heart brought the farmer’s head forward, a left uppercut under the jaw
laid him out.  For a while the spectators watched him moaning on the
ground, while the Church wriggled ecstatically under its sheltering
bush.

"Had enough, you swine?" asked the boy, quietly.

The prostrate figure mumbled something.

"Get up and swear to me that you will never again lay a trap in that
part of your land.  Get a move on!" he snarled.

"All right."  The farmer shambled to his feet, watching him sullenly.
"I swear."

"Now go down on your knees and apologize for calling me a jail-bird.
Hurry up, you filthy scum!  On your knees, I said."

And as young Parker went on his knees, according to order, the girl, her
eyes shining like stars, clapped her hands softly together.

"Quick!" said the Celebrated Actor, authoritatively. "Back to the house,
you people.  The play is over and my estimate of the receipts is, I
think, correct."

Stealthily as it had come, the procession moved back to the house.  At
intervals, the Eminent Divine was observed to jolt with his right,
following it up with a slashing left upper-cut into space, what time he
chuckled consumedly.  And even a slight error as to distance, which
caused him far more pain than the tree which he unfortunately smote,
failed to damp his spirits. The Soldier walked with a spring in his
step, the Actor hummed gently under his breath, and it was only as they
reached the open window of the dining-room that they realized that the
girl had slipped away in the darkness and was not with them.

"Where is Beryl?" said the General, pausing on the path.

"Heaven help the man!" fumed the Actor, addressing space.  "His past
career, we understand, is comparatively distinguished from a military
point of view.  But"—and he turned accusingly to the Soldier—"you must
have driven every woman you ever met completely off her chump."

"Chump," chuckled the Bishop, feinting with his right and gently
upper-cutting the Celebrated Actor’s celebrated chin.  "What is chump,
you old sinner?"

But the Well-known Soldier only smiled—a trifle sadly.  "She’s all I’ve
got, old chap, and her happiness is mine."

"She is happy now," remarked the Actor, quietly.  "The boy’s all right."

For a while the three men were silent, each busy with his own thoughts.
And then over the General’s face a grin began to spread.

"Tell me, you charmer of foolish women," he demanded, "how did you
manage it?"

"Your vulgar gibe leaves me unmoved," returned the Actor, calmly.
"To-night is merely a proof of how brains and imagination control every
situation.  I hope you both appreciate my inference."

"Go on," chuckled the General.  "The Church and the Army hide their
diminished heads."

"What better destroyer of apathy is there than scrapping with someone,
whom in less civilized and more primitive days one would have killed? I
followed him.  I suggested it to him—I even went so far as to assist him
in his search for a suitable spot on which to do it.  And then"—he
paused magnificently—"I drew the badger.  I bolted the fox.  I extracted
young Parker."

"How?" murmured the Church.

"I hit him first on the head with an over-ripe pear, which I threw
through the window.  A wonderful shot—not once in a hundred times would
I do it again.  And as he jumped up from the table where he was sitting,
I spoke to him from my heart."

"Yes," grinned the Soldier.  "And what did you say?"

"I said, ’You dirty louse—you maimer of little dogs—come out and fight,
unless you’re a coward as well as a swine.’  Then," murmured the Actor,
"I ran as fast as I could, for fear he might mistake his opponent and
start on me."

For a space there was silence, while the Army and the Church shook
hopelessly, and the Stage impressively lit a cigar.  And it was as he
deposited the match in an ash-tray on the table that he saw the piece of
paper lying in front of him.  He read what was written on it, and then
he turned slowly and looked at the other two.

"So that’s what he was doing under the yew tree," he said, softly.
"Dear lad!  Why, yes, he’s a dear lad."

"Of course he is," returned the Soldier, gruffly. "What the devil did
you think?"

It was under the yew tree that the boy and the girl met.  She was
kneeling there, her frock gleaming white in the moonlight as Hugh came
through the trees, and for a time he watched her without speaking.  Two
and a half years—more—since he had seen her, and now it seemed to him
that she was more lovely than ever.  His eyes took in every detail of
her, as she bent forward and laid both her hands on the little grave,
and, suddenly, with a great wave of wonder, he realized that all the
bitterness had gone from his soul. The past was blotted out—sponged from
the slate; he was alive again, and the present—why, the present held out
beckoning hands of welcome.

"Beryl," he whispered very low, but not so low that she failed to hear
him.

"Why, Hugh, dear," she answered.  "I was afraid you’d go away without
seeing me."

"I should, if—Tommy had been alive."

He knelt beside her, and together they rearranged two or three of the
stones.

"I put a bit of paper here," he said, after a moment.

"I found it," she answered.  "That’s how I knew you were here—first.
Oh!  Hugh"—almost unconsciously she found herself in his arms—"poor
little chap!  And I’d been telling him all last week he’d be seeing you
soon."

"You darling!"  The boy’s voice was husky. "He knows—Tommy knows."

And so for a while they clung together, while the scent of the summer
flowers drifting idly by mingled with the scent of her hair.

"If he’d been here, Beryl, I was going to take him," he said, at last.
"I was bitter—dear heavens! but I was bitter.  I felt I didn’t even want
to see you.  We were going hunting together—just he and I—out in the
wilds."

"And now, boy," whispered the girl, "are you bitter any more?"

"No," he answered, wonderingly.  "I’m not. Because, Beryl, because I’ve
thrashed that swine who killed him.  Something seemed to snap in me as
he went down and out, and I was conscious of a sort of marvellous
happiness."

"I know," she said, laughing a little and crying a little, as a girl
will do.  "I know, dear boy.  I saw you do it."

"You saw me thrash him!" he said, amazed. "But how?  I don’t
understand."

"We all did!" she cried: "Uncle Jim and the Bishop and Mr. Trayne and
me.  Mr. Trayne came back and told us to come."

"I see," said the boy, slowly.  "I see.  I think I’ll go and thank Mr.
Trayne."

But there are other things in this world more important even than a debt
of gratitude to the most celebrated of Actors, and half an hour later
the boy and the girl were still pacing slowly up and down the lawn.
There were so many things to be discussed—so many glorious plans to be
made for the future—the future out of which the blackness had vanished
so completely.  And it was with almost a feeling of reproach that the
girl suddenly turned to him.

"Why, boy!" she cried, "we’ve forgotten Tommy."

"Tommy!" he said.  "Why, so we have."  He stared at her for a while, and
there was a little quizzical smile on his lips.  "It’s funny, isn’t it?"
he went on slowly, "that the greatest thing the little chap has ever
done for me he has done by his death."  He took her in his arms and held
her very close.  "If he’d lived, it might have all come right—in time;
but now——"

And Hugh Dawnay finished his sentence in the only way such sentences can
be finished.

"Come in, you two youngsters."

The General’s voice came cheerfully from the dining-room, and arm-in-arm
they walked towards the open window.

Half-way there they paused, and instinctively their eyes turned towards
the old yew tree.

"Why, there he is, boy," breathed the girl. "Don’t you see him, and the
black mark on his neck and his tail wagging?"

"It’s the shadows, darling," answered the boy. "The moonlight through
the trees."

Maybe, maybe.  Who knows?

Gently he led her on, and she passed into the room ahead of him.  And
from the path outside there rose once again into the soft summer night
the farewell message of a friend to a friend:

"Good hunting, old chap."

              _*IX — The Man with his Hand in his Pocket*_

                                  *I*

"I’ll take one card."

With the expressionless face of the born gambler, the man glanced at his
draw, and laid the five cards face downwards on the table in front of
him.  Not a muscle twitched as he leaned back in his chair, his right
hand thrust deep in his trouser-pocket.  So had he played all through
the evening, losing with steady persistence and losing highly: losing,
in fact, as only a man can lose who is holding good cards at poker when
somebody else is holding a little better. And now he had drawn one card
to three of a kind, and it had come off.  There were four eights in the
hand in front of him, and they had made their appearance just in time.
For Billy Merton knew only too well that the chips by his side
represented everything that was left out of a matter of twenty thousand
pounds.  The play was high at the Ultima Thule Club in Bond Street.

A fat man opposite him had also taken one card, and Merton’s keen eye
noticed the twitching of his fingers as he laid his cards down.  A bad
gambler, but having a run of the most infernal luck, this fat fellow.
So much the better: he’d probably got a straight at least—possibly a
full house.  Fours could be ruled out: the fat man was the type who
would always discard two if he held three of a kind.

They were playing without a limit, and at length Billy Merton leaned
across the table.

"My chips are finished, I’m afraid," he remarked, with a faint drawl.
"Will you take paper till the end of the hand?"

"Certainly," said the fat man, in a voice which shook a little.

"Good!"  With his left hand Merton scrawled an IOU, quite regardless of
the spectators who had collected at the rumour of big play which flies
round with such mysterious rapidity. He might have been playing
halfpenny nap for all the interest he apparently took in the game.

The fat man saw him at five thousand pounds—which was just four thousand
more than Billy Merton possessed in the world.  And the fat man laid
down a straight flush.

"You’re lucky, sir," said Merton, with a genial smile, lighting a
cigarette with a perfectly steady hand.  "I’ll just cash a cheque and
get you the chips."

A faint murmur of admiration passed round the onlookers: this
clean-shaven, steady-eyed man with the whimsical smile was a gambler
after their own hearts.  Then in a couple of minutes he was forgotten:
players at the Ultima Thule are, in the main, a selfish brand of
individual. Possibly had they suspected the utter hopelessness seething
behind the impassive face of the man who stood by the buffet eating a
caviare sandwich and drinking a glass of champagne, they might not have
forgotten him so quickly.  But they did not suspect: Billy Merton saw to
that.  It was only as he turned to help himself to another sandwich that
a look of despair came into his eyes.  No one could see: the mask could
slip for a moment.  Ahead lay ruin and disgrace. The cheque could not be
met next morning: there was no human possibility of raising the money in
the time.  And to the descendant of a long race of gamblers there was
something peculiarly abhorrent in failing over a debt of honour.

"Bad luck—that last hand of yours, sir."  A thick-set, middle-aged man
beside him was making a careful study of the various edibles. "Just came
up in time to see the show-down."

"I have known the cards run better," answered Merton, curtly.

"I can see that you’re a born gambler," continued the man, "and being
one myself—though not in this particular line—one has, if one may say
so, a sort of fellow-feeling."  He was munching a sandwich and staring
round the room as he spoke.  "The nerve, sir—the nerve required to stake
everything on the turn of a card—on the rise or fall of a market—by
Heaven, it’s the only thing in life!"

Almost against his will—for he was in no mood for talking—Billy Merton
smiled.

"Your game is the Stock Exchange, is it?"

"It is, sir—and there’s no game like it in the world.  Even when ruin
stares you in the face, you’ve still got till next settling day.  You’ve
still got a chance."

"I wish the same thing applied here," said Merton, with a hard laugh.

"As bad as that, is it?" remarked the other, sympathetically.  "Never
mind: the luck will change.  I guess there have been times when I’ve
felt like stealing or forging or doing any other blamed thing under the
sun to put my hand on some ready money."

Merton smiled mirthlessly, and said nothing. The point of view coincided
rather too unpleasantly with his own.

"And mark you, sir," continued the stranger, dogmatically.  "I’ve got a
greater respect for a man who wins through, by fair means if
possible—but, if not, by foul—than for the weakling who goes down and
out.  The first, at any rate, is a _man_."

Again Merton smiled.  "Leaving out the ethical side of your contention,
sir," he remarked, "there are one or two small practical difficulties
that occur to one’s mind.  It is sometimes as difficult to find the foul
means as it is to find the fair. Burglary and forging rank high amongst
the arts, I believe, which are not taught at most of the public
schools."

