner. he now loathed him as he would a viper, and there was nothing left in his bosom but abhorrence. in his present mood, good man that he was, villard felt that he could have looked on without mercy while the low creature was strung up and tortured. "no wonder henry left, and went to his bed," he mumbled to himself. "case hardened as he is to crime and malevolence, his soul has been seared with the events of this day." villard arose to his feet and slipped quietly out into the night, where his heated brain could be cooled and his senses restored. he hurried on toward the beach as if bewildered, caring naught for the bats that darted in front of him, and the limbs of bushes which swung back and whipped his face. the parkins' confession stood out as might a picture of herod cleaving the heads of helpless babes, and watching their writhing bodies as they fell at his feet. what villard would have done, or where he would have gone in his madness to rid himself of his obsession was a matter of conjecture, but for a terrible coughing spell on the part of some person just ahead of him. it was alexander barbour, bundled from head to foot against the chill of the night, who stumbled along the same path, only a few yards in advance. his walk was painful, and his voice hollow and unreal as he cried--"i want to go home to die!" this dismal wail brought villard back to his senses, and he ran forward in time to catch the man in his arms. for a moment there was a struggle but barbour was too feeble to resist. "you shall go to-morrow," whispered villard, "and your daughter will go with you. the time has come when it will be safe for her to return to her native town, and i shall take you both home in the morning. i know how you feel, and i sympathize. come, let us go back into the warmth of your room." some hours previously winifred had helped her father into his bed, and stood over him, while rubbing his forehead and chafing his icy hands. she had placed a small electric heater at his feet. "they feel like lumps of ice," he complained, but to the soft touch of winifred's hands upon his forehead he succumbed to nature's balm--sleep without pain. for half an hour she stayed beside him, and then as his hands relaxed and his breathing became normal, she knelt and prayed for his restoration to health and happiness. then she went to her room, but on returning a few minutes later the bed was empty--her father had gone. she notified santzi at once, who gave the alarm, but when all hands had taken up the search, they came upon villard and with him was the night-clad figure of winifred's father. there was much in the way of speculation as to the result of the sick man's adventure, but the night nurse, arriving soon afterward, said that his effort to help himself might turn out to his advantage. all through the excitement, updyke slept on unknowing, but winifred and villard sat out on the moonlit veranda and talked of the plans for the morrow. he felt that she should be told of parkins' "detention" pending further developments, but in no way did he intimate the happenings at the updyke inquiry. "i think your father should go back to his old home at patchogue for a time. this place palls upon him and he will never be happy here. you must go with him, of course, and i shall ride over every day or so to see how he is getting on. we must not allow him to die from longing for his old home, where your mother lived and died. that's his trouble--and if i were in his place i'd feel just as he does." "i believe you have solved his problem, and i am very glad you have thought it all out for us. we are plain country folk, and fairyland is too much for us. indeed we have grown in experience since we left our little country home. but our country eyes have been opened to the love we feel for our native town and its people. there is where we belong," said winifred, dreamily, as her face broke out into smiles. "you shall have your wish, dear child," said he, gently. "there is nothing that i would deny you." "but you wouldn't live there," bantered winifred, throwing back her head and laughing at the idea. "we'll wait and see how you hold to your resolution to 'ride over every day or so.' my, how my friends would get together and gossip! i just dare you to try it," she gurgled, as she held out her hand and bade her host good night. "no--you don't get off that easy," said villard, striving to catch her up in his arms, but she escaped through the door of her father's chamber and tiptoed in to see if he was resting comfortably. "all is well," she whispered on her return, looking up into villard's eyes--"so you may return to your den, mr. lion--it's bedtime for me!" she laughed, as she started to go. "and kissing time for me," laughed villard, reaching out as if to take her in his arms. "no, sir--this is the kind of kiss you shall have," cried winifred, as she put her arms about his neck and her lips upon his forehead. then she blushed, and sighed, a shyness creeping into her eyes. "only a kiss on my forehead!--not surely----" "if i ever do kiss a man on the lips it will be the one to whom i am wedded--not before," said she, her face lighted with honest conviction. "don't forget that i am going out patchogue way very often, in the future," he warned. "i am sure my father and i will be ever so proud if you will come to our home as often as you can," replied winifred, as prettily she dropped him a curtsey in a quaint, old-fashioned way. chapter xiii. winifred meets updyke next morning henry updyke was literally up with the larks, and there were plenty of them about the premises of dreamy hollow. at six o'clock he betook himself into the open for a morning stroll. winifred was also astir, for the call of patchogue was in her heart, and she must be ready. but it was far too early to arouse the household, so now was her opportunity to once more behold the dreamland from which she would soon be on her way. to the beach and back was her first intention, as vivid memories clustered about its sandy slope, where she had gazed far out beyond the bay to the very ocean itself, and dreamed of "castles in spain." and now she would look for those castles again, and the cliffs of fort hancock, over sandy hook way, easily seen from the place where she sat on the day of her startling adventure. fearful of the dew damp of early morning she took the inside path and was soon at the waters' edge. and now she sat down, oblivious to all save the waters, which moaned as they came in great waves, and sang as they splashed in diabolic fury and broke into gems of rainbow hue. and there was no one to disturb the thoughts within her mind, for which she was glad, only to turn her face toward the west, and there stood a huge man, calmly looking down upon her. "don't be frightened," said the big fellow, smiling down upon her. "you surely have not forgotten your father's friend, who used to hold you on his knee and tell you stories, and bring you books from the city." "mr. updyke!" gasped winifred, looking guiltily into his smiling face, then suddenly she exclaimed--"i've seen you but recently, have i not?" "yes--but you can't guess when and where," he laughingly replied, at which the girl looked far out to sea and pondered. "of course i can, only it must have been a dream. indeed, i saw you in a dream. you, and another man, whom i had never seen, stood before me. you said something about it being time for me to get up and prepare breakfast for father. and something about opening up the stand--now isn't that true?" "practically, those were my words. you had slept entirely too long, so i tried a little trick on you and it worked for an instant. then you went back to sleep. it is dangerous to sleep too long. who do you think was with me?" "another man. i haven't seen him since. it wasn't the doctor?" "no, it was mr. villard," replied updyke, watching the effect of his words. "i never saw a man so anxious in my life." "oh, isn't he the dearest soul! i just love him--he has been so kind to father and me, and he is going to run us over home this morning in his car. we are leaving to-day for good, and we may never see new york after all," she concluded, shaking her head sadly. "you'll have a different driver next time than the one you started out with," suggested updyke, dryly, as winifred looked down at the sand and revolved a certain question that she had in mind. it concerned parkins' whereabouts, but she did not ever want to speak his name again. "where is he now?" she asked, briefly, but without malice in the tone of her voice. "probably in new york somewhere," replied updyke. "i don't think he will try any more 'elopements' for the present." winifred looked up in surprise. "is that what he calls an elopement?" she asked, blushing deeply. "i thought elopements were by mutual understandings. are they not?" "that's what they use to mean before bill parkins set the new fashion," he laughed, as she looked up and caught the twinkle in his eyes. "i hope you see something besides humor in his actions," she replied quite soberly, after a lengthy pause. updyke saw at once that winifred barbour's old-fashioned purity of heart and mind had been in no way affected by her sad experience. "now i've gone and said something that i didn't mean," said he quickly. "no girl, with a mother like you had, will ever need a champion for her code. she will maintain that standard through life. what time are you leaving for home?" queried the big man. "about nine, i believe." "then we had better turn back," said updyke reaching for winifred's hand and helping her to her feet. "i think you will never have occasion to worry about parkins in the future. i believe that he has gone out of your life forever," he concluded, looking testily into her face. but winifred needed no coaching to that effect. "all the king's horses" could never put the man parkins back into her life. but she said nothing on that score to the big man trudging along beside her. finally she asked-"do you know much about this matter, mr. updyke?" "just a trifle," he replied. "i heard a rumor now and then about the case, but it's been kept so quiet that your neighbors won't have an inkling of it when you get back. they only know of the accident, so if i were you i'd say nothing about anything else. you wouldn't want your picture in the paper and a great 'howdye do' kicked up with your name in it--now would you?" asked updyke, stopping in order to impress her mind upon certain angles of the case. "of course not--i should simply wilt and die if my name should be printed in the newspapers." "naturally so, and no matter how innocent you really are, there are those who would enlarge the matter into scandal, if we fail to adopt a certain plan," said he, gently. "now listen carefully, little girl. everybody in patchogue knows that parkins' car was ditched and that you had a close call--also your father--and that parkins was almost killed. they know that you were taken into the villard home, and that you are all right and will soon be home. julie hayes has been faithful to you and your booth is well cared for. now--remember this--no one must know about the other episode--the abduction. if that ever raises its head you will never live it down in your life, no matter where you might go--and you are the one to tell your father the consequences of confiding with any living soul." "i will merely speak of the accident, and i will warn father to do the same," said winifred, looking gratefully up into the big man's eyes. "that's the idea--all you will talk about is the accident, and, if ever anything else is hinted at, just ask what that person means, and never acknowledge a word of truth that may be uttered as hearsay. you had an accident, and it laid you up, but you have fully recovered and the whole matter is in the past and practically forgotten." winifred now understood the program fully, and made up her mind to follow instructions literally. and she vowed that her father would do the same. then, suddenly, she thought of young mr. carver, but hesitated to bring up his name. at last she determined that she must be instructed on that point. "what about mr. carver?" she asked nervously. "no worry in that direction--he is a sworn officer of the law and is fond of certain people who would be sorry to be involved in a story, even in a small way. he is one of the finest young men i know, and he is progressing rapidly in all ways. some day he will be a rich man. he is brainy, and coming to the front all over long island. he may go far!" concluded updyke, who knew the value of good friendship toward a man who aspired. "i--i am ever so glad you have talked to me about all these matters, and now please tell me who you are so i'll know why you have interested yourself in our behalf," said winifred, her voice reflecting her real thoughts. she had no artifice by which to speak with double meaning. "oh, i am a friend of mr. villard's, and he and i would naturally pull together. he is a fine man, but the dear fellow is lonesome. too bad he doesn't marry some sweet natured home body that would love him, and drive away the solitude of this wonderful place," replied updyke, waving his hand at the well kept premises. they were now at the east entrance of the stately home and he opened the door for her to enter. "i shall hope to see you again, sir--some time. you have been exceedingly kind and i promise to act upon your suggestions." then she added, "i am glad you are a good friend of mr. villard's. he needs companionship." a little later on, with herself and father already seated comfortably in villard's smart touring car, she was surprised when mr. updyke got in and asked to be allowed to sit beside mr. barbour. this change brought villard into the seat beside winifred. but she thought she saw the reason for it by the way updyke brought the sick man out of his doldrums. "you are going to feel a lot better when you get back to your old haunts," said he, affably. "when a man spends a lifetime in one place, there is where his heart belongs. he should seldom leave it--your world is there," said updyke, by way of getting acquainted. and then he began to point out various interesting spots, with something historical about them which caused neighboring householders to think with pride upon their wonderful locations. in fact, the big fellow took alexander barbour's mind away from his troubles and made him feel how well he would be in a few days when he got back into the tang of the salt air at good old patchogue. winifred marveled at the manner by which this stranger could so install himself in one's good graces. these same scenes along the parkway interested herself as well, and she remarked upon the difference between a leisurely ride in comfort, as against the scarifying speeders who infested the southern drive. such had been the only other experience of her lifetime. but, by way of comparison, the smooth, almost jarless driving of jacques, with santzi by his side, was to her the acme of delight. and so the journey continued all the way out to patchogue, and the little home, where the sleek and silent car came to a final stop. into the spick and span cottage all four entered and it wasn't long before the father was put to bed, and winifred, in gingham apron, engaged herself in preparing a dainty luncheon from her jams and preserves together with hot biscuit and coffee. a small jar of cream and big dab of butter were borrowed in neighborly fashion over the back fence, also a chunk of cold ham, representing good measure in the heart of the neighbor. thus for two hours the little home gave a good account of itself and when saying good-bye villard looked wistfully into the eyes of sweet winifred and asked a serious question. "do you know how much i love you, dear?" "with all your heart--i know," she answered. "when shall i come again?" he pleaded, with eyes that smiled into her own. "as often as you feel disposed. i shall have no time to attend the little business place we own. but i shall keep it open with help from others. i fear the worst about father." and when it was time to go back home villard made no further overture of his love than to hold her hand and to squeeze it tightly. he longed to kiss her but he knew her code--only a husband could claim that right. two days later, alexander barbour passed away, and winifred put on mourning. during her grief, the whole town became interested in her affairs, and with julie hayes at the business helm, she took her time, and thought out her future. seemingly everybody called at her home; even george carver of riverhead made a special trip to pay his respects. there had been an episode in her life in which he had figured heroically, and she had made a vast impression upon his youthful mind. with the best of intentions, and with due consideration of her bereavement, he did not come often, nor did villard, owing to the small talk that might arise from too frequent calls. for the sake of companionship she gained consent of julie hayes' parents by which the young girl became her companion at home, as well as her clerk at the booth on the parkway. with regard to villard's calls, it had been hinted by winifred that the sabbath was a day when visits would be most welcome and that going to church together would be better for her, and add to his prestige--now growing in the town. he had become fond of the place and made many acquaintances. land deals were active through his ability to furnish money for building purposes. every citizen was charmed by his modest simplicity and if ever a man owned a townful of ardent boosters it was drury villard. on one particular sunday george carver left the barbour cottage just as villard drove up, and winifred and julie had gone out to the gate as he took his leave. then, for the first time winifred noted a shadow creeping over the face of villard, though he smiled affably, and shook hands with the younger man. "you are just in time for a good dinner," said carver. "sorry i have to go, but it is necessary. my loss is your gain," said the young man gaily, but there were times when he wondered if her sweet consideration could be turned into love. when carver had gone both winifred and julie each grasped the arm of the solemn villard, and in less than a minute his face was all smiles. "julie, we will have to be careful about allowing our callers to cross each other's paths," teased winifred. "did you notice how quickly our mr. carver mounted his wheel when our mr. drury villard drove up? shall we invite them to a duel?" laughed winifred, seizing one of his big hands. "now sir, you shall be fed by both of us until you will never want to eat again--but, do we get a ride after dinner, sir knight?" "you do--all three of us on one seat, so i can hug two charming girls at one time. where shall we go?" inquired villard, who had no choice of routes. "i--i'm afraid to suggest," faltered winifred, guiltily. "of course i'm no mind reader, dear girl----" "i hardly know so well about that. it seems to me that you really do know my mind?" laughed winifred. "for example?" "don't you remember? over at dreamy hollow--how you anticipated everything that would add to my comfort and ease of mind? if i was the least bit thirsty you rang a bell and in came the water without a hint from me. all i had to do was to think of something i'd like for dinner, and there it was, when it came time to be served. i am somewhat like the slaves of olden days who thought as did their master," teased the girl. "now i'm going to prove all i've said. i'll write my wishes down as to where we shall go, and i'll fold it and hand it to you." over to her desk ran winifred, where she rapidly set down her choice, then gave it into the keeping of julie. "now sir--please state your own choice of a drive," said the girl, gaily. "i've always wanted to visit parkins' hut," said he, yawning after the fashion of one who desires to hide his curiosity concerning a certain particular thing. simultaneously the two girls broke out in laughter, as julie passed over winifred's scribbled line--"the parkins castle on the outer drive." she had once seen the hut and with girlish curiosity wanted to see it again. "now then--see how you control my very thoughts!" laughed winifred running over to him and patting his cheek. "now 'sposing you were a wicked king, just imagine what a living death i would lead!" she ended, her voice deeply sepulchral as her girlish voice could command. and so the plan took immediate effect by way of starting out. as they quickly passed through the deserted business quarter, the question arose as to which turn to take for the outer drive, but an inquiry brought them the right information. "wouldn't it be terrible if we'd find him there," suggested winifred snuggling more closely to villard and clutching his arm. "nothing like that can happen. he is occupied elsewhere," replied villard, his teeth set and his voice cold. after that the ride continued in silence until the outer drive came within view. then with delight the two girls grew interested in the great billows that came rolling in from the ocean, almost forgetting the objective hut that had held their thought. but it came to view most quickly thereafter. unpainted and weather beaten, it stood alone without tree or shrub to lend it hospitable appearance. just a shack--nothing else--a bedroom, plainly furnished, and in order, also a kitchenette, and a bath tub with shower. several empty barrels outside told of the fresh water supply, hauled in, no doubt, from nearby wells, inside the bay district. evidently the owner liked music, as a banjo-guitar stood in one corner of the room. also there had been a dog about the premises, accounted for by a muzzle and chain, and a collar to which was attached a state license. in a crude desk there were various papers and letters, some with envelopes addressed by feminine hands. all these villard made into a bundle, and wrapped them with an old newspaper. "i'll turn them over to updyke," said he to winifred, as she looked on. "they might be valuable--some time," he mumbled as if to himself. then suddenly he almost shouted--"let us get away from this infamous den!" as he opened the door for the two girls to pass out. then he slammed it behind him and walked to the car without looking back. a month went by before anything of importance broke in upon the even tenor of villard's daily life. the parkins matter had waned into a memory and updyke held his peace as to the whereabouts of the man. then, suddenly, as a bolt from the sky, the engagement of winifred barbour of patchogue and george carver of riverhead was announced in the local papers of that thriving little city. from the moment villard learned of it he settled back into the life of a recluse. he had lost his battle in the dearest cause of his life. he became old and worn over night, such had been the inexorable reaction from his mighty love for the girl of his heart. only updyke and sawyer could gain access to his seclusion. gray patches of hair made quick attack upon the dark brown, and no longer caring for his general appearance, gray whiskers and a stubby mustache were allowed to grow at random. the change was most radical, but not without distinction. after all it was villard who wore them. from the day he read the item concerning the engagement villard refused the newspapers and all reading matter. even letters, addressed personally to him at dreamy hollow, were allowed to lay unopened. and there was one from winifred, in which she had bared her soul in explanation, declaring her undying allegiance, as might a daughter and a comforter--but not as a wife. the envelope remained unbroken, as merely one of the heap that grew day by day. nothing mattered--villard's world stood still. in one paragraph winifred had written an explanation of her motives, and she prayed for an answer from the depths of her heart. it read- dear friend:--these things i would have you stop and consider, not lightly, because of your love for me. i am not of your station in life--and i would not drag you down to mine. just imagine the harm that would come of it--a blight on your life, that you could never live down. oh, my dearest friend on earth, how would either of us regard the other once we were confronted by the mirror of public opinion? so, with eyes open wide to the consequences of wedlock with you, i am about to consecrate my life to a plain, simple man, without riches or deep learning--one of my own station in life, who will never have cause to rue the day he takes me to wed. it is all for the best, dear friend. just allow your big, generous heart to feel that my intentions are for your good, and also my own. there have been precious moments in our lives which i shall never forget--nor shall i deny, even to the man i shall marry--that you were the first to inspire my heart with a knowledge of what a sacred emotion love should be. and that was the letter in full, all save the signature--one word--winifred. had villard opened it upon its arrival, his greatness of heart would have asserted itself forthwith. but gaining first information from a newspaper clipping was quite another matter. it rankled in his bosom. big, manly fellow that he was, ordinarily he would have stopped to think how innocently such things could happen. winifred's letter had been mailed two days before the article appeared, but it had been delayed in transit. on time, it would have given villard opportunity to support his own cause, but fate plays in all games, either of heart or of brain. to a girl of her mould wealth had no standing when measured by love. time flew by as the wedding day drew near. but there came no word from villard. henry updyke looked in on winifred's little home one day and found the girl crying. few women are they who may heighten their beauty through tears, but winifred's face was that of a grieving madonna. she ran to him at once, as a child to its father and wound her arms about his neck. and there she remained as she sobbed out her story. "but you love this young man, don't you?" soothed the big fellow whose face looked drawn and old, as his heart went out to the girl. "i don't know," sobbed winifred. "do you love drury villard?" "oh, fondly, sir, but he is far above me! i would ruin his life--and after all his kindness to my father and myself, i can't bear to think of it." "well, now, little woman, just sit down in that big rocking chair and let me talk to you like an uncle who had your interest at heart. villard is a sick man, and he hadn't opened your letter when i called upon him two weeks ago. there were many more and all of them more or less important. yours was among them, and to oblige him i read all his mail." "my letter, too!" blushed the girl--"and it was sacred--i meant it so." "yes, and it is still sacred, but now he knows its contents--and he might never have known had i not done a little secretarial work for him that day. he had ordered his mail to be thrown in the fire, but i was consulted, arriving as i did at the right moment. in due course i read your letter, and i sincerely compliment you upon your good sense. i count you as one of my friends, for i know you have nothing against me, so we may be quite confidential, i hope." "indeed we may, sir," assented winifred in a very weak little voice. "mr. villard trusts me, mr. sawyer trusts me, and hundreds of the best-known people in new york trust me. now i want you to understand that every word i say is truth. i make my living by telling the truth, but in many cases it does not come to light. now then, listen carefully--mr. villard is one of god's noblemen!" "oh, i know he is, mr. updyke!" assented winifred. "he loved a girl named winifred many years ago----" "yes, i know that--too. she warned me of the accident, but in my eagerness to see new york i said little about it. but i did tell mr. villard, after i came to know him." "he hears from her, from time to time--or thinks he does--it's all the same," said updyke. "she warned him of parkins, but trustful man that he was, he wouldn't believe. now he knows the truth--but to get back to my point, i want to say, in justice to all parties, that you should _not_ marry villard. not that he isn't worthy--far from that, there is no one more so--but his heart is with the dead! as his wife you would become to him the shrine of his dead love's soul!--and he would worship you as such. would you be satisfied with just that, little girl?" queried the big fellow. updyke watched the varying emotions of the girl as she struggled to understand. it was all so deep and mysterious, even though she had beliefs of her own like the one he had explained. "allow me to answer the question for you," prompted updyke, gazing deep into her eyes. "there are as many beliefs on the subject of the hereafter as there are grief-stricken people. every person who pretends to know about the life to come is to that extent insane. in fact there is no such thing as complete sanity. the ninety and nine are divided into that same number of personal and deviating beliefs, and the one-hundredth--has no belief whatever." winifred's eyes had begun to open wide, as if to testify in behalf of her own hereafter, but updyke raised his hand for a new beginning. "i know what you are going to tell me--your own belief--eh? but what is the use? it is but yours after all, and though it might satisfy you it might not meet my views. but i am glad you have a belief, little woman. we must all have something to lean upon or what would be the use of a temporary life, and nothing to hope for in the future? i want you to believe that which will comfort your soul and keep it good. and you must never allow any one to shake that belief--'for therein is the power and the glory forever--amen'!" updyke's voice betokened a depth of feeling that winifred had never before witnessed in his conversation. he had joked and teased, but now he talked in a way that convinced her of his superior mental equipment. "your words comfort me, and i shall always think of that dear good man at dreamy hollow with reverence for his constancy," she sighed. "were it fair to either of us i would gladly share his love with the other winifred, but something tells me that my youth must not be shadowed by brooding thoughts. i must have individuality of my own," faltered winifred, her eyes haunted by strange lights of mingled fear and compassion. "then marry the young man. it is simply in justice to you and george carver that i say it. i have never known a more upright man in my life. he has the heart of a lion--you know that yourself, for you saw him in action as he carried out my instructions to the letter. and----" "your instructions!--i don't understand, mr. updyke. please explain," demanded the astonished girl. "it was a slip of the tongue, but there is no harm done. you are soon to be one of our family, so perhaps i'd better tell you something about george," said he, laughingly. "he belongs to the greatest law and order association in america, perhaps the world. it spreads to wherever our flag flies and is truly the backbone of the nation. as members of the association each man is carefully chosen and sworn in, but not as an officer of the law, but rather as an upholder of our government. most of them are given official standing by being sworn in as deputy sheriffs, clerks of courts, and so on. george is a deputy sheriff, and that is why he came to your rescue. as soon as you were kidnapped my office sent out an alarm that spread all over long island. it wasn't possible for parkins to escape in my district," concluded the big fellow as he arose to go. "then you are a--a----" "sleuth?--no, never!--i just keep bad eggs from getting into the cake," laughed updyke--and then very soberly, he reached out his huge hand to the little girl in front of him, and she grasped it eagerly. she tried to squeeze it, but it was too big and too gnarled--it couldn't be squeezed--ah, but how it might squeeze was winifred's thought, as she followed him out to the gate. "would you mind if i asked one more question?" queried winifred, her cheeks turning red from the wave of diffidence that crept into her heart. "bless you, no--go on," said updyke, invitingly. "i am haunted with fear--where is this man parkins?" "you will never hear of him again; rest your mind on that score. he is alive--somewhere. nobody knows but me," he laughed, as he jumped in his car. and then she stood at the gate and watched with awe the big man's machine as it faded in the distance, but when it turned west he raised his hand, and she answered by waving her own. chapter xiv. george carver's bride the day that winifred barbour was married to george carver was as beautiful as a day might be. the ceremony was performed in her own little home and was followed by a reception that lasted on toward the evening. every gay gown in patchogue had its chance for an airing on that gala day, but when evening shadows began to fall, the church bell rang, and every man and woman, to say nothing of the children, betook themselves to the church. a monster wedding supper, the inspiration of the townspeople acting in one accord, had been spread, and none would be denied admission. it was winifred's hour of triumph over her young lord and master, who, while subject to congratulations, came in for small glory. the fact that he was soon to depart with his bride for their new home in riverhead failed to develop any medals for him. "why don't you quit that dead county seat town and stay here among us 'ristocrats," demanded old man carmichel, gruffly, by way of gleaming daggers--then bursting out in wild guffaws, "jes'ta take the feller off'n his feet." but carver had seen many such in his bright young life, and he likened them to the usual village "jester," who started that way and kept it going to the end of his days. nevertheless, it was carver's night to be affable so he grinned quite good naturedly as he awaited the arrival of henry updyke and his big touring car. it was the one privilege the big fellow had demanded, since he could not attend the wedding--to see the bride safely to the door of her new home. and he had his reason for that, aside from its pleasure, for the event had been attended by much advance publicity, far greater than the prominence of the happy girl would ordinarily entitle her. the new york papers gave mention of the forthcoming wedding in their last sunday editions, and on the following sabbath the "write ups" would be much extended, with a picture of the bride in the magazine sections. mary johnson, updyke's assistant, had seen to all that by personally making the rounds of newspaper row. a camera man, as if dropped from the clouds, seemed somewhat officious to the townspeople of patchogue, when he posed the young couple on the steps of the church. just how a young fellow with tripod and camera could halt with his hand a great host of people, and sweep them this way and that until they posed artistically about the bride and groom, was something to ponder on. in the doing of this there was some rivalry by way of holding one's own in "the limelight," but the camera was newfangled, and it revolved either way sufficiently to take in the most prominent of those in the wake of the bride--and much to the mystification of more than one person. it was old man carmichel's turn to again become facetious. "i'll be switched if i c'n see how they take pitchers with a contraption that won't stay put," said he, his eyes showing his mystification. "it must be broke, or somethin'." "it's a movin' pitcher kodak--ain't you ever seen 'um before?" queried the man beside him. "yeh--i've seen 'um twicet as big," said carmichel moving within range of the strange machine. after depositing the carvers at their new home updyke refused the invitation to alight, but winifred, the bride, would not have it so, and she caught up one of his big hands and called to her husband to help her. "just think, after all of the trouble i have caused you, now you refuse to take a little bit more, to see how george has busied himself of late," she pouted, playfully. "you've just got to or i'll jump up and kiss you before everybody passing by." "well, i don't want mary's nose to get out of joint," said the big fellow, clambering down to the pavement. "mary!--mary who?" she demanded, as with her husband on one side and herself on the other, they dragged him into the new cottage. there, with one poke of carver's forefinger he touched a master button which set every light globe going from cellar to roof. in the excitement of entering her new home for the first time, winifred forgot the word "mary" for quite a long time. the little place was yet to be furnished, and that was "winifred's job," according to carver, and meanwhile they would "put up" at "the white house," only a few blocks away. george's plans had been splendid, far better than she could have figured out for herself. "what shall we call it?" she cried, enthusiastically. "think up a good name for our new home, mr. updyke." "the gambler's paradise," he replied soberly. "you horrid thing--how could you think of such a name!" scolded winifred. "well--didn't george take a big gamble when he waylaid parkins? he might have been shot, you know." "oh, my darling george, come here and let me kiss you!" she demanded. "wasn't he brave, mr. updyke?" "all gamblers are brave as long as----" "now you stop teasing me, sir--make him stop george!" she urged, her face wreathed in smiles. "just give me a name for our home--and be quick about it." "parkins' waterloo," replied updyke, his eyes filled with the old nick. "now george, you come forward and make this man behave," she demanded--"or shall i pull his hair?" then remembering something she had forgotten winifred exclaimed-"tell me about mary--who is she?" "my right hand man," replied updyke soberly. "a man named mary?--oh!" "well she is more than a man--she's a woman with a level head, who runs my business and knows more about it than i do," replied updyke without further indication of his attitude toward her. "then you'd better marry her at once or some one will come along and steal her, too!" warned the bride. "if they do they'll have to take a chance they might regret. mary is an officer of the law and amply able to protect herself," said the big fellow, knowingly. "george carver--look at this man! i declare, with all my feminine intuitions, that he is in love!" laughter, always a tonic, brought the red to updyke's face when he saw that he had stumbled into the wrong kind of joking. "he doesn't deny it, george. see that heightened color in his cheeks?" teased winifred, her eyes sparkling. "well--i own up--just between the three of us, and to go no further," updyke replied. "i haven't asked her yet." "then how do you know she will have you?" demanded winifred, biting her lower lip in order to look solemn. "the updyke system will reach out and gather her in one of these days, when i get my courage to the boiling point," replied the big fellow, chuckling. "then you must start practicing at once," commanded mrs. carver, with the air of a matron of long time experience. "i want to go along when she shops for her trousseau. i've yet to see your little old new york," said she, dreamily, as memories came back to her mind. "come--jump in and i'll drive you over to 'the white house,'" ordered updyke, noting her thoughtful attitude. "it's getting late for young married couples to be caught on the streets. there is a curfew law in riverhead for brides and grooms. seven thirty, and then the law swoops down!" and when the happy pair were landed in front of the white painted hotel the big fellow whispered hoarsely-"i'm going to bring mary out to see you when you get settled. we'll come some saturday, and you act as chaperon for a night. next day we will run over to new york for a whole week while you help do her shopping. that's a go--eh--george?" "indeed it is," laughed winifred, assuming command of the new ship of state. "but wouldn't it be wise to wait and see if she will have you?" "by george, you're right; i hadn't thought of that. i'll ring her up the moment i get to my hotel," replied updyke. "why not use long distance?" suggested winifred. "then george can stand near and coach you. i assure you he is good at it." "not much!" exploded updyke, as he set the starter going. "when i tell mary, there will be no freshly married people around." as the long nosed roadster threaded its way along main street the carvers stood watching until its red tail lights faded from view. thus the happiest day of their lives had merged into night. on reaching the second floor of the white house, the bride enquired about the hour. "just seven twenty-eight," replied carver, consulting his watch. "then 'curfew shall not ring to-night,' as we have two minutes to spare," laughed the bride, closing the door softly behind them. on reaching new york updyke immediately rang up the home where mary johnson lived and "switchboard" promptly responded. "updyke calling," said he, gruffly. "miss johnson is waiting to hear from you--something important i believe," said the girl, who always watched out for his interests. "put her on, miss daisy," said updyke, "and don't listen in," he warned, as one who knew about her girl-like curiosity. "this you, miss johnson--how's everything?" "bad news from south bay," said she, meaning dreamy hollow. "news from patchogue caused a severe spell of anesthesia. doctor benton is staying there over night--also mr. sawyer." "does he recognize them?" "they do not know, but think it doubtful. at one time he said--'tell parkins'--and at another, some hours later, he mumbled incoherently about 'the church' being 'too crowded.' 'i've been puzzled over the words 'tell parkins'--what do you make of that?" queried the secretary. "nothing important," replied updyke--"just vagaries of the mind. he'll get over it in a day or two. perhaps his words 'the church' signified a hazy recollection of the wedding held there to-day. the camera man shot a lot of pictures. better hold on to some of the proofs for the gallery," laughed updyke. "the updyke gallery?--never! you may have one for your private office," said the secretary, after a pause. "old stingy--always keeping down expenses, eh? proofs only cost a dollar apiece--good ones, i mean. spoils, only a quarter. i presume i'll get one of the spoils," laughed the big fellow. "if you talk that way, i'll keep all of them," bantered mary johnson. "where are they now?" "what--the pictures?" "no--the happy couple?" "asleep--i guess," replied updyke, blandly. "you are quite impossible, after your long ride all by yourself. i believe you are jealous of george." "no, you are wrong, mary. it's not him, much as i admire his wife." "who else could it be?" giggled mary. "now you are asking questions! what is the name of the photographer you sent out to patchogue?" "oh, a queer sort of name!--pelletier, or something. he does all our work, and for most of the newspapers. i had him go out personally, instead of sending some horrid assistant." "well, he is the man who excites my jealousy," said updyke, sharply. "impossible! i didn't know you were acquainted," replied mary johnson, in a surprised tone. "nevertheless it's him," replied the big fellow, in a positive tone of voice. "what reason have you to be jealous of that little simp?" laughed the secretary. "well, he kept saying she wants this, and she wants that, and she wants one taken on the steps of the church, and one as they get into the automobile, and so on," replied updyke. "why did that disturb you?" "i found out who the _she_ was that he talked of so glibly." "who was she?" persisted mary johnson. "why--can't you guess, after all the hints i've made?" "no, i'm still in the dark." "he meant _you_, of course, and he seemed so familiar. knew precisely what you wanted, and aired himself importantly," growled the big fellow. "but what had that to do with you, i wonder? you left the matter in my hands." "quite so, my dear, and that's what makes me jealous. the fellow talked so much about you i feared there must be a strong attachment, or----" "now that will be quite enough!" said mary johnson, as if offended. "i think it's time to----" "no, mary don't do that. i'm in real deadly earnest about--you know what i mean--now don't you?" appealed the big fellow. "it begins to dawn on me. after this long conversation i feel that i have been unusually dense. your moonlight ride all by yourself must have gone to your head," giggled the secretary. "nevertheless i mean every word i have said, mary. i want you--i must have you, mary," said updyke, a note of strong appeal in his voice. "i've known it a long time but i could not make myself believe that i had a chance. you are so young and pretty, and i am so old and ugly, and----" "why you are not old at forty-one!" exclaimed mary johnson, forgetting that she was listening to an avowal. "and as for being ugly, i'd say that your rugged face denotes character, which is far more worthwhile than being good looking. but why do you tell me all this over the telephone? weren't you brave enough to say it to my face?" "no, coward that i am--i just couldn't," sighed updyke so loudly that mary johnson heard it over the wire. then came a pause, a very long one, each expecting the next word to come from the other. finally, the softly modulated voice of mary johnson came into the updyke ear. "why not call with your car to-morrow evening, then we can talk more freely," she suggested. "am i never to ride in that big machine?" "i always knew you were the brains of the business, mary. it's no wonder that----" "don't say it over the wire," warned mary. "i'd rather hear it more directly." "then be ready at seven, my----" "never mind--careful what you say--some one listening in," said she as both heard the guilty click of the switchboard. "au revoir--i'll be ready at seven, but i will not go to the office to-morrow." "no--and when miss carew returns, you will come and go as you please," said he, as she answered "good night." then the big fellow hung up the receiver. with mind filled with happy thoughts, henry updyke, fatigued by eighteen hours of constant activity, turned doggedly back to the telephone and asked connection with dreamy hollow, villard's strange condition gave him a queer feeling of unrest. the big fellow felt that he had experienced more kinds of ups and downs during the past few months than for any period of his life. with joy on one lobe of his brain and dread on the other, he found himself halting between going ahead or going to bed. but the long tingle of the phone bell brought him back to attention, as mrs. bond's voice came over the wire. "how's mr. villard?" he inquired. "about the same, sir. his mind is just as it has been since----" "yes, i am fearful of the consequences. any change in his actions?" "about the same. he lives with the stars, and has no word for any of us--just oblivious to everything about him. two specialists from the city were here to-day with dr. benton. something about lesions that interfere with the brain," answered mrs. bond. "any talk of an operation?" "i believe so, but the doctors are not agreed. doctor benton declares that no operation will take place with his consent. if outvoted, he says that he will turn the case over and quit. that would be terrible, wouldn't it?" "yes--more than that, it would be sinful. i'll give him a ring on the phone to-morrow. lesions practically mean incipient paresis, and sometimes lobes form that are even more dangerous. without criticising the life he leads, which is sedentary, mr. villard could have saved himself from the dreadful state he is in. an active, out-of-door life for a man of his build was positively necessary. and he should never have given up his daily habit of attending to business. it is the soft life that kills," concluded updyke vehemently. "i know you are right. fat people like me have to keep going and continually diet, or they fall suddenly never to rise again," replied the housekeeper. "how about his mail? more of it coming in?" "yes, great heaps of letters. you never saw the like." "i'll have them delivered to his town office, hereafter," said updyke. "i can't spare the time to run down there to read them. i'm too busy just now." "very well, mr. updyke, good night, sir," said mrs. bond, and with that off his mind the big fellow turned in for the night. chapter xv. parkins runs amuck fortunately henry updyke was no slave to his nerves. he could fall into slumber as his head touched the pillow, and six hours later roll out for the day. just approaching the middle-age period, sleep meant nothing to a man of his bulk. so on this night of all nights the big fellow bolstered himself and concentrated his thoughts on the girl of his heart. he was glad that she had a mind of her own, and, on the other hand, could take advice--yet needing little. many times he had told her to attend certain matters, to find that she had anticipated his wishes. another thing, most pleasant to reflect upon, was that no episode of the parkins variety had entered her life, and "by the great horn spoon"--which was his most violent expletive--"there never would be!" the thought of parkins had a tingling effect upon updyke, as he brought to mind a certain far-away monastery, hid away amid the timber-lands, one hundred miles northwest of quebec. there the padrone system still flourished under the ban of a french-canadian lumber company, and parkins had become one of the lumber jack gang. three years was his "sign up," after a stormy session with the big boss to whom he had been consigned by a montreal employment bureau. to attempt an escape was to die by starvation, or wild beasts, or woodticks, it mattered not which. but the parkins brain was not so far scrambled that he could not work himself into the good offices of the boss of the gang. he first helped the paymaster, and kept up the records. then the paymaster took sick and parkins became head of the accounting, for which a rude shack answered the needs of protection--at the same time, a roof for his head. all these details of the parkins' entourage came through on reports from updyke's quebec agents. invariably, on answering, the new york office warned against too much freedom of action, for parkins was resourceful, and might effect an escape. all this was poopoohed by the big boss at the lumber-jack camp. just to show his confidence in parkins he sent him to quebec with an order for gold coin, to relieve the priests of the region, whose needs were urgent after the winter's deep snows. the scrip of the company had fallen far below par, which caused a dull roar among the thrifty tree choppers. long days of hard travel brought parkins once more to the civilization of a big city, and he reveled in it. his long suffering thirst quickly turned his feet toward the hotel barroom where, with his escort, tumbler after tumbler of scotch and soda were consumed. but parkins was wary. he poured out large portions for his companion, but small drinks for himself. then later, a hotel porter helped the drunken man to bed. with his escort out of the way, parkins hastened to the bank with the check calling for gold. the bulk of it almost filled the satchel he carried. and now was his chance to escape on the night boat for montreal, there to connect with railway transportation to new york. his beard and mustache of a few weeks' growth now needed a trim, as he decided to continue wearing them. at montreal these matters were attended to, likewise the purchase of several suits of english cut, and a bag of the tourist variety, which held much, and could be plastered with foreign labels of his own selection. all this he had done during his one day in the city, and his tickets were purchased for gay old new york. from that time on he haunted the hotel bar and filled himself to the brim. as his train crept slowly out of the montreal station in the late afternoon, parkins' one fear was of the u. s. revenue officers across the border, who might search his bag and seize the six bottles hidden among its contents. but one flask was kept in his overcoat pocket and long before midnight its contents were gone. along in early hours of the following morning, about the usual time for the bath and shower, updyke in new york heard a rap on his door. a telegram was slipped under it, as the big fellow tumbled out to see who was there. he picked up the message, and as he tore off the envelope, his mind reverted to the night of all nights that would follow this day. for that reason he eyed the yellow sheet with apprehension. it was from his montreal agency, and as he read its contents updyke's eyes blazed with fury. "man with new growth black beard and mustache boarded new york central train one thirty this afternoon stop arrived on night boat from quebec stop bought new outfit clothes stop also large english bag and foreign labels stop had whiskers and mustache trimmed van dyck at queens hotel stop paid all bills in canadian gold stop changed five hundred in gold into american bank notes stop think he is your man act quick stop signed updyke agency." updyke threw on a dressing gown and methodically started the ball to rolling. his night man was just on the point of turning the office over to the day manager when the voice of the boss came through. jackson, the night manager, answered the call and was given some quick instructions. "is bloss there yet?" updyke asked, sharply. "yes--just getting ready to leave." "give him a wire so he can listen in--also a stenographer." "all set," said jackson. "parkins has escaped unless i am badly mistaken. listen to this telegram from montreal"--then followed the contents of the message in a voice of staccato precision. "now, go to it. no doubt about this fellow being parkins, is there?" "not here," answered bloss receiving a nod from jackson. "you're not going to fall down on this, boys. i'm confident of that. don't tip it to the police until you hear from me. we may have to stall him for he would be a fool to walk into grand central--but cover it just the same. that train makes a stop at buffalo, syracuse, rochester, albany--and sometimes at yonkers. use long distance, on all those cities as he may stop off and change to pullmans attached to trains from the west. miss johnson was to be absent to-day but i think i'll call her anyhow. then she will know what is going on. so long--don't get rattled--keep your noodles working--and get this man! i'll be down soon," growled the big fellow, as he hung up the receiver and set the shower going. a little later on mary johnson, with a smile of anticipation, answered a ring from the telephone bell. she was sure it was updyke, and with a laugh at his nerve for rousing her out of bed on her first day off, she finally answered the call. "i just knew it was you," said she--"now, what about my beauty sleep!" she exclaimed, with a laugh. "i wanted to look pretty to-night." "everything is off for to-night," replied updyke, manlike, not stopping to think how jarring were the words he had spoken. mary johnson, unnerved, awaiting further explanation. "did you get that?" he asked, with equal abruptness. "oh, quite so!--my little dream won't come true," said she, in a queer small voice that brought updyke back to earth in a hurry. "well, my dear little mary, there is a big hustle on in our office this morning and i want you to come down. parkins has escaped and is headed this way--due this morning. the night and day managers are both on for the day, and i need _you_," said updyke, in gentle voice. "i'll be down in an hour, dear big man, and will stay until we get him," replied mary with her usual workaday emphasis. "good-bye, dear, don't worry--we will run him down before night." and so began a careful and constant search for a man who looked like parkins until the updyke agency was all out of breath. also every soul in it worn to a frazzle. but mary johnson failed to show a single sign of the weariness she must have felt, as with bright eyes and alert brain she steadied the forces about her. george carver, using every ranger on long island, invaded all places that offered concealment. the hut, on the outer drive, was to be watched day and night and the old home of winifred at patchogue had a guard inside its door. dreamy hollow and the sawyer home were also included as a zone to be protected, although the reasons given seemed far-fetched and foolish. "you never can tell," bellowed updyke, by phone, as he warned mrs. bond that eternal vigilance was the price of safety, when a demented brain roamed at large. "but i can't get to mr. villard," she urged as a reason for not doing more in the way of safeguarding the premises. "then tell santzi i say to watch out for mr. villard's safety," answered updyke--"and use jacques on the early watch. if necessary jerry can drive an automobile but he would not make a good night watchman." "very well, mr. updyke, i'll do as you say," said mrs. bond--"but for the life of me i don't see why he would want to harm mr. villard." "i'll give one reason that will suffice--he thinks mr. villard caused him to lose winifred barbour." "well, of all the fools!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "he may have been pretty near right, mrs. bond." "well i never was more surprised than right now," she replied. "good night, and don't worry," answered the big fellow. "just keep your eyes open and call me up even if it is but a single thought that you think might have a bearing upon the case." from that moment mrs. bond became a silent watcher over every circumstance that connected itself with the master of dreamy hollow--but a week passed by and all was serene. it must have been some one other than parkins that wore the black beard and mustache. "well, mary," said updyke one day, as evening drew near, "i'm ready to give that little us-two party. shall we go as we are, or shall we make it to-morrow night?" "to-morrow night, dear--i want to look pretty when you continue that proposal," she teased. "or is that withdrawn?" "that will never happen, little lady. you be ready when i drive up at seven-thirty sharp to-morrow evening. after we take a little spin we will drop back to the swathmere and dine on the roof." "oh, that will be tremendous!" exclaimed the delighted miss johnson, as she withdrew her hand from the grip of her big fellow. an hour later, as she sat in her cozy room building air castles instead of reading the book that she held in her hand, the telephone rang, and the castles all tumbled as she answered the call. "am leaving for dreamy hollow--want to go along? it is a lovely night--moon and all that--love to have you--back in three or four hours." "no sir!--to-morrow night--i must look my best--so early to bed for me. but henry, do be careful. what is the trouble down there?" she asked in her most professional tone of voice. "oh, he wants me to come! and this is the first time since--you know what i mean," he concluded. "take my advice, and have one of the men along," continued the girl. "i'd feel easier, henry." "very well, i'll do it to please you." and that was the last word she heard from him until the next day at noon. when updyke reached dreamy hollow everything was in turmoil. parkins had been there and the master lay in a comatose condition, and perhaps dying. at seven o'clock jacques, the chauffeur, carried a tray of light food to his master who now ate alone in his private office. an hour later he would return for the tray, which had become the nightly habit. as jacques opened the door, on his return for the tray the muzzle of a revolver was shoved in his face. "hands up!" whispered a man with a mask over his nose and forehead, a growth of black whiskers concealing the rest of his face. frightened beyond ability to shout the servant held up his hands, and was gagged in a jiffy and his hands tied behind his back. at the point of a revolver he was motioned to lie down on the deep cushioned lounge, and by the look of the man who held the weapon, he was convinced that he must obey or be killed. villard, abstracted, had not even looked up from the desk where his eyes searched a document. apparently he had been oblivious to the almost noiseless hold-up within forty feet from where he sat, his back being turned toward the great empty space over which the intruder had walked to a chair by his side. the next thing he knew he was looking into the muzzle of a revolver, with silencer attachment. that was enough. he didn't care to look at the person who held it. but in a carefully modulated voice he said-"i am a very sick man. i'm given up to die by the doctors. i am putting my affairs in order," he concluded, but without seeming interest in how his words had been taken. "do you know who i am?" demanded the man, his voice husky with passion. "yes, william, i know you," replied villard wearily, as the boy jacques, alarmed, listened to the conversation. "i've come to square accounts with you, drury villard. i'm a desperate character and i don't care what happens," said parkins tearing the mask from his face. "you drove me into slavery, and all because you loved my sweetheart. you coveted my woman and you tore her from me by the use of your hirelings. you bought up the law by using updyke's crooked bunch of highwaymen. he sicked carver onto me, who tore my winifred away--then your soulless lieutenant put me through a hell of mental torture--and that's what i am going to do to you!" [illustration: "i've come to square accounts with you drury villard!"] "very well, william--since you have assumed to judge me by the action of another. you seized winifred in an illegal manner. i owed the girl a certain hospitality, since i rescued her, and took her into my home where she was nursed back to life," said villard, in a very even tone of voice. "you rescued her!--you mean, that because she struck your fancy you gathered her up and took her into your home and tried to win her love!" shouted parkins, not caring who heard him. "now i want to know what you've done with her--if she is on these premises, produce her!" "i am unable to do that." "then you refuse?" "she isn't here--she hasn't been here since she went back to patchogue." "is she there now?" "no." "where is she--speak up villard! i am in a dangerous mood." "i refuse to answer," replied the old time friend and employer of parkins. "i'll give you one minute, and if you have not answered by that time i shall give you a 'third degree' with the butt of this gun." all during the time that parkins held his watch in hand villard sat motionless and without protest. a minute seems long when one counts the slow seconds, but short, indeed, when one gives no heed. "last call--one--two--three--that's the way your updyke man counted the seconds for me--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--time's up--here goes," and with that parkins, his eyes staring, jumped to his feet and struck villard on the back of his head in the manner he had warned. knocked senseless, the victim would have fallen to the floor, but his persecutor was not through with him. jacques groaned piteously, as, helpless, he heard the blow fall, and felt sure that the master was killed. "shut up, you vassal, over there!" shouted parkins, now frenzied as he chafed villard's hands and stretched out his arms. not effecting results, he bent the limp body over the desk and pushed the chair closely up to it. then he ran to the tray that jacques had put on the floor, and seized the glass of water that stood on it. this he dashed into villard's face and slowly the huge body responded. a minute went by before he opened his eyes and tried to stagger to his feet, but parkins, remorseless, shoved him back in the chair. "wake up and talk--where is she?" only a moaning sound gave answer. "you old cradle robber, why don't you speak up in defense of yourself. it was all right for you to love her, but for _me_ it was a crime! i always treated her right, until you put false notions in her head. when i finally rose out of a sick bed and got her back into my care, where she belonged, your big wall street hireling set his dogs loose and they finally ran me down." "i'll go to my bed," said villard, trying to rise from his seat. "you'll stay where you are and die in that chair if you make a move to leave it! where is the girl you stole!" he shouted, his eyes flaming with hate. at that moment the far door opened and the faces of santzi and jerry came into view. one glance, and they yelled as if stricken with nightmare, then ran out and shouted to the watchman. by the time they returned parkins had flown. villard, however, now lying full length upon the floor, was in need of quick attention. dr. sawyer was sent for, and dr. benton was phoned. pending their arrival the master was picked up and carried to the couch where jacques had laid helpless as he listened to parkins' cruel words. when his master fell to the floor, he rolled off and groaned. and it was just at this time that updyke rolled in, without knowledge of the terrible tragedy that had been enacted. when told, he thanked his stars that mary johnson had not joined him in his moonlight excursion. then he thought of the leisurely run he had made and bitterly accused himself of procrastination. ten minutes would have saved villard from possible death, and he had "fooled" away half an hour by slow driving. once in action, however, the big fellow gave quick account of himself. he threw off his coat, called for ammonia, and then began to move the victim's arms and legs, and peeped at the whites of his eyes. one whiff of the bottle caused the injured man to stir, the cold water applications resulting in the definite movement of the arms and legs. suspended animation was quickly released. when dr. benton arrived updyke looked on for a moment, and then began to collect the facts. he knew that parkins had been the assailant from first description and now was his chance to learn from jacques the details of the crime, particularly of the words spoken by parkins to villard. still trembling, the youngster, assisted by updyke, promptly gave a well-connected story of the affair, and with that to go on, the big fellow cleared the private office, and warned against interruptions while he was engaged with long distance. meanwhile, by his order, no one on the premises should leave it, nor should any one talk about the case. "i don't want a word to leak about this," said he to mrs. bond. "mr. villard was in no way to blame for it, therefore he should not be subjected to wild rumors that would involve his good name and that of a pure young woman now happily married." "i will talk to all of the servants and appeal to their sense of justice, for they all love the master," replied mrs. bond. "that we will all keep mum, you may be sure." "and it wouldn't be a bad idea to throw a scare in along with the rest. for instance, if anything leaks out about this i'll know where it comes from in a very few hours, and that will bring trouble for whoever is guilty. you make that strong, mrs. bond, for i mean every word of it," said updyke, pointing a very large finger at the fat little housekeeper. "i'll do the best i can," sighed mrs. bond. "well, i am sure of that, and you keep everybody on their toes until i arrange my plans. we'll sleep in relays to-night, but to-morrow i'll throw a human network around this place." hour upon hour the big fellow with his mouth to the phone, spread the web for the human spider that had crawled out into the black of night. sawyer came in with news concerning villard from time to time, but updyke, grim and preoccupied, merely nodded his head and motioned him back to the sick man. at midnight he finally succeeded in arousing george carver, who with his bride had been bridge-whisting all evening in a near-by home. "i need you, george," appealed updyke, "but you get about three hours' sleep before we talk about it. i don't want you to lose the much needed rest from now until three a. m., over something that i am going to ask you to do. i'll call you at sharp three, and at three thirty your flivver will be in front of your hotel--good night." "good night, you old sleep burglar. i'll turn in at once," replied carver--and the web was complete. chapter xvi. the hut across the bay it was with a grunt of relief that updyke called central for the last time pending the three o'clock date with carver. this time it was a certain switchboard operator who answered him. "miss johnson," said the big fellow, toning down the rasping voice that had been vibrated a thousand miles within the short space of four hours. "i think she has retired for the night," lisped the girl in charge. "quit thinking and connect as directed," snapped updyke, forgetting that his voice was in training for a certain event at the swathmere. "you are expected to act! and say--no listening. get that?" the next voice he heard was that of mary johnson. "it's about time you said something from somewhere," said she, knowing that the unusual had happened. "that fellow showed up at dreamy hollow to-night--you know who. much to say to-morrow morning--no holiday dinners for us yet. get to the office early, say, eight thirty and i'll spin the yarn." "big case?" "getting bigger all the time." "that little dinner, by the way--next winter--some time?" "not on your sweet young life! the first breathing spell." "i was joking dear--you----" "of course you were, we're always joking, aren't we? as long as we joke, we won't quarrel!" "speaking of--you know who--did you see him?" "no--he had done his mischief and skedaddled a few moments before i arrived. first real bad luck in a long time. bad mess down here!" "there is satisfaction in knowing that so and so is in the web. will he go out to his old haunt on the outer drive?" "in time--but not now." "why?" "he would expect us to look for him there--and we will--for a much longer time than he thinks." "had you thought of julie hayes--she still runs winifred's stand. she has sharp eyes and sharp wits. she can keep mum." "now that is a first-class tip. i'll put george onto that. i'm phoning him at three o'clock to wake him up. he doesn't know it yet, but i'm going to have him at the hut very early to-morrow morning. he can see julie and put her wise." "i believe it is the swathmere that i'm saving up that pretty new dress for--is it not?" teased mary johnson. "exactly so, dear girl--if we ever get around to it," mourned the big fellow. "i am more anxious about that little you-and-me dinner than any other thing in life, except one--that's you!" "it's time you got back on your job--good night!" "so long, dear--i'll ring you at the office soon as possible to-morrow morning." "take a little nap--why don't you?" "yeah!--take a little nap!--i hardly see myself shutting my eyes on a night like this. but i might--so you go to bed yourself and get that beauty sleep." as the phones clicked off updyke with stubborn tenacity, lunged back into the woof of his spider web. everything seemed well in hand. inquiry as to villard showed satisfactory progress. he would live, but how he would come out of it was a question for father time to solve. finally he called for santzi and told him to sit by and wake him at prompt two-forty-five, and in two minutes more from the depths of the lounge he was competing with the fog horns of south bay. to george carver three o'clock was an unearthly rising hour, as many a man would willingly bear witness. but winifred, at two-thirty, had switched on the current under the percolator, and only awaited the presence of her liege lord and master before connecting the toaster. it was the enticing odor of the bacon and coffee, not the alarm clock's mad music, that sent the young husband under the shower. at two-forty-five the telephone tingled, and winifred ran forward to answer. "are you up?" shouted a well-known voice, in a drowsy tone. "can't you smell the coffee and bacon?" replied winifred, gaily--"and the noise of that awful man under the shower? i'll tell him you're waiting. he's making more fuss than a porpoise," she concluded as she hastily snatched a bathrobe and hung it on a hook near the shower room. "parkins has disclosed himself and his whereabouts," were updyke's first words, as winifred's husband took up the receiver. "that sounds interesting," replied carver, with enthusiasm. "glad to hear you say so, and i'll add--especially so, to you!" "humph! give me the details," replied carver, who analyzed quickly. "listen carefully, boy, and don't get excited about anything i tell you. by all means don't repeat any part of it to winifred that concerns herself." "yep--i get you--what's up?" "the scoundrel was here at dreamy hollow, just after dark. i was on my way down but he had done his mischief and gone before i arrived. the scene was in so and so's office where he appeared suddenly--bound and gagged jacques who was taking out a tray of dishes. then slipped over to so and so and covered him with a silencer automatic." "you don't say!" "yep--he demanded the whereabouts of a certain girl--accused so and so of stealing her and gave him a third degree. so and so steadfastly refused all information, giving no inkling of her marriage or address. julie hayes is the only one in patchogue who knows her real address--get me?" "yep--go on--what happened between so and so and----" "so and so was beaten over the head with the butt of the revolver--knocked senseless. santzi and jerry looked in, wondering why jacques had not returned with the tray of dishes. unarmed they ran to spread alarm, but the whelp had escaped on their return." "how--only one door to the room?" "just one--and only two windows--north and east corners, for light on his desk. no furniture to speak of--just his big square flat-top, council table--chair, lounge, and filing cases. the scoundrel disappeared through the east window." "what do you suggest for me to do?" "light out as quickly as possible for patchogue. see chief mack. i couldn't reach him by phone. had gone somewhere--not expected back until very late. i left word for him to call me, but he hasn't so far." "any one else?" "see julie hayes--she's safe. have her keep sharp eye out and phone me here anything she sees or learns about the scoundrel. then you go to his hut on the outer drive--pick up a ranger at patchogue and have him stay there day and night. have him supplied with provisions--julie will help him, without exposing our hand. tell her i'll pay all bills--have them sent to me, here." "you must feel pretty certain that he will turn up at the hut--sooner or later?" said carver enquiringly. "i do--and i think he is more likely to go there by water," answered updyke, with a ring of conviction in his voice. "why would he come here at all?" "because he has a lot of gold to conceal that he can't deposit without answering questions." "why?" "it's canadian coinage mostly, and would come under suspicion." "give me a reason for that," said carver. "i'm not very well posted in such matters." "he was sent to quebec with the pay roll of a lumber company, up in the timber country, where i had sent him for keeps. the shyster played square and seemed so honest that they intrusted him with a check on a bank in quebec. he kept on going, changing into american money as fast as he could without arousing suspicion. he has a lot of gold left and i think he has it cached near the hut. but he may not go near it for some time. he now wears whiskers and mustache, raven black--i'd say from description, but he is easily recognized. jacques says villard knew him the moment he saw him. better write out a 'john doe' and have it ready. i don't want his real name to come out--yet," said updyke, yawning loud enough to be heard at riverhead. "all right, henry, i'll be on my way. i'll let you know my whereabouts from time to time. better turn in for a three hours' nap while i'm getting to destination." "that's just what i'll do, now that you're on the job. so long, and good luck." chapter xvii. the wolf hound's new master far famed detectives have lived in all ages, but it remained for the modern operative to enlarge the perspective. intuition still ruled as a first qualification, but the real prime requisite changed to "knowledge of men." not only their cunning but the whites of their eyes and the shapes of their heads. the "hatchet face" one type, the "round head" another, and the month they were born in--an important clue as to temperament. on the charts prenatal influence had much space for remarks--also the color, of eyes, and the color of hair, curly or straight, the nose pug or aquiline--the mouth large or small--curved up or down. parkins, on the updyke chart, registered as "low brow," meaning thick hair growing far down the forehead--no matter the color. but when considering hair, red heads warned of danger--once started, they fight. black hair generally stood for impulsiveness and quick temper. that was the parkins type, with hair as dark as a raven. born in june, his stone was the agate--naturally drifting toward the "good fellow" class--the kind that need wonderful mothers to hold them in check through the days of their youth. george carver, now flivvering his way to patchogue, was a brown haired "husky" with big open face that bespoke sterling character, and what is known as "horse sense." instead of being brilliant, he was apt and quick of discernment. he could match with all types and win by his coolness. but he knew the value of getting in with the first blow. to him a run on lonesome roads meant nothing, either in daylight or darkness--he was always prepared--his intuition unerring. so when entering patchogue he skirted the town on its farthest east line and hit the trail for the outer drive. the townspeople were just rubbing their eyes before leaving their beds when he muffled his engine and scooted across the little city. by the time he returned the stores would be open and julie hayes would have taken down the shutters from winifred's booth. when in close proximity to the parkins hut his small car, with hood down, was turned off the trail into an arroyo. from there, with a pair of strong field glasses in the early morning light, he drew the little shack right up to his eyes. he could see every crack in the unpainted planks, and by maneuvering, belly fashion, along the grassy slope, he gained a knowledge of three sides. in the rear a huge wolfhound lay curled in a heap, and the chain in its collar reached through the boarding, evidently permitting release from inside. it was a dangerous moment, had a breeze from the north been stirring, for one whiff of strange flesh might have brought on a death struggle. with an automatic forty-five silencer drawn along at his right side, and a pistol in holster for close quarters, carver drew a "bead" on the dog and awaited further developments. he watched the big brute with the eyes of a hawk, and noted through his glasses that the animal slept uneasily. it might have been the cold of early morning, but a wolf hound had never been known to shiver in less than zero weather. carver was well posted on dogs. he was that type of man at whom dogs never snapped or offered to bite. so, with silencer in readiness, he puckered his lips and gave a low whistle. at once the big brute arose to his haunches and whined. something wrong about the premises was carver's first thought. a dog of that breed would not bid for friendship with a stranger unless actuated by an instinct that a friend was near by. but it was no time to take chances. the first thing he thought of was that parkins had not returned and the dog had been left without water or food. on the other hand a wolf hound invariably fought the stranger at its gate. they were never allowed to roam at large except in forest camps, or on extensive estates. the situation was altogether strange, and, to prove it, carver rose to his knees. he expected a wild lunge on the part of the dog but the brute rose to all fours and wagged his tail, whining the while, as he strained at his chain. that seemed full evidence that parkins was not in the hut, and forthwith he stood up and walked toward the dog, now manifesting great joy. at the length of his chain carver reached out his hand, but with one eye on the hut--then he patted the dog on its head. that settled the friendship between them. carver then pulled out a chocolate bar and tearing off the wrapper reached out his hand. one sniff and the big brute took it into his mouth and practically swallowed it whole. he was starving--further evidence that the master was still at large. after parting with his last piece of chocolate carver walked to the front of the hut and tried the door. it was locked. he then took out a bunch of keys and tried to fit one in the lock, but none of them would enter. then he reached for his electric torch and peered into the keyhole--there was a key inside that obstructed! carver dropped to the ground, on his stomach, and with his automatic reached far up on the door and gave it a thump. there was no response, whereupon carver shouted--"parkins" in a voice both harsh and loud. "wake up, you scoundrel, and open this door! you can't play any tricks on us! we've got you surrounded! make one bad move and we'll kill you!" there was no answer--except the whining of the dog in the rear. "what do you say, boys!" shouted carver to his "phantom" companions. "shall we burn the place down? those in favor will raise their right hands! unanimous, eh?--then bring the oil can," continued carver, who shouted-"we give you one minute to open the door--hush boys!--keep your eyes open, and cover this place. when i say the word put a match to the oil!" then all became still save the dog in the rear, which strained at its chain and sent up pitiful howls, as if baying at the moon now fading in the early daylight. no answer forthcoming he kicked at the door and it made his blood tingle as it swung back--wide open! carver jumped to one side and reached for his torch, with that in his left hand he searched the front room. it was a moment when courage had no chance to take counsel. the advantage now lay with the man that he sought. the glare of the torchlight swung into each corner, all over the room, and under the bed, but only a shirt and some clothing lay on top of it. parkins had been there recently for the imprint of his body showed on the coverlet and an empty bottle rested under the pillow. next came the bath-kitchenette. one glance into that and the story was told! in his night clothes parkins lay dead in his bath tub, his legs at the bottom and his dead body floating. his eyes, partly closed, seemed to stare at a picture, an old-fashioned daguerreotype. "from mother" was printed at the bottom of the cheap little frame. on the floor were empty bottles, and one partly filled, was clutched in the dead man's hand. evidently he had placed it there within easy reach, as he lay in the water refreshing himself--hours after his escape from dreamy hollow. making careful notation on a sheet from his note book carver drew a rough plan of the scene to be given to updyke. in a combination cupboard he found the remainder of a parcel of food, crackers and sausage, and a slice of cold beef. these were fed to the famishing dog, then closing the door he hurried back to patchogue, where he phoned dreamy hollow. "well--it's all for the best," said updyke, not without a shade of sorrow at the tragic death of the man. "he was a stormy petrel, as i've often said, and he sacrificed his life upon the altar of booze." "i'm thinking of winifred," said carver, huskily. "she----" "calm your soul on that point--she never loved him. he was thought to be a friend of the family, but she found that he was just an old-fashioned knave. she and i have talked over this whole matter, and i know what i say is true. shall i phone her the news?" "yes, if you will. what shall i do about the corpse?" "just turn the whole matter over to the coroner, and if any questions are asked, refer him to me. there is no longer any chance of publicity. a burial notice among the paid advertisements. that's best for him, and best for all. after you have made your report to the coroner beat it for home and go to bed." "but that wonderful dog--i want him! we already love each other." "go get him and take him with you. but don't you ever tell your wife that he once belonged to so and so. just say that the poor thing seemed to have no master so you picked him up and brought him home. now that is no lie." "you are a great old bird, henry. i'll do as you say. no use to talk with julie, i imagine, except about the booth." "that's all," said updyke, "go on about your business and i'll pick up the matter just where you left off." "tell mary that she may stand a chance to get that quiet little dinner after all," laughed carver. "what do you know about that?" "i'm a married man and we fellows know everything!" "that will be all from you! i may cut you out of my gold expedition, if you get gay. so long." the death and burial of william parkins received the exact amount of space that updyke had indicated to george carver--four nonpareil lines among the death notices--paid for by the updyke agency. henry updyke himself wrote the announcement. and then came the search for the stolen funds which were quickly found within a hundred feet of the hut with only a thousand missing. the quebec agency was notified quickly and the bank officers were profoundly thankful. they wanted to reward the agent, but that was tabooed by a terse telegram. "we never take money that we do not earn stop we sent the man up in your country to reform him stop we accept the liability as our own and are sending check today for a thousand. for all favors we thank you--signed updyke." at last came the evening when, without the least "fuss and feathers," mary johnson leaned back in henry updyke's big car and drank in the ozone of westchester county. she looked a dream in her light summer furs and stylish coat that concealed her pretty party gown. twenty miles whizzed by with little in the way of conversation when suddenly the car made a quick turn, and stopped in the shadows of a great boulder. behind them lay riverdale, and the black forests of spuyten duyvel loomed ahead, just across the east river, five hundred feet below. the moon was now doing its best to light up the mighty hudson. nothing like this grandeur had mary johnson's eyes beheld. a thrill of ecstasy crept into her heart. a new world was opening before her, and all within the limits of little old manhattan, where all kinds of worlds exist--pay as you enter and take your choice. "i never dreamed of such splendor!" sighed mary, her heart filled with emotion, which was just like most women, who cry when they are glad. "well, little girl, while you go on dreaming i'm going to say something to you," said updyke, gruffly. "i'm always glad to hear your voice, dear," replied the girl still awed by the scene. "i love you!" exclaimed updyke, in as harsh a tone as a frightened man of his size could muster. "say it again," said mary, snuggling closer. "i meant it the first time, and i never repeat," he fumed uneasily. "oh, do--just to please me," she whispered. "no, mam!--what i want is a kiss!" "s'pose we kiss each other--dear?" "all right here goes," and with that updyke took her bodily into his arms and held her there until the moon lady looked down and laughed at them. and when all was said, and the gardens of their two hearts had been merged into one, updyke suddenly recollected the seats he had engaged on the swathmere roof. "i am hungry, mary. shall we jog along back?" he asked meekly, as if taking orders for the first time in his life. "i could stay here forever," said she, putting her lips up to be kissed. "let's get married to-night," suggested updyke, his eyes aflame. "no, sir! with one good dress to my name--never!" exclaimed the girl. "well, you hurry up those dresses. your pay is raised one thousand dollars. draw it to-morrow and go up the line. you ought to get a couple of 'em for that," said he, grinning. "thanks for the raise, dear, but i'll buy my own wedding clothes. i haven't thrown my earnings away. how about that little dinner at the----" "nuff said," replied updyke, "but you just keep those arms about me while i do the driving. they don't seem to bother me," said he, chuckling down in her pretty face. at the swathmere two tall hatted porters ran out to the car, and with much ado landed the guests under the canopied entrance, where they were met by the captain and escorted up-top to the table that updyke had engaged. "does you know who that big fellow is?" inquired one porter of the other. "i don't reckon i does. he don't look good to me, nohow!" was the answer. "well, be ca'ful of yo' step when you see him edgin' yo' way!" warned the other. "he's de bigges' ov 'em all--gits 'um goin'--and gits 'um comin'--is you guilty?--den kiss yo' baby good-by!" chapter xviii. flight of a soul beautiful dreamy hollow, peaceful, charming--with the master always on hand. no longer in business he lived in a dreamland and never looked out except toward the sea. alone, he lived in silence, with only the future state in mind. alone!--not just that--for way up in the skies a sweet soul was waiting and beckoning to him. he could see her quite plainly as the veil lifted at night, and also, whenever he looked this way or that--those were terrible blows that the mad parkins dealt! only the strong of heart could have survived them and turned them to account--but drury villard, once the farseeing financier, only looked at the heavens and bided his time. things earthly were now forgotten, and old friends forsaken, not with malice aforethought, but because of a tiny link missing--the mischief of a dreadful night. to talk with himself was no trouble at all, but to sit and laugh at his own jokes when no one seemed near lent a pathos to those who chanced to look on. but the winifred of his first love heard him, and evidently applauded, for when unduly excited he ran to the window and clapped both his hands--then called out her name! just why mrs. bond should cry and run out of his presence was a mystery to him. and santzi, wide-eyed, when he took the master to drive, sometimes felt compelled to signal jacques to turn back. to avoid passers-by the woods road were used, but the birds seemed to know that a friend was out riding. the blue jays shouted at him and he shouted back, as near in their language as he could imitate. then one day came a great specialist from over the ocean. a cable to updyke told the date of his sailing, and when the big liner warped in at her hoboken dock, he was on hand to welcome, and took the expert in charge. a few days went by before arrangements were ready, and certain experts engaged to help on the case. it was quite a big party that trailed the updyke machine down from the city. among them several nurses--one of them winifred--with carver's consent--for hers was the one name that villard seemed to remember--so carver himself came along as her escort. of course winifred had nothing to do with the others, or the lances and things--but she was there all in white, as the patient came to, and she was the first person he knew when he opened his eyes. there she was in the life, all smiles, with her husband, and villard smiled at him, too. "i--thought you had--all deserted me," said he weakly, but winifred put a finger over his blue lips, and whispered---"don't talk, uncle drury--just rest--that's a dear. we're not going to leave you until you are strong and well! there now, close your dear eyes and go back to rest. we'll--not leave you--go back to sleep--back to dreamland--you'll soon be----" and with a smile on his lips villard lapsed into slumber. as the great surgeon looked on, a smile lighted his face, and with actual tears in his eyes he grasped winifred's hand. he had risked his reputation in coming to "far-off america" on such a hopeless case. and to win!---"most wonderful!" said he. "there's nothing that answers the call of returning reason as the voice of a sweet woman," he concluded, as he again grasped her hand, and this time squeezed it hard. then to george carver he said: "you're the right kind, young man. you'll go far in the world." in less than a week villard sat out in the sunshine, with light blankets about him, and winifred near. she read to him, sang to him, laughed at him, called him a bear, and teased him for trying to live alone. "if you and george move down here and live with me, i'll will to you both, in common, a cold million dollars," said villard eagerly. "and me leave my dear little white cottage! oh, how could you dare to tempt me, uncle drury!" she exclaimed, with a laugh. "i mean it, little woman," said villard, very soberly. "well, don't tell george that, please. he likes you now, and it might turn him against you. don't you see, dear man, he wants to make his own way in the world!" "he is right, little woman, and you are going to help him, more than he will know," replied villard, with enthusiasm. "well, if you just knew all about it, you'd think differently. he is so active, and so kindly, that he often steals out of his bed and cooks his own breakfast rather than awaken old lazy bones--that's me," laughed winifred. "it won't hurt him, and it shows his affection. he'll rise in the world--all good husbands do." and so ran the days by until villard, in sheer pity for carver's young bride, sent her away in his car to the home that she loved. then back to his old haunts he went straightway--to the window where the open sea came into view. from that point of vantage, somehow, he heard the voice of his old love, bidding him come--and with a prayer in his heart he lay back and died. when updyke came down to take charge of affairs, a letter was handed to him by the weeping housekeeper--mrs. bond's heart seemed broken! "don't cry," said he gently. "he's happier now than he would be on earth. there's a reason that's sacred, but you may take it from me that for years he has waited impatiently for his time to go." seated in a deep leather chair updyke opened the letter. it was short and to the point. it read: dear henry: my will is in the bankers deposit company vault room. the enclosed release is made out in your name. you will find instructions along with the will--your name is entered as trustee, without bond. as ever, faithfully, drury villard. and so passed from earth a man of big soul, whose wealth had not spoiled him, nor brought much joy. as trustee, updyke soon fathomed the great heart of the man. not one person having the least lien upon his generosity was omitted from his will. only within the past month had parkins' name been stricken from it--just scratched with a pen, and initialed d. v.--without giving reasons. each servant came in for a good start in life. dreamy hollow was to be turned into a home for aged and infirm nurses. his business was to be divided equally between his old partners to the extent of his holdings--three-fourths of the whole. of the individuals mentioned updyke came first--he to have twenty thousand a year for ten years while settling the estate, and to sawyer his watch and an annuity of five thousand a year if any misfortune should ever befall him. to updyke's wife mary, in token of her faithful attention to his affairs as they related to the updyke agency--twenty thousand dollars in cash. and last, but not least, was his legacy to winifred barbour carver, "share and share alike with her good husband, george"--one hundred thousand dollars--"and an additional sum of fifty thousand to their first offspring." "in further acknowledgment of my high regard for the carver family i hereby appoint mrs. winifred carver chairman of the board of directors of dreamy hollow home for aged and infirm nurses." "and through the veil to the great unknown, sped the soul of an upright man." so wrote the girl, winifred, as an epitaph for the tomb of drury villard. online distributed proofreaders canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [illustration: first-floor plan] faulkner's folly by carolyn wells author of "the bride of a moment" [illustration: publisher logo] new york george h. doran company copyright, 1917, by george h. doran company copyright, 1917, by the frank a. munsey company. printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i. in the studio 9 ii. where they stood 23 iii. what they said 37 iv. goldenheart 51 v. blake's story 65 vi. mrs. faulkner's account 79 vii. natalie not joyce 94 viii. the emeralds 108 ix. one or the other 123 x. orienta 137 xi. sealed envelopes 151 xii. a vision 165 xiii. an alibi needed 180 xiv. from seven to seventy 192 xv. natalie in danger 206 xvi. confession and arrest 220 xvii. alan ford 234 xviii. questions and answers 248 xix. ford's day 262 xx. on the staircase 276 faulkner's folly i in the studio beatrice faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall. a perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though mrs. faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. she descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman's back, when he should have been standing at attention. he might not have heard her soft footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very slightly ajar. faulkner's folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been its original owner. it was a perfect example of the type known in england as georgian and in our own country as colonial, a style inspired by the italian disciples of palladio, and as developed by inigo jones and christopher wren, it had seemed to james faulkner to possess the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home. the house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had been the architect's joy and delight. it showed the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down from the jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and rather plain balusters. but the carved wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds and faulkner's folly, in little more than two years after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value. james faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had been her own home. the man who bought faulkner's folly was one who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. eric stannard, the artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great wealth, and a friend of long standing, took faulkner's house with much joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up. a part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of mrs. faulkner by the master hand of the new owner; but faulkner's death had postponed this, and now, a widow of two years, beatrice was staying at the stannards' while the picture was being painted. partly because of sentiment toward her husband's favourite feature of the house, and partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities, beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had selected for the portrait. but on this particular evening, beatrice had no thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening of the studio door. "blake," she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. as the stannards' guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts' servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of her own rule in that house. even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled face,--it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance. "blake! what is it?" she said, alarmed at his manner. "what are you doing?" "i--heard a strange sound, madame,--from the studio----" "a strange sound?" and beatrice came along the hall toward the footman. "and the lights in there, just went out----" "the lights went out! what do you mean, blake? it is not your business if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?" "no, madame--but--there, madame! did you not hear that?" "oh, yes, yes," and beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry faintly, "help!" it was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire extremity. "what can it be? go in, blake, at once! turn on the lights!" "yes, madame," and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch. it was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest corners. beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned. "i knew it was something dreadful!" blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech. beatrice gave one gasping "oh!" and covered her face with her hands. but in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her. at the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat eric stannard, limp and motionless. from his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom. "is he--is he----" began beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene. behind stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. they were joyce, his wife, and miss vernon, a model. joyce, only a few feet from her husband's left shoulder, was glaring at natalie vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream. unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, beatrice and blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. the man got his wits together first. "we must do something," he muttered, starting toward his master. "there is some accident----" as if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him. "eric," she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side. but she got no further. with one glance at his distorted face she sank to the ground almost fainting. "who did this, sir?" blake cried out, standing before stannard. the dying man attempted to raise his right hand. shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model. "natalie," he said, "not joyce." the last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat. "no!" natalie screamed. "no! eric, don't say----" but eric stannard would say no word again in this world. beatrice faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows. "do something, blake," she cried. "get a doctor. get mr. barry. call halpin. oh, joyce, what does it all mean?" then mrs. faulkner forced herself to go to joyce's assistance, and gently raised her from the floor, where she was still crouching by her husband's side. "i don't--know--" returned joyce stannard, her frightened eyes staring in tearless agony. "did you kill him, natalie?" "no!" cried the girl. "you know i didn't! you killed him yourself!" halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by miller, who was stannard's own man. astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable servants took the helm. "telephone for doctor keith," miller told the other, "and then find mr. barry." barry stannard was eric's son by a former marriage; a boy of twenty, of lovable and sunny disposition, and devoted to his father and to his young stepmother. he soon appeared, for he had been found strolling about the grounds. he came in at halpin's message, and seeing the still figure in the armchair, sprang toward it, with a cry. then, as suddenly, he turned, and without a word or glance at any one else, he ran from the room. without touching it further than to assure himself that life was really extinct, miller stood, a self-appointed sentinel over the body of his dead master. he looked curiously at the instrument of death, but said no word concerning it. there was more or less confusion. several servants, both men and women, came to the doors, some daring to enter, but except in one or two instances, miller ordered them out. annette, mrs. stannard's maid, he advised to look after the ladies, and foster, a houseman, he detailed to keep an eye on barry. "where is mr. barry?" asked the man. "i don't know," returned miller, calmly. "he just stepped out--probably he's on the terrace. don't annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he wants you." the three women of the household said almost nothing. mrs. faulkner was so stupefied by the situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which she had found her hostess and the girl, natalie, she could think of nothing to say to either. and the two who had stood near the dying man, as the light disclosed the group, were equally silent. annette proffered fans and _sal volatile_ impartially to all three, but she, also, though usually too voluble, had no words. after what seemed an interminable wait, dr. keith arrived. "stabbed," he said, briefly, as he examined the body, "and with one of his own etching needles! who did it?" "with what?" exclaimed mrs. faulkner, looking puzzled. "with an etching point--or needle. an artist's tool. who did it?" there was a silence, not so much awkward, as fraught with horror. who could answer this question, even by a surmise. blake threw himself into the breach. "we don't know, sir," he said. "it was doubtless done in the dark, and, when i turned up on the lights--the--the murderer had fled." a half exclamation from joyce seemed to deny this assertion, and natalie's lovely face again showed that hunted, terrified look that had marked it at first. "where's barry?" went on dr. keith. "i am here," said young stannard, himself, coming in from the terrace. "dr. keith, i want this matter hushed up. i am master here now, and horrible though it may all be, it will not lessen our trouble, but rather increase it, if you have any investigation or inquiry made into this thing." dr. keith looked at the speaker in amazement. "you don't know what you're talking about, barry, my boy. it is not possible to ignore the facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. do you know who stabbed your father?" "no, i do not. nor do i want to know. father is gone, no persecution of any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never be found." "why not? why do you say that?" "i feel sure of it. oh, listen to me, dr. keith. be guided by my wishes, and do not seek the one who brought about my father's death. joyce, you agree with me, don't you?" the young fellow had never addressed his father's wife more formally than this; indeed, there was not much more than half a dozen years between their ages, and joyce, at twenty-seven or thereabouts, looked almost as young as her stepson. there had always been good comradeship between the two, and during the two years joyce had been stannard's wife she and barry had never had a word of disagreement or unpleasantness of any sort. about six weeks ago, natalie vernon, a professional model, had come to pose for stannard, and as she had proved most satisfactory, eric had informed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as a house guest for a time. joyce had voiced no objection, whatever she may have felt in her heart, and had always treated natalie with all courtesy and kindness. the girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect blonde, with a face like dresden china and a form of fairylike grace. the soft pink and white of her apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes and the gleaming gold of her wonderful hair were greuze-like in their effects, yet of an added piquancy and charm. it is not to be wondered at that barry promptly fell in love with her, nor is it remarkable that eric himself was more or less under the spell of his beautiful model. a worshipper of all beauty, stannard could not help it if his soul bowed down to this masterpiece of nature's. a professional model natalie was, but only for the draped figure. she was but eighteen, had been well brought up and educated, but, obliged to earn her own living, had found she had no resources of work except in her god-given beauty. posing was a joy to her, and she had posed for but a few artists and those of the better, even best class. but eric, accustomed to having whatever he desired, was determined natalie should pose for some allegorical figures in a great picture on which he was engaged. this she refused to do, and the more stannard insisted the more obdurate she became, until there was continual war between them on the subject. and owing to this state of things, natalie had decided she must leave "faulkner's folly," and it was only barry's entreaties that had thus far kept her from fulfilling her intentions. joyce, herself a beautiful woman, of the dark-haired, brown-eyed type, had often been a model for eric's pictures, and if she resented being superceded by this peaches and cream maiden, she never confided the fact to those about her. joyce stannard was clever by nature, and she knew the quickest way to make her impressionable husband fall desperately in love with natalie, was for her, his wife, to be openly jealous. so this joyce would not appear to be. she chaffed him gaily about his doll-faced model and treated natalie with the patronising generosity one would show to a pretty child. but if joyce was clever, natalie was too, and she took this treatment exactly as it was offered, and returned it in kind. her manner to her hostess was entirely correct, well-bred and even indicative of gratitude; but it also implied, with subtle touch, the older and more settled state of joyce, and gave a hint of contrast in the freshness of natalie's extreme youth and the permissibility of a spice of the madcap in her ways. but all these things, on both sides, were so veiled, so delicately suggested, that they were imperceptible to any but the closest observer. and now, whatever the facts of eric stannard's death might be shown to be, now it must soon be made known that when the lights of the room where he died were turned on, they had revealed these two--his wife and his paid model--near his stricken body, already quivering with its last few heartbeats. in answer to barry's question, joyce lifted her white face. "i don't know--" she said, slowly, "i suppose--as dr. keith says--these things must be--be attended to in--in the usual way. but i, too, shrink from the awful publicity and the harrowing experience we must go through,--beatrice, what do you think?" mrs. faulkner replied, with a gentle sympathy: "i fear it won't matter what we think, joyce, dear. the law will step in, as always, in case of a crime, and our opinions or wishes will count for nothing." "i have sent for the coroner and for the police," said dr. keith, who had given halpin many whispered orders. "now, barry, don't be unreasonable. you can no more stop the routine of the law's procedure than the stars in their courses. if you know any facts you must be prepared to state them truthfully. if not, you must say or do nothing that will put any obstacle in the way of proper inquiry." dr. keith was treating barry like a child, and though the boy resented it, he said nothing, but his face showed his hurt pride and his disappointment. "tell us all you can of the facts of the attack," said beatrice faulkner to the doctor. "the simple facts are plainly seen," was the reply. "some one standing in front of mr. stannard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed him with the etching needle. the instrument penetrated his flesh, just above and a little to one side of the breast bone, piercing the jugular vein and causing almost instant death." "could it not have been a suicide?" "impossible, mrs. faulkner. stannard could not have managed that thrust, and, too, the position of his hands precludes the theory of suicide. but the coroner and his physician will, i am sure, corroborate my statement. it is a clear case of wilful murder, for, as you must see for yourself, no accidental touch of that instrument would bring about such a deep sinking of the point in a vital part of the victim." "but, if i may ask, sir," said miller, respectfully, "how could a murderer see to strike such a blow in a dark room? while mr. stannard _could_ have stabbed himself in the dark." "those points are outside my jurisdiction," returned the doctor, looking grave. "the coroner and the police detectives will endeavour to give the answers to your perfectly logical queries." and then the men from police headquarters arrived. ii where they stood the countryside was in a tumult. a murder mystery at faulkner's folly, of all places in the world! rensselaer park, the aristocratic long island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit, could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. and the criminal? public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either burglarious or inimical. of course, a man of eric stannard's position and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from paris, france, to paris, maine. equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers. but the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl being implicated, were absurd. to be sure, the installation of miss vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but eric stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, mrs. stannard had always introduced the girl as her friend. the stannards were comparatively new people at the park, but mrs. faulkner, whose husband had built the folly, was even now visiting there, and her sanction was enough for the community. it would, one must admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it was too impossible. no, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder. thus the neighbours. but the police thought differently. the report of the post patrolman who first appeared upon the scene of the tragedy included a vivid description of the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole force, from the inspector down, determined to discover which was guilty. to them the death of eric stannard was merely a case, but from the nature of things it was, or would become, a celebrated case, and as such, they were elated over their connection with it. in due course, the coroner's inquest took place, and was held in the big studio where eric stannard had met his death. owing to the personality of coroner lamson, this was not the perfunctory proceeding that inquests sometimes are, but served to bring out the indicative facts of the situation. it was the day after the murder and the room was partially filled with the officers of the law, the jury and a crowd of morbidly curious strangers. it seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures, statues and artistic paraphernalia. in the original plan the studio had been a ballroom, but its fine north light and great size fitted it for the workroom of the master painter. nor was the brush the only implement of eric stannard. he had experimented with almost equal success in pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become deeply interested in etching. and it had been one of his own etching needles that had been the direct cause of his untimely death. this fact was testified to by doctor keith, who further detailed his being called to the house the night before. he stated that he had arrived within fifteen minutes after mr. stannard--as the family had told him--had breathed his last. examination of the body had disclosed that death was caused by the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon, which was not removed until later, was a tool known as an etcher's needle, a slender, sharp instrument, set in a wooden handle, the whole being not unlike a brad-awl. on being shown the needle, the doctor identified it as the instrument of death. blake, the footman, was next questioned. he was of calm demeanour and impassive countenance, but his answers were alert and intelligent. "too much so," thought mr. robert roberts, a police detective, who had been put upon the case, to his own decided satisfaction. "that man knows what he's talking about, if he is a wooden-face." now, roberts, called by his chums, bobsy, was himself alert and intelligent, and therefore recognised those traits in others. he listened attentively as coroner lamson put his queries. "you were the first to discover your master's dead body?" "mr. stannard was not dead when i entered the room," replied blake. "no, no, to be sure. i mean, you were the first to enter the room after the man was stabbed?" "that i can't say. when i entered----" blake paused, and glanced uncertainly about. barry stannard was looking at the footman with a stern face. inspector bardon, who was present, interposed. "tell the story in your own words, my man. we'll best get at it that way." "i was on duty in the hall," began blake, slowly, "and i noticed the lights go out in the studio here----" "was the door between the hall and studio open?" asked lamson. "no, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar. i didn't think much about the light going out, though mr. stannard never turned off the lights when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. and if it did strike me as a bit queer, i had no time to think the matter over, for just then i heard a slight sound,--a gasping like, as if somebody was in distress. as i had not been called, i didn't enter, but i did try to peep in at the crack of the door. this was not curiosity, but there was something in that gasp that--that scared me a little." "what next?" said the coroner, as blake paused. "just then, sir, mrs. faulkner came down the stairs. she was surprised to see me peeping at a door, and spoke chidingly. but i was so alarmed, i forgot myself, and--well, and just then, i heard a distinct sound--a terrible, gurgling sound, and a voice said, 'help!' i turned to mrs. faulkner to see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face looked frightened and she asked me what it meant, and she told me to go in and turn on the light. so--so, i did, and then i saw----" "be very careful now, blake; tell us exactly what you saw." "i saw mr. stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying----" "have you ever seen a man die?" lamson snapped out the words as if his own nerves were at a tension. "no--no, sir." "then how do you know how one would look?" "i saw something had been thrust into his breast, i saw red stains on his shirt front, and i saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles. i couldn't think other than that he was a dying man, sir." "that is what i want you to tell, blake. an exact account of the scene as it appeared to you. now the rest of it. were you too absorbed in the spectacle of mr. stannard's plight to see clearly the others who were present?" "no, sir," and the man's calm face quivered now. "it is as if photographed on my brain. i can never forget it. behind mr. stannard were the two ladies, mrs. stannard and miss vernon." "directly behind him?" "not that, exactly. mrs. stannard stood behind, but off toward his left, and miss vernon was behind, but toward the right." "show me exactly, blake, where these two ladies stood," and coroner lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled. "oh, sir," begged blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members of the household which employed him, "oh, sir--mrs. faulkner, sir,--she came in with me,--she can tell better than i----" "mrs. faulkner will be questioned in due time. you came in first; we will hear your version and then hers. be accurate now." with great hesitancy, blake stepped to the spots he had designated. "mrs. stannard stood here," he said, indicating a position perhaps a yard back and to the left of stannard's chair, which was still in its place. "what was she doing?" "nothing, sir. one hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped against her breast." "and miss vernon?" "she was over here," and blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its other side, and stood near the outer door. "how was she standing?" "against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth, like it would upset in a minute." "and her hands?" "they were both behind her, sir, clutching at the table." "you have a wonderful memory, blake," and the coroner looked hard at his witness. "not always, sir. but the thing is like a picture to my mind." "like a moving picture?" "no, sir, nobody moved. it was like a tableau, sir----" "and then," prompted inspector bardon. at this point, barry stannard was again seen to look at blake with a glance of deep concentration. "important, if true," detective roberts said to himself. "young stannard is afraid of the footman's further disclosures!" whether that was so or not, blake suddenly lost his power of clear and concise narration. "why, then----" he stammered, "then, all was confusion. i started toward mr. stannard, it--it seemed my duty. and mrs. faulkner, she came toward him----" "and the two ladies behind him?" "they came toward him, too, and mrs. stannard took hold of his hand----" "well?" "well, sir, i couldn't help it, sir--i blurted out, 'who did this?' and mr. stannard--he said----" "_said!_ spoke?" attention was concentrated on the footman, and it is doubtful if any one save roberts noticed barry stannard's face. it was drawn in an agonised protest at the forthcoming revelation. but blake, accustomed to obeying orders implicitly, continued to tell his story. "yes, sir, he spoke--sort of whispered, in a gasping way----" "and what did he say?" "he said, 'natalie, not joyce.'" "you are sure?" "yes, sir," answered the stolid blake. "and he sort of raised his hand, pointing toward the lady." "pointing toward miss vernon, you mean?" "yes, sir." barry stannard could stand it no longer. "i won't have this!" he cried. "i won't allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. it's all wrong!" the coroner considered. it did seem too bad to listen to the vital points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at stake. "sit down, for the present, blake," he said. "mrs. faulkner, will you give us your version of these events?" beatrice faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then with a sudden, determined air, she faced the coroner, and said, "certainly. will you ask questions?" the beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence than she had done on her first mute refusal. her large, soft black eyes rested on joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to natalie, the little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. with a deep sigh, beatrice turned to the coroner. "i am ready," she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times and seasons. a little awed, coroner lamson asked: "do you corroborate the story as just related by blake, the footman?" "yes, i think so," and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as if in an effort of recollection. though fully thirty-five, beatrice faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to joyce or natalie she seemed a middle-aged matron. "i am sure i agree with his facts as stated, as to our entering the room, but i'm not sure he was able to hear clearly the words spoken by mr. stannard. i was not." "you were not?" "no. i heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but i am not ready to say positively that i clearly understood the words." "you came down stairs just as blake was peeping in at the door?" "he wasn't peeping. he was, it seemed to me, listening. i, naturally, thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and i called out his name, reprovingly. then, i suddenly realised that as he was not my footman i had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his full face toward me, and i saw that the man looked startled, and that something unusual must be happening in the studio. he told me the lights had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing 'help!' it was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. i bade blake turn on the light quickly, and then i followed him into the room." "yes, mrs. faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. now, will you tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it." "i saw mr. stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. i inferred that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him." "and how did you think this intruder had entered?" "i didn't think anything about that. one doesn't have coherent thoughts at such a moment. i realised that he had been stabbed, so of course, i assumed an assailant. then i saw his wife and miss vernon standing near him, and i had no thought save to assist in any way i might. i cried out to blake to get a doctor, and then i went to mrs. stannard's side, just as she was about to faint." "did she faint?" "no, that is, she did not entirely lose consciousness, though greatly agitated. and then, soon, the butler and miller, mr. stannard's valet, came in, and after that barry came and--and everything seemed to happen at once. doctor keith came----" "one moment, mrs. faulkner, you are getting ahead of your story. what about the words uttered by mr. stannard before he died?" "they were so inarticulate as to be unintelligible." "you swear this?" "i do. if he said 'joyce' or 'natalie,' it is not at all strange, considering that those two women were in his sight. but i repeat that he did not say them in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean any real statement. it was the unconscious speech of a dying man. in another instant he was gone." though outwardly calm, beatrice faulkner's voice trembled, and was so low as to be scarcely audible. but she stood her ground bravely, and her eyes met barry's for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding and approval. "hum," commented the astute roberts to his favourite confidant, himself, "the barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly lady is his friend, and she's helping him out. she isn't telling all she knows, or if she is, she's colouring it to save the implicated ladies." "what is your position in this house, mrs. faulkner?" the faintest gleam of amusement passed over the white face. it was almost as if he thought her a housekeeper or governess. "i am a guest," she returned, simply. "i have been staying here a few weeks for the purpose of having my portrait painted by mr. stannard." "you previously owned this house, did you not?" "my late husband, an architect of note, built it. later, it was sold to mr. stannard, who has lived in it nearly two years." "where were you just before you came down the stairs and saw blake?" "in the drawing room, on the second floor, at the other end of the house. i had been entertaining a guest, and as he had just taken leave, i went down stairs to rejoin my hostess." "where did you expect to find mrs. stannard?" "where i had left her, in the billiard room." "you left her there? how long before?" "an hour or so. there were several guests at dinner, and they had drifted to the various rooms afterward." "who were the guests at dinner?" "mr. wadsworth, who was with me in the drawing room; mr. courtenay, a neighbour, and mr. and mrs. truxton, who also live nearby." "mrs. truxton, the jewel collector?" "yes; that is the one." "there was no one else at dinner?" "only the family group; mr. and mrs. stannard, mr. barry stannard, miss vernon and myself." "once again, mrs. faulkner, you attach no significance to the words, 'natalie, not joyce,' which blake quotes mr. stannard as saying?" taken thus unexpectedly, mrs. faulkner hesitated. then she said, steadily: "i do not. they were the articulation of a brain already clouded by approaching death. he merely named the people he saw nearest to him." "that is not true! eric meant what he said!" it was joyce stannard who spoke. iii what they said with a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, coroner lamson began to question joyce. "why do you make that statement, mrs. stannard?" he said; "do you realise that it is a grave implication?" but joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said, talking rapidly, "my husband's words were in direct answer to the footman's question. blake said, 'who did this?' and mr. stannard, even pointing to miss vernon, said, 'natalie, not joyce.' could anything be plainer?" "it might seem so, yet we must take into consideration the fast clouding intellect of the dying man, and endeavour thus to get at the truth. will you tell the circumstances of your entering the room, mrs. stannard?" "of course i will. i had been in the billiard room for some time, ever since dinner, in fact----" "alone?" "not at first. several were there with me. then, later, all had gone--and--i was there alone." the speaker paused. she seemed to forget her audience and became lost in recollection or in thought. she looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit of white turned in at the throat. her brown hair waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot and her deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly luminous. "perhaps it wasn't natalie," she said, speaking breathlessly. "perhaps it wasn't miss vernon--after all." "we are not asking your opinion, mrs. stannard," said the coroner, stiffly; "kindly confine your recital to the facts as they happened." but now, the witness' poise was shaken. of a temperamental nature, joyce stannard had thought of something or realised something that affected the trend of her testimony. bobsy roberts watched her with intense interest. "well, milady," he said to her, mentally, "you've struck a snag in your well-planned defence. careful now, don't leap before you look!" "yes," said joyce, but her quivering lip precluded further speech. the coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable by the sight of her beauty and her distress, always a disquieting combination, and to hide his sympathy, he repeated, brusquely, "the facts, please, as they occurred." "i was in the billiard room," joyce began again, "and i heard, in the studio, a slight sound of some sort, and then the light in here went out." "which was first, the sound or the sudden darkness?" "the sound--no, the darkness. i don't really know. perhaps they were simultaneous." "one moment; was the billiard room lighted?" "yes." "and the door between open?" "the sliding doors were open--the curtains pulled together." glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, mr. lamson said quickly: "if they were pulled together, and the room where you were was light, how could you notice when this room went dark?" joyce looked bewildered. "i don't know," she said, blankly, "how could i?" the question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled, that bobsy roberts whistled to himself. but not for want of thought. his thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. "of course," his principal thought was, "one of these women is guilty. if the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn't have any of this back and forth kiyi with their eyes. now, the question is, _which_ one?" joyce and natalie had exchanged many glances. but to a stranger they were unreadable, and roberts contented himself with storing them up in his memory for future consideration. and now, as joyce looked confused and nonplussed, natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed. "but you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?" pursued lamson. "why, yes--i think so. you see--it was all so confused----" "what was?" "why,--the lights,--and that queer sound--and----" "go on, mrs. stannard. never mind the lights and the sound. you entered the studio from the billiard room, and saw----?" "i didn't see anything!" declared joyce, with a sudden toss of her head. "i c-couldn't. it was dark, you know. then somebody, blake, you know, turned the switch, and i saw miss vernon standing by my dying husband's----" "how did you know he was dying? did you see miss vernon strike the blow?" "no. but she was in the room when i entered--and, too, eric said it was natalie and not--me." "you are prepared to swear that miss vernon was in the room before you were?" "she was there when i went in." "but it was dark, how could you see her?" "i didn't. i heard her breathing in a quick, frightened way." "and when you first saw her?" "she was cowering back against the little paint stand." "looking terrified?" "yes, and----" "and what?" "and guilty." joyce said the words solemnly, as one unwillingly pronouncing a doom. "mrs. stannard, i must be unpleasantly personal. can you think of any reason why miss vernon would desire your husband's death?" joyce trembled visibly. "i cannot answer a question like that," she said, in a low tone. "i'm sorry,--but you must." "no, then," and joyce looked squarely at natalie. "i cannot imagine why she should desire his death. i certainly cannot." "but any reason why she should dislike him, or wish him ill?" "n-no." "think again." "my husband was a great artist," joyce began, as if thinking it out for herself. "he was accustomed to having his models do as he requested. miss vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and--and they were not very good friends." "but you and miss vernon are good friends? you like her?" joyce favoured natalie with a calm stare. "certainly," she said, in an even voice, "i like her." "whew!" breathed our friend roberts, silently. "at last i see what one mr. pope meant when he wrote: "damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, and, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer." for, surely, joyce's attestation of friendship between herself and the artist's model convinced nobody. she sat, gracefully erect, her serious face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound feeling beneath. "in what ways did miss vernon incur mr. stannard's displeasure?" asked lamson. "merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his pictures," was the nonchalant reply. "that, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?" "scarcely." joyce seemed to give a mere parrot-like repetition of the coroner's word. "yet, you are willing to believe that miss vernon is the criminal we are seeking?" "i do not say that," and joyce spoke softly. "i can only say i saw her here when i came into this room and found my husband dying." "might she not have come in just as you did, attracted by that strange sound, as of a man in pain?" "in that case, who could have stabbed my husband? there was no one else near. that has been testified by those who entered at the other end of the room." "could not a burglar have entered by a window, attempted robbery, and, being discovered, stabbed mr. stannard in self-preservation?" "how could he have entered?" said joyce, dully. "i can see no way. that is, he might have been in here, but in no way could he have gotten out. that great north window, i am told, opens only in a few high sectional panes. it is shaded by rollers from the bottom, and is inaccessible. the other large window, the west one, is so blocked up with easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody could get in or out of that. the door to the main hall was, of course, in full sight of blake the footman, and that leaves only the south end of the room to be considered. now no intruder could have gone out by the door to the billiard room or the door to the terrace without having been seen by you or miss vernon, who claims she was on the terrace all evening." every one present looked around at the studio. they saw a spacious room, about forty feet long by thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty feet high. an enormous fireplace was on the side toward the house, and above it ran an ornamental balcony, reached by a light staircase at either end. the fine, big windows were of stained glass, save where ground glass had been put in to meet the artist's needs. originally a ballroom, the decorations were ornate but in restrained and harmonious taste. there were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless works of art all about, and furnishings of regal state and luxury. yet, also, was there the litter and mess of working materials and mediums--seemingly inseparable from any studio, however watched and tended. here would be a stunning elizabethan chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest of marvellous workmanship, from whose half-open lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs or quaintly-fashioned garments. tables everywhere, of inlay or marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of pastels, or small casts. jugs and vases, fit only for museum pieces, held sheafs of paint-brushes, while scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood all round the wall. the armchair, in which eric stannard had sat when he died, was undisturbed, also the tables near it. a new idea seemed to strike lamson. he said, "when you came in in the darkness, mrs. stannard, how did you avoid stumbling over the chairs and stands in your way? i count four of them, practically in the course you must have pursued." joyce looked at the part of the room in question. true, there were four or more small pieces of furniture that would have bothered one coming in without a light. "that's so!" she said, as if the idea were illuminating. "i must have come in just after or at the very moment that blake lighted the electrics!" "and found miss vernon already here?" "yes," said joyce. "miss vernon, will you tell your story?" said lamson, abruptly, turning from joyce to the girl. "why--i----" natalie fluttered like a frightened bird, and gazed piteously at the inquisitor. "i don't know how." "good work!" commented bobsy roberts, mentally. "smart little girl to know how the baby act fetches 'em!" but if natalie vernon's air of helplessness was assumed, it was sufficiently well done to convince all who saw it. "poor little thing!" was in everybody's mind as the rosebud face looked pleadingly at the coroner. at that moment, if she had declared herself the guilty wretch, nobody would have believed her. lamson's abruptness vanished, and he said, gently, "just a simple description, miss vernon, of your presence in this room last night." "it was this way," she began, and her face drew itself into delicious wrinkles, as she chose her words. "i had been, ever since dinner, almost, on the terrace." "alone?" "oh, no. different people were there. coming and going, you know. well, at last, i chanced to be there alone----" "who had been with you latest?" "let me see," and the palpable effort to remember was too pronounced to be real, "i guess--yes, i'm sure it was barry,--mr. barry stannard. and he went away----" "where?" "i don't know. for a stroll with the dogs, probably. i was about to go upstairs to my room, when i heard a sound in the studio that seemed queer." "how, queer?" "as if somebody were calling me--i mean, calling for somebody." "did you hear your name?" and lamson caught at the straw. "oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. and i went toward the door to listen, if it might be repeated." "was the door open?" "no, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and these were a little way open, and i could see through them that the light went out suddenly----" "well?" "and then i went right in, without making a sound----" "didn't it make a sound as you opened the door?" "the door was open." "you said it was not." "oh, i don't know whether it was or not! i was so scared to see eric,--mr. stannard, dead or dying, and his wife standing there as if she had just----" "just what? killed him?" "yes," and natalie's big blue eyes were violet with horror. "she had! and she stood there, just as blake said, one hand on the table, and one clutched to her breast. she did do it, mr. coroner. she must have been out of her mind, you know, but she did it, for i saw her." "saw her kill him?" "no, not that. but i saw her just after the deed was done, and she was the picture of guilty fear!" if natalie could have been transferred to canvas as she looked then, the picture would have made any painter's fortune. the girl was in white, soft, crãªpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines, for the gown had been designed by no less a genius than stannard himself. it was his whim to have natalie about the house in the gowns in which he posed her, that he might catch an occasional unexpected effect. but the simple affair was not out of place as a morning house-gown, and more than one woman in the audience took careful note of its cut and pattern. her golden hair was carelessly tossed up in a mass of curls, held with one hair-pin, a huge amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip out, and one couldn't help wishing it would. her wonderful eyes had long dark lashes, and her pink cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous excitement. so thin was her delicate skin that her hands and throat were flushed a soft pink and her curved lips were scarlet. yet notwithstanding the marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of doubt that it was nature's own. the play of rose and white in her cheeks, the sudden occasional paling of the red lips and the perfection of the tiny shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing temples all spoke of the real humanity of this girl's beauty. small wonder the artist wanted her for his own pictures exclusively! joyce was a beautiful woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a dream, a very titania of charm and wonder. not by her testimony, not by words of assertion, but by her ethereal, her incredible beauty, this wonder-girl took captive every heart and, without effort, secured the sympathy and belief of everybody present. and yet, the coroner had to do his duty. had to say, in curt, accusing tones, "then how do you explain mr. stannard's dying words, 'natalie, not joyce!'?" the red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew pinker and great tears formed in the appealing blue eyes. "don't ask me that!" she cried; "oh, pray, don't ask me _that_!" "but i do, i must ask you. and i must ask you why you stabbed him? had he asked you to pose in any way to which you were unwilling to consent? had he insisted, after you refused? was he tyrannical? brutal? cruel? did you have to defend yourself? was it on an impulse of sudden anger or indignation?" "stop! stop!" cried natalie, putting her pink finger tips into her tiny, rosy ears. "stop! he was none of those things! he was good to me, he--he----" "good to you, yet you killed him! kind to you, yet you took his life----" "i didn't! i tell you i didn't! it was joyce! she----" "miss vernon, if you came into the room in the dark, how could you effect an entrance without upsetting something? there are even more small racks and stands on that side of the room than the other." "no, i didn't upset anything----" and natalie stared at him. "then you came in before the room was darkened,--long before,--and you darkened it yourself, after you had driven the blow that ended the life of your friend and patron." coroner lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of natalie's face turned to a creamy pallor, and the girl sank, unconscious, into a chair. "brutal!" cried barry stannard, springing to her side. "inexcusable, mr. lamson. this is no place for a third degree procedure!" and asking no one's permission, he carried the slight form from the studio. iv goldenheart a murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. public opinion was not with the coroner, however black the case might look against the pretty little model. for "model," natalie was always called, in spite of the fact that she was an honoured guest in the stannard's house. and she looked like a model. her manners, though correct in every way, were not those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert dã©butante. she had the poise and assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent, rather than ignorant, child. but her self-reliance, though it had given way before the coroner's accusation, was always evident in the clear gaze of her apprehending eyes and the set of her lovely head. moreover, she had that precious possession called _charm_ to an infinite degree. it was the despair of the artists who had painted her, and eric stannard, unwilling to be baffled, had tried a hundred times, more or less successfully, to fasten that charm in colour medium. of late, he had tried it in his etching. an unfinished piece of work was a waxed plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of natalie as goldenrod. this he had previously painted, and the result, a study in yellow, was his copy for the etching. the canvas showed the girl, her arms full of goldenrod, her yellow gown and her yellow hair against a background of yellow autumn leaves. it was a masterpiece, even for stannard. and aside from the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he decided to make an etching of the study. the waxed plate, with this design, had been found on the floor near eric's chair, after his death. the wax had been scratched and smudged, quite evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches and disfigurements were doubtless made by the very instrument that had caused the artist's death. this was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what was indicated? that natalie, in a fit of anger at eric, had destroyed his picture of her? or, that joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait? the painting, as natalie had posed for it, was a lovely girl in a full flowing robe of soft, opaque stuff, showing only a bit of throat and shoulder, and one rounded arm. the etching, as the artist had drawn it, garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent drapery, revealing lines that gave a totally different character to the work. natalie vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. whether she was absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. but could an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a way she didn't care to be portrayed? it was most unlikely. still, there was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in those curved scarlet lips, and if miss vernon chose to be an unusual, even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and insist upon them. and in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what might not a woman do? again, could it not be that the artist's wife had had her jealousy stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband's interest in the model? could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged her slighted wifehood? "it's a poor clue that won't work both ways," mused bobsy roberts, as he heard of this etching business. the story of it had been told while natalie was out of the room. joyce listened with an unruffled countenance. either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so. coroner lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at dinner the night before. the first, a mr. wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the occasion. he was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower. after dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others in the studio. mr. stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition to his collection. after that, mr. wadsworth had gone to the billiard room, and later, he and mrs. faulkner had gone to the drawing room at the other end of the house. he had remained there with the lady until perhaps half past eleven---"wait," interposed the coroner. "mrs. faulkner came downstairs, after your departure, at that hour." "then it must have been a little earlier. i didn't note the time. i went directly home, and retired without looking at the hour." "you went out at the front door?" "yes; blake, the footman, let me out. i didn't look for my hostess as i left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formalities." there was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was mr. eugene courtenay. but one swift, intense glance passed between courtenay and joyce as the witness took the stand. it was seen by no one but the keen-eyed bobsy, and to him it was a revelation. "oh, ho," was his self-communing, "sits the wind in that quarter? now, if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are--er--_en rapport_--it puts a distinctly different tint on the racing steed! i must see about this." eugene courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a near neighbour. he had been a suitor of joyce's before she succumbed to stannard's cave man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both. easily and leisurely courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various rooms, he had been in the billiard room until he went home. several others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone there with his hostess. then he had taken leave, going out from the billiard room, which had an outside door. he had not gone directly home, but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a garden seat, smoking. he had chanced to sit facing the studio south window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. he thought nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he think it strange in any way. why shouldn't people light and relight their rooms as they chose? he then went home, knowing nothing of the tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. no further questioning brought out anything of importance and courtenay was dismissed. mr. and mrs. truxton gave no new information. they told of the dinner party, and of the hours afterward. mr. truxton mentioned the jewels exhibited by eric stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any light on the mystery. "where are these jewels?" asked lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible robbery. "i don't know," joyce answered, listlessly. "mr. stannard kept some of them in safety deposit and some in the house. he had a place of concealment for them, but i preferred not to know where it is. when i wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put them away again." "do you not think, mrs. stannard, that a burglar intent on securing these gems might have attempted a robbery, and----" "come, come, lamson," interposed inspector bardon, "a burglar would scarcely make his attempt while the household was still up, the house alight, and people sauntering through the grounds." "no, of course not," responded the coroner, in no wise abashed. next, barry stannard was asked to tell what he could of the whole matter. "it was the work of a burglar," said young stannard, confidently; "it simply shows his cleverness that he chose a time when he could effect an entrance easily. he need not have been a rough customer. he may have been of a gentlemanly type,--even in evening clothes. but he gained access to my father, i haven't the slightest doubt, and brought to bear some influence or threat that he hoped would gain him his end. when my father refused his demands,--this is my theory and belief,--he either feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge, killed my father with the nearest weapon he could snatch at." "and then, you think, mr. stannard, that this intruder turned off the lights and made his exit just before the ladies entered the room?" "i do. he was evidently a cool hand, and made a quick and clever getaway." "and just how did he leave the room? you know, mrs. stannard was in the billiard room and miss vernon on the terrace, while blake was at the main hall door." "he made his escape by the large west window," replied barry. "if you will examine it on the outside, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or whatever you call the tool that burglars open windows with." an officer was sent at once to investigate this, and returned with the information that there certainly were marks and scratches outside the window in question. it was a long, french window, opening like a double door, and near the lock were the tell-tale marks. bobsy roberts cast one comprehensive glance at the west window, and then closed and reopened one of his rather good-looking grey eyes. he glanced at barry, and observed, silently, "some scheme!" after which, he calmly awaited developments. "but how can we think that a man entered at that window," said lamson, "when we notice how it is filled with furniture and apparatus?" "it might have been managed," asserted barry. and then bobsy roberts spoke out loud. "it couldn't be," he said, positively. "no one could, by any chance or skill, come in or go out by that window without moving those plaster casts that are on the floor. no one could do it without overturning that small easel, whose leg is directly in the path of the window frame as it swings back. if you will try it, inspector, you will see what i mean." it was true. even though the window might be opened, it would crash into and knock over the small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished picture on a mounted canvas. and it would also knock down some casts which leaned against it. barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now the coroner regarded him with a sort of suspicion. "mr. stannard," he said, "i don't want to do you an injustice, but your theory is so suspiciously implausible, that i can't help thinking you might have made those scratches on the window yourself, for the purpose of diverting suspicion." "i did," barry blurted out, almost like a school-boy. "and i am not ashamed of it. my father's death is a mystery. so much of a one that i feel sure it will never be solved. for that reason, i did and do want to turn your mind away from the absurd and utterly unfounded presumption you make that the crime could have been committed by either of the two ladies who, hearing my father's dying struggles, rushed to his assistance." "that may be the case," said lamson, "with one of the ladies you refer to. but the other is, to all appearances the one responsible for the crime. it is my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the position and high character of the ladies make it seem impossible." "it is impossible!" protested barry. "i know of facts and conditions which make it possible and probable that an outsider, a--well, a blackmailer, perhaps,--might have attacked my father. this is outside of discovery or proof, but i request,--i demand that you cease to persecute your present suspects!" the boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed even younger than usual, quivered with the tensity of his emotion and faced the coroner with a belligerent antagonism that would have been funny in a case less grave. roberts regarded him with interest. "some chap!" he thought. "i wonder, now, if he did it himself,--and is trying to scatter the scent. no, i fancy it's his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he jimmied the door in a foolish attempt to make a noise like a burglar." "do you know where your father kept his jewels?" asked lamson, suddenly, and barry started, as he said, "no, i've no idea. that is, the ones in the house. the others are in deposit with the black rock trust company." "who does know the whereabouts of those kept in the house?" but nobody seemed to know. joyce had said she did not. barry disclaimed the knowledge. inquired of, miller, the valet, did not know. nor halpin, the old butler, nor any of the other servants. it would seem that eric stannard had concealed his treasures in a hiding-place known only to himself. an officer was sent to search his personal rooms, and in the meantime joyce was subjected to a further grilling. exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, handsome face was pale and drawn. wearily, she answered questions that were not always necessary or tactful. at last, when lamson was trying to draw from her an account of what she was doing or thinking after courtenay had left her alone in the billiard room, she seemed to lose both patience and control, and burst forth, impulsively, "i was listening at the studio door!" "ah! and what did you hear?" "i heard my husband say, 'no, no, my lady, i will not divorce joyce for you!' and then he laughed,--a certain laugh of his that i always called the trouble laugh,--a sarcastic, irritating chuckle, enough to exasperate anybody,--_anybody_, beyond the point of endurance!" the coroner almost gasped, but fearing to check the flow of speech that promised so much, he said, quietly, "did you hear anything further?" "i did. i heard him say, 'i'll give you the emeralds, if you like, but i really won't marry you.'" "your husband was not a cruel man, mrs. stannard?" "on the contrary, he was gentleness itself. he was most courteous and gallant toward all, but if any one went counter to his wishes or opinions, he invariably used a good-natured, jeering tone that was most annoying." "and to whom were these remarks that you overheard, addressed?" "how can you ask? i was just about to go into the room, as i felt it my right, when, at that very moment, the light was extinguished. i was so surprised at this, that i stood there, uncertain what to do. then hearing eric gasp, as if in distress, i pushed the curtain aside and went in. the rest, i have told you." joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of crimson swept over her face. she looked startled, ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence or told a secret, which she now regretted. barry sat beside her, and he was looking at her curiously. then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. he reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but brought a note he had found on mr. stannard's writing desk. coroner lamson read the note, and passed it over to inspector bardon. eventually it was read aloud. it ran thus: goldenheart: you have a strange power over me--you can sway me to your will when i am in your presence. but now, alone, i am my own man and my better self protests at our secret. you know where the jewels are hidden. take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forget eric. the note fell like a bombshell. everybody gasped at this revelation of the artist's intrigue with his model. joyce turned white to her very lips, and barry flushed scarlet. "call miss vernon," commanded the coroner, abruptly. natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now. without a word, lamson handed her the note. the girl read it, and returned it. except for the trembling of her lip, which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and self-possessed. "well?" said the coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce before, "what does that note to you mean?" natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. if her angel face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth and quivering chin told of her desperate distress. "it is not to me," she whispered. "that's right," bobsy roberts thought; "stick to that, now. it's fine!" "it was written to you, and left in mr. stannard's desk. where are the emeralds? where are the other jewels hidden?" "i do not know. i tell you that letter is not mine." "not yours, because you didn't receive it. but it was written to you, and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him." natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. her rosy palm lifted in protest, she said, "why do you believe mrs. stannard's story and not mine? what _i_ saw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime." lamson paused. he remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested witnesses, mrs. faulkner and blake, went to show that these two women were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime itself. who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the disappointed girl? and another point. mrs. faulkner and blake had told in detail the succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not joyce have timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment? and, also, might not natalie merely have patterned her recital after that of joyce? which woman was guilty? v blake's story the sapient gentlemen of the coroner's jury concluded, after a somewhat protracted discussion, that eric stannard met his death at those convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. they could not bring themselves to accuse either joyce or natalie, because for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other's unsupported story. and public opinion, as represented by the citizens of rensselaer park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that implicated either or both of these two women. and yet, there were many exceptions. many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the innocence of joyce and natalie, expressed private views that stultified their statements. and some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a thought of blake. but most stood out strongly for the burglar theory, ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder's entrance, and repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was sufficient proof of robbery. it may be that barry's self-confessed scratching of the paint on the window-frame turned the trend of thought toward a possible burglar or blackmailer, even if he gained entrance some other way; and it may be this was the loophole through which the two suspected people escaped accusation. but the interest of the police in these two was strengthened rather than lessened, and their life and conduct were under close scrutiny. captain steele, who had been assigned to the case, declared that he was glad of the verdict, for it was better to have the suspects at large, and he was a firm believer in the principle of giving people sufficient rope and allowing them the privilege of hanging themselves. captain steele was at the folly, as the house was always called,--in spite of the stannards' attempts to use the more attractive name of stanhurst,--on the day after the inquest, and detective roberts was also there and one or two other policemen and reporters. steele had appropriated the small reception room next the studio for his quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the proceedings and evidence of the day before. "you see, bobsy," he said, "the burglar stunt won't work. i've tried, and carter, here, he's tried, and we couldn't come within a mile of getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making noise and commotion enough to wake the dead." "i know it," assented bobsy. "knew it all the time. let's cut out mr. burglar. also, blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have looked in the studio in case of a racket." "sure. now, i want to fix the time of the stab act. they all say about half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly." "of course they don't. people in evening togs never know what time it is. why should they? they don't have to punch a clock. i think the footman would just about know, though. servants have their hours, you know. and anyway, let's get that man in here." blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to answer questions. he retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had testified at the inquest. "are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?" asked steele. "yes, sir. i heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went out." "how long was the light out?" roberts put in. "i should say, not more'n a minute or so. i was that scared when i heard the sounds, i can't tell about the length of time properly. but it wasn't two minutes, i'm sure, between the studio light going off and me turning it on." "would you have turned it on, if mrs. faulkner hadn't told you to?" blake considered. "i can't say. i think, yes, for i heard that 'help!' distinctly, for all it was so faint. and i think, if i'd been on my own, i'd 'a' gone ahead. at such times a servant has to use his judgment, sir." "right you are, blake," said bobsy, who had taken a liking to the footman. "now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member of the family--of the household." "i don't know much as to that. you see, i was on the hall, and i could only see those who passed through it." "well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them." "before dinner, everybody was in the drawing room, that's over the dining room, at the east end of the house. then they all came down the grand staircase to dinner, and of course i saw them then. after dinner, the ladies had their coffee on the terrace and the gentlemen stayed at the table. then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty much scattered all over the house. everybody was in the studio at one time, and then some went to the billiard room or in this reception room we're now in, or up to the drawing room. then, about eleven, mr. and mrs. truxton went home, and i showed them out. and mrs. faulkner and mr. wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. but after the truxtons went, mrs. faulkner and mr. wadsworth went up to the drawing room. you see,--er----" "what, blake?" "well, if i may say it, sir, he's--er--sweet on her, and they two went off by themselves." "i see," and bobsy smiled. "now, as to the other ladies, mrs. stannard and miss vernon?" "of those i know nothing, for they didn't come around where i was." "nor any of the men?" "no, sir. well, then, next, mr. wadsworth, he came down, and i let him out. he says, 'good night, blake,' sort of gay like, and i thought perhaps mrs. faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir." "very likely. and then, mrs. faulkner came down?" "yes, but you see, just the moment before, i had heard this queer noise in the studio, and i was listening at the crack of the door. i meant no harm, and no curiosity,--but mrs. faulkner came in sight of me just then, and she spoke to me. then, the lights went out----" "why, you said they were out before the lady spoke to you." "oh, yes, that's right, they were. well, it's small wonder i get mixed up. they were, sir, because i told mrs. faulkner they were, and she said it wasn't my place to comment on that. and she was right, it wasn't my place, to be sure; but i was worried, that's what i was, worried, and then we both heard the cry of 'help!' and she told me to turn on the studio lights and i did." "do they all obey one switch?" "yes, sir, that is, there's one main key right at the door jamb that controls all. so when i turned it on, the whole room was ablaze." "and of course, you couldn't help seeing the exact state of things. well, blake, which lady do you think did it?" "oh, sir," and blake's solemn face grew a shade more so, "i couldn't say. i'm sure i don't know. but, it must have been one of them, there's no getting around that. when i saw the three, as you might say, almost in a row, and the two ladies, sir, both near to mr. stannard, sir, and both looking--oh, i can't describe how they looked! why if they were both guilty they couldn't have looked different." "they weren't both guilty!" cried roberts. "it couldn't have been collusion, eh, steele?" "nonsense, of course not," returned captain steele; "one stabbed him, and the other came in at the sound of his voice. the terror and shock of the culprit and that of the innocent one would both be manifested by the same expressions of horror and fright." "i believe that," said bobsy, after a minute's thought. "now, blake, as to the actual means of getting in and out of that studio. let's go in there." it was rather early in the morning and the members of the household were as yet in their rooms. it was not the intention of the police to intrude upon them until after the funeral, but it was desirable to make certain inquiries and investigations while the matter was fresh in the minds of the servants. roberts intended to interview others of them afterward, but just now blake was proving so satisfactory that he continued to keep him by. in the studio, both steele and roberts examined carefully the marks on the west window casing. "idiot boy!" exclaimed bobsy. "to think he could fool us into believing this was professional work!" "it shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round here and fix it up so quickly," said steele, a bit admiringly. "that's what mr. barry has, sir, the leaping mind," observed blake, as if pleased with the phrase. "often he jumps to a conclusion or decision that his father'd take hours to reach." "mr. stannard was slow, then?" "not to say slow, in some things. he was like lightning at his work. but as to a matter, now, that he didn't want to bother about, he would put it off or dawdle about it, something awful." "and you see," bobsy went on, "there are only three doors and three windows in the place. now we have accounted for----" "what's the gallery for?" asked steele, gazing up at the gilded iron scrollwork of the little balcony. "just for ornament, sir," blake returned. "and i've heard mr. stannard say, it was necessary, to break up that wall. you see, the ceiling is some twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, being next the main house." "it's all one house,--there's no division?" "no real division, sir, but this end,--the studio and billiard room on this floor, and the rooms directly above,--are all mr. stannard's own, and in a way separate from the rest of the house." "his sleeping room is above the studio?" "yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and den. mrs. stannard's rooms are next, over the reception room, and all the other bedrooms are over the dining room end, and in the third story." "listen," impatiently cut in bobsy. "there are six ways of getting in and out. now nobody could have entered at the hall door where you were, blake?" "oh, no, sir. i was there all the evening, and the hall lighted as bright as day." "all right. that's one off. now we'll go round the room. the north window is out of the question, eh?" "yes, sir," said blake, as the query was to him. "it only opens in those high, upper sections, by cords, don't you see?" blake showed the contrivance that opened and shut the upper panes, and it was clear to be seen that there was no possibility of entrance that way. "next is the west window," bobsy went on, "and that's settled by a glance. why, look at the chalk dust on the floor. how could any one walk through that and leave no track?" this was unanswerable, so they went on to the door to the billiard room. "this is where mrs. stannard came in. no other person could have entered this door unless she had seen him. now, we come to the east window. this was open, i am told, but the wire fly-screen makes it safe. also, mr. courtenay sat on a lawn bench, looking this way, when the light went out. had a person climbed in at this window before that he must have seen him." "he couldn't climb in, sir, 'count of the screen," said blake. "it's not a movable screen. we put them up for the season, and take them down the middle of october. they all come down next week." "this door, the last," and bobsy paused at the door to the terrace, "is the one at which miss vernon entered. if any one else had come in here she would have seen him. that completes our circuit. no one could have gained access to this room except the ones under consideration. now we are faced by the fact that one of those two women committed the murder, and it's up to us to decide which one." "there's the fireplace," suggested steele. "there was a fire there that night," blake asserted. "that is, there had been, for the evening was a little chilly, and too, mrs. stannard is fond of an open fire. it was burned out when--when it all happened, but the embers were smouldering when i came into the room. and no one could come down the chimney, anyway. it's a crooked flue, and it's full of soot beside." "no one ever comes down a chimney," said roberts, "but it's always well to look into it." he peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of soot showed no scratches or marks. "then there's no ingress other than those we've noted," steele mused. "there's no skylight, no cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place," he ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the wainscoated wall. "solid," he said, as he came down the other little stair. "now, is there any trap door?" they lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but the oak was an unmarred surface, and no opening was there of any sort. "i wanted to be sure," said roberts, as, a little shamefacedly he pounded on the floorboards around the west window. "now, i am sure. we have only the two doors to deal with. the door from the terrace and the one from the studio. let's look at them both." stepping out onto the beautiful covered terrace, the men paused to take in the glories of the scene. the splendid lawns sloping down to even more splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a nature lover both. the october foliage was alight and aglow, and the autumn flowers were masses of gorgeous bloom. but after a whiff or two of the sunlit morning air, they returned to their quest. "on this terrace miss vernon and barry stannard sat until after eleven," roberts said; "i got that from young stannard himself." "don't put too much faith in those people's ideas of time," warned steele. "he may think it was after eleven and it may have been much earlier." "you're right, there. well, anyway, he sat here with her, in the dark,--he told me he had turned off the terrace light,--and then he went off to give the dogs some exercise. i believe they go for a trot every night, don't they, blake?" "yes, sir; mr. barry almost always romps about with the dogs of an evening." "well, that leaves miss vernon alone here for an indefinite--i mean, an indeterminate time. now, why doesn't mr. courtenay see her, as he sits on that lawn seat yonder?" "too dark," said steele, laconically. "that's right. she was back, we'll say, under the terrace roof, and the night was dark. moreover, the studio was brightly lighted, also the billiard room, which threw the terrace even more in shadow. well, then,--i'm sort of reconstructing this,--miss vernon sat here, until, _as she says_, she heard the noise in the studio." "or saw the light go out," and steele shook his head. "nobody seems to know which happened first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer sound." "no one knows, except the murderer," said roberts, seriously. "the murderer knows, because he--or she--turned off the light, but the others, who are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is about a moment of unexpected action." "that's it," and steele looked at the detective in admiration. "mighty few can give a clear account of sudden happenings, unless it's a cut and dried account." "and yet--" bobsy frowned, "you know both miss vernon and mrs. stannard became confused about the lights." "that's because they both tried to copycat the footman's story. you see, the one who really killed stannard, did shut off the lights, and when she tells her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up about the sound and the lights, because she was in the studio all the time, and not where she says she was, at all. then, on the other hand, the other of the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she really can't tell just how things did happen." "sound enough. now let's go to the billiard room." crossing the studio again, they entered the billiard room, a large apartment with seats round the walls and the table in the centre. cue racks and much smoking and other masculine paraphernalia were all about. there were a skylight of stained glass and a few high side windows. an outside door was on the south side. "here mr. courtenay left mrs. stannard, at much the same time barry left the girl," roberts said. "so you see, steele, their chances are equal." "chances of what?" "i mean chances to go into the studio, unobserved of anybody, commit the deed, turn off the lights, and then, either return to the spot she came from or to remain in the room until the other entered. it _must_ have been that way, for there's no other way for it to be." "all right; now, what about mrs. stannard's story of overhearing the stuff her husband said to the girl?" "probably true, but if he said that to miss vernon and mrs. stannard overheard it, she _might_ have run in and found the dead man, or she _might_ have run in and stabbed the living man." "in the dark?" "perhaps so. she knew where every bit of furniture was. but isn't it quite as likely that the girl did the stabbing?" "that wax baby?" "she isn't the baby she looks! always distrust a blonde." "but such a blonde!" "distrust them in proportion to their blondeness, then. but we've learned all we can here. back to think it over, and puzzle it out." vi mrs. faulkner's account now, although the residents of the aristocratic rensselaer park were willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest anybody, even the hypothetical burglar. owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was due. all sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts of people and interest increased rather than dwindled as no definite progress was reported. captain steele was one of the most able men on the force, and his record for success in murder cases was of the best. his reputation was at stake, and he was working his very hardest in his handling of the present matter. his methods were persistent rather than brilliant, and his slowness was often the despair of quick-witted robert roberts. "captain," bobsy would say, "do you see that point?" "i saw it long ago," would be the exasperating reply. "well, what about it?" "i haven't thought it out yet." "well, get busy." "i am busy," the stolid captain would answer, and go on about his business. but the two were staunch friends and allies, and possessed the qualities that enabled them to work side by side without friction. "you see," said steele, as they were closeted in the reception room, "it's more or less a psychological problem." they liked this room for their confabs. the small size and convenient location suited their purpose admirably. they could shut its two doors, and be entirely secluded or they could open them and get a general idea of what was going on about the house. "snug little box," bobsy had said, when he first saw it, and the walls and ceiling being all of the same general decoration in red and gold, did give it the effect of a well lined box. it was used by the family for the reception of transient callers, and was more formal than the studio or billiard room. the terrace, too, was used as a living place, in available weather, and even now as the two men were deep in their discussion, there could be seen through the south window some servants arranging a small breakfast table out there. "psychology is out of my line," roberts said, in answer to the captain's assertion. "oh, i don't mean anything scientific. but, it's this way. one of those women is lying and one telling the truth. now, if we tax them with this, we'll get nothing out of them, for they're both at the edge of a nervous breakdown." "the innocent one, too?" "sure. the guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. i think the little peach was in love with the artist; i'm not sure of this, but it doesn't matter, anyway. also, and incidentally, i think that courtenay man is very much in love with mrs. stannard. now, all these things are none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are our business. and so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures." "a murder doesn't connote a high-calibred nature!" "it may well do so. a strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. murderers are made, not born, lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. and it is the coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an otherwise great and noble nature." "i'm not sure i agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let's use it by all means." "it is. now, here's the situation. as near as i can make out, mr. stannard was alone in his studio after the truxton people had gone; the faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the drawing room, the model was on the terrace with barry, and mrs. joyce was in the billiard room with courtenay. the trouble is, we don't know how long this interval was. blake says the truxtons went at eleven. well, from eleven, then, till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. between those two moments the crime was led up to and committed." "must it have been led up to?" "not necessarily, i admit. but suppose, let us say, that soon after eleven, one or other of the two women we're considering, was left alone. say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with mr. stannard that led to the stabbing. then, say, she turned off the lights, and quickly returned to her post, either in the billiard room or on the terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did." "all right, that goes. now, which?" "that's what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting clues of a material nature." "whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of the room to turn off the lights, didn't she?" captain steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the armchair where stannard died was at the south end of the room. "yes," he agreed, "but that's only a few seconds' work." "but when she did it, the man was not dead. you know he groaned after the light went out, and later, he spoke." "well?" "well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all that? mrs. stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. my opinion leans toward her." "what about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter to the model?" "there's too much evidence instead of not enough! but before we sift it out, which we can do elsewhere, let's try to learn something more from the people here." "servants or the others?" "the others, if possible. if not, then some servants beside blake." the breakfast table on the terrace had been visited only by mrs. faulkner and barry stannard. the other ladies had not appeared. the two had quite evidently finished, as the men could see from their lace curtained window, and roberts proposed they request an interview with one or both of them. somewhat to their surprise, the request was graciously granted. mrs. faulkner said she should be rather glad of an opportunity to learn what the police had done or were thinking of doing, and barry seemed anxious to discuss matters also. but even before they began, barry was called away on some errand, and mrs. faulkner was their only source of information. bobsy roberts was disappointed, for he wanted to talk with a member of the immediate family, but captain steele saw a chance to learn something personal of the two women he wished to study. "you must know, mrs. faulkner," began steele, "that the two women found in the room, near the dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of guilt. can you tell us anything that will help clear the innocent or indicate the criminal?" beatrice looked at him a moment, before she spoke. she also glanced at bobsy roberts, and then, in a low, calm voice she replied: "i think i must remind you that these two women are my dear friends. i have known mrs. stannard for years, and miss vernon, though a recent acquaintance, is very dear to me. they are both fine, noble women, utterly incapable of the crime, even under deepest provocation. therefore i do not admit, even to myself, that the circumstances implicate either of them, although they may seem to do so. with this declaration of my attitude in the matter, i will answer any questions that i can, but i will not agree that your theory is the right one." "then, who did kill mr. stannard?" "that i cannot say. but in absence of any real evidence against mrs. stannard or miss vernon, it must seem to have been an intruder of some sort. though it may not be known how he entered, it is far more easy to believe that he did gain an entrance, than to believe crime of either of those two." it was plain to be seen mrs. faulkner was determined to stand by her friends through thick and thin. so bobsy started on another tack. "will you tell us then something of the personal relations of this household? was mr. stannard in love with his pretty model?" "i think he was," beatrice rejoined, as if the matter were of no great import, "but mr. stannard was the type of man known as a 'lady-killer.' he adored all beautiful women, and was what may be called 'in love' with many. his nature was so volatile and so impressionable, that his love affairs were frequent and ephemeral." "mrs. stannard made no objection to this?" "i think these queries are unnecessarily personal, but i see, so far, no harm in replying. mrs. stannard knew so well her husband's temperament and disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden adorations, knowing that he tired of them very quickly. the stannards were a model and a modern couple. they never stooped to petty jealousies or bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each other's actions." "mrs. stannard is his second wife, is she not?" "yes, they were married something more than two years ago." "and mrs. stannard had other suitors, who were disappointed at her marriage?" "that is usually true of any beautiful woman." "but in her case you know of instances?" bobsy smiled pleasantly. "naturally, as i know her so well." "and is mr. courtenay one of them?" "mr. courtenay was one of her devoted admirers, and since the marriage he has been a friend warmly welcomed here by both mr. and mrs. stannard. no breath of reproach may be brought against joyce stannard or eugene courtenay. of this i can assure you." "and the young lady,--is barry stannard a suitor of hers?" beatrice's face clouded a little. "yes; you cannot help seeing that, so i will tell you that he is madly in love with miss vernon, but his father strongly objected to the match, and threatened to disinherit barry if he persisted in his attentions to the girl. i tell you this, because i prefer you to hear the truth from me, rather than a string of garbled gossip." "and young stannard persisted?" "i think so. it was love at first sight on both sides, and miss vernon is a very lovely girl,--of quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet face indicates." "might not mr. stannard's objection to his son's suit have been prompted by his own admiration for the lovely nature?" "it might have been," and beatrice sighed. "eric stannard was an exceedingly selfish man, and though his interest in the model was doubtless his usual temporary love affair, it is quite likely that it was the main motive of his displeasure at his son's interference. i am speaking very frankly, for i know these things must all come out, and i am hoping, if you know just how matters are, you will understand the case better and be more prepared to relieve the two women of suspicion." "it may be so," and captain steele nodded his head sagely. but mrs. faulkner was watching him closely. "you are not yet very greatly influenced by my revelations, i can see," she said, "but i am sure you will come around to my way of thinking, sooner or later. the more you see of your suspects, the more you will realise the absurdity of your suspicions." "that's possibly true. when can we have an interview with either of them?" "mrs. stannard is prostrated. i am sure you cannot see her before the funeral, which will be to-morrow. won't you refrain from asking it, until after that?" "certainly. but miss vernon, may we not have a few words with her? you must realise, mrs. faulkner, if the girl is innocent, it will be much better for her to see us and answer a few straightforward questions than to appear unwilling to do so." "i agree with you. i will go and ask her, myself, and advise her to see you. shall i go now?" "in a moment, please; but first, one more question. we are trying to discover who last saw mr. stannard alive, prior to the time of the murder. what can you tell us as to this?" "only that i was in the studio, just before the first of the guests went away. at that time we were all there, i think, except barry and natalie, who were out on the terrace. the two truxtons went home, and at the same time mr. wadsworth and i went up to the drawing room----" "to be by yourselves?" a certain kindliness in bobsy's tone robbed the question of impertinence, and beatrice smiled a little, as she said, "yes, exactly. we stayed there perhaps a half hour, and then mr. wadsworth went home. i did not go downstairs with him, but sat a moment in the drawing room,--thinking over some personal matters. then when i went downstairs, it was to see blake listening at the door,--and the rest you know." "yes; now whom did you leave in the studio, when you and mr. wadsworth and the truxtons went out of it?" beatrice thought a moment. "only mr. stannard, his wife and mr. courtenay." "then mrs. stannard and mr. courtenay went into the billiard room?" "yes, and mr. stannard went, too. but he went back in the studio,--joyce told me that,--and he must have been there alone when--the person who killed him came in." "this would make it, that mr. stannard returned to his studio from the billiard room at a little after eleven, say, five or ten minutes after. the fact that he cried out for help at about eleven-thirty narrows the time down rather close. we have only about twenty minutes for the intruder to enter and commit the deed. this is long enough if the crime was premeditated, but scarcely giving time for a quarrel or argument to take place." "then you assume premeditation?" and beatrice looked up quickly. "it would seem so." "then i am sure you will find, mr. roberts, that it could not have been either of the two you think. for even if one of them might have done such a thing in the heat of passion, neither, i am positive, ever deliberately premeditated it." "what about the letter found in the desk?" "that," and beatrice shook her head emphatically, "that was never meant for miss vernon." "yet mrs. stannard overheard him say practically the same thing to somebody in the studio, a moment or two before the crime was committed." "joyce thinks she heard that. but captain steele, that poor woman scarcely knew what she was saying at that awful inquest, and she--well, she had reason to think there were women in mr. stannard's life, who would be willing,--in fact, who wished him to be divorced from her. she knew this, she knew of that note he had written,--it was not the first of that nature, and she imagined she heard that speech." "you make mr. stannard out a very bad man, mrs. faulkner." "i am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but he was not a good man in the ways we are talking of. in other respects, eric stannard had few faults. he was upright, honest and generous. he was kind and he was truthful. and he was extraordinarily brave and honourable. but he was inordinately selfish and of sybaritic instincts. he would not try to curb his admiration for a new and pretty face, and though absolutely loyal to his wife in honour and principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the way of a butterfly among the flowers. his genius it is not necessary to speak of. he is known here and abroad as one of the greatest artists of the century. and his wide and varied experiences, his cosmopolitan life and his waywardness of character may well have gained him enemies, who in a secret and clever manner found means to take his life." "who will benefit financially by his death?" captain steele asked abruptly. "i haven't heard anything about the will yet, but i'm pretty certain, that outside of a few friendly bequests his fortune is divided between his wife and son, about equally." "and his jewel collection? is not that valuable?" "very. the emeralds mentioned in that note comprise a fortune in wonderfully matched stones. and there are many more. yes, it is an exceedingly valuable lot." "he showed them to mr. truxton, that evening?" "to all of us. that was right after dinner. he showed only a few cases, but of very beautiful stones." "and then he put them away, where?" "i've no idea. they were not in sight, that i remember, when the truxtons took leave. but i gave them no thought. i've often seen them, and after their exhibition, mr. stannard always puts them in his safe himself." "they have not been found in the safe." "then he put them in some simple hiding-place. they will turn up. unless, of course, there was a real burglar, whose motive was robbery." "but you do not think so?" "frankly, i do not see how there could have been an intruder, unless dressed as a gentleman. no other could have gained access to the house." "the servants saw no stranger, in any sort of garb?" "they say so," returned beatrice, thoughtfully. "don't overlook the possibility of an accomplice among the servants. i've no reason to think this, but such things have happened." "they have indeed, and i assure you we have not overlooked the chance of it." vii natalie, not joyce but the desired interview with natalie was not achieved before the funeral of eric stannard. it was two days after before the girl would consent to see roberts, and then, under protest. "i've nothing to say," she declared, as she came unwillingly into the reception room to meet him. "i'm not under arrest, and there's no law that can make me talk if i don't want to." the lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as miss vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under her, and one little slipper tapping the carpet. she looked so like a petulant school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to connect her with a thought of anything really wrong. but robert roberts was experienced in guile and was by no means ready to accept her innocence at its face value. "no law ought to make you do anything you don't want to," he said smiling; "but suppose it's to your own advantage to talk?" the sympathetic, good-natured face of bobsy roberts had a pleasant effect, for natalie's pout disappeared and a look of confidence came into her blue eyes. "i wonder if i can trust you," she said, meditatively, as she gazed at him, with an alluring intentness. "you sure can," returned bobsy, but he consciously and conscientiously steeled himself against her witcheries. "no, i don't think i can," she said, after a moment, and with a tiny sigh of disappointment, she looked away. "go on; question me as you like." "why can't you trust me?" "oh, i trust you, as far as that goes. but i see you suspect me of killing mr. stannard." "and didn't you?" bobsy believed in the efficacy of sudden, direct questions. but miss vernon was not taken off guard. "no," she said, quietly, "i didn't. but when i say i didn't, it implicates mrs. stannard, and i don't want to do that. can't you tell me what to do?" "well, it's this way. if mrs. stannard is the guilty person, you want it known, don't you?" "no, indeed! if joyce stannard killed her husband, she had a good reason for it, and i'd rather nobody'd know she did it." "what was her good reason?" "well, you know, mr. stannard was--that is,--he had eyes for other people beside his wife." "you, for instance." "yes!" and the flower face took on a look of positive hatred, and of angry reminiscence. "i have no kindly thought of eric stannard, if he _is_ dead." "he was kind to you." "too kind,--in some ways,--and not enough so in others." "and his wife was jealous?" "who wouldn't be! he petted her to death one day and the next he neglected her shamefully. i will trust you, mr. roberts. now, listen; if joyce killed eric,--i don't say she did, but if she did, why can't we just hush up the matter, and pry into it no more? barry wants that and so do i. and who else is to be considered?" "the law, justice, humanity, all things right and fair." "rubbish! let those things go. consider the wishes of the people most concerned." "then straighten out a few uncertain points. where are the emeralds?" "goodness! i don't know! that foolish letter wasn't written to me." "to whom, then?" "i don't know that, either. some one of eric's lady friends, i suppose. fancy my wanting him to divorce his wife and marry me!" bobsy looked at her narrowly, distrusting every word. this girl, he felt sure, was far from being as ingenuous as she looked. "but he was in love with you?" natalie blushed, a real, natural girl blush. "i can't help that, mr. roberts. i am, unfortunately, a type that men admire. it is the cross of my life that every one is attracted by my silly doll-face!" bobsy roberts laughed outright, at this naã¯ve wail of woe. "you needn't laugh, i'm in earnest. i get so sick of having men fall in love with me, that i'd like to go and live on a desert island!" "with whom?" and bobsy looked at her intently. "with barry stannard," she returned, simply. "we're engaged, now. we couldn't be, while mr. stannard lived, for he wouldn't hear of it. threatened to disinherit barry, and all that. but now, it's all right." "miss vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you of all suspicion. if you had killed eric stannard, because he wouldn't let his son marry you, you never would have referred to it so frankly." "of course i wouldn't. now, don't you see, since i didn't kill him, it must have been joyce. it's been proved over and over that it could not have been a burglar, or anybody like that. and so, i want to stop investigating, and leave joyce in peace. and then, after awhile, she can marry eugene courtenay, and be happy." "does she want to marry mr. courtenay?" "of course she does. he was in love with her and she with him, before she knew mr. stannard. then eric came along and stole her,--yes, stole her,--just like a cave man. she was carried away by his whirlwind wooing, and--too--he was celebrated, and--well,--you know,--magerful,--and he just took her by storm. she never really loved him, but she has been good and faithful, though he has treated her badly." "and if she killed him, it was----" "it was because she had reached the end of her rope, and couldn't stand any more. and, too, she has seen a lot of mr. courtenay lately, and--oh, well,--she was mad that eric took such a fancy to me, and so,----" "look here, miss vernon, just see if you can reconstruct the scene to fit in with a theory of mrs. stannard's guilt." "how do you mean?" "can you remember about the light going out and the cry for help,--and all that, exactly?" "no,--i've tried to, but it's all mixed up in my mind. i think, if joyce,--i mean, whoever did it,--must have struck the blow, and then turned off the light, and then gone out of the room, and--and come back again." "and that could have been you--as well as mrs. stannard! you were both discovered in practically the same circumstances!" "you're trying to trip me, mr. roberts. but you can't do it. now, look here, if that note had been written to me, wouldn't it mean that these emeralds were mine, and wouldn't i claim them?" "but it states distinctly that you know where they are, and the presumption is, that you have them in your possession." "indeed, i haven't! i wish i had! i mean, i wish i had them rightfully in my possession! they're wonderful stones! look here, mr. roberts, why don't you suspect mr. truxton? he's gem crazy,--and you know gem enthusiasts often go to any length to get the stones they covet." "i hadn't thought of him. and, supposing he did commit crime to steal mr. stannard's jewels, just how did he get away afterward, without discovery?" "well, suppose he stabbed mr. stannard, then turned off the light, and then slipped out through the billiard room when joyce's back was turned?" "too unlikely. besides, mr. courtenay, who sat on the bench on the lawn, just then, would have seen him leave the house." "i suppose he would." natalie drew a deep sigh. "do give it up, mr. roberts. you never can untangle it." "are you going to stay here long?" "for a time. mrs. stannard has asked me to, and barry wants me." the simplicity of the girl's manner almost disarmed bobsy, but he went on: "mrs. stannard, then, has no hard feelings toward you?" "i don't know. honestly, mr. roberts, i don't know whether she is keeping me here because she suspects me, or because she doesn't." "did mr. stannard leave you anything in his will?" the rose-pink cheeks flushed deeper, as natalie replied, "yes, he did. you probably know that already." "no, i didn't. was it a worthwhile amount?" "from my point of view, yes. it was seventy thousand dollars." "whew! decidedly worthwhile, from almost anybody's point of view." "i know what you're thinking," cried natalie as he paused. "it's an added reason for suspecting me of killing him." "it might be construed so." "well, i didn't! i was pretty mad, when he made that horrid etching from my goldenrod picture----" "and you smudged the wax impression so he couldn't use it----" "i did not! i would willingly have done so, if i'd thought of it, but i didn't do it, all the same." "who did?" "whoever killed him, i suppose." "then that lets out mr. truxton, or a burglar of any sort. it leaves only mrs. stannard. mightn't she have done it?" "a jealous woman might do anything. but joyce wasn't especially jealous of me,--no more than of anybody mr. stannard might be attracted to." "and to whom else was he attracted?" "nobody just now,--that i know of. you see, mr. roberts, i was just about to leave this house, because mr. stannard was too devoted in his attentions to me. i tell you this frankly, because i want you to understand the situation." "and i want to understand it. tell me more of this matter." "well, mr. stannard had told me several times of his affection for me and had told me he would remember me in his will, and, not more than a week ago, he told me of joyce's caring for mr. courtenay, though how he discovered that, i don't know, for joyce never showed it. she was good as gold. well, mr. stannard didn't say so in so many words, but he implied that if he and joyce--separated--and it could be arranged,--and she--you know,--married mr. courtenay,--would i marry him. and i was so mad, i flew into a rage, and----" "and scratched up your picture?" "no, that wax plate hadn't been drawn then. it was afterward that he drew that, and then i was madder than ever." "and in the heat of your passionate rage, you----" "no, i didn't! i tell you, whoever killed eric stannard, i didn't!" "then what did he mean, when, in his dying moment, he said, 'natalie, not joyce!' tell me that!" "i will tell you," and the girl lowered her voice and looked very serious. "i know exactly what he meant, and joyce stannard knows too. he meant,--you'll think i imagine this, but it's true; he meant that it was natalie and not joyce, whom he loved, and whom he was trying to beckon to at that moment." it was impossible to doubt the honesty of the speaker. the great earnest eyes were filled with mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what she said. "i know it," she went on. "you see, he had said to me, several times, 'natalie, not joyce,' by way of a teasing bit of love-making. eric was not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to any woman he might chance to be with. and when i would reprimand him and bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say 'natalie, not joyce,' till it became a sort of by-word with him. and i know that's what he meant that night, when he was hurt,--he didn't know he was dying,--and he called to me in a half-conscious plea to come to his assistance. also, he could see me more plainly. joyce was rather behind him, and his clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called for me. as a matter of fact, that speech, though made so much of, means nothing at all. he wasn't entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream. but he did not mean that i had stabbed him." "did he know who stabbed him?" "how can i tell that? but if he had known that i did it, or had thought that i did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he was saying." "you mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather than accused you with his last breath?" "yes, or joyce either. or any woman. eric stannard would never accuse a woman of wrongdoing. his speech meant anything rather than that." "miss vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with the affair. why didn't you tell this before?" "can't you understand, mr. roberts? i have no love for eric stannard, i never had any. his attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me as he wished to, also annoyed me. i would have left him long ago, but for barry. also, i am fond of joyce. she has been most kind to me, and never jealous of me until lately. now, i hated to announce that those dying words meant that mr. stannard put me ahead of his wife in his affection, especially as it didn't altogether mean that, it was merest chance that he saw me and not her----" "but he did see her, for he said 'natalie, _not_ joyce.'" "yes, i know," and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,--"but, i mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was in pain, or a sort of stupor, or--oh, i don't know what his sensations were, i'm sure,--but i want to show you that he spoke at random, and it didn't mean as much as it seems to." natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady. either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was making up a preposterous story. if she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so emphasised by the victim's statement, and if she were innocent, the story she told might well be true. "let me follow this up," said bobsy, looking at her closely. "then mr. stannard was so in love with you that he called on you in a desperate moment, rather than on his wife----" "but he didn't know it was a desperate moment. i don't believe that man was conscious at all. the stab wound was practically fatal at once. what he said and did after it, was involuntary. don't you know what i mean? he was only half alive physically and almost not at all alive in his mind--his brain. couldn't that be true?" "i suppose so. in fact, i think it must have been--and yet, no, it seems to me it would be logical for him to tell, even without a clear consciousness, who his assailant was. remember blake asked him outright. 