of the servants to be about, and he went through the lower hall and was
unbolting the outer door when he chanced to glance at the window nearest
it; it was closed by a common hasp, and was without bars. With a little
nod of satisfaction, he opened the window noiselessly; then went out by
the door.

He was about to go through the shrubbery, towards the little wood, at
the bottom of which lay the lake, but it occurred to him that some of
the servants might be getting up and that any movement of his should be
open and free from secrecy. So he went straight across the lawn in the
sauntering fashion of a man going for a bath and enjoying the fresh,
warm air; but when he entered the wood, which was enchanted ground for
Derrick and Celia, he looked round him cautiously; for it was just
possible that one of the gamekeepers might be about; but there was no
sight or sound of anyone, and when he had gained the centre of the wood,
he stopped and looked around him, and presently, after waiting a minute
or two listening intently, he hid the box under a bush and covered it
with the leaves of last autumn. Then, with a sense of relief, for, light
as it was, the jewel-case had weighed upon him like a leaden thing, he
went to the lake, slipped off his things and had his swim.

He felt better after it; more of a man, as the poor fool told himself.
There was nothing to connect him with the robbery, he had got rid of the
jewel-case; it was well-nigh impossible that anyone should discover it;
he could remove it when the fuss was over; indeed, perhaps there would
be no need to deal with the jewels; the old man might be----

It was all very plausible; but he had forgotten to take into account
that long arm of coincidence which so often upsets the plans of the most
astute criminal. And yet, in this case, the arm was not so very long.
For Derrick had acquired a habit of early rising during the experiences
in South America; the circus people were always up soon after sunrise,
and at the ranch most of the people were stirring at dawn, when the air
was cool and fresh. That morning, Derrick, who had slept soundly, as
your happy lover should sleep, rose and, leaving the inn, had sauntered
along the road until he came to the gate where Lady Gridborough had seen
him and Celia. Naturally enough, he passed into the wood; of course,
taking the path on which he had walked with Celia. He was thinking of
her, thinking of the future, of the joy that awaited him, and in that
clear, sunlit air, with the song of the birds in his ears, the
difficulties with which he was beset seemed very light and unimportant.
The girl he had loved was going to be his; that thought was quite enough
for such a morning. He had nearly reached the centre of the wood, when
he stopped to take out his pipe and pouch, and he was about to strike a
match, when he saw something white passing between the trees at a little
distance from him.

At first he thought it was Celia, and, with a leap of the lover's heart,
he took a step forward; then he stopped short; the figure was that of a
man in flannels; and a moment or two afterwards, he had recognised
Heyton. The disappointment was great; he had no desire to meet Heyton;
the sight of him recalled the bitter past; and Derrick stood, frowning
as he watched Heyton on his way to the lake. He saw Heyton stop and look
round him, and then he lost sight of him, for Heyton was bending down in
the act of hiding the jewel-case. When he rose, Derrick got a clear
sight of the man's face, and something in its expression impressed
Derrick curiously, painfully.

Nothing stops still in this world of ours; and men must go up or down.
It was evident to Derrick that Heyton had gone very much down since he
had last seen him. Heyton's face had coarsened, his lips had grown
looser and more sensual, there were bags under his eyes; but it was not
these grosser changes which struck Derrick so much, as the expression of
the man's face; it was that of one burdened by some oppression of mind
or body; it seemed to Derrick that the light, prominent eyes had in them
a look of fear, the look a man wears when he is hunted and driven.

And why, just before he had disappeared, had Heyton looked round him,
secretively, cautiously, as if he did not wish to be seen? It was
ridiculous, Derrick told himself; but it seemed to him as if Heyton were
hiding something. Half-unconsciously, he made a mental note of the spot
at which Heyton had made that curious pause in his progress. But Derrick
did not go to it; he wanted particularly to avoid Heyton--and Miriam,
everyone connected with that wretched past which still hung over him
like a cloud. So he returned to the road and went straight back to the
inn.

Awaiting him, he found a letter from the engineers concerning matters
which needed his immediate presence in London. He had just time to
snatch a hasty breakfast, left word with the landlord for Reggie that
he, Derrick, was obliged to go to London but would return by the night
train, and reached the station just as the train came in. He was hot
and, no doubt, looked rather worried; for there was no means of letting
Celia know that he had gone, or of making an appointment with her. Of
course, he pictured her wandering about the wood in the hope of seeing
him, and acutely imagined her disappointment.

CHAPTER XXVI

Meanwhile, Heyton returned to the Hall; walking with a certain
jauntiness which was not altogether assumed; for the disposal of the
jewel-case had been an immense relief. Some of the servants were now
about, and to her surprise, he wished one of the maids good morning
quite pleasantly; to her surprise, because Heyton's manner to his
inferiors was usually anything but a pleasant one; and, while all the
household was devoted to the Marquess, and would have done anything for
him, his son was unpopular. As he passed along the lower hall, Heyton
glanced at the window he had opened: it had not been shut. He went up
the stairs and, as he entered his dressing-room, hummed the latest comic
song. The breakfast hour at the Hall was half-past nine; the Marquess
was called at half-past eight, but Heyton's valet had orders not to
disturb his master until he rang, and, more often than not, Heyton's
bell did not ring until breakfast was on the table.