The other man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.  "Of course you
mustn’t take me too literally.  But"—he thumped an enormous fist into
the open palm of his other hand—"there’s always a way, sir, if you’ve
got the nerve to take it.  Nerve: that’s the only thing that counts in
this world.  Without it—why, you can go and grow tomatoes in the
country!  Nerve, and the capability of seizing the right moment.  With
those two assets you come to the top and you stay there."  For a moment
or two he stared fixedly at the half-averted face of the younger man;
then he gave a jovial laugh. "Anyway—if you start to recoup your
fortunes with journalism—you needn’t give those as the opinions of Paul
Harker.  Not that they aren’t pretty widely known, but in this world one
must pretend."

Merton glanced at the speaker.  So this was the celebrated Paul Harker,
was it?  What the devil was it he’d overheard at the club that afternoon
about him?  Not knowing him, at the time it had made no impression; now
he recalled it hazily. Something to do with a woman.  He frowned
slightly as he tried to remember; then he gave a short laugh.  What on
earth did it matter? What did anything matter except that cursed cheque?

"Well, I’ll say good-night, Mr. Harker."  He put down his empty glass.
"It would take a mighty big journalistic scoop to put me straight—bigger
even than your ideas on life."

"Which way are you going?"

"Half-Moon Street.  I’ve got rooms there."

"I’ll stroll with you.  The atmosphere of this place is fierce."

In silence the two men got their coats and strolled into Bond Street.
The theatres were just over, and a stream of cars were pouring westward
with their loads of well-dressed, wealthy occupants.  Life—life in
London—for people with money!  With a cynical smile Billy Merton lit a
cigarette.  It was what he had promised himself after years in the
wilds.

He barely heard his companion’s occasional remarks: it was just as they
turned into Half-Moon Street that it struck Billy that Paul Harker had
made some suggestion and was waiting for an answer.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Harker," he said, apologetically, "but I’m
afraid my mind was wandering.  You were saying——"

"I was suggesting that if you’ve got nothing better to do you should
come to my house in Curzon Street.  My wife has a spiritualistic séance
on.  Starts at midnight.  Come in and see the fun."

For a moment Billy hesitated.  After all, why not?  Anything was better
than a solitary contemplation of his own confounded foolishness.

"It’s very good of you——" he began, but the other cut him short.

"Not at all.  Only too pleased you can manage it."

"But won’t your wife——  I mean, I’m a complete stranger."  He paused
doubtfully by the door of his rooms.

"My wife won’t mind," answered Paul Harker, taking him by the arm.  "Do
you good, my dear fellow.  Take your mind off."

It was really deuced good of this fellow Harker. Sympathy of a gambler
for a gambler sort of idea. He could only hope that Mrs. Harker would
see eye to eye with her husband.

"Here is the house, Mr. Merton.  Come in."  With a smile of welcome Paul
Harker stood aside to let the younger man pass.

"I didn’t know you knew my name, Mr. Harker," said Billy Merton, as a
footman relieved him of his coat.

"I asked who you were at the Ultima Thule. Come on up and meet my wife."
Then, in a hoarse undertone just before they reached the room, he turned
to Merton.  "I don’t know whether you believe in this stuff; but, for
Heaven’s sake, pretend to."

He gave a heavy wink, and Billy smiled. Undoubtedly Paul Harker was
quite a pleasant fellow.

                                  *II*

There were six women in the room when they entered and one somewhat
anæmic-looking man.

"Hope I’m not late, my dear," said Paul Harker, breezily, to a pale,
delicate-looking woman who rose to meet them.  "I’ve brought a friend
who is interested in these things. Mr. Merton—my wife."

Billy Merton bowed, and took a chair beside her.

"We hope for some very interesting results to-night, Mr. Merton," she
remarked.  "Professor Granger feels confident of getting a tangible
materialization."

"Indeed!"

Mindful of his host’s injunction, he nodded portentously.  His ideas on
what a tangible materialization was were of the vaguest: if it was
anything like Professor Granger, he inwardly trusted the experiment
would fail.

For a few minutes they continued to talk generalities: then Mrs. Harker
rose and crossed to the Professor, leaving Merton to his own devices.
With some interest he glanced round the room. Heavy black curtains hung
over the windows and the door.  The furniture was reduced to a minimum,
the whole of the centre of the floor being empty.  Around the walls were
ranged easy chairs draped in some dark material: the carpet, thick and
luxurious, was dark also. In fact, the whole room was sombre—sombre and
silent.

Curiously he glanced at his companions.  In one corner four of the women
were talking in low, restrained tones, evidently impressed with the
solemnity of the occasion, and involuntarily Merton smiled.  They seemed
so very earnest—and so very dull.  Then he looked at the other woman who
was standing by Paul Harker.  She seemed of a different type—very far
from being dull.  Tall and perfectly proportioned, she was dressed in
black, and as his eyes rested idly on the pair it struck him that his
host found her far from dull also.  And at that moment they both turned
and looked at him.

It was the first time he had seen the woman’s face, and he found himself
staring foolishly at her.  She was one of the most beautiful things he
had ever seen—beautiful in a sensuous Eastern fashion—and Billy Merton
suddenly realized that he was gaping at her like a callow schoolboy.
Abruptly he looked away, annoyed with himself at his gaucherie, to find
that he was not the only person who was interested in the lady.  For his
hostess, though ostensibly speaking to the Professor, was watching her
husband’s companion with a look on her face which left no doubt as to
her feelings on the subject.

"So that’s how the land lies, is it?" thought Merton; and the remark he
had overheard at the club came back to him.  He knew there had been a
woman in it.

"Iris, I want you to meet Mr. Merton."  His host’s voice made him look
up quickly.  "Let me introduce you to Miss Sala."

Merton rose and bowed: on the instant the remark had returned to his
memory.

"There will be a crash soon," a man had said, "with Harker and that Sala
girl."

And now he was talking to the Sala girl, and deciding that if she was
beautiful at a distance she was ten times more beautiful close to.

"No," he found himself saying, "I’ve not done much of this sort of thing
in England, though I’ve seen a good deal of what the African native
calls _ju-ju_."

"And it interests you?"  Her voice was deep and very sweet.

"Very much," said Merton.  "I’m most curious to see what is going to
happen to-night."

For a moment the smile seemed to ripple over the surface of her eyes:
then once more they were inscrutable.

"It’s rather exciting if it comes off," she remarked, thoughtfully.
"Everything is pitch-dark, of course, and then you hear signs and
groans, and sometimes a hand comes out and touches you."

"But do you really believe——" began Merton, incredulously.

"I don’t believe—I know," said the girl, calmly.  "Why, at one séance I
attended a jade necklace I was wearing was wrenched off my neck. The
fastening was broken, and all the beads rolled about the floor.  And
everyone had been bound in their chairs, Mr. Merton, before we started."

Billy nodded discreetly; it occurred to him that he had heard stories
like that before.

"You hear something moving round the room," she continued, "something
you know was not there at the beginning—and won’t be there at the end.
And sometimes it bumps against you, and then it goes on floundering and
moving about the room.  It sounds like a sack of potatoes being dragged
about at times, and then it changes and you hear soft footfalls."

Again Billy nodded: he was prepared to listen indefinitely to this sort
of stuff when the speaker was Iris Sala.

"It sounds more than rather exciting," he said, with a grin.  "Let’s
hope we get the jolly old flounderer to-night."

For the moment his own trouble was forgotten: he was only conscious of a
pleasurable sense of excitement.  Not that he really believed in what
the girl had said, any more than the average normal person believes in a
haunted house.  But even the most pronounced sceptic is conscious of a
little thrill when he turns out the light in the bedroom which is
popularly reputed to be the family ghost’s special hunting-ground.

"I think it’s very foolish of Mrs. Harker to wear those lovely pearls of
hers."  The girl was speaking again, and Merton glanced at his hostess.
He had not remarked them specially before, but now he noticed that Mrs.
Harker had three long ropes of large beautifully matched pearls round
her neck.  "My jade beads didn’t matter very much—though I lost half a
dozen at least. But with those pearls—why, she might mislay a dozen if
the rope was broken, and be none the wiser."

A jovial chuckle made Merton look up.  Paul Harker was standing behind
them, and he had evidently heard the girl’s remark.

"I’m a Philistine, Iris.  Forgive me.  I don’t somehow anticipate much
danger to Rose’s pearls."

"You’re wrong, Mr. Harker," she said, gravely. "You’ve never seen a
tangible materialization. I have—and I know."

"Anyway," he laughed, "there’s no use attempting to ask her to take them
off, because she won’t.  And incidentally it looks to me as if the
worthy Professor was going to get busy. There’s a wild look in his eye."

"Will you take your seats, please, ladies and gentlemen?  The two
gentlemen on opposite sides of the room.  I thank you."  In a mournful
way he contemplated the circle from the centre of the floor.  "I would
point out to all of you," he continued, "that our experiment to-night is
a difficult one, entailing the highest form of will-co-operation and
mental effort.  If we are successful, I can tell no more than you what
form this materialization will take.  But I must entreat of you to
concentrate with all your power on the one main salient fact of
producing a tangible thing: and I must beg you most earnestly not, under
any circumstances, to speak while the experiment is in progress.  We
will now put out the lights."

And the last thing Billy Merton was conscious of before the lights went
out were Iris Sala’s grey-green eyes fixed on him with an inscrutable
baffling look in them.  Even in the darkness he seemed to see them:
languorous, mocking, a little cynical.  And there was something
else—some other emotion which eluded him for the moment. It wasn’t
sorrow, though it seemed akin to sorrow; it was—yes, it was pity.  He
moved slightly in his chair, and nodded his head in the darkness.
Pity—that was the other message in those wonderful eyes: and the thought
brought him back to the reality of his own position.

Paul Harker must have told her, of course: told her that he’d been
losing heavily, and she was sorry for him.  Even to a millionaire like
Harker five thousand pounds on a single hand of poker would seem fairly
heavy; and to him——  He gave a mirthless little laugh, which called
forth an instant rebuke from the Professor.

"Perfect silence, please."

Billy Merton lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.  His brain was
racing with the feverish activity of a worried man.  If it had been
anything else—anything but a gambling debt.  Thank God! his father was
dead, and would never know the disgrace of it; but there were quite a
number of relations.  They’d soon find out; things of that sort can’t be
kept dark.  What a fool, what a damnable fool he’d been!

And it was at that moment that there came a soft bump on the floor, and
he heard the woman in the next chair to him draw in her breath sharply.

For a while he stared rigidly into the darkness; then, with a slight
frown, he let his body relax. He was in no mood for entertainments of
this type: he wished now that he hadn’t come.  And yet it had been very
decent of Harker suggesting it—very decent.  Was there a possibility, he
wondered—if he made a clean breast of the whole thing to his host—was
there a possibility of his lending four thousand?  It seemed the only
hope, the bare chance of salvation.  He’d ask him after this cursed
séance was over.  The worst that could happen would be a refusal.  And
supposing he didn’t refuse?  Supposing——  Billy drew in a deep breath at
the mere thought.

Thump! thump!  Perfectly clear and audible the sounds came from the
centre of the room, bringing him back to the present, and he felt the
back of his scalp begin to tingle.  Of course, it was a trick; and yet
he didn’t somehow associate the Professor with a vulgar fraud.  He had
struck him as a well-meaning, conscientious man, who was badly in need
of exercise and an outdoor life.  Probably dyspeptic.

And if so—if it wasn’t a trick—what was it that was now dragging itself
about?

"Like a sack of potatoes."  Iris Sala’s words came back to him as he sat
there motionless.

Suddenly he heard the Professor’s voice, trembling a little with
excitement:

"Who are you!  Speak!"

The noise ceased at once; only a long-drawn shuddering sigh came out of
the darkness.  Then after a minute or two the uncanny dragging noise
commenced again: bump—slither—bump.  He tried to locate it, but it
seemed everywhere.  At one moment it was close by, at another it sounded
as if it was at the other side of the room.