'who did this?' and he said----" "i know; but you didn't see him, and i did. he was not looking at blake, he didn't even hear him. he was in a dazed state, and, seeing both joyce and myself,--he must have seen us both,--his sub-consciousness called out for me. i am not vain of this preference, i wish it had all been otherwise, but i insist that explains his words, and--joyce knows it, too." "how do you know she does? have you talked with her on this subject?" "oh, yes. we have discussed it over and over. mrs. faulkner and joyce and barry and i have gone over every bit of it a dozen times." "is it possible? what does each of the four think? since you deny the deed, you can tell what is the consensus of opinion in the household." "that's just what i can't do. you see, we all hesitate to say anything that will seem to accuse either of us. mrs. faulkner, i can see plainly, is uncertain whether to suspect joyce or me. she is convinced, of course, that it must have been one of us, but she pretends to think it was a burglar." "she is fond of you both?" "yes, she adores joyce, and she is most friendly to me. i've only known her since i've been here, but she seems to believe in me, somehow. she understands perfectly, that mr. stannard meant just what i say he did, by those words. she knows how he acted toward me, and how joyce felt about it." "then she suspects mrs. stannard?" "she doesn't say so. she sticks to the safe theory of an intruder. you can't blame her. none of us can suspect joyce. it's too absurd." "and barry stannard, what does he think?" "oh, he vows it was an intruder. he's thought up a dozen ways for him to get in and out." "all equally impossible?" "i suppose so. unless,--i hate to say it,--but mightn't blake have let him out?" "not unless it was somebody known to the household." "well?" said natalie vernon. viii the emeralds "you mean?" prompted bobsy. "oh, nothing. but,--just supposing, you know. i'm sure i don't want to mention mr. truxton or mr. wadsworth, but they were both here----" "absurd! why, mr. wadsworth was with mrs. faulkner in the drawing room----" "yes, i know. but he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her up there. now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with blake, couldn't he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and killed eric, and then turned off the light and fled, blake letting him out the front door?" "but why would mr. wadsworth do that?" "why would anybody? i'm only showing you that there _are_ theories that don't include me or joyce." "but not tenable theories. mr. wadsworth, i've been told, was having a--a romantic tãªte-ã -tãªte with mrs. faulkner." "yes, he was asking her, for the 'steenth time, to marry him. but she turned him down again." "well, even if she did, probably he didn't give up all hope. and a man, just from a session of that sort, isn't going to commit a crime." "oh, well, of course, it wasn't mr. wadsworth. but why not consider mr. truxton? he's a jewel sharp, too." "we have considered him. but he and his wife went home earlier----" "he could have come back,----" "but he didn't. miss vernon, we've gone into all these matters very thoroughly. what do you suppose the police have been doing? there isn't a possible theory we've overlooked, and it all comes back to the simple facts of the evidence that incriminate either mrs. stannard or yourself. i see no reason why i shouldn't tell you this frankly. if you care to say anything further in your own defence, i'd be glad to hear it. naturally, you hate to accuse mrs. stannard, but it rests between you two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made soon." bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little, but he was bound to startle some information out of this provoking beauty. and natalie was startled. her face paled as she took in the significance of roberts' words. "they won't arrest me, will they?" she whispered in a scared little voice. "i don't see how they can," and bobsy looked at the girl, wondering. that child, that little, tender bit of femininity--surely she could never have lifted her hand against a man's life! even had she wished to, she seemed physically incapable of striking the blow. "arrest you! not much they won't!" and barry stannard strode into the room. natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief. "you won't let them, will you, barry?" she said, as his arm slipped round her trembling shoulders. "i should say not! are you frightening her, mr. roberts? you know you've no authority for all this." "it's my duty to learn all i can. if miss vernon is innocent, then mrs. stannard is guilty." "as a choice between the two, it is far more likely to be mrs. stannard. but i do not accuse her. i only insist on the impossibility of this child's being a criminal." "'course i couldn't," and natalie smiled at the perplexed roberts. "and if, to clear myself, i must tell all i know, then i'll tell you that mrs. stannard has those emeralds in her possession now." "she has! how do you know?" "i passed her room this morning. the door was ajar, and i was about to enter, when i saw her, at her dressing-table, looking over the case of emeralds. i recognised it at once. i've often seen them. i didn't like to intrude, then, so i went on. i thought i wouldn't say anything about it, unless it was necessary." "it is necessary. has she had them all the time?" "let's ask her," said barry. "i believe joyce can explain it." they sent for mrs. stannard, and she came, mrs. faulkner accompanying her. "i found these on my dressing-table this morning," joyce said, simply, holding out the case of emeralds to the view of all. "found them! where did they come from?" asked roberts. "i don't know," and then, seeing the dark looks on the detective's face, joyce exclaimed, "you tell about it, beatrice. i--i can't talk." "this is the story," said mrs. faulkner. "about an hour ago, mrs. stannard sent for me to come to her room. i went, and she showed me the case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she awoke this morning. it was not there when she retired last night. further than that, she knows nothing about it." "you mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?" "yes. she cannot account for it, herself. we have been talking it over, and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took them, and then decided to return them. of course it would be practically impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity that has been given to the matter." "of course. but why a servant? why not a guest--or a member of the household,--or--or mrs. stannard, herself?" "i!" exclaimed joyce. "why i've just found them!" "didn't you have them all the time?" "of course not! how dare you imply such a thing? this morning they were in my room, last night they were not there. they were brought there during the night. it is for you to find out who brought them." "was the door of your bedroom locked?" "no. it is not our habit to lock our doors,--any of us. the outer doors and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any of the servants." "where were the gems this morning?" "on my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, adjoining my sleeping room." "who do you think put them there?" "whoever stole them the night my husband was killed." "and who do you think that was?" "whoever killed him, of course." "perhaps not," said mrs. faulkner, thoughtfully. "perhaps the thief and the murderer were not the same person." "that may be so," agreed bobsy. "have you any theory or suspicion based on the return of the jewels, mrs. faulkner?" "no; except a general idea that the emeralds might have been stolen and returned by a servant, and the murder committed by an intruder." "why not assume that the intruder also took the jewels?" "only because it would be difficult for him to get into the house and return them to mrs. stannard. i can see no explanation of that act save that a servant did it." "or an outsider with the connivance of one of the servants." "yes, that might be," agreed mrs. faulkner. "the mere placing of the case in mrs. stannard's dressing-room would not be difficult. the doors all over the house are open or unlocked at night, and a servant could easily slip in and out of the room unheard." "you heard no unusual sound in the night, mrs. stannard?" "none," said joyce. "i'm sorry to disagree with the construction you put upon this incident, mrs. faulkner," and bobsy turned to her as to the principal spokesman, "but to my mind it strengthens the case against mrs. stannard. it seems more than likely that she had the emeralds all the time, or knew where they were. she kept them hidden, because she thought the letter written by her husband, tacitly gave the gems to miss vernon. then when miss vernon saw her, looking at the jewels, mrs. stannard thought better to face the music and own up that she had them." "why i didn't let her know that i saw her!" exclaimed natalie. "perhaps she saw you in a mirror, or heard you. doubtless she knew in some way that you had seen her looking at the jewels, and concluded to tell the story that accounted for them." joyce stannard looked at the speaker, and her face blanched. with a desperate cry of distress, she turned and swiftly left the room. roberts kept a wary eye on her retreating figure, and as she went upstairs, he made no attempt to recall or to follow her. "she has practically condemned herself," he said. "the reappearance of the emeralds seems to settle it." "why?" asked beatrice faulkner. "why do you condemn her because of that?" "look at it squarely, mrs. faulkner. assume for a moment my theory is right. then, mrs. stannard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion on miss vernon, claims that the jewels were put in her room surreptitiously during the night. she is sure miss vernon will be suspected of having had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them secretly. this will militate against miss vernon, and imply her greater guilt also." "why, what an idea!" exclaimed natalie. "as if i ever had the emeralds!" "that letter said you knew where they were." "that letter was not written to me." "to whom then?" "i've no idea. but not to me. i'm--i'm engaged to barry." "you weren't engaged to the son while the father was alive," probed roberts. "n--no. but only because his father wouldn't allow it. i'm going to look after joyce," and without a backward glance, natalie ran from the room, and up the stairs. "you see," began roberts, looking at mrs. faulkner and barry stannard, "you two are the only ones i can talk to frankly. those two ladies suspected by the police have to be handled carefully. you are both material witnesses, and as such are bound to tell me truthfully all you can of anything bearing on the case. now, however painful it may be for you, mr. stannard, i must tell you that it is rapidly coming to a show-down between the two suspects, and the probability is, it seems to me, that the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the wife than on the model. the direct evidence is perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems to the police that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier for mrs. stannard than for miss vernon. the wife, let us say, had reason for jealousy, and had reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial husband. the little model, while irritated at her employer's attentions, was in love with another man, and could easily get away from the artist without resorting to crime." "that's right about natalie," exclaimed barry, "but it's unthinkable that joyce should go so far as to kill----" "you don't know all the provocation she may have had," said roberts. "a jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and then the climax comes. at any rate, if miss vernon isn't guilty, mrs. stannard is. you can't find two women hovering over a dying man, and acquit them both. so it's one or the other, and i incline toward the suspicion of the older woman." "but how do you explain the various clues pointing to natalie?" asked beatrice faulkner. "let's take them one by one. first, that note found on the man's desk. even if that were written to miss vernon, it needn't condemn her. even if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that she killed him. and the whole tone of the note is against its being meant for her. it is unexplained so far, but i can't look on it as evidence against the model." "i agree with that," said mrs. faulkner. "that letter may well have been to some other woman interested in eric stannard, and she may have had the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to joyce last night." "no, no, mrs. faulkner, that isn't right. i don't understand the emerald business altogether, but i thoroughly believe that mrs. stannard has had them in her keeping all the time. now, next, we have the evidence of the dying man's exclamation. that, i think, is perfectly explained by miss vernon's assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife." "of course it is," declared barry. "i know my father was madly in love with miss vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. i want to say right here, that i revere and respect my father's memory, but i cannot deny his faults. and he was far too careless of his wife's feelings in these matters. my mother died many years ago, and for a long time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and in it, too. then when he married a second time he did not settle down to the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire pretty women wherever he met them. now, it is more than likely that in his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him, he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his wife. i do not defend my father's speech but to me it is explained." "it may be so," said roberts. "now here's another point. mrs. stannard declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the billiard room, near the connecting door. shall we say this is an invented story of hers?" "let me see," said barry, "what were the words?" "to the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and that as a consolation she could have the emeralds." "practically what was in the note," exclaimed mrs. faulkner. "almost," returned roberts. "now was miss vernon there and were these words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from consideration of her as the criminal." "if so, then the letter was to her," said beatrice. "and it wasn't," maintained barry. "my father admired natalie,--made love to her, we'll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies." "could this be the way of it?" said beatrice. "suppose mr. stannard was even then writing that note----" "but it was found in his desk." "well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the actual wording of it. mrs. stannard says she heard no other voice, so may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?" bobsy roberts turned this over in his mind. "it is a possibility," he conceded. "and then, let us say, after hearing those words, mrs. stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, mrs. stannard caught up the etching needle and----" "it isn't at all like her," said barry, "but i can only say it is more easily to be conceived of in her case than in natalie's. i don't want to admit the possibility of joyce being the criminal, but i can believe it, before i can imagine natalie doing such a thing. and as you say, joyce had motive, and natalie had none." "i won't subscribe entirely to that, mr. stannard. miss vernon inherits a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the artist toward her----" "no, i wasn't," said natalie herself, suddenly reappearing. "on the contrary, i had persuaded mr. stannard, that very day, not to ask me to pose for him, except as a fully draped model. he had apologised for his previous insistence, and i looked for no more trouble on that score. i was trying to get up courage to ask him to let barry be engaged to me, but i hadn't accomplished that." "if mrs. stannard had had any angry words with her husband just before he was attacked, could you have overheard them?" asked roberts. "i don't think so. not unless they had spoken very loudly. the door to the terrace was closed, or almost closed. and i was not thinking about what might be going on in the house. unless there had been an especial disturbance, i should not have noticed it." "yet you heard that gasping cry for help through the closed door." "yes. but that was not a faint gasp, it was a penetrating sort of a cry. an attempted scream, i should describe it." roberts looked at her closely. was she innocent or was she an infant machiavelli? "it is a difficult situation," he said, with a sigh. "we have but two eye-witnesses. each naturally accuses the other and denies her own guilt. one speaks truth and one falsehood. how can we distinguish which one tells the truth?" "don't say eye-witnesses," objected natalie. "i didn't see the crime committed. if i think joyce did it, it's only because i went in and found her there and nobody else about." "suppose," and bobsy roberts looked her straight in the face, "suppose eric stannard held in his hand your picture,--that etching, you know, and suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. or, say, he wasn't talking to it, but what he did say, and what his wife overheard, was said while he held your picture, and she thought he referred to you. then she, in a jealous fury, resented the idea of his giving you the emeralds, and----" "i didn't want the emeralds," said natalie, coldly, "and i certainly didn't want eric to marry me, but even granting your premises right, it takes suspicion of the murder from me, and places it on joyce." "it does," agreed barry, "and that's where it belongs, if on either of you two." "it must be so," said beatrice faulkner, "for if natalie had known where the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her the gems,--for it really did give them to the one it was written to,--then she would have kept them and not have given them back to joyce." "by jove, that's so!" exclaimed roberts. "whatever woman that letter was meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to eric stannard's wish, and if she had them she would be extremely unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. but how, then, explain their return?" "it wasn't a return," said beatrice. "joyce had them herself all the time." "i believe she had," said roberts. ix one or the other bobsy roberts was at his wits' end. he pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. there was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider. he sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery. "walls have ears," he said to himself, whimsically, "now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what i want to know." the studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers. like most artists eric stannard was of careless habits regarding his belongings. roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers, and found little of interest. old bills, old notes of appointment with patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the findings. but he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and looking unmistakably like a jeweller's box. bobsy opened it, and found a small gold heart-shaped locket. with it was a card bearing the words "for my goldenheart. from eric." it was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was written, but it had never been presented. it was easily seen that the parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. the paper wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in the creases. "bought it for her but never gave it to her," bobsy surmised. "surely i can make something out of this." but nothing seemed definite. a provokingly blank paper, without address of any sort, can't be indicative of much. the box bore the jeweller's name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none. bobsy showed it to joyce stannard, but she took little interest in it. "it must have been bought before i married mr. stannard," she said. "why?" "i know by the box. that sort of a box was used by that firm the year before i was married. in all probability mr. stannard did buy it for a lady, and for some reason or other didn't present it. it's of no great value." "no," agreed bobsy, "except as it proves that his interest in 'goldenheart' has lasted for some time." "then goldenheart can't be miss vernon," said joyce, wearily. "it seems to me, mr. roberts, that you get nowhere. you make so much of little things----" "because we can't get any big piece of evidence. you know yourself, mrs. stannard, that our principal clue is the finding of you and miss vernon in a situation which _might_ mean the guilt of either of you, and _must_ mean the guilt of one of you." "mr. roberts, i want to say to you very frankly that i wish to be cleared of suspicion. i did not kill my husband. i can't quite believe miss vernon did, but at any rate i want the mystery cleared up. i don't know how to set about it myself, and if you don't either, i want to employ some one else. this is no disparagement of your powers, but if you know of any--more experienced detective----" "there are plenty of more experienced detectives, mrs. stannard, but i am anxious to succeed in this quest myself. will you not give me a longer time, and if at the end of, say, another week, i have made little or no progress, call on whomever you like." "very well. but i must be freed myself. i am willing to spend a fortune, if need be, but i cannot live under this cloud of suspicion." "let us work together then. tell me anything i ask, and you may be able to give me some help. first, can you state positively that no person came in through the billiard room and went on to the studio while you were in the billiard room, just before the tragedy?" "why, of course, nobody passed through." "the billiard room was lighted?" "yes. not brilliantly, but a few lights were on." "mr. courtenay had just left you?" "a short time before, yes." "and,--now think carefully,--could you not have been sitting with your back to the door, or--perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands, or for any such reason, could some one have passed you without your knowing it?" joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said, "no; positively not. i was sitting on one of the side seats, and i may have had my eyes closed, for i was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed through the room i should have heard footsteps, of course." "on the soft, thick rug?" "much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is very acute. yes, mr. roberts, i must have heard the intruder, if one came in that way." "i do not think one did, but there is no other way for any one to have entered the studio." "why not by coming in the terrace door, and passing natalie instead of me?" "the probability is less. the terrace door was closed, and, too, miss vernon sat back on the terrace, and must have seen any one passing in front of her." "but suppose she did see him, and chooses to deny it for his sake?" bobsy looked at her. "i've been waiting for this," he said. "you mean barry stannard. there is room for thought in that direction. he had reason to be angry at his father, first because of his refusal to let barry marry the girl, and also, because of eric stannard's annoyance of the little model. the father out of the way, the son steps into a fortune and wins his bride beside." "but barry never did it! i confess i've thought of it as a theory, but i can't believe it of barry,--i simply can't." "mrs. stannard, somebody killed your husband. if not a common malefactor, who was bent on robbery, then it must have been one of mr. stannard's intimates. if that is so, barry stannard is no more above suspicion than miss vernon or yourself." "that's true enough. well, go ahead, mr. roberts. do all you can, but do get somewhere. you reason around in a circle, always coming back to the proposition that it must have been either miss vernon or myself." "that is where i stand at present," said bobsy, very gravely, "but i shall try to get some new light on it all,--and soon." joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave and went away, and as soon as he was gone she threw herself on a couch and cried piteously. the visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what joyce had said that the gold heart was bought shortly before her marriage to eric. the date was looked up and the purchase verified. so it seemed to tell nothing save that it was meant for a gift but never given. probably, thought roberts, it was owing to eric's marriage that he concluded not to give a keepsake to a woman other than his bride. but, after all, mightn't goldenheart be joyce herself? no, for the letter found in the desk denied that. but that letter might have been written a long time ago. not likely, for it stated that joyce would not be unwilling to consider separation from her husband. that of course, pointed to the fact that joyce loved another, doubtless courtenay, but more than all it pointed to natalie as goldenheart. well, it was not inconceivable that eric stannard, the gay lothario, had called more than one woman goldenheart. yet had it been natalie, would he not have said goldenrod, especially as he had painted her in that guise? and so, as usual, bobsy roberts puzzled round in circles and came back to the old idea that it must be one of those two women, and could not by any possibility be any one else. and now, to prove it. he planned to delve deeply into the recent past of the two, and also into eric's behaviour of late, and he felt he must get some hint or some clue to go upon. then, too, there were the missing jewels. the emeralds had been returned to joyce,--that is, she _said_ they had been returned. but the rest of the collection was still unfound. bobsy didn't think they had been stolen or lost, but merely that eric had hidden them so securely that they were unfindable. a queer procedure that. it would seem that he would have left some record of their hiding place. but he was a queer man,--careless in every way. and the jewels might be in a bank or safe deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the house. the whole business was unsatisfactory, nothing tangible to work on. an out and out robbery, now, one might track down. but a jewel disappearance that might be all right and proper, was an aggravating proposition. so bobsy roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined. he had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of real detective work. but it was not so easy as he had thought it. it was all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the finding of them present at the scene of the crime. bobsy tried to balance up the points against each. motive? about equal, for joyce didn't love her husband, and natalie was angry at his intentions to her. inheritance? equal again, for the seventy thousand dollars that was natalie's bequest was quite as desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that joyce received was for her. moreover, natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a fortune as great as joyce's. opportunity? certainly equal. both women were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the light and still find the way around quietly. bobsy visualised the scene. whichever one did it, after striking the blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning to leave the room as she had entered it. but before she had left the room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,--or perhaps she heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer fright and uncertainty. then came the sudden, blinding illumination as blake snapped on the key, and then--discovery by blake and mrs. faulkner both. no escape was possible then. she had to stay and face the issue. now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? though not there at the time, bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew it by heart. natalie had cowered in terror, joyce had nearly fainted. surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! either woman's action was quite compatible with a criminal's sudden action at being discovered, or an innocent woman's horror at the scene before her. but one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. and bobsy vowed he'd find out which was which before his week was up. returning to the folly, he asked permission to spend some time in eric's rooms on the second floor. here he studied his problem afresh. the bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them. here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had always been forbidden by eric himself to put his personal belongings in order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same. but nothing turned up. sketches, photographs, old letters, all were scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great question. slowly bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. he had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. the carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. he reached the lower hall and stood thinking of blake's experience. there the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when mrs. faulkner came down and saw him. then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. no, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. it was a physical impossibility. now, once again, which? joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. then she turned back and, after a moment's hesitation, she spoke to him. "mr. roberts, i've had a strange letter. i want to ask advice about it. will you help me?" "in any way i can, mrs. stannard. what is it?" "come in the studio. i'll speak to you first about it. i was looking for barry, to ask him." they went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down. "here is the letter," said joyce, handing it to him. "i wish you would read it." bobsy took the letter curiously. what would he learn? it was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship. it ran: _mrs. stannard_: dear madam: before writing what i am about to reveal, let me assure you that i am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. i am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but i am a psychic, and in a trance state i have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. i cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, i communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, i go to them. if not, there is no harm done. so, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, i shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. if not, simply disregard this letter. very truly yours, orienta. the address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant's circular letter. "it isn't worth the paper it's written on," said bobsy, handing it back. "but how do you know? i've read up on this sort of thing and while there is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it's always done by a cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance. this letter is from a refined, honest woman, and i've a notion to see what she'll say. it can do no harm, even if it does no good." "of course, mrs. stannard, if you choose to look into this matter i have nothing to say, but you asked me for advice." "i know it," and joyce shook her head, "but if you don't advise me the way i want you to, i'll----" "ask somebody else?" "yes, i believe i will." "do. i really think if you confer with barry stannard or with mrs. faulkner, they would give you advice both sound and disinterested. they'd probably tell you to let it alone." "i'm going to ask them, anyway. i won't ask natalie, for i don't think she knows anything about it. why, mr. roberts, if we could just get a clue to the mystery, it might be of incalculable help." "yes, but you can't get a clue from a fraud." "i don't believe she is a fraud, but even so, i might learn something from her." "if you do, i hope you will give me the benefit of the information." joyce laid the matter before barry and beatrice. natalie was present also, and joyce was surprised to find that the girl was well versed in the whole subject of psychics and occult lore. "i don't know an awful lot about it, joyce," she said, "but i've read some of the best authorities, and sometimes i've thought i was a little bit psychic myself. i'd like to see this orienta." "it doesn't seem right," objected mrs. faulkner. "what do you suppose she does? go into trances?" "yes, of course," said natalie. "and then she talks and tells things and when she comes to again, she doesn't know what she has said." "then i don't believe it's true." "oh, yes, it is, mrs. faulkner. i mean, it's likely to be. why, if she could tell us who----" "do we want her to?" said barry, very soberly. "isn't it better to leave the whole thing a mystery?" "no," said joyce, decidedly. "i want to find out the truth, if there's any way to do it. i don't think much of detectives, at least, not mr. roberts. oh, he's a nice man,--i like him personally. but he doesn't accomplish anything." "well, let's have orienta come here," suggested natalie. "and we can see how we like her, and if we don't want her to, she needn't try her powers in our cause." "the police might object," said mrs. faulkner. "oh, no," rejoined barry. "this is a private matter. we're at liberty to do a thing of that sort, if we want to. but i don't approve of it." "i'm going to write to her, anyway," joyce declared. "i want to see what she proposes to do." "yes, do," urged natalie. "and ask her to come here as soon as she can arrange to." x orienta "i wish you'd use your influence with joyce, and urge her not to have this poppycock business go on." barry looked troubled, and his round, good-natured face was unsmiling. "i have tried," returned beatrice faulkner, "but she is determined. and, really, it can't do any harm." "it might turn suspicion in the wrong direction." "barry, what are you afraid of? do you fear any revelation she may make?" "no, oh, no,--not that. but if--well, supposing she should declare positively that it was natalie or joyce,--either of them, don't you see it couldn't help influencing the police? i want the whole thing hushed up. father is gone, it can't do him any good to find out who killed him, and it may make trouble for an innocent person." "i'll talk to joyce again, but i doubt if i can change her determination to ask this orienta here. absurd name!" "yes, and an absurd performance all round." "i'll do my best. and, barry, i'm thinking of leaving here to-morrow; i've staid longer than i intended, now." "oh, don't go away. why, you're a kind of a--how shall i express it?" "a go-between?" "well, not in the usually accepted sense of that term, but you are that, in a nice way. you can tell joyce what i can't tell her--at least, what i say to her has no effect. by the way, joyce wants to go away, too." "will they let her?" "i don't know. but since she is thinking about this orienta, she's planning to stay here longer. i don't know what she will do, but don't you see, beatrice, if she goes away, even for a short time, natalie couldn't stay here without a chaperon? so won't you stay a while longer, until we see how things are going? you've been such a trump all through these troubled days,--why, everybody depends on you to--to look after things, don't you know." beatrice smiled at the boy,--for when bothered, barry looked very boyish,--and said, kindly, "i will stay another week, then. you see, at first, joyce was so nervous and upset, she asked me to look after the housekeeping a bit, but now her nerves are better, and i think the routine duties of the house help fill up her time, and are really good for her." "well, you women settle those matters between yourselves. but you stay on a while, and help me and natalie through. the girl threatens to go away, too; in fact, everybody wants to get out of this house, and i don't blame them." they were in the studio and barry looked with a shudder toward the chair where his father had met his death. "no, i can't blame them either,--and yet, it is a wonderful house. must it go to strangers?" "i suppose so. it's joyce's, of course, but she doesn't want to live here. i don't want to take it off your hands, for natalie won't live here either. you don't want it, do you?" "i? oh, no. my own life here was a happy one, but the memories of those old days and the thoughts of this recent tragedy make the place intolerable to me as a home. but strangers could come in, and start a new life for the old place." "it isn't old. and it's going to be hard to sell it, because of--of the crime story attached to it. if we could only get matters settled up, and the police off the case, we could close the house and go away. joyce would go back to her mother's for a time, and eventually, of course, she will marry courtenay. he's a good chap, and there's not a slur to be cast on him. as long as my father lived, eugene never said a word to joyce that all the world mightn't hear." "how do you know?" "i only assert it, because i know the man." "barry, you're very young, even younger than your years. try to realise that i'm not saying a word against joyce or mr. courtenay, either, but--well, since your father himself realised how matters stood between them, you ought to see it, too." "i know they cared for each other, but i mean, joyce and eugene both were too high-minded to let their caring go very far." "high-mindedness is apt to break through when people skate on thin ice. but don't misunderstand me. keep your faith in all the high ideals you can, both in yourself and others. what did you think of your father leaving such an enormous sum to natalie?" "it was more than i supposed, but father was absurdly generous, and often in erratic ways. he probably made that bequest one day when he was especially pleased with her posing, or, more likely, when he himself had worked with special inspiration and had produced a masterpiece." "very likely. miss vernon doesn't seem surprised about it." "oh, she knew it. he told her a short time ago." "do the police know that?" "i fear so. and those are the things that worry me. if they think natalie killed my father to get that money, it is a strong point against her. of course, she didn't, but all the evidence and clues in this whole business are misleading. i never saw or heard of such a mass of contradictory and really false appearances. that's why i'd rather hush it all up, and not try to go farther." "here comes natalie now. i'll leave you two alone and i'll go to see what i can do with joyce about that clairvoyant matter." barry scarcely heard the last words, for the mere sight of natalie entering the room was enough to drive every other thought from his mind. her white house gown was of soft crãªpe material, with a draped sash of gold silk, a few shades deeper than her wonderful hair. gold-hued slippers and stockings completed the simple costume, and in it natalie looked like a princess. with all her dainty grace and delicate lines, the girl had dignity and poise, and as she walked across the room barry thought he had never seen anything so lovely. "you angel!" he whispered; "you gold angel from a fra angelico picture! natalie, my little angel girl!" he held out his arms, and the girl went to him, and laid her tiny snowflake of a hand on his shoulder. "why do you stay in this room, barry? i don't like it in here." "then we won't stay. let us go out on the terrace in the sunlight." the autumn afternoon sun was yet high enough to take the chill off the crisp air, and on a wicker couch, covered with a fur rug, they sat down. "here's where we sat, the night of----" began barry, and then stopped, not wanting to stir up awful memories. "i know it," returned natalie. "you left me here,--where did you go, barry?" "off with thor and woden for a short tramp. you said you were going upstairs, don't you remember?" "yes. but where did you tramp?" "oh, around the grounds." "which way?" "what a little inquisitor! well, let me see. we went across this lawn first." "did you see mr. courtenay on that stone bench there?" "no, i don't think so. no, i'm sure i didn't. why?" "i just wanted to know. where did you go next? come, barry, i'll go with you. go over the same path you went that night." barry looked at her curiously, and said, "come on, then." they started across the lawn, and soon natalie turned and looked back. "could you see me from here?" she asked. "not at night, no. but i didn't try. i thought you had gone in the house, and i went straight ahead. the dogs were jumping all over me, and i was thinking of them." "oh, barry! after the conversation we had just had, were you thinking of the dogs instead of me?" "well, the dogs were bothering me,--and you weren't!" "where next?" but barry hesitated. "by jove. i don't know which way i did go next. let me see." natalie waited. "down to the italian gardens?" she said at last. "no,--that is, i don't think so. where _did_ i go?" "barry! you must know where you went. how silly." "it isn't silly. i--i can't remember,--that's all." "then you refuse to tell me?" "i don't refuse,--i just don't remember." "barry! do remember. you must!" after a moment's silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying, "i have no recollection. don't ask me that again." natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned their footsteps toward the italian gardens, the beautiful landscape planned and laid out by a genius. down the stone steps they went and paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. then barry took her in his arms. "dear little girl," he breathed in her ear, "don't be afraid. it will all come out right. but we don't want the truth known. now, don't give way," as a sob shook natalie's quivering shoulders. "you mustn't talk or think another word about it. obey me, now, take your mind right off the subject! think of something pleasanter,--think of me!" "i can't very well help that,--when you're so close!" and the lovely deep blue eyes smiled through unshed tears. "you heavenly thing! natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?" "if i am, i am glad, for your sake. i needn't ever pose again, need i, barry?" "well, i guess no! a photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the nearest i shall ever let you come to a portrait! dear, when will you marry me?" "oh, i can't marry you! i can't--i can't!" "then what are you doing here? this is no place for a girl who isn't to be my wife!" and barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed jacket. "i oughtn't to be here--but--but i love you, barry, i do--i do!" "of course you do, my blessed infant. now, as we didn't get along very well with our marriage settlement for a topic, let's try again. beatrice wants to go away from here. do you want her to?" "oh, no! don't let her go. i'd be lost without her. i want to go, you know, but i can't, i suppose. beg her to stay as long as i do,--won't you, dear?" the pleading in the blue eyes was so tender and sweet that barry kissed them both before replying. "i will, darling. i'll beg anybody in the world for anything you want, if i have to become a professional mendicant. now, brace up, sweetheart, for i want to talk to you about lots of things, and how can i, if you burst into tears at every new subject i bring up?" "i'm upset to-day, barry mine. don't let's talk. just wander around the gardens." "wander it is," and barry started off obediently, still with his arm round her. "unhand me, villain," she said, trying to speak gaily. but it was impossible, and the scarlet lips trembled into a curve that broke barry's heart for its sadness. he gathered her to himself. "dear heart, you are all unstrung. go to your room for a time, don't you want to? let beatrice look after you,--she's kindness itself." "indeed she is. i'll do that. and i'll come back, barry, a new woman." "for heaven's sake, don't do that! you'd make a fine militant suffragist!" "no, not that. but a sensible, commonplace girl, who can talk without crying." "commonplace isn't exactly the word i'd choose to describe you, you wonder-thing! but run away and powder your nose, it needs it. ha, i thought that would stir you up!" as natalie pouted. "run along, and i'll see you at dinner time. and this evening we'll have our chat." but that evening orienta came. joyce had refused to listen to any one's objections and had made the appointment with the clairvoyant to come for a preliminary conference whether she gave them a sã©ance or not. barry and natalie refused at first to meet the visitor, but joyce persuaded them to see her, so that they might argue intelligently for or against her. beatrice consented to be present, for joyce had begged it as a special favour. and so, when blake ushered the stranger into the reception room she was greeted pleasantly by all the members of the household. nor was this perfunctory, for the charm of the guest was manifest from the first. at her entrance, at the first sound of her low, silvery voice, each hearer was thrilled as by an unexpected bit of music. "mrs. stannard?" she said, as joyce rose and held out her hand. the long cloak of deep pansy-coloured satin fell back showing its lining of pale violet, and the dark oriental face lighted with responsive cordiality, while she returned the greetings. selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, orienta sank into it, and crossed her dainty feet on a cushion which barry offered. her purple hat was like a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicuous nor eccentric. she chose to keep her hat on, and also retained her long cloak, which, thrown back, disclosed her robe of voluminous folds of dull white silk. made in oriental design, it was yet modishly effective and suited well the type of its wearer. though not beautiful, the woman was wonderfully charming. in looking at her each auditor forgot self and others in contemplation of this strange personality. each of the four observing her had eyes only for her, and didn't even glance aside to question the others' approval. without seeming to notice this mute tribute, orienta began to speak. "we will waste no time in commonplaces," she said, her voice as perfectly modulated as that of a great actress, "they cannot interest us at this time. it is for you to tell me whether or not you wish to command my services in this matter of mystery. if so, well,--if not, i go away, and that is all." the name she had chosen to adopt was a perfect description of her whole personality. her oval face was of olive complexion; her eyes, not black, but the darkest seal brown; her hair, as it strayed carelessly from the edges of the confining turban, was brown, in moist tendrils at the temples, as if she were under some mental excitement. it was evident,--to the women, at least,--that the scarlet of her full lips, and the flush on her cheek bones, was artificial, but it gave the impression of being frankly so, and not with intent to deceive. it was perfectly applied, at any rate, and the flash of her ivory white teeth made her smile fascinating. "that's the word," barry stannard thought, as it occurred to him, "she's fascinating, that's what she is. not entirely wholesome, not altogether to be trusted, but very, _very_ fascinating." with a subtle understanding, orienta perceived that barry had set his stamp of approval on her, and turned her attention to the women. "i in no way urge or insist upon my suggestions," she said. "i only tell you what i can do, and it is for you to say. for you, i suppose, mrs. stannard?" "yes," said joyce, and her tone was decided. "yes, it is for me to say, and i say i want you. i want you to tell us anything you can,--_anything_--about the mystery that has come to this house. i want to know who killed my husband, and i want to know why, and all the details of the deed." "oh," barry protested, "don't begin with that, joyce. let madame orienta tell us something of less importance first. let us have a sã©ance or a reading or whatever the proper term may be, and test her powers." the visitor gave him a slow smile. "it is as i am instructed," she said, in a matter-of-fact, every-day sort of way. "but i must inform you before going further, that my fees are not small. test my powers in any way you choose, but i must include the test in my final statement of your indebtedness." "all right," said barry. "i'll pay the test bill, and then, joyce, if you want to go on with your plans, you can assume the further expense." "can we do anything to-night?" asked natalie. she had sat breathless, listening, but now, with eyes like stars, she eagerly questioned. "you are interested?" and orienta looked at her. "oh, so much. but i fear what you will reveal----" "fear my revelations!" "only because i know they will not be true, but you will make us think they are." instead of being annoyed or offended, orienta looked at her and smiled from beneath her heavy dark brows. "you are psychic, yourself," she said. "yes," said natalie, "i am." xi sealed envelopes with a high hand joyce carried the matter through. she ignored opposition and met remonstrance with a baffling disdain. she arranged for a return of orienta for the experiments on the following evening, and after the departure of the medium, she declared she would listen to no comments on her actions and went off at once to her own rooms. beatrice faulkner expressed herself guardedly. "i don't care what revelations come," she said, "except as they affect you people here. it doesn't seem to me that that woman can say anything to make me think either joyce or natalie committed the crime, but i don't want her to say anything that will make either of them uncomfortable." "if she does, there'll be trouble," declared barry, gloomily. "i feel as you do, and i want to try her on any ordinary subject first----" "but we are going to do that," put in natalie. "i'm crazy to see the whole performance, but i'm scared, too. i wish joyce would promise not to go on with it if any one of us doesn't like it." "she won't promise that," said beatrice. "joyce is bound to see it through. i don't know what she expects from it, but she has no fear, that's certain." orienta had stipulated that the sã©ance take place in the studio, saying that the influences of the place would go far toward producing favourable conditions for her. so they awaited her there, at the appointed time, and within a few minutes of the hour she arrived. pausing in the hall to lay off her wraps, orienta then glided into the great room where her group of auditors were assembled. this time she wore a robe of dark green, as full and flowing as the white one. there was no suggestion of greek drapery, but an oriental style of billowing folds that would have been hard to imitate. a jade bracelet showed beneath the flowing sleeve and a jade ring was on one finger of the long, psychic hand. "may i look at it?" said natalie, as they sat a moment, before beginning the sã©ance. "certainly. it is my talisman,--my charm. without it, i could do nothing." "really? how wonderful!" and the girl looked earnestly at the carven stone. "your power is occult, then?" "i think it must be. yet i would not be classed with the people who go by the general title of mediums. they are, usually, frauds." orienta made this statement simply, as if speaking of some matter unconnected with her own work or claims. she gave the impression that if fraudulent "mediums" wished to impose upon the gullible public, it was of no interest to her, but she declined to be considered one of them. and so secure was she in her own sincerity, she deemed it unnecessary to emphasise or insist upon it. "what is your wish?" she asked, at length. "will you try me first on some outside matters or shall we proceed at once to the question of the mystery we seek to solve?" just then robert roberts was announced. "what shall we do?" exclaimed natalie. "tell him to come some other time?" "no," said joyce, "let him come in here with us. you don't mind, do you, madame orienta?" "no; why should i? who is he?" "the detective who is working on the case." orienta shrugged her shoulders. "of course it matters not to me. but are you sure you want him to know what i may reveal? it may incriminate----" "i don't care who may be incriminated!" exclaimed joyce. "i want to find out a few things. as a matter of fact, i asked mr. roberts to come." natalie turned pale. had joyce laid a trap? and for whom? what might they not learn before the evening was over? bobsy entered, and was duly presented to the visitor. he was courteous, but unmistakably curious. "what may i call you?" he asked, as he bowed before her. "priestess, if you please," she returned. "i refuse to be called a medium or a seeress or even a clairvoyant. i am these things, but the titles have been so misused that i claim only to be a priestess of the occult. this is no academic title, i simply name myself a priestess of the cult i express and follow." "priestess, i greet you," said bobsy, and to those who knew him a shade of mockery might be detected in his tone. but it was the merest hint and quite unobservable to the one he addressed. in most decorous manner he took a place in the group, and joyce announced the plan she had in mind. "first," she said, "we will have an exhibition of oriental powers. we will follow her instructions and she will give us a showing of her methods and her feats. then,--if i say so,--we will proceed to try the other experiment." "it is well," said the priestess. "remember, please, i make no claims to magic or to witchcraft. i have, within myself, some inexplicable, some mysterious power that enables me to see clairvoyantly through material substances. i have also an occult power which allows me to see happenings at a distance or in the past as if they were transpiring here and now. these two powers are at your disposal, but further than that i cannot go. i cannot answer questions, unless they come within the range of the two conditions i have mentioned to you just now. i cannot read the future or tell fortunes. i can only see what is shown to me, and if i disappoint you, i cannot help it. now let us proceed. i will ask you each to write a question on a slip of paper and enclose it in an envelope. sign your name to your question and seal the envelope securely." "old stuff," said bobsy roberts to barry, in a low whisper. but barry shook his head. he would not commit himself until the experiment was over. "will you get some paper and envelopes?" asked orienta. "any sort will do." barry rose and went to the desk nearest to him. there was a small paper pad, and in a pigeon-hole were several small envelopes. "will these do?" he asked. "any kind will do," said orienta, wearily, rather than petulantly. bobsy looked at her closely. surely she wasn't at all particular about the materials used. he must watch carefully for hocus pocus, if he was to discover any. "ink or pencil?" said barry. "it doesn't matter," and orienta was almost irritated now. "i'm not doing legerdemain tricks, with prepared paraphernalia!" barry, a little embarrassed, picked up a pencil, but in trying it, broke off its point. so he took ink, and wrote on the top slip of the pad a short question. this he tore off and passed the pad to joyce. at last, each had written a question, signed the slip, tucked it in an envelope and sealed the envelope. also each put a small private mark on the outside of his or her envelope to distinguish it again. "collect them, mr. roberts, please," said orienta, with a gentle smile. bobsy put the five envelopes in a little pack and held them. "now," said orienta, "i propose to read these questions in the dark and without opening the envelopes. it is no trick, as you can readily see for yourselves, but i must ask you to sit quietly and not ask questions until i have finished. then ask whatever you choose. if you please, mr. roberts, hand me the envelopes, and then turn off the lights. or, stay, turn off the lights first, that there may be no chance of my seeing even a mark on the outside." bobsy did exactly as directed. orienta sat in a large chair, facing the others, who sat in a row before her. the lights were arranged so that bobsy might turn off all at the main switch, save one small table light, which would give him opportunity to regain his seat, and then this could be also turned off. with everybody raptly watching, roberts, holding the envelopes, turned off the lights. the room was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing on a small table. then he handed the lot of sealed envelopes to orienta, who took them in a hand-clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of them. in another second, bobsy had taken his seat, and snapped off the last small light. the room was in perfect darkness. barry's hand stole out and clasped natalie's, but otherwise there was no movement on the part of any one. not a second seemed to have passed before orienta's soft voice was heard. "i will read the questions," she said, "in the order they were given me. this is the first: 'who is goldenheart?' it is signed joyce stannard. this is the answer, as my mind sees it. a woman sitting on a rocky seat near a rushing brook or river. there is a man near her. he bends above her, and speaks endearing words. he calls her marie, she calls him eric. she is small and pale. her hair is titian red. though not beautiful, she is attractive in a pathetic way. ah, the vision is gone." as the low voice ceased, there was a slight rustle as of some one about to speak. "no questions, please," said orienta, "unless you want this experiment to stop right here. i will now read the contents of the next envelope. this is, 'who marred my etched picture?' signed natalie vernon. my mind sees the artist who made it, himself scratching it. he is in a fury. it is because he does not feel satisfied with his own work. he mutters, 'not right! no, not right, yet!' there is no one with him. he is alone. the vision fades." orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if exhausted. but in a moment she spoke again. "you know," she said, "if you prefer to have the lights, it doesn't matter at all to me. i read these in the dark because i think if the room were lighted you might suppose i saw the message in some way by means of my physical eyes. it is not so, but if you prefer the light, turn it on." "i do," cried roberts, and before any one could object, he snapped on the table light and then the main key which flooded the big room with illumination. orienta smiled. "i thought you were sceptical, mr. roberts," she said. and then, as if his doubts were of little consequence, she said, "shall i proceed?" joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance and reproof at bobsy roberts, who looked a little crestfallen, but determined to take no chances. orienta picked up the next envelope. she had laid aside on a table the two she had read. she did not look at the envelope she now held, but looked straight at roberts, as if to convince him of her honesty. "this is signed beatrice faulkner, and it says, 'where are the lost jewels?' my mind sees this picture. the jewels, not lost, but safely hidden. they are in a strong box, not a safe, more like a metal-bound trunk. i cannot tell where this box is, but it is in a bare place, like a store room or safety place of some sort. the vision goes." "may we speak?" asked natalie, eagerly. "not yet, please," and the priestess smiled at her. "may i not have my conditions complied with?" "keep still, natalie," said barry. "let her have fair play." "this is mr. stannard's question," and orienta held another envelope in her long fingers, "'would it not be wiser not to attempt to solve the mystery, but to hush up the whole matter?' my mind sees a picture. it is vague, there is no detail, but it is bright and beautiful. there are fair flowers and soft colours. they shift, like a kaleidoscope, but always rosy and lovely. it means, yes, it would be better to give up trying to solve the riddle. "and now," orienta spoke in a distinctly scornful voice, "there is but one more, mr. roberts' envelope. in it he has written, 'are you a fraud?' i answer this as carefully as i do the others. my mind shows me myself, and i see my honest attempts to do my duty and to read aright. no, i am not a fraud. that is all." "for shame, mr. roberts!" cried joyce, angrily. "i am sorry i asked you here to-night, and i will now ask that you go away. i am more than interested in orienta's work, i am enthralled, and i refuse to have it interrupted or interfered with by your unjust suspicions and rude behaviour! please go away, and let us continue our experiments in peace." "oh, mrs. stannard, please let me stay," begged the penitent bobsy; "i'll be good, i promise you. you see, i'm so interested in the thing, i wrote that to test it, and madame orienta came through with flying colours. if you will let me remain, i promise not to offend again, in any particular." bobsy had a way with him, and orienta herself smiled a little as she said, "let him stay. i'm glad to convince him." so bobsy staid. then barry proposed that they try the same test over again, but without signing their papers. "thus," he said, "we will feel more free to ask what we choose." orienta agreed, and again each wrote a question, and sealed it in an envelope. "seal them with wax, if you wish," said the priestess, smiling at bobsy. "i see there is a sealing set right there on the desk." so bobsy and natalie sealed their envelopes, and stamped them with their rings. "i won't do that," said joyce, "it's too silly. we all know there's no trick in it." "shall i read these in the dark or in the light?" asked orienta, as bobsy held the five missives toward her. "why not as you did before?" said beatrice, "part of them in darkness and part in light. i think those read in the dark even more wonderful than in the light." "so do i," agreed joyce. "but we'll try both ways. which first?" "you may choose," said the priestess. "dark, then," replied joyce. so again the room was made totally dark, and immediately came orienta's soft, velvety tones. "'will what i fear ever happen?'" she read slowly. then she sighed, "i cannot say, my child." every one present knew she spoke to natalie, although the question had not been signed. "i hope not,--i think not,--but the vision is clouded. it is better that you forget all. forget the past, live for a bright and happy future. the vision fades." they had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject, and the next one would ensue. with scarcely a pause and without hesitation, orienta went on: "'what can i do to help?'" no hint was needed, for all felt sure this was beatrice faulkner's question. the priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: "nothing more than you are doing. your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here and they are appreciated." "the rest in the light?" asked bobsy roberts, impatiently. "if you choose," returned joyce, and roberts switched on the electrics. orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness. she seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark. "'am i doing right?'" she read. for an instant the long lashes on the cheeks of the priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at joyce. "yes, you are doing right. continue in the procedure you have planned." a look of contentment passed over joyce's face. she showed intense relief, and oblivious to the others' curious glances she drew a long sigh and relaxed in her chair. clearly, it made no difference to orienta that the questions were not signed. she knew at once who wrote each. next came barry's. still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, "'will the truth ever be known?'" there was a perceptible pause before she said, "you do not want it known, because you fear it. but your secret is safe. that, at least, will never be known." bobsy roberts listened attentively. so barry stannard had a secret. pshaw! not necessarily because this faker said so! and yet, was she a faker? bobsy looked at her. he himself had put those sealed envelopes into that long, inert hand. there they were still, intact, seals unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if they were so much blank paper. whatever her power, it was superhuman. no physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. no, there was no chance for trickery. it was a supernatural gift of some sort. his own envelope came last. he had boldly written, "who killed eric stannard?" a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude words. orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envelope and her eyes closed. "at last," she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, "at last we come to the vital question. it matters not who wrote it, it is what each one wanted to write. shall i answer?" there was silence. orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance around. xii a vision it was curious to note the various expressions that met the eyes of the priestess. bobsy roberts regarded her with awe. all his scepticism was gone; he was ready to believe anything she might say. she had stood the severest tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come triumphant through the experimental ordeal. surely, if she revealed anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. but could she do that? natalie and barry both showed fear. strive to hide it as they would, it lurked in their staring eyes, it was evident in their restless hands, and as if moved by the same thought, they turned and gazed at each other. beatrice faulkner looked troubled. she saw the two young people in their distress, and she looked at the detective furtively. joyce, however, was the one to whom all turned, breathlessly awaiting her decision. "yes," she said, and her voice rang out with its note of determination, "yes, madame orienta, tell all you know,--all you can learn by your mystic power." as if in obedience to a command, the graceful figure of the mystic fell into a languid pose. her arms fell limply, her head drooped a very little to one side. her eyes were open, but seemed to be unseeing, for her glance was fixed, as if watching a mirage. she looked directly toward the chair where stannard had died. her half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking. she sounded as one in a trance. she was alive but not alert, like one sleep-walking or talking in a dream. "i see it all,--clearly. i see the artist in his favourite chair. he is at his work,--no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work that he has done. it is not a picture--it is a small panel. he takes up a tool,--an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. he hesitates, and then with a sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. it pleases him that he has done so, and he smiles. a man enters." there was a stir among her audience. the tension was too great. barry sought natalie's hand and clasped it tightly. roberts shot glances quickly from one to another, but returned his gaze at once to the speaker. joyce and beatrice leaned forward, fairly hanging on the words of revelation. "the man,--he is big and dark,--confronts the artist as he sits. the intruder, without a word, grasps the sharp tool from the fingers of the one who holds it, and thrusts it into the breast of his victim. he darts across the room, turns off all light, and--it is so black,--i cannot see him depart. but--i hear him--i hear his stealthy tread. he comes back, past the dying man,--he hears a groan,--he pauses,--i can see nothing, but i hear two come in at opposite doors. they stand, breathing heavily in fear--in horror of--they know not what. as they stand, half-dazed--i hear the man--the murderer slip past one of them, and out of the room. the light flashes on. the room is dazzlingly bright. i see the two who first entered. they are women. they gaze affrightedly at each other and then at the man in the chair. two others have appeared. they are at the other end of the long room. it must have been one of these who flashed the light on. they are a man,--a servant he is,--and a woman. both are terrorised at what they see. the two women near the chair of the dying man accuse each other of the crime. but this is the frenzied cry of shock and fright. they do not mean it--they scarce know what they utter. the dying man raises his head in a final effort of life. he sees the scene with the clearness of the dying brain. he hears the servant say, 'who did this?' he replies, with upraised, shaking finger--'natalie--nor joyce.' he means neither of these innocent women was concerned. he tries to tell more, to tell of his assailant, but death claims him. his voice ceases, his heart stops beating,--he is gone. that is all. with his last breath he tried to say, 'neither natalie nor joyce,' but his failing speech rendered the words unintelligible. the vision fades." orienta ceased speaking, her eyes drooped shut and she lay back in her chair as one asleep. the silence remained unbroken for a minute or more. the beautiful voice still rang in their ears. they were still back in the scene they had heard described. the vividly drawn picture was still with them, and there was no reaction until bobsy roberts said, in a tone of awed belief, "by jove!" then the stunned figures moved. beatrice looked at joyce with a smile of deep thankfulness, and then turned to smile at natalie. the girl was radiant. she had sensed acutely the whole scene, and she realised perfectly what the revelation meant. barry was looking at her adoringly, and his face was full of triumphant joy. joyce looked still a bit dazed. had the experiment really proved so much more successful than she had dared to hope? she looked at roberts. he was scribbling fast in a notebook, lest some point of the story escape his memory. orienta opened her eyes, roused her long, exquisite figure to an upright posture, and passed her hand gently across her brow. "is it enough?" she asked. "are you satisfied?" "may we ask questions?" eagerly exclaimed bobsy. "yes, but only important ones. i am very weary." "then please describe more fully the man who struck the blow." again orienta's eyes fastened themselves on the big armchair. "i see him clearly," she said, clasping her hands in her tense concentration, "but his back is toward me as he bends over his victim." "how is he dressed?" "i cannot quite tell. his figure is vague. his clothes seem merely a dark shadow against the light." "does it seem to be evening dress?" "it may be. i cannot say, surely." "at any rate, it is not the rough dress of a tramp or burglar?" "no,--not that, i think." "he is not masked?" "no." "you say he is dark? pardon me, madame, but it is my duty to get these details." "yes, his hair, as i see it, is dark." "and he has a round, smooth-shaven face?" roberts spoke eagerly, as if he had in mind a distinct personality. "no," said orienta slowly. "no, he has a long, thin face----" "can you see his face, then?" bobsy fairly shot out the words. "not his face, but an indication of his profile----" "then is he clean-shaven?" "no, he wears a beard." "oh. a dark beard? a heavy one?" "dark, yes. but not heavy." "pointed or full?" "somewhat pointed--ah, he has turned away. i cannot tell." "is he wearing a hat? but, no, you see his hair." "i see no hat." "is there a hat on the table? on a chair?" "i cannot tell. the vision fades." "let up, roberts," said barry. "we are sure now the man was an intruder. let it go at that. if you can find such a one, it won't matter whether he had a hat or not." "it is important," insisted bobsy. "now, madame orienta, tell us again of his actions. even if the vision has faded, tell from your memory what he did. you saw him when he crossed the room toward the hall door. it was light then?" "yes. he moved swiftly, straight to the electric switch, and pressed it. then i could see no more." "of course not. but you heard his steps returning, you said." "yes, he went stealthily, but i heard him feel his way by the furniture and walls." "and at the same time you heard a sound from mr. stannard?" "yes, a sort of gasp or groan." "right. it was this, then, that attracted the attention of mrs. stannard and miss vernon, and they entered at about the same time?" "so far as i can judge. they were both there when the lights re-appeared." "and in that brief instant the man had slipped past one of them and escaped." "that is as the vision revealed it." "only one more question. past which woman did he go?" "i cannot say. i merely heard a quick footstep at that end of the room." "it couldn't have been past miss vernon," said bobsy. "she was too near the door, according to her own account. and i don't see how he could have passed mrs. stannard, as there was a low light in the billiard room, and she must have seen him pass." "both women were looking toward the source of the sound they heard. also, at that very moment, the wounded man gave a faint cry of 'help!' an instant after, the servant turned on the light. in that instant the man disappeared, unnoticed by any one. i am not explaining these occurrences, mr. roberts; i am describing them. it is for you to interpret their meaning." bobsy fell into a brown study, and timidly natalie put forth a question. "how do you know he said, or tried to say, 'neither joyce nor natalie'?" orienta looked at the girl with an affectionate expression. "you are a 'sensitive' yourself, miss vernon. it will not be difficult for you to understand. by my clairvoyance i read the thought in his mind. i know he feared one or other of the two women he saw might be suspected. the dying often have abnormally acute prescience. to ward off any such danger, and in reply to the servant's inquiry, he strove to say neither of you were implicated,--he raised his hand in protest,--but he was physically unable to articulate clearly, and so his words were misconstrued." "you heard the words," said natalie to beatrice faulkner; "does it seem to you he meant that?" "yes," was the reply. "now that i think it over i feel sure he did. at the moment, you know, i could scarcely control my senses, and his voice sounded so queer and unnatural, it was difficult to gather his meaning." "i think so, too," broke in joyce. "i know that's what he meant. eric's very nature was against his accusing any woman of wrong-doing. he meant just what madame orienta has told us. and i am glad there can be no more doubt about it." "could a man have brushed by you that moment, mrs. stannard?" asked bobsy. "i suppose so. i came from a lighted room into one of pitch blackness. i heard a quick breathing from the opposite side of the room, where natalie was. i daresay i involuntarily took a step forward, and the man slipped past, behind me. it all happened so quickly, and i was so frightened, i can't describe my exact sensations. but i accept madame orienta's revelation as the truth, and----" joyce's face paled a little, and she spoke very sternly, "i positively forbid any further investigation of the whole matter." "then you suspect some one?" asked bobsy, quickly. "not at all," was the haughty answer, and joyce looked like a queen issuing commands. "i have no idea who the intruder was, nor do i want to know. but if this story is made public, a dozen men will be found to fit the description, and it will mean no end of trouble and injustice. therefore, i request, mr. roberts, that you let it go no further." "i can't promise that," said bobsy, gravely. "i am bound to report to my chief. but if he agrees, i will stop all investigation." "that won't do," said joyce, her dark eyes troubled. "you must promise what i ask." "i think you need have no fear, mrs. stannard, of any injustice being done. one moment, madame orienta. you saw the footman, blake, followed by mrs. faulkner, enter the room and turn on the light, just as they testified?" "the light was flashed on, and then i saw the servant, his hand still on the switch. behind him, at his very shoulder, was mrs. faulkner, her face drawn with fear and horror. naturally i turned my attention at once to the other end of the room, and there saw, for the first time, the two women whom i had heard enter a moment before." "thank you, that is all," and rising, bobsy roberts made brief adieus and hurried away. he went straight to headquarters and sought captain steele. "got stannard's murderer," he announced excitedly. "again or yet?" asked his unmoved listener. "got it in the queerest way, too," bobsy went on, as he fished for his notebooks in the pocket of the overcoat he had laid off. "do you believe in mejums, cap?" "not so's you'd notice it. spill your yarn." "well, to begin at the beginning of this chapter of it, mrs. stannard engaged a clairvoyant lady to see visions." "spooks?" "not exactly that, but to--well, to reconstruct the murder scene,--mentally, you know,--and see who did the stabbing. and by jove, she told us!" "come now, bobsy, i'll stand for a good deal from you----" "now, hold on, she didn't know she told----" "what! didn't know what she told----" "if you could listen without butting in every minute, i'd give you the whole story." "i'll try," and captain steele folded his hands and listened without a word while bobsy told him every detail of the orienta revelation. often he referred to his notes, and again he told vividly from memory the exact words of the priestess. "and you fell for that?" cried steele, as the tale ended. "sure i did, and so would you if you'd been there. you can sort of sense the difference between the professional fake mediums and this--this lady. she was the real thing, all right. i felt just as you do, before i saw her, but i was soon convinced. why, man, that reading the sealed messages was enough." "pooh, they have lots of ways of doing that." "but she didn't use any of their 'ways.' i, myself, handed the bunch to her, and immediately she read them out, and in pitch dark, too. no, there was no chance for trickery. she read them in dark or light, equally well. and not a seal broken or an envelope torn. now, then!" "no chance for a confederate?" "not the least. we sat in a row, and she sat facing us, fully eight feet away. and what could a confederate do? i handed her the envelopes,--she gave them back to me,--intact. not one of us moved. when it was dark, her voice proved she was in her chair, and when i flashed on the light suddenly, there she was, without a change of posture, holding the envelopes exactly as i had given them to her. i tell you she's the real thing. i've read up on the trickery business, and all the books say that while there is lots of fraud, there is also a certain amount of telepathy or clairvoyance or whatever you call it, that's true. and that's her sort." "well, who is the man? did she tell you?" "no, she didn't know. but i know." "who, then?" "eugene courtenay." "what?" "of course it is. i've had him in the back of my head for some time, but i couldn't get a peg to hang a clue on. now, i see how he could have done it. he did do it, just as the lady said. he slipped in, stabbed his man, turned off the light, and--slipped out again, past mrs. stannard." "why didn't she know it?" "she did know it! don't you see? those two are in love. they wanted stannard out of the way. but i don't think there was collusion. i think it was this way. you know, it is history that mrs. stannard and courtenay were alone in the billiard room. of course he was making love to her, and bemoaning the fact of stannard's existence. now, either he went from her into the studio, and she knew it, or else, he went away, as they say, and returned, through the billiard room--and she didn't know it." "how could she help seeing him?" "oh, say she was crying,--or had buried her face in a sofa cushion,--or was sitting before the fire and he passed behind her. but admit that he _could_ have gone through that room unknown to her,--which, of course, he could. well, he goes in, and, later, in the dark, he goes out the same way. i don't know about her knowledge of any part of this performance, but i think she knew nothing of it, or she wouldn't have engaged the occult lady." "she did that to clear herself." "yes, and miss vernon, too. but when the priestess, as they call her, spoke of a tall, dark man, with a beard, mrs. stannard was scared to death and wanted it all called off." "a tall man, with a beard?" "yes, a dark, pointed beard! isn't that courtenay?" "sounds like him. did she describe him further?" "yes, but only when i dragged it out of her. she vowed she couldn't see him clearly, and i pretended i wanted her to say a round, smooth-shaven face, and little by little i wormed it out, and it was courtenay to the life. then, mrs. stannard weakened on the whole show, which proves it." "you say you've thought of him before?" "only vaguely. but you know his story. how he sat on the lawn bench and watched the lights go off and on! good work, that! he himself turned them off and then escaped to the lawn, and cleverly sat there to see what occurred, instead of going home, and thereby being suspected." "and kept still when he found those two women were accused?" "sure. he knew they'd get off all right, and if he expected to marry mrs. stannard, he couldn't let himself get into the game. so he made up his simple, clever yarn, and stuck to it. yes, sir, courtenay's your man!" "wait, what about that conversation mrs. stannard overheard? she says her husband was talking to a woman." "she made that up. probably she had a glimmer of suspicion toward courtenay, and did anything she could to make it seem somebody else." "then she hired this visionary, and that brought about the very revelation she didn't want!" "but she never dreamed it would do so. she had no faith in the thing, and thought it would merely divert suspicion to some unknown intruder. and so it would, if i hadn't pinned the seeress down to a careful description. then, the more mrs. stannard showed discomfiture the more i knew i was right." "i believe you, bobsy. now, how shall we go about proving it?" "it will prove itself. it's a case of murder will out. you'll see!" xiii an alibi needed very discreetly bobsy conducted his interview with eugene courtenay. the detective wanted to trap his man before he could realise any danger, so he called on him the morning after his talk with steele. courtenay was not a business man. he called himself a farmer, but his farming was of the fancy variety and was done almost entirely by expert gardeners. his place was not far from the folly, and when bobsy called, at about eleven o'clock, he was received courteously enough by the man he desired to see. "it's this way, mr. courtenay," said bobsy, after a few preliminaries, "in the interests of law and justice, i want you to tell me a little more in detail the story you told at the inquest." "there are no further details than those i related, mr. roberts. what have you learned that makes you think my testimony of sudden importance?" clearly, this was not a man to be easily hoodwinked. bobsy felt his way. "not of sudden importance. but all testimony is important, and sometimes by elaboration it becomes illuminative." "good word, illuminative," remarked courtenay. "but i cannot help to shed light for you, i fear. just what do you want to know?" here was an opening. bobsy accepted it as such. "at what time did you leave the stannard house that night?" "i don't know, really. one doesn't note hours when not on business matters. it must have been between eleven and half-past. that's as near as i can come to it. why?" the last word was shot at him, and bobsy almost jumped. "it is my duty to ask," he said coolly. "at what time did you reach home? i suppose you don't know that, either." "i do not. but i didn't come home at once----" "yes, i know; you sat on a bench on the folly lawn. were you in evening togs, mr. courtenay?" "i was." "had you on a hat?" eugene courtenay started. but he answered at once: "not a hat. i wore a cap over there. i often do when i go to a neighbour's." "and you had it on when you sat on the bench?" "why, confound it, man. i don't know! i suppose i did. no, let me see. i believe i was carrying it, and laid it on the bench beside me." "and left it there?" courtenay laughed a little self-consciously. "yes, i did. i came nearly home before i thought of it. then i went back and gathered it in. why?" again that direct, snapped-out question. "what was going on at the house when you went back?" "how should i know? after events prove that the tragedy in the studio was then being gone through with--but i had no idea of that at the time. i glanced at the house, of course. there was a light in the studio--in fact, lights over most of the house. i found my cap and came on home. why?" "i'll answer your whys, mr. courtenay. because the police have reason to think your story is not entirely true. because we think it was you, yourself, who turned off the studio light." "do i understand, mr. roberts, you mean that i--let us speak plainly--that i killed eric stannard?" "did you, mr. courtenay?" "i refuse to answer such an absurd question! in the first place, i was out on the lawn, when the light went out." "so you say. but who corroborates that?" "i was also out there when the light flashed on again." "yes, that may be true, but your first statement is not. you left mrs. stannard in the billiard room, you went into the studio--whether in the interim you had been out on the lawn or not, doesn't matter--you stabbed eric stannard, you turned off the light, and returning through the billiard room, you went back to that bench, and awaited developments." "you must be insane!" "oh, no, i'm not insane. neither were you. it was a clever dodge. you didn't know the women would be implicated, but when they were, however you might regret that, you couldn't confess your own guilt----" "why couldn't i?" "because," bobsy looked squarely at him, "because you love mrs. stannard----" "stop! don't you dare to speak her name! you mischief-maker! you absolute and unqualified----" "stop, yourself, mr. courtenay! these heroics harm your case--they don't help it." "but it's false! it isn't true! i didn't do it! i was----" "yes?" "i was on that bench all the time, till i went home----" "did you see any one, any servant or gardener, perhaps, who can vouch for your story?" "no--i can't remember that i did. but, man, alive, how could i get in and out of that room? it has been proved----" "it has been proved that you could have entered unseen and could have left unseen." "but how?" "answer this question truthfully. what was mrs. stannard doing, when you left her in the billiard room?" "she was sitting on one of the leather seats that are built to the wall." "was she looking at you, as you left?" "no. she had buried her face in a pillow against which she leaned." "why did she do this? was she feeling ill?" "no." "then why the act?" "i cannot say." "you mean you will not. was it because you had said something to her that caused her emotion?" "i refuse to answer, and you have no right to ask." "very well, don't answer. but, you must admit, that if her face was buried in the pillow, she could not see if a man passed through the billiard room to the studio." "but no one did!" "how do you know?" "because i should have seen him from the bench where i sat." "no, you would not, because you were the man." "you accuse me?" "i do." "i deny it. but i shall say no more to you. have you a warrant for my arrest?" "i have not." "then go--and go quickly, before i tell you what i think of you!" but bobsy roberts was no fool. he said, quietly, "i'd rather you would tell me what you think of me. it may help me to get at the truth. there are reasons why we are inquiring into your connection with this matter--you will hear the reasons soon enough. there is peculiar but direct evidence that you are the man who stabbed mr. stannard." "evidence? what do you mean?" "just what i say. but never mind that. you have nothing else to tell me? no proof to adduce that you were just where you claim to have been when the studio was darkened?" "no! no proof, because none is needed. you can't have evidence--it is impossible!" "then that is all, mr. courtenay. you needn't tell me what you think of me. your opinion doesn't interest me. but perhaps after you hear the evidence i speak of, you'll sing another tune. oh, i'm not going to tell you about it. ask mrs. stannard." "i asked you not to mention that lady's name. good morning, mr. roberts." "good morning." and bobsy went away, filled with conviction of eugene courtenay's guilt. courtenay went at once over to see joyce. "i've missed you so," she said, simply, as she met him on the terrace. "why haven't you been here?" "i thought better not, darling. i can't control myself sufficiently to hide my love for you. and i feared it might bring embarrassment on you if i let it be seen by any one. oh, joyce, it seems so long to wait! must it be two years? i can't live through it." "hush, eugene. it seems sacrilege even to speak of our love and poor eric dead so short a time. be patient, dear heart. we are both young. you couldn't love me, or respect me, if i failed in ordinary behaviour toward a husband's memory. and eric was good to me." "good to you! losing his head over every pretty woman he met! joyce, how could you ever marry him?" "he made me. don't you know how some women succumb to cave-man wooing? i don't understand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making carried me off my feet, and i had promised him before i knew it." "if i had been here at the time, it would never have happened." "i think it would. i was fascinated by his very vehemence. now, i know better. i want only your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and content me as he never could." "you poor little darling. i wish i could give it to you now. mayn't i kiss you once--just once, joyce?" "no, eugene. not yet. some day--when i can't be patient any longer. when the hunger for your big, sweet affection becomes too intense--the craving too uncontrollable." she turned away from him and looked off toward the glowing richness of the autumn foliage. "when the robins nest again," she said, with a little pathetic smile at the quotation. "but now, dear, sit down, i've a lot to tell you. i'm glad you came over, i was going to send for you." and then, without further preamble, joyce told him the whole story of orienta and her revelations. courtenay listened, his eyes growing dark with anxiety as the story progressed. "who was the man?" he asked quietly, as she finished. "why, i don't know. not a tramp, of course. but, perhaps some blackmailer. you know--eric's life wasn't spotless." "listen, joyce. the man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. he was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. he had reason to hate eric stannard. do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?" joyce looked at him, and a cloud of fear came to her beautiful eyes. "don't, eugene," she cried, putting up her white hand, as if to ward off a blow. "don't!" "i must, joyce. and you must listen. when i left you, did you keep your head down on that pillow--or, did you raise it? tell me truly, dearest." "i--i kept it down there. i was crying a little--after what--you know--what we had been talking about. i staid that way a long time." "until you heard the sounds from the studio?" "yes; until that." "then some one could have passed you--you wouldn't have heard a soft step?" "no, i probably shouldn't--but, eugene, it wasn't you? say it wasn't you!" "it was not. but i have to prove this, joyce--and it will be difficult." "oh, does any one think it was you?" "yes, the police think so." "the police! that roberts man! oh, why--_why_ did i ever have madame orienta come here? but we will prove it was not you, my eugene--we will prove it." "yes, joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. to whom have you told this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?" "to no one. oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. barry and beatrice, and, of course, little natalie. oh, eugene, i was so glad when the priestess' story seemed to clear natalie and me of all suspicion of guilt. but if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!" "no, not worse. a man can fight injustice better than a woman. have you told roberts?" "about the pillow? no, i don't think so. but he'll find it out. that man digs into everything." "you invited him, yourself, to the sã©ance?" "yes. i thought it wise. i thought it would implicate some stranger and i wanted him to hear." "why did you think it would accuse a stranger? look here, joyce, you didn't employ that woman to cook up a yarn, did you?" "mercy, no!" and joyce opened her eyes full at him. "eugene! what an idea! of course i didn't. why, i believe in her as fully as--as i do in you! i can't say more than that! she is honest and earnest in what she tells. whether she sees truly, is another thing, and one over which she has no control. but all she says is in sincerity and truth." "it may be. but she has surely woven a web around me. that is, if others share your belief in her. now, i'm going to work, joyce, to find my alibi." "what do you mean?" "i'm going to scare up somebody who saw me on that bench and will swear to it." "swear falsely?" joyce whispered the words. "if need be. but i hope to get an honest witness. may i speak to your outdoor servants? and the house staff, too, if necessary?" "of course. find the head gardener, mason, he'll round up the rest. oh, eugene, you will find some one, surely. they are about the grounds every night. and perhaps barry saw you. he was out with the dogs." "i'll find some one, dear. don't worry." courtenay went away, and joyce went into the house. she went to beatrice faulkner's room, and found her there. "may i come in?" asked joyce, at the door. "always, any time. why, what is the matter, dear?" "beatrice! you don't think eugene killed eric, do you?" "of course not! what nonsense!" "well, they suspect him of it, and he's going to make up an alibi--or whatever you call it." "not make one up! don't ever say that, joyce. you mean, he's going to find proof of his own testimony." "yes, it's all the same. but, oh, beatrice, if he did do it--i can never marry him----" "hush, joyce! you mustn't talk like that! don't you want to save eugene?" "of course i do, if he's innocent." "then believe him innocent! you wrong-minded woman, to doubt the man who loves you, at the first breath of suspicion!" "then is he innocent, beatrice? is he?" "look in your heart and answer that yourself." "i do look," said joyce, solemnly, "but i can't read the answer." xiv from seven to seventy "listen, joyce, dear. you are nervous and excited, or you never would do mr. courtenay such injustice. think back; remember how he has always loved you--long before you married eric. how patient and good he has been, never showing any undue interest in you or any animosity toward eric. why, then, imagine that he would do this desperate thing?" "that's just it, beatrice. he restrained his feelings as long as he could, and that night--in the billiard room, he--he lost control--and he said he--he c-couldn't stand it. you know he thought eric didn't treat me right----" "and eric didn't. but even if mr. courtenay did lose his head for a moment, that doesn't mean he was the murderer, and you mustn't suspect him, joyce." "but you know what orienta said--about a dark man with a pointed beard. who else could it have been?" "other men have dark hair and beards. and orienta couldn't see him clearly, you know." "i know. and you are a comfort, beatrice. but i never can marry eugene if he has even a shadow of doubt hanging over him. i want him cleared." "of course you do. and as he is innocent, he will clear himself." "maybe not. if he can't find anybody who saw him out there on the bench, he will be arrested, and----" "oh, no, he won't. why, somebody must have seen him!" "if any of the servants had, they would have said so." "they weren't asked. what about barry?" "oh, i think barry was off in the other direction, down by the orchards. but, beatrice, maybe mr. wadsworth saw him. didn't he leave you just about that time?" "yes, or a few moments sooner. shall i ask him?" "oh, no. he's a fine man, and if he did see eugene, his word will stand. are you going to--do you care for him, beatrice?" "no, joyce. he is, as you say, a fine man, and he has asked me many times to marry him, but i do not love him in that way. i admire and respect him, that is all." "poor mr. wadsworth. he worships the ground you walk on. perhaps later, when all this horror is a thing of the past, you may change your mind." "never, joyce. but i'll ask mr. wadsworth about eugene. you telephone him to come over here. if i do----" "he'll take it as encouragement. yes, i know. i'll do it." joyce called him up on the telephone, and wadsworth came over to the folly that evening. "why, yes, i think so," he said, when questioned by beatrice. "let me see; when i left here, i walked a couple of times round the italian garden paths, hesitating as to whether i should come back for one last appeal, or accept your refusal as final. i decided on the latter course, and was planning to go away on a long trip, to--to make myself keep away from you." he looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his own. "i don't want to persist too hard, dear, but i am of a determined nature, and i can't give you up. so, i'm going away, but i warn you i shall yet return and ask you once more--yes, once more, beatrice." "that is in the future," she returned, gravely, "but now, let us see if we can help poor joyce." "poor courtenay, as well! now, i think i did see him, as i came along the south lawn. i'm sure i saw some man on the bench out there, and it was much the outline of courtenay. and then, yes, i remember now, just then the light went out, and i couldn't see him clearly. of course, i thought nothing of the light being put out. i assumed the people were going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you again that night. had the lights staid on, i fancy, after all, i should have entered the house again." they were alone in the studio. it was but partially lighted, and beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment. "come out of here," she said; "i hate the place, it seems to be haunted by eric's spirit. come into the reception room." wadsworth followed as she went through the hall, but detained her a moment. "what has become of your portrait painted on the staircase?" he asked. "it's in the studio," she replied. "it isn't quite finished, you know." "mayn't i see it?" "not now. some time." "stand on the stairs, the way the picture is painted." humouring his whim, beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on the balustrade, as eric had painted her. "beautiful. stannard was a wonderful genius. i want that picture, dear. i don't care if it is unfinished. if i can't have the original--yet--will you give me the duplicate?" "no, oh, no!" and beatrice looked startled. "i'd hate you to have it, with this staircase and all----" "i thought you loved this staircase----" "as an architectural gem, yes. mr. faulkner prided himself on its design. but now--eric's death----" "oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to the footman's queer actions, didn't you?" "yes; i was just on this very step when i heard that faint moan--oh, don't remind me of it." "i won't. i was a brute to be so thoughtless. dear heart, can't you leave this house? why do you stay in a place of such sad memories?" "i do want to go away--and i must. and yet, joyce needs me. she leans on me for everything. come into this little room, and sit down." they went into the cosy, low-ceiled reception room, and beatrice continued. "i was just thinking i could leave her, when she became worried about mr. courtenay. now, if you can convince the police that you saw him out there, just at that critical moment when the light disappeared, you will establish his alibi. can you do this?" "i'm sure i can. the more i think about it, the more i feel sure that it was courtenay i saw." "had he a hat on?" "no, but his hand on the back of the bench held a cap. i saw this clearly, for the light from the studio window was very strong. but as i looked at the man, the light went out. understand, i was not looking at him with any curiosity or even interest. merely he was in my line of vision, that is all. when i could not see him because of the sudden darkness, i thought no more of him, and i went home then." "and you will go to the police and tell them this?" "i certainly will, the first thing to-morrow morning. to-night, if you prefer." "no, wait till morning. stay here a little longer. i feel lonely to-night." "dear heart, can't you learn to look to me to cheer that loneliness?" "don't--you promised you wouldn't. but let's chat a bit. tell me, do you believe at all in spiritism?" "spiritualism?" "no; spiritism. they're quite different. spiritualism is the old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping performance. spiritism is the scientific consideration of life after death." "of course, i believe in life after death----" "but do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?" "by rapping and tipping tables?" "no, not at all. by silent communion, or by a restless haunting of places they used to occupy? there! didn't you hear a faint sound then? a soft rustle, as of wings?" "no, i didn't, and neither did you. that orienta person has you all unnerved. i won't stand it. i insist on your leaving this house. if i see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding courtenay, will you get away at once?" "i'd be glad to, if joyce is willing i should go. natalie is fond of me, too. but barry will look after her. yes, if mr. courtenay is freed of all suspicion, i will go away at once." roger wadsworth's story carried weight with the police, who were already rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant. and as courtenay himself said to captain steele, "your precious detective, roberts, forced that woman to describe me. even granting she had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn't say anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he suggested it. then she said 'yes.' if he'd said, 'hasn't he red hair and freckles?' she would have said 'yes,' also! it's auto-suggestion. her mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought she saw. but since you've put me on the rack, i'm going into this thing myself. for reasons of my own, i'm going to hunt down the murderer of eric stannard. there's nobody on the job that has any push or perseverance. young stannard doesn't want the truth known. why, i can't say. nobody suspects him. but from now on, count on my untiring efforts. i'm ready to work with you, captain steele, or with roberts, or any one you say. or i'll work alone. but solve the mystery i'm bound to!" courtenay's manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own innocence, though bobsy roberts afterward growled something about "protesting too much." but when courtenay said he would be at their bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go in peace to pursue his own inquiries. and he went first to lawyer stiles, to look into the matter of stannard's will. "the first motive to consider," courtenay said to the surprised lawyer, "is always a money motive. who benefits by this will, aside from the principals?" stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities. suddenly courtenay started in astonishment. "have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?" he asked. the lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression. "just what do you mean?" he said. "ah, then you _have_ seen it! were you going to let it pass unnoted?" "i must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks." "and i will do so. that will has been tampered with, and you know it!" "tampered with?" "don't repeat my words like a parrot! yes, tampered with. the original, written in mr. stannard's own hand, has been added to by some one else." "what makes you think so?" "i don't think so, i know so. now, why haven't you made it known? you must have seen it?" "where is the fancied alteration?" courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he could be dishonest or if he had been blind. he laid his finger on one clause, the one stating natalie vernon's bequest, and said, "there, that is the place. that was written seven thousand dollars, it has been changed to read seventy thousand dollars." lawyer stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. "it is in letters and figures both," he demurred, "it would be difficult----" "i know it is. and it was not very difficult to add _ty_ to the written seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was intended by the testator." "well?" "well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable fraud like that?" "i'm sorry you saw that, mr. courtenay. in explanation, i have nothing to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that i am in the confidence of the stannard family, and this is their affair--not yours." "whew!" courtenay gave a short whistle. "i begin to see. they know it, and make no objection." "y--yes." "who knows it?" "barry stannard." "and mrs. stannard?" "i can't say. she read the will, but made no comment." "you're sure barry knows?" "i am." "and he stands for it because miss vernon did it! that baby! who'd think her capable of such a thing?" "hush, mr. courtenay. you've no right to accuse her. you've no evidence that she did it. in fact, i'm told miss vernon writes a large, dashing hand, and this----" "and eric stannard's hand is small and cramped. yes, a clever forgery. it looks quite a bit like his own writing. but the ink is different, the slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been changed!" "granting that. what matter, if barry stannard doesn't care? moreover, he is going to marry miss vernon, and the fortune will be theirs jointly." "but don't you see? if natalie vernon altered that will, she wanted that larger sum, and--she----" "don't say it. at least, don't say it to me. if you want to put the matter up to barry, go ahead. but i decline to express an opinion or form a conclusion." "what does barry say?" "he ignores it. i called his attention to it, and he said, 'changed figures? oh, i guess not. it doesn't matter, anyway; that, and more, will be at miss vernon's disposal some day.' so i said no more." eugene courtenay went straight to joyce. "do you know anything about a changed figure in eric's will?" he asked, bluntly. "no," she returned; "what do you mean?" "natalie vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to seventy thousand." "how could she?" "it wasn't difficult. eric wrote the will himself. he wrote seven and she made it seventy--the words, i mean. then he wrote a figure seven and three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. mighty clever work, but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter." "what possessed the child?" "don't call her a child. the woman who could and would do that, is a machiavelli in petticoats. but don't you see where the knowledge of her act leads us?" "you mean----" joyce could not say it. "of course i do. i've thought all along there was still a doubt of her." "oh, i haven't. even if she did alter the will, that doesn't prove----" "it doesn't prove--anything. but you know this will was made very recently----" "of course; natalie has only been here two months." "i know it. well, say, eric made this bequest to her, soon after she came--you know, joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning----" "yes, i know it, eugene." "and then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why, _why_ would she do this, except to inherit--at once?" "natalie! that dear little thing! never! i did suspect her the least mite, just at first--but i don't now." "barry does." "oh, no! he can't." "he does. and that's why he didn't want any fuss made about her forgery----" "don't call it that!" "it _is_ that. what else can i call it?" "but i can't believe it. maybe--maybe somebody else did it. barry----" "nonsense! why should barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?" "oh, i don't know! it's all so confusing." "not confusing; there's no doubt she did the forging. but it's a terrible state of affairs. i don't want to be the one to accuse her." "must you?" "well, i'd determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on eric's murderer. primarily to clear myself--for your sake. and, too, for the sake of justice and right. i'll go now, joyce, i must think this out alone. good-bye, darling. don't worry. i'll do only what is right, and--what you approve." xv natalie in danger "natalie! what _are_ you doing?" joyce entered natalie's room, to find her on her knees before an open trunk. hats and gowns lay about the room, the wardrobe shelves were empty, and as the girl was fairly flinging wearing apparel into the tills, the question was superfluous. "i'm packing," the model answered, "to go away." "why, what has happened? why do you want to go?" natalie rose to her feet. a negligã©e of pale green liberty silk fell in lovely folds about her, her slender arms were bare, and her gold hair hung in two long braids. "i can't stand it any longer, joyce," she said, her voice quivering. "it's all so dreadful. suspicion everywhere, and everybody looking on me as a murderer, and----" "now, natalie, dear, don't talk like that. and, anyway, you can't go. i don't believe they'd let you----" "why not? i'm not under arrest, or surveillance, or whatever they call it." "you would be, if you tried to go away. don't you know we are all watched--whatever we do or wherever we go?" "but they don't suspect _you_ any more, joyce, and you were found just as near eric as i was, when--when he----" "hush, natalie, you don't know what you're talking about. why, now they suspect eugene." "i know they do, but he didn't do it. he'll soon convince them of that." "i'm not sure that he can. and--suppose he did do it----" "kill eric? joyce, you're crazy! why would he?" "you know, well enough----" "that he loved you, yes, but that wouldn't make him commit crime. why, you wouldn't marry him if he won you in that way." "of course, i wouldn't. and that's what's worrying me. if he and eric quarrelled about me, and if--oh, i can't tell you just what i mean----" "i know. if eugene reproved eric for his neglect of you, or--for his attentions to me, it might have led to high words, and mr. courtenay is a very impetuous man, and eric never would brook a word of criticism--oh, of course i understand, joyce!" "but eugene must be cleared--he _must_ be, at any cost. look here, natalie, did you know eric had left you such a big bequest?" natalie flushed, and began to walk nervously up and down the room. "why," she said, not looking at joyce, "he told me he'd leave me a nice little sum, but he said he wasn't going to die till he was ninety, so i didn't pay much attention to the matter." "but didn't you know the sum he mentioned in his will? had he never told you?" "why do you ask that?" "because that will was altered. the sum he wrote for you was made ten times greater." "was it?" natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time. "yes, it was. you knew this?" "how could i know it? i never saw the will." "they think you did. they think you altered it." "who thinks so?" "the police and mr. stiles. and eugene asked me about it. i thought i'd ask you before anybody else did." "that was dear of you, joyce." natalie sat down on a couch, and taking her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. "joyce," she said, at last, "why are you good to me? you think i killed eric----" "no, i don't, natalie----but, oh, don't you see? i don't want to think it was eugene, and--i don't know which way to turn." "you're not in such a terrible strait as i am, joyce," and natalie's blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. "i don't know _what_ to do--i've no one to ask, no one to confide in----" "can't you tell me?" "you, least of all. mrs. faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to admit she suspects anybody--i mean, anybody we know. she insists it was some stranger--and, it wasn't--i mean--oh--what am i saying? joyce, i shall go crazy." natalie looked distraught. her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted animal. her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her slippered foot tapped the rug continuously. "you didn't love eric, did you?" and joyce looked at the girl, as if seized with a new idea. "no! i hated him! forgive me, joyce, but i can't help it. he was almost repulsive to me. not physically--he was handsome, and most correct-mannered, and all that. but i was afraid of him. i've only posed for a few artists, but they were all--you know--impersonal in their relations with me. but eric made love to me from the first." "i know it. i saw it." "and you didn't resent it?" "i felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. i know eric, and oh, natalie, i tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty--but eugene was always around, you know--and, must i confess it? i was rather glad that eric's attention was taken up with his model." "i know. i saw all that. but you see, i care for barry. and eric told me----" "what, natalie?" "no, i can't tell you. oh, joyce, i am in danger. i can't ward it off, and i can't meet it. what shall i do? what can i do?" "may i come in?" and barry appeared at the door of the boudoir. "yes," joyce answered. "come on in. this child says she is going away." "she isn't!" and barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key, removed it and put it in his pocket. "oh," cried natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of business. "there's a lot of things in there i want!" "can't have 'em," returned barry, "unless you promise to put 'em back in that very empty wardrobe i see yawning at us." "barry, i _must_ go away. i've--i've good reasons." joyce had left the room, and barry sat down beside the trembling little figure and put an arm round her. "don't speak of going away, natalie. don't think of it. it would look like confession." "have you heard about the will?" she asked, an awestruck note in her voice. "yes, but never mind about that. when we can get married, all my half the fortune will be yours anyway. that item of seven thousand or seventy thousand makes no difference to us." "but you don't think i--forged it--do you, barry?" "of course not, darling. i don't think you ever did a wrong thing in your life, of any sort or description--and i wouldn't care if you had." "wouldn't you care if i had committed--crime?" "oh, if you put it that way, i suppose i'd care--but i'd love you just the same." "_just_ the same?" "just exactly, darling." "and you don't think i changed that will?" "i do not." "who did, do you think?" "how do you know anybody did?" "joyce says so." "well, never mind about it. if i know who did it, i won't tell you--and you needn't ask." "it was a very strange thing for anybody to do, barry." "except you----" "yes, except me! oh, you _do_ think i did it!" "hush, sweetheart, don't talk so loud. now, listen, natalie. you're in a tight place. there's no use denying it, you are. now i want you to promise me to do exactly as i tell you, in every instance. you trust me to do only what is best for both of us, don't you?" "for both of us--yes, barry." the blue eyes were very sad, but the soft voice did not falter. "that's a trump, my own little trump! there are some dark hours ahead, darling. i don't know just how things will turn. but i'm tying to head off trouble, and i hope to succeed." "barry, eugene courtenay didn't kill eric, did he?" "no, natalie, he didn't. that clairvoyant business was all poppycock." "then how did she read those questions, barry? i think that was wonderful." "it was, natalie. i concede you that. she couldn't have used any trickery there--there was absolutely no chance." "she really read them, then, by clairvoyant sight?" "i don't see any other explanation." "nor do i. then, why wasn't her vision of the--the scene in the studio, the truth?" "i don't say it wasn't. i don't say but what somebody did slip past joyce and get into the room that way. but it wasn't courtenay." "i don't think it was, either." "of course you don't. now, my own little girl, remember, you've promised me----" "to love, honour and obey you----" "you darling!" and natalie's speech was interrupted by an impulsive kiss. "you blessed angel! but you mustn't say such things, they unnerve me--and i've a hard row to hoe, my girl." "can't i help?" "only by doing the things you just promised to do. i want you to, of course; it was only the suggestion in the phrase you used that drove me crazy! some day, sweetheart, you shall promise before witnesses; but just now, swear to me alone, that you will obey my least dictate in this--this trouble." "i will, barry," and, solemnly, natalie lifted her scarlet, curved lips for the kiss that sealed the compact. "mr. roberts is here," said joyce, looking in at the door; "he wants to see natalie." "oh, i can't see him!" and natalie clung tremblingly to barry, "what shall i do?" "do just as i tell you, dearest. see him, of course. and----" "then i'll have to dress. go on down, barry, and talk to him till i come." natalie seemed to turn brave all in a moment at barry's words. stannard went downstairs, and joyce helped the girl to slip into a house-gown. "a pretty one," she stipulated. "i want him to like me." "as if any one could help doing that," and joyce selected a little grey velvet, with lots of soft lace falling away from the round-cut bodice. "there," she said, as natalie hastily twisted up her hair and thrust a couple of shell pins in it, "you look a dream! a demure little dream. natalie, be careful, won't you?" the girl gave joyce a long look, and said softly, "yes--for his sake." then she went slowly downstairs. bobsy roberts was talking with mrs. faulkner as natalie entered. he jumped up, and greeted the lovely girl with an impulsive, "so sorry to trouble you, but i must ask you a question or two, and i promise to cut it short." "what is it?" and natalie gave him one of her confiding smiles. bobsy hesitated. how could he ask a fairy like that, a rude, blunt question. but it had to be done, and he said, "it's--it's about mr. stannard's will. did you ever see it?" clearly, natalie was surprised. it seemed to be not the query she had looked for. but she was calm. after the slightest pause, she said slowly, very slowly, as if choosing her words, "no, mr. roberts, i have never seen mr. stannard's will. why should i see it?" "you know he left you a large sum of money?" "of course i know that. mr. stiles informed me." "did you not know of it before mr. stiles told you?" natalie glanced at barry, who smiled at her. "yes; that is, i knew mr. stannard had left me a bequest, but i did not know how much. nor did i care!" natalie lost her self-control. "do you suppose i wanted that money? i did not, and i do not! i refuse to take it!" "my dear child," said beatrice faulkner, rising and going to sit beside her, "don't say such things. the money is honestly yours----" "not so fast, mrs. faulkner," said roberts, amazed at natalie's excited words; "we cannot feel sure the money honestly belongs to miss vernon until we know who altered mr. stannard's will. did you?" he turned quickly to natalie with his question, as if anxious to get the miserable business over. "certainly not," she replied, with disdain in every line of her face. "in the first place, mr. bobsy--i mean, mr. roberts----" the light laugh that greeted her slip of the tongue served to break the tension of the moment. "forgive me," she said, and her dimpling smile of embarrassment would have turned the head of an anchorite. "you see, i've heard you called that, and, though i didn't mean to be familiar, i--i got sort of mixed up." "all right, miss vernon, it doesn't matter at all. one robert's as good as the other." "it's funny to have two names alike, isn't it?" and natalie's voice shook a little. "yes," and then with an effort, bobsy returned to the attack. "you know nothing of the change in the will, then, miss vernon?" "i certainly don't. did somebody change the text?" "yes. it's a mysterious affair. but if you know nothing about it, we must ferret it out as best we can." he spoke lightly, but his eyes never left natalie's face. in fact, roberts was by no means asking her because he attached any importance to her spoken answer, but because he hoped by her expression or by some inadvertent slip, to learn the truth, even though she tried to conceal it. "mr. roberts," she said, suddenly, "if i wish to go away from this house, is there any reason i should not do so?" "i'd rather you would ask somebody else that, miss vernon." "whom shall i ask?" "captain steele, or----" "i am answered. you mean i would not be allowed to go." "i think it would be better for you to remain where you are. there may be developments shortly, that will call for your presence, though they may not affect you seriously. please don't plan to go away just now, but, also, don't think my advice more indicative than it is meant to be." roberts went off, and the four people he left behind him sat in a constrained silence. at last, beatrice spoke. "we must all band together to save natalie," she said, very seriously. "there is no use deceiving ourselves; natalie is in danger. we know and love her, so we can't connect her in our minds with any wrong-doing, but to outsiders the case looks different. let us, then, face conditions that exist, and plan how we can best help her." "there's only one way," said joyce, "and that is to find the real murderer. i wish i had never let that orienta mix herself into the matter. it's her talk that turned suspicion toward eugene. and we all know he's innocent. but when we try to find out who is the criminal, eugene's name comes up." "i'm not sorry we had the clairvoyant," said beatrice, thoughtfully. "as you say, we all know mr. courtenay is innocent, but if there was an intruder, orienta explained how he could have entered. you wouldn't have heard any one pass you in the billiard room that night, would you, joyce?" "no, i'm sure not; i was--i was crying--and i gave no thought to anything but my own troubles." "then somebody may have slipped by you--of course, not mr. courtenay, but somebody----" "i wish that woman had seen the intruder's face," said natalie, suddenly. "you know, i believe in clairvoyance--i'm psychic myself--i wonder--oh, i wonder if i could find out anything--in that way!" "what are you talking about?" said barry, impatiently. "don't you mix yourself up in those witchcraft things----" "'tisn't witchcraft. and, anyway, i've a notion to try it. don't you think i might, mrs. faulkner?" "might what, dear?" "find out something about the mysteries that are growing deeper and more numerous all the time?" "i don't know, i'm sure," began beatrice, with a helpless look, but barry said, sternly, "i forbid it," and turning on his heel, he left the room. xvi confession and arrest that evening barry stannard was not at home, and natalie declared her intention of trying to learn something by psychic or clairvoyant revelation. the three women sat in the billiard room, and were for the thousandth time discussing the tense situation. "why, if you want to try it, natalie, go ahead," said joyce, wearily. "it certainly can't do any harm. barry only objects because he thinks it will get you into a nervous state----" "nonsense! it makes me more nervous to be forbidden to do what i wish. come on, let's go in the studio, and try it, at any rate." "i'd rather not," said beatrice faulkner. "in a way, barry has asked me to keep you from this sort of thing, and i feel a certain responsibility----" "i understand," said natalie; "and you needn't take any part. just sit by and look on." "no, i'd rather not if you don't mind, i'll go to my room. i've letters to write, and i'm sure you'll get along better without a disturbing element." "i agree with beatrice," joyce said, after she had gone. "if you can do anything at all, you can do it better with only approving minds present. what are you going to do, anyway? i mean, how are you going to attempt it?" "i'm not sure, but i think i can go into a trance, like orienta did----" "she didn't go into a trance." "not exactly. but she had a sort of trancelike condition come over her. well, come on in the studio, and i'll see." the two went into the big room, and natalie sat down in a small chair, directly facing the chair in which eric stannard had died. she held in her hand the scratched and defaced etched picture of herself. "you sit beside me, joyce. i somehow feel if you hold my hand it will help. now i'll concentrate on the etching, and perhaps there will be a manifestation of some sort from eric, or i may have a vision--of the truth." interested, but not very hopeful of success, joyce sat beside the girl, and they concentrated their thoughts on the empty chair in front of them and the man who used to use it. for ten minutes they sat in silence. natalie quivered and occasional shudderings shook her slender frame, but there was no trance or vision. and then, just as joyce was about to exclaim that she could bear it no longer, her nerves were giving way, they heard a sound that was exactly the same as the sighing groan that had reached their ears when eric was dying. startled, they gazed wildly at each other, then back to the great armchair. was his spirit still hovering about the place it had last been in the flesh? again they waited, and again they heard that ghastly sound. faint, almost inaudible, but unmistakably the voice of the dying man. it seemed to say "help!" but so low was the tone they could scarce be sure. and then the light went out and they were in utter darkness. natalie gasped out a faint scream, and joyce gripped her hand, with a whispered, "hush! don't scream! the servants will come in. i'll make a light." she rose and tremblingly made her way across the room to the main switch. it was turned off, and with a twist, she flashed on the light. quickly she stepped out into the hall. there was no one there but blake, and as the door had been closed, he had noticed nothing. he said nobody had passed through the hall. upstairs joyce ran, conscious only of a desire to find some one who would admit having turned off the light. she ran to beatrice faulkner's room and entered without knocking. "what is it?" said mrs. faulkner, looking up from the letter she was writing, "oh, joyce, what has happened?" "somebody turned off the studio lights! beatrice, who could have done it?" "turned off the lights! what do you mean?" "yes, natalie and i sat there, natalie thought she would go into a trance, you know----" "that foolish girl! did she?" "no. but we heard--oh, i can't tell you now! come with me back there, do!" rising hastily from her desk, beatrice followed joyce downstairs and into the studio. there they found natalie standing by a table in the middle of the room, looking with a staring gaze at a large leather case that was on the table. "the jewels!" cried joyce. "eric's jewels! where did you find them, natalie?" "right here on this table. i haven't touched them." "what do you mean?" and beatrice looked curiously at the girl. "how did they get there?" "i don't know," said natalie, dully. she seemed as one bereft of her senses. "when joyce turned on the lights----" "who turned them off?" put in beatrice, unable to hold back the question. "eric did," said natalie, her eyes wide with awed wonder. "he--that is, his spirit, was here--we heard him sigh--and he turned the lights off and then put the jewels on the table----" "oh, natalie, what nonsense! it couldn't have been eric's spirit that brought that box in here!" "then who did?" beatrice looked at the girl, and said, "did you do it, natalie? did you know where they were all the time?" "no, i didn't do it. neither did joyce. we sat right there by eric's chair--and eric was present--we heard him, didn't we, joyce?" "we did, beatrice, we surely did. i'd know that voice among a thousand. it was the same groan--the same cry for help that he uttered that--that awful night. can it be that he came back at natalie's wish?" "it's too incredible," returned beatrice. "i can't believe it. joyce, it must have been one of the servants, who turned off the light and put the box in here. one who had stolen it." "no, blake saw nobody." "was he in the hall?" "yes, just where he was that other night. oh, it's too weird. i don't know what to think!" "maybe some one came in from outside----" "no, we were as silent as death itself. we would have heard a window or door open. there was no sound whatever, was there, natalie?" "no. spirits make no sound." the girl was still in a half-dazed state. almost in a trance she was, even now, or, rather, she appeared so. "i can't stand it," she said. "i feel giddy. i'll go to my room." she went away, and the two other women stood, looking at each other. "it must have been natalie," said joyce, reluctantly. "you see, she did know where the jewels were and got them out of some hiding-place when i ran up to your room." "but how could she turn off the lights?" "i don't know, unless she has an accomplice among the servants. sometimes i think blake----" "no, joyce, don't implicate blake. i feel sure he is entirely innocent. did you hear that voice clearly?" "not clearly, but unmistakably. as i say, it was so still that every sound seemed exaggerated. but i heard eric's voice as truly as i stand here. explain it, beatrice." "how can i? except to say that there must have been some human agency. i don't believe for a minute that eric's ghost returned the jewels." "but natalie says he has haunted this studio ever since he died. she says he will continue to do so, until his murderer is found and punished." "i have heard of such things, but i can't believe it in this case." "what will barry say? he was so imperative that natalie should not try the trance business." "i know it. but i can't see that she has done any real harm. the jewels are here--isn't it marvellous, joyce? how could they have been brought in without your knowing it?" "oh, as to that, i'm sure natalie produced them after i left the room. i wish now i'd stayed here. my one thought was to get somebody else to corroborate the mysterious happenings." "you're sure the jewels were not here on the table when you went out of the room?" "i can't say positively. they might have been. you see, i never thought of looking for them. i looked about the room to see if any person were present, and i looked thoroughly, too. but i didn't look on the table." "nobody could have come in at the billiard room door?" "no, we sat right there, you know. the case is just the same as on the night of the murder. that's why natalie insists that eric's spirit turned off the lights and put the jewels on the table." "are the jewels all there? are any missing?" "i've not looked them over. at a first glance, they seem to be all right." "it must be that some one stole them, and just now returned them. there's no other possible explanation, joyce. it throws suspicion back to mr. truxton or----" "or eugene courtenay, you were going to say! now, he didn't do it, beatrice--i know he didn't." weary and afraid, full of nameless horrors and uncertainties, joyce locked the jewels in her dressing-room safe, and went to bed. she and beatrice both felt they could stand no more that night, and notifying the police of the finding of the jewels must wait until the next day. and next day, when bobsy roberts came and heard the strange story he was probably the most bewildered man on the force. "tell it all over again," he said, after hearing the tale from joyce. patiently she repeated the details. "where is miss vernon?" he asked abruptly. "you can't see her to-day," returned joyce, "the poor child is prostrated." "what did she hope to gain by her trance performance?" asked roberts, mulling over joyce's story. "she hoped to get some sort of manifestation that would tell her who was the murderer. she never thought of having the jewels restored." "now, mrs. stannard, there's no use trying to dodge the issue. we've been pretty suspicious of miss vernon from the first. this last matter settles it, to my mind. you know that unsent letter found in mr. stannard's desk was without doubt meant for miss vernon. you know it said that she knew where the jewels were hidden. now, she has proved that she did know, and she produced them in this hocus-pocus way, to hide her theft." "no, no, mr. roberts, i cannot believe it! natalie is not bad enough for all that maneuvering; nor would she, i'm sure, be capable of it. again, granting you're right in suspecting her of making up last evening's events, how could she imitate mr. stannard's voice----" "oh, that was hypnotism. miss vernon is psychic, and, too, she evidently possesses the power of hypnotising at will. she made you believe you heard those sounds. she made you believe the lights went out----" "oh, i know the light went out! i couldn't be mistaken as to that!" "no, but i mean she went and turned them out while you thought she still sat by your side. weren't your eyes closed?" "no, they were wide open. she did not leave her seat. the lights were turned off by a hand other than hers, whether mortal or spirit, i cannot say." "well, the whole affair was of her invention and carrying out. she is responsible for your husband's death, mrs. stannard. there is no doubt whatever of miss vernon's guilt." "just take that back, roberts," and barry stannard came into the reception room where the speakers were sitting. "miss vernon is as innocent as an angel in this business. i'm ready to confess. i killed my father, and i own up to it, rather than have natalie suspected. if you had been any sort of a detective you would have known from the first that i did it. but you had your head set in one direction and nothing could change you. you know perfectly well i had motive and opportunity. it was not premeditated, i did it on the spur of sudden indignation." "barry," cried joyce, "what are you saying? you didn't kill eric!" "yes, i did. i thought it might blow over, and remain an unsolved mystery. but if natalie is to be suspected of my crime, i would be less than a man to keep still. take me along, roberts, i give myself up." bobsy roberts stared at him. "my plan worked," he said, slowly. "i thought it was you, really, all along, but i thought, too, the only way to get a confession from you, was to seem to suspect miss vernon. as you say, no man could sit still and see a woman bearing the blame that belongs to him. you came in through the billiard room?" "yes," said barry. "mrs. stannard didn't see or hear me pass her. i went on through to the studio. i accused my father of persecuting miss vernon, and he turned on me in a furious rage. we are both impetuous, we said little, but those few low words roused all my worst nature, and, snatching up the etching needle, i stabbed him, scarce knowing what i did. it was all over in a moment, and i had but one thought, how to escape from that room. i flew across and turned off the lights as a precautionary measure, and then----" "then how did you get out?" asked bobsy, breathless with interest. "i was behind the hall door, when blake opened it, and after he turned on the light, i slipped behind him and mrs. faulkner out into the hall. they were so bewildered at the sudden flash of light--and--what it revealed, that they didn't see me at all." "barry!" exclaimed joyce, "i would have seen you if you had done that." "no, you had eyes for nothing but eric's wounded body. you couldn't have torn your gaze from that if you had wanted to." "what did you do after leaving the room?" asked roberts. "i went out and walked about the lawn. my head was spinning round from excitement and shock at my own deed." "you stayed near the house?" "yes, halpin came out and found me. he told me what had happened and i went right back into the studio." "you have kept this secret so long. why?" "surely you can understand. i love miss vernon. i want to marry her. can i ask her to marry a murderer?" "you mean if she knows it?" "i mean if she knows it. i wanted to keep the secret forever, i hoped to do so. when she was suspected last week, i felt sure she would be cleared. then when the will was seen to be changed----" "one moment. did you change the will?" "i did." "what for?" "because of what has just now happened. if i had to confess, of course, i could never marry miss vernon. and in that case, i wanted her to be provided for." "that will cannot stand." "i don't care anything about that. i've confessed now, my life is practically ended. i can will my own fortune to miss vernon." "and the jewels? did you return those last night? and the emeralds to mrs. stannard last week?" "no," said barry, slowly. "i don't know anything about the jewels. perhaps there was a robber, after all. say a jewel fancier----" "or say a little girl who was fond of jewelry." "no," and barry shook his head, "miss vernon knew nothing of the jewels." "but the letter to her----" "that letter wasn't to her, it was to some woman my father knew and feared. he never would have given the emeralds to natalie. the idea is preposterous." "that must be found out. then the rigamarole the clairvoyant told was true, about a man coming into the studio----" "yes, it was all true. i was the man." barry's voice was infinitely sad and despairing. joyce looked at him pityingly. his white face was drawn and his eyes were full of grief. "i think, mr. stannard, if all you've told me is true, i must ask you to go with me to headquarters." "i am ready," said barry, simply, and the two men went out. xvii alan ford joyce went up to natalie's room and found the girl sitting up in bed trying to eat some of the dainty breakfast a maid had just brought her. a cap of lace and tiny rosebuds confined the gold hair, and a breakfast jacket of pale blue brocade was round her shoulders. "joyce," she said, staring at her with big blue eyes, "where did those jewels come from?" "i don't know, natalie. it's the most mysterious thing i ever heard of. but listen, dear, i've something to tell you. barry has confessed----" "what!" natalie almost shrieked the word. "what do you mean?" "just what i say. barry has confessed that he killed his father. you suspected him all the time, didn't you?" "did you?" "oh, i couldn't--and yet who else could it have been? i did think of barry at first, and then i decided it couldn't be." "and then you suspected me?" "oh, natalie, how can i say? i did and i didn't. i had no notion which way to turn. but now, even though he says so, i can't believe it was barry." "barry! of course it wasn't barry!" "but he confessed, natalie." "of course he confessed. he couldn't help it!" as she spoke, natalie was getting out of bed, and seating herself at her dressing table began to do up her hair. "if you don't mind going, joyce, i want to dress. run along now, i'll be down very soon." "what are you going to do?" joyce looked at the girl uncertainly, for she was brushing her hair with unwonted vigour. her eyes were tear-filled, but her face showed a brave, determined expression, and she hurried her toilet as if important matters impended. "go now, joyce," and rising, natalie pushed her gently toward the door. some minutes later, natalie came downstairs, in a trim out-of-door costume. her smart little hat was veiled, and she had a motor coat over her arm. "may i take the little electric, joyce, and drive it myself?" "why, yes, of course. where are you going?" "first, to see mr. roberts. and if i'm not home for some hours, don't be alarmed. i may go to--well, i may take a long drive. but i'll be back to dinner." in a moment joyce saw the little electric coupã© whirling down the drive. straight to headquarters natalie went, and found bobsy roberts. "barry stannard didn't kill his father," she said, without preamble. "you had no right to arrest him." "but he confessed the crime, miss vernon." "don't you know why he did that?" the lovely eyes fell before bobsy's surprised glance. "no, why? if he is not the criminal?" "of course he isn't. he said all that to--to save me." bobsy looked sharply at her. "is that so? and how am i to know that you're not telling me this to save him?" "you can't know! that's just it. you've not wit enough to know what is the truth and what isn't." "thank you for the implied compliment." "don't be sarcastic. this isn't the time for it. please help me, mr. roberts." it would have been a far less impressionable man than the detective who could have refused the pleading glance of those pansy-blue eyes. "how can i help you, miss vernon?" "this way. tell me of some detective, some really great one, who can unravel this tangle. i didn't kill mr. stannard. barry didn't, either. but he says he did, to save me. now, i want some one who can find the real criminal and so clear both barry and myself." "and you expect me to recommend somebody?" "oh, i do, mr. roberts, i do. i know you're big enough and honest enough to admit that you are at the end of your rope, and if you know of any one--i don't care how much he costs, i must have him--i _must_! tell me, won't you?" "yes, i'll tell you, because i can't refuse you, but also because i know he will only verify our conclusions. you must know, miss vernon, we've had our eye on young stannard all the time." "oh, i thought you were sure the criminal must be mrs. stannard or myself." "we did think that at first--you see, we have to think what the evidence shows." "well, never mind that now. who is this man you have in mind?" "alan ford. he's not one of the story-book wizards, but he's a big light in the detective field, and he can find out if any one can." "where is he?" bobsy gave her the new york address of the detective, and natalie rose to go. then, acting on a sudden impulse, "come with me," she said. "to new york?" cried the amazed bobsy. "yes. it's only a couple of hours' run, and i don't want to go alone." "why, i'm glad to go, if i can arrange it." "do arrange it. i want you so much." now, when a little flower-faced girl looks pleadingly out of heavenly colored eyes, and her red mouth quivers with fear of being refused, few men have the power to say no. anyway, bobsy hadn't, and he managed to "arrange" it, and in a few moments they were on their way. "i thought you'd want to see stannard," he said. "no, i'd rather not, until i see if i can get the great mr. ford." the little car ate up the miles, and soon they were in the crowded streets of the city. alan ford was in his office, and received them with his characteristic quiet dignity. the tall, big man looked taller than ever as he stood beside the petite model, his grey eyes looking down into her eager blue ones. "what can i do for you?" he asked, kindly, and smiled at her because he couldn't help it. the winsome face made everybody smile from sheer gladness of looking at it. "can you take a case, mr. ford? an important murder case?" "the stannard case?" "yes." "i'd like to say yes, but i am just starting on a western trip, and i shall be gone at least a month." great crystal tears formed in natalie's eyes and one rolled down her cheek. she couldn't possibly help this, the teardrops were beyond her control. but they stood her in good stead, for alan ford couldn't bear to see a woman cry. it unnerved him as no danger or terror could do. "don't, please," he said, impulsively. "but i'm so disappointed! you see barry stannard has confessed----" "what! young stannard confessed! then what do you want of me?" "because barry didn't do it. he confessed to save me." "and did you do it?" the question was in the tone of a casual every-day inquiry, but few people would have replied anything but the truth with alan ford's gaze upon them. "no, i didn't. you _must_ come up there and find out who did do it. oh, can't you manage somehow?" the coaxing face was brightened by a sudden hope, and alan ford couldn't bring himself to dash that hope from the lovely beseeching girl. "it makes a difference, now that they've arrested stannard," he said, slowly. "oh, of course it does! arrested him wrongfully, too. you see, he had to say he did it, or i would have been arrested." "tell me the main facts," said ford to bobsy. and in straightforward terms, bobsy told the great detective all that the force had been able to accomplish. "it would seem," said alan ford, speaking with deliberation, "that the criminal must be one of the four people most nearly connected with the dead man. his wife, miss vernon here, barry, the son, or mr. courtenay, the lover." "i don't like for you to use that term," said natalie, gently. "for mr. courtenay and mrs. stannard could not be called lovers during mr. stannard's life." "good for you, for standing up for her. well, i will postpone my western trip for a few days at least." "he's coming," said natalie, briefly, as in the late afternoon she arrived at the folly. "who is?" asked joyce, "and where have you been?" joyce and beatrice were having tea in the reception room, for by common consent all the household avoided the studio. the servants shuddered as they were obliged to pass it or go through it, and natalie declared it was haunted. "i've been to new york," the girl replied, as she flung off her motor coat, and threw herself into a big armchair. "give me some tea, please, and i'll tell you all about it. i've engaged alan ford." "who is he?" asked beatrice, fixing a cup of tea as natalie liked it. "he's a great, big, splendid detective--i mean big in his profession--and he's also the biggest man i ever saw, physically." "well, i am glad!" exclaimed joyce. "i think mr. roberts has done all he could, but i don't think he has much real cleverness. do you, beatrice?" "no. and yet, we oughtn't to judge him too harshly. he's had a hard time of it, for every new bit of evidence he gets, or thinks he gets, seems to point to some one of the family here." "i know it," agreed natalie, "but alan ford will find the real murderer and then we'll all be freed of suspicion." "what's that, natalie? alan ford!" and into the room strode barry stannard. natalie's face shone with welcome. "how did you get here?" she cried; "i thought you were arrested!" "even a murder suspect can get bail if he has money enough," said barry, "and there were other reasons. they wouldn't swallow my confession whole. but never mind that now; tell me, did you say alan ford is coming?" "i did, barry, dear. i went and got him. and just in time, too, for he was going west at once. but he's staying over for us, and he's coming out here to-morrow morning. isn't it fine!" "splendid! you're a trump, natalie. you know, girl, don't you, why i confessed?" "of course i do. i was sure you couldn't make the police believe you, and then i knew it would swing back to me. so i had to take desperate measures, and i did." "barry," said joyce, "your attempts to get suspicion turned your way, or any way, are too transparent. you scratched up the window frame to make it appear a burglar had entered there, and nobody believed it for a minute." "i know it, i'm no good as a deceiver. but, oh, natalie, don't think i suspected you, but i knew others would, and did, and i was frantic. and i vowed i did it, in an effort to distract their attention from you. but your going yourself for ford, clears you in every one's eyes, and now he'll find the man. it was some man who came in--it has to be. there is no other explanation--positively none." "it wasn't eugene!" whispered joyce, her face drawn with new apprehension. "of course it wasn't," said beatrice, soothingly. "don't worry over that, joyce, dear. mr. wadsworth has exculpated mr. courtenay." "but nothing seems sure," joyce said, with a sad shake of her head. "well, it will be sure, once alan ford gets here," declared barry. "i can hardly wait to see him." alan ford arrived the next morning. when he entered the reception room, his tall, commanding presence seemed to fill the whole room. with perfect courtesy, he greeted joyce first, and then the others, and finally seated himself, facing the group. though not to be called handsome, his face was fine and scholarly, and his iron grey hair made him look older than his fifty years. his manner was quiet, but alert, as if no hint or lightest word could escape his attention. "let us waste no time," he began, "for my business engagements are pressing, and what i do here must be done as quickly as possible. i can promise you nothing, for the accounts i have read of this case make it seem to me that your local workers have done all that could be expected of them. the whole affair is mysterious, but sometimes a new point of view or the opinions of a different mind may lead to something of importance." "you know the main details, then?" asked barry. "the main details as told in the papers, yes. also, i've seen mr. roberts this morning, and i've discussed matters with him and with captain steele. but never mind those sources of information. i want the stories of each one of you here. and, if you please, i want them separately, and in each instance, alone. otherwise, i cannot take the case." "why, of course, mr. ford," said joyce, "we will agree to anything you stipulate. please direct us, and we will obey." "then first, i will talk with mr. stannard, and later with the ladies. also, i must ask that the interviews be in the studio, the room where the crime took place. this is not only because it is more appropriate, but i can think better in a large room. this little low-ceiled box of a room doesn't give me space to think!" ford's winsome smile took all hint of rudeness from the words, and as he rose, his great height and proportionate bulk seemed to bear out his statement, and the assumption that his mind was of wide scope and far-reaching limits, made it seem plausible that he felt stifled in a small or low room. "but you haven't yet been in the studio," said natalie. "how do you know it is big and high?" "it was so described in the newspaper accounts. that is why i took an interest in the case. also, i am willing to admit, i paused for a glance in at the studio door, as i came into the house, and before i entered this room." "a queer man," thought natalie. "why should a great detective talk about such foolish details as large or small rooms? why should he take an interest in a case because of them?" the others had similar thoughts, but no comment was made on the visitor's peculiarities, save that beatrice faulkner seemed to feel obliged to defend her husband's architectural ideas. "the rooms are carefully proportioned," she said, pleasantly, but with a touch of pride in the fact. "the architect who designed them knew just what measurements were most effective from a technical and artistic point of view." "the rooms are all right," said mr. ford, smiling kindly at the speaker, "the trouble is with my own foolish vagaries." then led by barry, they all went into the studio. alan ford looked around him, with the most intense admiration expressed on his fine face. "magnificent!" he said. "mrs. faulkner, your late husband was indeed a genius. i have never seen a more perfectly proportioned room, or one more appropriately and effectively decorated. the windows are marvels and the furniture is in every respect fitting." "oh," said joyce, "mr. stannard furnished the room. it was not built for a studio." "it is, then, the joint product of two geniuses. i know of mr. stannard's reputation." for a few moments alan ford seem to forget the errand on which he had come. he was, it was plain to be seen, deeply impressed with the beautiful apartment, and his dark, deep-set grey eyes roved about from pictures to statues, from furniture to decorations with admiring and approving gaze. "have you a picture of mr. stannard?" he said at last. "yes," and joyce took a photograph from a small chest full of portraits. "this is a photograph of a painting done by himself. it was made about four years ago, but he changed little since." ford took the card and studied it. he saw a noble head and brow, fine features, and a general air of self-appreciation that was, however, not to be called conceit. the mouth had a few weak lines about its corners, but on the whole it was the presentment of a man of genius. "have you a photograph of the subject in life?" he asked; "not taken from a painting." "yes, but not a recent one," replied joyce. "except for some little snapshots," and she put a half-dozen small pictures in the hands of the detective. "better yet," ford said, and he carefully scrutinized the papers. but all the pictures of eric stannard gave the same impression of power, self-confidence and dominance. xviii questions and answers still studying the face of the artist, alan ford indicated his desire to begin the successive interviews with the members of the household. all but barry left the room, and the young man sat down near the absorbed detective. "your father was a handsome man," ford said, as he laid aside the pictures. "yes," agreed barry. "i wish i might have been more nearly his type." "physically, you mean?" "yes, and mentally, too. i admit my father's moral weakness, yet he was not a bad man, as men go. his artistic temperament was responsible for his being blamed far more than was just or right." "that is probably true," said ford, seriously. "to a man of that sensitiveness to beauty many things seemed right that were not. now, mr. stannard, will you please tell me everything about the actual facts as you know them, regarding the hour or half hour in which the crime was committed? don't shade or colour your story to shield miss vernon, for such a bias will only prejudice my judgment against her. tell me exactly the events as they followed one another to your positive knowledge, and nothing more." "very well, mr. ford, i will do just as you ask. but let me say this first; there are three suspects----" "excuse me, there are four suspects." "if you count mr. courtenay, yes. but the three in the house, my stepmother, miss vernon and myself, have been definitely suspected and, probably, are still. so i want to say, that if one of us must remain under suspicion, let it be me. it is impossible that a woman did this deed. so investigate along the line of courtenay or myself, but as i feel quite sure you can get no real evidence against him, use me for a scapegoat, while you are finding the real criminal." "then you are not the criminal, mr. stannard?" "if i were, would i be apt to tell you?" "you couldn't help telling me. not in words, but in manner, in glance, in intonation, in a dozen ways, over which you have no control." "have i told you so?" "you have not. i know positively you did not kill your father. but, go on, please, with your recital." "well, after dinner, miss vernon and i sat on the terrace----" barry paused. "by jove," he broke out, "how can i tell you the straight truth? it sounds exactly as if natalie did it!" alan ford almost smiled at the boy's impetuous exclamation, but merely prompted him, "yes. go right on, remember the truth will help miss vernon more than any falsehood possibly could. have you never heard of seemingly incriminatory evidence of one leading straight to another?" "all right, then. we sat there a long time, and then we talked about--about getting married. i was bothered about it, for dad had vowed if i married natalie, he'd cut me out of his will." "that's why you altered the will in miss vernon's favour?" "i didn't alter that will! this is man to man, now, mr. ford. i'm telling you the truth. i didn't change that will, and miss vernon didn't, either. i don't know who did." "we'll find that out. it won't be a great surprise to learn the truth about that." "how do you know it won't? do you know who did the forgery?" "i think so. or perhaps there wasn't any forgery. but go on, my dear boy, with your story. i told you, you know, i've not much time to give you." "all right. we talked about getting married, and i got awful mad and i said if father didn't stop his nonsense with her, i'd kidnap her and run away. and natalie knew that if we did that, dad would cut us both out of his will,--and she isn't a bit mercenary, it wasn't that." "what was it, then?" "why, only that we're--why, hang it all, decent people don't do those things." "decent people don't commit murder, either," said ford, very gravely. "no, i know that. well, natalie begged me not to quarrel with father,--said she could manage him herself. and i thought she meant by being sweet to him, and all that, and i got mad at her, and--i walked off and left her there." "without a word?" "no. i told her i was going to give the dogs a run. i was going to, too, but as i walked away, i fell a-thinking, and i just strolled round the place alone." "whom did you see?" "nobody at all. maybe courtenay or mr. wadsworth or some of those people passed me, i don't know. i was just thinking about natalie, and then halpin came running out and told me to come in the house, my father was ill." "and you went right in?" "yes, and when i saw what had happened, i felt afraid natalie had killed him--and i ran out and tried to make the window frame look as if a burglar had broken in. i suppose it was foolish." "it certainly was. but i don't blame you. it was natural to try to shield the girl you loved from possible suspicion." "possible suspicion! if you had seen the situation! there were the two women, both shivering with fear and terror, and there was the dead or dying man between them! why, mr. ford, it wasn't suspicion, it was certainty that one or the other had stabbed him!" "and why have you changed your mind since?" "partly because of that clairvoyant person. i don't believe in those things, but--well--do you?" "i do not. but i can see how she would turn suspicion away from the two women in question. who sent for the clairvoyant?" "mrs. stannard did, but, first, the priestess, as she likes to be called, wrote and asked for a sã©ance." "she did! how did she know she was wanted?" "she didn't know. said she read about the case, and got interested." "ah, a professional medium." "she said not. said she only offers to help in cases that appeal especially to her." "h'm. well, then she turned all your thoughts toward mr. courtenay, i am told." "but she didn't intend to. i mean, she described a man who entered the room, and who stabbed my father, but it was bobsy roberts' questions that made anybody think of eugene courtenay." "how?" "oh, he kept saying, bobsy did, 'has he a pointed beard?' and 'is he tall and dark?' and such leading hints. the woman said 'yes' every time, but i don't believe she knew what she was talking about." "and her mysterious reading of those sealed papers? you see, i know all the main facts, i just want your opinions." "well, you've got me there! that woman _had_ to read those by supernatural power, because there's no other explanation. i know a bit about legerdemain and parlour magic and there was no opportunity whatever for any trickery. we wrote the things, sealed them, bobsy roberts collected them and handed them to her. then in the same instant he switched off the light, and it wasn't half a minute before she was reading them aloud to us." "in the dark?" "absolutely dark. and she hadn't moved from her chair, for her voice came from the place she was sitting." "ventriloquism?" "oh, no. not a chance. anyway, where could she go to have a light? the studio doors were all closed, and--why, of course, she didn't leave her chair, for when bobsy switched on the light, suddenly, there she sat, eyes closed, hands quiet, composed and unruffled. no, sir, there's no explanation for that reading business but honest-to-goodness second sight! and, she gave us back our envelopes intact, seals unbroken." "well, but, mr. stannard, if she had power to do all that, and i don't doubt your word in the least particular, isn't it strange that she couldn't see exactly who that murderer was?" "suppose it was some one she didn't know?" "but oughtn't her powers of second sight, if she has such, reveal to her the identity of the man? she didn't know what was in your envelopes, but she told you. why didn't her supernatural powers inform her the man's name?" "i don't know, mr. ford. i'm only telling you what i saw and heard." "that's all i want." and after a short further conversation, alan ford dismissed barry and asked mrs. stannard to come to him next. "it will be hard for you, i know," he said gently, as he placed a chair for her, "but i want you to tell me just what occurred at the time of mr. stannard's death. tell only your own part, only what you, yourself, did or saw." "you suspect i killed my husband?" said joyce, in a choking whisper. "it will depend on your story, what i suspect. do not be afraid and do not distrust me, mrs. stannard. i want to help you, in any case. whatever the truth, i can help you, and i want to assure you of that." the infinite gentleness of his tone, the kind light in his eyes and the utter sympathy evident in his whole manner reassured joyce, and in a low voice she began. "i have told it so many times, i know it by heart. i was in the billiard room with mr. courtenay. i will not explain or defend the fact that i was there alone with him, but merely state that i was. he left me, and as i was heartsick over my own private and personal affairs, i buried my head in a sofa-cushion and cried. not a real crying spell of sobs and tears, but an emotion which i endeavoured to restrain or control that i might meet others without causing comment. as i bowed my head there, i am positive i heard my husband talking to some woman." "miss vernon?" "i thought so at first, now i am not sure it was she." "mrs. faulkner?" "oh, no. she was in the drawing room at the other end of the house. no, it must have been either my imagination or some woman who had somehow entered and who afterward disappeared." "go on." "i heard him say, or i thought i did, that she could have the emeralds, but he refused to marry her." "yes," a little impatiently. "i know about that. tell me what happened." "then i heard a strange, gasping sound, and i rushed in----" "was the room light then?" "no, dark. the light went out that instant or a moment before. i pushed in, and i heard a sound opposite--on the other side of the room. at first, i thought it was my husband, but it was a quick, frightened breathing, and then the light flashed on and i saw it was miss vernon, huddled against the wall--no, against a small table, and looking scared to death. do you wonder that i thought she had done something wrong? for just then i caught sight of my husband, stabbed, dying--oh, i knew in that first glance that he had been murdered. then, i saw blake and mrs. faulkner at the other end of the room. they were shocked and frightened, too, but i paid no attention to them, i looked right back to eric. and he--well, the footman did ask him who did it--and he raised his hand and said 'neither natalie nor joyce.'" "are you sure that's what he said?" "i am sure now. at the time he said it, he spoke so thickly i could scarcely understand him, and i thought he said 'natalie, not joyce.' but we had a clairvoyant here, and she said he said 'nor' and then i realized at once that that was what he did say!" "meaning, of course, that you two women were innocent, and that some other hand had struck the blow?" "yes, that was what he meant." "and, do you not think, mrs. stannard, that he would have said that to shield you both, even if one had been guilty?" joyce stannard turned white. "i--i never thought of that," she stammered. "perhaps he would." "but you feel sure, at this moment, that it was not miss vernon who killed your husband?" joyce looked utterly miserable. her eyes were frightened like those of a hunted animal. but she said, bravely, "i feel sure of that, mr. ford. miss vernon is not one who could do such a thing." "she doesn't seem to be. will you go now, mrs. stannard, and please send miss vernon in here?" joyce went slowly out of the studio, and in a moment natalie vernon came in. "am i afraid of you?" she asked, as she sat facing alan ford. "need i be?" her questions were not prompted by coquetry, that was evident. her tone was serious, and she looked at the detective wistfully. "no, miss vernon," he answered, seriously, "you have no reason to be afraid of me, but i will tell you frankly, you have great reason to fear the consequences if you tell me anything but the exact truth. pardon me, if that seems a rude speech, but great issues are at stake and prevarication on your part to the slightest degree would baffle all my plans and hopes." "i will tell the truth," natalie sighed, "so far as i know it. but sometimes it's very hard to be sure of what is true." "yes, i know it. now, miss vernon, just one word about the time and scene of the crime. when you came into the studio, because you heard--what did you hear?" alan ford's manner was calculated to set the nervous girl at her ease, and his kindliness made her calm and un-self-conscious. "i heard eric moan." "did you know at once it was mr. stannard?" "oh, yes. it sounded like him, and i suppose he was in there." "what did you think ailed him?" "i don't believe i thought of that. i just heard the curious gasping sound, as of somebody choking, and i ran in. i didn't think,--i only wondered what was the trouble." "and when you entered the room was it light or dark?" "honestly, i don't know, mr. ford. i've been so quizzed and questioned about it, that i can't seem to remember clearly." "but the lights went out?" "yes, just as i entered, or a minute before." "well, then, what was the first thing you saw?" "must i tell that?" "yes, and truly." "then, the first thing i saw, as the light flashed on,--and it rather blinded me at first, you know. you see, i had been sitting on the terrace, which was almost dark, then i entered the dark room, and so when the light came suddenly, it dazzled me, and i naturally looked straight ahead of me. i saw mrs. stannard, behind her husband, and near the billiard room door." "as if she had just come in from that room?" "i think so,--now. i didn't think so then. i thought she had killed him, and had sort of stepped back, you know----" "why did you change your mind?" "oh, because of madame orienta. haven't you heard about her? she cleared up the mystery as far as joyce,--mrs. stannard and i are concerned." "yes, i've heard all about her. you believe in her supernatural powers?" "oh, yes. only i don't use that word. i call them psychic powers." "but it was supernatural to read the sealed messages as she did?" "well, i suppose it was. i suppose clairvoyance is supernatural, but we psychics prefer other terms. you know i'm a psychic." "ah, is that so? and you can read sealed messages in the dark?" "no, indeed, i can't. i wish i could. but perhaps i shall be able to some day. i can--mr. ford, you believe me, don't you?" natalie looked at him, and a slight flush came to her pale cheek as she saw his slightly quizzical expression. "miss vernon, i believe all you've said, so far. i want to continue my confidence in your statements, so please be very careful not to exaggerate or over-colour the least mite. now, just to what extent do you _know_ you're a psychic? not imagine or hope or think, but _know_." "well, i only know that i've heard the voice of mr. stannard's spirit since his death, as clearly as i heard his mortal voice that night he died." "you are sure of this?" "i am sure, mr. ford." "tell me the exact circumstances." xix ford's day "mrs. stannard and i were alone, here in the studio----" "where was mr. stannard?" "i don't know. he wasn't in the house." "was mrs. faulkner?" "yes, but she wouldn't stay here with us. she doesn't approve of any of these psychic investigations, but she doesn't say much against them, out of respect to mrs. stannard's and my wishes." "go on." natalie told the story of hearing faint groans, as of a dying man, and of the sudden extinguishing of the lights. "one moment, miss vernon. when the lights went out, the room was quite still, was it not?" "deathly silent, mr. ford. joyce and i were breathless, listening for further sounds of any sort." "and, tell me, did you hear the click of the switch as the light went out?" "yes, i did. i heard it distinctly." "and did that mean nothing to you?" "why, what could it mean?" "it meant, miss vernon, that the light was switched off by a mortal,--flesh and blood hand. had it been supernaturally extinguished there would have been no sound." "i heard it,--i'm sure i heard it. but i think the spirit of mr. stannard haunts the whole room, and it was he who turned the light off." "by means of a material switch?" natalie looked a little uncertain. varying expressions passed over her face as she thought it out. then she said, "don't spirits ever use material means?" "not to my individual knowledge," returned alan ford gravely. "i fear, miss vernon, your belief in the spiritual influences at work in this affair is about to be rudely shattered. now, did you hear any other sound,--a click or thud,--after the light went out?" "no. you see, joyce,--mrs. stannard jumped right up and ran across the room and turned on the light." "turned it on? it had been really turned off, then?" "oh, yes. and she turned it on. then she opened the door and blake was in the hall, where he belonged. he had seen no one and had heard nothing." "i must have a chat with blake. and mrs. faulkner, she knew nothing of it all?" "not till mrs. stannard told her. she ran at once to mrs. faulkner's room----" "where is that room?" "at the other end of the house, on the third floor. and there she found mrs. faulkner writing letters. and mrs. stannard told her and they came down stairs together. well, and after mrs. stannard left the room, of course, i looked around, and there was the case of jewels on the table." "where did they come from? how did they get there?" "the spirit of mr. stannard placed them there," said natalie, solemnly. "you may scoff, mr. ford, you may suspect blake of being mixed up in it, but you're all wrong. the studio doors were locked----" "while you and mrs. stannard were in there?" "yes, i locked them myself. all three. there are but three, you know. see, the one to the front hall, the outside one to the terrace and the one to the billiard room. i locked them, and the windows were fastened too. nobody mortal could have come into that room." "so it would seem. now, who else has these leanings toward spirit forces beside you? who sent for the clairvoyant lady?" "nobody. that is, she wrote herself to mrs. stannard, asking if she might come." "you liked her? you believed in her?" "in orienta? oh, yes. she is not an ordinary person,--i mean she is refined, educated, cultured,--as correct in every way as we are ourselves. she's not a professional medium, you know." "i know. and did mr. barry stannard want her to come?" "no; he strongly opposed it." "and mrs. faulkner?" "she deferred to mrs. stannard's wishes. but she had no faith in her. of course, after orienta read the sealed letters, mrs. faulkner had to believe in that, she couldn't well help it." "no. now, miss vernon, when you heard the groan or sigh as if the spirit of mr. stannard were expressing itself, where did the sound come from?" "it seemed to come from that chair,--the chair he died in. joyce and i sat facing it----" "your backs to the hall door, then?" "yes, but nobody could open that door, it was locked. mrs. stannard unlocked it when she ran out of the room." "you're sure of this?" "positive. we've gone over the scene a dozen times or more." "that seems to let blake out, doesn't it? well, that's all for the present, miss vernon, and thank you for your courteous attention. now, there's no one to interview but the servants." "mrs. faulkner? she expects you to talk to her, i think." "what could she tell me? she wasn't in this part of the house at the spiritual sã©ance, and as to the moment of the crime, she tells no more than blake. however, i'll see her for a brief interview. it's always well to get all the accounts possible." natalie left the studio, and in a few moments beatrice faulkner came in. "just a question or two, mrs. faulkner," said ford, "i know you people are all nearly distraught with these strange and sudden developments. but, tell me, what do you think of miss vernon's story of the spirit manifestations in this room?" "i think it was all the girl's imagination, mr. ford. she is not only of an exaggerated artistic temperament, but excessively nervous and susceptible to hallucinations." "she is all that, i think. now, please tell me, very honestly and very carefully, exactly how mrs. stannard looked and acted when she ran up to your room to tell you of the strange occurrence in the studio." "she was terribly excited, mr. ford, and she could scarcely speak. she stumbled up the stairs----" "why, did you see her?" "no, i heard her. i was at my writing desk, and the house was still. then she flew into my room, without knocking----" "is it her custom to knock?" "oh, yes, she always does. and she begged me to go down stairs with her, and i did. the rest you know?" "yes, and a strange tale it is. how do you suppose the jewels came to be on that table?" "i cannot say," beatrice looked sad. "there seems to be only one explanation. that whoever had them or knew where they were, placed them there." "and how did the bearer of the box get into the locked room?" "i can't imagine. the only thing i can think of is that natalie didn't lock the door as thoroughly as she thinks she did." "mrs. faulkner, tell me this. i assure you i will not use your information unless absolutely necessary. do you suspect the footman blake of any connivance--or of any wrong doing in the whole matter?" beatrice faulkner hesitated. then she said, "no, mr. ford, i do not. i think blake a thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant." "and who is the criminal?" "that i cannot say. i am, as you know, merely a visitor, who chanced to be here at this unfortunate time. i have hesitated to express my opinions lest i do harm to the innocent or retard the quest of the guilty. i can only answer your questions in so far as they are not leading up to suspicion of any of my friends." "that is the right attitude, mrs. faulkner. i thought there was no necessity for troubling you at all, but one or two minor points i prefer to ask of you rather than mrs. stannard. do you know the identity of 'goldenheart'?" "i imagine her to be one of mr. stannard's early inamoratas. he had many, and, moreover, i should not be surprised to learn that he called more than one by that name. you know there was a small gift found in his desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. it has occurred to me that the goldenheart of that matter, and the one to whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person." "that may well be. you have a logical mind, mrs. faulkner. i say this to you, because i want your help. if i should tell you that i do not suspect mrs. stannard or miss vernon or barry stannard, would you then be willing to assist me in my investigation?" beatrice faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in a low tone, "mr. courtenay?" "hush! don't mention names. let us close this conversation right here, and i will tell you at some other time what i want you to do for me." beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, alan ford remained alone in the studio for an hour or more. then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with no suggestion of a detective. in the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of eric stannard's papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at this work. at tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked of the visit of orienta and her wonderful performance. over and over it was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion alan ford grew more and more interested. "tell me of her costume," he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard about every other bit of possible interest. "it was beautiful!" exclaimed natalie. "a long, full robe of a sort of sage green----" "what material?" asked ford, and barry looked at him in surprise. what kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture of a costume? "why, it was silk, i think,--yes, heavy silk, wasn't it, joyce?" "that, or a silk poplin. it was not a modern, modish gown at all; it was like a draped shawl." "drapery hanging from the shoulders?" "yes," natalie answered, her mind so intent on giving ford the right idea, that she didn't think of the queerness of the question. "double skirt?" "yes--or, that is, a skirt, and then an over drapery in full long folds. oh, it was lovely!" "are you apt with your pencil, miss vernon? could you draw a rough sketch of that gown?" "i can't but mrs. faulkner can. she's good at sketching draperies. here's a paper pad, beatrice. will you draw it for mr. ford?" "certainly," and taking the paper, beatrice rapidly sketched an indication of orienta, in her flowing robe. "that's just right," said natalie, "but the folds were fuller, i think." "never mind," said ford, "this will do. i only wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked," and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them into a waste basket. the talk drifted to the house and its architecture. "the whole house is a gem," said alan ford, enthusiastically, "but the staircase is a marvel. nowhere in this country have i seen its equal. your husband studied abroad, mrs. faulkner?" "for years. he took great pride in building this house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece." "which it certainly is. have you the plans of it? i should like to see them. architecture is one of my hobbies." "no, i haven't the plans, mr. ford." "oh, of course, they went to mr. stannard with the title deeds. have you them, mrs. stannard?" "no, we never had them. i never thought about them." "doubtless they are among mr. stannard's belongings. they must have been given to him. it doesn't matter. i oughtn't to take time to look at them, anyway. but one thing i do want to see, and that is the picture of mrs. faulkner that mr. stannard was engaged on at the time of his death. i'm told it is an example of his best work. may i have a glimpse of it?" beatrice faulkner looked a little flattered at this request, but she said only, "certainly, mr. ford. it is in the studio." they all went in to see it, and barry arranged the portrait on an easel and adjusted a light for it. "it is indeed splendid," said ford, in genuine admiration. the portrait was excellent and lifelike, but more than that it was a work of art. beatrice, in a gown of deep ruby velvet, with the great staircase for a background, was at her very best. her face, always handsome, was imbued with a fine spiritual grace, and she looked the embodiment of happiness. the whole conception was, perhaps, a little idealised, but it was a magnificent portrait, and a stunning picture. "i'm so glad you have it, beatrice," said joyce, softly. "you've been so good and dear, and have done so much for us all ever since eric's death, i'm happy for you to have this remembrance of him." "i'm glad, too," and beatrice looked at the reflection of herself through misty eyes. bobsy roberts came in while they were looking at the portrait, and he, too, was charmed with its beauty. "that staircase makes a wonderful setting. i'm a fancier of staircases, and i think this one beats any i ever saw." "a fancier of staircases, what do you mean?" asked natalie. "yes, i've studied architecture, more or less, but the stairs have always especially interested me. i've just run across an old book, called 'staircases and steps,' and it's most interesting." "i agree with you," said alan ford. "and the staircase here is a gem. that's why i wanted to see the plans of the house." "mayn't we see them?" asked bobsy, turning to joyce. "why, i haven't them, mr. roberts. perhaps they're among my husband's belongings, but i've never seen them." "you see," observed ford, stepping out into the hall, "it's the wonderful proportion of one part to another that makes the beauty of it. the stair-well, clear to the roof, the arcaded hall, the noble high-ceiled studio and this little low-ceiled reception room, fitted in just here, make up a splendid whole. did not your late husband feel this?" ford added, turning to beatrice. "yes," she replied, briefly, and then bobsy tore himself away from the fascinating subject of architecture to ask alan ford if he had made any progress in his investigations. "i have," replied ford. "i have found out a lot of things that seem to me indicative. but it all hinges on whether there are spiritual influences at work or not. it seems to me, if the spirit of mr. stannard could return to earth and manifest itself in any way, it would prove----" "prove what?" asked mrs. faulkner, as the detective paused. "well, i may be foolish, but it would seem to me to prove that he wanted us to stop these investigations and let the matter remain a mystery." "you really think that!" exclaimed bobsy, as his estimation of alan ford's genius for detective work received a sudden setback. "i think i agree with mr. ford," said beatrice, thoughtfully. "if eric wanted us to continue our inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave." "oh, mr. ford," and natalie gave a little gasp, "do you really think, then, it was mr. stannard's spirit that i heard in the studio? do you think i am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real manifestation?" "those things are hard to tell, miss vernon. but i am going to ask the privilege of spending to-night alone in the studio. then if any demonstration occurs, i shall, as i told you, think there is reason to believe----" ford's pause was eloquent of deep feeling. truly the man was in earnest, whether he was right or not. "may i not stay there with you?" asked roberts, a little diffidently. "no, please. i want to be alone. i shall lock myself in, and i must ask not to be disturbed in any way." "i wish i could stay with you," and natalie sighed. "but i suppose you wouldn't want me to." "no, please," said ford, gently. "i must be alone." xx on the staircase at ford's request, the evening was spent without reference to the matter that was uppermost in every mind. at dinner the detective was merely a pleasant and entertaining guest. afterward, in the drawing room he proved himself a good talker and a good listener, and the conversation, on all sorts of topics, was casual and interesting. it was nearly midnight when ford bade them good night, and went to the studio to hold his vigil. the others followed him in, joyce asking if he would like any refreshment served during the night. "no," he replied. "it will not be so very long until daylight. and, too, perhaps nothing will happen, and i may fall asleep. don't worry about me, mrs. stannard, i shall not be at all uncomfortable. see, i shall sit just where miss vernon sat the other night. right here, facing the chair in which mr. stannard died. thus, i have my back to the hall door, and the north window, but i shall make sure that all are securely locked, and then if any manifestation occurs, i shall have every reason to be sure it is of supernatural origin." "and that would make you give up the case?" asked beatrice, incredulously. "i think so," returned ford. "i should probably leave here to-morrow." "well, of all queer detectives!" said barry stannard, as they went from the room and heard the click of the key as it was turned in the door behind them. true to his word, alan ford examined with minutest care every door and window. he made sure no lock or catch was left unfastened, and then, the lights burning brightly, he took his seat just where he had said he would, facing the chair in which eric stannard had met his fate. also, he faced the two doors that led respectively to the billiard room and the terrace. this left more than half the room behind him and out of his line of vision. but the detective paid no attention to that part of the studio, and rested his contemplative gaze on the great armchair which had helped to stage the tragedy. the hours went by. alan ford scarcely moved from the easy, relaxed position he had taken at first. he closed his eyes for the most of the time, now and then slowly opening them for a moment. his left hand, lying on his knee, clasped some small object. it was shortly after three o'clock in the morning, when there was the sound of a click and the lights went out. the studio was in absolute darkness. ford rose quickly and crossed the room to the light switch by the hall door. he knew the position of the furniture, and felt his way by the chairs. as he did so, he heard a long, gasping sigh, and a faint cry of "help!" by this time he had reached the switch and turned it on. the sudden flash of light showed no one in the room save himself, but not pausing to look about, he unlocked the hall door, passed quickly through and ran up the first steps of the stairs. on he went to the second great square landing, and there he paused. he did not stand still, but stepped about on the landing, making exclamations to himself, and breathing heavily. he leaned against the baluster, tapping on the newel post with his fingers. then, he sat down on the lowest step of the third or upper division of the flight. he sat, tapping his foot against the stair, he even whistled a little under his breath. he seemed anxious not to be silent. there was a low light in all the halls, and occasionally ford leaned his head over the baluster and commanded a view of the hall below. half an hour passed, and then joyce stannard appeared from the hall above. she wore a boudoir gown and slippers, and her weary eyes betokened a sleepless night. she started with surprise at sight of alan ford on the stairs. but he made a motion requesting her to be silent, and taking a bit of paper from his pocket he wrote: "say no word. go back to the hall above and remain there, but out of sight of this spot, until i summon you. overhear all you can, but on no account let yourself be seen." joyce read the strange message, and going back up the few steps she had descended, she sat on a hall window seat, concealed by a light curtain. then alan ford, with a short, sad sigh, stood up and approached the panelled wall of the staircase. down the flights the panels of course slanted, but on the landing they were in level row. placing his lips to the wall itself, ford said in a clear low whisper, "will you come out?" from behind the wall he heard an agonised moan. "it would be better," he said, gently. "do come." another moment passed, and then, a panel of the wainscot slid open and beatrice faulkner stepped forth onto the landing. "you know all?" she said, and her great despairing eyes looked into those of the detective. "almost all," he returned, and his glance at her was infinitely sad. "you killed stannard?" "yes," she said, and swayed as if she would fall to the floor. ford assisted her to stand and then gently aided her to a seat on the stair where he had sat a moment since. beatrice sank to the step and ford closed the panel she had left open. he did not look into the place to which the panel gave entrance, for he knew what it was. it was the space above the reception room. he had seen when he entered the house that since the reception room and the studio were next each other and yet there was five or six feet difference in the height of their respective ceilings, that space must be a sort of loft or waste room. it showed from none of the sides. both hall and studio were high ceiled. the staircase well reached to the roof. there was no explanation of the discrepancy but a waste space the size of the reception room and about six feet in height. this space, of course, abutted on the studio, the hall, the stairs, and, on the other side, the outer or terrace wall. in the studio the balcony ran along the wall at about the height of the stair landing on the other side. ford guessed at once that ingress to that waste space must be had from the studio or the stair landing or both. he now was sure that panels from both opened into it. as he closed the panel, he noted that there was no secret or concealed fastening. merely an ordinary flush spring catch, inconspicuous but not hidden. ford turned to the woman on the stairs. he sat down beside her. "tell me about it," he said, and his voice was so gentle, his face so sad, that beatrice turned to him as to a friend. "there is little to tell," she said, wearily. "it is the story of a great love, a love too big and strong to be conquered by a weak-willed woman. i tried--oh, i tried----" "don't give way, mrs. faulkner, just tell me the main facts. you knew mr. stannard years ago?" "i was his first love. we were schoolmates. i always loved him--more than loved him. i worshipped, adored him. he loved me,--but he was always fickle. he loved every woman he saw. then,--he married--his first wife, i mean, and i thought i should die. but never mind the past. i married, and i tried to forget eric. my husband built this beautiful home, but he had financial troubles and couldn't keep it. eric stannard bought it, and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married my friend joyce. i tried to be reconciled, but the demon of jealousy tore my very heart out. i gave over this house to them and went away. a portrait of myself was to be part of the purchase price, and--even though i knew it would be acute torment to see eric happy here with joyce, i came to stay a month and have the picture painted. as i feared, the necessarily intimate association between the artist and myself quickened my never-dying love for him, until i was almost frantic. i could have stood it, though, had it been only his wife. but when he fell desperately in love with the model, i resented it for joyce and myself both. but i had no thought of killing him,--don't think that!" "it was done on a sudden impulse, then." ford was watching her closely. he knew that her enforced calm might give way at any instant and he strove to speak quietly and lead her gently on to a confession. moreover, he trusted that joyce was listening, as he had asked her to do. thus the confession would be witnessed. "it was this way," and beatrice looked piteously into his kind eyes. "mr. wadsworth asked me that night to marry him. we were in the drawing room, as you know. i wouldn't say yes, for i still had a faint hope of winning eric. it was absurd for me to think it, but i was desperate. after mr. wadsworth left me, i sat a moment in the drawing room, and then i resolved to go to eric, by the secret passage, of which only he and i knew, and beg him to put joyce away and take me. i say this without shame, for i was--and am, still, so madly in love with him, that i had no shame regarding it, and would have suffered any ignominy or humiliation to win him. i went through that small space; it is not really secret, but no one has ever noticed it, and i went through to the studio, and stepping in the room, on the little balcony, i saw eric below me, gazing at the etching of natalie with an adoring look. he bent down and kissed the picture, and then i descended the stairs and spoke to him. i told him that natalie loved barry and hated him. i urged him to divorce joyce and let her marry eugene courtenay and i begged him to marry me. he laughed at me! i shall never forget that laugh! but that wasn't why i killed him. it was because he turned again to that picture of natalie and into his face came a look that i had never seen there. a look of love such as i had never been able to call forth on his face, a worshipping passion that transcended all love i had ever dreamed of. and that he felt for a little girl who hated him. jealousy maddened me, and snatching up an etching tool i marred the wax beyond recognition. he turned on me, his face livid with rage. the contrast,--the look of love he had for the girl, the look of venomous hate he gave me, bereft me of my senses. no, i do not mean i did not know what i was doing,--i did know. i fully meant at that moment to kill him, and then to kill myself, that we might at least die together. i should not have thought of killing him if i hadn't chanced to have that tool in my hand. nor should i have wanted to kill him but for his scorn of me and his love for her. the two together drove me wild, and i stabbed him in a moment of fierce passion that was love, not hate. then, as i was about to draw forth the needle and stab myself, i saw that he was not dead. he looked at me, and i couldn't say it was with hatred. i think--i honestly think--that he gloried in my deed,--you cannot understand,--it is a strange idea, but i think he realised at last the depth of my love and appreciated it. anyway, i read that in his face, and i couldn't bring myself to leave a world that still held him. i didn't dare remove the needle, lest it bring about his death,--i didn't dare remain and be found there with him. my mind fairly flew. i thought so fast and so clearly, i concluded to escape by the panel and return quickly through the hall and thus coming upon him, apparently innocently, save his life." "you crossed the room," ford prompted, for the speaker's strength was failing. "yes, i crossed the room, as deliberately as if nothing had happened. i turned off the light, that i might make good my escape. i flew through the panelled space, and in a few seconds i was out at this end, here on this landing and down the stairs. i saw at once that blake had heard something, but whether it was a sound from eric, or the noise of my departure i did not then know. i spoke to the man,--and the rest you know." "you were surprised when the light was turned on to see the two women there?" "i was dumfounded. i couldn't think at first what it would mean to me--or to them. i had no thought of allowing them to be suspected of the crime, but circumstances were too strong for me. they were found there, near the dying man,--i had, to all appearances come in from the other end of the room,--naturally they were suspected. and then reaction had come; no longer was i keyed up by that torment of jealousy, that spur of scorned love. i had time to think,--even when all were wondering and questioning, i had time to think. and i concluded i would never confess unless i was obliged to do so, to save some one else. i decided to devote every energy and use every effort to divert suspicion from all in the household. it was i who really arranged for----" "for the clairvoyant," said ford, as beatrice paused from sheer weakness of breath. "yes, you understand that?" "you hired her, instructed her to write to mrs. stannard, and you told her what to say." "yes, i wanted her to make it appear that the murderer was a man who had entered through the billiard room. i meant for the man's identity to be absolutely unknown. but they managed to fasten it on mr. courtenay and my plan failed utterly." "and then?" "then i had about decided to tell the truth. when they arrested barry, i quite decided. and then you came. i knew that was my death knell. but when you said if the spirit manifestation appeared in the studio to-night--that was a trap, wasn't it?" "yes, mrs. faulkner, it was a trap. i knew whoever had been playing 'spirit' by the use of the panelled space, would do it again to-night at my words, and i felt sure it would be you. i am sorry----" "i believe you are, mr. ford. i know from your whole attitude you are sorry for me. otherwise, i could not have told you all this as i have done. you are more like a father confessor than a detective. it helps a little to know you are sorry for me----" "how did orienta read the papers? the pocket-light method?" "yes. she is very clever; i've known her for years. she is not a medium at all. i persuaded her that to do as i asked would save innocent people from being suspected. of course, she didn't know i was guilty." "and you were 'goldenheart'?" "yes. it was eric's old pet name for me. he wrote that letter to me, giving me the emeralds if i would cease asking for his love. he said i knew where the jewels were, because he always kept them in the panelled space,--that's what we called it,--and joyce did overhear him saying to me in the studio practically what he had written in the letter. had she not been so wrapped up in her own heart trouble, she would have heard it clearly. of course, too, that little golden heart that was bought and never presented was meant for me." "you told orienta to say that mr. stannard said 'neither natalie _nor_ joyce.'