Heyton threw himself down on the bed and closed his eyes with the
preposterous idea of getting a little sleep; but he lay and listened,
and presently he heard Miriam's maid knocking at the bedroom door; then
he rose and rang for his man.

"Early this morning, eh, Simcox?" he said. "Been for a swim. Feel jolly
fit. Fact is, we all lie abed too late; I've half a mind to get up for a
bath in the lake every morning."

The valet grinned to himself as he answered respectfully,

"Yes, my lord. Very pleasant in the morning."

When he had half finished dressing, Heyton called to Miriam.

"I say, Miriam, what about a drive this morning? We might go over to
Teynsham."

"I don't know; I'll see," she called back listlessly.

"I'll wear a tweed suit," said Heyton to his man; "I'll have the new
one. And, look here, you tell the tailor to give me a little more room
round the waist. I suppose I must be getting fat, eh, Simcox?"

"Oh, not fat, my lord," murmured Simcox, remonstratingly.
"More--er--comfortable."

When the man had finished with him, Heyton lit a cigarette and leant
back in his chair--as if he were waiting for something.

He had not to wait long.

A cry rang through the house; it was followed by others; there was the
sound of rushing footsteps and voices raised in terror; his door was
flung open and Simcox stood on the threshold, his face white, his eyes
starting; he gaped at his master speechlessly, and Heyton gaped back at
him.

"Well, what the devil is it?" he asked at last, his face red, his lips
quivering. "What do you mean by rushing in, in this--idiotic fashion?"

"Oh, my lord!" gasped Simcox. "Something's--something's happened. Oh,
it's awful! It's the Marquess's man--Mr. Jenkins--he's just been to call
his lordship and--and--oh, my lord, it's 'orrible!"

Heyton rose, gripping the back of the chair.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"Oh, my lord, the Marquess is dead!" stammered Simcox.

"Dead!" echoed Heyton, his face livid, his whole form shaking as if with
palsy.

"Well, Jenkins thinks so, my lord. If so, it's--murder."

"Murder!" echoed Heyton, his voice again hoarse.

"Yes, my lord. There's been a burglary; the safe, the safe in his
lordship's dressing-room, has been broken into. Jenkins found his
lordship lying on the ground--there was blood----"

The man's voice had risen by this time and it brought Miriam to the
door. She looked from one to the other, the nameless terror she felt
showing in her eyes.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Go--go away, Miriam," said Heyton, hoarsely. "Go back to your own
room."

Disregarding his injunctions with a kind of contempt, she advanced and
addressed herself to the terror-stricken valet.

"What is it, Simcox?" she asked. "I heard you say----"

"Yes, my lady, it's true," faltered Simcox, wiping the sweat from his
face. "I helped Jenkins carry the Marquess into his bedroom. If his
lordship isn't dead, he's as good as dead."

Swiftly, without a moment's hesitation, Miriam went past them to the
Marquess's bedroom, thrusting her way through a crowd of horrified,
gaping servants. The Marquess lay on the bed where they had placed him.
The blood had ceased flowing, but it had stained one side of his face,
had reddened a greater part of the old-fashioned night-shirt which he
wore. He lay quite still, his eyes closed. She stood and looked at him,
frozen with horror; then she became conscious that her husband was
standing beside her.

"Is he dead?" she asked, almost inaudibly. "Who--who has done this?"

At the question, he drew back a little, and lifted his eyes from the
reddened face to hers.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, almost shouted. "It's pretty plain, I
should think. Didn't you hear what Simcox said? There's been a burglary;
the--the safe's broken open----"

"The safe----?" she said, unconscious that she had spoken.

For a moment her eyes met his; then hers sank and she shuddered.

"Has anyone gone for the doctor?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yes, my lady," said Jenkins. "I've sent a groom for Doctor Scott; but
I'm afraid----"

"Give me some water," she said tonelessly.

They brought her some and a sponge, and with a hand that was unnaturally
calm, she wiped the blood from the old man's face and neck.

"Here, look here!" said Heyton, hesitatingly. "Do you think you ought to
touch him, do anything till the doctor comes?"

She did not look at him, and continued her pitiful ministration. Heyton
drew back from the bed, his eyes withdrawing themselves from his
father's face slowly, as if fascinated.

"Has anything gone from the safe?" he asked.

"I don't know, my lord. I didn't wait to look," said Jenkins in a hushed
voice.

Heyton went into the dressing-room and returned a moment later.

"If there was anything of value in the safe, it's gone," he said. "Look
here!--Here, you, Simcox, what the devil are you gaping there for, like
a stuck pig; why don't you send for the police?"