It was devilish, it was horrible.  He put a hand to his forehead; it was
wet with sweat.  He felt an insane desire to get up from his chair and
rush from the room: the only trouble was that he had forgotten the exact
location of the door. Besides, he might bump into the Thing on the way.

A frightened cry rang out, and Billy Merton half-rose in his chair.  It
was a woman’s cry: probably the Thing had touched her.  The bumping had
ceased, he noticed: another noise had taken its place—a slight gurgling
sound, accompanied by a quick beating on the floor, as if someone was
drumming with their feet on the carpet. And after a while that ceased
also.  Silence, absolute and complete, reigned in the room for ten
minutes or a quarter of an hour.  The Thing had gone.

At length the Professor spoke.

"Are you still there?"  There was no sound in answer.  "Manifest
yourself now if you are; otherwise the light will be turned up."

Still there was no sound, though the Professor waited a full minute
before speaking again.

"Will you, please, turn up the light, Mr. Harker?"

"Certainly."  Paul Harker’s cheerful voice came from the other side of
the room, as he rose to comply with the request.  For a moment or two he
fumbled with the switch; then the room was once more flooded with light.

"A most satisfactory manifestation," began the Professor, only to stop
with a look of dawning horror on his face.  Scattered around Mrs.
Harker’s chair were scores of wonderful pearls.  Sprawling over the arm
of the chair was the unfortunate woman herself.

For a moment there was a stunned silence in the room; then with a cry
Paul Harker sprang forward.

"She’s fainted.  I’ll get brandy."

He dashed from the room, as two of the women, reassured by the words,
went over to Mrs. Harker.

"I knew it was risky wearing those pearls," whispered Iris Sala in
Billy’s ear, but he hardly heard what she said.  He was staring at the
limp form of Iris hostess through narrowed lids, and suddenly he turned
to the girl beside him.

"It’s a doctor that’s wanted, not brandy," he said, abruptly.  "Where’s
the telephone?"

"In the hall," answered the girl.

He ran downstairs, passing Paul Harker on the way.  For what seemed an
eternity he stood by the instrument before he could get through. Then he
returned to the room above.

"A doctor’s coming at once," he announced breathlessly, and then he
stopped dead—just inside the door.

Muddled together in a group at the end of the room were all the
women—all save Iris Sala.  She was standing by Mrs. Harker’s chair, with
Paul Harker on the other side.

"There is no need for a doctor, Mr. Merton," said Harker, in a terrible
voice.  "My wife is dead.  And my wife has been murdered!"

"Murdered!" gasped Billy, mechanically.

"Murdered," repeated Harker.  "Come and see."

Dazedly Billy walked towards him, to stop and stare foolishly at the
woman in the chair.  For they had propped her up and laid her head back,
and on her throat distinct and clear were the marks of a hand.  The four
fingers on one side, the thumb on the other, showed up red and angry in
the bright light.

"She had a weak heart, Mr. Merton," continued Paul Harker, slowly.  "Any
sudden shock, such as a hand grasping her throat"—his voice shook a
little—"would have been liable to kill her.  And a hand _did_ grasp her
throat: the hand that tore off her pearls."

"My God!" muttered Billy.  "It’s ghastly—ghastly! Then that thing we
heard must have—must have——"

"Must have murdered my wife, Mr. Merton. The question is—what was it we
heard?  I fear we shall find it difficult to persuade the police on the
matter of a tangible materialization.  They deal in more mundane
causes."

And at that moment Billy Merton understood. The relentless voice of the
man, the strange look in the grey-green eyes of the girl—it seemed to be
triumph now—cleared away the fog from his brain, leaving it ice-cold.
He was a man who suddenly sees a flaring notice DANGER, and realizes
that there is peril ahead, though he knows not its exact form.  And with
men of the Merton stamp it is best to be careful at such moments.

"I see," he answered, slowly.  "You mean that, regarded from the police
point of view, the supposition will be that one of the people who were
present during the séance tore the pearls from your wife’s neck, and in
doing so murdered her."

"Regarded from every point of view," corrected Paul Harker, harshly.

"Then under those circumstances," said Merton, grimly, "the police must
be sent for at once."

With his hands in his pockets he was staring at Paul Harker, while from
the other end of the room came an occasional sob from some overwrought
woman.

The whole thing was like some horrible nightmare—bizarre, unreal—and the
sudden arrival of the doctor came as a relief to everyone.

Quickly he made his examination.  Then he stood up.

"How did that happen?" he asked, gravely, staring at the marks on the
dead woman’s throat.

"That man did it!" roared Harker, unable to contain himself longer and
pointing an accusing finger at Merton.  "You vile scoundrel! you
blackguard! you—you——"

"Steady, Mr. Harker!" cried the doctor, sharply.  "Am I to understand,
sir, that you did this?"  He turned in amazement to Merton.

"You are not," said Billy, evenly.  "It’s a damnable lie."

"I don’t understand," remarked the doctor. "Will somebody kindly
explain?"

It was Iris Sala who answered, and as she spoke the feeling that he was
dreaming grew stronger in Billy Merton.

"We were having a séance, Doctor," she began, in her deep rich voice,
"trying to get a tangible materialization.  The room, of course, was in
pitch-darkness, and after it was over and the lights were turned up we
found that Mrs. Harker was—dead!"

Her voice faltered, and Harker lifted a grief-stricken face from beside
his wife’s chair.

"But what happened during the séance?" asked the doctor.

"We heard something moving about.  A thing that bumped and slithered
over the carpet."

"Pshaw!" snapped the doctor.  "What I don’t understand is why this
gentleman should be accused of it."

"Because," cried Harker, getting up, "he’s in desperate want of money.
Look at this!"  He fumbled in his pocket, and to Billy’s amazement
produced the cheque for four thousand he had written at the Ultima
Thule.  "I took this cheque to-night in exchange for one of my
own—because I liked the look of you.  Yes—you wicked villain—I liked the
look of you; and I meant to do something for you.  I brought him here,
never dreaming—never thinking——"  His voice broke again.  "He saw my
wife’s pearls: was actually talking about them just before the séance
started—and then when the light went out he must have snatched them off
her neck.  And in doing so you killed her.  And to think I actually
heard you doing the vile deed!"

"You deny this?" asked the doctor.

"Absolutely," returned Billy, grimly.

"I feel that it is partly my fault," said the girl, in a broken voice.
"I never dreamed, of course, that this man was in want of money.  And I
told him a foolish story about how some jade beads I once had were
snatched from my neck during a séance like this—by the thing that came.
Of course—it wasn’t true.  It was a joke.  But I told it just to
frighten him.  And I suppose he believed it, and thought he would do the
same."  She buried her face in her hands.

"Well, are any of the pearls missing?  If so, where are they?"  The
doctor’s question brought Paul Harker to his feet.

"I don’t even know how many my dear wife had!" he cried.

"The point seems immaterial," said Billy, quietly.  "Since I seem to be
the object of suspicion, I should be obliged if you would search me,
Doctor."

With a shrug of his shoulders the doctor complied. Methodically he ran
through every pocket; than he turned to Paul Harker.

"There are no pearls on this gentleman," he said, curtly.

"Ah, but he left the room.  He left the room to telephone for you.  He
might have put them in his overcoat."

"Then we’ll send for the overcoat," remarked the doctor, ringing the
bell.  "With your permission, that is, sir."  He turned to Merton.

"By all means," said Billy.  "Only I would like to state, should they be
found there, that I am not the only person who has left the room since
the tragedy.  Mr. Harker has also been downstairs."

Paul Harker laughed wildly.

"Yes, I know.  To get brandy.  Before I knew——"

He paused as a footman opened the door.

"Bring this gentleman’s overcoat," ordered the doctor, "up to this room.
And be careful to see that nothing falls out of the pockets."

With one horrified glance at the motionless figure in the chair, the
footman fled, returning almost immediately with the coat.

"This is your coat?" asked the doctor.

"It is," said Billy.

And then in a tense silence the doctor extracted twenty large pearls
from different pockets.

"You murderer!"  Paul Harker’s voice whispered words seemed to ring
through the room, and with a little strangled gasp a woman fainted.  The
doctor’s face, grim and accusing, was turned on Billy, as if demanding
some explanation which he knew full well could not be given.  And of all
those present only Billy Merton himself seemed cool and calm, as, with
his hands still in his pockets, he faced the ring of his accusers.

"What have you to say?" said the doctor, sternly.

"One thing—and one thing only," answered Billy.  "I have read in fiction
of diabolical plots: to-night I have met one in real life.  But, as so
often happens in fiction, one mistake is made, which leads to the
undoing of the villain.  And one mistake has been made to-night."

And now his eyes, merciless and stern, were fixed on Paul Harker, and he
noticed with a certain grim amusement that a muscle in the millionaire’s
face was beginning to twitch.

"Mr. Harker is a man of nerve: he also believes in seizing the right
moment.  And to-night struck him as being the right moment."

"What are you talking about?" snarled Harker.

"For reasons best known to yourself, Mr. Harker"—he glanced from him to
Iris Sala, from whose eyes the strange look of triumph had mysteriously
vanished, leaving only fear—deadly, gripping fear—"you wished to get rid
of your wife."

"It’s a lie!"  Paul Harker sprang forward, his fist raised to strike.

"You will doubtless have ample opportunity for proving it," continued
Billy, imperturbably. "By a happy combination of circumstances, a
suitable moment—the darkness of a séance—and a suitable
motive—robbery—presented themselves to your hand.  Acting according to
your tradition, you took them.  And as far as I can see, Mr. Harker, you
would have been successful had you also selected a suitable person.
Therein lay your one error."

"Am I to understand," said Harker, in a grating voice, "that you are
accusing me—of murdering my wife?  Why—you miserable cur——"  He stopped,
choking with anger.

"I make no such accusation," answered Billy. "All I state is that I
didn’t."  He turned gravely to the doctor.  "What was the cause of Mrs.
Harker’s death?"

"Heart failure—caused by partial strangulation with the hand."

"Which hand?"

The doctor looked at him quickly; then glanced once more at the dead
woman.

"The right hand."

"You swear to that?"

"Undoubtedly I swear to it," said the doctor.

For the first time Billy Merton withdrew his right hand from his pocket,
and held it out in front of him.

"The one mistake," he said, grimly.

_The first, second, and third fingers were missing!_

For a moment there was a deathly silence; then the doctor suddenly
sprang forward.

"Stop him!" he roared.

But Paul Harker had already joined the woman he had foully killed, and
in the air there hung the faint smell of burnt almonds.  Prussia acid is
quick.

An hour later Billy Merton walked slowly along the deserted streets
towards his rooms.  The police had come and gone; everything in the room
where the tragedy had taken place had duly passed before the searching
eye of officialdom. Everything, that is, save one exhibit, and that
reposed in Billy’s pocket.  And when a man has signed a cheque for four
thousand pounds on a total bank balance of as many pence, his pocket is
the best place for it.

                      _*X — A Payment on Account*_

                                  *I*

"Excuse me, but could you give me some idea as to where I am?  I have a
shrewd notion that it’s Devonshire, but——"

The speaker, holding a dilapidated cap in his hand, broke off as the
girl sat up and looked at him.  He was a dishevelled-looking object,
covered with dust, and—romance may be great, but truth is greater—it was
only too obvious to the girl that he was very hot.  Perspiration ran in
trickles down his face, ploughing dark furrows through the thick stratum
of road dust which otherwise obscured his features.  His collar was
open, his sleeves rolled back from his wrists, and on his back was
strapped a small knapsack.  An unlit pipe, which he had removed from his
mouth on speaking to her, in one hand, and a long walking-stick in the
other, completed the picture.

"You don’t look as if you’d been flying," she remarked, dispassionately.
"It’s Devonshire all right."