?" "yes, for i really think that was what he did mean to say. he wouldn't implicate me, even with his dying breath, but he tried to clear them. he was a wonderful man, mr. ford. not a good man, perhaps, but a brave one. he would have defended any or all of us, but he had no chance. my love for him has been the mainspring of my whole life. instead of forgetting him, i grew more madly in love with him year by year. i had no business to come here, and let him paint me. those hours when i posed for him were the happiest i have ever known. that's why the portrait is of a happy woman. i hoped against hope that i could yet win him back. but i couldn't--i can only follow him." the quietness of beatrice's voice had lulled any suspicions ford might have had of her intent, and when she drew from the folds of her bodice an etching needle, exactly like the one that had killed eric, and drove it into her own breast, ford wheeled suddenly and grasped her hand,--but too late. the deed was done. at his exclamation, joyce ran down from the hall above, where she had been listening to beatrice's story. she sank down beside the wounded woman and took the drooping figure in her arms. "forgive----" moaned beatrice. "joyce,--forgive,--i--i loved him so." "yes,--yes," soothed joyce, scarce knowing what she said. "what can we do, mr. ford? oh, what can we do?" "nothing, i fear. call help. shall i ring?" ford hastened to the nearest bell he could notice and rang it. immediately people began to gather, servants, family,--and all sorts of contradictory orders were given. but with his finger on the pulse of the dying woman the detective tried to learn yet more facts. "the will," he asked, bending above her. "who changed it?" "eric himself," beatrice answered, "that's why--oh, eric!" her faced beamed with a strange radiance, and then sinking back in joyce's arms, beatrice faulkner breathed her last. the next day alan ford declared he must hasten away as his engagements were pressing. "but tell us more of your work," implored bobsy roberts, "give us a few moments more." "and tell us about that clairvoyant woman," said barry. "if she was a fake, how did she read those papers in the dark?" "i realised, before i came up here at all," said ford, "that there had to be some secret means of entrance to the studio. i see now, it was never meant to be secret. the architect made the reception room ceiling lower than the studio ceiling, because it was a smaller room and he observed due proportions. this left a space there, but it was not concealed or hidden. the catches on both doors are merely small ones and inconspicuous but not concealed. mr. faulkner left all the house plans in that loft and eric stannard knew of it. he chose to conceal his jewels there as being a convenient place. only he and mrs. faulkner knew of the space, but that was merely a chance happening. he, in no sense, kept it a secret. when i read the accounts in new york papers i felt the case must hinge on another entrance of some sort. when i reached here i saw at once that there was a discrepancy in the heights of those two ceilings, and i worked from that. i was sure the spirit manifestations were made possible by human means working through that concealed space, and i found i was right. i assumed it was probably mrs. faulkner who played the spirit as she refused to show the plans of the house, and my theories, based on those plans, left her free to do all she did do, without being discovered. i found she could have placed the jewels on the table that night and returned to her room through the little loft, and be seated at her desk, writing, when mrs. stannard reached her room. she said she heard mrs. stannard coming up stairs, but as the door was shut and the stairs thickly carpeted, this was unlikely. so i assume she was expecting her. all facts pointed to the guilt of mrs. faulkner, but they were by no means obvious. so, when i said if spirits came to the studio last night i should drop the case to-day, i meant because it would be solved. but mrs. faulkner thought i would give it up as unsolvable, so she played 'spirit' again. i had in my hand a tiny mirror of the sort that shows what is passing at one's back. i heard, as i sat there, the soft opening of the panel in the studio balcony, and i knew she was coming down the little stair. i heard her click off the light, and just as she did so, i caught a glimpse of her in my mirror. so i went out at the hall door, snapping on the light as i passed, and went up on the grand staircase, knowing i would head her off, and have her practically penned in there. mrs. stannard found me waiting there, and i arranged for her to witness the confession that i knew must come. i did not foresee that mrs. faulkner would take her own life, but perhaps it is as well. there was no happiness or peace for her in this world, it was better she should expiate her own sin. poor soul, she was a victim of a love that proved too great for her human nature to strive against. as to the will, i felt sure mr. stannard had made that change himself. it looked like his writing, and i felt sure neither miss vernon nor mr. barry stannard would have done it." "and you picked out the truth from the maze of probabilities and suspicion and false evidence----" bobsy looked at the great detective in an awed way. "i gained most of my information and formed most of my conclusions from my talks with each one separately. i am a fairly good judge of character, and i saw at once neither mrs. stannard nor miss vernon was guilty. they were both uncertain and indefinite in their testimony. they scarcely knew even the sequence of events at the time of the tragedy; if they had been telling untruths, they would have been positive in their statements. also, i saw at once barry stannard and miss vernon more than half feared each other guilty and each was ready for any sacrifice or effort to save the other. this let them both out, for neither could be guilty and suspect some one else! mr. courtenay had practically no real evidence against him, so it came back to mrs. faulkner. i talked to her enough to strengthen my suspicion in that direction and then tested her by the night in the studio. she proved herself the source of the 'spiritual' manifestations, and showed how she did it. that left only the matter of getting her confession. i feel deep pity for the poor woman; she led a sad, miserable existence because of a mistaken love. also, i must admit that she was of a different stamp from the people here. mrs. faulkner was capable of strong passion that did not stop at crime. i judge the rest of you would not be, and i do not think i am mistaken in that." alan ford looked around at the pure sweet face of natalie, the noble countenance of joyce, and the brave boyish frankness that shone in barry's glance and sighed as he thought of the smouldering fires in the deep eyes of the woman who was conquered by her own evil passion. "but tell us about the sealed reading," insisted bobsy, as ford rose to go. "oh, yes," cried natalie, "how was that done?" "one of the tricks of the trade," said ford. "you know there are dozens of ways to read sealed writings." "yes, but what way did she use?" "this way. you know, i insisted on a full description of her dress. when i found it was of full pattern and made of an opaque material, i understood. you see, if a message is written with ink, and if the paper is slipped, unfolded, into a moderately thin envelope, the writing can be read with ease in the dark by holding an electric pocket flashlight behind the envelope. orienta, the room being darkened, drew the loose folds of her gown over her head, and thus shielded, took a little flashlight from her pocket, read them all, by its aid, then returning the light to her pocket, remembered the questions and spoke them out, both with and without a light. the second time, i believe, she read the first ones in the dark and the others in the light. there were no signatures, but she had learned each one's hand-writing from the first lot. the thing is simple, and is the most mystifying of all sealed paper readings." "will it always work?" asked roberts, greatly interested. "in total darkness, yes. go into a dark closet and try it. of course, orienta's drapery served to aid her and also to conceal the light from her audience." "and all the answers she made up,--or beatrice had told her," said natalie, thoughtfully. "yes," said ford. "and now i must go. i shall hope to meet you all again some day, and if i can tell you anything more you care to learn about these make-believe wizards, i shall be glad to do so." he went away, and barry and natalie went off by themselves, to rejoice in the fact that all veils of suspicion were lifted from them and that they had long years ahead to help one another to forget the past and make a radiant, happy future. joyce had a quiet knowledge that some time in the coming years she, too, would again know happiness, and all united in a sad pity for the beautiful but misguided woman whose hand wrought the tragedy of faulkner's folly. the end transcriber's notes --copyright notice provided as in the original--this e-text is public domain in the country of publication. --in the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the html version reproduces the font form of the printed book.) --silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged. jill the reckless by p. g. wodehouse herbert jenkins limited 3 duke of york street st. james's, london, s.w. 1 * * * * * to my wife bless her * * * * * contents chapter i. the family curse ii. the first night at the leicester iii. jill and the unknown escape iv. the last of the rookes takes a hand v. lady underhill receives a shock vi. uncle chris bangs the table vii. jill catches the 10.10 viii. the dry-salters wing derek ix. jill in search of an uncle x. jill ignores authority xi. mr. pilkington's love light xii. uncle chris borrows a flat xiii. the ambassador arrives xiv. mr. goble makes the big noise xv. jill explains xvi. mr. goble plays with fate xvii. the cost of a row xviii. jill receives notice xix. mrs. peagrim burns incense xx. derek loses one bird and secures another xxi. wally mason learns a new exercise * * * * * jill the reckless chapter i the family curse i freddie rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. through a gleaming eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which barker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate before him. "barker!" his voice had a ring of pain. "sir?" "what's this?" "poached egg, sir." freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder. "it looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "remove it!" he got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a stand in front of the fireplace. from this position he surveyed the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club fender. it was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a typical london bachelor's breakfast-room. the walls were a restful grey, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white and silver. "eggs, barker," said freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!" "yes, sir?" "if, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all right. if not, not. and don't let anybody tell you otherwise." "no, sir." freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed. "it would seem, then, that i must have revelled a trifle whole-heartedly last night. i was possibly a little blotto. not whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. did i make much noise coming in?" "no, sir. you were very quiet." "ah! a dashed bad sign!" freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. "the cream jug is to your right, sir," said the helpful barker. "let it remain there. _café noir_ for me this morning. as _noir_ as it can jolly well stick!" freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped delicately. "as far as i can remember, it was ronny devereux' birthday or something...." "mr. martyn's, i think you said, sir." "that's right. algy martyn's birthday, and ronny and i were the guests. it all comes back to me. i wanted derek to roll along and join the festivities--he's never met ronny--but he gave it a miss. quite right! a chap in his position has responsibilities. member of parliament and all that. besides," said freddie earnestly, driving home the point with a wave of his spoon, "he's engaged to be married. you must remember that, barker!" "i will endeavour to, sir." "sometimes," said freddie dreamily, "i wish i were engaged to be married. sometimes i wish i had some sweet girl to watch over me and.... no, i don't, by jove. it would give me the utter pip! is sir derek up yet, barker?" "getting up, sir." "see that everything is all right, will you? i mean as regards the food-stuffs and what not. i want him to make a good breakfast. he's got to meet his mother this morning at charing cross. she's legging it back from the riviera." "indeed, sir?" freddie shook his head. "you wouldn't speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her! well, you'll see her to-night. she's coming here to dinner." "yes, sir." "miss mariner will be here, too. a foursome. tell mrs. barker to pull up her socks and give us something pretty ripe. soup, fish, all that sort of thing. _she_ knows. and let's have a stoup of malvoisie from the oldest bin. this is a special occasion!" "her ladyship will be meeting miss mariner for the first time, sir?" "you've put your finger on it! absolutely the first time on this or any stage! we must all rally round and make the thing a success." "i am sure mrs. barker will strain every nerve, sir." barker moved to the door, carrying the rejected egg, and stepped aside to allow a tall, well-built man of about thirty to enter. "good morning, sir derek." "morning, barker." barker slid softly from the room. derek underhill sat down at the table. he was a strikingly handsome man, with a strong, forceful face, dark, lean and cleanly shaven. he was one of those men whom a stranger would instinctively pick out of a crowd as worthy of note. his only defect was that his heavy eyebrows gave him at times an expression which was a little forbidding. women, however, had never been repelled by it. he was very popular with women, not quite so popular with men--always excepting freddie rooke, who worshipped him. they had been at school together, though freddie was the younger by several years. "finished, freddie?" asked derek. freddie smiled wanly. "we are not breakfasting this morning," he replied. "the spirit was willing, but the jolly old flesh would have none of it. to be perfectly frank, the last of the rookes has a bit of a head." "ass!" said derek. "a bit of sympathy," said freddie, pained, "would not be out of place. we are far from well. some person unknown has put a threshing-machine inside the old bean and substituted a piece of brown paper for our tongue. things look dark and yellow and wobbly!" "you shouldn't have overdone it last night." "it was algy martyn's birthday," pleaded freddie. "if i were an ass like algy martyn," said derek, "i wouldn't go about advertising the fact that i'd been born. i'd hush it up!" he helped himself to a plentiful portion of kedgeree, freddie watching him with repulsion mingled with envy. when he began to eat the spectacle became too poignant for the sufferer, and he wandered to the window. "what a beast of a day!" it was an appalling day. january, that grim month, was treating london with its usual severity. early in the morning a bank of fog had rolled up off the river, and was deepening from pearly white to a lurid brown. it pressed on the window-pane like a blanket, leaving dark, damp rivulets on the glass. "awful!" said derek, "your mater's train will be late." "yes. damned nuisance. it's bad enough meeting trains in any case, without having to hang about a draughty station for an hour." "and it's sure, i should imagine," went on freddie, pursuing his train of thought, "to make the dear old thing pretty tolerably ratty, if she has one of those slow journeys." he pottered back to the fireplace, and rubbed his shoulders reflectively against the mantelpiece. "i take it that you wrote to her about jill?" "of course. that's why she's coming over, i suppose. by the way, you got those seats for that theatre to-night?" "yes. three together and one somewhere on the outskirts. if it's all the same to you, old thing, i'll have the one on the outskirts." derek, who had finished his kedgeree and was now making himself a blot on freddie's horizon with toast and marmalade, laughed. "what a rabbit you are, freddie! why on earth are you so afraid of mother?" freddie looked at him as a timid young squire might have gazed upon st. george when the latter set out to do battle with the dragon. he was of the amiable type which makes heroes of its friends. in the old days when he had fagged for him at winchester he had thought derek the most wonderful person in the world, and this view he still retained. indeed, subsequent events had strengthened it. derek had done the most amazing things since leaving school. he had had a brilliant career at oxford, and now, in the house of commons, was already looked upon by the leaders of his party as one to be watched and encouraged. he played polo superlatively well, and was a fine shot. but of all his gifts and qualities the one that extorted freddie's admiration in its intensest form was his lion-like courage as exemplified by his behaviour in the present crisis. there he sat, placidly eating toast and marmalade, while the boat-train containing lady underhill already sped on its way from dover to london. it was like drake playing bowls with the spanish armada in sight. "i wish i had your nerve!" he said awed. "what i should be feeling, if i were in your place and had to meet your mater after telling her that i was engaged to marry a girl she had never seen, i don't know. i'd rather face a wounded tiger!" "idiot!" said derek placidly. "not," pursued freddie, "that i mean to say anything in the least derogatory and so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understand me, but the fact remains she scares me pallid. always has, ever since the first time i went to stay at your place when i was a kid. i can still remember catching her eye the morning i happened by pure chance to bung an apple through her bedroom window, meaning to let a cat on the sill below have it in the short ribs. she was at least thirty feet away, but, by jove, it stopped me like a bullet!" "push the bell, old man, will you? i want some more toast." freddie did as he was requested, with growing admiration. "the condemned man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "more toast, barker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door. "gallant! that's what i call it. gallant!" derek tilted his chair back. "mother is sure to like jill when she sees her," he said. "_when_ she sees her! ah! but the trouble is, young feller-me-lad, that she _hasn't_ seen her! that's the weak spot in your case, old companion. a month ago she didn't know of jill's existence. now, you know and i know that jill is one of the best and brightest. as far as we are concerned, everything in the good old garden is lovely. why, dash it, jill and i were children together. sported side by side on the green, and what not. i remember jill, when she was twelve, turning the garden hose on me and knocking about seventy-five per cent off the market value of my best sunday suit. that sort of thing forms a bond, you know, and i've always felt that she was a corker. but your mater's got to discover it for herself. it's a dashed pity, by jove, that jill hasn't a father or a mother or something of that species to rally round just now. they would form a gang. there's nothing like a gang! but she's only got that old uncle of hers. a rummy bird. met him?" "several times. i like him." "oh, he's a genial old buck all right. a very bonhomous lad. but you hear some pretty queer stories about him if you get among people who knew him in the old days. even now i'm not so dashed sure i should care to play cards with him. young threepwood was telling me only the other day that the old boy took thirty quid off him at picquet as clean as a whistle. and jimmy monroe, who's on the stock exchange, says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever it is chappies do down in the city. margins. that's the word. jimmy made me buy some myself on a thing called amalgamated dyes. i don't understand the procedure exactly, but jimmy says it's a sound egg and will do me a bit of good. what was i talking about? oh, yes, old selby. there's no doubt he's quite a sportsman. but till you've got jill well established, you know, i shouldn't enlarge on him too much with the mater." "on the contrary," said derek, "i shall mention him at the first opportunity. he knew my father out in india." "did he, by jove! oh, well, that makes a difference." barker entered with the toast, and derek resumed his breakfast. "it may be a little bit awkward," he said, "at first, meeting mother. but everything will be all right after five minutes." "absolutely! but, oh, boy! that first five minutes!" freddie gazed portentously through his eye-glass. then he seemed to be undergoing some internal struggle, for he gulped once or twice. "that first five minutes!" he said, and paused again. a moment's silent self-communion, and he went on with a rush. "i say, listen. shall i come along, too?" "come along?" "to the station. with you." "what on earth for?" "to see you through the opening stages. break the ice, and all that sort of thing. nothing like collecting a gang, you know. moments when a feller needs a friend and so forth. say the word, and i'll buzz along and lend my moral support." derek's heavy eyebrows closed together in an offended frown, and seemed to darken his whole face. this unsolicited offer of assistance hurt his dignity. he showed a touch of the petulance which came now and then when he was annoyed, to suggest that he might not possess so strong a character as his exterior indicated. "it's very kind of you," he began stiffly. freddie nodded. he was acutely conscious of this himself. "some fellows," he observed, "would say 'not at all!' i suppose. but not the last of the rookes! for, honestly, old man, between ourselves, i don't mind admitting that this is the bravest deed of the year, and i'm dashed if i would do it for anyone else." "it's very good of you, freddie...." "that's all right. i'm a boy scout, and this is my act of kindness for to-day." derek got up from the table. "of course you mustn't come," he said. "we can't form a sort of debating society to discuss jill on the platform at charing cross." "oh, i would just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasional tactful word." "nonsense!" "the wheeze would simply be to...." "it's impossible." "oh, very well," said freddie, damped. "just as you say, of course. but there's nothing like a gang, old son, nothing like a gang!" ii derek underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted irritably. inside charing cross station business was proceeding as usual. porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like juggernauts. belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. for outside the fog still held. the air was cold and raw and tasted coppery. in the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the accompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional crashes. once the sun had worked its way through the murk and had hung in the sky like a great red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again, blended with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is a london fog's only redeeming quality. the fog and the waiting had had their effect upon derek. the resolute front he had exhibited to freddie at the breakfast-table had melted since his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at the prospect of the meeting that lay before him. calm as he had appeared to the eye of freddie and bravely as he had spoken, derek, in the recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. there are men--and derek underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the nursery. they may put away childish things and rise in the world to affluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle still rules their lives. derek turned to begin one more walk along the platform, and stopped in mid-stride, raging. beaming over the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all helpfulness and devotion, freddie rooke was advancing towards him, the friend that sticketh closer than a brother. like some loving dog, who, ordered home sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping round corners and crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful freddie had followed him after all. and with him, to add the last touch to derek's discomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, ronny devereux and algy martyn. "well, old thing," said freddie, patting derek encouragingly on the shoulder, "here we are after all! i know you told me not to roll round and so forth, but i knew you didn't mean it. i thought it over after you had left, and decided it would be a rotten trick not to cluster about you in your hour of need. i hope you don't mind ronny and algy breezing along too. the fact is, i was in the deuce of a funk--your jolly old mater always rather paralyses my nerve-centres, you know--so i roped them in. met 'em in piccadilly, groping about for the club, and conscripted 'em both, they very decently consenting. we all toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemist chappie's at the top of the hay-market, and now we're feeling full of beans and buck, ready for anything. i've explained the whole thing to them, and they're with you to the death! collect a gang, dear boy, collect a gang! that's the motto. there's nothing like it!" "nothing!" said ronny. "absolutely nothing!" said algy. "we'll just see you through the opening stages," said freddie, "and then leg it. we'll keep the conversation general you know." "stop it getting into painful channels," said ronny. "steer it clear," said algy, "of the touchy topic." "that's the wheeze," said freddie. "we'll ... oh, golly! there's the train coming in now!" his voice quavered, for not even the comforting presence of his two allies could altogether sustain him in this ordeal. but he pulled himself together with a manful effort. "stick it, old beans!" he said doughtily. "now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party!" "we're here!" said ronny devereux. "on the spot!" said algy martyn. iii the boat-train slid into the station. bells rang, engines blew off steam, porters shouted, baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. the train began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in a steady stream. most of the travellers seemed limp and exhausted, and were pale with the pallor that comes of a choppy channel crossing. almost the only exception to the general condition of collapse was the eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her stand in the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued little maid in a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. like the other travellers, she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. no one could have told from lady underhill's demeanour that the solid platform seemed to heave beneath her feet like a deck. derek approached, acutely conscious of freddie, ronny, and algy, who were skirmishing about his flank. "well, mother! so there you are at last!" "well, derek!" derek kissed his mother. freddie, ronny, and algy shuffled closer, like leopards. freddie, with the expression of one who leads a forlorn hope, moved his adam's apple briskly up and down several times, and spoke. "how do you do, lady underhill?" "how do you do, mr. rooke?" lady underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. she was not fond of the last of the rookes. she supposed the almighty had had some wise purpose in creating freddie, but it had always been inscrutable to her. "like you," mumbled freddie, "to meet my friends. lady underhill. mr. devereux." "charmed," said ronny affably. "mr. martyn." "delighted," said algy with old-world courtesy. lady underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice. "how do you do?" she said. "have you come to meet somebody?" "i--er--we--er--why--er--" this woman always made freddie feel as if he were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. he wished that he had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug rooms at the albany, allowing derek to go through this business by himself. "i--er--we--er--came to meet _you_, don't you know!" "indeed! that was very kind of you!" "oh, not at all." "thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said ronny beaming. "what could be sweeter?" said algy. he produced a cigar-case, and extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped havana. he was feeling delightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why freddie had made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "don't mind if i smoke, do you? air's a bit raw to-day. gets into the lungs." derek chafed impotently. these unsought allies were making a difficult situation a thousand times worse. a more acute observer than young mr. martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother's mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. endeavouring to distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which was a little unfortunate. "what sort of crossing did you have, mother?" lady underhill winced. a current of air had sent the perfume of algy's cigar playing about her nostrils. she closed her eyes, and her face turned a shade paler. freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry for the poor old thing. she was a pest and a pot of poison, of course, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame that she should look so green about the gills. he came to the conclusion that she must be hungry. the thing to do was to take her mind off it till she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped down in front of a bowl of soup. "bit choppy, i suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran up and down lady underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "i was afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when i read the forecast in the paper. the good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?" lady underhill uttered a faint moan. freddie noticed that she was looking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago. "it's an extraordinary thing about that channel crossing," said algy martyn meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. "i've known fellows who could travel quite happily everywhere else in the world--round the horn in sailing-ships and all that sort of thing--yield up their immortal soul crossing the channel! absolutely yield up their immortal soul! don't know why. rummy, but there it is!" "i'm like that myself," assented ronny devereux. "that dashed trip from calais gets me every time. bowls me right over. i go aboard, stoked to the eyebrows with sea-sick remedies, swearing that this time i'll fool 'em, but down i go ten minutes after we've started and the next thing i know is somebody saying, 'well, well! so this is dover!'" "it's exactly the same with me," said freddie, delighted with the smooth, easy way the conversation was flowing. "whether it's the hot, greasy smell of the engines...." "it's not the engines," contended ronny devereux. "stands to reason it can't be. i rather like the smell of engines. this station is reeking with the smell of engine-grease, and i can drink it in and enjoy it." he sniffed, luxuriantly. "it's something else." "ronny's right," said algy cordially. "it isn't the engines. it's the way the boat heaves up and down and up and down and up and down...." he shifted his cigar to his left hand in order to give with his right a spirited illustration of a channel steamer going up and down and up and down and up and down. lady underhill, who had opened her eyes, had an excellent view of the performance, and closed her eyes again quickly. "be quiet!" she snapped. "i was only saying...." "be quiet!" "oh, rather!" lady underhill wrestled with herself. she was a woman of great will-power and accustomed to triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh. after a while her eyes opened. she had forced herself, against the evidence of her senses, to recognize that this was a platform on which she stood and not a deck. there was a pause. algy, damped, was temporarily out of action, and his friends had for the moment nothing to remark. "i'm afraid you had a trying journey, mother," said derek. "the train was very late." "now, _train_-sickness," said algy, coming to the surface again, "is a thing lots of people suffer from. never could understand it myself." "i've never had a touch of train-sickness," said ronny. "oh, i have," said freddie. "i've often felt rotten on a train. i get floating spots in front of my eyes and a sort of heaving sensation, and everything kind of goes black...." "mr. rooke!" "eh?" "i should be greatly obliged if you would keep those confidences for the ear of your medical adviser." "freddie," intervened derek hastily, "my mother's rather tired. do you think you could be going ahead and getting a taxi?" "my dear old chap, of course! get you one in a second. come along, algy. pick up the old waukeesis, ronny." and freddie, accompanied by his henchmen, ambled off, well pleased with himself. he had, he felt, helped to break the ice for derek and had seen him safely through those awkward opening stages. now he could totter off with a light heart and get a bite of lunch. lady underhill's eyes glittered. they were small, keen, black eyes, unlike derek's, which were large and brown. in their other features the two were obviously mother and son. each had the same long upper lip, the same thin, firm mouth, the prominent chin which was a family characteristic of the underhills, and the jutting underhill nose. most of the underhills came into the world looking as though they meant to drive their way through life like a wedge. "a little more," she said tensely, "and i should have struck those unspeakable young men with my umbrella. one of the things i have never been able to understand, derek, is why you should have selected that imbecile rooke as your closest friend." derek smiled tolerantly. "it was more a case of him selecting _me_. but freddie is quite a good fellow really. he's a man you've got to know." "_i_ have not got to know him, and i thank heaven for it!" "he's a very good-natured fellow. it was decent of him to put me up at the albany while our house was let. by the way, he has some seats for the first night of a new piece this evening. he suggested that we might all dine at the albany and go on to the theatre." he hesitated a moment. "jill will be there," he said, and felt easier now that her name had at last come into the talk. "she's longing to meet you." "then why didn't she meet me?" "here, do you mean? at the station? well, i--i wanted you to see her for the first time in pleasanter surroundings." "oh!" said lady underhill shortly. it is a disturbing thought that we suffer in this world just as much by being prudent and taking precautions as we do by being rash and impulsive and acting as the spirit moves us. if jill had been permitted by her wary fiancé to come with him to the station to meet his mother it is certain that much trouble would have been avoided. true, lady underhill would probably have been rude to her in the opening stages of the interview, but she would not have been alarmed and suspicious; or, rather, the vague suspicion which she had been feeling would not have solidified, as it did now into definite certainty of the worst. all that derek had effected by his careful diplomacy had been to convince his mother that he considered his bride-elect something to be broken gently to her. she stopped and faced him. "who is she?" she demanded. "who is this girl?" derek flushed. "i thought i made everything clear in my letter." "you made nothing clear at all." "by your leave!" chanted a porter behind them, and a baggage-truck clove them apart. "we can't talk in a crowded station," said derek irritably. "let me get you to the taxi and take you to the hotel.... what do you want to know about jill?" "everything. where does she come from? who are her people? i don't know any mariners." "i haven't cross-examined her," said derek stiffly. "but i do know that her parents are dead. her father was an american." "american!" "americans frequently have daughters, i believe." "there is nothing to be gained by losing your temper," said lady underhill with steely calm. "there is nothing to be gained, as far as i can see, by all this talk," retorted derek. he wondered vexedly why his mother always had this power of making him lose control of himself. he hated to lose control of himself. it upset him, and blurred that vision which he liked to have of himself as a calm, important man superior to ordinary weaknesses. "jill and i are engaged, and there is an end to it." "don't be a fool," said lady underhill, and was driven away by another baggage-truck. "you know perfectly well," she resumed, returning to the attack, "that your marriage is a matter of the greatest concern to me and to the whole of the family." "listen, mother!" derek's long wait on the draughty platform had generated an irritability which overcame the deep-seated awe of his mother which was the result of years of defeat in battles of the will. "let me tell you in a few words all that i know of jill, and then we'll drop the subject. in the first place, she is a lady. secondly, she has plenty of money...." "the underhills do not need to marry for money." "i am not marrying for money!" "well, go on." "i have already described to you in my letter--very inadequately, but i did my best--what she looks like. her sweetness, her lovableness, all the subtle things about her which go to make her what she is, you will have to judge for yourself." "i intend to!" "well, that's all, then. she lives with her uncle, a major selby...." "major selby? what regiment?" "i didn't ask him," snapped the goaded derek. "and, in the name of heaven, what does it matter? if you are worrying about major selby's social standing, i may as well tell you that he used to know father." "what! when? where?" "years ago. in india, when father was at simla." "selby? selby? not christopher selby?" "oh, you remember him?" "i certainly remember him! not that he and i ever met, but your father often spoke of him." derek was relieved. it was abominable that this sort of thing should matter, but one had to face facts, and, as far as his mother was concerned, it did. the fact that jill's uncle had known his dead father would make all the difference to lady underhill. "christopher selby!" said lady underhill reflectively. "yes! i have often heard your father speak of him. he was the man who gave your father an i.o.u. to pay a card debt, and redeemed it with a cheque which was returned by the bank!" "what!" "didn't you hear what i said? i will repeat it, if you wish." "there must have been some mistake." "only the one your father made when he trusted the man." "it must have been some other fellow." "of course!" said lady underhill satirically. "no doubt your father knew hundreds of christopher selbys!" derek bit his lip. "well, after all," he said doggedly, "whether it's true or not...." "i see no reason why your father should not have spoken the truth." "all right. we'll say it _is_ true, then. but what does it matter? i am marrying jill, not her uncle." "nevertheless, it would be pleasanter if her only living relative were not a swindler!... tell me, where and how did you meet this girl?" "i should be glad if you would not refer to her as 'this girl.' the name, if you have forgotten it, is mariner." "well, where did you meet miss mariner?" "at prince's. just after you left for mentone. freddie rooke introduced me." "oh, your intellectual friend mr. rooke knows her?" "they were children together. her people lived next to the rookes in worcestershire." "i thought you said she was an american." "i said her father was. he settled in england. jill hasn't been in america since she was eight or nine." "the fact," said lady underhill, "that the girl is a friend of mr. rooke is no great recommendation." derek kicked angrily at a box of matches which someone had thrown down on the platform. "i wonder if you could possibly get it into your head, mother, that i want to marry jill, not engage her as an under-housemaid. i don't consider that she requires recommendations, as you call them. however, don't you think the most sensible thing is for you to wait till you meet her at dinner to-night, and then you can form your own opinion? i'm beginning to get a little bored by this futile discussion." "as you seem quite unable to talk on the subject of this girl without becoming rude," said lady underhill, "i agree with you. let us hope that my first impression will be a favourable one. experience has taught me that first impressions are everything." "i'm glad you think so," said derek, "for i fell in love with jill the very first moment i saw her!" iv barker stepped back and surveyed with modest pride the dinner-table to which he had been putting the finishing touches. it was an artistic job and a credit to him. "that's that!" said barker, satisfied. he went to the window and looked out. the fog which had lasted well into the evening, had vanished now, and the clear night was bright with stars. a distant murmur of traffic came from the direction of piccadilly. as he stood there, the front-door bell rang, and continued to ring in little spurts of sound. if character can be deduced from bell-ringing, as nowadays it apparently can be from every other form of human activity, one might have hazarded the guess that whoever was on the other side of the door was determined, impetuous, and energetic. "barker!" freddie rooke pushed a tousled head, which had yet to be brushed into the smooth sleekness that made a delight to the public eye, out of a room down the passage. "sir?" "somebody ringing." "i heard, sir. i was about to answer the bell." "if it's lady underhill, tell her i'll be in in a minute." "i fancy it is miss mariner, sir. i think i recognize her touch." he made his way down the passage to the front-door, and opened it. a girl was standing outside. she wore a long grey fur coat, and a filmy hood covered her hair. as barker opened the door, she scampered in like a grey kitten. "brrh! it's cold!" she exclaimed. "hullo, barker!" "good evening, miss." "am i the last or the first or what?" barker moved to help her with her cloak. "sir derek and her ladyship have not yet arrived, miss. sir derek went to bring her ladyship from the savoy hotel. mr. rooke is dressing in his bedroom and will be ready very shortly." the girl had slipped out of the fur coat, and barker cast a swift glance of approval at her. he had the valet's unerring eye for a thoroughbred, and jill mariner was manifestly that. it showed in her walk, in every move of her small, active body, in the way she looked at you, in the way she talked to you, in the little tilt of her resolute chin. her hair was pale gold, and had the brightness of colouring of a child's. her face glowed, and her grey eyes sparkled. she looked very much alive. it was this liveliness of hers that was her chief charm. her eyes were good and her mouth, with its small, even teeth, attractive, but she would have laughed if anybody had called her beautiful. she sometimes doubted if she were even pretty. yet few men had met her and remained entirely undisturbed. she had a magnetism. one hapless youth, who had laid his heart at her feet and had been commanded to pick it up again, had endeavoured subsequently to explain her attraction (to a bosom friend over a mournful bottle of the best in the club smoking-room) in these words: "i don't know what it is about her, old man, but she somehow makes a feller feel she's so damned _interested_ in a chap, if you know what i mean." and though not generally credited in his circle with any great acuteness, there is no doubt that the speaker had achieved something approaching a true analysis of jill's fascination for his sex. she was interested in everything life presented to her notice, from a coronation to a stray cat. she was vivid. she had sympathy. she listened to you as though you really mattered. it takes a man of tough fibre to resist these qualities. women, on the other hand, especially of the lady underhill type, can resist them without an effort. "go and stir him up," said jill, alluding to the absent mr. rooke. "tell him to come and talk to me. where's the nearest fire? i want to get right over it and huddle." "the fire's burning nicely in the sitting-room, miss." jill hurried into the sitting-room, and increased her hold on barker's esteem by exclaiming rapturously at the sight that greeted her. barker had expended time and trouble over the sitting-room. there was no dust, no untidiness. the pictures all hung straight; the cushions were smooth and unrumpled; and a fire of exactly the right dimensions burned cheerfully in the grate, flickering cosily on the small piano by the couch, on the deep leather arm-chairs which freddie had brought with him from oxford, that home of comfortable chairs, and on the photographs that studded the walls. in the centre of the mantelpiece, the place of honour, was the photograph of herself which she had given derek a week ago. "you're simply wonderful, barker! i don't see how you manage to make a room so cosy!" jill sat down on the club fender that guarded the fireplace, and held her hands over the blaze. "i can't understand why men ever marry. fancy having to give up all this!" "i am gratified that you appreciate it, miss. i did my best to make it comfortable for you. i fancy i hear mr. rooke coming now." "i hope the others won't be long. i'm starving. has mrs. barker got something very good for dinner?" "she has strained every nerve, miss." "then i'm sure it's worth waiting for. hullo, freddie." freddie rooke, resplendent in evening dress, bustled in, patting his tie with solicitous fingers. it had been right when he had looked in the glass in his bedroom, but you never know about ties. sometimes they stay right, sometimes they wriggle up sideways. life is full of these anxieties. "i shouldn't touch it," said jill. "it looks beautiful, and, if i may say so in confidence, is having a most disturbing effect on my emotional nature. i'm not at all sure i shall be able to resist it right through the evening. it isn't fair of you to try to alienate the affections of an engaged young person like this." freddie squinted down, and became calmer. "hullo, jill, old thing. nobody here yet?" "well, i'm here--the _petite_ figure seated on the fender. but perhaps i don't count." "oh, i didn't mean that, you know." "i should hope not, when i've bought a special new dress just to fascinate you. a creation i mean. when they cost as much as this one did, you have to call them names. what do you think of it?" freddie seated himself on another section of the fender, and regarded her with the eye of an expert. a snappy dresser, as the technical term is, himself, he appreciated snap in the outer covering of the other sex. "topping!" he said spaciously. "no other word for it. all wool and a yard wide. precisely as mother makes it. you look like a thingummy." "how splendid. all my life i've wanted to look like a thingummy, but somehow i've never been able to manage it." "a wood-nymph!" exclaimed freddie, in a burst of unwonted imagery. he looked at her with honest admiration. "dash it, jill, you know, there's something about you! you're--what's the word?--you've got such small bones." "ugh! i suppose it's a compliment, but how horrible it sounds! it makes me feel like a skeleton." "i mean to say, you're--you're dainty!" "that's much better." "you look as if you weighed about an ounce and a half. you look like a bit of thistledown! you're a little fairy princess, dash it!" "freddie! this is eloquence!" jill raised her left hand, and twiddled a ringed finger ostentatiously. "er--you _do_ realize that i'm bespoke, don't you, and that my heart, alas, is another's? because you sound as if you were going to propose." freddie produced a snowy handkerchief, and polished his eye-glass. solemnity descended on him like a cloud. he looked at jill with an earnest, paternal gaze. "that reminds me," he said. "i wanted to have a bit of a talk with you about that--being engaged and all that sort of thing. i'm glad i got you alone before the curse arrived." "curse? do you mean derek's mother? that sounds cheerful and encouraging." "well, she is, you know," said freddie earnestly. "she's a bird! it would be idle to deny it. she always puts the fear of god into me. i never know what to say to her." "why don't you try asking her riddles?" "it's no joking matter," persisted freddie, his amiable face overcast. "wait till you meet her! you should have seen her at the station this morning. you don't know what you're up against!" "you make my flesh creep, freddie. what am i up against?" freddie poked the fire scientifically, and assisted it with coal. "it's this way," he said. "of course, dear old derek's the finest chap in the world." "i know that," said jill softly. she patted freddie's hand with a little gesture of gratitude. freddie's devotion to derek was a thing that always touched her. she looked thoughtfully into the fire, and her eyes seemed to glow in sympathy with the glowing coals. "there's nobody like him!" "but," continued freddie, "he always has been frightfully under his mother's thumb, you know." jill was conscious of a little flicker of irritation. "don't be absurd, freddie. how could a man like derek be under anybody's thumb?" "well, you know what i mean!" "i don't in the least know what you mean." "i mean, it would be rather rotten if his mother set him against you." jill clenched her teeth. the quick temper which always lurked so very little beneath the surface of her cheerfulness was stirred. she felt suddenly chilled and miserable. she tried to tell herself that freddie was just an amiable blunderer who spoke without sense or reason, but it was no use. she could not rid herself of a feeling of foreboding and discomfort. it had been the one jarring note in the sweet melody of her love-story, this apprehension of derek's regarding his mother. the derek she loved was a strong man, with a strong man's contempt for other people's criticism; and there had been something ignoble and fussy in his attitude regarding lady underhill. she had tried to feel that the flaw in her idol did not exist. and here was freddie rooke, a man who admired derek with all his hero-worshipping nature, pointing it out independently. she was annoyed, and she expended her annoyance, as women will do, upon the innocent bystander. "do you remember the time i turned the hose on you, freddie," she said, rising from the fender, "years ago, when we were children, when you and that awful mason boy--what was his name? wally mason--teased me?" she looked at the unhappy freddie with a hostile eye. it was his blundering words that had spoiled everything. "i've forgotten what it was all about, but i know that you and wally infuriated me and i turned the garden hose on you and soaked you both to the skin. well, all i want to point out is that, if you go on talking nonsense about derek and his mother and me, i shall ask barker to bring me a jug of water, and i shall empty it over you! set him against me! you talk as if love were a thing any third party could come along and turn off with a tap! do you suppose that, when two people love each other as derek and i do, that it can possibly matter in the least what anybody else thinks or says, even if it is his mother? i haven't got a mother, but suppose uncle chris came and warned me against derek...." her anger suddenly left her as quickly as it had come. that was always the way with jill. one moment she would be raging; the next, something would tickle her sense of humour and restore her instantly to cheerfulness. and the thought of dear, lazy old uncle chris taking the trouble to warn anybody against anything except the wrong brand of wine or an inferior make of cigar conjured up a picture before which wrath melted away. she chuckled, and freddie, who had been wilting on the fender, perked up. "you're an extraordinary girl, jill. one never knows when you're going to get the wind up." "isn't it enough to make me get the wind up, as you call it, when you say absurd things like that?" "i meant well, old girl!" "that's the trouble with you. you always do mean well. you go about the world meaning well till people fly to put themselves under police protection. besides, what on earth could lady underhill find to object to in me? i've plenty of money, and i'm one of the most charming and attractive of society belles. you needn't take my word for that, and i don't suppose you've noticed it, but that's what mr. gossip in the _morning mirror_ called me when he was writing about my getting engaged to derek. my maid showed me the clipping. there was quite a long paragraph, with a picture of me that looked like a zulu chieftainess taken in a coal-cellar during a bad fog. well, after that, what could anyone say against me? i'm a perfect prize! i expect lady underhill screamed with joy when she heard the news and went singing all over her riviera villa." "yes," said freddie dubiously. "yes, yes, oh, quite so, rather!" jill looked at him sternly. "freddie, you're concealing something from me! you _don't_ think i'm a charming and attractive society belle! tell me why not and i'll show you where you are wrong. is it my face you object to, or my manners, or my figure? there was a young bride of antigua, who said to her mate, 'what a pig you are!' said he, 'oh, my queen, is it manners you mean, or do you allude to my fig-u-ar?' isn't my figuar all right, freddie?" "oh, _i_ think you're topping." "but for some reason you're afraid that derek's mother won't think so. why won't lady underhill agree with mr. gossip?" freddie hesitated. "speak up!" "well, it's like this. remember, i've known the old devil...." "freddie rooke! where do you pick up such expressions? not from me!" "well, that's how i always think of her! i say i've known her ever since i used to go and stop at their place when i was at school, and i know exactly the sort of things that put her back up. she's a what-d'you-call-it. i mean to say, one of the old school, don't you know. and you're so dashed impulsive, old girl. you know you are! you are always saying things that come into your head." "you can't say a thing unless it comes into your head." "you know what i mean," freddie went on earnestly, not to be diverted from his theme. "you say rummy things and you do rummy things. what i mean to say is, you're impulsive." "what have i ever done that the sternest critic could call rummy?" "well, i've seen you with my own eyes stop in the middle of bond street and help a lot of fellows shove along a cart that had got stuck. mind you, i'm not blaming you for it...." "i should hope not. the poor old horse was trying all he knew to get going, and he couldn't quite make it. naturally, i helped." "oh, i know. very decent and all that, but i doubt if lady underhill would have thought a lot of it. and you're so dashed chummy with the lower orders." "don't be a snob, freddie." "i'm not a snob," protested freddie, wounded. "when i'm alone with barker--for instance--i'm as chatty as dammit. but i don't ask waiters in public restaurants how their lumbago is." "have you ever had lumbago?" "no." "well, it's a very painful thing, and waiters get it just as badly as dukes. worse, i should think, because they're always bending and stooping and carrying things. naturally one feels sorry for them." "but how do you ever find out that a waiter has _got_ lumbago?" "i ask him, of course." "well, for goodness' sake," said freddie, "if you feel the impulse to do that sort of thing to-night, try and restrain it. i mean to say, if you're curious to know anything about barker's chilblains, for instance, don't enquire after them while he's handing lady underhill the potatoes! she wouldn't like it." jill uttered an exclamation. "i knew there was something! being so cold and wanting to rush in and crouch over a fire put it clean out of my head. he must be thinking me a perfect beast!" she ran to the door. "barker! barker!" barker appeared from nowhere. "yes, miss?" "i'm so sorry i forgot to ask before. how are your chilblains?" "a good deal better miss, thank you." "did you try the stuff i recommended?" "yes, miss. it did them a world of good." "splendid!" jill went back into the sitting-room. "it's all right," she said reassuringly. "they're better." she wandered restlessly about the room, looking at the photographs, then sat down at the piano and touched the keys. the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour. "i wish to goodness they would arrive," she said. "they'll be here pretty soon, i expect." "it's rather awful," said jill, "to think of lady underhill racing all the way from mentone to paris and from paris to calais and from calais to dover and from dover to london simply to inspect me. you can't wonder i'm nervous, freddie." the eye-glass dropped from freddie's eye. "are _you_ nervous?" he asked, astonished. "of course i'm nervous. wouldn't you be in my place?" "well, i should never have thought it." "why do you suppose i've been talking such a lot? why do you imagine i snapped your poor, innocent head off just now! i'm terrified inside, terrified!" "you don't look it, by jove!" "no, i'm trying to be a little warrior. that's what uncle chris always used to call me. it started the day when he took me to have a tooth out, when i was ten. 'be a little warrior, jill!' he kept saying. 'be a little warrior!' and i was." she looked at the clock. "but i shan't be if they don't get here soon. the suspense is awful." she strummed the keys. "suppose she _doesn't_ like me, freddie! you see how you've scared me." "i didn't say she wouldn't. i only said you'd got to watch out a bit." "something tells me she won't. my nerve is oozing out of me." jill shook her head impatiently. "it's all so vulgar! i thought this sort of thing only happened in the comic papers and in music-hall songs. why, it's just like that song somebody used to sing." she laughed. "do you remember? i don't know how the verse went, but ... john took me round to see his mother, his mother, his mother! and when he'd introduced us to each other, she sized up everything that i had on. she put me through a cross-examination: i fairly boiled with aggravation: then she shook her head, looked at me and said: 'poor john! poor john!' chorus, freddie! let's cheer ourselves up! we need it!" john took me round to see his mother...! "his m-o-o-other!" croaked freddie. curiously enough, this ballad was one of freddie's favourites. he had rendered it with a good deal of success on three separate occasions at village entertainments down in worcestershire, and he rather flattered himself that he could get about as much out of it as the next man. he proceeded to abet jill heartily with gruff sounds which he was under the impression constituted what is known in musical circles as "singing seconds." "his mo-o-other!" he growled with frightful scorn. "and when he'd introduced us to each other...." "o-o-o-other!" "she sized up everything that i had on!" "pom-_pom_-pom!" "she put me through a cross-examination...." jill had thrown her head back, and was singing jubilantly at the top of her voice. the appositeness of the song had cheered her up. it seemed somehow to make her forebodings rather ridiculous, to reduce them to absurdity, to turn into farce the gathering tragedy which had been weighing upon her nerves. then she shook her head, looked at me and said: 'poor john!'.... "jill," said a voice at the door. "i want you to meet my mother!" "poo-oo-oor john!" bleated the hapless freddie, unable to check himself. "dinner," said barker the valet, appearing at the door and breaking a silence that seemed to fill the room like a tangible presence, "is served!" chapter ii the first night at the leicester i the front-door closed softly behind the theatre-party. dinner was over, and barker had just been assisting the expedition out of the place. sensitive to atmosphere, he had found his share in the dinner a little trying. it had been a strained meal, and what he liked was a clatter of conversation and everybody having a good time and enjoying themselves. "ellen!" called barker, as he proceeded down the passage to the empty dining-room. "ellen!" mrs. barker appeared out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. her work for the evening, like her husband's, was over. presently what is technically called a "useful girl" would come in to wash up the dishes, leaving the evening free for social intercourse. mrs. barker had done well by her patrons that night, and now she wanted a quiet chat with barker over a glass of freddie rooke's port. "have they gone, horace?" she asked, following him into the dining-room. barker selected a cigar from freddie's humidor, crackled it against his ear, smelt it, clipped off the end, and lit it. he took the decanter and filled his wife's glass, then mixed himself a whisky-and-soda. "happy days!" said barker. "yes, they've gone!" "i didn't see her ladyship." "you didn't miss much! a nasty, dangerous specimen, _she_ is! 'always merry and bright,' i don't think. i wish you'd have had my job of waiting on 'em, ellen, and me been the one to stay in the kitchen safe out of it all. that's all i say! it's no treat to _me_ to 'and the dishes when the atmosphere's what you might call electric. i didn't envy them that _vol-au-vent_ of yours, ellen, good as it smelt. better a dinner of 'erbs where love is than a stalled ox and 'atred therewith," said barker, helping himself to a walnut. "did they have words?" barker shook his head impatiently. "that sort don't have words, ellen. they just sit and goggle." "how did her ladyship seem to hit it off with miss mariner, horace?" barker uttered a dry laugh. "ever seen a couple of strange dogs watching each other sort of wary? that was them! not that miss mariner wasn't all that was pleasant and nice-spoken. she's all right, miss mariner is. she's a little queen. it wasn't her fault the dinner you'd took so much trouble over was more like an evening in the morgue than a christian dinner-party. she tried to help things along best she could. but what with sir derek chewing his lip 'alf the time and his mother acting about as matey as a pennorth of ice-cream, she didn't have a chance. as for the guv'nor--well, i wish you could have seen him, that's all. you know, ellen, sometimes i'm not altogether easy in my mind about the guv'nor's mental balance. he knows how to buy cigars, and you tell me his port is good--i never touch it myself--but sometimes he seems to me to go right off his onion. just sat there, he did, all through dinner, looking as if he expected the good food to rise up and bite him in the face, and jumping nervous when i spoke to him. it's not my fault," said barker, aggrieved. "_i_ can't give gentlemen warning before i ask 'em if they'll have sherry or hock. i can't ring a bell or toot a horn to show 'em i'm coming. it's my place to bend over and whisper in their ear, and they've no right to leap about in their seats and make me spill good wine. (you'll see the spot close by where you're sitting, ellen. jogged my wrist, he did!) i'd like to know why people in the spear of life which these people are in can't behave themselves rational, same as we do. when we were walking out and i took you to have tea with my mother, it was one of the pleasantest meals i ever ate. talk about 'armony! it was a love-feast!" "your ma and i took to each other right from the start, horace," said mrs. barker softly. "that's the difference." "well, any woman with any sense would take to miss mariner. if i told you how near i came to spilling the sauce-boat accidentally over that old fossil's head, you'd be surprised, ellen. she just sat there brooding like an old eagle. if you ask my opinion, miss mariner's a long sight too good for her precious son!" "oh, but horace! sir derek's a baronet!" "what of it? kind 'earts are more than coronets and simple faith than norman blood, aren't they?" "you're talking socialism, horace." "no, i'm not. i'm talking sense. i don't know who miss mariner's parents may have been--i never enquired--but anyone can see she's a lady born and bred. but do you suppose the path of true love is going to run smooth, for all that? not it! she's got a 'ard time ahead of her, that poor girl!" "horace!" mrs. barker's gentle heart was wrung. the situation hinted at by her husband was no new one--indeed, it formed the basis of at least fifty per cent of the stories in the true heart novelette series, of which she was a determined reader--but it had never failed to touch her. "do you think her ladyship means to come between them and wreck their romance?" "i think she means to have a jolly good try." "but sir derek has his own money, hasn't he? i mean it's not like when sir courtenay travers fell in love with the milkmaid and was dependent on his mother, the countess, for everything. sir derek can afford to do what he pleases, can't he?" barker shook his head tolerantly. the excellence of the cigar and the soothing qualities of the whisky-and-soda had worked upon him, and he was feeling less ruffled. "you don't understand these things," he said. "women like her ladyship can talk a man into anything and out of anything. i wouldn't care, only you can see the poor girl is mad over the feller. what she finds attractive in him, i can't say, but that's her own affair." "he's very handsome, horace, with those flashing eyes and that stern mouth," argued mrs. barker. barker sniffed. "have it your own way," he said. "it's no treat to _me_ to see his eyes flash, and if he'd put that stern mouth of his to some better use than advising the guv'nor to lock up the cigars and trouser the key, i'd be better pleased. if there's one thing i can't stand," said barker, "it's not to be trusted!" he lifted his cigar and looked at it censoriously. "i thought so! burning all down one side. they will do that if you light 'em careless. oh, well," he continued, rising and going to the humidor, "there's plenty more where that came from. out of evil cometh good," said barker philosophically. "if the guv'nor hadn't been in such a overwrought state to-night, he'd have remembered not to leave the key in the keyhole. help yourself to another glass of port, ellen, and let's enjoy ourselves!" ii when one considers how full of his own troubles, how weighed down with the problems of his own existence the average playgoer generally is when enters a theatre, it is remarkable that dramatists ever find it possible to divert and entertain whole audiences for a space of several hours. as regards at least three of those who had assembled to witness its opening performance, the author of "tried by fire," at the leicester theatre, undoubtedly had his work cut out for him. it has perhaps been sufficiently indicated by the remarks of barker, the valet, that the little dinner at freddie rooke's had not been an unqualified success. searching the records for an adequately gloomy parallel to the taxi-cab journey to the theatre which followed it, one can only think of napoleon's retreat from moscow. and yet even that was probably not conducted in dead silence. the only member of the party who was even remotely happy was, curiously enough, freddie rooke. originally freddie had obtained three tickets for "tried by fire." the unexpected arrival of lady underhill had obliged him to buy a fourth, separated by several rows from the other three. this, as he had told derek at breakfast, was the seat he proposed to occupy himself. it consoles the philosopher in this hard world to reflect that, even if man is born to sorrow as the sparks fly upward, it is still possible for small things to make him happy. the thought of being several rows away from lady underhill had restored freddie's equanimity like a tonic. it thrilled him like the strains of some grand, sweet anthem all the way to the theatre. if freddie rooke had been asked at that moment to define happiness in a few words, he would have replied that it consisted in being several rows away from lady underhill. the theatre was nearly full when freddie's party arrived. the leicester theatre had been rented for the season by the newest theatrical knight, sir chester portwood, who had a large following; and, whatever might be the fate of the play in the final issue, it would do at least one night's business. the stalls were ablaze with jewellery and crackling with starched shirt-fronts; and expensive scents pervaded the air, putting up a stiff battle with the plebeian peppermint that emanated from the pit. the boxes were filled, and up in the gallery grim-faced patrons of the drama, who had paid their shillings at the door and intended to get a shilling's worth of entertainment in return, sat and waited stolidly for the curtain to rise. the lights shot up beyond the curtain. the house-lights dimmed. conversation ceased. the curtain rose. jill wriggled herself comfortably into her seat, and slipped her hand into derek's. she felt a glow of happiness as it closed over hers. all, she told herself, was right with the world. all, that is to say, except the drama which was unfolding on the stage. it was one of those plays which start wrong and never recover. by the end of the first ten minutes there had spread through the theatre that uneasy feeling which comes over the audience at an opening performance when it realizes that it is going to be bored. a sort of lethargy had gripped the stalls. the dress-circle was coughing. up in the gallery there was grim silence. sir chester portwood was an actor-manager who had made his reputation in light comedy of the tea-cup school. his numerous admirers attended a first night at his theatre in a mood of comfortable anticipation, assured of something pleasant and frothy with a good deal of bright dialogue and not too much plot. to-night he seemed to have fallen a victim to that spirit of ambition which intermittently attacks actor-managers of his class, expressing itself in an attempt to prove that, having established themselves securely as light comedians, they can, like the lady reciter, turn right around and be serious. the one thing which the london public felt that it was safe from in a portwood play was heaviness, and "tried by fire" was grievously heavy. it was a poetic drama, and the audience, though loath to do anybody an injustice, was beginning to suspect that it was written in blank verse. the acting did nothing to dispel the growing uneasiness. sir chester himself, apparently oppressed by the weightiness of the occasion and the responsibility of offering an unfamiliar brand of goods to his public, had dropped his customary debonair method of delivering lines and was mouthing his speeches. it was good gargling, but bad elocution. and, for some reason best known to himself, he had entrusted the rôle of the heroine to a doll-like damsel with a lisp, of whom the audience disapproved sternly from her initial entrance. it was about half-way through the first act that jill, whose attention had begun to wander, heard a soft groan at her side. the seats which freddie rooke had bought were at the extreme end of the seventh row. there was only one other seat in the row, and, as derek had placed his mother on his left and was sitting between her and jill, the latter had this seat on her right. it had been empty at the rise of the curtain, but in the past few minutes a man had slipped silently into it. the darkness prevented jill from seeing his face, but it was plain that he was suffering, and her sympathy went out to him. his opinion of the play so obviously coincided with her own. presently the first act ended, and the lights went up. there was a spatter of insincere applause from the stalls, echoed in the dress-circle. it grew fainter in the upper circle, and did not reach the gallery at all. "well?" said jill to derek. "what do you think of it?" "too awful for words," said derek sternly. he leaned forward to join the conversation which had started between lady underhill and some friends she had discovered in the seats in front; and jill, turning, became aware that the man on her right was looking at her intently. he was a big man with rough, wiry hair and a humorous mouth. his age appeared to be somewhere in the middle twenties. jill, in the brief moment in which their eyes met, decided that he was ugly, but with an ugliness that was rather attractive. he reminded her of one of those large, loose, shaggy dogs that break things in drawing-rooms but make admirable companions for the open road. she had a feeling that he would look better in tweeds in a field than in evening dress in a theatre. he had nice eyes. she could not distinguish their colour, but they were frank and friendly. all this jill noted with her customary quickness, and then she looked away. for an instant she had had an odd feeling that somewhere she had met this man or somebody very like him before, but the impression vanished. she also had the impression that he was still looking at her, but she gazed demurely in front of her and did not attempt to verify the suspicion. between them, as they sat side by side, there inserted itself suddenly the pinkly remorseful face of freddie rooke. freddie, having skirmished warily in the aisle until it was clear that lady underhill's attention was engaged elsewhere, had occupied a seat in the row behind which had been left vacant temporarily by an owner who liked refreshment between the acts. freddie was feeling deeply ashamed of himself. he felt that he had perpetrated a bloomer of no slight magnitude. "i'm awfully sorry about this," he said penitently. "i mean, roping you in to listen to this frightful tosh! when i think i might have got seats just as well for any one of half a dozen topping musical comedies, i feel like kicking myself with some vim. but, honestly, how was i to know? i never dreamed we were going to be let in for anything of this sort. portwood's plays are usually so dashed bright and snappy and all that. can't think what he was doing, putting on a thing like this. why, it's blue round the edges!" the man on jill's right laughed sharply. "perhaps," he said, "the chump who wrote the piece got away from the asylum long enough to put up the money to produce it." if there is one thing that startles the well-bred londoner and throws him off his balance, it is to be addressed unexpectedly by a stranger. freddie's sense of decency was revolted. a voice from the tomb could hardly have shaken him more. all the traditions to which he had been brought up had gone to solidify his belief that this was one of the things which didn't happen. absolutely it wasn't done. during an earthquake or a shipwreck and possibly on the day of judgment, yes. but only then. at other times, unless they wanted a match or the time or something, chappies did not speak to fellows to whom they had not been introduced. he was far too amiable to snub the man, but to go on with this degrading scene was out of the question. there was nothing for it but flight. "oh, ah, yes," he mumbled. "well," he added to jill, "i suppose i may as well be toddling back. see you later and so forth." and with a faint "good-bye-ee!" freddie removed himself, thoroughly unnerved. jill looked out of the corner of her eye at derek. he was still occupied with the people in front. she turned to the man on her right. she was not the slave to etiquette that freddie was. she was much too interested in life to refrain from speaking to strangers. "you shocked him!" she said dimpling. "yes. it broke freddie all up, didn't it!" it was jill's turn to be startled. she looked at him in astonishment. "freddie?" "that _was_ freddie rooke, wasn't it? surely i wasn't mistaken?" "but--do you know him? he didn't seem to know you." "these are life's tragedies he has forgotten me. my boyhood friend!" "oh, you were at school with him?" "no. freddie went to winchester, if i remember. i was at haileybury. our acquaintance was confined to the holidays. my people lived near his people in worcestershire." "worcestershire!" jill leaned forward excitedly. "but i used to live near freddie in worcestershire myself when i was small. i knew him there when he was a boy. we must have met!" "we met all right." jill wrinkled her forehead. that odd familiar look was in his eyes again. but memory failed to respond. she shook her head. "i don't remember you," she said. "i'm sorry." "never mind. perhaps the recollection would have been painful." "how do you mean, painful?" "well, looking back, i can see that i must have been a very unpleasant child. i have always thought it greatly to the credit of my parents that they let me grow up. it would have been so easy to have dropped something heavy on me out of a window. they must have been tempted a hundred times, but they refrained. yes, i was a great pest around the home. my only redeeming point was the way i worshipped _you_!" "what!" "oh, yes. you probably didn't notice it at the time, for i had a curious way of expressing my adoration. but you remain the brightest memory of a chequered youth." jill searched his face with grave eyes, then shook her head again. "nothing stirs?" asked the man sympathetically. "it's too maddening! why does one forget things?" she reflected. "you aren't bobby morrison?" "i am not. what is more, i never was!" jill dived into the past once more and emerged with another possibility. "or--charlie--charlie what was it?--charlie field?" "you wound me! have you forgotten that charlie field wore velvet lord fauntleroy suits and long golden curls? my past is not smirched with anything like that." "would i remember your name if you told me?" "i don't know. i've forgotten yours. your surname, that is. of course, i remember that your christian name was jill. it has always seemed to me the prettiest monosyllable in the language." he looked at her thoughtfully. "it's odd how little you've altered in looks. freddie's just the same, too, only larger. and he didn't wear an eye-glass in those days, though i can see he was bound to later on. and yet i've changed so much that you can't place me. it shows what a wearing life i must have led. i feel like rip van winkle. old and withered. but that may be just the result of watching this play." "it is pretty terrible, isn't it?" "worse than that. looking at it dispassionately, i find it the extreme, ragged, outermost edge of the limit. freddie had the correct description of it. he's a great critic." "i really do think it's the worst thing i have ever seen." "i don't know what plays you have seen, but i feel you're right." "perhaps the second act's better," said jill optimistically. "it's worse. i know that sounds like boasting, but it's true. i feel like getting up and making a public apology." "but ... oh!" jill turned scarlet. a monstrous suspicion had swept over her. "the only trouble is," went on her companion, "that the audience would undoubtedly lynch me. and, though it seems improbable just at the present moment, it may be that life holds some happiness for me that's worth waiting for. anyway, i'd rather not be torn limb from limb. a messy finish! i can just see them rending me asunder in a spasm of perfectly justifiable fury. 'she loves me!' off comes a leg. 'she loves me not!' off comes an arm. no, i think on the whole i'll lie low. besides, why should i care? let 'em suffer. it's their own fault. they _would_ come!" jill had been trying to interrupt the harangue. she was greatly concerned. "did you _write_ the play?" the man nodded. "you are quite right to speak in that horrified tone. but between ourselves and on the understanding that you don't get up and denounce me, i did." "oh, i'm so sorry!" "not half so sorry as i am, believe me!" "i mean, i wouldn't have said...." "never mind. you didn't tell me anything i didn't know." the lights began to go down. he rose. "well, they're off again. perhaps you will excuse me? i don't feel quite equal to assisting any longer at the wake. if you want something to occupy your mind during the next act, try to remember my name." he slid from his seat and disappeared. jill clutched at derek. "oh, derek, it's too awful. i've just been talking to the man who wrote this play, and i told him it was the worst thing i had ever seen!" "did you?" derek snorted. "well, it's about time somebody told him!" a thought seemed to strike him. "why, who is he? i didn't know you knew him." "i don't. i don't even know his name." "his name, according to the programme, is john grant. never heard of him before. jill, i wish you would not talk to people you don't know," said derek with a note of annoyance in his voice. "you can never tell who they are." "but...." "especially with my mother here. you must be more careful." the curtain rose. jill saw the stage mistily. from childhood up, she had never been able to cure herself of an unfortunate sensitiveness when sharply spoken to by those she loved. a rebuking world she could face with a stout heart, but there had always been just one or two people whose lightest word of censure could crush her. her father had always had that effect upon her, and now derek had taken his place. but if there had only been time to explain.... derek could not object to her chatting with a friend of her childhood, even if she had completely forgotten him and did not remember his name even now. john grant? memory failed to produce any juvenile john grant for her inspection. puzzling over this problem, jill missed much of the beginning of the second act. hers was a detachment which the rest of the audience would gladly have shared. for the poetic drama, after a bad start, was now plunging into worse depths of dullness. the coughing had become almost continuous. the stalls, supported by the presence of large droves of sir chester's personal friends, were struggling gallantly to maintain a semblance of interest, but the pit and gallery had plainly given up hope. the critic of a weekly paper of small circulation, who had been shoved up in the upper circle, grimly jotted down the phrase "apathetically received" on his programme. he had come to the theatre that night in an aggrieved mood, for managers usually put him in the dress-circle. he got out his pencil again. another phrase had occurred to him, admirable for the opening of his article. "at the leicester theatre," he wrote, "where sir chester portwood presented 'tried by fire,' dullness reigned supreme...." but you never know. call no evening dull till it is over. however uninteresting its early stages may have been that night was to be as animated and exciting as any audience could desire--a night to be looked back to and talked about, for just as the critic of _london gossip_ wrote those damning words on his programme, guiding his pencil uncertainly in the dark, a curious yet familiar odour stole over the house. the stalls got it first, and sniffed. it rose to the dress-circle, and the dress-circle sniffed. floating up, it smote the silent gallery. and, suddenly, coming to life with a single-minded abruptness, the gallery ceased to be silent. "fire!" sir chester portwood, ploughing his way through a long speech, stopped and looked apprehensively over his shoulder. the girl with the lisp, who had been listening in a perfunctory manner to the long speech, screamed loudly. the voice of an unseen stage-hand called thunderously to an invisible "bill" to commere quick. and from the scenery on the prompt side there curled lazily across the stage a black wisp of smoke. "fire! fire! fire!" "just," said a voice at jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" the mysterious author was back in his seat again. chapter iii jill and the unknown escape i in these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of the community have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly in printed notices that a full house can be emptied in three minutes and that all an audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run, to the nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of its old-time terror. yet it would be paltering with the truth to say that the audience which had assembled to witness the opening performance of the new play at the leicester was entirely at its ease. the asbestos curtain was already on its way down, which should have been reassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. to the lay eye they seem just the sort of thing that will blaze quickest. moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchboard to turn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting. portions of the house were taking the thing better than other portions. up in the gallery a vast activity was going on. the clatter of feet almost drowned the shouting. a moment before it would have seemed incredible that anything could have made the occupants of the gallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had put new life into them. the stalls had not yet entirely lost their self-control. alarm was in the air, but for the moment they hung on the razor-edge between panic and dignity. panic urged them to do something sudden and energetic; dignity counselled them to wait. they, like the occupants of the gallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad form to rush and jostle. the men were assisting the women in their cloaks, assuring them the while that it was "all right" and that they must not be frightened. but another curl of smoke had crept out just before the asbestos curtain completed its descent, and their words lacked the ring of conviction. the movement towards the exits had not yet become a stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stage had begun to feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doors were infernally slow in removing themselves. suddenly, as if by mutual inspiration, the composure of the stalls began to slip. looking from above, one could have seen a sort of shudder run through the crowd. it was the effect of every member of that crowd starting to move a little more quickly. a hand grasped jill's arm. it was a comforting hand, the hand of a man who had not lost his head. a pleasant voice backed up its message of reassurance. "it's no good getting into that mob. you might get hurt. there's no danger; the play isn't going on." jill was shaken; but she had the fighting spirit and hated to show that she was shaken. panic was knocking at the door of her soul, but dignity refused to be dislodged. "all the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be nice to get out, wouldn't it?" "i was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said the man beside her. "the same thought occurred to me. we can stroll out quite comfortably by our own private route. come along." jill looked over her shoulder. derek and lady underhill were merged into the mass of refugees. she could not see them. for an instant a little spasm of pique stung her at the thought that derek had deserted her. she groped her way after her companion, and presently they came by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to the stage. as it opened, smoke blew through, and the smell of burning was formidable. jill recoiled involuntarily. "it's all right," said her companion. "it smells worse than it really is. and, anyway, this is the quickest way out." they passed through on to the stage, and found themselves in a world of noise and confusion compared with which the auditorium which they had left had been a peaceful place. smoke was everywhere. a stage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowing. from somewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came a sound of chopping. jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard, groped, found a handle, and turned it. in the narrow space between the corner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtain lights flashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminution of the noise from the body of the house. the stalls, snatched from the intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other's faces, discovered that they had been behaving indecorously and checked their struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. the relief would be only momentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic. "go straight across the stage," jill heard her companion say, "out along the passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at the stage-door. i think, as there seems no one else around to do it, i'd better go out and say a few soothing words to the customers. otherwise they'll be biting holes in each other." he squeezed through the narrow opening in front of the curtain. "ladies and gentlemen!" jill remained where she was, leaning with one hand against the switchboard. she made no attempt to follow the directions he had given her. she was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being with this man in this adventure. if he stayed, she must stay. to go now through the safety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion. she listened, and found that she could hear plainly in spite of the noise. the smoke was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that the figures of the theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed like brocken spectres. she slipped a corner of her cloak across her mouth, and was able to breathe more easily. "ladies and gentlemen, i assure you that there is absolutely no danger. i am a stranger to you, so there is no reason why you should take my word, but fortunately i can give you solid proof. if there were any danger, _i_ wouldn't be here. all that has happened is that the warmth of your reception of the play has set a piece of scenery alight...." a crimson-faced stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands, roared in jill's ear. "'op it!" shouted the stage-hand. he cast his axe down with a clatter. "can't you see the place is afire?" "but--but i'm waiting for...." jill pointed to where her ally was still addressing an audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listen to him. the stage-hand squinted out round the edge of the curtain. "if he's a friend of yours, miss, kindly get 'im to cheese it and get a move on. we're clearing out. there's nothing we can do. it's got too much of an 'old. in about another two ticks the roof's going to drop on us." jill's friend came squeezing back through the opening. "hullo! still here?" he blinked approvingly at her through the smoke. "you're a little soldier! well, augustus, what's on your mind?" the simple question seemed to take the stage-hand aback. "wot's on my mind? i'll tell you wot's on my blinking mind...." "don't tell me. let me guess. i've got it! the place is on fire!" the stage-hand expectorated disgustedly. flippancy at such a moment offended his sensibilities. "we're 'opping it," he said. "great minds think alike! _we_ are hopping it, too." "you'd better! and damn quick!" "and, as you suggest, damn quick. you think of everything!" jill followed him across the stage. her heart was beating violently. there was not only smoke now, but heat. across the stage little scarlet flames were shooting, and something large and hard, unseen through the smoke, fell with a crash. the air was heavy with the smell of burning paint. "where's sir chester portwood?" enquired her companion of the stage-hand, who hurried beside them. "'opped it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as he swallowed smoke. "strange," said the man in jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "this way. stick to me. strange how the drama anticipates life! at the end of act two there was a scene where sir chester had to creep sombrely out into the night, and now he's gone and done it! ah!" they had stumbled through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage, where the air, though tainted, was comparatively fresh. jill drew a deep breath. her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in his pocket. "here." a coin changed hands. "go and get a drink. you need it after all this." "thank you, sir." "don't mention it. you've saved our lives. suppose you hadn't come up and told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire!" he turned to jill. "here's the stage-door. shall we creep sombrely out into the night?" the guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of his little hutch, plainly perplexed. he was a slow thinker and a man whose life was ruled by routine, and the events of the evening had left him uncertain how to act. "wot's all this about a fire?" he demanded. jill's friend stopped. "a fire?" he looked at jill. "did _you_ hear anything about a fire?" "they all come bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persisted the door-man. "by george! now i come to think of it, you're perfectly right! there _is_ a fire! if you wait here a little longer you'll get it in the small of the back. take the advice of an old friend who means you well and vanish. in the inspired words of the lad we've just parted from, 'op it!" the stage-door man turned this over in his mind for a space. "but i'm supposed to stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up!" he said. "that's what i'm supposed to do. stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up! and it ain't but ten forty-five now." "i see the difficulty," said jill's companion thoughtfully. "well, casabianca, i'm afraid i don't see how to help you. it's a matter for your own conscience. i don't want to lure you from the burning deck; on the other hand, if you stick on here you'll most certainly be fired on both sides.... but, tell me. you spoke about locking up something at eleven-thirty. what are you supposed to lock up?" "why, the theatre." "then that's all right. by eleven-thirty there won't _be_ a theatre. if i were you, i should leave quietly and unostentatiously now. to-morrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, you can come and sit on the ruins. good night!" ii outside, the air was cold and crisp. jill drew her warm cloak closer. round the corner there was noise and shouting. fire-engines had arrived. jill's companion lit a cigarette. "do you wish to stop and see the conflagration?" he asked. jill shivered. she was more shaken than she had realized. "i've seen all the conflagration i want." "same here. well, it's been an exciting evening. started slow, i admit, but warmed up later! what i seem to need at the moment is a restorative stroll along the embankment. do you know, sir chester portwood didn't like the title of my play. he said 'tried by fire' was too melodramatic. well, he can't say now it wasn't appropriate." they made their way towards the river, avoiding the street which was blocked by the crowds and the fire-engines. as they crossed the strand, the man looked back. a red glow was in the sky. "a great blaze!" he said. "what you might call--in fact what the papers _will_ call--a holocaust. quite a treat for the populace." "do you think they will be able to put it out?" "not a chance. it's got too much of a hold. it's a pity you hadn't that garden-hose of yours with you, isn't it?" jill stopped, wide-eyed. "garden-hose?" "don't you remember the garden-hose? i do! i can feel that clammy feeling of the water trickling down my back now!" memory, always a laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by an eleventh-hour rush, raced back to jill. the embankment turned to a sun-lit garden, and the january night to a july day. she stared at him. he was looking at her with a whimsical smile. it was a smile which, pleasant to-day, had seemed mocking and hostile on that afternoon years ago. she had always felt then that he was laughing at her, and at the age of twelve she had resented laughter at her expense. "you surely can't be wally mason!" "i was wondering when you would remember." "but the programme called you something else--john something." "that was a cunning disguise. wally mason is the only genuine and official name. and, by jove! i've just remembered yours. it was mariner. by the way,"--he paused for an almost imperceptible instant--"is it still?" chapter iv the last of the rookes takes a hand i jill was hardly aware that he had asked her a question. she was suffering that momentary sense of unreality which comes to us when the years roll away and we are thrown abruptly back into the days of our childhood. the logical side of her mind was quite aware that there was nothing remarkable in the fact that wally mason, who had been to her all these years a boy in an eton suit, should now present himself as a grown man. but for all that the transformation had something of the effect of a conjuring-trick. it was not only the alteration in his appearance that startled her: it was the amazing change in his personality. wally mason had been the _bête noire_ of her childhood. she had never failed to look back at the episode of the garden-hose with the feeling that she had acted well, that--however she might have strayed in those early days from the straight and narrow path--in that one particular crisis she had done the right thing. and now she had taken an instant liking for him. easily as she made friends, she had seldom before felt so immediately drawn to a strange man. gone was the ancient hostility, and in its place a soothing sense of comradeship. the direct effect of this was to make jill feel suddenly old. it was as if some link that joined her to her childhood had been snapped. she glanced down the embankment. close by, to the left, waterloo bridge loomed up, dark and massive against the steel-grey sky. a tram-car, full of home-bound travellers, clattered past over rails that shone with the peculiarly frost-bitten gleam that seems to herald snow. across the river everything was dark and mysterious, except for an occasional lamp-post and the dim illumination of the wharves. it was a depressing prospect, and the thought crossed her mind that to the derelicts whose nightly resting-place was a seat on the embankment the view must seem even bleaker than it did to herself. she gave a little shiver. somehow this sudden severance from the old days had brought with it a forlornness. she seemed to be standing alone in a changed world. "cold?" said wally mason. "a little." "let's walk." they moved westwards. cleopatra's needle shot up beside them, a pointing finger. down on the silent river below, coffin-like row-boats lay moored to the wall. through a break in the trees the clock over the houses of parliament shone for an instant as if suspended in the sky, then vanished as the trees closed in. a distant barge in the direction of battersea wailed and was still. it had a mournful and foreboding sound. jill shivered again. it annoyed her that she could not shake off this quite uncalled-for melancholy, but it withstood every effort. why she should have felt that a chapter, a pleasant chapter, in the book of her life had been closed, she could not have said, but the feeling lingered. "correct me if i am wrong," said wally mason, breaking a silence that had lasted several minutes, "but you seem to me to be freezing in your tracks. ever since i came to london i've had a habit of heading for the embankment in times of mental stress, but perhaps the middle of winter is not quite the moment for communing with the night. the savoy is handy, if we stop walking away from it. i think we might celebrate this re-union with a little supper, don't you?" jill's depression disappeared magically. her mercurial temperament asserted itself. "lights!" she said. "music!" "and food! to an ethereal person like you that remark may seem gross, but i had no dinner." "you poor dear! why not?" "just nervousness." "why, of course." the interlude of the fire had caused her to forget his private and personal connection with the night's events. her mind went back to something he had said in the theatre. "wally--" she stopped, a little embarrassed. "i suppose i ought to call you mr. mason, but i've always thought of you...." "wally, if you please, jill. it's not as though we were strangers. i haven't my book of etiquette with me, but i fancy that about eleven gallons of cold water down the neck constitutes an introduction. what were you going to say?" "it was what you said to freddie about putting up money. did you really?" "put up the money for that ghastly play? i did. every cent. it was the only way to get it put on." "but why...? i forget what i was going to say!" "why did i want it put on? well, it does seem odd, but i give you my honest word that until to-night i thought the darned thing a masterpiece. i've been writing musical comedies for the last few years, and after you've done that for a while your soul rises up within you and says, 'come, come, my lad! you can do better than this!' that's what mine said, and i believed it. subsequent events have proved that sidney the soul was pulling my leg!" "but--then you've lost a great deal of money?" "the hoarded wealth, if you don't mind my being melodramatic for a moment, of a lifetime. and no honest old servitor who dangled me on his knee as a baby to come along and offer me his savings! they don't make servitors like that in america, worse luck. there is a swedish lady who looks after my simple needs back there, but instinct tells me that, if i were to approach her on the subject of loosening up for the benefit of the young master, she would call a cop. still, i've gained experience, which they say is just as good as cash, and i've enough money left to pay the bill, at any rate, so come along." in the supper-room of the savoy hotel there was, as anticipated, food and light and music. it was still early, and the theatres had not yet emptied themselves, so that the big room was as yet but half full. wally mason had found a table in the corner, and proceeded to order with the concentration of a hungry man. "forgive my dwelling so tensely on the bill-of-fare," he said, when the waiter had gone. "you don't know what it means to one in my condition to have to choose between _poulet en casserole_ and kidneys _à la mâitre d'hôtel_. a man's cross-roads!" jill smiled happily across the table at him. she could hardly believe that this old friend with whom she had gone through the perils of the night and with whom she was now about to feast was the sinister figure that had cast a shadow on her childhood. he looked positively incapable of pulling a little girl's hair--as no doubt he was. "you always were greedy," she commented. "just before i turned the hose on you, i remember you had made yourself thoroughly disliked by pocketing a piece of my birthday cake." "do you remember that?" his eyes lit up and he smiled back at her. he had an ingratiating smile. his mouth was rather wide, and it seemed to stretch right across his face. he reminded jill more than ever of a big, friendly dog. "i can feel it now--all squashy in my pocket, inextricably mingled with a catapult, a couple of marbles, a box of matches, and some string. i was quite the human general store in those days. which reminds me that we have been some time settling down to an exchange of our childish reminiscences, haven't we?" "i've been trying to realize that you are wally mason. you have altered so." "for the better?" "very much for the better! you were a horrid little brute. you used to terrify me. i never knew when you were going to bound out at me from behind a tree or something. i remember your chasing me for miles, shrieking at the top of your voice!" "sheer embarrassment! i told you just now how i used to worship you. if i shrieked a little, it was merely because i was shy. i did it to hide my devotion." "you certainly succeeded. i never even suspected it." wally sighed. "how like life! i never told my love, but let concealment like a worm i' the bud...." "talking of worms, you once put one down my back!" "no, no," said wally in a shocked voice. "not that i i was boisterous, perhaps, but surely always the gentleman." "you did! in the shrubbery. there had been a thunderstorm and...." "i remember the incident now. a mere misunderstanding. i had done with the worm, and thought you might be glad to have it." "you were always doing things like that. once you held me over the pond and threatened to drop me into the water--in the winter! just before christmas. it was a particularly mean thing to do, because i couldn't even kick your shins for fear you would let me fall. luckily uncle chris came up and made you stop." "you considered that a fortunate occurrence, did you?" said wally. "well, perhaps from your point of view it may have been. i saw the thing from a different angle. your uncle had a whangee with him. my friends sometimes wonder what i mean when i say that my old wound troubles me in frosty weather. by the way, how is your uncle?" "oh, he's very well. just as lazy as ever. he's away at present, down at brighton." "he didn't strike me as lazy," said wally thoughtfully. "dynamic would express it better. but perhaps i happened to encounter him in a moment of energy. ah!" the waiter had returned with a loaded tray. "the food! forgive me if i seem a little distrait for a moment or two. there is man's work before me!" "and later on, i suppose, you would like a chop or something to take away in your pocket?" "i will think it over. possibly a little soup. my needs are very simple these days." jill watched him with a growing sense of satisfaction. there was something boyishly engaging about this man. she felt at home with him. he affected her in much the same way as did freddie rooke. he was a definite addition to the things that went to make her happy. she liked him particularly for being such a good loser. she had always been a good loser herself, and the quality was one which she admired. it was nice of him to dismiss from his conversation--and apparently from his thoughts--that night's fiasco and all that it must have cost him. she wondered how much he had lost. certainly something very substantial. yet it seemed to trouble him not at all. jill considered his behaviour gallant, and her heart warmed to him. this was how a man ought to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. wally sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair. "an unpleasant exhibition!" he said apologetically. "but unavoidable. and, anyway, i take it that you prefer to have me well-fed and happy about the place than swooning on the floor with starvation. a wonderful thing, food! i am now ready to converse intelligently on any subject you care to suggest. i have eaten rose-leaves and am no more a golden ass, so to speak. what shall we talk about?" "tell me about yourself." "there is no nobler topic. but what aspect of myself do you wish me to touch on? my thoughts, my tastes, my amusements, my career, or what? i can talk about myself for hours. my friends in new york often complain about it bitterly." "new york?" said jill. "oh, then you live in america?" "yes. i only came over here to see that darned false alarm of a play of mine put on." "why didn't you put it on in new york?" "too many of the lads of the village know me over there. this was a new departure, you see. what the critics in those parts expect from me is something entitled 'wow! wow!' or 'the girl from yonkers.' it would have unsettled their minds to find me breaking out in poetic drama. they are men of coarse fibre and ribald mind and they would have been funny about it. i thought it wiser to come over here among strangers, little thinking that i should sit in the next seat to somebody i had known all my life." "but when did you go to america? and why?" "i think it must have been four--five--well, quite a number of years after the hose episode. probably you didn't observe that i wasn't still around, but we crept silently out of the neighbourhood round about that time and went to live in london." his tone lost its lightness momentarily. "my father died, you know, and that sort of broke things up. he didn't leave any too much money, either. apparently we had been living on rather too expensive a scale during the time i knew you. at any rate, i was more or less up against it until your father got me a job in an office in new york." "my father!" "yes. it was wonderfully good of him to bother about me. i didn't suppose he would have known me by sight, and, even if he had remembered me, i shouldn't have imagined that the memory would have been a pleasant one. but he couldn't have taken more trouble if i had been a blood-relation." "that was just like father," said jill softly. "he was a prince." "but you aren't in the office now?" "no. i found i had a knack of writing verses and things, and i wrote a few vaudeville songs. then i came across a man named bevan at a music publisher's. he was just starting to write music, and we got together and turned out some vaudeville sketches, and then a manager sent for us to fix up a show that was dying on the road and we had the good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it was pretty good going. george bevan got married the other day. lucky devil!" "are you married?" "no." "you were faithful to my memory?" said jill with a smile. "i was." "it can't last," said jill, shaking her head. "one of these days you'll meet some lovely american girl and then you'll put a worm down her back or pull her hair or whatever it is you do when you want to show your devotion, and.... what are you looking at? is something interesting going on behind me?" he had been looking past her out into the room. "it's nothing," he said. "only there's a statuesque old lady about two tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervals for refreshment, for the last five minutes. you seem to fascinate her." "an old lady?" "yes. with a glare! she looks like dunsany's bird of the difficult eye. count ten and turn carelessly round, there, at that table. almost behind you." "good heavens!" exclaimed jill. she turned quickly round again. "what's the matter? do you know her? somebody you don't want to meet?" "it's lady underhill! and derek's with her!" wally had been lifting his glass. he put it down rather suddenly. "derek?" he said. "derek underhill. the man i'm engaged to marry." there was a moment's silence. "oh!" said wally thoughtfully. "the man you're engaged to marry? yes, i see!" he raised his glass again, and drank its contents quickly. ii jill looked at her companion anxiously. recent events had caused her completely to forget the existence of lady underhill. she was always so intensely interested in what she happened to be doing at the moment that she often suffered these temporary lapses of memory. it occurred to her now--too late, as usual--that the savoy hotel was the last place in london where she should have come to supper with wally. it was the hotel where lady underhill was staying. she frowned. life had suddenly ceased to be careless and happy, and had become a problem-ridden thing, full of perplexity and misunderstandings. "what shall i do?" wally mason started at the sound of her voice. he appeared to be deep in thoughts of his own. "i beg your pardon?" "what shall i do?" "i shouldn't be worried." "derek will be awfully cross." wally's good-humoured mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "why?" he said. "there's nothing wrong in your having supper with an old friend." "n-no," said jill doubtfully. "but...." "derek underhill," said wally reflectively. "is that sir derek underhill, whose name one's always seeing in the papers?" "derek is in the papers a lot. he's an m.p. and all sorts of things." "good-looking fellow. ah, here's the coffee." "i don't want any, thanks." "nonsense. why spoil your meal because of this? do you smoke?" "no, thanks." "given it up, eh? daresay you're wise. stunts the growth and increases the expenses." "given it up?" "don't you remember sharing one of your father's cigars with me behind the haystack in the meadow? we cut it in half. i finished my half, but i fancy about three puffs were enough for you. those were happy days!" "that one wasn't! of course i remember it now. i don't suppose i shall ever forget it." "the thing was my fault, as usual. i recollect i dared you." "yes. i always took a dare." "do you still?" "what do you mean?" wally knocked the ash off his cigarette. "well," he said slowly, "suppose i were to dare you to get up and walk over to that table and look your fiancé in the eye and say, 'stop scowling at my back hair! i've a perfect right to be supping with an old friend!'--would you do it?" "is he?" said jill startled. "scowling? can't you feel it on the back of your head?" he drew thoughtfully at his cigarette. "if i were you i should stop that sort of thing at the source. it's a habit that can't be discouraged in a husband too early. scowling is the civilized man's substitute for wife-beating." jill moved uncomfortably in her chair. her quick temper resented his tone. there was a hostility, a hardly veiled contempt in his voice which stung her. derek was sacred. whoever criticised him, presumed. wally, a few minutes before a friend and an agreeable companion, seemed to her to have changed. he was once more the boy whom she had disliked in the old days. there was a gleam in her eyes which should have warned him, but he went on. "i should imagine that this derek of yours is not one of our leading sunbeams. well, i suppose he could hardly be, if that's his mother and there is anything in heredity." "please don't criticise derek," said jill coldly. "i was only saying...." "never mind. i don't like it." a slow flush crept over wally's face. he made no reply, and there fell between them a silence that was like a shadow, jill sipped her coffee miserably. she was regretting that little spurt of temper. she wished she could have recalled the words. not that it was the actual words that had torn asunder this gossamer thing, the friendship which they had begun to weave like some fragile web: it was her manner, the manner of the princess rebuking an underling. she knew that, if she had struck him, she could not have offended wally more deeply. there are some men whose ebullient natures enable them to rise unscathed from the worst snub. wally, her intuition told her, was not that kind of man. there was only one way of mending the matter. in these clashes of human temperaments, these sudden storms that spring up out of a clear sky, it is possible sometimes to repair the damage, if the psychological moment is resolutely seized, by talking rapidly and with detachment on neutral topics. words have made the rift, and words alone can bridge it. but neither jill nor her companion could find words, and the silence lengthened grimly. when wally spoke, it was in the level tones of a polite stranger. "your friends have gone." his voice was the voice in which, when she went on railway journeys, fellow-travellers in the carriage enquired of jill if she would prefer the window up or down. it had the effect of killing her regrets and feeding her resentment. she was a girl who never refused a challenge, and she set herself to be as frigidly polite and aloof as he. "really?" she said. "when did they leave?" "a moment ago." the lights gave the warning flicker that announces the arrival of the hour of closing. in the momentary darkness they both rose. wally scrawled his name across the bill which the waiter had insinuated upon his attention. "i suppose we had better be moving?" they crossed the room in silence. everybody was moving in the same direction. the broad stairway leading to the lobby was crowded with chattering supper-parties. the light had gone up again. at the cloak-room wally stopped. "i see underhill waiting up there," he said casually. "to take you home, i suppose. shall we say good-night? i'm staying in the hotel." jill glanced towards the head of the stairs. derek was there. he was alone. lady underhill presumably had gone up to her room in the elevator. wally was holding out his hand. his face was stolid and his eyes avoided hers. "good-bye," he said. "good-bye," said jill. she felt curiously embarrassed. at this last moment hostility had weakened, and she was conscious of a desire to make amends. she and this man had been through much together that night, much that was perilous and much that was pleasant. a sudden feeling of remorse came over her. "you'll come and see us, won't you?" she said a little wistfully. "i'm sure my uncle would like to meet you again." "it's very good of you," said wally, "but i'm afraid i shall be going back to america at any moment now." pique, that ally of the devil, regained its slipping grip upon jill. "oh? i'm sorry," she said indifferently. "well, good-bye, then." "good-bye." "i hope you have a pleasant voyage." "thanks." he turned into the cloak-room, and jill went up the stairs to join derek. she felt angry and depressed, full of a sense of the futility of things. people flashed into one's life and out again. where was the sense of it? iii derek had been scowling, and derek still scowled. his eyebrows were formidable, and his mouth smiled no welcome at jill as she approached him. the evening, portions of which jill had found so enjoyable, had contained no pleasant portions for derek. looking back over a lifetime whose events had been almost uniformly agreeable, he told himself that he could not recall another day which had gone so completely awry. it had started with the fog. he hated fog. then had come that meeting with his mother at charing cross, which had been enough to upset him by itself. after that, rising to a crescendo of unpleasantness, the day had provided that appalling situation at the albany, the recollection of which still made him tingle; and there had followed the silent dinner, the boredom of the early part of the play, the fire at the theatre, the undignified scramble for the exits, and now this discovery of the girl whom he was engaged to marry supping at the savoy with a fellow he didn't remember ever having seen in his life. all these things combined to induce in derek a mood bordering on ferocity. his birth and income combining to make him one of the spoiled children of the world, had fitted him ill for such a series of catastrophes. he received jill with frozen silence and led her out to the waiting taxi-cab. it was only when the cab had started on its journey that he found relief in speech. "well," he said, mastering with difficulty an inclination to raise his voice to a shout, "perhaps you will kindly explain?" jill had sunk back against the cushions of the cab. the touch of his body against hers always gave her a thrill, half pleasurable, half frightening. she had never met anybody who affected her in this way as derek did. she moved a little closer, and felt for his hand. but, as she touched it, it retreated--coldly. her heart sank. it was like being cut in public by somebody very dignified. "derek, darling!" her lips trembled. others had seen this side of derek underhill frequently, for he was a man who believed in keeping the world in its place, but she never. to her he had always been the perfect, gracious knight. a little too perfect, perhaps, a trifle too gracious, possibly, but she had been too deeply in love to notice that. "don't be cross!" the english language is the richest in the world, and yet somehow in moments when words count most we generally choose the wrong ones. the adjective "cross" as a description of his jove-like wrath that consumed his whole being jarred upon derek profoundly. it was as though prometheus, with the vultures tearing his liver, had been asked if he were piqued. "cross!" the cab rolled on. lights from lamp-posts flashed in at windows. it was a pale, anxious little face that they lit up when they shone upon jill. "i can't understand you," said derek at last. jill noticed that he had not yet addressed her by her name. he was speaking straight out in front of him as if he were soliloquising. "i simply cannot understand you. after what happened before dinner to-night, for you to cap everything by going off alone to supper at a restaurant, where half the people in the room must have known you, with a man...." "you don't understand!" "exactly! i said i did not understand." the feeling of having scored a point made derek feel a little better. "i admit it. your behaviour is incomprehensible. where did you meet this fellow?" "i met him at the theatre. he was the author of the play." "the man you told me you had been talking to? the fellow who scraped acquaintance with you between the acts?" "but i found out he was an old friend. i mean, i knew him when i was a child." "you didn't tell me that." "i only found it out later." "after he had invited you to supper! it's maddening!" cried derek, the sense of his wrongs surging back over him. "what do you suppose my mother thought? she asked me who the man with you was. i had to say i didn't know! what do you suppose she thought?" it is to be doubted whether anything else in the world could have restored the fighting spirit to jill's cowering soul at that moment; but the reference to lady underhill achieved this miracle. that deep mutual antipathy which is so much more common than love at first sight had sprung up between the two at the instant of their meeting. the circumstances of that meeting had caused it to take root and grow. to jill, derek's mother was by this time not so much a fellow human being whom she disliked as a something, a sort of force, that made for her unhappiness. she was a menace and a loathing. "if your mother had asked me that question," she retorted with spirit, "i should have told her that he was the man who got me safely out of the theatre after you...." she checked herself. she did not want to say the unforgivable thing. "you see," she said more quietly, "you had disappeared...." "my mother is an old woman," said derek stiffly. "naturally i had to look after her. i called to you to follow." "oh, i understand. i'm simply trying to explain what happened. i was there all alone, and wally mason...." "wally!" derek uttered a short laugh, almost a bark. "it got to christian names, eh?" jill set her teeth. "i told you i knew him as a child. i always called him wally then." "i beg your pardon. i had forgotten." "he got me out through the pass-door on to the stage and through the stage-door." derek was feeling cheated. he had the uncomfortable sensation that comes to men who grandly contemplate mountains and see them dwindle to molehills. the apparently outrageous had shown itself in explanation nothing so out-of-the-way after all. he seized upon the single point in jill's behaviour that still constituted a grievance. "there was no need for you to go to supper with the man!" jove-like wrath had ebbed away to something deplorably like a querulous grumble. "you should have gone straight home. you must have known how anxious i would be about you." "well, really, derek, dear! you didn't seem so very anxious! you were having supper yourself quite cosily." the human mind is curiously constituted. it is worthy of record that, despite his mother's obvious disapproval of his engagement, despite all the occurrences of this dreadful day, it was not till she made this remark that derek underhill first admitted to himself that, intoxicate his senses as she might, there was a possibility that jill mariner was not the ideal wife for him. the idea came and went more quickly than breath upon a mirror. it passed, but it had been. there are men who fear repartee in a wife more keenly than a sword. derek was one of these. like most men of single outlook, whose dignity is their most precious possession, he winced from an edged tongue. "my mother was greatly upset," he replied coldly. "i thought a cup of soup would do her good. and, as for being anxious about you, i telephoned to your home to ask if you had come in." "and when," thought jill, "they told you i hadn't, you went off to supper!" she did not speak the words. if she had an edged tongue, she had also the control of it. she had no wish to wound derek. whole-hearted in everything she did, she loved him with her whole heart. there might be specks upon her idol--that its feet might be clay she could never believe--but they mattered nothing. she loved him. "i'm so sorry, dear," she said. "so awfully sorry! i've been a bad girl, haven't i?" she felt for his hand again, and this time he allowed it to remain stiffly in her grasp. it was like being grudgingly recognized by somebody very dignified who had his doubts about you but reserved judgment. the cab drew up at the door of the house in ovingdon square which jill's uncle christopher had settled upon as a suitable address for a gentleman of his standing. jill put up her face to be kissed, like a penitent child. "i'll never be naughty again!" for a flickering instant derek hesitated. the drive, long as it was, had been too short wholly to restore his equanimity. then the sense of her nearness, her sweetness, the faint perfume of her hair, and her eyes, shining softly in the darkness so close to his own, overcame him. he crushed her to him. jill disappeared into the house with a happy laugh. it had been a terrible day, but it had ended well. "the albany," said derek to the cabman. he leaned back against the cushions. his senses were in a whirl. the cab rolled on. presently his exalted mood vanished as quickly as it had come. jill absent always affected him differently from jill present. he was not a man of strong imagination, and the stimulus of her waned when she was not with him. long before the cab reached the albany the frown was back on his face. iv arriving at the albany, he found freddie rooke lying on his spine in a deep arm-chair. his slippered feet were on the mantelpiece, and he was restoring his wasted tissues with a strong whisky-and-soda. one of the cigars which barker, the valet, had stamped with the seal of his approval was in the corner of his mouth. the _sporting times_, with a perusal of which he had been soothing his fluttered nerves, had fallen on the floor beside the chair. he had finished reading, and was now gazing peacefully at the ceiling, his mind a perfect blank. there was nothing the matter with freddie. "hullo, old thing," he observed as derek entered. "so you buzzed out of the fiery furnace all right? i was wondering how you had got along. how are you feeling? i'm not the man i was! these things get the old system all stirred up! i'll do anything in reason to oblige and help things along and all that, but to be called on at a moment's notice to play shadrach, meshach, and abednego rolled into one, without rehearsal or make-up, is a bit too thick! no, young feller-me-lad! if theatre fires are going to be the fashion this season, the last of the rookes will sit quietly at home and play solitaire. mix yourself a drink of something, old man, or something of that kind. by the way, your jolly old mater. all right? not even singed? fine! make a long arm and gather in a cigar." and freddie, having exerted himself to play the host in a suitable manner, wedged himself more firmly into his chair and blew a cloud of smoke. derek sat down. he lit a cigar, and stared silently at the fire. from the mantelpiece jill's photograph smiled down, but he did not look at it. presently his attitude began to weigh upon freddie. freddie had had a trying evening what he wanted just now was merry prattle, and his friend did not seem disposed to contribute his share. he removed his feet from the mantelpiece and wriggled himself sideways, so that he could see derek's face. its gloom touched him. apart from his admiration for derek, he was a warmhearted young man, and sympathized with affliction when it presented itself for his notice. "something on your mind, old bean?" he enquired delicately. derek did not answer for a moment. then he reflected that, little as he esteemed the other's mentality, he and freddie had known each other a long time, and that it would be a relief to confide in some one. and freddie, moreover, was an old friend of jill and the man who had introduced him to her. "yes," he said. "i'm listening, old top," said freddie. "release the film." derek drew at his cigar, and watched the smoke as it curled to the ceiling. "it's about jill." freddie signified his interest by wriggling still further sideways. "jill, eh?" "freddie, she's so damned impulsive!" freddie nearly rolled out of his chair. this, he took it, was what writing-chappies called a coincidence. "rummy you should say that," he ejaculated. "i was telling her exactly the same thing myself only this evening." he hesitated. "i fancy i can see what you're driving at, old thing. the watchword is 'what ho, the mater!' yes, no? you've begun to get a sort of idea that if jill doesn't watch her step, she's apt to sink pretty low in the betting, what? i know exactly what you mean! you and i know all right that jill's a topper. but one can see that to your mater she might seem a bit different. i mean to say, your jolly old mater only judging by first impressions, and the meeting not having come off quite as scheduled.... i say, old man," he broke off, "fearfully sorry and all that about that business. you know what i mean! wouldn't have had it happen for the world. i take it the mater was a trifle peeved? not to say perturbed and chagrined? i seemed to notice it at dinner." "she was furious, of course. she did not refer to the matter when we were alone together, but there was no need to. i knew what she was thinking." derek threw away his cigar. freddie noted this evidence of an overwrought soul with concern. "the whole thing," he conceded, "was a bit unfortunate." derek began to pace the room. "freddie." "on the spot, old man." "something's got to be done." "absolutely!" freddie nodded solemnly. he had taken this matter greatly to heart. derek was his best friend, and he had always been extremely fond of jill. it hurt him to see things going wrong. "i'll tell you what, old bean. let _me_ handle this binge for you." "you?" "me! the final rooke!" he jumped up, and leaned against the mantelpiece. "i'm the lad to do it. i've known jill for years. she'll listen to me. i'll talk to her like a dutch uncle and make her understand the general scheme of things. i'll take her out to tea to-morrow and slang her in no uncertain voice! leave the whole thing to _me_, laddie!" derek considered. "it might do some good," he said. "good?" said freddie. "it's _it_, dear boy! it's a wheeze! you toddle off to bed and have a good sleep. i'll fix the whole thing for you!" chapter v lady underhill receives a shock i there are streets in london into which the sun seems never to penetrate. some of these are in fashionable quarters, and it is to be supposed that their inhabitants find an address which looks well on note-paper a sufficient compensation for the gloom that goes with it. the majority, however, are in the mean neighbourhoods of the great railway termini, and appear to offer no compensation whatever. they are lean, furtive streets, grey as the january sky with a sort of arrested decay. they smell of cabbage and are much prowled over by vagrom cats. at night they are empty and dark, and a stillness broods on them, broken only by the cracked tingle of an occasional piano playing one of the easier hymns, a form of music to which the dwellers in the dingy houses are greatly addicted. by day they achieve a certain animation through the intermittent appearance of women in aprons, who shake rugs out of the front doors or, emerging from areas, go down to the public-house on the corner with jugs to fetch the supper-beer. in almost every ground-floor window there is a card announcing that furnished lodgings may be had within. you will find these streets by the score if you leave the main thoroughfares and take a short cut on your way to euston, to paddington, or to waterloo. but the dingiest and deadliest and most depressing lie round about victoria. and daubeny street, pimlico, is one of the worst of them all. on the afternoon following the events recorded, a girl was dressing in the ground-floor room of number nine, daubeny street. a tray bearing the remains of a late breakfast stood on the rickety table beside a bowl of wax flowers. from beneath the table peered the green cover of a copy of _variety_. a grey parrot in a cage by the window cracked seed and looked out into the room with a satirical eye. he had seen all this so many times before--nelly bryant arraying herself in her smartest clothes to go out and besiege agents in their offices off the strand. it happened every day. in an hour or two she would come back as usual, say "oh, gee!" in a tired sort of voice, and then bill the parrot's day proper would begin. he was a bird who liked the sound of his own voice, and he never got the chance of a really sustained conversation till nelly returned in the evening. "who cares?" said bill, and cracked another seed. if rooms are an indication of the characters of their occupants, nelly bryant came well out of the test of her surroundings. nothing can make a london furnished room much less horrible than it intends to be, but nelly had done her best. the furniture, what there was of it, was of that lodging-house kind which resembles nothing else in the world. but a few little touches here and there, a few instinctively tasteful alterations in the general scheme of things, had given the room almost a cosy air. later on, with the gas lit, it would achieve something approaching homeliness. nelly, like many another nomad, had taught herself to accomplish a good deal with poor material. on tour in america, she had sometimes made even a bedroom in a small hotel tolerably comfortable, than which there is no greater achievement. oddly, considering her life, she had a genius for domesticity. to-day, not for the first time, nelly was feeling unhappy. the face that looked back at her out of the mirror at which she was arranging her most becoming hat was weary. it was only a moderately pretty face, but loneliness and underfeeding had given it a wistful expression that had charm. unfortunately, it was not the sort of charm which made a great appeal to the stout, whisky-nourished men who sat behind paper-littered tables, smoking cigars, in the rooms marked "private" in the offices of theatrical agents. nelly had been out of a "shop" now for many weeks--ever since, in fact, "follow the girl" had finished its long run at the regal theatre. "follow the girl," an american musical comedy, had come over from new york with an american company, of which nelly had been a humble unit, and, after playing a year in london and some weeks in the number one towns, had returned to new york. it did not cheer nelly up in the long evenings in daubeny street to reflect that, if she had wished, she could have gone home with the rest of the company. a mad impulse had seized her to try her luck in london, and here she was now, marooned. "who cares?" said bill. for a bird who enjoyed talking he was a little limited in his remarks and apt to repeat himself. "i do, you poor fish!" said nelly, completing her manoeuvres with the hat and turning to the cage. "it's all right for you--you have a swell time with nothing to do but sit there and eat seed--but how do you suppose i enjoy tramping around looking for work and never finding any?" she picked up her gloves. "oh, well!" she said. "wish me luck!" "good-bye, boy!" said the parrot, clinging to the bars. nelly thrust a finger into the cage, and scratched his head. "anxious to get rid of me, aren't you? well, so long." "good-bye, boy!" "all right, i'm going. be good!" "woof-woof-woof!" barked bill the parrot, not committing himself to any promises. for some moments after nelly had gone he remained hunched on his perch, contemplating the infinite. then he sauntered along to the seed-box and took some more light nourishment. he always liked to spread his meals out, to make them last longer. a drink of water to wash the food down, and he returned to the middle of the cage, where he proceeded to conduct a few intimate researches with his beak under his left wing. after which he mewed like a cat, and relapsed into silent meditation once more. he closed his eyes and pondered on his favourite problem--why was he a parrot? this was always good for an hour or so, and it was three o'clock before he had come to his customary decision that he didn't know. then, exhausted by brain-work and feeling a trifle hipped by the silence of the room, he looked about him for some way of jazzing existence up a little. it occurred to him that if he barked again it might help. "woof-woof-woof!" good as far as it went, but it did not go far enough. it was not real excitement. something rather more dashing seemed to him to be indicated. he hammered for a moment or two on the floor of his cage, ate a mouthful of the newspaper there, and stood with his head on one side, chewing thoughtfully. it didn't taste as good as usual. he suspected nelly of having changed his _daily mail_ for the _daily express_ or something. he swallowed the piece of paper, and was struck by the thought that a little climbing exercise might be what his soul demanded. (you hang on by your beak and claws and work your way up to the roof. it sounds tame, but it's something to do.) he tried it. and, as he gripped the door of the cage it swung open. bill the parrot now perceived that this was going to be one of those days. he had not had a bit of luck like this for months. for a while he sat regarding the open door. unless excited by outside influences, he never did anything in a hurry. then proceeding cautiously, he passed out into the room. he had been out there before, but always chaperoned by nelly. this was something quite different. it was an adventure. he hopped on to the window-sill. there was a ball of yellow wool there, but he had lunched and could eat nothing. he cast around in his mind for something to occupy him, and perceived suddenly that the world was larger than he had supposed. apparently there was a lot of it outside the room. how long this had been going on he did not know, but obviously it was a thing to be investigated. the window was open at the bottom, and just outside the window were what he took to be the bars of another and larger cage. as a matter of fact they were the railings which afforded a modest protection to number nine. they ran the length of the house, and were much used by small boys as a means of rattling sticks. one of these stick-rattlers passed as bill stood there looking down. the noise startled him for a moment, then he seemed to come to the conclusion that this sort of thing was to be expected if you went out into the great world and that a parrot who intended to see life must not allow himself to be deterred by trifles. he crooned a little, and finally, stepping in a stately way over the window-sill, with his toes turned in at right angles, caught at the top of the railing with his beak, and proceeded to lower himself. arrived at the level of the street, he stood looking out. a dog trotted up, spied him, and came to sniff. "good-bye, boy!" said bill chattily. the dog was taken aback. hitherto, in his limited experience, birds had been birds and men men. here was a blend of the two. what was to be done about it? he barked tentatively, then, finding that nothing disastrous ensued, pushed his nose between two of the bars and barked again. any one who knew bill could have told him that he was asking for it, and he got it. bill leaned forward and nipped his nose. the dog started back with a howl of agony. he was learning something new every minute. "woof-woof-woof!" said bill sardonically. he perceived trousered legs, four of them, and, cocking his eye upwards, saw that two men of the lower orders stood before him. they were gazing down at him in the stolid manner peculiar to the proletariat of london in the presence of the unusual. for some minutes they stood drinking him in, then one of them gave judgment. "it's a parrot!" he removed a pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem. "a perishin' parrot, erb." "ah!" said erb, a man of few words. "a parrot," proceeded the other. he was seeing clearer into the matter every moment. "that's a parrot, that is erb. my brother joe's wife's sister had one of 'em. come from abroad, _they_ do. my brother joe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. red-'aired gel she was. married a feller down at the docks _she_ 'ad one of 'em. parrots they're called." he bent down for a closer inspection, and inserted a finger through the railings. erb abandoned his customary taciturnity and spoke words of warning. "tike care 'e don't sting yer, 'enry!" henry seemed wounded. "woddyer mean, sting me? i know all abart parrots, i do. my brother joe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. they don't 'urt yer, not if you're kind to 'em. you know yer pals when you see 'em, don't yer, mate?" he went on, addressing bill, who was contemplating the finger with one half-closed eye. "good-bye, boy," said the parrot, evading the point. "jear that?" cried henry delightedly. "'goo'-bye, boy!' 'uman they are!" "'e'll 'ave a piece out of yer finger," warned erb the suspicious. "wot, 'im?" henry's voice was indignant. he seemed to think that his reputation as an expert on parrots had been challenged. "'e wouldn't 'ave no piece out of my finger." "bet yer a narf-pint 'e would 'ave a piece out of yer finger," persisted the sceptic. "no blinkin' parrot's goin' to 'ave no piece of no finger of mine! my brother joe's wife's sister's parrot never 'ad no piece out of no finger of mine!" he extended the finger further and waggled it enticingly beneath bill's beak. "cheerio, matey!" he said winningly. "polly want a nut?" whether it was mere indolence or whether the advertised docility of that other parrot belonging to henry's brother's wife's sister had caused him to realize that there was a certain standard of good conduct for his species one cannot say; but for a while bill merely contemplated temptation with a detached eye. "see!" said henry. "woof-woof-woof!" said bill. "_wow-wow-wow_!" yapped the dog, suddenly returning to the scene and going on with the argument at the point where he had left off. the effect on bill was catastrophic. ever a high-strung bird, he lost completely the repose which stamps the caste of vere de vere and the better order of parrot. his nerves were shocked, and, as always under such conditions, his impulse was to bite blindly. he bit, and henry--one feels sorry for henry: he was a well-meaning man--leaped back with a loud howl. "'that'll be 'arf a pint," said erb, always the business man. there was a lull in the rapid action. the dog, mumbling softly to himself, had moved away again and was watching affairs from the edge of the sidewalk. erb, having won his point, was silent once more. henry sucked his finger. bill, having met the world squarely and shown it what was what, stood where he was, whistling nonchalantly. henry removed his finger from his mouth. "lend the loan of that stick of yours, erb," he said tensely. erb silently yielded up the stout stick which was his inseparable companion. henry, a vastly different man from the genial saunterer of a moment ago, poked wildly through the railings. bill, panic-stricken now and wishing for nothing better than to be back in his cosy cage, shrieked loudly for help. and freddie rooke, running round the corner with jill, stopped dead and turned pale. "good god!" said freddie. ii in pursuance of his overnight promise to derek, freddie rooke had got in touch with jill through the medium of the telephone immediately after breakfast, and had arranged to call at ovingdon square in the afternoon. arrived there, he found jill with a telegram in her hand. her uncle christopher, who had been enjoying a breath of sea-air down at brighton, was returning by an afternoon train, and jill had suggested that freddie should accompany her to victoria, pick up uncle chris, and escort him home. freddie, whose idea had been a _tête-à-tête_ involving a brotherly lecture on impetuosity, had demurred but had given way in the end; and they had set out to walk to victoria together. their way had lain through daubeny street, and they turned the corner just as the brutal onslaught on the innocent henry had occurred. bill's shrieks, which were of an appalling timbre, brought them to a halt. "what is it?" cried jill. "it sounds like a murder!" "nonsense!" "i don't know, you know. this is the sort of street chappies are murdering people in all the time." they caught sight of the group in front of them, and were reassured. nobody could possibly be looking so aloof and distrait as erb if there were a murder going on. "it's a bird!" "it's a jolly old parrot. see it? just inside the railings." a red-hot wave of rage swept over jill. whatever her defects--and already this story has shown her far from perfect--she had the excellent quality of loving animals and blazing into fury when she saw them ill-treated. at least three draymen were going about london with burning ears as the result of what she had said to them on discovering them abusing their patient horses. zoologically, bill the parrot was not an animal, but he counted as one with jill, and she sped down daubeny street to his rescue--freddie, spatted and hatted and trousered as became the man of fashion, following disconsolately, ruefully aware that he did not look his best sprinting like that. but jill was cutting out a warm pace, and he held his hat on with one neatly-gloved hand and did what he could to keep up. jill reached the scene of battle, and, stopping, eyed henry with a baleful glare. we, who have seen henry in his calmer moments and know him for the good fellow he was, are aware that he was more sinned against than sinning. if there is any spirit of justice in us, we are pro-henry. in his encounter with bill the parrot, henry undoubtedly had right on his side. his friendly overtures, made in the best spirit of kindliness, had been repulsed. he had been severely bitten. and he had lost half a pint of beer to erb. as impartial judges we have no other course before us than to wish henry luck and bid him go to it. but jill, who had not seen the opening stages of the affair, thought far otherwise. she merely saw in henry a great brute of a man poking at a defenceless bird with a stick. she turned to freddie, who had come up at a gallop and was wondering why the deuce this sort of thing happened to him out of a city of six millions. "make him stop, freddie!" "oh, i say, you know, what?" "can't you see he's hurting the poor thing? make him leave off! brute!" she added to henry (for whom one's heart bleeds), as he jabbed once again at his adversary. freddie stepped reluctantly up to henry, and tapped him on the shoulder. freddie was one of those men who have a rooted idea that a conversation of this sort can only be begun by a tap on the shoulder. "'look here, you know, you can't do this sort of thing, you know!" said freddie. henry raised a scarlet face. "'oo are _you_?" he demanded. this attack from the rear, coming on top of his other troubles, tried his restraint sorely. "well--" freddie hesitated. it seemed silly to offer the fellow one of his cards. "well, as a matter of fact, my name's rooke...." "and who," pursued henry, "arsked _you_ to come shoving your ugly mug in 'ere?" "well, if you put it that way...." "'e comes messing abart," said henry complainingly, addressing the universe, "and interfering in what don't concern 'im and mucking around and interfering and messing abart.... why," he broke off in a sudden burst of eloquence, "i could eat two of you for a relish wiv me tea, even if you '_ave_ got white spats!" here erb, who had contributed nothing to the conversation, remarked "ah!" and expectorated on the sidewalk. the point, one gathers, seemed to erb well taken. a neat thrust, was erb's verdict. "just because you've got white spats," proceeded henry, on whose sensitive mind these adjuncts of the costume of the well-dressed man about town seemed to have made a deep and unfavourable impression, "you think you can come mucking around and messing abart and interfering and mucking around. this bird's bit me in the finger, and 'ere's the finger, if you don't believe me--and i'm going to twist 'is ruddy neck, if all the perishers with white spats in london come messing abart and mucking around, so you take them white spats of yours 'ome and give 'em to the old woman to cook for your sunday dinner!" and henry, having cleansed his stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart, shoved the stick energetically once more through the railings. jill darted forward. always a girl who believed that, if you want a thing well done, you must do it yourself, she had applied to freddie for assistance merely as a matter of form. all the time she had felt that freddie was a broken reed, and such he had proved himself. freddie's policy in this affair was obviously to rely on the magic of speech, and any magic his speech might have had was manifestly offset by the fact that he was wearing white spats and that henry, apparently, belonged to some sort of league or society which had for its main object the discouragement of white spats. it was plainly no good leaving the conduct of the campaign to freddie. whatever was to be done must be done by herself. she seized the stick and wrenched it out of henry's hand. "woof-woof-woof!" said bill the parrot. no dispassionate auditor could have failed to detect the nasty ring of sarcasm. it stung henry. he was not normally a man who believed in violence to the gentler sex outside a clump on the head of his missus when the occasion seemed to demand it; but now he threw away the guiding principles of a lifetime and turned on jill like a tiger. "gimme that stick!" "get back!" "here, i say, you know!" said freddie. henry, now thoroughly overwrought, made a rush at jill; and jill, who had a straight eye, hit him accurately on the side of the head. "goo!" said henry, and sat down. and then, from behind jill, a voice spoke. "what's all this?" a stout policeman had manifested himself from empty space. "this won't do!" said the policeman. erb, who had been a silent spectator of the fray, burst into speech. "she 'it 'im!" the policeman looked at jill. he was an officer of many years' experience in the force, and time had dulled in him that respect for good clothes which he had brought with him from little-sudbury-in-the-wold in the days of his novitiate. jill was well dressed, but, in the stirring epoch of the suffrage disturbances, the policeman had been kicked on the shins and even bitten by ladies of an equally elegant exterior. hearts, the policeman knew, just as pure and fair may beat in belgrave square as in the lowlier air of seven dials, but you have to pinch them just the same when they disturb the peace. his gaze, as it fell upon jill, red-handed as it were with the stick still in her grasp, was stern. "your name, please, and address, miss?" he said. a girl in blue with a big hat had come up, and was standing staring open-mouthed at the group. at the sight of her bill the parrot uttered a shriek of welcome. nelly bryant had returned, and everything would now be all right again. "mariner," said jill, pale and bright-eyed. "i live at number twenty-two, ovingdon square." "and yours, sir?" "mine? oh, ah, yes. i see what you mean. rooke, you know. f. l. rooke. i live at the albany and all that sort of thing." the policeman made an entry in his note-book. "officer," cried jill, "this man was trying to kill that parrot and i stopped him...." "can't help that, miss. you 'adn't no right to hit a man with a stick. you'll 'ave to come along." "but, i say, you know!" freddie was appalled. this sort of thing had happened to him before, but only on boat-race night at the empire, where it was expected of a chappie. "i mean to say!" "and you, too, sir. you're both in it." "but...." "oh, come along, freddie," said jill quietly. "it's perfectly absurd, but it's no use making a fuss." "that," said the policeman cordially, "is the right spirit!" iii lady underhill paused for breath. she had been talking long and vehemently. she and derek were sitting in freddie rooke's apartment at the albany, and the subject of her monologue was jill. derek had been expecting the attack, and had wondered why it had not come before. all through supper on the previous night, even after the discovery that jill was supping at a near-by table with a man who was a stranger to her son, lady underhill had preserved a grim reticence with regard to her future daughter-in-law. but to-day she had spoken her mind with all the energy which comes of suppression. she had relieved herself with a flow of words of all the pent-up hostility that had been growing within her since that first meeting in this same room. she had talked rapidly, for she was talking against time. the town council of the principal city in derek's constituency in the north of england had decided that to-morrow morning should witness the laying of the foundation stone of their new town hall, and derek as the sitting member was to preside at the celebration. already barker had been dispatched to telephone for a cab to take him to the station, and at any moment their conversation might be interrupted. so lady underhill made the most of what little time she had. derek listened gloomily, scarcely rousing himself to reply. his mother would have been gratified could she have known how powerfully her arguments were working on him. that little imp of doubt which had vexed him in the cab as he drove home from ovingdon square had not died in the night. it had grown and waxed more formidable. and now, aided by this ally from without, it had become a colossus straddling his soul. derek looked frequently at the clock, and cursed the unknown cabman whose delay was prolonging the scene. something told him that only flight could serve him now. he never had been able to withstand his mother in one of her militant moods. she seemed to numb his faculties. other members of his family had also noted this quality in lady underhill, and had commented on it bitterly in the smoking-rooms of distant country-houses at the hour when men meet to drink the final whisky-and-soda and unburden their souls. lady underhill, having said all she had to say, recovered her breath and began to say it again. frequent iteration was one of her strongest weapons. as her brother edwin, who was fond of homely imagery, had often observed, she could talk the hind-leg off a donkey. "you must be mad, derek, to dream of handicapping yourself at this vital stage of your career with a wife who not only will not be a help to you, but must actually be a ruinous handicap. i am not blaming you for imagining yourself in love in the first place, though i really should have thought that a man of your strength and character would.... however, as i say, i am not blaming you for that. superficially, no doubt, this girl might be called attractive. i do not admire the type myself, but i suppose she has that quality--in my time we should have called it boldness--which seems to appeal to the young men of to-day. i could imagine her fascinating a weak-minded imbecile like your friend mr. rooke. but that you.... still, there is no need to go into that. what i am trying to point out is that in your position, with a career like yours in front of you--it's quite certain that in a year or two you will be offered some really big and responsible position--you would be insane to tie yourself to a girl who seems to have been allowed to run perfectly wild, whose uncle is a swindler...." "she can't be blamed for her uncle." "... who sups alone with strange men in public restaurants...." "i explained that." "you may have explained it. you certainly did not excuse it or make it a whit less outrageous. you cannot pretend that you really imagine that an engaged girl is behaving with perfect correctness when she allows a man she has only just met to take her to supper at the savoy, even if she did know him slightly years and years ago. it is very idyllic to suppose that a childhood acquaintance excuses every breach of decorum, but i was brought up to believe otherwise. i don't wish to be vulgar, but what it amounts to is that this girl was having supper--supper! in my days girls were in bed at supper-time!--with a strange man who picked her up at a theatre!" derek shifted uneasily. there was a part of his mind which called upon him to rise up and challenge the outrageous phrase and demand that it be taken back. but he remained silent. the imp-colossus was too strong for him. she is quite right, said the imp. that is an unpleasant but accurate description of what happened. he looked at the clock again, and wished for the hundredth time that the cab would come. jill's photograph smiled at him from beside the clock. he looked away, for, when he found his eyes upon it, he had an odd sensation of baseness, as if he were playing some one false who loved and trusted him. "well, i am not going to say any more," she said, getting up and buttoning her glove. "i will leave you to think it over. all i will say is that, though i only met her yesterday, i can assure you that i am quite confident that this girl is just the sort of harum-scarum so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day to involve herself in a really serious scandal. i don't want her to be in a position to drag you into it as well. yes, barker, what is it? is sir derek's cab here?" the lantern-jawed barker had entered softly, and was standing deferentially in the doorway. there was no emotion on his face beyond the vague sadness which a sense of what was correct made him always wear like a sort of mask when in the presence of those of superior station. "the cab will be at the door very shortly, m'lady. if you please, sir derek, a policeman has come with a message." "a policeman?" "with a message from mr. rooke." "what do you mean?" "i have had a few words of conversation with the constable, sir," said barker sadly, "and i understand from him that mr. rooke and miss mariner have been arrested." "arrested! what are you talking about?" "mr. rooke desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to step round and bail them out!" the gleam in lady underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlled her voice. "why were miss mariner and mr. rooke arrested, barker?" "as far as i can gather, m'lady, miss mariner struck a man in the street with a stick, and they took both her and mr. rooke to the chelsea police station." lady underhill glanced at derek, who was looking into the fire. "this is a little awkward, derek," she said suavely. "if you go to the police-station, you will miss your train." "i fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if sir derek were to dispatch me with a cheque for ten pounds." "very well. tell the policeman to wait a moment." "very good, m'lady." derek roused himself with an effort. his face was drawn and gloomy. he sat down at the writing-table, and took out his cheque-book. there was silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen. barker took the cheque and left the room. "now, perhaps," said lady underhill, "you will admit that i was right!" she spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at just this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer. "you can't hesitate now! you _must_ free yourself from this detestable entanglement!" derek rose without speaking. he took his coat and hat from where they lay on a chair. "derek! you will! say you will!" derek put on his coat. "derek!" "for heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. i want to think." "very well. i will leave you to think it over, then." lady underhill moved to the door. at the door she paused for a moment, and seemed about to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. she was a shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop talking. what words have accomplished, too many words can undo. "good-bye." "good-bye, mother." "i'll see you when you get back?" "yes. no. i don't know. i'm not certain when i shall return. i may go away for a bit." the door closed behind lady underhill. derek sat down again at the writing-table. he wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it up. his eye travelled to the mantelpiece. jill's photograph smiled happily down at him. he turned back to the writing-table, took out a fresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to write again. the door opened softly. "the cab is at the door, sir derek," said barker. derek addressed an envelope, and got up. "all right. thanks. oh, barker, stop at a district-messenger office on your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once." "very good, sir derek," said barker. derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. he stood looking for an instant, then walked quickly out of the room. chapter vi uncle chris bangs the table i a taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two, ovingdon square. freddie rooke emerged, followed by jill. while freddie paid the driver, jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. it had turned into a delightful day. a westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which had been gripping london. it was one of those afternoons which intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable intimation that spring is on its way. the sidewalks were wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. the sun shone exhilaratingly from a sky the colour of a hedge-sparrow's egg. "doesn't everything smell lovely, freddie," said jill, "after our prison-life!" "topping!" "fancy getting out so quickly! whenever i'm arrested, i must always make a point of having a rich man with me. i shall never tease you about that fifty-pound note again." "fifty-pound note?" "it certainly came in handy to-day!" she was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden sagging of freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. freddie was appalled. finding himself at the police-station penniless with the exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the night in a cell, with jill in another. he had realized that there was a risk of derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to get jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. if they remained where they were overnight, the thing would get into the papers, and that would be a thousand times worse. and if he applied for aid to ronny devereux or algy martyn or anybody like that all london would know about it next day. so freddie, with misgivings, had sent the message to derek, and now jill's words had reminded him that there was no need to have done so. years ago he had read somewhere or heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with a sizable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had seemed to him ripe to a degree. you never knew when you might find yourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready. he had followed the chappie's example. and now, when the crisis had arrived, he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had the dashed thing on his person at all. he followed jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful that she had taken it for granted that he had secured their release in the manner indicated. he did not propose to disillusion her. it would be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along. probably old derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whole bally affair like a sportsman. freddie cheered up considerably at the thought. jill was talking to the parlourmaid whose head had popped up over the banisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen. "major selby hasn't arrived yet, miss." "that's odd. i suppose he must have taken a later train." "there's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. she didn't give any name. she said she would wait till the major came. she's been waiting a goodish while." "all right, jane. thanks. will you bring up tea?" they walked down the hall. the drawing-room was on the ground floor, a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio but for the absence of bright light. a girl was sitting at the far end by the fireplace. she rose as they entered. "how do you do?" said jill. "i'm afraid my uncle has not come back yet...." "say!" cried the visitor. "you _did_ get out quick!" jill was surprised. she had no recollection of ever having seen the other before. her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort of jaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to her tired eyes and wistful face. jill took an immediate liking to her. she looked so forlorn and pathetic. "my name's nelly bryant," said the girl. "that parrot belongs to me." "oh, i see." "i heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so i came along to tell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something. the maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so i waited." "that was awfully good of you." "dashed good," said freddie. "oh, no! honest, i don't know how to thank you for what you did. you don't know what a pal bill is to me. it would have broken me all up if that plug-ugly had killed him." "but what a shame you had to wait so long." "i liked it." nelly bryant looked about the room wistfully. this was the sort of room she sometimes dreamed about. she loved its subdued light and the pulpy cushions on the sofa. "you'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said jill, switching on the lights. "it's very kind of you." "why, hullo!" said freddie. "by jove! i say! we've met before, what?" "why, so we have!" "that lunch at oddy's that young threepwood gave, what?" "i wonder you remember." "oh, i remember. quite a time ago, eh? miss bryant was in that show. 'follow the girl,' jill, at the regal." "oh, yes. i remember you took me to see it." "dashed odd meeting again like this!" said freddie. "really rummy!" jane, the parlourmaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments. "you're american, then?" said jill interested. "the whole company came from new york, didn't they?" "yes." "i'm half american myself, you know. i used to live in new york when i was very small, but i've almost forgotten what it was like. i remember a sort of overhead railway that made an awful noise...." "the elevated!" murmured nelly devoutly. a wave of home-sickness seemed to choke her for a moment. "and the air. like champagne. and a very blue sky." "yes," said nelly in a small voice. "i shouldn't half mind popping over new york for a bit," said freddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "i've met some very sound sportsmen who came from there. you don't know a fellow named williamson, do you?" "i don't believe i do." "or oakes?" "no." "that's rummy! oakes has lived in new york for years." "so have about seven million other people," interposed jill. "don't be silly, freddie. how would you like somebody to ask of you if you knew a man named jenkins in london?" "i _do_ know a man named jenkins in london," replied freddie triumphantly. jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the clock. "i wonder where uncle chris has got to," she said. "he ought to be here by now. i hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wild stockbrokers down at brighton." freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort. "oh, freddie, darling!" said jill remorsefully. "i forgot! stockbrokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" she turned to nelly. "there's been an awful slump on the stock exchange to-day, and he got--what was the word, freddie?" "nipped!" said freddie with gloom. "nipped!" "nipped like the dickens!" "nipped like the dickens!" jill smiled at nelly. "he had forgotten all about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and i went and reminded him." freddie sought sympathy from nelly. "a silly ass at the club named jimmy monroe told me to take a flutter in some rotten thing called amalgamated dyes. you know how it is, when you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in yours and tells you to do some fool thing. you're so dashed happy you simply say 'right-ho, old bird! make it so!' that's the way i got had!" jill laughed unfeelingly. "it will do you good, freddie. it'll stir you up and prevent you being so silly again. besides, you know you'll hardly notice it. you've much too much money as it is." "it's not the money. it's the principle of the thing. i hate looking a frightful chump." "well, you needn't tell anybody. we'll keep it a secret. in fact, we'll start at once, for i hear uncle chris outside. let us dissemble. we are observed!... hullo, uncle chris!" she ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall, soldierly man who entered. "well, jill, my dear." "how late you are. i was expecting you hours ago." "i had to call on my broker." "hush! hush!" "what's the matter?" "nothing, nothing.... we've got visitors. you know freddie rooke, of course?" "how are you, freddie, my boy?" "cheerio!" said freddie. "pretty fit?" "and miss bryant," said jill. "how do you do?" said uncle chris in the bluff, genial way which, in his younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of the pockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes of their sisters, their cousins, and their aunts. "come and have some tea," said jill. "you're just in time." "tea? capital!" nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big arm-chair. somehow she felt a better and a more important girl since uncle chris had addressed her. most people felt like that after encountering jill's uncle christopher. uncle chris had a manner. it was not precisely condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. he treated you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the fact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. uncle chris affected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight of the middle ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he had cast aside social distinctions for a while and hobnobbed with the latter in a tavern. he never patronized, but the mere fact that he abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive. to this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. he was a fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed so carefully. he had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright blue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. though he had served in his youth in india, he had none of the anglo-indian's sun-scorched sallowness. his complexion was fresh and sanguine. he looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub--a misleading impression, for uncle chris detested cold water and always took his morning bath as hot as he could get it. it was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance, fascinated the populace. there is only one tailor in london, as distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and trousers, and uncle chris was his best customer. similarly, london is full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of the word--the one who supplied uncle chris. and, as for hats, while it is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of london shops some sort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyed the patronage of major christopher selby. from foot to head, in short, from furthest south to extremest north, uncle chris was perfect. he was an ornament to his surroundings. the metropolis looked better for him. one seems to picture london as a mother with a horde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children with wrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as she beheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restored complacency, "ah, well, i still have uncle chris!" "miss bryant is american, uncle chris," said jill. uncle chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down kindly at nelly. "indeed?" he took a cup of tea and stirred it. "i was in america as a young man." "whereabouts?" asked nelly eagerly. "oh, here and there and everywhere. i travelled considerably." "that's how it is with me," said nelly, overcoming her diffidence as she warmed to the favourite topic. "i guess i know most every town in every state, from new york to the last one-night stand. it's a great old country, isn't it?" "it is!" said uncle chris. "i shall be returning there very shortly." he paused meditatively. "very shortly indeed." nelly bit her lip. it seemed to be her fate to-day to meet people who were going to america. "when did you decide to do that?" asked jill. she had been looking at him, puzzled. years of association with uncle chris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was sure that there was something on his mind. it was not likely that the others had noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane as ever. but something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went, an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was not well. she was a little troubled, but not greatly. uncle chris was not the sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. it was probably some mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes, once they were alone together. she reached out and patted his sleeve affectionately. she was fonder of uncle chris than of anyone in the world except derek. "the thought," said uncle chris, "came to me this morning, as i read my morning paper while breakfasting. it has grown and developed during the day. at this moment you might almost call it an obsession. i am very fond of america. i spent several happy years there. on that occasion i set sail for the land of promise, i admit, somewhat reluctantly. of my own free will i might never have made the expedition. but the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favour of my doing so that i yielded to what i might call a public demand. the willing hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, and i did not resist them. i have never regretted it. america is a part of every young man's education. you ought to go there, freddie." "rummily enough," said freddie, "i was saying just before you came in that i had half a mind to pop over. only it's rather a bally fag, starting. getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing." nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silent sigh. mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties. "america," said uncle chris, "taught me poker, for which i can never be sufficiently grateful. also an exotic pastime styled craps--or, alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a very present help in time of trouble. at craps, i fear, my hand in late years has lost much of its cunning. i have had little opportunity of practising. but as a young man i was no mean exponent of the art. let me see," said uncle chris meditatively. "what was the precise ritual? ah! i have it, 'come, little seven!'" "'come, eleven!'" exclaimed nelly excitedly. "'baby....' i feel convinced that in some manner the word baby entered into it." "'baby needs new shoes!'" "'baby needs new shoes!' precisely!" "it sounds to me," said freddie, "dashed silly." "oh, no!" cried nelly reproachfully. "well, what i mean is, there's no sense in it, don't you know." "it is a noble pursuit," said uncle chris firmly. "worthy of the great nation that has produced it. no doubt, when i return to america, i shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill." "you aren't returning to america," said jill. "you're going to stay safe at home like a good little uncle. i'm not going to have you running wild all over the world at your age." "age?" declaimed uncle chris. "what is my age? at the present moment i feel in the neighbourhood of twenty-one, and ambition is tapping me on the shoulder and whispering 'young man, go west!' the years are slipping away from me, my dear jill--slipping so quickly that in a few minutes you will be wondering why my nurse does not come to fetch me. the wanderlust is upon me. i gaze around me at all this prosperity in which i am lapped," said uncle chris, eyeing the arm-chair severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me, and i feel staggered. i want activity. i want to be braced!" "you would hate it," said jill composedly. "you know you're the laziest old darling in the world." "exactly what i am endeavouring to point out. i _am_ lazy. or, i was till this morning." "something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. i can see that." "i wallowed in gross comfort. i was what shakespeare calls a 'fat and greasy citizen'!" "please, uncle chris!" protested jill. "not while i'm eating buttered toast!" "but now i am myself again." "that's splendid." "i have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted uncle chris, "and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. i have heard the song--how long! how long! pull out on the trail again!" "he can also recite 'gunga din,'" said jill to nelly. "i really must apologize for all this. he's usually as good as gold." "i believe i know how he feels," said nelly softly. "of course you do. you and i, miss bryant, are of the gipsies of the world. we are not vegetables like young rooke here." "eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. he had been watching nelly's face. its wistfulness attracted him. "we are only happy," proceeded uncle chris, "when we are wandering." "you should see uncle chris wander to his club in the morning," said jill. "he trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely defying fatigue." "that," said uncle chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. i shudder at the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." he expanded his chest. "i shall be a different man in america. america would make a different man of _you_, freddie." "i'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man. uncle chris turned to nelly, pointing dramatically. "young woman, go west! return to your bracing home, and leave this enervating london! you...." nelly got up abruptly. she could endure no more. "i believe i'll have to be going now," she said. "bill misses me if i'm away long. good-bye. thank you ever so much for what you did." "it was awfully kind of you to come round," said jill. "good-bye, major selby." "good-bye." "good-bye, mr. rooke." freddie awoke from another reverie. "eh? oh, i say, half a jiffy. i think i may as well be toddling along myself. about time i was getting back to dress for dinner and all that. see you home, may i, and then i'll get a taxi at victoria. toodle-oo, everybody." * * * * * freddie escorted nelly through the hall and opened the front door for her. the night was cool and cloudy and there was still in the air that odd, rejuvenating suggestion of spring. a wet fragrance came from the dripping trees. "topping evening!" said freddie conversationally. "yes." they walked through the square in silence. freddie shot an appreciative glance at his companion. freddie, as he would have admitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. the modern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for a chappie of peaceful tastes. now, this girl, on the other hand, had all the earmarks of being something of a topper. she had a soft voice. rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft and pleasing voice. she was mild and unaggressive, and these were qualities which freddie esteemed. freddie, though this was a thing he would not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort of girls he had to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. they were too dashed clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to score off a fellow. this one was not like that. not a bit. she was gentle and quiet and what not. it was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quiet she was. she had not said a word for the last five minutes. he was just about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a street lamp, he perceived that she was crying--crying very softly to herself, like a child in the dark. "good god!" said freddie appalled. there were two things in life with which he felt totally unable to cope--crying girls and dog-fights. the glimpse he had caught of nelly's face froze him into a speechlessness which lasted until they reached daubeny street and stopped at her door. "good-bye," said nelly. "good-bye-ee!" said freddie mechanically. "that's to say, i mean to say, half a second!" he added quickly. he faced her nervously, with one hand on the grimy railings. this wanted looking into. when it came to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping, well, it was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it. "what's up?" he demanded. "it's nothing. good-bye." "but, my dear old soul," said freddie, clutching the railing for moral support, "it is something. it must be! you might not think it, to look at me, but i'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and i can _see_ there's something up. why not give me the jolly old scenario and see if we can't do something?" nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. she was thoroughly ashamed of herself. "i'm a fool!" "no, no!" "yes, i am. i don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you all talking like that about going to america, just as if it was the easiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it, kind of got me going. and to think i could be there right now if i wasn't a bonehead!" "a bonehead?" "a simp. i'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, but above that i'm reinforced concrete." freddie groped for her meaning. "do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?" "i pulled the worst kind of bone. i stopped on in london when the rest of the company went back home, and now i've got to stick." "rush of jolly old professional engagements, what?" nelly laughed bitterly. "you're a bad guesser. no, they haven't started to fight over me yet. i'm at liberty, as they say in the _era_." "but, my dear old thing," said freddie earnestly, "if you've nothing to keep you in england, why not pop back to america? i mean to say, home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world. there's nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. why, dash it, i remember staying with an old aunt of mine up in scotland the year before last and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, and i raved--absolutely gibbered--for the sight of the merry old metrop. sometimes i'd wake up in the night, thinking i was back at the albany, and, by jove, when i found i wasn't i howled like a dog! you take my tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat." "which line?" "how do you mean, which line? oh, i see, you mean which line? well ... well ... i've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard to say. but i hear the cunard well spoken of, and then again some chappies swear by the white star. but i should imagine you can't go far wrong, whichever you pick. they're all pretty ripe, i fancy." "which of them is giving free trips? that's the point." "eh? oh!" her meaning dawned upon freddie. he regarded her with deep consternation. life had treated him so kindly that he had almost forgotten that there existed a class which had not as much money as himself. sympathy welled up beneath his perfectly fitting waistcoat. it was a purely disinterested sympathy. the fact that nelly was a girl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not affect him. what mattered was that she was hard up. the thought hurt freddie like a blow. he hated the idea of anyone being hard up. "i say!" he said. "are you broke?" nelly laughed. "am i? if dollars were doughnuts, i wouldn't even have the hole in the middle." freddie was stirred to his depths. except for the beggars in the streets, to whom he gave shillings, he had not met anyone for years who had not plenty of money. he had friends at his clubs who frequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands on a bally penny, but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on generally turned out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car. "good god!" he said. there was a pause. then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble in his breast-pocket. rummy how things worked out for the best, however scaly they might seem at the moment. only an hour or so ago he had been kicking himself for not having remembered that fifty-pound note, tacked on to the lining of his coat, when it would have come in handy at the police-station. he now saw that providence had had the matter well in hand. if he had remembered it and coughed it up to the constabulary then, he wouldn't have had it now. and he needed it now. a mood of quixotic generosity had surged upon him. with swift fingers he jerked the note free from its moorings and displayed it like a conjurer exhibiting a rabbit. "my dear old thing," he said, "i can't stand it! i absolutely cannot stick it at any price! i really must insist on your trousering this. positively!" nelly bryant gazed at the note with wide eyes. she was stunned. she took it limply, and looked at it under the dim light of the gas-lamp over the door. "i couldn't!" she cried. "oh, but really! you must!" "but this is a fifty-pound!" "absolutely! it will take you back to new york, what? you asked which line was giving free trips. the freddie rooke line, by jove, sailings every wednesday and saturday! i mean, what?" "but i can't take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!" "oh, rather. of course you can." there was another pause. "you'll think--" nelly's pale face flushed. "you'll think i told you all about myself just--just because i wanted to...." "to make a touch? absolutely not! rid yourself of the jolly old supposition entirely. you see before you, old thing, a chappie who knows more about borrowing money than any man in london. i mean to say, i've had my ear bitten more often than anyone, i should think. there are sixty-four ways of making a touch--i've had them all worked on me by divers blighters here and there--and i can tell any of them with my eyes shut. i know you weren't dreaming of any such thing." the note crackled musically in nelly's hand. "i don't know what to say!" "that's all right." "i don't see why.... gee! i wish i could tell you what i think of you!" freddie laughed amusedly. "do you know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters, you know--used to say to me at school." "are you sure you can spare it?" "oh, rather." nelly's eyes shone in the light of the lamp. "i've never met anyone like you before. i don't know how...." freddie shuffled nervously. being thanked always made him feel pretty rotten. "well, i think i'll be popping," he said. "got to get back and dress and all that. awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort of rot." nelly unlocked the door with her latch-key, and stood on the step. "i'll buy a fur-wrap," she said, half to herself. "great wheeze! i should!" "and some nuts for bill!" "bill?" "the parrot." "oh, the jolly old parrot! rather! well, cheerio!" "good-bye.... you've been awfully good to me." "oh, no," said freddie uncomfortably. "any time you're passing...." "awfully good.... well, good-bye." "toodle-oo!" "maybe we'll meet again some day." "i hope so. absolutely!" there was a little scurry of feet. something warm and soft pressed for an instant against freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back, nelly bryant skipped up the steps and vanished through the door. "good god!" freddie felt his cheek. he was aware of an odd mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration. from the area below a slight cough sounded. freddie turned sharply. a maid in a soiled cap, worn coquettishly over one ear, was gazing intently up through the railings. their eyes met. freddie turned a warm pink. it seemed to him that the maid had the air of one about to giggle. "damn!" said freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. he wondered whether he had made a frightful ass of himself, spraying bank-notes all over the place like that to comparative strangers. then a vision came to him of nelly's eyes as they had looked at him in the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely not. rummy as the gadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. it was a binge of which he thoroughly approved. a good egg! ii jill, when freddie and nelly left the room, had seated herself on a low stool, and sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. she was wondering if she had been mistaken in supposing that uncle chris was worried about something. this restlessness of his, this desire for movement, was strange in him. hitherto he had been like a dear old cosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced so eloquently. she watched him as he took up his favourite stand in front of the fire. "nice girl," said uncle chris. "who was she?" "somebody freddie met," said jill diplomatically. there was no need to worry uncle chris with details of the afternoon's happenings. "very nice girl." uncle chris took out his cigar-case. "no need to ask if i may, thank goodness." he lit a cigar. "do you remember, jill, years ago, when you were quite small, how i used to blow smoke in your face?" jill smiled. "of course i do. you said that you were training me for marriage. you said that there were no happy marriages except where the wife didn't mind the smell of tobacco. well, it's lucky, as a matter of fact, for derek smokes all the time." uncle chris took up his favourite stand against the fireplace. "you're very fond of derek, aren't you, jill?" "of course i am. you are, too, aren't you?" "fine chap. very fine chap. plenty of money, too. it's a great relief," said uncle chris, puffing vigorously. "a thundering relief." he looked over jill's head down the room. "it's fine to think of you happily married, dear, with everything in the world that you want." uncle chris' gaze wandered down to where jill sat. a slight mist affected his eyesight. jill had provided a solution for the great problem of his life. marriage had always appalled him, but there was this to be said for it, that married people had daughters. he had always wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be proud of; and fate had given him jill at precisely the right age. a child would have bored uncle chris--he was fond of children, but they made the deuce of a noise and regarded jam as an external ornament--but a delightful little girl of fourteen was different. jill and he had been very close to each other since her mother had died, a year after the death of her father, and had left her in his charge. he had watched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderment in it--she seemed to grow so quickly--and had been fonder and prouder of her at every stage of her tumultuous career. "you're a dear," said jill. she stroked the trouser-leg that was nearest. "how _do_ you manage to get such a wonderful crease? you really are a credit to me!" there was a momentary silence. a shade of embarrassment made itself noticeable in uncle chris' frank gaze. he gave a little cough, and pulled at his moustache. "i wish i were, my dear," he said soberly. "i wish i were. i'm afraid i'm a poor sort of a fellow, jill." jill looked up. "what do you mean?" "a poor sort of a fellow," repeated uncle chris. "your mother was foolish to trust you to me. your father had more sense. he always said i was a wrong 'un." jill got up quickly. she was certain now that she had been right, and that there was something on her uncle's mind. "what's the matter, uncle chris? something's happened. what is it?" uncle chris turned to knock the ash off his cigar. the movement gave him time to collect himself for what lay before him. he had one of those rare volatile natures which can ignore the blows of fate so long as their effects are not brought home by visible evidence of disaster. he lived in the moment, and, though matters had been as bad at breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when he confronted jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them. he was a man who hated ordeals, and one faced him now. until this moment he had been able to detach his mind from a state of affairs which would have weighed unceasingly upon another man. his mind was a telephone which he could cut off at will, when the voice of trouble wished to speak. the time would arrive, he had been aware, when he would have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refused to listen. now it could be evaded no longer. "jill." "yes?" uncle chris paused again, searching for the best means of saying what had to be said. "jill, i don't know if you understand about these things, but there was what is called a slump on the stock exchange this morning. in other words...." jill laughed. "of course i know all about that," she said. "poor freddie wouldn't talk about anything else till i made him. he was terribly blue when he got here this afternoon. he said he had got 'nipped' in amalgamated dyes. he had lost about two hundred pounds, and was furious with a friend of his who had told him to buy margins." uncle chris cleared his throat. "jill, i'm afraid i've got bad news for you. i bought amalgamated dyes, too." he worried his moustache. "i lost heavily, very heavily." "how naughty of you! you know you oughtn't to gamble." "jill, you must be brave. i--i--well, the fact is--it's no good beating about the bush--i lost everything! everything!" "everything?" "everything! it's all gone! all fooled away. it's a terrible business. this house will have to go." "but--but doesn't the house belong to me?" "i was your trustee, dear." uncle chris smoked furiously. "thank heaven you're going to marry a rich man!" jill stood looking at him, perplexed. money, as money, had never entered into her life. there were things one wanted which had to be paid for with money, but uncle chris had always looked after that. she had taken them for granted. "i don't understand," she said. and then suddenly she realized that she did, and a great wave of pity for uncle chris flooded over her. he was such an old dear. it must be horrible for him to have to stand there, telling her all this. she felt no sense of injury, only the discomfort of having to witness the humiliation of her oldest friend. uncle chris was bound up inextricably with everything in her life that was pleasant. she could remember him, looking exactly the same, only with a thicker and wavier crop of hair, playing with her patiently and unwearied for hours in the hot sun, a cheerful martyr. she could remember sitting up with him when she came home from her first grownup dance, drinking cocoa and talking and talking and talking till the birds outside sang the sun high up into the sky and it was breakfast time. she could remember theatres with him, and jolly little suppers afterwards; expeditions into the country, with lunches at queer old inns; days on the river, days at hurlingham, days at lords', days at the academy. he had always been the same, always cheerful, always kind. he was uncle chris, and he would always be uncle chris, whatever he had done or whatever he might do. she slipped her arm in his and gave it a squeeze. "poor old thing!" she said. uncle chris had been looking straight out before him with those fine blue eyes of his. there had been just a touch of sternness in his attitude. a stranger, coming into the room at that moment, would have said that here was a girl trying to coax her blunt, straightforward, military father into some course of action of which his honest nature disapproved. he might have been posing for a statue of rectitude. as jill spoke, he seemed to cave in. "poor old thing?" he repeated limply. "of course you are! and stop trying to look dignified and tragic! because it doesn't suit you. you're much too well dressed." "but, my dear, you don't understand! you haven't realized!" "yes, i do. yes, i have!" "i've spent all your money--_your_ money!" "i know! what does it matter?" "what does it matter! jill, don't you hate me?" "as if anyone could hate an old darling like you!" uncle chris threw away his cigar, and put his arms round jill. for a moment a dreadful fear came to her that he was going to cry. she prayed that he wouldn't cry. it would be too awful. it would be a memory of which she could never rid herself. she felt as though he were someone extraordinarily young and unable to look after himself, someone she must soothe and protect. "jill," said uncle chris, choking, "you're--you're--you're a little warrior!" jill kissed him and moved away. she busied herself with some flowers, her back turned. the tension had been relieved, and she wanted to give him time to recover his poise. she knew him well enough to be sure that, sooner or later, the resiliency of his nature would assert itself. he could never remain long in the depths. the silence had the effect of making her think more clearly than in the first rush of pity she had been able to do. she was able now to review the matter as it affected herself. it had not been easy to grasp, the blunt fact that she was penniless, that all this comfort which surrounded her was no longer her own. for an instant a kind of panic seized her. there was a bleakness about the situation which made one gasp. it was like icy water dashed in the face. realization had almost the physical pain of life returning to a numbed limb. her hands shook as she arranged the flowers, and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out. she fought panic eye to eye, and beat it down. uncle chris, swiftly recovering by the fireplace, never knew that the fight had taken place. he was feeling quite jovial again now that the unpleasant business of breaking the news was over, and was looking on the world with the eye of a debonair gentleman-adventurer. as far as he was concerned, he told himself, this was the best thing that could have happened. he had been growing old and sluggish in prosperity. he needed a fillip. the wits by which he had once lived so merrily had been getting blunt in their easy retirement. he welcomed the opportunity of matching them once more against the world. he was remorseful as regarded jill, but the optimist in him, never crushed for long, told him that jill would be all right. she would step from the sinking ship to the safe refuge of derek underhill's wealth and position, while he went out to seek a new life. uncle chris' blue eyes gleamed with a new fire as he pictured himself in this new life. he felt like a hunter setting out on a hunting expedition. there were always adventures and the spoils of war for the man with brains to find them and gather them in. but it was a mercy that jill had derek.... jill was thinking of derek, too. panic had fled, and a curious exhilaration had seized upon her. if derek wanted her now, it would be because his love was the strongest thing in the world. she would come to him like the beggar-maid to cophetua. uncle chris broke the silence with a cough. at the sound of it, jill smiled again. she knew it for what it was, a sign that he was himself again. "tell me, uncle chris," she said, "just how bad is it? when you said everything was gone, did you really mean everything, or were you being melodramatic? exactly how do we stand?" "it's dashed hard to say, my dear. i expect we shall find there are a few hundreds left. enough to see you through till you get married. after that it won't matter." uncle chris flicked a particle of dust off his coat-sleeve. jill could not help feeling that the action was symbolical of his attitude towards life. he nicked away life's problems with just the same airy carelessness. "you mustn't worry about me, my dear. i shall be all right. i have made my way in the world before, and i can do it again. i shall go to america and try my luck there. amazing how many opportunities there are in america. really, as far as i am concerned, this is the best thing that could have happened. i have been getting abominably lazy. if i had gone on living my present life for another year or two, why, dash it, i honestly believe i should have succumbed to some sort of senile decay. positively i should have got fatty degeneration of the brain! this will be the making of me." jill sat down on the lounge and laughed till there were tears in her eyes. uncle chris might be responsible for this disaster, but he was certainly making it endurable. however greatly he might be deserving of censure, from the standpoint of the sterner morality, he made amends. if he brought the whole world crashing in chaos about one's ears, at least he helped one to smile among the ruins. "did you ever read 'candide,' uncle chris?" "'candide'?" uncle chris shook his head. he was not a great reader, except of the sporting press. "it's a book by voltaire. there's a character in it called doctor pangloss, who thought that everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds." uncle chris felt a touch of embarrassment. it occurred to him that he had been betrayed by his mercurial temperament into an attitude which, considering the circumstances, was perhaps a trifle too jubilant. he gave his moustache a pull, and reverted to the minor key. "oh, you mustn't think that i don't appreciate the terrible, the criminal thing i have done! i blame myself," said uncle chris cordially, nicking another speck of dust off his sleeve. "i blame myself bitterly. your mother ought never to have made me your trustee, my dear. but she always believed in me, in spite of everything, and this is how i have repaid her." he blew his nose to cover a not unmanly emotion. "i wasn't fitted for the position. never become a trustee, jill. it's the devil, is trust money. however much you argue with yourself, you can't--dash it, you simply can't believe that it's not your own, to do as you like with, there it sits, smiling at you, crying 'spend me! spend me!' and you find yourself dipping--dipping--till one day there's nothing left to dip for--only a far-off rustling--the ghosts of dead bank-notes. that's how it was with me. the process was almost automatic. i hardly knew it was going on. here a little--there a little. it was like snow melting on a mountain-top. and one morning--all gone!" uncle chris drove the point home with a gesture. "i did what i could. when i found that there were only a few hundreds left, for your sake i took a chance. all heart and no head! there you have christopher selby in a nutshell! a man at the club, a fool named--i've forgotten his damn name--recommended amalgamated dyestuffs as a speculation. monroe, that was his name, jimmy monroe. he talked about the future of british dyes now that germany was out of the race, and ... well, the long and short of it was that i took his advice and bought on margin. bought like the devil. and this morning amalgamated dyestuffs went all to blazes. there you have the whole story!" "and now," said jill, "comes the sequel!" "the sequel?" said uncle chris breezily. "happiness, my dear, happiness! wedding bells and--and all that sort of thing!" he straddled the hearth-rug manfully, and swelled his chest out. he would permit no pessimism on this occasion of rejoicing. "you don't suppose that the fact of your having lost your money--that is to say--er--of _my_ having lost your money--will affect a splendid young fellow like derek underhill? i know him better than to think that! i've always liked him. he's a man you can trust! besides," he added reflectively, "there's no need to tell him! till after the wedding, i mean. it won't be hard to keep up appearances here for a month or so." "of course we must tell him!" "you think it wise?" "i don't know about it being wise. it's the only thing to do. i must see him to-night. oh, i forgot. he was going away this afternoon for a day or two." "capital! it will give you time to think it over." "i don't want to think it over. there's nothing to think about." "of course, yes, of course. quite so." "i shall write him a letter." "write, eh?" "it's easier to put what one wants to say in a letter." "letters," began uncle chris, and stopped as the door opened. jane, the parlourmaid, entered, carrying a salver. "for me?" asked uncle chris. "for miss jill, sir." jill took the note off the salver. "it's from derek." "there's a messenger-boy waiting, miss," said jane. "he wasn't told if there was an answer." "if the note is from derek," said uncle chris, "it's not likely to want an answer. you said he left town to-day." jill opened the envelope. "is there an answer, miss?" asked jane, after what she considered a suitable interval. she spoke tenderly. she was a great admirer of derek, and considered it a pretty action on his part to send notes like this when he was compelled to leave london. "any answer, jill?" jill seemed to rouse herself. she had turned oddly pale. "no, no answer, jane." "thank you, miss," said jane, and went off to tell the cook that in her opinion jill was lacking in heart. "it might have been a bill instead of a love-letter," said jane to the cook with indignation, "the way she read it. i like people to have a little feeling!" jill sat turning the letter over and over in her fingers. her face was very white. there seemed to be a big, heavy, leaden something inside her. a cold hand clutched her throat. uncle chris, who at first had noticed nothing untoward, now began to find the silence sinister. "no bad news, i hope, dear?" jill turned the letter between her fingers. "jill, is it bad news?" "derek has broken off the engagement," said jill in a dull voice. she let the note fall to the floor, and sat with her chin in her hands. "what!" uncle chris leaped from the hearth-rug, as though the fire had suddenly scorched him. "what did you say?" "he's broken it off." "the hound!" cried uncle chris. "the blackguard! the--the--i never liked that man! i never trusted him!" he fumed for a moment. "but--but--it isn't possible. how can he have heard about what's happened? he couldn't know. it's--it's--it isn't possible!" "he doesn't know. it has nothing to do with that." "but...." uncle chris stooped to where the note lay. "may i...?" "yes, you can read it if you like." uncle chris produced a pair of reading-glasses, and glared through them at the sheet of paper as though it were some loathsome insect. "the hound! the cad! if i were a younger man," shouted uncle chris, smiting the letter violently, "if i were.... jill! my dear little jill!" he plunged down on his knees beside her, as she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. "my little girl! damn that man! my dear little girl! the cad! the devil! my own darling little girl! i'll thrash him within an inch of his life!" the clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes. jill got up. her face was wet and quivering, but her mouth had set in a brave line. "jill, dear!" she let his hand close over hers. "everything's happening all at once this afternoon, uncle chris, isn't it!" she smiled a twisted smile. "you look so funny! your hair's all rumpled, and your glasses are over on one side!" uncle chris breathed heavily through his nose. "when i meet that man...." he began portentously. "oh, what's the good of bothering! it's not worth it! nothing's worth it!" jill stopped and faced him, her hands clenched. "let's get away! let's get right away! i want to get right away, uncle chris! take me away! anywhere! take me to america with you! i must get away!" uncle chris raised his right hand, and shook it. his reading-glasses, hanging from his left ear, bobbed drunkenly. "we'll sail by the next boat! the very next boat, dammit! i'll take care of you, dear. i've been a blackguard to you, my little girl. i've robbed you, and swindled you. but i'll make up for it, by george! i'll make up for it! i'll give you a new home, as good as this, if i die for it. there's nothing i won't do! nothing! by jove!" shouted uncle chris, raising his voice in a red-hot frenzy of emotion, "i'll work! yes, by gad, if it comes right down to it, i'll work!" he brought his fist down with a crash on the table where derek's flowers stood in their bowl. the bowl leaped in the air and tumbled over, scattering the flowers on the floor. chapter vii jill catches the 10.10 i in the lives of each one of us, as we look back and review them in retrospect, there are certain desert wastes from which memory winces like some tired traveller faced with a dreary stretch of road. even from the security of later happiness we cannot contemplate them without a shudder. it took one of the most competent firms in the metropolis four days to produce some sort of order in the confusion resulting from major selby's financial operations; and during those days jill existed in a state of being which could be defined as living only in that she breathed and ate and comported herself outwardly like a girl and not a ghost. boards announcing that the house was for sale appeared against the railings through which jane the parlourmaid conducted her daily conversations with the tradesmen. strangers roamed the rooms eyeing and appraising the furniture. uncle chris, on whom disaster had had a quickening and vivifying effect, was everywhere at once, an impressive figure of energy. one may be wronging uncle chris, but to the eye of the casual observer he seemed in these days of trial to be having the time of his life. jill varied the monotony of sitting in her room--which was the only place in the house where one might be sure of not encountering a furniture-broker's man with a note-book and pencil--by taking long walks. she avoided as far as possible the small area which had once made up the whole of london for her, but even so she was not always successful in escaping from old acquaintances. once, butting through lennox gardens on her way to that vast, desolate king's road which stretches its length out into regions unknown to those whose london is the west end, she happened upon freddie rooke, who had been paying a call in his best, and a pair of white spats which would have cut his friend henry to the quick. it was not an enjoyable meeting. freddie, keenly alive to the awkwardness of the situation, was scarlet and incoherent; and jill, who desired nothing less than to talk with one so intimately connected in her mind with all that she had lost, was scarcely more collected. they parted without regret. the only satisfaction that came to jill from the encounter was the knowledge that derek was still out of town. he had wired for his things, said freddie, and had retreated further north. freddie, it seemed, had been informed of the broken engagement by lady underhill in an interview which appeared to have left a lasting impression on his mind. of jill's monetary difficulties he had heard nothing. after this meeting, jill felt a slight diminution of the oppression which weighed upon her. she could not have borne to have come unexpectedly upon derek, and, now that there was no danger of that, she found life a little easier. the days passed somehow, and finally there came the morning, when, accompanied by uncle chris--voluble and explanatory about the details of what he called "getting everything settled"--she rode in a taxi to take the train for southampton. her last impression of london was of rows upon rows of mean houses, of cats wandering in back-yards among groves of home-washed underclothing, and a smoky greyness which gave way, as the train raced on, to the clearer grey of the suburbs and the good green and brown of the open country. then the bustle and confusion of the liner; the calm monotony of the journey, when one came on deck each morning to find the vessel so manifestly in the same spot where it had been the morning before that it was impossible to realize that many hundred miles of ocean had really been placed behind one; and finally the ambrose channel lightship and the great bulk of new york rising into the sky like a city of fairyland, heartening yet sinister, at once a welcome and a menace. "there you are, my dear?" said uncle chris indulgently, as though it were a toy he had made for her with his own hands. "new york!" they were standing on the boat-deck, leaning over the rail. jill caught her breath. for the first time since disaster had come upon her she was conscious of a rising of her spirits. it is impossible to behold the huge buildings which fringe the harbour of new york without a sense of expectancy and excitement. there had remained in jill's mind from childhood memories a vague picture of what she now saw, but it had been feeble and inadequate. the sight of this towering city seemed somehow to blot out everything that had gone before. the feeling of starting afresh was strong upon her. uncle chris, the old traveller, was not emotionally affected. he smoked placidly and talked in a wholly earthy strain of grape-fruit and buckwheat cakes. it was now, also for the first time, that uncle chris touched upon future prospects in a practical manner. on the voyage he had been eloquent but sketchy. with the land of promise within biscuit-throw and the tugs bustling about the great liner's skirts like little dogs about their mistress, he descended to details. "i shall get a room somewhere," said uncle chris, "and start looking about me. i wonder if the old holland house is still there. i fancy i heard they'd pulled it down. capital place. i had a steak there in the year.... but i expect they've pulled it down. but i shall find somewhere to go. i'll write and tell you my address directly i've got one." jill removed her gaze from the sky-line with a start. "write to me?" "didn't i tell you about that?" said uncle chris cheerily--avoiding her eye, however, for he had realized all along that it might be a little bit awkward breaking the news. "i've arranged that you shall go and stay for the time being down at brookport--on long island, you know--over in that direction--with your uncle elmer. daresay you've forgotten you have an uncle elmer, eh?" he went on quickly, as jill was about to speak. "your father's brother. used to be in business, but retired some years ago and goes in for amateur farming. corn and--and corn," said uncle chris. "all that sort of thing. you'll like him. capital chap! never met him myself, but always heard," said uncle chris, who had never to his recollection heard any comments upon mr. elmer mariner whatever, "that he was a splendid fellow. directly we decided to sail, i cabled to him, and got an answer saying that he would be delighted to put you up. you'll be quite happy there." jill listened to this programme with dismay. new york was calling to her, and brookport held out no attractions at all. she looked down over the side at the tugs puffing their way through the broken blocks of ice that reminded her of a cocoanut candy familiar to her childhood. "but i want to be with you," she protested. "impossible, my dear, for the present. i shall be very busy, very busy indeed for some weeks, until i have found my feet. really, you would be in the way. he--er--travels the fastest who travels alone! i must be in a position to go anywhere and do anything at a moment's notice. but always remember, my dear," said uncle chris, patting her shoulder affectionately, "that i shall be working for you. i have treated you very badly, but i intend to make up for it. i shall not forget that whatever money i may make will really belong to you." he looked at her benignly, like a monarch of finance who has earmarked a million or two for the benefit of a deserving charity. "you shall have it all, jill." he had so much the air of having conferred a substantial benefit upon her that jill felt obliged to thank him. uncle chris had always been able to make people grateful for the phantom gold which he showered upon them. he was as lavish a man with the money he was going to get next week as ever borrowed a five-pound note to see him through till saturday. "what are you going to do, uncle chris?" asked jill curiously. apart from a nebulous idea that he intended to saunter through the city picking dollar-bills off the sidewalk, she had no inkling of his plans. uncle chris toyed with his short moustache. he was not quite equal to a direct answer on the spur of the moment. he had a faith in his star. something would turn up. something always had turned up in the old days, and doubtless, with the march of civilization, opportunities had multiplied. somewhere behind those tall buildings the goddess of luck awaited him, her hands full of gifts, but precisely what those gifts would be he was not in a position to say. "i shall--ah--how shall i put it--?" "look round?" suggested jill. "precisely," said uncle chris gratefully. "look round. i daresay you have noticed that i have gone out of my way during the voyage to make myself agreeable to our fellow-travellers? i had an object. acquaintances begun on shipboard will often ripen into useful friendships ashore. when i was a young man i never neglected the opportunities which an ocean voyage affords. the offer of a book here, a steamer-rug there, a word of encouragement to a chatty bore in the smoke-room--these are small things, but they may lead to much. one meets influential people on a liner. you wouldn't think it to look at him, but that man with the eye-glasses and the thin nose i was talking to just now is one of the richest men in milwaukee!" "but it's not much good having rich friends in milwaukee when you are in new york!" "exactly. there you have put your finger on the very point i have been trying to make. it will probably be necessary for me to travel. and for that i must be alone. i must be a mobile force. i should dearly like to keep you with me, but you can see for yourself that for the moment you would be an encumbrance. later on, no doubt, when my affairs are more settled...." "oh, i understand. i'm resigned. but, oh dear! it's going to be very dull down at brookport." "nonsense, nonsense! it's a delightful spot." "have you been there?" "no. but of course everybody knows brookport. healthy, invigorating.... sure to be. the very name.... you'll be as happy as the days are long!" "and how long will the days be!" "come, come. you mustn't look on the dark side." "is there another?" jill laughed. "you are an old humbug, uncle chris. you know perfectly well what you're condemning me to. i expect brookport will be like a sort of southend in winter. oh, well, i'll be brave. but do hurry and make a fortune, because i want to come to new york." "my dear," said uncle chris solemnly, "if there is a dollar lying loose in this city, rest assured that i shall have it! and, if it's not loose, i will detach it with the greatest possible speed. you have only known me in my decadence, an idle and unprofitable london clubman. i can assure you that lurking beneath the surface, there is a business acumen given to few men...." "oh, if you are going to talk poetry," said jill, "i'll leave you. anyhow, i ought to be getting below and putting my things together." ii if jill's vision of brookport as a wintry southend was not entirely fulfilled, neither was uncle chris' picture of it as an earthly paradise. at the right time of the year, like most of the summer resorts on the south shore of long island, it is not without its attractions; but january is not the month which most people would choose for living in it. it presented itself to jill on first acquaintance in the aspect of a wind-swept railroad station, dumped down far away from human habitation in the middle of a stretch of flat and ragged country that reminded her a little of parts of surrey. the station was just a shed on a foundation of planks which lay flush with the rails. from this shed, as the train clanked in, there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. he had a clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at jill with small eyes. something in his expression reminded jill of her father, as a bad caricature of a public man will recall the original. she introduced herself. "if you're uncle elmer," she said, "i'm jill." the man held out a long hand. he did not smile. he was as bleak as the east wind that swept the platform. "glad to meet you again," he said in a melancholy voice. it was news to jill that they had met before. she wondered where. her uncle supplied the information. "last time i saw you, you were a kiddy in short frocks, running round and shouting to beat the band." he looked up and down the platform. "_i_ never heard a child make so much noise!" "i'm quite quiet now," said jill encouragingly. the recollection of her infant revelry seemed to her to be distressing her relative. it appeared, however, that it was not only this that was on his mind. "if you want to drive home," he said, "we'll have to 'phone to the durham house for a hack." he brooded a while, jill remaining silent at his side, loath to break in upon whatever secret sorrow he was wrestling with. "that would be a dollar," he went on. "they're robbers in these parts! a dollar! and it's not over a mile and a half. are you fond of walking?" jill was a bright girl, and could take a hint. "i love walking," she said. she might have added that she preferred to do it on a day when the wind was not blowing quite so keenly from the east, but her uncle's obvious excitement at the prospect of cheating the rapacity of the sharks at the durham house restrained her. her independent soul had not quite adjusted itself to the prospect of living on the bounty of her fellows, relatives though they were, and she was desirous of imposing as light a burden upon them as possible. "but how about my trunk?" "the expressman will bring that up. fifty cents!" said uncle elmer in a crushed way. the high cost of entertaining seemed to be afflicting this man deeply. "oh, yes," said jill. she could not see how this particular expenditure was to be avoided. anxious as she was to make herself pleasant, she declined to consider carrying the trunk to their destination. "shall we start, then?" mr. mariner led the way out into the ice-covered road. the wind welcomed them like a boisterous dog. for some minutes they proceeded in silence. "your aunt will be glad to see you," said mr. mariner at last in the voice with which one announces the death of a dear friend. "it's awfully kind of you to have me to stay with you," said jill. it is a human tendency to think, when crises occur, in terms of melodrama, and unconsciously she had begun to regard herself somewhat in the light of a heroine driven out into the world from the old home, with no roof to shelter her head. the promptitude with which these good people, who, though relatives, were after all complete strangers, had offered her a resting-place touched her. "i hope i shan't be in the way." "major selby was speaking to me on the telephone just now," said mr. mariner, "and he said that you might be thinking of settling down in brookport. i've some nice little places round here which you might like to look at. rent or buy. it's cheaper to buy. brookport's a growing place. it's getting known as a summer resort. there's a bungalow down on the shore i'd like to show you to-morrow. stands in a nice large plot of ground, and if you bought it for twelve thousand you'd be getting a bargain." jill was too astonished to speak. plainly uncle chris had made no mention of the change in her fortunes, and this man looked on her as a girl of wealth. she could only think how typical this was of uncle chris. there was a sort of boyish impishness about him. she could see him at the telephone, suave and important. he would have hung up the receiver with a complacent smirk, thoroughly satisfied that he had done her an excellent turn. "i put all my money into real estate when i came to live here," went on mr. mariner. "i believe in the place. it's growing all the time." they had come to the outskirts of a straggling village. the lights in the windows gave a welcome suggestion of warmth, for darkness had fallen swiftly during their walk and the chill of the wind had become more biting. there was a smell of salt in the air now, and once or twice jill had caught the low booming of waves on some distant beach. this was the atlantic pounding the sandy shore of fire island. brookport itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the great south bay. they passed through the village, bearing to the right, and found themselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big, dark houses. the spectacle of these stimulated mr. mariner to something approaching eloquence. he quoted the price paid for each, the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been paid five years ago. the recital carried them on for another mile, in the course of which the houses became smaller and more scattered, and finally, when the country had become bare and desolate again, they turned down a narrow lane and came to a tall, gaunt house standing by itself in a field. "this is sandringham," said mr. mariner. "what!" said jill. "what did you say?" "sandringham. where we live. i got the name from your father. i remember him telling me there was a place called that in england." "there is." jill's voice bubbled. "the king lives there." "is that so?" said mr. mariner. "well, i bet he doesn't have the trouble with help that we have here. i have to pay our girl fifty dollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after the furnace and chops wood. they're all robbers. and if you kick they quit on you!" iii jill endured sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on that period of her life later, she wondered how she did it. the sense of desolation which had gripped her on the station platform increased rather than diminished as she grew accustomed to her surroundings. the east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a suggestion of warmth, but her uncle's bleakness appeared to be a static quality, independent of weather conditions. her aunt, a faded woman, with a perpetual cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. the rest of the household consisted of a gloomy child, "tibby," aged eight; a spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittent cat, who, when he did put in an appearance, was the life and soul of the party, but whose visits to his home were all too infrequent for jill. the picture which mr. mariner had formed in his mind of jill as a wealthy young lady with a taste for house property continued as vivid as ever. it was his practice each morning to conduct her about the neighbourhood, introducing her to the various houses in which he had sunk most of the money he had made in business. mr. mariner's life centred around brookport real estate, and the embarrassed jill was compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and master's bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her a feeling of nervous exhaustion. most of her uncle's houses were converted farm-houses, and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked, not so darned converted at that. the days she spent at brookport remained in jill's memory as a smell of dampness and chill and closeness. "you want to buy," said mr. mariner every time he shut a front-door behind them. "not rent. buy. then, if you don't want to live here, you can always rent in the summer." it seemed incredible to jill that the summer would ever come. winter held brookport in its grip. for the first time in her life she was tasting real loneliness. she wandered over the snow-patched fields down to the frozen bay, and found the intense stillness, punctuated only by the occasional distant gunshot of some optimist trying for duck, oppressive rather than restful. she looked on the weird beauty of the ice-bound marshes which glittered red and green and blue in the sun with unseeing eyes; for her isolation was giving her time to think, and thought was a torment. on the eighth day came a letter from uncle chris--a cheerful, even rollicking letter. things were going well with uncle chris, it seemed. as was his habit, he did not enter into details, but he wrote in a spacious way of large things to be, of affairs that were coming out right, of prosperity in sight. as tangible evidence of success, he enclosed a present of twenty dollars for jill to spend in the brookport shops. the letter arrived by the morning mail, and two hours later mr. mariner took jill by one of his usual overland routes to see a house nearer the village than most of those which she had viewed. mr. mariner had exhausted the supply of cottages belonging to himself, and this one was the property of an acquaintance. there would be an agent's fee for him in the deal, if it went through, and mr. mariner was not a man who despised money in small quantities. there was a touch of hopefulness in his gloom this morning, like the first intimation of sunshine after a wet day. he had been thinking the thing over, and had come to the conclusion that jill's unresponsiveness when confronted with the houses she had already seen was due to the fact that she had loftier ideas than he had supposed. something a little more magnificent than the twelve thousand dollar places he had shown her was what she desired. this house stood on a hill looking down on the bay, in several acres of ground. it had its private landing-stage and bath-house, its dairy, its sleeping-porches--everything, in fact, that a sensible girl could want. mr. mariner could not bring himself to suppose that he would fail again to-day. "they're asking a hundred and five thousand," he said, "but i know they'd take a hundred thousand. and, if it was a question of cash down, they would go even lower. it's a fine house. you could entertain there. mrs. bruggenheim rented it last summer, and wanted to buy, but she wouldn't go above ninety thousand. if you want it, you'd better make up your mind quick. a place like this is apt to be snapped up in a hurry." jill could endure it no longer. "but, you see," she said gently, "all i have in the world is twenty dollars!" there was a painful pause. mr. mariner shot a swift glance at her in the hope of discovering that she had spoken humorously, but was compelled to decide that she had not. "twenty dollars!" he exclaimed. "twenty dollars," said jill. "but your father was a rich man." mr. mariner's voice was high and plaintive. "he made a fortune over here before he went to england." "it's all gone. i got nipped," said jill, who was finding a certain amount of humour in the situation, "in amalgamated dyes." "amalgamated dyes?" "they're something," explained jill, "that people get nipped in." mr. mariner digested this. "you speculated?" he gasped. "yes." "you shouldn't have been allowed to do it," said mr. mariner warmly. "major selby, your uncle, ought to have known better than to allow you." "yes, oughtn't he?" said jill demurely. there was another silence, lasting for about a quarter of a mile. "well, it's a bad business," said mr. mariner. "yes," said jill. "i've felt that myself." * * * * * the result of this conversation was to effect a change in the atmosphere of sandringham. the alteration in the demeanour of people of parsimonious habit, when they discover that the guest they are entertaining is a pauper and not, as they had supposed, an heiress, is subtle but well marked. in most cases, more well marked than subtle. nothing was actually said, but there are thoughts that are almost as audible as words. a certain suspense seemed to creep into the air, as happens when a situation has been reached which is too poignant to last. greek tragedy affects the reader with the same sense of overhanging doom. things, we feel, cannot go on as they are. that night, after dinner, mrs. mariner asked jill to read to her. "print tries my eyes so, dear," said mrs. mariner. it was a small thing, but it had the significance of that little cloud that arose out of the sea like a man's hand. jill appreciated the portent. she was, she perceived, to make herself useful. "of course i will," she said cordially. "what would you like me to read?" she hated reading aloud. it always made her throat sore, and her eye skipped to the end of each page and took the interest out of it long before the proper time. but she proceeded bravely, for her conscience was troubling her. her sympathy was divided equally between these unfortunate people who had been saddled with an undesired visitor and herself who had been placed in a position at which every independent nerve in her rebelled. even as a child she had loathed being under obligations to strangers or those whom she did not love. "thank you, dear," said mrs. mariner, when jill's voice had roughened to a weary croak. "you read so well." she wrestled ineffectually with her handkerchief against the cold in the head from which she had always suffered. "it would be nice if you would do it every night, don't you think? you have no idea how tired print makes my eyes." on the following morning after breakfast, at the hour when she had hitherto gone house-hunting with mr. mariner, the child tibby, of whom up till now she had seen little except at meals, presented himself to her, coated and shod for the open and regarding her with a dull and phlegmatic gaze. "ma says will you please take me for a nice walk!" jill's heart sank. she loved children, but tibby was not an ingratiating child. he was a mr. mariner in little. he had the family gloom. it puzzled jill sometimes why this branch of the family should look on life with so jaundiced an eye. she remembered her father as a cheerful man, alive to the small humours of life. "all right, tibby. where shall we go?" "ma says we must keep on the roads and i mustn't slide." jill was thoughtful during the walk. tibby, who was no conversationist, gave her every opportunity for meditation. she perceived that in the space of a few hours she had sunk in the social scale. if there was any difference between her position and that of a paid nurse and companion it lay in the fact that she was not paid. she looked about her at the grim countryside, gave a thought to the chill gloom of the house to which she was about to return, and her heart sank. nearing home, tibby vouched his first independent observation. "the hired man's quit!" "has he?" "yep. quit this morning." it had begun to snow. they turned and made their way back to the house. the information she had received did not cause jill any great apprehension. it was hardly likely that her new duties would include the stoking of the furnace. that and cooking appeared to be the only acts about the house which were outside her present sphere of usefulness. "he killed a rat once in the wood-shed with an axe," said tibby chattily. "yessir! chopped it right in half, and it bled!" "look at the pretty snow falling on the trees," said jill faintly. at breakfast next morning, mrs. mariner having sneezed, made a suggestion. "tibby, darling, wouldn't it be nice if you and cousin jill played a game of pretending you were pioneers in the far west?" "what's a pioneer?" enquired tibby, pausing in the middle of an act of violence on a plate of oatmeal. "the pioneers were the early settlers in this country, dear. you have read about them in your history book. they endured a great many hardships, for life was very rough for them, with no railroads or anything. i think it would be a nice game to play this morning." tibby looked at jill. there was doubt in his eye. jill returned his gaze sympathetically. one thought was in both their minds. "there is a string to this!" said tibby's eye. mrs. mariner sneezed again. "you would have lots of fun," she said. "what'ud we do?" asked tibby cautiously. he had been had this way before. only last summer, on his mother's suggestion that he should pretend he was a shipwrecked sailor on a desert island, he had perspired through a whole afternoon cutting the grass in front of the house to make a shipwrecked sailor's simple bed. "i know," said jill. "we'll pretend we're pioneers stormbound in their log cabin in the woods, and the wolves are howling outside, and they daren't go out, so they make a lovely big fire and sit in front of it and read." "and eat candy," suggested tibby, warming to the idea. "and eat candy," agreed jill. mrs. mariner frowned. "i was going to suggest," she said frostily, "that you shovelled the snow away from the front steps!" "splendid!" said jill. "oh, but i forgot. i want to go to the village first." "there will be plenty of time to do it when you get back." "all right. i'll do it when i get back." it was a quarter of an hour's walk to the village. jill stopped at the post-office. "could you tell me," she asked, "when the next train is to new york?" "there's one at ten-ten," said the woman behind the window. "you'll have to hurry." "i'll hurry!" said jill. chapter viii the dry-salters wing derek i doctors, laying down the law in their usual confident way, tell us that the vitality of the human body is at its lowest at two o'clock in the morning: and that it is then, as a consequence, that the mind is least able to contemplate the present with equanimity, the future with fortitude, and the past without regret. every thinking man, however, knows that this is not so. the true zero hour, desolate, gloom-ridden, and spectre-haunted, occurs immediately before dinner while we are waiting for that cocktail. it is then that, stripped for a brief moment of our armour of complacency and self-esteem, we see ourselves as we are--frightful chumps in a world where nothing goes right; a grey world in which, hoping to click, we merely get the raspberry; where, animated by the best intentions, we nevertheless succeed in perpetrating the scaliest bloomers and landing our loved ones neck-deep in the gumbo. so reflected freddie rooke, that priceless old bean, sitting disconsolately in an arm-chair at the drones club about two weeks after jill's departure from england, waiting for his friend algy martyn to trickle in and give him dinner. surveying freddie, as he droops on his spine in the yielding leather, one is conscious of one's limitations as a writer. gloom like his calls for the pen of a master. zola could have tackled it nicely. gorky might have made a stab at it. dostoevsky would have handled it with relish. but for oneself the thing is too vast. one cannot wangle it. it intimidates. it would have been bad enough in any case, for algy martyn was late as usual and it always gave freddie the pip to have to wait for dinner: but what made it worse was the fact that the drones was not one of freddie's clubs and so, until the blighter algy arrived, it was impossible for him to get his cocktail. there he sat, surrounded by happy, laughing young men, each grasping a glass of the good old mixture-as-before, absolutely unable to connect. some of them, casual acquaintances, had nodded to him, waved, and gone on lowering the juice,--a spectacle which made freddie feel much as the wounded soldier would have felt if sir philip sidney, instead of offering him the cup of water, had placed it to his own lips and drained it with a careless "cheerio!" no wonder freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of tolstoi's russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city reservoir, he turns to the cupboard, only to find the vodka-bottle empty. freddie gave himself up to despondency: and, as always in these days when he was mournful, he thought of jill. jill's sad case was a continual source of mental anguish to him. from the first he had blamed himself for the breaking-off of her engagement with derek. if he had not sent the message to derek from the police-station, the latter would never have known about their arrest, and all would have been well. and now, a few days ago, had come the news of her financial disaster, with its attendant complications. it had descended on freddie like a thunderbolt through the medium of ronny devereux. "i say," ronny had said, "have you heard the latest? your pal, underhill, has broken off his engagement with jill mariner." "i know; rather rotten, what!" "rotten? i should say so! it isn't done. i mean to say, chap can't chuck a girl just because she's lost her money. simply isn't on the board, old man!" "lost her money? what do you mean?" ronny was surprised. hadn't freddie heard? yes, absolute fact. he had it from the best authority. didn't know how it had happened and all that, but jill mariner had gone completely bust; underhill had given her the miss-in-baulk; and the poor girl had legged it, no one knew where. oh, freddie had met her and she had told him she was going to america? well, then, legged it to america. but the point was that the swine underhill had handed her the mitten just because she was broke, and that was what ronny thought so bally rotten. broker a girl is, ronny meant to say, more a fellow should stick to her. "but--" freddie rushed to his hero's defence. "but it wasn't that at all. something quite different. i mean, derek didn't even know jill had lost her money. he broke the engagement because...." freddie stopped short. he didn't want everybody to know of that rotten arrest business, as they infallibly would if he confided in ronny devereux. sort of thing he would never hear the last of. "he broke it off because of something quite different." "oh, yes!" said ronny sceptically. "but he did, really!" ronny shook his head. "don't you believe it, old son. don't you believe it. stands to reason it must have been because the poor girl was broke. you wouldn't have done it and i wouldn't have done it, but underhill did, and that's all there is to it. i mean, a tick's a tick, and there's nothing more to say. well, i know he's been a pal of yours, freddie, but, next time i meet him, by jove, i'll cut him dead. only i don't know him to speak to, dash it!" concluded ronny regretfully. ronny's news had upset freddie. derek had returned to the albany a couple of days ago, moody and silent. they had lunched together at the bachelors, and freddie had been pained at the attitude of his fellow-clubmen. usually, when he lunched at the bachelors, his table became a sort of social centre. cheery birds would roll up to pass the time of day, and festive old eggs would toddle over to have coffee and so forth, and all that sort of thing. jolly! on this occasion nobody had rolled, and all the eggs present had taken their coffee elsewhere. there was an uncomfortable chill in the atmosphere of which freddie had been acutely conscious, though derek had not appeared to notice it. the thing had only come home to derek yesterday at the albany, when the painful episode of wally mason had occurred. it was this way.... "hullo, freddie, old top! sorry to have kept you waiting." freddie looked up from his broken meditations, to find that his host had arrived. "hullo!" "a quick bracer," said algy martyn, "and then the jolly old food-stuffs. it's pretty late, i see. didn't notice how time was slipping." over the soup, freddie was still a prey to gloom. for once the healing gin-and-vermouth had failed to do its noble work. he sipped sombrely, so sombrely as to cause comment from his host. "pipped?" enquired algy solicitously. "pretty pipped," admitted freddie. "backed a loser?" "no." "something wrong with the old tum?" "no.... worried." "worried?" "about derek." "derek? who's...? oh, you mean underhill?" "yes." algy martyn chased an elusive piece of carrot about his soup plate, watching it interestedly as it slid coyly from the spoon. "oh?" he said, with sudden coolness. "what about him?" freddie was too absorbed in his subject to notice the change in his friend's tone. "a dashed unpleasant thing," he said, "happened yesterday morning at my place. i was just thinking about going out to lunch, when the door-bell rang and barker said a chappie of the name of mason would like to see me. i didn't remember any mason, but barker said the chappie said he knew me when i was a kid. so he loosed him into the room, and it turned out to be a fellow i used to know years ago down in worcestershire. i didn't know him from adam at first, but gradually the old bean got to work, and i placed him. wally mason his name was. rummily enough, he had spoken to me at the leicester that night when the fire was, but not being able to place him, i had given him the miss somewhat. you know how it is. cove you've never been introduced to says something to you in a theatre, and you murmur something and sheer off. what?" "absolutely," agreed algy martyn. he thoroughly approved of freddie's code of etiquette. sheer off. only thing to do. "well, anyhow, now that he had turned up again and told me who he was, i began to remember. we had been kids together, don't you know. (what's this? salmon? oh, right ho.) so i buzzed about and did the jovial host, you know; gave him a drink and a toofer, and all that sort of thing; and talked about the dear old days and what not. and so forth, if you follow me. then he brought the conversation round to jill. of course he knew jill at the same time when he knew me, down in worcestershire, you see. we were all pretty pally in those days, if you see what i mean. well, this man mason, it seems, had heard somewhere about jill losing her money, and he wanted to know if it was true. i said absolutely. hadn't heard any details, but ronny had told me, and ronny had had it from some one who had stable information and all that sort of thing. 'dashed shame, isn't it?' i said. 'she's gone to america, you know.' 'i didn't know,' he said. 'i understood she was going to be married quite soon.' well, of course, i told him that that was off. he didn't say anything for a bit, then he said 'off?' i said 'off.' 'did she break it off?' asked the chappie. 'well, no,' i said. 'as a matter of fact derek broke it off.' he said 'oh!' (what? oh yes, a bit of pheasant will be fine.) where was i? oh, yes. he said 'oh!' now, before this, i ought to tell you, this chappie mason had asked me to come out and have a bit of lunch. i had told him i was lunching with derek, and he said 'right ho,' or words to that effect, 'bring him along.' derek had been out for a stroll, you see, and we were waiting for him to come in. well, just at this point or juncture, if you know what i mean, in he came, and i said' oh, what ho!' and introduced wally mason. 'oh, do you know underhill?' i said, or something like that. you know the sort of thing. and then...." freddie broke off and drained his glass. the recollection of that painful moment had made him feverish. social difficulties always did. "then what?" enquired algy martyn. "well, it was pretty rotten. derek held out his hand, as a chappie naturally would, being introduced to a strange chappie, and wally mason, giving it an absolute miss, went on talking to me just as if we were alone, you know. look here. here was i, where this knife is. derek over here--this fork--with his hand out. mason here--this bit of bread. mason looks at his watch, and says 'i'm sorry, freddie, but i find i've an engagement for lunch. so long!' and biffed out, without apparently knowing that derek was on the earth. i mean...." freddie reached for his glass. "what i mean is, it was dashed embarrassing. i mean, cutting a fellow dead in my rooms. i don't know when i've felt so rotten!" algy martyn delivered judgment with great firmness. "chappie was perfectly right!" "no, but i mean...." "absolutely correct-o," insisted algy sternly. "underhill can't dash about all over the place giving the girl he's engaged to the mitten because she's broke, and expect no notice to be taken of it. if you want to know what i think, old man, your pal underhill--i can't imagine what the deuce you see in him, but, school together and so forth, makes a difference, i suppose--i say, if you want to know what i think, freddie, the blighter underhill would be well advised either to leg it after jill and get her to marry him or else lie low for a goodish while till people have forgotten the thing. i mean to say, fellows like ronny and i and dick wimpole and archie studd and the rest of our lot--well, we all knew jill and thought she was a topper and had danced with her here and there and seen her about and all that, and naturally we feel pretty strongly about the whole dashed business. underhill isn't in our particular set, but we all know most of the people he knows, and we talk about this business, and the thing gets about, and there you are! my sister, who was a great pal of jill's, swears that all the girls she knows mean to cut underhill. i tell you, freddie, london's going to get pretty hot for him if he doesn't do something dashed quick and with great rapidity!" "but you haven't got the story right, old thing!" "how not?" "well, i mean you think and ronny thinks and all the rest of you think that derek broke off the engagement because of the money. it wasn't that at all." "what was it, then?" "well.... well, look here, it makes me seem a fearful ass and all that, but i'd better tell you. jill and i were going down one of those streets near victoria and a blighter was trying to slay a parrot...." "parrot-shooting's pretty good in those parts, they tell me," interjected algy satirically. "don't interrupt, old man. this parrot had got out of one of the houses, and a fellow was jabbing at it with a stick, and jill--you know what she's like; impulsive, i mean, and all that--jill got hold of the stick and biffed him with some vim, and a policeman rolled up and the fellow made a fuss and the policeman took jill and me off to chokey. well, like an ass, i sent round to derek to bail us out, and that's how he heard of the thing. apparently he didn't think a lot of it, and the result was that he broke off the engagement." algy martyn had listened to this recital with growing amazement. "he broke it off because of that?" "yes." "what absolute rot!" said algy martyn. "i don't believe a word of it!" "i say, old man!" "i don't believe a word of it," repeated algy firmly. "and nobody else will either. it's dashed good of you, freddie, to cook up a yarn like that to try and make things look better for the blighter, but it won't work. such a damn silly story, too!" said algy with some indignation. "but it's true!" "what's the use, freddie, between old pals?" said algy protestingly. "you know perfectly well that underhill's a worm of the most pronounced order, and that, when he found out that jill hadn't any money, he chucked her." "but why should derek care whether jill was well off or not? he's got enough money of his own." "nobody," said algy judicially, "has got enough money of his own. underhill thought he was marrying a girl with a sizable chunk of the ready, and, when the fuse blew out, he decided it wasn't good enough. for heaven's sake don't let's talk any more about the blighter. it gives me a pain to think of him." ii freddie returned to the albany in a state of gloom and uneasiness. algy's remarks, coming on top of the wally mason episode, had shaken him. the london in which he and derek moved and had their being is nothing but a village, and it was evident that village gossip was hostile to derek. people were talking about him. local opinion had decided that he had behaved badly. already one man had cut him. freddie blenched at a sudden vision of streetfuls of men, long piccadillys of men, all cutting him, one after the other. something had got to be done. the subject was not an easy one to broach to his somewhat forbidding friend, as he discovered when the latter arrived about half an hour later. derek had been attending the semi-annual banquet of the worshipful dry-salters company down in the city, understudying one of the speakers, a leading member of parliament, who had been unable to appear; and he was still in the grip of that feeling of degraded repletion which city dinners induce. yet, unfavourably disposed as, judging by his silence and the occasional moody grunts he uttered, he appeared to be to a discussion of his private affairs, it seemed to freddie impossible that the night should be allowed to pass without some word spoken on the subject. he thought of ronny and what ronny had said, of algy and what algy had said, of wally mason and how wally had behaved in this very room; and he nerved himself to the task. "derek, old top." a grunt. "i say, derek, old bean." derek roused himself, and looked gloomily across the room to where he stood, warming his legs at the blaze. "well?" freddie found a difficulty in selecting words. a ticklish business, this. one that might well have disconcerted a diplomat. freddie was no diplomat, and the fact enabled him to find a way in the present crisis. equipped by nature with an amiable tactlessness and a happy gift of blundering, he charged straight at the main point, and landed on it like a circus elephant alighting on a bottle. "i say, you know, about jill!" he stooped to rub the backs of his legs, on which the fire was playing with a little too fierce a glow, and missed his companion's start and the sudden thickening of his bushy eyebrows. "well?" said derek again. freddie nerved himself to proceed. a thought flashed across his mind that derek was looking exactly like lady underhill. it was the first time he had seen the family resemblance quite so marked. "ronny devereux was saying...." faltered freddie. "damn ronny devereux!" "oh, absolutely! but...." "ronny devereux! who the devil _is_ ronny devereux?" "why, old man, you've heard me speak of him, haven't you? pal of mine. he came down to the station with algy and me to meet your mater that morning." "oh, _that_ fellow? and he has been saying something about...?" "it isn't only ronny, you know," freddie hastened to interject. "algy martyn's talking about it, too. and lots of other fellows. and algy's sister and a lot of peoples they're all saying...." "what are they saying?" freddie bent down and chafed the back of his legs. he simply couldn't look at derek while he had that lady underhill expression on the old map. rummy he had never noticed before how extraordinarily like his mother he was. freddie was conscious of a faint sense of grievance. he could not have put it into words, but what he felt was that a fellow had no right to go about looking like lady underhill. "what are they saying?" repeated derek grimly. "well...." freddie hesitated. "that it's a bit tough.... on jill, you know." "they think i behaved badly?" "well.... oh, well, you know!" derek smiled a ghastly smile. this was not wholly due to mental disturbance. the dull heaviness which was the legacy of the dry-salters' dinner had begun to change to something more actively unpleasant. a sub-motive of sharp pain had begun to run through it, flashing in and out like lightning through a thunder-cloud. he felt sullen and vicious. "i wonder," he said with savage politeness, "if, when you chat with your friends, you would mind choosing some other topic than my private affairs." "sorry, old man. but they started it, you know." "and, if you feel you've got to discuss me, kindly keep it to yourself. don't come and tell me what your damned friends said to each other and to you and what you said to them, because it bores me. i'm not interested. i don't value their opinions as much as you seem to." derek paused, to battle in silence with the imperious agony within him. "it was good of you to put me up here," he went on, "but i think i won't trespass on your hospitality any longer. perhaps you'll ask barker to pack my things to-morrow." derek moved, as majestically as an ex-guest of the worshipful company of dry-salters may, in the direction of the door. "i shall go to the savoy." "oh, i say, old man! no need to do that." "good night." "but, i say...." "and you can tell your friend devereux that, if he doesn't stop poking his nose into my private business, i'll pull it off." "well," said freddie doubtfully, "of course i don't suppose you know, but.... ronny's a pretty hefty bird. he boxed for cambridge in the light-weights the last year he was up, you know. he...." derek slammed the door. freddie was alone. he stood rubbing his legs for some minutes, a rueful expression on his usually cheerful face. freddie hated rows. he liked everything to jog along smoothly. what a rotten place the world was these days! just one thing after another. first, poor old jill takes the knock and disappears. he would miss her badly. what a good sort! what a pal! and now--gone. biffed off. next, derek. together, more or less, ever since winchester, and now--bing!... freddie heaved a sigh, and reached out for the _sporting times_, his never-failing comfort in times of depression. he lit another cigar and curled up in one of the arm-chairs. he was feeling tired. he had been playing squash all the afternoon, a game at which he was exceedingly expert and to which he was much addicted. time passed. the paper slipped to the floor. a cold cigar followed it. from the depths of the chair came a faint snore.... * * * * * a hand on his shoulder brought freddie with a jerk from troubled dreams. derek was standing beside him. a bent, tousled derek, apparently in pain. "freddie!" "hullo!" a spasm twisted derek's face. "have you got any pepsin?" derek uttered a groan. what a mocker of our petty human dignity is this dyspepsia, bringing low the haughtiest of us, less than love itself a respecter of persons. this was a different derek from the man who had stalked stiffly from the room two hours before. his pride had been humbled upon the rack. "pepsin?" "yes. i've got the most damned attack of indigestion." the mists of sleep rolled away from freddie. he was awake again, and became immediately helpful. these were the occasions when the last of the rookes was a good man to have at your side. it was freddie who suggested that derek should recline in the arm-chair which he had vacated; freddie who nipped round the corner to the all-night chemist's and returned with a magic bottle guaranteed to relieve an ostrich after a surfeit of tenpenny nails; freddie who mixed and administered the dose. his ministrations were rewarded. presently the agony seemed to pass. derek recovered. one would say that derek became himself again, but that the mood of gentle remorse which came upon him as he lay in the arm-chair was one so foreign to his nature. freddie had never seen him so subdued. he was like a convalescent child. between them, the all-night chemist and the dry. salters seemed to have wrought a sort of miracle. these temporary softenings of personality frequently follow city dinners. the time to catch your dry-salter in angelic mood is the day after the semi-annual banquet. go to him then and he will give you his watch and chain. "freddie," said derek. they were sitting over the dying fire. the clock on the mantelpiece, beside which jill's photograph had stood pointed to ten minutes past two. derek spoke in a low, soft voice. perhaps the doctors are right after all, and two o'clock is the hour at which our self-esteem deserts us, leaving in its place regret for past sins, good resolutions for future behaviour. "what do martyn and the others say about ... you know?" freddie hesitated. pity to start all that again. "oh, i know," went on derek. "they say i behaved like a cad." "oh, well...." "they are quite right. i did." "oh, i shouldn't say that, you know. faults on both sides and all that sort of rot." "i did!" derek stared into the fire. scattered all over london at that moment, probably a hundred worshipful dry-salters were equally sleepless and subdued, looking wide-eyed into black pasts. "is it true she has gone to america, freddie?" "she told me she was going." "what a fool i've been!" the clock ticked on through the silence. the fire sputtered faintly, then gave a little wheeze, like a very old man. derek rested his chin on his hands, gazing into the ashes. "i wish to god i could go over there and find her." "why don't you?" "how can i? there may be an election coming on at any moment. i can't stir." freddie leaped from his seat. the suddenness of the action sent a red-hot corkscrew of pain through derek's head. "what the devil's the matter?" he demanded irritably. even the gentle mood which comes with convalescence after a city dinner is not guaranteed to endure against this sort of thing. "i've got an idea, old bean!" "well, there's no need to dance, is there?" "i've nothing to keep me here, you know. what's the matter with my popping over to america and finding jill?" freddie tramped the floor, aglow. each beat of his foot jarred derek, but he made no complaint. "could you?" he asked eagerly. "of course i could. i was saying only the other day that i had half a mind to buzz over. it's a wheeze! i'll get on the next boat and charge over in the capacity of a jolly old ambassador. have her back in no time. leave it to me, old thing! this is where i come out strong!" chapter ix jill in search of an uncle i new york welcomed jill, as she came out of the pennsylvania station in seventh avenue, with a whirl of powdered snow that touched her cheek like a kiss, the cold, bracing kiss one would expect from this vivid city. she stood at the station entrance, a tiny figure beside the huge pillars, looking round her with eager eyes. a wind was whipping down the avenue. the sky was a clear, brilliant tint of the brightest blue. energy was in the air, and hopefulness. she wondered if mr. elmer mariner ever came to new york. it was hard to see how even his gloom would contrive to remain unaffected by the exhilaration of the place. she took uncle chris' letter from her bag. he had written from an address on east fifty-seventh street. there would be just time to catch him before he went out to lunch. she hailed a taxi-cab which was coming out of the station. it was a slow ride, halted repeatedly by congestion of the traffic, but a short one for jill. she was surprised at herself, a londoner of long standing, for feeling so provincial and being so impressed. but london was far away. it belonged to a life that seemed years ago and a world from which she had parted for ever. moreover, this was undeniably a stupendous city through which her taxi-cab was carrying her. at times square the stream of the traffic plunged into a whirlpool, swinging out of broadway to meet the rapids which poured in from east, west, and north. on fifth avenue all the motor-cars in the world were gathered together. on the pavements, pedestrians, muffled against the nipping chill of the crisp air, hurried to and fro. and, above, that sapphire sky spread a rich velvet curtain which made the tops of the buildings stand out like the white minarets of some eastern city of romance. the cab drew up in front of a stone apartment house; and jill, getting out, passed under an awning through a sort of mediæval courtyard, gay with potted shrubs, to an inner door. she was impressed. evidently the tales one heard of fortunes accumulated overnight in this magic city were true, and one of them must have fallen to the lot of uncle chris. for nobody to whom money was a concern could possibly afford to live in a place like this. if croesus and the count of monte cristo had applied for lodging there, the authorities would probably have looked on them a little doubtfully at first and hinted at the desirability of a month's rent in advance. in a glass case behind the inner door, reading a newspaper and chewing gum, sat a dignified old man in the rich uniform of a general in the guatemalan army. he was a brilliant spectacle. he wore no jewellery, but this, no doubt, was due to a private distaste for display. as there was no one else of humbler rank at hand from whom jill could solicit an introduction and the privilege of an audience, she took the bold step of addressing him directly. "i want to see major selby, please." the guatemalan general arrested for a moment the rhythmic action of his jaws, lowered his paper and looked at her with raised eyebrows. at first jill thought that he was registering haughty contempt, then she saw what she had taken for scorn was surprise. "major selby?" "major selby." "no major selby living here." "major christopher selby." "not here," said the associate of ambassadors and the pampered pet of guatemala's proudest beauties. "never heard of him in my life!" ii jill had read works of fiction in which at certain crises everything had "seemed to swim" in front of the heroine's eyes, but never till this moment had she experienced that remarkable sensation herself. the saviour of guatemala did not actually swim, perhaps, but he certainly flickered. she had to blink to restore his prismatic outlines to their proper sharpness. already the bustle and noise of new york had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unreality which one feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added the finishing touch. perhaps the fact that she had said "please" to him when she opened the conversation touched the heart of the hero of a thousand revolutions. dignified and beautiful as he was to the eye of the stranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he lived in a world which rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. people did not often say "please" to him. "here!" "hi!" and "gosh darn you!" yes; but seldom "please." he seemed to approve of jill, for he shifted his chewing-gum to a position which facilitated speech, and began to be helpful. "what was the name again?" "selby." "howja spell it?" "s-e-l-b-y." "s-e-l-b-y. oh, selby?" "yes, selby." "what was the first name?" "christopher." "christopher?" "yes, christopher." "christopher selby? no one of that name living here." "but there must be." the veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile. "you want mr. sipperley," he said tolerantly. in guatemala these mistakes are always happening. "mr. george sipperley. he's on the fourth floor. what name shall i say?" he had almost reached the telephone when jill stopped him. this is an age of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept any unknown sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for uncle chris. "i don't want mr. sipperley. i want major selby." "howja spell it once more?" "s-e-l-b-y." "s-e-l-b-y. no one of that name living here. mr. sipperley--" he spoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to make jill see what was in her best interests--"mr. sipperley's on the fourth floor. gentleman in the real estate business," he added insinuatingly. "he's got blond hair and a boston bull-dog." "he may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bull-dogs...." "only one. jack his name is." "... but he isn't the right man. it's absurd. major selby wrote to me from this address. this _is_ eighteen east fifty-seventh street?" "this is eighteen east fifty-seventh street," conceded the other cautiously. "i've got his letter here." she opened her bag, and gave an exclamation of dismay. "it's gone!" "mr. sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last fall. a mr. robertson. dark-complexioned man with a moustache." "i took it out to look at the address, and i was sure i put it back. i must have dropped it." "there's a mr. rainsby on the seventh floor. he's a broker down on wall street. short man with an impediment in his speech." jill snapped the clasp of her bag. "never mind," she said. "i must have made a mistake. i was quite sure that this was the address, but it evidently isn't. thank you so much. i'm so sorry to have bothered you." she walked away, leaving the terror of paraguay and all points west speechless: for people who said "thank you so much" to him were even rarer than those who said "please." he followed her with an affectionate eye till she was out of sight, then, restoring his chewing-gum to circulation, returned to the perusal of his paper. a momentary suggestion presented itself to his mind that what jill had really wanted was mr. willoughby on the eighth floor, but it was too late to say so now; and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of a spirited householder in kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet and slain six, he dismissed the matter from his mind. iii jill walked back to fifth avenue, crossed it, and made her way thoughtfully along the breezy street which, flanked on one side by the park and on the other by the green-roofed plaza hotel and the apartment houses of the wealthy, ends in the humbler and more democratic spaces of columbus circle. she perceived that she was in that position, familiar to melodrama, of being alone in a great city. the reflection brought with it a certain discomfort. the bag that dangled from her wrist contained all the money she had in the world, the very broken remains of the twenty dollars which uncle chris had sent her at brookport. she had nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep, and no immediately obvious means of adding to her capital. it was a situation which she had not foreseen when she set out to walk to brookport station. she pondered over the mystery of uncle chris' disappearance, and found no solution. the thing was inexplicable. she was as sure of the address he had given in his letter as she was of anything in the world. yet at that address nothing had been heard of him. his name was not even known. these were deeper waters than jill was able to fathom. she walked on aimlessly. presently she came to columbus circle, and, crossing broadway at the point where that street breaks out into an eruption of automobile shops, found herself, suddenly hungry, opposite a restaurant whose entire front was a sheet of plate glass. on the other side of this glass, at marble-topped tables, apparently careless of their total lack of privacy, sat the impecunious, lunching, their every mouthful a spectacle for the passer-by. it reminded jill of looking at fishes in an aquarium. in the centre of the window, gazing out in a distrait manner over piles of apples and grape-fruit, a white-robed ministrant at a stove juggled ceaselessly with buckwheat cakes. he struck the final note in the candidness of the establishment, a priest whose ritual contained no mysteries. spectators with sufficient time on their hands to permit them to stand and watch were enabled to witness a new york midday meal in every stage of its career, from its protoplasmic beginnings as a stream of yellowish-white liquid poured on top of the stove to its ultimate nirvana in the interior of the luncher in the form of an appetising cake. it was a spectacle which no hungry girl could resist. jill went in, and, as she made her way among the tables, a voice spoke her name. "miss mariner!" jill jumped, and thought for a moment that the thing must have been an hallucination. it was impossible that anybody in the place should have called her name. except for uncle chris, wherever he might be, she knew no one in new york. then the voice spoke again, competing valiantly with a clatter of crockery so uproarious as to be more like something solid than a mere sound. "i couldn't believe it was you!" a girl in blue had risen from the nearest table, and was staring at her in astonishment. jill recognized her instantly. those big, pathetic eyes, like a lost child's, were unmistakable. it was the parrot girl, the girl whom she and freddie rooke had found in the drawing-room at ovingdon square that afternoon when the foundations of the world had given way and chaos had begun. "good gracious!" cried jill. "i thought you were in london!" that feeling of emptiness and panic, the result of her interview with the guatemalan general at the apartment house, vanished magically. she sat down at this unexpected friend's table with a light heart. "whatever are you doing in new york?" asked the girl. "i never knew you meant to come over." "it was a little sudden. still, here i am. and i'm starving. what are those things you're eating?" "buckwheat cakes." "oh, yes. i remember uncle chris talking about them on the boat. i'll have some." "but when did you come over?" "i landed about ten days ago. i've been down at a place called brookport on long island. how funny running into you like this!" "i was surprised that you remembered me." "i've forgotten your name," admitted jill frankly. "but that's nothing. i always forget names." "my name's nelly bryant." "of course. and you're on the stage, aren't you?" "yes. i've just got work with goble and cohn.... hullo, phil!" a young man with a lithe figure and smooth black hair brushed straight back from his forehead had paused at the table on his way to the cashier's desk. "hello, nelly." "i didn't know you lunched here." "don't often. been rehearsing with joe up at the century roof, and had a quarter of an hour to get a bite. can i sit down?" "sure. this is my friend, miss mariner." the young man shook hands with jill, flashing an approving glance at her out of his dark, restless eyes. "pleased to meet you." "this is phil brown," said nelly. "he plays the straight for joe widgeon. they're the best jazz-and-hokum team on the keith circuit." "oh, hush!" said mr. brown modestly. "you always were a great little booster, nelly." "well, you know you are! weren't you held over at the palace last time? well, then!" "that's true," admitted the young man. "maybe we didn't gool 'em, eh? stop me on the street and ask me! only eighteen bows second house saturday!" jill was listening, fascinated. "i can't understand a word," she said. "it's like another language." "you're from the other side, aren't you?" asked mr. brown. "she only landed a week ago," said nelly. "i thought so from the accent," said mr. brown. "so our talk sort of goes over the top, does it? well, you'll learn american soon, if you stick around." "i've learned some already," said jill. the relief of meeting nelly had made her feel very happy. she liked this smooth-haired young man. "a man on the train this morning said to me, 'would you care for the morning paper, sister?' i said, 'no, thanks, brother, i want to look out of the window and think!'" "you meet a lot of fresh guys on trains," commented mr. brown austerely. "you want to give 'em the cold-storage eye." he turned to nelly. "did you go down to ike, as i told you?" "yes." "did you cop?" "yes. i never felt so happy in my life. i'd waited over an hour on that landing of theirs, and then johnny miller came along, and i yelled in his ear that i was after work, and he told me it would be all right. he's awfully good to girls who've worked in shows for him before. if it hadn't been for him i might have been waiting there still." "who," enquired jill, anxious to be abreast of the conversation, "is ike?" "mr. goble. where i've just got work. goble and cohn, you know." "i never heard of them!" the young man extended his hand. "put it there!" he said. "they never heard of me! at least, the fellow i saw when i went down to the office hadn't! can you beat it!" "oh, did you go down there, too?" asked nelly. "sure. joe wanted to get in another show on broadway. he'd sort of got tired of vodevil. say, i don't want to scare you, nelly, but, if you ask me, that show they're putting out down there is a citron! i don't think ike's got a cent of his own money in it. my belief is that he's running it for a lot of amateurs. why, say, listen! joe and i blow in there to see if there's anything for us, and there's a tall guy in tortoise-shell cheaters sitting in ike's office. said he was the author and was engaging the principals. we told him who we were, and it didn't make any hit with him at all. he said he had never heard of us. and, when we explained, he said no, there wasn't going to be any of our sort of work in the show. said he was making an effort to give the public something rather better than the usual sort of thing. no specialities required. he said it was an effort to restore the gilbert and sullivan tradition. say, who are these gilbert and sullivan guys, anyway? they get written up in the papers all the time and i never met any one who'd run across them. if you want my opinion, that show down there is a comic opera!" "for heaven's sake!" nelly had the musical comedy performer's horror of the older-established form of entertainment. "why, comic opera died in the year one!" "well, these guys are going to dig it up. that's the way it looks to me." he lowered his voice. "say, i saw clarice last night," he said in a confidential undertone. "it's all right." "it is?" "we've made it up. it was like this...." his conversation took an intimate turn. he expounded for nelly's benefit the inner history, with all its ramifications, of a recent unfortunate rift between himself and "the best little girl in flatbush"--what he had said, what she had said, what her sister had said, and how it all came right in the end. jill might have felt a little excluded, but for the fact that a sudden and exciting idea had come to her. she sat back, thinking.... after all, what else was she to do? she must do something.... she bent forward and interrupted mr. brown in his description of a brisk passage of arms between himself and the best little girl's sister, who seemed to be an unpleasant sort of person in every way. "mr. brown." "hello?" "do you think there would be any chance for me if i asked for work at goble and cohn's?" "you're joking!" cried nelly. "i'm not at all." "but what do you want with work?" "i've got to find some. and right away, too." "i don't understand." jill hesitated. she disliked discussing her private affairs, but there was obviously no way of avoiding it. nelly was round-eyed and mystified, and mr. brown had manifestly no intention whatever of withdrawing tactfully. he wanted to hear all. "i've lost my money," said jill. "lost your money! do you mean...?" "i've lost it all. every penny i had in the world." "tough!" interpolated mr. brown judicially. "i was broke once way out in a tank-town in oklahoma. the manager skipped with our salaries. last we saw of him he was doing the trip to canada in nothing flat." "but how?" gasped nelly. "it happened about the time we met in london. do you remember freddie rooke, who was at our house that afternoon?" a dreamy look came into nelly's eyes. there had not been an hour since their parting when she had not thought of that immaculate sportsman. it would have amazed freddie, could he have known, but to nelly bryant he was the one perfect man in an imperfect world. "do i!" she sighed ecstatically. mr. brown shot a keen glance at her. "aha!" he cried facetiously. "who is he, nelly? who is this blue-eyed boy?" "if you want to know," said nelly, defiance in her tone, "he's the fellow who gave me fifty pounds, with no strings tied to it--get that!--when i was broke in london! if it hadn't been for him, i'd be there still." "did he?" cried jill. "freddie!" "yes. oh, gee!" nelly sighed once more. "i suppose i'll never see him again in this world." "introduce me to him, if you do," said mr. brown. "he sounds just the sort of little pal i'd like to have!" "you remember hearing freddie say something about losing money in a slump on the stock exchange," proceeded jill. "well, that was how i lost mine. it's a long story, and it's not worth talking about, but that's how things stand, and i've got to find work of some sort, and it looks to me as if i should have a better chance of finding it on the stage than anywhere else." "i'm terribly sorry." "oh, it's all right. how much would these people goble and cohn give me if i got an engagement?" "only forty a week." "forty dollars a week! it's wealth! where are they?" "over at the gotham theatre in forty-second street." "i'll go there at once." "but you'll hate it. you don't realize what it's like. you wait hours and hours and nobody sees you." "why shouldn't i walk straight in and say that i've come for work?" nelly's big eyes grew bigger. "but you couldn't!' "why not?" "why, you couldn't!" "i don't see why." mr. brown intervened with decision. "you're dead right," he said to jill approvingly. "if you ask me, that's the only sensible thing to do. where's the sense of hanging around and getting stalled? managers are human guys, some of 'em. probably, if you were to try it, they'd appreciate a bit of gall. it would show 'em you'd got pep. you go down there and try walking straight in. they can't eat you. it makes me sick when i see all those poor devils hanging about outside these offices, waiting to get noticed and nobody ever paying any attention to them. you push the office-boy in the face if he tries to stop you, and go in and make 'em take notice. and, whatever you do, don't leave your name and address! that's the old, moth-eaten gag they're sure to try to pull on you. tell 'em there's nothing doing. say you're out for a quick decision! stand 'em on their heads!" jill got up, fired by this eloquence. she called for her check. "good-bye," she said. "i'm going to do exactly as you say. where can i find you afterwards?" she said to nelly. "you aren't really going?" "i am!" nelly scribbled on a piece of paper. "here's my address. i'll be in all evening." "i'll come and see you. good-bye, mr. brown. and thank you." "you're welcome!" said mr. brown. nelly watched jill depart with wide eyes. "why did you tell her to do that?" she said. "why not?" said mr. brown. "i started something, didn't i? well, i guess i'll have to be leaving, too. got to get back to rehearsal. say, i like that friend of yours, nelly. there's no yellow streak about her! i wish her luck!" chapter x jill ignores authority i the offices of messrs. goble and cohn were situated, like everything else in new york that appertains to the drama, in the neighbourhood of times square. they occupied the fifth floor of the gotham theatre on west forty-second street. as there was no lift in the building except the small private one used by the two members of the firm, jill walked up the stairs, and found signs of a thriving business beginning to present themselves as early as the third floor, where half a dozen patient persons of either sex had draped themselves like roosting fowls upon the banisters. there were more on the fourth floor, and the landing of the fifth, which served the firm as a waiting-room, was quite full. it is the custom of new york theatrical managers--the lowest order of intelligence, with the possible exception of the _limax maximus_ or garden slug, known to science--to omit from their calculations the fact that they are likely every day to receive a large number of visitors, whom they will be obliged to keep waiting; and that these people will require somewhere to wait. such considerations never occur to them. messrs. goble and cohn had provided for those who called to see them one small bench on the landing, conveniently situated at the intersecting point of three draughts, and had let it go at that. nobody, except perhaps the night-watchman, had ever seen this bench empty. at whatever hour of the day you happened to call, you would always find three wistful individuals seated side by side with their eyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the office-boy, the telephone-girl, and mr. goble's stenographer. beyond this was the door marked "private," through which, as it opened to admit some careless, debonair thousand-dollar-a-week comedian who sauntered in with a jaunty "hello, ike!" or some furred and scented female star, the rank and file of the profession were greeted, like moses on pisgah, with a fleeting glimpse of the promised land, consisting of a large desk and a section of a very fat man with spectacles and a bald head or a younger man with fair hair and a double chin. the keynote of the mass meeting on the landing was one of determined, almost aggressive smartness. the men wore bright overcoats with bands round the waist, the women those imitation furs which to the uninitiated eye appear so much more expensive than the real thing. everybody looked very dashing and very young, except about the eyes. most of the eyes that glanced at jill were weary. the women were nearly all blondes, blondness having been decided upon in the theatre as the colour that brings the best results. the men were all so much alike that they seemed to be members of one large family--an illusion which was heightened by the scraps of conversation, studded with "dears," "old mans," and "honeys," which came to jill's ears. a stern fight for supremacy was being waged by a score or so of lively and powerful young scents. for a moment jill was somewhat daunted by the spectacle, but she recovered almost immediately. the exhilarating and heady influence of new york still wrought within her. the berserk spirit was upon her, and she remembered the stimulating words of mr. brown, of brown and widgeon, the best jazz-and-hokum team on the keith circuit. "walk straight in!" had been the burden of his inspiring address. she pushed her way through the crowd until she came to the small ante-room. in the ante-room were the outposts, the pickets of the enemy. in one corner a girl was hammering energetically and with great speed on a typewriter; a second girl, seated at a switchboard, was having an argument with central which was already warm and threatened to descend shortly to personalities; on a chair tilted back so that it rested against the wall, a small boy sat eating sweets and reading the comic page of an evening newspaper. all three were enclosed, like zoological specimens, in a cage formed by a high counter terminating in brass bars. beyond these watchers on the threshold was the door marked "private." through it, as jill reached the outer defences, filtered the sound of a piano. those who have studied the subject have come to the conclusion that the boorishness of new york theatrical managers' office-boys cannot be the product of mere chance. somewhere, in some sinister den in the criminal districts of the town, there is a school where small boys are trained for these positions, where their finer instincts are rigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated by competent professors. of this school the cerberus of messrs. goble and cohn had been the star scholar. quickly seeing his natural gifts, his teachers had given him special attention. when he had graduated, it had been amidst the cordial good wishes of the entire staff. they had taught him all they knew, and they were proud of him. they felt that he would do them credit. this boy raised a pair of pink-rimmed eyes to jill, sniffed, bit his thumb-nail, and spoke. he was a snub-nosed boy. his ears and hair were vermilion. his name was ralph. he had seven hundred and forty-three pimples. "woddyerwant?" enquired ralph, coming within an ace of condensing the question into a word of one syllable. "i want to see mr. goble." "zout!" said the pimple king, and returned to his paper. there will, no doubt, always be class distinctions. sparta had her kings and her helots, king arthur's round table its knights and its scullions, america her simon legree and her uncle tom. but in no nation and at no period of history has any one ever been so brutally superior to any one else as is the broadway theatrical office-boy to the caller who wishes to see the manager. thomas jefferson held these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. theatrical office-boys do not see eye to eye with thomas. from their pinnacle they look down on the common herd, the _canaille_, and despise them. they coldly question their right to live. jill turned pink. mr. brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing this situation, had, she remembered, recommended "pushing the office-boy in the face": and for a moment she felt like following his advice. prudence, or the fact that he was out of reach behind the brass bars, restrained her. without further delay she made for the door of the inner room. that was her objective, and she did not intend to be diverted from it. her fingers were on the handle before any of those present divined her intention. then the stenographer stopped typing and sat with raised fingers, aghast. the girl at the telephone broke off in mid-sentence and stared round over her shoulder. ralph, the office-boy, outraged, dropped his paper and constituted himself the spokesman of the invaded force. "hey!" jill stopped and eyed the lad militantly. "were you speaking to me?" "yes, i _was_ speaking to you!" "don't do it again with your mouth full," said jill, turning to the door. the belligerent fire in the office-boy's pink-rimmed eyes was suddenly dimmed by a gush of water. it was not remorse that caused him to weep, however. in the heat of the moment he had swallowed a large, jagged sweet, and he was suffering severely. "you can't go in there!" he managed to articulate, his iron will triumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak. "i _am_ going in there!" "that's mr. goble's private room." "well, i want a private talk with mr. goble." ralph, his eyes still moist, felt that the situation was slipping from his grip. this sort of thing had never happened to him before. "i tell ya he _zout_!" jill looked at him sternly. "you wretched child!" she said, encouraged by a sharp giggle from the neighbourhood of the switchboard. "do you know where little boys go who don't speak the truth? i can hear him playing the piano. now he's singing! and it's no good telling me he's busy. if he was busy, he wouldn't have time to sing. if you're as deceitful as this at your age, what do you expect to be when you grow up? you're an ugly little boy, you've got red ears, and your collar doesn't fit! i shall speak to mr. goble about you." with which words jill opened the door and walked in. "good afternoon," she said brightly. after the congested and unfurnished discomfort of the landing, the room in which jill found herself had an air of cosiness and almost of luxury. it was a large room, solidly upholstered. along the further wall, filling nearly the whole of its space, stood a vast and gleaming desk, covered with a litter of papers which rose at one end of it to a sort of mountain of play-scripts in buff covers. there was a bookshelf to the left. photographs covered the walls. near the window was a deep leather lounge; to the right of this stood a small piano, the music-stool of which was occupied by a young man with untidy black hair that needed cutting. on top of the piano, taking the eye immediately by reason of its bold brightness, was balanced a large cardboard poster. much of its surface was filled by a picture of a youth in polo costume bending over a blonde goddess in a bathing-suit. what space was left displayed the legend: isaac goble and jacob cohn present the rose of america (a musical fantasy) book and lyrics by otis pilkington music by roland trevis turning her eyes from this, jill became aware that something was going on at the other side of the desk, and she perceived that a second young man, the longest and thinnest she had ever seen, was in the act of rising to his feet, length upon length like an unfolding snake. at the moment of her entry he had been lying back in an office-chair, so that only a merely nominal section of his upper structure was visible. now he reared his impressive length until his head came within measurable distance of the ceiling. he had a hatchet face and a receding chin, and he gazed at jill through what she assumed were the "tortoise-shell cheaters" referred to by her recent acquaintance, mr. brown. "er...?" said this young man enquiringly in a high, flat voice. jill, like many other people, had a brain which was under the alternating control of two diametrically opposite forces. it was like a motor-car steered in turn by two drivers, the one a dashing, reckless fellow with no regard for the speed limits, the other a timid novice. all through the proceedings up to this point the dasher had been in command. he had whisked her along at a break-neck pace, ignoring obstacles and police regulations. now, having brought her to this situation, he abruptly abandoned the wheel and turned it over to his colleague, the shrinker. jill, greatly daring a moment ago, now felt an overwhelming shyness. she gulped, and her heart beat quickly. the thin man towered over her. the black-haired pianist shook his locks at her like banquo. "i...." she began. then, suddenly, womanly intuition came to her aid. something seemed to tell her that these men were just as scared as she was. and, at the discovery, the dashing driver resumed his post at the wheel, and she began to deal with the situation with composure. "i want to see mr. goble." "mr. goble is out," said the long young man, plucking nervously at the papers on the desk. jill had affected him powerfully. "out!" she felt she had wronged the pimpled office-boy. "we are not expecting him back this afternoon. is there anything i can do?" he spoke tenderly. this weak-minded young man was thinking that he had never seen anything like jill before. and it was true that she was looking very pretty, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. she touched a chord in the young man which seemed to make the world a flower-scented thing, full of soft music. often as he had been in love at first sight before in his time, otis pilkington could not recall an occasion on which he had been in love at first sight more completely than now. when she smiled at him, it was as if the gates of heaven had opened. he did not reflect how many times, in similar circumstances, these same gates had opened before; and that on one occasion when they had done so it had cost him eight thousand dollars to settle the case out of court. one does not think of these things at such times, for they strike a jarring note. otis pilkington was in love. that was all he knew, or cared to know. "won't you take a seat, miss...." "mariner," prompted jill. "thank you." "miss mariner. may i introduce mr. roland trevis?" the man at the piano bowed. his black hair heaved upon his skull like seaweed in a ground swell. "my name is pilkington. otis pilkington." the uncomfortable silence which always follows introductions was broken by the sound of the telephone-bell on the desk. otis pilkington, who had moved out into the room and was nowhere near the desk, stretched forth a preposterous arm and removed the receiver. "yes? oh, will you say, please, that i have a conference at present." jill was to learn that people in the theatrical business never talked: they always held conferences. "tell mrs. peagrim that i shall be calling later in the afternoon, but cannot be spared just now." he replaced the receiver. "aunt olive's secretary," he murmured in a soft aside to mr. trevis. "aunt olive wanted me to go for a ride." he turned to jill. "excuse me. is there anything i can do for you, miss mariner?" jill's composure was now completely restored. this interview was turning out so totally different from anything she had expected. the atmosphere was cosy and social. she felt as if she were back in ovingdon square, giving tea to freddie rooke and ronny devereux and the rest of her friends of the london period. all that was needed to complete the picture was a tea-table in front of her. the business note hardly intruded on the proceedings at all. still, as business was the object of her visit, she felt that she had better approach it. "i came for work." "work!" cried mr. pilkington. he, too, appeared to be regarding the interview as purely of a social nature. "in the chorus," explained jill. mr. pilkington seemed shocked. he winced away from the word as though it pained him. "there is no chorus in 'the rose of america,'" he said. "i thought it was a musical comedy." mr. pilkington winced again. "it is a musical _fantasy_!" he said. "but there will be no chorus. we shall have," he added, a touch of rebuke in his voice, "the services of twelve refined ladies of the ensemble." jill laughed. "it does sound much better, doesn't it!" she said. "well, am i refined enough, do you think?" "i shall be only too happy if you will join us," said mr. pilkington promptly. the long-haired composer looked doubtful. he struck a note up in the treble, then whirled round on his stool. "if you don't mind my mentioning it, otie, we have twelve girls already." "then we must have thirteen," said otis pilkington firmly. "unlucky number," argued mr. trevis. "i don't care. we must have miss mariner. you can see for yourself that she is exactly the type we need." he spoke feelingly. ever since the business of engaging a company had begun, he had been thinking wistfully of the evening when "the rose of america" had had its opening performance--at his aunt's house at newport last summer--with an all-star cast of society favourites and an ensemble recruited entirely from debutantes and matrons of the younger set. that was the sort of company he had longed to assemble for the piece's professional career, and until this afternoon he had met with nothing but disappointment. jill seemed to be the only girl in theatrical new york who came up to the standard he would have liked to demand. "thank you very much," said jill. there was another pause. the social note crept into the atmosphere again. jill felt the hostess' desire to keep conversation circulating. "i hear," she said, "that this piece is a sort of gilbert and sullivan opera." mr. pilkington considered the point. "i confess," he said, "that, in writing the book, i had gilbert before me as a model. whether i have in any sense succeeded in...." "the book," said mr. trevis, running his fingers over the piano, "is as good as anything gilbert ever wrote." "oh, come, rolie!" protested mr. pilkington modestly. "better," insisted mr. trevis. "for one thing, it is up-to-date." "i _do_ try to strike the modern note," murmured mr. pilkington. "and you have avoided gilbert's mistake of being too fanciful." "he _was_ fanciful," admitted mr. pilkington. "the music," he added, in a generous spirit of give and take, "has all sullivan's melody with a newness of rhythm peculiarly its own. you will like the music." "it sounds," said jill amiably, "as though the piece is bound to be a tremendous success." "we hope so," said mr. pilkington. "we feel that the time has come when the public is beginning to demand something better than what it has been accustomed to. people are getting tired of the brainless trash and jingly tunes which have been given them by men like wallace mason and george bevan. they want a certain polish.... it was just the same in gilbert and sullivan's day. they started writing at a time when the musical stage had reached a terrible depth of inanity. the theatre was given over to burlesques of the most idiotic description. the public was waiting eagerly to welcome something of a higher class. it is just the same to-day. but the managers will not see it. 'the rose of america' went up and down broadway for months, knocking at managers' doors." "it should have walked in without knocking, like me," said jill. she got up. "well, it was very kind of you to see me when i came in so unceremoniously. but i felt it was no good waiting outside on that landing. i'm so glad everything is settled. good-bye." "good-bye, miss mariner." mr. pilkington took her outstretched hand devoutly. "there is a rehearsal called for the ensemble at--when is it, rolie?" "eleven o'clock, day after to-morrow, at bryant hall." "i'll be there," said jill. "good-bye, and thank you very much." the silence which had fallen upon the room as she left it was broken by mr. trevis. "some pip!" observed mr. trevis. otis pilkington awoke from day-dreams with a start. "what did you say?" "that girl.... i said she was some pippin!" "miss mariner," said mr. pilkington icily, "is a most charming, refined, cultured, and vivacious girl, if you mean that." "yes," said mr. trevis. "that was what i meant!" ii jill walked out into forty-second street, looking about her with the eye of a conqueror. very little change had taken place in the aspect of new york since she had entered the gotham theatre, but it seemed a different city to her. an hour ago, she had been a stranger, drifting aimlessly along its rapids. now she belonged to new york, and new york belonged to her. she had faced it squarely, and forced from it the means of living. she walked on with a new jauntiness in her stride. the address which nelly had given her was on the east side of fifth avenue. she made her way along forty-second street. it seemed the jolliest, alivest street she had ever encountered. the rattle of the elevated as she crossed sixth avenue was music, and she loved the crowds that jostled her with every step she took. she reached the fifth avenue corner just as the policeman out in the middle of the street swung his stop-and-go post round to allow the up-town traffic to proceed on its way. a stream of cars which had been dammed up as far as the eye could reach began to flow swiftly past. they moved in a double line, red limousines, blue limousines, mauve limousines, green limousines. she stood waiting for the flood to cease, and, as she did so, there purred past her the biggest and reddest limousine of all. it was a colossal vehicle with a polar-bear at the steering-wheel and another at his side. and in the interior, very much at his ease, his gaze bent courteously upon a massive lady in a mink coat, sat uncle chris. for a moment he was so near to her that, but for the closed window, she could have touched him. then the polar-bear at the wheel, noting a gap in the traffic, stepped on the accelerator and slipped neatly through. the car moved swiftly on and disappeared. jill drew a deep breath. the stop-and-go sign swung round again. she crossed the avenue, and set out once more to find nelly bryant. it occurred to her, five minutes later, that a really practical and quick-thinking girl would have noted the number of the limousine. chapter xi mr. pilkington's love light i the rehearsals of a musical comedy--a term which embraces "musical fantasies"--generally begin in a desultory sort of way at that curious building, bryant hall, on sixth avenue just off forty-second street. there, in a dusty, uncarpeted room, simply furnished with a few wooden chairs and some long wooden benches, the chorus--or, in the case of "the rose of america," the ensemble--sit round a piano and endeavour, with the assistance of the musical director, to get the words and melodies of the first-act numbers into their heads. this done, they are ready for the dance director to instil into them the steps, the groupings, and the business for the encores, of which that incurable optimist always seems to expect there will be at least six. later, the principals are injected into the numbers. and finally, leaving bryant hall and dodging about from one unoccupied theatre to another, principals and chorus rehearse together, running through the entire piece over and over again till the opening night of the preliminary road tour. to jill, in the early stages, rehearsing was just like being back at school. she could remember her first schoolmistress, whom the musical director somewhat resembled in manner and appearance, hammering out hymns on a piano and leading in a weak soprano an eager, baying pack of children, each anxious from motives of pride to out-bawl her nearest neighbour. the proceedings began on the first morning with the entrance of mr. saltzburg, the musical director, a brisk, busy little man with benevolent eyes behind big spectacles, who bustled over to the piano, sat down, and played a loud chord, designed to act as a sort of bugle blast, rallying the ladies of the ensemble from the corners where they sat in groups, chatting. for the process of making one another's acquaintance had begun some ten minutes before with mutual recognitions between those who knew each other from having been together in previous productions. there followed rapid introductions of friends. nelly bryant had been welcomed warmly by a pretty girl with red hair, whom she introduced to jill as babe; babe had a willowy blonde friend, named lois, and the four of them had seated themselves on one of the benches and opened a conversation; their numbers being added to a moment later by a dark girl with a southern accent and another blonde. elsewhere other groups had formed, and the room was filled with a noise like the chattering of starlings. in a body by themselves, rather forlorn and neglected, half a dozen solemn and immaculately dressed young men were propping themselves up against the wall and looking on, like men in a ball-room who do not dance. jill listened to the conversation without taking any great part in it herself. she felt as she had done on her first day at school, a little shy and desirous of effacing herself. the talk dealt with clothes, men, and the show business, in that order of importance. presently one of the young men sauntered diffidently across the room and added himself to the group with the remark that it was a fine day. he was received a little grudgingly, jill thought, but by degrees succeeded in assimilating himself. a second young man drifted up; reminded the willowy girl that they had worked together in the western company of "you're the one"; was recognized and introduced, and justified his admission to the circle by a creditable imitation of a cat-fight. five minutes later he was addressing the southern girl as "honey," and had informed jill that he had only joined this show to fill in before opening on the three-a-day with the swellest little song-and-dance act which he and a little girl who worked in the cabaret at geisenheimer's had fixed up. on this scene of harmony and good-fellowship mr. saltzburg's chord intruded jarringly. there was a general movement, and chairs and benches were dragged to the piano. mr. saltzburg causing a momentary delay by opening a large brown music-bag and digging in it like a terrier at a rat-hole, conversation broke out again. mr. saltzburg emerged from the bag, with his hands full of papers, protesting. "childrun! chil-_drun_! if you please, less noise and attend to me!" he distributed sheets of paper. "act one, opening chorus. i will play the melody three--four times. follow attentively. then we will sing it la-la-la, and after that we will sing the words. so!" he struck the yellow-keyed piano a vicious blow, producing a tinny and complaining sound. bending forward with his spectacles almost touching the music, he plodded determinedly through the tune, then encored himself, and after that encored himself again. when he had done this, he removed his spectacles and wiped them. there was a pause. "izzy," observed the willowy young lady chattily, leaning across jill and addressing the southern girl's blonde friend, "has promised me a sunburst!" a general stir of interest and a coming close together of heads. "what! izzy!" "sure, izzy." "well!" "he's just landed the hat-check privilege at the st. aurea!" "you don't say!" "he told me so last night and promised me the sunburst. he was," admitted the willowy girl regretfully, "a good bit tanked at the time, but i guess he'll make good." she mused awhile, a rather anxious expression clouding her perfect profile. she looked like a meditative greek goddess. "if he doesn't," she added with maidenly dignity, "it's the last time _i_ go out with the big stiff. i'd tie a can to him quicker'n look at him!" a murmur of approval greeted this admirable sentiment. "childrun!" protested mr. saltzburg. "chil-drun! less noise and chatter of conversation. we are here to work! we must not waste time! so! act one, opening chorus. now, all together. la-la-la...." "la-la-la...." "tum-tum-tumty-tumty...." "tum-tum-tumty...." mr. saltzburg pressed his hands to his ears in a spasm of pain. "no, no, no! sour! sour! sour!... once again. la-la-la...." a round-faced girl with golden hair and the face of a wondering cherub interrupted, speaking with a lisp. "mithter thalzburg." "now what is it, miss trevor?" "what sort of a show is this?" "a musical show," said mr. saltzburg severely, "and this is a rehearsal of it, not a conversazione. once more, please." the cherub was not to be rebuffed. "is the music good, mithter thalzburg?" "when you have rehearsed it, you shall judge for yourself. come now...." "is there anything in it as good as that waltz of yours you played us when we were rehearthing 'mind how you go?' you remember. the one that went...." a tall and stately girl, with sleepy brown eyes and the air of a duchess in the servants' hall, bent forward and took a kindly interest in the conversation. "oh, have you composed a varlse, mr. saltzburg?" she asked with pleasant condescension. "how interesting, really! won't you play it for us?" the sentiment of the meeting seemed to be unanimous in favour of shelving work and listening to mr. saltzburg's waltz. "oh, mr. saltzburg, do!" "please!" "some one told me it was a pipterino!" "i cert'nly do love waltzes!" "please, mr. saltzburg!" mr. saltzburg obviously weakened. his fingers touched the keys irresolutely. "but, childrun!" "i am sure it would be a great pleasure to all of us," said the duchess graciously, "if you would play it. there is nothing i enjoy more than a good varlse." mr. saltzburg capitulated. like all musical directors he had in his leisure moments composed the complete score of a musical play and spent much of his time waylaying librettists on the rialto and trying to lure them to his apartment to listen to it, with a view to business. the eternal tragedy of a musical director's life is comparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has to assist others to eat. mr. saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and his soul revolted at being compelled perpetually to rehearse and direct the inferior compositions of other men. far less persuasion than he had received to-day was usually required to induce him to play the whole of his score. "you wish it?" he said. "well, then! this waltz, you will understand, is the theme of a musical romance which i have composed. it will be sung once in the first act by the heroine, then in the second act as a duet for heroine and hero. i weave it into the finale of the second act, and we have an echo of it, sung off stage, in the third act. what i play you now is the second act duet. the verse is longer. so! the male voice begins." a pleasant time was had by all for ten minutes. "ah, but this is not rehearsing, childrun!" cried mr. saltzburg remorsefully at the end of that period. "this is not business. come now, the opening chorus of act one, and please this time keep on the key. before, it was sour, sour come! la-la-la...." "mr. thalzburg!" "miss trevor?" "there was an awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. i do wish...." "some other time, some other time! now we must work. come! la-la-la...." "i wish you could have heard it, girls" said the cherub regretfully. "honetht, it was lalapalootha!" the pack broke into full cry. "oh, mr. saltzburg!" "please, mr. saltzburg!" "do play the fox-trot, mr. saltzburg!" "if it is as good as the varlse," said the duchess, stooping once more to the common level, "i am sure it must be very good indeed." she powdered her nose. "and one so rarely hears musicianly music nowadays, does one?" "which fox-trot?" asked mr. saltzburg weakly. "play 'em all!" decided a voice on the left. "yes, play 'em all," bayed the pack. "i am sure that that would be charming," agreed the duchess, replacing her powder-puff. mr. saltzburg played 'em all. this man by now seemed entirely lost to shame. the precious minutes that belonged to his employers and should have been earmarked for "the rose of america" flitted by. the ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble, who should have been absorbing and learning to deliver the melodies of roland trevis and the lyrics of otis pilkington, lolled back in their seats. the yellow-keyed piano rocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught. the proceedings had begun to resemble not so much a rehearsal as a happy home evening, and grateful glances were cast at the complacent cherub. she had, it was felt, shown tact and discretion. pleasant conversation began again. "... and i walked a couple of blocks, and there was exactly the same model in schwartz and gulderstein's window at twenty-six fifty...." "... he got on forty-second street, and he was kinda fresh from the start. at sixty-sixth he came sasshaying right down the car and said 'hello, patootie!' well, i drew myself up...." "... even if you are my sister's husband,' i said to him. oh, i suppose i got a temper. it takes a lot to arouse it, y'know, but i c'n get pretty mad...." "... you don't know the half of it, dearie, you don't know the half of it! a one-piece bathing suit! well, you could call it that, but the cop of the beach said it was more like a baby's sock. and when...." "... so i said 'listen, izzy, that'll be about all from you! my father was a gentleman, though i don't suppose you know what that means, and i'm not accustomed....'" "hey!" a voice from the neighbourhood of the door had cut into the babble like a knife into butter; a rough, rasping voice, loud and compelling, which caused the conversation of the members of the ensemble to cease on the instant. only mr. saltzburg, now in a perfect frenzy of musicianly fervour, continued to assault the decrepit piano, unwitting of an unsympathetic addition to his audience. "what i play you now is the laughing trio from my second act. it is a building number. it is sung by tenor, principal comedian, and soubrette. on the second refrain four girls will come out and two boys. the girls will dance with the two men, the boys with the soubrette. so! on the encore four more girls and two more boys. third encore, solo-dance for specialty dancer, all on stage beating time by clapping their hands. on repeat, all sing refrain once more, and off. last encore, the three principals and specialty dancer dance the dance with entire chorus. it is a great building number, you understand. it is enough to make the success of any musical play, but can i get a hearing? no! if i ask managers to listen to my music, they are busy! if i beg them to give me a libretto to set, they laugh--ha! ha!" mr. saltzburg gave a spirited and lifelike representation of a manager laughing ha-ha when begged to disgorge a libretto. "now i play it once more!" "like hell you do!" said the voice. "say, what is this, anyway? a concert?" mr. saltzburg swung round on the music-stool, a startled and apprehensive man, and nearly fell off it. the divine afflatus left him like air oozing from a punctured toy-balloon, and, like such a balloon, he seemed to grow suddenly limp and flat. he stared with fallen jaw at the new arrival. two men had entered the room. one was the long mr. pilkington. the other, who looked shorter and stouter than he really was beside his giraffe-like companion, was a thick-set, fleshy man in the early thirties with a blond, clean-shaven, double-chinned face. he had smooth, yellow hair, an unwholesome complexion, and light green eyes, set close together. from the edge of the semi-circle about the piano, he glared menacingly over the heads of the chorus at the unfortunate mr. saltzburg. "why aren't these girls working?" mr. saltzburg, who had risen nervously from his stool, backed away apprehensively from his gaze, and, stumbling over the stool, sat down abruptly on the piano, producing a curious noise like futurist music. "i--we--why, mr. goble...." mr. goble turned his green gaze on the concert audience, and spread discomfort as if it were something liquid which he was spraying through a hose. the girls who were nearest looked down flutteringly at their shoes: those further away concealed themselves behind their neighbours. even the duchess, who prided herself on being the possessor of a stare of unrivalled haughtiness, before which the fresh quailed and those who made breaks subsided in confusion, was unable to meet his eyes: and the willowy friend of izzy, for all her victories over that monarch of the hat-checks, bowed before it like a slim tree before a blizzard. only jill returned the manager's gaze. she was seated on the outer rim of the semi-circle, and she stared frankly at mr. goble. she had never seen anything like him before, and he fascinated her. this behaviour on her part singled her out from the throng, and mr. goble concentrated his attention on her. for some seconds he stood looking at her; then, raising a stubby finger, he let his eye travel over the company, and seemed to be engrossed in some sort of mathematical calculation. "thirteen," he said at length. "i make it thirteen." he rounded on mr. pilkington. "i told you we were going to have a chorus of twelve." mr. pilkington blushed and stumbled over his feet. "ah, yes ... yes," he murmured vaguely. "yes!" "well, there are thirteen here. count 'em for yourself." he whipped round on jill. "what's _your_ name? who engaged you?" a croaking sound from the neighbourhood of the ceiling indicated the clearing of mr. pilkington's throat. "i--er--_i_ engaged miss mariner, mr. goble." "oh, _you_ engaged her?" he stared again at jill. the inspection was long and lingering, and affected jill with a sense of being inadequately clothed. she returned the gaze as defiantly as she could, but her heart was beating fast. she had never yet been frightened of any man, but there was something reptilian about this fat, yellow-haired individual which disquieted her, much as cockroaches had done in her childhood. a momentary thought flashed through her mind that it would be horrible to be touched by him. he looked soft and glutinous. "all right," said mr. goble at last, after what seemed to jill many minutes. he nodded to mr. saltzburg. "get on with it! and try working a little this time! i don't hire you to give musical entertainments." "yes, mr. goble, yes. i mean no, mr. goble!" "you can have the gotham stage this afternoon," said mr. goble. "call the rehearsal for two sharp." outside the door, he turned to mr. pilkington. "that was a fool trick of yours, hiring that girl. thirteen! i'd as soon walk under a ladder on a friday as open in new york with a chorus of thirteen. well, it don't matter. we can sack one of 'em after we've opened on the road." he mused for a moment. "darned pretty girl, that!" he went on meditatively. "where did you get her?" "she--ah--came into the office, when you were out. she struck me as being essentially the type we required for our ensemble, so i--er--engaged her. she--" mr. pilkington gulped. "she is a charming, refined girl!" "she's darned pretty," admitted mr. goble, and went on his way wrapped in thought, mr. pilkington following timorously. it was episodes like the one that had just concluded which made otis pilkington wish that he possessed a little more assertion. he regretted wistfully that he was not one of those men who can put their hat on the side of their heads and shoot out their chins and say to the world "well, what about it!" he was bearing the financial burden of this production. if it should be a failure, his would be the loss. yet somehow this coarse, rough person in front of him never seemed to allow him a word in the executive policy of the piece. he treated him as a child. he domineered and he shouted, and behaved as if he were in sole command. mr pilkington sighed. he rather wished he had never gone into this undertaking. inside the room, mr. saltzburg wiped his forehead, his spectacles, and his hands. he had the aspect of one who wakes from a dreadful dream. "childrun!" he whispered brokenly. "childrun! if you please, once more. act one, opening chorus. come! la-la-la!" "la-la-la!" chanted the subdued members of the ensemble. ii by the time the two halves of the company, ensemble and principals, melted into one complete whole, the novelty of her new surroundings had worn off, and jill was feeling that there had never been a time when she had not been one of a theatrical troupe, rehearsing. the pleasant social gatherings round mr. saltzburg's piano gave way in a few days to something far less agreeable and infinitely more strenuous, the breaking-in of the dances under the supervision of the famous johnson miller. johnson miller was a little man with snow-white hair and the india-rubber physique of a juvenile acrobat. nobody knew actually how old he was, but he certainly looked much too advanced in years to be capable of the feats of endurance which he performed daily. he had the untiring enthusiasm of a fox-terrier, and had bullied and scolded more companies along the rocky road that leads to success than any half-dozen dance-directors in the country, in spite of his handicap in being almost completely deaf. he had an almost miraculous gift of picking up the melodies for which it was his business to design dances, without apparently hearing them. he seemed to absorb them through the pores. he had a blunt and arbitrary manner, and invariably spoke his mind frankly and honestly--a habit which made him strangely popular in a profession where the language of equivoque is cultivated almost as sedulously as in the circles of international diplomacy. what johnson miller said to your face was official, not subject to revision as soon as your back was turned, and people appreciated this. izzy's willowy friend summed him up one evening when the ladies of the ensemble were changing their practice-clothes after a particularly strenuous rehearsal, defending him against the southern girl, who complained that he made her tired. "you bet he makes you tired," she said. "so he does me. i'm losing my girlish curves, and i'm so stiff i can't lace my shoes. but he knows his business and he's on the level, which is more than you can say of most of these guys in the show business." "that's right," agreed the southern girl's blonde friend. "he does know his business. he's put over any amount of shows which would have flopped like dogs without him to stage the numbers." the duchess yawned. rehearsing always bored her, and she had not been greatly impressed by what she had seen of "the rose of america." "one will be greatly surprised if he can make a success of _this_ show! i confess i find it perfectly ridiculous." "ithn't it the limit, honetht!" said the cherub, arranging her golden hair at the mirror. "it maketh me thick! why on earth ith ike putting it on?" the girl who knew everything--there is always one in every company--hastened to explain. "i heard all about that. ike hasn't any of his own money in the thing. he's getting twenty-five per cent of the show for running it. the angel is the long fellow you see jumping around. pilkington his name is." "well, it'll need to be rockefeller later on," said the blonde. "oh, they'll get thomebody down to fixth it after we've been out on the road a couple of days," said the cherub, optimistically. "they alwayth do. i've seen worse shows than this turned into hits. all it wants ith a new book and lyrics and a different thcore." "and a new set of principals," said the red-headed babe. "did you ever see such a bunch?" the duchess, with another tired sigh, arched her well-shaped eyebrows and studied the effect in the mirror. "one wonders where they pick these persons up," she assented languidly. "they remind me of a headline i saw in the paper this morning--'tons of hams unfit for human consumption.' are any of you girls coming my way? i can give two or three of you a lift in my limousine." "thorry, old dear, and thanks ever so much," said the cherub, "but i instructed clarence, my man, to have the street-car waiting on the corner, and he'll be too upset if i'm not there." nelly had an engagement to go and help one of the other girls buy a spring suit, a solemn rite which it is impossible to conduct by oneself: and jill and the cherub walked to the corner together. jill had become very fond of the little thing since rehearsals began. she reminded her of a london sparrow. she was so small and perky and so absurdly able to take care of herself. "limouthine!" snorted the cherub. the duchess' concluding speech evidently still rankled. "she gives me a pain in the gizthard!" "hasn't she got a limousine?" asked jill. "of course she hasn't. she's engaged to be married to a demonstrator in the speedwell auto company, and he thneaks off when he can get away and gives her joy-rides. that's all the limouthine she's got. it beats me why girls in the show business are alwayth tho crazy to make themselves out vamps with a dozen millionaires on a string. if mae wouldn't four-flush and act like the belle of the moulin rouge, she'd be the nithest girl you ever met. she's mad about the fellow she's engaged to, and wouldn't look at all the millionaires in new york if you brought 'em to her on a tray. she's going to marry him as thoon as he's thaved enough to buy the furniture, and then she'll thettle down in harlem thomewhere and cook and mind the baby and regularly be one of the lower middle classes. all that's wrong with mae ith that she's read gingery stories and thinkth that's the way a girl has to act when she'th in the chorus." "that's funny," said jill. "i should never have thought it. i swallowed the limousine whole." the cherub looked at her curiously. jill puzzled her. jill had, indeed, been the subject of much private speculation among her colleagues. "this is your first show, ithn't it?" she asked. "yes." "thay, what are you doing in the chorus, anyway?" "getting scolded by mr. miller mostly, it seems to me. "thcolded by mr. miller! why didn't you say 'bawled out by johnny'? that'th what any of the retht of us would have said." "well, i've lived most of my life in england. you can't expect me to talk the language yet." "i thought you were english. you've got an acthent like the fellow who plays the dude in thith show. thay, why did you ever get into the show business?" "well ... well, why did you? why does anybody?" "why did i? oh, i belong there. i'm a regular broadway rat. i wouldn't be happy anywhere elthe. i was born in the show business. i've got two thithters in the two-a-day and a brother in thtock in california and dad's one of the betht comedians on the burlethque wheel. but any one can thee you're different. there's no reathon why you should be sticking around in the chorus." "but there is. i've no money, and i can't do anything to make it." "honetht?" "honest." "that's tough." the cherub pondered, her round eyes searching jill's face. "why don't you get married?" jill laughed. "nobody's asked me." "somebody thoon will. at least, if he's on the level, and i think he is. you can generally tell by the look of a guy, and, if you ask me, friend pilkington's got the licence in hith pocket and the ring all ordered and everything." "pilkington!" cried jill aghast. she remembered certain occasions during rehearsals, when, while the chorus idled in the body of the theatre and listened to the principals working at their scenes, the elongated pilkington had suddenly appeared in the next seat and conversed sheepishly in a low voice. could this be love? if so, it was a terrible nuisance. jill had had her experience in london of enamoured young men who, running true to national form, declined to know when they were beaten, and she had not enjoyed the process of cooling their ardour. she had a kind heart, and it distressed her to give pain. it also got on her nerves to be dogged by stricken males who tried to catch her eye in order that she might observe their broken condition. she recalled one house-party in wales where it rained all the time and she had been cooped up with a victim who kept popping out from obscure corners and beginning all his pleas with the words "i say, you know...!" she trusted that otis pilkington was not proposing to conduct a wooing on those lines. yet he had certainly developed a sinister habit of popping out at the theatre. on several occasions he had startled her by appearing at her side as if he had come up out of a trap. "oh, no!" cried jill. "oh, yeth!" insisted the cherub, waving imperiously to an approaching street-car. "well, i must be getting up-town. i've got a date. thee you later." "i'm sure you're mistaken." "i'm not." "but what makes you think so?" the cherub placed a hand on the rail of the car, preparatory to swinging herself on board. "well, for one thing," she said, "he'th been stalking you like an indian ever since we left the theatre! look behind you. good-bye, honey. thend me a piece of the cake!" the street-car bore her away. the last that jill saw of her was a wide and amiable grin. then, turning, she beheld the snake-like form of otis pilkington towering at her side. mr. pilkington seemed nervous but determined. his face was half hidden by the silk scarf that muffled his throat, for he was careful of his health and had a fancied tendency to bronchial trouble. above the scarf a pair of mild eyes gazed down at jill through their tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. it was hopeless for jill to try to tell herself that the tender gleam behind the glass was not the love light in otis pilkington's eyes. the truth was too obvious. "good evening, miss mariner," said mr. pilkington, his voice sounding muffled and far away through the scarf. "are you going up-town?" "no, down-town," said jill quickly. "so am i," said mr. pilkington. jill felt annoyed, but helpless. it is difficult to bid a tactful farewell to a man who has stated his intention of going in the same direction as yourself. there was nothing for it but to accept the unspoken offer of otis pilkington's escort. they began to walk down broadway together. "i suppose you are tired after the rehearsal?" enquired mr. pilkington in his precise voice. he always spoke as if he were weighing each word and clipping it off a reel. "a little. mr. miller is very enthusiastic." "about the piece?" her companion spoke eagerly. "no; i meant hard-working." "has he said anything about the piece?" "well, no. you see, he doesn't confide in us a great deal, except to tell us his opinion of the way we do the steps. i don't think we impress him very much, to judge from what he says. but the girls say he always tells every chorus he rehearses that it is the worst he ever had anything to do with." "and the chor--the--er--ladies of the ensemble? what do they think of the piece?" "well, i don't suppose they are very good judges, are they?" said jill diplomatically. "you mean they do not like it?" "some of them don't seem quite to understand it." mr. pilkington was silent for a moment. "i am beginning to wonder myself whether it may not be a little over the heads of the public," he said ruefully. "when it was first performed...." "oh, has it been done before?" "by amateurs, yes, at the house of my aunt, mrs. waddesleigh peagrim, at newport, last summer. in aid of the armenian orphans. it was extraordinarily well received on that occasion. we nearly made our expenses. it was such a success that--i feel i can confide in you. i should not like this repeated to your--your--the other ladies--it was such a success that, against my aunt's advice, i decided to give it a broadway production. between ourselves, i am shouldering practically all the expenses of the undertaking. mr. goble has nothing to do with the financial arrangements of 'the rose of america.' those are entirely in my hands. mr. goble, in return for a share in the profits, is giving us the benefit of his experience as regards the management and booking of the piece. i have always had the greatest faith in it. trevis and i wrote it when we were in college together, and all our friends thought it exceptionally brilliant. my aunt, as i say, was opposed to the venture. she holds the view that i am not a good man of business. in a sense, perhaps, she is right. temperamentally, no doubt, i am more the artist. but i was determined to show the public something superior to the so-called broadway successes, which are so terribly trashy. unfortunately, i am beginning to wonder whether it is possible, with the crude type of actor at one's disposal in this country, to give a really adequate performance of such a play as 'the rose of america.' these people seem to miss the spirit of the piece, its subtle topsy-turvy humour, its delicate whimsicality. this afternoon," mr. pilkington choked. "this afternoon i happened to overhear two of the principals, who were not aware that i was within earshot, discussing the play. one of them--these people express themselves curiously--one of them said that he thought it a quince: and the other described it as a piece of gorgonzola cheese! that is not the spirit that wins success!" jill was feeling immensely relieved. after all, it seemed, this poor young man merely wanted sympathy, not romance. she had been mistaken, she felt, about that gleam in his eyes. it was not the lovelight: it was the light of panic. he was the author of the play. he had sunk a large sum of money in its production, he had heard people criticizing it harshly, and he was suffering from what her colleagues in the chorus would have called cold feet. it was such a human emotion and he seemed so like an overgrown child pleading to be comforted that her heart warmed to him. relief melted her defences. and when, on their arrival at thirty-fourth street mr. pilkington suggested that she partake of a cup of tea at his apartment, which was only a couple of blocks away off madison avenue, she accepted the invitation without hesitating. on the way to his apartment mr. pilkington continued in the minor key. he was a great deal more communicative than she herself would have been to such a comparative stranger as she was, but she knew that men were often like this. over in london, she had frequently been made the recipient of the most intimate confidences by young men whom she had met for the first time the same evening at a dance. she had been forced to believe that there was something about her personality that acted on a certain type of man like the crack in the dam, setting loose the surging flood of their eloquence. to this class otis pilkington evidently belonged, for, once started, he withheld nothing. "it isn't that i'm dependent on aunt olive or anything like that," he vouchsafed, as he stirred the tea in his japanese-print hung studio. "but you know how it is. aunt olive is in a position to make it very unpleasant for me if i do anything foolish. at present, i have reason to know that she intends to leave me practically all that she possesses. millions!" said mr. pilkington, handing jill a cup. "i assure you, millions! but there is a hard commercial strain in her. it would have the most prejudicial effect upon her if; especially after she had expressly warned me against it, i were to lose a great deal of money over this production. she is always complaining that i am not a business man like my late uncle. mr. waddesleigh peagrim made a fortune in smoked hams." mr. pilkington looked at the japanese prints, and shuddered slightly. "right up to the time of his death he was urging me to go into the business. i could not have endured it. but, when i heard those two men discussing the play, i almost wished that i had done so." jill was now completely disarmed. she would almost have patted this unfortunate young man's head, if she could have reached it. "i shouldn't worry about the piece," she said. "i've read somewhere or heard somewhere that it's the surest sign of a success when actors don't like a play." mr. pilkington drew his chair an imperceptible inch nearer. "how sympathetic you are!" jill perceived with chagrin that she had been mistaken after all. it _was_ the love light. the tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles sprayed it all over her like a couple of searchlights. otis pilkington was looking exactly like a sheep, and she knew from past experience that that was the infallible sign. when young men looked like that, it was time to go. "i'm afraid i must be off," she said. "thank you so much for giving me tea. i shouldn't be a bit afraid about the play. i'm sure it's going to be splendid. good-bye." "you aren't going already?" "i must. i'm very late as it is. i promised...." whatever fiction jill might have invented to the detriment of her soul was interrupted by a ring at the bell. the steps of mr. pilkington's japanese servant crossing the hall came faintly to the sitting-room. "mr. pilkington in?" otis pilkington motioned pleadingly to jill. "don't go!" he urged. "it's only a man i know. he has probably come to remind me that i am dining with him to-night. he won't stay a minute. please don't go." jill sat down. she had no intention of going now. the cheery voice at the front door had been the cheery voice of her long-lost uncle, major christopher selby. chapter xii uncle chris borrows a flat i uncle chris walked breezily into the room, flicking a jaunty glove. he stopped short on seeing that mr. pilkington was not alone. "oh, i beg your pardon! i understood...." he peered at jill uncertainly. mr. pilkington affected a dim, artistic lighting-system in his studio, and people who entered from the great outdoors generally had to take time to accustom their eyes to it. "if you're engaged...." "er--allow me.... miss mariner.... major selby." "hullo, uncle chris!" said jill. "god bless my soul!" ejaculated that startled gentleman adventurer, and collapsed on to a settee as if his legs had been mown from under him. "i've been looking for you all over new york," said jill. mr. pilkington found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. "uncle chris?" he said with a note of feeble enquiry in his voice. "major selby is my uncle." "are you sure?" said mr. pilkington. "i mean...." not being able to ascertain, after a moment's self-examination, what he did mean, he relapsed into silence. "whatever are you doing here?" asked uncle chris. "i've been having tea with mr. pilkington." "but ... but why mr. pilkington?" "well, he invited me." "but how do you know him?" "we met at the theatre." "theatre?" otis pilkington recovered his power of speech. "miss mariner is rehearsing with a little play in which i am interested," he explained. uncle chris half rose from the settee. he blinked twice in rapid succession. jill had never seen him so shaken from his customary poise. "don't tell me you have gone on the stage, jill!" "i have. i'm in the chorus...." "ensemble," corrected mr. pilkington softly. "i'm in the ensemble of a piece called 'the rose of america.' we've been rehearsing for ever so long." uncle chris digested this information in silence for a moment he pulled at his short moustache. "why, of course!" he said at length. jill, who knew him so well, could tell by the restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he was himself again. he had dealt with this situation in his mind and was prepared to cope with it. the surmise was confirmed the next instant when he rose and stationed himself in front of the fire. mr. pilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he had found a studio apartment with an open fireplace. uncle chris spread his legs and expanded his chest. "of course," he said. "i remember now that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of going on the stage. my niece," explained uncle chris to the attentive mr. pilkington, "came over from england on a later boat. i was not expecting her for some weeks. hence my surprise at meeting her here. of course. you told me that you intended to go on the stage, and i strongly recommended you to begin at the bottom of the ladder and learn the ground-work thoroughly before you attempted higher flights." "oh, that was it?" said mr. pilkington. he had been wondering. "there is no finer training," resumed uncle chris, completely at his ease once more, "than the chorus. how many of the best-known actresses in america began in that way! dozens. dozens. if i were giving advice to any young girl with theatrical aspirations, i should say 'begin in the chorus!' on the other hand," he proceeded, turning to mr. pilkington, "i think it would be just as well if you would not mention the fact of my niece being in that position to mrs. waddesleigh peagrim. she might not understand." "exactly," assented mr. pilkington. "the term 'chorus'...." "i dislike it intensely myself." "it suggests...." "precisely." uncle chris inflated his chest again, well satisfied. "capital!" he said. "well, i only dropped in to remind you, my boy, that you and your aunt are dining with me to-night. i was afraid a busy man like you might forget." "i was looking forward to it," said mr. pilkington, charmed at the description. "you remember the address? nine east forty-first street. i have moved, you remember." "so that was why i couldn't find you at the other place," said jill. "the man at the door said he had never heard of you." "stupid idiot!" said uncle chris testily. "these new york hall-porters are recruited entirely from homes for the feeble-minded. i suppose he was a new man. well, pilkington, my boy, i shall expect you at seven o'clock. good-bye till then. come, jill." "good-bye, mr. pilkington," said jill. "good-bye for the present, miss mariner," said mr. pilkington, bending down to take her hand. the tortoise-shell spectacles shot a last soft beam at her. as the front door closed behind them, uncle chris heaved a sigh of relief. "whew! i think i handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! a certain amount of diplomacy, i think!" "if you mean," said jill severely, "that you told some disgraceful fibs...." "fibs, my dear--or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapely clay of truth--are the ... how shall i put it?... well, anyway, they come in dashed handy. it would never have done for mrs. peagrim to have found out that you were in the chorus. if she discovered that my niece was in the chorus, she would infallibly suspect me of being an adventurer. and while," said uncle chris meditatively, "of course i _am_, it is nice to have one's little secrets. the good lady has had a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honourable but maligned profession ever since our long young friend back there was sued for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in his second year at college. we all have our prejudices. that is hers. however, i think, we may rely on our friend to say nothing about the matter.... but why did you do it? my dear child, whatever induced you to take such a step?" jill laughed. "that's practically what mr. miller said to me when we were rehearsing one of the dances this afternoon, only he put it differently." she linked her arm in his. "what else could i do? i was alone in new york with the remains of that twenty dollars you sent me and no more in sight." "but why didn't you stay down at brookport with your uncle elmer?" "have you ever seen my uncle elmer?" "no. curiously enough, i never have." "if you had, you wouldn't ask. brookport! ugh! i left when they tried to get me to understudy the hired man, who had resigned." "what!" "yes, they got tired of supporting me in the state to which i was accustomed--i don't blame them!--so they began to find ways of making me useful about the home. i didn't mind reading to aunt julia, and i could just stand taking tibby for walks. but, when it came to shoveling snow, i softly and silently vanished away." "but i can't understand all this. i suggested to your uncle--diplomatically--that you had large private means." "i know you did. and he spent all his time showing me over houses and telling me i could have them for a hundred thousand dollars cash down." jill bubbled. "you should have seen his face when i told him that twenty dollars was all i had in the world!" "you didn't tell him that!" "i did." uncle chris shook his head, like an indulgent father disappointed in a favourite child. "you're a dear girl, jill, but really you do seem totally lacking in ... how shall i put it?--finesse. your mother was just the same. a sweet woman, but with no diplomacy, no notion of _handling_ a situation. i remember her as a child giving me away hopelessly on one occasion after we had been at the jam-cupboard. she did not mean any harm, but she was constitutionally incapable of a tactful negative at the right time." uncle chris brooded for a moment on the past. "oh, well, it's a very fine trait, no doubt, though inconvenient. i don't blame you for leaving brookport if you weren't happy there. but i wish you had consulted me before going on the stage." "shall i strike this man?" asked jill of the world at large. "how could i consult you? my darling, precious uncle, don't you realize that you had vanished into thin air, leaving me penniless? i had to do something. and, now that we are on the subject, perhaps you will explain your movements. why did you write to me from that place on fifty-seventh street if you weren't there?" uncle chris cleared his throat. "in a sense ... when i wrote ... i _was_ there." "i suppose that means something, but it's beyond me. i'm not nearly as intelligent as you think, uncle chris, so you'll have to explain." "well, it was this way, my dear. i was in a peculiar position you must remember. i had made a number of wealthy friends on the boat and it is possible that--unwittingly--i gave them the impression that i was as comfortably off as themselves. at any rate, that is the impression they gathered, and it hardly seemed expedient to correct it. for it is a deplorable trait in the character of the majority of rich people that they only--er--expand--they only show the best and most companionable side of themselves to those whom they imagine to be as wealthy as they are. well, of course, while one was on the boat, the fact that i was sailing under what a purist might have termed false colours did not matter. the problem was how to keep up the--er--innocent deception after we had reached new york. a woman like mrs. waddesleigh peagrim--a ghastly creature, my dear, all front teeth and exuberance, but richer than the sub-treasury--looks askance at a man, however agreeable, if he endeavours to cement a friendship begun on board ship from a cheap boarding-house on amsterdam avenue. it was imperative that i should find something in the nature of what i might call a suitable base of operations. fortune played into my hands. one of the first men i met in new york was an old soldier-servant of mine, to whom i had been able to do some kindnesses in the old days. in fact--it shows how bread cast upon the waters returns to us after many days--it was with the assistance of a small loan from me that he was enabled to emigrate to america. well, i met this man, and, after a short conversation, he revealed the fact that he was the hall-porter at that apartment-house which you visited, the one on fifty-seventh street. at this time of the year, i knew, many wealthy people go south, to florida and the carolinas, and it occurred to me that there might be a vacant apartment in his building. there was. i took it." "but how on earth could you afford to pay for an apartment in a place like that?" uncle chris coughed. "i didn't say i paid for it. i said i took it. that is, as one might say, the point of my story. my old friend, grateful for favours received and wishing to do me a good turn, consented to become my accomplice in another--er--innocent deception. i gave my friends the address and telephone number of the apartment-house, living the while myself in surroundings of a somewhat humbler and less expensive character. i called every morning for letters. if anybody rang me up on the telephone, the admirable man answered in the capacity of my servant, took a message, and relayed it on to me at my boarding-house. if anybody called, he merely said that i was out. there wasn't a flaw in the whole scheme, my dear, and its chief merit was its beautiful simplicity." "then what made you give it up? conscience?" "conscience never made me give up _anything_," said uncle chris firmly. "no, there were a hundred chances to one against anything going wrong, and it was the hundredth that happened. when you have been in new york longer, you will realize that one peculiarity of the place is that the working-classes are in a constant state of flux. on monday you meet a plumber. ah! you say, a plumber! capital! on the following thursday you meet him again, and he is a car-conductor. next week he will be squirting soda in a drug-store. it's the fault of these dashed magazines, with their advertisements of correspondence courses--are you earning all you should?--write to us and learn chicken-farming by mail.... it puts wrong ideas into the fellows' heads. it unsettles them. it was so in this case. everything was going swimmingly, when my man suddenly conceived the idea that destiny had intended him for a chauffeur-gardener, and he threw up his position!" "leaving you homeless!" "as you say, homeless--temporarily. but, fortunately--i have been amazingly lucky all through; it really does seem as if you cannot keep a good man down--fortunately my friend had a friend who was janitor at a place on east forty-first street, and by a miracle of luck the only apartment in the building was empty. it is an office-building, but, like some of these places, it has one small bachelor's apartment on the top floor." "and you are the small bachelor?" "precisely. my friend explained matters to his friend--a few financial details were satisfactorily arranged--and here i am, perfectly happy with the cosiest little place in the world, rent free. i am even better off than i was before, as a matter of fact, for my new ally's wife is an excellent cook, and i have been enabled to give one or two very pleasant dinners at my new home. it lends verisimilitude to the thing if you can entertain a little. if you are never in when people call, they begin to wonder. i am giving dinner to your friend pilkington and mrs. peagrim there to-night. homey, delightful, and infinitely cheaper than a restaurant." "and what will you do when the real owner of the place walks in in the middle of dinner?" "out of the question. the janitor informs me that he left for england some weeks ago, intending to make a stay of several months." "well, you certainly think of everything." "whatever success i may have achieved," replied uncle chris, with the dignity of a captain of industry confiding in an interviewer, "i attribute to always thinking of everything." jill gurgled with laughter. there was that about her uncle which always acted on her moral sense like an opiate, lulling it to sleep and preventing it from rising up and becoming critical. if he had stolen a watch and chain, he would somehow have succeeded in convincing her that he had acted for the best under the dictates of a benevolent altruism. "what success _have_ you achieved?" she asked, interested. "when you left me, you were on your way to find a fortune. did you find it?" "i have not actually placed my hands on it yet," admitted uncle chris. "but it is hovering in the air all round me. i can hear the beating of the wings of the dollar-bills as they flutter to and fro, almost within reach. sooner or later i shall grab them. i never forget, my dear, that i have a task before me--to restore to you the money of which i deprived you. some day--be sure--i shall do it. some day you will receive a letter from me, containing a large sum--five thousand--ten thousand--twenty thousand--whatever it may be, with the simple words 'first instalment.'" he repeated the phrase, as if it pleased him. "first instalment!" jill hugged his arm. she was in the mood in which she used to listen to him ages ago telling her fairy stories. "go on!" she cried. "go on! it's wonderful! once upon a time uncle chris was walking along fifth avenue, when he happened to meet a poor old woman gathering sticks for firewood. she looked so old and tired that he was sorry for her, so he gave her ten cents which he had borrowed from the janitor, and suddenly she turned into a beautiful girl and said 'i am a fairy! in return for your kindness i grant you three wishes!' and uncle chris thought for a moment, and said, 'i want twenty thousand dollars to send to jill!' and the fairy said, 'it shall be attended to. and the next article?'" "it is all very well to joke," protested uncle chris, pained by this flippancy, "but let me tell you that i shall not require magic assistance to become a rich man. do you realize that at houses like mrs. waddesleigh peagrim's i am meeting men all the time who have only to say one little word to make me a millionaire? they are fat, grey men with fishy eyes and large waistcoats, and they sit smoking cigars and brooding on what they are going to do to the market next day. if i were a mind-reader i could have made a dozen fortunes by now. i sat opposite that old pirate, bruce bishop, for over an hour the very day before he and his gang sent consolidated pea-nuts down twenty points! if i had known what was in the wind, i doubt if i could have restrained myself from choking his intentions out of the fellow. well, what i am trying to point out is that one of these days one of these old oysters will have a fleeting moment of human pity and disgorge some tip on which i can act. it is that reflection that keeps me so constantly at mrs. peagrim's house." uncle chris shivered slightly. "a fearsome woman, my dear! weighs a hundred and eighty pounds and as skittish as a young lamb in springtime! she makes me dance with her!" uncle chris' lips quivered in a spasm of pain, and he was silent for a moment. "thank heaven i was once a footballer!" he said reverently. "but what do you live on?" asked jill. "i know you are going to be a millionaire next tuesday week, but how are you getting along in the meantime?" uncle chris coughed. "well, as regards actual living expenses, i have managed by a shrewd business stroke to acquire a small but sufficient income. i live in a boarding-house--true--but i contrive to keep the wolf away from its door--which, by the by, badly needs a lick of paint. have you ever heard of nervino?" "i don't think so. it sounds like a patent medicine." "it _is_ a patent medicine." uncle chris stopped and looked anxiously at her. "jill, you're looking pale, my dear." "am i? we had rather a tiring rehearsal." "are you sure," said uncle chris seriously, "that it is only that? are you sure that your vitality has not become generally lowered by the fierce rush of metropolitan life? are you aware of the things that can happen to you if you allow the red corpuscles of your blood to become devitalised? i had a friend...." "stop! you're scaring me to death!" uncle chris gave his moustache a satisfied twirl. "just what i meant to do, my dear. and, when i had scared you sufficiently--you wouldn't wait for the story of my consumptive friend. pity! it's one of my best!--i should have mentioned that i had been having much the same trouble myself until lately, but the other day i happened to try nervino, the great specific.... i was giving you an illustration of myself in action, my dear. i went to these nervino people--happened to see one of their posters and got the idea in a flash--i went to them and said, 'here am i, a presentable man of persuasive manners and a large acquaintance among the leaders of new york society. what would it be worth to you to have me hint from time to time at dinner parties and so forth that nervino is the rich man's panacea?' i put the thing lucidly to them. i said, 'no doubt you have a thousand agents in the city, but have you one who does not look like an agent and won't talk like an agent? have you one who is inside the houses of the wealthy, at their very dinner-tables, instead of being on the front step, trying to hold the door open with his foot? that is the point you have to consider.' they saw the idea at once. we arranged terms--not as generous as i could wish, perhaps, but quite ample. i receive a tolerably satisfactory salary each week, and in return i spread the good word about nervino in the gilded palaces of the rich. those are the people to go for, jill. they have been so busy wrenching money away from the widow and the orphan that they haven't had time to look after their health. you catch one of them after dinner, just as he is wondering if he was really wise in taking two helpings of the lobster newburg, and he is clay in your hands. i draw my chair up to his and become sympathetic and say that i had precisely the same trouble myself until recently, and mention a dear old friend of mine who died of indigestion, and gradually lead the conversation round to nervino. i don't force it on them. i don't even ask them, to try it. i merely point to myself, rosy with health, and say that i owe everything to it, and the thing is done. they thank me profusely and scribble the name down on their shirt-cuffs. and there you are! i don't suppose," said uncle chris philosophically, "that the stuff can do them any actual harm." they had come to the corner of forty-first street. uncle chris felt in his pocket and produced a key. "if you want to go and take a look at my little nest, you can let yourself in. it's on the twenty-second floor. don't fail to go out on the roof and look at the view. it's worth seeing. it will give you some idea of the size of the city. a wonderful, amazing city, my dear, full of people who need nervino. i shall go on and drop in at the club for half an hour. they have given me a fortnight's card at the avenue. capital place. here's the key." jill turned down forty-first street, and came to a mammoth structure of steel and stone which dwarfed the modest brown houses beside it into nothingness. it was curious to think of a private flat nestling on the summit of this mountain. she went in, and the lift shot her giddily upwards to the twenty-second floor. she found herself facing a short flight of stone steps, ending in a door. she mounted the steps, tried the key, and, turning it, entered a hall-way. proceeding down the passage, she reached a sitting-room. it was a small room, but furnished with a solid comfort which soothed her. for the first time since she had arrived in new york, she had the sense of being miles away from the noise and bustle of the city. there was a complete and restful silence. she was alone in a nest of books and deep chairs, on which a large grandfather-clock looked down with that wide-faced benevolence peculiar to its kind. so peaceful was this eyrie, perched high up above the clamour and rattle of civilization, that every nerve in her body seemed to relax in a delicious content. it was like being in peter pan's house in the tree-tops. ii jill possessed in an unusual degree that instinct for exploration which is implanted in most of us. she was frankly inquisitive, and could never be two minutes in a strange room without making a tour of it and examining its books, pictures, and photographs. almost at once she began to prowl. the mantelpiece was her first objective. she always made for other people's mantelpieces, for there, more than anywhere else, is the character of a proprietor revealed. this mantelpiece was sprinkled with photographs, large, small, framed and unframed. in the centre of it, standing all alone and looking curiously out of place among its large neighbours, was a little snapshot. it was dark by the mantelpiece. jill took the photograph to the window, where the fading light could fall on it. why, she could not have said, but the thing interested her. there was mystery about it. it seemed in itself so insignificant to have the place of honour. the snapshot had evidently been taken by an amateur, but it was one of those lucky successes which happen at rare intervals to amateur photographers to encourage them to proceed with their hobby. it showed a small girl in a white dress cut short above slim, black legs, standing in the porch of an old house, one hand swinging a sun-bonnet, the other patting an irish terrier which had planted its front paws against her waist and was looking up into her face with that grave melancholy characteristic of irish terriers. the sunlight was evidently strong, for the child's face was puckered in a twisted though engaging grin. jill's first thought was "what a jolly kid!" and then, with a leaping of the heart that seemed to send something big and choking into her throat, she saw that it was a photograph of herself. with a swooping bound memory raced back over the years. she could feel the hot sun on her face, hear the anxious voice of freddie rooke--then fourteen and for the first time the owner of a camera--imploring her to stand just like that because he wouldn't be half a minute only some rotten thing had stuck or something. then the sharp click, the doubtful assurance of freddie that he thought it was all right if he hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case she might expect to appear in combination with a cow which he had snapped on his way to the house), and the relieved disappearance of pat, the terrier, who didn't understand photography. how many years ago had that been? she could not remember. but freddie had grown to long-legged manhood, she to an age of discretion and full-length frocks, pat had died, the old house was inhabited by strangers ... and here was the silent record of that sun-lit afternoon, three thousand miles away from the english garden in which it had come into existence. the shadows deepened. the top of the great building swayed gently, causing the pendulum of the grandfather-clock to knock against the sides of its wooden case. jill started. the noise, coming after the dead silence, frightened her till she realized what it was. she had a nervous feeling of not being alone. it was as if the shadows held goblins that peered out at the intruder. she darted to the mantelpiece and replaced the photograph. she felt like some heroine of a fairy-story meddling with the contents of the giant's castle. soon there would come the sound of a great footstep thud--thud.... _thud._ jill's heart gave another leap. she was perfectly sure she had heard a sound. it had been just like the banging of a door. she braced herself, listening, every muscle tense. and then, cleaving the stillness, came a voice from down the passage- "just see them pullman porters, dolled up with scented waters bought with their dimes and quarters! see, here they come! here they come!" for an instant jill could not have said whether she was relieved or more frightened than ever. true, that numbing sense of the uncanny had ceased to grip her, for reason told her that spectres do not sing rag-time songs. on the other hand, owners of apartments do, and she would almost as readily have faced a spectre as the owner of this apartment. dizzily, she wondered how in the world she was to explain her presence. suppose he turned out to be some awful-choleric person who would listen to no explanations. "oh, see those starched-up collars! hark how their captain hollers 'keep time! keep time!' it's worth a thousand dollars to see those tip-collectors...." very near now. almost at the door. "those upper-berth inspectors, those pullman porters on parade!" a dim, shapeless figure in the black of the doorway. the scrabbling of fingers on the wall. "where are you, dammit?" said the voice, apparently addressing the electric-light switch. jill shrank back, desperate fingers pressing deep into the back of an arm-chair. light flashed from the wall at her side. and there, in the doorway, stood wally mason in his shirt-sleeves. chapter xiii the ambassador arrives i in these days of rapid movement, when existence has become little more than a series of shocks of varying intensity, astonishment is the shortest-lived of all the emotions. there was an instant in which jill looked at wally and wally at jill with the eye of total amazement, and then, almost simultaneously, each began--the process was subconscious--to regard this meeting not as an isolated and inexplicable event, but as something resulting from a perfectly logical chain of circumstances. "hullo!" said wally. "hullo!" said jill. it was not a very exalted note on which to pitch the conversation, but it had the merit of giving each of them a little more time to collect themselves. "this is.... i wasn't expecting you!" said wally. "i wasn't expecting _you_!" said jill. there was another pause, in which wally, apparently examining her last words and turning them over in his mind, found that they did not square with his preconceived theories. "you weren't expecting me?" "i certainly was not!" "but ... but you knew i lived here?" jill shook her head. wally reflected for an instant, and then put his finger, with a happy inspiration, on the very heart of the mystery. "then how on earth did you get here?" he was glad he had asked that. the sense of unreality which had come to him in the first startling moment of seeing her and vanished under the influence of logic had returned as strong as ever. if she did not know he lived in this place, how in the name of everything uncanny had she found her way here? a momentary wonder as to whether all this was not mixed up with telepathy and mental suggestion and all that sort of thing came to him. certainly he had been thinking of her all the time since their parting at the savoy hotel that night three weeks and more back.... no, that was absurd. there must be some sounder reason for her presence. he waited for her to give it. jill for the moment felt physically incapable of giving it. she shrank from the interminable explanation which confronted her as a weary traveller shrinks from a dusty, far-stretching desert. she simply could not go into all that now. so she answered with a question. "when did you land in new york?" "this afternoon. we were supposed to dock this morning, but the boat was late." wally perceived that he was being pushed away from the main point, and jostled his way back to it. "but what are you doing here?" "it's such a long story." her voice was plaintive. remorse smote wally. it occurred to him that he had not been sufficiently sympathetic. not a word had he said on the subject of her change of fortunes. he had just stood and gaped and asked questions. after all, what the devil did it matter how she came to be here? he had anticipated a long and tedious search for her through the labyrinth of new york, and here fate had brought her to his very door, and all he could do was to ask why, instead of being thankful. he perceived that he was not much of a fellow. "never mind," he said. "you can tell me when you feel like it." he looked at her eagerly. time seemed to have wiped away that little misunderstanding under the burden of which they had parted. "it's too wonderful finding you like this!" he hesitated. "i heard about--everything," he said awkwardly. "my--" jill hesitated too. "my smash?" "yes. freddie rooke told me. i was terribly sorry." "thank you," said jill. there was a pause. they were both thinking of that other disaster which had happened. the presence of derek underhill seemed to stand like an unseen phantom between them. finally wally spoke at random, choosing the first words that came into his head in his desire to break the silence. "jolly place, this, isn't it?" jill perceived that an opening for those tedious explanations had been granted her. "uncle chris thinks so," she said demurely. wally looked puzzled. "uncle chris? oh, your uncle?" "yes." "but--he has never been here." "oh, yes. he's giving a dinner-party here to-night!" "he's ... what did you say?" "it's all right. i only began at the end of the story instead of the beginning. i'll tell you the whole thing. and then ... then i suppose you will be terribly angry and make a fuss." "i'm not much of a lad, as freddie rooke would say, for making fusses. and i can't imagine being terribly angry with you." "well, i'll risk it. though, if i wasn't a brave girl, i should leave uncle chris to explain for himself and simply run away." "anything is better than that. it's a miracle meeting you like this, and i don't want to be deprived of the fruits of it. tell me anything, but don't go." "you'll be furious." "not with you." "i should hope not with me. i've done nothing. i am the innocent heroine. but i'm afraid you will be very angry with uncle chris." "if he's your uncle, that passes him. besides, he once licked the stuffing out of me with a whangee. that forms a bond. tell me all." jill considered. she had promised to begin at the beginning, but it was difficult to know what was the beginning. "have you ever heard of captain kidd?" she asked at length. "you're wandering from the point, aren't you?" "no, i'm not. _have_ you heard of captain kidd?" "the pirate? of course." "well, uncle chris is his direct lineal descendant. that really explains the whole thing." wally looked at her enquiringly. "could you make it a little easier?" he said. "i can tell you everything in half a dozen words, if you like. but it will sound awfully abrupt." "go ahead." "uncle chris has stolen your apartment." wally nodded slowly. "i see. stolen my apartment." "of course you can't possibly understand. i shall have to tell you the whole thing, after all." wally listened with flattering attention as she began the epic of major christopher selby's doings in new york. whatever his emotions, he certainly was not bored. "so that's how it all happened," concluded jill. for a moment wally said nothing. he seemed to be digesting what he had heard. "i see," he said at last. "it's a variant of those advertisements they print in the magazines. 'why pay rent? own somebody else's home!'" "that _does_ rather sum it up," said jill. wally burst into a roar of laughter. "he's a corker!" jill was immensely relieved. for all her courageous bearing, she had not relished the task of breaking the news to wally. she knew that he had a sense of humour, but a man may have a sense of humour and yet not see anything amusing in having his home stolen in his absence. "i'm so glad you're not angry." "of course not." "most men would be." "most men are chumps." "it's so wonderful that it happened to be you. suppose it had been an utter stranger! what could i have done?" "it would have been the same thing. you would have won him over in two minutes. nobody could resist you." "that's very sweet of you." "i can't help telling the truth. washington was just the same." "then you don't mind uncle chris giving his dinner-party here to-night?" "he has my blessing." "you really are an angel," said jill gratefully. "from what he said, i think he looks on it as rather an important function. he has invited a very rich woman, who has been showing him a lot of hospitality--a mrs. peagrim...." "mrs. waddesleigh peagrim?" "yes? why, do you know her?" "quite well. she goes in a good deal for being bohemian and knowing people who write and paint and act and so on. that reminds me. i gave freddie rooke a letter of introduction to her." "freddie rooke!" "yes. he suddenly made up his mind to come over. he came to me for advice about the journey. he sailed a couple of days before i did. i suppose he's somewhere in new york by now, unless he was going on to florida. he didn't tell me what his plans were." jill was conscious of a sudden depression. much as she liked freddie, he belonged to a chapter in her life which was closed and which she was trying her hardest to forget. it was impossible to think of freddie without thinking of derek, and to think of derek was like touching an exposed nerve. the news that freddie was in new york shocked her. new york had already shown itself a city of chance encounters. could she avoid meeting freddie? she knew freddie so well. there was not a dearer or a better-hearted youth in the world, but he had not that fine sensibility which pilots a man through the awkwardnesses of life. he was a blunderer. instinct told her that, if she met freddie, he would talk of derek, and, if thinking of derek was touching an exposed nerve, talking of him would be like pressing on that nerve with a heavy hand. she shivered. wally was observant. "there's no need to meet him if you don't want to," he said. "no," said jill doubtfully. "new york's a large place. by the way," he went on, "to return once more to the interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleep here at nights, do you know?" jill looked at him gratefully. he was no blunderer. her desire to avoid freddie rooke was, he gave her tacitly to understand, her business, and he did not propose to intrude on it. she liked him for dismissing the subject so easily. "no, i think he told me he doesn't." "well, that's something, isn't it! i call that darned nice of him! i wonder if i could drop back here somewhere about eleven o'clock. are the festivities likely to be over by then? if i know mrs. peagrim, she will insist on going off to one of the hotels to dance directly after dinner. she's a confirmed trotter." "i don't know how to apologize," began jill remorsefully. "please don't. it's absolutely all right." his eye wandered to the mantelpiece, as it had done once or twice during the conversation. in her hurry jill had replaced the snapshot with its back to the room, and wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherished possession is maltreated. he got up now and, walking across, turned the photograph round. he stood for a moment, looking at it. jill had forgotten the snapshot. curiosity returned to her. "where _did_ you get that?" she asked. wally turned. "oh, did you see this?" "i was looking at it just before you nearly frightened me to death by appearing so unexpectedly." "freddie rooke sold it to me fourteen years ago." "fourteen years ago?" "next july," added wally. "i gave him five shillings for it." "five shillings! the little brute!" cried jill indignantly. "it must have been all the money you had in the world!" "a trifle more, as a matter of fact. all the money i had in the world was three-and-six. but by a merciful dispensation of providence the curate had called that morning and left a money-box for subscriptions to the village organ-fund.... it's wonderful what you can do with a turn for crime and the small blade of a pocket-knife! i don't think i have ever made money quicker!" he looked at the photograph again. "not that it seemed quick at the moment. i died at least a dozen agonizing deaths in the few minutes i was operating. have you ever noticed how slowly time goes when you are coaxing a shilling and a sixpence out of somebody's money-box? centuries! but i was forgetting. of course you've had no experience." "you poor thing!" "it was worth it." "and you've had it ever since!" "i wouldn't part with it for all mrs. waddesleigh peagrim's millions," said wally with sudden and startling vehemence, "if she offered me them." he paused. "she hasn't, as a matter of fact." there was a silence. jill looked at wally furtively as he returned to his seat. she was seeing him with new eyes. it was as if this trifling incident had removed some sort of a veil. he had suddenly become more alive. for an instant she had seen right into him, to the hidden deeps of his soul. she felt shy and embarrassed. "pat died," she said at length. she felt the necessity of saying something. "i liked pat." "he picked up some poison, poor darling.... how long ago those days seem, don't they?" "they are always pretty vivid to me. i wonder who has that old house of yours now." "i heard the other day," said jill more easily. the odd sensation of embarrassment was passing. "some people called ... what was the name?... debenham, i think." silence fell again. it was broken by the front-door bell, like an alarm-clock that shatters a dream. wally got up. "your uncle," he said. "you aren't going to open the door?" "that was the scheme." "but he'll get such a shock when he sees you." "he must look on it in the light of rent. i don't see why i shouldn't have a little passing amusement from this business." he left the room. jill heard the front door open. she waited breathlessly. pity for uncle chris struggled with the sterner feeling that it served him right. "hullo!" she heard wally say. "hullo-ullo-ullo!" replied an exuberant voice. "wondered if i'd find you in, and all that sort of thing. i say, what a deuce of a way up it is here. sort of get a chappie into training for going to heaven, what? i mean, what?" jill looked about her like a trapped animal. it was absurd, she felt, but every nerve in her body cried out against the prospect of meeting freddie. his very voice had opened old wounds and set them throbbing. she listened in the doorway. out of sight down the passage, freddie seemed by the sounds to be removing his overcoat. she stole out and darted like a shadow down the corridor that led to wally's bedroom. the window of the bedroom opened on to the wide roof which uncle chris had eulogized. she slipped noiselessly out, closing the window behind her. ii "i say, mason, old top," said freddie, entering the sitting-room, "i hope you don't mind my barging in like this, but the fact is things are a bit thick. i'm dashed worried, and i didn't know another soul i could talk it over with. as a matter of fact, i wasn't sure you were in new york at all, but i remembered hearing you say in london that you were popping back almost at once, so i looked you up in the telephone book and took a chance. i'm dashed glad you _are_ back. when did you arrive?" "this afternoon." "i've been here two or three days. well, it's a bit of luck catching you. you see, what i want to ask your advice about...." wally looked at his watch. he was not surprised to find that jill had taken to flight. he understood her feelings perfectly, and was anxious to get rid of the inopportune freddie as soon as possible. "you'll have to talk quick, i'm afraid," he said. "i've lent this place to a man for the evening, and he's having some people to dinner. what's the trouble?" "it's about jill." "jill?" "jill mariner, you know. you remember jill? you haven't forgotten my telling you all that? about her losing her money and coming over to america?" "no. i remember you telling me that." freddie seemed to miss something in his companion's manner, some note of excitement and perturbation. "of course," he said, as if endeavouring to explain this to himself, "you hardly knew her, i suppose. only met once since you were kids and all that sort of thing. but i'm a pal of hers and i'm dashed upset by the whole business, i can tell you. it worries me, i mean to say. poor girl, you know, landed on her uppers in a strange country. well, i mean, it worries me. so the first thing i did when i got here was to try to find her. that's why i came over, really, to try to find her. apart from anything else, you see, poor old derek is dashed worried about her." "need we bring underhill in?" "oh, i know you don't like him and think he behaved rather rummily and so forth, but that's all right now." "it is, is it?" said wally drily. "oh, absolutely. it's all on again." "what's all on again?" "why, i mean he wants to marry jill. i came over to find her and tell her so." wally's eyes glowed. "if you have come over as an ambassador...." "that's right. jolly old ambassador. very word i used myself." "i say, if you have come over as an ambassador with the idea of reopening negotiations with jill on behalf of that infernal swine...." "old man!" protested freddie, pained. "pal of mine, you know." "if he is, after what's happened, your mental processes are beyond me." "my what, old son?" "your mental processes." "oh, ah!" said freddie, learning for the first time that he had any. wally looked at him intently. there was a curious expression on his rough-hewn face. "i can't understand you, freddie. if ever there was a fellow who might have been expected to take the only possible view of underhill's behaviour in this business, i should have said it was you. you're a public-school man. you've mixed all the time with decent people. you wouldn't do anything that wasn't straight yourself to save your life. yet it seems to have made absolutely no difference in your opinion of this man underhill that he behaved like an utter cad to a girl who was one of your best friends. you seem to worship him just as much as ever. and you have travelled three thousand miles to bring a message from him to jill--good god! _jill_!--to the effect, as far as i can understand it, that he has thought it over and come to the conclusion that after all she may possibly be good enough for him!" freddie recovered the eye-glass which the raising of his eyebrows had caused to fall, and polished it in a crushed sort of way. rummy, he reflected, how chappies stayed the same all their lives as they were when they were kids. nasty, tough sort of chap wally mason had been as a boy, and here he was, apparently, not altered a bit. at least the only improvement he could detect was that, whereas in the old days wally, when in an ugly mood like this, would undoubtedly have kicked him, he now seemed content with mere words. all the same, he was being dashed unpleasant. and he was all wrong about poor derek. this last fact he endeavoured to make clear. "you don't understand," he said. "you don't realize. you've never met lady underhill, have you?" "what has she got to do with it?" "everything, old bean, everything. if it hadn't been for her, there wouldn't have been any trouble of any description, sort, or order. but she barged in and savaged poor old derek till she absolutely made him break off the engagement." "if you call him 'poor old derek' again, freddie," said wally viciously, "i'll drop you out of the window and throw your hat after you! if he's such a gelatine-backboned worm that his mother can...." "you don't know her, old thing! she's _the_ original hellhound!" "i don't care what...." "must be seen to be believed," mumbled freddie. "i don't care what she's like! any man who could...." "once seen, never forgotten!" "damn you! don't interrupt every time i try to get a word in!" "sorry, old man! shan't occur again!" wally moved to the window, and stood looking out. he had had much more to say on the subject of derek underhill, but freddie's interruptions had put it out of his head, and he felt irritated and baffled. "well, all i can say is," he remarked savagely, "that, if you have come over here as an ambassador to try and effect a reconciliation between jill and underhill, i hope to god you'll never find her." freddie emitted a weak cough, like a very far-off asthmatic old sheep. he was finding wally more overpowering every moment. he had rather forgotten the dear old days of his childhood, but this conversation was beginning to refresh his memory: and he was realizing more vividly with every moment that passed how very wallyish wally was--how extraordinarily like the wally who had dominated his growing intellect when they were both in eton suits. freddie in those days had been all for peace, and he was all for peace now. he made his next observation diffidently. "i _have_ found her!" wally spun round. "what!" "when i say that, i don't absolutely mean i've seen her. i mean i know where she is. that's what i came round to see you about. felt i must talk it over, you know. the situation seems to me dashed rotten and not a little thick. the fact is, old man, she's gone on the stage. in the chorus, you know. and, i mean to say, well, if you follow what i'm driving at, what, what?" "in the chorus?" "in the chorus!" "how do you know?" freddie groped for his eyeglass, which had fallen again. he regarded it a trifle sternly. he was fond of the little chap, but it was always doing that sort of thing. the whole trouble was that, if you wanted to keep it in its place, you simply couldn't register any sort of emotion with the good old features: and, when you were chatting with a fellow like wally mason, you had to be registering something all the time. "well, that was a bit of luck, as a matter of fact. when i first got here, you know, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to round up a merry old detective and put the matter in his hands, like they do in stories. _you_ know. ring at the bell. 'and this, if i mistake not, watson, is my client now.' and then in breezes client and spills the plot. i found a sleuth in the classified telephone directory, and toddled round. rummy chaps, detectives! ever met any? i always thought they were lean, hatchet-faced johnnies with inscrutable smiles. this one looked just like my old uncle ted, the one who died of apoplexy. jovial, puffy-faced bird, who kept bobbing up behind a fat cigar. have you ever noticed what whacking big cigars these fellows over here smoke? rummy country, america. you ought to have seen the way this blighter could shift his cigar right across his face with moving his jaw-muscles. like a flash! most remarkable thing you ever saw, i give you my honest word! he...." "couldn't you keep your impressions of america for the book you're going to write, and come to the point?" said wally rudely. "sorry, old chap," said freddie meekly. "glad you reminded me. well.... oh, yes. we had got as far as the jovial old human bloodhound, hadn't we? well, i put the matter before this chappie. told him i wanted to find a girl, showed him a photograph, and so forth. i say," said freddie, wandering off once more into speculation, "why is it that coves like that always talk of a girl as 'the little lady'? this chap kept saying 'we'll find the little lady for you!' oh, well, that's rather off the rails, isn't it? it just floated across my mind and i thought i'd mention it. well, this blighter presumably nosed about and made enquiries for a couple of days, but didn't effect anything that you might call substantial. i'm not blaming him, mind you. i shouldn't care to have a job like that myself. i mean to say, when you come to think of what a frightful number of girls there are in this place, to have to ... well, as i say, he did his best but didn't click; and then this evening, just before i came here, i met a girl i had known in england--she was in a show over there--a girl called nelly bryant...." "nelly bryant? i know her." "yes? fancy that! she was in a thing called 'follow the girl' in london. did you see it by any chance? topping show! there was one scene where the...." "get on! get on! i wrote it." "you wrote it?" freddie beamed simple-hearted admiration. "my dear old chap, i congratulate you! one of the ripest and most all-wool musical comedies i've ever seen. i went twenty-four times. rummy i don't remember spotting that you wrote it. i suppose one never looks at the names on the programme. yes, i went twenty-four times the first time i went was with a couple of chappies from...." "listen, freddie!" said wally feverishly. "on some other occasion i should dearly love to hear the story of your life, but just now...." "absolutely, old man. you're perfectly right. well, to cut a long story short, nelly bryant told me that she and jill were rehearsing with a piece called 'the rose of america.'" "'the rose of america!'" "i think that was the name of it." "that's ike goble's show. he called me up on the phone about it half an hour ago. i promised to go and see a rehearsal of it to-morrow or the day after. and jill's in that?" "yes. how about it? i mean, i don't know much about this sort of thing, but do you think it's the sort of thing jill ought to be doing?" wally was moving restlessly about the room. freddie's news had disquieted him. mr. goble had a reputation. "i know a lot about it," he replied, "and it certainly isn't." he scowled at the carpet. "oh, damn everybody!" freddie paused to allow him to proceed, if such should be his wish, but wally had apparently said his say. freddie went on to point out an aspect of the matter which was troubling him greatly. "i'm sure poor old derek wouldn't like her being in the chorus!" wally started so violently that for a moment freddie was uneasy. "i mean underhill," he corrected himself hastily. "freddie," said wally, "you're an awfully good chap, but i wish you would exit rapidly now! thanks for coming and telling me, very good of you. this way out!" "but, old man...!" "now what?" "i thought we were going to discuss this binge and decide what to do and all that sort of thing." "some other time. i want to think about it." "oh, you will think about it?" "yes, i'll think about it." "topping! you see, you're a brainy sort of fellow, and you'll probably hit something." "i probably shall, if you don't go." "eh? oh, ah, yes!" freddie struggled into his coat. more than ever did the adult wally remind him of the dangerous stripling of years gone by. "well, cheerio!" "same to you!" "you'll let me know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze, won't you? i'm at the biltmore." "very good place to be. go there now." "right ho! well, toodle-oo!" "the elevator is at the foot of the stairs," said wally. "you press the bell and up it comes. you hop in and down you go! it's a great invention! good night!" "oh, i say. one moment...." "good _night_!" said wally. he closed the door, and ran down the passage. "jill!" he called. he opened the bedroom window and stepped out. "jill!" there was no reply. "jill!" called wally once again, but again there was no answer. wally walked to the parapet, and looked over. below him the vastness of the city stretched itself in a great triangle, its apex the harbour, its sides the dull silver of the east and hudson rivers. directly before him, crowned with its white lantern, the metropolitan tower reared its graceful height to the stars. and all around, in the windows of the tall buildings that looked from this bastion on which he stood almost squat, a million lights stared up at him, the unsleeping eyes of new york. it was a scene of which wally, always sensitive to beauty, never tired: but to-night it had lost its appeal. a pleasant breeze from the jersey shore greeted him with a quickening whisper of springtime and romance, but it did not lift the heaviness of his heart. he felt depressed and apprehensive. chapter xiv mr. goble makes the big noise i spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to wally as he smoked upon the roof, floated graciously upon new york two mornings later. the city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard times over and good times to come. in his apartment on park avenue, mr isaac goble, sniffing the gentle air from the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his _morning telegraph_ with a resolve to walk to the theatre for rehearsal: a resolve which had also come to jill and nelly bryant, eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the forties. on the summit of his sky-scraper, wally mason, performing swedish exercises to the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upper windows of neighbouring buildings, felt young and vigorous and optimistic, and went in to his shower-bath thinking of jill. and it was of jill, too, that young pilkington thought, as he propped his long form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea. for the first time in several days a certain moodiness which had affected otis pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy day-dreams. the gaiety of otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily due to the improvement in the weather. it had its source in a conversation which had taken place between himself and jill's uncle chris on the previous night. exactly how it had come about, mr. pilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fully aware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into major selby's sympathetic ears the story of his romance. encouraged by the other's kindly receptiveness, he had told him all--his love for jill, his hopes that some day it might be returned, the difficulties complicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of mrs. waddesleigh peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel of musical comedy ensembles. to all these outpourings major selby had listened with keen attention, and finally had made one of those luminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate only from your man of the world. it was jill's girlish ambition, it seemed from major selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-picture world. the movies were her objective. what, he broke off to ask, did pilkington think of the idea? pilkington thought the idea splendid. miss mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderful in the movies. there was, said uncle chris, a future for the girl in the movies. mr. pilkington agreed cordially. a great future indeed. "observe," proceeded uncle chris, gathering speed and expanding his chest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplify the whole matter if jill were to become a motion-picture artist and win fame and wealth in her profession. you go to your excellent aunt and announce that you are engaged to be married to jill mariner. there is a momentary pause. 'not _the_ jill mariner?' falters mrs. peagrim. 'yes, the famous miss mariner!' you reply. well, i ask you, my boy, can you see her making any objection? such a thing would be absurd. no, i can see no flaw in the project whatsoever." here uncle chris, as he had pictured mrs. peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "of course, there would be the preliminaries." "the preliminaries?" uncle chris' voice became a melodious coo. he beamed upon mr. pilkington. "well, think for yourself, my boy! these things cannot be done without money. i do not propose to allow my niece to waste her time and her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting years for a chance that might never come. there is plenty of room at the top, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place to start. if jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a special company must be formed to promote her. she must be made a feature, a star, from the beginning. whether," said uncle chris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to take shares in the company yourself...." "oo...!" "... is a matter," proceeded uncle chris, ignoring the interruption, "for you yourself to decide. possibly you have other claims on your purse. possibly this musical play of yours has taken all the cash you are prepared to lock up. possibly you may consider the venture too speculative. possibly ... there are a hundred reasons why you may not wish to join us. but i know a dozen men--i can go down wall street to-morrow and pick out twenty men--who will be glad to advance the necessary capital. i can assure you that i personally shall not hesitate to risk--if one can call it risking--any loose cash which i may have lying idle at my banker's." he rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in his trouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--and stopped to flick a piece of fluff off his coat-sleeve. mr. pilkington was thus enabled to insert a word. "how much would you want?" he enquired. "that," said uncle chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. i should have to look into the matter more closely in order to give you the exact figures. but let us say for the sake of argument that you put up--what shall we say?--a hundred thousand? fifty thousand? ... no, we will be conservative. perhaps you had better not begin with more than ten thousand. you can always buy more shares later. i don't suppose i shall begin with more than ten thousand myself." "i could manage ten thousand all right." "excellent. we make progress, we make progress. very well, then. i go to my wall street friends and tell them about the scheme, and say 'here is ten thousand dollars! what is your contribution?' it puts the affair on a business-like basis, you understand. then we really get to work. but use your own judgment, my boy, you know. use your own judgment. i would not think of persuading you to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. think it over. sleep on it. and, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a word about it to jill. it would be cruel to raise her hopes until we are certain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. and, of course, not a word to mrs. peagrim." "of course." "very well, then, my boy," said uncle chris affably. "i will leave you to turn the whole thing over in your mind. act entirely as you think best. how is your insomnia, by the way? did you try nervino? capital! there's nothing like it. it did wonders for _me_! good night, good night!" otis pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with an interval for sleep, ever since. and the more he thought of it, the better the scheme appeared to him. he winced a little at the thought of the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and had been brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected, the money would be merely a loan. once the company found its feet, it would be returned to him a hundred-fold. and there was no doubt that this would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of jill, as far as aunt olive was concerned. why, a cousin of his--young brewster philmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, and nobody had made the slightest objection. brewster was to be seen with his bride frequently beneath mrs. peagrim's roof. against the higher strata of bohemia mrs. peagrim had no prejudice at all. quite the reverse, in fact. she liked the society of those whose names were often in the papers and much in the public mouth. it seemed to otis pilkington, in short, that love had found a way. he sipped his tea with relish, and when the japanese valet brought in the toast all burned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one may hope, touched the latter's oriental heart and inspired him with a desire to serve his best of employers more efficiently. at half-past ten, otis pilkington removed his dressing-gown and began to put on his clothes to visit the theatre. there was a rehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. as he dressed, his mood was as sunny as the day itself. and the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever spring day had been in a country where spring comes early and does its best from the very start. the blue sky beamed down on a happy city. to and fro the citizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather. everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of the gotham theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the main event, had been called by johnson miller in order to iron some of the kinks out of the "my heart and i" number, which, with the assistance of the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one. on the stage of the gotham gloom reigned--literally, because the stage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electric light; and figuratively, because things were going even worse than usual with the "my heart and i" number, and johnson miller, always of an emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by the incompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. at about the moment when otis pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown and reached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill), johnson miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit and the first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutching his white locks with the other, his voice raised the while in agonized protest. "gentlemen, you silly idiots," complained mr. miller loudly, "you've had three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and you haven't done a damn thing right! you're all over the place! you don't seem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot of keystone kops! what's the matter with you? you're not doing the movements i showed you; you're doing some you have invented yourselves, and they are rotten! i've no doubt you think you can arrange a number better than i can, but mr. goble engaged me to be the director, so kindly do exactly as i tell you. don't try to use your own intelligence, because you haven't any. i'm not blaming you for it. it wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your heads when you were babies. but it handicaps you when you try to think." of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, six looked wounded by this tirade. they had the air of good men wrongfully accused. they appeared to be silently calling on heaven to see justice done between mr. miller and themselves. the seventh, a long-legged young man in faultlessly fitting tweeds of english cut, seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. it was this youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spoke in a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner. "i say!" mr. miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat. he had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwrought way up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his india-rubber form moving in convulsive jerks. only when he had turned and retraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to take his share in the conversation. "what?" he shouted. "can't hear you!" "i say, you know, it's my fault, really." "what?" "i mean to say, you know...." "what? speak up, can't you?" mr. saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing a melody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that the services of an interpreter were needed. he obligingly left the music-stool and crept, crab-like, along the ledge of the stage-box. he placed his arm about mr. miller's shoulders and his lips to mr. miller's left ear, and drew a deep breath. "he says it is his fault!" mr. miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment. "i know they're not worth their salt!" he replied. mr. saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath. "this young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!" "tell him i only signed on this morning, laddie," urged the tweed-clad young man. "he only joined the company this morning!" this puzzled mr. miller. "how do you mean, warning?" he asked. mr. saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort. "this young man is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words of one syllable. "he does not yet know the steps. he says this is his first day here, so he does not yet know the steps. when he has been here some more time he will know the steps. but now he does not know the steps." "what he means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "is that i don't know the steps." "he does not know the steps!" roared mr. saltzburg. "i know he doesn't know the steps," said mr. miller. "why doesn't he know the steps? he's had long enough to learn them." "he is new!" "hugh?" "new!" "oh, new?" "yes, new!" "why the devil is he new?" cried mr. miller, awaking suddenly to the truth and filled with a sense of outrage. "why didn't he join with the rest of the company? how can i put on chorus numbers if i am saddled every day with new people to teach? who engaged him?" "who engaged you?" enquired mr. saltzburg of the culprit. "mr. pilkington." "mr. pilkington," shouted mr. saltzburg. "when?" "when?" "last night." "last night." mr. miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round, darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. "what can i do?" he wailed. "my hands are tied! i am hampered! i am handicapped! we open in two weeks and every day i find somebody new in the company to upset everything i have done. i shall go to mr. goble and ask to be released from my contract. i shall.... come along, come along, come along now!" he broke off suddenly. "why are we wasting time? the whole number once more. the whole number once more from the beginning!" the young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running a finger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. he was not used to this sort of thing. in a large experience of amateur theatricals he had never encountered anything like it. in the breathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse and refrain by the lady who played the heroine of "the rose of america," he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right. "i say! is he always like this?" "who? johnny?" "the sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. the barker on the sky-line. does he often get the wind up like this?" his colleague smiled tolerantly. "why, that's nothing!" he replied. "wait till you see him really cut loose! that was just a gentle whisper!" "my god!" said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. the leading lady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of the ensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly down towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on his nearest neighbour, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. a clapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated--inappropriately--that he had failed to do so. mr. miller could be perceived--dimly--with all his fingers entwined in his hair. "clear the stage!" yelled mr. miller. "not you!" he shouted, as the latest addition to the company began to drift off with the others. "you stay!" "me?" "yes, you. i shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or we shall get nowhere. go up-stage. start the music again, mr. saltzburg. now, when the refrain begins, come down. gracefully! gracefully!" the young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully. and it was while he was thus occupied that jill and nelly bryant, entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o'clock approached, saw him. "whoever is that?" said nelly. "new man," replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "came this morning." nelly turned to jill. "he looks just like mr. rooke!" she exclaimed. "he _is_ mr. rooke!" said jill. "he can't be!" "he _is_!" "but what is he doing here?" jill bit her lip. "that's just what i'm going to ask him myself," she said. ii the opportunity for a private conversation with freddie did not occur immediately. for ten minutes he remained alone on the stage, absorbing abusive tuition from mr. miller: and at the end of that period a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of the number with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. when, finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of mr. goble and at the same time indicated mr. goble's desire that the stage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of recognition and a faint "what ho!" was all that freddie was able to bestow upon jill, before, with the rest of the ensemble, they had to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. it was only when this had been run through four times and the stage left vacant for two of the principals to play a scene that jill was able to draw the last of the rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the question. "freddie, what are you doing here?" freddie mopped his streaming brow. johnson miller's idea of an opening chorus was always strenuous. on the present occasion, the ensemble were supposed to be guests at a long island house-party, and mr. miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposed house-party guests on long island to consist exclusively of victims of st. vitus' dance. freddie was feeling limp, battered, and exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come. "eh?" he said feebly. "what are you doing here?" "oh, ah, yes! i see what you mean! i suppose you're surprised to find me in new york, what?" "i'm not surprised to find you in new york. i knew you had come over. but i am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by mr. miller." "i say," said freddie in an awed voice. "he's a bit of a nut, that lad, what? he reminds me of the troops of midian in the hymn. the chappies who prowled and prowled around. i'll bet he's worn a groove in the carpet. like a jolly old tiger at the zoo at feeding time. wouldn't be surprised at any moment to look down and find him biting a piece out of my leg!" jill seized his arm and shook it. "don't _ramble_, freddie! tell me how you got here." "oh, that was pretty simple. i had a letter of introduction to this chappie pilkington who's running this show, and, we having got tolerably pally in the last few days, i went to him and asked him to let me join the merry throng. i said i didn't want any money, and the little bit of work i would do wouldn't make any difference, so he said 'right ho!' or words to that effect, and here i am." "but why? you can't be doing this for fun, surely?" "fun!" a pained expression came into freddie's face. "my idea of fun isn't anything in which jolly old miller, the bird with the snowy hair, is permitted to mix. something tells me that that lad is going to make it his life-work picking on me. no, i didn't do this for fun. i had a talk with wally mason the night before last, and he seemed to think that being in the chorus wasn't the sort of thing you ought to be doing, so i thought it over and decided that i ought to join the troupe too. then i could always be on the spot, don't you know, if there was any trouble. i mean to say, i'm not much of a chap and all that sort of thing, but still i might come in handy one of these times. keep a fatherly eye on you, don't you know, and what not!" jill was touched. "you're a dear, freddie!" "i thought, don't you know, it would make poor old derek a bit easier in his mind." jill froze. "i don't want to talk about derek, freddie, please." "oh, i know what you must be feeling. pretty sick, i'll bet, what? but if you could see him now...." "i don't want to talk about him!" "he's pretty cut up, you know. regrets bitterly and all that sort of thing. he wants you to come back again." "i see! he sent you to fetch me?" "that was more or less the idea." "it's a shame that you had all the trouble. you can get messenger-boys to go anywhere and do anything nowadays. derek ought to have thought of that." freddie looked at her doubtfully. "you're spoofing, aren't you? i mean to say, you wouldn't have liked that!" "i shouldn't have disliked it any more than his sending you." "oh, but i wanted to pop over. keen to see america and so forth." jill looked past him at the gloomy stage. her face was set, and her eyes sombre. "can't you understand, freddie? you've known me a long time. i should have thought that you would have found out by now that i have a certain amount of pride. if derek wanted me back, there was only one thing for him to do--come over and find me himself." "rummy! that's what mason said, when i told him. you two don't realize how dashed busy derek is these days." "busy!" something in her face seemed to tell freddie that he was not saying the right thing, but he stumbled on. "you've no notion how busy he is. i mean to say, elections coming on and so forth. he daren't stir from the metrop." "of course i couldn't expect him to do anything that might interfere with his career, could i?" "absolutely not. i knew you would see it!" said freddie, charmed at her reasonableness. all rot, what you read about women being unreasonable. "then i take it it's all right, eh?" "all right?" "i mean you will toddle home with me at the earliest opp. and make poor old derek happy?" jill laughed discordantly. "poor old derek!" she echoed. "he has been badly treated, hasn't he?" "well, i wouldn't say that," said freddie doubtfully. "you see, coming down to it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?" "more or less!" "i mean to say...." "more or less!" freddie glanced at her anxiously. he was not at all sure now that he liked the way she was looking or the tone in which she spoke. he was not a keenly observant young man, but there did begin at this point to seep through to his brain-centres a suspicion that all was not well. "let me pull myself together!" said freddie warily to his immortal soul. "i believe i'm getting the raspberry!" and there was silence for a space. the complexity of life began to weigh upon freddie. life was like one of those shots at squash which seem so simple till you go to knock the cover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you and you miss it. life, freddie began to perceive, was apt to have a nasty back-spin on it. he had never had any doubt when he had started, that the only difficult part of this expedition to america would be the finding of jill. once found, he had presumed that she would be delighted to hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him home on the next boat. it appeared now, however, that he had been too sanguine. optimist as he was, he had to admit that, as far as could be ascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be said to have sprung a leak. he proceeded to approach the matter from another angle. "i say!" "yes?" "you do love old derek, don't you? i mean to say, you know what i mean, _love_ him and all that sort of rot?" "i don't know!" "you don't know! oh, i say, come now! you must _know_! pull up your socks, old thing.... i mean, pull yourself together! you either love a chappie or you don't." jill smiled painfully. "how nice it would be if everything were as simple and straightforward as that. haven't you ever heard that the dividing line between love and hate is just a thread? poets have said so a great number of times." "oh, poets!" said freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of the hand. he had been compelled to read shakespeare and all that sort of thing at school, but it had left him cold, and since growing to man's estate he had rather handed the race of bards the mitten. he liked doss chiderdoss' stuff in the _sporting times_, but beyond that he was not much of a lad for poets. "can't you understand a girl in my position not being able to make up her mind whether she loves a man or despises him?" freddie shook his head. "no," he said. "it sounds dashed silly to me!" "then what's the good of talking?" cried jill. "it only hurts." "but--won't you come back to england?" "no." "oh, i say! be a sport! take a stab at it!" jill laughed again--another of those grating laughs which afflicted freddie with a sense of foreboding and failure. something had undoubtedly gone wrong with the works. he began to fear that at some point in the conversation--just where he could not say--he had been less diplomatic than he might have been. "you speak as if you were inviting me to a garden-party! no, i won't take a stab at it. you've a lot to learn about women, freddie!" "women _are_ rum!" conceded that perplexed ambassador. jill began to move away. "don't go!" urged freddie. "why not? what's the use of talking any more? have you ever broken an arm or a leg, freddie?" "yes," said freddie, mystified. "as a matter of fact, my last year at oxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, some blighter barged into me and i came down on my wrist. but...." "it hurt?" "like the deuce!" "and then it began to get better, i suppose. well, used you to hit it, and twist it, and prod it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal? i won't talk any more about derek! i simply won't! i'm all smashed up inside, and i don't know if i'm ever going to get well again, but at least i'm going to give myself a chance. i'm working as hard as ever i can and i'm forcing myself not to think of him. i'm in a sling, freddie, like your wrist, and i don't want to be prodded. i hope we shall see a lot of each other while you're over here--you always were the greatest dear in the world--but you mustn't mention derek again, and you mustn't ask me to go home. if you avoid those subjects, we'll be as happy as possible. and now i'm going to leave you to talk to poor nelly. she has been hovering round for the last ten minutes, waiting for a chance to speak to you. she worships you, you know!" freddie started violently. "oh, i say! what rot!" jill had gone, and he was still gaping after her, when nelly bryant moved towards him--shyly, like a worshipper approaching a shrine. "hello, mr. rooke!" said nelly. "hullo-ullo-ullo!" said freddie. nelly fixed her large eyes on his face. a fleeting impression passed through freddie's mind that she was looking unusually pretty this morning: nor was the impression unjustified. nelly was wearing for the first time a spring suit which was the outcome of hours of painful selection among the wares of a dozen different stores, and the knowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from her like an inner light. she felt happy, and her happiness had lent an unwonted colour to her face and a soft brightness to her eyes. "how nice it is, your being here!" freddie waited for the inevitable question, the question with which jill had opened their conversation; but it did not come. he was surprised, but relieved. he hated long explanations, and he was very doubtful whether loyalty to jill could allow him to give them to nelly. his reason for being where he was had to do so intimately with jill's most private affairs. a wave of gratitude to nelly swept through him when he realized that she was either incurious or else too delicate-minded to show inquisitiveness. as a matter of fact, it was delicacy that kept nelly silent. seeing freddie here at the theatre, she had, as is not uncommon with fallible mortals, put two and two together and made the answer four when it was not four at all. she had been deceived by circumstantial evidence. jill, whom she had left in england wealthy and secure, she had met again in new york penniless as the result of some stock exchange cataclysm in which, she remembered with the vagueness with which one recalls once-heard pieces of information, freddie rooke had been involved. true, she seemed to recollect hearing that freddie's losses had been comparatively slight, but his presence in the chorus of "the rose of america" seemed to her proof that after all they must have been devastating. she could think of no other reason except loss of money which could have placed freddie in the position in which she now found him, so she accepted it; and, with the delicacy which was innate in her and which a hard life had never blunted, decided, directly she saw him, to make no allusion to the disaster. such was nelly's view of the matter, and sympathy gave to her manner a kind of maternal gentleness which acted on freddie, raw from his late encounter with mr. johnson miller and disturbed by jill's attitude in the matter of poor old derek, like a healing balm. his emotions were too chaotic for analysis, but one thing stood out clear from the welter--the fact that he was glad to be with nelly as he had never been glad to be with a girl before, and found her soothing as he had never supposed a girl could be soothing. they talked desultorily of unimportant things, and every minute found freddie more convinced that nelly was not as other girls. he felt that he must see more of her. "i say," he said. "when this binge is over ... when the rehearsal finishes, you know, how about a bite to eat?" "i should love it. i generally go to the automat." "the how-much? never heard of it." "in times square. it's cheap, you know." "i was thinking of the cosmopolis." "but that's so expensive." "oh, i don't know. much the same as any of the other places, isn't it?" nelly's manner became more motherly than ever. she bent forward and touched his arm affectionately. "you haven't to keep up any front with me," she said gently. "i don't care whether you're rich or poor or what. i mean, of course i'm awfully sorry you've lost your money, but it makes it all the easier for us to be real pals, don't you think so?" "lost my money?" "well, i know you wouldn't be here if you hadn't. i wasn't going to say anything about it, but, when you talked of the cosmopolis, i just had to. you lost your money in the same thing jill mariner lost hers, didn't you? i was sure you had, the moment i saw you here. who cares? money isn't everything!" astonishment kept freddie silent for an instant: after that he refrained from explanations of his own free will. he accepted the situation and rejoiced in it. like many other wealthy and modest young men, he had always had a sneaking suspicion at the back of his mind that any girl who was decently civil to him was so from mixed motives--or, more likely, motives that were not even mixed. well, dash it, here was a girl who seemed to like him although under the impression that he was broke to the wide. it was an intoxicating experience. it made him feel a better chap. it fortified his self-respect. "you know," he said, stammering a little, for he found a sudden difficulty in controlling his voice. "you're a dashed good sort!" "i'm awfully glad you think so." there was a silence--as far, at least, as he and she were concerned. in the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelter they stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to be happening. some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. the rasping voice of mr. goble was making itself heard from the unseen auditorium. these things they sensed vaguely, but they were too occupied with each other to ascertain details. "what was the name of that place again?" asked freddie. "the what-ho-something?" "the automat?" "that's the little chap! we'll go there, shall we?" "the food's quite good. you go and help yourself out of slot-machines, you know." "my favourite indoor sport!" said freddie with enthusiasm. "hullo! what's up? it sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!" the voice of the assistant stage-manager was calling, sharply excited, agitation in every syllable. "all the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! mr. goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!" "well, cheerio for the present," said freddie. "i suppose i'd better look into this." he made his way on to the stage. iii there is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal of a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connected with it. softened by the gentle beauty of the spring weather, mr. goble had come to the gotham theatre that morning in an excellent temper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day. five minutes of "the rose of america" had sent him back to the normal; and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul. when wally mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him a cigar. and when a new york theatrical manager does that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst. one may find excuses for mr. goble. "the rose of america" would have tested the equanimity of a far more amiable man: and on mr. goble what otis pilkington had called its delicate whimsicality jarred profoundly. he had been brought up in the lower-browed school of musical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the opening number and filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the girls in a variety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists to get the laughs. mr. goble's idea of a musical piece was something embracing trained seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilled buck-and-wing dancers, with nothing on the stage, from a tree to a lamp-shade, which could not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. the austere legitimateness of "the rose of america" gave him a pain in the neck. he loathed plot, and "the rose of america" was all plot. why, then, had the earthy mr. goble consented to associate himself with the production of this intellectual play? because he was subject, like all other new york managers, to intermittent spasms of the idea that the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera. sometimes, lunching in his favourite corner in the cosmopolis grill-room, he would lean across the table and beg some other manager to take it from him that the time was ripe for a revival of comic opera--or, more cautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. and the other manager would nod his head and thoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sure as god made little apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. and then they would stuff themselves with rich food and light big cigars and brood meditatively. with most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges of conscience, pass as quickly as they come, and they go back to coining money with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. but otis pilkington, happening along with the script of "the rose of america" and the cash to back it, had caught mr. goble in the full grip of an attack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latter emerged from the influence. he now regretted his rash act. "say, listen," he said to wally, his gaze on the stage, his words proceeding from the corner of his mouth, "you've got to stick around with this show after it opens on the road. we'll talk terms later. but we've got to get it right, don't care what it costs. see?" "you think it will need fixing?" mr. goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now going through a particularly arid stretch of dialogue. "fixing! it's all wrong! it don't add up right! you'll have to rewrite it from end to end." "well, i've got some idea about it. i saw it played by amateurs last summer, you know. i could make a quick job of it, if you want me to. but will the author stand for it?" mr. goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and twisted it round in wally's direction. "say, listen! he'll stand for anything i say. i'm the little guy that gives orders round here. i'm the big noise!" as if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. the effect was magical. the refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been shot. the assistant stage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had now been turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script. "take that over again!" shouted mr. goble. "yes, that speech about life being like a water-melon. it don't sound to me as though it meant anything." he cocked his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. he clapped his hands. the action stopped again. "cut it!" said mr. goble tersely. "cut the speech, mr. goble?" queried the obsequious assistant stage-director. "yes. cut it. it don't mean nothing!" down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, shimmered mr. pilkington, wounded to the quick. "mr. goble! mr. goble!" "well?" "that is the best epigram in the play." "the best what?" "epigram. the best epigram in the play." mr. goble knocked the ash off his cigar. "the public don't want epigrams. the public don't like epigrams. i've been in the show business fifteen years, and i'm telling you! epigrams give them a pain under the vest. all right, get on." mr. pilkington fluttered agitatedly. this was his first experience of mr. goble in the capacity of stage-director. it was the latter's custom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did what mr. goble called the breaking-in. this accomplished, he would appear in person, undo most of the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their lines, and generally enjoy himself. producing plays was mr. goble's hobby. he imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and it was useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which he might have come. he regarded those who did not agree with him with the lofty contempt of an eastern despot. of this mr. pilkington was not yet aware. "but, mr. goble ...!" the potentate swung irritably round on him. "what is it? what _is_ it? can't you see i'm busy?" "that epigram...." "it's out!" "but ...!" "it's out!" "surely," protested mr. pilkington almost tearfully, "i have a voice...." "sure you have a voice," retorted mr. goble, "and you can use it any old place you want, except in my theatre. have all the voice you like! go round the corner and talk to yourself! sing in your bath! but don't come using it here, because i'm the little guy that does all the talking in this theatre! that fellow makes me tired," he added complainingly to wally, as mr. pilkington withdrew like a foiled python. "he don't know nothing about the show business, and he keeps butting in and making fool suggestions. he ought to be darned glad he's getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me how to direct it." he clapped his hands imperiously. the assistant stage-manager bent over the footlights. "what was that that guy said? lord finchley's last speech. take it again." the gentleman who was playing the part of lord finchley, an english character actor who specialized in london "nuts," raised his eyebrows, annoyed. like mr. pilkington, he had never before come into contact with mr. goble as stage-director, and, accustomed to the suaver methods of his native land, he was finding the experience trying. he had not yet recovered from the agony of having that water-melon line cut out of his part. it was the only good line, he considered, that he had. any line that is cut out of an actor's part is always the only good line he has. "the speech about omar khayyám?" he enquired with suppressed irritation. "i thought that was the way you said it. all wrong! it's omar _of_ khayyám." "i think you will find that omar khayyám is the--ah--generally accepted version of the poet's name," said the portrayer of lord finchley adding beneath his breath. "you silly ass!" "you say omar _of_ khayyám," bellowed mr. goble. "who's running this show, anyway?" "just as you please." mr. goble turned to wally. "these actors...." he began, when mr. pilkington appeared again at his elbow. "mr. goble! mr. goble!" "what is it _now_?" "omar khayyám was a persian poet. his _name_ was khayyám." "that wasn't the way _i_ heard it," said mr. goble doggedly. "did _you_?" he enquired of wally. "i thought he was born at khayyám." "you're probably quite right," said wally, "but, if so, everybody else has been wrong for a good many years. it's usually supposed that the gentleman's name was omar khayyám. khayyám, omar j. born a.d. 1050, educated privately and at bagdad university. represented persia in the olympic games of 1072, winning the sitting high-jump and the egg-and-spoon race. the khayyáms were quite a well-known family in bagdad, and there was a lot of talk when omar, who was mrs. khayyam's pet son, took to drink and writing poetry. they had had it all fixed for him to go into his father's date business." mr. goble was impressed. he had a respect for wally's opinion, for wally had written "follow the girl" and look what a knock-out that had been. he stopped the rehearsal again. "go back to that khayyám speech!" he said interrupting lord finchley in mid-sentence. the actor whispered a hearty english oath beneath his breath. he had been up late last night, and, in spite of the fair weather, he was feeling a trifle on edge. "' in the words of omar of khayyám'...." mr. goble clapped his hands. "cut that 'of,'" he said. "the show's too long, anyway." and, having handled a delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leaned back in his chair and chewed the end off another cigar. for some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. if mr. goble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms except to wally. to him he enlarged from time to time on the pain which "the rose of america" caused him. "how i ever came to put on junk like this beats me," confessed mr. goble frankly. "you probably saw that there was a good idea at the back of it," suggested wally. "there is, you know. properly handled, it's an idea that could be made into a success." "what would you do with it?" "oh, a lot of things," said wally warily. in his younger and callower days he had sometimes been rash enough to scatter views on the reconstruction of plays broadcast, to find them gratefully absorbed and acted upon and treated as a friendly gift. his affection for mr. goble was not so overpowering as to cause him to give him ideas for nothing now. "any time you want me to fix it for you, i'll come along. about one and a half per cent of the gross would meet the case, i think." mr. goble faced him, registering the utmost astonishment and horror. "one and a half per cent for fixing a show like this? why, darn it, there's hardly anything to do to it! it's--it's _in_!" "you called it junk just now." "well, all i meant was that it wasn't the sort of thing i cared for myself. the public will eat it. take it from me, the time is just about ripe for a revival of comic opera." "this one will want all the reviving you can give it. better use a pulmotor." "but that long boob, that pilkington ... he would never stand for my handing you one and a half per cent." "i thought _you_ were the little guy who arranged things round here." "but he's got money in the show." "well, if he wants to get any out, he'd better call in somebody to rewrite it. you don't have to engage me if you don't want to. but i know i could make a good job of it. there's just one little twist the thing needs and you would have quite a different piece." "what's that?" enquired mr. goble casually. "oh, just a little ... what shall i say? ... a little touch of what-d'you-call-it and a bit of thingummy. you know the sort of thing! that's all it wants." mr. goble gnawed his cigar, baffled. "you think so, eh?" he said at length. "and perhaps a suspicion of _je-ne-sais-quoi_," added wally. mr. goble worried his cigar, and essayed a new form of attack. "you've done a lot of work for me," he said. "good work!" "glad you liked it," said wally. "you're a good kid. i like having you around. i was half thinking of giving you a show to do this fall. corking book. french farce. ran two years in paris. but what's the good, if you want the earth?" "always useful, the earth. good thing to have." "see here, if you'll fix up this show for half of one per cent, i'll give you the other to do." "you shouldn't slur your words so. for a moment i thought you said 'half of one per cent. one and a half of course you really said. "if you won't take half, you don't get the other." "all right," said wally. "there are lots of other managers in new york. haven't you seen them popping about? rich, enterprising men, and all of them love me like a son." "make it one per cent," said mr. goble, "and i'll see if i can fix it with pilkington." "one and a half." "oh, damn it, one and a half, then," said mr. goble morosely. "what's the good of splitting straws?" "forgotten sports of the past--splitting the straw. all right. if you drop me a line to that effect, legibly signed with your name, i'll wear it next my heart. i shall have to go now. i have a date. good-bye. glad everything's settled and everybody's happy." for some moments after wally had left, mr. goble sat hunched up in his orchestra-chair, smoking sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever. living in a little world of sycophants, he was galled by the off-hand way in which wally always treated him. there was something in the latter's manner which seemed to him sometimes almost contemptuous. he regretted the necessity of having to employ him. there was, of course, no real necessity why he should have employed wally. new york was full of librettists who would have done the work equally well for half the money, but, like most managers, mr. goble had the mental processes of a sheep. "follow the girl" was the last outstanding musical success in new york theatrical history: wally had written it, therefore nobody but wally was capable of re-writing "the rose of america." the thing had for mr. goble the inevitability of fate. except for deciding mentally that wally had swelled head, there was nothing to be done. having decided that wally had swelled head, and not feeling much better, mr. goble concentrated his attention on the stage. a good deal of action had taken place there during the recently concluded business talk, and the unfortunate lord finchley was back again, playing another of his scenes. mr. goble glared at lord finchley. he did not like him, and he did not like the way he was speaking his lines. the part of lord finchley was a non-singing rôle. it was a type part. otis pilkington had gone to the straight stage to find an artist, and had secured the not uncelebrated wentworth hill, who had come over from london to play in an english comedy which had just closed. the newspapers had called the play thin, but had thought that wentworth hill was an excellent comedian. mr. hill thought so, too, and it was consequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellow from the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speeches and a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong. "i beg your pardon?" said mr. hill, quietly but dangerously, stepping to the footlights. "all wrong!" repeated mr. goble. "really?" wentworth hill, who a few years earlier had spent several terms at oxford university before being sent down for aggravated disorderliness, had brought little away with him from that seat of learning except the oxford manner. this he now employed upon mr. goble with an icy severity which put the last touch to the manager's fermenting state of mind. "perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me just how you think that part should be played?" mr. goble marched down the aisle. "speak out to the audience," he said, stationing himself by the orchestra pit. "you're turning your head away all the darned time." "i may be wrong," said mr. hill, "but i have played a certain amount, don't you know, in pretty good companies, and i was always under the impression that one should address one's remarks to the person one was speaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. i was taught that that was the legitimate method." the word touched off all the dynamite in mr. goble. of all things in the theatre he detested most the "legitimate method." his idea of producing was to instruct the cast to come down to the footlights and hand it to 'em. these people who looked up-stage and talked to the audience through the backs of their necks revolted him. "legitimate! that's a hell of a thing to be! where do you get that legitimate stuff? you aren't playing ibsen!" "nor am i playing a knockabout vaudeville sketch." "don't talk back at me!" "kindly don't shout at _me_! your voice is unpleasant enough without your raising it." open defiance was a thing which mr. goble had never encountered before, and for a moment it deprived him of breath. he recovered it, however, almost immediately. "you're fired!" "on the contrary," said mr. hill, "i'm resigning." he drew a green-covered script from his pocket and handed it with an air to the pallid assistant stage-director. then, more gracefully than ever freddie rooke had managed to move down-stage under the tuition of johnson miller, he moved up-stage to the exit. "i trust that you will be able to find someone who will play the part according to your ideas!" "i'll find," bellowed mr. goble at his vanishing back, "a chorus-man who'll play it a damned sight better than you!" he waved to the assistant stage-director. "send the chorus-men on the stage!" "all the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!" shrilled the assistant stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever. "mr. goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!" there was a moment, when the seven male members of "the rose of america" ensemble lined up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes, when mr. goble repented of his brave words. an uncomfortable feeling passed across his mind that fate had called his bluff and that he would not be able to make good. all chorus-men are exactly alike, and they are like nothing else on earth. even mr. goble, anxious as he was to overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that in their ranks stood even an adequate lord finchley. and then, just as a cold reaction from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceived that providence had been good to him. there, at the extreme end of the line, stood a young man who, as far as appearance went, was the ideal lord finchley--as far as appearance went, a far better lord finchley than the late mr. hill. he beckoned imperiously. "you at the end!" "me?" said the young man. "yes, you. what's your name?" "rooke. frederick rooke, don't you know." "you're english, aren't you?" "eh? oh, yes, absolutely!" "ever played a part before?" "part? oh, i see what you mean. well, in amateur theatricals, you know, and all that sort of rot." his words were music to mr. goble's ears. he felt that his napoleonic action had justified itself by success. his fury left him. if he had been capable of beaming, one would have said that he beamed at freddie. "well, you play the part of lord finchley from now on. come to my office this afternoon for your contract. clear the stage. we've wasted enough time." five minutes later, in the wings, freddie, receiving congratulations from nelly bryant, asserted himself. "_not_ the automat to-day, i _think_, what? now that i'm a jolly old star and all that sort of thing, it can't be done. directly this is over we'll roll round to the cosmopolis. a slight celebration is indicated, what? right ho! rally round, dear heart, rally round!" chapter xv jill explains i the lobby of the hotel cosmopolis is the exact centre of new york, the spot where at certain hours one is sure of meeting everybody one knows. the first person that nelly and freddie saw, as they passed through the swing doors, was jill. she was seated on the chair by the big pillar in the middle of the hall. "what ho!" said freddie. "waiting for someone?" "hullo, freddie. yes, i'm waiting for wally mason. i got a note from him this morning, asking me to meet him here. i'm a little early. i haven't congratulated you yet. you're wonderful!" "thanks, old girl. our young hero _is_ making pretty hefty strides in his chosen profesh, what? mr. rooke, who appears quite simple and unspoiled by success, replied to our representative's enquiry as to his future plans, that he proposed to stagger into the grill-room and imbibe about eighteen dollars' worth of lunch. yes, it _is_ a bit of all right, taking it by and large, isn't it? i mean to say, the salary, the jolly old salary, you know ... quite a help when a fellow's lost all his money!" jill was surprised to observe that the last of the rookes was contorting his face in an unsightly manner that seemed to be an attempt at a wink, pregnant with hidden meaning. she took her cue dutifully, though without understanding. "oh, yes," she replied. freddie seemed grateful. with a cordial "cheerio!" he led nelly off to the grill-room. "i didn't know jill knew mr. mason," said nelly, as they sat down at their table. "no?" said freddie absently, running an experienced eye over the bill of fare. he gave an elaborate order. "what was that? oh, absolutely! jill and i and wally were children together." "how funny you should all be together again like this." "yes. oh, good lord!" "what's the matter?" "it's nothing. i meant to send a cable to a pal of mine in england, i'll send it after lunch." freddie took out his handkerchief, and tied a knot in it. he was slightly ashamed of the necessity of taking such a precaution, but it was better to be on the safe side. his interview with jill at the theatre had left him with the conviction that there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to cable poor old derek to forget impending elections and all the rest of it and pop over to america at once. he knew that he would never have the courage to re-open the matter with jill himself. as an ambassador he was a spent force. if jill was to be wooed from her mood of intractibility, derek was the only man to do it. freddie was convinced that, seeing him in person, she would melt and fall into his arms. too dashed absurd, freddie felt, two loving hearts being separated like this and all that sort of thing. he replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, relieved, and concentrated himself on the entertainment of nelly. a simple task for the longer he was with this girl, the easier did it seem, to talk to her. jill, left alone in the lobby, was finding the moments pass quite pleasantly. she liked watching the people as they came in. one or two of the girls of the company fluttered in like birds, were swooped upon by their cavaliers, and fluttered off to the grill-room. the red-headed babe passed her with a genial nod, and, shortly after, lois denham, the willowy recipient of sunbursts from her friend izzy of the hat-checks, came by in company with a sallow, hawk-faced young man with a furtive eye, whom jill took--correctly--to be izzy himself. lois was looking pale and proud, and, from the few words which came to jill's ears as they neared her, seemed to be annoyed at having been kept waiting. it was immediately after this that the swing-doors revolved rather more violently than usual, and mr. goble burst into view. there was a cloud upon mr. goble's brow, seeming to indicate that his grievance against life had not yet been satisfactorily adjusted; but it passed as he saw jill, and he came up to her with what he would probably have claimed to be an ingratiating smile. "hullo!" said mr. goble. "all alone?" jill was about to say that the condition was merely temporary when the manager went on. "come and have a bit of lunch." "thank you very much," said jill, with the politeness of dislike, "but i'm waiting for someone." "chuck him!" advised mr. goble cordially. "no, thanks, i couldn't, really." the cloud began to descend again upon mr. goble's brow. he was accustomed to having these invitations of his treated as royal commands. "come along!" "i'm afraid it's impossible." mr. goble subjected her to a prolonged stare, seemed about to speak, changed his mind, and swung off moodily in the direction of the grill-room. he was not used to this sort of treatment. he had hardly gone, when wally appeared. "what was he saying to you?" demanded wally abruptly, without preliminary greeting. "he was asking me to lunch." wally was silent for a moment. his good-natured face wore an unwonted scowl. "he went in there, of course?" he said, pointing to the grill-room. "yes." "then let's go into the other room," said wally. he regained his good humour. "it was awfully good of you to come. i didn't know whether you would be able to." "it was very nice of you to invite me." wally grinned. "how perfect our manners are! it's a treat to listen! how did you know that that was the one hat in new york i wanted you to wear?" "oh, these things get about. do you like it?" "it's wonderful. let's take this table, shall we?" ii they sat down. the dim, tapestry-hung room soothed jill. she was feeling a little tired after the rehearsal. at the far end of the room an orchestra was playing a tune that she remembered and liked. her mind went back to the last occasion on which she and wally had sat opposite each other at a restaurant. how long ago it seemed! she returned to the present to find wally speaking to her. "you left very suddenly the other night," said wally. "i didn't want to meet freddie." wally looked at her commiseratingly. "i don't want to spoil your lunch," he said, "but freddie knows all. he has tracked you down. he met nelly bryant, whom he seems to have made friends with in london, and she told him where you were and what you were doing. for a girl who fled at his mere approach the night before last, you don't seem very agitated by the news," he said, as jill burst into a peal of laughter. "you haven't heard?" "heard what?" "freddie got mr. pilkington to put him in the chorus of the piece. he was rehearsing when i arrived at the theatre this morning, and having a terrible time with mr. miller. and, later on, mr. goble had a quarrel with the man who was playing the englishman, and the man threw up his part, and mr. goble said he could get any one in the chorus to play it just as well, and he chose freddie. so now freddie is one of the principals, and bursting with pride!" wally threw his head back and uttered a roar of appreciation which caused a luncher at a neighbouring table to drop an oyster which he was poising in mid-air. "don't make such a noise!" said jill severely. "everyone's looking at you." "i must! it's the most priceless thing i ever heard. i've always maintained and i always will maintain that for pure lunacy nothing can touch the musical comedy business. there isn't anything that can't happen in musical comedy. 