"That’s a relief."  She had a fleeting glimpse of a flash of white teeth
as he smiled.  "I had an idea it might be Kent.  Or even farther.  Have
you ever been on a walking tour?"

"That’s what you’re doing, is it?"

"You know," remarked the man, "I think even Watson would regard you with
scorn.  And our one and only Sherlock would burst into tears."  He
leaned over the railings and commenced to fill his pipe.  The little
garden in which the girl was sitting seemed delightfully cool and shady;
the girl herself, in her muslin frock, looking at him with an amused
twinkle in her eyes seemed almost too good to be true.  After that
interminable road, with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky.  With
a sigh of relief he passed the back of his hand across his forehead, and
the girl laughed.

"I wouldn’t do it by bits if I were you.  It makes you look rather like
a zebra."

"Don’t mock at me," he implored, "or I shall burst into tears.  It’s the
very first time I’ve ever done anything of this sort, I promise you. I
will go farther.  It’s the very last as well."

"But if you don’t like walking—why walk?"

"How like a woman!"  He fumbled in his pocket for a box of matches and
lit his pipe. "How exactly like!  Have you never felt an irresistible
temptation to do something wild and desperate?  Something which is
painted in glowing colours by some scoundrel, who revenges himself on
humanity by foully inducing innocent people to follow his advice?"

"I once tried keeping bees," she murmured, thoughtfully.

"There you are!" exclaimed the man, triumphantly. "You see you are in no
position to point the finger of scorn at me.  You were led away by
fictitious rubbish on the bee as a household pet.  You expected honey:
you obtained stings.  I was likewise led away, by a scoundrel who wrote
on the delights of walking.  He especially roused my expectation by the
number of times he threw himself down on the soft, sweet-smelling turf
while the gentle wind played round his temples and the lazy beat of the
breakers came from the distant Atlantic.  I tried that exercise the very
first day.  Net result.  I landed on a thistle and winded myself."

She gurgled gently.  "At any rate, I’ll bet he told you that you ought
to come with a map."

"Wrong again.  He especially stipulated that you should have no set
route.  Just walk and walk; and then, I suppose, when a kindly death
intervenes, your relatives can’t find you, and your funeral expenses
fall on the parish in which you expire."

He straightened up as the door of the house opened and a charming,
grey-haired woman came slowly down the path.  She glanced at him
quickly—a courteous but shrewd look; then she looked at the girl.

"Sheila, dear, who——?"

"A gentleman on a walking tour, mother, who has lost his way."

"You’re not far from Umberleigh," said the elder woman.  "Where are you
making for?"

"Nowhere in particular, as I’ve been explaining to your daughter,
madam," smiled the man. "Finally, however, I shall take the train and
arrive in London and slaughter the man who wrote the article which
appeared in the paper."

"Sounds like the house that Jack built," laughed the girl.  "Anyway,
you’d better stop to lunch."

The man glanced at her mother, who seconded the invitation with a
gracious smile.

"My name is Hewson," he remarked.  "Charles Hewson."  He glanced at them
as he spoke, and gave a little sigh of relief: evidently the name meant
nothing to them.  "And I don’t always look like a zebra."

He followed them slowly up the shady path, and the girl laughed again.

"Doesn’t matter what you look like," she cried, "as long as you know
something about postage-stamps."

"Do you collect?" he asked.

"No—but daddy does.  He’s partially insane on the subject."

"Sheila!" reproved her mother.

"Well, he is, darling, you know.  You always say so yourself."

For a moment the elder woman’s eyes met the man’s over the girl’s head.
And in that momentary glance the whole story of the house and its
inmates seemed to stand revealed.  The perfect love and happiness that
breathed through the place; the certainty that it was the girl who was
really the head of the little kingdom, with a sweet mother and an
unpractical father as her adoring subjects; the glorious unworldliness
of his surroundings struck the man like a blow.  The contrast was so
wonderful—the contrast to his own life.  If only——  Unconsciously his
glance rested on the slim figure in the muslin frock.  If only——  Why
not?

"I beg your pardon."  He turned apologetically to the mother.

"I only said that our name was Crossley, Mr. Hewson.  And I wondered if
you would care to have a bath."

Charles Hewson looked at her gravely.  "Are you always so charming, Mrs.
Crossley, to the stranger within your gates?  Especially when he’s a
dirty-looking tramp like me."  Then he smiled quickly; it was a trick of
his, that sudden, fleeting smile.  "I can think of nothing I’d like more
than a bath, if I might so far trespass on your hospitality."

                                  *II*

Lunch confirmed his diagnosis of the Crossley household.  The girl’s
father fitted in exactly with his mental picture; an utterly lovable,
white-haired man of about sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child.
Time, and the stress of things worldly, seemed to have passed over the
little house near Umberleigh, leaving it untouched and scathless.  And
once again the contrast struck him, and he wondered, just a little
bitterly, whether after all it was worth it.  The instant decisions, the
constant struggle, the ceaseless strain of his life—and then, this.
Country cousins, vegetating in obscurity.  It struck Charles Hewson that
he wouldn’t object to being a vegetable for a while.  He was tired, and
he realized it for the first time.  The last year had tried even him.

It was a sudden impulse that made him suggest it, just as luncheon was
over.

"Is there a decent inn here, Mrs. Crossley, where I could put up for a
bit?  I’ve fallen in love with this place, and I want a rest."

"You look tired," she answered, kindly.  "And this is a wonderful place
for a rest cure.  But I’m afraid the inn is a long way off.  If you care
to"—she paused for a moment—"we could put you up for a few days."

"I think you’re the kindest people I’ve ever met," said Hewson, and for
a moment his eyes ceased to look tired.  "And I warn you I’m not going
to give you the chance of reconsidering your offer."

"You’ll find it very dull," warned the girl.

He laughed as he rose from the table.  "I’m open to a small bet that
you’ll have to drive me away.  I shall become a fixture about the
house."

He followed them into the low, old-fashioned hall, and stood for a while
drinking in the homeliness of it all.  That was what it was—homely; and
in London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and fed at his club or a
restaurant.

"I don’t know if you’re any judge of pewter, Mr. Hewson," said his host,
"but we’ve got some nice bits here and in my study."

"One step from that to postage-stamps," laughed the girl.  "You’ve got
to come and do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. Hewson, don’t
forget.  I’ll come and rescue you in half an hour or so."

He watched her go upstairs, then with a little sigh of pure joy he
followed the old man into his study.

"Are you interested in philately, by any chance?" inquired Mr. Crossley,
eagerly.

Hewson shook his head.  "I’m afraid I know nothing about it," he
answered.  "I was once commissioned by a young nephew to send him all
the stamps I could find which had pretty pictures on them.  You know,
harbours, and mountains, and elephants.  I found them in all sorts of
outlandish places when I was going round the world."  He gave one of his
quick smiles.  "But I’m afraid that is the extent of my knowledge."

"The schoolboy collection."  The other waved a tolerant hand.  "Now I’m
sure that that would have bored him."

With reverent hands he lifted a card and handed it to Hewson.  "Look at
that, sir; look at that. The complete set of New Brunswick—the first
issue, unused."

Hewson gazed dispassionately at ten somewhat blotchy pieces of paper,
and refrained from heretical utterance.  To his Philistine eye the set
he had bought in Samoa or elsewhere depicting jaguars and toucans were
infinitely more pleasing.

"Valuable, I suppose?" he hazarded.

The other waved a deprecating hand.  "Several hundred—if I chose to
sell.  Mercifully," he went on after a little pause, "it wasn’t
necessary."

For a second Hewson’s shrewd eyes were fixed on him; then he resumed his
study of the rarities. Money trouble, was there?

"Now this was unique—this set."  His host was looking regretfully at
another card. "Mauritius.  And then I had to dispose of the penny
orange-red.  Worth the better part of a thousand pounds alone."  He laid
down the card.  "Oh! I do hope I shall be able to get it back.  I sold
it to a dealer in the Strand, and I told him at the time that I should
want to buy it back again. That was a month ago, and I thought I should
have been able to by now."

Once again Hewson’s keen eyes were fixed on the other.

"Expecting a legacy?" he remarked, casually.

"A legacy!  Oh! no!"  The old man smiled. "But I had a very wonderful
chance, given me by an acquaintance, of doubling my small capital."  For
a moment Hewson stopped smoking: chances of doubling capital are not
handed round as a rule by acquaintances.  "And I seem to have done it,"
continued Mr. Crossley, rubbing his hands together.  "I seem to have
turned my five thousand pounds into ten.  In a month.  Isn’t it
wonderful?"

"Very," commented the other.  "Have you got the money?"

"No: that’s what I can’t understand.  I suppose it must be something to
do with settling day—or whatever they call it."  He beamed at his
listener.  "I’m afraid I’m very ignorant on these matters, Mr. Hewson,
but it seems almost too good to be true.  I wanted the extra money so
much—to give my little girl a better time.  It’s dull for her here,
though she never complains. And if only I could get it now, I could buy
back that penny Mauritius, and invest the other nine thousand."  In his
excitement he walked up and down the room, while his listener stared
fixedly at a number of blotchy pieces of paper on a card. "Do you know
anything about stocks and shares, Mr. Hewson?"

"Quite a lot," said Hewson.  "In my er—small way, I dabble in them."

"Ah! then perhaps you can tell me when I can expect the money."  Mr.
Crossley sat down at his desk, and opened a drawer.  "It was a month ago
that I paid five thousand pounds for shares in the Rio Lopez Mine."

"In the what?" Hewson almost shouted.

"The Rio Lopez Mine," repeated the other. "You’ve heard of it, of
course.  The shares were standing, so my friend told me, at two pounds,
so I got two thousand five hundred shares.  Now, yesterday I happened to
buy the _Times_, and I looked up the Stock Exchange quotations.  You can
judge of my delight, Mr. Hewson, when I actually saw that the shares
were standing at four pounds three shillings."

"Rio Lopez four pounds!" said Hewson, dazedly.  "May I see the paper?"

He took it and glanced at the Supplementary List.

                         "MINES—MISCELLANEOUS.
                         "Rio Lopez Deep—4/3."

The old man was still talking gaily on, but Hewson hardly heard what he
said.  From outside the lazy hum of a summer afternoon came softly
through the open window, and after a while he laid down the paper and
commenced to refill his pipe.  Such colossal innocence almost staggered
him.  That there could be anybody in the world who did not know that the
figures meant four shillings and threepence, left him bereft of speech.
And then his feeling of amazement gave way to one of bitter anger
against the scoundrel who had unloaded a block of shares in a wild-cat
mine, at the top of an extremely shady boom, on such a man as Mr.
Crossley.

"Well, when do you think I may expect the money?"  The question roused
him from his reverie.

"It’s hard to say, Mr. Crossley," remarked Hewson, deliberately.
"Different firms have different arrangements, you know."

"Of course—of course.  I’m such a baby in these things.  But I do want
to get my penny Mauritius back before it’s sold."

Hewson bent forward suddenly, ostensibly to examine his pipe.  For the
first time for many years he found a difficulty in speaking; there had
been no room for sentiment in his career.  Then he straightened up.

"I quite understand, Mr. Crossley," he said, slowly.  "And perhaps the
best thing to do would be to put the matter in my hands.  It has
occurred to me since lunch that I’ve really got no clothes at all here.
And so I thought I’d run up to Town and get a few and then return.
While I’m up there I could look into things for you."

"But I really couldn’t worry you, Mr. Hewson," protested the other.

"No worry at all.  It’s my work.  I shall charge you commission."
Hewson was lighting his pipe.  "You have the certificate, I suppose."

"I’ve this paper," answered Mr. Crossley.  "Is that what you mean?"

"That’s it.  Will you trust it to me?  I can give you any reference you
like, if you care to come with me as far as Barnstaple.  They know me at
the bank.  I shall have to join the main line there."