'alice in wonderland' is nothing to it." "have you felt that, too? that's exactly how i feel. it's like a perpetual 'mad hatter's tea-party.'" "but what on earth made freddie join the company at all?" a sudden gravity descended upon jill. the words had reminded her of the thing which she was perpetually striving to keep out of her thoughts. "he said he wanted to be there to keep an eye on me." gravity is infectious. wally's smile disappeared. he, too, had been recalled to thoughts which were not pleasant. wally crumbled his roll. there was a serious expression on his face. "freddie was quite right. i didn't think he had so much sense." "freddie was not right," flared jill. the recollection of her conversation with that prominent artist still had the power to fire her independent soul. "i'm not a child. i can look after myself. what i do is my own business." "i'm afraid you're going to find that your business is several people's business. i am interested in it myself. i don't like your being on the stage. now bite my head off!" "it's very kind of you to bother about me...." "i said 'bite my head off!' i didn't say 'freeze me!' i take the licence of an old friend who in his time has put worms down your back, and i repeat--i don't like your being on the stage." "i shouldn't have thought you would have been so"--jill sought for a devastating adjective--"so mid-victorian!" "as far as you are concerned, i'm the middest victorian in existence. mid is my middle name." wally met her indignant gaze squarely. "i--do--not--like--your--being--on--the--stage! especially in any company which ike goble is running." "why mr. goble particularly?" "because he is not the sort of man you ought to be coming in contact with." "what nonsense!" "it isn't nonsense at all. i suppose you've read a lot about the morals of theatrical managers...." "yes. and it seemed to be exaggerated and silly." "so it is. there's nothing wrong with most of them. as a general thing, they are very decent fellows--extraordinarily decent if you think of the position they are in. i don't say that in a business way there's much they won't try to put over on you. in the theatre, when it comes to business, everything goes except biting and gouging. 'there's never a law of god or man runs north of fifty-three.' if you alter that to 'north of forty-first street' it doesn't scan as well, but it's just as true. perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the golden rule is suspended there. you get used to it after you have been in the theatre for a while, and, except for leaving your watch and pocket-book at home when you have to pay a call on a manager and keeping your face to him so that he can't get away with your back collar-stud, you don't take any notice of it. it's all a game. if a manager swindles you, he wins the hole and takes the honour. if you foil him, you are one up. in either case, it makes no difference to the pleasantness of your relations. you go on calling him by his first name, and he gives you a couple of cigars out of his waistcoat pocket and says you're a good kid. there is nothing personal in it. he has probably done his best friend out of a few thousand dollars the same morning, and you see them lunching together after the ceremony as happily as possible. you've got to make allowances for managers. they are the victims of heredity. when a burglar marries a hat-check girl, their offspring goes into the theatrical business automatically, and he can't shake off the early teaching which he imbibed at his father's knee. but morals...." wally broke off to allow the waiter to place a fried sole before him. waiters always select the moment when we are talking our best to intrude themselves. "as regards morals," resumed wally, "that is a different matter. most managers are respectable, middle-aged men with wives and families. they are in the business to make money, and they don't want anything else out of it. the girls in their companies are like so many clerks to them, just machines that help to bring the money in. they don't know half a dozen of them to speak to. but our genial ike is not like that." wally consumed a mouthful of sole. "ike goble is a bad citizen. he paws! he's a slinker and a prowler and a leerer. he's a pest and a worm! he's fat and soft and flabby. he has a greasy soul, a withered heart, and an eye like a codfish. not knocking him, of course!" added wally magnanimously. "far be it from me to knock anyone! but, speaking with the utmost respect and viewing him in the most favourable light, he is a combination of tom-cat and the things you see when you turn over a flat stone! such are the reasons why i am sorry that you are in his company." jill had listened to this diatribe with a certain uneasiness. her brief encounters with mr. goble told her that every word was probably true. she could still feel the unpleasant sensation of being inspected by the eye which wally had compared--quite justly--to that of a codfish. but her pride forbade any admission of weakness. "i can take care of myself," she said. "i don't doubt it," said wally. "and you could probably take care of yourself if you fell into a muddy pond. but i shouldn't like to stand on the bank and watch you doing it. i know what girls in the chorus have to go through. hanging about for hours in draughts, doing nothing, while the principals go through their scenes, and yelled at if they try to relieve the tedium of captivity with a little light conversation...." "yes," admitted jill. "there has been a good lot of that." "there always is. i believe if the stage-carpenter was going to stick a screw in a flat, they would call a chorus-rehearsal to watch him do it.... jill, you must get out of it. it's no life for you. the work...." "i like the work." "while it's new, perhaps, but...." jill interrupted him passionately. "oh, can't you understand!" she cried. "i want the work. i need it. i want something to do, something to occupy my mind. i hate talking about it, but you know how things are with me. freddie must have told you. even if he didn't, you must have guessed, meeting me here all alone and remembering how things were when we last met. you must understand! haven't you ever had a terrible shock or a dreadful disappointment that seemed to smash up the whole world? and didn't you find that the only possible thing to do was to work and work and work as hard as ever you could? when i first came to america, i nearly went mad. uncle chris sent me down to a place on long island, and i had nothing to do all day but think. i couldn't stand it. i ran away and came to new york and met nelly bryant and got this work to do. it saved me. it kept me busy all day and tired me out and didn't give me time to think. the harder it is, the better it suits me. it's an antidote. i simply wouldn't give it up now. as for what you were saying, i must put up with that. the other girls do, so why shouldn't i?" "they are toughened to it." "then i must get toughened to it. what else is there for me to do? i must do something." "marry me!" said wally, reaching across the table and putting his hand on hers. the light in his eyes lit up his homely face like a lantern. iii the suddenness of it startled jill into silence. she snatched her hand away and drew back, looking at him in wonderment. she was confusedly aware of a babble of sound--people talking, people laughing, the orchestra playing a lively tune. all her senses seemed to have become suddenly more acute. she was intensely alive to small details. then, abruptly, the whole world condensed itself into two eyes that were fastened upon hers--compelling eyes which she felt a panic desire to avoid. she turned her head away, and looked out into the restaurant. it seemed incredible that all these people, placidly intent upon their food and their small talk, should not be staring at her, wondering what she was going to say; nudging each other and speculating. their detachment made her feel alone and helpless. she was nothing to them and they did not care what happened to her, just as she had been nothing to those frozen marshes down at brookport. she was alone in an indifferent world, with her own problems to settle for herself. other men had asked jill to marry them--a full dozen of them, here and there in country houses and at london dances, before she had met and loved derek underhill; but nothing that she had had in the way of experience had prepared her for wally. these others had given her time to marshal her forces, to collect herself, to weigh them thoughtfully in the balance. before speaking, they had signalled their devotion in a hundred perceptible ways--by their pinkness, their stammering awkwardness, by the glassy look in their eyes. they had not shot a proposal at her like a bullet from out of the cover of a conversation that had nothing to do with their emotions at all. yet, now that the shock of it was dying away, she began to remember signs she would have noticed, speeches which ought to have warned her.... "wally!" she gasped. she found that he affected her in an entirely different fashion from the luckless dozen of those london days. he seemed to matter more, to be more important, almost--though she rebelled at the word--more dangerous. "let me take you out of it all! you aren't fit for this sort of life. i can't bear to see you...." jill bent forward and touched his hand. he started as though he had been burned. the muscles of his throat were working. "wally, it's--" she paused for a word. "kind" was horrible. it would have sounded cold, almost supercilious. "sweet" was the sort of thing she could imagine lois denham saying to her friend izzy. she began her sentence again. "you're a dear to say that, but...." wally laughed chokingly. "you think i'm altruistic? i'm not. i'm just as selfish and self-centred as any other man who wants a thing very badly. i'm as altruistic as a child crying for the moon. i want you to marry me because i love you, because there never was anybody like you, because you're the whole world, because i always have loved you. i've been dreaming about you for a dozen years, thinking about you, wondering about you--wondering where you were, what you were doing, how you looked. i used to think that it was just sentimentality, that you merely stood for a time of my life when i was happier than i have ever been since. i used to think that you were just a sort of peg on which i was hanging a pleasant sentimental regret for days which could never come back. you were a memory that seemed to personify all the other memories of the best time of my life. you were the goddess of old associations. then i met you in london, and it was different. i wanted you--_you_! i didn't want you because you recalled old times and were associated with dead happiness, i wanted _you_! i knew i loved you directly you spoke to me at the theatre that night of the fire. i loved your voice and your eyes and your smile and your courage. and then you told me you were engaged. i might have expected it, but i couldn't keep my jealousy from showing itself, and you snubbed me as i deserved. but now ... things are different now. everything's different, except my love." jill turned her face to the wall beside her. a man at the next table, a corpulent, red-faced man, had begun to stare. he could have heard nothing, for wally had spoken in a low voice; but plainly he was aware that something more interesting was happening at their table than at any of the other tables, and he was watching with a bovine inquisitiveness which affected jill with a sense of outrage. a moment before, she had resented the indifference of the outer world. now, this one staring man seemed like a watching multitude. there were tears in her eyes, and she felt that the red-faced man suspected it. "wally...." her voice broke. "it's impossible." "why? why, jill?" "because.... oh, it's impossible!" there was a silence. "because...." he seemed to find a difficulty in speaking. "because of underhill?" jill nodded. she felt wretched. the monstrous incongruity of her surroundings oppressed her. the orchestra had dashed into a rollicking melody, which set her foot tapping in spite of herself. at a near-by table somebody was shouting with laughter. two waiters at a service-stand were close enough for her to catch snatches of their talk. they were arguing about an order of fried potatoes. once again her feelings veered round, and she loathed the detachment of the world. her heart ached for wally. she could not look at him, but she knew exactly what she would see if she did--honest, pleading eyes searching her face for something which she could not give. "yes," she said. the table creaked. wally was leaning further forward. he seemed like something large and pathetic--a big dog in trouble. she hated to be hurting him. and all the time her foot tapped accompaniment to the rag-time tune. "but you can't live all your life with a memory," said wally. jill turned and faced him. his eyes seemed to leap at her, and they were just as she had pictured them. "you don't understand," she said gently. "you don't understand." "it's ended. it's over." jill shook her head. "you can't still love him, after what has happened!" "i don't know," said jill unhappily. the words seemed to bewilder wally as much as they had bewildered freddie. "you don't know?" jill shut her eyes tight. wally quivered. it was a trick she had had as a child. in perplexity, she had always screwed up her eyes just like that, as if to shut herself up in herself. "don't talk for a minute, wally," she said. "i want to think." her eyes opened. "it's like this," she said. he had seen her look at him in exactly the same way a hundred times. "i don't suppose i can make you understand, but this is how it is. suppose you had a room, and it was full--of things. furniture. and there wasn't any space left. you--you couldn't put anything else in till you had taken all that out, could you? it might not be worth anything, but it would still be there, taking up all the room." wally nodded. "yes," he said. "i see." "my heart's full, wally dear. i know it's just lumber that's choking it up, but it's difficult to get it out. it takes time getting it out. i put it in, thinking it was wonderful furniture, the most wonderful in the world, and--i was cheated. it was just lumber. but it's there. it's still there. it's there all the time. and what am i to do?" the orchestra crashed, and was silent. the sudden stillness seemed to break a spell. the world invaded the little island where they sat. a chattering party of girls and men brushed past them. the waiter, judging that they had been there long enough, slipped a strip of paper, decorously turned upside down, in front of wally. he took the money, and went away to get change. wally turned to jill. "i understand," he said. "all this hasn't happened, and we're just as good pals as before?" "yes." "but...." he forced a laugh ... "mark my words, a time may come, and then...!" "i don't know," said jill. "a time may come," repeated wally. "at any rate, let me think so. it has nothing to do with me. it's for you to decide, absolutely. i'm not going to pursue you with my addresses! if ever you get that room of yours emptied, you won't have to hang out a 'to let' sign. i shall be waiting, and you will know where to find me. and, in the meantime, yours to command, wallace mason. is that clear?" "quite clear." jill looked at him affectionately. "there's nobody i'd rather open that room to than you, wally. you know that." "is that the solemn truth?" "the solemn truth." "then," said wally, "in two minutes you will see a startled waiter. there will be about fourteen dollars change out of that twenty he took away. i'm going to give it all to him." "you mustn't!" "every cent!" said wally firmly. "and the young greek brigand who stole my hat at the door is going to get a dollar! that, as our ascetic and honourable friend goble would say, is the sort of little guy _i_ am!" * * * * * the red-faced man at the next table eyed them as they went out, leaving behind them a waiter who clutched totteringly for support at the back of a chair. "had a row," he decided, "but made it up." he called for a toothpick. chapter xvi mr. goble plays with fate i on the boardwalk at atlantic city, that much-enduring seashore resort which has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there stands an all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management and offering the same hospitality as the one in columbus circle at which jill had taken her first meal on arriving in new york. at least, its hospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day; but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and the customer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silent gravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voice and tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. the members of the chorus of "the rose of america," dropping in by ones and twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave their orders for breakfast in a subdued undertone. the dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. it is the custom of the dwellers in atlantic city, who seem to live entirely by pleasure, to attend a species of vaudeville performances--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on sunday nights, and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenery could be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "the rose of america" moved in. and, as by some unwritten law of the drama no dress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a half, the curtain had not gone up on mr. miller's opening chorus till half-past two. there had been dress-parades, conferences, interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysterious man in shirt-sleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, further conferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak of debate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the "spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the name of charlie, at the back of the family circle. but by six o'clock a complete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, who had partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night, had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before going to bed. they were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circles beneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the make-up which they had been too tired to take off. the duchess, haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table. the red-headed babe was lying back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. the southern girl blinked like an owl at the morning sunshine out on the boardwalk. the cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost fresh through a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made during the interval of waiting for the meal. "the fascination of a thtage life! why girls leave home!" she looked at her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "it _is_ a face!" she murmured reflectively. "but i should hate to have to go around with it long!" a sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work on the night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table with a clatter. the duchess woke up. babe took her eyes off the ceiling. the southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. already, at the mere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of the theatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. in five minutes these girls would be feeling completely restored and fit for anything. conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm of the restaurant was shattered. its day had begun. "it's a great life if you don't weaken," said the cherub hungrily attacking her omelette. "and the wortht is yet to come! i thuppose all you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewritten from end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the time we're on the road." "why?" lois denham spoke with her mouth full. "what's wrong with it?" the duchess took a sip of coffee. "don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "what's wrong with it? what's right with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!" "one would feel thtill more inclined," said the cherub, "to athk why one was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thing when one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars a month." "the numbers are all right," argued babe. "i don't mean the melodies, but johnny has arranged some good business." "he always does," said the southern girl. "some more buckwheat cakes, please. but what about the book?" "i never listen to the book." the cherub laughed. "you're too good to yourself! i listened to it right along, and take it from me it's sad! of courthe they'll have it fixed. we can't open in new york like this. my professional reputation wouldn't thtand it! didn't you thee wally mason in front, making notes? they've got him down to do the re-writing." jill, who had been listening in a dazed way to the conversation, fighting against the waves of sleep which flooded over her, woke up. "was wally--was mr. mason there?" "sure. sitting at the back." jill could not have said whether she was glad or sorry. she had not seen wally since that afternoon when they had lunched together at the cosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had given her little opportunity for thinking of him. at the back of her mind had been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think of him, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy to re-examine him as a factor in her life. there had been times when the thought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warming her with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. and then some sharp, poignant memory of derek would come to blot him out. she came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken another turn. "and the wortht of it is," the cherub was saying, "we shall rehearthe all day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone, and then, when they're good and ready, they'll fire one of us!" "that's right!" agreed the southern girl. "they couldn't!" jill cried. "you wait!" said the cherub. "they'll never open in new york with thirteen girls. ike's much too thuperstitious." "but they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked so hard!" there was a general burst of sardonic laughter. jill's opinion of the chivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of her more experienced colleagues. "they'll do anything," the cherub assured her. "you don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed lois denham. "you don't know the half of it!" "wait till you've been in as many shows as i have," said babe, shaking her red locks. "the usual thing is to keep a girl slaving her head off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the new york opening." "but it's a shame! it isn't fair!" "if one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the duchess with a prolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business." and, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleep again. the slumber of the duchess was the signal for a general move. her somnolence was catching. the restorative effects of the meal were beginning to wear off. there was a call for a chorus rehearsal at four o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get some sleep while there was time. the duchess was roused from her dreams by means of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; bills were paid; and the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlight of the empty boardwalk. jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seat facing the sea. tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight, crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walking to the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharing a room with the cherub, paralysed her. it was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warm freshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. the sea sparkled in the sun. little waves broke lazily on the grey sand. jill closed her eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and her thoughts went back to what the cherub had said. if wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be thrown together. she would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure that she was ready to meet him. still, he would be somebody to talk to on subjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebody who belonged to the old life. she had ceased to regard freddie rooke in this light; for freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as a principal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in the company. freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject for conversation that did not have to do with "the rose of america" in general and his share in it in particular. jill had given him up, and he had paired off with nelly bryant. the two were inseparable. jill had taken one or two meals with them, but freddie's professional monologues, of which nelly seemed never to weary, were too much for her. as a result she was now very much alone. there were girls in the company whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimate friends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. she was lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tired mind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thought that wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness. she opened her eyes, blinking. sleep had crept upon her with an insidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. she was just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to the boarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side. "hullo! good morning!" jill looked up. "hullo, wally!" "surprised to see me?" "no. milly trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night." wally came round the bench and seated himself at her side. his eyes were tired, and his chin dark and bristly. "had breakfast?" "yes, thanks. have you?" "not yet. how are you feeling?" "rather tired." "i wonder you're not dead. i've been through a good many dress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. why they couldn't have had it comfortably in new york and just have run through the piece without scenery last night, i don't know, except that in musical comedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. they know perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the scenery into the theatre till the small hours. you must be worn out. why aren't you in bed?" "i couldn't face the walk. i suppose i ought to be going, though." she half rose, then sank back again. the glitter of the water hypnotized her. she closed her eyes again. she could hear wally speaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and she ceased to fight the delicious drowsiness. jill awoke with a start. she opened her eyes, and shut them again at once. the sun was very strong now. it was one of those prematurely warm days of early spring which have all the languorous heat of late summer. she opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feeling greatly refreshed. she also discovered that her head was resting on wally's shoulder. "have i been asleep?" wally laughed. "you have been having what you might call a nap." he massaged his left arm vigorously. "you needed it. do you feel more rested now?" "good gracious! have i been squashing your poor arm all the time? why didn't you move?" "i was afraid you would fall over. you just shut your eyes and toppled sideways." "what's the time?" wally looked at his watch. "just on ten." "ten!" jill was horrified. "why, i have been giving you cramp for about three hours! you must have had an awful time!" "oh, it was all right. i think i dozed off myself. except that the birds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the 'babes in the wood.'" "but you haven't had any breakfast! aren't you starving?" "well, i'm not saying i wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim if it happened to float past. but there's plenty of time for that. lots of doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and indian fakirs go without food for days at a time in order to develop their souls. shall i take you back to wherever you're staying? you ought to get a proper sleep in bed." "don't dream of taking me. go off and have something to eat." "oh, that can wait. i'd like to see you safely home." jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. there was no doubt about it, wally was different from any other man she had known. she suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining something valuable under false pretences. "wally!" "hullo?" "you--you oughtn't to be so good to me!" "nonsense! where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--to a pal in trouble?" "you know what i mean. i can't ... that is to say ... it isn't as though ... i mean...." wally smiled a tired, friendly smile. "if you're trying to say what i think you're trying to say, don't! we had all that out two weeks ago. i quite understand the position. you mustn't worry yourself about it." he took her arm, and they crossed the boardwalk. "are we going in the right direction? you lead the way. i know exactly how you feel. we're old friends, and nothing more. but, as an old friend, i claim the right to behave like an old friend. if an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_ an old friend behave? and now we'll rule the whole topic out of the conversation. but perhaps you're too tired for conversation?" "oh, no." "then i will tell you about the sad death of young mr. pilkington." "what!" "well, when i say death, i use the word in a loose sense. the human giraffe still breathes, and i imagine, from the speed with which he legged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takes nourishment. but really he is dead. his heart is broken. we had a conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend mr. goble told him in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience i have never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rotten high-brow false-alarm of a show--i am quoting mr. goble--would have to be rewritten by alien hands. and these are them! on the right, alien right hand. on the left, alien left hand. yes, i am the instrument selected for the murder of pilkington's artistic aspirations. i'm going to rewrite the show. in fact, i have already rewritten the first act and most of the second. goble foresaw this contingency and told me to get busy two weeks ago, and i've been working hard ever since. we shall start rehearsing the new version to-morrow and open in baltimore next monday with practically a different piece. and it's going to be a pippin, believe _me_, said our hero modestly. a gang of composers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chucking out nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. it means a lot of work for you, i'm afraid. all the business of the numbers will have to be re-arranged." "i like work," said jill. "but i'm sorry for mr. pilkington." "he's all right. he owns seventy per cent of the show. he may make a fortune. he's certain to make a comfortable sum. that is, if he doesn't sell out his interest in pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it. from what he said at the close of the proceedings, i fancy he would sell out to anybody who asked him. at least, he said that he washed his hands of the piece. he's going back to new york this afternoon--won't even wait for the opening. of course, _i'm_ sorry for the poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellent central idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. oh, by the way!" "yes?" "another tragedy! unavoidable, but pathetic. poor old freddie! he's out!" "oh, no!" "out!" repeated wally firmly. "but didn't you think he was good last night?" "he was awful! but that isn't why. goble wanted his part rewritten as a scotchman, so as to get mcandrew, the fellow who made such a hit last season in 'hoots, mon!' that sort of thing is always happening in musical comedy. you have to fit parts to suit whatever good people happen to be available at the moment. my heart bleeds for freddie, but what can one do? at any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of my shows. in the second act he was supposed to have escaped from an asylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted that he should shave his head. the day after he shaved it, they heard that a superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. it's a ruthless business." "the girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed." "oh, i shouldn't think that's likely." "i hope not." "so do i. what are we stopping for?" jill had halted in front of a shabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which spring up overnight at seashore resorts and start to decay the moment the builders have left them. "i live here." "here?" wally looked at her in consternation. "but...." jill smiled. "we working-girls have got to economize. besides, it's quite comfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week." she yawned. "i believe i'm falling asleep again. i'd better hurry in and go to bed. good-bye, wally dear. you've been wonderful. mind you go and get a good breakfast." ii when jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorus rehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. no steps had apparently been taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in the cast preyed on mr. goble's superstitious mind. but she found her colleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "wait!" was the gloomy watchword of "the rose of america" chorus. the rehearsal passed off without event. it lasted until six o'clock, when jill, the cherub, and two or three of the other girls went to snatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. it was not a cheerful meal. reaction had set in after the over-exertion of the previous night, and it was too early for first-night excitement to take its place. everybody, even the cherub, whose spirits seldom failed her, was depressed, and the idea of an overhanging doom had grown. it seemed now to be merely a question of speculating on the victim, and the conversation gave jill, as the last addition to the company, and so the cause of swelling the ranks of the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. she was glad when it was time to go back to the theatre. the moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it was made clear to them that the doom had fallen. in a chair in the corner, all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood of tears, sat the unhappy duchess, the centre of a group of girls anxious to console, but limited in their ideas of consolation to an occasional pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief. "it's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as jill came in. somebody else said it was fierce, and a third girl declared it to be the limit. a fourth girl, well-meaning but less helpful than she would have liked to be, was advising the victim not to worry. the story of the disaster was brief and easily told. the duchess, sailing in at the stage-door, had paused at the letterbox to see if cuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman, had sent her a good-luck telegram. he had, but his good wishes were unfortunately neutralized by the fact that the very next letter in the box was one from the management, crisp and to the point, informing the duchess that her services would not be required that night or thereafter. it was the subtle meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "the rose of america" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had been timed. "poor mae, if she'd opened to-night, they'd have had to give her two weeks' notice or her salary. but they can fire her without a cent just because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!" the duchess burst into fresh flood of tears. "don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl who would have been in her element looking in on job with bildad the shuhite and his friends. "don't you worry!" "it's tough!" said the girl who had adopted that form of verbal consolation. "it's fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective. the other girl, with an air of saying something new, repeated her statement that it was the limit. the duchess cried forlornly throughout. she had needed this engagement badly. chorus salaries are not stupendous, but it is possible to save money by means of them during a new york run, especially if you have spent three years in a milliner's shop and can make your own clothes, as the duchess, in spite of her air of being turned out by fifth avenue modistes, could and did. she had been looking forward, now that this absurd piece was to be rewritten by someone who knew his business and had a good chance of success, to putting by just those few dollars that make all the difference when you are embarking on married life. cuthbert, for all his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of the establishment unsupported for at least another eighteen months; and this disaster meant that the wedding would have to be postponed again. so the duchess, abandoning that aristocratic manner criticized by some of her colleagues as "up-stage" and by others as "ritz-y," sat in her chair and consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as they were offered to her. jill had been the only girl in the room who had spoken no word of consolation. this was not because she was not sorry for the duchess. she had never been sorrier for any one in her life. the pathos of that swift descent from haughtiness to misery had bitten deep into her sensitive heart. but she revolted at the idea of echoing the banal words of the others. words were no good, she thought, as she set her little teeth and glared at an absent management--a management just about now presumably distending itself with a luxurious dinner at one of the big hotels. deeds were what she demanded. all her life she had been a girl of impulsive action, and she wanted to act impulsively now. she was in much the same berserk mood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of bill the parrot on the occasion of his dispute with henry of london. the fighting spirit which had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had come back in full measure. "what are you going to _do_?" she cried. "aren't you going to _do_ something?" do? the members of "the rose of america" ensemble looked doubtfully at one another. do? it had not occurred to them that there was anything to be done. these things happened, and you regretted them, but as for doing anything, well, what _could_ you do? jill's face was white and her eyes were flaming. she dominated the roomful of girls like a little napoleon. the change in her startled them. hitherto they had always looked on her as rather an unusually quiet girl. she had always made herself unobtrusively pleasant to them all. they all liked her. but they had never suspected her of possessing this militant quality. nobody spoke, but there was a general stir. she had flung a new idea broadcast, and it was beginning to take root. do something? well, if it came to that, why not? "we ought all to refuse to go on to-night unless they let her go on!" jill declared. the stir became a movement. enthusiasm is catching, and every girl is at heart a rebel. and the idea was appealing to the imagination. refuse to give a show on the opening night! had a chorus ever done such a thing? they trembled on the verge of making history. "strike?" quavered somebody at the back. "yes, strike!" cried jill. "hooray! that's the thtuff!" shouted the cherub, and turned the scale. she was a popular girl, and her adherence to the cause confirmed the doubters. "thtrike!" "strike! strike!" jill turned to the duchess, who had been gaping amazedly at the demonstration. she no longer wept, but she seemed in a dream. "dress and get ready to go on," jill commanded. "we'll all dress and get ready to go on. then i'll go and find mr. goble and tell him what we mean to do. and, if he doesn't give in, we'll stay here in this room, and there won't be a performance!" iii mr. goble, with a derby hat on the back of his head and an unlighted cigar in the corner of his mouth, was superintending the erection of the first act set when jill found him. he was standing with his back to the safety-curtain glowering at a blue canvas, supposed to represent one of those picturesque summer skies which you get at the best places on long island. jill, coming down-stage from the staircase that led to the dressing-room, interrupted his line of vision. "get out of the light!" bellowed mr. goble, always a man of direct speech, adding "damn you!" for good measure. "please move to one side," interpreted the stage-director. "mr. goble is looking at the set." the head carpenter, who completed the little group, said nothing. stage carpenters always say nothing. long association with fussy directors has taught them that the only policy to pursue on opening nights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap themselves up in it, and not emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone off to worry somebody else. "it don't look right!" said mr. goble, cocking his head on one side. "i see what you mean, mr. goble," assented the stage-director obsequiously. "it has perhaps a little too much--er--not quite enough--yes, i see what you mean!" "it's too--damn--blue!" rasped mr. goble, impatient of the vacillating criticism. "that's what's the matter with it." the head carpenter abandoned the silent policy of a lifetime. he felt impelled to utter. he was a man who, when not at the theatre, spent most of his time in bed, reading all-fiction magazines; but it so happened that once, last summer, he had actually seen the sky; and he considered that this entitled him to speak almost as a specialist on the subject. "ther sky _is_ blue!" he observed huskily. "yessir! i seen it!" he passed into the silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse, stopped up his mouth with a piece of chewing-gum. mr. goble regarded the silver-tongued orator wrathfully. he was not accustomed to chatterboxes arguing with him like this. he would probably have said something momentous and crushing, but at this point jill intervened. "mr. goble." the manager swung round on her. "what _is_ it?" it is sad to think how swiftly affection can change to dislike in this world. two weeks before, mr. goble had looked on jill with favour. she had seemed good in his eyes. but that refusal of hers to lunch with him, followed by a refusal some days later to take a bit of supper somewhere, had altered his views on feminine charm. if it had been left to him, as most things were about this theatre, to decide which of the thirteen girls should be dismissed, he would undoubtedly have selected jill. but at this stage in the proceedings there was the unfortunate necessity of making concessions to the temperamental johnson miller. mr. goble was aware that the dance-director's services would be badly needed in the re-arrangement of the numbers during the coming week or so, and he knew that there were a dozen managers waiting eagerly to welcome him if he threw up his present job, so he had been obliged to approach him in quite a humble spirit and enquire which of his female chorus could be most easily spared. and, as the duchess had a habit of carrying her haughty languor on to the stage and employing it as a substitute for the chorea which was mr. miller's ideal, the dance-director had chosen her. to mr. goble's dislike of jill, therefore, was added now something of the fury of the baffled potentate. "'jer want?" he demanded. "mr. goble is extremely busy," said the stage-director. "extremely." a momentary doubt as to the best way of approaching her subject had troubled jill on her way downstairs, but, now that she was on the battlefield confronting the enemy, she found herself cool, collected, and full of a cold rage which steeled her nerves without confusing her mind. "i came to ask you to let mae d'arcy go on to-night." "who the hell's mae d'arcy?" mr. goble broke off to bellow at a scene-shifter who was depositing the wall of mrs. stuyvesant van dyke's long island residence too far down stage. "not there, you fool! higher up!" "you gave her notice this evening," said jill. "well, what about it?" "we want you to withdraw it." "who's 'we'?" "the other girls and myself." mr. goble jerked his head so violently that the derby hat flew off, to be picked up, dusted, and restored by the stage-director. "oh, so you don't like it? well, you know what you can do...." "yes," said jill, "we do. we are going to strike." "what?" "if you don't let mae go on, we shan't go on. there won't be a performance to-night, unless you like to give one without a chorus." "are you crazy?" "perhaps. but we're quite unanimous." mr. goble, like most theatrical managers, was not good at words over two syllables. "you're what?" "we've talked it over, and we've all decided to do what i said." mr. goble's hat shot off again, and gambolled away into the wings, with the stage-director bounding after it like a retriever. "whose idea's this?" demanded mr. goble. his eyes were a little foggy, for his brain was adjusting itself but slowly to the novel situation. "mine." "oh, yours! i thought as much!" "well," said jill, "i'll go back and tell them that you will not do what we ask. we will keep our make-up on in case you change your mind." she turned away. "come back!" jill proceeded toward the staircase. as she went, a husky voice spoke in her ear. "go to it, kid! you're all right!" the head-carpenter had broken his trappist vows twice in a single evening, a thing which had not happened to him since the night three years ago, when, sinking wearily into a seat in a dark corner for a bit of a rest, he found that one of his assistants had placed a pot of red paint there. iv to mr. goble, fermenting and full of strange oaths, entered johnson miller. the dance-director was always edgey on first nights, and during the foregoing conversation had been flitting about the stage like a white-haired moth. his deafness had kept him in complete ignorance that there was anything untoward afoot, and he now approached mr. goble with his watch in his hand. "eight twenty-five," he observed. "time those girls were on stage." mr. goble, glad of a concrete target for his wrath, cursed him in about two hundred and fifty rich and well-selected words. "huh?" said miller, hand to ear. mr. goble repeated the last hundred and eleven words, the pick of the bunch. "can't hear!" said mr. miller regretfully. "got a cold." the grave danger that mr. goble, a thick-necked man, would undergo some sort of a stroke was averted by the presence of mind of the stage-director, who, returning with the hat, presented it like a bouquet to his employer, and then, his hands being now unoccupied, formed them into a funnel and through this flesh-and-blood megaphone endeavoured to impart the bad news. "the girls say they won't go on!" mr. miller nodded. "i _said_ it was time they were on." "they're on strike!" "it's not," said mr. miller austerely, "what they _like_, it's what they're paid for. they ought to be on stage. we should be ringing up in two minutes." the stage-director drew another breath, then thought better of it. he had a wife and children, and, if dadda went under with apoplexy, what became of the home, civilization's most sacred product? he relaxed the muscles of his diaphragm, and reached for pencil and paper. mr. miller inspected the message, felt for his spectacle-case, found it, opened it, took out his glasses, replaced the spectacle-case, felt for his handkerchief, polished the glasses, replaced the handkerchief, put the glasses on, and read. a blank look came into his face. "why?" he enquired. the stage-director, with a nod of the head intended to imply that he must be patient and all would come right in the future, recovered the paper, and scribbled another sentence. mr. miller perused it. "because mae d'arcy has got her notice?" he queried, amazed. "but the girl can't dance a step." the stage-director, by means of a wave of the hand, a lifting of both eyebrows, and a wrinkling of the nose, replied that the situation, unreasonable as it might appear to the thinking man, was as he had stated and must be faced. what, he enquired--through the medium of a clever drooping of the mouth and a shrug of the shoulders--was to be done about it? mr. miller remained for a moment in meditation. "i'll go and talk to them," he said. he flitted off, and the stage-director leaned back against the asbestos curtain. he was exhausted, and his throat was in agony, but nevertheless he was conscious of a feeling of quiet happiness. his life had been lived in the shadow of the constant fear that some day mr. goble might dismiss him. should that disaster occur, he felt there was always a future for him in the movies. scarcely had mr. miller disappeared on his peace-making errand, when there was a noise like a fowl going through a quickset hedge, and mr. saltzburg, brandishing his baton as if he were conducting an unseen orchestra, plunged through the scenery at the left upper entrance and charged excitedly down the stage. having taken his musicians twice through the overture, he had for ten minutes been sitting in silence, waiting for the curtain to go up. at last, his emotional nature cracking under the strain of this suspense, he had left his conductor's chair and plunged down under the stage by way of the musician's bolthole to ascertain what was causing the delay. "what is it? what is it? what is it? what is it?" enquired mr. saltzburg. "i wait and wait and wait and wait and wait.... we cannot play the overture again. what is it? what has happened?" mr. goble, that overwrought soul, had betaken himself to the wings where he was striding up and down with his hands behind his back, chewing his cigar. the stage-director braced himself once more to the task of explanation. "the girls have struck!" mr. saltzburg blinked through his glasses. "the girls?" he repeated blankly. "oh, damn it!" cried the stage-director, his patience at last giving way. "you know what a girl is, don't you?" "they have what?" "struck! walked out on us! refused to go on!" mr. saltzburg reeled under the blow. "but it is impossible! who is to sing the opening chorus?" in the presence of one to whom he could relieve his mind without fear of consequences, the stage-director became savagely jocular. "that's all arranged," he said. "we're going to dress the carpenters in skirts. the audience won't notice anything wrong." "should i speak to mr. goble?" queried mr. saltzburg doubtfully. "yes, if you don't value your life," returned the stage-director. mr. saltzburg pondered. "i will go and speak to the childrun," he said. "i will talk to them. they know _me_! i will make them be reasonable." he bustled off in the direction taken by mr. miller, his coat-tails flying behind him. the stage-director, with a tired sigh, turned to face wally, who had come in through the iron pass-door from the auditorium. "hullo!" said wally cheerfully. "going strong? how's everybody at home? fine? so am i! by the way, am i wrong or did i hear something about a theatrical entertainment of some sort here to-night?" he looked about him at the empty stage. in the wings, on the prompt side, could be discerned the flannel-clad forms of the gentlemanly members of the male ensemble, all dressed up for mrs. stuyvesant van dyke's tennis party. one or two of the principals were standing perplexedly in the lower entrance. the o.p. side had been given over by general consent to mr. goble for his perambulations. every now and then he would flash into view through an opening in the scenery. "i understood that to-night was the night for the great revival of comic opera. where are the comics, and why aren't they opping?" the stage-director repeated his formula once more. "the girls have struck!" "so have the clocks," said wally. "it's past nine." "the chorus refuse to go on." "no, really! just artistic loathing of the rotten piece, or is there some other reason?" "they're sore because one of them has been given her notice, and they say they won't give a show unless she's taken back. they've struck. that mariner girl started it." "she did!" wally's interest became keener. "she would!" he said approvingly. "she's a heroine!" "little devil! i never liked that girl!" "now there," said wally, "is just the point on which we differ. i have always liked her, and i've known her all my life. so, shipmate, if you have any derogatory remarks to make about miss mariner, keep them where they belong--_there_!" he prodded the other sharply in the stomach. he was smiling pleasantly, but the stage-director, catching his eye, decided that his advice was good and should be followed. it is just as bad for the home if the head of the family gets his neck broken as if he succumbs to apoplexy. "you surely aren't on their side?" he said. "me!" said wally. "of course i am. i'm always on the side of the down-trodden and oppressed. if you know of a dirtier trick than firing a girl just before the opening, so that they won't have to pay her two weeks' salary, mention it. till you do, i'll go on believing that it is the limit. of course i'm on the girls' side. i'll make them a speech if they want me to, or head the procession with a banner if they are going to parade down the boardwalk. i'm for 'em, father abraham, a hundred thousand strong. and then a few! if you want my considered opinion, our old friend goble has asked for it and got it. and i'm glad--glad--glad, if you don't mind my quoting pollyanna for a moment. i hope it chokes him!" "you'd better not let him hear you talking like that!" "_au contraire_, as we say in the gay city, i'm going to make a point of letting him hear me talk like that! adjust the impression that i fear any goble in shining armour, because i don't. i propose to speak my mind to him. i would beard him in his lair, if he had a beard. well, i'll clean-shave him in his lair. that will be just as good. but hist! whom have we here? tell me, do you see the same thing i see?" like the vanguard of a defeated army, mr. saltzburg was coming dejectedly across the stage. "well?" said the stage-director. "they would not listen to me," said mr. saltzburg brokenly. "the more i talked the more they did not listen!" he winced at a painful memory. "miss trevor stole my baton, and then they all lined up and sang the 'star-spangled banner'!" "not the words?" cried wally incredulously. "don't tell me they knew the words!" "mr. miller is still up there, arguing with them. but it will be of no use. what shall we do?" asked mr. saltzburg helplessly. "we ought to have rung up half an hour ago. what shall we do-oo-oo?" "we must go and talk to goble," said wally. "something has got to be settled quick. when i left, the audience was getting so impatient that i thought he was going to walk out on us. he's one of those nasty, determined-looking men. so come along!" mr. goble, intercepted as he was about to turn for another walk up-stage, eyed the deputation sourly and put the same question that the stage-director had put to mr. saltzburg. "well?" wally came briskly to the point. "you'll have to give in," he said, "or else go and make a speech to the audience, the burden of which will be that they can have their money back by applying at the box-office. these joans of arc have got you by the short hairs!" "i won't give in!" "then give out!" said wally. "or pay out, if you prefer it. trot along and tell the audience that the four dollars fifty in the house will be refunded." mr. goble gnawed his cigar. "i've been in the show business fifteen years...." "i know. and this sort of thing has never happened to you before. one gets new experiences." mr. goble cocked his cigar at a fierce angle, and glared at wally. something told him that wally's sympathies were not wholly with him. "they can't do this sort of thing to _me_!" he growled. "well, they are doing it to someone, aren't they," said wally, "and, if it's not you, who is it?" "i've a damned good mind to fire them all!" "a corking idea! i can't see a single thing wrong with it except that it would hang up the production for another five weeks and lose you your bookings and cost you a week's rent of this theatre for nothing and mean having all the dresses made over and lead to all your principals going off and getting other jobs. these trifling things apart, we may call the suggestion a bright one." "you talk too damn much!" said mr. goble, eyeing him with distaste. "well, go on, _you_ say something. something sensible." "it is a very serious situation...." began the stage-director. "oh, shut up!" said mr. goble. the stage-director subsided into his collar. "i cannot play the overture again," protested mr. saltzburg. "i cannot!" at this point mr. miller appeared. he was glad to see mr. goble. he had been looking for him, for he had news to impart. "the girls," said mr. miller, "have struck! they won't go on!" mr. goble, with the despairing gesture of one who realizes the impotence of words, dashed off for his favourite walk up stage. wally took out his watch. "six seconds and a bit," he said approvingly, as the manager returned. "a very good performance. i should like to time you over the course in running-kit." the interval for reflection, brief as it had been, had apparently enabled mr. goble to come to a decision. "go," he said to the stage-director, "and tell 'em that fool of a d'arcy girl can play. we've got to get that curtain up." "yes, mr. goble." the stage-director galloped off. "get back to your place," said the manager to mr. saltzburg, "and play the overture again." "again!" "perhaps they didn't hear it the first two times," said wally. mr. goble watched mr. saltzburg out of sight. then he turned to wally. "that damned mariner girl was at the bottom of this! she started the whole thing! she told me so. well, i'll settle _her_! she goes to-morrow!" "wait a minute," said wally. "wait one minute! bright as it is, that idea is _out_!" "what the devil has it got to do with you?" "only this, that if you fire miss mariner, i take that neat script which i've prepared and i tear it into a thousand fragments. or nine hundred. anyway, i tear it. miss mariner opens in new york, or i pack up my work and leave." mr. goble's green eyes glowed. "oh, you're stuck on her, are you?" he sneered. "i see!" "listen, dear heart," said wally, gripping the manager's arm, "i can see that you are on the verge of introducing personalities into this very pleasant little chat. resist the impulse! why not let your spine stay where it is instead of having it kicked up through your hat? keep to the main issue. does miss mariner open in new york or does she not?" there was a tense silence. mr. goble permitted himself a swift review of his position. he would have liked to do many things to wally, beginning with ordering him out of the theatre, but prudence restrained him. he wanted wally's work. he needed wally in his business: and, in the theatre, business takes precedence of personal feelings. "all right!" he growled reluctantly. "that's a promise," said wally. "i'll see that you keep it." he looked over his shoulder. the stage was filled with gaily-coloured dresses. the mutineers had returned to duty. "well, i'll be getting along. i'm rather sorry we agreed to keep clear of personalities, because i should have liked to say that, if ever they have a skunk-show at madison square garden, you ought to enter--and win the blue ribbon. still, of course, under our agreement my lips are sealed, and i can't even hint at it. good-bye. see you later, i suppose?" mr. goble, giving a creditable imitation of a living statue, was plucked from his thoughts by a hand upon his arm. it was mr. miller, whose unfortunate ailment had prevented him from keeping abreast of the conversation. "what did he say?" enquired mr. miller, interested. "i didn't hear what he said!" mr. goble made no effort to inform him. chapter xvii the cost of a row i otis pilkington had left atlantic city two hours after the conference which had followed the dress-rehearsal, firmly resolved never to go near "the rose of america" again. he had been wounded in his finest feelings. there had been a moment, when mr. goble had given him the choice between having the piece rewritten and cancelling the production altogether, when he had inclined to the heroic course. but for one thing mr. pilkington would have defied the manager, refused to allow his script to be touched, and removed the play from his hands. that one thing was the fact that, up to the day of the dress-rehearsal, the expenses of the production had amounted to the appalling sum of thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to come out of mr. pilkington's pocket. the figures, presented to him in a neatly typewritten column stretching over two long sheets of paper, had stunned him. he had had no notion that musical plays cost so much. the costumes alone had come to ten thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents, and somehow that odd fifty cents annoyed otis pilkington as much as anything on the list. a dark suspicion that mr. goble, who had seen to all the executive end of the business, had a secret arrangement with the costumer whereby he received a private rebate, deepened his gloom. why, for ten thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents you could dress the whole female population of new york state and have a bit left over for connecticut. so thought mr. pilkington, as he read the bad news in the train. he only ceased to brood upon the high cost of costuming when in the next line but one there smote his eye an item of four hundred and ninety-eight dollars for "clothing." clothing! weren't costumes clothing? why should he have to pay twice over for the same thing? mr. pilkington was just raging over this, when something lower down in the column caught his eye. it was the words:-clothing .... 187.45 at this otis pilkington uttered a stifled cry, so sharp and so anguished that an old lady in the next seat, who was drinking a glass of milk, dropped it and had to refund the railway company thirty-five cents for breakages. for the remainder of the journey she sat with one eye warily on mr. pilkington, waiting for his next move. this adventure quieted otis pilkington down, if it did not soothe him. he returned blushingly to a perusal of his bill of costs, nearly every line of which contained some item that infuriated and dismayed him. "shoes" ($213.50) he could understand, but what on earth was "academy. rehl. $105.50"? what was "cuts ... $15"? and what in the name of everything infernal was this item for "frames," in which mysterious luxury he had apparently indulged to the extent of ninety-four dollars and fifty cents? "props" occurred on the list no fewer than seventeen times. whatever his future, at whatever poor-house he might spend his declining years, he was supplied with enough props to last his lifetime. otis pilkington stared blankly at the scenery that flitted past the train windows. (scenery! there had been two charges for scenery! "friedmann, samuel ... scenery ... $3711" and "unitt and wickes ... scenery ... $2120"). he was suffering the torments of the ruined gamester at the roulette-table. thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents! and he was out of pocket ten thousand in addition from the cheque he had handed over two days ago to uncle chris as his share of the investment of starting jill in the motion-pictures. it was terrible! it deprived one of the power of thought. the power of thought, however, returned to mr. pilkington almost immediately, for, remembering suddenly that roland trevis had assured him that no musical production, except one of those elaborate girl-shows with a chorus of ninety, could possibly cost more than fifteen thousand dollars at an outside figure, he began to think about roland trevis, and continued to think about him until the train pulled into the pennsylvania station. for a week or more the stricken financier confined himself mostly to his rooms, where he sat smoking cigarettes, gazing at japanese prints, and trying not to think about "props" and "rehl." then, gradually, the almost maternal yearning to see his brain-child once more, which can never be wholly crushed out of a young dramatist, returned to him--faintly at first, then getting stronger by degrees till it could no longer be resisted. otis pilkington, having instructed his japanese valet to pack a few simple necessaries in a suit-case, took a cab to the grand central station and caught an afternoon train for rochester, where his recollection of the route planned for the tour told him "the rose of america" would now be playing. looking into his club on the way, to cash a cheque, the first person he encountered was freddie rooke. "good gracious!" said otis pilkington. "what are you doing here?" freddie looked up dully from his reading. the abrupt stoppage of his professional career--his life-work, one might almost say--had left freddie at a very loose end; and so hollow did the world seem to him at the moment, so uniformly futile all its so-called allurements, that, to pass the time, he had just been trying to read the _national geographic magazine_. "hullo!" he said. "well, might as well be here as anywhere, what?" he replied to the other's question. "but why aren't you playing?" "they sacked me! they've changed my part to a bally scotchman! well, i mean to say, i couldn't play a bally scotchman!" mr. pilkington groaned in spirit. of all the characters in his musical fantasy on which he prided himself, that of lord finchley was his pet. and he had been burked, murdered, blotted out, in order to make room for a bally scotchman. "the character's called 'the mcwhustle of mcwhustle' now!" said freddie sombrely. the mcwhustle of mcwhustle! mr. pilkington almost abandoned his trip to rochester on receiving this devastating piece of information. "he comes on in act one in kilts!" "in kilts! at mrs. stuyvesant van dyke's garden-party! on long island!" "it isn't mrs. stuyvesant van dyke any longer, either," said freddie. "she's been changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer." "a pickle manufacturer!" "yes. they said it ought to be a comedy part." if agony had not caused mr. pilkington to clutch for support at the back of a chair, he would undoubtedly have wrung his hands. "but it _was_ a comedy part!" he wailed. "it was full of the subtlest, most delicate satire on society. they were delighted with it at newport! oh, this is too much! i shall make a strong protest! i shall insist on these parts being kept as i wrote them! i shall.... i must be going at once, or i shall miss my train." he paused at the door. "how was business in baltimore?" "rotten!" said freddie, and returned to his _national geographic magazine_. otis pilkington tottered into his cab. he was shattered by what he had heard. they had massacred his beautiful play and, doing so had not even made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights. business at baltimore had been rotten! that meant more expense, further columns of figures with "frames" and "rehl." in front of them! he staggered into the station. "hey!" cried the taxi-driver. otis pilkington turned. "sixty-five cents, mister, if _you_ please! forgetting i'm not your private shovoor, wasn't you?" mr. pilkington gave him a dollar. money--money! life was just one long round of paying out and paying out. ii the day which mr. pilkington had selected for his visit to the provinces was a tuesday. "the rose of america" had opened at rochester on the previous night, after a week at atlantic city in its original form and a week at baltimore in what might be called its second incarnation. business had been bad in atlantic city and no better in baltimore, and a meagre first-night house at rochester had given the piece a cold reception, which had put the finishing touches to the depression of the company in spite of the fact that the rochester critics, like those of baltimore, had written kindly of the play. one of the maxims of the theatre is that "out-of-town notices don't count," and the company had refused to be cheered by them. it is to be doubted, however, if even crowded houses would have aroused much response from the principals and chorus of "the rose of america." for two weeks without a break they had been working under forced draught, and they were weary in body and spirit. the new principals had had to learn parts in exactly half the time usually given for that purpose, and the chorus, after spending five weeks assimilating one set of steps and groupings, had been compelled to forget them and rehearse an entirely new set. from the morning after the first performance at atlantic city, they had not left the theatre except for sketchy half-hour meals. jill, standing listlessly in the wings while the scene-shifters arranged the second act set, was aware of wally approaching from the direction of the pass-door. "miss mariner, i believe?" said wally. "i suppose you know you look perfectly wonderful in that dress? all rochester's talking about it, and there is some idea of running excursion trains from troy and utica. a great stir it has made!" jill smiled. wally was like a tonic to her during these days of overwork. he seemed to be entirely unaffected by the general depression, a fact which he attributed himself to the happy accident of being in a position to sit back and watch the others toil. but in reality jill knew that he was working as hard as any one. he was working all the time, changing scenes, adding lines, tinkering with lyrics, smoothing over principals whose nerves had become strained by the incessant rehearsing, keeping within bounds mr. goble's passion for being the big noise about the theatre. his cheerfulness was due to the spirit that was in him, and jill appreciated it. she had come to feel very close to wally since the driving rush of making over "the rose of america" had begun. "they seemed quite calm to-night," she said. "i believe half of them were asleep." "they're always like that in rochester. they cloak their deeper feelings. they wear the mask. but you can tell from the glassy look in their eyes that they are really seething inwardly. but what i came round about was--(a)--to give you this letter...." jill took the letter, and glanced at the writing. it was from uncle chris. she placed it on the axe over the fire-buckets for perusal later. "the man at the box-office gave it to me," said wally, "when i looked in there to find out how much money there was in the house to-night. the sum was so small that he had to whisper it." "i'm afraid the piece isn't a success." "nonsense! of course it is! we're doing fine. that brings me to section (b) of my discourse. i met poor old pilkington in the lobby, and he said exactly what you have just said, only at greater length." "is mr. pilkington here?" "he appears to have run down on the afternoon train to have a look at the show. he is catching the next train back to new york! whenever i meet him, he always seems to be dashing off to catch the next train back to new york! poor chap! have you ever done a murder? if you haven't, don't! i know exactly what it feels like, and it feels rotten! after two minutes' conversation with pilkington, i could sympathize with macbeth when he chatted with banquo. he said i had killed his play. he nearly wept, and he drew such a moving picture of a poor helpless musical fantasy being lured into a dark alley by thugs and there slaughtered that he almost had me in tears too. i felt like a beetle-browed brute with a dripping knife and hands imbrued with innocent gore." "poor mr. pilkington!' "once more you say exactly what he said, only more crisply. i comforted him as well as i could, told him all was for the best and so on, and he flung the box-office receipts in my face and said that the piece was as bad a failure commercially as it was artistically. i couldn't say anything to that, seeing what a house we've got to-night, except to bid him look out to the horizon where the sun will shortly shine. in other words, i told him that business was about to buck up and that later on he would be going about the place with a sprained wrist from clipping coupons. but he refused to be cheered, cursed me some more for ruining his piece, and ended by begging me to buy his share of it cheap." "you aren't going to?" "no, i am not--but simply and solely for the reason that, after that fiasco in london, i raised my right hand--thus--and swore an oath that never, as long as i lived, would i again put up a cent for a production, were it the most obvious cinch on earth. i'm gun-shy. but if he does happen to get hold of any one with a sporting disposition and a few thousands to invest, that person will make a fortune. this piece is going to be a gold-mine." jill looked at him in surprise. with anybody else but wally she would have attributed this confidence to author's vanity. but with wally, she felt, the fact that the piece, as played now, was almost entirely his own work did not count. he viewed it dispassionately, and she could not understand why, in the face of half-empty houses, he should have such faith in it. "but what makes you think so? we've been doing awfully badly so far." wally nodded. "and we shall do awfully badly in syracuse the last half of this week. and why? for one thing, because the show isn't a show at all at present. why should people flock to pay for seats for what are practically dress-rehearsals of an unknown play? half the principals have had to get up in their parts in two weeks, and they haven't had time to get anything out of them. they are groping for their lines all the time. the girls can't let themselves go in the numbers, because they are wondering if they are going to remember the steps. the show hasn't had time to click together yet. it's just ragged. take a look at it in another two weeks! i _know_! i don't say musical comedy is a very lofty form of art, but still there's a certain amount of science about it. if you go in for it long enough, you learn the tricks, and take it from me that, if you have a good cast and some catchy numbers it's almost impossible not to have a success. we've got an excellent cast now, and the numbers are fine. i tell you--as i tried to tell pilkington, only he wouldn't listen--that this show is all right. there's a fortune in it for somebody. but i suppose pilkington is now sitting in the smoking-car of an east-bound train, trying to get the porter to accept his share in the piece instead of a tip!" if otis pilkington was not actually doing that, he was doing something like it. sunk in gloom, he bumped up and down on an uncomfortable seat, wondering why he had ever taken the trouble to make the trip to rochester. he had found exactly what he had expected to find, a mangled caricature of his brain-child playing to a house half empty and wholly indifferent. the only redeeming feature, he thought vindictively, as he remembered what roland trevis had said about the cost of musical productions, was the fact that the new numbers were undoubtedly better than those which his collaborator had originally supplied. and "the rose of america," after a disheartening wednesday matinee and a not much better reception on the wednesday night, packed its baggage and moved to syracuse, where it failed just as badly. then for another two weeks it wandered on from one small town to another, up and down new york state and through the doldrums of connecticut, tacking to and fro like a storm-battered ship, till finally the astute and discerning citizens of hartford welcomed it with such a reception that hardened principals stared at each other in a wild surmise, wondering if these things could really be: and a weary chorus forgot its weariness and gave encore after encore with a snap and vim which even mr. johnson miller was obliged to own approximated to something like it. nothing to touch the work of his choruses of the old days, of course, but nevertheless fair, quite fair. the spirits of the company revived. optimism reigned. principals smiled happily and said they had believed in the thing all along. the ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble chattered contentedly of a year's run in new york. and the citizens of hartford fought for seats, and, if they could not get seats, stood up at the back. of these things otis pilkington was not aware. he had sold his interest in the piece two weeks ago for ten thousand dollars to a lawyer acting for some client unknown, and was glad to feel that he had saved something out of the wreck. chapter xviii jill receives notice i the violins soared to one last high note; the bassoon uttered a final moan; the pensive person at the end of the orchestra-pit just under mrs. waddesleigh peagrim's box, whose duty it was to slam the drum at stated intervals, gave that much-enduring instrument a concluding wallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to stray in the direction of cooling drinks. mr. saltzburg lowered the baton which he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down and mopped his forehead. the curtain fell on the first act of "the rose of america," and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out from all over the gotham theatre, which was crammed from floor to roof with that heterogeneous collection of humanity which makes up the audience of a new york opening performance. the applause continued like the breaking of waves on a stony beach. the curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. an usher, stealing down the central aisle, gave to mr. saltzburg an enormous bouquet of american beauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with a brilliant smile and a bow, nicely combining humility with joyful surprise. the applause, which had begun to slacken, gathered strength again. it was a superb bouquet, nearly as big as mr. saltzburg himself. it had cost the prima donna close on a hundred dollars that morning at thorley's, but it was worth every cent of the money. the house-lights went up. the audience began to move up the aisles to stretch its legs and discuss the piece during the intermission. there was a general babble of conversation. here, a composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show was explaining to another composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exact source from which a third composer who had got an interpolated number in the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated. there, two musical comedy artists who were temporarily resting were agreeing that the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary as it was to their life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say that she was beginning to show the passage of years a trifle and ought to be warned by some friend that her career as an _ingénue_ was a thing of the past. dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into dark corners, were telling each other that "the rose of america" was just another of those things but it had apparently got over. the general public was of the opinion that it was a knock-out. "otie, darling," said mrs. waddesleigh peagrim, leaning her ample shoulder on uncle chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking across him to young mr. pilkington, "i do congratulate you, dear. it's perfectly delightful! i don't know when i have enjoyed a musical piece so much. don't you think it's perfectly darling, major selby?" "capital!" agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored as near extinction as makes no matter. "congratulate you, my boy!" "you clever, clever thing!" said mrs. peagrim, skittishly striking her nephew on the knee with her fan. "i'm proud to be your aunt! aren't you proud to know him, mr. rooke?" the fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species of stupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of the mcwhustle of mcwhustle in action. there had been other dark moments in freddie's life. once, back in london, parker had sent him out into the heart of the west end without his spats and he had not discovered their absence till he was half-way up bond street. on another occasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, he had discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-school champion. he had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-off of the engagement between jill mariner and derek underhill, and sad when it had been brought to his notice that london was giving derek the cold shoulder in consequence. but never in his whole career had he experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him that evening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder that part that should have been his. and the audience, confound them, had roared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said! "eh?" he replied. "oh, yes, rather, absolutely!" "we're _all_ proud of you, otie darling," proceeded mrs. peagrim. "the piece is a wonderful success. you will make a fortune out of it. and just think, major selby, i tried my best to argue the poor, dear boy out of putting it on! i thought it was so rash to risk his money in a theatrical venture. but then," said mrs. peagrim in extenuation, "i had only seen the piece when it was done at my house at newport, and of course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! i might have known that you would change it a great deal before you put it on in new york. as i always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten! why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, otie! i wouldn't know it was the same play!" she slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of the gashes she was inflicting. poor mr. pilkington was suffering twin torments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of the unsuccessful artist. it would have been bad enough to have to sit and watch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedy which wally mason had substituted for his delicate social satire: but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself with the sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going to make a lot of money out of it. now, even this material balm was denied him. he had sold out, and he was feeling like the man who parts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine, only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has been located. into each life some rain must fall. quite a shower was falling now into young mr. pilkington's. "of course," went on mrs. peagrim, "when the play was done at my house, it was acted by amateurs. and you know what amateurs are! the cast to-night is perfectly splendid. i do think that scotchman is the most killing creature! don't you think he is wonderful, mr. rooke?" we may say what we will against the upper strata of society, but it cannot be denied that breeding tells. only by falling back for support on the traditions of his class and the solid support of a gentle up-bringing was the last of the rookes able to crush down the words that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politely conventional agreement. if mr. pilkington was feeling like a too impulsive seller of gold mines, freddie's emotions were akin to those of the spartan boy with the fox under his vest. nothing but winchester and magdalen could have produced the smile which, though twisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed on to his face and off again at his hostess' question. "oh, rather! priceless!" "wasn't that part an englishman before?" asked mrs. peagrim. "i thought so. well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. this scotchman is too funny for words. and such an artist!" freddie rose shakily. one can stand just so much. "think," he mumbled, "i'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette." he groped his way to the door. "i'll come with you, freddie my boy," said uncle chris, who felt an imperative need of five minutes' respite from mrs. peagrim. "let's get out into the air for a moment. uncommonly warm it is here." freddie assented. air was what he felt he wanted most. left alone in the box with her nephew, mrs. peagrim continued for some moments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the open wound. it struck her from time to time that darling otie was perhaps a shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous strain inseparable from a first night of a young author's first play. "why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands of dollars out of this piece. i am sure it is going to be another 'merry widow.'" "you can't tell from a first night audience," said mr. pilkington sombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up at rehearsals. "oh, but you can. it's so easy to distinguish polite applause from the real thing. no doubt many of the people down here have friends in the company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but look how the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! you can't tell me that that was not genuine. they love it. how hard," she proceeded commiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour on the road to improve the piece so much! i never liked to say so before but even you must agree with me now that that original version of yours, which was done down at newport, was the most terrible nonsense! and how hard the company must have worked too! otie," cried mrs. peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea, "i will tell you what you must really do. you must give a supper and dance to the whole company on the stage to-morrow night after the performance." "what!" cried otis pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by this appalling suggestion. was he, the man who, after planking down thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty, nine dollars, sixty-eight cents for "props" and "frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltry ten thousand, to be still further victimized? "they do deserve it, don't they, after working so hard?" "it's impossible," said otis pilkington vehemently. "out of the question." "but, otie, darling, i was talking to mr. mason when he came down to newport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that the management nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially if they have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do." "well, let goble give them a supper if he wants to." "but you know that mr. goble, though he has his name on the programme as the manager, has really nothing to do with it. you own the piece, don't you?" for a moment mr. pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, but refrained. he knew his aunt olive too well. if she found out that he had parted at a heavy loss with this valuable property, her whole attitude towards him would change--or, rather it would revert to her normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe nurse to a weak-minded child. even in his agony there had been a certain faint consolation, due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in the voice with which she had addressed him since the fall of the curtain. he shrank from forfeiting this respect, unentitled though he was to it. "yes," he said in his precise voice. "that, of course, is so." "well, then!" said mrs. peagrim. "but it seems so unnecessary! and think what it would cost." this was a false step. some of the reverence left mrs. peagrim's voice, and she spoke a little coldly. a gay and gallant spender herself, she had often had occasion to rebuke a tendency to over-parsimony in her nephew. "we must not be mean, otie!" she said. mr. pilkington keenly resented her choice of pronouns. "we" indeed! who was going to foot the bill? both of them, hand in hand, or he alone, the chump, the boob, the easy mark who got this sort of thing wished on him! "i don't think it would be possible to get the stage for a supper-party," he pleaded, shifting his ground. "goble wouldn't give it to us." "as if mr. goble would refuse you anything after you have written a wonderful success for this theatre! and isn't he getting his share of the profits? directly after the performance you must go round and ask him. of course he will be delighted to give you the stage. i will be hostess," said mrs. peagrim radiantly. "and now, let me see, whom shall we invite?" mr. pilkington stared gloomily at the floor, too bowed down by his weight of cares to resent the "we," which had plainly come to stay. he was trying to estimate the size of the gash which this preposterous entertainment would cleave in the pilkington bank-roll. he doubted if it was possible to go through with it under five hundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, mrs. peagrim took the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get into four figures. "major selby, of course," said mrs. peagrim musingly, with a cooing note in her voice. long since had that polished man of affairs made a deep impression upon her. "of course major selby, for one. and mr. rooke. then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt if they were left out. how about mr. mason? isn't he a friend of yours?" mr. pilkington snorted. he had endured much and was prepared to endure more, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man who had sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped its precious person into little bits. "he is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and i do not wish him to be invited!" having attained her main objective, mrs. peagrim was prepared to yield minor points. "very well, if you do not like him," she said. "but i thought he was quite an intimate of yours. it was you who asked me to invite him to newport last summer." "much," said mr. pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer." "oh, very well," said mrs. peagrim again. "then we will not include mr. mason. now, directly the curtain has fallen, otie dear, pop right round and find mr. goble and tell him what you want." ii it is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other. between otis pilkington and mr. goble there was little in common, yet, at the moment when otis set out to find mr. goble, the thing which mr. goble desired most in the world was an interview with otis. since the end of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mental upheaval. reverting to the gold-mine simile again, mr. goble was in the position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mine and now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feeling the truth of the poet's dictum that "of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 'it might have been.'" the electric success of "the rose of america" had stunned mr. goble; and realizing, as he did, that he might have bought otis pilkington's share dirt cheap at almost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad half hour with himself. the only ray in the darkness which brooded on his indomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, by getting hold of mr. pilkington before the notices appeared, and shaking his head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which young authors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception and impressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive your expert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioning gloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show to beat the band ... by doing all these things, it might still be possible to depress mr. pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce him to sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend who didn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as a sporting speculation, because he thought mr. pilkington a good kid, and after all these shows that flop in new york sometimes have a chance on the road. such were the meditations of mr. goble, and, on the final fall of the curtain, amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, he had despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to find mr. pilkington and conduct him to the presence. meanwhile, he waited impatiently on the empty stage. the sudden advent of wally mason, who appeared at this moment, upset mr. goble terribly. wally was a factor in the situation which he had not considered. an infernal, tactless fellow, always trying to make mischief and upset honest merchants, wally, if present at the interview with otis pilkington, would probably try to act in restraint of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about the prospects of the piece. not for the first time, mr. goble wished wally a sudden stroke of apoplexy. "went well, eh?" said wally amiably. he did not like mr. goble, but on the first night of a successful piece personal antipathies may be sunk. such was his effervescent good humour at the moment that he was prepared to treat mr. goble as a man and a brother. "h'm!" replied mr. goble doubtfully, paving the way. "what are you h'ming about?" demanded wally, astonished. "the thing's a riot." "you never know," responded mr. goble in the minor key. "well!" wally stared. "i don't know what more you want. the audience sat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn't they?" "i've an idea," said mr. goble, raising his voice as the long form of mr. pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics will roast it. if you ask _me_," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort of show the critics will pan the life out of. i've been fifteen years in the...." "critics!" cried wally. "well, i've just been talking to alexander of the _times_, and he said it was the best musical piece he had ever seen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same." mr. goble turned a distorted face to mr. pilkington. he wished that wally would go. but wally, he reflected, bitterly, was one of those men who never go. he faced mr. pilkington and did the best he could. "of course it's got a _chance_," he said gloomily. "any show has got a _chance_! but i don't know.... i don't know...." mr. pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of "the rose of america." he had a favour to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have it refused if possible, and get away. it occurred to him that, by substituting for the asking of a favour a peremptory demand, he might save himself a thousand dollars. "i want the stage after the performance to-morrow night, for a supper to the company," he said brusquely. he was shocked to find mr. goble immediately complaisant. "why, sure," said mr. goble readily. "go as far as you like!" he took mr. pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voice to a confidential undertone. "and now, listen," he said, "i've something i want to talk to you about. between you and i and the lamp-post, i don't think this show will last a month in new york. it don't add up right! there's something all wrong about it." mr. pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "i quite agree with you! if you had kept it the way it was originally...." "too late for that!" sighed mr. goble, realizing that his star was in the ascendant. he had forgotten for the moment that mr. pilkington was an author. "we must make the best of a bad job! now, you're a good kid and i wouldn't like you to go around town saying that i had let you in. it isn't business, maybe, but, just because i don't want you to have any kick coming, i'm ready to buy your share of the thing and call it a deal. after all, it may get money on the road. it ain't likely, but there's a chance, and i'm willing to take it. well, listen, i'm probably robbing myself, but i'll give you fifteen thousand if you want to sell." a hated voice spoke at his elbow. "i'll make you a better offer than that," said wally. "give me your share of the show for three dollars in cash and i'll throw in a pair of sock-suspenders and an ingersoll. is it a go?" mr. goble regarded him balefully. "who told you to butt in?" he enquired sourly. "conscience!" replied wally. "old henry w. conscience! i refuse to stand by and see the slaughter of the innocents. why don't you wait till he's dead before you skin him!" he turned to mr. pilkington. "don't you be a fool!" he said earnestly. "can't you see the thing is the biggest hit in years? do you think jesse james here would be offering you a cent for your share if he didn't know there was a fortune in it? do you imagine...?" "it is immaterial to me," interrupted otis pilkington loftily, "what mr. goble offers. i have already sold my interest!" "what!" cried mr. goble. "when?" cried wally. "i sold it half-way through the road-tour," said mr. pilkington, "to a lawyer, acting on behalf of a client whose name i did not learn." in the silence which followed this revelation, another voice spoke. "i should like to speak to you for a moment, mr. goble, if i may." it was jill, who had joined the group unperceived. mr. goble glowered at jill, who met his gaze composedly. "i'm busy!" snapped mr. goble. "see me to-morrow!" "i would prefer to see you now." "you would prefer!" mr. goble waved his hands despairingly, as if calling on heaven to witness the persecution of a good man. jill exhibited a piece of paper stamped with the letter-heading of the management. "it's about this," she said. "i found it in the box as i was going out." "what's that?" "it seems to be a fortnight's notice." "and that," said mr. goble, "is what it _is_!" wally uttered an exclamation. "do you mean to say...?" "yes, i do!" said the manager, turning on him. he felt that he had out-manoeuvred wally. "i agreed to let her open in new york, and she's done it, hasn't she? now she can get out. i don't want her. i wouldn't have her if you paid me. she's a nuisance in the company, always making trouble, and she can go." "but i would prefer not to go," said jill. "you would prefer!" the phrase infuriated mr. goble. "and what has what you would prefer got to do with it?" "well, you see," said jill, "i forgot to tell you before, but i own the piece!" iii mr. goble's jaw fell. he had been waving his hands in another spacious gesture, and he remained frozen with outstretched arms, like a semaphore. this evening had been a series of shocks for him, but this was the worst shock of all. "you--what!" he stammered. "i own the piece," repeated jill. "surely that gives me authority to say what i want done and what i don't want done." there was a silence, mr. goble, who was having difficulty with his vocal chords, swallowed once or twice. wally and mr. pilkington stared dumbly. at the back of the stage, a belated scene-shifter, homeward bound, was whistling as much as he could remember of the refrain of a popular song. "what do you mean you own the piece?" mr. goble at length gurgled. "i bought it." "you bought it?" "i bought mr. pilkington's share through a lawyer for ten thousand dollars." "ten thousand dollars! where did you get ten thousand dollars?" light broke upon mr. goble. the thing became clear to him. "damn it!" he cried. "i might have known you had some man behind you! you'd never have been so darned fresh if you hadn't had some john in the background, paying the bills! well, of all the...." he broke off abruptly, not because he had said all that he wished to say, for he had only touched the fringe of his subject, but because at this point wally's elbow smote him in the parts about the third button of his waistcoat and jarred all the breath out of him. "be quiet!" said wally dangerously. he turned to jill. "jill, you don't mind telling me how you got ten thousand dollars, do you?" "of course not, wally. uncle chris sent it to me. do you remember giving me a letter from him at rochester? the cheque was in that." wally stared. "your uncle! but he hasn't any money!" "he must have made it somehow." "but he couldn't! how could he?" otis pilkington suddenly gave tongue. he broke in on them with a loud noise that was half a snort and half a yell. stunned by the information that it was jill who had bought his share in the piece, mr. pilkington's mind had recovered slowly and then had begun to work with a quite unusual rapidity. during the preceding conversation he had been doing some tense thinking, and now he saw all. "it's a swindle! it's a deliberate swindle!" shrilled mr. pilkington. the tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles flashed sparks. "i've been made a fool of! i've been swindled! i've been robbed!" jill regarded him with wide eyes. "what do you mean?" "you know what i mean!" "i certainly do not! you were perfectly willing to sell the piece." "i'm not talking about that! you know what i mean! i've been robbed!" wally snatched at his arm as it gyrated past him in a gesture of anguish which rivalled the late efforts in that direction of mr. goble, who was now leaning against the safety-curtain trying to get his breath back. "don't be a fool," said wally curtly. "talk sense! you know perfectly well that miss mariner wouldn't swindle you." "she may not have been in it," conceded mr. pilkington. "i don't know whether she was or not. but that uncle of hers swindled me out of ten thousand dollars! the smooth old crook!" "don't talk like that about uncle chris!" said jill, her eyes flashing. "tell me what you mean." "yes, come on, pilkington," said wally grimly. "you've been scattering some pretty serious charges about. let's hear what you base them on. be coherent for a couple of seconds." mr. goble filled his depleted lungs. "if you ask me...." he began. "we don't," said wally curtly. "this has nothing to do with you. well," he went on, "we're waiting to hear what this is all about." mr. pilkington gulped. like most men of weak intellect who are preyed on by the wolves of the world, he had ever a strong distaste for admitting that he had been deceived. he liked to regard himself as a shrewd young man who knew his way about and could take care of himself. "major selby," he said, adjusting his spectacles, which emotion had caused to slip down his nose, "came to me a few weeks ago with a proposition. he suggested the formation of a company to start miss mariner in the motion-pictures." "what!" cried jill. "in the motion-pictures," repeated mr. pilkington. "he wished to know if i cared to advance any capital towards the venture. i thought it over carefully and decided that i was favourably disposed towards the scheme. i...." mr. pilkington gulped again. "i gave him a cheque for ten thousand dollars!" "of all the fools!" said mr. goble with a sharp laugh. he caught wally's eye and subsided once more. mr. pilkington's fingers strayed agitatedly to his spectacles. "i may have been a fool," he cried shrilly, "though i was perfectly willing to risk the money had it been applied to the object for which i gave it. but when it comes to giving ten thousand dollars just to have it paid back to me in exchange for a very valuable piece of theatrical property ... my own money ... handed back to me...!" words failed mr. pilkington. "i've been deliberately swindled!" he added, after a moment, harking back to the main motive. jill's heart was like lead. she could not doubt for an instant the truth of what the victim had said. woven into every inch of the fabric, plainly hall-marked on its surface, she could perceive the signature of uncle chris. if he had come and confessed to her himself, she could not have been more certain that he had acted precisely as mr. pilkington had charged. there was that same impishness, that same bland unscrupulousness, that same pathetic desire to do her a good turn however it might affect anybody else which, if she might compare the two things, had caused him to pass her off on unfortunate mr. mariner of brookport as a girl of wealth with tastes in the direction of real estate. wally was not so easily satisfied. "you've no proof whatever...." jill shook her head. "it's true, wally. i know uncle chris. it must be true." "but, jill...!" "it must be. how else could uncle chris have got the money?" mr. pilkington, much encouraged by this ready acquiescence in his theories, got under way once more. "the man's a swindler! a swindler! he's robbed me! i have been robbed! he never had any intention of starting a motion-picture company. he planned it all out...!" jill cut into the babble of his denunciations. she was sick at heart, and she spoke almost listlessly. "mr. pilkington!" the victim stopped. "mr. pilkington, if what you say is true, and i'm afraid there is no doubt that it is, the only thing i can do is to give you back your property. so will you please try to understand that everything is just as it was before you gave my uncle the money. you've got back your ten thousand dollars and you've got back your piece, so there's nothing more to talk about." mr. pilkington, dimly realizing that the financial aspect of the affair had been more or less satisfactorily adjusted, was nevertheless conscious of a feeling that he was being thwarted. he had much more to say about uncle chris and his methods of doing business, and it irked him to be cut short like this. "yes, but i do not think.... that's all very well, but i have by no means finished...." "yes, you have," said wally. "there's nothing more to talk about," repeated jill. "i'm sorry this should have happened, but you've nothing to complain about now, have you? good night." and she turned quickly away, and walked towards the door. "but i hadn't _finished_!" wailed mr. pilkington, clutching at wally. he was feeling profoundly aggrieved. if it is bad to be all dressed up and no place to go, it is almost worse to be full of talk and to have no one to talk it to. otis pilkington had at least another twenty minutes of speech inside him on the topic of uncle chris, and wally was the nearest human being with a pair of ears. wally was in no mood to play the part of confidant. he pushed mr. pilkington earnestly in the chest and raced after jill. mr. pilkington, with the feeling that the world was against him, tottered back into the arms of mr. goble, who had now recovered his breath and was ready to talk business. "have a good cigar," said mr. goble, producing one. "now, see here, let's get right down to it. if you'd care to sell out for twenty thousand...." "i would _not_ care to sell out for twenty thousand!" yelled the overwrought mr. pilkington. "i wouldn't sell out for a million! you're a swindler! you want to rob me! you're a crook!" "yes, yes," assented mr. goble gently. "but, all joking aside, suppose i was to go up to twenty-five thousand...?" he twined his fingers lovingly in the slack of mr. pilkington's coat. "come now! you're a good kid i shall we say twenty-five thousand?" "we will _not_ say twenty-five thousand! let me go!" "now, now, _now_!" pleaded mr. goble. "be sensible! don't get all worked up! say, _do_ have a good cigar!" "i _won't_ have a good cigar!" shouted mr. pilkington. he detached himself with a jerk, and stalked with long strides up the stage. mr. goble watched him go with a lowering gaze. a heavy sense of the unkindness of fate was oppressing mr. goble. if you couldn't gyp a bone-headed amateur out of a piece of property, whom could you gyp? mr. goble sighed. it hardly seemed to him worth while going on. iv out in the street wally had overtaken jill, and they faced one another in the light of a street lamp. forty-first street at midnight is a quiet oasis. they had it to themselves. jill was pale, and she was breathing quickly, but she forced a smile. "well, wally," she said. "my career as a manager didn't last long, did it?" "what are you going to do?" jill looked down the street. "i don't know," she said. "i suppose i shall have to start trying to find something." "but...." jill drew him suddenly into the dark alley-way leading to the stage-door of the gotham theatre's nearest neighbour, and, as she did so, a long, thin form, swathed in an overcoat and surmounted by an opera-hat, flashed past. "i don't think i could have gone through another meeting with mr. pilkington," said jill. "it wasn't his fault, and he was quite justified, but what he said about uncle chris rather hurt." wally, who had ideas of his own similar to those of mr. pilkington on the subject of uncle chris and had intended to express them, prudently kept them unspoken. "i suppose," he said, "there is no doubt...?" "there can't be. poor uncle chris! he is like freddie. he means well!" there was a pause. they left the alley and walked down the street. "where are you going now?" asked wally. "i'm going home." "where's home?" "forty-ninth street. i live in a boarding-house there." a sudden recollection of the boarding-house at which she had lived in atlantic city smote wally, and it turned the scale. he had not intended to speak, but he could not help himself. "jill!" he cried. "it's no good. i _must_ say it! i want to get you out of all this. i want to take care of you. why should you go on living this sort of life, when.... why won't you let me...?" he stopped. even as he spoke, he realized the futility of what he was saying. jill was not a girl to be won with words. they walked on in silence for a moment. they crossed broadway, noisy with night traffic, and passed into the stillness on the other side. "wally," said jill at last. she was looking straight in front of her. her voice was troubled. "yes?" jill hesitated. "wally, you wouldn't want me to marry you if you knew you weren't the only man in the world that mattered to me, would you?" they had reached sixth avenue before wally replied. "no!" he said. for an instant, jill could not have said whether the feeling that shot through her like the abrupt touching of a nerve was relief or disappointment. then suddenly she realized that it was disappointment. it was absurd to her to feel disappointed, but at that moment she would have welcomed a different attitude in him. if only this problem of hers could be taken forcefully out of her hands, what a relief it would be. if only wally, masterfully insistent, would batter down her hesitations and _grab_ her, knock her on the head and carry her off like a caveman, care less about her happiness and concentrate on his own, what a solution it would be.... but then he wouldn't be wally.... nevertheless, jill gave a little sigh. her new life had changed her already. it had blunted the sharp edge of her independence. to-night she was feeling the need of some one to lean on--some one strong and cosy and sympathetic who would treat her like a little girl and shield her from all the roughness of life. the fighting spirit had gone out of her, and she was no longer the little warrior facing the world with a brave eye and a tilted chin. she wanted to cry and be petted. "no!" said wally again. there had been the faintest suggestion of a doubt when he had spoken the word before, but now it shot out like a bullet. "and i'll tell you why. i want _you_--and, if you married me feeling like that, it wouldn't be you. i want jill, the whole jill, and nothing but jill, and, if i can't have that, i'd rather not have anything. marriage isn't a motion-picture close-up with slow fade-out on the embrace. it's a partnership, and what's the good of a partnership if your heart's not in it? it's like collaborating with a man you dislike.... i believe you wish sometimes--not often, perhaps, but when you're feeling lonely and miserable--that i would pester and bludgeon you into marrying me.... what's the matter?" jill had started. it was disquieting to have her thoughts read with such accuracy. "nothing," she said. "it wouldn't be any good," wally went on, "because it wouldn't be _me_. i couldn't keep that attitude up, and i know i should hate myself for ever having tried it. there's nothing in the world i wouldn't do to help you, though i know it's no use offering to do anything. you're a fighter, and you mean to fight your own battle. it might happen that, if i kept after you and badgered you and nagged you, one of these days, when you were feeling particularly all alone in the world and tired of fighting for yourself, you might consent to marry me. but it wouldn't do. even if you reconciled yourself to it, it wouldn't do. i suppose the cave-woman sometimes felt rather relieved when everything was settled for her with a club, but i'm sure the caveman must have had a hard time ridding himself of the thought that he had behaved like a cad and taken a mean advantage. i don't want to feel like that. i couldn't make you happy if i felt like that. much better to have you go on regarding me as a friend ... knowing that, if ever your feelings do change, that i am right there, waiting...." "but by that time _your_ feelings will have changed!" wally laughed. "never!" "you'll meet some other girl...." "i've met every girl in the world! none of them will do!" the lightness came back into wally's voice. "i'm sorry for the poor things, but they won't do! take 'em away! there's only one girl in the world for me--oh, confound it! why is it that one always thinks in song-titles! well, there it is. i'm not going to bother you. we're pals. and, as a pal, may i offer you my bank-roll?" "no!" said jill. she smiled up at him. "i believe you would give me your coat if i asked you for it!" wally stopped. "do you want it? here you are!" "wally, behave! there's a policeman looking at you!" "oh, well, if you won't! it's a good coat, all the same." they turned the corner and stopped before a brown-stone house, with a long ladder of untidy steps running up to the front door. "is this where you live?" wally asked. he looked at the gloomy place disapprovingly. "you do choose the most awful places!" "i don't choose them. they're thrust on me. yes, this is where i live. if you want to know the exact room, it's the third window up there over the front door. well, good night." "good night," said wally. he paused. "jill." "yes?" "i know it's not worth mentioning, and it's breaking our agreement to mention it, but you _do_ understand, don't you?" "yes, wally dear, i understand." "i'm round the corner, you know, waiting! and if you ever _do_ change, all you've got to do is just to come to me and say 'it's all right!'...." jill laughed a little shakily. "that doesn't sound very romantic!" "not sound romantic? if you can think of any three words in the language that sound more romantic, let me have them! well, never mind how they sound, just say them, and watch the result! but you must get to bed. good night." "good night, wally." she passed in through the dingy door. it closed behind her, and wally stood for some moments staring at it with a gloomy repulsion. he thought he had never seen a dingier door. then he started to walk back to his apartment. he walked very quickly, with clenched hands. he was wondering if after all there was not something to be said for the methods of the caveman when he went a-wooing. twinges of conscience the caveman may have had when all was over, but at least he had established his right to look after the woman he loved. chapter xix mrs. peagrim burns incense "they tell me ... i am told ... i am informed ... no, one moment, miss frisby." mrs. peagrim wrinkled her fair forehead. it has been truly said that there is no agony like the agony of literary composition, and mrs. peagrim was having rather a bad time getting the requisite snap and ginger into her latest communication to the press. she bit her lip, and would have passed her twitching fingers restlessly through her hair but for the thought of the damage which such an action must do to her coiffure. miss frisby, her secretary, an anæmic and negative young woman, waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth with her pencil. "please do not make that tapping noise, miss frisby," said the sufferer querulously. "i cannot think. otie, dear, can't you suggest a good phrase? you ought to be able to, being an author." mr. pilkington, who was strewn over an arm-chair by the window, awoke from his meditations, which, to judge from the furrow just above the bridge of his tortoise-shell spectacles and the droop of his weak chin, were not pleasant. it was the morning after the production of "the rose of america," and he had passed a sleepless night, thinking of the harsh words he had said to jill. could she ever forgive him? would she have the generosity to realize that a man ought not to be held accountable for what he says in the moment when he discovers that he has been cheated, deceived, robbed--in a word, hornswoggled? he had been brooding on this all night, and he wanted to go on brooding now. his aunt's question interrupted his train of thought. "eh?" he said vaguely, gaping. "oh, don't be so absent-minded!" snapped mrs. peagrim, not unjustifiably annoyed. "i am trying to compose a paragraph for the papers about our party to-night, and i can't get the right phrase.... read what you've written, miss frisby." miss frisby, having turned a pale eye on the pothooks and twiddleys in her note-book, translated them in a pale voice. "'surely of all the leading hostesses in new york society there can be few more versatile than mrs. waddesleigh peagrim. i am amazed every time i go to her delightful home on west end avenue to see the scope and variety of her circle of intimates. here you will see an ambassador with a fever....'" "with a _what_?" demanded mrs. peagrim sharply. "'fever,' i thought you said," replied miss frisby stolidly. "i wrote 'fever.'" "'diva.' do use your intelligence, my good girl. go on." "here you will see an ambassador with a diva from the opera, exchanging the latest gossip from the chancelleries for intimate news of the world behind the scenes. there, the author of the latest novel talking literature to the newest debutante. truly one may say that mrs. peagrim has revived the saloon.'" mrs. peagrim bit her lip. "'salon.'" "'salon,'" said miss frisby unemotionally. "they tell me, i am told, i am informed....'" she paused. "that's all i have." "scratch out those last words," said mrs. peagrim irritably. "you really are hopeless, miss frisby! couldn't you see that i had stopped dictating and was searching for a phrase? otie, what is a good phrase for 'i am told'?" mr. pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with the problem. "'i hear,'" he suggested at length. "tchah!" ejaculated his aunt. then her face brightened. "i have it. take dictation, please, miss frisby. 'a little bird whispers to me that there were great doings last night on the stage of the gotham theatre after the curtain had fallen on "the rose of america," which, as everybody knows, is the work of mrs. peagrim's clever young nephew, otis pilkington.'" mrs. peagrim shot a glance at her clever young nephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but otis' thoughts were far away once more. he was lying on his spine, brooding, brooding. mrs. peagrim resumed her dictation. "'in honour of the extraordinary success of the piece, mrs. peagrim, who certainly does nothing by halves, entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after the performance. a number of prominent people were among the guests, and mrs. peagrim was a radiant and vivacious hostess. she has never looked more charming. the high jinks were kept up to an advanced hour, and every one agreed that they had never spent a more delightful evening.' there! type as many copies as are necessary, miss frisby, and send them out this afternoon with photographs." miss frisby having vanished in her pallid way, the radiant and vivacious hostess turned on her nephew again. "i must say, otie," she began complainingly, "that, for a man who has had a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. i should have thought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest man in new york." there was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroine used to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying "happiness? what _is_ happiness, moth-aw?" mr. pilkington did not use these actual words, but he reproduced the stricken infant's tone with great fidelity. "notices! what are notices to me?" "oh, don't be so affected!" cried mrs. peagrim. "don't pretend that you don't know every word of them by heart!" "i have not seen the notices, aunt olive," said mr. pilkington dully. mrs. peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. she had never been overwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise to fame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and his attitude now disturbed her. "you can't be well, otie!" she said solicitously. "are you ill?" "i have a severe headache," replied the martyr. "i passed a wakeful night." "let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," said mrs. peagrim maternally. "poor boy! i don't wonder, after all the nervousness and excitement.... you sit quite still and rest. i will be back in a moment." she bustled out of the room, and mr. pilkington sagged back into his chair. he had hardly got his meditations going once more, when the door opened and the maid announced "major selby." "good morning," said uncle chris breezily, sailing down the fairway with outstretched hand. "how are--oh!" he stopped abruptly, perceiving that mrs. peagrim was not present and--a more disturbing discovery--that otis pilkington was. it would be exaggeration to say that uncle chris was embarrassed. that master-mind was never actually embarrassed. but his jauntiness certainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his moustache twice before he could face the situation with his customary _aplomb_. he had not expected to find otis pilkington here, and otis was the last man he wished to meet. he had just parted from jill, who had been rather plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations; and, though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, uncle chris was aware that his next interview with young mr. pilkington might have certain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked time to prepare a statement for the defence. however, here the man was, and the situation must be faced. "pilkington!" he cried. "my dear fellow! just the man i wanted to see! i'm afraid there has been a little misunderstanding. of course, it has all been cleared up now, but still i must insist on making a personal explanation; really, i must insist. the whole matter was a most absurd misunderstanding. it was like this...." here uncle chris paused in order to devote a couple of seconds to thought. he had said it was "like this," and he gave his moustache another pull as though he were trying to drag inspiration out of it. his blue eyes were as frank and honest as ever, and showed no trace of the perplexity in his mind, but he had to admit to himself that, if he managed to satisfy his hearer that all was for the best and that he had acted uprightly and without blame, he would be doing well. fortunately, the commercial side of mr. pilkington was entirely dormant this morning. the matter of the ten thousand dollars seemed trivial to him in comparison with the weightier problems which occupied his mind. "have you seen miss mariner?" he asked eagerly. "yes. i have just parted from her. she was upset, poor girl, of course, exceedingly upset." mr. pilkington moaned hollowly. "is she very angry with me?" for a moment the utter inexplicability of the remark silenced uncle chris. why jill should be angry with mr. pilkington for being robbed of ten thousand dollars he could not understand, for jill had told him nothing of the scene that had taken place on the previous night. but evidently this point was to mr. pilkington the nub of the matter, and uncle chris, like the strategist he was, re-arranged his forces to meet the new development. "angry?" he said slowly. "well, of course...." he did not know what it was all about, but no doubt if he confined himself to broken sentences which meant nothing light would shortly be vouchsafed to him. "in the heat of the moment," confessed mr. pilkington, "i'm afraid i said things to miss mariner which i now regret." uncle chris began to feel on solid ground again. "dear, dear!" he murmured regretfully. "i spoke hastily." "always think before you speak, my boy." "i considered that i had been cheated...." "my dear boy!" uncle chris' blue eyes opened wide. "please! haven't i said that i could explain all that? it was a pure misunderstanding...." "oh, i don't care about that part of it...." "quite right," said uncle chris cordially. "let bygones be bygones. start with a clean slate. you have your money back, and there's no need to say another word about it. let us forget it," he concluded generously. "and, if i have any influence with jill, you may count on me to use it to dissipate any little unfortunate rift which may have occurred between you." "you think there's a chance that she might overlook what i said?" "as i say, i will use any influence i may possess to heal the breach. i like you, my boy. and i am sure that jill likes you. she will make allowances for any ill-judged remarks you may have uttered in a moment of heat." mr. pilkington brightened, and mrs. peagrim, returning with a medicine-glass, was pleased to see him looking so much better. "you are a positive wizard, major selby," she said archly. "what have you been saying to the poor boy to cheer him up so? he has a bad headache this morning." "headache?" said uncle chris, starting like a war-horse that has heard the bugle. "i don't know if i have ever mentioned it, but _i_ used to suffer from headaches at one time. extraordinarily severe headaches. i tried everything, until one day a man i knew recommended a thing called--don't know if you have ever heard of it...." mrs. peagrim, in her rôle of ministering angel, was engrossed with her errand of mercy. she was holding the medicine-glass to mr. pilkington's lips, and the seed fell on stony ground. "drink this, dear," urged mrs. peagrim. "nervino," said uncle chris. "there!" said mrs. peagrim. "that will make you feel much better. how well _you_ always look, major selby!" "and yet at one time," said uncle chris perseveringly, "i was a martyr...." "i can't remember if i told you last night about the party. we are giving a little supper-dance to the company of otie's play after the performance this evening. of course you will come?" uncle chris philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear of his audience. other opportunities would occur. "delighted," he said. "delighted." "quite a simple, bohemian little affair," proceeded mrs. peagrim. "i thought it was only right to give the poor things a little treat after they have all worked so hard." "certainly, certainly. a capital idea." "we shall be quite a small party. if i once started asking anybody outside our _real_ friends, i should have to ask everybody." the door opened. "mr. rooke," announced the maid. freddie, like mr. pilkington, was a prey to gloom this morning. he had read one or two of the papers, and they had been disgustingly lavish in their praise of the mcwhustle of mcwhustle. it made freddie despair of the new york press. in addition to this, he had been woken up at seven o'clock, after going to sleep at three, by the ringing of the telephone and the announcement that a gentleman wished to see him: and he was weighed down with that heavy-eyed languor which comes to those whose night's rest is broken. "why, how do you do, mr. rooke!" said mrs. peagrim. "how-de-do," replied freddie, blinking in the strong light from the window. "hope i'm not barging in and all that sort of thing? i came round about this party to-night, you know." "oh, yes?" "was wondering," said freddie, "if you would mind if i brought a friend of mine along? popped in on me from england this morning. at seven o'clock," said freddie plaintively. "ghastly hour, what? didn't do a thing to the good old beauty sleep! well, what i mean to say is, i'd be awfully obliged if you'd let me bring him along." "why, of course," said mrs. peagrim. "any friend of yours, mr. rooke...." "thanks awfully. special reason why i'd like him to come, and all that. he's a fellow named underhill. sir derek underhill. been a pal of mine for years and years." uncle chris started. "underhill! is derek underhill in america?" "landed this morning. routed me out of bed at seven o'clock." "oh, do you know him, too, major selby?" said mrs. peagrim. "then i'm sure he must be charming!" "charming," began uncle chris in measured tones, "is an adjective which i cannot...." "well, thanks most awfully," interrupted freddie. "it's fearfully good of you to let me bring him along. i must be staggering off now. lot of things to do." "oh, must you go already?" "absolutely must. lots of things to do." uncle chris extended a hand to his hostess. "i think i will be going along, too, mrs. peagrim. i'll walk a few yards with you, freddie, my boy. there are one or two things i would like to talk over. till to-night, mrs. peagrim." "till to-night, major selby." she turned to mr. pilkington as the door closed. "what charming manners major selby has. so polished. a sort of old-world courtesy. so smooth!" "smooth," said mr. pilkington dourly, "is right!" ii uncle chris confronted freddie sternly outside the front door. "what does this mean? good god, freddie, have you no delicacy?" "eh?" said freddie blankly. "why are you bringing underhill to this party? don't you realize that poor jill will be there? how do you suppose she will feel when she sees that blackguard again? the cad who threw her over and nearly broke her heart!" freddie's jaw fell. he groped for his fallen eyeglass. "oh, my aunt! do you think she will be pipped?" "a sensitive girl like jill?" "but, listen. derek wants to marry her." "what?" "oh, absolutely. that's why he's come over." uncle chris shook his head. "i don't understand this. i saw the letter myself which he wrote to her, breaking off the engagement." "yes, but he's dashed sorry about all that now. wishes he had never been such a mug, and all that sort of thing. as a matter of fact, that's why i shot over here in the first place. as an ambassador, don't you know. i told jill all about it directly i saw her, but she seemed inclined to give it a miss rather, so i cabled old derek to pop here in person. seemed to me, don't you know, that jill might be more likely to make it up and all that if she saw old derek." uncle chris nodded, his composure restored. "very true. yes, certainly, my boy, you acted most sensibly. badly as underhill behaved, she undoubtedly loved him. it would be the best possible thing that could happen if they could be brought together. it is my dearest wish to see jill comfortably settled. i was half hoping that she might marry young pilkington." "good god! the pilker!" "he is quite a nice young fellow," argued uncle chris. "none too many brains, perhaps, but jill would supply that deficiency. still, of course, underhill would be much better." "she ought to marry someone," said freddie earnestly. "i mean, all rot a girl like jill having to knock about and rough it like this." "you're perfectly right." "of course," said freddie thoughtfully, "the catch in the whole dashed business is that she's such a bally independent sort of girl. i mean to say, it's quite possible she may hand derek the mitten, you know." "in that case, let us hope that she will look more favourably on young pilkington." "yes," said freddie. "well, yes. but--well, i wouldn't call the pilker a very ripe sporting proposition. about sixty to one against is the way i should figure it if i were making a book. it may be just because i'm feeling a bit pipped this morning--got turfed out of bed at seven o'clock and all that--but i have an idea that she may give both of them the old razz. may be wrong, of course." "let us hope that you are, my boy," said uncle chris gravely. "for in that case i should be forced into a course of action from which i confess that i shrink." "i don't follow." "freddie, my boy, you are a very old friend of jill's and i am her uncle. i feel that i can speak plainly to you. jill is the dearest thing to me in the world. she trusted me, and i failed her. i was responsible for the loss of her money, and my one object in life is to see her by some means or other in a position equal to the one of which i deprived her. if she married a rich man, well and good. that, provided she marries him because she is fond of him, will be the very best thing that can happen. but if she does not, there is another way. it may be possible for me to marry a rich woman." freddie stopped, appalled. "good god! you don't mean ... you aren't thinking of marrying mrs. peagrim!" "i wouldn't have mentioned names, but, as you have guessed.... yes, if the worst comes to the worst, i shall make the supreme sacrifice. to-night will decide. good-bye, my boy. i want to look in at my club for a few minutes. tell underhill that he has my best wishes." "i'll bet he has!" gasped freddie. chapter xx derek loses one bird and secures another it is safest for the historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till a thing has happened before writing about it. otherwise he may commit himself to statements which are not borne out by the actual facts. mrs. peagrim, recording in advance the success of her party at the gotham theatre, had done this. it is true that she was a "radiant and vivacious hostess," and it is possible, her standard not being very high, that she had "never looked more charming." but, when she went on to say that all present were in agreement that they had never spent a more delightful evening, she deceived the public. uncle chris, for one; otis pilkington, for another, and freddie rooke, for a third, were so far from spending a delightful evening that they found it hard to mask their true emotions and keep a smiling face to the world. otis pilkington, indeed, found it impossible, and, ceasing to try, left early. just twenty minutes after the proceedings had begun, he seized his coat and hat, shot out into the night, made off blindly up broadway, and walked twice round central park before his feet gave out and he allowed himself to be taken back to his apartment in a taxi. jill had been very kind and very sweet and very regretful, but it was only too manifest that on the question of becoming mrs. otis pilkington her mind was made up. she was willing to like him, to be a sister to him, to watch his future progress with considerable interest, but she would not marry him. one feels sorry for otis pilkington in his hour of travail. this was the fifth or sixth time that this sort of thing had happened to him, and he was getting tired of it. if he could have looked into the future--five years almost to a day from that evening--and seen himself walking blushfully down the aisle of st. thomas' with roland trevis' sister angela on his arm, his gloom might have been lightened. more probably, however, it would have been increased. at the moment, roland trevis' sister angela was fifteen, frivolous, and freckled and, except that he rather disliked her and suspected her--correctly--of laughing at him, amounted to just _nil_ in mr. pilkington's life. the idea of linking his lot with hers would have appalled him, enthusiastically though he was in favour of it five years later. however, mr. pilkington was unable to look into the future, so his reflections on this night of sorrow were not diverted from jill. he thought sadly of jill till two-thirty, when he fell asleep in his chair and dreamed of her. at seven o'clock his japanese valet, who had been given the night off, returned home, found him, and gave him breakfast. after which, mr. pilkington went to bed, played three games of solitaire, and slept till dinner-time, when he awoke to take up the burden of life again. he still brooded on the tragedy which had shattered him. indeed, it was only two weeks later, when at a dance he was introduced to a red-haired girl from detroit, that he really got over it. * * * * * the news was conveyed to freddie rooke by uncle chris. uncle chris, with something of the emotions of a condemned man on the scaffold waiting for a reprieve, had watched jill and mr. pilkington go off together into the dim solitude at the back of the orchestra chairs, and, after an all too brief interval, had observed the latter whizzing back, his every little movement having a meaning of its own--and that meaning one which convinced uncle chris that freddie, in estimating mr. pilkington as a sixty to one chance, had not erred in his judgment of form. uncle chris found freddie in one of the upper boxes, talking to nelly bryant. dancing was going on down on the stage, but freddie, though normally a young man who shook a skilful shoe, was in no mood for dancing to-night. the return to the scenes of his former triumphs and the meeting with the companions of happier days, severed from him by a two-weeks' notice, had affected freddie powerfully. eyeing the happy throng below, he experienced the emotions of that peri who, in the poem, "at the gate of eden stood disconsolate." excusing himself from nelly and following uncle chris into the passage-way outside the box, he heard the other's news listlessly. it came as no shock to freddie. he had never thought mr. pilkington anything to write home about, and had never supposed that jill would accept him. he said as much. sorry for the chap in a way, and all that, but had never imagined for an instant that he would click. "where is underhill?" asked uncle chris agitated. "derek? oh, he isn't here yet." "but why isn't he here? i understood that you were bringing him with you." "that was the scheme, but it seems he had promised some people he met on the boat to go to a theatre and have a bit of supper with them afterwards. i only heard about it when i got back this morning." "good god, boy! didn't you tell him that jill would be here to-night?" "oh, rather. and he's coming on directly he can get away from these people. ought to be here any moment now." uncle chris plucked at his moustache gloomily. freddie's detachment depressed him. he had looked for more animation and a greater sense of the importance of the issue. "well, pip-pip for the present," said freddie, moving toward the box. "have to be getting back. see you later." he disappeared, and uncle chris turned slowly to descend the stairs. as he reached the floor below, the door of the stage-box opened, and mrs. peagrim came out. "oh, major selby!" cried the radiant and vivacious hostess. "i couldn't think where you had got to. i have been looking for you everywhere." uncle chris quivered slightly, but braced himself to do his duty. "may i have the pleasure...?" he began, then broke off as he saw the man who had come out of the box behind his hostess. "underhill!" he grasped his hand and shook it warmly. "my dear fellow! i had no notion that you had arrived!" "sir derek came just a moment ago," said mrs. peagrim. "how are you, major selby?" said derek. he was a little surprised at the warmth of his reception. he had not anticipated this geniality. "my dear fellow, i'm delighted to see you," cried uncle chris. "but, as i was saying, mrs. peagrim, may i have the pleasure of this dance?" "i don't think i will dance this one," said mrs. peagrim surprisingly. "i'm sure you two must have ever so much to talk about. why don't you take sir derek and give him a cup of coffee?" "capital idea!" said uncle chris. "come this way, my dear fellow. as mrs. peagrim says, i have ever so much to talk about. along this passage, my boy. be careful. there's a step. well, well, well! it's delightful to see you again!" he massaged derek's arm affectionately. every time he had met mrs. peagrim that evening he had quailed inwardly at what lay before him, should some hitch occur to prevent the re-union of derek and jill: and now that the other was actually here, handsomer than ever and more than ever the sort of man no girl could resist, he declined to admit the possibility of a hitch. his spirits soared. "you haven't seen jill yet, of course?" "no." derek hesitated. "is jill.... does she.... i mean...." uncle chris resumed his osteopathy. he kneaded his companion's coat-sleeve with a jovial hand. "my dear fellow, of course! i am sure that a word or two from you will put everything right. we all make mistakes. i have made them myself. i am convinced that everything will be perfectly all right.... ah, there she is. jill, my dear, here is an old friend to see you!" ii since the hurried departure of mr. pilkington, jill had been sitting in the auditorium, lazily listening to the music and watching the couples dancing on the stage. she found herself drifting into a mood of gentle contentment, and was at a loss to account for this. she was happy--quietly and peacefully happy, when she was aware that she ought to have been both agitated and apprehensive. when she had anticipated the recent interview with otis pilkington, which she had known was bound to come sooner or later, it had been shrinkingly and with foreboding. she hated hurting people's feelings, and, though she read mr. pilkington's character accurately enough to know that time would heal any anguish which she might cause him, she had had no doubt that the temperamental surface of that long young man, when he succeeded in getting her alone, was going to be badly bruised. and it had fallen out just as she had expected. mr. pilkington had said his say and departed, a pitiful figure, a spectacle which should have wrung her heart. it had not wrung her heart. except for one fleeting instant when she was actually saying the fatal words, it had not interfered with her happiness at all; and already she was beginning to forget that the incident had ever happened. and, if the past should have depressed her, the future might have been expected to depress her even more. there was nothing in it, either immediate or distant, which could account for her feeling gently contented. and yet, as she leaned back in her seat, her heart was dancing in time to the dance-music of mrs. peagrim's hired orchestra. it puzzled jill. and then, quite suddenly, yet with no abruptness or sense of discovery, just as if it were something which she had known all along, the truth came upon her. it was wally, the thought of wally, the knowledge that wally existed, that made her happy. he was a solid, comforting, reassuring fact in a world of doubts and perplexities. she did not need to be with him to be fortified, it was enough just to think of him. present or absent, his personality heartened her like fine weather or music or a sea-breeze--or like that friendly, soothing night-light which they used to leave in her nursery when she was little, to scare away the goblins and see her safely over the road that led to the gates of the city of dreams. suppose there were no wally...? jill gave a sudden gasp, and sat up, tingling. she felt as she had sometimes felt as a child, when, on the edge of sleep, she had dreamed that she was stepping off a precipice and had woken, tense and alert, to find that there was no danger after all. but there was a difference between that feeling and this. she had woken, but to find that there was danger. it was as though some inner voice was calling to her to be careful, to take thought. suppose there were no wally?... and why should there always be wally? he had said confidently enough that there would never be another girl.... but there were thousands of other girls, millions of other girls, and could she suppose that one of them would not have the sense to snap up a treasure like wally? a sense of blank desolation swept over jill. her quick imagination, leaping ahead, had made the vague possibility of a distant future an accomplished fact. she felt, absurdly, a sense of overwhelming loss. into her mind, never far distant from it, came the thought of derek. and, suddenly, jill made another discovery. she was thinking of derek, and it was not hurting. she was thinking of him quite coolly and clearly and her heart was not aching. she sat back and screwed her eyes tight, as she had always done when puzzled. something had happened to her, but how it had happened and when it had happened and why it had happened she could not understand. she only knew that now for the first time she had been granted a moment of clear vision and was seeing things truly. she wanted wally. she wanted him in the sense that she could not do without him. she felt nothing of the fiery tumult which had come upon her when she first met derek. she and wally would come together with a smile and build their life on an enduring foundation of laughter and happiness and good-fellowship. wally had never shaken and never would shake her senses as derek had done. if that was love, then she did not love wally. but her clear vision told her that it was not love. it might be the blazing and crackling of thorns, but it was not the fire. she wanted wally. she needed him as she needed the air and the sunlight. she opened her eyes and saw uncle chris coming down the aisle towards her. there was a man with him, and, as they moved closer in the dim light, jill saw that it was derek. "jill, my dear," said uncle chris, "here is an old friend to see you!" and, having achieved their bringing together, he proceeded to withdraw delicately whence he had come. it is pleasant to be able to record that he was immediately seized upon by mrs. peagrim, who had changed her mind about not dancing, and led off to be her partner in a fox-trot, in the course of which she trod on his feet three times. "why, derek!" said jill cheerfully. except for a mild wonder how he came to be there, she found herself wholly unaffected by the sight of him. "whatever are _you_ doing here?" derek sat down beside her. the cordiality of her tone had relieved, yet at the same time disconcerted him. man seldom attains to perfect contentment in this world, and derek, while pleased that jill apparently bore him no ill-will, seemed to miss something in her manner which he would have been glad to find there. "jill!" he said huskily. it seemed to derek only decent to speak huskily. to his orderly mind this situation could be handled only in one way. it was a plain, straight issue of the strong man humbling himself--not too much of course, but sufficiently: and it called, in his opinion, for the low voice, the clenched hand, and the broken whisper. speaking as he had spoken, he had given the scene the right key from the start--or would have done if she had not got in ahead of him and opened it on a note of absurd cheeriness? derek found himself resenting her cheeriness. often as he had attempted during the voyage from england to visualize to himself this first meeting, he had never pictured jill smiling brightly at him. it was a jolly smile, and made her look extremely pretty, but it jarred upon him. a moment before he had been half relieved, half disconcerted: now he was definitely disconcerted. he searched in his mind for a criticism of her attitude, and came to the conclusion that what was wrong with it was that it was too friendly. friendliness is well enough in its way, but in what should have been a tense clashing of strong emotions it did not seem to derek fitting. "did you have a pleasant trip?" asked jill. "have you come over on business?" a feeling of bewilderment came upon derek. it was wrong, it was all wrong. of course, she might be speaking like this to cloak intense feeling, but, if so, she had certainly succeeded. from her manner, he and she might be casual acquaintances. a pleasant trip! in another minute she would be asking him how he had come out on the sweepstake on the ship's run. with a sense of putting his shoulder to some heavy weight and heaving at it, he sought to lift the conversation to a higher plane. "i came to find _you_!" he said; still huskily but not so huskily as before. there are degrees of huskiness, and derek's was sharpened a little by a touch of irritation. "yes?" said jill. derek was now fermenting. what she ought to have said, he did not know, but he knew that it was not "yes?" "yes?" in the circumstances was almost as bad as "really?" there was a pause. jill was looking at him with a frank and unembarrassed gaze which somehow deepened his sense of annoyance. had she looked at him coldly, he could have understood and even appreciated it. he had been expecting coldness, and had braced himself to combat it. he was still not quite sure in his mind whether he was playing the rôle of a penitent or a king cophetua, but in either character he might have anticipated a little temporary coldness, which it would have been his easy task to melt. but he had never expected to be looked at as if he were a specimen in a museum, and that was how he was feeling now. jill was not looking at him--she was inspecting him, examining him, and he chafed under the process. jill, unconscious of the discomfort she was causing, continued to gaze. she was trying to discover in just what respect he had changed from the god he had been. certainly not in looks. he was as handsome as ever--handsomer, indeed, for the sunshine and clean breezes of the atlantic had given him an exceedingly becoming coat of tan. and yet he must have changed, for now she could look upon him quite dispassionately and criticize him without a tremor. it was like seeing a copy of a great painting. everything was there, except the one thing that mattered, the magic and the glamour. it was like.... she suddenly remembered a scene in the dressing-room when the company had been in baltimore. lois denham, duly the recipient of the sunburst which her friend izzy had promised her, had unfortunately, in a spirit of girlish curiosity, taken it to a jeweller to be priced, and the jeweller had blasted her young life by declaring it a paste imitation. jill recalled how the stricken girl--previous to calling izzy on the long distance and telling him a number of things which, while probably not news to him, must have been painful hearing--had passed the vile object round the dressing-room for inspection. the imitation was perfect. it had been impossible for the girls to tell that the stones were not real diamonds. yet the jeweller, with his sixth sense, had seen through them in a trifle under ten seconds. jill came to the conclusion that her newly-discovered love for wally mason had equipped her with a sixth sense, and that by its aid she was really for the first time seeing derek as he was. derek had not the privilege of being able to read jill's thoughts. all he could see was the outer jill, and the outer jill, as she had always done, was stirring his emotions. her daintiness afflicted him. not for the first, the second, or the third time since they had come into each other's lives, he was astounded at the strength of the appeal which jill had for him when they were together, as contrasted with its weakness when they were apart. he made another attempt to establish the scene on a loftier plane. "what a fool i was!" he sighed. "jill! can you ever forgive me?" he tried to take her hand. jill skilfully eluded him. "why, of course i've forgiven you, derek, if there was, anything to forgive." "anything to forgive!" derek began to get into his stride. these were the lines on which he had desired the interview to develop. "i was a brute! a cad!" "oh, no!" "i was. oh, i have been through hell!" jill turned her head away. she did not want to hurt him, but nothing could have kept her from smiling. she had been so sure that he would say that sooner or later. "jill!" derek had misinterpreted the cause of her movement, and had attributed it to emotion. "tell me that everything is as it was before." jill turned. "i'm afraid i can't say that, derek." "of course not!" agreed derek in a comfortable glow of manly remorse. he liked himself in the character of the strong man abashed. "it would be too much to expect, i know. but, when we are married...." "do you really want to marry me?" "jill!" "i wonder!" "how can you doubt it?" jill looked at him. "have you thought what it would mean?" "what it would mean?" "well, your mother...." "oh!" derek dismissed lady underhill with a grand gesture. "yes," persisted jill, "but, if she disapproved of your marrying me before, wouldn't she disapprove a good deal more now, when i haven't a penny in the world and am just in the chorus...." a sort of strangled sound proceeded from derek's throat. "in the chorus!" "didn't you know? i thought freddie must have told you." "in the chorus!" derek stammered. "i thought you were here as a guest of mrs. peagrim's." "so i am--like all the rest of the company." "but.... but...." "you see, it would be bound to make everything a little difficult," said jill. her face was grave, but her lips were twitching. "i mean, you are rather a prominent man, aren't you, and if you married a chorus-girl...." "nobody would know," said derek limply. jill opened her eyes. "nobody would _know_!" she laughed. "but, of course, you've never met our press-agent. if you think that nobody would know that a girl in the company had married a baronet who was a member of parliament and expected to be in the cabinet in a few years, you're wronging him! the news would be on the front page of all the papers the very next day--columns of it, with photographs. there would be articles about it in the sunday papers. illustrated! and then it would be cabled to england and would appear in the papers there.... you see, you're a very important person, derek." derek sat clutching the arms of his chair. his face was chalky. though he had never been inclined to underestimate his importance as a figure in the public eye, he had overlooked the disadvantages connected with such an eminence. he gurgled wordlessly. he had been prepared to brave lady underhill's wrath and assert his right to marry whom he pleased, but this was different. jill watched him curiously and with a certain pity. it was so easy to read what was passing in his mind. she wondered what he would say, how he would flounder out of his unfortunate position. she had no illusions about him now. she did not even contemplate the possibility of chivalry winning the battle which was going on within him. "it would be very awkward, wouldn't it?" she said. and then pity had its way with jill. he had treated her badly; for a time she had thought that he had crushed all the heart out of her: but he was suffering, and she hated to see anybody suffer. "besides," she said, "i'm engaged to somebody else." as a suffocating man, his lips to the tube of oxygen, gradually comes back to life, derek revived--slowly as the meaning of her words sank into his mind, then with a sudden abruptness. "what?" he cried. "i'm going to marry somebody else. a man named wally mason." derek swallowed. the chalky look died out of his face, and he flushed hotly. his eyes, half relieved, half indignant, glowed under their pent-house of eyebrow. he sat for a moment in silence. "i think you might have told me before!" he said huffily. jill laughed. "yes, i suppose i ought to have told you before." "leading me on...!" jill patted him on the arm. "never mind, derek! it's all over now. and it was great fun, wasn't it!" "fun!" "shall we go and dance? the music is just starting." "i _won't_ dance!" jill got up. "i must," she said. "i'm so happy i can't keep still. well, good-bye, derek, in case i don't see you again. it was nice meeting after all this time. you haven't altered a bit!" derek watched her flit down the aisle, saw her jump up the little ladder on to the stage, watched her vanish into the swirl of the dance. he reached for a cigarette, opened his case, and found it empty. he uttered a mirthless, byronic laugh. the thing seemed to him symbolic. iii not having a cigarette of his own, derek got up and went to look for the only man he knew who could give him one: and after a search of a few minutes came upon freddie all alone in a dark corner, apart from the throng. it was a very different freddie from the moody youth who had returned to the box after his conversation with uncle chris. he was leaning against a piece of scenery with his head tilted back and a beam of startled happiness on his face. so rapt was he in his reflections that he did not become aware of derek's approach until the latter spoke. "got a cigarette, freddie?" freddie withdrew his gaze from the roof. "hullo, old son! cigarette? certainly and by all means. cigarettes? where are the cigarettes? mr. rooke, forward! show cigarettes." he extended his case to derek, who helped himself in sombre silence, finding his boyhood's friend's exuberance hard to bear. "i say, derek, old scream, the most extraordinary thing has happened! you'll never guess. to cut a long story short and come to the blow-out of the scenario, i'm engaged! engaged, old crumpet! you know what i mean--engaged to be married!" "ugh!" said derek gruffly, frowning over his cigarette. "don't wonder you're surprised," said freddie, looking at him a little wistfully, for his friend had scarcely been gushing, and he would have welcomed a bit of enthusiasm. "can hardly believe it myself." derek awoke to a sense of the conventions. "congratulate you," he said. "do i know her?" "not yet, but you will soon. she's a girl in the company--in the chorus as a matter of fact. girl named nelly bryant. an absolute corker. i'll go further--a topper. you'll like her, old man." derek was looking at him, amazed. "good heavens!" he said. "extraordinary how these things happen," proceeded freddie. "looking back, i can see, of course, that i always thought her a topper, but the idea of getting engaged--i don't know--sort of thing that doesn't occur to a chappie, if you know what i mean. what i mean to say is, we had always been the greatest of pals and all that, but it never struck me that she would think it much of a wheeze getting hooked up for life with a chap like me. we just sort of drifted along and so forth. all very jolly and what not. and then this evening--i don't know. i had a bit of a hump, what with one thing and another, and she was most dashed sweet and patient and soothing and--and--well, and what not, don't you know, and suddenly--deuced rummy sensation--the jolly old scales seemed to fall, if you follow me, from my good old eyes; i don't know if you get the idea. i suddenly seemed to look myself squarely in the eyeball and say to myself, 'freddie, old top, how do we go? are we not missing a good thing?' and, by jove, thinking it over, i found that i was absolutely correct-o! you've no notion how dashed sympathetic she is, old man! i mean to say, i had this hump, you know, owing to one thing and another, and was feeling that life was more or less of a jolly old snare and delusion, and she bucked me up and all that, and suddenly i found myself kissing her and all that sort of rot, and she was kissing me and so on and so forth, and she's got the most ripping eyes, and there was nobody about, and the long and the short of it was, old boy, that i said, 'let's get married!' and she said, 'when?' and that was that, if you see what i mean. the scheme now is to pop down to the city hall and get a licence, which it appears you have to have if you want to bring this sort of binge off with any success and vim, and then what ho for the padre! looking at it from every angle, a bit of a good egg, what? happiest man in the world, and all that sort of thing." at this point in his somewhat incoherent epic freddie paused. it had occurred to him that he had perhaps laid himself open to a charge of monopolising the conversation. "i say! you'll forgive my dwelling a bit on this thing, won't you? never found a girl who would look twice at me before, and it's rather unsettled the old bean. just occurred to me that i may have been talking about my own affairs a bit. your turn now, old thing. sit down, as the blighters in the novels used to say, and tell me the story of your life. you've seen jill, of course?" "yes," said derek shortly. "and it's all right, eh? fine! we'll make a double wedding of it, what? not a bad idea, that! i mean to say, the man of god might make a reduction for quantity and shade his fee a bit. do the job half price!" derek threw down the end of his cigarette, and crushed it with his heel. a closer observer than freddie would have detected long ere this the fact that his demeanour was not that of a happy and successful wooer. "jill and i are not going to be married," he said. a look of blank astonishment came into freddie's cheerful face. he could hardly believe that he had heard correctly. it is true that, in gloomier mood, he had hazarded the theory to uncle chris that jill's independence might lead her to refuse derek, but he had not really believed in the possibility of such a thing even at the time, and now, in the full flood of optimism consequent on his own engagement, it seemed even more incredible. "great scott!" he cried. "did she give you the raspberry?" it is to be doubted whether the pride of the underhills would have permitted derek to reply in the affirmative, even if freddie had phrased his question differently; but the brutal directness of the query made such a course impossible for him. nothing was dearer to derek than his self-esteem, and, even at the expense of the truth, he was resolved to shield it from injury. to face freddie and confess that any girl in the world had given him, derek underhill, what he coarsely termed the raspberry was a task so revolting as to be utterly beyond his powers. "nothing of the kind!" he snapped. "it was because we both saw that the thing would be impossible. why didn't you tell me that jill was in the chorus of this damned piece?" freddie's mouth slowly opened. he was trying not to realize the meaning of what his friend was saying. his was a faithful soul, and for years--to all intents and purposes for practically the whole of his life--he had looked up to derek and reverenced him. he absolutely refused to believe that derek was intending to convey what he seemed to be trying to convey; for, if he was, well ... by jove ... it was too rotten and algy martyn had been right after all and the fellow was simply.... "you don't mean, old man," said freddie with an almost pleading note in his voice, "that you're going to back out of marrying jill because she's in the chorus?" derek looked away, and scowled. he was finding freddie, in the capacity of inquisitor, as trying as he had found him in the rôle of exuberant fiancé. it offended his pride to have to make explanations to one whom he had always regarded with a patronizing tolerance as not a bad fellow in his way but in every essential respect negligible. "i have to be sensible," he said, chafing as the indignity of his position intruded itself more and more. "you know what it would mean.... paragraphs in all the papers.... photographs ... the news cabled to england ... everybody reading it and misunderstanding.... i've got my career to think of.... it would cripple me...." his voice trailed off, and there was silence for a moment. then freddie burst into speech. his good-natured face was hard with unwonted scorn. its cheerful vacuity had changed to stony contempt. for the second time in the evening the jolly old scales had fallen from freddie's good old eyes, and, as jill had done, he saw derek as he was. "my sainted aunt!" he said slowly. "so that's it, what? well, i've always thought a dashed lot of you, as you know. i've always looked up to you as a bit of a nib and wished i was like you. but, great scott! if that's the sort of a chap you are, i'm deuced glad i'm not! i'm going to wake up in the middle of the night and think how unlike you i am and pat myself on the back! ronny devereux was perfectly right. a tick's a tick, and that's all there is to say about it. good old ronny told me what you were, and, like a silly ass, i wasted a lot of time trying to make him believe you weren't that sort of chap at all. it's no good standing there looking like your mother," said freddie firmly. "this is where we jolly well part brass-rags! if we ever meet again, i'll trouble you not to speak to me, because i've a reputation to keep up! so there you have it in a bally nutshell!" scarcely had freddie ceased to administer it to his former friend in a bally nutshell, when uncle chris, warm and dishevelled from the dance as interpreted by mrs. waddesleigh peagrim, came bustling up, saving derek the necessity of replying to the harangue. "well, underhill, my dear fellow," began uncle chris affably, attaching himself to the other's arm, "what...?" he broke off, for derek, freeing his arm with a wrench, turned and walked rapidly away. derek had no desire to go over the whole thing again with uncle chris. he wanted to be alone, to build up, painfully and laboriously, the ruins of his self-esteem. the pride of the underhills had had a bad evening. uncle chris turned to freddie. "what is the matter?" he asked blankly. "i'll tell you what's the jolly old matter!" cried freddie. "the blighter isn't going to marry poor jill after all! he's changed his rotten mind! it's off!" "off?" "absolutely off!" "absolutely off?" "napoo!" said freddie. "he's afraid of what will happen to his blasted career if he marries a girl who's been in the chorus." "but, my dear boy!" uncle chris blinked. "but, my dear boy! this is ridiculous.... surely, if i were to speak a word...." "you can if you like. _i_ wouldn't speak to the man again if you paid me! but it won't do any good, so what's the use?" slowly uncle chris adjusted his mind to the disaster. "then you mean...?" "it's off!" said freddie. for a moment uncle chris stood motionless. then, with a sudden jerk, he seemed to stiffen his backbone. his face was bleak, but he pulled at his moustache jauntily. "_morituri te salutant!_" he said. "good-bye, freddie, my boy." he turned away, gallant and upright, the old soldier. "where are you going?" asked freddie. "over the top!" said uncle chris. "what do you mean?" "i am going," said uncle chris steadily, "to find mrs. peagrim!" "good god!" cried freddie. he followed him, protesting weakly, but the other gave no sign that he had heard. freddie saw him disappear into the stage-box, and, turning, found jill at his elbow. "where did uncle chris go?" asked jill. "i want to speak to him." "he's in the stage-box, with mrs. peagrim." "with mrs. peagrim?" "proposing to her," said freddie solemnly. jill stared. "proposing to mrs. peagrim? what do you mean?" freddie drew her aside, and began to explain. iv in the dimness of the stage-box, his eyes a little glassy and a dull despair in his soul, uncle chris was wondering how to begin. in his hot youth he had been rather a devil of a fellow in between dances, a coo-er of soft phrases and a stealer of never very stoutly withheld kisses. he remembered one time in bangalore ... but that had nothing to do with the case. the point was, how to begin with mrs. peagrim. the fact that twenty-five years ago he had crushed in his arms beneath the shadows of the deodars a girl whose name he had forgotten, though he remembered that she had worn a dress of some pink stuff, was immaterial and irrelevant. was he to crush mrs. peagrim in his arms? not, thought uncle chris to himself, on a bet. he contented himself for the moment with bending an intense gaze upon her and asking if she was tired. "a little," panted mrs. peagrim, who, though she danced often and vigorously, was never in the best of condition, owing to her habit of neutralizing the beneficent effects of exercise by surreptitious candy-eating. "i'm a little out of breath." uncle chris had observed this for himself, and it had not helped him to face his task. lovely woman loses something of her queenly dignity when she puffs. inwardly, he was thinking how exactly his hostess resembled the third from the left of a troupe of performing sea-lions which he had seen some years ago on one of his rare visits to a vaudeville house. "you ought not to tire yourself," he said with a difficult tenderness. "i _am_ so fond of dancing," pleaded mrs. peagrim. recovering some of her breath, she gazed at her companion with a sort of short-winded archness. "you are always so sympathetic, major selby." "am i?" said uncle chris. "am i?" "you know you are!" uncle chris swallowed quickly. "i wonder if you have ever wondered," he began, and stopped. he felt that he was not putting it as well as he might. "i wonder if it has ever struck you that there's a reason." he stopped again. he seemed to remember reading something like that in an advertisement in a magazine, and he did not want to talk like an advertisement. "i wonder if it has ever struck you, mrs. peagrim," he began again, "that any sympathy on my part might be due to some deeper emotion which.... have you never suspected that you have never suspected...." uncle chris began to feel that he must brace himself up. usually a man of fluent speech, he was not at his best to-night. he was just about to try again, when he caught his hostess' eye, and the soft gleam in it sent him cowering back into the silence as if he were taking cover from an enemy's shrapnel. mrs. peagrim touched him on the arm. "you were saying...?" she murmured encouragingly. uncle chris shut his eyes. his fingers pressed desperately into the velvet curtain beside him. he felt as he had felt when a raw lieutenant in india, during his first hill-campaign, when the etiquette of the service had compelled him to rise and walk up and down in front of his men under a desultory shower of jezail-bullets. he seemed to hear the damned things _whop-whopping_ now ... and almost wished that he could really hear them. one or two good bullets just now would be a welcome diversion. "yes?" said mrs. peagrim.-"have you never felt," babbled uncle chris, "that, feeling as i feel, i might have felt ... that is to say might be feeling a feeling...?" there was a tap at the door of the box. uncle chris started violently. jill came in. "oh, i beg your pardon," she said. "i wanted to speak...." "you wanted to speak to me?" said uncle chris, bounding up. "certainly, certainly, certainly, of course. if you will excuse me for a moment?" mrs. peagrim bowed coldly. the interruption had annoyed her. she had no notion who jill was, and she resented the intrusion at this particular juncture intensely. not so uncle chris, who skipped out into the passage like a young lamb. "am i in time?" asked jill in a whisper. "in time?" "you know what i mean. uncle chris, listen to me! you are not to propose to that awful woman. do you understand?" uncle chris shook his head. "the die is cast!" "the die isn't anything of the sort," said jill. "unless...." she stopped, aghast. "you don't mean that you have done it already?" "well, no. to be perfectly accurate, no. but...." "then that's all right. i know why you were doing it, and it was very sweet of you, but you mustn't." "but, jill, you don't understand." "i do understand." "i have a motive...." "i know your motive. freddie told me. don't you worry yourself about me, dear, because i am all right. i am going to be married." a look of ecstatic relief came into uncle chris' face. "then underhill...?" "i am not marrying derek. somebody else. i don't think you know him, but i love him, and so will you." she pulled his face down and kissed him. "now you can go back." uncle chris was almost too overcome to speak. he gulped a little. "jill," he said shakily, "this is a ... this is a great relief." "i knew it would be." "if you are really going to marry a rich man...." "i didn't say he was rich." the joy ebbed from uncle chris' face. "if he is not rich, if he cannot give you everything of which i...." "oh, don't be absurd! wally has all the money anybody needs. what's money?" "what's money?" uncle chris stared. "money, my dear child, is ... is ... well, you mustn't talk of it in that light way. but, if you think you will really have enough...?" "of course we shall. now you can go back. mrs. peagrim will be wondering what has become of you." "must i?" said uncle chris doubtfully. "of course. you must be polite." "very well," said uncle chris. "but it will be a little difficult to continue the conversation on what you might call general lines. however!" * * * * * back in the box, mrs. peagrim was fanning herself with manifest impatience. "what did that girl want?" she demanded. uncle chris seated himself with composure. the weakness had passed, and he was himself again. "oh, nothing, nothing. some trivial difficulty, which i was able to dispose of in a few words." mrs. peagrim would have liked to continue her researches, but a feeling that it was wiser not to stray too long from the main point restrained her. she bent towards him. "you were going to say something when that girl interrupted us." uncle chris shot his cuffs with a debonair gesture. "was i? was i? to be sure, yes. i was saying that you ought not to let yourself get tired. deuce of a thing, getting tired. plays the dickens with the system." mrs. peagrim was disconcerted. the atmosphere seemed to have changed, and she did not like it. she endeavoured to restore the tone of the conversation. "you are so sympathetic," she sighed, feeling that she could not do better than to begin again at that point. the remark had produced good results before and it might do so a second time. "yes," agreed uncle chris cheerily. "you see, i have seen something of all this sort of thing, and i realize the importance of it. i know what all this modern rush and strain of life is for a woman in your position. parties every night ... dancing ... a thousand and one calls on the vitality ... bound to have an effect sooner or later, unless--_unless_," said uncle chris solemnly, "one takes steps. unless one acts in time. i had a friend--" his voice sank--"i had a very dear friend over in london, lady alice--but the name would convey nothing--the point is that she was in exactly the same position as you. on the rush all the time. never stopped. the end was inevitable. she caught cold, hadn't sufficient vitality to throw it off, went to a dance in mid-winter, contracted pneumonia...." uncle chris sighed. "all over in three days," he said sadly. "now at that time," he resumed, "i did not know what i know now. if i had heard of nervino then...." he shook his head. "it might have saved her life. it _would_ have saved her life. i tell you, mrs. peagrim, that there is nothing, there is no lack of vitality which nervino cannot set right. i am no physician myself, i speak as a layman, but it acts on the red corpuscles of the blood...." mrs. peagrim's face was stony. she had not spoken before, because he had given her no opportunity, but she spoke now in a hard voice. "major selby!" "mrs. peagrim?" "i am not interested in patent medicines!" "one can hardly call nervino that," said uncle chris reproachfully. "it is a sovereign specific. you can get it at any drug store. it comes in two sizes, the dollar-fifty--or large--size, and the...." mrs. peagrim rose majestically. "major selby, i am tired...." "precisely. and, as i say, nervino...." "please," said mrs. peagrim coldly, "go to the stage-door and see if you can find my limousine. it should be waiting in the street." "certainly," said uncle chris. "why, certainly, certainly, certainly." he left the box and proceeded across the stage. he walked with a lissom jauntiness. his eye was bright. one or two of those whom he passed on his way had the idea that this fine-looking man was in pain. they fancied that he was moaning. but uncle chris was not moaning. he was humming a gay snatch from the lighter music of the 'nineties. chapter xxi wally mason learns a new exercise i up on the roof of his apartment, far above the bustle and clamour of the busy city, wally mason, at eleven o'clock on the morning after mrs. peagrim's bohemian party, was greeting the new day, as was his custom, by going through his ante-breakfast exercises. mankind is divided into two classes--those who do setting-up exercises before breakfast and those who know they ought to but don't. to the former and more praiseworthy class wally had belonged since boyhood. life might be vain and the world a void, but still he touched his toes the prescribed number of times and twisted his muscular body about according to the ritual. he did so this morning a little more vigorously than usual, partly because he had sat up too late the night before and thought too much and smoked too much, with the result that he had risen heavy-eyed, at the present disgraceful hour, and partly because he hoped by wearying the flesh to still the restlessness of the spirit. spring generally made wally restless, but never previously had it brought him this distracted feverishness. so he lay on his back and waved his legs in the air, and it was only when he had risen and was about to go still further into the matter that he perceived jill standing beside him. "good lord!" said wally. "don't stop," said jill. "i'm enjoying it.' "how long have you been here?" "oh, i only just arrived. i rang the bell, and the nice old lady who is cooking your lunch told me you were out here.' "not lunch. breakfast." "breakfast! at this hour?" "won't you join me?" "i'll join you. but i had my breakfast long ago." wally found his despondency magically dispelled. it was extraordinary how the mere sight of jill could make the world a different place. it was true the sun had been shining before her arrival, but in a flabby, weak-minded way, not with the brilliance it had acquired immediately he heard her voice. "if you don't mind waiting for about three minutes while i have a shower and dress...." "oh, is the entertainment over?" asked jill, disappointed. "i always arrive too late for everything." "one of these days you shall see me go through the whole programme, including shadow-boxing and the goose-step. bring your friends! but at the moment i think it would be more of a treat for you to watch me eat an egg. go and look at the view. from over there you can see hoboken." "i've seen it. i don't think much of it." "well, then, on this side we have brooklyn. there is no stint. wander to and fro and enjoy yourself. the rendezvous is in the sitting-room in about four moments." wally vaulted through the passage-window and disappeared. then he returned and put his head out. "i say!" "yes?" "just occurred to me. your uncle won't be wanting this place for half an hour or so, will he? i mean, there will be time for me to have a bite of breakfast?" "i don't suppose he will require your little home till some time in the evening." "fine!" wally disappeared again, and a few moments later jill heard the faint splashing of water. she walked to the parapet and looked down. on the windows of the nearer buildings the sun cast glittering beams, but further away a faint, translucent mist hid the city. there was spring humidity in the air. in the street she had found it oppressive: but on the breezy summit of this steel-and-granite cliff the air was cool and exhilarating. peace stole into jill's heart as she watched the boats dropping slowly down the east river, which gleamed like dull steel through the haze. she had come to journey's end, and she was happy. trouble and heartache seemed as distant as those hurrying black ants down on the streets. she felt far away from the world on an enduring mountain of rest. she gave a little sigh of contentment and turned to go in as wally called. in the sitting-room her feeling of security deepened. here, the world was farther away than ever. even the faint noises which had risen to the roof were inaudible, and only the cosy tick-tock of the grandfather's clock punctuated the stillness. she looked at wally with a quickening sense of affection. he had the divine gift of silence at the right time. yes, this was home. this was where she belonged. "it didn't take me in, you know," said jill at length, resting her arms on the table and regarding him severely. wally looked up. "what didn't take you in?" "that bath of yours. yes, i know you turned on the cold shower, but you stood at a safe distance and watched it _show_!" wally waved his fork. "as heaven is my witness.... look at my hair! still damp! and i can show you the towel." "well, then, i'll bet it was the hot water. why weren't you at mrs. peagrim's party last night?" "it would take too long to explain all my reasons, but one of them was that i wasn't invited. how did it go off?" "splendidly. freddie's engaged!" wally lowered his coffee cup. "engaged! you don't mean what is sometimes slangily called betrothed?" "i do. he's engaged to nelly bryant. nelly told me all about it when she got home last night. it seems that freddie said to her 'what ho!' and she said 'you bet!' and freddie said 'pip pip!' and the thing was settled." jill bubbled. "freddie wants to go into vaudeville with her!" "no! the juggling rookes? or rooke and bryant, the cross-talk team, a thoroughly refined act, swell dressers on and off?" "i don't know. but it doesn't matter. nelly is domestic. she's going to have a little home in the country, where she can grow chickens and pigs." "father's in the pigstye, you can tell him by his hat, eh?" "yes. they will be very happy. freddie will be a father to her parrot." wally's cheerfulness diminished a trifle. the contemplation of freddie's enviable lot brought with it the inevitable contrast with his own. a little home in the country.... oh, well! ii there was a pause. jill was looking a little grave. "wally!" "yes?" she turned her face away, for there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes which she did not wish him to observe. "derek was at the party!" wally had been about to butter a piece of toast. the butter, jerked from the knife by the convulsive start which he gave, popped up in a semi-circle and plumped on to the tablecloth. he recovered himself quickly. "sorry!" he said. "you mustn't mind that. they want me to be second-string for the "boosting the butter" event at the next olympic games, and i'm practising all the time.... underhill was there, eh?" "yes." "you met him?" "yes." wally fiddled with his knife. "did he come over.... i mean ... had he come specially to see you?" "yes." "i see." there was another pause. "he wants to marry you?" "he said he wanted to marry me." wally got up and went to the window. jill could smile safely now, and she did, but her voice was still grave. "what ought i to do, wally? i thought i would ask you as you are such a friend." wally spoke without turning. "you ought to marry him, of course." "you think so?" "you ought to marry him, of course," said wally doggedly. "you love him, and the fact that he came all the way to america must mean that he still loves you. marry him!" "but...." jill hesitated. "you see, there's a difficulty." "what difficulty?" "well ... it was something i said to him just before he went away. i said something that made it a little difficult." wally continued to inspect the roofs below. "what did you say?" "well ... it was something ... something that i don't believe he liked ... something that may interfere with his marrying me." "what did you say?" "i told him i was going to marry _you_!" wally spun round. at the same time he leaped in the air. the effect of the combination of movements was to cause him to stagger across the room and, after two or three impromptu dance steps which would have interested mrs. peagrim, to clutch at the mantelpiece to save himself from falling. jill watched him with quiet approval. "why, that's wonderful, wally! is that another of your morning exercises? if freddie does go into vaudeville, you ought to get him to let you join the troupe." wally was blinking at her from the mantelpiece. "jill!" "yes?" "what--what--what...!" "now, don't talk like freddie, even if you are going into vaudeville with him." "you said you were going to marry _me_?" "i said i was going to marry you!" "but--do you mean...?" the mischief died out of jill's eyes. she met his gaze frankly and seriously. "the lumber's gone, wally," she said. "but my heart isn't empty. it's quite, quite full, and it's going to be full for ever and ever and ever." wally left the mantelpiece, and came slowly towards her. "jill!" he choked. "jill!" suddenly he pounced on her and swung her off her feet she gave a little breathless cry. "wally! i thought you didn't approve of cavemen!" "this," said wally, "is just another new morning exercise i've thought of!" jill sat down, gasping. "are you going to do that often, wally?" "every day for the rest of my life!" "goodness!" "oh, you'll get used to it. it'll grow on you." "you don't think i am making a mistake marrying you?" "no, no! i've given the matter a lot of thought, and ... in fact, no, no!" "no," said jill thoughtfully. "i think you'll make a good husband. i mean, suppose we ever want the piano moved or something.... wally!" she broke off suddenly. "you have our ear." "come out on the roof," said jill. "i want to show you something funny." wally followed her out. they stood at the parapet together, looking down. "there!" said jill, pointing. wally looked puzzled. "i see many things, but which is the funny one?" "why, all these people. over there--and there--and there. scuttering about and thinking they know everything there is to know, and not one of them has the least idea that i am the happiest girl on earth!" "or that i'm the happiest man! their ignorance is--what is the word i want? abysmal. they don't know what it's like to stand beside you and see that little dimple in your chin.... they don't know you've _got_ a little dimple in your chin.... they don't know.... they don't know.... why, i don't suppose a single one of them even knows that i'm just going to kiss you!" "those girls in that window over there do," said jill. "they are watching us like hawks." "let 'em!" said wally briefly. the end * * * * * what this story is about jill had money, jill was engaged to be married to sir derek underhill. suddenly jill becomes penniless, and she is no longer engaged. with a smile, in which there is just a tinge of recklessness, she refuses to be beaten and turns to face the world. instead she went to new york and became a member of the chorus of "the rose of america," and mr. wodehouse is enabled to lift the curtain of the musical comedy world. there is laughter and drama in _jill the reckless_, and the action never flags from the moment that freddie rooke confesses that he has had a hectic night, down to the point where wally says briefly "let 'em," which is page 313. * * * * * the little warrior chapter one 1. freddie rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. through a gleaming eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which parker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate before him. "parker!" his voice had a ring of pain. "sir?" "what's this?" "poached egg, sir." freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder. "it looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "remove it!" he got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a stand in front of the fireplace. from this position he surveyed the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club-fender. it was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a typical london bachelor's breakfast-room. the walls were a restful gray, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white and silver. "eggs, parker," said freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!" "yes, sir?" "if, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all right. if not, not. and don't let anybody tell you otherwise." "no, sir." freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed. "it would seem, then, that i must have revelled a trifle whole-heartedly last night. i was possibly a little blotto. not whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. did i make much noise coming in?" "no, sir. you were very quiet." "ah! a dashed bad sign!" freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. "the cream-jug is to your right, sir," said the helpful parker. "let it remain there. cafe noir for me this morning. as noir as it can jolly well stick!" freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped delicately. "as far as i can remember, it was ronny devereux' birthday or something . . ." "mr martyn's, i think you said, sir." "that's right. algy martyn's birthday, and ronny and i were the guests. it all comes back to me. i wanted derek to roll along and join the festivities--he's never met ronny--but he gave it a miss. quite right! a chap in his position has responsibilities. member of parliament and all that. besides," said freddie earnestly, driving home the point with a wave of his spoon, "he's engaged to be married. you must remember that, parker!" "i will endeavor to, sir." "sometimes," said freddie dreamily, "i wish i were engaged to be married. sometimes i wish i had some sweet girl to watch over me and . . . no, i don't, by jove! it would give me the utter pip! is sir derek up yet, parker?" "getting up, sir." "see that everything is all right, will you? i mean as regards the foodstuffs and what not. i want him to make a good breakfast. he's got to meet his mother this morning at charing cross. she's legging it back from the riviera." "indeed, sir?" freddie shook his head. "you wouldn't speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her! well, you'll see her tonight. she's coming here to dinner." "yes, sir." "miss mariner will be here, too. a foursome. tell mrs parker to pull up her socks and give us something pretty ripe. soup, fish, all that sort of thing. _she_ knows. and let's have a stoup of malvoisie from the oldest bin. this is a special occasion!" "her ladyship will be meeting miss mariner for the first time, sir?" "you've put your finger on it! absolutely the first time on this or any stage! we must all rally round and make the thing a success." "i am sure mrs parker will strain every nerve, sir." parker moved to the door, carrying the rejected egg, and stepped aside to allow a tall, well-built man of about thirty to enter. "good morning, sir derek." "morning, parker." parker slid softly from the room. derek underhill sat down at the table. he was a strikingly handsome man, with a strong, forceful face, dark, lean and cleanly shaven. he was one of those men whom a stranger would instinctively pick out of a crowd as worthy of note. his only defect was that his heavy eyebrows gave him at times an expression which was a little forbidding. women, however, had never been repelled by it. he was very popular with women, not quite so popular with men--always excepting freddie rooke, who worshipped him. they had been at school together, though freddie was the younger by several years. "finished, freddie?" asked derek. freddie smiled wanly, "we are not breakfasting this morning," he replied. "the spirit was willing, but the jolly old flesh would have none of it. to be perfectly frank, the last of the rookes has a bit of a head." "ass!" said derek. "a bit of sympathy," said freddie, pained, "would not be out of place. we are far from well. some person unknown has put a threshing-machine inside the old bean and substituted a piece of brown paper for our tongue. things look dark and yellow and wobbly!" "you shouldn't have overdone it last night." "it was algy martyn's birthday," pleaded freddie. "if i were an ass like algy martyn," said derek, "i wouldn't go about advertising the fact that i'd been born. i'd hush it up!" he helped himself to a plentiful portion of kedgeree, freddie watching him with repulsion mingled with envy. when he began to eat, the spectacle became too poignant for the sufferer, and he wandered to the window. "what a beast of a day!" it was an appalling day. january, that grim month, was treating london with its usual severity. early in the morning a bank of fog had rolled up off the river, and was deepening from pearly white to a lurid brown. it pressed on the window-pane like a blanket, leaving dark, damp rivulets on the glass. "awful!" said derek. "your mater's train will be late." "yes. damned nuisance. it's bad enough meeting trains in any case, without having to hang about a draughty station for an hour." "and it's sure, i should imagine," went on freddie, pursuing his train of thought, "to make the dear old thing pretty tolerably ratty, if she has one of those slow journeys." he pottered back to the fireplace, and rubbed his shoulders reflectively against the mantelpiece. "i take it that you wrote to her about jill?" "of course. that's why she's coming over, i suppose. by the way, you got those seats for that theatre tonight?" "yes. three together and one somewhere on the outskirts. if it's all the same to you, old thing, i'll have the one on the outskirts." derek, who had finished his kedgeree and was now making himself a blot on freddie's horizon with toast and marmalade, laughed. "what a rabbit you are, freddie! why on earth are you so afraid of mother?" freddie looked at him as a timid young squire might have gazed upon st. george when the latter set out to do battle with the dragon. he was of the amiable type which makes heroes of its friends. in the old days when he had fagged for him at winchester he had thought derek the most wonderful person in the world, and this view he still retained. indeed, subsequent events had strengthened it. derek had done the most amazing things since leaving school. he had had a brilliant career at oxford, and now, in the house of commons, was already looked upon by the leaders of his party as one to be watched and encouraged. he played polo superlatively well, and was a fine shot. but of all his gifts and qualities the one that extorted freddie's admiration in its intensest form was his lion-like courage as exemplified by his behavior in the present crisis. there he sat, placidly eating toast and marmalade, while the boat-train containing lady underhill already sped on its way from dover to london. it was like drake playing bowls with the spanish armada in sight. "i wish i had your nerve!" he said, awed. "what i should be feeling, if i were in your place and had to meet your mater after telling her that i was engaged to marry a girl she had never seen, i don't know. i'd rather face a wounded tiger!" "idiot!" said derek placidly. "not," pursued freddie, "that i mean to say anything in the least derogatory and so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understand me, but the fact remains she scares me pallid! always has, ever since the first time i went to stay at your place when i was a kid. i can still remember catching her eye the morning i happened by pure chance to bung an apple through her bedroom window, meaning to let a cat on the sill below have it in the short ribs. she was at least thirty feet away, but, by jove, it stopped me like a bullet!" "push the bell, old man, will you? i want some more toast." freddie did as he was requested with growing admiration. "the condemned man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "more toast, parker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door. "gallant! that's what i call it. gallant!" derek tilted his chair back. "mother is sure to like jill when she sees her," he said. "_when_ she sees her! ah! but the trouble is, young feller-me-lad, that she _hasn't_ seen her! that's the weak spot in your case, old companion! a month ago she didn't know of jill's existence. now, you know and i know that jill is one of the best and brightest. as far as we are concerned, everything in the good old garden is lovely. why, dash it, jill and i were children together. sported side by side on the green, and what not. i remember jill, when she was twelve, turning the garden-hose on me and knocking about seventy-five per cent off the market value of my best sunday suit. that sort of thing forms a bond, you know, and i've always felt that she was a corker. but your mater's got to discover it for herself. it's a dashed pity, by jove, that jill hasn't a father or a mother or something of that species to rally round just now. they would form a gang. there's nothing like a gang! but she's only got that old uncle of hers. a rummy bird! met him?" "several times. i like him." "oh, he's a genial old buck all right. a very bonhomous lad. but you hear some pretty queer stories about him if you get among people who knew him in the old days. even now i'm not so dashed sure i should care to play cards with him. young threepwood was telling me only the other day that the old boy took thirty quid off him at picquet as clean as a whistle. and jimmy monroe, who's on the stock exchange, says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever it is chappies do down in the city. margins. that's the word. jimmy made me buy some myself on a thing called amalgamated dyes. i don't understand the procedure exactly, but jimmy says it's a sound egg and will do me a bit of good. what was i talking about? oh, yes, old selby. there's no doubt he's quite a sportsman. but till you've got jill well established, you know, i shouldn't enlarge on him too much with the mater." "on the contrary," said derek. "i shall mention him at the first opportunity. he knew my father out in india." "did he, by jove! oh, well, that makes a difference." parker entered with the toast, and derek resumed his breakfast. "it may be a little bit awkward," he said, "at first, meeting mother. but everything will be all right after five minutes." "absolutely! but, oh, boy! that first five minutes!" freddie gazed portentously through his eye-glass. then he seemed to be undergoing some internal struggle, for he gulped once or twice. "that first five minutes!" he said, and paused again. a moment's silent self-communion, and he went on with a rush. "i say, listen. shall i come along, too?" "come along?" "to the station. with you." "what on earth for?" "to see you through the opening stages. break the ice and all that sort of thing. nothing like collecting a gang, you know. moments when a feller needs a friend and so forth. say the word, and i'll buzz along and lend my moral support." derek's heavy eyebrows closed together in an offended frown, and seemed to darken his whole face. this unsolicited offer of assistance hurt his dignity. he showed a touch of the petulance which came now and then when he was annoyed, to suggest that he might not possess so strong a character as his exterior indicated. "it's very kind of you," he began stiffly. freddie nodded. he was acutely conscious of this himself. "some fellows," he observed, "would say 'not at all!' i suppose. but not the last of the rookes! for, honestly, old man, between ourselves, i don't mind admitting that this _is_ the bravest deed of the year, and i'm dashed if i would do it for anyone else." "it's very good of you, freddie . . ." "that's all right. i'm a boy scout, and this is my act of kindness for today." derek got up from the table. "of course you mustn't come," he said. "we can't form a sort of debating society to discuss jill on the platform at charing cross." "oh, i would just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasional tactful word." "nonsense!" "the wheeze would simply be to . . ." "it's impossible." "oh, very well," said freddie, damped. "just as you say, of course. but there's nothing like a gang, old man, nothing like a gang!" 2. derek underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted irritably. inside charing cross station business was proceeding as usual. porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like juggernauts. belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. for outside the fog still held. the air was cold and raw and tasted coppery. in the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the accompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional crashes. once the sun had worked its way through the murk and had hung in the sky like a great red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again, blended with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is a london fog's only redeeming quality. it seemed to derek that he had been patrolling the platform for a life-time, but he resumed his sentinel duty. the fact that the boat-train, being already forty-five minutes overdue, might arrive at any moment made it imperative that he remain where he was instead of sitting, as he would much have preferred to sit, in one of the waiting-rooms. it would be a disaster if his mother should get out of the train and not find him there to meet her. that was just the sort of thing which would infuriate her; and her mood, after a channel crossing and a dreary journey by rail, would be sufficiently dangerous as it was. the fog and the waiting had had their effect upon derek. the resolute front he had exhibited to freddie at the breakfast-table had melted since his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at the prospect of the meeting that lay before him. calm as he had appeared to the eye of freddie and bravely as he had spoken, derek, in the recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. there are men--and derek underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the nursery. they may put away childish things and rise in the world to affluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle still rules their lives. as a boy, derek had always been firmly controlled by his mother, and the sway of her aggressive personality had endured through manhood. lady underhill was a born ruler, dominating most of the people with whom life brought her in contact. distant cousins quaked at her name, while among the male portion of her nearer relatives she was generally alluded to as the family curse. now that his meeting with her might occur at any moment, derek shrank from it. it was not likely to be a pleasant one. the mere fact that lady underhill was coming to london at all made that improbable. when a man writes to inform his mother, who is wintering on the riviera, that he has become engaged to be married, the natural course for her to pursue, if she approves of the step, is to wire her congratulations and good wishes. when for these she substitutes a curt announcement that she is returning immediately, a certain lack of complaisance seems to be indicated. would his mother approve of jill? that was the question which he had been asking himself over and over again as he paced the platform in the disheartening fog. nothing had been said, nothing had even been hinted, but he was perfectly aware that his marriage was a matter regarding which lady underhill had always assumed that she was to be consulted, even if she did not, as he suspected, claim the right to dictate. and he had become engaged quite suddenly, without a word to her until it was all over and settled. that, as freddie had pointed out, was the confoundedly awkward part of it. his engagement had been so sudden. jill had swept into his life like a comet. his mother knew nothing of her. a month ago he had known nothing of her himself. it would, he perceived, as far as the benevolent approval of lady underhill was concerned, have been an altogether different matter had his choice fallen upon one of those damsels whose characters, personality, and ancestry she knew. daughters of solid and useful men; sisters of rising young politicians like himself; nieces of burke's peerage; he could have introduced without embarrassment one of these in the role of bride-elect. but jill . . . oh, well, when once his mother had met jill, everything was sure to be all right. nobody could resist jill. it would be like resisting the sunshine. somewhat comforted by this reflection, derek turned to begin one more walk along the platform, and stopped in mid-stride, raging. beaming over the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all helpfulness and devotion, freddie rooke was advancing towards him, the friend that sticketh closer than a brother. like some loving dog, who, ordered home, sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping round corners and crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful freddie had followed him after all. and with him, to add the last touch to derek's discomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, ronny devereux and algy martyn. "well, old thing," said freddie, patting derek encouragingly on the shoulder, "here we are after all! i know you told me not to roll round and so forth, but i knew you didn't mean it. i thought it over after you had left, and decided it would be a rotten trick not to cluster about you in your hour of need. i hope you don't mind ronny and algy breezing along, too. the fact is, i was in the deuce of a funk--your jolly old mater always rather paralyzes my nerve-centers, you know--so i roped them in. met 'em in piccadilly, groping about for the club, and conscripted 'em both, they very decently consenting. we all toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemist chappie's at the top of the hay-market, and now we're feeling full of beans and buck, ready for anything. i've explained the whole thing to them, and they're with you to the death! collect a gang, dear boy, collect a gang! that's the motto. there's nothing like it!" "nothing!" said ronny. "absolutely nothing!" said algy. "we'll just see you through the opening stages," said freddie, "and then leg it. we'll keep the conversation general, you know." "stop it getting into painful channels," said ronny. "steer it clear," said algy, "of the touchy topic." "that's the wheeze," said freddie. "we'll . . . oh, golly! there's the train coming in now!" his voice quavered, for not even the comforting presence of his two allies could altogether sustain him in this ordeal. but he pulled himself together with a manful effort. "stick it, old beans!" he said doughtily. "now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party!" "we're here!" said ronny devereux. "on the spot!" said algy martyn. 3. the boat-train slid into the station. bells rang, engines blew off steam, porters shouted, baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. the train began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in a steady stream. most of the travellers seemed limp and exhausted, and were pale with the pallor that comes of a choppy channel crossing. almost the only exception to the general condition of collapse was the eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her stand in the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued little maid in a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. like the other travellers, she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. no one could have told from lady underhill's demeanor that the solid platform seemed to heave beneath her feet like a deck. "have you got a porter, ferris? where is he, then? ah! have you got all the bags? my jewel-case? the suit-case? the small brown bag? the rugs? where are the rugs? "yes, i can see them, my good girl. there is no need to brandish them in my face. keep the jewel-case and give the rest of the things to the porter, and take him to look after the trunks. you remember which they are? the steamer trunk, the other trunk, the black box . . . very well. then make haste. and, when you've got them all together, tell the porter to find you a four-wheeler. the small things will go inside. drive to the savoy and ask for my suite. if they make any difficulty, tell them that i engaged the rooms yesterday by telegraph from mentone. do you understand?" "yes, m'lady." "then go along. oh, and give the porter sixpence. sixpence is ample." "yes, m'lady." the little maid, grasping the jewel-case, trotted off beside the now pessimistic porter, who had started on this job under the impression that there was at least a bob's-worth in it. the remark about the sixpence had jarred the porter's faith in his species. derek approached, acutely conscious of freddie, ronny, and algy, who were skirmishing about his flank. he had enough to worry him without them. he had listened with growing apprehension to the catalogue of his mother's possessions. plainly this was no flying visit. you do not pop over to london for a day or two with a steamer trunk, another trunk, a black box, a suit-case, and a small brown bag. lady underhill had evidently come prepared to stay; and the fact seemed to presage trouble. "well, mother! so there you are at last!" "well, derek!" derek kissed his mother. freddie, ronny, and algy shuffled closer, like leopards. freddie, with the expression of one who leads a forlorn hope, moved his adam's apple briskly up and down several times, and spoke. "how do you do, lady underhill?" "how do you do, mr rooke?" lady underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. she was not fond of the last of the rookes. she supposed the almighty had had some wise purpose in creating freddie, but it had always been inscrutable to her. "like you," mumbled freddie, "to meet my friends. lady underhill. mr devereux." "charmed," said ronny affably. "mr martyn." "delighted," said algy with old-world courtesy. lady underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice. "how do you do?" she said. "have you come to meet somebody?" "i-er-we-er-why-er--" this woman always made freddie feel as if he were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. he wished that he had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug rooms at the albany, allowing derek to go through this business by himself. "i-er-we-er-came to meet _you_, don't you know!" "indeed! that was very kind of you!" "oh, not at all." "thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said ronny, beaming. "what could be sweeter?" said algy. he produced a cigar-case, and extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped havana. he was feeling delightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why freddie had made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "don't mind if i smoke, do you? air's a bit raw today. gets into the lungs." derek chafed impotently. these unsought allies were making a difficult situation a thousand times worse. a more acute observer than young mr martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother's mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. endeavoring to distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which was a little unfortunate. "what sort of crossing did you have, mother?" lady underhill winced. a current of air had sent the perfume of algy's cigar playing about her nostrils. she closed her eyes, and her face turned a shade paler. freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry for the poor old thing. she was a pest and a pot of poison, of course, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame that she should look so green about the gills. he came to the conclusion that she must be hungry. the thing to do was to take her mind off it till she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped down in front of a bowl of soup. "bit choppy, i suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran up and down lady underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "i was afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when i read the forecast in the paper. the good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?" lady underhill uttered a faint moan. freddie noticed that she was looking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago. "it's an extraordinary thing about that channel crossing," said algy martyn meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. "i've known fellows who could travel quite happily everywhere else in the world--round the horn in sailing-ships and all that sort of thing--yield up their immortal soul crossing the channel! absolutely yield up their immortal soul! don't know why. rummy, but there it is!" "i'm like that myself," assented ronny devereux. "that dashed trip from calais gets me every time. bowls me right over. i go aboard, stoked to the eyebrows with seasick remedies, swearing that this time i'll fool 'em, but down i go ten minutes after we've started and the next thing i know is somebody saying, 'well, well! so this is dover!'" "it's exactly the same with me," said freddie, delighted with the smooth, easy way the conversation was flowing. "whether it's the hot, greasy smell of the engines . . ." "it's not the engines," contended ronny devereux. "stands to reason it can't be. i rather like the smell of engines. this station is reeking with the smell of engine-grease, and i can drink it in and enjoy it." he sniffed luxuriantly. "it's something else." "ronny's right," said algy cordially. "it isn't the engines. it's the way the boat heaves up and down and up and down and up and down . . ." he shifted his cigar to his left hand in order to give with his right a spirited illustration of a channel steamer going up and down and up and down and up and down. lady underhill, who had opened her eyes, had an excellent view of the performance, and closed her eyes again quickly. "be quiet!" she snapped. "i was only saying . . ." "be quiet!" "oh, rather!" lady underhill wrestled with herself. she was a woman of great will-power and accustomed to triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh. after awhile her eyes opened. she had forced herself, against the evidence of her senses, to recognize that this was a platform on which she stood and not a deck. there was a pause. algy, damped, was temporarily out of action, and his friends had for the moment nothing to remark. "i'm afraid you had a trying journey, mother," said derek. "the train was very late." "now, _train_-sickness," said algy, coming to the surface again, "is a thing lots of people suffer from. never could understand it myself." "i've never had a touch of train-sickness," said ronny. "oh, i have," said freddie. "i've often felt rotten on a train. i get floating spots in front of my eyes and a sort of heaving sensation, and everything kind of goes black . . ." "mr rooke!" "eh?" "i should be greatly obliged if you would keep these confidences for the ear of your medical adviser." "freddie," intervened derek hastily, "my mother's rather tired. do you think you could be going ahead and getting a taxi?" "my dear old chap, of course! get you one in a second. come along, algy. pick up the old waukeesis, ronny." and freddie, accompanied by his henchmen, ambled off, well pleased with himself. he had, he felt, helped to break the ice for derek and had seen him safely through those awkward opening stages. now he could totter off with a light heart and get a bite of lunch. lady underhill's eyes glittered. they were small, keen, black eyes, unlike derek's, which were large and brown. in their other features the two were obviously mother and son. each had the same long upper lip, the same thin, firm mouth, the prominent chin which was a family characteristic of the underhills, and the jutting underhill nose. most of the underhills came into the world looking as though they meant to drive their way through life like a wedge. "a little more," she said tensely, "and i should have struck those unspeakable young men with my umbrella. one of the things i have never been able to understand, derek, is why you should have selected that imbecile rooke as your closest friend." derek smiled tolerantly. "it was more a case of him selecting _me_. but freddie is quite a good fellow really. he's a man you've got to know." "_i_ have not got to know him, and i thank heaven for it!" "he's a very good-natured fellow. it was decent of him to put me up at the albany while our house was let. by the way, he has some seats for the first night of a new piece this evening. he suggested that we might all dine at the albany and go on to the theatre." he hesitated a moment. "jill will be there," he said, and felt easier now that her name had at last come into the talk. "she's longing to meet you." "then why didn't she meet me?" "here, do you mean? at the station? well, i--i wanted you to see her for the first time in pleasanter surroundings." "oh!" said lady underhill shortly. it is a disturbing thought that we suffer in this world just as much by being prudent and taking precautions as we do by being rash and impulsive and acting as the spirit moves us. if jill had been permitted by her wary fiancã© to come with him to the station to meet his mother, it is certain that much trouble would have been avoided. true, lady underhill would probably have been rude to her in the opening stages of the interview, but she would not have been alarmed and suspicious; or, rather, the vague suspicion which she had been feeling would not have solidified, as it did now, into definite certainty of the worst. all that derek had effected by his careful diplomacy had been to convince his mother that he considered his bride-elect something to be broken gently to her. she stopped and faced him. "who is she?" she demanded. "who is this girl?" derek flushed. "i thought i made everything clear in my letter." "you made nothing clear at all." "by your leave!" chanted a porter behind them, and a baggage-truck clove them apart. "we can't talk in a crowded station," said derek irritably. "let me get you to the taxi and take you to the hotel. . . . what do you want to know about jill?" "everything. where does she come from? who are her people? i don't know any mariners." "i haven't cross-examined her," said derek stiffly. "but i do know that her parents are dead. her father was an american." "american!" "americans frequently have daughters, i believe." "there is nothing to be gained by losing your temper," said lady underhill with steely calm. "there is nothing to be gained, as far as i can see, by all this talk," retorted derek. he wondered vexedly why his mother always had this power of making him lose control of himself. he hated to lose control of himself. it upset him, and blurred that vision which he liked to have of himself as a calm, important man superior to ordinary weaknesses. "jill and i are engaged, and there is an end of it." "don't be a fool," said lady underhill, and was driven away by another baggage-truck. "you know perfectly well," she resumed, returning to the attack, "that your marriage is a matter of the greatest concern to me and to the whole of the family." "listen, mother!" derek's long wait on the draughty platform had generated an irritability which overcame the deep-seated awe of his mother which was the result of years of defeat in battles of the will. "let me tell you in a few words all that i know of jill, and then we'll drop the subject. in the first place, she is a lady. secondly, she has plenty of money . . ." "the underhills do not need to marry for money." "i am not marrying for money!" "well, go on." "i have already described to you in my letter--very inadequately, but i did my best--what she looks like. her sweetness, her loveableness, all the subtle things about her which go to make her what she is, you will have to judge for yourself." "i intend to!" "well, that's all, then. she lives with her uncle, a major selby . . ." "major selby? what regiment?" "i didn't ask him," snapped the goaded derek. "and, in the name of heaven, what does it matter?" "not the guards?" "i tell you i don't know." "probably a line regiment," said lady underhill with an indescribable sniff. "possibly. what then?" he paused, to play his trump card. "if you are worrying about major selby's social standing, i may as well tell you that he used to know father." "what! when? where?" "years ago. in india, when father was at simla." "selby? selby? not christopher selby?" "oh, you remember him?" "i certainly remember him! not that he and i ever met, but your father often spoke of him." derek was relieved. it was abominable that this sort of thing should matter, but one had to face facts, and, as far as his mother was concerned, it did. the fact that jill's uncle had known his dead father would make all the difference to lady underhill. "christopher selby!" said lady underhill reflectively. "yes! i have often heard your father speak of him. he was the man who gave your father an i.o.u. to pay a card debt, and redeemed it with a check which was returned by the bank!" "what!" "didn't you hear what i said? i will repeat it, if you wish." "there must have been some mistake." "only the one your father made when he trusted the man." "it must have been some other fellow." "of course!" said lady underhill satirically. "no doubt your father knew hundreds of christopher selbys!" derek bit his lip. "well, after all," he said doggedly, "whether it's true or not . . ." "i see no reason why your father should not have spoken the truth." "all right. we'll say it is true, then. but what does it matter? i am marrying jill, not her uncle." "nevertheless, it would be pleasanter if her only living relative were not a swindler! . . . tell me, where and how did you meet this girl?" "i should be glad if you would not refer to her as 'this girl.' the name, if you have forgotten it, is mariner." "well, where did you meet miss mariner?" "at prince's." "restaurant?" "skating-rink," said derek impatiently. "just after you left for mentone. freddie rooke introduced me." "oh, your intellectual friend mr rooke knows her?" "they were children together. her people lived next to the rookes in worcestershire." "i thought you said she was an american." "i said her father was. he settled in england. jill hasn't been in america since she was eight or nine." "the fact," said lady underhill, "that the girl is a friend of mr rooke is no great recommendation." derek kicked angrily at a box of matches which someone had thrown down on the platform. "i wonder if you could possibly get it into your head, mother, that i want to marry jill, not engage her as an under-housemaid. i don't consider that she requires recommendations, as you call them. however, don't you think the most sensible thing is for you to wait till you meet her at dinner tonight, and then you can form your own opinion? i'm beginning to get a little bored with this futile discussion." "as you seem quite unable to talk on the subject of this girl without becoming rude," said lady underhill, "i agree with you. let us hope that my first impression will be a favorable one. experience has taught me that first impressions are everything." "i'm glad you think so," said derek, "for i fell in love with jill the very first moment i saw her!" 4. parker stepped back, and surveyed with modest pride the dinner-table to which he had been putting the finishing touches. it was an artistic job and a credit to him. "that's that!" said parker, satisfied. he went to the window and looked out. the fog which had lasted well into the evening, had vanished now, and the clear night was bright with stars. a distant murmur of traffic came from the direction of piccadilly. as he stood there, the front-door bell rang, and continued to ring in little spurts of sound. if character can be deduced from bell-ringing, as nowadays it apparently can be from every other form of human activity, one might have hazarded the guess that whoever was on the other side of the door was determined, impetuous, and energetic. "parker!" freddie rooke pushed a tousled head, which had yet to be brushed into the smooth sleekness that made it a delight to the public eye, out of a room down the passage. "sir?" "somebody ringing." "i heard, sir. i was about to answer the bell." "if it's lady underhill, tell her i'll be in in a minute." "i fancy it is miss mariner, sir. i think i recognise her touch." he made his way down the passage to the front-door, and opened it. a girl was standing outside. she wore a long gray fur coat, and a filmy gray hood covered her hair. as parker opened the door, she scampered in like a gray kitten. "brrh! it's cold!" she exclaimed. "hullo, parker!" "good evening, miss." "am i the last or the first or what?" parker moved to help her with her cloak. "sir derek and her ladyship have not yet arrived, miss. sir derek went to bring her ladyship from the savoy hotel. mr rooke is dressing in his bedroom and will be ready very shortly." the girl had slipped out of the fur coat, and parker cast a swift glance of approval at her. he had the valet's unerring eye for a thoroughbred, and jill mariner was manifestly that. it showed in her walk, in every move of her small, active body, in the way she looked at you, in the way she talked to you, in the little tilt of her resolute chin. her hair was pale gold, and had the brightness of coloring of a child's. her face glowed, and her gray eyes sparkled. she looked very much alive. it was this aliveness of hers that was her chief charm. her eyes were good and her mouth, with its small, even teeth, attractive, but she would have laughed if anybody had called her beautiful. she sometimes doubted if she were even pretty. yet few men had met her and remained entirely undisturbed. she had a magnetism. one hapless youth, who had laid his heart at her feet and had been commanded to pick it up again, had endeavored subsequently to explain her attraction (to a bosom friend over a mournful bottle of the best in the club smoking-room) in these words: "i don't know what it is about her, old man, but she somehow makes a feller feel she's so damned _interested_ in a chap, if you know what i mean." and, though not generally credited in his circle with any great acuteness, there is no doubt that the speaker had achieved something approaching a true analysis of jill's fascination for his sex. she was interested in everything life presented to her notice, from a coronation to a stray cat. she was vivid. she had sympathy. she listened to you as though you really mattered. it takes a man of tough fibre to resist these qualities. women, on the other hand, especially of the lady underhill type, can resist them without an effort. "go and stir him up," said jill, alluding to the absent mr rooke. "tell him to come and talk to me. where's the nearest fire? i want to get right over it and huddle." "the fire's burning nicely in the sitting-room, miss." jill hurried into the sitting-room, and increased her hold on parker's esteem by exclaiming rapturously at the sight that greeted her. parker had expended time and trouble over the sitting-room. there was no dust, no untidiness. the pictures all hung straight; the cushions were smooth and unrumpled; and a fire of exactly the right dimensions burned cheerfully in the grate, flickering cosily on the small piano by the couch, on the deep leather arm-chairs which freddie had brought with him from oxford, that home of comfortable chairs, and on the photographs that studded the walls. in the center of the mantelpiece, the place of honor, was the photograph of herself which she had given derek a week ago. "you're simply wonderful, parker! i don't see how you manage to make a room so cosy!" jill sat down on the club-fender that guarded the fireplace, and held her hands over the blaze. "i can't understand why men ever marry. fancy having to give up all this!" "i am gratified that you appreciate it, miss. i did my best to make it comfortable for you. i fancy i hear mr rooke coming now." "i hope the others won't be long. i'm starving. has mrs parker got something very good for dinner?" "she has strained every nerve, miss." "then i'm sure it's worth waiting for. hullo, freddie." freddie rooke, resplendent in evening dress, bustled in, patting his tie with solicitous fingers. it had been right when he had looked in the glass in his bedroom, but you never know about ties. sometimes they stay right, sometimes they wiggle up sideways. life is full of these anxieties. "i shouldn't touch it," said jill. "it looks beautiful, and, if i may say so in confidence, is having a most disturbing effect on my emotional nature. i'm not at all sure i shall be able to resist it right through the evening. it isn't fair of you to try to alienate the affections of an engaged young person like this." freddie squinted down, and became calmer. "hullo, jill, old thing. nobody here yet?" "well, i'm here,--the petite figure seated on the fender. but perhaps i don't count." "oh, i didn't mean that, you know." "i should hope not, when i've bought a special new dress just to fascinate you. a creation i mean. when they cost as much as this one did, you have to call them names. what do you think of it?" freddie seated himself on another section of the fender, and regarded her with the eye of an expert. a snappy dresser, as the technical term is, himself, he appreciated snap in the outer covering of the other sex. "topping!" he said spaciously. "no other word for it! all wool and a yard wide! precisely as mother makes it! you look like a thingummy." "how splendid! all my life i've wanted to look like a thingummy, but somehow i've never been able to manage it." "a wood-nymph!" exclaimed freddie, in a burst of unwonted imagery. "wood-nymphs didn't wear creations." "well, you know what i mean!" he looked at her with honest admiration. "dash it, jill, you know, there's something about you! you're--what's the word?--you've got such small bones!" "ugh! i suppose it's a compliment, but how horrible it sounds! it makes me feel like a skeleton." "i mean to say, you're--you're dainty!" "that's much better." "you look as if you weighed about an ounce and a half! you look like a bit of thistledown! you're a little fairy princess, dash it!" "freddie! this is eloquence!" jill raised her left hand, and twiddled a ringed finger ostentatiously. "er--you _do_ realize that i'm bespoke, don't you, and that my heart, alas, is another's? because you sound as if you were going to propose." freddie produced a snowy handkerchief, and polished his eye-glass. solemnity descended on him like a cloud. he looked at jill with an earnest, paternal gaze. "that reminds me," he said. "i wanted to have, a bit of a talk with you about that--being engaged and all that sort of thing. i'm glad i got you alone before the curse arrived." "curse? do you mean derek's mother? that sounds cheerful and encouraging." "well, she is, you know," said freddie earnestly. "she's a bird! it would be idle to deny it. she always puts the fear of god into me. i never know what to say to her." "why don't you try asking her riddles?" "it's no joking matter," persisted freddie, his amiable face overcast. "wait till you meet her! you should have seen her at the station this morning. you don't know what you're up against!" "you make my flesh creep, freddie. what am i up against?" freddie poked the fire scientifically, and assisted it with coal. "it's this way," he said. "of course, dear old derek's the finest chap in the world." "i know that," said jill softly. she patted freddie's hand with a little gesture of gratitude. freddie's devotion to derek was a thing that always touched her. she looked thoughtfully into the fire, and her eyes seemed to glow in sympathy with the glowing coals. "there's nobody like him!" "but," continued freddie, "he always has been frightfully under his mother's thumb, you know." jill was conscious of a little flicker of irritation. "don't be absurd, freddie. how could a man like derek be under anybody's thumb?" "well, you know what i mean!" "i don't in the least know what you mean." "i mean, it would be rather rotten if his mother set him against you." jill clenched her teeth. the quick temper which always lurked so very little beneath the surface of her cheerfulness was stirred. she felt suddenly chilled and miserable. she tried to tell herself that freddie was just an amiable blunderer who spoke without sense or reason, but it was no use. she could not rid herself of a feeling of foreboding and discomfort. it had been the one jarring note in the sweet melody of her love-story, this apprehension of derek's regarding his mother. the derek she loved was a strong man, with a strong man's contempt for other people's criticism; and there had been something ignoble and fussy in his attitude regarding lady underhill. she had tried to feel that the flaw in her idol did not exist. and here was freddie rooke, a man who admired derek with all his hero-worshipping nature, pointing it out independently. she was annoyed, and she expended her annoyance, as women will do, upon the innocent bystander. "do you remember the time i turned the hose on you, freddie," she said, rising from the fender, "years ago, when we were children, when you and that awful mason boy--what was his name? wally mason--teased me?" she looked at the unhappy freddie with a hostile eye. it was his blundering words that had spoiled everything. "i've forgotten what it was all about, but i know that you and wally infuriated me and i turned the garden hose on you and soaked you both to the skin. well, all i want to point out is that, if you go on talking nonsense about derek and his mother and me, i shall ask parker to bring me a jug of water, and i shall empty it over you! set him against me! you talk as if love were a thing any third party could come along and turn off with a tap! do you suppose that, when two people love each other as derek and i do, that it can possibly matter in the least what anybody else thinks or says, even if it is his mother? i haven't got a mother, but suppose uncle chris came and warned me against derek . . ." her anger suddenly left her as quickly as it had come. that was always the way with jill. one moment later she would be raging; the next, something would tickle her sense of humor and restore her instantly to cheerfulness. and the thought of dear, lazy old uncle chris taking the trouble to warn anybody against anything except the wrong brand of wine or an inferior make of cigar conjured up a picture before which wrath melted away. she chuckled, and freddie, who had been wilting on the fender, perked up. "you're an extraordinary girl, jill! one never knows when you're going to get the wind up." "isn't it enough to make me get the wind up, as you call it, when you say absurd things like that?" "i meant well, old girl!" "that's the trouble with you. you always do mean well. you go about the world meaning well till people fly to put themselves under police protection. besides, what on earth could lady underhill find to object to in me? i've plenty of money, and i'm one of the most charming and attractive of society belles. you needn't take my word for that, and i don't suppose you've noticed it, but that's what mr gossip in the _morning mirror_ called me when he was writing about my getting engaged to derek. my maid showed me the clipping. there was quite a long paragraph, with a picture of me that looked like a zulu chieftainess taken in a coal-cellar during a bad fog. well, after that, what could anyone say against me? i'm a perfect prize! i expect lady underhill screamed with joy when she heard the news and went singing all over her riviera villa." "yes," said freddie dubiously. "yes, yes, oh, quite so, rather!" jill looked at him sternly. "freddie, you're concealing something from me! you _don't_ think i'm a charming and attractive society belle! tell me why not and i'll show you where you are wrong. is it my face you object to, or my manners, or my figure? there was a young bride of antigua, who said to her mate, 'what a pig you are!' said he, 'oh, my queen, is it manners you mean, or do you allude to my fig-u-ar?' isn't my figuar all right, freddie?" "oh, _i_ think you're topping." "but for some reason you're afraid that derek's mother won't think so. why won't lady underhill agree with mr gossip?" freddie hesitated. "speak up!" "well, it's like this. remember i've known the old devil . . ." "freddie rooke! where do you pick up such expressions? not from me!" "well, that's how i always think of her! i say i've known her ever since i used to go and stop at their place when i was at school, and i know exactly the sort of things that put her back up. she's a what-d'you-call-it." "i see no harm in that. why shouldn't the dear old lady be a what-d'you-call-it? she must do _something_ in her spare time." "i mean to say, one of the old school, don't you know. and you're so dashed impulsive, old girl. you know you are! you are always saying things that come into your head." "you can't say a thing unless it comes into your head." "you know what i mean," freddie went on earnestly, not to be diverted from his theme. "you say rummy things and you do rummy things. what i mean to say is, you're impulsive." "what have i ever done that the sternest critic could call rummy?" "well, i've seen you with my own eyes stop in the middle of bond street and help a lot of fellows shove along a cart that had got stuck. mind you, i'm not blaming you for it . . ." "i should hope not. the poor old horse was trying all he knew to get going, and he couldn't quite make it. naturally, i helped." "oh, i know. very decent and all that, but i doubt if lady underhill would have thought a lot of it. and you're so dashed chummy with the lower orders." "don't be a snob, freddie." "i'm not a snob," protested freddie, wounded. "when i'm alone with parker--for instance--i'm as chatty as dammit. but i don't ask waiters in public restaurants how their lumbago is." "have you ever had lumbago?" "no." "well, it's a very painful thing, and waiters get it just as badly as dukes. worse, i should think, because they're always bending and stooping and carrying things. naturally one feels sorry for them." "but how do you ever find out that a waiter has _got_ lumbago?" "i ask him; of course." "well, for goodness sake," said freddie, "if you feel the impulse to do that sort of thing tonight, try and restrain it. i mean to say, if you're curious to know anything about parker's chilblains, for instance, don't enquire after them while he's handing lady underhill the potatoes! she wouldn't like it." jill uttered an exclamation. "i knew there was something! being so cold and wanting to rush in and crouch over a fire put it clean out of my head. he must be thinking me a perfect beast!" she ran to the door. "parker! parker!" parker appeared from nowhere. "yes, miss?" "i'm so sorry i forgot to ask before. how are your chilblains?" "a good deal better, miss, thank you." "did you try the stuff i recommended?" "yes, miss. it did them a world of good." "splendid!" jill went back into the sitting-room. "it's all right," she said reassuringly. "they're better." she wandered restlessly about the room, looking at the photographs. "what a lot of girls you seem to know, freddie. are these all the ones you've loved and lost?" she sat down at the piano and touched the keys. the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour. "i wish to goodness they would arrive," she said. "they'll be here pretty soon, i expect." "it's rather awful," said jill, "to think of lady underhill racing all the way from mentone to paris and from paris to calais and from calais to dover and from dover to london simply to inspect me. you can't wonder i'm nervous, freddie." the eye-glass dropped from freddie's eye. "are _you_ nervous?" he asked, astonished. "of course i'm nervous. wouldn't you be in my place?" "well, i should never have thought it." "why do you suppose i've been talking such a lot? why do you imagine i snapped your poor, innocent head off just now? i'm terrified inside, terrified!" "you don't look it, by jove!" "no, i'm trying to be a little warrior. that's what uncle chris always used to call me. it started the day when he took me to have a tooth out, when i was ten. 'be a little warrior, jill!' he kept saying--'be a little warrior!' and i was." she looked at the clock. "but i shan't be if they don't get here soon. the suspense is awful." she strummed the keys. "suppose she _doesn't_ like me, freddie! you see how you've scared me." "i didn't say she wouldn't. i only said you'd got to watch out a bit." "something tells me she won't. my nerve is oozing out of me." jill shook her head impatiently. "it's all so vulgar! i thought this sort of thing only happened in the comic papers and in music-hall songs. why, it's just like that song somebody used to sing." she laughed. "do you remember? i don't know how the verse went, but . . . john took me round to see his mother, his mother, his mother! and when he'd introduced us to each other, she sized up everything that i had on. she put me through a cross-examination: i fairly boiled with aggravation: then she shook her head, looked at me and said: 'poor john! poor john!' "chorus, freddie! let's cheer ourselves up! we need it!" 'john took me round to see his mother . . . ! "his mo-o-o-other!" croaked freddie. curiously enough, this ballad was one of freddie's favorites. he had rendered it with a good deal of success on three separate occasions at village entertainments down in worcestershire, and he rather flattered himself that he could get about as much out of it as the next man. he proceeded to abet jill heartily with gruff sounds which he was under the impression constituted what is known in musical circles as "singing seconds." "his mo-o-o-other!" he growled with frightful scorn. "and when she'd introduced us to each other . . ." "o-o-o-other!" "she sized up everything that i had on!" "pom-pom-pom!" "she put me through a cross-examination . . ." jill had thrown her head back, and was singing jubilantly at the top of her voice. the appositeness of the song had cheered her up. it seemed somehow to make her forebodings rather ridiculous, to reduce them to absurdity, to turn into farce the gathering tragedy which had been weighing upon her nerves. "then she shook her head, looked at me and said: 'poor john!' . . ." "jill," said a voice at the door. "i want you to meet my mother!" "poo-oo-oor john!" bleated the hapless freddie, unable to check himself. "dinner," said parker the valet, appearing at the door and breaking a silence that seemed to fill the room like a tangible presence, "is served!" chapter two 1. the front-door closed softly behind the theatre-party. dinner was over, and parker had just been assisting the expedition out of the place. sensitive to atmosphere, he had found his share in the dinner a little trying. it had been a strained meal, and what he liked was a clatter of conversation and everybody having a good time and enjoying themselves. "ellen!" called parker, as he proceeded down the passage to the empty dining-room. "ellen!" mrs parker appeared out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. her work for the evening, like her husband's, was over. presently what is technically called a "useful girl" would come in to wash the dishes, leaving the evening free for social intercourse. mrs parker had done well by her patrons that night, and now she wanted a quiet chat with parker over a glass of freddie rooke's port. "have they gone, horace?" she asked, following him into the dining-room. parker selected a cigar from freddie's humidor, crackled it against his ear, smelt it, clipped off the end, and lit it. he took the decanter and filled his wife's glass, then mixed himself a whisky-and-soda. "happy days!" said parker. "yes, they've gone!" "i didn't see her ladyship." "you didn't miss much! a nasty, dangerous specimen, she is! 'always merry and bright', i don't think. i wish you'd have had my job of waiting on 'em, ellen, and me been the one to stay in the kitchen safe out of it all. that's all i say! it's no treat to _me_ to 'and the dishes when the atmosphere's what you might call electric. i didn't envy them that vol-au-vent of yours, ellen, good as it smelt. better a dinner of 'erbs where love is than a stalled ox and 'atred therewith," said parker, helping himself to a walnut. "did they have words?" parker shook his head impatiently. "that sort don't have words, ellen. they just sit and goggle." "how did her ladyship seem to hit it off with miss mariner, horace?" parker uttered a dry laugh. "ever seen a couple of strange dogs watching each other sort of wary? that was them! not that miss mariner wasn't all that was pleasant and nice-spoken. she's all right, miss mariner is. she's a little queen! it wasn't her fault the dinner you'd took so much trouble over was more like an evening in the morgue than a christian dinner-party. she tried to help things along best she could. but what with sir derek chewing his lip 'alf the time and his mother acting about as matey as a pennorth of ice-cream, she didn't have a chance. as for the guv'nor,--well, i wish you could have seen him, that's all. you know, ellen, sometimes i'm not altogether easy in my mind about the guv'nor's mental balance. he knows how to buy cigars, and you tell me his port is good--i never touch it myself--but sometimes he seems to me to go right off his onion. just sat there, he did, all through dinner, looking as if he expected the good food to rise up and bite him in the face, and jumping nervous when i spoke to him. it's not my fault," said parker, aggrieved. "_i_ can't give gentlemen warning before i ask 'em if they'll have sherry or hock. i can't ring a bell or toot a horn to show 'em i'm coming. it's my place to bend over and whisper in their ear, and they've no right to leap about in their seats and make me spill good wine. (you'll see the spot close by where you're sitting, ellen. jogged my wrist, he did!) i'd like to know why people in the spear of life which these people are in can't behave themselves rational, same as we do. when we were walking out and i took you to have tea with my mother, it was one of the pleasantest meals i ever ate. talk about 'armony! it was a love-feast!" "your ma and i took to each other right from the start, horace," said mrs parker softly--"that's the difference." "well, any woman with any sense would take to miss mariner. if i told you how near i came to spilling the sauce-boat accidentally over that old fossil's head, you'd be surprised, ellen. she just sat there brooding like an old eagle. if you ask my opinion, miss mariner's a long sight too good for her precious son!" "oh, but horace! sir derek's a baronet!" "what of it? kind 'earts are more than coronets and simple faith than norman blood, aren't they?" "you're talking socialism, horace." "no, i'm not. i'm talking sense. i don't know who miss mariner's parents may have been--i never enquired--but anyone can see she's a lady born and bred. but do you suppose the path of true love is going to run smooth, for all that? not it! she's got a 'ard time ahead of her, that poor girl." "horace!" mrs parker's gentle heart was wrung. the situation hinted at by her husband was no new one--indeed, it formed the basis of at least fifty per cent of the stories in the true heart novelette series, of which she was a determined reader--but it had never failed to touch her. "do you think her ladyship means to come between them and wreck their romance?" "i think she means to have a jolly good try." "but sir derek has his own money, hasn't he? i mean, it's not like when sir courtenay travers fell in love with the milk-maid and was dependent on his mother, the countess, for everything. sir derek can afford to do what he pleases, can't he?" parker shook his head tolerantly. the excellence of the cigar and the soothing qualities of the whisky-and-soda had worked upon him, and he was feeling less ruffled. "you don't understand these things," he said. "women like her ladyship can talk a man into anything and out of anything. i wouldn't care, only you can see the poor girl is mad over the feller. what she finds attractive in him, i can't say, but that's her own affair." "he's very handsome, horace, with those flashing eyes and that stern mouth," argued mrs parker. parker sniffed. "have it your own way," he said. "it's no treat to _me_ to see his eyes flash, and if he'd put that stern mouth of his to some better use than advising the guv'nor to lock up the cigars and trouser the key, i'd be better pleased. if there's one thing i can't stand," said parker, "it's not to be trusted!" he lifted his cigar and looked at it censoriously. "i thought so! burning all down one side. they will do that if you light 'em careless. oh, well," he continued, rising and going to the humidor, "there's plenty more where that came from. out of evil cometh good," said parker philosophically. "if the guv'nor hadn't been in such a overwrought state tonight, he'd have remembered not to leave the key in the key-hole. help yourself to another glass of port, ellen, and let's enjoy ourselves!" 2. when one considers how full of his own troubles, how weighed down with the problems of his own existence the average playgoer generally is when he enters a theatre, it is remarkable that dramatists ever find it possible to divert and entertain whole audiences for a space of several hours. as regards at least three of those who had assembled to witness its opening performance, the author of "tried by fire," at the leicester theater, undoubtedly had his work cut out for him. it has perhaps been sufficiently indicated by the remarks of parker, the valet, that the little dinner at freddie rooke's had not been an unqualified success. searching the records for an adequately gloomy parallel to the taxi-cab journey to the theatre which followed it, one can only think of napoleon's retreat from moscow. and yet even that was probably not conducted in dead silence. there must have been moments when murat got off a good thing or ney said something worth hearing about the weather. the only member of the party who was even remotely happy was, curiously enough, freddie rooke. originally freddie had obtained three tickets for "tried by fire." the unexpected arrival of lady underhill had obliged him to buy a fourth, separated by several rows from the other three. this, as he had told derek at breakfast, was the seat he proposed to occupy himself. it consoles the philosopher in this hard world to reflect that, even if man is born to sorrow as the sparks fly upwards, it is still possible for small things to make him happy. the thought of being several rows away from lady underhill had restored freddie's equanimity like a tonic. it thrilled him like the strains of some grand, sweet anthem all the way to the theatre. if freddie rooke had been asked at that moment to define happiness in a few words, he would have replied that it consisted in being several rows away from lady underhill. the theatre was nearly full when freddie's party arrived. the leicester theatre had been rented for the season by the newest theatrical knight, sir chester portwood, who had a large following; and, whatever might be the fate of the play in the final issue, it would do at least one night's business. the stalls were ablaze with jewelry and crackling with starched shirt-fronts; and expensive scents pervaded the air, putting up a stiff battle with the plebeian peppermint that emanated from the pit. the boxes were filled, and up in the gallery grim-faced patrons of the drama, who had paid their shillings at the door and intended to get a shilling's-worth of entertainment in return, sat and waited stolidly for the curtain to rise. first nights at the theatre always excited jill. the depression induced by absorbing nourishment and endeavouring to make conversation in the presence of lady underhill left her. the worst, she told herself, had happened. she had met derek's mother, and derek's mother plainly disliked her. well, that, as parker would have said, was that. now she just wanted to enjoy herself. she loved the theatre. the stir, the buzz of conversation, the warmth and life of it, all touched a chord in her which made depression impossible. the lights shot up beyond the curtain. the house-lights dimmed. conversation ceased. the curtain rose. jill wriggled herself comfortably into her seat, and slipped her hand into derek's. she felt a glow of happiness as it closed over hers. all, she told herself, was right with the world. all, that is to say, except the drama which was unfolding on the stage. it was one of those plays which start wrong and never recover. by the end of the first ten minutes there had spread through the theatre that uneasy feeling which comes over the audience at an opening performance when it realises that it is going to be bored. a sort of lethargy had gripped the stalls. the dress-circle was coughing. up in the gallery there was grim silence. sir chester portwood was an actor-manager who had made his reputation in light comedy of the tea-cup school. his numerous admirers attended a first night at his theatre in a mood of comfortable anticipation, assured of something pleasant and frothy with a good deal of bright dialogue and not too much plot. tonight he seemed to have fallen a victim to that spirit of ambition which intermittently attacks actor-managers of his class, expressing itself in an attempt to prove that, having established themselves securely as light comedians, they can, like the lady reciter, turn right around and be serious. the one thing which the london public felt that it was safe from in a portwood play was heaviness, and "tried by fire" was grievously heavy. it was a poetic drama, and the audience, though loth to do anybody an injustice, was beginning to suspect that it was written in blank verse. the acting did nothing to dispel the growing uneasiness. sir chester himself, apparently oppressed by the weightiness of the occasion and the responsibility of offering an unfamiliar brand of goods to his public, had dropped his customary debonair method of delivering lines and was mouthing his speeches. it was good gargling, but bad elocution. and, for some reason best known to himself, he had entrusted the role of the heroine to a doll-like damsel with a lisp, of whom the audience disapproved sternly from her initial entrance. it was about half-way through the first act that jill, whose attention had begun to wander, heard a soft groan at her side. the seats which freddie rooke had bought were at the extreme end of the seventh row. there was only one other seat in the row, and, as derek had placed his mother on his left and was sitting between her and jill, the latter had this seat on her right. it had been empty at the rise of the curtain, but in the past few minutes a man had slipped silently into it. the darkness prevented jill from seeing his face, but it was plain that he was suffering, and her sympathy went out to him. his opinion of the play so obviously coincided with her own. presently the first act ended, and the lights went up. there was a spatter of insincere applause from the stalls, echoed in the dress-circle. it grew fainter in the upper circle, and did not reach the gallery at all. "well?" said jill to derek. "what do you think of it?" "too awful for words," said derek sternly. he leaned forward to join in the conversation which had started between lady underhill and some friends she had discovered in the seats in front; and jill, turning, became aware that the man on her right was looking at her intently. he was a big man with rough, wiry hair and a humorous mouth. his age appeared to be somewhere in the middle twenties. jill, in the brief moment in which their eyes met, decided that he was ugly, but with an ugliness that was rather attractive. he reminded her of one of those large, loose, shaggy dogs that break things in drawing-rooms but make admirable companions for the open road. she had a feeling that he would look better in tweeds in a field than in evening dress in a theatre. he had nice eyes. she could not distinguish their color, but they were frank and friendly. all this jill noted with her customary quickness, and then she looked away. for an instant she had had an odd feeling that somewhere she had met this man or somebody very like him before, but the impression vanished. she also had the impression that he was still looking at her, but she gazed demurely in front of her and did not attempt to verify the suspicion. between them, as they sat side by side, there inserted itself suddenly the pinkly remorseful face of freddie rooke. freddie, having skirmished warily in the aisle until it was clear that lady underhill's attention was engaged elsewhere, had occupied a seat in the row behind which had been left vacant temporarily by an owner who liked refreshment between the acts. freddie was feeling deeply ashamed of himself. he felt that he had perpetrated a bloomer of no slight magnitude. "i'm awfully sorry about this," he said penitently. "i mean, roping you in to listen to this frightful tosh! when i think i might have got seats just as well for any one of half a dozen topping musical comedies, i feel like kicking myself with some vim. but, honestly, how was i to know? i never dreamed we were going to be let in for anything of this sort. portwood's plays are usually so dashed bright and snappy and all that. can't think what he was doing, putting on a thing like this. why, it's blue round the edges!" the man on jill's right laughed sharply. "perhaps," he said, "the chump who wrote the piece got away from the asylum long enough to put up the money to produce it." if there is one thing that startles the well-bred londoner and throws him off his balance, it is to be addressed unexpectedly by a stranger. freddie's sense of decency was revolted. a voice from the tomb could hardly have shaken him more. all the traditions to which he had been brought up had gone to solidify his belief that this was one of things which didn't happen. absolutely it wasn't done. during an earthquake or a shipwreck and possibly on the day of judgment, yes. but only then. at other times, unless they wanted a match or the time or something, chappies did not speak to fellows to whom they had not been introduced. he was far too amiable to snub the man, but to go on with this degrading scene was out of the question. there was nothing for it but flight. "oh, ah, yes," he mumbled. "well," he added to jill, "i suppose i may as well be toddling back. see you later and so forth." and with a faint 'good-bye-ee!' freddie removed himself, thoroughly unnerved. jill looked out of the corner of her eye at derek. he was still occupied with the people in front. she turned to the man on her right. she was not the slave to etiquette that freddie was. she was much too interested in life to refrain from speaking to strangers. "you shocked him!" she said, dimpling. "yes. it broke freddie all up, didn't it!" it was jill's turn to be startled. she looked at him in astonishment. "freddie?" "that _was_ freddie rooke, wasn't it? surely i wasn't mistaken?" "but--do you know him? he didn't seem to know you." "these are life's tragedies. he has forgotten me. my boyhood friend!" "oh, you were at school with him?" "no. freddie went to winchester, if i remember. i was at haileybury. our acquaintance was confined to the holidays. my people lived near his people in worcestershire." "worcestershire!" jill leaned forward excitedly. "but _i_ used to live near freddie in worcestershire myself when i was small. i knew him there when he was a boy. we must have met!" "we met all right." jill wrinkled her forehead. that odd familiar look was in his eyes again. but memory failed to respond. she shook her head. "i don't remember you," she said. "i'm sorry." "never mind. perhaps the recollection would have been painful." "how do you mean, painful?" "well, looking back, i can see that i must have been a very unpleasant child. i have always thought it greatly to the credit of my parents that they let me grow up. it would have been so easy to have dropped something heavy on me out of a window. they must have been tempted a hundred times, but they refrained. yes, i was a great pest around the home. my only redeeming point was the way i worshipped _you_!" "what!" "oh, yes. you probably didn't notice it at the time, for i had a curious way of expressing my adoration. but you remain the brightest memory of a checkered youth." jill searched his face with grave eyes, then shook her head again. "nothing stirs?" asked the man sympathetically. "it's too maddening! why does one forget things?" she reflected. "you aren't bobby morrison?" "i am not. what is more, i never was!" jill dived into the past once more and emerged with another possibility. "or charlie--charlie what was it?--charlie field?" "you wound me! have you forgotten that charlie field wore velvet lord fauntleroy suits and long golden curls? my past is not smirched with anything like that." "would i remember your name if you told me?" "i don't know. i've forgotten yours. your surname, that is. of course i remember that your christian name was jill. it has always seemed to me the prettiest monosyllable in the language." he looked at her thoughtfully. "it's odd how little you've altered in looks. freddie's just the same, too, only larger. and he didn't wear an eye-glass in those days, though i can see he was bound to later on. and yet i've changed so much that you can't place me. it shows what a wearing life i must have led. i feel like rip van winkle. old and withered. but that may be just the result of watching this play." "it is pretty terrible, isn't it?" "worse than that. looking at it dispassionately, i find it the extreme, ragged, outermost edge of the limit. freddie had the correct description of it. he's a great critic." "i really do think it's the worst thing i have ever seen." "i don't know what plays you have seen, but i feel you're right." "perhaps the second act's better," said jill optimistically. "it's worse. i know that sounds like boasting, but it's true. i feel like getting up and making a public apology." "but . . . oh!" jill turned scarlet. a monstrous suspicion had swept over her. "the only trouble is," went on her companion, "that the audience would undoubtedly lynch me. and, though it seems improbable just at the present moment, it may be that life holds some happiness for me that's worth waiting for. anyway i'd rather not be torn limb from limb. a messy finish! i can just see them rending me asunder in a spasm of perfectly justifiable fury. 'she loves me!' off comes a leg. 'she loves me not!' off comes an arm. no, i think on the whole i'll lie low. besides, why should i care? let 'em suffer. it's their own fault. they _would_ come!" jill had been trying to interrupt the harangue. she was greatly concerned. "did you _write_ the play?" the man nodded. "you are quite right to speak in that horrified tone. but, between ourselves and on the understanding that you don't get up and denounce me, i did." "oh, i'm so sorry!" "not half so sorry as i am, believe me!" "i mean, i wouldn't have said . . ." "never mind. you didn't tell me anything i didn't know." the lights began to go down. he rose. "well, they're off again. perhaps you will excuse me? i don't feel quite equal to assisting any longer at the wake. if you want something to occupy your mind during the next act, try to remember my name." he slid from his seat and disappeared. jill clutched at derek. "oh, derek, it's too awful. i've just been talking to the man who wrote this play, and i told him it was the worst thing i had ever seen!" "did you?" derek snorted. "well, it's about time somebody told him!" a thought seemed to strike him. "why, who is he? i didn't know you knew him." "i don't. i don't even know his name." "his name, according to the programme, is john grant. never heard of him before. jill, i wish you would not talk to people you don't know," said derek with a note of annoyance in his voice. "you can never tell who they are." "but . . ." "especially with my mother here. you must be more careful." the curtain rose. jill saw the stage mistily. from childhood up, she had never been able to cure herself of an unfortunate sensitiveness when sharply spoken to by those she loved. a rebuking world she could face with a stout heart, but there had always been just one or two people whose lightest word of censure could crush her. her father had always had that effect upon her, and now derek had taken his place. but if there had only been time to explain . . . derek could not object to her chatting with a friend of her childhood, even if she had completely forgotten him and did not remember his name even now. john grant? memory failed to produce any juvenile john grant for her inspection. puzzling over this problem, jill missed much of the beginning of the second act. hers was a detachment which the rest of the audience would gladly have shared. for the poetic drama, after a bad start, was now plunging into worse depths of dulness. the coughing had become almost continuous. the stalls, supported by the presence of large droves of sir chester's personal friends, were struggling gallantly to maintain a semblance of interest, but the pit and gallery had plainly given up hope. the critic of a weekly paper of small circulation, who had been shoved up in the upper circle, grimly jotted down the phrase "apathetically received" on his programme. he had come to the theatre that night in an aggrieved mood, for managers usually put him in the dress-circle. he got out his pencil again. another phrase had occurred to him, admirable for the opening of his article. "at the leicester theatre," he wrote, "where sir chester portwood presented 'tried by fire,' dulness reigned supreme. . . ." but you never know. call no evening dull till it is over. however uninteresting its early stages may have been, that night was to be as animated and exciting as any audience could desire,--a night to be looked back to and talked about. for just as the critic of _london gossip_ wrote those damning words on his programme, guiding his pencil uncertainly in the dark, a curious yet familiar odor stole over the house. the stalls got it first, and sniffed. it rose to the dress-circle, and the dress-circle sniffed. floating up, it smote the silent gallery. and, suddenly, coming to life with a single-minded abruptness, the gallery ceased to be silent. "fire!" sir chester portwood, ploughing his way through a long speech, stopped and looked apprehensively over his shoulder. the girl with the lisp, who had been listening in a perfunctory manner to the long speech, screamed loudly. the voice of an unseen stage-hand called thunderously to an invisible "bill" to cummere quick. and from the scenery on the prompt side there curled lazily across the stage a black wisp of smoke. "fire! fire! fire!" "just," said a voice at jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" the mysterious author was back in his seat again. chapter three 1. in these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of the community have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly in printed notices that a full house can be emptied in three minutes and that all an audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run, to the nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of its old-time terror. yet it would be paltering with the truth to say that the audience which had assembled to witness the opening performance of the new play at the leicester was entirely at its ease. the asbestos curtain was already on its way down, which should have been reassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. to the lay eye they seem just the sort of thing that will blaze quickest. moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchboard to turn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting. portions of the house were taking the thing better than other portions. up in the gallery a vast activity was going on. the clatter of feet almost drowned the shouting. a moment before it would have seemed incredible that anything could have made the occupants of the gallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had put new life into them. the stalls had not yet entirely lost their self-control. alarm was in the air, but for the moment they hung on the razor-edge between panic and dignity. panic urged them to do something sudden and energetic: dignity counselled them to wait. they, like the occupants of the gallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad form to rush and jostle. the men were assisting the women into their cloaks, assuring them the while that it was "all right" and that they must not be frightened. but another curl of smoke had crept out just before the asbestos curtain completed its descent, and their words lacked the ring of conviction. the movement towards the exits had not yet become a stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stage had begun to feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doors were infernally slow in removing themselves. suddenly, as if by mutual inspiration, the composure of the stalls began to slip. looking from above, one could have seen a sort of shudder run through the crowd. it was the effect of every member of that crowd starting to move a little more quickly. a hand grasped jill's arm. it was a comforting hand, the hand of a man who had not lost his head. a pleasant voice backed up its message of reassurance. "it's no good getting into that mob. you might get hurt. there's no danger: the play isn't going on." jill was shaken: but she had the fighting spirit and hated to show that she was shaken. panic was knocking at the door of her soul, but dignity refused to be dislodged. "all the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would be nice to get out, wouldn't it?" "i was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said the man beside her. "the same thought occurred to me. we can stroll out quite comfortably by our own private route. come along." jill looked over her shoulder. derek and lady underhill were merged into the mass of refugees. she could not see them. for an instant a little spasm of pique stung her at the thought that derek had deserted her. she groped her way after her companion, and presently they came by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to the stage. as it opened, smoke blew through, and the smell of burning was formidable. jill recoiled involuntarily. "it's all right," said her companion. "it smells worse than it really is. and, anyway, this is the quickest way out." they passed through onto the stage, and found themselves in a world of noise and confusion compared with which the auditorium which they had left had been a peaceful place. smoke was everywhere. a stage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowing. from somewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came a sound of chopping. jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard, groped, found a handle, and turned it. in the narrow space between the corner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtain lights flashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminution of the noise from the body of the house. the stalls, snatched from the intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other's faces, discovered that they had been behaving indecorously and checked their struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. the relief would be only momentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic. "go straight across the stage," jill heard her companion say, "out along the passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at the stage-door. i think, as there seems no one else around to do it, i'd better go out and say a few soothing words to the customers. otherwise they'll be biting holes in each other." he squeezed through the narrow opening in front of the curtain. "ladies and gentlemen!" jill remained where she was, leaning with one hand against the switchboard. she made no attempt to follow the directions he had given her. she was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being with this man in this adventure. if he stayed, she must stay. to go now through the safety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion. she listened, and found that she could hear plainly in spite of the noise. the smoke was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that the figures of the theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed like brocken specters. she slipped a corner of her cloak across her mouth, and was able to breathe more easily. "ladies and gentlemen, i assure you that there is absolutely no danger. i am a stranger to you, so there is no reason why you should take my word, but fortunately i can give you solid proof. if there were any danger, _i_ wouldn't be here. all that has happened is that the warmth of your reception of the play has set a piece of scenery alight. . . ." a crimson-faced stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands, roared in jill's ear. "gerroutofit!" jill looked at him, puzzled. "'op it!" shouted the stage-hand. he cast his axe down with a clatter. "can't you see the place is afire?" "but--but i'm waiting for . . ." jill pointed to where her ally was still addressing an audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listen to him. the stage-hand squinted out round the edge of the curtain. "if he's a friend of yours, miss, kindly get 'im to cheese it and get a move on. we're clearing out. there's nothing we can do. it's got too much of an 'old. in about another two ticks the roof's going to drop on us." jill's friend came squeezing back through the opening. "hullo! still here?" he blinked approvingly at her through the smoke. "you're a little soldier! well, augustus, what's on your mind?" the simple question seemed to take the stage-hand aback. "wot's on my mind? i'll tell you wot's on my blinking mind . . ." "don't tell me. let me guess. i've got it! the place is on fire!" the stage-hand expectorated disgustedly. flippancy at such a moment offended his sensibilities. "we're 'opping it," he said. "great minds think alike! we are hopping it, too." "you'd better! and damn quick!" "and, as you suggest, damn quick! you think of everything!" jill followed him across the stage. her heart was beating violently. there was not only smoke now, but heat. across the stage little scarlet flames were shooting, and something large and hard, unseen through the smoke, fell with a crash. the air was heavy with the smell of burning paint. "where's sir portwood chester?" enquired her companion of the stage-hand, who hurried beside them. "'opped it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as he swallowed smoke. "strange," said the man in jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "this way. stick to me. strange how the drama anticipates life! at the end of act two there was a scene where sir chester had to creep sombrely out into the night, and now he's gone and done it! ah!" they had stumbled through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage, where the air, though tainted, was comparatively fresh. jill drew a deep breath. her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in his pocket. "here, rollo!" a coin changed hands. "go and get a drink. you need it after all this." "thank you, sir." "don't mention it. you've saved our lives. suppose you hadn't come up and told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire! charred bones, believed to be those of a man and a woman, were found in the ruined edifice!" he turned to jill. "here's the stage-door. shall we creep sombrely out into the night?" the guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of his little hutch, plainly perplexed. he was a slow thinker and a man whose life was ruled by routine: and the events of the evening had left him uncertain how to act. "wot's all this about a fire?" he demanded. jill's friend stopped. "a fire?" he looked at jill. "did you hear anything about a fire?" "they all come bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persisted the door-man. "by george! now i come to think of it, you're perfectly right! there _is_ a fire! if you wait here a little longer, you'll get it in the small of the back. take the advice of an old friend who means you well and vanish. in the inspired words of the lad we've just parted from, 'op it!" the stage-door man turned this over in his mind for a space. "but i'm supposed to stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up!" he said. "that's what i'm supposed to do. stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up! and it ain't but ten-forty-five now." "i see the difficulty," said jill's companion thoughtfully. "it's what you might call an _impasse_. french! well, casabianca, i'm afraid i don't see how to help you. it's a matter for your own conscience. i don't want to lure you from the burning deck: on the other hand, if you stick on here, you'll most certainly be fried on both sides . . . but, tell me. you spoke about locking up something at eleven-thirty. what are you supposed to lock up?" "why, the theatre." "then that's all right. by eleven-thirty there won't be a theatre. if i were you, i should leave quietly and unostentatiously now. tomorrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, you can come and sit on the ruins. good night!" 2. outside, the air was cold and crisp. jill drew her warm cloak closer. round the corner there was noise and shouting. fire-engines had arrived. jill's companion lit a cigarette. "do you wish to stop and see the conflagration?" he asked. jill shivered. she was more shaken than she had realized. "i've seen all the conflagration i want." "same here. well, it's been an exciting evening. started slow, i admit, but warmed up later! what i seem to need at the moment is a restorative stroll along the embankment. do you know, sir portwood chester didn't like the title of my play. he said 'tried by fire' was too melodramatic. well, he can't say now it wasn't appropriate." they made their way towards the river, avoiding the street which was blocked by the crowds and the fire-engines. as they crossed the strand, the man looked back. a red glow was in the sky. "a great blaze!" he said. "what you might call--in fact what the papers will call--a holocaust. quite a treat for the populace." "do you think they will be able to put it out?" "not a chance. it's got too much of a hold. it's a pity you hadn't that garden-hose of yours with you, isn't it!" jill stopped, wide-eyed. "garden-hose?" "don't you remember the garden-hose? i do! i can feel that clammy feeling of the water trickling down my back now!" memory, always a laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by an eleventh-hour rush, raced back to jill. the embankment turned to a sunlit garden, and the january night to a july day. she stared at him. he was looking at her with a whimsical smile. it was a smile which, pleasant today, had seemed mocking and hostile on that afternoon years ago. she had always felt then that he was laughing at her, and at the age of twelve she had resented laughter at her expense. "you surely can't be wally mason!" "i was wondering when you would remember." "but the programme called you something else,--john something." "that was a cunning disguise. wally mason is the only genuine and official name. and, by jove! i've just remembered yours. it was mariner. by the way,"--he paused for an almost imperceptible instant--"is it still?" chapter four 1. jill was hardly aware that he had asked her a question. she was suffering that momentary sense of unreality which comes to us when the years roll away and we are thrown abruptly back into the days of our childhood. the logical side of her mind was quite aware that there was nothing remarkable in the fact that wally mason, who had been to her all these years a boy in an eton suit, should now present himself as a grown man. but for all that the transformation had something of the effect of a conjuring-trick. it was not only the alteration in his appearance that startled her: it was the amazing change in his personality. wally mason had been the _bete noire_ of her childhood. she had never failed to look back at the episode of the garden-hose with the feeling that she had acted well, that--however she might have strayed in those early days from the straight and narrow path--in that one particular crisis she had done the right thing. and now she had taken an instant liking for him. easily as she made friends, she had seldom before felt so immediately drawn to a strange man. gone was the ancient hostility, and in its place a soothing sense of comradeship. the direct effect of this was to make jill feel suddenly old. it was as if some link that joined her to her childhood had been snapped. she glanced down the embankment. close by, to the left, waterloo bridge loomed up, dark and massive against the steel-gray sky, a tram-car, full of home-bound travellers, clattered past over rails that shone with the peculiarly frostbitten gleam that seems to herald snow. across the river, everything was dark and mysterious, except for an occasional lamp-post and the dim illumination of the wharves. it was a depressing prospect, and the thought crossed her mind that to the derelicts whose nightly resting-place was a seat on the embankment the view must seem even bleaker than it did to herself. she gave a little shiver. somehow this sudden severance from the old days had brought with it a forlornness. she seemed to be standing alone in a changed world. "cold?" said wally mason. "a little." "let's walk." they moved westwards. cleopatra's needle shot up beside them, a pointing finger. down on the silent river below, coffin-like row-boats lay moored to the wall. through a break in the trees the clock over the houses of parliament shone for an instant as if suspended in the sky, then vanished as the trees closed in. a distant barge in the direction of battersea wailed and was still. it had a mournful and foreboding sound. jill shivered again. it annoyed her that she could not shake off this quite uncalled-for melancholy, but it withstood every effort. why she should have felt that a chapter, a pleasant chapter, in the book of her life had been closed, she could not have said, but the feeling lingered. "correct me if i am wrong," said wally mason, breaking a silence that had lasted several minutes, "but you seem to me to be freezing in your tracks. ever since i came to london i've had a habit of heading for the embankment in times of mental stress, but perhaps the middle of winter is not quite the moment for communing with the night. the savoy is handy, if we stop walking away from it. i think we might celebrate this reunion with a little supper, don't you?" jill's depression disappeared magically. her mercurial temperament asserted itself. "lights!" she said. "music!" "and food! to an ethereal person like you that remark may seem gross, but i had no dinner." "you poor dear! why not?" "just nervousness." "why, of course." the interlude of the fire had caused her to forget his private and personal connection with the night's events. her mind went back to something he had said in the theatre. "wally--" she stopped, a little embarrassed. "i suppose i ought to call you mr mason, but i've always thought of you . . ." "wally, if you please, jill. it's not as though we were strangers. i haven't my book of etiquette with me, but i fancy that about eleven gallons of cold water down the neck constitutes an introduction. what were you going to say?" "it was what you said to freddie about putting up money. did you really?" "put up the money for that ghastly play? i did. every cent. it was the only way to get it put on." "but why . . . ? i forget what i was going to say!" "why did i want it put on? well, it does seem odd, but i give you my honest word that until tonight i thought the darned thing a masterpiece. i've been writing musical comedies for the last few years, and after you've done that for a while your soul rises up within you and says, 'come, come, my lad! you can do better than this!' that's what mine said, and i believed it. subsequent events have proved that sidney the soul was pulling my leg!" "but--then you've lost a great deal of money?" "the hoarded wealth, if you don't mind my being melodramatic for a moment, of a lifetime. and no honest old servitor who dangled me on his knee as a baby to come along and offer me his savings! they don't make servitors like that in america, worse luck. there is a swedish lady who looks after my simple needs back there, but instinct tells me that, if i were to approach her on the subject of loosening up for the benefit of the young master, she would call a cop. still, i've gained experience, which they say is just as good as cash, and i've enough money left to pay the check, at any rate, so come along." * * * in the supper-room of the savoy hotel there was, as anticipated, food and light and music. it was still early, and the theatres had not yet emptied themselves, so that the big room was as yet but half full. wally mason had found a table in the corner, and proceeded to order with the concentration of a hungry man. "forgive my dwelling so tensely on the bill-of-fare," he said, when the waiter had gone. "you don't know what it means to one in my condition to have to choose between poulet en casserole and kidneys a la maitre d'hotel. a man's cross-roads!" jill smiled happily across the table at him. she could hardly believe that this old friend with whom she had gone through the perils of the night and with whom she was now about to feast was the sinister figure that had cast a shadow on her childhood. he looked positively incapable of pulling a little girl's hair--as no doubt he was. "you always were greedy," she commented. "just before i turned the hose on you, i remember you had made yourself thoroughly disliked by pocketing a piece of my birthday-cake." "do you remember that?" his eyes lit up and he smiled back at her. he had an ingratiating smile. his mouth was rather wide, and it seemed to stretch right across his face. he reminded jill more than ever of a big, friendly dog. "i can feel it now,--all squashy in my pocket, inextricably mingled with a catapult, a couple of marbles, a box of matches, and some string. i was quite the human general store in those days. which reminds me that we have been some time settling down to an exchange of our childhood reminiscences, haven't we?" "i've been trying to realise that you are wally mason. you have altered so." "for the better?" "very much for the better! you were a horrid little brute. you used to terrify me. i never knew when you were going to bound out at me from behind a tree or something. i remember your chasing me for miles, shrieking at the top of your voice!" "sheer embarrassment! i told you just now how i used to worship you. if i shrieked a little, it was merely because i was shy. i did it to hide my devotion." "you certainly succeeded. i never even suspected it." wally sighed. "how like life! i never told my love, but let concealment like a worm i' the bud . . ." "talking of worms, you once put one down my back!" "no, no," said wally in a shocked voice. "not that! i was boisterous, perhaps, but surely always the gentleman." "you did! in the shrubbery. there had been a thunderstorm and . . ." "i remember the incident now. a mere misunderstanding. i had done with the worm, and thought you might be glad to have it." "you were always doing things like that. once you held me over the pond and threatened to drop me into the water--in the winter! just before christmas. it was a particularly mean thing to do, because i couldn't even kick your shins for fear you would let me fall. luckily uncle chris came up and made you stop." "you considered that a fortunate occurrence, did you?" said wally. "well, perhaps from your point of view it may have been. i saw the thing from a different angle. your uncle had a whangee with him, and the episode remains photographically lined on the tablets of my mind when a yesterday has faded from its page. my friends sometimes wonder what i mean when i say that my old wound troubles me in frosty weather. by the way, how is your uncle?" "oh, he's very well. just as lazy as ever. he's away at present, down at brighton." "he didn't strike me as lazy," said wally thoughtfully. "dynamic would express it better. but perhaps i happened to encounter him in a moment of energy." "he doesn't look a day older than he did then." "i'm afraid i don't recall his appearance very distinctly. on the only occasion on which we ever really foregathered--hobnobbed, so to speak--he was behind me most of the time. ah!" the waiter had returned with a loaded tray. "the food! forgive me if i seem a little distrait for a moment or two. there is man's work before me!" "and later on, i suppose, you would like a chop or something to take away in your pocket?" "i will think it over. possibly a little soup. my needs are very simple these days." jill watched him with a growing sense of satisfaction. there was something boyishly engaging about this man. she felt at home with him. he affected her in much the same way as did freddie rooke. he was a definite addition to the things that went to make her happy. she liked him particularly for being such a good loser. she had always been a good loser herself, and the quality was one which she admired. it was nice of him to dismiss from his conversation--and apparently from his thoughts--that night's fiasco and all that it must have cost him. she wondered how much he had lost. certainly something very substantial. yet it seemed to trouble him not at all. jill considered his behavior gallant, and her heart warmed to him. this was how a man ought to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. wally sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair. "an unpleasant exhibition!" he said apologetically. "but unavoidable. and, anyway, i take it that you would prefer to have me well-fed and happy about the place than swooning on the floor with starvation. a wonderful thing, food! i am now ready to converse intelligently on any subject you care to suggest. i have eaten rose-leaves and am no more a golden ass, so to speak! what shall we talk about?" "tell me about yourself." wally beamed. "there is no nobler topic! but what aspect of myself do you wish me to touch on? my thoughts, my tastes, my amusements, my career, or what? i can talk about myself for hours. my friends in new york often complain about it bitterly." "new york?" said jill. "oh then you live in america?" "yes. i only came over here to see that darned false alarm of a play of mine put on." "why didn't you put it on in new york?" "too many of the lads of the village know me over there. this was a new departure, you see. what the critics in those parts expect from me is something entitled 'wow! wow!' or 'the girl from yonkers'. it would have unsettled their minds to find me breaking out in poetic drama. they are men of coarse fibre and ribald mind and they would have been very funny about it. i thought it wiser to come over here among strangers, little thinking that i should sit in the next seat to somebody i had known all my life." "but when did you go to america? and why?" "i think it must have been four--five--well, quite a number of years after the hose episode. probably you didn't observe that i wasn't still around, but we crept silently out of the neighborhood round about that time and went to live in london." his tone lost its lightness momentarily. "my father died, you know, and that sort of broke things up. he didn't leave any too much money, either. apparently we had been living on rather too expansive a scale during the time i knew you. at any rate, i was more or less up against it until your father got me a job in an office in new york." "my father!" "yes. it was wonderfully good of him to bother about me. i didn't suppose he would have known me by sight, and even if he had remembered me, i shouldn't have imagined that the memory would have been a pleasant one. but he couldn't have taken more trouble if i had been a blood-relation." "that was just like father," said jill softly. "he was a prince." "but you aren't in the office now?" "no. i found i had a knack of writing verses and things, and i wrote a few vaudeville songs. then i came across a man named bevan at a music-publisher's. he was just starting to write music, and we got together and turned out some vaudeville sketches, and then a manager sent for us to fix up a show that was dying on the road and we had the good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it was pretty good going. managers are just like sheep. they know nothing whatever about the show business themselves, and they come flocking after anybody who looks as if he could turn out the right stuff. they never think any one any good except the fellow who had the last hit. so, while your luck lasts, you have to keep them off with a stick. then you have a couple of failures, and they skip off after somebody else, till you have another success, and then they all come skipping back again, bleating plaintively. george bevan got married the other day--you probably read about it--he married lord marshmoreton's daughter. lucky devil!" "are you married?" "no." "you were faithful to my memory?" said jill with a smile. "i was." "it can't last," said jill, shaking her head. "one of these days you'll meet some lovely american girl and then you'll put a worm down her back or pull her hair or whatever it is you do when you want to show your devotion, and . . . what are you looking at? is something interesting going on behind me?" he had been looking past her out into the room. "it's nothing," he said. "only there's a statuesque old lady about two tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervals for refreshment, for the last five minutes. you seem to fascinate her." "an old lady?" "yes. with a glare! she looks like dunsany's bird of the difficult eye. count ten and turn carelessly round. there, at that table. almost behind you." "good heavens!" exclaimed jill. she turned quickly round again. "what's the matter? do you know her? somebody you don't want to meet?" "it's lady underhill! and derek's with her!" wally had been lifting his glass. he put it down rather suddenly. "derek?" he said. "derek underhill. the man i'm engaged to marry." there was a moment's silence. "oh!" said wally thoughtfully. "the man you're engaged to marry? yes, i see!" he raised his glass again, and drank its contents quickly. 2. jill looked at her companion anxiously. recent events had caused her completely to forget the existence of lady underhill. she was always so intensely interested in what she happened to be doing at the moment that she often suffered these temporary lapses of memory. it occurred to her now,--too late, as usual,--that the savoy hotel was the last place in london where she should have come to supper with wally. it was the hotel where lady underhill was staying. she frowned. life had suddenly ceased to be careless and happy, and had become a problem-ridden thing, full of perplexity and misunderstandings. "what shall i do?" wally mason started at the sound of her voice. he appeared to be deep in thoughts of his own. "i beg your pardon?" "what shall i do?" "i shouldn't be worried." "derek will be awfully cross." wally's good-humored mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "why?" he said. "there's nothing wrong in your having supper with an old friend." "n-no," said jill doubtfully. "but . . ." "derek underhill," said wally reflectively. "is that sir derek underhill, whose name one's always seeing in the papers?" "derek is in the papers a lot. he's an m.p. and all sorts of things." "good-looking fellow. ah, here's the coffee." "i don't want any, thanks." "nonsense. why spoil your meal because of this? do you smoke?" "no, thanks." "given it up, eh? daresay you're wise. stunts the growth and increases the expenses." "given it up?" "don't you remember sharing one of your father's cigars with me behind the haystack in the meadow? we cut it in half. i finished my half, but i fancy about three puffs were enough for you. those were happy days!" "that one wasn't! of course i remember it now. i don't suppose i shall ever forget it." "the thing was my fault, as usual. i recollect i dared you." "yes. i always took a dare." "do you still?" "what do you mean?" wally knocked the ash off his cigarette. "well," he said slowly, "suppose i were to dare you to get up and walk over to that table and look your fiancã© in the eye and say, 'stop scowling at my back hair! i've a perfect right to be supping with an old friend!'--would you do it?" "is he?" said jill, startled. "scowling? can't you feel it on the back of your head?" he drew thoughtfully at his cigarette. "if i were you i should stop that sort of thing at the source. it's a habit that can't be discouraged in a husband too early. scowling is the civilized man's substitute for wife-beating." jill moved uncomfortably in her chair. her quick temper resented his tone. there was a hostility, a hardly veiled contempt in his voice which stung her. derek was sacred. whoever criticized him, presumed. wally, a few minutes before a friend and an agreeable companion, seemed to her to have changed. he was once more the boy whom she had disliked in the old days. there was a gleam in her eyes which should have warned him, but he went on. "i should imagine that this derek of yours is not one of our leading sunbeams. well, i suppose he could hardly be, if that's his mother and there is anything in heredity." "please don't criticize derek," said jill coldly. "i was only saying . . ." "never mind. i don't like it." a slow flush crept over wally's face. he made no reply, and there fell between them a silence that was like a shadow. jill sipped her coffee miserably. she was regretting that little spurt of temper. she wished she could have recalled the words. not that it was the actual words that had torn asunder this gossamer thing, the friendship which they had begun to weave like some fragile web: it was her manner, the manner of the princess rebuking an underling. she knew that, if she had struck him, she could not have offended wally more deeply. there are some men whose ebullient natures enable them to rise unscathed from the worst snub. wally, her intuition told her, was not that kind of man. there was only one way of mending the matter. in these clashes of human temperaments, these sudden storms that spring up out of a clear sky, it is possible sometimes to repair the damage, if the psychological moment is resolutely seized, by talking rapidly and with detachment on neutral topics. words have made the rift, and words alone can bridge it. but neither jill nor her companion could find words, and the silence lengthened grimly. when wally spoke, it was in the level tones of a polite stranger. "your friends have gone." his voice was the voice in which, when she went on railway journeys, fellow-travellers in the carriage enquired of jill if she would prefer the window up or down. it had the effect of killing her regrets and feeding her resentment. she was a girl who never refused a challenge, and she set herself to be as frigidly polite and aloof as he. "really?" she said. "when did they leave?" "a moment ago." the lights gave the warning flicker that announces the arrival of the hour of closing. in the momentary darkness they both rose. wally scrawled his name across the check which the waiter had insinuated upon his attention. "i suppose we had better be moving?" they crossed the room in silence. everybody was moving in the same direction. the broad stairway leading to the lobby was crowded with chattering supper-parties. the lights had gone up again. at the cloak-room wally stopped. "i see underhill waiting up there," he said casually, "to take you home, i suppose. shall we say good-night? i'm staying in the hotel." jill glanced towards the head of the stairs. derek was there. he was alone. lady underhill presumably had gone up to her room in the elevator. wally was holding out his hand. his face was stolid, and his eyes avoided hers. "good-bye," he said. "good-bye," said jill. she felt curiously embarrassed. at this last moment hostility had weakened, and she was conscious of a desire to make amends. she and this man had been through much together that night, much that was perilous and much that was pleasant. a sudden feeling of remorse came over her. "you'll come and see us, won't you?" she said a little wistfully. "i'm sure my uncle would like to meet you again." "it's very good of you," said wally, "but i'm afraid i shall be going back to america at any moment now." pique, that ally of the devil, regained its slipping grip upon jill. "oh? i'm sorry," she said indifferently. "well, goodbye, then." "good-bye." "i hope you have a pleasant voyage." "thanks." he turned into the cloak-room, and jill went up the stairs to join derek. she felt angry and depressed, full of a sense of the futility of things. people flashed into one's life and out again. where was the sense of it? 3. derek had been scowling, and derek still scowled. his eyebrows were formidable, and his mouth smiled no welcome at jill as she approached him. the evening, portions of which jill had found so enjoyable, had contained no pleasant portions for derek. looking back over a lifetime whose events had been almost uniformly agreeable, he told himself that he could not recall another day which had gone so completely awry. it had started with the fog. he hated fog. then had come that meeting with his mother at charing cross, which had been enough to upset him by itself. after that, rising to a crescendo of unpleasantness, the day had provided that appalling situation at the albany, the recollection of which still made him tingle; and there had followed the silent dinner, the boredom of the early part of the play, the fire at the theatre, the undignified scramble for the exits, and now this discovery of the girl whom he was engaged to marry supping at the savoy with a fellow he didn't remember ever having seen in his life. all these things combined to induce in derek a mood bordering on ferocity. his birth and income, combining to make him one of the spoiled children of the world, had fitted him ill for such a series of catastrophes. breeding counts. had he belonged to a lower order of society, derek would probably have seized jill by the throat and started to choke her. being what he was, he merely received her with frozen silence and led her out to the waiting taxi-cab. it was only when the cab had started on its journey that he found relief in speech. "well," he said, mastering with difficulty an inclination to raise his voice to a shout, "perhaps you will kindly explain?" jill had sunk back against the cushions of the cab. the touch of his body against hers always gave her a thrill, half pleasurable, half frightening. she had never met anybody who affected her in this way as derek did. she moved a little closer, and felt for his hand. but, as she touched it, it retreated--coldly. her heart sank. it was like being cut in public by somebody very dignified. "derek, darling!" her lips trembled. others had seen this side of derek underhill frequently, for he was a man who believed in keeping the world in its place, but she never. to her he had always been the perfect gracious knight. a little too perfect, perhaps, a trifle too gracious, possibly, but she had been too deeply in love to notice that. "don't be cross!" the english language is the richest in the world, and yet somehow in moments when words count most we generally choose the wrong ones. the adjective "cross" as a description of his jove-like wrath that consumed his whole being jarred upon derek profoundly. it was as though prometheus, with the vultures tearing his liver, had been asked if he were piqued. "cross!" the cab rolled on. lights from lamp-posts flashed in at the windows. it was a pale, anxious little face that they lit up when they shone upon jill. "i can't understand you," said derek at last. jill noticed that he had not yet addressed her by her name. he was speaking straight out in front of him as if he were soliloquizing. "i simply cannot understand you. after what happened before dinner tonight, for you to cap everything by going off alone to supper at a restaurant, where half the people in the room must have known you, with a man . . ." "you don't understand!" "exactly! i said i did not understand." the feeling of having scored a point made derek feel a little better. "i admit it. your behavior is incomprehensible. where did you meet this fellow?" "i met him at the theatre. he was the author of the play." "the man you told me you had been talking to? the fellow who scraped acquaintance with you between the acts?" "but i found out he was an old friend. i mean, i knew him when i was a child." "you didn't tell me that," "i only found it out later." "after he had invited you to supper! it's maddening!" cried derek, the sense of his wrongs surging back over him. "what do you suppose my mother thought? she asked me who the man with you was. i had to say i didn't know! what do you suppose she thought?" it is to be doubted whether anything else in the world could have restored the fighting spirit to jill's cowering soul at that moment: but the reference to lady underhill achieved this miracle. that deep mutual antipathy which is so much more common than love at first sight had sprung up between the two at the instant of their meeting. the circumstances of that meeting had caused it to take root and grow. to jill derek's mother was by this time not so much a fellow human being whom she disliked as a something, a sort of force, that made for her unhappiness. she was a menace and a loathing. "if your mother had asked me that question," she retorted with spirit "i should have told her that he was the man who got me safely out of the theatre after you . . ." she checked herself. she did not want to say the unforgiveable thing. "you see," she said, more quietly, "you had disappeared. . . ." "my mother is an old woman," said derek stiffly. "naturally i had to look after her. i called to you to follow." "oh, i understand. i'm simply trying to explain what happened. i was there all alone, and wally mason . . ." "wally!" derek uttered a short laugh, almost a bark. "it got to christian names, eh?" jill set her teeth. "i told you i knew him as a child. i always called him wally then." "i beg your pardon. i had forgotten." "he got me out through the pass-door onto the stage and through the stage-door." derek was feeling cheated. he had the uncomfortable sensation that comes to men who grandly contemplate mountains and . . . see them dwindle to mole-hills. the apparently outrageous had shown itself in explanation nothing so out-of-the-way after all. he seized upon the single point in jill's behavior that still constituted a grievance. "there was no need for you to go to supper with the man!" jove-like wrath had ebbed away to something deplorably like a querulous grumble. "you should have gone straight home. you must have known how anxious i would be about you." "well, really, derek, dear! you didn't seem so very anxious! you were having supper yourself quite cosily." the human mind is curiously constituted. it is worthy of record that, despite his mother's obvious disapproval of his engagement, despite all the occurrences of this dreadful day, it was not till she made this remark that derek underhill first admitted to himself that, intoxicate his senses as she might, there was a possibility that jill mariner was not the ideal wife for him. the idea came and went more quickly than breath upon a mirror. it passed, but it had been. there are men who fear repartee in a wife more keenly than a sword. derek was one of these. like most men of single outlook, whose dignity is their most precious possession, he winced from an edged tongue. "my mother was greatly upset," he replied coldly. "i thought a cup of soup would do her good. and, as for being anxious about you, i telephoned to your home to ask if you had come in." "and when," thought jill, "they told you i hadn't, you went off to supper!" she did not speak the words. if she had an edged tongue, she had also the control of it. she had no wish to wound derek. whole-hearted in everything she did, she loved him with her whole heart. there might be specks upon her idol--that its feet might be clay she could never believe--but they mattered nothing. she loved him. "i'm so sorry, dear," she said. "so awfully sorry! i've been a bad girl, haven't i?" she felt for his hand again, and this time he allowed it to remain stiffly in her grasp. it was like being grudgingly recognized by somebody very dignified who had his doubts about you but reserved judgment. the cab drew up at the door of the house in ovington square which jill's uncle christopher had settled upon as a suitable address for a gentleman of his standing. ("in a sense, my dear child i admit, it is brompton road, but it opens into lennox gardens, which makes it to all intents and purposes sloane street") jill put up her face to be kissed, like a penitent child. "i'll never be naughty again!" for a flickering instant derek hesitated. the drive, long as it was, had been too short wholly to restore his equanimity. then the sense of her nearness, her sweetness, the faint perfume of her hair, and her eyes, shining softly in the darkness so close to his own, overcame him. he crushed her to him. jill disappeared into the house with a happy laugh. it had been a terrible day, but it had ended well. "the albany," said derek to the cabman. he leaned back against the cushions. his senses were in a whirl. the cab rolled on. presently his exalted mood vanished as quickly as it had come. jill absent always affected him differently from jill present. he was not a man of strong imagination, and the stimulus of her waned when she was not with him. long before the cab reached the albany the frown was back on his face. 4. arriving at the albany, he found freddie rooke lying on his spine in a deep arm-chair. his slippered feet were on the mantelpiece, and he was restoring his wasted tissues with a strong whisky-and-soda. one of the cigars which parker, the valet, had stamped with the seal of his approval was in the corner of his mouth. _the sporting times_, with a perusal of which he had been soothing his fluttered nerves, had fallen on the floor beside the chair. he had finished reading, and was now gazing peacefully at the ceiling, his mind a perfect blank. there was nothing the matter with freddie. "hullo, old thing," he observed as derek entered. "so you buzzed out of the fiery furnace all right? i was wondering how you had got along. how are you feeling? i'm not the man i was! these things get the old system all stirred up! i'll do anything in reason to oblige and help things along and all that, but to be called on at a moment's notice to play shadrach, meshach, and abednego rolled into one, without rehearsal or make-up, is a bit too thick! no, young feller-me-lad! if theatre-fires are going to be the fashion this season, the last of the rookes will sit quietly at home and play solitaire. mix yourself a drink of something, old man, or something of that kind. by the way, your jolly old mater. all right? not even singed? fine! make a long arm and gather in a cigar." and freddie, having exerted himself to play the host in a suitable manner, wedged himself more firmly into his chair and blew a cloud of smoke. derek sat down. he lit a cigar, and stared silently at the fire. from the mantelpiece jill's photograph smiled down, but he did not look at it. presently his attitude began to weigh upon freddie. freddie had had a trying evening. what he wanted just now was merry prattle, and his friend did not seem disposed to contribute his share. he removed his feet from the mantelpiece, and wriggled himself sideways, so that he could see derek's face. its gloom touched him. apart from his admiration for derek, he was a warm-hearted young man, and sympathized with affliction when it presented itself to his notice. "something on your mind, old bean?" he enquired delicately. derek did not answer for a moment. then he reflected that, little as he esteemed the other's mentality, he and freddie had known each other a long time, and that it would be a relief to confide in some one. and freddie, moreover, was an old friend of jill and the man who had introduced him to her. "yes," he said. "i'm listening, old top," said freddie. "release the film." derek drew at his cigar, and watched the smoke as it curled to the ceiling. "it's about jill." freddie signified his interest by wriggling still further sideways. "jill, eh?" "freddie, she's so damned impulsive!" freddie nearly rolled out of his chair. this, he took it, was what writing-chappies called a coincidence. "rummy you should say that," he ejaculated. "i was telling her exactly the same thing myself only this evening." he hesitated. "i fancy i can see what you're driving at, old thing. the watchword is 'what ho, the mater!' yes, no? you've begun to get a sort of idea that if jill doesn't watch her step, she's apt to sink pretty low in the betting, what? i know exactly what you mean! you and i know all right that jill's a topper. but one can see that to your mater she might seem a bit different. i mean to say, your jolly old mater only judging by first impressions, and the meeting not having come off quite as scheduled . . . i say, old man," he broke off, "fearfully sorry and all that about that business. you know what i mean! wouldn't have had it happen for the world. i take it the mater was a trifle peeved? not to say perturbed and chagrined? i seemed to notice at dinner." "she was furious, of course. she did not refer to the matter when we were alone together, but there was no need to. i knew what she was thinking." derek threw away his cigar. freddie noted this evidence of an overwrought soul--the thing was only a quarter smoked, and it was a dashed good brand, mark you--with concern. "the whole thing," he conceded, "was a bit unfortunate." derek began to pace the room. "freddie!" "on the spot, old man!" "something's got to be done!" "absolutely!" freddie nodded solemnly. he had taken this matter greatly to heart. derek was his best friend, and he had always been extremely fond of him. it hurt him to see things going wrong. "i'll tell you what, old bean. let me handle this binge for you." "you?" "me! the final rooke!" he jumped up, and leaned against the mantelpiece. "i'm the lad to do it. i've known jill for years. she'll listen to me. i'll talk to her like a dutch uncle and make her understand the general scheme of things. i'll take her out to tea tomorrow and slang her in no uncertain voice! leave the whole thing to me, laddie!" derek considered. "it might do some good," he said. "good?" said freddie. "it's _it_, dear boy! it's a wheeze! you toddle off to bed and have a good sleep. i'll fix the whole thing for you!" chapter five 1. there are streets in london into which the sun seems never to penetrate. some of these are in fashionable quarters, and it is to be supposed that their inhabitants find an address which looks well on note-paper a sufficient compensation for the gloom that goes with it. the majority, however, are in the mean neighborhoods of the great railway termini, and appear to offer no compensation whatever. they are lean, furtive streets, gray as the january sky with a sort of arrested decay. they smell of cabbage and are much prowled over by vagrom cats. at night they are empty and dark, and a stillness broods on them, broken only by the cracked tingle of an occasional piano playing one of the easier hymns, a form of music to which the dwellers in the dingy houses are greatly addicted. by day they achieve a certain animation through the intermittent appearance of women in aprons, who shake rugs out of the front doors or, emerging from areas, go down to the public-house on the corner with jugs to fetch the supper-beer. in almost every ground-floor window there is a card announcing that furnished lodgings may be had within. you will find these streets by the score if you leave the main thoroughfares and take a short cut on your way to euston, to paddington, or to waterloo. but the dingiest and deadliest and most depressing lie round about victoria. and daubeny street, pimlico, is one of the worst of them all. on the afternoon following the events recorded, a girl was dressing in the ground-floor room of number nine, daubeny street. a tray bearing the remains of a late breakfast stood on the rickety table beside a bowl of wax flowers. from beneath the table peered the green cover of a copy of _variety_. a gray parrot in a cage by the window cracked seed and looked out into the room with a satirical eye. he had seen all this so many times before,--nelly bryant arraying herself in her smartest clothes to go out and besiege agents in their offices off the strand. it happened every day. in an hour or two she would come back as usual, say "oh, gee!" in a tired sort of voice, and then bill the parrot's day proper would begin. he was a bird who liked the sound of his own voice, and he never got the chance of a really sustained conversation till nelly returned in the evening. "who cares?" said bill, and cracked another seed. if rooms are an indication of the characters of their occupants, nelly bryant came well out of the test of her surroundings. nothing can make a london furnished room much less horrible than it intends to be, but nelly had done her best. the furniture, what there was of it, was of that lodging-house kind which resembles nothing else in the world. but a few little touches here and there, a few instinctively tasteful alterations in the general scheme of things, had given the room almost a cosy air. later on, with the gas lit, it would achieve something approaching homeiness. nelly, like many another nomad, had taught herself to accomplish a good deal with poor material. on the road in america, she had sometimes made even a bedroom in a small hotel tolerably comfortable, than which there is no greater achievement. oddly, considering her life, she had a genius for domesticity. today, not for the first time, nelly was feeling unhappy. the face that looked back at her out of the mirror at which she was arranging her most becoming hat was weary. it was only a moderately pretty face, but loneliness and underfeeding had given it a wistful expression that had charm. unfortunately, it was not the sort of charm which made a great appeal to the stout, whisky-nourished men who sat behind paper-littered tables, smoking cigars, in the rooms marked "private" in the offices of theatrical agents. nelly had been out of a "shop" now for many weeks,--ever since, in fact, "follow the girl" had finished its long ran at the regal theatre. "follow the girl," an american musical comedy, had come over from new york with an american company, of which nelly had been a humble unit, and, after playing a year in london and some weeks in the number one towns, had returned to new york. it did not cheer nelly up in the long evenings in daubeny street to reflect that, if she had wished, she could have gone home with the rest of the company. a mad impulse had seized her to try her luck in london, and here she was now, marooned. "who cares?" said bill. for a bird who enjoyed talking he was a little limited in his remarks and apt to repeat himself. "i do, you poor fish!" said nelly, completing her maneuvers with the hat and turning to the cage. "it's all right for you--you have a swell time with nothing to do but sit there and eat seed--but how do you suppose i enjoy tramping around, looking for work and never finding any?" she picked up her gloves. "oh, well!" she said. "wish me luck!" "good-bye, boy!" said the parrot, clinging to the bars. nelly thrust a finger into the cage and scratched his head. "anxious to get rid of me, aren't you? well, so long." "good-bye, boy!" "all right, i'm going. be good!" "woof-woof-woof!" barked bill the parrot, not committing himself to any promises. for some moments after nelly had gone he remained hunched on his perch, contemplating the infinite. then he sauntered along to the seed-box and took some more light nourishment. he always liked to spread his meals out, to make them last longer. a drink of water to wash the food down, and he returned to the middle of the cage, where he proceeded to conduct a few intimate researches with his beak under his left wing. after which he mewed like a cat, and relapsed into silent meditation once more. he closed his eyes and pondered on his favorite problem--why was he a parrot? this was always good for an hour or so, and it was three o'clock before he had come to his customary decision that he didn't know. then, exhausted by brain-work and feeling a trifle hipped by the silence of the room, he looked about him for some way of jazzing existence up a little. it occurred to him that if he barked again it might help. "woof-woof-woof!" good as far as it went, but it did not go far enough. it was not real excitement. something rather more dashing seemed to him to be indicated. he hammered for a moment or two on the floor of his cage, ate a mouthful of the newspaper there, and stood with his head on one side, chewing thoughtfully. it didn't taste as good as usual. he suspected nelly of having changed his _daily mail_ for the _daily express_ or something. he swallowed the piece of paper, and was struck by the thought that a little climbing exercise might be what his soul demanded. (you hang on by your beak and claws and work your way up to the roof. it sounds tame, but it's something to do.) he tried it. and, as he gripped the door of the cage, it swung open. bill the parrot now perceived that this was going to be one of those days. he had not had a bit of luck like this for months. for awhile he sat regarding the open door. unless excited by outside influences, he never did anything in a hurry. then proceeding cautiously, he passed out into the room. he had been out there before, but always chaperoned by nelly. this was something quite different. it was an adventure. he hopped onto the window-sill. there was a ball of yellow wool there, but he had lunched and could eat nothing. he cast around in his mind for something to occupy him, and perceived suddenly that the world was larger than he had supposed. apparently there was a lot of it outside the room. how long this had been going on, he did not know, but obviously it was a thing to be investigated. the window was open at the bottom, and just outside the window were what he took to be the bars of another and larger cage. as a matter of fact they were the railings which afforded a modest protection to number nine. they ran the length of the house, and were much used by small boys as a means of rattling sticks. one of these stick-rattlers passed as bill stood there looking down. the noise startled him for a moment, then he seemed to come to the conclusion that this sort of thing was to be expected if you went out into the great world and that a parrot who intended to see life must not allow himself to be deterred by trifles. he crooned a little, and finally, stepping in a stately way over the window-sill, with his toes turned in at right angles, caught at the top of the railing with his beak, and proceeded to lower himself. arrived at the level of the street, he stood looking out. a dog trotted up, spied him, and came to sniff. "good-bye, boy!" said bill chattily. the dog was taken aback. hitherto, in his limited experience, birds had been birds and men men. here was a blend of the two. what was to be done about it? he barked tentatively, then, finding that nothing disastrous ensued, pushed his nose between two of the bars and barked again. any one who knew bill could have told him that he was asking for it, and he got it. bill leaned forward and nipped his nose. the dog started back with a howl of agony. he was learning something new every minute. "woof-woof-woof!" said bill sardonically. he perceived trousered legs, four of them, and, cocking his eye upwards, saw that two men of the lower orders stood before him. they were gazing down at him in the stolid manner peculiar to the proletariat of london in the presence of the unusual. for some minutes they stood drinking him in, then one of them gave judgment. "it's a parrot!" he removed a pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem. "a perishin' parrot, that is, erb." "ah!" said erb, a man of few words. "a parrot," proceeded the other. he was seeing clearer into the matter every moment. "that's a parrot, that is, erb. my brother joe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. come from abroad, _they_ do. my brother joe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. red-'aired gel she was. married a feller down at the docks. _she_ 'ad one of 'em. parrots they're called." he bent down for a closer inspection, and inserted a finger through the railings. erb abandoned his customary taciturnity and spoke words of warning. "tike care 'e don't sting yer, 'enry!" henry seemed wounded. "woddyer mean sting me? i know all abart parrots, i do. my brother joe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. they don't 'urt yer, not if you're kind to 'em. you know yer pals when you see 'em, don't yer, mate?" he went on, addressing bill, who was contemplating the finger with one half-closed eye. "good-bye, boy," said the parrot, evading the point. "jear that?" cried henry delightedly. "goo'-bye, boy!' 'uman they are!" "'e'll 'ave a piece out of yer finger," warned erb, the suspicious. "wot, 'im!" henry's voice was indignant. he seemed to think that his reputation as an expert on parrots had been challenged. "'e wouldn't 'ave no piece out of my finger." "bet yer a narf-pint 'e would 'ave a piece out of yer finger," persisted the skeptic. "no blinkin' parrot's goin' to 'ave no piece of no finger of mine! my brother joe's wife's sister's parrot never 'ad no piece out of no finger of mine!" he extended the finger further and waggled it enticingly beneath bill's beak. "cheerio, matey!" he said winningly. "polly want a nut?" whether it was mere indolence or whether the advertised docility of that other parrot belonging to henry's brother's wife's sister had caused him to realize that there was a certain standard of good conduct for his species one cannot say: but for awhile bill merely contemplated temptation with a detached eye. "see!" said henry. "woof-woof-woof!" said bill. "_wow-wow-wow!_" yapped the dog, suddenly returning to the scene and going on with the argument at the point where he had left off. the effect on bill was catastrophic. ever a high-strung bird, he lost completely the repose which stamps the caste of vere de vere and the better order of parrot. his nerves were shocked, and, as always under such conditions, his impulse was to bite blindly. he bit, and henry--one feels sorry for henry: he was a well-meaning man--leaped back with a loud howl. "that'll be 'arf a pint," said erb, always the business man. there was a lull in the rapid action. the dog, mumbling softly to himself, had moved away again and was watching affairs from the edge of the sidewalk. erb, having won his point, was silent once more. henry sucked his finger. bill, having met the world squarely and shown it what was what, stood where he was, whistling nonchalantly. henry removed his finger from his mouth. "lend me the loan of that stick of yours, erb," he said tensely. erb silently yielded up the stout stick which was his inseparable companion. henry, a vastly different man from the genial saunterer of a moment ago, poked wildly through the railings. bill, panic-stricken now and wishing for nothing better than to be back in his cosy cage, shrieked loudly for help. and freddie rooke, running the corner with jill, stopped dead and turned pale. "good god!" said freddie. 2. in pursuance of his overnight promise to derek, freddie rooke had got in touch with jill through the medium of the telephone immediately after breakfast, and had arranged to call at ovington square in the afternoon. arrived there, he found jill with a telegram in her hand. her uncle christopher, who had been enjoying a breath of sea-air down at brighton, was returning by an afternoon train, and jill had suggested that freddie should accompany her to victoria, pick up uncle chris, and escort him home. freddie, whose idea had been a _tete-a-tete_ involving a brotherly lecture on impetuosity, had demurred but had given way in the end; and they had set out to walk to victoria together. their way had lain through daubeny street, and they turned the corner just as the brutal onslaught on the innocent henry had occurred. bill's shrieks, which were of an appalling timbre, brought them to a halt. "what is it?" cried jill. "it sounds like a murder!" "nonsense!" "i don't know, you know this is the sort of street chappies are murdering people in all the time." they caught sight of the group in front of them, and were reassured. nobody could possibly be looking so aloof and distrait as erb, if there were a murder going on. "it's a bird!" "it's a jolly old parrot. see it? just inside the railings." a red-hot wave of rage swept over jill. whatever her defects,--and already this story has shown her far from perfect,--she had the excellent quality of loving animals and blazing into fury when she saw them ill-treated. at least three draymen were going about london with burning ears as the result of what she had said to them on discovering them abusing their patient horses. zoologically, bill the parrot was not an animal, but he counted as one with jill, and she sped down daubeny street to his rescue,--freddie, spatted and hatted and trousered as became the man of fashion, following disconsolately, ruefully aware that he did not look his best sprinting like that. but jill was cutting out a warm pace, and he held his hat on with one neatly-gloved hand and did what he could to keep up. jill reached the scene of battle, and, stopping, eyed henry with a baleful glare. we, who have seen henry in his calmer moments and know him for the good fellow he was, are aware that he was more sinned against than sinning. if there is any spirit of justice in us, we are pro-henry. in his encounter with bill the parrot, henry undoubtedly had right on his side. his friendly overtures, made in the best spirit of kindliness, had been repulsed. he had been severely bitten. and he had lost half a pint of beer to erb. as impartial judges we have no other course before us than to wish henry luck and bid him go to it. but jill, who had not seen the opening stages of the affair, thought far otherwise. she merely saw in henry a great brute of a man poking at a defenceless bird with a stick. she turned to freddie, who had come up at a gallop and was wondering why the deuce this sort of thing happened to him out of a city of six millions. "make him stop, freddie!" "oh, i say you know, what!" "can't you see he's hurting the poor thing? make him leave off! brute!" she added to henry (for whom one's heart bleeds), as he jabbed once again at his adversary. freddie stepped reluctantly up to henry, and tapped him on the shoulder. freddie was one of those men who have a rooted idea that a conversation of this sort can only be begun by a tap on the shoulder. "look here, you know, you can't do this sort of thing, you know!" said freddie. henry raised a scarlet face. "'oo are _you?_" he demanded. this attack from the rear, coming on top of his other troubles, tried his restraint sorely. "well--" freddie hesitated. it seemed silly to offer the fellow one of his cards. "well, as a matter of fact, my name's rooke . . ." "and who," pursued henry, "arsked _you_ to come shoving your ugly mug in 'ere?" "well, if you put it that way . . ." "'e comes messing abart," said henry complainingly, addressing the universe, "and interfering in what don't concern 'im and mucking around and interfering and messing abart. . . . why," he broke off in a sudden burst of eloquence, "i could eat two of you for a relish wiv me tea, even if you 'ave got white spats!" here erb, who had contributed nothing to the conversation, remarked "ah!" and expectorated on the sidewalk. the point, one gathers, seemed to erb well taken. a neat thrust, was erb's verdict. "just because you've got white spats," proceeded henry, on whose sensitive mind these adjuncts of the costume of the well-dressed man about town seemed to have made a deep and unfavorable impression, "you think you can come mucking around and messing abart and interfering and mucking around. this bird's bit me in the finger, and 'ere's the finger, if you don't believe me--and i'm going to twist 'is ruddy neck, if all the perishers with white spats in london come messing abart and mucking around, so you take them white spats of yours 'ome and give 'em to the old woman to cook for your sunday dinner!" and henry, having cleansed his stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart, shoved the stick energetically once more through the railings. jill darted forward. always a girl who believed that, if you want a thing well done, you must do it yourself, she had applied to freddie for assistance merely as a matter of form. all the time she had felt that freddie was a broken reed, and such he had proved himself. freddie's policy in this affair was obviously to rely on the magic of speech, and any magic his speech might have had was manifestly offset by the fact that he was wearing white spats and that henry, apparently, belonged to some sort of league or society which had for its main object the discouragement of white spats. it was plainly no good leaving the conduct of the campaign to freddie. whatever was to be done must be done by herself. she seized the stick and wrenched it out of henry's hand. "woof-woof-woof!" said bill the parrot. no dispassionate auditor could have failed to detect the nasty ring of sarcasm. it stung henry. he was not normally a man who believed in violence to the gentler sex outside a clump on the head of his missus when the occasion seemed to demand it: but now he threw away the guiding principles of a lifetime and turned on jill like a tiger. "gimme that stick!" "get back!" "here, i say, you know!" said freddie. henry, now thoroughly overwrought, made a rush at jill: and jill, who had a straight eye, hit him accurately on the side of the head. "goo!" said henry, and sat down. and then, from behind jill, a voice spoke. "what's all this?" a stout policeman had manifested himself from empty space. "this won't do!" said the policeman. erb, who had been a silent spectator of the fray, burst into speech. "she 'it 'im!" the policeman looked at jill. he was an officer of many years' experience in the force, and time had dulled in him that respect for good clothes which he had brought with him from little-sudbury-in-the-wold in the days of his novitiate. jill was well-dressed, but, in the stirring epoch of the suffrage disturbances, the policeman had been kicked on the shins and even bitten by ladies of an equally elegant exterior. hearts, the policeman knew, just as pure and fair may beat in belgrave square as in the lowlier air of seven dials, but you have to pinch them just the same when they disturb the peace. his gaze, as it fell upon jill, red-handed as it were with the stick still in her grasp, was stern. "your name, please, and address, miss?" he said. a girl in blue with a big hat had come up, and was standing staring open-mouthed at the group. at the sight of her bill the parrot uttered a shriek of welcome. nelly bryant had returned, and everything would now be all right again. "mariner," said jill, pale and bright-eyed. "i live at number twenty-two, ovington square." "and yours, sir?" "mine? oh, ah, yes. i see what you mean. rooke, you know. f. l. rooke. i live at the albany and all that sort of thing." the policeman made an entry in his note-book. "officer," cried jill, "this man was trying to kill that parrot and i stopped him. . . ." "can't help that, miss. you 'adn't no right to hit a man with a stick. you'll 'ave to come along." "but, i say, you know!" freddie was appalled. this sort of thing had happened to him before, but only on boat-race night at the empire, where it was expected of a chappie. "i mean to say!" "and you too, sir. you're both in it." "but . . ." "oh, come along, freddie," said jill quietly. "it's perfectly absurd, but it's no use making a fuss." "that," said the policeman cordially, "is the right spirit!". 3. lady underhill paused for breath. she had been talking long and vehemently. she and derek were sitting in freddie rooke's apartment at the albany, and the subject of her monologue was jill. derek had been expecting the attack, and had wondered why it had not come before. all through supper on the previous night, even after the discovery that jill was supping at a near-by table with a man who was a stranger to her son, lady underhill had preserved a grim reticence with regard to her future daughter-in-law. but today she had spoken her mind with all the energy which comes of suppression. she had relieved herself with a flow of words of all the pent-up hostility that had been growing within her since that first meeting in this same room. she had talked rapidly, for she was talking against time. the town council of the principal city in derek's constituency in the north of england had decided that tomorrow morning should witness the laying of the foundation stone of their new town hall, and derek as the sitting member was to preside at the celebration. already parker had been dispatched to telephone for a cab to take him to the station, and at any moment their conversation might be interrupted. so lady underhill made the most of what little time she had. derek had listened gloomily, scarcely rousing himself to reply. his mother would have been gratified, could she have known how powerfully her arguments were working on him. that little imp of doubt which had vexed him in the cab as he drove home from ovington square had not died in the night. it had grown and waxed more formidable. and, now, aided by this ally from without, it had become a colossus, straddling his soul. derek looked frequently at the clock, and cursed the unknown cabman whose delay was prolonging the scene. something told him that only flight could serve him now. he never had been able to withstand his mother in one of her militant moods. she seemed to numb his faculties. other members of his family had also noted this quality in lady underhill, and had commented on it bitterly in the smoking-rooms of distant country-houses at the hour when men meet to drink the final whisky-and-soda and unburden their souls. lady underhill, having said all she had to say, recovered her breath and began to say it again. frequent iteration was one of her strongest weapons. as her brother edwin, who was fond of homely imagery, had often observed, she could talk the hind-leg off a donkey. "you must be mad, derek, to dream of handicapping yourself at this vital stage of your career with a wife who not only will not be a help to you, but must actually be a ruinous handicap. i am not blaming you for imagining yourself in love in the first place, though i really should have thought that a man of your strength and character would . . . however, as i say, i am not blaming you for that. superficially, no doubt, this girl might be called attractive. i do not admire the type myself, but i suppose she has that quality--in my time we should have called it boldness--which seems to appeal to the young men of today. i could imagine her fascinating a weak-minded imbecile like your friend mr rooke. but that you . . . still, there is no need to go into that. what i am trying to point out is that in your position, with a career like yours in front of you,--it's quite certain that in a year or two you will be offered some really big and responsible position--you would be insane to tie yourself to a girl who seems to have been allowed to run perfectly wild, whose uncle is a swindler . . ." "she can't be blamed for her uncle." ". . . who sups alone with strange men in public restaurants. . . ." "i explained that." "you may have explained it. you certainly did not excuse it or make it a whit less outrageous. you cannot pretend that you really imagine that an engaged girl is behaving with perfect correctness when she allows a man she has only just met to take her to supper at the savoy, even if she did know him slightly years and years ago. it is very idyllic to suppose that a childhood acquaintance excuses every breach of decorum, but i was brought up to believe otherwise. i don't wish to be vulgar, but what it amounts to is that this girl was having supper--supper! in my days girls were in bed at supper-time!--with a strange man who picked her up at a theatre!" derek shifted uneasily. there was a part of his mind which called upon him to rise up and challenge the outrageous phrase and demand that it be taken back. but he remained silent. the imp-colossus was too strong for him. she is quite right, said the imp. that is an unpleasant but accurate description of what happened. he looked at the clock again, and wished for the hundredth time that the cab would come. jill's photograph smiled at him from beside the clock. he looked away, for, when he found his eyes upon it, he had an odd sensation of baseness, as if he were playing some one false who loved and trusted him. "if you were an ordinary man like hundreds of the idle young men one meets in london, i would have nothing to say. i dislike the girl intensely, but i would not interfere in what would be your own private business. no doubt there are plenty of sets in society where it matters very little what sort of a woman a man marries. but if you have a career, especially in politics, you know as well as i do that a suitable wife means everything. you are a public figure even now. in a few years you will be a very big public figure. that means that your wife will have every eye upon her. and what will she be? a minx!" said lady underhill viciously. once more derek stirred uneasily, and once more he remained silent. a gleam came into lady underhill's black eyes. all her life she had been a fighter, and experience had taught her to perceive when she was winning. she blessed the dilatory cabman. "well, i am not going to say any more," she said, getting up and buttoning her glove. "i will leave you to think it over. all i will say is that, though i only met her yesterday, i can assure you that i am quite confident that this girl is just the sort of harum-scarum, so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day to involve herself in a really serious scandal. i don't want her to be in a position to drag you into it as well. yes, parker, what is it? is sir derek's cab here?" the lantern-jawed parker had entered softly, and was standing deferentially in the doorway. there was no emotion on his face beyond the vague sadness which a sense of what was correct made him always wear like a sort of mask when in the presence of those of superior station. "the cab will be at the door very shortly, m'lady. if you please, sir derek, a policeman has come with a message." "a policeman?" "with a message from mr rooke." "what do you mean?" "i have had a few words of conversation with the constable, sir," said parker sadly, "and i understand from him that mr rooke and miss mariner have been arrested." "arrested! what are you talking about?" "mr rooke desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to step round and bail them out!" the gleam in lady underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlled her voice. "why were miss mariner and mr rooke arrested, parker?" "as far as i can gather, m'lady, miss mariner struck a man in the street with a stick, and they took both her and rooke to the chelsea police station." lady underhill glanced at derek, who was looking into the fire. "this is a little awkward, derek," she said suavely. "if you go to the police-station, you will miss your train." "i fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if sir derek were to dispatch me with a check for ten pounds." "very well. tell the policeman to wait a moment." "very good, m'lady." derek roused himself with an effort. his face was drawn and gloomy. he sat down at the writing-table, and took out his check-book. there was silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen. parker took the check and left the room. "now, perhaps," said lady underhill, "you will admit that i was right!" she spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at just this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer. "you can't hesitate now! you must free yourself from this detestable entanglement!" derek rose without speaking. he took his coat and hat from where they lay on a chair. "derek! you will! say you will!" derek put on his coat. "derek!" "for heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. i want to think." "very well. i will leave you to think it over, then." lady underhill moved to the door. at the door she paused for a moment, and seemed about to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. she was a shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop talking. what words have accomplished, too many words can undo. "good-bye." "good-bye, mother." "i'll see you when you get back?" "yes. no. i don't know. i'm not certain when i shall return. i may go away for a bit." the door closed behind lady underhill. derek sat down again at the writing-table. he wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it up. his eye travelled to the mantelpiece. jill's photograph smiled happily down at him. he turned back to the writing-table, took out a fresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to write again. the door opened softly. "the cab is at the door, sir derek," said parker. derek addressed an envelope, and got up. "all right. thanks. oh, parker, stop at a district-messenger office on your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once." "very good, sir derek," said parker. derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. he stood looking for an instant, then walked quickly out of the room. chapter six 1. a taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two ovington square. freddie rooke emerged, followed by jill. while freddie paid the driver, jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. it had turned into a delightful day. a westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which had been gripping london. it was one of those afternoons which intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable intimation that spring is on its way. the sidewalks were wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. the sun shone exhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow's egg. "doesn't everything smell lovely, freddie," said jill, "after our prison-life!" "topping!" "fancy getting out so quickly! whenever i'm arrested, i must always make a point of having a rich man with me. i shall never tease you about that fifty-pound note again." "fifty-pound note?" "it certainly came in handy today!" she was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden sagging of freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. freddie was appalled. finding himself at the police-station penniless with the exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the night in a cell, with jill in another. he had realized that there was a risk of derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to get jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. if they remained where they were overnight, the thing would get into the papers, and that would be a thousand times worse. and if he applied for aid to ronny devereux or algy martyn or anybody like that all london would know about it next day. so freddie, with misgivings, had sent the message to derek, and now jill's words had reminded him that there was no need to have done so. years ago he had read somewhere or heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with a sizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had seemed to him ripe to a degree. you never knew when you might find yourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready. he had followed the chappie's example. and now, when the crisis had arrived, he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had the dashed thing on his person at all. he followed jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful that she had taken it for granted that he had secured their release in the manner indicated. he did not propose to disillusion her. it would be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along. probably old derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whole bally affair like a sportsman. freddie cheered up considerably at the thought. jill was talking to the parlormaid whose head had popped up over the banisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen. "major selby hasn't arrived yet, miss." "that's odd. i suppose he must have taken a later train." "there's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. she didn't give any name. she said she would wait till the major came. she's been waiting a goodish while." "all right, jane. thanks. will you bring up tea." they walked down the hall. the drawing-room was on the ground floor, a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio but for the absence of bright light. a girl was sitting at the far end by the fireplace. she rose: as they entered. "how do you do?" said jill. "i'm afraid my uncle has not come back yet . . ." "say!" cried the visitor. "you _did_ get out quick!" jill was surprised. she had no recollection of ever having seen the other before. her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort of jaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to her tired eyes and wistful face. jill took an immediate liking to her. she looked so forlorn and pathetic. "my name's nelly bryant," said the girl. "that parrot belongs to me." "oh, i see." "i heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so i came along to tell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something. the maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so i waited." "that was awfully good of you." "dashed good," said freddie. "oh, no! honest, i don't know how to thank you for what you did. you don't know what a pal bill is to me. it would have broken me all up if that plug-ugly had killed him." "but what a shame you had to wait so long." "i liked it." nelly bryant looked about the room wistfully. this was the sort of room she sometimes dreamed about. she loved its subdued light and the pulpy cushions on the sofa. "you'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said jill, switching on the lights. "it's very kind of you." "why, hullo!" said freddie. "by jove! i say! we've met before, what?" "why, so we have!" "that lunch at oddy's that young threepwood gave, what?" "i wonder you remember." "oh, i remember. quite a time ago, eh? miss bryant was in that show, 'follow the girl,' jill, at the regal." "oh, yes. i remember you took me to see it." "dashed odd meeting again like this!" said freddie. "really rummy!" jane, the parlormaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments. "you're american, then?" said jill, interested. "the whole company came from new york, didn't they?" "yes." "i'm half american myself, you know. i used to live in new york when i was very small, but i've almost forgotten what it was like. i remember a sort of over-head railway that made an awful noise . . ." "the elevated!" murmured nelly devoutly. a wave of homesickness seemed to choke her for a moment. "and the air. like champagne. and a very blue sky." "yes," said nelly in a small voice. "i shouldn't half mind popping over new york for a bit," said freddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "i've met some very sound sportsmen who came from there. you don't know a fellow named williamson, do you?" "i don't believe i do." "or oakes?" "no." "that's rummy! oakes has lived in new york for years." "so have about seven million other people," interposed jill. "don't be silly, freddie. how would you like somebody to ask of you if you knew a man named jenkins in london?" "i do know a man named jenkins in london," replied freddie triumphantly. jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the clock. "i wonder where uncle chris has got to," she said. "he ought to be here by now. i hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wild stock-brokers down at brighton." freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort. "oh, freddie, darling!" said jill remorsefully. "i forgot! stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" she turned to nelly. "there's been an awful slump on the stock exchange today, and he got--what was the word, freddie?" "nipped!" said freddie with gloom. "nipped!" "nipped like the dickens!" "nipped like the dickens!" jill smiled at nelly. "he had forgotten all about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and i went and reminded him." freddie sought sympathy from nelly. "a silly ass at the club named jimmy monroe told me to take a flutter in some rotten thing called amalgamated dyes. you know how it is, when you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in yours and tells you to do some fool thing. you're so dashed nappy you simply say 'right-ho, old bird! make it so!' that's the way i got had!" jill laughed unfeelingly. "it will do you good, freddie. it'll stir you up and prevent you being so silly again. besides, you know you'll hardly notice it. you've much too much money as it is." "it's not the money. it's the principle of the thing. i hate looking a frightful chump." "well, you needn't tell anybody. we'll keep it a secret. in fact, we'll start at once, for i hear uncle chris outside. let us dissemble. we are observed! . . . hullo, uncle chris!" she ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall, soldierly man who entered. "well, jill, my dear." "how late you are. i was expecting you hours ago." "i had to call on my broker." "hush! hush!" "what's the matter?" "nothing, nothing. . . . we've got visitors. you know freddie rooke, of course?" "how are you, freddie, my boy?" "cheerio!" said freddie. "pretty fit?" "and miss bryant," said jill. "how do you do?" said uncle chris in the bluff, genial way which, in his younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of the pockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes of their sisters, their cousins, and their aunts. "come and have some tea," said jill. "you're just in time." nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big armchair. somehow she felt a better and a more important girl since uncle chris had addressed her. most people felt like that after encountering jill's uncle christopher. uncle chris had a manner. it was not precisely condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. he treated you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the fact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. uncle chris affected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight of the middle ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he had cast aside social distinctions for awhile and hobnobbed with the latter in a tavern. he never patronized, but the mere fact that he abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive. to this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. he was a fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed so carefully. he had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright blue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. though he had served in his youth in india, he had none of the anglo-indian's sun-scorched sallowness. his complexion was fresh and sanguine. he looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub,--a misleading impression, for uncle chris detested cold water and always took his morning bath as hot as he could get it. it was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance, fascinated the populace. there is only one tailor in london, as distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and trousers, and uncle chris was his best customer. similarly, london is full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of the word,--the one who supplied uncle chris. and, as for hats, while it is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of london shops some sort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyed the patronage of major christopher selby. from foot to head, in short, from furthest south to extremest north, uncle chris was perfect. he was an ornament to his surroundings. the metropolis looked better for him. one seems to picture london as a mother with a horde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children with wrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as she beheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restored complacency, "ah, well, i still have uncle chris!" "miss bryant is american, uncle chris," said jill. uncle chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down kindly at nelly. "indeed?" he took a cup of tea and stirred it. "i was in america as a young man." "whereabouts?" asked nelly eagerly. "oh, here and there and everywhere. i travelled considerably." "that's how it is with me," said nelly, overcoming her diffidence as she warmed to the favorite topic. "i guess i know most every town in every state, from new york to the last one-night stand. it's a great old country, isn't it?" "it is!" said uncle chris. "i shall be returning there very shortly." he paused meditatively. "very shortly indeed." nelly bit her lip. it seemed to be her fate today to meet people who were going to america. "when did you decide to do that?" asked jill. she had been looking at him, puzzled. years of association with uncle chris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was sure that there was something on his mind. it was not likely that the others had noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane as ever. but something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went, an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was not well. she was a little troubled, but not greatly. uncle chris was not the sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. it was probably some mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes, once they were alone together. she reached out and patted his sleeve affectionately. she was fonder of uncle chris than of anyone in the world except derek. "the thought," said uncle chris, "came to me this morning, as i read my morning paper while breakfasting. it has grown and developed during the day. at this moment you might almost call it an obsession. i am very fond of america. i spent several happy years there. on that occasion, i set sail for the land of promise, i admit, somewhat reluctantly. of my own free will i might never have made the expedition. but the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favor of my doing so that i yielded to what i might call a public demand. the willing hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, and i did not resist them. i have never regretted it. america is a part of every young man's education. you ought to go there, freddie." "rummily enough," said freddie, "i was saying just before you came in that i had half a mind to pop over. only it's rather a bally fag, starting. getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing." nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silent sigh. mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties. "america," said uncle chris, "taught me poker, for which i can never be sufficiently grateful. also an exotic pastime styled craps,--or, alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a very present help in time of trouble. at craps, i fear, my hand in late years had lost much of its cunning. i have had little opportunity of practising. but as a young man i was no mean exponent of the art. let me see," said uncle chris meditatively. "what was the precise ritual? ah! i have it, 'come, little seven!'" "'come, eleven!'" exclaimed nelly excitedly. "'baby . . .' i feel convinced that in some manner the word baby entered into it." "'baby needs new shoes!'" "'baby needs new shoes!' precisely!" "it sounds to me," said freddie, "dashed silly." "oh, no!" cried nelly reproachfully. "well, what i mean to say is, there's no sense in it, don't you know." "it is a noble pursuit," said uncle chris firmly. "worthy of the great nation that has produced it. no doubt, when i return to america, i shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill." "you aren't returning to america," said jill. "you're going to stay safe at home like a good little uncle. i'm not going to have you running wild all over the world at your age." "age?" declaimed uncle chris. "what is my age? at the present moment i feel in the neighborhood of twenty-one, and ambition is tapping me on the shoulder and whispering 'young man, go west!' the years are slipping away from me, my dear jill,--slipping so quickly that in a few minutes you will be wondering why my nurse does not come to fetch me. the wanderlust is upon me. i gaze around me at all this prosperity in which i am lapped," said uncle chris, eyeing the arm-chair severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me, and i feel staggered. i want activity. i want to be braced!" "you would hate it," said jill composedly. "you know you're the laziest old darling in the world." "exactly what i am endeavoring to point out. i am lazy. or, i was till this morning." "something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. i can see that." "i wallowed in gross comfort. i was what shakespeare calls a 'fat and greasy citizen'!" "please, uncle chris!" protested jill. "not while i'm eating buttered toast!" "but now i am myself again." "that's splendid." "i have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted uncle chris, "and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. i have heard the song--how long! how long! pull out on the trail again!" "he can also recite 'gunga din,'" said jill to nelly. "i really must apologize for all this. he's usually as good as gold." "i believe i know how he feels," said nelly softly. "of course you do. you and i, miss bryant, are of the gipsies of the world. we are not vegetables like young rooke here." "eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. he had been watching nelly's face. its wistfulness attracted him. "we are only happy," proceeded uncle chris, "when we are wandering." "you should see uncle chris wander to his club in the morning," said jill. "he trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely defying fatigue." "that," said uncle chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. i shudder at the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." he expanded his chest. "i shall be a different man in america. america would make a different man of you, freddie." "i'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man. uncle chris turned to nelly, pointing dramatically. "young woman, go west! return to your bracing home, and leave this enervating london! you . . ." nelly got up abruptly. she could endure no more. "i believe i'll have to be going now," she said. "bill misses me if i'm away long. good-bye. thank you ever so much for what you did." "it was awfully kind of you to come round," said jill. "good-bye, major selby." "good-bye." "good-bye, mr rooke." freddie awoke from another reverie. "eh? oh, i say, half a jiffy. i think i may as well be toddling along myself. about time i was getting back to dress for dinner and all that. see you home, may i, and then i'll get a taxi at victoria. toodle-oo, everybody." * * * freddie escorted nelly through the hall and opened the front door for her. the night was cool and cloudy, and there was still in the air that odd, rejuvenating suggestion of spring. a wet fragrance came from the dripping trees. "topping evening!" said freddie conversationally. "yes." they walked through the square in silence. freddie shot an appreciative glance at his companion. freddie, as he would have admitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. the modern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for a chappie of peaceful tastes. now, this girl, on the other hand, had all the earmarks of being something of a topper. she had a soft voice. rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft and pleasing voice. she was mild and unaggressive, and these were qualities which freddie esteemed. freddie, though this was a thing he would not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort of girls he had to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. they were too dashed clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to score off a fellow. this one was not like that. not a bit. she was gentle and quiet and what not. it was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quiet she was. she had not said a word for the last five minutes. he was just about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a street lamp, he perceived that she was crying,--crying very softly to herself, like a child in the dark. "good god!" said freddie, appalled. there were two things in life with which he felt totally unable to cope,--crying girls and dog-fights. the glimpse he had caught of nelly's face froze him into a speechlessness which lasted until they reached daubeny street and stopped at her door. "good-bye," said nelly. "good-bye-ee!" said freddie mechanically. "that's to say, i mean to say, half a second!" he added quickly. ha faced her nervously, with one hand on the grimy railings. this wanted looking into. when it came to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping, well, it was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it. "what's up?" he demanded. "it's nothing. good-bye." "but, my dear old soul," said freddie, clutching the railing for moral support, "it _is_ something. it must be! you might not think it, to look at me, but i'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and i can _see_ there's something up. why not give me the jolly old scenario and see if we can't do something?" nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. she was thoroughly ashamed of herself. "i'm a fool!" "no, no!" "yes, i am. i don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you all talking like that about going to america, just as if it was the easiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it, kind of got me going. and to think i could be there right now if i wasn't a bonehead!" "a bonehead?" "a simp. i'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, but above that i'm reinforced concrete." freddie groped for her meaning. "do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?" "i pulled the worst kind of bone. i stopped on in london when the rest of the company went back home, and now i've got to stick." "rush of jolly old professional engagement, what?" nelly laughed bitterly. "you're a bad guesser. no, they haven't started to fight over me yet. i'm at liberty, as they say in the era." "but, my dear old thing," said freddie earnestly, "if you've got nothing to keep you in england, why not pop back to america? i mean to say, home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world. there's nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. why, dash it, i remember staying with an old aunt of mine up in scotland the year before last and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, and i raved--absolutely gibbered--for a sight of the merry old metrop. sometimes i'd wake up in the night, thinking i was back at the albany, and, by jove, when i found i wasn't i howled like a dog! you take my tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat." "which line?" "how do you mean, which line? oh, i see, you mean which line? well . . . well . . . i've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard to say. but i hear the cunard well spoken of, and then again some chappies swear by the white star. but i should imagine you can't go far wrong, whichever you pick. they're all pretty ripe, i fancy." "which of them is giving free trips? that's the point." "eh? oh!" her meaning dawned upon freddie. he regarded her with deep consternation. life had treated him so kindly that he had almost forgotten that there existed a class which had not as much money as himself. sympathy welled up beneath his perfectly fitting waistcoat. it was a purely disinterested sympathy. the fact that nelly was a girl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not affect him. what mattered was that she was hard up. the thought hurt freddie like a blow. he hated the idea of anyone being hard up. "i say!" he said. "are you broke?" nelly laughed. "am i! if dollars were doughnuts, i wouldn't even have the hole in the middle." freddie was stirred to his depths. except for the beggars in the streets, to whom he gave shillings, he had not met anyone for years who had not plenty of money. he had friends at his clubs who frequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands on a bally penny, but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on generally turned out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car. "good god!" he said. there was a pause. then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble in his breast-pocket. rummy how things worked out for the best, however scaly they might seem at the moment. only an hour or so ago he had been kicking himself for not having remembered that fifty-pound note, tacked onto the lining of his coat, when it would have come in handy at the police-station. he now saw that providence had had the matter well in hand. if he had remembered it and coughed it up to the constabulary then, he wouldn't have had it now. and he needed it now. a mood of quixotic generosity had surged upon him. with swift fingers he jerked the note free from its moorings and displayed it like a conjurer exhibiting a rabbit. "my dear old thing," he said, "i can't stand it! i absolutely cannot stick it at any price! i really must insist on your trousering this. positively!" nelly bryant gazed at the note with wide eyes. she was stunned. she took it limply, and looked at it under the dim light of the gas-lamp over the door. "i couldn't!" she cried. "oh, but really! you must!" "but this is a fifty-pound!" "absolutely! it will take you back to new york, what? you asked which line was giving free trips. the freddie rooke line, by jove, sailings every wednesday and saturday! i mean, what!" "but i can't take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!" "oh, rather. of course you can." there was another pause. "you'll think--" nelly's pale face flushed. "you'll think i told you all about myself just--just because i wanted to . . ." "to make a touch? absolutely not! kid yourself of the jolly old superstition entirely. you see before you, old thing, a chappie who knows more about borrowing money than any man in london. i mean to say, i've had my ear bitten more often than anyone, i should think. there are sixty-four ways of making a touch--i've had them all worked on me by divers blighters here and there--and i can tell any of them with my eyes shut. i know you weren't dreaming of any such thing." the note crackled musically in nelly's hand. "i don't know what to say!" "that's all right." "i don't see why . . . gee! i wish i could tell you what i think of you!" freddie laughed amusedly. "do you know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters, you know,--used to say to me at school." "are you sure you can spare it?" "oh, rather." nelly's eyes shone in the light of the lamp. "i've never met anyone like you before. i don't know how . . ." freddie shuffled nervously. being thanked always made him feel pretty rotten. "well, i think i'll be popping," he said. "got to get back and dress and all that. awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort of rot." nelly unlocked the door with her latchkey, and stood on the step. "i'll buy a fur-wrap," she said, half to herself. "great wheeze! i should!" "and some nuts for bill!" "bill?" "the parrot." "oh, the jolly old parrot! rather! well, cheerio!" "good-bye . . . you've been awfully good to me." "oh, no," said freddie uncomfortably. "any time you're passing . . . !" "awfully good . . . well, good-bye." "toodle-oo!" "maybe we'll meet again some day." "i hope so. absolutely!" there was a little scurry of feet. something warm and soft pressed for an instant against freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back, nelly bryant skipped up the steps and vanished through the door. "good god!" freddie felt his cheek. he was aware of an odd mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration. from the area below a slight cough sounded. freddie turned sharply. a maid in a soiled cap, worn coquettishly over one ear, was gazing intently up through the railings. their eyes met. freddie turned a warm pink. it seemed to him that the maid had the air of one about to giggle. "damn!" said freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. he wondered whether he had made a frightful ass of himself, spraying bank-notes all over the place like that to comparative strangers. then a vision came to him of nelly's eyes as they had looked at him in the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely not. rummy as the gadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. it was a binge of which he thoroughly approved. a good egg! 2. jill, when freddie and nelly left the room, had seated herself on a low stool, and sat, looking thoughtfully into the fire. she was wondering if she had been mistaken in supposing that uncle chris was worried about something. this restlessness of his, this desire for movement, was strange in him. hitherto he had been like a dear old cosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced so eloquently. she watched him as he took up his favorite stand in front of the fire. "nice girl," said uncle chris. "who was she?" "somebody freddie met," said jill diplomatically. there was no need to worry uncle chris with details of the afternoon's happenings. "very nice girl." uncle chris took out his cigar-case. "no need to ask if i may, thank goodness." he lit a cigar. "do you remember, jill, years ago, when you were quite small, how i used to blow smoke in your face?" jill smiled. "of course i do. you said that you were training me for marriage. you said that there were no happy marriages except where the wife didn't mind the smell of tobacco. well, it's lucky, as a matter of fact, for derek smokes all the time." uncle chris took up his favorite stand against the fireplace. "you're very fond of derek, aren't you, jill?" "of course i am. you are, too, aren't you?" "fine chap. very fine chap. plenty of money, too. it's a great relief," said uncle chris, puffing vigorously. "a thundering relief." he looked over jill's head down the room. "it's fine to think of you happily married, dear, with everything in the world that you want." uncle chris' gaze wandered down to where jill sat. a slight mist affected his eyesight. jill had provided a solution for the great problem of his life. marriage had always appalled him, but there was this to be said for it, that married people had daughters. he had always wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be proud of; and fate had given him jill at precisely the right age. a child would have bored uncle chris--he was fond of children, but they made the deuce of a noise and regarded jam as an external ornament--but a delightful little girl of fourteen was different. jill and he had been very close to each other since her mother had died, a year after the death of her father, and had left her in his charge. he had watched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderment in it--she seemed to grow so quickly--and had been fonder and prouder of her at every stage of her tumultuous career. "you're a dear," said jill. she stroked the trouser-leg that was nearest. "how do you manage to get such a wonderful crease? you really are a credit to me!" there was a momentary silence. a shade of embarrassment made itself noticeable in uncle chris' frank gaze. he gave a little cough, and pulled at his mustache. "i wish i were, my dear," he said soberly. "i wish i were. i'm afraid i'm a poor sort of fellow, jill." jill looked up. "what do you mean?" "a poor sort of fellow," repeated uncle chris. "your mother was foolish to trust you to me. your father had more sense. he always said i was a wrong'un." jill got up quickly. she was certain now that she had been right, and that there was something on her uncle's mind. "what's the matter, uncle chris? something's happened. what is it?" uncle chris turned to knock the ash off his cigar. the movement gave him time to collect himself for what lay before him. he had one of those rare volatile natures which can ignore the blows of fate so long as their effects are not brought home by visible evidence of disaster. he lived in the moment, and, though matters had been as bad at breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when he confronted jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them. he was a man who hated ordeals, and one faced him now. until this moment he had been able to detach his mind from a state of affairs which would have weighed unceasingly upon another man. his mind was a telephone which he could cut off at will, when the voice of trouble wished to speak. the time would arrive, he had been aware, when he would have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refused to listen. now it could be evaded no longer. "jill." "yes?" uncle chris paused again, searching for the best means of saying what had to be said. "jill, i don't know if you understand about these things, but there was what is called a slump on the stock exchange this morning. in other words . . ." jill laughed. "of course i know all about that," she said. "poor freddie wouldn't talk about anything else till i made him. he was terribly blue when he got here this afternoon. he said he had got 'nipped' in amalgamated dyes. he had lost about two hundred pounds, and was furious with a friend of his who had told him to buy margins." uncle chris cleared his throat. "jill, i'm afraid i've got bad news for you. i bought amalgamated dyes, too." he worried his mustache. "i lost heavily, very heavily." "how naughty of you! you know you oughtn't to gamble." "jill, you must be brave. i--i--well, the fact is--it's no good beating about the bush--i lost everything! everything!" "everything?" "everything! it's all gone! all fooled away. it's a terrible business. this house will have to go." "but--but doesn't the house belong to me?" "i was your trustee, dear." uncle chris smoked furiously. "thank heaven you're going to marry a rich man!" jill stood looking at him, perplexed. money, as money, had never entered into her life. there were things one wanted, which had to be paid for with money, but uncle chris had always looked after that. she had taken them for granted. "i don't understand," she said. and then suddenly she realized that she did, and a great wave of pity for uncle chris flooded over her. he was such an old dear. it must be horrible for him to have to stand there, telling her all this. she felt no sense of injury, only the discomfort of having to witness the humiliation of her oldest friend. uncle chris was bound up inextricably with everything in her life that was pleasant. she could remember him, looking exactly the same, only with a thicker and wavier crop of hair, playing with her patiently and unwearied for hours in the hot sun, a cheerful martyr. she could remember sitting up with him when she came home from her first grown-up dance, drinking cocoa and talking and talking and talking till the birds outside sang the sun high up into the sky and it was breakfast-time. she could remember theatres with him, and jolly little suppers afterwards; expeditions into the country, with lunches at queer old inns; days on the river, days at hurlingham, days at lords', days at the academy. he had always been the same, always cheerful, always kind. he was uncle chris, and he would always be uncle chris, whatever he had done or whatever he might do. she slipped her arm in his and gave it a squeeze. "poor old thing!" she said. uncle chris had been looking straight out before him with those fine blue eyes of his. there had been just a touch of sternness in his attitude. a stranger, coming into the room at that moment, would have said that here was a girl trying to coax her blunt, straightforward, military father into some course of action of which his honest nature disapproved. he might have been posing for a statue of rectitude. as jill spoke, he seemed to cave in. "poor old thing?" he repeated limply. "of course you are! and stop trying to look dignified and tragic! because it doesn't suit you. you're much too well dressed." "but, my dear, you don't understand! you haven't realized!" "yes, i do. yes, i have!" "i've spent all your money--_your_ money!" "i know! what does it matter?" "what does it matter! jill, don't you hate me?" "as if anyone could hate an old darling like you!" uncle chris threw away his cigar, and put his arms round jill. for a moment a dreadful fear came to her that he was going to cry. she prayed that he wouldn't cry. it would be too awful. it would be a memory of which she could never rid herself. she felt as though he were someone extraordinarily young and unable to look after himself, someone she must soothe and protect. "jill," said uncle chris, choking, "you're--you're--you're a little warrior!" jill kissed him, and moved away. she busied herself with some flowers, her back turned. the tension had been relieved, and she wanted to give him time to recover his poise. she knew him well enough to be sure that, sooner or later, the resiliency of his nature would assert itself. he could never remain long in the depths. the silence had the effect of making her think more clearly than in the first rush of pity she had been able to do. she was able now to review the matter as it affected herself. it had not been easy to grasp, the blunt fact that she was penniless, that all this comfort which surrounded her was no longer her own. for an instant a kind of panic seized her. there was a bleakness about the situation which made one gasp. it was like icy water dashed in the face. realization had almost the physical pain of life returning to a numbed limb. her hands shook as she arranged the flowers, and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out. she fought panic eye to eye, and beat it down. uncle chris, swiftly recovering by the fireplace, never knew that the fight had taken place. he was feeling quite jovial again now that the unpleasant business of breaking the news was over, and was looking on the world with the eye of a debonair gentleman-adventurer. as far as he was concerned, he told himself, this was the best thing that could have happened. he had been growing old and sluggish in prosperity. he needed a fillip. the wits by which he had once lived so merrily had been getting blunt in their easy retirement. he welcomed the opportunity of matching them once more against the world. he was remorseful as regarded jill, but the optimist in him, never crushed for long, told him that jill would be all right. she would step from the sinking ship to the safe refuge of derek underhill's wealth and position, while he went out to seek a new life. uncle chris' blue eyes gleamed with a new fire as he pictured himself in this new life. he felt like a hunter setting out on a hunting expedition. there were always adventures and the spoils of war for the man with brains to find them and gather them in. but it was a mercy that jill had derek. . . . jill was thinking of derek, too. panic had fled, and a curious exhilaration had seized upon her. if derek wanted her now, it would be because his love was the strongest thing in the world. she would come to him like the beggar-maid to cophetua. uncle chris broke the silence with a cough. at the sound of it, jill smiled again. she knew it for what it was, a sign that he was himself again. "tell me, uncle chris," she said, "just how bad is it? when you said everything was gone, did you really mean everything, or were you being melodramatic? exactly how do we stand?" "it's dashed hard to say, my dear. i expect we shall find there are a few hundreds left. enough to see you through till you get married. after that it won't matter." uncle chris flicked a particle of dust off his coat-sleeve. jill could not help feeling that the action was symbolical of his attitude towards life. he flicked away life's problems with just the same airy carelessness. "you mustn't worry about me, my dear. i shall be all right. i have made my way in the world before, and i can do it again. i shall go to america and try my luck there. amazing how many opportunities there are in america. really, as far as i am concerned, this is the best thing that could have happened. i have been getting abominably lazy. if i had gone on living my present life for another year or two, why, dash it! i honestly believe i should have succumbed to some sort of senile decay. positively i should have got fatty degeneration of the brain! this will be the making of me." jill sat down on the lounge and laughed till there were tears in her eyes. uncle chris might be responsible for this disaster, but he was certainly making it endurable. however greatly he might be deserving of censure, from the standpoint of the sterner morality, he made amends. if he brought the whole world crashing in chaos about one's ears, at least he helped one to smile among the ruins. "did you ever read 'candide', uncle chris?" "'candide'?" uncle chris shook his head. he was not a great reader, except of the sporting press. "it's a book by voltaire. there's a character in it called doctor pangloss, who thought that everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds." uncle chris felt a touch of embarrassment. it occurred to him that he had been betrayed by his mercurial temperament into an attitude which, considering the circumstances, was perhaps a trifle too jubilant. he gave his mustache a pull, and reverted to the minor key. "oh, you mustn't think that i don't appreciate the terrible, the criminal thing i have done! i blame myself," said uncle chris cordially, flicking another speck of dust off his sleeve. "i blame myself bitterly. your mother ought never to have made me your trustee, my dear. but she always believed in me, in spite of everything, and this is how i have repaid her." he blew his nose to cover a not unmanly emotion. "i wasn't fitted for the position. never become a trustee, jill. it's the devil, is trust money. however much you argue with yourself, you can't--dash it, you simply can't believe that it's not your own, to do as you like with. there it sits, smiling at you, crying 'spend me! spend me!' and you find yourself dipping--dipping--till one day there's nothing left to dip for--only a far-off rustling--the ghosts of dead bank-notes. that's how it was with me. the process was almost automatic. i hardly knew it was going on. here a little--there a little. it was like snow melting on a mountain-top. and one morning--all gone!" uncle chris drove the point home with a gesture. "i did what i could. when i found that there were only a few hundreds left, for your sake i took a chance. all heart and no head! there you have christopher selby in a nutshell! a man at the club--a fool named--i've forgotten his damn name--recommended amalgamated dyestuffs as a speculation. monroe, that was his name, jimmy monroe. he talked about the future of british dyes now that germany was out of the race, and . . . well, the long and short of it was that i took his advice and bought on margin. bought like the devil. and this morning amalgamated dyestuffs went all to blazes. there you have the whole story!" "and now," said jill, "comes the sequel!" "the sequel?" said uncle chris breezily. "happiness, my dear, happiness! wedding bells and--and all that sort of thing!" he straddled the hearth-rug manfully, and swelled his chest out. he would permit no pessimism on this occasion of rejoicing. "you don't suppose that the fact of your having lost your money--that is to say--er--of my having lost your money--will affect a splendid young fellow like derek underhill? i know him better than to think that! i've always liked him. he's a man you can trust! besides," he added reflectively, "there's no need to tell him! till after the wedding, i mean. it won't be hard to keep up appearances here for a month or so." "of course i must tell him!" "you think it wise?" "i don't know about it being wise. it's the only thing to do. i must see him tonight. oh, i forgot. he was going away this afternoon for a day or two." "capital! it will give you time to think it over." "i don't want to think it over. there's nothing to think about." "of course, yes, of course. quite so." "i shall write him a letter." "write, eh?" "it's easier to put what one wants to say in a letter." "letters," began uncle chris, and stopped as the door opened. jane the parlormaid entered, carrying a salver. "for me?" asked uncle chris. "for miss jill, sir." jill took the note off the salver. "it's from derek." "there's a messenger-boy waiting, miss," said jane. "he wasn't told if there was an answer." "if the note is from derek," said uncle chris, "it's not likely to want an answer. you said he left town today." jill opened the envelope. "is there an answer, miss?" asked jane, after what she considered a suitable interval. she spoke tenderly. she was a great admirer of derek, and considered it a pretty action on his part to send notes like this when he was compelled to leave london. "any answer, jill?" jill seemed to rouse herself. she had turned oddly pale. "no, no answer, jane." "thank you, miss," said jane, and went off to tell cook that in her opinion jill was lacking in heart. "it might have been a bill instead of a love-letter," said jane to the cook with indignation, "the way she read it. _i_ like people to have a little feeling!" jill sat turning the letter over and over in her fingers. her face was very white. there seemed to be a big, heavy, leaden something inside her. a cold hand clutched her throat. uncle chris, who at first had noticed nothing untoward, now began to find the silence sinister. "no bad news, i hope, dear?" jill turned the letter between her fingers. "jill, is it bad news?" "derek has broken off the engagement," said jill in a dull voice. she let the note fall to the floor, and sat with her chin in her hands. "what!" uncle chris leaped from the hearth-rug, as though the fire had suddenly scorched him. "what did you say?" "he's broken it off." "the hound!" cried uncle chris. "the blackguard! the--the--i never liked that man! i never trusted him!" he fumed for a moment. "but--but--it isn't possible. how can he have heard about what's happened? he couldn't know. it's--it's--it isn't possible!" "he doesn't know. it has nothing to do with that." "but . . ." uncle chris stooped to where the note lay. "may i . . . ?" "yes, you can read it if you like." uncle chris produced a pair of reading-glasses, and glared through them at the sheet of paper as though it were some loathsome insect. "the hound! the cad! if i were a younger man," shouted uncle chris, smiting the letter violently, "if i were . . . jill! my dear little jill!" he plunged down on his knees beside her, as she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. "my little girl! damn that man! my dear little girl! the cad! the devil! my own darling little girl! i'll thrash him within an inch of his life!" the clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes. jill got up. her face was wet and quivering, but her mouth had set in a brave line. "jill, dear!" she let his hand close over hers. "everything's happening all at once this afternoon, uncle chris, isn't it!" she smiled a twisted smile. "you look so funny! your hair's all rumpled, and your glasses are over on one side!" uncle chris breathed heavily through his nose. "when i meet that man . . ." he began portentously. "oh, what's the good of bothering! it's not worth it! nothing's worth it!" jill stopped, and faced him, her hands clenched. "let's get away! let's get right away! i want to get right away, uncle chris! take me away! anywhere! take me to america with you! i must get away!" uncle chris raised his right hand, and shook it. his reading-glasses, hanging from his left ear, bobbed drunkenly. "we'll sail by the next boat! the very next boat, dammit! i'll take care of you, dear. i've been a blackguard to you, my little girl. i've robbed you, and swindled you. but i'll make up for it, by george! i'll make up for it! i'll give you a new home, as good as this, if i die for it. there's nothing i won't do! nothing! by jove!" shouted uncle chris, raising his voice in a red-hot frenzy of emotion, "i'll work! yes, by gad, if it comes right down to it, i'll work!" he brought his fist down with a crash on the table where derek's flowers stood in their bowl. the bowl leaped in the air and tumbled over, scattering the flowers on the floor. chapter seven 1. in the lives of each one of us, as we look back and review them in retrospect, there are certain desert wastes from which memory winces like some tired traveller faced with a dreary stretch of road. even from the security of later happiness we cannot contemplate them without a shudder. time robs our sorrows of their sharp vividness, but the horror of those blank, gray days never wholly passes. it remains for ever at the back of our consciousness to remind us that, though we may have struggled through it to the heights, there is an abyss. we may dwell, like the pilgrim, on the delectable mountains, but we never forget the slough of despond. years afterwards, jill could not bring herself to think of that brief but age-long period which lay between the evening when she read derek's letter and the morning when, with the wet sea-wind in her face and the cry of the wheeling sea-gulls in her ears, she stood on the deck of the liner that was taking her to the land where she could begin a new life. it brooded behind her like a great, dank cloud, shutting out the sunshine. the conditions of modern life are singularly inimical to swift and dramatic action when we wish to escape from surroundings that have become intolerable. in the old days, your hero would leap on his charger and ride out into the sunset. now, he is compelled to remain for a week or so to settle his affairs,--especially if he is an uncle chris--and has got those affairs into such a tangle that hardened lawyers knit their brows at the sight of them. it took one of the most competent firms in the metropolis four days to produce some sort of order in the confusion resulting from major selby's financial operations; and during those days jill existed in a state of being which could be defined as living only in that she breathed and ate and comported herself outwardly like a girl and not a ghost. boards announcing that the house was for sale appeared against the railings through which jane the parlormaid conducted her daily conversations with the tradesmen. strangers roamed the rooms eyeing and appraising the furniture. uncle chris, on whom disaster had had a quickening and vivifying effect, was everywhere at once, an impressive figure of energy. one may be wronging uncle chris, but to the eye of the casual observer he seemed in these days of trial to be having the time of his life. jill varied the monotony of sitting in her room--which was the only place in the house where one might be sure of not encountering a furniture-broker's man with a note-book and pencil--by taking long walks. she avoided as far as possible the small area which had once made up the whole of london for her, but even so she was not always successful in escaping from old acquaintances. once, cutting through lennox gardens on her way to that vast, desolate king's road which stretches its length out into regions unknown to those whose london is the west end, she happened upon freddie rooke, who had been paying a call in his best hat and a pair of white spats which would have cut his friend henry to the quick. it was not an enjoyable meeting. freddie, keenly alive to the awkwardness of the situation, was scarlet and incoherent; and jill, who desired nothing less than to talk with one so intimately connected in her mind with all that she had lost, was scarcely more collected. they parted without regret. the only satisfaction that came to jill from the encounter was the knowledge that derek was still out of town. he had wired for his things, said freddie and had retreated further north. freddie, it seemed, had been informed of the broken engagement by lady underhill in an interview which appeared to have left a lasting impression on his mind. of jill's monetary difficulties he had heard nothing. after this meeting, jill felt a slight diminution of the oppression which weighed upon her. she could not have borne to have come unexpectedly upon derek, and, now that there was no danger of that, she found life a little easier. the days passed somehow, and finally there came the morning when, accompanied by uncle chris--voluble and explanatory about the details of what he called "getting everything settled"--she rode in a taxi to take the train for southampton. her last impression of london was of rows upon rows of mean houses, of cats wandering in back-yards among groves of home-washed underclothing, and a smoky grayness which gave way, as the train raced on, to the clearer gray of the suburbs and the good green and brown of the open country. then the bustle and confusion of the liner; the calm monotony of the journey, when one came on deck each morning to find the vessel so manifestly in the same spot where it had been the morning before that it was impossible to realize how many hundred miles of ocean had really been placed behind one; and finally the ambrose channel lightship and the great bulk of new york rising into the sky like a city of fairyland, heartening yet sinister, at once a welcome and a menace. "there you are, my dear!" said uncle chris indulgently, as though it were a toy he had made for her with his own hands. "new york!" they were standing on the boat-deck, leaning over the rail. jill caught her breath. for the first time since disaster had come upon her she was conscious of a rising of her spirits. it is impossible to behold the huge buildings which fringe the harbor of new york without a sense of expectancy and excitement. there had remained in jill's mind from childhood memories a vague picture of what she now saw, but it had been feeble and inadequate. the sight of this towering city seemed somehow to blot out everything that had gone before. the feeling of starting afresh was strong upon her. uncle chris, the old traveller, was not emotionally affected. he smoked placidly and talked in a wholly earthy strain of grape-fruit and buckwheat cakes. it was now, also for the first time, that uncle chris touched upon future prospects in a practical manner. on the voyage he had been eloquent but sketchy. with the land of promise within biscuit-throw and the tugs bustling about the great liner's skirts like little dogs about their mistress, he descended to details. "i shall get a room somewhere," said uncle chris, "and start looking about me. i wonder if the old holland house is still there. i fancy i heard they'd pulled it down. capital place. i had a steak there in the year . . . but i expect they've pulled it down. but i shall find somewhere to go. i'll write and tell you my address directly i've got one." jill removed her gaze from the sky-line with a start. "write to me?" "didn't i tell you about that?" said uncle chris cheerily,--avoiding her eye, however, for he had realized all along that it might be a little bit awkward breaking the news. "i've arranged that you shall go and stay for the time being down at brookport--on long island, you know--over in that direction--with your uncle elmer. daresay you've forgotten you have an uncle elmer, eh?" he went on quickly, as jill was about to speak. "your father's brother. used to be in business, but retired some years ago and goes in for amateur farming. corn and--and corn," said uncle chris. "all that sort of thing. you'll like him. capital chap! never met him myself, but always heard," said uncle chris, who had never to his recollection heard any comments upon mr elmer mariner whatever, "that he was a splendid fellow. directly we decided to sail, i cabled to him, and got an answer saying that he would be delighted to put you up. you'll be quite happy there." jill listened to this programme with dismay. new york was calling to her, and brookport held out no attractions at all. she looked down over the side at the tugs puffing their way through the broken blocks of ice that reminded her of a cocoanut candy familiar to her childhood. "but i want to be with you," she protested. "impossible, my dear, for the present. i shall be very busy, very busy indeed for some weeks, until i have found my feet. really, you would be in the way. he--er--travels the fastest who travels alone! i must be in a position to go anywhere and do anything at a moment's notice. but always remember, my dear," said uncle chris, patting her shoulder affectionately, "that i shall be working for you. i have treated you very badly, but i intend to make up for it. i shall not forget that whatever money i may make will really belong to you." he looked at her benignly, like a monarch of finance who has ear-marked a million or two for the benefit of a deserving charity. "you shall have it all, jill." he had so much the air of having conferred a substantial benefit upon her that jill felt obliged to thank him. uncle chris had always been able to make people grateful for the phantom gold which he showered upon them. he was as lavish a man with the money he was going to get next week as ever borrowed a five-pound note to see him through till saturday. "what are you going to do, uncle chris?" asked jill curiously. apart from a nebulous idea that he intended to saunter through the city picking dollar-bills off the sidewalk, she had no inkling of his plans. uncle chris toyed with his short mustache. he was not quite equal to a direct answer on the spur of the moment. he had a faith in his star. something would turn up. something always had turned up in the old days, and doubtless, with the march of civilization, opportunities had multiplied. somewhere behind those tall buildings the goddess of luck awaited him, her hands full of gifts, but precisely what those gifts would be he was not in a position to say. "i shall--ah--how shall i put it--?" "look round?" suggested jill. "precisely," said uncle chris gratefully. "look round. i daresay you have noticed that i have gone out of my way during the voyage to make myself agreeable to our fellow-travellers? i had an object. acquaintances begun on shipboard will often ripen into useful friendships ashore. when i was a young man i never neglected the opportunities which an ocean voyage affords. the offer of a book here, a steamer-rug there, a word of encouragement to a chatty bore in the smoke-room--these are small things, but they may lead to much. one meets influential people on a liner. you wouldn't think it to look at him, but that man with the eye-glasses and the thin nose i was talking to just now is one of the richest men in milwaukee!" "but it's not much good having rich friends in milwaukee when you are in new york!" "exactly. there you have put your finger on the very point i have been trying to make. it will probably be necessary for me to travel. and for that i must be alone. i must be a mobile force. i should dearly like to keep you with me, but you can see for yourself that for the moment you would be an encumbrance. later on, no doubt, when my affairs are more settled . . ." "oh, i understand. i'm resigned. but, oh dear! it's going to be very dull down at brookport." "nonsense, nonsense! it's a delightful spot." "have you been there?" "no! but of course everybody knows brookport! healthy, invigorating . . . sure to be! the very name . . . you'll be as happy as the days are long!" "and how long the days will be!" "come, come! you mustn't look on the dark side!" "is there another?" jill laughed. "you are an old hum-bug, uncle chris. you know perfectly well what you're condemning me to! i expect brookport will be like a sort of southend in winter. oh, well, i'll be brave. but do hurry and make a fortune, because i want to come to new york." "my dear," said uncle chris solemnly, "if there is a dollar lying loose in this city, rest assured that i shall have it! and, if it's not loose, i will detach it with the greatest possible speed. you have only known me in my decadence, an idle and unprofitable london clubman. i can assure you that, lurking beneath the surface, there is a business acumen given to few men . . ." "oh, if you are going to talk poetry," said jill, "i'll leave you. anyhow, i ought to be getting below and putting my things together. subject for a historical picture,--the belle of brookport collecting a few simple necessaries before entering upon the conquest of america." 