"Well, perhaps——"  The old man paused doubtfully.  "You see, Mr.
Ferguson told me to keep this most carefully."

"Was Mr. Ferguson the man who sold you the shares?"

"Yes.  Mr. Arthur Ferguson, of 20, Plumpton Street, in the City.  He was
stopping down here for a few days, and he dined with us once or twice."

Hewson rose abruptly and went to the window. He had not the pleasure of
Mr. Arthur Ferguson’s acquaintance, but he was already tasting die
pleasures of his first—and last—interview with that engaging gentleman.
Dined—had he?

"Will you come over with me to Barnstaple this afternoon?"

"Good heavens, daddy!" came a voice from outside.  "What are you going
to Barnstaple for?  You know this heat will upset you."

Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden.  She was wearing
a floppy sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that she was one of the
loveliest things he had ever seen.  No wonder the old chap had tried to
get a bit more money with the idea of giving her a good time.

"I’ve got to go up to London, Miss Crossley——" was it his imagination,
or did her face fall a little?—"to get some more clothes.  And there’s a
little matter of business I’m going to attend to for your father.  The
point is that he doesn’t know me—none of you know me.  And in the
hard-headed, suspicious world in which I live, before you entrust a
valuable document to another man you want to know something about him.
Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple does know me, and I suggested that
your father should come over and see him."

"It sounds very mysterious," laughed the girl. "But all I know is that
if daddy goes to Barnstaple in this heat, he’ll have the most awful
head. Suppose—" she paused doubtfully—"suppose I came?  Daddy could give
me the document, and then when I’d seen the bank manager I could give it
to you."

Hewson turned away to hide the too obvious delight he felt at the
suggestion, and glanced inquiringly at his host.

"Perhaps that would be the best solution, Mr. Crossley," he murmured.
"If it isn’t troubling your daughter too much."

The old man chuckled.  "If she only knew what it was for, she wouldn’t
mind the trouble.  It’s a secret, don’t forget, Mr. Hewson.  Now,
girlie, take that envelope, and when the bank manager has told you that
our kind friend here isn’t a burglar, or an escaped convict"—he chuckled
again—"give it to him to take to London.  But you’re not to look
inside."

She kissed him lightly, and turned to Hewson.

"We can just catch the local train," she said, a trifle abruptly.
"We’ll go through the short cut."

She was silent during the walk to the station, and it was not until they
were in the train that she looked at him steadily and spoke.

"What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson?"

"I think your father said it was a secret, didn’t he?" he answered,
lightly.

"Is it something to do with money?"

"It is."

She stared out of the window: then impulsively she laid a hand on his
arm.

"He’s such a darling," she burst out, "but he’s so innocent.  He doesn’t
know anything about money or the world."

"Do you?" asked Hewson, gently.

"That doesn’t matter.  A girl needn’t.  But I know he’s just mad to get
more money—not for himself—but for me.  He wants to give me a good
time—like other girls, he says."  She paused a moment, and frowned.
"There was a man here—a few weeks ago—and daddy met him.  He came to
dinner.  I didn’t trust him, Mr. Hewson; there was something—oh!  I
don’t know.  I suppose I’m very ignorant myself.  But I’m certain that
he persuaded daddy to do something with his money.  He was always going
to the bank, and sending registered letters, after the man left.  And
he’s been worried ever since—until yesterday—when he recovered all his
old spirits."

The train was already running into Barnstaple—the quickest journey that
Charles Hewson had ever made in his life.

"I don’t think," he said, gravely, "that I shall be letting out the
secret if I tell you that my visit to London concerns that man, and some
money he invested for your father.  There’s a little delay in the
business—and I’m going to see about it."

They walked out of the station towards the bank, the girl clasping the
precious envelope tightly.

"I want to see the manager," said Hewson to the cashier.  "Hewson is my
name."

With astonishing alacrity the manager appeared from his office.

"Come in, Mr. Hewson—come in."  He stepped aside as the girl, followed
by Hewson, entered his sanctum.

"I am doing some business for Mr. Crossley, of Umberleigh," said Hewson,
quietly.  "This is his daughter, Miss Crossley.  It concerns some
shares—the certificate of which I propose to take to London with me.
Would you be good enough to assure Miss Crossley that I am a fit and
proper person to be entrusted with such a matter?  I happen to be a
stranger to them."

The manager’s face had changed through various stages of bewilderment
while Hewson was speaking, but he was saved the necessity of an
immediate answer by the girl.  Charles Hewson—_the_ Charles
Hewson—coming to him to be vouched for!

"This is the paper."  The girl handed it over to him, and a little
dazedly he took the certificate from the envelope.

"A very admirable security," said Hewson, deliberately, "bought by Mr.
Crossley a month ago."

"Very admirable!" spluttered the manager, only to relapse into silence
under the penetrating stare of Hewson’s eye.

"And if you will just vouch for me to Miss Crossley, I don’t think we
need detain you further."

"With pleasure."  Matters were completely beyond him: but, at any rate,
he could do that. "You can place things in Mr. Hewson’s hands with
absolute confidence, Miss Crossley."

"Thank you," said the girl, and they all rose. He opened the door and
she passed into the bank. For one moment the two men were alone, and
Hewson seized the manager by the arm.

"Not a word," he whispered.  "They don’t know who I am.  Father been
swindled by some swine in London."

Nodding portentously, the worthy manager followed them to the door.
Assuredly one of the most remarkable episodes that had come his way,
during thirty years’ experience.  Rio Lopez! Two thousand five hundred
of them!  And he was still staring dazedly at a placard extolling
Exchequer Bonds, which adorned his office wall, when the London train
steamed slowly out of the station.  Its departure had been to the casual
eye quite normal: but the casual eye is, as its name implies, casual.
The departure had been far from normal.

It was just as the guard was waving his flag that a man, leaning our of
the window of a first-class carriage, spoke to a girl standing on the
platform.

"You say you didn’t trust the man, Miss Crossley.  Do you—trust me?"

"Naturally," she answered demurely, "after what the bank manager said."

"It rests on the bank manager, does it?"

She blushed faintly.  "No, Mr. Hewson, it doesn’t.  One doesn’t need a
bank manager to confirm—a certainty."

And then the fool engine-driver had started his beastly machine.  But to
call it a normal departure is obviously absurd.

                                 *III*

"Good-morning.  Mr. Ferguson, I believe?".

Hewson entered the office at 20, Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to
the man at the desk. As he had expected, the type was a common one—one,
incidentally, with which he had had a good deal to do himself.  Mr.
Arthur Ferguson could be placed at once in the category of men who
consider that in business everything is fair, and that if they can get
the better of another man the funeral is his.  And as an outlook on life
there is nothing much to be said against it, provided the other man is
of the same kidney.

"Yes."  Ferguson indicated a chair.  "What can I do for you, Mr.——"  He
paused, interrogatively.

"I have come to have a short talk with you on a little matter of
business."  Hewson took the proffered chair, while Ferguson glanced at
him covertly.  Who the deuce was the fellow?  His face seemed vaguely
familiar.

"Delighted!" he murmured.  "Have a cigar?"

"Thank you—no.  I have just come from Umberleigh, in Devonshire, Mr.
Ferguson."

A barely perceptible change passed over the other’s face.

"Indeed," he said, easily.  "I was there myself a little while ago."

"So I understood," remarked Hewson.  "A Mr. Crossley told me that you
had been good enough to sell him some shares while you were there—a
packet of Rio Lopez, to be exact."

"I did," answered Ferguson.  "Though I hardly see what concern it is of
yours."

"All in good time," said Hewson, taking the certificate from his pocket.
"Two thousand five hundred, I see, when they were standing at two
pounds.  And to-day they’re a shade over four shillings—to-morrow, quite
possibly, sixpence."

"Everything is down," remarked Ferguson with a wave of his hand.  "Sorry
for Mr. Crossley."

"So am I," said the other.  "It seems hard luck on an innocent old man
like that to be left to carry the baby.  He apparently placed such
reliance on your judgment, Mr. Ferguson. Moreover, I gather you dined
with him two or three times."

"Well, what if I did?"  He leaned back in his chair impatiently.  "Might
I suggest that time is money to some of us, and that I’m rather busy
this morning?  I’d be obliged if you’d get to the point."

"Certainly," said Hewson, quietly.  "I have a nice little bunch of two
thousand five hundred Rio Lopez which I shall be delighted to sell you,
on behalf of Mr. Crossley—at two pounds a share."

For a moment or two Mr. Ferguson seemed to have difficulty in breathing.

"Buy Rio Lopez at two!" he gasped.  "Are you insane?"

"Not at all," murmured Hewson, lighting a cigarette.  "That is my
offer."

"Good-morning," laughed the other.  "You know the way out, don’t you?
And another time, my dear sir, you’d better learn a little more about
the ways of finance before you waste your own and other people’s time
coming up from the wilds of Devon."  He pulled a paper towards him and
picked up his pen.  It struck him as one of the richest things he’d ever
heard—a jest altogether after his own heart.  And it was just as the
full beauty of it was sinking in, that his eye caught the card which his
visitor had pushed along the writing-desk.

"Mr. Charles Hewson."  Blinking slightly he stared at it, then he put
down his pen.  "Mr. Charles Hewson."

"You may know the name, Mr. Ferguson," remarked the other, quietly.
"And I can assure you that your solicitude for my knowledge of finance
touches me deeply."

"But, I don’t understand, Mr. Hewson.  I had no idea who you were, but
now that I do know it makes your suggestion even more amazing."

"In an ordinary way of business, certainly," agreed Hewson.  "This is
not quite ordinary. Without mincing words, I consider that you played
Mr. Crossley an extremely dirty trick—considering that he’d opened his
house to you, and was quite obviously as ignorant of business as a
child.  Why—the poor old chap saw the price in the paper the other day
and thought they were standing at four pounds three shillings."  He was
staring at Ferguson with level eyes as he spoke. "I give you the chance
of returning him the money he gave to you.  If you do—the matter is
ended.  If you don’t—I shall pay it myself. But—and this is the point,
Mr. Ferguson, which you had better consider—if I pay that money, I shall
recover it from you.  Is it worth your while to have me for an enemy?
As surely as I’m sitting here, by the time I’ve finished with you,
you’ll not have lost five thousand—you’ll have lost fifty."

"It wouldn’t be worth your while," blustered Ferguson, though the hand
which held his cigar shook a little.

"Worth is a comparative term," said Hewson, calmly.  "Financially, I
agree: you’re not big enough to worry over.  But it will afford me great
pleasure and amusement, Mr. Ferguson—and from that point of view it
_will_ be worth while."  He took out his watch.  "I’ll give you two
minutes to decide."

He got up and strolled round the room, glancing every now and then at
the man sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew the answer: any man in
Ferguson’s place would think twice and then again before he deliberately
took up such a challenge. And quite accurately he read the thoughts that
were passing in the other’s mind.  Dare he gamble on the possibility of
Hewson—as time went by—forgetting his threat, and letting the thing
drop? That was the crux.  It was an insignificant amount to a man like
Hewson, but—was it the money that was at the bottom of it?  While a man
in Hewson’s position might well forget five thousand pounds, there might
be some other factor which would not slip his mind.  It suddenly
occurred to Mr. Arthur Ferguson that there was a singularly attractive
girl in the Crossley household.  And if she was the driving factor ...
One thing was perfectly certain; he would willingly pay five thousand to
escape a relentless vendetta with Charles Hewson as his enemy.  It was
no idle threat on the latter’s part: if he chose to he could ruin him.

"Well?"  With a snap Hewson closed his watch.  "What is it to be?"

By way of answer Ferguson took out his cheque-book.

"Good.  Make your cheque payable to Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten
thousand.  I will give you a cheque for five.  You can notify the
company as to the transfer."

He drew his own cheque-book from his pocket.

"And another time, Mr. Ferguson, leave the Crossleys of this world
alone.  Good-morning."

Mr. Arthur Ferguson was still staring dully out of the window when
Charles Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand in search of a penny
Mauritius.

                                  *IV*

"I can hardly believe it.  In just over a month. And the stamp as well.
Mr. Hewson—I can never thank you sufficiently."

Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, Mr. Crossley stared dazedly—first
at his precious stamp, then at the cheque.

"Ten thousand pounds!  I must write him a letter and thank him."

"I’m sure Mr. Ferguson would like that," murmured Hewson.  "But if I may
give you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn’t try a gamble like
that again.  Mines are precarious things—very precarious."

"You mean, I might have lost my money?" said the old man, nervously.

"Such things have been known to happen," said Hewson, gravely.  "By the
way, is your daughter not at home?"

"She has gone over to Barnstaple with her mother.  I’m expecting them
back at any moment. Won’t they be delighted?"  He chuckled gleefully,
and produced the precious card containing the Mauritius set.  And with a
quiet smile on his face Charles Hewson watched him from the depths of an
arm-chair.  What a child he was: what a charming, lovable child!

"There: the complete set again."  In triumph he held up the card for
Hewson’s inspection, and at that moment Mrs. Crossley and the girl came
through the window.

The good news poured out in a torrent, while Hewson stood almost
forgotten in the background.

Ten thousand pounds—two thousand five hundred shares—capital doubled in
a month—and the stamp.  The old man brandished the cheque in his
excitement, and, at length, Mrs. Crossley turned to Hewson with a smile.

"We seem to have entertained an angel unawares," and her eyes were a
little misty.  "Thank you, Mr. Hewson."

"No need to thank me, Mrs. Crossley," he laughed.  "These things just
happen."

He glanced at the girl, who had so far said nothing.  She was staring at
him steadily, and there was no answering smile on her face.

"Did you say two thousand five hundred shares, daddy?" Her voice was
quite expressionless, as she turned to her father.

"That’s it, little girl," he cried.  "Sold at over four pounds a share.
Now you’ll be able to have some more frocks!"

He kissed her lovingly, and followed his wife from the room, still
chuckling and rubbing his hands together.

"Would you explain, please, Mr. Hewson?" said the girl, in a flat, dead
voice as the door closed.

"Explain, Miss Crossley!  How do you mean? Your father acquired some
shares a little while ago—two thousand five hundred, as he told
you—which have just been sold at rather over four pounds a share.  Hence
the stamp—and a cheque for ten thousand."

"I went into the bank at Barnstaple this afternoon," said the girl,
dully, "and I happened to speak to the cashier.  He told me who you
were.  You’re a multi-millionaire, aren’t you?"

Charles Hewson shrugged his shoulders.  "I’m afraid I am," he laughed.
"Is that what you want me to explain?"

"Don’t laugh, please," said the girl, quietly. "I said that you’d been
good enough to do some business for us—something to do with Rio Lopez
shares.  He said, ’Good heavens!  Miss Crossley, surely Mr. Hewson
hasn’t put you into Rio Lopez?’  I said, ’Why not—aren’t they good
shares?’  You see, I didn’t know what the business was you were doing.
He said, ’Good! Why the blessed things aren’t worth much more than the
paper they’re written on.  Standing about four shillings, I think.’  And
now you tell me you’ve sold two thousand five hundred of them at over
four pounds."  Slim and erect she stood there facing him.  "I don’t know
anything about business: but I’m not a fool.  So will you please
explain?"

If there was anything really in the absent-treatment business, an
unsuspecting and well-meaning cashier would have fallen dead in the bank
at that moment.

"Will you come into the garden, Miss Crossley?" said Hewson, gravely.
"I could explain better out-of-doors."

In silence she followed him, and they found two chairs under a shady
tree.

"Ferguson," he began, quietly, "the man who was down here a month ago,
was a pretty smart gentleman.  He did a business deal with your father
which, legally speaking, was quite in order. He possessed two thousand
five hundred Rio Lopez, which, at that time, were standing at two
pounds.  He sold these shares to your father knowing perfectly well that
they were only standing at such a figure because of a distinctly shady
artificial boom which had been given them.  He knew they were bound to
slump—that is, fall in price.  So he—finding your father supremely
ignorant of finance—unloaded those shares on to him, and left him—as the
saying goes—to carry the baby.  In other words, shares that your father
paid two pounds each for, he would only get four shillings for to-day.
This morning I interviewed Mr. Ferguson in his office.  And I persuaded
him—how, is immaterial—to refund your father the money.  That’s all
there is to it."

"I see," said the girl.  "It was very good of you.  But if my father
only paid two pounds for each share—that makes five thousand.  The
cheque he’s got is for ten.  How did he double his capital?"

Hewson bit his lip: how indeed?

"Oh!  please be frank, Mr. Hewson.  Have you given my father five
thousand pounds?"

His fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair.

"Yes," he said at length.  "I have.  The dear old man thought the shares
were standing at four pounds: he read the four and threepence in the
paper as four pounds three shillings.  And," he turned appealingly to
the girl, "if you could only dimly guess what pleasure it’s given me,
Miss Crossley."

"Oh! stop, please."  With a little cry that was half a sob she rose.  "I
suppose you meant it for the best: thought you were being kind.  I don’t
suppose you realized your—your impertinence. Because we offer you lunch,
Mr. Hewson, it gives you no right to dare to give my father money.  And
now it’s going to be doubly hard for him—when I tell him.  He’ll be
so—so ashamed."

She turned away, hiding her face in her hands, and for a while there was
silence in the sunny garden.  And in that moment the man knew that the
quest was over, the quest—conscious or unconscious, it matters not—that
has been man’s through the ages.  But no hint of it sounded in his level
voice as he spoke: the time for that was not yet.

"And so, Miss Crossley, you propose to tell your father?"

"What else can I possibly do?"  She turned on him indignantly.

"Of course you must decide," he continued, quietly.  "I quite see how
the matter looks to you: I wonder if you are being equally fair to me.
I come here: I meet your father.  I find that he has been swindled by a
man in London—a moral swindle only possible because of your father’s
charming innocence.  I wonder if you can realize what the atmosphere of
this place means to me—an atmosphere which must depend, to a large
extent, on the happiness and joy of you three."

She was watching him now, and suddenly his swift smile flashed out.
"Don’t you understand, Miss Crossley, that all money is relative?  I’m
going to allude purposely to my disgusting wealth. You wouldn’t think
much of paying five shillings for pleasure, would you?  Well, five
thousand pounds means no more to me.  And I’ve bought myself pleasure
with that money such as I don’t think you can begin to conceive of."
Again he smiled: then before she could reply he went on. "So I want you
to remember, when you make your decision, what you are going to
sacrifice on the altar of pride.  My feelings don’t matter: but are you
going to deliberately prick the bubble of your father’s happiness and
change him in a moment from a delighted child into a broken and worried
old man?"

The girl bit her lip and stared over the rambling garden with troubled
eyes.  How could she let her father take the money: how could she? And
then she heard his voice again from close behind her.

"I’m going back to London," he said, deliberately, "and I would ask you
to keep this as our secret.  I hadn’t intended to go back yet: but now
that you have found out—perhaps it’s better.  I’ll leave you free to
puzzle the thing out by yourself: only I want to make one condition."

"What’s that?" whispered the girl.

"I want to come back for my promised visit later."  Gently he swung her
round and his eyes—tender and quizzical—rested on the lovely face so
close to his.  "And when I come back, I’m going to ask you a question,
which, if you can see your way to answering with a yes, will make me
your father’s debtor for life.  And then we could consider the five
thousand as a payment on account, which would completely and finally
settle the matter."

Almost against her will, a faint smile began to twitch round the girl’s
lips.

"Of course I’m not much good at business, as I said, but I didn’t know
that anybody ever paid on account until he had, at any rate, the promise
of the goods."

"In these days of competition," murmured Hewson, "one sometimes has to
pay for the right of the first refusal."

The smile was twitching again.  "That right is yours without payment."

"Then I’d better get it over quickly.  Sheila—will you marry me?"

"Mr. Hewson—I will not.  Where are you going?"

Charles Hewson turned half-way across the lawn.  "Up to London.  I want
to find a man there, and give him the best dinner he’s ever had in his
life."

"What man?"

"The sportsman who wrote that article about walking tours."  It was then
the smile broke bounds.

"We’ve got some topping peaches in the garden. Couldn’t you send him
some of those as—a payment on account?"

                           _*XI — The Poser*_

No one could call Portsdown-on-Sea a fashionable place.  To the chosen
few it constituted the most delightful seaside resort in the south of
England. But very few did know, and they guarded their secret jealously.
They formed a clique—the Portsdown clique—and the stranger within their
gates was not welcomed.

The Grand was their stronghold, and during the winter the hotel relapsed
into sleep, wrapped in a drab garment of dust sheets and chair covers.

A few of the rooms were kept open all the year round for anyone who
might have business in the town; or for stray, foolhardy golfers who
found the grey scudding mist which whipped over the salt marshes a cure
for the cobwebs of an office life.  But their stay was never a long one.
Three or four days, a week-end perhaps—and then once again the
melancholy waiter would preside over an empty dining-room.  He formed
the nucleus of the staff—did John.  Each spring he blossomed forth into
a crowd of young and more or less disreputable minions; each autumn he
shrank back again to his solitary grandeur.  And Martha, the female
representative of the establishment, did likewise amongst the
chambermaid portion of the servants.

During the war, business, even in the height of the season, had not been
good.  The Get-Rich-Quick brigade, whose horizon was bounded by
half-crown cigars and champagne at any and every hour of the day, found
Portsdown slow. There was no band and there was no theatre, and there is
but little use in drinking champagne at eleven in the morning unless
less fortunate beings—professional men with a small income, or wounded
officers—can see the deed and gnash their teeth with envy.  And the
cigar with the band round it quite failed to impress Peter Gurney, the
professional at the club-house.  He eyed it with disfavour, and
ostentatiously stood up-wind if compelled to give a lesson to its proud
owner.

"These ’ere links are for gowf," he remarked once in a burst of
confidence to Sawyer, his one-legged assistant, "not for the decimation
of them stinking poison-gases."

And Sawyer, though he had an idea that something was wrong with the
phraseology of the latter part of the remark, grunted an assent.

But, with the signing of the Armistice, visions of better days ahead
loomed up in the minds of all who were interested in the welfare of
Portsdown. Peter Gurney laid in an increased stock of hickory wood, to
make clubs for "them as can use ’em."  The secretary of the golf club
turned his mind more resolutely to questions of greens and labour, and
rent his clothes and tore his hair on the matter of the unemployment
bonus.

Up at the hotel the manager considered the advisability of hiring a
string quartette for August and September; and rumour has it that old
John so far forgot himself as to purchase two new dickies.

"We’ll be getting the old lot back," he said to Martha one day.  "Men as
is men, and can bathe and play tennis and golf—not them diseases in
fancy dress, as we’ve had the last year or two."

It was towards the end of March that four or five of the old habitués
arrived.  They selected the chairs they had used of old: they all but
labelled them with their names.  They were the forerunners of the elder
generation who remained there throughout the summer and approved or
disapproved as the case might be of the children who came later.  And by
children, anything up to thirty is implied.

It was Mrs. Garrett, the wife of the retired judge, that the manager
first told of Ruth Seaton’s impending arrival.

"Miss Bannister that was," he murmured to her one evening.  "Married
poor young Mr. Seaton who came here for two or three years."

"Why poor?" boomed his august listener.

"He was killed in the war," he returned.  "She is a widow."

"So one would be led to assume."  Mrs. Garrett regarded him judicially.
"Unless she has married again."

The manager shrugged deprecating shoulders and passed on.  The idea as
mentioned by Mrs. Garrett seemed almost indecent.

"We must be very good to her," ordered that lady after dinner in the
lounge.  "She is, after all, one of us."