2. if jill's vision of brookport as a wintery southend was not entirely fulfilled, neither was uncle chris' picture of it as an earthly paradise. at the right time of the year, like most of the summer resorts on the south shore of long island, it is not without its attractions; but january is not the month which most people would choose for living in it. it presented itself to jill on first acquaintance in the aspect of a wind-swept railroad station, dumped down far away from human habitation in the middle of a stretch of flat and ragged country that reminded her a little of parts of surrey. the station was just a shed on a foundation of planks which lay flush with the rails. from this shed, as the train clanked in, there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. he had a clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at jill with small eyes. something in his expression reminded jill of her father, as a bad caricature of a public man will recall the original, she introduced herself. "if you're uncle elmer," she said, "i'm jill." the man held out a long hand. he did not smile. he was as bleak as the east wind that swept the platform. "glad to meet you again," he said in a melancholy voice. it was news to jill that they had met before. she wondered where. her uncle supplied the information. "last time i saw you, you were a kiddy in short frocks, running around and shouting to beat the band." he looked up and down the platform. "_i_ never heard a child make so much noise!" "i'm quite quiet now," said jill encouragingly. the recollection of her infant revelry seemed to her to be distressing her relative. it appeared, however, that it was not only this that was on his mind. "if you want to drive home," he said, "we'll have to phone to the durham house for a hack." he brooded awhile, jill remaining silent at his side, loath to break in upon whatever secret sorrow he was wrestling with. "that would be a dollar," he went on. "they're robbers in these parts! a dollar! and it's not over a mile and a half. are you fond of walking?" jill was a bright girl, and could take a hint. "i love walking," she said. she might have added that she preferred to do it on a day when the wind was not blowing quite so keenly from the east, but her uncle's obvious excitement at the prospect of cheating the rapacity of the sharks at the durham house restrained her. her independent soul had not quite adjusted itself to the prospect of living on the bounty of her fellows, relatives though they were, and she was desirous of imposing as light a burden upon them as possible. "but how about my trunk?" "the expressman will bring that up. fifty cents!" said uncle elmer in a crushed way. the high cost of entertaining seemed to be afflicting this man deeply. "oh, yes," said jill. she could not see how this particular expenditure was to be avoided. anxious as she was to make herself pleasant, she declined to consider carrying the trunk to their destination. "shall we start, then?" mr mariner led the way out into the ice-covered road. the wind welcomed them like a boisterous dog. for some minutes they proceeded in silence. "your aunt will be glad to see you," said mr mariner at last in the voice with which one announces the death of a dear friend. "it's awfully kind of you to have me to stay with you," said jill. it is a human tendency to think, when crises occur, in terms of melodrama, and unconsciously she had begun to regard herself somewhat in the light of a heroine driven out into the world from the old home, with no roof to shelter her head. the promptitude with which these good people, who, though relatives, were after all complete strangers, had offered her a resting-place touched her. "i hope i shan't be in the way." "major selby was speaking to me on the telephone just now," said mr mariner, "and he said that you might be thinking of settling down in brookport. i've some nice little places round here which you might like to look at. rent or buy. it's cheaper to buy. brookport's a growing place. it's getting known as a summer resort. there's a bungalow down on the shore i'd like to show you tomorrow. stands in a nice large plot of ground, and if you bought it for twelve thousand you'd be getting a bargain." jill was too astonished to speak. plainly uncle chris had made no mention of the change in her fortunes, and this man looked on her as a girl of wealth. she could only think how typical this was of uncle chris. there was a sort of boyish impishness about him. she could see him at the telephone, suave and important. he would have hung up the receiver with a complacent smirk, thoroughly satisfied that he had done her an excellent turn. "i put all my money into real estate when i came to live here," went on mr mariner. "i believe in the place. it's growing all the time." they had come to the outskirts of a straggling village. the lights in the windows gave a welcome suggestion of warmth, for darkness had fallen swiftly during their walk and the chill of the wind had become more biting. there was a smell of salt in the air now, and once or twice jill had caught the low booming of waves on some distant beach. this was the atlantic pounding the sandy shore of fire island. brookport itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the great south bay. "this is brookport," said mr mariner. "that's haydock's grocery store there by the post-office. he charges sixty cents a pound for bacon, and i can get the same bacon by walking into patchogue for fifty-seven!" he brooded awhile on the greed of man, as exemplified by the pirates of brookport. "the very same bacon!" he said. "how far is patchogue?" asked jill, feeling that some comment was required of her. "four miles," said mr mariner. they passed through the village, bearing to the right, and found themselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big, dark houses. the spectacle of these stimulated mr mariner to something approaching eloquence. he quoted the price paid for each, the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been paid five years ago. the recital carried them on for another mile, in the course of which the houses became smaller and more scattered, and finally, when the country had become bare and desolate again, they turned down a narrow lane and came to a tall, gaunt house standing by itself in a field. "this is sandringham," said mr mariner. "what!" said jill. "what did you say?" "sandringham. where we live. i got the name from your father. i remember him telling me there was a place called that in england." "there is." jill's voice bubbled. "the king lives there." "is that so?" said mr mariner. "well, i bet he doesn't have the trouble with help that we have here. i have to pay our girl fifty dollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after the furnace and chops wood. they're all robbers. and if you kick they quit on you!" 3. jill endured sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on that period of her life later, she wondered how she did it. the sense of desolation which had gripped her on the station platform increased rather than diminished as she grew accustomed to her surroundings. the east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a suggestion of warmth, but her uncle's bleakness appeared to be a static quality, independent of weather conditions. her aunt, a faded woman with a perpetual cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. the rest of the household consisted of a gloomy child, "tibby," aged eight; a spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittent cat, who, when he did put in an appearance, was the life and soul of the party, but whose visits to his home were all too infrequent for jill. thomas was a genial animal, whose color-scheme, like a whistler picture, was an arrangement in black and white. he had green eyes and a purr like a racing automobile. but his social engagements in the neighborhood kept him away much of the time. he was the popular and energetic secretary of the local cats' debating society. one could hear him at night sometimes reading the minutes in a loud, clear voice; after which the debate was considered formally open. each day was the same as the last, almost to the final detail. sometimes tibby would be naughty at breakfast, sometimes at lunch; while rover, the spaniel, a great devotee of the garbage-can, would occasionally be sick at mid-day instead of after the evening meal. but, with these exceptions, there was a uniformity about the course of life in the mariner household which began to prey on jill's nerves as early as the third day. the picture which mr mariner had formed in his mind of jill as a wealthy young lady with a taste for house property continued as vivid as ever. it was his practice each morning to conduct her about the neighborhood, introducing her to the various houses in which he had sunk most of the money which he had made in business. mr mariner's life centered around brookport real estate, and the embarrassed jill was compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and master's bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her a feeling of nervous exhaustion. most of her uncle's houses were converted farmhouses and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked, not so darned converted at that. the days she spent at brookport remained in jill's memory as a smell of dampness and chill and closeness. "you want to buy," said mr mariner every time he shut a front-door behind them. "not rent. buy. then, if you don't want to live here, you can always rent in the summer." it seemed incredible to jill that the summer would ever come. winter held brookport in its grip. for the first time in her life she was tasting real loneliness. she wandered over the snow-patched fields down to the frozen bay, and found the intense stillness, punctuated only by the occasional distant gunshot of some optimist trying for duck, oppressive rather than restful. she looked on the weird beauty of the ice-bound marshes which glittered red and green and blue in the sun with unseeing eyes; for her isolation was giving her time to think, and thought was a torment. on the eighth day came a letter from uncle chris,--a cheerful, even rollicking letter. things were going well with uncle chris, it seemed. as was his habit, he did not enter into details, but he wrote in a spacious way of large things to be, of affairs that were coming out right, of prosperity in sight. as tangible evidence of success, he enclosed a present of twenty dollars, for jill to spend in the brookport shops. the letter arrived by the morning mail, and two hours later mr mariner took jill by one of his usual overland routes to see a house nearer the village than most of those which she had viewed. mr mariner had exhausted the supply of cottages belonging to himself, and this one was the property of an acquaintance. there would be an agent's fee for him in the deal, if it went through, and mr mariner was not a man who despised money in small quantities. there was a touch of hopefulness in his gloom this morning, like the first intimation of sunshine after a wet day. he had been thinking the thing over, and had come to the conclusion that jill's unresponsiveness when confronted with the houses she had already seen was due to the fact that she had loftier ideas than he had supposed. something a little more magnificent than the twelve thousand dollar places he had shown her was what she desired. this house stood on a hill looking down on the bay, in several acres of ground. it had its private landing-stage and bath-house, its dairy, its sleeping-porches,--everything, in fact, that a sensible girl could want. mr mariner could not bring himself to suppose that he would fail again today. "they're asking a hundred and five thousand," he said, "but i know they'd take a hundred thousand. and, if it was a question of cash down, they would go even lower. it's a fine house. you could entertain there. mrs bruggenheim rented it last summer, and wanted to buy, but she wouldn't go above ninety thousand. if you want it, you'd better make up your mind quick. a place like this is apt to be snapped up in a hurry." jill could endure it no longer. "but, you see," she said gently, "all i have in the world is twenty dollars!" there was a painful pause. mr mariner shot a swift glance at her in the hope of discovering that she had spoken humorously, but was compelled to decide that she had not. his face under normal conditions always achieved the maximum gloom possible for any face, so he gave no outward sign of the shock which had shattered his mental poise; but he expressed his emotion by walking nearly a mile without saying a word. he was stunned. he had supported himself up till now by the thought that, frightful as the expense of entertaining jill as a guest might be, the outlay was a good sporting speculation if she intended buying house-property in the neighbourhood. the realization that he was down to the extent of a week's breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, with nothing to show for it, appalled him. there had been a black morning some years before when mr. mariner had given a waiter a ten-dollar bill in mistake for a one. as he had felt then, on discovering his error when it was too late to retrieve it, so did he feel now. "twenty dollars!" he exclaimed, at the end of the mile. "twenty dollars," said jill, "but your father was a rich man." mr. mariner's voice was high and plaintive. "he made a fortune over here before he went to england." "it's all gone. i got nipped," said jill, who was finding a certain amount of humor in the situation, "in amalgamated dyes." "amalgamated dyes?" "they're something," explained jill, "that people get nipped in." mr mariner digested this. "you speculated?" he gasped. "yes." "you shouldn't have been allowed to do it," said mr mariner warmly. "major selby--your uncle ought to have known better than to allow you." "yes, oughtn't he," said jill demurely. there was another silence, lasting for about a quarter of a mile. "well, it's a bad business," said mr mariner. "yes," said jill. "i've felt that myself." * * * the result of this conversation was to effect a change in the atmosphere of sandringham. the alteration in the demeanor of people of parsimonious habit, when they discover that the guest they are entertaining is a pauper and not, as they had supposed, an heiress, is subtle but well-marked. in most cases, more well-marked than subtle. nothing was actually said, but there are thoughts that are almost as audible as words. a certain suspense seemed to creep into the air, as happens when a situation has been reached which is too poignant to last. greek tragedy affects the reader with the same sense of over-hanging doom. things, we feel, cannot go on as they are. that night, after dinner, mrs mariner asked jill to read to her. "print tries my eyes so, dear," said mrs mariner. it was a small thing, but it had the significance of that little cloud that arose out of the sea like a man's hand. jill appreciated the portent. she was, she perceived, to make herself useful. "of course i will," she said cordially. "what would you me to read?" she hated reading aloud. it always made her throat sore, and her eye skipped to the end of each page and took the interest out of it long before the proper time. but she proceeded bravely, for her conscience was troubling her. her sympathy was divided equally between these unfortunate people who had been saddled with an undesired visitor and herself who had been placed in a position at which every independent nerve in her rebelled. even as a child she had loathed being under obligations to strangers or those whom she did not love. "thank you, dear," said mrs mariner, when jill's voice had roughened to a weary croak. "you read so well." she wrestled ineffectually with her handkerchief against the cold in the head from which she always suffered. "it would be nice if you would do it every night, don't you think? you have no idea how tired print makes my eyes." on the following morning after breakfast, at the hour when she had hitherto gone house-hunting with mr mariner, the child tibby, of whom up till now she had seen little except at meals, presented himself to her, coated and shod for the open and regarding her with a dull and phlegmatic gaze. "ma says will you please take me for a nice walk!" jill's heart sank. she loved children, but tibby was not an ingratiating child. he was a mr mariner in little. he had the family gloom. it puzzled jill sometimes why this branch of the family should look on life with so jaundiced an eye. she remembered her father as a cheerful man, alive to the small humors of life. "all right, tibby. where shall we go?" "ma says we must keep on the roads and i mustn't slide." jill was thoughtful during the walk. tibby, who was no conversationalist, gave her every opportunity for meditation. she perceived that in the space of a few hours she had sunk in the social scale. if there was any difference between her position and that of a paid nurse and companion, it lay in the fact that she was not paid. she looked about her at the grim countryside, gave a thought to the chill gloom of the house to which she was about to return, and her heart sank. nearing home, tibby vouchsafed his first independent observation. "the hired man's quit!" "has he?" "yep. quit this morning." it had begun to snow. they turned and made their way back to the house. the information she had received did not cause jill any great apprehension. it was hardly likely that her new duties would include the stoking of the furnace. that and cooking appeared to be the only acts about the house which were outside her present sphere of usefulness. "he killed a rat once in the wood-shed with an axe," said tibby chattily. "yessir! chopped it right in half, and it bled!" "look at the pretty snow falling on the trees," said jill faintly. at breakfast next morning, mrs mariner having sneezed, made a suggestion. "tibby, darling, wouldn't it be nice if you and cousin jill played a game of pretending you were pioneers in the far west?" "what's a pioneer?" enquired tibby, pausing in the middle of an act of violence on a plate of oatmeal. "the pioneers were the early settlers in this country, dear. you have read about them in your history book. they endured a great many hardships, for life was very rough for them, with no railroads or anything. i think it would be a nice game to play this morning." tibby looked at jill. there was doubt in his eye. jill returned his gaze sympathetically. one thought was in both their minds. "there is a string to this!" said tibby's eye. "exactly what i think!" said jill's. mrs mariner sneezed again. "you would have lots of fun," she said. "what'ud we do?" asked tibby cautiously. he had been this way before. only last summer, on his mother's suggestion that he should pretend he was a ship-wrecked sailor on a desert island, he had perspired through a whole afternoon cutting the grass in front of the house to make a ship-wrecked sailor's simple bed. "i know," said jill. "we'll pretend we're pioneers stormbound in their log cabin in the woods, and the wolves are howling outside, and they daren't go out, so they make a lovely big fire and sit in front of it and read." "and eat candy," suggested tibby, warming to the idea. "and eat candy," agreed jill. mrs mariner frowned. "i was going to suggest," she said frostily, "that you shovelled the snow away from the front steps!" "splendid!" said jill. "oh, but i forgot. i want to go to the village first." "there will be plenty of time to do it when you get back." "all right. i'll do it when i get back." it was a quarter of an hour's walk to the village. jill stopped at the post-office. "could you tell me," she asked, "when the next train is to new york?" "there's one at ten-ten," said the woman, behind the window. "you'll have to hurry." "i'll hurry!" said jill. chapter eight 1. doctors, laying down the law in their usual confident way, tell us that the vitality of the human body is at its lowest at two o'clock in the morning: and that it is then, as a consequence, that the mind is least able to contemplate the present with equanimity, the future with fortitude, and the past without regret. every thinking man, however, knows that this is not so. the true zero hour, desolate, gloom-ridden, and specter-haunted, occurs immediately before dinner while we are waiting for that cocktail. it is then that, stripped for a brief moment of our armor of complacency and self-esteem, we see ourselves as we are,--frightful chumps in a world where nothing goes right; a gray world in which, hoping to click, we merely get the raspberry; where, animated by the best intentions, we nevertheless succeed in perpetrating the scaliest bloomers and landing our loved ones neck-deep in the gumbo. so reflected freddie rooke, that priceless old bean, sitting disconsolately in an arm-chair at the drones club about two weeks after jill's departure from england, waiting for his friend algy martyn to trickle in and give him dinner. surveying freddie, as he droops on his spine in the yielding leather, one is conscious of one's limitations as a writer. gloom like his calls for the pen of a master. zola could have tackled it nicely. gorky might have made a stab at it. dostoievsky would have handled it with relish. but for oneself the thing is too vast. one cannot wangle it. it intimidates. it would have been bad enough in any case, for algy martyn was late as usual and it always gave freddie the pip to have to wait for dinner: but what made it worse was the fact that the drones was not one of freddie's clubs and so, until the blighter algy arrived, it was impossible for him to get his cocktail. there he sat, surrounded by happy, laughing young men, each grasping a glass of the good old mixture-as-before, absolutely unable to connect. some of them, casual acquaintances, had nodded to him, waved, and gone on lowering the juice,--a spectacle which made freddie feel much as the wounded soldier would have felt if sir philip sidney, instead of offering him the cup of water, had placed it to his own lips and drained it with a careless "cheerio!" no wonder freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of tolstoi's russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city reservoir, he turns to the cupboard, only to find the vodka-bottle empty. freddie gave himself up to despondency: and, as always in these days when he was mournful, he thought of jill. jill's sad case was a continual source of mental anguish to him. from the first he had blamed himself for the breaking-off of her engagement with derek. if he had not sent the message to derek from the police-station, the latter would never have known about their arrest, and all would have been well. and now, a few days ago, had come the news of her financial disaster, with its attendant complications. it had descended on freddie like a thunderbolt through the medium of ronny devereux. "i say," ronny had said, "have you heard the latest? your pal, underhill, has broken off his engagement with jill mariner." "i know; rather rotten, what!" "rotten? i should say so! it isn't done. i mean to say, chap can't chuck a girl just because she's lost her money. simply isn't on the board, old man!" "lost her money? what do you mean?" ronny was surprised. hadn't freddie heard? yes, absolute fact. he had it from the best authority. didn't know how it had happened and all that, but jill mariner had gone completely bust; underhill had given her the miss-in-baulk; and the poor girl had legged it, no one knew where. oh, freddie had met her and she had told him she was going to america? well, then, legged it to america. but the point was that the swine underhill had handed her the mitten just because she was broke, and that was what ronny thought so bally rotten. broker a girl is, ronny meant to say, more a fellow should stick to her. "but--" freddie rushed to his hero's defence. "but it wasn't that at all. something quite different. i mean, derek didn't even know jill had lost her money. he broke the engagement because . . ." freddie stopped short. he didn't want everybody to know of that rotten arrest business, as they infallibly would if he confided in ronny devereux. sort of thing he would never hear the last of. "he broke it off because of something quite different." "oh, yes!" said ronny skeptically. "but he did, really!" ronny shook his head. "don't you believe it, old son. don't you believe it. stands to reason it must have been because the poor girl was broke. you wouldn't have done it and i wouldn't have done it, but underhill did, and that's all there is to it. i mean, a tick's a tick, and there's nothing more to say. well, i know he's been a pal of yours, freddie, but, next time i meet him, by jove, i'll cut him dead. only i don't know him to speak to, dash it!" concluded ronny regretfully. ronny's news had upset freddie. derek had returned to the albany a couple of days ago, moody and silent. they had lunched together at the bachelors, and freddie had been pained at the attitude of his fellow clubmen. usually, when he lunched at the bachelors, his table became a sort of social center. cheery birds would roll up to pass the time of day, and festive old eggs would toddle over to have coffee and so forth, and all that sort of thing. jolly! on this occasion nobody had rolled, and all the eggs present had taken their coffee elsewhere. there was an uncomfortable chill in the atmosphere of which freddie had been acutely conscious, though derek had not appeared to notice it. the thing had only come home to derek yesterday at the albany, when the painful episode of wally mason had occurred. it was this way: "hullo, freddie, old top! sorry to have kept you waiting." freddie looked up from his broken meditations, to find that his host had arrived. "hullo!" "a quick bracer," said algy martyn, "and then the jolly old food-stuffs. it's pretty late, i see. didn't notice how time was slipping." over the soup, freddie was still a prey to gloom. for once the healing gin-and-vermouth had failed to do its noble work. he sipped sombrely, so sombrely as to cause comment from his host. "pipped?" enquired algy solicitously. "pretty pipped," admitted freddie. "backed a loser?" "no." "something wrong with the old tum?" "no. . . . worried." "worried?" "about derek." "derek? who's . . . ? oh, you mean underhill?" "yes." algy martyn chased an elusive piece of carrot about his soup plate, watching it interestedly as it slid coyly from the spoon. "oh?" he said, with sudden coolness. "what about him?" freddie was too absorbed in his subject to notice the change in his friend's tone. "a dashed unpleasant thing," he said, "happened yesterday morning at my place. i was just thinking about going out to lunch, when the door-bell rang and parker said a chappie of the name of mason would like to see me. i didn't remember any mason, but parker said the chappie said he knew me when i was a kid. so he loosed him into the room, and it turned out to be a fellow i used to know years ago down in worcestershire. i didn't know him from adam at first, but gradually the old bean got to work, and i placed him. wally mason his name was. rummily enough, he had spoken to me at the leicester that night when the fire was, but not being able to place him, i had given him the miss somewhat. you know how it is. chappie you've never been introduced to says something to you in a theatre, and you murmur something and sheer off. what?" "absolutely," agreed algy martyn. he thoroughly approved of freddie's code of etiquette. sheer off. only thing to do. "well, anyhow, now that he had turned up again and told me who he was, i began to remember. we had been kids together, don't you know. (what's this? salmon? oh, right ho.) so i buzzed about and did the jovial host, you know; gave him a drink and a toofer, and all that sort of thing; and talked about the dear old days and what not. and so forth, if you follow me. then he brought the conversation round to jill. of course he knew jill at the same time when he knew me, down in worcestershire, you see. we were all pretty pally in those days, if you see what i mean. well, this man mason, it seems, had heard somewhere about jill losing her money, and he wanted to know if it was true. i said absolutely. hadn't heard any details, but ronny had told me and ronny had had it from some one who had stable information and all that sort of thing. 'dashed shame, isn't it!' i said. 'she's gone to america, you know.' 'i didn't know,' he said. 'i understood she was going to be married quite soon.' well, of course, i told him that that was off. he didn't say anything for a bit, then he said 'off?' i said 'off.' 'did she break it off?' asked the chappie. 'well, no,' i said. 'as a matter of fact derek broke it off.' he said 'oh!' (what? oh yes, a bit of pheasant will be fine.) where was i? oh, yes. he said 'oh!' now, before this, i ought to tell you, this chappie mason had asked me to come out and have a bit of lunch. i had told him i was lunching with derek, and he said 'right ho,' or words to that effect, 'bring him along.' derek had been out for a stroll, you see, and we were waiting for him to come in. well, just at this point or juncture, if you know what i mean, in he came, and i said 'oh, what ho!' and introduced wally mason. 'oh, do you know underhill?' i said, or something like that. you know the sort of thing. and then . . ." freddie broke off and drained his glass. the recollection of that painful moment had made him feverish. social difficulties always did. "then what?" enquired algy martyn. "well, it, was pretty rotten. derek held out his hand, as a chappie naturally would, being introduced to a strange chappie, and wally mason, giving it an absolute miss, went on talking to me just as if we were alone, you know. look here. here was i, where this knife is. derek over here--this fork--with his hand out. mason here--this bit of bread. mason looks at his watch, and says 'i'm sorry, freddie, but i find i've an engagement for lunch. so long!' and biffed out, without apparently knowing derek was on the earth. i mean . . ." freddie reached for his glass, "what i mean is, it was dashed embarrassing. i mean, cutting a fellow dead in my rooms. i don't know when i've felt so rotten!" algy martyn delivered judgment with great firmness. "chappie was perfectly right!" "no, but i mean . . ." "absolutely correct-o," insisted algy sternly. "underhill can't dash about all over the place giving the girl he's engaged to the mitten because she's broke, and expect no notice to be taken of it. if you want to know what i think, old man, your pal underhill--i can't imagine what the deuce you see in him, but, school together and so forth, makes a difference, i suppose,--i say, if you want to know what i think, freddie, the blighter underhill would be well advised either to leg it after jill and get her to marry him or else lie low for a goodish while till people have forgotten the thing. i mean to say, fellows like ronny and i and dick wimpole and archie studd and the rest of our lot,--well, we all knew jill and thought she was a topper and had danced with her here and there and seen her about and all that, and naturally we feel pretty strongly about the whole dashed business. underhill isn't in our particular set, but we all know most of the people he knows, and we talk about this business, and the thing gets about, and there you are! my sister, who was a great pal of jill's, swears that all the girls she knows mean to cut underhill. i tell you, freddie, london's going to get pretty hot for him if he doesn't do something dashed quick and with great rapidity!" "but you haven't got the story right, old thing!" "how not?" "well, i mean you think and ronny thinks and all the rest of you think that derek broke off the engagement because of the money. it wasn't that at all." "what was it, then?" "well . . . well, look here, it makes me seem a fearful ass and all that, but i'd better tell you. jill and i were going down one of those streets near victoria and a blighter was trying to slay a parrot . . ." "parrot-shooting's pretty good in those parts, they tell me," interjected algy satirically. "don't interrupt, old man. this parrot had got out of one of the houses, and a fellow was jabbing at it with a stick, and jill--you know what she's like; impulsive, i mean, and all that--jill got hold of the stick and biffed him with some vim, and a policeman rolled up and the fellow made a fuss and the policeman took jill and me off to chokey. well, like an ass, i sent round to derek to bail us out, and that's how he heard of the thing. apparently he didn't think a lot of it, and the result was that he broke off the engagement." algy martin had listened to this recital with growing amazement. "he broke it off because of that?" "yes." "what absolute rot!" said algy martyn. "i don't believe a word of it!" "i say, old man!" "i don't believe a word of it," repeated algy firmly. "and nobody else will either. it's dashed good of you, freddie, to cook up a yarn like that to try and make things look better for the blighter, but it won't work. such a dam silly story, too!" said algy with some indignation. "but it's true!" "what's the use, freddie, between old pals?" said algy protestingly. "you know perfectly well that underhill's a cootie of the most pronounced order, and that, when he found out that jill hadn't any money, he chucked her." "but why should derek care whether jill was well off or not? he's got enough money of his own." "nobody," said algy judicially, "has got enough money of his own. underhill thought he was marrying a girl with a sizeable chunk of the ready, and, when the fuse blew out, he decided it wasn't good enough. for heaven's sake don't let's talk any more about the blighter. it gives me a pain to think of him." and algy martyn, suppressing every effort which freddie made to reopen the subject, turned the conversation to more general matters. 2. freddie returned to the albany in a state of gloom and uneasiness. algy's remarks, coming on top of the wally mason episode, had shaken him. the london in which he and derek moved and had their being is nothing but a village, and it was evident that village gossip was hostile to derek. people were talking about him. local opinion had decided that he had behaved badly. already one man had cut him. freddie blenched at a sudden vision of street-fulls of men, long piccadillys of men, all cutting him, one after the other. something had got to be done. he was devoted to derek. this sort of thing was as bad as being cut himself. whatever freddie's limitations in the matter of brain, he had a large heart and an infinite capacity for faithfulness in his friendships. the subject was not an easy one to broach to his somewhat forbidding friend, as he discovered when the latter arrived about half an hour later. derek had been attending the semi-annual banquet of the worshipful dry-salters company down in the city, understudying one of the speakers, a leading member of parliament, who had been unable to appear; and he was still in the grip of that feeling of degraded repletion which city dinners induce. the dry-salters, on these occasions when they cast off for a night the cares and anxieties of dry-salting, do their guests well, and derek had that bloated sense of foreboding which comes to a man whose stomach is not his strong point after twelve courses and a multitude of mixed wines. a goose, qualifying for the role of a pot of pate de foies gras, probably has exactly the same jaundiced outlook. yet, unfavorably disposed as, judging by his silence and the occasional moody grunts he uttered, he appeared to be to a discussion of his private affairs, it seemed to freddie impossible that the night should be allowed to pass without some word spoken on the subject. he thought of ronny and what ronny had said, of algy and what algy had said, of wally mason and how wally had behaved in this very room; and he nerved himself to the task. "derek, old top." a grunt. "i say, derek, old bean." derek roused himself, and looked gloomily across the room to where he stood, warming his legs at the blaze. "well?" freddie found a difficulty in selecting words. a ticklish business, this. one that might well have disconcerted a diplomat. freddie was no diplomat, and the fact enabled him to find a way in the present crisis. equipped by nature with an amiable tactlessness and a happy gift of blundering, he charged straight at the main point, and landed on it like a circus elephant alighting on a bottle. "i say, you know, about jill!" he stooped to rub the backs of his legs, on which the fire was playing with a little too fierce a glow, and missed his companion's start and the sudden thickening of his bushy eyebrows. "well?" said derek again. freddie nerved himself to proceed. a thought flashed across his mind that derek was looking exactly like lady underhill. it was the first time he had seen the family resemblance quite so marked. "ronny devereux was saying . . ." faltered freddie. "damn ronny devereux!" "oh, absolutely! but . . ." "ronny devereux! who the devil is ronny devereux?" "why, old man, you've heard me speak of him, haven't you? pal of mine. he came down to the station with algy and me to meet your mater that morning." "oh, _that_ fellow? and he has been saying something about . . . ?" "it isn't only ronny, you know," freddie hastened to interject. "algy martyn's talking about it, too. and lots of other fellows. and algy's sister and a lot of people. they're all saying . . ." "what are they saying?" freddie bent down and chafed the back of his legs. he simply couldn't look at derek while he had that lady underhill expression on the old map. rummy he had never noticed before how extraordinarily like his mother he was. freddie was conscious of a faint sense of grievance. he could not have put it into words, but what he felt was that a fellow had no right to go about looking like lady underhill. "what are they saying?" repeated derek grimly. "well . . ." freddie hesitated. "that it's a bit tough . . . on jill, you know." "they think i behaved badly?" "well . . . oh, well, you know!" derek smiled a ghastly smile. this was not wholly due to mental disturbance. the dull heaviness which was the legacy of the dry-salters' dinner had begun to change to something more actively unpleasant. a sub-motive of sharp pain had begun to run through it, flashing in and out like lightning through a thunder-cloud. he felt sullen and vicious. "i wonder," he said with savage politeness, "if, when you chat with your friends, you would mind choosing some other topic than my private affairs." "sorry, old man. but they started it, don't you know." "and, if you feel you've got to discuss me, kindly keep it to yourself. don't come and tell me what your damned friends said to each other and to you and what you said to them, because it bores me. i'm not interested. i don't value their opinions as much as you seem to." derek paused, to battle in silence with the imperious agony within him. "it was good of you to put me up here," he went on, "but i think i won't trespass on your hospitality any longer. perhaps you'll ask parker to pack my things tomorrow." derek moved, as majestically as an ex-guest of the worshipful company of dry-salters may, in the direction of the door. "i shall go to the savoy." "oh, i say, old man! no need to do that." "good night." "but, i say . . ." "and you can tell your friend devereux that, if he doesn't stop poking his nose into my private business, i'll pull it off." "well," said freddie doubtfully, "of course i don't suppose you know, but . . . ronny's a pretty hefty bird. he boxed for cambridge in the light-weights the last year he was up, you know. he . . ." derek slammed the door. freddie was alone. he stood rubbing his legs for some minutes, a rueful expression on his usually cheerful face. freddie hated rows. he liked everything to jog along smoothly. what a rotten place the world was these days! just one thing after another. first, poor old jill takes the knock and disappears. he would miss her badly. what a good sort! what a pal! and now--gone. biffed off. next, derek. together, more or less, ever since winchester, and now--bing! . . . freddie heaved a sigh, and reached out for the sporting times, his never-failing comfort in times of depression. he lit another cigar and curled up in one of the arm-chairs. he was feeling tired. he had been playing squash all the afternoon, a game at which he was exceedingly expert and to which he was much addicted. time passed. the paper slipped to the floor. a cold cigar followed it. from the depths of the chair came a faint snore . . . * * * a hand on his shoulder brought freddie with a jerk troubled dreams. derek was standing beside him. a tousled derek, apparently in pain. "freddie!" "hullo!" a spasm twisted derek's face. "have you got any pepsin?" derek uttered a groan. what a mocker of our petty human dignity is this dyspepsia, bringing low the haughtiest of us, less than love itself a respecter of persons. this was a different derek from the man who had stalked stiffly from the room two hours before. his pride had been humbled upon the rack. "pepsin?" freddie blinked, the mists of sleep floating gently before his eyes. he could not quite understand what his friend was asking for. it had sounded just like pepsin, and he didn't believe there was such a word. "yes. i've got the most damned attack of indigestion." the mists of sleep rolled away from freddie. he was awake again, and became immediately helpful. these were the occasions when the last of the rookes was a good man to have at your side. it was freddie who suggested that derek should recline in the arm-chair which he had vacated; freddie who nipped round the corner to the all-night chemist's and returned with a magic bottle guaranteed to relieve an ostrich after a surfeit of soda-water bottles; freddie who mixed and administered the dose. his ministrations were rewarded. presently the agony seemed to pass. derek recovered. one would say that derek became himself again, but that the mood of gentle remorse which came upon him as he lay in the arm-chair was one so foreign to his nature. freddie had never seen him so subdued. he was like a convalescent child. between them, the all-night chemist and the dry-salters seemed to have wrought a sort of miracle. these temporary softenings of personality frequently follow city dinners. the time to catch your dry-salter in angelic mood is the day after the semi-annual banquet. go to him then and he will give you his watch and chain. "freddie," said derek. they were sitting over the dying fire. the clock on the mantelpiece, beside which jill's photograph had stood, pointed to ten minutes past two. derek spoke in a low, soft voice. perhaps the doctors are right after all, and two o'clock is the hour at which our self-esteem deserts us, leaving in its place regret for past sins, good resolutions for future behavior. "what do algy martyn and the others say about . . . you know?" freddie hesitated. pity to start all that again. "oh, i know," went on derek. "they say i behaved like a cad." "oh, well . . ." "they are quite right. i did." "oh, i shouldn't say that, you know. faults on both sides and all that sort of rot." "i did!" derek stared into the fire. scattered all over london at that moment, probably, a hundred worshipful dry-salters were equally sleepless and subdued, looking wide-eyed into black pasts. "is it true she has gone to america, freddie?" "she told me she was going." "what a fool i've been!" the clock ticked on through the silence. the fire sputtered faintly, then gave a little wheeze, like a very old man. derek rested his chin on his hands, gazing into the ashes. "i wish to god i could go over there and find her." "why don't you?" "how can i? there may be an election coming on at any moment. i can't stir." freddie leaped from his seat. the suddenness of the action sent a red-hot corkscrew of pain through derek's head. "what the devil's the matter?" he demanded irritably. even the gentle mood which comes with convalescence after a city dinner is not guaranteed to endure against this sort of thing. "i've got an idea, old bean!" "well, there's no need to dance, is there?" "i've nothing to keep me here, you know. what's the matter with my popping over to america and finding jill?" freddie tramped the floor, aglow. each beat of his foot jarred derek, but he made no complaint. "could you?" he asked eagerly. "of course i could. i was saying only the other day that i had half a mind to buzz over. it's a wheeze! i'll get on the next boat and charge over in the capacity of a jolly old ambassador. have her back in no time. leave it to me, old thing! this is where i come out strong!" chapter nine 1. new york welcomed jill, as she came out of the pennsylvania station into seventh avenue, with a whirl of powdered snow that touched her cheek like a kiss, the cold, bracing kiss one would expect from this vivid city. she stood at the station entrance, a tiny figure beside the huge pillars, looking round her with eager eyes. a wind was whipping down the avenue. the sky was a clear, brilliant tent of the brightest blue. energy was in the air, and hopefulness. she wondered if mr elmer mariner ever came to new york. it was hard to see how even his gloom would contrive to remain unaffected by the exhilaration of the place. yes, new york looked good . . . good and exciting, with all the taxi-cabs rattling in at the dark tunnel beside her, with all the people hurrying in and hurrying out, with all this medley of street-cars and sky-signs and crushed snow and drays and horses and policemen, and that vast hotel across the street, towering to heaven like a cliff. it even smelt good. she remembered an old picture in punch, of two country visitors standing on the step of their railway carriage at a london terminus, one saying ecstatically to other: "don't speak! just sniff! doesn't it smell of the season!" she knew exactly how they had felt, and she approved of their attitude. that was the right way to behave on being introduced to a great metropolis. she stood and sniffed reverently. but for the presence of the hurrying crowds, she could almost have imitated the example of that king who kissed the soil of his country on landing from his ship. she took uncle chris' letter from her bag. he had written from an address on east fifty-seventh street. there would be just time to catch him before he went out to lunch. she hailed a taxi-cab which was coming out of the station. it was a slow ride, halted repeatedly by congestion of the traffic, but a short one for jill. she was surprised at herself, a londoner of long standing, for feeling so provincial and being so impressed. but london was far away. it belonged to a life that seemed years ago and a world from which she had parted for ever. moreover, this was undeniably a stupendous city through which her taxi-cab was carrying her. at times square the stream of the traffic plunged into a whirlpool, swinging out of broadway to meet the rapids which poured in from east, west, and north. on fifth avenue all the automobiles in the world were gathered together. on the sidewalks, pedestrians, muffled against the nipping chill of the crisp air, hurried to and fro. and, above, that sapphire sky spread a rich velvet curtain which made the tops of the buildings stand out like the white minarets of some eastern city of romance. the cab drew up in front of a stone apartment house; and jill, getting out, passed under an awning through a sort of mediaeval courtyard, gay with potted shrubs, to an inner door. she was impressed. the very atmosphere was redolent of riches, and she wondered how in the world uncle chris had managed to acquire wealth on this scale in the extremely short space of time which had elapsed since his landing. there bustled past her an obvious millionaire--or, more probably, a greater monarch of finance who looked down upon mere millionaires and out of the goodness of his heart tried to check a tendency to speak patronisingly to them. he was concealed to the eyebrows in a fur coat, and, reaching the sidewalk, was instantly absorbed in a large limousine. two expensive-looking ladies followed him. jill began to feel a little dazed. evidently the tales one heard of fortunes accumulated overnight in this magic city were true, and one of them must have fallen to the lot of uncle chris. for nobody to whom money was a concern could possibly afford to live in a place like this. if croesus and the count of monte cristo had applied for lodging there, the authorities would probably have looked on them a little doubtfully at first and hinted at the desirability of a month's rent in advance. in a glass case behind the inner door, reading a newspaper and chewing gum, sat a dignified old man in the rich uniform of a general in the guatemalan army. he was a brilliant spectacle. he wore no jewelry, but this, no doubt, was due to a private distaste for display. as there was no one else of humbler rank at hand from whom jill could solicit an introduction and the privilege of an audience, she took the bold step of addressing him directly. "i want to see major selby, please." the guatemalan general arrested for a moment the rhythmic action of his jaws, lowered his paper and looked at her with raised eyebrows. at first jill thought that he was registering haughty contempt, then she saw what she had taken for scorn was surprise. "major selby?" "major selby." "no major selby living here." "major christopher selby." "not here," said the associate of ambassadors and the pampered pet of guatemala's proudest beauties. "never heard of him in my life!" 2. jill had read works of fiction in which at certain crises everything had "seemed to swim" in front of the heroine's eyes, but never till this moment had she experienced that remarkable sensation herself. the savior of guatemala did not actually swim, perhaps, but he certainly flickered. she had to blink to restore his prismatic outlines to their proper sharpness. already the bustle and noise of new york had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unreality which one feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added the finishing touch. perhaps the fact that she had said "please" to him when she opened the conversation touched the heart of the hero of a thousand revolutions. dignified and beautiful as he was to the eye of the stranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he lived in a world which rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. people did not often say "please" to him. "here!" "hi!" and "gosh darn you!" yes; but seldom "please." he seemed to approve of jill, for he shifted his chewing-gum to a position which facilitated speech, and began to be helpful. "what was the name again?" "selby." "howja spell it?" "s-e-l-b-y." "s-e-l-b-y. oh, selby?" "yes, selby." "what was the first name?" "christopher." "christopher?" "yes, christopher." "christopher selby? no one of that name living here." "but there must be." the veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile. "you want mr sipperley," he said tolerantly. in guatemala these mistakes are always happening. "mr george sipperley. he's on the fourth floor. what name shall i say?" he had almost reached the telephone when jill stopped him. this is an age of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept any unknown sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for uncle chris. "i don't want mr sipperley. i want major selby." "howja spell it once more?" "s-e-l-b-y." "s-e-l-b-y. no one of that name living here. mr. sipperley--"--he spoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to make jill see what was in her best interests--"mr sipperley's on the fourth floor. gentleman in the real estate business," he added insinuatingly. "he's got blond hair and a boston bull-dog." "he may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bulldogs . . ." "only one. jack his name is." ". . . but he isn't the right man. it's absurd. major selby wrote to me from this address. this _is_ eighteen east fifty-seventh street?" "this is eighteen east fifty-seventh street," conceded the other cautiously. "i've got his letter here." she opened her bag, and gave an exclamation of dismay. "it's gone!" "mr sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last fall. a mr robertson. dark-complected man with a mustache." "i took it out to look at the address, and i was sure i put it back. i must have dropped it." "there's a mr rainsby on the seventh floor. he's a broker down on wall street. short man with an impediment in his speech." jill snapped the clasp of her bag. "never mind," she said. "i must have made a mistake. i was quite sure that this was the address, but it evidently isn't. thank you so much. i'm so sorry to have bothered you." she walked away, leaving the terror of paraguay and all points west speechless: for people who said "thank you so much" to him were even rarer than those who said "please." he followed her with an affectionate eye till she was out of sight, then, restoring his chewing-gum to circulation, returned to the perusal of his paper. a momentary suggestion presented itself to his mind that what jill had really wanted was mr willoughby on the eighth floor, but it was too late to say so now: and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of a spirited householder in kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet and slain six, he dismissed the matter from his mind. 3. jill walked back to fifth avenue, crossed it, and made her way thoughtfully along the breezy street which, flanked on one side by the park and on the other by the green-roofed plaza hotel and the apartment houses of the wealthy, ends in the humbler and more democratic spaces of columbus circle. she perceived that she was in that position, familiar to melodrama, of being alone in a great city. the reflection brought with it a certain discomfort. the bag that dangled from her wrist contained all the money she had in the world, the very broken remains of the twenty dollars which uncle chris had sent her at brookport. she had nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep, and no immediately obvious means of adding to her capital. it was a situation which she had not foreseen when she set out to walk to brookport station. she pondered over the mystery of uncle chris' disappearance, and found no solution. the thing was inexplicable. she was as sure of the address he had given in his letter as she was of anything in the world. yet at that address nothing had been heard of him. his name was not even known. these were deeper waters than jill was able to fathom. she walked on, aimlessly. presently she came to columbus circle, and, crossing broadway at the point where that street breaks out into an eruption of automobile stores, found herself suddenly hungry, opposite a restaurant whose entire front was a sheet of plate glass. on the other side of this glass, at marble-topped tables, apparently careless of their total lack of privacy, sat the impecunious, lunching, their every mouthful a spectacle for the passer-by. it reminded jill of looking at fishes in an aquarium. in the center of the window, gazing out in a distrait manner over piles of apples and grape-fruit, a white-robed ministrant at a stove juggled ceaselessly with buckwheat cakes. he struck the final note in the candidness of the establishment, a priest whose ritual contained no mysteries. spectators with sufficient time on their hands to permit them to stand and watch were enabled to witness a new york mid-day meal in every stage of its career, from its protoplasmic beginnings as a stream of yellowish-white liquid poured on top of the stove to its ultimate nirvana in the interior of the luncher in the form of an appetising cake. it was a spectacle which no hungry girl could resist. jill went in, and, as she made her way among the tables, a voice spoke her name. "miss mariner!" jill jumped, and thought for a moment that the thing must have been an hallucination. it was impossible that anybody in the place should have called her name. except for uncle chris, wherever he might be, she knew no one in new york. then the voice spoke again, competing valiantly with a clatter of crockery so uproarious as to be more like something solid than a mere sound. "i couldn't believe it was you!" a girl in blue had risen from the nearest table, and was staring at her in astonishment, jill recognized her instantly. those big, pathetic eyes, like a lost child's, were unmistakable. it was the parrot girl, the girl whom she and freddie rooke had found in the drawing-room, at ovington square that afternoon when the foundations of the world had given way and chaos had begun. "good gracious!" cried jill. "i thought you were in london!" that feeling of emptiness and panic, the result of her interview with the guatemalan general at the apartment house, vanished magically. she sat down at this unexpected friend's table with a light heart. "whatever are you doing in new york?" asked the girl. "i never knew you meant to come over." "it was a little sudden. still, here i am. and i'm starving. what are those things you're eating?" "buckwheat cakes." "oh, yes. i remember uncle chris talking about them on the boat. i'll have some." "but when did you come over?" "i landed about ten days ago. i've been down at a place called brookport on long island. how funny running into you like this!" "i was surprised that you remembered me." "i've forgotten your name," admitted jill frankly. "but that's nothing. i always forget names." "my name's nelly bryant." "of course. and you're on the stage, aren't you?" "yes. i've just got work with goble and cohn. . . . hullo, phil!" a young man with a lithe figure and smooth black hair brushed straight back from his forehead had paused at the table on his way to the cashier's desk. "hello, nelly." "i didn't know you lunched here." "don't often. been rehearsing with joe up at the century roof, and had a quarter of an hour to get a bite. can i sit down?" "sure. this is my friend, miss mariner." the young man shook hands with jill, flashing an approving glance at her out of his dark, restless eyes. "pleased to meet you." "this is phil brown," said nelly. "he plays the straight for joe widgeon. they're the best jazz-and-hokum team on the keith circuit." "oh, hush!" said mr brown modestly. "you always were a great little booster, nelly." "well, you know you are! weren't you held over at the palace last time! well, then!" "that's true," admitted the young man. "maybe we didn't gool 'em, eh? stop me on the street and ask me! only eighteen bows second house saturday!" jill was listening, fascinated. "i can't understand a word," she said. "it's like another language." "you're from the other side, aren't you?" asked mr brown. "she only landed a week ago," said nelly. "i thought so from the accent," said mr brown. "so our talk sort of goes over the top, does it? well, you'll learn american soon, if you stick around." "i've learned some already," said jill. the relief of meeting nelly had made her feel very happy. she liked this smooth-haired young man. "a man on the train this morning said to me, 'would you care for the morning paper, sister?' i said, 'no, thanks, brother, i want to look out of the window and think!'" "you meet a lot of fresh guys on trains," commented mr brown austerely. "you want to give 'em the cold-storage eye." he turned to nelly. "did you go down to ike, as i told you?" "yes." "did you cop?" "yes. i never felt so happy in my life. i'd waited over an hour on that landing of theirs, and then johnny miller came along, and i yelled in his ear that i was after work, and he told me it would be all right. he's awfully good to girls who've worked in shows for him before. if it hadn't been for him i might have been waiting there still." "who," enquired jill, anxious to be abreast of the conversation, "is ike?" "mr goble. where i've just got work. goble and cohn, you know." "i never heard of them!" the young man extended his hand. "put it there!" he said. "they never heard of me! at least, the fellow i saw when i went down to the office hadn't! can you beat it?" "oh, did you go down there, too?" asked nelly. "sure. joe wanted to get in another show on broadway. he'd sort of got tired of vodevil. say, i don't want to scare you, nelly, but, if you ask me, that show they're putting out down there is a citron! i don't think ike's got a cent of his own money in it. my belief is that he's running it for a lot of amateurs. why, say, listen! joe and i blow in there to see if there's anything for us, and there's a tall guy in tortoiseshell cheaters sitting in ike's office. said he was the author and was engaging the principals. we told him who we were, and it didn't make any hit with him at all. he said he had never heard of us. and, when we explained, he said no, there wasn't going to be any of our sort of work in the show. said he was making an effort to give the public something rather better than the usual sort of thing. no specialties required. he said it was an effort to restore the gilbert and sullivan tradition. say, who are these gilbert and sullivan guys, anyway? they get written up in the papers all the time, and i never met any one who'd run across them. if you want my opinion, that show down there is a comic opera!" "for heaven's sake!" nelly had the musical comedy performer's horror of the older-established form of entertainment. "why, comic opera died in the year one!" "well, these guys are going to dig it up. that's the way it looks to me." he lowered his voice. "say, i saw clarice last night," he said in a confidential undertone. "it's all right." "it is?" "we've made it up. it was like this . . ." his conversation took an intimate turn. he expounded for nelly's benefit the inner history, with all its ramifications, of a recent unfortunate rift between himself and "the best little girl in flatbush,"--what he had said, what she had said, what her sister had said, and how it all come right in the end. jill might have felt a little excluded, but for the fact that a sudden and exciting idea had come to her. she sat back, thinking. . . . after all, what else was she to do? she must do something. . . . she bent forward and interrupted mr brown in his description of a brisk passage of arms between himself and the best little girl's sister, who seemed to be an unpleasant sort of person in every way. "mr brown." "hello?" "do you think there would be any chance for me if i asked for work at goble and cohn's?" "you're joking!" cried nelly. "i'm not at all." "but what do you want with work?" "i've got to find some. and right away, too." "i don't understand." jill hesitated. she disliked discussing her private affairs, but there was obviously no way of avoiding it. nelly was round-eyed and mystified, and mr brown had manifestly no intention whatever of withdrawing tactfully. he wanted to hear all. "i've lost my money," said jill. "lost your money! do you mean . . . ?" "i've lost it all. every penny i had in the world." "tough!" interpolated mr brown judicially. "i was broke once way out in a tank-town in oklahoma. the manager skipped with our salaries. last we saw of him he was doing the trip to canada in nothing flat." "but how?" gasped nelly. "it happened about the time we met in london. do you remember freddie rooke, who was at our house that after-noon?" a dreamy look came into nelly's eyes. there had not been an hour since their parting when she had not thought of that immaculate sportsman. it would have amazed freddie, could he have known, but to nelly bryant he was the one perfect man in an imperfect world. "do i!" she sighed ecstatically. mr brown shot a keen glance at her. "aha!" he cried facetiously. "who is he, nelly? who is this blue-eyed boy?" "if you want to know," said nelly, defiance in her tone, "he's the fellow who gave me fifty pounds, with no strings tied to it,--get that!--when i was broke in london! if it hadn't been for him, i'd be there still." "did he?" cried jill. "freddie!" "yes. oh, gee!" nelly sighed once more. "i suppose i'll never see him again in this world." "introduce me to him, if you do," said mr brown. "he sounds just the sort of little pal i'd like to have!" "you remember hearing freddie say something about losing money in a slump on the stock exchange," proceeded jill. "well, that was how i lost mine. it's a long story, and it's not worth talking about, but that's how things stand, and i've got to find work of some sort, and it looks to me as if i should have a better chance of finding it on the stage than anywhere else." "i'm terribly sorry." "oh, it's all right. how much would these people goble and cohn give me if i got an engagement?" "only forty a week." "forty dollars a week! it's wealth! where are they?" "over at the gotham theatre in forty-second street." "i'll go there at once." "but you'll hate it. you don't realize what it's like. you wait hours and hours and nobody sees you." "why shouldn't i walk straight in and say that i've come for work?" nelly's big eyes grew bigger. "but you couldn't!" "why not?" "why, you couldn't!" "i don't see why." mr brown intervened with decision. "you're dead right," he said to jill approvingly. "if you ask me, that's the only sensible thing to do. where's the sense of hanging around and getting stalled? managers are human guys, some of 'em. probably, if you were to try it, they'd appreciate a bit of gall. it would show 'em you'd got pep. you go down there and try walking straight in. they can't eat you. it makes me sick when i see all those poor devils hanging about outside these offices, waiting to get noticed and nobody ever paying any attention to them. you push the office-boy in the face if he tries to stop you, and go in and make 'em take notice. and, whatever you do, don't leave your name and address! that's the old, moth-eaten gag they're sure to try to pull on you. tell 'em there's nothing doing. say you're out for a quick decision! stand 'em on their heads!" jill got up, fired by this eloquence. she called for her check. "good-bye," she said. "i'm going to do exactly as you say. where can i find you afterwards?" she said to nelly. "you aren't really going?" "i am!" nelly scribbled on a piece of paper. "here's my address. i'll be in all evening." "i'll come and see you. good-bye, mr brown. and thank you." "you're welcome!" said mr brown. nelly watched jill depart with wide eyes. "why did you tell her to do that?" she said. "why not?" said mr brown. "i started something, didn't i? well, i guess i'll have to be leaving, too. got to get back to rehearsal. say, i like that friend of yours, nelly. there's no yellow streak about her! i wish her luck!" chapter ten 1. the offices of messrs goble and cohn were situated, like everything else in new york that appertains to the drama, in the neighborhood of times square. they occupied the fifth floor of the gotham theatre on west forty-second street. as there was no elevator in the building except the small private one used by the two members of the firm, jill walked up the stairs, and found signs of a thriving business beginning to present themselves as early as the third floor, where half a dozen patient persons of either sex had draped themselves like roosting fowls upon the banisters. there were more on the fourth floor, and the landing of the fifth, which served the firm as a waiting-room, was quite full. it is the custom of theatrical managers--the lowest order of intelligence, with the possible exception of the _limax maximus_ or garden slug, known to science--to omit from their calculations the fact that they are likely every day to receive a large number of visitors, whom they will be obliged to keep waiting; and that these people will require somewhere to wait. such considerations never occur to them. messrs goble and cohn had provided for those who called to see them one small bench on the landing, conveniently situated at the intersecting point of three draughts, and had let it go at that. nobody, except perhaps the night-watchman, had ever seen this bench empty. at whatever hour of the day you happened to call, you would always find three wistful individuals seated side by side with their eyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the office-boy, the telephone-girl, and mr goble's stenographer. beyond this was the door marked "private," through which, as it opened to admit some careless, debonair, thousand-dollar-a-week comedian who sauntered in with a jaunty "hello, ike!" or some furred and scented female star, the rank and file of the profession were greeted, like moses on pisgah, with a fleeting glimpse of the promised land, consisting of a large desk and a section of a very fat man with spectacles and a bald head or a younger man with fair hair and a double chin. the keynote of the mass meeting on the landing was one of determined, almost aggressive smartness. the men wore bright overcoats with bands round the waist, the women those imitation furs which to the uninitiated eye appear so much more expensive than the real thing. everybody looked very dashing and very young, except about the eyes. most of the eyes that glanced at jill were weary. the women were nearly all blondes, blondness having been decided upon in the theatre as the color that brings the best results. the men were all so much alike that they seemed to be members of one large family,--an illusion which was heightened by the scraps of conversation, studded with "dears," "old mans," and "honeys," which came to jill's ears. a stern fight for supremacy was being waged by a score or so of lively and powerful young scents. for a moment jill was somewhat daunted by the spectacle, but she recovered almost immediately. the exhilarating and heady influence of new york still wrought within her. the berserk spirit was upon her, and she remembered the stimulating words of mr brown, of brown and widgeon, the best jazz-and-hokum team on the keith circuit. "walk straight in!" had been the burden of his inspiring address. she pushed her way through the crowd until she came to the small ante-room. in the ante-room were the outposts, the pickets of the enemy. in one corner a girl was hammering energetically and with great speed on a typewriter: a second girl, seated at a switchboard, was having an argument with central which was already warm and threatened to descend shortly to personalities: on a chair tilted back so that it rested against the wall, a small boy sat eating candy and reading the comic page of an evening newspaper. all three were enclosed, like zoological specimens, in a cage formed by a high counter terminating in brass bars. beyond these watchers on the threshold was the door marked "private." through it, as jill reached the outer defences, filtered the sound of a piano. those who have studied the subject have come to the conclusion that the boorishness of theatrical managers' office-boys cannot be the product of mere chance. somewhere, in some sinister den in the criminal districts of the town, there is a school where small boys are trained for these positions, where their finer instincts are rigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated by competent professors. of this school the candy-eating cerberus of messrs goble and cohn had been the star scholar. quickly seeing his natural gifts, his teachers had given him special attention. when he had graduated, it had been amidst the cordial good wishes of the entire faculty. they had taught him all they knew, and they were proud of him. they felt that he would do them credit. this boy raised a pair of pink-rimmed eyes to jill, sniffed--for like all theatrical managers' office-boys he had a permanent cold in the head--bit his thumb-nail, and spoke. he was a snub-nosed boy. his ears and hair were vermilion. his name was ralph. he had seven hundred and forty-three pimples. "woddyerwant?" enquired ralph, coming within an ace of condensing the question into a word of one syllable. "i want to see mr goble." "zout!" said the pimple king, and returned to his paper. there will, no doubt, always be class distinctions. sparta had her kings and her helots, king arthur's round table its knights and its scullions, america her simon legree and her uncle tom. but in no nation and at no period of history has any one ever been so brutally superior to any one else as is the broadway theatrical office-boy to the caller who wishes to see the manager. thomas jefferson held these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. theatrical office-boys do not see eye to eye with thomas. from their pinnacle they look down on the common herd, the _canaille_, and despise them. they coldly question their right to live. jill turned pink. mr brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing this situation, had, she remembered, recommended "pushing the office-boy in the face": and for a moment she felt like following his advice. prudence, or the fact that he was out of reach behind the brass bars, restrained her. without further delay she made for the door of the inner room. that was her objective, and she did not intend to be diverted from it. her fingers were on the handle before any of those present divined her intention. then the stenographer stopped typing and sat with raised fingers, aghast. the girl at the telephone broke off in mid-sentence and stared round over her shoulder. ralph, the office-boy, outraged, dropped his paper and constituted himself the spokesman of the invaded force. "hey!" jill stopped and eyed the lad militantly. "were you speaking to me?" "yes, i _was_ speaking to you!" "don't do it again with your mouth full," said jill, turning to the door. the belligerent fire in the office-boy's pink-rimmed eyes was suddenly dimmed by a gush of water. it was not remorse that caused him to weep, however. in the heat of the moment he had swallowed a large, jagged piece of candy, and he was suffering severely. "you can't go in there!" he managed to articulate, his iron will triumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak. "i am going in there!" "that's mr goble's private room." "well, i want a private talk with mr goble." ralph, his eyes still moist, felt that the situation was slipping from his grip. this sort of thing had never happened to him before. "i tell ya he _zout!_" jill looked at him sternly. "you wretched child!" she said, encouraged by a sharp giggle from the neighborhood of the switchboard. "do you know where little boys go who don't speak the truth? i can hear him playing the piano. now he's singing! and it's no good telling me he's busy. if he was busy, he wouldn't have time to sing. if you're as deceitful as this at your age, what do you expect to be when you grow up? you're an ugly little boy, you've got red ears, and your collar doesn't fit! i shall speak to mr goble about you." with which words jill opened the door and walked in. "good afternoon," she said brightly. after the congested and unfurnished discomfort of the landing, the room in which jill found herself had an air of cosiness and almost of luxury. it was a large room, solidly upholstered. along the further wall, filling nearly the whole of its space, stood a vast and gleaming desk, covered with a litter of papers which rose at one end of it to a sort of mountain of play-scripts in buff covers. there was a bookshelf to the left. photographs covered the walls. near the window was a deep leather lounge: to the right of this stood a small piano, the music-stool of which was occupied by a young man with untidy black hair that needed cutting. on top of the piano, taking the eye immediately by reason of its bold brightness, was balanced a large cardboard poster. much of its surface was filled by a picture of a youth in polo costume bending over a blonde goddess in a bathing-suit. what space was left displayed the legend: isaac goble and jacob cohn present the rose of america (a musical fantasy) book and lyrics by otis pilkington music by roland trevis turning her eyes from this, jill became aware that something was going on at the other side of the desk: and she perceived that a second young man, the longest and thinnest she had ever seen, was in the act of rising to his feet, length upon length like an unfolding snake. at the moment of her entry he had been lying back in an office-chair, so that only a merely nominal section of his upper structure was visible. now he reared his impressive length until his head came within measurable distance of the ceiling. he had a hatchet face and a receding chin, and he gazed at jill through what she assumed were the "tortoiseshell cheaters" referred to by her recent acquaintance, mr brown. "er . . . ?" said this young man enquiringly in a high, flat voice. jill, like many other people, had a brain which was under the alternating control of two diametrically opposite forces. it was like an automobile steered in turn by two drivers, the one a dashing, reckless fellow with no regard for the speed limits, the other a timid novice. all through the proceedings up to this point the dasher had been in command. he had whisked her along at a break-neck pace, ignoring obstacles and police regulations. now, having brought her to this situation, he abruptly abandoned the wheel and turned it over to his colleague, the shrinker. jill, greatly daring a moment ago, now felt an overwhelming shyness. she gulped, and her heart beat quickly. the thin man towered over her. the black-haired pianist shook his locks at her like banquo. "i . . ." she began. then, suddenly, womanly intuition came to her aid. something seemed to tell her that these men were just as scared as she was. and, at the discovery, the dashing driver resumed his post at the wheel, and she began to deal with the situation with composure. "i want to see mr goble." "mr goble is out," said the long young man, plucking nervously at the papers on the desk. jill had affected him powerfully. "out!" she felt she had wronged the pimpled office-boy. "we are not expecting him back this afternoon. is there anything i can do?" he spoke tenderly. this weak-minded young man--at school his coarse companions had called him simp--was thinking that he had never seen anything like jill before. and it was true that she was looking very pretty, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. she touched a chord in the young man which seemed to make the world a flower-scented thing, full of soft music. often as he had been in love at first sight before in his time, otis pilkington could not recall an occasion on which he had been in love at first sight more completely than now. when she smiled at him, it was as if the gates of heaven had opened. he did not reflect how many times, in similar circumstances, these same gates had opened before; and that on one occasion when they had done so it had cost him eight thousand dollars to settle the case out of court. one does not think of these things at such times, for they strike a jarring note. otis pilkington was in love. that was all he knew, or cared to know. "won't you take a seat, miss . . ." "mariner," prompted jill. "thank you." "miss mariner. may i introduce mr roland trevis?" the man at the piano bowed. his black hair heaved upon his skull like seaweed in a ground swell. "my name is pilkington. otis pilkington." the uncomfortable silence which always follows introductions was broken by the sound of the telephone-bell on the desk. otis pilkington, who had moved out into the room and was nowhere near the desk, stretched forth a preposterous arm and removed the receiver. "yes? oh, will you say, please, that i have a conference at present." jill was to learn that people in the theatrical business never talked: they always held conferences. "tell mrs peagrim that i shall be calling later in the afternoon, but cannot be spared just now." he replaced the receiver. "aunt olive's secretary," he murmured in a soft aside to mr trevis. "aunt olive wanted me to go for a ride." he turned to jill. "excuse me. is there anything i can do for you, miss mariner?" jill's composure was now completely restored. this interview was turning out so totally different from anything she had expected. the atmosphere was cosy and social. she felt as if she were back in ovington square, giving tea to freddie rooke and ronny devereux and the rest of her friends of the london period. all that was needed to complete the picture was a tea-table in front of her. the business note hardly intruded on the proceedings at all. still, as business was the object of her visit, she felt that she had better approach it. "i came for work." "work!" cried mr pilkington. he, too, appeared to be regarding the interview as purely of a social nature. "in the chorus," explained jill. mr pilkington seemed shocked. he winced away from the word as though it pained him. "there is no chorus in 'the rose of america,'" he said. "i thought it was a musical comedy." mr pilkington winced again. "it is a musical _fantasy!_" he said. "but there will be no chorus. we shall have," he added, a touch of rebuke in his voice, "the services of twelve refined ladies of the ensemble." jill laughed. "it does sound much better, doesn't it!" she said. "well, am i refined enough, do you think?" "i shall be only too happy if you will join us," said mr pilkington promptly. the long-haired composer looked doubtful. he struck a note up in the treble, then whirled round on his stool. "if you don't mind my mentioning it, otie, we have twelve girls already." "then we must have thirteen," said otis pilkington firmly. "unlucky number," argued mr trevis. "i don't care. we must have miss mariner. you can see for yourself that she is exactly the type we need." he spoke feelingly. ever since the business of engaging a company had begun, he had been thinking wistfully of the evening when "the rose of america" had had its opening performance--at his aunt's house at newport last summer--with an all-star cast of society favorites and an ensemble recruited entirely from debutantes and matrons of the younger set. that was the sort of company he had longed to assemble for the piece's professional career, and until this afternoon he had met with nothing but disappointment. jill seemed to be the only girl in theatrical new york who came up to the standard he would have liked to demand. "thank you very much," said jill. there was another pause. the social note crept into the atmosphere again. jill felt the hostess' desire to keep conversation circulating. "i hear," she said, "that this piece is a sort of gilbert and sullivan opera." mr pilkington considered the point. "i confess," he said, "that, in writing the book, i had gilbert before me as a model. whether i have in any sense succeeded in . . ." "the book," said mr trevis, running his fingers over the piano, "is as good as anything gilbert ever wrote." "oh come, rolie!" protested mr pilkington modestly. "better," insisted mr trevis. "for one thing, it is up-to-date." "i _do_ try to strike the modern tone," murmured mr pilkington. "and you have avoided gilbert's mistake of being too fanciful." "he was fanciful," admitted mr pilkington. "the music," he added, in a generous spirit of give and take, "has all sullivan's melody with a newness of rhythm peculiarly its own. you will like the music." "it sounds," said jill amiably, "as though the piece is bound to be a tremendous success." "we hope so," said mr pilkington. "we feel that the time has come when the public is beginning to demand something better than what it has been accustomed to. people are getting tired of the brainless trash and jingly tunes which have been given them by men like wallace mason and george bevan. they want a certain polish. . . . it was just the same in gilbert and sullivan's day. they started writing at a time when the musical stage had reached a terrible depth of inanity. the theatre was given over to burlesques of the most idiotic description. the public was waiting eagerly to welcome something of a higher class. it is just the same today. but the managers will not see it. 'the rose of america' went up and down broadway for months, knocking at managers' doors." "it should have walked in without knocking, like me," said jill. she got up. "well, it was very kind of you to see me when i came in so unceremoniously. but i felt it was no good waiting outside on that landing. i'm so glad everything is settled. good-bye." "good-bye, miss mariner." mr pilkington took her outstretched hand devoutly. "there is a rehearsal called for the ensemble at--when is it, rolie?" "eleven o'clock, day after tomorrow, at bryant hall." "i'll be there," said jill. "good-bye, and thank you very much." the silence which had fallen upon the room as she left it, was broken by mr trevis. "some pip!" observed mr trevis. otis pilkington awoke from day-dreams with a start. "what did you say?" "that girl . . . i said she was some pippin!" "miss mariner," said mr pilkington icily, "is a most charming, refined, cultured, and vivacious girl, if you mean that." "yes," said mr trevis. "that was what i meant!" 2. jill walked out into forty-second street, looking about her with the eye of a conqueror. very little change had taken place in the aspect of new york since she had entered the gotham theatre, but it seemed a different city to her. an hour ago, she had been a stranger, drifting aimlessly along its rapids. now she belonged to new york, and new york belonged to her. she had faced it squarely, and forced from it the means of living. she walked on with a new jauntiness in her stride. the address which nelly had given her was on the east side of fifth avenue. she made her way along forty-second street. it seemed the jolliest, alivest street she had ever encountered. the rattle of the elevated as she crossed sixth avenue was music, and she loved the crowds that jostled her with every step she took. she reached the fifth avenue corner just as the policeman out in the middle of the street swung his stop-and-go post round to allow the up-town traffic to proceed on its way. a stream of automobiles which had been dammed up as far as the eye could reach began to flow swiftly past. they moved in a double line, red limousines, blue limousines, mauve limousines, green limousines. she stood waiting for the flood to cease, and, as she did so, there purred past her the biggest and reddest limousine of all. it was a colossal vehicle with a polar-bear at the steering-wheel and another at his side. and in the interior, very much at his ease, his gaze bent courteously upon a massive lady in a mink coat, sat uncle chris. for a moment he was so near to her that, but for the closed window, she could have touched him. then the polar-bear at the wheel, noting a gap in the traffic, stepped on the accelerator and slipped neatly through. the car moved swiftly on and disappeared. jill drew a deep breath. the stop-and-go sign swung round again. she crossed the avenue, and set out once more to find nelly bryant. it occurred to her, five minutes later, that a really practical and quick-thinking girl would have noted the number of the limousine. chapter eleven 1. the rehearsals of a musical comedy--a term which embraces "musical fantasies"--generally begin in a desultory sort of way at that curious building, bryant hall, on sixth avenue just off forty-second street. there, in a dusty, uncarpeted room, simply furnished with a few wooden chairs and some long wooden benches, the chorus--or, in the case of "the rose of america," the ensemble--sit round a piano and endeavor, with the assistance of the musical director, to get the words and melodies of the first-act numbers into their heads. this done, they are ready for the dance director to instil into them the steps, the groupings, and the business for the encores, of which that incurable optimist always seems to expect there will be at least six. later, the principals are injected into the numbers. and finally, leaving bryant hall and dodging about from one unoccupied theatre to another, principals and chorus rehearse together, running through the entire piece over and over again till the opening night of the preliminary road tour. to jill, in the early stages, rehearsing was just like being back at school. she could remember her first school-mistress, whom the musical director somewhat resembled in manner and appearance, hammering out hymns on a piano and leading in a weak soprano an eager, baying pack of children, each anxious from motives of pride to out-bawl her nearest neighbor. the proceedings began on the first morning with the entrance of mr saltzburg, the musical director, a brisk, busy little man with benevolent eyes behind big spectacles, who bustled over to the piano, sat down, and played a loud chord, designed to act as a sort of bugle blast, rallying the ladies of the ensemble from the corners where they sat in groups, chatting. for the process of making one another's acquaintance had begun some ten minutes before with mutual recognitions between those who knew each other from having been together in previous productions. there followed rapid introductions of friends. nelly bryant had been welcomed warmly by a pretty girl with red hair, whom she introduced to jill as babe: babe had a willowy blonde friend, named lois: and the four of them had seated themselves on one of the benches and opened a conversation; their numbers being added to a moment later by a dark girl with a southern accent and another blonde. elsewhere other groups had formed, and the room was filled with a noise like the chattering of starlings. in a body by themselves, rather forlorn and neglected, half a dozen solemn and immaculately dressed young men were propping themselves up against the wall and looking on, like men in a ball-room who do not dance. jill listened to the conversation without taking any great part in it herself. she felt as she had done on her first day at school, a little shy and desirous of effacing herself. the talk dealt with clothes, men, and the show business, in that order of importance. presently one of the young men sauntered diffidently across the room and added himself to the group with the remark that it was a fine day. he was received a little grudgingly, jill thought, but by degrees succeeded in assimilating himself. a second young man drifted up; reminded the willowy girl that they had worked together in the western company of "you're the one"; was recognized and introduced; and justified his admission to the circle by a creditable imitation of a cat-fight. five minutes later he was addressing the southern girl as "honey," and had informed jill that he had only joined this show to fill in before opening on the three-a-day with the swellest little song-and-dance act which he and a little girl who worked in the cabaret at geisenheimer's had fixed up. on this scene of harmony and good-fellowship mr saltzburg's chord intruded jarringly. there was a general movement, and chairs and benches were dragged to the piano. mr saltzburg causing a momentary delay by opening a large brown music-bag and digging in it like a terrier at a rat-hole, conversation broke out again. mr saltzburg emerged from the bag, with his hands full of papers, protesting. "childrun! chil-_drun!_ if you please, less noise and attend to me!" he distributed sheets of paper. "act one, opening chorus. i will play the melody three--four times. follow attentively. then we will sing it la-la-la, and after that we will sing the words. so!" he struck the yellow-keyed piano a vicious blow, producing a tinny and complaining sound. bending forward with his spectacles almost touching the music, he plodded determinedly through the tune, then encored himself, and after that encored himself again. when he had done this, he removed his spectacles and wiped them. there was a pause. "izzy," observed the willowy young lady chattily, leaning across jill and addressing the southern girl's blonde friend, "has promised me a sunburst!" a general stir of interest and a coming close together of heads. "what! izzy!" "sure, izzy." "well!" "he's just landed the hat-check privilege at the st aurea!" "you don't say!" "he told me so last night and promised me the sunburst. he was," admitted the willowy girl regretfully, "a good bit tanked at the time, but i guess he'll make good." she mused awhile, a rather anxious expression clouding her perfect profile. she looked like a meditative greek goddess. "if he doesn't," she added with maidenly dignity, "it's the las' time _i_ go out with the big stiff. i'd tie a can to him quicker'n look at him!" a murmur of approval greeted this admirable sentiment. "childrun!" protested mr saltzburg. "chil-drun! less noise and chatter of conversation. we are here to work! we must not waste time! so! act one, opening chorus. now, all together. la-la-la . . ." "la-la-la . . ." "tum-tum-tumty-tumty . . ." "tum-tum-tumty . . ." mr saltzburg pressed his hands to his ears in a spasm of pain. "no, no, no! sour! sour! sour! . . . once again. la-la-la . . ." a round-faced girl with golden hair and the face of a wondering cherub interrupted, speaking with a lisp. "mithter thalzburg." "now what is it, miss trevor?" "what sort of a show is this?" "a musical show," said mr saltzburg severely, "and this is a rehearsal of it, not a conversazione. once more, please . . ." the cherub was not to be rebuffed. "is the music good, mithter thalzburg?" "when you have rehearsed it, you shall judge for yourself. come, now . . ." "is there anything in it as good as that waltz of yours you played us when we were rehearthing 'mind how you go?' you remember. the one that went . . ." a tall and stately girl, with sleepy brown eyes and the air of a duchess in the servants' hall, bent forward and took a kindly interest in the conversation. "oh, have you composed a varlse, mr saltzburg?" she asked with pleasant condescension. "how interesting, really! won't you play it for us?" the sentiment of the meeting seemed to be unanimous in favor of shelving work and listening to mr saltzburg's waltz. "oh, mr saltzburg, do!" "please!" "some one told me it was a pipterino!" "i cert'nly do love waltzes!" "please, mr saltzburg!" mr saltzburg obviously weakened. his fingers touched the keys irresolutely. "but, childrun!" "i am sure it would be a great pleasure to all of us," said the duchess graciously, "if you would play it. there is nothing i enjoy more than a good varlse." mr saltzburg capitulated. like all musical directors he had in his leisure moments composed the complete score of a musical play and spent much of his time waylaying librettists on the rialto and trying to lure them to his apartment to listen to it, with a view to business. the eternal tragedy of a musical director's life is comparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has to assist others to eat, mr saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and his soul revolted at being compelled perpetually to rehearse and direct the inferior compositions of other men. far less persuasion than he had received today was usually required to induce him to play the whole of his score. "you wish it?" he said. "well, then! this waltz, you will understand, is the theme of a musical romance which i have composed. it will be sung once in the first act by the heroine, then in the second act as a duet for heroine and hero. i weave it into the finale of the second act, and we have an echo of it, sung off stage, in the third act. what i play you now is the second-act duet. the verse is longer. so! the male voice begins." a pleasant time was had by all for ten minutes. "ah, but this is not rehearsing, childrun!" cried mr saltzburg remorsefully at the end of that period. "this is not business. come now, the opening chorus of act one, and please this time keep on the key. before, it was sour, sour. come! la-la-la . . ." "mr thalzburg!" "miss trevor?" "there was an awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. i do wish . . ." "some other time, some other time! now we must work. come! la-la-la . . ." "i wish you could have heard it, girls," said the cherub regretfully. "honetht, it wath a lalapalootha!" the pack broke into full cry. "oh, mr saltzburg!" "please, mr saltzburg!" "do play the fox-trot, mr saltzburg!" "if it is as good as the varlse," said the duchess, stooping once more to the common level, "i am sure it must be very good indeed." she powdered her nose. "and one so rarely hears musicianly music nowadays, does one?" "which fox-trot?" asked mr saltzburg weakly. "play 'em all!" decided a voice on the left. "yes, play 'em all," bayed the pack. "i am sure that that would be charming," agreed the duchess, replacing her powder-puff. mr saltzburg played 'em all. this man by now seemed entirely lost to shame. the precious minutes that belonged to his employers and should have been earmarked for "the rose of america" flitted by. the ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble, who should have been absorbing and learning to deliver the melodies of roland trevis and the lyrics of otis pilkington, lolled back in their seats. the yellow-keyed piano rocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught. the proceedings had begun to resemble not so much a rehearsal as a home evening, and grateful glances were cast at the complacent cherub. she had, it was felt, shown tact and discretion. pleasant conversation began again. ". . . and i walked a couple of blocks, and there was exactly the same model in schwartz and gulderstein's window at twenty-six fifty . . ." ". . . he got on at forty-second street, and he was kinda fresh from the start. i could see he was carrying a package. at sixty-sixth he came sasshaying right down the car and said 'hello, patootie!' well, i drew myself up . . ." ". . . 'even if you are my sister's husband,' i said to him. oh, i suppose i got a temper. it takes a lot to arouse it, y'know, but i c'n get pretty mad . . ." ". . . you don't know the half of it, dearie, you don't know the half of it! a one-piece bathing suit! well, you could call it that, but the cop on the beach said it was more like a baby's sock. and when . . ." ". . . so i said 'listen, izzy, that'll be about all from you! my father was a gentleman, though i don't suppose you know what that means, and i'm not accustomed . . .'" "hey!" a voice from the neighborhood of the door had cut into the babble like a knife into butter; a rough, rasping voice, loud and compelling, which caused the conversation of the members of the ensemble to cease on the instant. only mr saltzburg, now in a perfect frenzy of musicianly fervor, continued to assault the decrepit piano, unwitting of an unsympathetic addition to his audience. "what i play you now is the laughing trio from my second act. it is a building number. it is sung by tenor, principal comedian, and soubrette. on the second refrain four girls will come out and two boys. the girls will dance with the two men, the boys with the soubrette. so! on the encore, four more girls and two more boys. third encore, solo-dance for specialty dancer, all on stage beating time by clapping their hands. on repeat, all sing refrain once more, and off-encore, the three principals and specialty dancer dance the dance with entire chorus. it is a great building number, you understand. it is enough to make the success of any musical play, but can i get a hearing? no! if i ask managers to listen to my music, they are busy! if i beg them to give me a libretto to set, they laugh--ha! ha!" mr saltzburg gave a spirited and lifelike representation of a manager laughing ha-ha when begged to disgorge a libretto. "now i play it once more!" "like hell you do!" said the voice. "say, what is this, anyway? a concert?" mr saltzburg swung round on the music-stool, a startled and apprehensive man, and nearly fell off it. the divine afflatus left him like air oozing from a punctured toy-balloon, and, like such a balloon, he seemed to grow suddenly limp and flat. he stared with fallen jaw at the new arrival. two men had entered the room. one was the long mr pilkington. the other, who looked shorter and stouter than he really was beside his giraffe-like companion, was a thickset, fleshy man in the early thirties with a blond, clean-shaven, double-chinned face. he had smooth yellow hair, an unwholesome complexion, and light green eyes, set close together. from the edge of the semi-circle about the piano, he glared menacingly over the heads of the chorus at the unfortunate mr saltzburg, "why aren't these girls working?" mr saltzburg, who had risen nervously from his stool, backed away apprehensively from his gaze, and, stumbling over the stool, sat down abruptly on the piano, producing a curious noise like futurist music. "i--we--why, mr goble . . ." mr goble turned his green gaze on the concert audience, and spread discomfort as if it were something liquid which he was spraying through a hose. the girls who were nearest looked down flutteringly at their shoes: those further away concealed themselves behind their neighbors. even the duchess, who prided herself on being the possessor of a stare of unrivalled haughtiness, before which the fresh quailed and those who made breaks subsided in confusion, was unable to meet his eyes: and the willowy friend of izzy, for all her victories over that monarch of the hat-checks, bowed before it like a slim tree before a blizzard. only jill returned the manager's gaze. she was seated on the outer rim of the semi-circle, and she stared frankly at mr goble. she had never seen anything like him before, and he fascinated her. this behavior on her part singled her out from the throng, and mr goble concentrated his attention on her. for some seconds he stood looking at her; then, raising a stubby finger, he let his eye travel over the company, and seemed to be engrossed in some sort of mathematical calculation. "thirteen," he said at length. "i make it thirteen." he rounded on mr pilkington. "i told you we were going to have a chorus of twelve." mr pilkington blushed and stumbled over his feet. "ah, yes . . . yes," he murmured vaguely. "yes!" "well, there are thirteen here. count 'em for yourself." he whipped round on jill. "what's _your_ name? who engaged you?" a croaking sound from the neighborhood of the ceiling indicated the clearing of mr pilkington's throat. "i--er--_i_ engaged miss mariner, mr goble." "oh, _you_ engaged her?" he stared again at jill. the inspection was long and lingering, and affected jill with a sense of being inadequately clothed. she returned the gaze as defiantly as she could, but her heart was beating fast. she had never yet beer frightened of any man, but there was something reptilian about this fat, yellow-haired individual which disquieted her; much as cockroaches had done in her childhood. a momentary thought flashed through her mind that it would be horrible to be touched by him. he looked soft and glutinous. "all right," said mr goble at last, after what seemed to jill many minutes. he nodded to mr saltzburg. "get on with it! and try working a little this time! i don't hire you to give musical entertainments." "yes, mr goble, yes. i mean no, mr goble!" "you can have the gotham stage this afternoon," said mr goble. "call the rehearsal for two sharp." outside the door, he turned to mr pilkington. "that was a fool trick of yours, hiring that girl. thirteen! i'd as soon walk under a ladder on a friday as open in new york with a chorus of thirteen. well, it don't matter. we can fire one of 'em after we've opened on the road." he mused for a moment. "darned pretty girl, that!" he went on meditatively. "where did you get her?" "she--ah--came into the office, when you were out. she struck me as being essentially the type we required for our ensemble, so i--er--engaged her. she--" mr pilkington gulped. "she is a charming, refined girl!" "she's darned pretty," admitted mr goble, and went on his way wrapped in thought, mr pilkington following timorously. it was episodes like the one that had just concluded which made otis pilkington wish that he possessed a little more assertion. he regretted wistfully that he was not one of those men who can put their hat on the side of their heads and shoot out their chins and say to the world "well, what about it!" he was bearing the financial burden of this production. if it should be a failure, his would be the loss. yet somehow this coarse, rough person in front of him never seemed to allow him a word in the executive policy of the piece. he treated him as a child. he domineered and he shouted, and behaved as if he were in sole command. mr pilkington sighed. he rather wished he had never gone into this undertaking. inside the room, mr saltzburg wiped his forehead, spectacles, and his hands. he had the aspect of one wakes from a dreadful dream. "childrun!" he whispered brokenly. "childrun! if yoll please, once more. act one, opening chorus. come! la-la-la!" "la-la-la!" chanted the subdued members of the ensemble. 2. by the time the two halves of the company, ensemble and principals, melted into one complete whole, the novelty of her new surroundings had worn off, and jill was feeling that there had never been a time when she had not been one of a theatrical troupe, rehearsing. the pleasant social gatherings round mr saltzburg's piano gave way after a few days to something far less agreeable and infinitely more strenuous, the breaking-in of the dances under the supervision of the famous johnson miller. johnson miller was a little man with snow-white hair and the india-rubber physique of a juvenile acrobat. nobody knew actually how old he was, but he certainly looked much too advanced in years to be capable of the feats of endurance which he performed daily. he had the untiring enthusiasm of a fox-terrier, and had bullied and scolded more companies along the rocky road that leads to success than any half-dozen dance-directors in the country, in spite of his handicap in being almost completely deaf. he had an almost miraculous gift of picking up the melodies for which it was his business to design dances, without apparently hearing them. he seemed to absorb them through the pores. he had a blunt and arbitrary manner, and invariably spoke his mind frankly and honestly--a habit which made him strangely popular in a profession where the language of equivoque is cultivated almost as sedulously as in the circles of international diplomacy. what johnson miller said to your face was official, not subject to revision as soon as your back was turned: and people appreciated this. izzy's willowy friend summed him up one evening when the ladies of the ensemble were changing their practise-clothes after a particularly strenuous rehearsal, defending him against the southern girl, who complained that he made her tired. "you bet he makes you tired," she said. "so he does me. i'm losing my girlish curves, and i'm so stiff i can't lace my shoes. but he knows his business and he's on the level, which is more than you can say of most of these guys in the show business." "that's right," agreed the southern girl's blonde friend. "he does know his business. he's put over any amount of shows which would have flopped like dogs without him to stage the numbers." the duchess yawned. rehearsing always bored her, and she had not been greatly impressed by what she had seen of "the rose of america." "one will be greatly surprised if he can make a success of _this_ show! i confess i find it perfectly ridiculous." "ithn't it the limit, honetht!" said the cherub, arranging her golden hair at the mirror. "it maketh me thick! why on earth is ike putting it on?" the girl who knew everything--there is always one in every company--hastened to explain. "i heard all about that. ike hasn't any of his own money in the thing. he's getting twenty-five per cent of the show for running it. the angel is the long fellow you see jumping around. pilkington his name is." "well, it'll need to be rockefeller later on," said the blonde. "oh, they'll get thomebody down to fixth it after we've out on the road a couple of days," said the cherub, optimistically. "they alwayth do. i've seen worse shows than this turned into hits. all it wants ith a new book and lyrics and a different thcore." "and a new set of principals," said the red-headed babe. "did you ever see such a bunch?" the duchess, with another tired sigh, arched her well-shaped eyebrows and studied the effect in the mirror. "one wonders where they pick these persons up," she assented languidly. "they remind me of a headline i saw in the paper this morning--'tons of hams unfit for human consumption.' are any of you girls coming my way? i can give two or three of you a lift in my limousine." "thorry, old dear, and thanks ever so much," said the cherub, "but i instructed clarence, my man, to have the street-car waiting on the corner, and he'll be tho upset if i'm not there." nelly had an engagement to go and help one of the other girls buy a spring suit, a solemn rite which it is impossible to conduct by oneself: and jill and the cherub walked to the corner together. jill had become very fond of the little thing since rehearsals began. she reminded her of a london sparrow. she was so small and perky and so absurdly able to take care of herself. "limouthine!" snorted the cherub. the duchess' concluding speech evidently still rankled. "she gives me a pain in the gizthard!" "hasn't she got a limousine?" asked jill. "of course she hasn't. she's engaged to be married to a demonstrator in the speedwell auto company, and he thneaks off when he can get away and gives her joy-rides. that's all the limousine she's got. it beats me why girls in the show business are alwayth tho crazy to make themselves out vamps with a dozen millionaires on a string. if mae wouldn't four-flush and act like the belle of the moulin rouge, she'd be the nithest girl you ever met. she's mad about the fellow she's engaged to, and wouldn't look at all the millionaires in new york if you brought 'em to her on a tray. she's going to marry him as thoon as he's thaved enough to buy the furniture, and then she'll thettle down in harlem thomewhere and cook and mind the baby and regularly be one of the lower middle classes. all that's wrong with mae ith that she's read gingery stories and thinkth that's the way a girl has to act when she'th in the chorus." "that's funny," said jill. "i should never have thought it. i swallowed the limousine whole." the cherub looked at her curiously. jill puzzled her. jill had, indeed, been the subject of much private speculation among her colleagues. "this is your first show, ithn't it?" she asked. "yes." "thay, what are you doing in the chorus, anyway?" "getting scolded by mr miller mostly, it seems to me." "thcolded by mr miller! why didn't you say 'bawled out by johnny?' that'th what any of the retht of us would have said." "well, i've lived most of my life in england. you can't expect me to talk the language yet." "i thought you were english. you've got an acthent like the fellow who plays the dude in thith show. thay, why did you ever get into the show business?" "well . . . well, why did you? why does anybody?" "why did i? oh, i belong there. i'm a regular broadway rat. i wouldn't be happy anywhere elthe. i was born in the show business. i've got two thithters in the two-a-day and a brother in thtock out in california and dad's one of the betht comedians on the burlethque wheel. but any one can thee you're different. there's no reathon why you should be bumming around in the chorus." "but there is. i've no money, and i can't do anything to make it." "honetht?" "honest." "that's tough." the cherub pondered, her round eyes searching jill's face. "why don't you get married?" jill laughed. "nobody's asked me." "somebody thoon will. at least, if he's on the level, and i think he is. you can generally tell by the look of a guy, and, if you ask me, friend pilkington's got the license in hith pocket and the ring all ordered and everything." "pilkington!" cried jill, aghast. she remembered certain occasions during rehearsals, when, while the chorus idled in the body of the theatre and listened to the principals working at their scenes, the elongated pilkington had suddenly appeared in the next seat and conversed sheepishly in a low voice. could this be love? if so, it was a terrible nuisance. jill had had her experience in london of enamoured young men who, running true to national form, declined to know when they were beaten, and she had not enjoyed the process of cooling their ardor. she had a kind heart, and it distressed her to give pain. it also got on her nerves to be dogged by stricken males who tried to catch her eye in order that she might observe their broken condition. she recalled one house-party in wales where it rained all the time and she had been cooped up with a victim who kept popping out from obscure corners and beginning all his pleas with the words "i say, you know . . . !" she trusted that otis pilkington was not proposing to conduct a wooing on those lines. yet he had certainly developed a sinister habit of popping out at the theatre. on several occasions he had startled her by appearing at her side as if he had come up out of a trap. "oh, no!" cried jill. "oh, yeth!" insisted the cherub, waving imperiously to an approaching street-car. "well, i must be getting uptown. i've got a date. thee you later." "i'm sure you're mistaken." "i'm not." "but what makes you think so?" the cherub placed a hand on the rail of the car, preparatory to swinging herself on board. "well, for one thing," she said, "he'th been stalking you like an indian ever since we left the theatre! look behind you. good-bye, honey. thend me a piece of the cake!" the street-car bore her away. the last that jill saw of her was a wide and amiable grin. then, turning, she beheld the snake-like form of otis pilkington towering at her side. mr pilkington seemed nervous but determined. his face was half hidden by the silk scarf that muffled his throat, for he was careful of his health and had a fancied tendency to bronchial trouble. above the scarf a pair of mild eyes gazed down at jill through their tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. it was hopeless for jill to try to tell herself that the tender gleam behind the glass was not the love-light in otis pilkington's eyes. the truth was too obvious. "good evening, miss mariner," said mr pilkington, his voice sounding muffled and far away through the scarf. "are you going up-town?" "no, down-town," said jill quickly. "so am i," said mr pilkington. jill felt annoyed, but helpless. it is difficult to bid a tactful farewell to a man who has stated his intention of going in the same direction as yourself. there was nothing for it but to accept the unspoken offer of otis pilkington's escort. they began to walk down broadway together. "i suppose you are tired after the rehearsal?" enquired mr pilkington in his precise voice. he always spoke as if he were weighing each word and clipping it off a reel. "a little. mr miller is very enthusiastic." "about the piece?" her companion spoke eagerly. "no; i meant hard-working." "has he said anything about the piece?" "well, no. you see, he doesn't confide in us a great deal, except to tell us his opinion of the way we do the steps. i don't think we impress him very much, to judge from what he says. but the girls say he always tells every chorus he rehearses that it is the worst he ever had anything to do with." "and the chor--the--er--ladies of the ensemble? what do they think of the piece?" "well, i don't suppose they are very good judges, are they?" said jill diplomatically. "you mean they do not like it?" "some of them don't seem quite to understand it." mr pilkington was silent for a moment. "i am beginning to wonder myself whether it may not be a little over the heads of the public," he said ruefully. "when it was first performed . . ." "oh, has it been done before?" "by amateurs, yes, at the house of my aunt, mrs waddesleigh peagrim, at newport, last summer. in aid of the armenian orphans. it was extraordinarily well received on that occasion. we nearly made our expenses. it was such a success that--i feel i can confide in you. i should not like this repeated to your--your--the other ladies--it was such a success that, against my aunt's advice, i decided to give it a broadway production. between ourselves, i am shouldering practically all the expenses of the undertaking. mr goble has nothing to do with the financial arrangements of 'the rose of america.' those are entirely in my hands. mr goble, in return for a share in the profits, is giving us the benefit of his experience as regards the management and booking of the piece. i have always had the greatest faith in it. trevis and i wrote it when we were in college together, and all our friends thought it exceptionally brilliant. my aunt, as i say, was opposed to the venture. she holds the view that i am not a good man of business. in a sense, perhaps, she is right. temperamentally, no doubt, i am more the artist. but i was determined to show the public something superior to the so-called broadway successes, which are so terribly trashy. unfortunately, i am beginning to wonder whether it is possible, with the crude type of actor at one's disposal in this country, to give a really adequate performance of such a play as 'the rose of america.' these people seem to miss the spirit of the piece, its subtle topsy-turvy humor, its delicate whimsicality. this afternoon," mr pilkington choked. "this afternoon i happened to overhear two of the principals, who were not aware that i was within earshot, discussing the play. one of them--these people express themselves curiously--one of them said that he thought it a quince: and the other described it as a piece of gorgonzola cheese! that is not the spirit that wins success!" jill was feeling immensely relieved. after all, it seemed, this poor young man merely wanted sympathy, not romance. she had been mistaken, she felt, about that gleam in his eyes. it was not the love-light: it was the light of panic. he was the author of the play. he had sunk a large sum of money in its production, he had heard people criticizing it harshly, and he was suffering from what her colleagues in the chorus would have called cold feet. it was such a human emotion and he seemed so like an overgrown child pleading to be comforted that her heart warmed to him. relief melted her defences. and when, on their arrival at thirty-fourth street mr pilkington suggested that she partake of a cup of tea at his apartment, which was only a couple of blocks away off madison avenue, she accepted the invitation without hesitating. on the way to his apartment mr pilkington continued in the minor key. he was a great deal more communicative than she herself would have been to such a comparative stranger as she was, but she knew that men were often like this. over in london, she had frequently been made the recipient of the most intimate confidences by young men whom she had met for the first time the same evening at a dance. she had been forced to believe that there was something about her personality that acted on a certain type of man like the crack in the dam, setting loose the surging flood of their eloquence. to this class otis pilkington evidently belonged: for, once started, he withheld nothing. "it isn't that i'm dependent on aunt olive or anything like that," he vouchsafed, as he stirred the tea in his japanese-print hung studio. "but you know how it is. aunt olive is in a position to make it very unpleasant for me if i do anything foolish. at present, i have reason to know that she intends to leave me practically all that she possesses. millions!" said mr pilkington, handing jill a cup. "i assure you, millions! but there is a hard commercial strain in her. it would have the most prejudicial effect upon her if, especially after she had expressly warned me against it, i were to lose a great deal of money over this production. she is always complaining that i am not a business man like my late uncle. mr waddesleigh peagrim made a fortune in smoked hams." mr pilkington looked at the japanese prints, and shuddered slightly. "right up to the time of his death he was urging me to go into the business. i could not have endured it. but, when i heard those two men discussing the play, i almost wished that i had done so." jill was now completely disarmed. she would almost have patted this unfortunate young man's head, if she could have reached it. "i shouldn't worry about the piece," she said. "i've read somewhere or heard somewhere that it's the surest sign of a success when actors don't like a play." mr pilkington drew his chair an imperceptible inch nearer. "how sympathetic you are!" jill perceived with chagrin that she had been mistaken after all. it _was_ the love-light. the tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles sprayed it all over her like a couple of searchlights. otis pilkington was looking exactly like a sheep, and she knew from past experience that that was the infallible sign. when young men looked like that, it was time to go. "i'm afraid i must be off," she said. "thank you so much for giving me tea. i shouldn't be a bit afraid about the play. i'm sure it's going to be splendid. good-bye." "you aren't going already?" "i must. i'm very late as it is. i promised . . ." whatever fiction jill might have invented to the detriment of her soul was interrupted by a ring at the bell. the steps of mr pilkington's japanese servant crossing the hall came faintly to the sitting-room. "mr pilkington in?" otis pilkington motioned pleadingly to jill. "don't go!" he urged. "it's only a man i know. he has probably come to remind me that i am dining with him tonight. he won't stay a minute. please don't go." jill sat down. she had no intention of going now. the cheery voice at the front door had been the cheery voice of her long-lost uncle, major christopher selby. chapter twelve 1. uncle chris walked breezily into the room, flicking a jaunty glove. he stopped short on seeing that mr pilkington was not alone. "oh, i beg your pardon! i understood . . ." he peered at jill uncertainly. mr pilkington affected a dim, artistic lighting-system in his studio, and people who entered from the great outdoors generally had to take time to accustom their eyes to it. "if you're engaged . . ." "er--allow me . . . miss mariner . . . major selby." "hullo, uncle chris!" said jill. "god bless my soul!" ejaculated that startled gentleman adventurer, and collapsed onto a settee as if his legs had been mown from under him. "i've been looking for you all over new york," said jill. mr pilkington found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. "uncle chris?" he said with a note of feeble enquiry in his voice. "major selby is my uncle." "are you sure?" said mr pilkington. "i mean . . ." not being able to ascertain, after a moment's self-examination, what he did mean, he relapsed into silence. "whatever are you doing here?" asked uncle chris. "i've been having tea with mr pilkington." "but . . . but why mr pilkington?" "well, he invited me." "but how do you know him?" "we met at the theatre." "theatre?" otis pilkington recovered his power of speech. "miss mariner is rehearsing with a little play in which i am interested," he explained. uncle chris half rose from the settee. he blinked twice in rapid succession. jill had never seen him so shaken from his customary poise. "don't tell me you have gone on the stage, jill!" "i have. i'm in the chorus . . ." "ensemble," corrected mr pilkington softly. "i'm in the ensemble of a piece called 'the rose of america.' we've been rehearsing for ever so long." uncle chris digested this information in silence for a moment. he pulled at his short mustache. "why, of course!" he said at length. jill, who know him so well, could tell by the restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he was himself again. he had dealt with this situation in his mind and was prepared to cope with it. the surmise was confirmed the next instant when he rose and stationed himself in front of the fire. mr pilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he had found a studio apartment with an open fireplace. uncle chris spread his legs and expanded his chest. "of course," he said. "i remember now that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of going on the stage. my niece," explained uncle chris to the attentive mr pilkington, "came over from england on a later boat. i was not expecting her for some weeks. hence my surprise at meeting her here. of course. you told me that you intended to go on the stage, and i strongly recommended you to begin at the bottom of the ladder and learn the ground-work thoroughly before you attempted higher flights." "oh, that was it?" said mr pilkington. he had been wondering. "there is no finer training," resumed uncle chris, completely at his ease once more, "than the chorus. how many of the best-known actresses in america began in that way! dozens. dozens. if i were giving advice to any young girl with theatrical aspirations, i should say 'begin in the chorus!' on the other hand," he proceeded, turning to pilkington, "i think it would be just as well if you would not mention the fact of my niece being in that position to mrs waddesleigh peagrim. she might not understand." "exactly," assented mr pilkington. "the term 'chorus' . . ." "i dislike it intensely myself." "it suggests . . ." "precisely." uncle chris inflated his chest again, well satisfied. "capital!" he said. "well, i only dropped in to remind you, my boy, that you and your aunt are dining with me tonight. i was afraid a busy man like you might forget." "i was looking forward to it," said mr pilkington, charmed at the description. "you remember the address? nine east forty-first street. i have moved, you remember." "so that was why i couldn't find you at the other place," said jill. "the man at the door said he had never heard of you." "stupid idiot!" said uncle chris testily. "these new york hall-porters are recruited entirely from homes for the feeble-minded. i suppose he was a new man. well, pilkington, my boy, i shall expect you at seven o'clock. goodbye till then. come, jill." "good-bye, mr pilkington," said jill. "good-bye for the present, miss mariner," said mr pilkington, bending down to take her hand. the tortoiseshell spectacles shot a last soft beam at her. as the front door closed behind them, uncle chris heaved a sigh of relief. "whew! i think i handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! a certain amount of diplomacy, i think!" "if you mean," said jill severely, "that you told some disgraceful fibs . . ." "fibs, my dear,--or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapely clay of truth--are the . . . how shall i put it? . . . well, anyway, they come in dashed handy. it would never have done for mrs peagrim to have found out that you were in the chorus. if she discovered that my niece was in the chorus, she would infallibly suspect me of being an adventurer. and while," said uncle chris meditatively, "of course i _am_, it is nice to have one's little secrets. the good lady has had a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honorable but maligned profession ever since our long young friend back there was sued for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in his sophomore year at college. we all have our prejudices. that is hers. however, i think we may rely on our friend to say nothing about the matter . . . but why did you do it? my dear child, whatever induced you to take such a step?" jill laughed. "that's practically what mr miller said to me when we were rehearsing one of the dances this afternoon, only he put it differently." she linked her arm in his. "what else could i do? i was alone in new york with the remains of that twenty dollars you sent me and no more in sight." "but why didn't you stay down at brookport with your uncle elmer?" "have you ever seen my uncle elmer?" "no. curiously enough, i never have." "if you had, you wouldn't ask. brookport! ugh! i left when they tried to get me to understudy the hired man, who had resigned." "what!" "yes, they got tired of supporting me in the state to which i was accustomed--i don't blame them!--so they began to find ways of making me useful about the home. i didn't mind reading to aunt julia, and i could just stand taking tibby for walks. but, when it came to shoveling snow, i softly and silently vanished away." "but i can't understand all this. i suggested to your uncle--diplomatically--that you had large private means." "i know you did. and he spent all his time showing me over houses and telling me i could have them for a hundred thousand dollars cash down." jill bubbled. "you should have seen his face when i told him that twenty dollars was all i had in the world!" "you didn't tell him that!" "i did." uncle chris shook his head, like an indulgent father disappointed in a favorite child. "you're a dear girl, jill, but really you do seem totally lacking in . . . how shall i put it?--finesse. your mother was just the same. a sweet woman, but with no diplomacy, no notion of _handling_ a situation. i remember her as a child giving me away hopelessly on one occasion after we had been at the jam-cupboard. she did not mean any harm, but she was constitutionally incapable of a tactful negative at the right time." uncle chris brooded for a moment on the past. "oh, well, it's a very fine trait, no doubt, though inconvenient. i don't blame you for leaving brookport if you weren't happy there. but i wish you had consulted me before going on the stage." "shall i strike this man?" asked jill of the world at large. "how could i consult you? my darling, precious uncle, don't you realize that you had vanished into thin air, leaving me penniless? i had to do something. and, now that we are on the subject, perhaps you will explain your movements. why did you write to me from that place on fifty-seventh street if you weren't there?" uncle chris cleared his throat. "in a sense . . . when i wrote . . . i was there." "i suppose that means something, but it's beyond me. i'm not nearly as intelligent as you think, uncle chris, so you'll have to explain." "well, it was this way, my dear. i was in a peculiar position you must remember. i had made a number of wealthy friends on the boat and it is possible that--unwittingly--i have them the impression that i was as comfortably off as themselves. at any rate, that is the impression they gathered, and it hardly seemed expedient to correct it. for it is a deplorable trait in the character of the majority of rich people that they only--er--expand,--they only show the best and most companionable side of themselves to those whom they imagine to be as wealthy as they are. well, of course, while one was on the boat, the fact that i was sailing under what a purist might have termed false colors did not matter. the problem was how to keep up the--er--innocent deception after we had reached new york. a woman like mrs waddesleigh peagrim--a ghastly creature, my dear, all front teeth and exuberance, but richer than the sub-treasury--looks askance at a man, however agreeable, if he endeavors to cement a friendship begun on board ship from a cheap boarding-house on amsterdam avenue. it was imperative that i should find something in the nature of what i might call a suitable base of operations. fortune played into my hands. one of the first men i met in new york was an old soldier-servant of mine, to whom i had been able to do some kindnesses in the old days. in fact--it shows how bread cast upon the waters returns to us after many days--it was with the assistance of a small loan from me that he was enabled to emigrate to america. well, i met this man, and, after a short conversation, he revealed the fact that he was the hall-porter at that apartment-house which you visited, the one on fifty-seventh street. at this time of the year, i knew, many wealthy people go south, to florida and the carolinas, and it occurred to me that there might be a vacant apartment in his building. there was. i took it." "but how on earth could you afford to pay for an apartment in a place like that?" uncle chris coughed. "i didn't say i paid for it. i said i took it. that is, as one might say, the point of my story. my old friend, grateful for favors received and wishing to do me a good turn consented to become my accomplice in another--er--innocent deception. i gave my friends the address and telephone number of the apartment-house, living the while myself in surroundings of a somewhat humbler and less expensive character. i called every morning for letters. if anybody rang me up on the telephone, the admirable man answered in the capacity of my servant, took a message, and relayed it on to me at my boarding-house. if anybody called, he merely said that i was out. there wasn't a flaw in the whole scheme, my dear, and its chief merit was its beautiful simplicity." "then what made you give it up? conscience?" "conscience never made me give up _anything_," said uncle chris firmly. "no, there were a hundred chances to one against anything going wrong, and it was the hundredth that happened. when you have been in new york longer, you will realize that one peculiarity of the place is that the working-classes are in a constant state of flux. on monday you meet a plumber. ah! you say, a plumber! capital! on the following thursday you meet him again, and he is a car-conductor. next week he will be squirting soda in a drug-store. it's the fault of these dashed magazines, with their advertisements of correspondence courses--are you earning all you should?--write to us and learn chicken-farming by mail . . . it puts wrong ideas into the fellows' heads. it unsettles them. it was so in this case. everything was going swimmingly, when my man suddenly conceived the idea that destiny had intended him for a chauffeur-gardener, and he threw up his position!" "leaving you homeless!" "as you say, homeless--temporarily. but, fortunately,--i have been amazingly lucky all through; it really does seem as if you cannot keep a good man down--fortunately my friend had a friend who was janitor at a place on east forty-first street, and by a miracle of luck the only apartment in the building was empty. it is an office-building, but, like some of these places, it has one small bachelor's apartment on the top floor." "and you are the small bachelor?" "precisely. my friend explained matters to his friend--a few financial details were satisfactorily arranged--and here i am, perfectly happy with the cosiest little place in the world, rent free. i am even better off than i was before, as a matter of fact, for my new ally's wife is an excellent cook, and i have been enabled to give one or two very pleasant dinners at my new home. it lends verisimilitude to the thing if you can entertain a little. if you are never in when people call, they begin to wonder. i am giving dinner to your friend pilkington and mrs peagrim there tonight. homey, delightful, and infinitely cheaper than a restaurant." "and what will you do when the real owner of the place walks in in the middle of dinner?" "out of the question. the janitor informs me that he left for england some weeks ago, intending to make a stay of several months." "well, you certainly think of everything." "whatever success i may have achieved," replied uncle chris, with the dignity of a captain of industry confiding in an interviewer, "i attribute to always thinking of everything." jill gurgled with laughter. there was that about her uncle which always acted on her moral sense like an opiate, lulling it to sleep and preventing it from rising up and becoming critical. if he had stolen a watch and chain, he would somehow have succeeded in convincing her that he had acted for the best under the dictates of a benevolent altruism. "what success _have_ you achieved?" she asked, interested. "when you left me, you were on your way to find a fortune. did you find it?" "i have not actually placed my hands upon it yet," admitted uncle chris. "but it is hovering in the air all round me. i can hear the beating of the wings of the dollar-bills as they flutter to and fro, almost within reach. sooner or later i shall grab them. i never forget, my dear, that i have a task before me,--to restore to you the money of which i deprived you. some day--be sure--i shall do it. some day you will receive a letter from me, containing a large sum--five thousand--ten thousand--twenty thousand--whatever it may be, with the simple words 'first instalment'." he repeated the phrase, as if it pleased him. "first instalment!" jill hugged his arm. she was in the mood in which she used to listen to him ages ago telling her fairy stories. "go on!" she cried. "go on! it's wonderful! once upon a time uncle chris was walking along fifth avenue, when he happened to meet a poor old woman gathering sticks for firewood. she looked so old and tired that he was sorry for her, so he gave her ten cents which he had borrowed from the janitor, and suddenly she turned into a beautiful girl and said 'i am a fairy! in return for your kindness i grant you three wishes!' and uncle chris thought for a moment, and said, 'i want twenty thousand dollars to send to jill!' and the fairy said, 'it shall be attended to. and the next article?'" "it is all very well to joke," protested uncle chris, pained by this flippancy, "but let me tell you that i shall not require magic assistance to become a rich man. do you realize that at houses like mrs waddesleigh peagrim's i am meeting men all the time who have only to say one little word to make me a millionaire? they are fat, gray men with fishy eyes and large waistcoats, and they sit smoking cigars and brooding on what they are going to do to the market next day. if i were a mind-reader i could have made a dozen fortunes by now. i sat opposite that old pirate, bruce bishop, for over an hour the very day before he and his gang sent consolidated pea-nuts down twenty points! if i had known what was in the wind, i doubt if i could have restrained myself from choking his intentions out of the fellow. well, what i am trying to point out is that one of these days one of these old oysters will have a fleeting moment of human pity and disgorge some tip on which i can act. it is that reflection that keeps me so constantly at mrs peagrim's house." uncle chris shivered slightly. "a fearsome woman, my dear! weighs a hundred and eighty pounds and as skittish as a young lamb in springtime! she makes me dance with her!" uncle chris' lips quivered in a spasm of pain, and he was silent for a moment. "thank heaven i was once a footballer!" he said reverently. "but what do you live on?" asked jill. "i know you are going to be a millionaire next tuesday week, but how are you getting along in the meantime?" uncle chris coughed. "well, as regards actual living expenses, i have managed by a shrewd business stroke to acquire a small but sufficient income. i live in a boarding-house--true--but i contrive to keep the wolf away from its door,--which, by the by, badly needs a lick of paint. have you ever heard of nervino?" "i don't think so. it sounds like a patent medicine." "it is a patent medicine." uncle chris stopped and looked anxiously at her. "jill, you're looking pale, my dear." "am i? we had rather a tiring rehearsal." "are you sure," said uncle chris seriously, "that it is only that? are you sure that your vitality has not become generally lowered by the fierce rush of metropolitan life? are you aware of the things that can happen to you if you allow the red corpuscles of your blood to become devitalised? i had a friend . . ." "stop! you're scaring me to death!" uncle chris gave his mustache a satisfied twirl. "just what i meant to do, my dear. and, when i had scared you sufficiently--you wouldn't wait for the story of my consumptive friend! pity! it's one of my best!--i should have mentioned that i had been having much the same trouble myself until lately, but the other day i happened to try nervino, the great specific . . . i was giving you an illustration of myself in action, my dear. i went to these nervino people--happened to see one of their posters and got the idea in a flash--i went to them and said, 'here am i, a presentable man of persuasive manners and a large acquaintance among the leaders of new york society. what would it be worth to you to have me hint from time to time at dinner parties and so forth that nervino is the rich man's panacea?' i put the thing lucidly to them. i said, 'no doubt you have a thousand agents in the city, but have you one who does not look like an agent and won't talk like an agent? have you one who is inside the houses of the wealthy, at their very dinner-tables, instead of being on the front step, trying to hold the door open with his foot? that is the point you have to consider.' they saw the idea at once. we arranged terms--not as generous as i could wish, perhaps, but quite ample. i receive a tolerably satisfactory salary each week, and in return i spread the good word about nervino in the gilded palaces of the rich. those are the people to go for, jill. they have been so busy wrenching money away from the widow and the orphan that they haven't had time to look after their health. you catch one of them after dinner, just as he is wondering if he was really wise in taking two helpings of the lobster newburg, and he is clay in your hands. i draw my chair up to his and become sympathetic and say that i had precisely the same trouble myself until recently and mention a dear old friend of mine who died of indigestion, and gradually lead the conversation round to nervino. i don't force it on them. i don't even ask them to try it. i merely point to myself, rosy with health, and say that i owe everything to it, and the thing is done. they thank me profusely and scribble the name down on their shirt-cuffs. and there your are! i don't suppose," said uncle chris philosophically, "that the stuff can do them any actual harm." they had come to the corner of forty-first street. uncle chris felt in his pocket and produced a key. "if you want to go and take a look at my little nest, you can let yourself in. it's on the twenty-second floor. don't fail to go out on the roof and look at the view. it's worth seeing. it will give you some idea of the size of the city. a wonderful, amazing city, my dear, full of people who need nervino. i shall go on and drop in at the club for half an hour. they have given me a fortnight's card at the avenue. capital place. here's the key." jill turned down forty-first street, and came to a mammoth structure of steel and stone which dwarfed the modest brown houses beside it into nothingness. it was curious to think of a private apartment nestling on the summit of this mountain. she went in, and the elevator shot her giddily upwards to the twenty-second floor. she found herself facing a short flight of stone steps, ending in a door. she mounted the steps, tried the key, and, turning it, entered a hall-way. proceeding down the passage, she reached a sitting-room. it was a small room, but furnished with a solid comfort which soothed her. for the first time since she had arrived in new york, she had the sense of being miles away from the noise and bustle of the city. there was a complete and restful silence. she was alone in a nest of books and deep chairs, on which a large grandfather-clock looked down with that wide-faced benevolence peculiar to its kind. so peaceful was this eyrie, perched high up above the clamor and rattle of civilization, that every nerve in her body seemed to relax in a delicious content. it was like being in peter pan's house in the tree-tops. 2. jill possessed in an unusual degree that instinct for exploration which is implanted in most of us. she was frankly inquisitive, and could never be two minutes in a strange room without making a tour of it and examining its books, pictures, and photographs. almost at once she began to prowl. the mantelpiece was her first objective. she always made for other people's mantelpieces, for there, more than anywhere else, is the character of a proprietor revealed. this mantelpiece was sprinkled with photographs, large, small, framed and unframed. in the center of it, standing all alone and looking curiously out of place among its large neighbors, was a little snapshot. it was dark by the mantelpiece. jill took the photograph, to the window, where the fading light could fall on it. why, she could not have said, but the thing interested her. there was mystery about it. it seemed in itself so insignificant to have the place of honor. the snapshot had evidently been taken by an amateur, but it was one of those lucky successes which happen at rare intervals to amateur photographers to encourage them to proceed with their hobby. it showed a small girl in a white dress cut short above slim, black legs, standing in the porch of an old house, one hand swinging a sunbonnet, the other patting an irish terrier which had planted its front paws against her waist and was looking up into her face with that grave melancholy characteristic of irish terriers. the sunlight was evidently strong, for the child's face was puckered in a twisted though engaging grin. jill's first thought was "what a jolly kid!" and then, with a leaping of the heart that seemed to send something big and choking into her throat, she saw that it was a photograph of herself. with a swooping bound memory raced back over the years. she could feel the hot sun on her face, hear the anxious voice of freddie rooke--then fourteen and for the first time the owner of a camera--imploring her to stand just like that because he wouldn't be half a minute only some rotten thing had stuck or something. then the sharp click, the doubtful assurance of freddie that he thought it was all right if he hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case she might expect to appear in combination with a cow which he had snapped on his way to the house), and the relieved disappearance of pat, the terrier, who didn't understand photography. how many years ago had that been? she could not remember. but freddie had grown to long-legged manhood, she to an age of discretion and full-length frocks, pat had died, the old house was inhabited by strangers . . . and here was the silent record of that sun-lit afternoon, three thousand miles away from the english garden in which it had come into existence. the shadows deepened. the top of the great building swayed gently, causing the pendulum of the grandfather-clock to knock against the sides of its wooden case. jill started. the noise, coming after the dead silence, frightened her till she realized what it was. she had a nervous feeling of not being alone. it was as if the shadows held goblins that peered out at the intruder. she darted to the mantelpiece and replaced the photograph. she felt like some heroine of a fairy-story meddling with the contents of the giant's castle. soon there would come the sound of a great footstep, thud--thud . . . _thud._ jill's heart gave another leap. she was perfectly sure she had heard a sound. it had been just like the banging of a door. she braced herself, listening, every muscle tense. and then, cleaving the stillness, came a voice from down the passage- "just see them pullman porters, dolled up with scented waters bought with their dimes and quarters! see, here they come! here they come!" for an instant jill could not have said whether she was relieved or more frightened than ever. true, that numbing sense of the uncanny had ceased to grip her, for reason told her that spectres do not sing rag-time songs. on the other hand, owners of apartments do, and she would almost as readily have faced a spectre as the owner of this apartment. dizzily, she wandered how in the world she was to explain her presence. suppose he turned out to be some awful, choleric person who would listen to no explanations. "oh, see those starched-up collars! hark how their captain hollers 'keep time! keep time!' it's worth a thousand dollars to see those tip-collectors . . ." very near now. almost at the door. "those upper-berth inspectors, those pullman porters on parade!" a dim, shapeless figure in the black of the doorway, scrabbling of fingers on the wall. "where are you, dammit?" said the voice, apparently addressing the electric-light switch. jill shrank back, desperate fingers pressing deep into the back of an arm-chair. light flashed from the wall at her side. and there, in the doorway, stood wally mason in his shirt-sleeves. chapter thirteen 1. in these days of rapid movement, when existence has become little more than a series of shocks of varying intensity, astonishment is the shortest-lived of all the emotions. the human brain has trained itself to elasticity and recovers its balance in the presence of the unforeseen with a speed almost miraculous. the man who says 'i _am_ surprised!' really means 'i was surprised a moment ago, but now i have adjusted myself to the situation.' there was an instant in which jill looked at wally and wally at jill with the eye of total amazement, and then, almost simultaneously, each began--the process was sub-conscious--to regard this meeting not as an isolated and inexplicable event, but as something resulting from a perfectly logical chain of circumstances. jill perceived that the presence in the apartment of that snap-shot of herself should have prepared her for the discovery that the place belonged to someone who had known her as a child, and that there was no reason for her to be stunned by the fact that this someone was wally mason. wally, on his side, knew that jill was in new york; and had already decided, erroneously, that she had found his address in the telephone directory and was paying an ordinary call. it was, perhaps, a little unusual that she should have got into the place without ringing the front door bell and that she should be in his sitting-room in the dark, but these were minor aspects of the matter. to the main fact, that here she was, he had adjusted his mind, and, while there was surprise in his voice when he finally spoke, it was not the surprise of one who suspects himself of seeing visions. "hello!" he said. "hullo!" said jill. it was not a very exalted note on which to pitch the conversation, but it had the merit of giving each of them a little more time to collect themselves. "this is . . . i wasn't expecting you!" said wally. "i wasn't expecting _you!_" said jill. there was another pause, in which wally, apparently examining her last words and turning them over in his mind found that they did not square with his preconceived theories. "you weren't expecting me?" "i certainly was not!" "but . . . but you knew i lived here?" jill shook her head. wally reflected for an instant, and then put his finger, with a happy inspiration, on the very heart of the mystery. "then how on earth did you get here?" he was glad he had asked that. the sense of unreality which had come to him in the first startling moment of seeing her and vanished under the influence of logic had returned as strong as ever. if she did not know he lived in this place, how in the name of everything uncanny had she found her way here? a momentary wonder as to whether all this was not mixed up with telepathy and mental suggestion and all that sort of thing came to him. certainly he had been thinking of her all the time since their parting at the savoy hotel that night three weeks andd more back . . . no, that was absurd. there must be some sounder reason for her presence. he waited for her to give it. jill for the moment felt physically incapable of giving it. she shrank from the interminable explanation which confronted her as a weary traveller shrinks from a dusty, far-stretching desert. she simply could not go into all that now. so she answered with a question. "when did you land in new york?" "this afternoon. we were supposed to dock this morning, but the boat was late." wally perceived that he was pushed away from the main point, and jostled his way to it. "but what are you doing here?" "it's such a long story." her voice was plaintive. remorse smote wally. it occurred to him that he had not been sufficiently sympathetic. not a word had he said on the subject of her change of fortunes. he had just stood and gaped and asked questions. after all, what the devil did it matter how she came to be here? he had anticipated a long and tedious search for her through the labyrinth of new york, and here fate had brought her to his very door, and all he could do was to ask why, instead of being thankful. he perceived that he was not much of a fellow. "never mind," he said. "you can tell me what you feel like it." he looked at her eagerly. time seemed to have wiped away that little misunderstanding under the burden of which they had parted. "it's too wonderful finding you like this!" he hesitated. "i heard about--everything," he said awkwardly. "my--" jill hesitated too. "my smash?" "yes. freddie rooke told me. i was terribly sorry." "thank you," said jill. there was a pause. they were both thinking of that other disaster which had happened. the presence of derek underhill seemed to stand like an unseen phantom between them. finally wally spoke at random, choosing the first words that came into his head in his desire to break the silence. "jolly place, this, isn't it?" jill perceived that an opening for those tedious explanations had been granted her. "uncle chris thinks so," she said demurely. wally looked puzzled. "uncle chris? oh, your uncle?" "yes." "but--he has never been here." "oh, yes. he's giving a dinner party here tonight!" "he's . . . what did you say?" "it's all right. i only began at the end of the story instead of the beginning. i'll tell you the whole thing, then . . . then i suppose you will be terribly angry and make a fuss." "i'm not much of a lad, as freddie rooke would say, for making fusses. and i can't imagine being terribly angry with you." "well, i'll risk it. though, if i wasn't a brave girl, i should leave uncle chris to explain for himself and simply run away." "anything is better than that. it's a miracle meeting you like this, and i don't want to be deprived of the fruits of it. tell me anything, but don't go." "you'll be furious." "not with you." "i should hope not with me. i've done nothing. i am the innocent heroine. but i'm afraid you will be very angry with uncle chris." "if he's your uncle, that passes him. besides, he once licked the stuffing out of me with a whangee. that forms a bond. tell me all." jill considered. she had promised to begin at the beginning, but it was difficult to know what was the beginning. "have you ever heard of captain kidd?" she asked at length. "you're wandering from the point, aren't you?" "no, i'm not. _have_ you heard of captain kidd?" "the pirate? of course." "well, uncle chris is his direct lineal descendant. that really explains the whole thing." wally looked at her enquiringly. "could you make it a little easier?" he said. "i can tell you everything in half a dozen words, if you like. but it will sound awfully abrupt." "go ahead." "uncle chris has stolen your apartment." wally nodded slowly. "i see. stolen my apartment." "of course you can't possibly understand. i shall have to tell you the whole thing, after all." wally listened with flattering attention as she began the epic of major christopher selby's doings in new york. whatever his emotions, he certainly was not bored. "so that's how it all happened," concluded jill. for a moment wally said nothing. he seemed to be digesting what he had heard. "i see," he said at last. "it's a variant of those advertisements they print in the magazines. 'why pay rent? own somebody else's home!'" "that _does_ rather sum it up," said jill. wally burst into a roar of laughter. "he's a corker!" jill was immensely relieved. for all her courageous bearing, she had not relished the task of breaking the news to wally. she knew that he had a sense of humor, but a man may have a sense of humor and yet not see anything amusing in having his home stolen in his absence. "i'm so glad you're not angry." "of course not." "most men would be." "most men are chumps." "it's so wonderful that it happened to be you. suppose it had been an utter stranger! what could i have done?" "it would have been the same thing. you would have won him over in two minutes. nobody could resist you." "that's very sweet of you." "i can't help telling the truth. washington was just the same." "then you don't mind uncle chris giving his dinner-party here tonight?" "he has my blessing." "you really are an angel," said jill gratefully. "from what he said, i think he looks on it as rather an important function. he has invited a very rich woman, who has been showing him a lot of hospitality,--a mrs peagrim . . ." "mrs waddesleigh peagrim?" "yes? why, do you know her?" "quite well. she goes in a good deal for being bohemian and knowing people who write and paint and act and so on. that reminds me. i gave freddie rooke a letter of introduction to her." "freddie rooke!" "yes. he suddenly made up his mind to come over. he came to me for advice about the journey. he sailed a couple of days before i did. i suppose he's somewhere in new york by now, unless he was going on to florida. he didn't tell me what his plans were." jill was conscious of a sudden depression. much as she liked freddie, he belonged to a chapter in her life which was closed and which she was trying her hardest to forget. it was impossible to think of freddie without thinking of derek, and to think of derek was like touching an exposed nerve. the news that freddie was in new york shocked her. new york had already shown itself a city of chance encounters. could she avoid meeting freddie? she knew freddie so well. there was not a dearer or a better-hearted youth in the world, but he had not that fine sensibility which pilots a man through the awkwardnesses of life. he was a blunderer. instinct told her that, if she met freddie, he would talk of derek, and, if thinking of derek was touching an exposed nerve, talking of him would like pressing on that nerve with a heavy hand. she shivered. wally was observant. "there's no need to meet him, if you don't want to," he said. "no," said jill doubtfully. "new york's a large place. by the way," he went on, "to return once more to the interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleep here at nights, do you know?" jill looked at him gratefully. he was no blunderer. her desire to avoid freddie rooke was, he gave her tacitly to understand, her business, and he did not propose to intrude on it. she liked him for dismissing the subject so easily. "no, i think he told me he doesn't." "well, that's something, isn't it! i call that darned nice of him! i wonder if i could drop back here somewhere about eleven o'clock. are the festivities likely to be over by then? if i know mrs peagrim, she will insist on going off to one of the hotels to dance directly after dinner. she's a confirmed trotter." "i don't know how to apologize," began jill remorsefully. "please don't. it's absolutely all right." his eye wandered to the mantelpiece, as it had done once or twice during the conversation. in her hurry jill had replaced the snapshot with its back to the room, and wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherished possession is maltreated. he got up now and, walking across, turned the photograph round. he stood for a moment, looking at it. jill had forgotten the snapshot. curiosity returned to her. "where _did_ you get that?" she asked. wally turned. "oh, did you see this?" "i was looking at it just before you nearly frightened me to death by appearing so unexpectedly." "freddie rooke sold it to me fourteen years ago." "fourteen years ago!" "next july," added wally. "i gave him five shillings for it." "five shillings! the little brute!" cried jill indignantly "it must have been all the money you had in the world!" "a trifle more, as a matter of fact. all the money i had in the world was three-and-six. but by a merciful dispensation of providence the curate had called that morning and left a money-box for subscriptions to the village organ-fund . . . it's wonderful what you can do with a turn for crime and the small blade of a pocket-knife! i don't think i have ever made money quicker!" he looked at the photograph again. "not that it seemed quick at the moment. i died at least a dozen agonizing deaths in the few minutes i was operating. have you ever noticed how slowly time goes when you are coaxing a shilling and a sixpence out of somebody's money-box? centuries! but i was forgetting. of course you've had no experience." "you poor thing!" "it was worth it." "and you've had it ever since!" "i wouldn't part with it for all mrs waddesleigh peagrim's millions," said wally with sudden and startling vehemence, "if she offered me them." he paused. "she hasn't, as a matter of fact." there was a silence. jill looked at wally furtively, as he returned to his seat. she was seeing him with new eyes. it was as if this trifling incident had removed some sort of a veil. he had suddenly become more alive. for an instant she had seen right into him, to the hidden deeps of his soul. she felt shy and embarrassed. "pat died," she said, at length. she felt the necessity of saying something. "i liked pat." "he picked up some poison, poor darling . . . how long ago those days seem, don't they!" "they are always pretty vivid to me. i wonder who has that old house of yours now." "i heard the other day," said jill more easily. the odd sensation of embarrassment was passing. "some people called . . . what was the name? . . . debenham, i think." silence fell again. it was broken by the front-door bell, like an alarm-clock that shatters a dream. wally got up. "your uncle," he said. "you aren't going to open the door?" "that was the scheme." "but he'll get such a shock when he sees you." "he must look on it in the light of rent. i don't see why i shouldn't have a little passing amusement from this business." he left the room. jill heard the front door open. she waited breathlessly. pity for uncle chris struggled with the sterner feeling that it served him right. "hullo!" she heard wally say. "hullo-ullo-ullo!" replied an exuberant voice. "wondered if i'd find you in, and all that sort of thing. i say, what a deuce of a way up it is here. sort of gets a chap into training for going to heaven, what? i mean, what?" jill looked about her like a trapped animal. it was absurd, she felt, but every nerve in her body cried out against the prospect of meeting freddie. his very voice had opened old wounds and set them throbbing. she listened in the doorway. out of sight down the passage, freddie seemed by the sounds to be removing his overcoat. she stole out and darted like a shadow down the corridor that led to wally's bedroom. the window of the bedroom opened onto the wide roof which uncle chris had eulogized. she slipped noiselessly out, closing the window behind her. 2. "i say, mason, old top," said freddie, entering the sitting-room, "i hope you don't mind my barging in like this but the fact is things are a bit thick. i'm dashed worried and i didn't know another soul i could talk it over with. as a matter of fact, i wasn't sure you were in new york at all but i remembered hearing you say in london that you went popping back almost at once, so i looked you up in the telephone book and took a chance. i'm dashed glad you _are_ back. when did you arrive?" "this afternoon." "i've been here two or three days. well, it's a bit of luck catching you. you see, what i want to ask your advice about . . ." wally looked at his watch. he was not surprised to find that jill had taken to flight. he understood her feelings perfectly, and was anxious to get rid of the inopportune freddie as soon as possible. "you'll have to talk quick, i'm afraid," he said. "i've lent this place to a man for the evening, and he's having some people to dinner. what's the trouble?" "it's about jill." "jill?" "jill mariner, you know. you remember jill? you haven't forgotten my telling you all that? about her losing her money and coming over to america?" "no. i remember you telling me that." freddie seemed to miss something in his companion's manner, some note of excitement and perturbation. "of course," he said, as if endeavoring to explain this to himself, "you hardly knew her, i suppose. only met once since you were kids and all that sort of thing. but i'm a pal of hers and i'm dashed upset by the whole business, i can tell you. it worries me, i mean to say. poor girl, you know, landed on her uppers in a strange country. well, i mean, it worries me. so the first thing i did when i got here was to try to find her. that's why i came over, really, to try to find her. apart from anything else, you see, poor old derek is dashed worried about her." "need we bring underhill in?" "oh, i know you don't like him and think he behaved rather rummily and so forth, but that's all right now." "it is, is it?" said wally drily. "oh, absolutely. it's all on again." "what's all on again?" "why, i mean he wants to marry jill. i came over to find her and tell her so." wally's eyes glowed. "if you have come over as an ambassador . . ." "that's right. jolly old ambassador. very word i used myself." "i say, if you have come over as an ambassador with the idea of reopening negotiations with jill on behalf of that infernal swine . . ." "old man!" protested freddie, pained. "pal of mine, you know." "if he is, after what's happened, your mental processes are beyond me." "my what, old son?" "your mental processes." "oh, ah!" said freddie, learning for the first time that he had any. wally looked at him intently. there was a curious expression on his rough-hewn face. "i can't understand you, freddie. if ever there was a fellow who might have been expected to take the only possible view of underhill's behavior in this business, i should have said it was you. you're a public-school man. you've mixed all the time with decent people. you wouldn't do anything that wasn't straight yourself to save your life, it seems to have made absolutely no difference in your opinion of this man underhill that he behaved like an utter cad to a girl who was one of your best friends. you seem to worship him just as much as ever. and you have travelled three thousand miles to bring a message from him to jill--good god! _jill!_--to the effect, as far as i understand it, that he has thought it over and come to the conclusion that after all she may possibly be good enough for him!" freddie recovered the eye-glass which the raising of his eyebrows had caused to fall, and polished it in a crushed sort of way. rummy, he reflected, how chappies stayed the same all their lives as they were when they were kids. nasty, tough sort of chap wally mason had been as a boy, and here he was, apparently, not altered a bit. at least, the only improvement he could detect was that, whereas in the old days wally, when in an ugly mood like this, would undoubtedly have kicked him, he now seemed content with mere words. all the same, he was being dashed unpleasant. and he was all wrong about poor old derek. this last fact he endeavored to make clear. "you don't understand," he said. "you don't realize. you've never met lady underhill, have you?" "what has she got to do with it?" "everything, old bean, everything. if it hadn't been for her, there wouldn't have been any trouble of any description, sort, or order. but she barged in and savaged poor old derek till she absolutely made him break off the engagement." "if you call him 'poor old derek' again, freddie," said wally viciously, "i'll drop you out of the window and throw your hat after you! if he's such a gelatine-backboned worm that his mother can . . ." "you don't know her, old thing! she's the original hellhound!" "i don't care what . . ." "must be seen to be believed," mumbled freddie. "i don't care what she's like! any man who could . . ." "once seen, never forgotten!" "damn you! don't interrupt every time i try to get a word in!" "sorry, old man! shan't occur again!" wally moved to the window, and stood looking out. he had had much more to say on the subject of derek underhill, but freddie's interruptions had put it out of his head, and he felt irritated and baffled. "well, all i can say is," he remarked savagely, "that, if you have come over here as an ambassador to try and effect a reconciliation between jill and underhill, i hope to god you'll never find her." freddie emitted a weak cough, like a very far-off asthmatic old sheep. he was finding wally more overpowering every moment. he had rather forgotten the dear old days of his childhood, but this conversation was beginning to refresh his memory: and he was realizing more vividly with every moment that passed how very wallyish wally was,--how extraordinarily like the wally who had dominated his growing intellect when they were both in eton suits. freddie in those days had been all for peace, and he was all for peace now. he made his next observation diffidently. "i _have_ found her!" wally spun round. "what!" "when i say that, i don't absolutely mean. i've seen her. i mean i know where she is. that's what i came round to see you about. felt i must talk it over, you know. the situation seems to me dashed rotten and not a little thick. the fact is, old man, she's gone on the stage. in the chorus, you know. and, i mean to say, well, if you follow what i'm driving at, what, what?" "in the chorus!" "in the chorus!" "how do you know?" freddie groped for his eye-glass, which had fallen again. he regarded it a trifle sternly. he was fond of the little chap, but it was always doing that sort of thing. the whole trouble was that, if you wanted to keep it in its place, you simply couldn't register any sort of emotion with the good old features: and, when you were chatting with a fellow like wally mason, you had to be registering something all the time. "well, that was a bit of luck, as a matter of fact. when i first got here, you know, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to round up a merry old detective and put the matter in his hands, like they do in stories. you know! ring at the bell. 'and this, if i mistake not, watson, is my client now.' and then in breezes client and spills the plot. i found a sleuth in the classified telephone directory, and toddled round. rummy chaps, detectives! ever met any? i always thought they were lean, hatchet-faced johnnies with inscrutable smiles. this one looked just like my old uncle ted, the one who died of apoplexy. jovial, puffy-faced bird, who kept bobbing up behind a fat cigar. have you ever noticed what whacking big cigars these fellows over here smoke? rummy country, america. you ought to have seen the way this blighter could shift his cigar right across his face without moving his jaw-muscles. like a flash! most remarkable thing you ever saw, i give you my honest word! he . . ." "couldn't you keep your impressions of america for the book you're going to write, and come to the point?" said wally rudely. "sorry, old chap," said freddie meekly. "glad you reminded me. well . . . oh, yes. we had got as far as the jovial old human bloodhound, hadn't we? well, i put the matter before this chappie. told him i wanted to find a girl, showed him a photograph, and so forth. i say," said freddie, wandering off once more into speculation, "why is it that coves like that always talk of a girl as 'the little lady'? this chap kept saying 'we'll find the little lady for you!' oh, well, that's rather off the rails, isn't it? it just floated across my mind and i thought i'd mention it. well, this blighter presumably nosed about and made enquiries for a couple of days, but didn't effect anything that you might call substantial. i'm not blaming him, mind you. i shouldn't care to have a job like that myself. i mean to say, when you come to think of what a frightful number of girls there are in this place, to have to . . . well, as i say, he did his best but didn't click; and then this evening, just before i came here, i met a girl i had known in england--she was in a show over there--a girl called nelly bryant . . ." "nelly bryant? i know her." "yes? fancy that! she was in a thing called 'follow the girl' in london. did you see it by any chance? topping show! there was one scene where the . . ." "get on! get on! i wrote it," "you wrote it?" freddie beamed simple-hearted admiration. "my dear old chap, i congratulate you! one of the ripest and most all-wool musical comedies i've ever seen. i went twenty-four times. rummy i don't remember spotting that you wrote it. i suppose one never looks at the names on the programme. yes, i went twenty-four times. the first time i went was with a couple of chappies from . . ." "listen, freddie!" said wally feverishly. "on some other occasion i should dearly love to hear the story of your life, but just now . . ." "absolutely, old man. you're perfectly right. well, to cut a long story short, nelly bryant told me that she and jill were rehearsing with a piece called 'the rose of america.'" "'the rose of america!'" "i think that was the name of it." "that's ike goble's show. he called me up on the phone about it half an hour ago. i promised to go and see a rehearsal of it tomorrow or the day after. and jill's in that?" "yes. how about it? i mean, i don't know much about this sort of thing, but do you think it's the sort of thing jill ought to be doing?" wally was moving restlessly about the room. freddie's news had disquieted him. mr goble had a reputation. "i know a lot about it," he replied, "and it certainly isn't." he scowled at the carpet. "oh, damn everybody!" freddie paused to allow him to proceed, if such should be his wish, but wally had apparently said his say. freddie went on to point out an aspect of the matter which was troubling him greatly. "i'm sure poor old derek wouldn't like her being in the chorus!" wally started so violently that for a moment freddie was uneasy. "i mean underhill," he corrected himself hastily. "freddie," said wally, "you're an awfully good chap, but i wish you would exit rapidly now! thanks for coming and telling me, very good of you. this way out!" "but, old man . . . !" "now what?" "i thought we were going to discuss this binge and decide what to do and all that sort of thing." "some other time. i want to think about it." "oh, you will think about it?" "yes, i'll think about it." "topping! you see, you're a brainy sort of feller, and you'll probably hit something." "i probably shall, if you don't go." "eh? oh, ah, yes!" freddie struggled into his coat. more than ever did the adult wally remind him of the dangerous stripling of years gone by. "well, cheerio!" "same to you!" "you'll let me know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze, won't you? i'm at the biltmore." "very good place to be. go there now." "right ho! well, toodle-oo!" "the elevator is at the foot of the stairs," said wally. "you press the bell and up it comes. you hop in and down you go. it's a great invention! good night!" "oh, i say. one moment . . ." "good _night!_" said wally. he closed the door, and ran down the passage. "jill!" he called. he opened the bedroom window and stepped out. "jill!" there was no reply. "jill!" called wally once again, but again there was no answer. wally walked to the parapet, and looked over. below him the vastness of the city stretched itself in a great triangle, its apex the harbor, its sides the dull silver of the east and hudson rivers. directly before him, crowned with its white lantern, the metropolitan tower reared its graceful height to the stars. and all around, in the windows of the tall buildings that looked from this bastion on which he stood almost squat, a million lights stared up at him, the unsleeping eyes of new york. it was a scene of which wally, always sensitive to beauty, never tired: but tonight it had lost its appeal. a pleasant breeze from the jersey shore greeted him with a quickening whisper of springtime and romance, but it did not lift the heaviness of his heart. he felt depressed and apprehensive. chapter fourteen 1. spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to wally as he smoked upon the roof, floated graciously upon new york two mornings later. the city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard times over and good times to come. in a million homes, a million young men thought of sunny afternoons at the polo grounds; a million young women of long summer sundays by the crowded waves of coney island. in his apartment on park avenue, mr isaac goble, sniffing the gentle air from the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his _morning telegraph_ with a resolve to walk to the theatre for rehearsal: a resolve which had also come to jill and nelly bryant, eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the forties. on the summit of his sky-scraper, wally mason, performing swedish exercises to the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upper windows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous and optimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of jill. and it was of jill, too, that young mr pilkington thought, as he propped his long form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea. he had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself, but his japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, had spoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling on the carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside. for the first time in several days a certain moodiness which had affected otis pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams. the gaiety of otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily due to the improvement in the weather. it had its source in a conversation which had taken place between himself and jill's uncle chris on the previous night. exactly how it had come about, mr pilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fully aware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into major selby's sympathetic ears the story of his romance. encouraged by the other's kindly receptiveness, he had told him all--his love for jill, his hopes that some day it might be returned, the difficulties complicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of mrs waddesleigh peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel of musical comedy ensembles. to all these outpourings major selby had listened with keen attention, and finally had made one of those luminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate only from your man of the world. it was jill's girlish ambition, it seemed from major selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-picture world. the movies were her objective. when she had told him of this, said uncle chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests, to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company of some good musical play, where she could learn from the best masters so much of the technique of the business. that done, she could go about her life-work, fortified and competent. what, he broke off to ask, did pilkington think of the idea? pilkington thought the idea splendid. miss mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderful in the movies. there was, said uncle chris, a future for a girl in the movies. mr pilkington agreed cordially. a great future. "look at mary pickford!" said uncle chris. "millions a year!" mr pilkington contemplated miss pickford, and agreed again. he instanced other stars--lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with her thousands a week. there was no doubt about it--a girl's best friend was the movies. "observe," proceeded uncle chris, gathering speed and expanding his chest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplify the whole matter if jill were to become a motion-picture artist and win fame and wealth in her profession. and there can be no reasonable doubt, my boy, that she would. as you say, with her appearance and her charm . . . which of these women whose names you see all along broadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? once started, with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. and then. . . . of course, as regards her feelings i cannot speak, as i know nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferent to you . . . what then? you go to your excellent aunt and announce that you are engaged to be married to jill mariner. there is a momentary pause. 'not _the_ jill mariner?' falters mrs peagrim. 'yes, the famous miss mariner!' you reply. well, i ask you, my boy, can you see her making an objection? such a thing would be absurd. no, i can see no flaw in the project whatsoever." here uncle chris, as he had pictured mrs peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "of course, there would be the preliminaries." "the preliminaries?" uncle chris' voice became a melodious coo. he beamed upon mr pilkington. "well, think for yourself, my boy! these things cannot be done without money. i do not propose to allow my niece to waste her time and her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting years for a chance that might never come. there is plenty of room at the top, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place to start. if jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a special company must be formed to promote her. she must be made a feature, a star, from the beginning. that is why i have advised her to accept her present position temporarily, in order that she may gain experience. she must learn to walk before she runs. she must study before she soars. but when the moment arrives for her to take the step, she must not be hampered by lack of money. whether," said uncle chris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to take shares in the company yourself . . ." "oo . . . !" ". . . is a matter," proceeded uncle chris, ignoring the interruption, "for you yourself to decide. possibly you have other claims on your purse. possibly this musical play of yours has taken all the cash you are prepared to lock up. possibly you may consider the venture too speculative. possibly . . . there are a hundred reasons why you may not wish to join us. but i know a dozen men--i can go down wall street tomorrow and pick out twenty men--who will be glad to advance the necessary capital. i can assure you that i personally shall not hesitate to risk--if one can call it risking--any loose cash which i may have lying idle at my banker's." he rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in his trouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--and stopped to flick a piece of fluff off his coat-sleeve. mr pilkington was thus enabled to insert a word. "how much would you want?" he enquired. "that," said uncle chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. i should have to look into the matter more closely in order to give you the exact figures. but let us say for the sake of argument that you put up--what shall we say?--a hundred thousand? fifty thousand? . . . no, we will be conservative. perhaps you had better not begin with more than ten thousand. you can always buy more shares later. i don't suppose i shall begin with more than ten thousand myself." "i could manage ten thousand all right." "excellent. we make progress, we make progress. very well, then. i go to my wall street friends--i would give you their names, only for the present, till something definite has been done, that would hardly be politic--i go to my wall street friends, and tell them about the scheme, and say 'here is ten thousand dollars! what is your contribution?' it puts the affair on a business-like basis, you understand. then we really get to work. but use your own judgment my boy, you know. use your own judgment. i would not think of persuading you to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. think it over. sleep on it. and, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a word about it to jill. it would be cruel to raise her hopes until we are certain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. and, of course, not a word to mrs peagrim." "of course." "very well, then, my boy." said uncle chris affably. "i will leave you to turn the whole thing over in your mind. act entirely as you think best. how is your insomnia, by the way? did you try nervino? capital! there's nothing like it. it did wonders for _me!_ good-night, good-night!" otis pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with an interval for sleep, ever since. and the more he thought of it, the better the scheme appeared to him. he winced a little at the thought of the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and had been brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected, the money would be merely a loan. once the company found its feet, it would be returned to him a hundred-fold. and there was no doubt that this would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of jill, as far as his aunt olive was concerned. why, a cousin of his--young brewster philmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, and nobody had made the slightest objection. brewster was to be seen with his bride frequently beneath mrs peagrim's roof. against the higher strata of bohemia mrs peagrim had no prejudice at all. quite the reverse, in fact. she liked the society of those whose names were often in the papers and much in the public mouth. it seemed to otis pilkington, in short, that love had found a way. he sipped his tea with relish, and when the japanese valet brought in the toast all burned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one may hope, touched the latter's oriental heart and inspired him with a desire to serve this best of employers more efficiently. at half-past ten, otis pilkington removed his dressing-gown and began to put on his clothes to visit the theatre. there was a rehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. as he dressed, his mood was as sunny as the day itself. and the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever spring day had been in a country where spring comes early and does its best from the very start. the blue sky beamed down on a happy city. to and fro the citizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather. everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of the gotham theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the main event, had been called by johnson miller in order to iron some of the kinks out of the "my heart and i" number, which, with the assistance of the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one. on the stage of the gotham gloom reigned--literally, because the stage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electric light: and figuratively, because things were going even worse than usual with the "my heart and i" number, and johnson miller, always of an emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by the incompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. at about the moment when otis pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown and reached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill), johnson miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit and the first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutching his white locks with the other, his voice raised the while in agonized protest. "gentlemen, you silly idiots," complained mr miller loudly, "you've had three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and you haven't done a damn thing right! you're all over the place! you don't seem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot of keystone kops! what's the matter with you? you're not doing the movements i showed you; you're doing some you have invented yourselves, and they are rotten! i've no doubt you think you can arrange a number better than i can, but mr goble engaged me to be the director, so kindly do exactly as i tell you. don't try to use your own intelligence, because you haven't any. i'm not blaming you for it. it wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your heads when you were babies. but it handicaps you when you try to think." of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, six looked wounded by this tirade. they had the air of good men wrongfully accused. they appeared to be silently calling on heaven to see justice done between mr. miller and themselves. the seventh, a long-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of english cut, seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. it was this youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spoke in a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner. "i say!" mr miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat. he had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwrought way up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his india rubber form moving in convulsive jerks. only when he had turned and retraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to take his share in the conversation. "what?" he shouted. "can't hear you!" "i say, you know, it's my fault, really." "what?" "i mean to say, you know . . ." "what? speak up, can't you?" mr saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing a melody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that the services of an interpreter were needed. he obligingly left the music-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box. he placed his arm about mr miller's shoulders and his lips to mr miller's left ear, and drew a deep breath. "he says it is his fault!" mr miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment. "i know they're not worth their salt!" he replied. mr saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath. "this young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!" "tell him i only signed on this morning, laddie," urged the tweed-clad young man. "he only joined the company this morning!" this puzzled mr miller. "how do you mean, warning?" he asked. mr saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort. "this young man is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words of one syllable. "he does not yet know the steps. he says this is his first day here, so he does not yet know the steps. when he has been here some more time he will know the steps. but now he does not know the steps." "what he means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "is that i don't know the steps." "he does not know the steps!" roared mr saltzburg. "i know he doesn't know the steps," said mr miller. "why doesn't he know the steps? he's had long enough to learn them." "he is new!" "hugh?" "new!" "oh, new?" "yes, new!" "why the devil is he new?" cried mr miller, awaking suddenly to the truth and filled with a sense of outrage. "why didn't he join with the rest of the company? how can i put on chorus numbers if i am saddled every day with new people to teach? who engaged him?" "who engaged you?" enquired mr saltzburg of the culprit. "mr pilkington." "mr pilkington," shouted mr saltzburg. "when?" "when?" "last night." "last night." mr miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round, darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. "what can i do?" he wailed. "my hands are tied! i am hampered! i am handicapped! we open in two weeks, and every day i find somebody new in the company to upset everything i have done. i shall go to mr goble and ask to be released from my contract. i shall . . . come along, come along, come along now!" he broke off suddenly. "why are we wasting time? the whole number once more. the whole number once more from the beginning!" the young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running a finger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. he was not used to this sort of thing. in a large experience of amateur theatricals he had never encountered anything like it. in the breathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse and refrain by the lady who played the heroine of "the rose of america," he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right. "i say! is he always like this?" "who? johnny?" "the sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. the barker on the skyline. does he often get the wind up like this?" his colleague smiled tolerantly. "why, that's nothing!" he replied. "wait till you see him really cut loose! that was just a gentle whisper!" "my god!" said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. the leading lady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of the ensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimbly down towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on his nearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. a clapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated--inappropriately--that he had failed to do so. mr miller could be perceived--dimly--with all his fingers entwined in his hair. "clear the stage!" yelled mr miller. "not you!" he shouted, as the latest addition to the company began to drift off with the others. "you stay!" "me?" "yes, you. i shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or we shall get nowhere. go on-stage. start the music again, mr saltzburg. now, when the refrain begins, come down. gracefully! gracefully!" the young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully. and it was while he was thus occupied that jill and nelly bryant, entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o'clock approached, saw him. "whoever is that?" said nelly. "new man," replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "came this morning." nelly turned to jill. "he looks just like mr rooke!" she exclaimed. "he _is_ mr rooke!" said jill. "he can't be!" "he _is_!" "but what is he doing here?" jill bit her lip. "that's just what i'm going to ask him myself," she said. 2. the opportunity for a private conversation with freddie did not occur immediately. for ten minutes he remained alone on the stage, absorbing abusive tuition from mr miller: and at the end of that period a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of the number with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. when, finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrival of mr goble and at the same time indicated mr goble's desire that the stage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smile of recognition and a faint "what ho!" was all that freddie was able to bestow upon jill, before, with the rest of the _ensemble_, they had to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. it was only when this had been run through four times and the stage left vacant for two of the principals to play a scene that jill was able to draw the last of the rookes aside in a dark corner and put him to the question. "freddie, what are you doing here?" freddie mopped his streaming brow. johnson miller's idea of an opening chorus was always strenuous. on the present occasion, the ensemble were supposed to be guests at a long island house-party, and mr miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposed house-party guests on long island to consist exclusively of victims of st vitus' dance. freddie was feeling limp, battered, and exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come. "eh?" he said feebly. "what are you doing here?" "oh, ah, yes! i see what you mean! i suppose you're surprised to find me in new york, what?" "i'm not surprised to find you in new york. i knew you had come over. but i am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by mr miller." "i say," said freddie in an awed voice. "he's a bit of a nut, that lad, what! he reminds me of the troops of midian in the hymn. the chappies who prowled and prowled around. i'll bet he's worn a groove in the carpet. like a jolly old tiger at the zoo at feeding time. wouldn't be surprised at any moment to look down and find him biting a piece out of my leg!" jill seized his arm and shook it. "don't _ramble_, freddie! tell me how you got here." "oh, that was pretty simple. i had a letter of introduction to this chappie pilkington who's running this show, and, we having got tolerably pally in the last few days, i went to him and asked him to let me join the merry throng. i said i didn't want any money and the little bit of work i would do wouldn't make any difference, so he said 'right ho!' or words to that effect, and here i am." "but why? you can't be doing this for fun, surely?" "fun!" a pained expression came into freddie's face. "my idea of fun isn't anything in which jolly old miller, the bird with the snowy hair, is permitted to mix. something tells me that that lad is going to make it his life-work picking on me. no, i didn't do this for fun. i had a talk with wally mason the night before last, and he seemed to think that being in the chorus wasn't the sort of thing you ought to be doing, so i thought it over and decided that i ought to join the troupe too. then i could always be on the spot, don't you know, if there was any trouble. i mean to say, i'm not much of a chap and all that sort of thing, but still i might come in handy one of these times. keep a fatherly eye on you, don't you know, and what not!" jill was touched. "you're a dear, freddie!" "i thought, don't you know, it would make poor old derek a bit easier in his mind." jill froze. "i don't want to talk about derek, freddie, please." "oh, i know what you must be feeling. pretty sick, i'll bet, what? but if you could see him now . . ." "i don't want to talk about him!" "he's pretty cut up, you know. regrets bitterly and all that sort of thing. he wants you to come back again." "i see! he sent you to fetch me?" "that was more or less the idea." "it's a shame that you had all the trouble. you can get messenger-boys to go anywhere and do anything nowadays. derek ought to have thought of that." freddie looked at her doubtfully. "you're spoofing, aren't you? i mean to say, you wouldn't have liked that!" "i shouldn't have disliked it any more than his sending you." "oh, but i wanted to pop over. keen to see america and so forth." jill looked past him at the gloomy stage. her face was set, and her eyes sombre. "can't you understand, freddie? you've known me a long time. i should have thought that you would have found out by now that i have a certain amount of pride. if derek wanted me back, there was only one thing for him to do--come over and find me himself." "rummy! that's what mason said, when i told him. you two don't realize how dashed busy derek is these days." "busy!" something in her face seemed to tell freddie that he was not saying the right thing, but he stumbled on. "you've no notion how busy he is. i mean to say, elections coming on and so forth. he daren't stir from the metrop." "of course i couldn't expect him to do anything that might interfere with his career, could i?" "absolutely not. i knew you would see it!" said freddie, charmed at her reasonableness. all rot, what you read about women being unreasonable. "then i take it it's all right, eh?" "all right?" "i mean you will toddle home with me at the earliest opp. and make poor old derek happy?" jill laughed discordantly. "poor old derek!" she echoed. "he has been badly treated, hasn't he?" "well, i wouldn't say that," said freddie doubtfully. "you see, coming down to it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?" "more or less!" "i mean to say . . ." "more or less!" freddie glanced at her anxiously. he was not at all sure now that he liked the way she was looking or the tone in which she spoke. he was not a keenly observant young man, but there did begin at this point to seep through to his brain-centers a suspicion that all was not well. "let me pull myself together!" said freddie warily to his immortal soul. "i believe i'm getting the raspberry!" and there was silence for a space. the complexity of life began to weigh upon freddie. life was like one of those shots at squash which seem so simple till you go to knock the cover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you and you miss it. life, freddie began to perceive, was apt to have a nasty back-spin on it. he had never had any doubt when he had started, that the only difficult part of his expedition to america would be the finding of jill. once found, he had presumed that she would be delighted to hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him home on the next boat. it appeared now, however, that he had been too sanguine. optimist as he was, he had to admit that, as far as could be ascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be said to have sprung a leak. he proceeded to approach the matter from another angle. "i say!" "yes?" "you do love old derek, don't you? i mean to say, you know what i mean, _love_ him and all that sort of rot?" "i don't know!" "you don't know! oh, i say, come now! you must _know!_ pull up your socks, old thing . . . i mean, pull yourself together! you either love a chappie or you don't." jill smiled painfully. "how nice it would be if everything were as simple and straightforward as that. haven't you ever heard that the dividing line between love and hate is just a thread? poets have said so a great number of times." "oh, poets!" said freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of the hand. he had been compelled to read shakespeare and all that sort of thing at school, but it had left him cold, and since growing to man's estate he had rather handed the race of bards the mitten. he liked doss chiderdoss' stuff in the _sporting times_, but beyond that he was not much of a lad for poets. "can't you understand a girl in my position not being able to make up her mind whether she loves a man or despises him?" freddie shook his head. "no," he said. "it sounds dashed silly to me!" "then what's the good of talking?" cried jill. "it only hurts." "but--won't you come back to england?" "no." "oh, i say! be a sport! take a stab at it!" jill laughed again--another of those grating laughs which afflicted freddie with a sense of foreboding and failure. something had undoubtedly gone wrong with the works. he began to fear that at some point in the conversation--just where he could not say--he had been less diplomatic than he might have been. "you speak as if you were inviting me to a garden-party! no, i won't take a stab at it. you've a lot to learn about women, freddie!" "women _are_ rum!" conceded that perplexed ambassador. jill began to move away. "don't go!" urged freddie. "why not? what's the use of talking any more? have you ever broken an arm or a leg, freddie?" "yes," said freddie, mystified. "as a matter of fact, my last year at oxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, some blighter barged into me and i came down on my wrist. but . . ." "it hurt?" "like the deuce!" "and then it began to get better, i suppose. well, used you to hit it and twist it and prod it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal? i won't talk any more about derek! i simply won't! i'm all smashed up inside, and i don't know if i'm ever going to get well again, but at least i'm going to give myself a chance. i'm working as hard as ever i can, and i'm forcing myself not to think of him. i'm in a sling, freddie, like your wrist, and i don't want to be prodded. i hope we shall see a lot of each other while you're over here--you always were the greatest dear in the world--but you mustn't mention derek again, and you mustn't ask me to go home. if you avoid those subjects, we'll be as happy as possible. and now i'm going to leave you to talk to poor nelly. she has been hovering round for the last ten minutes, waiting for a chance to speak to you. she worships you, you know!" freddie started violently. "oh, i say! what rot!" jill had gone, and he was still gaping after her, when nelly bryant moved towards him--shyly, like a worshiper approaching a shrine. "hello, mr rooke!" said nelly. "hullo-ullo-ullo!" said freddie. nelly fixed her large eyes on his face. a fleeting impression passed through freddie's mind that she was looking unusually pretty this morning: nor was the impression unjustified. nelly was wearing for the first time a spring suit which was the outcome of hours of painful selection among the wares of a dozen different stores, and the knowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from her like an inner light. she felt happy: and her happiness had lent an unwonted color to her face and a soft brightness to her eyes. "how nice it is, your being here!" freddie waited for the inevitable question, the question with which jill had opened their conversation; but it did not come. he was surprised, but relieved. he hated long explanations, and he was very doubtful whether loyalty to jill could allow him to give them to nelly. his reason for being where he was had to do so intimately with jill's most private affairs. a wave of gratitude to nelly swept through him when he realised that she was either incurious or else too delicate-minded to show inquisitiveness. as a matter of fact, it was delicacy that kept nelly silent. seeing freddie here at the theatre, she had, as is not uncommon with fallible mortals, put two and two together and made the answer four when it was not four at all. she had been deceived by circumstantial evidence. jill, whom she had left in england wealthy and secure, she had met again in new york penniless as the result of some stock exchange cataclysm in which, she remembered with the vagueness with which one recalls once-heard pieces of information, freddie rooke had been involved. true, she seemed to recollect hearing that freddie's losses had been comparatively slight, but his presence in the chorus of "the rose of america" seemed to her proof that after all they must have been devastating. she could think of no other reason except loss of money which could have placed freddie in the position in which she now found him, so she accepted it; and, with the delicacy which was innate in her and which a hard life had never blunted, decided, directly she saw him, to make no allusion to the disaster. such was nelly's view of the matter, and sympathy gave to her manner a kind of maternal gentleness which acted on freddie, raw from his late encounter with mr johnson miller and disturbed by jill's attitude in the matter of poor old derek, like a healing balm. his emotions were too chaotic for analysis, but one thing stood out clear from the welter--the fact that he was glad to be with nelly as he had never been glad to be with a girl before, and found her soothing as he had never supposed a girl could be soothing. they talked desultorily of unimportant things, and every minute found freddie more convinced that nelly was not as other girls. he felt that he must see more of her. "i say," he said. "when this binge is over . . . when the rehearsal finishes, you know, how about a bite to eat?" "i should love it. i generally go to the automat." "the how-much? never heard of it." "in times square. it's cheap, you know." "i was thinking of the cosmopolis." "but that's so expensive." "oh, i don't know. much the same as any of the other places, isn't it?" nelly's manner became more motherly than ever. she bent forward and touched his arm affectionately. "you haven't to keep up any front with me," she said gently. "i don't care whether you're rich or poor or what. i mean, of course i'm awfully sorry you've lost your money, but it makes it all the easier for us to be real pals, don't you think so?" "lost my money!" "well, i know you wouldn't be here if you hadn't. i wasn't going to say anything about it, but, when you talked of the cosmopolis, i just had to. you lost your money in the same thing jill mariner lost hers, didn't you? i was sure you had, the moment i saw you here. who cares? money isn't everything!" astonishment kept freddie silent for an instant: after that he refrained from explanations of his own free will. he accepted the situation and rejoiced in it. like many other wealthy and modest young men, he had always had a sneaking suspicion at the back of his mind that any girl who was decently civil to him was so from mixed motives--or more likely, motives that were not even mixed. well, dash it, here was a girl who seemed to like him although under the impression that he was broke to the wide. it was an intoxicating experience. it made him feel a better chap. it fortified his self-respect. "you know," he said, stammering a little, for he found a sudden difficulty in controlling his voice. "you're a dashed good sort!" "i'm awfully glad you think so." there was a silence--as far, at least, as he and she were concerned. in the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelter they stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to be happening. some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. the rasping voice of mr goble was making itself heard from the unseen auditorium. these things they sensed vaguely, but they were too occupied with each other to ascertain details. "what was the name of that place again?" asked freddie. "the what-ho-something?" "the automat?" "that's the little chap! we'll go there, shall we?" "the food's quite good. you go and help yourself out of slot-machines, you know." "my favorite indoor sport!" said freddie with enthusiasm. "hullo! what's up? it sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!" the voice of the assistant stage-manager was calling--sharply excited, agitation in every syllable. "all the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! mr goble wants all the chorus--gentlemen on the stage!" "well, cheerio for the present," said freddie. "i suppose i'd better look into this." he made his way onto the stage. 3. there is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsal of a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connected with it. softened by the gentle beauty of the spring weather, mr goble had come to the gotham theatre that morning in an excellent temper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day. five minutes of "the rose of america" had sent him back to the normal: and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar and glowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul. when wally mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped into the seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and even omitted to offer him a cigar. and when a new york theatrical manager does that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst. one may find excuses for mr goble. "the rose of america" would have tested the equanimity of a far more amiable man: and on mr goble what otis pilkington had called its delicate whimsicality jarred profoundly. he had been brought up in the lower-browed school of musical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the opening number and filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the girls in a variety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists to get the laughs. mr goble's idea of a musical piece was something embracing trained seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilled buck-and-wing dancers, with nothing on the stage, from a tree to a lamp-shade, which could not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. the austere legitimateness of "the rose of america" gave him a pain in the neck. he loathed plot, and "the rose of america" was all plot. why, then, had the earthy mr. goble consented to associate himself with the production of this intellectual play? because he was subject, like all other new york managers, to intermittent spasms of the idea that the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera. sometimes, lunching in his favorite corner in the cosmopolis grill-room, he would lean across the table and beg some other manager to take it from him that the time was ripe for a revival of comic opera--or more cautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. and the other manager would nod his head and thoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sure as god made little apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripe for a revival of comic opera. and then they would stuff themselves with rich food and light big cigars and brood meditatively. with most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges of conscience, pass as quickly as they come, and they go back to coining money with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. but otis pilkington, happening along with the script of "the rose of america" and the cash to back it, had caught mr goble in the full grip of an attack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latter emerged from the influence. he now regretted his rash act. "say, listen," he said to wally, his gaze on the stage, his words proceeding from the corner of his mouth, "you've got to stick around with this show after it opens on the road. we'll talk terms later. but we've got to get it right, don't care what it costs. see?" "you think it will need fixing?" mr goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now going through a particularly arid stretch of dialogue. "fixing! it's all wrong! it don't add up right! you'll have to rewrite it from end to end." "well, i've got some ideas about it. i saw it played by amateurs last summer, you know. i could make a quick job of it, if you want me to. but will the author stand for it?" mr goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, and twisted it round in wally's direction. "say, listen! he'll stand for anything i say. i'm the little guy that gives orders round here. i'm the big noise!" as if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. the effect was magical. the refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been shot. the assistant stage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had now been turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script. "take that over again!" shouted mr goble. "yes, that speech about life being like a water-melon. it don't sound to me as though it meant anything." he cocked his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. he clapped his hands. the action stopped again. "cut it!" said mr goble tersely. "cut the speech, mr goble?" queried the obsequious assistant stage-director. "yes. cut it. it don't mean nothing!" down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, shimmered mr pilkington, wounded to the quick. "mr goble! mr goble!" "well?" "that is the best epigram in the play." "the best what?" "epigram. the best epigram in the play." mr. goble knocked the ash off his cigar. "the public don't want epigrams. the public don't like epigrams. i've been in the show business fifteen years, and i'm telling you! epigrams give them a pain under the vest. all right, get on." mr pilkington fluttered agitatedly. this was his first experience of mr goble in the capacity of stage-director. it was the latter's custom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did what mr goble called the breaking-in. this accomplished, he would appear in person, undo most of the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their lines, and generally enjoy himself. producing plays was mr goble's hobby. he imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and it was useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which he might have come. he regarded those who did not agree with him with the lofty contempt of an eastern despot. of this mr pilkington was not yet aware. "but, mr goble . . . !" the potentate swung irritably round on him. "what is it? what is it? can't you see i'm busy?" "that epigram . . ." "it's out!" "but . . . !" "it's out!" "surely," protested mr pilkington almost tearfully, "i have a voice . . ." "sure you have a voice," retorted mr goble, "and you can use it any old place you want, except in my theatre. have all the voice you like! go round the corner and talk to yourself! sing in your bath! but don't come using it here, because i'm the little guy that does all the talking in this theatre! that fellow gets my goat," he added complainingly to wally, as mr pilkington withdrew like a foiled python. "he don't know nothing about the show business, and he keeps butting in and making fool suggestions. he ought to be darned glad he's getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me how to direct it." he clapped his hands imperiously. the assistant stage-manager bent over the footlights. "what was that that guy said? lord finchley's last speech. take it again." the gentleman who was playing the part of lord finchley, an english character actor who specialized in london "nuts," raised his eyebrows, annoyed. like mr pilkington, he had never before come into contact with mr goble as stage-director, and, accustomed to the suaver methods of his native land, he was finding the experience trying. he had not yet recovered from the agony of having that water-melon line cut out of his part. it was the only good line, he considered, that he had. any line that is cut out of an actor's part is always the only good line he has. "the speech about omar khayyam?" he enquired with suppressed irritation. "i thought that was the way you said it. all wrong! it's omar _of_ khayyam." "i think you will find that omar khayyam is the--ah--generally accepted version of the poet's name," said the portrayer of lord finchley, adding beneath his breath. "you silly ass!" "you say omar _of_ khayyam," bellowed mr goble. "who's running this show, anyway?" "just as you please." mr goble turned to wally. "these actors . . ." he began, when mr pilkington appeared again at his elbow. "mr goble! mr goble!" "what is it _now?