Ruth Bannister had married Jimmy Seaton the summer before the war.
There had been the time when he was training, and then those wonderful
snatched interludes of leave, when nothing mattered save the present.
And then had come the news.  For a week she heard nothing—no letter, no
field service postcard.  On the eighth day there came a telegram from
the War Office, and the suspense was over.

It seemed impossible.  Other men might be killed: other names might
appear in the casualty lists—but not Jimmy.  Oh! no, not Jimmy—her
Jimmy.  There never had been such a marriage as theirs: not a quarrel,
not a cross word the whole time.  And now Jimmy was gone.  Somewhere out
in that filthy field of mud he was lying, and the eyes that had smiled
at her were staring and sightless.  Dear God! but it was too cruel....

Never again could she look at another man.  Her body was still alive—but
her soul, her spirit were dead.  They were buried with Jimmy.

"You’ll find me just the same, old man," she used to say out loud
sometimes—"just the same. There’ll never be anyone else, Jimmy—never,
never."

Once a well-meaning but stupid friend had suggested the possibility of
marrying again, and Ruth had smiled—a sad little smile.  Also perhaps it
was just a little tolerant: the smile of a parent whose child had asked
some particularly foolish question.

"My dear," said Ruth, "I don’t think you quite understand.  There’ll
never be anybody in my life but Jimmy.  How could there be?"

It was her brother who first dragged her out to a theatre.

"My dear girl," he said, "you can’t go on burying yourself like this.
Come to a show; it’ll do you all the good in the world."

And Ruth, because he was home on leave, just thought it was a shame not
to give him as good a time as possible; and so, just to please him, she
went.

She looked her best in black—and her brother’s "By Jove, old bean—you
look topping!" as she came into the room before starting, sounded very
pleasantly in her ears.  Of course it didn’t much matter what she looked
like—now: except that Jimmy had always been very particular. He wouldn’t
like her not to look smart.

It was the second act that made her roar with laughter, and she was so
engrossed in the play that she failed to notice her brother glancing at
her once or twice with a quiet smile of satisfaction. In fact, during
the second act she quite forgot, and it was only as she stood up to go
that it all came back to her mind.

"Good show, wasn’t it?" said her brother.

She smiled a little sadly.  "I suppose so," she answered.  "Somehow one
doesn’t care very much in these days...."  She sighed.  "But anyway, you
liked it, old man, and that’s all that matters."

And her brother, who seemed on the point of saying something, changed
his mind and remained silent.

It was natural that Ruth should go to Portsdown.  It was there she had
met Jimmy: it was there they had become engaged.  It would be very
painful, and in a way she dreaded the tender, intimate, associations
that all the well-known haunts would call up to her mind. Portsdown was
so woven up round Jimmy—it would seem almost part of him.  That sandy
hillock, for instance, just beyond the third tee, where they had lazed
away so many afternoons together.

The people in the hotel when she arrived were just those she would have
liked.  A little elderly, perhaps, but that was in their favour.  And
she knew them all so intimately.  She wondered why she had ever regarded
Mrs. Garrett as a consequential old cat.  Nothing could have been more
charming than her sympathy and consideration, and the others took their
tone from her.  In fact, the subject of her loss seemed quite
inexhaustible.

There were one or two mistakes made, but that was only to be expected.

"Maybe your husband will be being demobilized soon, miss," said Peter
Gurney to her a couple of days after her arrival, as she stood on the
first tee.  To him she would always be miss, and with a faint smile Ruth
Seaton turned towards him with her ball in her hand.

"He was killed, Peter," she said—"killed on the Somme."  Then she drove
a low, clean-hit shot straight up the centre of the course.  For a few
moments he watched her slim figure as she walked after her ball, and
then he went into his shop.

"Hit me over the head with yon niblick, Bob," he remarked, in a voice
which was not quite steady.  "I surely am a damned, dunderheaded old
fool."

She seemed so wonderfully plucky, and even the secretary of the golf
club descended from his exalted position temporarily and discussed the
matter with Peter Gurney.

He disguised it well—interpolated it in between an argument on the rival
merits of two top dressings for the greens: and it was only when he
retired again to his sanctum that it struck him that any decision on
those rival merits was as unsettled as ever.  But then Gurney was such
an old fool at times—quite unable to concentrate his attention on the
point at issue.

It was on the third day after her arrival that the man came.  Hugh
Ralton was not a Portsdown habitué, but he had once spent a week-end
there, and he remembered the links as being exactly what he
wanted—first-class, without being championship.  He had come down to
practise for the Active Service Championship, and he had hoped to find
the Grand empty. An Eveless Eden was what he wanted—golf without
distraction.

It was old John who told him Ruth Seaton’s story, told it as if it was a
personal insult to himself, an effort perpetrated by "them ’Uns" on
Portsdown.  And at dinner that evening Ralton looked at her curiously.

He noticed the sweet resigned expression on her face, the air of quiet
sadness, and then, suddenly, their eyes met.

She turned away at once and spoke to Mrs. Garrett.

"No, I didn’t play to-day," he heard her say. "I just walked round
the—round the old places."

And Mrs. Garrett nodded understandingly at her pudding.  She would have
nodded just as understandingly if she had known that Ruth, having made a
special pilgrimage to the hummock by the third tee, had fallen asleep in
the sun.  But then, Mrs. Garrett understood nothing.  And Ruth herself
was feeling a little puzzled.

"When was Mrs. Seaton’s husband killed?" said Ralton to John that night
just before he went to bed.

"The Somme, sir," answered the old man, shaking his head.  "Pore young
thing."

But Hugh Ralton only grunted noncommittally and went upstairs.

The next day he played his first round.  He was plus one at St. Andrews,
but, despite that high qualification, one of the curses of the lesser
golfer had him in its clutches.

He was slicing abominably, and lunatic asylums are very largely kept
going by golfers who fail to stop themselves slicing.

At the tenth he pulled himself together. Through set teeth he spoke
words of contumely to his ball, and then he smote it.  There was no
doubt about the result: it was not a slice.  The ball travelled at right
angles to the line of the hole in the direction of square leg—to apply a
cricketing metaphor—and it travelled fast.  And as he watched it go,
with somewhat the expression of a man who contemplates a bad oyster, his
eyes suddenly narrowed.  Why the devil couldn’t women take their walks
on the sea-shore or along the road, or something?

"Fore!"  With the full force of his distinctly powerful lungs, Hugh
Ralton’s shout of warning echoed over the golf links, and Ruth Seaton,
who was walking slowly over the seventh green, looked up quickly.  The
next moment a ball whizzed past her, and disappeared into a big
sand-bunker guarding the hole.

Approaching her rapidly was a man, and she frowned slightly.  He was
evidently going to speak to her, and apologize, and she didn’t want to
speak to anybody.  Certainly not a man.... Moreover, the best people do
not play the seventh hole from the tenth tee on well-regulated links,
and the girl’s frown deepened.  Incidentally the ball had passed her
rather too closely and rather too rapidly for her to see any vast amount
of humour in the performance.

The man was still some fifty yards away when she recognized him as being
at the hotel.

"I am so sorry."  His voice came to her through the still air, and the
frown relaxed somewhat—Hugh Ralton’s voice was a very pleasant one. "I’d
no idea there was anyone about."

With his cap in his hand he came up to her.

"Do you generally play a course of your own?" she demanded.  "Most of us
find the proper one good enough."

Ralton laughed, displaying two rows of white even teeth.  "I abase
myself," he murmured. "The shot that caused me such a heart spasm, and
missed you by——"

"About the distance of a putt you’d have to give even to your most hated
rival," interrupted the girl.

"That shot," he continued, firmly, "was intended for the tenth green."

The girl’s lips began to twitch.  "I was under the impression," she
remarked, meditatively, "that the tenth green lay over there."  She
waved a vague hand.  "About a mile away....  I don’t think you can be
playing very well, somehow."

Ralton affected to consider the point.  "I must confess," he remarked,
after a while, "that there would seem to be some grounds for your
thoughts.  But you must admit," he added, hopefully, "that the ball was
going very fast anyway.  The direction, I grant you, was faulty, but the
velocity left nothing to be desired."

"What you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts sort of
idea," she said.  "Very nice, indeed, but you won’t be popular if you
make a speciality of that type of shot.  Incidentally your ball is in
there."  She pointed to the bunker beside the green, and prepared to
continue her interrupted walk.

"You haven’t told me if I’m forgiven yet," cried Ralton.  "I really am
most frightfully sorry."

The girl paused for a moment, and her blue eyes were faintly mocking.
"You see," he plunged on, "I’ve been slicing abominably from the tee the
whole afternoon, and then suddenly at the tenth, for no reason that can
possibly be accounted for, save the latent devilry in every golf bail, I
got the most appalling hook on the beastly thing...."

She started to laugh, and in a moment he was laughing too.

"Just this once I think I can stretch a point and pardon you," she said.
"But in future you must be provided with a man carrying a red flag."

"It shall be done," he answered.  "Only for absolute safety, I suggest
the tee beside me."  He looked at her tentatively.  "Do you play the
noble game yourself?"

The mocking look returned to her eyes.  "I don’t think that we have been
introduced, have we?" she murmured.

"An attempt at murder is not a bad introduction," he returned, with
becoming gravity.  "And, in addition, I can assure you that I know some
very nice people.  Two war knights—pickles and artificial
legs—frequently ask me to dinner...."

For a moment he was amazed at the look of weary contempt that flamed in
her eyes.  "They’re the only sort of people who can these days, aren’t
they?" she said.  "The rest of us just pick up the crumbs that fall from
the rich man’s table and wonder why.  You’re a soldier, of course?"

Hugh Ralton nodded gravely, and his eyes suddenly rested on the
wedding-ring she wore.

"And you?" he asked.  "Are you one too?"

"I don’t quite follow," she said, slowly.  "My husband was killed on the
Somme, as a matter of fact."

"Ah!"  The man’s voice seemed studiously non-committal.  "That makes it
all the more important, doesn’t it, that you should keep the flag flying
... and fight?"

"What makes you think I’m not?" she demanded, staring at him defiantly.
"And anyway, it’s no..."

"Business of mine."  He concluded the half-finished sentence with a
slight smile.  "I know it isn’t.  Will you forgive me?  Somehow I
thought that you would understand."  He took two or three steps towards
her. "Somehow I think you do understand....  Don’t you?"

The girl made no answer, but only stared with troubled eyes over the sea
to where the low-lying spit of land which flanked Portsdown on the south
merged into the grey mist.  It all seemed so grey ... grey and lifeless.

Then she heard him speaking again.  "Which bunker did you say the ball
was in?"

"That one."  Without turning her head, she pointed it out, and with a
quick sideways look at her averted face, Hugh Ralton walked past her and
retrieved his ball.

"Would you care for a game to-morrow?"  He was standing close behind
her, and after a short pause she swung round and looked at him.

"What did you mean," she asked, quietly, "about it being all the more
important to go on fighting?"

"One doesn’t want two people killed with the same bullet, that’s all,"
he answered.  "It makes the damned Boche so pleased."

"Is that the only reason?"  She was looking at him anxiously, her hands
thrust in the pockets of her jersey.

"Why, no," Ralton said, gravely.  "One always starts off with the lesser
reason.  The real, important thing is that you shouldn’t hurt the first
casualty."

"And you think he would know?"

"Wouldn’t you hate it if he didn’t?"

The girl moved a little restlessly.  "I don’t know," she said at length.
"I can’t make up my mind.  Sometimes I think it would be hell if he
didn’t: more often I think it would be hell if he did."

Almost unconsciously they had commenced to stroll back side by side
towards the tenth tee.

"Do you think it’s been worth while?" she asked him, suddenly.

Ralton carefully teed up his ball, and with a full clean swing drove it
over the sandy hummock in front of him.

"Depends how you look at it, doesn’t it?" he answered, shouldering his
clubs, and stuffing an empty pipe into his mouth.  "We’ve beaten the
swine."

"I suppose that’s the only thing that matters to a man," she returned.

"It’s the only thing that matters to you."  Ralton inspected the lie of
his ball carefully, and then looked at his clubs.  "I think I ought to
get up with a heavy niblick," he remarked, thoughtfully. "What say you,
my lady of the links?"

"Not if you play as you were playing when you nearly killed me," she
retorted.  "The ball will go into the sea."

Ralton smiled.  "It wasn’t me playing then; it was a kindly spirit that
possessed me."

The ball rose towering into the air, and fell dead close to the pin—that
perfect shot which marks the true golfer.

"You seem to have played this game before, remarked the girl.

"Once, when I was very young," answered Ralton, glancing at her with a
twinkle in his eyes. "I’m a bright young lad, ain’t I?"

"What is your handicap?" she demanded.

"It used to be plus one," he murmured, examining the line of his putt.

"Then you had no business to try to murder me.  It wasn’t at all funny."

The ball lipped the hole, and Ralton looked at her accusingly.

"That was you," he remarked.  "You’ve got no business to talk to the man
at the putter."

"It was nothing of the sort," jeered the girl. "Merely a rotten bad
putt."  She kicked his ball towards him, and replaced the pin in the
hole.  "What are you supposed to be doing," she said, suddenly, "playing
about here by yourself?"

"Trying to loosen some very stiff muscles for the Active Service
Championship," he answered. "Which accounts for me, my lady.  Have you
got as satisfactory an explanation for yourself?"

She frowned slightly, but Ralton was apparently engrossed in making his
tee.  She waited until he had driven, and the frown disappeared.

"What a beauty!" she cried, enthusiastically. Then she recollected his
remark, and frowned again.  "But the fact that you happen to be able to
play golf is no excuse for your being rude."

He turned and faced her with a whimsical smile on his lips.  "Was I
rude?" he said.  "Ah! no—I think not.  Because somehow I’ve got an idea
that you haven’t at all a satisfactory explanation to give of yourself.
I think—I may be wrong—but, I think, you’re posing."

"Posing!  What do you mean?"  The girl’s voice was indignant.

"Not intentionally," he went on calmly, "but unconsciously.  Only you’re
posing just the same."  He picked up his clubs and stood for a while
looking at her thoughtfully.  "I am going to play this hole," he
announced at length, "and then I am going to tell you a story....  We’ll
go and sit on top of that sand dune by the next green, and look out to
sea, and listen to the oyster-catchers.... Poor little devils—those
oyster-catchers! Have you ever noticed how they do all the work, and the
gulls get all the oysters?"  He came to his ball, and once again
appealed to her for advice.

"An iron or a baffy?" he queried.

The girl took no notice, but stood with her back towards him.  She heard
the clear, sharp click of the club, and involuntarily she looked towards
the green.

"I wonder, my friend," she remarked, "if you’re as good at stories as
you are at golf.  You’re lying dead again."

"I’m better," he returned confidently.  "At least I shall be to-day.
Will you smoke?"

Ralton held out his cigarette case, and after a momentary hesitation she
took one.

"Come and let’s find a good spot," he said. "You’ll only put me off my
putt again if we go to the green...."

In silence they sought a sheltered hollow on the side of the dune, and
it was not till Ruth Seaton had settled herself comfortably that she
broke the silence.

"I don’t often do this sort of thing, you know," she said, a trifle
defiantly.

"Nor do I," answered the man.  "Let us regard the occasion as
privileged."

"Why do you think I’m posing?" she demanded.

"Once upon a time," he began, ignoring her question, "there was a war
on, up the road.  A large number of people, to their great annoyance,
got roped into the performance—amongst them a certain man, whom we will
call Jones....  Good old British name, Jones.  And Jones had taken unto
himself a wife just before the war broke out."

Ralton was staring at some gulls which circled and screamed over the
shingly beach.

"It seemed to Jones that nothing in the whole wide world could be quite
as wonderful as the girl he had married.  She was such a dear—such a
pal; and sometimes he used to look ahead into the future, and just thank
heaven for his marvellous luck.  Then, as I said, came the war.... And
Jones went.

"Naturally he had no hesitation—no more had she.  It was the only
conceivable thing that any man could do.  He trained along with the rest
of the New Army, and he went to France."  Ralton smiled.  "You will
notice that Jones and Mrs. Jones were very, very ordinary beings—like,
shall we say, you and I."

"Stories about ordinary beings are the only ones that really matter,"
said the girl.  "What did Jones do in France?"

"What thousands of other Joneses have done," answered Ralton.  "He
wasn’t particularly brave, and he wasn’t particularly cowardly; he was
just an ordinary man who carried on because he couldn’t do anything
else, and thought in his spare time quite a lot about—the one at home.
You see—it was shortly going to be two: and that makes a man think—quite
a deal, especially when he’s away at a war....  Have you got any
children?" he asked, abruptly.

The girl shook her head, and after a while he went on.

"It was just before a battle that he got the wire he had been expecting,
and after he’d read it he sat staring at it dazedly.  It just couldn’t
be; of course there was a mistake.  There must be.  He knew that
sometimes women did die at such times; but ... but not his woman.  It
couldn’t be his wife that was dead—the thing was preposterous.  Such a
thing couldn’t happen, any more than the one man’s name can ever appear
in the casualty list.  Other names perhaps—but not his."

He hit at a tuft of grass with the club in his hand.  "At last it
penetrated into his brain, and by that time the battle was over.  He
gathered that he had done rather well—been recommended for a decoration
of sorts, and he laughed like hell at the folly of it all.  He felt he
only wanted one thing, and that was to go after his girl.  He didn’t
care a rap about the son he’d never seen; he knew it was being well
looked after, and he wouldn’t even go on leave to see it.  It was only
the girl he thought about, and she—well, she was unattainable except by
one method.  So he deliberately set to work to secure that method."

Ralton’s eyes were fixed on the girl now, and her cigarette had dropped
unheeded on the grass.

"He ran the most unheard-of risks; he volunteered for any and every
stunt that came along—but the Boche seemed to miss him on purpose. For
weeks and months it continued—but it was no good: he bore a charmed
life.

"And now, my lady of the links, comes the point.  There came a time—one
night, to be exact—when in the silence of his dugout a thought crept
into his mind, a nasty, persistent thought. He was furious at the
thought; he argued with it fiercely—but the thought remained.  And so,
in order to prove that the thought was wrong, he redoubled his efforts
to secure the end which he assured himself he wanted.  Before he had
been foolish, now he became damned foolish.  He did the most utterly
stupid things, just to prove to himself that he intended to die; and
Fate decreed otherwise.  He didn’t die—but one evening the other man
did——"

"I don’t quite follow," said the girl.  "What other man?"

"His orderly," said Ralton, briefly.  "Quite unnecessarily he was
walking up a road in full sight of the Boches.  They were some distance
away—true; but a rifle-bullet carries some distance.  Behind him was his
orderly."  With a frown he looked at the girl beside him.  "You’ve never
heard a rifle-bullet probably," he continued, after a moment.  "Never
heard that sudden ping past your head which sounds like a huge mosquito.
He heard it that evening—twice; and the first time he took no notice.
You understand, don’t you, that there was no necessity for him to have
been on the road?"

She nodded.

"The second bullet did not miss.  It hit the orderly, and Jones just got
him into the ditch beside the road before he died...."

Ralton was examining his niblick with unusual care.  "This old club
seems to have suffered some."

"Is that your story?" demanded the girl.

"Yes, that is the story.  The story of a man who posed."

"You mean..." began Ruth Seaton, tentatively.

"I mean that the thought which had come to him in his dugout, the
thought which he had striven so hard against, was that he didn’t really
want to die.  He was young, and his wife’s death was beginning to lose
its sting.  He wanted to live; to see his son; and he posed because he
thought it was disloyal to her memory.  He posed even to himself.  And
it was only as he knelt over the man in the ditch that he realized
it...."  Ralton turned to the girl impulsively.  "My dear," he cried,
"he learned his lesson at a great price—the price of a man’s life.
There is no call for you to do that.  But you’re young, and life, and
all that it means, is crying out to you.  And you’re posing.  The
sympathy of all those people at the hotel isn’t real sympathy; and you
know it isn’t.  They’re posing, too.  When things are really cutting
one, when one’s really up against it, one’s just got to go away and
hide.  The crowd is no use then."  He stood up and looked at her with a
grave smile.  "He won’t think it disloyal, believe me.  You see—he
understands."

She watched the tall, straight figure striding away towards the green
where his ball lay, and then for a long while she sat motionless staring
out to sea.  Once or twice she saw him in the distance, as he continued
on his solitary round, until a sudden shiver of cold warned her that
March at Portsdown was not the ideal month for sitting out-of-doors.

She rose, and started to walk towards the club-house.  In her path lay
the seventeenth green, and as she reached the pin she paused. Not a soul
was in sight: save for the screaming gulls the girl was alone in the
falling dusk.

"Jimmy," she said aloud, "it was here you holed that fifteen-yard putt.
Do you remember, old man?  It was behind that mound you kissed me for
the first time.  D’you remember, old man? I shan’t forget—ever.  But
it’s just a dream, Jimmy, a beautiful dream; and one mustn’t pay too
much attention to dreams, must one—not after they’ve gone?  You won’t
think I’m a blighter, boy, will you? _but_ it has lost its sting. You
know what it was—at first.  But now—oh! my dear—he’s right, that
stranger.  I’ve been posing.  And, Jimmy, I’m going to stop.  You’ll
understand, lad ... and you’ll be glad too, won’t you—for my sake?"

She glanced from one well-remembered spot to another; then,
deliberately, she looked up into the grey sky.

"_Au revoir_, old chap....  God bless you."

It all depended on a four-foot putt.  If Ralton holed out, the match
would be all square, and they would have to play the nineteenth.  By
faultless golf he had pulled his opponent down from dormy three at the
sixteenth, and now at the last hole he was left with what seemed a
certainty, judging by his form up to date.  And, as so often happens
with certainties, it failed to come off.

The ball lipped the hole—hesitated, and stopped a bare inch from the
edge.  For a moment Ralton looked at it, and then, with a grin,
congratulated the victor and strode through the crowd around the green.

"Bad luck, sir—bad luck."  Complete strangers condoled with him as he
passed them, and Ralton smiled his thanks.  The game had been a good
one, which was all that mattered; and now that it was over, there was no
reason why he shouldn’t return at once to Portsdown-on-Sea. It was a
nice place, he told himself—good golf—and...

"Well played, my friend—well played."  He stopped abruptly, and stared
at the speaker.

"You!  But what are you doing here?"

"I understood it was a public place," she murmured.

"I thought you were at Portsdown," he said, slowly.

"I was until last night," she answered.  "I’m going back to-morrow."

"So am I."  Ralton smiled.  "I wonder if you’d help me on the journey."

"Help you?"  The girl seemed a little surprised.

"I’m taking down my small son," he explained, "and I feel certain I
shall lose the nurse."

She looked at him in silence for a while.  "Why, yes, Mr. ... er ...
Jones," and her voice was very low, "I think I might be able to manage
it—now."

                                THE END

                   Made and Printed in Great Britain.
           Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

                          *BOOKS BY "SAPPER"*

                            The Final Count
                            Out of the Blue
                            The Third Round
                              Jim Maitland
                            The Dinner Club
                             The Black Gang
                           Bull-Dog Drummond
                         The Man in Ratcatcher
                                 Mufti
                            The Human Touch
                             No Man’s Land
                          Men, Women, and Guns
                        Sergeant Michael Cassidy
                       The Lieutenant and Others
                              Shorty Bill

                   HODDER AND STOUGHTON Ltd., London