_" "omar khayyam was a persian poet. his name was khayyam." "that wasn't the way _i_ heard it," said mr goble doggedly. "did _you?_" he enquired of wally. "i thought he was born at khayyam." "you're probably quite right," said wally, "but, if so, everybody else has been wrong for a good many years. it's usually supposed that the gentleman's name was omar khayyam. khayyam, omar j. born 1050 a.d., educated privately and at bagdad university. represented persia in the olympic games of 1072, winning the sitting high-jump and the egg-and-spoon race. the khayyams were quite a well-known family in bagdad, and there was a lot of talk when omar, who was mrs khayyam's pet son, took to drink and writing poetry. they had had it all fixed for him to go into his father's date business." mr goble was impressed. he had a respect for wally's opinion, for wally had written "follow the girl" and look what a knock-out that had been. he stopped the rehearsal again. "go back to that khayyam speech!" he said, interrupting lord finchley in mid-sentence. the actor whispered a hearty english oath beneath his breath. he had been up late last night, and, in spite of the fair weather, he was feeling a trifle on edge. "'in the words of omar of khayyam' . . ." mr goble clapped his hands. "cut that 'of,'" he said. "the show's too long, anyway." and, having handled a delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leaned back in his chair and chewed the end off another cigar. for some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. if mr goble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms except to wally. to him he enlarged from time to time on the pain which "the rose of america" caused him. "how i ever came to put on junk like this beats me," confessed mr goble frankly. "you probably saw that there was a good idea at the back of it," suggested wally. "there is, you know. properly handled, it's an idea that could be made into a success." "what would you do with it?" "oh, a lot of things," said wally warily. in his younger and callower days he had sometimes been rash enough to scatter views on the reconstruction of plays broadcast, to find them gratefully absorbed and acted upon and treated as a friendly gift. his affection for mr goble was not so overpowering as to cause him to give him ideas for nothing now. "any time you want me to fix it for you, i'll come along. about one and a half per cent of the gross would meet the case, i think." mr goble faced him, registering the utmost astonishment and horror. "one and a half per cent for fixing a show like this? why, darn it, there's hardly anything to do to it! it's--it's--in!" "you called it junk just now." "well, all i meant was that it wasn't the sort of thing i cared for myself. the public will eat it! take it from me, the time is just about ripe for a revival of comic opera." "this one will want all the reviving you can give it. better use a pulmotor." "but that long boob, that pilkington . . . he would never stand for my handing you one and a half per cent." "i thought _you_ were the little guy who arranged things round here." "but he's got money in the show." "well, if he wants to get any out, he'd better call in somebody to rewrite it. you don't have to engage me if you don't want to. but i know i could make a good job of it. there's just one little twist the thing needs and you would have quite a different piece." "what's that?" enquired mr goble casually. "oh, just a little . . . what shall i say? . . . a little touch of what-d'you-call-it and a bit of thingummy. you know the sort of thing! that's all it wants." mr goble gnawed his cigar, baffled. "you think so, eh?" he said at length. "and perhaps a suspicion of je-ne-sais-quoi," added wally. mr goble worried his cigar, and essayed a new form of attack. "you've done a lot of work for me," he said. "good work!" "glad you liked it," said wally. "you're a good kid! i like having you around. i was half thinking of giving you a show to do this fall. corking book. french farce. ran two years in paris. but what's the good, if you want the earth?" "always useful, the earth. good thing to have." "see here, if you'll fix up this show for half of one per cent, i'll give you the other to do." "you shouldn't slur your words so. for a moment i thought you said 'half of one per cent.' one and a half of course you really said." "if you won't take half, you don't get the other." "all right," said wally. "there are lots of other managers in new york. haven't you seen them popping about? rich, enterprising men, and all of them love me like a son." "make it one per cent," said mr goble, "and i'll see if i can fix it with pilkington." "one and a half." "oh, damn it, one and a half, then," said mr goble morosely. "what's the good of splitting straws?" "forgotten sports of the past--splitting the straw. all right. if you drop me a line to that effect, legibly signed with your name, i'll wear it next my heart. i shall have to go now. i have a date. good-bye. glad everything's settled and everybody's happy." for some moments after wally had left, mr goble sat hunched up in his orchestra-chair, smoking sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever. living in a little world of sycophants, he was galled by the off-hand way in which wally always treated him. there was something in the latter's manner which seemed to him sometimes almost contemptuous. he regretted the necessity of having to employ him. there was, of course, no real necessity why he should have employed wally. new york was full of librettists who would have done the work equally well for half the money, but, like most managers, mr goble had the mental processes of a sheep. "follow the girl" was the last outstanding musical success in new york theatrical history: wally had written it: therefore nobody but wally was capable of rewriting "the rose of america." the thing had for mr goble the inevitability of fate. except for deciding mentally that wally had swelled head, there was nothing to be done. having decided that wally had swelled head and not feeling much better, mr goble concentrated his attention on the stage. a good deal of action had taken place there during recently concluded business talk, and the unfortunate finchley was back again, playing another of his scenes. mr goble glared at lord finchley. he did not like him, and he did not like the way he was speaking his lines. the part of lord finchley was a non-singing role. it was a type part. otis pilkington had gone to the straight stage to find an artist, and had secured the not uncelebrated wentworth hill, who had come over from london to play in an english comedy which had just closed. the newspapers had called the play thin, but had thought that wentworth hill was an excellent comedian. mr hill thought so too, and it was consequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellow from the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speeches and a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong. "i beg your pardon?" said mr. hill, quietly but dangerously, stepping to the footlights. "all wrong!" repeated mr goble. "really?" wentworth hill, who a few years earlier had spent several terms at oxford university before being sent down for aggravated disorderliness, had brought little away with him from that seat of learning except the oxford manner. this he now employed upon mr goble with an icy severity which put the last touch to the manager's fermenting state of mind. "perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me just how you think that part should be played?" mr goble marched down the aisle. "speak out to the audience," he said, stationing himself by the orchestra pit. "you're turning your head away all the darned time." "i may be wrong," said mr hill, "but i have played a certain amount, don't you know, in pretty good companies, and i was always under the impression that one should address one's remarks to the person one was speaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. i was taught that that was the legitimate method." the word touched off all the dynamite in mr goble. of all things in the theatre he detested most the "legitimate method." his idea of producing was to instruct the cast to come down to the footlights and hand it to 'em. these people who looked up stage and talked to the audience through the backs of their necks revolted him. "legitimate! that's a hell of a thing to be! where do you get that legitimate stuff? you aren't playing ibsen!" "nor am i playing a knockabout vaudeville sketch." "don't talk back at me!" "kindly don't shout at _me!_ your voice is unpleasant enough without your raising it." open defiance was a thing which mr goble had never encountered before, and for a moment it deprived him of breath. he recovered it, however, almost immediately. "you're fired!" "on the contrary," said mr hill, "i'm resigning." he drew a green-covered script from his pocket and handed it with an air to the pallid assistant stage-director. then, more gracefully than ever freddie rooke had managed to move downstage under the tuition of johnson miller, he moved upstage to the exit. "i trust that you will be able to find someone who will play the part according to your ideas!" "i'll find," bellowed mr goble at his vanishing back, "a chorus-man who'll play it a damned sight better than you!" he waved to the assistant stage-director. "send the chorus-men on the stage!" "all the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!" shrilled the assistant stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever. "mr goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!" there was a moment, when the seven male members of "the rose of america" ensemble lined up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes, when mr goble repented of his brave words. an uncomfortable feeling passed across his mind that fate had called his bluff and that he would not be able to make good. all chorus-men are exactly alike, and they are like nothing else on earth. even mr goble, anxious as he was to overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that in their ranks stood even an adequate lord finchley. and then, just as a cold reaction from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceived that providence had been good to him. there, at the extreme end of the line, stood a young man who, as far as appearance went, was the ideal lord finchley,--as far as appearance went, a far better lord finchley than the late mr hill. he beckoned imperiously. "you at the end!" "me?" said the young man. "yes, you. what's your name?" "rooke. frederick rooke, don't you know." "you're english, aren't you?" "eh? oh, yes, absolutely!" "ever played a part before?" "part? oh, i see what you mean. well, in amateur theatricals, you know, and all that sort of rot." his words were music to mr goble's ears. he felt that his napoleonic action had justified itself by success. his fury left him. if he had been capable of beaming, one would have said that he beamed at freddie. "well, you play the part of lord finchley from now on. come to my office this afternoon for your contract. clear the stage. we've wasted enough time." five minutes later, in the wings, freddie, receiving congratulations from nelly bryant, asserted himself. "_not_ the automat today, i think, what! now that i'm a jolly old star and all that sort of thing, it can't be done. directly this is over we'll roll round to the cosmopolis. a slight celebration is indicated, what? right ho! rally round, dear heart, rally round!" chapter fifteen 1. the lobby of the hotel cosmopolis is the exact center of new york, the spot where at certain hours one is sure of meeting everybody one knows. the first person that nelly and freddie saw, as they passed through the swing doors, was jill. she was seated on the chair by the big pillar in the middle of the hall. "what ho!" said freddie. "waiting for someone?" "hullo, freddie. yes, i'm waiting for wally mason. i got a note from him this morning, asking me to meet him here. i'm a little early. i haven't congratulated you yet. you're wonderful!" "thanks, old girl. our young hero is making pretty hefty strides in his chosen profesh, what! mr rooke, who appears quite simple and unspoiled by success, replied to our representative's enquiry as to his future plans that he proposed to stagger into the grill-room and imbibe about eighteen dollars' worth of lunch. yes, it is a bit of all right, taking it by and large, isn't it? i mean to say, the salary, the jolly old salary, you know . . . quite a help when a fellow's lost all his money!" jill was surprised to observe that the last of the rookes was contorting his face in an unsightly manner that seemed to be an attempt at a wink, pregnant with hidden meaning. she took her cue dutifully, though without understanding. "oh, yes," she replied. freddie seemed grateful. with a cordial "cheerio!" he led nelly off to the grill-room. "i didn't know jill knew mr mason," said nelly, as they sat down at their table. "no?" said freddie absently, running an experienced eye over the bill-of-fare. he gave an elaborate order. "what was that? oh, absolutely! jill and i and wally were children together." "how funny you should all be together again like this." "yes. oh, good lord!" "what's the matter?" "it's nothing. i meant to send a cable to a pal of mine in england. i'll send it after lunch." freddie took out his handkerchief, and tied a knot in it. he was slightly ashamed of the necessity of taking such a precaution, but it was better to be on the safe side. his interview with jill at the theatre had left him with the conviction that there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to cable poor old derek to forget impending elections and all the rest of it and pop over to america at once. he knew that he would never have the courage to re-open the matter with jill himself. as an ambassador he was a spent force. if jill was to be wooed from her mood of intractability, derek was the only man to do it. freddie was convinced that, seeing him in person, she would melt and fall into his arms. too dashed absurd, freddie felt, two loving hearts being separated like this and all that sort of thing. he replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, relieved, and concentrated himself on the entertainment of nelly. a simple task, for, the longer he was with this girl, the easier did it seem to talk to her. jill, left alone in the lobby, was finding the moments pass quite pleasantly. she liked watching the people as they came in. one or two of the girls of the company fluttered in like birds, were swooped upon by their cavaliers, and fluttered off to the grill-room. the red-headed babe passed her with a genial nod, and, shortly after, lois denham, the willowy recipient of sunbursts from her friend izzy of the hat-checks, came by in company with a sallow, hawk-faced young man with a furtive eye, whom jill took--correctly--to be izzy himself. lois was looking pale and proud, and from the few words which came to jill's ears as they neared her, seemed to be annoyed at having been kept waiting. it was immediately after this that the swing-doors revolved rather more violently than usual, and mr goble burst into view. there was a cloud upon mr goble's brow, seeming to indicate that his grievance against life had not yet been satisfactorily adjusted: but it passed as he saw jill, and he came up to her with what he would probably have claimed to be an ingratiating smile. "hello!" said mr goble. "all alone?" jill was about to say that the condition was merely temporary when the manager went on. "come and have a bit of lunch." "thank you very much," said jill, with the politeness of dislike, "but i'm waiting for someone." "chuck him!" advised mr goble cordially. "no, thanks, i couldn't, really." the cloud began to descend again upon mr goble's brow. he was accustomed to having these invitations of his treated as royal commands. "come along!" "i'm afraid it's impossible." mr goble subjected her to a prolonged stare, seemed about to speak, changed his mind, and swung off moodily in the direction of the grill-room. he was not used to this sort of treatment. he had hardly gone, when wally appeared. "what was he saying to you?" demanded wally abruptly, without preliminary greeting. "he was asking me to lunch." wally was silent for a moment. his good-natured face wore an unwonted scowl. "he went in there, of course?" he said, pointing to the grill-room. "yes." "then let's go into the other room," said wally. he regained his good-humor. "it was awfully good of you to come. i didn't know whether you would be able to." "it was very nice of you to invite me." wally grinned. "how perfect our manners are! it's a treat to listen! how did you know that that was the one hat in new york i wanted you to wear?" "oh, these things get about. do you like it?" "it's wonderful. let's take this table, shall we?" 2. they sat down. the dim, tapestry-hung room soothed jill. she was feeling a little tired after the rehearsal. at the far end of the room an orchestra was playing a tune that she remembered and liked. her mind went back to the last occasion on which she and wally had sat opposite each other at a restaurant. how long ago it seemed! she returned to the present to find wally speaking to her. "you left very suddenly the other night," said wally. "i didn't want to meet freddie." wally looked at her commiseratingly. "i don't want to spoil your lunch," he said, "but freddie knows all. he has tracked you down. he met nelly bryant, whom he seems to have made friends with in london, and she told him where you were and what you were doing. for a girl who fled at his mere approach the night before last, you don't seem very agitated by the news," he said, as jill burst into a peal of laughter. "you haven't heard?" "heard what?" "freddie got mr pilkington to put him in the chorus of the piece. he was rehearsing when i arrived at the theatre this morning, and having a terrible time with mr miller. and, later on, mr goble had a quarrel with the man who was playing the englishman, and the man threw up his part and mr goble said he could get any one in the chorus to play it just as well, and he chose freddie. so now freddie is one of the principals, and bursting with pride!" wally threw his head back and uttered a roar of appreciation which caused a luncher at a neighboring table to drop an oyster which he was poising in mid-air. "don't make such a noise!" said jill severely. "everyone's looking at you." "i must! it's the most priceless thing i ever heard. i've always maintained and i always will maintain that for pure lunacy nothing can touch the musical comedy business. there isn't anything that can't happen in musical comedy. 'alice in wonderland' is nothing to it." "have you felt that, too? that's exactly how i feel. it's like a perpetual 'mad hatter's tea-party.'" "but what on earth made freddie join the company at all?" a sudden gravity descended upon jill. the words had reminded her of the thing which she was perpetually striving to keep out of her thoughts. "he said he wanted to be there to keep an eye on me." gravity is infectious. wally's smile disappeared. he, too, had been recalled to thoughts which were not pleasant. wally crumbled his roll. there was a serious expression on his face. "freddie was quite right. i didn't think he had so much sense." "freddie was not right," flared jill. the recollection of her conversation with that prominent artist still had the power to fire her independent soul. "i'm not a child. i can look after myself. what i do is my own business." "i'm afraid you're going to find that your business is several people's business. i am interested in it myself. i don't like your being on the stage. now bite my head off!" "it's very kind of you to bother about me . . ." "i said 'bite my head off!' i didn't say 'freeze me!' i take the license of an old friend who in his time has put worms down your back, and i repeat--i don't like your being on the stage." "i shouldn't have thought you would have been so"--jill sought for a devastating adjective--"so mid-victorian!" "as far as you are concerned, i'm the middest victorian in existence. mid is my middle name." wally met her indignant gaze squarely. "i-do-not-like-your-being-on-the-stage! especially in any company which ike goble is running." "why mr goble particularly?" "because he is not the sort of man you ought to be coming in contact with." "what nonsense!" "it isn't nonsense at all. i suppose you've read a lot about the morals of theatrical managers . . ." "yes. and it seemed to be exaggerated and silly." "so it is. there's nothing wrong with most of them. as a general thing, they are very decent fellows,--extraordinarily decent if you think of the position they are in. i don't say that in a business way there's much they won't try to put over on you. in the theatre, when it comes to business, everything goes except biting and gouging. 'there's never a law of god or man runs north of fifty-three.' if you alter that to 'north of forty-first street,' it doesn't scan as well, but it's just as true. perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the golden rule is suspended there. you get used to it after you have been in the theatre for awhile, and, except for leaving your watch and pocketbook at home when you have to pay a call on a manager and keeping your face to him so that he can't get away with your back collar-stud, you don't take any notice of it. it's all a game. if a manager swindles you, he wins the hole and takes the honor. if you foil him, you are one up. in either case, it makes no difference to the pleasantness of your relations. you go on calling him by his first name, and he gives you a couple of cigars out of his waistcoat pocket and says you're a good kid. there is nothing personal in it. he has probably done his best friend out of a few thousand dollars the same morning, and you see them lunching together after the ceremony as happily as possible. you've got to make allowances for managers. they are the victims of heredity. when a burglar marries a hat-check girl, their offspring goes into the theatrical business automatically, and he can't shake off the early teaching which he imbibed at his father's knee. but morals . . ." wally broke off to allow the waiter to place a fried sole before him. waiters always select the moment when we are talking our best to intrude themselves. "as regards morals," resumed wally, "that is a different matter. most managers are respectable, middle-aged men with wives and families. they are in the business to make money, and they don't want anything else out of it. the girls in their companies are like so many clerks to them, just machines that help to bring the money in. they don't know half a dozen of them to speak to. but our genial ike is not like that." wally consumed a mouthful of sole. "ike goble is a bad citizen. he paws! he's a slinker and a prowler and a leerer. he's a pest and a worm! he's fat and soft and flabby. he has a greasy soul, a withered heart, and an eye like a codfish. not knocking him, of course!" added wally magnanimously. "far be it from me to knock anyone! but, speaking with the utmost respect and viewing him in the most favorable light, he is a combination of tom-cat and the things you see when you turn over a flat stone! such are the reasons why i am sorry that you are in his company." jill had listened to this diatribe with a certain uneasiness. her brief encounters with mr goble told her that every word was probably true. she could still feel the unpleasant sensation of being inspected by the eye which wally had compared--quite justly--to that of a codfish. but her pride forbade any admission of weakness. "i can take care of myself," she said. "i don't doubt it," said wally. "and you could probably take care of yourself if you fell into a muddy pond. but i shouldn't like to stand on the bank and watch you doing it. i know what girls in the chorus have to go through. hanging about for hours in draughts, doing nothing, while the principals go through their scenes, and yelled at if they try to relieve the tedium of captivity with a little light conversation . . ." "yes," admitted jill. "there has been a good lot of that." "there always is. i believe if the stage-carpenter was going to stick a screw in a flat, they would call a chorus-rehearsal to watch him do it . . . jill, you must get out of it. it's no life for you. the work . . ." "i like the work." "while it's new, perhaps, but . . ." jill interrupted him passionately. "oh, can't you understand!" she cried. "i want the work. i need it. i want something to do, something to occupy my mind. i hate talking about it, but you know how things are with me. freddie must have told you. even if he didn't, you must have guessed, meeting me here all alone and remembering how things were when we last met. you must understand! haven't you ever had a terrible shock or a dreadful disappointment that seemed to smash up the whole world? and didn't you find that the only possible thing to do was to work and work and work as hard as ever you could? when i first came to america, i nearly went mad. uncle chris sent me down to a place on long island, and i had nothing to do all day but think. i couldn't stand it. i ran away and came to new york and met nelly bryant and got this work to do. it saved me. it kept me busy all day and tired me out and didn't give me time to think. the harder it is, the better it suits me. it's an antidote. i simply wouldn't give it up now. as for what you were saying, i must put up with that. the other girls do, so why shouldn't i?" "they are toughened to it." "then i must get toughened to it. what else is there for me to do? i must do something." "marry me!" said wally, reaching across the table and putting his hand on hers. the light in his eyes lit up his homely face like a lantern. 3. the suddenness of it startled jill into silence. she snatched her hand away and drew back, looking at him in wonderment. she was confusedly aware of a babble of sound,--people talking, people laughing, the orchestra playing a lively tune. all her senses seemed to have become suddenly more acute. she was intensely alive to small details. then, abruptly, the whole world condensed itself into two eyes that were fastened upon hers,--compelling eyes which she felt a panic desire to avoid. she turned her head away, and looked out into the restaurant. it seemed incredible that all these people, placidly intent upon their food and their small talk, should not be staring at her, wondering what she was going to say; nudging each other and speculating. their detachment made her feel alone and helpless. she was nothing to them and they did not care what happened to her, just as she had been nothing to those frozen marshes down at brookport. she was alone in an indifferent world, with her own problems to settle for herself. other men had asked jill to marry them,--a full dozen of them, here and there in country houses and at london before she had met and loved derek underhill: but nothing that she had had in the way of experience had prepared her for wally. these others had given her time to marshal her forces, to collect herself, to weigh them thoughtfully in the balance. before speaking, they had signalled their devotion in a hundred perceptible ways--by their pinkness, their stammering awkwardness, by the glassy look in their eyes. they had not shot a proposal at her like a bullet from out of the cover of a conversation that had nothing to do with their emotions at all. yet, now that the shock of it was dying away, she began to remember signs she would have noticed, speeches which ought to have warned her . . . "wally!" she gasped. she found that he affected her in an entirely different fashion from the luckless dozen of those london days. he seemed to matter more, to be more important, almost--though she rebelled at the word--more dangerous. "let me take you out of it all! you aren't fit for this sort of life. i can't bear to see you . . ." jill bent forward and touched his hand. he started as though he had been burned. the muscles of his throat were working. "wally, it's--" she paused for a word. "kind" was horrible. it would have sounded cold, almost supercilious. "sweet" was the sort of thing she could imagine lois penham saying to her friend izzy. she began her sentence again. "you're a dear to say that, but . . ." wally laughed chokingly. "you think i'm altruistic? i'm not. i'm just as selfish and self-centered as any other man who wants a thing very badly. i'm as altruistic as a child crying for the moon. i want you to marry me because i love you, because there never was anybody like you, because you're the whole world, because i always have loved you. i've been dreaming about you for a dozen years, thinking about you, wondering about you--wondering where you were, what you were doing, how you looked. i used to think that it was just sentimentality, that you merely stood for a time of my life when i was happier than i have ever been since. i used to think that you were just a sort of peg on which i was hanging a pleasant sentimental regret for days which could never come back. you were a memory that seemed to personify all the other memories of the best time of my life. you were the goddess of old associations. then i met you in london, and it was different. i wanted you--_you!_ i didn't want you because you recalled old times and were associated with dead happiness, i wanted _you!_ i knew i loved you directly you spoke to me at the theatre that night of the fire. i loved your voice and your eyes and your smile and your courage. and then you told me you were engaged. i might have expected it, but i couldn't keep my jealousy from showing itself, and you snubbed me as i deserved. but now . . . things are different now. everything's different, except my love." jill turned her face to the wall beside her. a man at the next table, a corpulent red-faced man, had begun to stare. he could have heard nothing, for wally had spoken in a low voice; but plainly he was aware that something more interesting was happening at their table than at any of the other tables, and he was watching with a bovine inquisitiveness which affected jill with a sense of outrage. a moment before, she had resented the indifference of the outer world. now, this one staring man seemed like a watching multitude. there were tears in her eyes, and she felt that the red-faced man suspected it. "wally . . ." her voice broke. "it's impossible." "why? why, jill?" "because . . . oh, it's impossible!" there was a silence. "because . . ." he seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, "because of underhill?" jill nodded. she felt wretched. the monstrous incongruity of her surroundings oppressed her. the orchestra dashed into a rollicking melody, which set her foot tapping in spite of herself. at a near-by table somebody was shouting with laughter. two waiters at a service-stand were close enough for her to catch snatches of their talk. they were arguing about an order of fried potatoes. once again her feelings veered round, and she loathed the detachment of the world. her heart ached for wally. she could not look at him, but she knew exactly what she would see if she did,--honest, pleading eyes searching her face for something which she could not give. "yes," she said. the table creaked. wally was leaning further forward. he seemed like something large and pathetic,--a big dog in trouble. she hated to be hurting him. and all the time her foot tapped accompaniment to the rag-time tune. "but you can't live all your life with a memory," said wally. jill turned and faced him. his eyes seemed to leap at her, and they were just as she had pictured them. "you don't understand," she said gently. "you don't understand." "it's ended. it's over." jill shook her head. "you can't still love him, after what has happened!" "i don't know," said jill unhappily. the words seemed to bewilder wally as much as they had bewildered freddie. "you don't know!" jill shut her eyes tight. wally quivered. it was a trick she had had as a child. in perplexity, she had always screwed up her eyes just like that, as if to shut herself up in herself. "don't talk for a minute, wally," she said. "i want to think." her eyes opened. "it's like this," she said. he had seen her look at him exactly the same way a hundred times. "i don't suppose i can make you understand, but this is how it is. suppose you had a room, and it was full of things. furniture. and there wasn't any space left. you--you couldn't put anything else in till you had taken all that out, could you? it might not be worth anything, but it would still be there taking up all the room." wally nodded. "yes," he said. "i see." "my heart's full, wally dear. i know it's just lumber that's choking it up, but it's difficult to get it out. it takes time getting it out. i put it in, thinking it was wonderful furniture, the most wonderful in the world, and--i was cheated. it was just lumber. but it's there. it's still there. it's there all the time. and what am i to do?" the orchestra crashed, and was silent. the sudden stillness seemed to break a spell. the world invaded the little island where they sat. a chattering party of girls and men brushed past them. the waiter, judging that they had been there long enough, slipped a strip of paper, decorously turned upside down, in front of wally. he took the money, and went away to get change. wally turned to jill. "i understand," he said. "all this hasn't happened, and we're just as good pals as before?" "yes." "but . . ." he forced a laugh . . . "mark my words, a time may come, and then . . . !" "i don't know," said jill. "a time may come," repeated wally. "at any rate, let me think so. it has nothing to do with me. it's for you to decide, absolutely. i'm not going to pursue you with my addresses! if ever you get that room of yours emptied, you won't have to hang out a 'to let' sign. i shall be waiting and you will know where to find me. and, in the meantime, yours to command, wallace mason. is that clear?" "quite clear." jill looked at him affectionately. "there's nobody i'd rather open that room to than you, wally. you know that." "is that the solemn truth?" "the solemn truth!" "then," said wally, "in two minutes you will see a startled waiter. there will be about fourteen dollars change out of that twenty he took away. i'm going to give it all to him." "you mustn't!" "every cent!" said wally firm. "and the young greek brigand who stole my hat at the door is going to get a dollar! that, as our ascetic and honorable friend goble would say, is the sort of little guy _i_ am!" * * * the red-faced man at the next table eyed them as they went out, leaving behind them a waiter who clutched totteringly for support at the back of a chair. "had a row," he decided, "but made it up." he called for a toothpick. chapter sixteen 1. on the boardwalk at atlantic city, that much-enduring seashore resort which has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there stands an all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management and offering the same hospitality as the one in columbus circle at which jill had taken her first meal on arriving in new york. at least, its hospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day; but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and the customer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silent gravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voice and tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. the members of the chorus of "the rose of america," dropping in by ones and twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave their orders for breakfast in a subdued undertone. the dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. it is the custom of the dwellers in atlantic city, who seem to live entirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudeville performance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on sunday nights: and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenery could be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "the rose of america" moved in. and, as by some unwritten law of the drama no dress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a half, the curtain had not gone up on mr miller's opening chorus till half past two. there had been dress-parades, conferences, interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysterious man in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, further conferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak of debate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the "spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the name of charlie, at the back of the family circle. but by six o'clock a complete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, who had partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night, had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before going to bed. they were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circles beneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the make-up which they had been too tired to take off. the duchess, haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table. the red-headed babe was lying back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. the southern girl blinked like an owl at the morning sunshine out on the boardwalk. the cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost fresh through a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made during the interval of waiting for the meal. "the fascination of a thtage life! why girls leave home!" she looked at her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "it _is_ a face!" she murmured reflectively. "but i should hate to have to go around with it long!" a sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work on the night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table with a clatter. the duchess woke up. babe took her eyes off the ceiling. the southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. already, at the mere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of the theatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. in five minutes these girls would be feeling completely restored and fit for anything. conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm of the restaurant was shattered. its day had begun. "it's a great life if you don't weaken," said the cherub, hungrily attacking her omelette. "and the wortht is yet to come! i thuppose all you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewritten from end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the time we're on the road." "why?" lois denham spoke with her mouth full. "what's wrong with it?" the duchess took a sip of coffee. "don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "what's wrong with it? what's right with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!" "one would feel thtill more inclined," said the cherub, "to athk why one was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thing when one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars a month." "the numbers are all right," argued babe. "i don't mean the melodies, but johnny has arranged some good business." "he always does," said the southern girl. "some more buckwheat cakes, please. but what about the book?" "i never listen to the book." the cherub laughed. "you're too good to yourself! i listened to it right along and take it from me it's sad! of courthe they'll have it fixed. we can't open in new york like this. my professional reputation wouldn't thtand it! didn't you thee wally mason in front, making notes? they've got him down to do the rewriting." jill, who had been listening in a dazed way to the conversation, fighting against the waves of sleep which flooded over her, woke up. "was wally--was mr mason there?" "sure. sitting at the back." jill couldn't have said whether she was glad or sorry. she had not seen wally since that afternoon when they lunched together at the cosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had given her little opportunity for thinking of him. at the back of her mind had been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think of him, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy to re-examine him as a factor in her life. there had been times when the thought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warming her with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. and then some sharp, poignant memory of derek would come to blot him out. she remembered the image she had used to explain derek to wally, and the truth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. whatever derek might have done, he was in her heart and she could not get him out. she came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken another turn. "and the wortht of it is," the cherub was saying, "we shall rehearthe all day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone, and then, when they're good and ready, they'll fire one of us!" "that's right!" agreed the southern girl. "they couldn't!" jill cried. "you wait!" said the cherub. "they'll never open in new york with thirteen girls. ike's much too thuperstitious." "but they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked so hard!" there was a general burst of sardonic laughter. jill's opinion of the chivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of her more experienced colleagues. "they'll do anything," the cherub assured her. "you don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed lois denham. "you don't know the half of it!" "wait till you've been in as many shows as i have," said babe, shaking her red locks. "the usual thing is to keep a girl slaving her head off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the new york opening." "but it's a shame! it isn't fair!" "if one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the duchess with a prolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business." and, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleep again. the slumber of the duchess was the signal for a general move. her somnolence was catching. the restorative effects of the meal were beginning to wear off. there was a call for a chorus-rehearsal at four o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get some sleep while there was time. the duchess was roused from her dreams by means of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; checks were paid; and the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlight of the empty boardwalk. jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seat facing the ocean. tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight, crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walking to the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharing a room with the cherub, paralyzed her. it was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warm freshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. the sea sparkled in the sun. little waves broke lazily on the gray sand. jill closed her eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and her thoughts went back to what the cherub had said. if wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be thrown together. she would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure that she was ready to meet him. still, he would be somebody to talk to on subjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebody who belonged to the old life. she had ceased to regard freddie rooke in this light: for freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as a principal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in the company. freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject for conversation that did not have to do with "the rose of america" in general and his share in it in particular. jill had given him up, and he had paired off with nelly bryant. the two were inseparable. jill had taken one or two meals with them, but freddie's professional monologues, of which nelly seemed never to weary, were too much for her. as a result she was now very much alone. there were girls in the company whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimate friends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. she was lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tired mind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thought that wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness. she opened her eyes, blinking. sleep had crept upon her with an insidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. she was just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to the boarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side. "hullo! good morning!" jill looked up. "hullo, wally!" "surprised to see me?" "no. milly trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night." wally came round the bench and seated himself at her side. his eyes were tired, and his chin dark and bristly. "had breakfast?" "yes, thanks. have you?" "not yet. how are you feeling?" "rather tired." "i wonder you're not dead. i've been through a good many dress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. why they couldn't have had it comfortably in new york and just have run through the piece without scenery last night, i don't know, except that in musical comedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. they know perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the scenery into the theatre till the small hours. you must be worn out. why aren't you in bed?" "i couldn't face the walk. i suppose i ought to be going, though." she half rose, then sank back again. the glitter of the water hypnotized her. she closed her eyes again. she could hear wally speaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and she ceased to fight the delicious drowsiness. jill awoke with a start. she opened her eyes, and shut them again at once. the sun was very strong now. it was one of those prematurely warm days of early spring which have all the languorous heat of late summer. she opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feeling greatly refreshed. she also discovered that her head was resting on wally's shoulder. "have i been asleep?" wally laughed. "you have been having what you might call a nap." he massaged his left arm vigorously. "you needed it. do you feel more rested now?" "good gracious! have i been squashing your poor arm all the time? why didn't you move?" "i was afraid you would fall over. you just shut your eyes and toppled sideways." "what's the time?" wally looked at his watch. "just on ten." "ten!" jill was horrified. "why, i have been giving you cramp for about three hours! you must have had an awful time!" "oh, it was all right. i think i dozed off myself. except that the birds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the 'babes in the wood.'" "but you haven't had any breakfast! aren't you starving?" "well, i'm not saying i wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim if it happened to float past. but there's plenty of time for that. lots of doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and indian fakirs go without food for days at a time in order to develop their souls. shall i take you back to wherever you're staying? you ought to get a proper sleep in bed." "don't dream of taking me. go off and have something to eat." "oh, that can wait. i'd like to see you safely home." jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. there was no doubt about it, wally was different from any other man she had known. she suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining something valuable under false pretences. "wally!" "hullo?" "you--you oughtn't to be so good to me!" "nonsense! where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--to a pal in trouble?" "you know what i mean. i can't . . . that is to say . . . it isn't as though . . . i mean . . ." wally smiled a tired, friendly smile. "if you're trying to say what i think you're trying to say, don't! we had all that out two weeks ago. i quite understand the position. you mustn't worry yourself about it." he took her arm, and they crossed the boardwalk. "are we going in the right direction? you lead the way. i know exactly how you feel. we're old friends, and nothing more. but, as an old friend, i claim the right to behave like an old friend. if an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_ an old friend behave? and now we'll rule the whole topic out of the conversation. but perhaps you're too tired for conversation?" "oh, no." "then i will tell you about the sad death of young mr pilkington." "what!" "well, when i say death, i use the word in a loose sense. the human giraffe still breathes, and i imagine, from the speed with which he legged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takes nourishment. but really he is dead. his heart is broken. we had a conference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend mr goble told him in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience i have never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rotten high-brow false-alarm of a show--i am quoting mr goble--would have to be rewritten by alien hands. and these are them! on the right, alien right hand. on the left, alien left hand. yes, i am the instrument selected for the murder of pilkington's artistic aspirations. i'm going to rewrite the show. in fact, i have already rewritten the first act and most of the second. goble foresaw this contingency and told me to get busy two weeks ago, and i've been working hard ever since. we shall start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open in baltimore next monday with practically a different piece. and it's going to be a pippin, believe me, said our hero modestly. a gang of composers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chucking out nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. it means a lot of work for you, i'm afraid. all the business of the numbers will have to be re-arranged." "i like work," said jill. "but i'm sorry for mr pilkington." "he's all right. he owns seventy per cent of the show. he may make a fortune. he's certain to make a comfortable sum. that is, if he doesn't sell out his interest in pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it. from what he said at the close of the proceedings, i fancy he would sell out to anybody who asked him. at least, he said that he washed his hands of the piece. he's going back to new york this afternoon,--won't even wait for the opening. of course, i'm sorry for the poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellent central idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. oh, by the way!" "yes?" "another tragedy! unavoidable, but pathetic. poor old freddie! he's out!" "oh, no!" "out!" repeated wally firmly. "but didn't you think he was good last night?" "he was awful! but that isn't why. goble wanted his part rewritten as a scotchman, so as to get mcandrew, the fellow who made such a hit last season in 'hoots, mon!' that sort of thing is always happening in musical comedy. you have to fit parts to suit whatever good people happen to be available at the moment. when you've had one or two experiences of changing your italian count to a jewish millionaire--invariably against time: they always want the script on thursday next at noon--and then changing him again to a russian bolshevik, you begin to realize what is meant by the words 'death, where is thy sting?' my heart bleeds for freddie, but what can one do? at any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of my shows. in the second act he was supposed to have escaped from an asylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted that he should shave his head. the day after he shaved it, they heard that a superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. it's a ruthless business." "the girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed." "oh, i shouldn't think that's likely." "i hope not." "so do i. what are we stopping for?" jill had halted in front of a shabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which spring up overnight at seashore resorts and start to decay the moment the builders have left them. "i live here." "here!" wally looked at her in consternation. "but . . ." jill smiled. "we working-girls have got to economize. besides, it's quite comfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week." she yawned. "i believe i'm falling asleep again. i'd better hurry in and go to bed. good-bye, wally dear. you've been wonderful. mind you go and get a good breakfast." 2. when jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorus rehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. no steps had apparently been taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in the cast preyed on mr. goble's superstitious mind. but she found her colleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "wait!" was the gloomy watchword of "the rose of america" chorus. the rehearsal passed off without event. it lasted until six o'clock, when jill, the cherub, and two or three of the other girls went to snatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. it was not a cheerful meal. reaction had set in after the overexertion of the previous night, and it was too early for first-night excitement to take its place. everybody, even the cherub, whose spirits seldom failed her, was depressed, and the idea of an overhanging doom had grown. it seemed now to be merely a question of speculating on the victim, and the conversation gave jill, as the last addition to the company and so the cause of swelling the ranks of the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. she was glad when it was time to go back to the theatre. the moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it was made clear to them that the doom had fallen. in a chair in the corner, all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood of tears, sat the unhappy duchess, the center of a group of girls anxious to console but limited in their ideas of consolation to an occasional pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief. "it's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as jill came in. somebody else said it was fierce, and a third girl declared it to be the limit. a fourth girl, well-meaning but less helpful than she would have liked to be, was advising the victim not to worry. the story of the disaster was brief and easily told. the duchess, sailing in at the stage-door, had paused at the letter-box to see if cuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman, had sent her a good-luck telegram. he had, but his good wishes were unfortunately neutralized by the fact that the very next letter in the box was one from the management, crisp and to the point, informing the duchess that her services would not be required that night or thereafter. it was the subtle meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "the rose of america" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had been timed. "poor mae, if she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her two weeks' notice or her salary. but they can fire her without a cent just because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!" the duchess burst into fresh flood of tears. "don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who would have been in her element looking in on job with bildad the shuhite and his friends. "don't you worry!" "it's tough!" said the girl, who had adopted that form of verbal consolation. "it's fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective. the other girl, with an air of saying something new, repeated her statement that it was the limit. the duchess cried forlornly throughout. she had needed this engagement badly. chorus salaries are not stupendous, but it is possible to save money by means of them during a new york run, especially if you have spent three years in a milliner's shop and can make your own clothes, as the duchess, in spite of her air of being turned out by fifth avenue modistes, could and did. she had been looking forward, now that this absurd piece was to be rewritten by someone who knew his business and had a good chance of success, to putting by just those few dollars that make all the difference when you are embarking on married life. cuthbert, for all his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of the establishment unsupported for at least another eighteen months; and this disaster meant that the wedding would have to be postponed again. so the duchess, abandoning that aristocratic manner criticized by some of her colleagues as "up-stage" and by others as "ritz-y," sat in her chair and consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as they were offered to her. jill had been the only girl in the room who had spoken no word of consolation. this was not because she was not sorry for the duchess. she had never been sorrier for any one in her life. the pathos of that swift descent from haughtiness to misery had bitten deep into her sensitive heart. but she revolted at the idea of echoing the banal words of the others. words were no good, she thought, as she set her little teeth and glared at an absent management,--a management just about now presumably distending itself with a luxurious dinner at one of the big hotels. deeds were what she demanded. all her life she had been a girl of impulsive action, and she wanted to act impulsively now. she was in much the same berserk mood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of bill the parrot on the occasion of his dispute with henry of london. the fighting spirit which had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had come back in full measure. "what are you going to _do?_" she cried. "aren't you going to _do_ something?" do? the members of "the rose of america" ensemble looked doubtfully at one another. do? it had not occurred to them that there was anything to be done. these things happened, and you regretted them, but as for doing anything, well, what _could_ you do? jill's face was white and her eyes were flaming. she dominated the roomful of girls like a little napoleon. the change in her startled them. hitherto they had always looked on her as rather an unusually quiet girl. she had always made herself unobtrusively pleasant to them all. they all liked her. but they had never suspected her of possessing this militant quality. nobody spoke, but there was a general stir. she had flung a new idea broadcast, and it was beginning to take root. do something? well, if it came to that, why not? "we ought all to refuse to go on tonight unless they let her go on!" jill declared. the stir became a movement. enthusiasm is catching, and every girl is at heart a rebel. and the idea was appealing to the imagination. refuse to give a show on the opening night! had a chorus ever done such a thing? they trembled on the verge of making history. "strike?" quavered somebody at the back. "yes, strike!" cried jill. "hooray! that's the thtuff!" shouted the cherub, and turned the scale. she was a popular girl, and her adherence to the cause confirmed the doubters. "thtrike!" "strike! strike!" jill turned to the duchess, who had been gaping amazedly at the demonstration. she no longer wept, but she seemed in a dream. "dress and get ready to go on," jill commanded. "we'll all dress and get ready to go on. then i'll go and find mr goble and tell him what we mean to do. and, if he doesn't give in, we'll stay here in this room, and there won't be a performance!" 3. mr goble, with a derby hat on the back of his head and an unlighted cigar in the corner of his mouth, was superintending the erection of the first act set when jill found him. he was standing with his back to the safety-curtain glowering at a blue canvas, supposed to represent one of those picturesque summer skies which you get at the best places on long island. jill, coming down stage from the staircase that led to the dressing-room, interrupted his line of vision. "get out of the light!" bellowed mr goble, always a man of direct speech, adding "damn you!" for good measure. "please move to one side," interpreted the stage-director. "mr goble is looking at the set." the head carpenter, who completed the little group, said nothing. stage carpenters always say nothing. long association with fussy directors has taught them that the only policy to pursue on opening nights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap themselves up in it, and not emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone off to worry somebody else. "it don't look right!" said mr goble, cocking his head on one side. "i see what you mean, mr goble," assented the stage-director obsequiously. "it has perhaps a little too much--er--not quite enough--yes, i see what you mean!" "it's too--damn--blue!" rasped mr goble, impatient of this vacillating criticism. "that's what's the matter with it." the head carpenter abandoned the silent policy of a lifetime. he felt impelled to utter. he was a man who, when not at the theatre, spent most of his time in bed, reading all-fiction magazines: but it so happened that once, last summer, he had actually seen the sky; and he considered that this entitled him to speak almost as a specialist on the subject. "the sky _is_ blue!" he observed huskily. "yessir! i seen it!" he passed into the silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse, stopped up his mouth with a piece of chewing-gum. mr goble regarded the silver-tongued orator wrathfully. he was not accustomed to chatter-boxes arguing with him like this. he would probably have said something momentous and crushing, but at this point jill intervened. "mr goble." the manager swung round on her. "what _is_ it?" it is sad to think how swiftly affection can change to dislike in this world. two weeks before, mr goble had looked on jill with favor. she had seemed good in his eyes. but that refusal of hers to lunch with him, followed by a refusal some days later to take a bit of supper somewhere, had altered his views on feminine charm. if it had been left to him, as most things were about his theatre, to decide which of the thirteen girls should be dismissed, he would undoubtedly have selected jill. but at this stage in the proceedings there was the unfortunate necessity of making concessions to the temperamental johnson miller. mr goble was aware that the dance-director's services would be badly needed in the re-arrangement of the numbers during the coming week or so, and he knew that there were a dozen managers waiting eagerly to welcome him if he threw up his present job, so he had been obliged to approach him in quite a humble spirit and enquire which of his female chorus could be most easily spared. and, as the duchess had a habit of carrying her haughty languor onto the stage and employing it as a substitute for the chorea which was mr. miller's ideal, the dancer-director had chosen her. to mr goble's dislike of jill, therefore, was added now something of the fury of the baffled potentate. "'jer want?" he demanded. "mr goble is extremely busy," said the stage-director. "ex-tremely." a momentary doubt as to the best way of approaching her subject had troubled jill on her way downstairs, but, now that she was on the battle-field confronting the enemy, she found herself cool, collected, and full of a cold rage which steeled her nerves without confusing her mind. "i came to ask you to let mae d'arcy go on tonight." "who the hell's mae d'arcy?" mr goble broke off to bellow at a scene-shifter who was depositing the wall of mrs stuyvesant van dyke's long island residence too far down stage. "not there, you fool! higher up!" "you gave her her notice this evening," said jill. "well, what about it?" "we want you to withdraw it." "who's 'we'?" "the other girls and myself." mr goble jerked his head so violently that the derby hat flew off, to be picked up, dusted, and restored by the stage-director. "oh, so you don't like it? well, you know what you can do . . ." "yes," said jill, "we do. we are going to strike." "what!" "if you don't let mae go on, we shan't go on. there won't be a performance tonight, unless you like to give one without a chorus." "are you crazy!" "perhaps. but we're quite unanimous." mr goble, like most theatrical managers, was not good at words of over two syllables. "you're what?" "we've talked it over, and we've all decided to do what i said." mr goble's hat shot off again, and gambolled away into the wings, with the stage-director bounding after it like a retriever. "whose idea's this?" demanded mr goble. his eyes were a little foggy, for his brain was adjusting itself but slowly to the novel situation. "mine." "oh, yours! i thought as much!" "well," said jill, "i'll go back and tell them that you will not do what we ask. we will keep our make-up on in case you change your mind." she turned away. "come back!" jill proceeded toward the staircase. as she went, a husky voice spoke in her ear. "go to it, kid! you're all right!" the head-carpenter had broken his trappist vows twice in a single evening, a thing which had not happened to him since the night three years ago, when, sinking wearily onto a seat in a dark corner for a bit of a rest, he found that one of his assistants had placed a pot of red paint there. 4. to mr goble, fermenting and full of strange oaths, entered johnson miller. the dance-director was always edgey on first nights, and during the foregoing conversation had been flitting about the stage like a white-haired moth. his deafness had kept him in complete ignorance that there was anything untoward afoot, and he now approached mr goble with his watch in his hand. "eight twenty-five," he observed. "time those girls were on stage." mr goble, glad of a concrete target for his wrath, cursed him in about two hundred and fifty rich and well-selected words. "huh?" said mr miller, hand to ear. mr goble repeated the last hundred and eleven words, the pick of the bunch. "can't hear!" said mr miller, regretfully. "got a cold." the grave danger that mr goble, a thick-necked man, would undergo some sort of a stroke was averted by the presence-of-mind of the stage-director, who, returning with the hat, presented it like a bouquet to his employer, and then his hands being now unoccupied, formed them into a funnel and through this flesh-and-blood megaphone endeavored to impart the bad news. "the girls say they won't go on!" mr miller nodded. "i _said_ it was time they were on." "they're on strike!" "it's not," said mr miller austerely, "what they like, it's what they're paid for. they ought to be on stage. we should be ringing up in two minutes." the stage director drew another breath, then thought better of it. he had a wife and children, and, if dadda went under with apoplexy, what became of the home, civilization's most sacred product? he relaxed the muscles of his diaphragm, and reached for pencil and paper. mr miller inspected the message, felt for his spectacle-case, found it, opened it, took out his glasses, replaced the spectacle-case, felt for his handkerchief, polished the glasses, replaced the handkerchief, put the glasses on, and read. a blank look came into his face. "why?" he enquired. the stage director, with a nod of the head intended to imply that he must be patient and all would come right in the future, recovered the paper, and scribbled another sentence. mr miller perused it. "because mae d'arcy has got her notice?" he queried, amazed. "but the girl can't dance a step." the stage director, by means of a wave of the hand, a lifting of both eyebrows, and a wrinkling of the nose, replied that the situation, unreasonable as it might appear to the thinking man, was as he had stated and must be faced. what, he enquired--through the medium of a clever drooping of the mouth and a shrug of the shoulders--was to be done about it? mr miller remained for a moment in meditation. "i'll go and talk to them," he said. he flitted off, and the stage director leaned back against the asbestos curtain. he was exhausted, and his throat was in agony, but nevertheless he was conscious of a feeling of quiet happiness. his life had been lived in the shadow of the constant fear that some day mr goble might dismiss him. should that disaster occur, he felt, there was always a future for him in the movies. scarcely had mr miller disappeared on his peace-making errand, when there was a noise like a fowl going through a quickset hedge, and mr saltzburg, brandishing his baton as if he were conducting an unseen orchestra, plunged through the scenery at the left upper entrance and charged excitedly down the stage. having taken his musicians twice through the overture, he had for ten minutes been sitting in silence, waiting for the curtain to go up. at last, his emotional nature cracking under the strain of this suspense, he had left his conductor's chair and plunged down under the stage by way of the musician's bolthole to ascertain what was causing the delay. "what is it? what is it? what is it? what is it?" enquired mr saltzburg. "i wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. . . . we cannot play the overture again. what is it? what has happened?" mr goble, that overwrought soul, had betaken himself to the wings, where he was striding up and down with his hands behind his back, chewing his cigar. the stage director braced himself once more to the task of explanation. "the girls have struck!" mr saltzburg blinked through his glasses. "the girls?" he repeated blankly. "oh, damn it!" cried the stage director, his patience at last giving way. "you know what a girl is, don't you?" "they have what?" "struck! walked out on us! refused to go on!" mr saltzburg reeled under the blow. "but it is impossible! who is to sing the opening chorus?" in the presence of one to whom he could relieve his mind without fear of consequences, the stage director became savagely jocular. "that's all arranged," he said. "we're going to dress the carpenters in skirts. the audience won't notice anything wrong." "should i speak to mr goble?" queried mr saltzburg doubtfully. "yes, if you don't value your life," returned the stage director. mr saltzburg pondered. "i will go and speak to the children," he said. "i will talk to them. they know _me!_ i will make them be reasonable." he bustled off in the direction taken by mr miller, his coattails flying behind him. the stage director, with a tired sigh, turned to face wally, who had come in through the iron pass-door from the auditorium. "hullo!" said wally cheerfully. "going strong? how's everybody at home? fine! so am i! by the way, am i wrong or did i hear something about a theatrical entertainment of some sort here tonight?" he looked about him at the empty stage. in the wings, on the prompt side, could be discerned the flannel-clad forms of the gentlemanly members of the male ensemble, all dressed up for mrs stuyvesant van dyke's tennis party. one or two of the principals were standing perplexedly in the lower entrance. the o. p. side had been given over by general consent to mr goble for his perambulations. every now and then he would flash into view through an opening in the scenery. "i understood that tonight was the night for the great revival of comic opera. where are the comics, and why aren't they opping?" the stage director repeated his formula once more. "the girls have struck!" "so have the clocks," said wally. "it's past nine." "the chorus refuse to go on." "no, really! just artistic loathing of the rotten piece, or is there some other reason?" "they're sore because one of them has been given her notice, and they say they won't give a show unless she's taken back. they've struck. that mariner girl started it." "she did!" wally's interest became keener. "she would!" he said approvingly. "she's a heroine!" "little devil! i never liked that girl!" "now there," said wally, "is just the point on which we differ. i have always liked her, and i've known her all my life. so, shipmate, if you have any derogatory remarks to make about miss mariner, keep them where they belong--_there!_" he prodded the other sharply in the stomach. he was smiling pleasantly, but the stage director, catching his eye, decided that his advice was good and should be followed. it is just as bad for the home if the head of the family gets his neck broken as if he succumbs to apoplexy. "you surely aren't on their side?" he said. "me!" said wally. "of course i am. i'm always on the side of the down-trodden and oppressed. if you know of a dirtier trick than firing a girl just before the opening, so that they won't have to pay her two weeks' salary, mention it. till you do, i'll go on believing that it is the limit. of course i'm on the girls' side. i'll make them a speech if they want me to, or head the procession with a banner if they are going to parade down the boardwalk. i'm for 'em, father abraham, a hundred thousand strong. and then a few! if you want my considered opinion, our old friend goble has asked for it and got it. and i'm glad--glad--glad, if you don't mind my quoting pollyanna for a moment. i hope it chokes him!" "you'd better not let him hear you talking like that!" "an contraire, as we say in the gay city, i'm going to make a point of letting him hear me talk like that! adjust the impression that i fear any goble in shining armor, because i don't. i propose to speak my mind to him. i would beard him in his lair, if he had a beard. well, i'll clean-shave him in his lair. that will be just as good. but hist! whom have we here? tell me, do you see the same thing i see?" like the vanguard of a defeated army, mr saltzburg was coming dejectedly across the stage. "well?" said the stage-director. "they would not listen to me," said mr saltzburg brokenly. "the more i talked, the more they did not listen!" he winced at a painful memory. "miss trevor stole my baton, and then they all lined up and sang the 'star-spangled banner'!" "not the words?" cried wally incredulously. "don't tell me they knew the words!" "mr miller is still up there, arguing with them. but it will be of no use. what shall we do?" asked mr saltzburg helplessly. "we ought to have rung up half an hour ago. what shall we do-oo-oo?" "we must go and talk to goble," said wally. "something has got to be settled quick. when i left, the audience was getting so impatient that i thought he was going to walk out on us. he's one of those nasty, determined-looking men. so come along!" mr goble, intercepted as he was about to turn for another walk up-stage, eyed the deputation sourly and put the same question that the stage director had put to mr saltzburg. "well?" wally came briskly to the point. "you'll have to give in," he said, "or else go and make a speech to the audience, the burden of which will be that they can have their money back by applying at the box-office. these joans of arc have got you by the short hairs!" "i won't give in!" "then give out!" said wally. "or pay out, if you prefer it. trot along and tell the audience that the four dollars fifty in the house will be refunded." mr goble gnawed his cigar. "i've been in the show business fifteen years . . ." "i know. and this sort of thing has never happened to you before. one gets new experiences." mr goble cocked his cigar at a fierce angle, and glared at wally. something told him that wally's sympathies were not wholly with him. "they can't do this sort of thing to me," he growled. "well, they are doing it to someone, aren't they," said wally, "and, if it's not you, who is it?" "i've a damned good mind to fire them all!" "a corking idea! i can't see a single thing wrong with it except that it would hang up the production for another five weeks and lose you your bookings and cost you a week's rent of this theatre for nothing and mean having all the dresses made over and lead to all your principals going off and getting other jobs. these trifling things apart, we may call the suggestion a bright one." "you talk too damn much!" said mr goble, eyeing him with distaste. "well, go on, _you_ say something. something sensible." "it is a very serious situation . . ." began the stage director. "oh, shut up!" said mr goble. the stage director subsided into his collar. "i cannot play the overture again," protested mr saltzburg. "i cannot!" at this point mr miller appeared. he was glad to see mr goble. he had been looking for him, for he had news to impart. "the girls," said mr miller, "have struck! they won't go on!" mr goble, with the despairing gesture of one who realizes the impotence of words, dashed off for his favorite walk up stage. wally took out his watch. "six seconds and a bit," he said approvingly, as the manager returned. "a very good performance. i should like to time you over the course in running-kit." the interval for reflection, brief as it had been, had apparently enabled mr goble to come to a decision. "go," he said to the stage director, "and tell 'em that fool of a d'arcy girl can play. we've got to get that curtain up." "yes, mr goble." the stage director galloped off. "get back to your place," said the manager to mr saltzburg, "and play the overture again." "again!" "perhaps they didn't hear it the first two times," said wally. mr goble watched mr saltzburg out of sight. then he turned to wally. "that damned mariner girl was at the bottom of this! she started the whole thing! she told me so. well, i'll settle _her!_ she goes tomorrow!" "wait a minute," said wally. "wait one minute! bright as it is, that idea is _out!_" "what the devil has it got to do with you?" "only this, that, if you fire miss mariner, i take that neat script which i've prepared and i tear it into a thousand fragments. or nine hundred. anyway, i tear it. miss mariner opens in new york, or i pack up my work and leave." mr goble's green eyes glowed. "oh, you're stuck on her, are you?" he sneered. "i see!" "listen, dear heart," said wally, gripping the manager's arm, "i can see that you are on the verge of introducing personalities into this very pleasant little chat. resist the impulse! why not let your spine stay where it is instead of having it kicked up through your hat? keep to the main issue. does miss mariner open in new york or does she not?" there was a tense silence. mr goble permitted himself a swift review of his position. he would have liked to do many things to wally, beginning with ordering him out of the theatre, but prudence restrained him. he wanted wally's work. he needed wally in his business: and, in the theatre, business takes precedence of personal feelings. "all right!" he growled reluctantly. "that's a promise," said wally. "i'll see that you keep it." he looked over his shoulder. the stage was filled with gayly-colored dresses. the mutineers had returned to duty. "well, i'll be getting along. i'm rather sorry we agreed to keep clear of personalities, because i should have liked to say that, if ever they have a skunk-show at madison square garden, you ought to enter--and win the blue ribbon. still, of course, under our agreement my lips are sealed, and i can't even hint at it. good-bye. see you later, i suppose?" mr goble, giving a creditable imitation of a living statue, was plucked from his thoughts by a hand upon his arm. it was mr miller, whose unfortunate ailment had prevented him from keeping abreast of the conversation. "what did he say?" enquired mr miller, interested. "i didn't hear what he said!" mr goble made no effort to inform him. chapter seventeen 1. otis pilkington had left atlantic city two hours after the conference which had followed the dress rehearsal, firmly resolved never to go near "the rose of america" again. he had been wounded in his finest feelings. there had been a moment, when mr goble had given him the choice between having the piece rewritten and cancelling the production altogether, when he had inclined to the heroic course. but for one thing, mr pilkington would have defied the manager, refused to allow his script to be touched, and removed the play from his hands. that one thing was the fact that, up to the day of the dress rehearsal, the expenses of the production had amounted to the appalling sum of thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to come out of mr pilkington's pocket. the figures, presented to him in a neatly typewritten column stretching over two long sheets of paper, had stunned him. he had had no notion that musical plays cost so much. the costumes alone had come to ten thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents, and somehow that odd fifty cents annoyed otis pilkington as much as anything on the list. a dark suspicion that mr goble, who had seen to all the executive end of the business, had a secret arrangement with the costumer whereby he received a private rebate, deepened his gloom. why, for ten thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents you could dress the whole female population of new york state and have a bit left over for connecticut. so thought mr pilkington, as he read the bad news in the train. he only ceased to brood upon the high cost of costuming when in the next line but one there smote his eye an item of four hundred and ninety-eight dollars for "clothing." clothing! weren't costumes clothing? why should he have to pay twice over for the same thing? mr pilkington was just raging over this, when something lower down in the column caught his eye. it was the words:- clothing . . . 187.45 at this otis pilkington uttered a stifled cry, so sharp and so anguished that an old lady in the next seat, who was drinking a glass of milk, dropped it and had to refund the railway company thirty-five cents for breakages. for the remainder of the journey she sat with one eye warily on mr pilkington, waiting for his next move. this misadventure quieted otis pilkington down, if it did not soothe him. he returned blushingly to a perusal of his bill of costs, nearly every line of which contained some item that infuriated and dismayed him. "shoes" ($213.50) he could understand, but what on earth was "academy. rehl. $105.50"? what was "cuts . . . $15"? and what in the name of everything infernal was this item for "frames," in which mysterious luxury he had apparently indulged to the extent of ninety-four dollars and fifty cents? "props" occurred on the list no fewer than seventeen times. whatever his future, at whatever poor-house he might spend his declining years, he was supplied with enough props to last his lifetime. otis pilkington stared blankly at the scenery that fitted past the train winds. (scenery! there had been two charges for scenery! "friedmann, samuel . . . scenery . . . $3711" and "unitt and wickes . . . scenery . . . $2120"). he was suffering the torments of the ruined gamester at the roulette-table. thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents! and he was out of pocket ten thousand in addition from the check he had handed over two days ago to uncle chris as his share of the investment of starting jill in the motion-pictures. it was terrible! it deprived one of the power of thought. the power of thought, however, returned to mr pilkington almost immediately: for, remembering suddenly that roland trevis had assured him that no musical production, except one of those elaborate girl-shows with a chorus of ninety, could possibly cost more than fifteen thousand dollars at an outside figure, he began to think about roland trevis, and continued to think about him until the train pulled into the pennsylvania station. for a week or more the stricken financier confined himself mostly to his rooms, where he sat smoking cigarettes, gazing at japanese prints, and trying not to think about "props" and "rehl." then, gradually, the almost maternal yearning to see his brain-child once more, which can never be wholly crushed out of a young dramatist, returned to him--faintly at first, then getting stronger by degrees till it could no longer be resisted. true, he knew that when he beheld it, the offspring of his brain would have been mangled almost out of recognition, but that did not deter him. the mother loves her crippled child, and the author of a musical fantasy loves his musical fantasy, even if rough hands have changed it into a musical comedy and all that remains of his work is the opening chorus and a scene which the assassins have overlooked at the beginning of act two. otis pilkington, having instructed his japanese valet to pack a few simple necessaries in a suitcase, took a cab to the grand central station and caught an afternoon train for rochester, where his recollection of the route planned for the tour told him "the rose of america" would now be playing. looking into his club on the way, to cash a check, the first person he encountered was freddie rooke. "good gracious!" said otis pilkington. "what are you doing here?" freddie looked up dully from his reading. the abrupt stoppage of his professional career--his life-work, one might almost say--had left freddie at a very loose end: and so hollow did the world seem to him at the moment, so uniformly futile all its so-called allurements, that, to pass the time, he had just been trying to read the _national geographic magazine_. "hullo!" he said. "well, might as well be here as anywhere, what?" he replied to the other's question. "but why aren't you playing?" "they sacked me!" freddie lit a cigarette in the sort of way in which the strong, silent, middle-aged man on the stage lights his at the end of act two when he has relinquished the heroine to his youthful rival. "they've changed my part to a bally scotchman! well, i mean to say, i couldn't play a bally scotchman!" mr pilkington groaned in spirit. of all the characters in his musical fantasy on which he prided himself, that of lord finchley was his pet. and he had been burked, murdered, blotted out, in order to make room for a bally scotchman! "the character's called 'the mcwhustle of mcwhustle' now!" said freddie sombrely. the mcwhustle of mcwhustle! mr pilkington almost abandoned his trip to rochester on receiving this devastating piece of information. "he comes on in act one in kilts!" "in kilts! at mrs stuyvesant van dyke's lawn-party! on long island!" "it isn't mrs stuyvesant van dyke any longer, either," said freddie. "she's been changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer." "a pickle manufacturer!" "yes. they said it ought to be a comedy part." if agony had not caused mr pilkington to clutch for support at the back of a chair, he would undoubtedly have wrung his hands. "but it was a comedy part!" he wailed. "it was full of the subtlest, most delicate satire on society. they were delighted with it at newport! oh, this is too much! i shall make a strong protest! i shall insist on these parts being kept as i wrote them! i shall . . . i must be going at once, or i shall miss my train." he paused at the door. "how was business in baltimore?" "rotten!" said freddie, and returned to his _national geographic magazine_. otis pilkington tottered into his cab. he was shattered by what he had heard. they had massacred his beautiful play, and, doing so, had not even made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights. business at baltimore had been rotten! that meant more expense, further columns of figures with "frames" and "rehl" in front of them! he staggered into the station. "hey!" cried the taxi-driver. otis pilkington turned. "sixty-five cents, mister, if you please! forgetting i'm not your private shovoor, wasn't you?" mr pilkington gave him a dollar. money--money! life was just one long round of paying out and paying out. 2. the day which mr pilkington had selected for his visit to the provinces was a tuesday. "the rose of america" had opened at rochester on the previous night, after a week at atlantic city in its original form and a week at baltimore in what might be called its second incarnation. business had been bad in atlantic city and no better in baltimore, and a meager first-night house at rochester had given the piece a cold reception, which had put the finishing touches to the depression of the company in spite of the fact that the rochester critics, like those of baltimore, had written kindly of the play. one of the maxims of the theatre is that "out-of-town notices don't count," and the company had refused to be cheered by them. it is to be doubted, however, if even crowded houses would have aroused much response from the principals and chorus of "the rose of america." for two weeks without a break they had been working under forced draught, and they were weary in body and spirit. the new principals had had to learn parts in exactly half the time usually given for that purpose, and the chorus, after spending five weeks assimilating one set of steps and groupings, had been compelled to forget them and rehearse an entirely new set. from the morning after the first performance at atlantic city, they had not left the theatre except for sketchy half-hour meals. jill, standing listlessly in the wings while the scene-shifters arranged the second act set, was aware of wally approaching from the direction of the pass-door. "miss mariner, i believe?" said wally. "i suppose you know you look perfectly wonderful in that dress? all rochester's talking about it, and there is some idea of running excursion trains from troy and utica. a great stir it has made!" jill smiled. wally was like a tonic to her during these days of overwork. he seemed to be entirely unaffected by the general depression, a fact which he attributed himself to the happy accident of being in a position to sit back and watch the others toil. but in reality jill knew that he was working as hard as any one. he was working all the time, changing scenes, adding lines, tinkering with lyrics, smoothing over principals whose nerves had become strained by the incessant rehearsing, keeping within bounds mr goble's passion for being the big noise about the theatre. his cheerfulness was due to the spirit that was in him, and jill appreciated it. she had come to feel very close to wally since the driving rush of making over "the rose of america" had begun. "they seemed quite calm tonight," she said. "i believe half of them were asleep." "they're always like that in rochester. they cloak their deeper feelings. they wear the mask. but you can tell from the glassy look in their eyes that they are really seething inwardly. but what i came round about was--(a)--to give you this letter . . ." jill took the letter, and glanced at the writing. it was from uncle chris. she placed it on the axe over the fire-buckets for perusal later. "the man at the box-office gave it to me," said wally, "when i looked in there to find out how much money there was in the house tonight. the sum was so small that he had to whisper it." "i'm afraid the piece isn't a success." "nonsense! of course it is! we're doing fine. that brings me to section (b) of my discourse. i met poor old pilkington in the lobby, and he said exactly what you have just said, only at greater length." "is mr pilkington here?" "he appears to have run down on the afternoon train to have a look at the show. he is catching the next train back to new york! whenever i meet him, he always seems to be dashing off to catch the next train back to new york! poor chap! have you ever done a murder? if you haven't, don't! i know exactly what it feels like, and it feels rotten! after two minutes conversation with pilkington, i could sympathize with macbeth when he chatted with banquo. he said i had killed his play. he nearly wept, and he drew such a moving picture of a poor helpless musical fantasy being lured into a dark alley by thugs and there slaughtered that he almost had me in tears too. i felt like a beetle-browed brute with a dripping knife and hands imbrued with innocent gore." "poor mr pilkington!" "once more you say exactly what he said, only more crisply. i comforted him as well as i could, told him all for the best and so on, and he flung the box-office receipts in my face and said that the piece was as bad a failure commercially as it was artistically. i couldn't say anything to that, seeing what a house we've got tonight, except to bid him look out to the horizon where the sun will shortly shine. in other words, i told him that business was about to buck up and that later on he would be going about the place with a sprained wrist from clipping coupons. but he refused to be cheered, cursed me some more for ruining his piece, and ended by begging me to buy his share of it cheap." "you aren't going to?" "no, i am not--but simply and solely for the reason that, after that fiasco in london, i raised my right hand--thus--and swore an oath that never, as long as i lived, would i again put up a cent for a production, were it the most obvious cinch on earth. i'm gun-shy. but if he does happen to get hold of any one with a sporting disposition and a few thousands to invest, that person will make a fortune. this piece is going to be a gold-mine." jill looked at him in surprise. with anybody else but wally she would have attributed this confidence to author's vanity. but with wally, she felt, the fact that the piece, as played now, was almost entirely his own work did not count. he viewed it dispassionately, and she could not understand why, in the face of half-empty houses, he should have such faith in it. "but what makes you think so? we've been doing awfully badly so far." wally nodded. "and we shall do awfully badly in syracuse the last half of this week. and why? for one thing, because the show isn't a show at all at present. that's what you can't get these fatheads like goble to understand. all they go by is the box-office. why should people flock to pay for seats for what are practically dress rehearsals of an unknown play? half the principals have had to get up in their parts in two weeks, and they haven't had time to get anything out of them. they are groping for their lines all the time. the girls can't let themselves go in the numbers, because they are wondering if they are going to remember the steps. the show hasn't had time to click together yet. it's just ragged. take a look at it in another two weeks! i _know!_ i don't say musical comedy is a very lofty form of art, but still there's a certain amount of science about it. if you go in for it long enough, you learn the tricks, and take it from me that if you have a good cast and some catchy numbers, it's almost impossible not to have a success. we've got an excellent cast now, and the numbers are fine. the thing can't help being a hit. "there's another thing to think of. it so happens that we shall go into new york with practically nothing against us. usually you have half a dozen musical successes to compete with, but just at the moment there's nothing. but the chief reason for not being discouraged by bad houses so far is that we've been playing bad towns. every town on the road has its special character. some are good show-towns, others are bad. nobody knows why. detroit will take anything. so will washington. whereas cincinnati wants something very special. where have we been? atlantic city, baltimore, and here. atlantic city is a great place to play in the summer and for a couple of weeks round about easter. also at christmas. but for the rest of the year, no. too many new shows are tried out there. it makes the inhabitants wary. baltimore is good for a piece with a new york reputation, but they don't want new pieces. rochester and syracuse are always bad. 'follow the girl' died a hideous death in rochester, and it went on and played two years in new york and one in london. i tell you--as i tried to tell pilkington, only he wouldn't listen--that this show is all right. there's a fortune in it for somebody. but i suppose pilkington is now sitting in the smoking-car of an east-bound train, trying to get the porter to accept his share in the piece instead of a tip!" if otis pilkington was not actually doing that, he was doing something like it. sunk in gloom, he bumped up and down on an uncomfortable seat, wondering why he had ever taken the trouble to make the trip to rochester. he had found exactly what he had expected to find, a mangled caricature of his brain-child playing to a house half empty and wholly indifferent. the only redeeming feature, he thought vindictively, as he remembered what roland trevis had said about the cost of musical productions, was the fact that the new numbers were undoubtedly better than those which his collaborator had originally supplied. and "the rose of america," after a disheartening wednesday matinee and a not much better reception on the wednesday night, packed its baggage and moved to syracuse, where it failed just as badly. then for another two weeks it wandered on from one small town to another, up and down new york state and through the doldrums of connecticut, tacking to and fro like a storm-battered ship, till finally the astute and discerning citizens of hartford welcomed it with such a reception that hardened principals stared at each other in a wild surmise, wondering if these things could really be: and a weary chorus forgot its weariness and gave encore after encore with a snap and vim which even mr johnson miller was obliged to own approximated to something like it. nothing to touch the work of his choruses of the old days, of course, but nevertheless fair, quite fair. the spirits of the company revived. optimism reigned. principals smiled happily and said they had believed in the thing all along. the ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble chattered contentedly of a year's run in new york. and the citizens of hartford fought for seats, and, if they could not get seats, stood up at the back. of these things otis pilkington was not aware. he had sold his interest in the piece two weeks ago for ten thousand dollars to a lawyer acting for some client unknown, and was glad to feel that he had saved something out of the wreck. chapter eighteen 1. the violins soared to one last high note: the bassoon uttered a final moan: the pensive person at the end of the orchestra-pit, just under mrs waddesleigh peagrim's box, whose duty it was to slam the drum at stated intervals, gave that much-enduring instrument a concluding wallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to stray in the direction of cooling drinks. mr saltzburg lowered the baton which he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down and mopped his forehead. the curtain fell on the first act of "the rose of america," and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out from all over the gotham theatre, which was crammed from floor to roof with that heterogeneous collection of humanity which makes up the audience of a new york opening performance. the applause continued like the breaking of waves on a stony beach. the curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. an usher, stealing down the central aisle, gave to mr saltzburg an enormous bouquet of american beauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with a brilliant smile and a bow nicely combining humility with joyful surprise. the applause, which had begun to slacken, gathered strength again. it was a superb bouquet, nearly as big as mr saltzburg himself. it had cost the prima donna close on a hundred dollars that morning at thorley's, but it was worth every cent of the money. the house-lights went up. the audience began to move up the aisles to stretch its legs and discuss the piece during the intermission. there was a general babble of conversation. here, a composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show was explaining to another composer who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exact source from which a third composer who had got an interpolated number in the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated. there, two musical comedy artistes who were temporarily resting were agreeing that the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary as it was to their life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say that she was beginning to show the passage of the years a trifle and ought to be warned by some friend that her career as an ingenue was a thing of the past. dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into dark corners, were telling each other that "the rose of america" was just another of those things but it had apparently got over. the general public was of the opinion that it was a knock-out. "otie darling," said mrs waddesleigh peagrim, leaning her ample shoulder on uncle chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking across him to young mr pilkington, "i do congratulate you, dear. it's perfectly delightful! i don't know when i have enjoyed a musical piece so much. don't you think it's perfectly darling, major selby?" "capital!" agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored as near extinction as makes no matter. "congratulate you, my boy!" "you clever, clever thing!" said mrs peagrim, skittishly striking her nephew on the knee with her fan. "i'm proud to be your aunt! aren't you proud to know him, mr rooke?" the fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species of stupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of the mcwhustle of mcwhustle in action. there had been other dark moments in freddie's life. once, back in london, parker had sent him out into the heart of the west end without his spats and he had not discovered their absence till he was half-way up bond street. on another occasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, he had discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-school champion. he had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-off of the engagement between jill mariner and derek underhill, and sad when it had been brought to his notice that london was giving derek the cold shoulder in consequence. but never in his whole career had he experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him that evening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder the part that should have been his. and the audience, confound them, had roared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said! "eh?" he replied. "oh, yes, rather, absolutely!" "we're _all_ proud of you, otie darling," proceeded mrs peagrim. "the piece is a wonderful success. you will make a fortune out of it. and just think, major selby, i tried my best to argue the poor, dear boy out of putting it on! i thought it was so rash to risk his money in a theatrical venture. but then," said mrs peagrim in extenuation, "i had only seen the piece when it was done at my house at newport, and of course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! i might have known that you would change it a great deal before you put it on in new york. as i always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten! why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, otie! i wouldn't know it was the same play!" she slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of the gashes she was inflicting. poor mr pilkington was suffering twin torments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of the unsuccessful artist. it would have been bad enough to have to sit and watch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedy which wally mason had substituted for his delicate social satire: but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself with the sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going to make a lot of money out of it. now, even this material balm was denied him. he had sold out, and he was feeling like the man who parts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine, only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has been located. into each life some rain must fall. quite a shower was falling now into young mr. pilkington's. "of course," went on mrs peagrim, "when the play was done at my house, it was acted by amateurs. and you know what amateurs are! the cast tonight is perfectly splendid. i do think that scotchman is the most killing creature! don't you think he is wonderful, mr. rooke?" we may say what we will against the upper strata of society, but it cannot be denied that breeding tells. only by falling back for support on the traditions of his class and the solid support of a gentle upbringing was the last of the rookes able to crush down the words that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politely conventional agreement. if mr pilkington was feeling like a too impulsive seller of gold-mines, freddie's emotions were akin to those of the spartan boy with the fox under his vest. nothing but winchester and magdalen could have produced the smile which, though twisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto his face and off again at his hostess' question. "oh, rather! priceless!" "wasn't that part an englishman before?" asked mrs peagrim. "i thought so. well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. this scotchman is too funny for words. and such an artist!" freddie rose shakily. one can stand just so much. "think," he mumbled, "i'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette." he groped his way to the door. "i'll come with you, freddie my boy," said uncle chris, who felt an imperative need of five minutes' respite from mrs peagrim. "let's get out into the air for a moment. uncommonly warm it is here." freddie assented. air was what he felt he wanted most. left alone in the box with her nephew, mrs peagrim continued for some moments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the open wound. it struck her from time to time that darling otie was perhaps a shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous strain inseparable from a first night of a young author's first play. "why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands of dollars out of this piece. i am sure it is going to be another 'merry widow.'" "you can't tell from a first night audience," said mr pilkington sombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up at rehearsals. "oh, but you can. it's so easy to distinguish polite applause from the real thing. no doubt many of the people down here have friends in the company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but look how the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! you can't tell me that that was not genuine. they love it. how hard," she proceeded commiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour on the road to improve the piece so much! i never liked to say so before, but even you must agree with me now that that original version of yours, which was done down at newport, was the most terrible nonsense! and how hard the company must have worked, too! otie," cried mrs peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea, "i will tell you what you must really do. you must give a supper and dance to the whole company on the stage tomorrow night after the performance." "what!" cried otis pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by this appalling suggestion. was he, the man who, after planking down thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents for "props" and "frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltry ten thousand, to be still further victimized? "they do deserve it, don't they, after working so hard?" "it's impossible," said otis pilkington vehemently. "out of the question." "but, otie darling, i was talking to mr mason, when he came down to newport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that the management nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially if they have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do." "well, let goble give them a supper if he wants to." "but you know that mr goble, though he has his name on the programme as the manager, has really nothing to do with it. you own the piece, don't you?" for a moment mr pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, but refrained. he knew his aunt olive too well. if she found out that he had parted at a heavy loss with this valuable property, her whole attitude towards him would change,--or, rather, it would revert to her normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe nurse to a weak-minded child. even in his agony there had been a certain faint consolation, due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in the voice with which she had addressed him since the fall of the curtain. he shrank from forfeiting this respect, unentitled though he was to it. "yes," he said in his precise voice. "that, of course, is so." "well, then!" said mrs peagrim. "but it seems so unnecessary! and think what it would cost." this was a false step. some of the reverence left mrs peagrim's voice, and she spoke a little coldly. a gay and gallant spender herself, she had often had occasion to rebuke a tendency to over-parsimony in her nephew. "we must not be mean, otie!" she said. mr pilkington keenly resented her choice of pronouns. "we" indeed! who was going to foot the bill? both of them, hand in hand, or he alone, the chump, the boob, the easy mark who got this sort of thing wished on him! "i don't think it would be possible to get the stage for a supper-party," he pleaded, shifting his ground. "goble wouldn't give it to us." "as if mr goble would refuse you anything after you have written a wonderful success for his theatre! and isn't he getting his share of the profits? directly after the performance, you must go round and ask him. of course he will be delighted to give you the stage. i will be hostess," said mrs. peagrim radiantly. "and now, let me see, whom shall we invite?" mr pilkington stared gloomily at the floor, too bowed down now by his weight of cares to resent the "we," which had plainly come to stay. he was trying to estimate the size of the gash which this preposterous entertainment would cleave in the pilkington bank-roll. he doubted if it was possible to go through with it under five hundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, mrs peagrim took the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get into four figures. "major selby, of course," said mrs peagrim musingly, with a cooing note in her voice. long since had that polished man of affairs made a deep impression upon her. "of course major selby, for one. and mr rooke. then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt if they were left out. how about mr mason? isn't he a friend of yours?" mr pilkington snorted. he had endured much and was prepared to endure more, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man who had sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped its precious person into little bits. "he is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and i do not wish him to be invited!" having attained her main objective, mrs peagrim was prepared to yield minor points. "very well, if you do not like him," she said. "but i thought he was quite an intimate of yours. it was you who asked me to invite him to newport last summer." "much," said mr pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer." "oh, very well," said mrs peagrim again. "then we will not include mr mason. now, directly the curtain has fallen, otie dear, pop right round and find mr goble and tell him what you want." 2. it is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other. between otis pilkington and mr goble there was little in common, yet, at the moment when otis set out to find mr goble, the thing which mr goble desired most in the world was an interview with otis. since the end of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mental upheaval. reverting to the gold-mine simile again, mr goble was in the position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mine and now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feeling the truth of the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these--"it might have been." the electric success of "the rose of america" had stunned mr goble: and, realizing, as he did, that he might have bought otis pilkington's share dirt cheap at almost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad half hour with himself. the only ray in the darkness which brooded on his indomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, by getting hold of mr pilkington before the notices appeared and shaking his head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which young authors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception and impressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive your expert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioning gloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show to beat the band . . . by doing all these things, it might still be possible to depress mr pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce him to sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend who didn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as a sporting speculation, because he thought mr pilkington a good kid and after all these shows that flop in new york sometimes have a chance on the road. such were the meditations of mr goble, and, on the final fall of the curtain amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, he had despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to find mr pilkington and conduct him to the presence. meanwhile, he waited impatiently on the empty stage. the sudden advent of wally mason, who appeared at this moment, upset mr goble terribly. wally was a factor in the situation which he had not considered. an infernal, tactless fellow, always trying to make mischief and upset honest merchants, wally, if present at the interview with otis pilkington, would probably try to act in restraint of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about the prospects of the piece. not for the first time, mr goble wished wally a sudden stroke of apoplexy. "went well, eh?" said wally amiably. he did not like mr goble, but on the first night of a successful piece personal antipathies may be sunk. such was his effervescent good-humor at the moment that he was prepared to treat mr goble as a man and a brother. "h'm!" replied mr goble doubtfully, paving the way. "what are you h'ming about?" demanded wally, astonished. "the thing's a riot." "you never know," responded mr goble in the minor key. "well!" wally stared. "i don't know what more you want. the audience sat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn't they?" "i've an idea," said mr goble, raising his voice as the long form of mr pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics will roast it. if you ask _me_," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort of show the critics will pan the life out of. i've been fifteen years in the . . ." "critics!" cried wally. "well, i've just been talking to alexander of the _times_, and he said it was the best musical piece he had ever seen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same." mr goble turned a distorted face to mr pilkington. he wished that wally would go. but wally, he reflected bitterly, was one of those men who never go. he faced mr pilkington and did the best he could. "of course it's got a _chance_," he said gloomily. "any show has got a _chance!_ but i don't know . . . i don't know . . ." mr pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of "the rose of america." he had a favor to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have it refused if possible, and get away. it occurred to him that, by substituting for the asking of a favor a peremptory demand, he might save himself a thousand dollars. "i want the stage after the performance tomorrow night, for a supper to the company," he said brusquely. he was shocked to find mr goble immediately complaisant. "why, sure," said mr goble readily. "go as far as you like!" he took mr pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voice to a confidential undertone. "and now, listen," he said, "i've something i want to talk to you about. between you and i and the lamp-post, i don't think this show will last a month in new york. it don't add up right! there's something all wrong about it." mr pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "i quite agree with you! if you had kept it the way it was originally . . ." "too late for that!" sighed mr goble, realizing that his star was in the ascendant. he had forgotten for the moment that mr pilkington was an author. "we must make the best of a bad job! now, you're a good kid and i wouldn't like you to go around town saying that i had let you in. it isn't business, maybe, but, just because i don't want you to have any kick coming, i'm ready to buy your share of the thing and call it a deal. after all, it may get money on the road. it ain't likely, but there's a chance, and i'm willing to take it. well, listen, i'm probably robbing myself, but i'll give you fifteen thousand, if you want to sell." a hated voice spoke at his elbow. "i'll make you a better offer than that," said wally. "give me your share of the show for three dollars in cash and i'll throw in a pair of sock-suspenders and an ingersoll. is it a go?" mr goble regarded him balefully. "who told you to butt in?" he enquired sourly. "conscience!" replied wally. "old henry w. conscience! i refuse to stand by and see the slaughter of the innocents. why don't you wait till he's dead before you skin him!" he turned to mr pilkington. "don't you be a fool!" he said earnestly. "can't you see the thing is the biggest hit in years? do you think jesse james here would be offering you a cent for your share if he didn't know there was a fortune in it? do you imagine . . . ?" "it is immaterial to me," interrupted otis pilkington loftily, "what mr goble offers. i have already sold my interest!" "what!" cried mr goble. "when?" cried wally. "i sold it half way through the road-tour," said mr pilkington, "to a lawyer, acting on behalf of a client whose name i did not learn." in the silence which followed this revelation, another voice spoke. "i should like to speak to you for a moment, mr goble, if i may." it was jill, who had joined the group unperceived. mr goble glowered at jill, who met his gaze composedly. "i'm busy!" snapped mr goble. "see me tomorrow!" "i would prefer to see you now." "you would prefer!" mr goble waved his hands despairingly, as if calling on heaven to witness the persecution of a good man. jill exhibited a piece of paper stamped with the letter-heading of the management. "it's about this," she said. "i found it in the box as i was going out." "what's that?" "it seems to be a fortnight's notice." "and that," said mr goble, "is what it _is!_" wally uttered an exclamation. "do you mean to say . . . ?" "yes, i do!" said the manager, turning on him. he felt that he had out-maneuvred wally. "i agreed to let her open in new york, and she's done it, hasn't she? now she can get out. i don't want her. i wouldn't have her if you paid me. she's a nuisance in the company, always making trouble, and she can go." "but i would prefer not to go," said jill. "you would prefer!" the phrase infuriated mr goble. "and what has what you would prefer got to do with it?" "well, you see," said jill, "i forgot to tell you before, but i own the piece!" 3. mr goble's jaw fell. he had been waving his hands in another spacious gesture, and he remained frozen with out-stretched arms, like a semaphore. this evening had been a series of shocks for him, but this was the worst shock of all. "you--what!" he stammered. "i own the piece," repeated jill. "surely that gives me authority to say what i want done and what i don't want done." there was a silence. mr goble, who was having difficulty with his vocal chords, swallowed once or twice. wally and mr pilkington stared dumbly. at the back of the stage, a belated scene-shifter, homeward bound, was whistling as much as he could remember of the refrain of a popular song. "what do you mean you own the piece?" mr goble at length gurgled. "i bought it." "you bought it!" "i bought mr pilkington's share through a lawyer for ten thousand dollars." "ten thousand dollars! where did you get ten thousand dollars?" light broke upon mr goble. the thing became clear to him. "damn it!" he cried. "i might have known you had some man behind you! you'd never have been so darned fresh if you hadn't had some john in the background, paying the bills! well, of all the . . ." he broke off abruptly, not because he had said all that he wished to say, for he had only touched the fringe of his subject, but because at this point wally's elbow smote him in the parts about the third button of his waistcoat and jarred all the breath out of him. "be quiet!" said wally dangerously. he turned to jill. "jill, you don't mind telling me how you got ten thousand dollars, do you?" "of course not, wally. uncle chris sent it to me. do you remember giving me a letter from him at rochester? the check was in that." wally stared. "your uncle! but he hasn't any money!" "he must have made it somehow." "but he couldn't! how could he?" otis pilkington suddenly gave tongue. he broke in on them with a loud noise that was half a snort and half a yell. stunned by the information that it was jill who had bought his share in the piece, mr pilkington's mind had recovered slowly and then had begun to work with a quite unusual rapidity. during the preceding conversation he had been doing some tense thinking, and now he saw all. "it's a swindle! it's a deliberate swindle!" shrilled mr pilkington. the tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles flashed sparks. "i've been made a fool of! i've been swindled! i've been robbed!" jill regarded him with wide eyes. "what do you mean?" "you know what i mean!" "i certainly do not! you were perfectly willing to sell the piece." "i'm not talking about that! you know what i mean! i've been robbed!" wally snatched at his arm as it gyrated past him in a gesture of anguish which rivalled the late efforts in that direction of mr goble, who was now leaning against the safety-curtain trying to get his breath back. "don't be a fool," said wally curtly. "talk sense! you know perfectly well that miss mariner wouldn't swindle you." "she may not have been in it," conceded mr pilkington. "i don't know whether she was or not. but that uncle of her swindled me out of ten thousand dollars! the smooth old crook!" "don't talk like that about uncle chris!" said jill, her eyes flashing. "tell me what you mean." "yes, come on, pilkington," said wally grimly. "you've been scattering some pretty serious charges about. let's hear what you base them on. be coherent for a couple of seconds." mr goble filled his depleted lungs. "if you ask me . . ." he began. "we don't," said wally curtly. "this has nothing to do with you. well," he went on, "we're waiting to hear what this is all about." mr pilkington gulped. like most men of weak intellect who are preyed on by the wolves of the world, he had ever a strong distaste for admitting that he had been deceived. he liked to regard himself as a shrewd young man who knew his way about and could take care of himself. "major selby," he said, adjusting his spectacles, which emotion had caused to slip down his nose, "came to me a few weeks ago with a proposition. he suggested the formation of a company to start miss mariner in the motion-pictures." "what!" cried jill. "in the motion-pictures," repeated mr pilkington. "he wished to know if i cared to advance any capital towards the venture. i thought it over carefully and decided that i was favorably disposed towards the scheme. i . . ." mr pilkington gulped again. "i gave him a check for ten thousand dollars!" "of all the fools!" said mr goble with a sharp laugh. he caught wally's eye and subsided once more. mr pilkington's fingers strayed agitatedly to his spectacles. "i may have been a fool," he cried shrilly, "though i was perfectly willing to risk the money, had it been applied to the object for which i gave it. but when it comes to giving ten thousand dollars just to have it paid back to me in exchange for a very valuable piece, of theatrical property . . . my own money . . . handed back to me . . . !" words failed mr pilkington. "i've been deliberately swindled!" he added after a moment, harking back to the main motive. jill's heart was like lead. she could not doubt for an instant the truth of what the victim had said. woven into every inch of the fabric, plainly hall-marked on its surface, she could perceive the signature of uncle chris. if he had come and confessed to her himself, she could not have been more certain that he had acted precisely as mr pilkington had charged. there was that same impishness, that same bland unscrupulousness, that same pathetic desire to do her a good turn however it might affect anybody else which, if she might compare the two things, had caused him to pass her off on unfortunate mr mariner of brookport as a girl of wealth with tastes in the direction of real estate. wally was not so easily satisfied. "you've no proof whatever . . ." jill shook her head. "it's true, wally. i know uncle chris. it must be true." "but, jill . . . !" "it must be. how else could uncle chris have got the money?" mr pilkington, much encouraged by this ready acquiescence in his theories, got under way once more. "the man's a swindler! a swindler! he's robbed me! i have been robbed! he never had any intention of starting a motion-picture company. he planned it all out . . . !" jill cut into the babble of his denunciations. she was sick at heart, and she spoke almost listlessly. "mr pilkington!" the victim stopped. "mr pilkington, if what you say is true, and i'm afraid there is no doubt that it is, the only thing i can do is to give you back your property. so will you please try to understand that everything is just as it was before you gave my uncle the money. you've got back your ten thousand dollars and you've got back your piece, so there's nothing more to talk about." mr pilkington, dimly realizing that the financial aspect of the affair had been more or less satisfactorily adjusted was nevertheless conscious of a feeling that he was being thwarted. he had much more to say about uncle chris and his methods of doing business, and it irked him to be cut short like this. "yes, but i do think. . . . that's all very well, but i have by no means finished . . ." "yes, you have," said wally. "there's nothing more to talk about," repeated jill. "i'm sorry this should have happened, but you've nothing to complain about now, have you? good night." and she turned quickly away, and walked towards the door. "but i hadn't _finished!_" wailed mr pilkington, clutching at wally. he was feeling profoundly aggrieved. if it is bad to be all dressed up and no place to go, it is almost worse to be full of talk and to have no one to talk it to. otis pilkington had at least another twenty minutes of speech inside him on the topic of uncle chris, and wally was the nearest human being with a pair of ears. wally was in no mood to play the part of confidant. he pushed mr pilkington earnestly in the chest and raced after jill. mr pilkington, with the feeling that the world was against him, tottered back into the arms of mr goble, who had now recovered his breath and was ready to talk business. "have a good cigar," said mr goble, producing one. "now, see here, let's get right down to it. if you'd care to sell out for twenty thousand . . ." "i would _not_ care to sell out for twenty thousand!" yelled the overwrought mr pilkington. "i wouldn't sell out for a million! you're a swindler! you want to rob me! you're a crook!" "yes, yes," assented mr goble gently. "but, all joking aside, suppose i was to go up to twenty-five thousand . . . ?" he twined his fingers lovingly in the slack of mr pilkington's coat. "come now! you're a good kid! shall we say twenty-five thousand?" "we will _not_ say twenty-five thousand! let me go!" "now, now, _now!_" pleaded mr goble. "be sensible! don't get all worked up! say, _do_ have a good cigar!" "i _won't_ have a good cigar!" shouted mr pilkington. he detached himself with a jerk, and stalked with long strides up the stage. mr goble watched him go with a lowering gaze. a heavy sense of the unkindness of fate was oppressing mr goble. if you couldn't gyp a bone-headed amateur out of a piece of property, whom could you gyp? mr goble sighed. it hardly seemed to him worth while going on. 4. out in the street wally had overtaken jill, and they faced one another in the light of a street lamp. forty-first street at midnight is a quiet oasis. they had it to themselves. jill was pale, and she was breathing quickly, but she forced a smile. "well, wally," she said. "my career as a manager didn't last long, did it?" "what are you going to do?" jill looked down the street. "i don't know," she said. "i suppose i shall have to start trying to find something." "but . . ." jill drew him suddenly into the dark alley-way leading to the stage-door of the gotham theatre's nearest neighbor: and, as she did so, a long, thin form, swathed in an overcoat and surmounted by an opera-hat, flashed past. "i don't think i could have gone through another meeting with mr pilkington," said jill. "it wasn't his fault, and he was quite justified, but what he said about uncle chris rather hurt." wally, who had ideas of his own similar to those of mr pilkington on the subject of uncle chris and had intended to express them, prudently kept them unspoken. "i suppose," he said, "there is no doubt . . . ?" "there can't be. poor uncle chris! he is like freddie. he means well!" there was a pause. they left the alley and walked down the street. "where are you going now?" asked wally. "i'm going home." "where's home?" "forty-ninth street. i live in a boarding-house there." a sudden recollection of the boarding-house at which she had lived in atlantic city smote wally, and it turned the scale. he had not intended to speak, but he could not help himself. "jill!" he cried. "it's no good. i must say it! i want to get you out of all this. i want to take care of you. why should you go on living this sort of life, when. . . . why won't you let me . . . ?" he stopped. even as he spoke, he realized the futility of what he was saying. jill was not a girl to be won with words. they walked on in silence for a moment. they crossed broadway, noisy with night traffic, and passed into the stillness on the other side. "wally," said jill at last. she was looking straight in front of her. her voice was troubled. "yes?" jill hesitated. "wally, you wouldn't want me to marry you if you knew you weren't the only man in the world that mattered to me, would you?" they had reached sixth avenue before wally replied. "no!" he said. for an instant, jill could not have said whether the feeling that shot through her like the abrupt touching of a nerve was relief or disappointment. then suddenly she realized that it was disappointment. it was absurd to her to feel disappointed, but at that moment she would have welcomed a different attitude in him. if only this problem of hers could be taken forcefully out of her hands, what a relief it would be. if only wally, masterfully insistent, would batter down her hesitations and _grab_ her, knock her on the head and carry her off like a caveman, care less about her happiness and concentrate on his own, what a solution it would be. . . . but then he wouldn't be wally. . . . nevertheless, jill gave a little sigh. her new life had changed her already. it had blunted the sharp edge of her independence. tonight she was feeling the need of some one to lean on--some one strong and cosy and sympathetic who would treat her like a little girl and shield her from all the roughness of life. the fighting spirit had gone out of her, and she was no longer the little warrior facing the world with a brave eye and a tilted chin. she wanted to cry and be petted. "no!" said wally again. there had been the faintest suggestion of a doubt when he had spoken the word before, but now it shot out like a bullet. "and i'll tell you why. i want _you_--and, if you married me feeling like that, it wouldn't be you. i want jill, the whole jill, and nothing but jill, and, if i can't have that, i'd rather not have anything. marriage isn't a motion-picture close-up with slow fade-out on the embrace. it's a partnership, and what's the good of a partnership if your heart's not in it? it's like collaborating with a man you dislike. . . . i believe you wish sometimes--not often, perhaps, but when you're feeling lonely and miserable--that i would pester and bludgeon you into marrying me. . . . what's the matter?" jill had started. it was disquieting to have her thoughts read with such accuracy. "nothing," she said. "it wouldn't be any good," wally went on "because it wouldn't be _me_. i couldn't keep that attitude up, and i know i should hate myself for ever having tried it. there's nothing in the world i wouldn't do to help you, though i know it's no use offering to do anything. you're a fighter, and you mean to fight your own battle. it might happen that, if i kept after you and badgered you and nagged you, one of these days, when you were feeling particularly all alone in the world and tired of fighting for yourself, you might consent to marry me. but it wouldn't do. even if you reconciled yourself to it, it wouldn't do. i suppose, the cave-woman sometimes felt rather relieved when everything was settled for her with a club, but i'm sure the caveman must have had a hard time ridding himself of the thought that he had behaved like a cad and taken a mean advantage. i don't want to feel like that. i couldn't make you happy if i felt like that. much better to have you go on regarding me as a friend . . . knowing that, if ever your feelings do change, that i am right there, waiting." "but by that time _your_ feelings will have changed." wally laughed. "never!" "you'll meet some other girl . . ." "i've met every girl in the world! none of them will do!" the lightness came back into wally's voice. "i'm sorry for the poor things, but they won't do! take 'em away! there's only one girl in the world for me--oh, confound it! why is it that one always thinks in song-titles! well, there it is. i'm not going to bother you. we're pals. and, as a pal, may i offer you my bank-roll?" "no!" said jill. she smiled up at him. "i believe you would give me your coat if i asked you for it!" wally stopped. "do you want it? here you are!" "wally, behave! there's a policeman looking at you!" "oh, well, if you won't! it's a good coat, all the same." they turned the corner, and stopped before a brown-stone house, with a long ladder of untidy steps running up to the front door. "is this where you live?" wally asked. he looked at the gloomy place disapprovingly. "you do choose the most awful places!" "i don't choose them. they're thrust on me. yes, this is where i live. if you want to know the exact room, it's the third window up there over the front door. well, good night." "good night," said wally. he paused. "jill." "yes?" "i know it's not worth mentioning, and it's breaking our agreement to mention it, but you do understand, don't you?" "yes, wally dear, i understand." "i'm round the corner, you know, waiting! and, if you ever do change, all you've got to do is just to come to me and say 'it's all right!' . . ." jill laughed a little shakily. "that doesn't sound very romantic!" "not sound romantic! if you can think of any three words in the language that sound more romantic, let me have them! well, never mind how they sound, just say them, and watch the result! but you must get to bed. good night." "good night, wally." she passed in through the dingy door. it closed behind her, and wally stood for some moments staring at it with a gloomy repulsion. he thought he had never seen a dingier door. then he started to walk back to his apartment. he walked very quickly, with clenched hands. he was wondering if after all there was not something to be said for the methods of the caveman when he went a-wooing. twinges of conscience the caveman may have had when all was over, but at least he had established his right to look after the woman he loved. chapter nineteen 1. "they tell me . . . i am told . . . i am informed . . . no, one moment, miss frisby." mrs peagrim wrinkled her fair forehead. it has been truly said that there is no agony like the agony of literary composition, and mrs. peagrim was having rather a bad time getting the requisite snap and ginger into her latest communication to the press. she bit her lip, and would have passed her twitching fingers restlessly through her hair but for the thought of the damage which such an action must do to her coiffure. miss frisby, her secretary, an anaemic and negative young woman, waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth with her pencil. "please do not make that tapping noise, miss frisby," said the sufferer querulously. "i cannot think. otie, dear, can't you suggest a good phrase? you ought to be able to, being an author." mr pilkington, who was strewn over an arm-chair by the window, awoke from his meditations, which, to judge from the furrow just above the bridge of his tortoiseshell spectacles and the droop of his weak chin, were not pleasant. it was the morning after the production of "the rose of america," and he had passed a sleepless night, thinking of the harsh words he had said to jill. could she ever forgive him? would she have the generosity to realize that a man ought not to be held accountable for what he says in the moment when he discovers that he has been cheated, deceived, robbed,--in a word, hornswoggled? he had been brooding on this all night, and he wanted to go on brooding now. his aunt's question interrupted his train of thought. "eh?" he said vaguely, gaping. "oh, don't be so absent-minded!" snapped mrs peagrim, not unjustifiably annoyed. "i am trying to compose a paragraph for the papers about our party tonight, and i can't get the right phrase . . . read what you've written, miss frisby." miss frisby, having turned a pale eye on the pothooks and twiddleys in her note-book, translated them in a pale voice. "'surely of all the leading hostesses in new york society there can be few more versatile than mrs waddlesleigh peagrim. i am amazed every time i go to her delightful home on west end avenue to see the scope and variety of her circle of intimates. here you will see an ambassador with a fever . . .'" "with a _what?_" demanded mrs peagrim sharply. "'fever,' i thought you said," replied miss frisby stolidly. "i wrote 'fever'." "'diva.' do use your intelligence, my good girl. go on." "'here you will see an ambassador with a diva from the opera, exchanging the latest gossip from the chancelleries for intimate news of the world behind the scenes. there, the author of the latest novel talking literature to the newest debutante. truly one may say that mrs peagrim has revived the saloon.'" mrs peagrim bit her lip. "'salon'." "'salon'," said miss frisby unemotionally. "'they tell me, i am told, i am informed . . .'" she paused. "that's all i have." "scratch out those last words," said mrs peagrim irritably. "you really are hopeless, miss frisby! couldn't you see that i had stopped dictating and was searching for a phrase? otie, what is a good phrase for 'i am told'?" mr pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with the problem. "'i hear'," he suggested at length. "tchah!" ejaculated his aunt. then her face brightened. "i have it. take dictation, please, miss frisby. 'a little bird whispers to me that there were great doings last night on the stage of the gotham theatre after the curtain had fallen on "the rose of america" which, as everybody knows, is the work of mrs peagrim's clever young nephew, otis pilkington.'" mrs peagrim shot a glance at her clever young nephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but otis' thoughts were far away once more. he was lying on his spine, brooding, brooding. mrs peagrim resumed her dictation. "'in honor of the extraordinary success of the piece, mrs peagrim, who certainly does nothing by halves, entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after the performance. a number of prominent people were among the guests, and mrs peagrim was a radiant and vivacious hostess. she has never looked more charming. the high jinks were kept up to an advanced hour, and every one agreed that they had never spent a more delightful evening.' there! type as many copies as are necessary, miss frisby, and send them out this afternoon with photographs." miss frisby having vanished in her pallid way, the radiant and vivacious hostess turned on her nephew again. "i must say, otie," she began complainingly, "that, for a man who has had a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. i should have thought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest man in new york." there was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroine used to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying "happiness? what _is_ happiness, moth-aw?" mr pilkington did not use these actual words, but he reproduced the stricken infant's tone with great fidelity. "notices! what are notices to me?" "oh, don't be so affected!" cried mrs peagrim. "don't pretend that you don't know every word of them by heart!" "i have not seen the notices, aunt olive," said mr pilkington dully. mrs peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. she had never been overwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise to fame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and his attitude now disturbed her. "you can't be well, otie!" she said solicitously. "are you ill?" "i have a severe headache," replied the martyr. "i passed a wakeful night." "let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," said mrs. peagrim maternally. "poor boy! i don't wonder, after all the nervousness and excitement . . . you sit quite still and rest. i will be back in a moment." she bustled out of the room, and mr pilkington sagged back into his chair. he had hardly got his meditations going once more, when the door opened and the maid announced "major selby." "good morning," said uncle chris breezily, sailing down the fairway with outstretched hand. "how are--oh!" he stopped abruptly, perceiving that mrs peagrim was not present and--a more disturbing discovery--that otis pilkington was. it would be exaggeration to say that uncle chris was embarrassed. that master-mind was never actually embarrassed. but his jauntiness certainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his mustache twice before he could face the situation with his customary _aplomb_. he had not expected to find otis pilkington here, and otis was the last man he wished to meet. he had just parted from jill, who had been rather plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations: and, though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, uncle chris was aware that his next interview with young mr pilkington might have certain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked time to prepare a statement for the defence. however, here the man was, and the situation must be faced. "pilkington!" he cried. "my dear fellow! just the man i wanted to see! i'm afraid there has been a little misunderstanding. of course, it has all been cleared up now, but still i must insist on making a personal explanation, really i must insist. the whole matter was a most absurd misunderstanding. it was like this . . ." here uncle chris paused in order to devote a couple of seconds to thought. he had said it was "like this," and he gave his mustache another pull as though he were trying to drag inspiration out of it. his blue eyes were as frank and honest as ever, and showed no trace of the perplexity in his mind, but he had to admit to himself that, if he managed to satisfy his hearer that all was for the best and that he had acted uprightly and without blame, he would be doing well. fortunately, the commercial side of mr pilkington was entirely dormant this morning. the matter of the ten thousand dollars seemed trivial to him in comparison with the weightier problems which occupied his mind. "have you seen miss mariner?" he asked eagerly. "yes. i have just parted from her. she was upset, poor girl, of course, exceedingly upset." mr pilkington moaned hollowly. "is she very angry with me?" for a moment the utter inexplicability of the remark silenced uncle chris. why jill should be angry with mr pilkington for being robbed of ten thousand dollars, he could not understand, for jill had told him nothing of the scene that had taken place on the previous night. but evidently this point was to mr pilkington the nub of the matter, and uncle chris, like the strategist he was, rearranged his forces to meet the new development. "angry?" he said slowly. "well, of course . . ." he did not know what it was all about, but no doubt if he confined himself to broken sentences which meant nothing light would shortly be vouchsafed to him. "in the heat of the moment," confessed mr pilkington, "i'm afraid i said things to miss mariner which i now regret." uncle chris began to feel on solid ground again. "dear, dear!" he murmured regretfully. "i spoke hastily." "always think before you speak, my boy." "i considered that i had been cheated . . ." "my dear boy!" uncle chris' blue eyes opened wide. "please! haven't i said that i could explain all that? it was a pure misunderstanding . . ." "oh, i don't care about that part of it . . ." "quite right," said uncle chris cordially. "let bygones be bygones. start with a clean slate. you have your money back, and there's no need to say another word about it. let us forget it," he concluded generously. "and, if i have any influence with jill, you may count on me to use it to dissipate any little unfortunate rift which may have occurred between you." "you think there's a chance that she might overlook what i said?" "as i say, i will use any influence i may possess to heal the breach. i like you, my boy. and i am sure that jill likes you. she will make allowances for any ill-judged remarks you may have uttered in a moment of heat." mr pilkington brightened, and mrs peagrim, returning with a medicine-glass, was pleased to see him looking so much better. "you are a positive wizard, major selby," she said archly. "what have you been saying to the poor boy to cheer him up so? he has a bad headache this morning." "headache?" said uncle chris, starting like a war-horse that has heard the bugle. "i don't know if i have ever mentioned it, but _i_ used to suffer from headaches at one time. extraordinarily severe headaches. i tried everything, until one day a man i knew recommended a thing called--don't know if you have ever heard of it . . ." mrs peagrim, in her role of ministering angel, was engrossed with her errand of mercy. she was holding the medicine-glass to mr pilkington's lips, and the seed fell on stony ground. "drink this, dear," urged mrs peagrim. "nervino," said uncle chris. "there!" said mrs peagrim. "that will make you feel much better. how well you always look, major selby!" "and yet at one time," said uncle chris perseveringly, "i was a martyr . . ." "i can't remember if i told you last night about the party. we are giving a little supper-dance to the company of otie's play after the performance this evening. of course you will come?" uncle chris philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear of his audience. other opportunities would occur. "delighted," he said. "delighted." "quite a simple, bohemian little affair," proceeded mrs peagrim. "i thought it was only right to give the poor things a little treat after they have all worked so hard." "certainly, certainly. a capital idea." "we shall be quite a small party. if i once started asking anybody outside our _real_ friends, i should have to ask everybody." the door opened. "mr rooke," announced the maid. freddie, like mr pilkington, was a prey to gloom this morning. he had read one or two of the papers, and they had been disgustingly lavish in their praise of the mcwhustle of mcwhustle. it made freddie despair of the new york press. in addition to this, he had been woken up at seven o'clock, after going to sleep at three, by the ringing of the telephone and the announcement that a gentleman wished to see him: and he was weighed down with that heavy-eyed languor which comes to those whose night's rest is broken. "why, how do you do, mr rooke!" said mrs peagrim. "how-de-do," replied freddie, blinking in the strong light from the window. "hope i'm not barging in and all that sort of thing? i came round about this party tonight, you know." "oh, yes?" "was wondering," said freddie, "if you would mind if i brought a friend of mine along? popped in on me from england this morning. at seven o'clock," said freddie plaintively. "ghastly hour, what! didn't do a thing to the good old beauty sleep! well, what i mean to say is, i'd be awfully obliged if you'd let me bring him along." "why, of course," said mrs peagrim. "any friend of yours, mr rooke . . ." "thanks awfully. special reason why i'd like him to come, and all that. he's a fellow named underhill. sir derek underhill. been a pal of mine for years and years." uncle chris started. "underhill! is derek underhill in america?" "landed this morning. routed me out of bed at seven o'clock." "oh, do you know him, too, major selby?" said mrs peagrim. "then i'm sure he must be charming!" "charming," began uncle chris in measured tones, "is an adjective which i cannot . . ." "well, thanks most awfully," interrupted freddie. "it's fearfully good of you to let me bring him along. i must be staggering off now. lot of things to do." "oh, must you go already?" "absolutely must. lot of things to do." uncle chris extended a hand to his hostess. "i think i will be going along, too, mrs peagrim. i'll walk a few yards with you, freddie my boy. there are one or two things i would like to talk over. till tonight, mrs peagrim." "till tonight, major selby." she turned to mr pilkington as the door closed. "what charming manners major selby has. so polished. a sort of old-world courtesy. so smooth!" "smooth," said mr pilkington dourly, "is right!" 2. uncle chris confronted freddie sternly outside the front door. "what does this mean? good god, freddie, have you no delicacy?" "eh?" said freddie blankly. "why are you bringing underhill to this party? don't you realize that poor jill will be there? how do you suppose she will feel when she sees that blackguard again? the cad who threw her over and nearly broke her heart!" freddie's jaw fell. he groped for his fallen eyeglass. "oh, my aunt! do you think she will be pipped?" "a sensitive girl like jill!" "but, listen. derek wants to marry her." "what!" "oh, absolutely. that's why he's come over." uncle chris shook his head. "i don't understand this. i saw the letter myself which he wrote to her, breaking off the engagement." "yes, but he's dashed sorry about all that now. wishes he had never been such a mug, and all that sort of thing. as a matter of fact, that's why i shot over here in the first place. as an ambassador, don't you know. i told jill all about it directly i saw her, but she seemed inclined to give it a miss rather, so i cabled old derek to pop here in person. seemed to me, don't you know, that jill might be more likely to make it up and all that if she saw old derek." uncle chris nodded, his composure restored. "very true. yes, certainly, my boy, you acted most sensibly. badly as underhill behaved, she undoubtedly loved him. it would be the best possible thing that could happen if they could be brought together. it is my dearest wish to see jill comfortably settled. i was half hoping that she might marry young pilkington." "good god! the pilker!" "he is quite a nice young fellow," argued uncle chris. "none too many brains, perhaps, but jill would supply that deficiency. still, of course, underhill would be much better." "she ought to marry someone," said freddie earnestly. "i mean, all rot a girl like jill having to knock about and rough it like this." "you're perfectly right." "of course," said freddie thoughtfully, "the catch in the whole dashed business is that she's such a bally independent sort of girl. i mean to say, it's quite possible she may hand derek the mitten, you know." "in that case, let us hope that she will look more favorably on young pilkington." "yes," said freddie. "well, yes. but--well, i wouldn't call the pilker a very ripe sporting proposition. about sixty to one against is the way i should figure it, if i were making a book. it may be just because i'm feeling a bit pipped this morning--got turfed out of bed at seven o'clock and all that--but i have an idea that she may give both of them the old razz. may be wrong, of course." "let us hope that you are, my boy," said uncle chris gravely. "for in that case i should be forced into a course of action from which i confess that i shrink." "i don't follow." "freddie, my boy, you are a very old friend of jill's and i am her uncle. i feel that i can speak plainly to you. jill is the dearest thing to me in the world. she trusted me, and i failed her. i was responsible for the loss of her money, and my one object in life is to see her by some means or other in a position equal to the one of which i deprived her. if she marries a rich man, well and good. that, provided she marries him because she is fond of him, will be the very best thing that can happen. but if she does not there is another way. it may be possible for me to marry a rich woman." freddie stopped, appalled. "good god! you don't mean . . . you aren't thinking of marrying mrs peagrim!" "i wouldn't have mentioned names, but, as you have guessed . . . yes, if the worst comes to the worst, i shall make the supreme sacrifice. tonight will decide. goodbye, my boy. i want to look in at my club for a few minutes. tell underhill that he has my best wishes." "i'll bet he has!" gasped freddie. chapter twenty 1. it is safest for the historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till a thing has happened before writing about it. otherwise he may commit himself to statements which are not borne out by the actual facts. mrs peagrim, recording in advance the success of her party at the gotham theatre, had done this. it is true that she was a "radiant and vivacious hostess," and it is possible, her standard not being very high, that she had "never looked more charming." but, when, she went on to say that all present were in agreement that they had never spent a more delightful evening, she deceived the public. uncle chris, for one; otis pilkington, for another, and freddie rooke, for a third, were so far from spending a delightful evening that they found it hard to mask their true emotions and keep a smiling face to the world. otis pilkington, indeed, found it impossible, and, ceasing to try, left early. just twenty minutes after the proceedings had begun, he seized his coat and hat, shot out into the night, made off blindly up broadway, and walked twice round central park before his feet gave out and he allowed himself to be taken back to his apartment in a taxi. he tried to tell himself that this was only what he had expected, but was able to draw no consolation from the fact. he tried to tell himself that jill might change her mind, but hope refused to stir. jill had been very kind and very sweet and very regretful, but it was only too manifest that on the question of becoming mrs otis pilkington her mind was made up. she was willing to like him, to be a sister to him, to watch his future progress with considerable interest, but she would not marry him. one feels sorry for otis pilkington in his hour of travail. this was the fifth or sixth time that this sort of thing had happened to him, and he was getting tired of it. if he could have looked into the future--five years almost to a day from that evening--and seen himself walking blushfully down the aisle of st. thomas' with roland trevis' sister angela on his arm, his gloom might have been lightened. more probably, however, it would have been increased. at the moment, roland trevis' sister angela was fifteen, frivolous, and freckled and, except that he rather disliked her and suspected her--correctly--of laughing at him, amounted to just _nil_ in mr pilkington's life. the idea of linking his lot with hers would have appalled him, enthusiastically though he was in favor of it five years later. however, mr pilkington was unable to look into the future, so his reflections on this night of sorrow were not diverted from jill. he thought sadly of jill till two-thirty, when he fell asleep in his chair and dreamed of her. at seven o'clock his japanese valet, who had been given the night off, returned home, found him, and gave him breakfast. after which, mr pilkington went to bed, played three games of solitaire, and slept till dinner-time, when he awoke to take up the burden of life again. he still brooded on the tragedy which had shattered him. indeed, it was only two weeks later, when at a dance he was introduced to a red-haired girl from detroit, that he really got over it. * * * the news was conveyed to freddie rooke by uncle chris. uncle chris, with something of the emotions of a condemned man on the scaffold waiting for a reprieve, had watched jill and mr pilkington go off together into the dim solitude at the back of the orchestra chairs, and, after an all too brief interval, had observed the latter whizzing back, his every little movement having a meaning of its own--and that meaning one which convinced uncle chris that freddie, in estimating mr pilkington as a sixty to one chance, had not erred in his judgment of form. uncle chris found freddie in one of the upper boxes, talking to nelly bryant. dancing was going on down on the stage, but freddie, though normally a young man who shook a skilful shoe, was in no mood for dancing tonight. the return to the scenes of his former triumphs and the meeting with the companions of happier days, severed from him by a two-weeks' notice, had affected freddie powerfully. eyeing the happy throng below, he experienced the emotions of that peri who, in the poem, "at the gate of eden stood disconsolate." excusing himself from nelly and following uncle chris into the passage-way outside the box, he heard the other's news listlessly. it came as no shock to freddie. he had never thought mr pilkington anything to write home about, and had never supposed that jill would accept him. he said as much. sorry for the chap in a way, and all that, but had never imagined for an instant that he would click. "where is underhill?" asked uncle chris, agitated. "derek? oh, he isn't here yet." "but why isn't he here? i understood that you were bringing him with you." "that was the scheme, but it seems he had promised some people he met on the boat to go to a theatre and have a bit of supper with them afterwards. i only heard about it when i got back this morning." "good god, boy! didn't you tell him that jill would be here tonight?" "oh, rather. and he's coming on directly he can get away from these people. forget their name, but they're influential coves who can do him a bit of good and all that sort of thing. the man--the head of the gang, you know--is something connected with the cabinet or the prime minister or something. you'd know his name in a minute if i told you--always seeing it in the papers--they have pictures of him in _punch_ a lot--but i'm rotten at names. derek did tell me, but it's slipped the old bean. well, he had to leg it with these people, but he's coming on later. ought to be here any moment now." uncle chris plucked at his mustache gloomily. freddie's detachment depressed him. he had looked for more animation and a greater sense of the importance of the issue. "well, pip-pip for the present," said freddie, moving toward the box. "have to be getting back. see you later." he disappeared, and uncle chris turned slowly to descend the stairs. as he reached the floor below, the door of the stage-box opened, and mrs peagrim came out. "oh, major selby!" cried the radiant and vivacious hostess. "i couldn't think where you had got to. i have been looking for you everywhere." uncle chris quivered slightly, but braced himself to do his duty. "may i have the pleasure . . . ?" he began, then broke off as he saw the man who had come out of the box behind his hostess. "underhill!" he grasped his hand and shook it warmly. "my dear fellow! i had no notion that you had arrived!" "sir derek came just a moment ago," said mrs peagrim. "how are you, major selby?" said derek. he was a little surprised at the warmth of his reception. he had not anticipated this geniality. "my dear fellow, i'm delighted to see you," cried uncle chris. "but, as i was saying, mrs peagrim, may i have the pleasure of this dance?" "i don't think i will dance this one," said mrs peagrim surprisingly. "i'm sure you two must have ever so much to talk about. why don't you take sir derek and give him a cup of coffee?" "capital idea!" said uncle chris. "come this way, my dear fellow. as mrs peagrim says, i have ever so much to talk about. along this passage, my boy. be careful. there's a step. weil, well, well! it's delightful to see you again!" he massaged derek's arm affectionately. every time he had met mrs peagrim that evening he had quailed inwardly at what lay before him, should some hitch occur to prevent the re-union of derek and jill: and, now that the other was actually here, handsomer than ever and more than ever the sort of man no girl could resist, he declined to admit the possibility of a hitch. his spirits soared. "you haven't seen jill yet, of course?" "no." derek hesitated. "is jill . . . does she . . . i mean . . ." uncle chris resumed his osteopathy. he kneaded his companion's coat-sleeve with a jovial hand. "my dear fellow, of course! i am sure that a word or two from you will put everything right. we all make mistakes. i have made them myself. i am convinced that everything will be perfectly all right . . . ah, there she is. jill, my dear, here is an old friend to see you!" 2. since the hurried departure of mr pilkington, jill had been sitting in the auditorium, lazily listening to the music and watching the couples dancing on the stage. she did not feel like dancing herself, but it was pleasant to be there and too much exertion to get up and go home. she found herself drifting into a mood of gentle contentment, and was at a loss to account for this. she was happy,--quietly and peacefully happy, when she was aware that she ought to have been both agitated and apprehensive. when she had anticipated the recent interview with otis pilkington, which she had known was bound to come sooner or later, it had been shrinkingly and with foreboding. she hated hurting people's feelings, and, though she read mr pilkington's character accurately enough to know that time would heal any anguish which she might cause him, she had had no doubt that the temperamental surface of that long young man, when he succeeded in getting her alone, was going to be badly bruised. and it had fallen out just as she had expected. mr pilkington had said his say and departed, a pitiful figure, a spectacle which should have wrung her heart. it had not wrung her heart. except for one fleeting instant when she was actually saying the fatal words, it had not interfered with her happiness at all; and already she was beginning to forget that the incident had ever happened. and, if the past should have depressed her, the future might have been expected to depress her even more. there was nothing in it, either immediate or distant, which could account for her feeling gently contented. the future was a fog, into which she had to grope her way blindly. she could not see a step ahead. and yet, as she leaned back in her seat, her heart was dancing in time to the dance-music of mrs peagrim's hired orchestra. it puzzled jill. and then, quite suddenly yet with no abruptness or sense of discovery, just as if it were something which she had known all along, the truth came upon her. it was wally, the thought of wally, the knowledge that wally existed, that made her happy. he was a solid, comforting, reassuring fact in a world of doubts and perplexities. she did not need to be with him to be fortified, it was enough just to think of him. present or absent, his personality heartened her like fine weather or music or a sea-breeze,--or like that friendly, soothing night-light which they used to leave in her nursery when she was little, to scare away the goblins and see her safely over the road that led to the gates of the city of dreams. suppose there were no wally . . . jill gave a sudden gasp, and sat up, tingling. she felt as she had sometimes felt as a child, when, on the edge of sleep, she had dreamed that she was stepping off a precipice and had woken, tense and alert, to find that there was no danger after all. but there was a difference between that feeling and this. she had woken, but to find that there was danger. it was as though some inner voice was calling to her to be careful, to take thought. suppose there were no wally? . . . and why should there always be wally? he had said confidently enough that there would never be another girl . . . but there were thousands of other girls, millions of other girls, and could she suppose that one of them would not have the sense to snap up a treasure like wally? a sense of blank desolation swept over jill. her quick imagination, leaping ahead, had made the vague possibility of a distant future an accomplished fact. she felt, absurdly, a sense of overwhelming loss. into her mind, never far distant from it, came the thought of derek. and, suddenly, jill made another discovery. she was thinking of derek, and it was not hurting. she was thinking of him quite coolly and clearly and her heart was not aching. she sat back and screwed her eyes tight, as she had always done when puzzled. something had happened to her, but how it had happened and when it had happened and why it had happened she could not understand. she only knew that now for the first time she had been granted a moment of clear vision and was seeing things truly. she wanted wally. she wanted him in the sense that she could not do without him. she felt nothing of the fiery tumult which had come upon her when she first met derek. she and wally would come together with a smile and build their life on an enduring foundation of laughter and happiness and good-fellowship. wally had never shaken and never would shake her senses as derek had done. if that was love, then she did not love wally. but her clear vision told her that it was not love. it might be the blazing and crackling of thorns, but it was not the fire. she wanted wally. she needed him as she needed the air and the sunlight. she opened her eyes, and saw uncle chris coming down the aisle towards her. there was a man with him, and, as they moved closer in the dim light, jill saw that it was derek. "jill, my dear," said uncle chris, "here is an old friend to see you!" and, having achieved their bringing together, he proceeded to withdraw delicately whence he had come. it is pleasant to be able to record that he was immediately seized upon by mrs peagrim, who had changed her mind about not dancing, and led off to be her partner in a fox-trot, in the course of which she trod on his feet three times. "why, derek!" said jill cheerfully. she got up and moved down the line of seats. except for a mild wonder how he came to be there, she found herself wholly unaffected by the sight of him. "whatever are you doing here?" derek sat down beside her. the cordiality of her tone had relieved yet at the same time disconcerted him. man seldom attains to perfect contentment in this world, and derek, while pleased that jill apparently bore him no ill-will, seemed to miss something in her manner which he would have been glad to find there. "jill!" he said huskily. it deemed to derek only decent to speak huskily. to his orderly mind this situation could be handled only in one way. it was a plain, straight issue of the strong man humbling himself--not too much, of course, but sufficiently: and it called, in his opinion, for the low voice, the clenched hand, and the broken whisper. speaking as he had spoken, he had given the scene the right key from the start,--or would have done if she had not got in ahead of him and opened it on a note of absurd cheeriness. derek found himself resenting her cheeriness. often as he had attempted during the voyage from england to visualize to himself this first meeting, he had never pictured jill smiling brightly at him. it was a jolly smile, and made her look extremely pretty, but it jarred upon him. a moment before he had been half relieved, half disconcerted: now he was definitely disconcerted. he searched in his mind for a criticism of her attitude, and came to the conclusion that what was wrong with it was that it was too friendly. friendliness is well enough in its way, but in what should have been a tense clashing of strong emotions it did not seem to derek fitting. "did you have a pleasant trip?" asked jill. "have you come over on business?" a feeling of bewilderment came upon derek. it was wrong, it was all wrong. of course, she might be speaking like this to cloak intense feeling, but, if so, she had certainly succeeded. from her manner, he and she might be casual acquaintances. a pleasant trip! in another minute she would be asking him how he had come out on the sweepstake on the ship's run. with a sense of putting his shoulder to some heavy weight and heaving at it, he sought to lift the conversation to a higher plane. "i came to find _you!_" he said; still huskily but not so huskily as before. there are degrees of huskiness, and derek's was sharpened a little by a touch of irritation. "yes?" said jill. derek was now fermenting. what she ought to have said, he did not know, but he knew that it was not "yes?" "yes?" in the circumstances was almost as bad as "really?" there was a pause. jill was looking at him with a frank and unembarrassed gaze which somehow deepened his sense of annoyance. had she looked at him coldly, he could have understood and even appreciated it. he had been expecting coldness, and had braced himself to combat it. he was still not quite sure in his mind whether he was playing the role of a penitent or a king cophetua, but in either character he might have anticipated a little temporary coldness, which it would have been his easy task to melt. but he had never expected to be looked at as if he were a specimen in a museum, and that was how he was feeling now. jill was not looking at him--she was inspecting him, examining him, and he chafed under the process. jill, unconscious of the discomfort she was causing, continued to gaze. she was trying to discover in just what respect he had changed from the god he had been. certainly not in looks. he was as handsome as ever,--handsomer, indeed, for the sunshine and clean breezes of the atlantic had given him an exceedingly becoming coat of tan. and yet he must have changed, for now she could look upon him quite dispassionately and criticize him without a tremor. it was like seeing a copy of a great painting. everything was there, except the one thing that mattered, the magic and the glamour. it was like . . . she suddenly remembered a scene in the dressing-room when the company had been in baltimore. lois denham, duly the recipient of the sunburst which her friend izzy had promised her, had unfortunately, in a spirit of girlish curiosity, taken it to a jeweller to be priced, and the jeweller had blasted her young life by declaring it a paste imitation. jill recalled how the stricken girl--previous to calling izzy on the long distance and telling him a number of things which, while probably not news to him, must have been painful hearing--had passed the vile object round the dressing-room for inspection. the imitation was perfect. it had been impossible for the girls to tell that the stones were not real diamonds. yet the jeweller, with his sixth sense, had seen through them in a trifle under ten seconds. jill come to the conclusion that her newly-discovered love for wally mason had equipped her with a sixth sense, and that by its aid she was really for the first time seeing derek as he was. derek had not the privilege of being able to read jill's thoughts. all he could see was the outer jill, and the outer jill, as she had always done, was stirring his emotions. her daintiness afflicted him. not for the first, the second, or the third time since they had come into each other's lives, he was astounded at the strength of the appeal which jill had for him when they were together, as contrasted with its weakness when they were apart. he made another attempt to establish the scene on a loftier plane. "what a fool i was!" he sighed. "jill! can you ever forgive me?" he tried to take her hand. jill skilfully eluded him. "why, of course i've forgiven you, derek, if there was anything to forgive." "anything to forgive!" derek began to get into his stride. these were the lines on which he had desired the interview to develop. "i was a brute! a cad!" "oh, no!" "i was. oh, i have been through hell!" jill turned her head away. she did not want to hurt him, but nothing could have kept her from smiling. she had been so sure that he would say that sooner or later. "jill!" derek had misinterpreted the cause of her movement, and had attributed it to emotion. "tell me that everything is as it was before." jill turned. "i'm afraid i can't say that, derek." "of course not!" agreed derek in a comfortable glow of manly remorse. he liked himself in the character of the strong man abased. "it would be too much, to expect, i know. but, when we are married . . ." "do you really want to marry me?" "jill!" "i wonder!" "how can you doubt it?" jill looked at him. "have you thought what it would mean?" "what it would mean?" "well, your mother . . ." "oh!" derek dismissed lady underhill with a grand gesture. "yes," persisted jill, "but, if she disapproved of your marrying me before, wouldn't she disapprove a good deal more now, when i haven't a penny in the world and am just in the chorus . . ." a sort of strangled sound proceeded from derek's throat. "in the chorus!" "didn't you know? i thought freddie must have told you." "in the chorus!" derek stammered. "i thought you were here as a guest of mrs peagrim's." "so i am,--like all the rest of the company." "but . . . but . . ." "you see, it would be bound to make everything a little difficult," said jill. her face was grave, but her lips were twitching. "i mean, you are rather a prominent man, aren't you, and if you married a chorus-girl . . ." "nobody would know," said derek limply. jill opened her eyes. "nobody would _know!_" she laughed. "but, of course, you've never met our press-agent. if you think that nobody would know that a girl in the company had married a baronet who was a member of parliament and expected to be in the cabinet in a few years, you're wronging him! the news would be on the front page of all the papers the very next day--columns of it, with photographs. there would be articles about it in the sunday papers. illustrated! and then it would be cabled to england and would appear in the papers there . . . you see, you're a very important person, derek." derek sat clutching the arms of his chair. his face was chalky. though he had never been inclined to underestimate his importance as a figure in the public eye, he had overlooked the disadvantages connected with such an eminence. he gurgled wordlessly. he had been prepared to brave lady underhill's wrath and assert his right to marry whom he pleased, but this was different. jill watched him curiously and with a certain pity. it was so easy to read what was passing in his mind. she wondered what he would say, how he would flounder out of his unfortunate position. she had no illusions about him now. she did not even contemplate the possibility of chivalry winning the battle which was going on within him. "it would be very awkward, wouldn't it?" she said. and then pity had its way with jill. he had treated her badly; for a time she had thought that he had crushed all the heart out of her: but he was suffering, and she hated to see anybody suffer. "besides," she said, "i'm engaged to somebody else." as a suffocating man, his lips to the tube of oxygen, gradually comes back to life, derek revived,--slowly as the meaning of her words sank into his mind, then with a sudden abruptness. "what!" he cried. "i'm going to marry somebody else. a man named wally mason." derek swallowed. the chalky look died out of his face, and he flushed hotly. his eyes, half relieved, half indignant, glowed under their pent-house of eyebrow. he sat for a moment in silence. "i think you might have told me before!" he said huffily. jill laughed. "yes, i suppose i ought to have told you before." "leading me on . . . !" jill patted him on the arm. "never mind, derek! it's all over now. and it was great fun, wasn't it!" "fun!" "shall we go and dance? the music is just starting." "i _won't_ dance!" jill got up. "i must," she said. "i'm so happy i can't keep still. well, good-bye, derek, in case i don't see you again. it was nice meeting after all this time. you haven't altered a bit!" derek watched her flit down the aisle, saw her jump up the little ladder onto the stage, watched her vanish into the swirl of the dance. he reached for a cigarette, opened his case, and found it empty. he uttered a mirthless, byronic laugh. the thing seemed to him symbolic. 3. not having a cigarette of his own, derek got up and went to look for the only man he knew who could give him one: and after a search of a few minutes came upon freddie all alone in a dark corner, apart from the throng. it was a very different freddie from the moody youth who had returned to the box after his conversation with uncle chris. he was leaning against a piece of scenery with his head tilted back and a beam of startled happiness on his face. so rapt was he in his reflections that he did not become aware of derek's approach until the latter spoke. "got a cigarette, freddie?" freddie withdrew his gaze from the roof. "hullo, old son! cigarette? certainly and by all means. cigarettes? where are the cigarettes? mr. rooke, forward! show cigarettes." he extended his case to derek, who helped himself in sombre silence, finding his boyhood's friend's exuberance hard to bear. "i say, derek, old scream, the most extraordinary thing has happened! you'll never guess. to cut a long story short and come to the blow-out of the scenario, i'm engaged! engaged, old crumpet! you know what i mean--engaged to be married!" "uh?" said derek gruffly, frowning over his cigarette. "don't wonder you're surprised," said freddie, looking at him a little wistfully, for his friend had scarcely been gushing, and he would have welcomed a bit of enthusiasm. "can hardly believe it myself." derek awoke to a sense of the conventions. "congratulate you," he said. "do i know her?" "not yet, but you soon will. she's a girl in the company,--in the chorus, as a matter of fact. girl named nelly bryant. an absolute corker. i'll go further--a topper. you'll like her, old man." derek was looking at him, amazed. "good heavens!" he said. "extraordinary how these things happen," proceeded freddie. "looking back, i can see, of course, that i always thought her a topper, but the idea of getting engaged--i don't know--sort of thing that doesn't occur to a chappie, if you know what i mean. what i mean to say is, we had always been the greatest of pals and all that, but it never struck me that she would think it much of a wheeze getting hooked up for life with a chap like me. we just sort of drifted along and so forth. all very jolly and what not. and then this evening--i don't know. i had a bit of a hump, what with one thing and another, and she was most dashed sweet and patient and soothing and--and--well, and what not, don't you know, and suddenly--deuced rummy sensation--the jolly old scales seemed to fall, if you follow me, from my good old eyes; i don't know if you get the idea. i suddenly seemed to look myself squarely in the eyeball and say to myself, 'freddie, old top, how do we go? are we not missing a good thing?' and, by jove, thinking it over, i found that i was absolutely correct-o! you've no notion how dashed sympathetic she is, old man! i mean to say, i had this hump, you know, owing to one thing and another, and was feeling that life was more or less of a jolly old snare and delusion, and she bucked me up and all that, and suddenly i found myself kissing her and all that sort of rot, and she was kissing me and so on and so forth, and she's got the most ripping eyes, and there was nobody about, and the long and the short of it was, old boy, that i said, 'let's get married!' and she said, 'when?' and that was that, if you see what i mean. the scheme now is to pop down to the city hall and get a license, which it appears you have to have if you want to bring this sort of binge off with any success and vim, and then what ho for the padre! looking at it from every angle, a bit of a good egg, what! happiest man in the world, and all that sort of thing." at this point in his somewhat incoherent epic freddie paused. it had occurred to him that he had perhaps laid himself open to a charge of monopolizing the conversation. "i say! you'll forgive my dwelling a bit on this thing, won't you? never found a girl who would look twice at me before, and it's rather unsettled the old bean. just occurred to me that i may have been talking about my own affairs a bit. your turn now, old thing. sit down, as the blighters in the novels used to say, and tell me the story of your life. you've seen jill, of course?" "yes," said derek shortly. "and it's all right, eh? fine! we'll make a double wedding of it, what? not a bad idea, that! i mean to say, the man of god might make a reduction for quantity and shade his fee a bit. do the job half price!" derek threw down the end of his cigarette, and crushed it with his heel. a closer observer than freddie would have detected long ere this the fact that his demeanor was not that of a happy and successful wooer. "jill and i are not going to be married," he said. a look of blank astonishment came into freddie's cheerful face. he could hardly believe that he had heard correctly. it is true that, in gloomier mood, he had hazarded the theory to uncle chris that jill's independence might lead her to refuse derek, but he had not really believed in the possibility of such a thing even at the time, and now, in the full flood of optimism consequent on his own engagement, it seemed even more incredible. "great scott!" he cried. "did she give you the raspberry?" it is to be doubted whether the pride of the underhills would have permitted derek to reply in the affirmative, even if freddie had phrased his question differently: but the brutal directness of the query made such a course impossible for him. nothing was dearer to derek than his self-esteem, and, even at the expense of the truth, he was resolved to shield it from injury. to face freddie and confess that any girl in the world had given him, derek underhill, what he coarsely termed the raspberry was a task so revolting as to be utterly beyond his powers. "nothing of the kind!" he snapped. "it was because we both saw that the thing would be impossible. why didn't you tell me that jill was in the chorus of this damned piece?" freddie's mouth slowly opened. he was trying not to realize the meaning of what his friend was saying. his was a faithful soul, and for years--to all intents and purposes for practically the whole of his life--he had looked up to derek and reverenced him. he absolutely refused to believe that derek was intending to convey what he seemed to be trying to convey: for, if he was, well . . . by jove . . . it was too rotten and algy martyn had been right after all and the fellow was simply . . . "you don't mean, old man," said freddie with an almost pleading note in his voice, "that you're going to back out of marrying jill because she's in the chorus?" derek looked away, and scowled. he was finding freddie, in the capacity of inquisitor, as trying as he had found him in the role of exuberant _fiancã©_. it offended his pride to have to make explanations to one whom he had always regarded with a patronizing tolerance as not a bad fellow in his way but in every essential respect negligible. "i have to be sensible," he said, chafing as the indignity of his position intruded itself more and more. "you know what it would mean . . . paragraphs in all the papers . . . photographs . . . the news cabled to england . . . everybody reading it and misunderstanding . . . i've got my career to think of . . . it would cripple me . . ." his voice trailed off, and there was silence for a moment. then freddie burst into speech. his good-natured face was hard with unwonted scorn. its cheerful vacuity had changed to stony contempt. for the second time in the evening the jolly old scales had fallen from freddie's good old eyes, and, as jill had done, he saw derek as he was. "my sainted aunt!" he said slowly. "so that's it, what! well, i've always thought a dashed lot of you, as you know. i've always looked up to you as a bit of a nib and wished i was like you. but, great scott! if that's the sort of a chap you are, i'm deuced glad i'm not! i'm going to wake up in the middle of the night and think how unlike you i am and pat myself on the back! ronny devereux was perfectly right. a tick's a tick, and that's all there is to say about it. good old ronny told me what you were, and, like a silly ass, i wasted a lot of time trying to make him believe you weren't that sort of chap at all. it's no good standing there looking like your mother," said freddie firmly. "this is where we jolly well part brass-rags! if we ever meet again, i'll trouble you not to speak to me, because i've a reputation to keep up! so there you have it in a bally nutshell!" scarcely had freddie ceased to administer it to his former friend in a bally nutshell, when uncle chris, warm and dishevelled from the dance as interpreted by mrs waddesleigh peagrim, came bustling up, saving derek the necessity of replying to the harangue. "well, underhill, my dear fellow," began uncle chris affably, attaching himself to the other's arm, "what . . . ?" he broke off, for derek, freeing his arm with a wrench, turned and walked rapidly away. derek had no desire to go over the whole thing again with uncle chris. he wanted to be alone, to build up, painfully and laboriously, the ruins of his self-esteem. the pride of the underhills had had a bad evening. uncle chris turned to freddie. "what is the matter?" he asked blankly. "i'll tell you what's the jolly old matter!" cried freddie. "the blighter isn't going to marry poor jill after all! he's changed his rotten mind! it's off!" "off?" "absolutely off!" "absolutely off?" "napoo!" said freddie. "he's afraid of what will happen to his blasted career if he marries a girl who's been in the chorus." "but, my dear boy!" uncle chris blinked. "but, my dear boy! this is ridiculous . . . surely, if i were to speak a word . . ." "you can if you like. _i_ wouldn't speak to the cootie again if you paid me! but it won't do any good, so what's the use?" slowly uncle chris adjusted his mind to the disaster. "then you mean . . . ?" "it's off!" said freddie. for a moment uncle chris stood motionless. then, with a sudden jerk, he seemed to stiffen his backbone. his face was bleak, but he pulled at his mustache jauntily. "_morituri te salutant!_" he said. "good-bye, freddie, my boy." he turned away, gallant and upright, the old soldier. "where are you going?" asked freddie. "over the top!" said uncle chris. "what do you mean?" "i am going," said uncle chris steadily, "to find mrs peagrim!" "good god!" cried freddie. he followed him, protesting weakly, but the other gave no sign that he had heard. freddie saw him disappear into the stage-box, and, turning, found jill at his elbow. "where did uncle chris go?" asked jill. "i want to speak to him." "he's in the stage-box, with mrs peagrim." "with mrs peagrim?" "proposing to her," said freddie solemnly. jill stared. "proposing to mrs peagrim? what do you mean?" freddie drew her aside, and began to explain. 4. in the dimness of the stage-box, his eyes a little glassy and a dull despair in his soul, uncle chris was wondering how to begin. in his hot youth he had been rather a devil of a fellow in between dances, a coo-er of soft phrases and a stealer of never very stoutly withheld kisses. he remembered one time in bangalore . . . but that had nothing to do with the case. the point was, how to begin with mrs peagrim. the fact that twenty-five years ago he had crushed in his arms beneath the shadows of the deodars a girl whose name he had forgotten, though he remembered that she had worn a dress of some pink stuff, was immaterial and irrelevant. was he to crush mrs peagrim in his arms? not, thought uncle chris to himself, on a bet. he contented himself for the moment with bending an intense gaze upon her and asking if she was tired. "a little," panted mrs peagrim, who, though she danced often and vigorously, was never in the best of condition, owing to her habit of neutralizing the beneficient effects of exercise by surreptitious candy-eating. "i'm a little out of breath." uncle chris had observed this for himself, and it had not helped him to face his task. lovely woman loses something of her queenly dignity when she puffs. inwardly, he was thinking how exactly his hostess resembled the third from the left of a troupe of performing sea-lions which he had seen some years ago on one of his rare visits to a vaudeville house. "you ought not to tire yourself," he said with a difficult tenderness. "i am so fond of dancing," pleaded mrs peagrim. recovering some of her breath, she gazed at her companion with a sort of short-winded archness. "you are always so sympathetic, major selby." "am i?" said uncle chris. "am i?" "you know you are!" uncle chris swallowed quickly. "i wonder if you have ever wondered," he began, and stopped. he felt that he was not putting it as well as he might. "i wonder if it has ever struck you that there's a reason." he stopped again. he seemed to remember reading something like that in an advertisement in a magazine, and he did not want to talk like an advertisement. "i wonder if it has ever struck you, mrs. peagrim," he began again, "that any sympathy on my part might be due to some deeper emotion which . . . have you never suspected that you have never suspected . . ." uncle chris began to feel that he must brace himself up. usually a man of fluent speech, he was not at his best tonight. he was just about to try again, when he caught his hostess' eye, and the soft gleam in it sent him cowering back into the silence as if he wore taking cover from an enemy's shrapnel. mrs peagrim touched him on the arm. "you were saying . . . ?" she murmured encouragingly. uncle chris shut his eyes. his fingers pressed desperately into the velvet curtain beside him. he felt as he had felt when a raw lieutenant in india, during his first hill-campaign, when the etiquette of the service had compelled him to rise and walk up and down in front of his men under a desultory shower of jezail-bullets. he seemed to hear the damned things _whop-whopping_ now . . . and almost wished that he could really hear them. one or two good bullets just now would be a welcome diversion. "yes?" said mrs peagrim. "have you never felt," babbled uncle chris, "that, feeling as i feel, i might have felt . . . that is to say, might be feeling a feeling . . . ?" there was a tap at the door of the box. uncle chris started violently. jill came in. "oh, i beg your pardon," she said. "i wanted to speak . . ." "you wanted to speak to me?" said uncle chris, bounding up. "certainly, certainly, certainly, of course. if you will excuse me for a moment?" mrs peagrim bowed coldly. the interruption had annoyed her. she had no notion who jill was, and she resented the intrusion at this particular juncture intensely. not so uncle chris, who skipped out into the passage like a young lamb. "am i in time?" asked jill in a whisper. "in time?" "you know what i mean. uncle chris, listen to me! you are not to propose to that awful woman. do you understand?" uncle chris shook his head. "the die is cast!" "the die isn't anything of the sort," said jill. "unless . . . ." she stopped, aghast. "you don't mean that you have done it already?" "well, no. to be perfectly accurate, no. but . . ." "then that's all right. i know why you were doing it, and it was very sweet of you, but you mustn't." "but, jill, you don't understand." "i do understand." "i have a motive . . ." "i know your motive. freddie told me. don't you worry yourself about me, dear, because i am all right. i am going to be married." a look of ecstatic relief came into uncle chris' face. "then underhill . . . ?" "i am not marrying derek. somebody else. i don't think you know him, but i love him, and so will you." she pulled his face down and kissed him. "now you can go back." uncle chris was almost too overcome to speak. he gulped a little. "jill," he said shakily, "this is a . . . this is a great relief." "i knew it would be." "if you are really going to marry a rich man . . ." "i didn't say he was rich." the joy ebbed from uncle chris' face. "if he is not rich, if he cannot give you everything of which i . . ." "oh, don't be absurd! wally has all the money anybody needs. what's money?" "what's money?" uncle chris stared. "money, my dear child, is . . . is . . . well, you mustn't talk of it in that light way. but, if you think you will really have enough . . . ?" "of course we shall. now you can go back. mrs peagrim will be wondering what has become of you." "must i?" said uncle chris doubtfully. "of course. you must be polite." "very well," said uncle chris. "but it will be a little difficult to continue the conversation on what you might call general lines. however!" * * * back in the box, mrs peagrim was fanning herself with manifest impatience. "what did that girl want?" she demanded. uncle chris seated himself with composure. the weakness had passed, and he was himself again. "oh, nothing, nothing. some trivial difficulty, which i was able to dispose of in a few words." mrs peagrim would have liked to continue her researches, but a feeling that it was wiser not to stray too long from the main point restrained her. she bent towards him. "you were going to say something when that girl interrupted us." uncle chris shot his cuffs with a debonair gesture. "was i? was i? to be sure, yes. i was saying that you ought not to let yourself get tired. deuce of a thing, getting tired. plays the dickens with the system." mrs peagrim was disconcerted. the atmosphere seemed to have changed, and she did not like it. she endeavored to restore the tone of the conversation. "you are so sympathetic," she sighed, feeling that she could not do better than to begin again at that point. the remark had produced good results before, and it might do so a second time. "yes," agreed uncle chris cheerily. "you see, i have seen something of all this sort of thing, and i realize the importance of it. i know what all this modern rush and strain of life is for a woman in your position. parties every night . . . dancing . . . a thousand and one calls on the vitality . . . bound to have an effect sooner or later, unless--_unless_," said uncle chris solemnly, "one takes steps. unless one acts in time. i had a friend--" his voice sank--"i had a very dear friend over in london, lady alice--but the name would convey nothing--the point is that she was in exactly the same position as you. on the rush all the time. never stopped. the end was inevitable. she caught cold, hadn't sufficient vitality to throw it off, went to a dance in mid-winter, contracted pneumonia . . ." uncle chris sighed. "all over in three days," he said sadly. "now at that time," he resumed, "i did not know what i know now. if i had heard of nervino then . . ." he shook his head. "it might have saved her life. it would have saved her life. i tell you, mrs peagrim, that there is nothing, there is no lack of vitality which nervino cannot set right. i am no physician myself, i speak as a layman, but it acts on the red corpuscles of the blood . . ." mrs peagrim's face was stony. she had not spoken before, because he had given her no opportunity, but she spoke now in a hard voice. "major selby!" "mrs peagrim?" "i am not interested in patent medicines!" "one can hardly call nervino that," said uncle chris reproachfully. "it is a sovereign specific. you can get it at any drug-store. it comes in two sizes, the dollar-fifty--or large--size, and the . . ." mrs peagrim rose majestically. "major selby, i am tired . . ." "precisely. and, as i say, nervino . . ." "please," said mrs. peagrim coldly, "go to the stage-door and see if you can find my limousine. it should be waiting in the street." "certainly," said uncle chris. "why, certainly, certainly, certainly." he left the box and proceeded across the stage. he walked with a lissom jauntiness. his eye was bright. one or two of those whom he passed on his way had the idea that this fine-looking man was in pain. they fancied that he was moaning. but uncle chris was not moaning. he was humming a gay snatch from the lighter music of the 'nineties. chapter twenty-one 1. up on the roof of his apartment, far above the bustle and clamor of the busy city, wally mason, at eleven o'clock on the morning after mrs peagrim's bohemian party, was greeting the new day, as was his custom, by going through his ante-breakfast exercises. mankind is divided into two classes, those who do setting-up exercises before breakfast and those who know they ought to but don't. to the former and more praiseworthy class wally had belonged since boyhood. life might be vain and the world a void, but still he touched his toes the prescribed number of times and twisted his muscular body about according to the ritual. he did so this morning a little more vigorously than usual, partly because he had sat up too late the night before and thought too much and smoked too much, with the result that he had risen heavy-eyed, at the present disgraceful hour, and partly because he hoped by wearying the flesh to still the restlessness of the spirit. spring generally made wally restless, but never previously had it brought him this distracted feverishness. so he lay on his back and waved his legs in the air, and it was only when he had risen and was about to go still further into the matter that he perceived jill standing beside him. "good lord!!" said wally. "don't stop," said jill. "i'm enjoying it." "how long have you been here?" "oh, i only just arrived. i rang the bell, and the nice old lady who is cooking your lunch told me you were out here." "not lunch. breakfast." "breakfast! at this hour?" "won't you join me?" "i'll join you. but i had my breakfast long ago." wally found his despondency magically dispelled. it was extraordinary how the mere sight of jill could make the world a different place. it was true the sun had been shining before her arrival, but in a flabby, weak-minded way, not with the brilliance it had acquired immediately he heard her voice. "if you don't mind waiting for about three minutes while i have a shower and dress . . ." "oh, is the entertainment over?" asked jill, disappointed. "i always arrive too late for everything." "one of these days you shall see me go through the whole programme, including shadow-boxing and the goose-step. bring your friends! but at the moment i think it would be more of a treat for you to watch me eat an egg. go and look at the view. from over there you can see hoboken." "i've seen it. i don't think much of it." "well, then, on this side we have brooklyn. there is no stint. wander to and fro and enjoy yourself. the rendezvous is in the sitting-room in about four moments." wally vaulted through the passage-window, and disappeared. then he returned and put his head out. "i say!" "yes?" "just occurred to me. your uncle won't be wanting this place for half an hour or so, will he? i mean, there will be time for me to have a bite of breakfast?" "i don't suppose he will require your little home till some time in the evening." "fine!" wally disappeared again, and a few moments later jill heard the faint splashing of water. she walked to the parapet and looked down. on the windows of the nearer buildings the sun cast glittering beams, but further away a faint, translucent mist hid the city. there was spring humidity in the air. in the street she had found it oppressive: but on the breezy summit of this steel-and-granite cliff the air was cool and exhilarating. peace stole into jill's heart as she watched the boats dropping slowly down the east river, which gleamed like dull steel through the haze. she had come to journey's end, and she was happy. trouble and heart-ache seemed as distant as those hurrying black ants down on the streets. she felt far away from the world on an enduring mountain of rest. she gave a little sigh of contentment, and turned to go in as wally called. in the sitting-room her feeling of security deepened. here, the world was farther away than ever. even the faint noises which had risen to the roof were inaudible, and only the cosy tick-tock of the grandfather's clock punctuated the stillness. she looked at wally with a quickening sense of affection. he had the divine gift of silence at the right time. yes, this was home. this was where she belonged. "it didn't take me in, you know," said jill at length, resting her arms on the table and regarding him severely. wally looked up. "what didn't take you in?" "that bath of yours. yes, i know you turned on the cold shower, but you stood at a safe distance and watched it _show!_" wally waved his fork. "as heaven is my witness. . . . look at my hair! still damp! and i can show you the towel." "well, then, i'll bet it was the hot water. why weren't you at mrs peagrim's party last night?" "it would take too long to explain all my reasons, but one of them was that i wasn't invited. how did it go off?" "splendidly. freddie's engaged!" wally lowered his coffee cup. "engaged! you don't mean what is sometimes slangily called bethrothed?" "i do. he's engaged to nelly bryant. nelly told me all about it when she got home last night. it seems that freddie said to her 'what ho!' and she said 'you bet!' and freddie said 'pip pip!' and the thing was settled." jill bubbled. "freddie wants to go into vaudeville with her!" "no! the juggling rookes? or rooke and bryant, the cross-talk team, a thoroughly refined act, swell dressers on and off?" "i don't know. but it doesn't matter. nelly is domestic. she's going to have a little home in the country, where she can grow chickens and pigs." "'father's in the pigstye, you can tell him by his hat,' eh?" "yes. they will be very happy. freddie will be a father to her parrot." wally's cheerfulness diminished a trifle. the contemplation of freddie's enviable lot brought with it the inevitable contrast with his own. a little home in the country . . . oh, well! 2. there was a pause. jill was looking a little grave. "wally!" "yes?" she turned her face away, for there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes which she did not wish him to observe. "derek was at the party!" wally had been about to butter a piece of toast. the butter, jerked from the knife by the convulsive start which he gave, popped up in a semi-circle and plumped onto the tablecloth. he recovered himself quickly. "sorry!" he said. "you mustn't mind that. they want me to be second-string for the 'boosting the butter' event at the next olympic games, and i'm practising all the time. . . . underhill was there, eh?" "yes." "you met him?" "yes." derek fiddled with his knife. "did he come over . . . i mean . . . had he come specially to see you?" "yes." "i see." there was another pause. "he wants to marry you?" "he said he wanted to marry me." wally got up and went to the window. jill could smile safely now, and she did, but her voice was still grave. "what ought i to do, wally? i thought i would ask you, as you are such a friend." wally spoke without turning. "you ought to marry him, of course." "you think so?" "you ought to marry him, of course," said wally doggedly. "you love him, and the fact that he came all the way to america must mean that he still loves you. marry him!" "but . . ." jill hesitated. "you see, there's a difficulty." "what difficulty?" "well . . . it was something i said to him just before he went away. i said something that made it a little difficult." wally continued to inspect the roofs below. "what did you say?" "well . . . it was something . . . something that i don't believe he liked . . . something that may interfere with his marrying me." "what did you say?" "i told him i was going to marry _you!_" wally spun round. at the same time he leaped in the air. the effect of the combination of movements was to cause him to stagger across the room and, after two or three impromptu dance steps which would have interested mrs peagrim, to clutch at the mantelpiece to save himself from falling. jill watched him with quiet approval. "why, that's wonderful, wally! is that another of your morning exercises? if freddie does go into vaudeville, you ought to get him to let you join the troupe." wally was blinking at her from the mantelpiece. "jill!" "yes?" "what--what--what . . . !" "now, don't talk like freddie, even if you are going into vaudeville with him." "you said you were going to marry me?" "i said i was going to marry you!" "but--do you mean . . . ?" the mischief died out of jill's eyes. she met his gaze frankly and seriously. "the lumber's gone, wally," she said. "but my heart isn't empty. it's quite, quite full, and it's going to be full for ever and ever and ever." wally left the mantelpiece, and came slowly towards her. "jill!" he choked. "jill!" suddenly he pounced on her and swung her off her feet. she gave a little breathless cry. "wally! i thought you didn't approve of cavemen!" "this," said wally, "is just another new morning exercise i've thought of!" jill sat down, gasping. "are you going to do that often, wally?" "every day for the rest of my life!" "goodness!" "oh, you'll get used to it. it'll grow on you." "you don't think i am making a mistake marrying you?" "no, no! i've given the matter a lot of thought, and . . . in fact, no, no!" "no," said jill thoughtfully. "i think you'll make a good husband. i mean, suppose we ever want the piano moved or something . . . wally!" she broke off suddenly. "you have our ear." "come out on the roof," said jill. "i want to show you something funny." wally followed her out. they stood at the parapet together, looking down. "there!" said jill, pointing. wally looked puzzled. "i see many things, but which is the funny one?" "why, all those people. over there--and there--and there. scuttering about and thinking they know everything there is to know, and not one of them has the least idea that i am the happiest girl on earth!" "or that i'm the happiest man! their ignorance is--what is the word i want? abysmal. they don't know what it's like to stand beside you and see that little dimple in your chin. . . . they don't know you've _got_ a little dimple in your chin. . . . they don't know. . . . they don't know . . . why, i don't suppose a single one of them even knows that i'm just going to kiss you!" "those girls in that window over there do," said jill. "they are watching us like hawks." "let 'em!" said wally briefly. the end transcriber's note: while i left several variant spellings such as vodevil and bethrothed, i did correct the following: fixed: course/coarse in yet somehow this course, rough person in front of him never seemed to allow him a word fixed: awfuly/awfully in: he's awfuly good to girls who've worked in shows for him before. fixed: pullfan/pullman those pullfan porters on parade!" fixed: a large typo in the print edition, which originally read: "yes. i've got the most damned attack of indigestion." derek should recline in the arm-chair which he had vacated; dinner!" 