Simcox turned to fly, and almost ran into Mrs. Dexter, who was followed
by Celia. Strangely enough Mrs. Dexter had been almost the last to hear
of the calamity; a terrified servant had dashed into her room with the
awful news. Celia's room was next to Mrs. Dexter's and she had heard
Mrs. Dexter's cry of horror, and had darted out to learn what it meant.
Mrs. Dexter went to the bed, gently and unconsciously putting Miriam
aside, and bent over the motionless form.

"He is not dead," she said, in a whisper.

"Oh, thank God!" broke from Miriam's white lips, and she turned to Celia
and grasped her arm. "Oh, I'm glad you've come; I'm glad you are here!"
she sobbed. "I'm all alone--oh, I'm glad you are here! Do _you_ think he
is not dead?"

"Mrs. Dexter will know," said Celia, trying to control her voice. "Don't
be frightened, don't get worried, Lady Heyton. Come with me!"

She took Miriam's hand and drew her into her bedroom. Miriam sank on the
bed and covered her face with her hands; and for a while, there was
silence; for Celia had no words at command. Presently Miriam dropped her
hands from her face and looked straight before her; there was something
worse than horror in her expression; there was a poignant, a vivid
terror.

Celia found some eau-de-Cologne and bathed Miriam's forehead.

"You won't faint, Lady Heyton?" she said. "They will need you--you must
try to bear up. He is not dead----"

"No, thank God!" murmured Miriam. "Why, it would be--murder, wouldn't
it?" she asked suddenly, still staring in front of her.

"I--I don't know," said Celia. "I know no more than you do. It is a
burglary, isn't it? I heard one of the servants say that the safe had
been broken into."

"The safe!" echoed Miriam, in a toneless voice. "Yes, the safe--the
diamonds. What is that?" she asked, with almost a scream.

"Carriage wheels: the doctor," said Celia, soothingly.

"Go--go and hear what he says," said Miriam, in a hushed whisper. "I--I
want to know at once. I can't go back; I dare not!"

"No; stay here, I will come to you," said Celia. "Shall I bring Lord
Heyton to you?"

"No, no!" responded Miriam, shrinking away. "No, no! Don't bring him
here. I--I mean he should be there; there will be things to do----Oh,
don't you understand! I don't want him here!"

"I understand," said Celia; "but you must try to be calm. There will be
so much to do----"

"Calm!" cried Miriam, flinging out her arms. "Am I not calm? Do you
think I'm not trying not to give way; that I'm not trying to keep sane?
Go! Go!"

Celia went back to the Marquess's room. Mrs. Dexter and the doctor were
bending over the bed; Heyton was standing at a little distance, watching
them and gnawing his nails. Mrs. Dexter looked round as Celia entered.

"I want you, my dear," she said. "I want you to help me. He is not
dead," she went on in a whisper; "he is still alive, though Doctor Scott
will not give us any hope yet."

Celia assisted Mrs. Dexter in carrying out the doctor's orders; the
Marquess was still unconscious; but though he looked more dead than
alive, life was still present. After a time, there came a timid and
subdued knock at the door. Mrs. Dexter signed to Celia to open it and
she did so. It was Smith, the butler.

"The Inspector has come, Miss Grant, and is asking for Lord Heyton," he
said in a tremulous voice.

Heyton turned at the sound of his name and went out.

"How is the Marquess, my lord?" asked Smith, who was deeply agitated.

"Oh, he's all right," said Heyton. "I mean, the doctor thinks he'll pull
round. Here, don't make more fuss than is necessary, Smith; keep the
house quiet and tell the servants to keep their mouths shut."

Smith looked at him with surprise; for Heyton's manner was scarcely that
of a son whose father had nearly been done to death. The Inspector was
in the hall and Heyton signed to him to follow into the library.

"This is dreadful news, my lord," said the Inspector.

"Rather!" assented Heyton. He was very pale, and his hair was dank with
sweat, and his tongue moved over his lips thickly, with a restless,
feverish movement. "Here, we'd better have a drink before we begin. I'm
terribly upset. Only natural, eh, Inspector?--Own father, you
know?--Bring in some soda and whisky," he ordered the footman who
answered the bell.

"Not for me, my lord, thank you," said the Inspector, respectfully.

Heyton poured out half a glassful of whisky, made a pretence of adding
soda, and swallowed the spirit.

"Absolutely upset," he said, wiping his lips on his handkerchief. "But
there! I half expected it. I was telling my father only last night--or
was it the night before?--about those damned gipsies on the common. I
warned him; yes, I warned him."

"Gipsies, my lord?" said the Inspector. "You suspect them?"

"Who else am I to suspect?" demanded Heyton, with a sideway glance of
his bloodshot eyes.

"That remains to be seen, my lord," said the Inspector quietly; "for
myself, I don't think the gipsies have had any hand in this. I should
like you to tell me everything you know about the affair, please, my
lord."

"Certainly, Inspector," responded Heyton, promptly. "But, you see, I
know precious little; in fact, I don't know anything. My man came
bursting into my room this morning, and told me they'd found my
father--well, as you know, lying in his dressing-room, badly knocked
about; and, of course, I went straight to his room, and--that's all I
know about it."

"Quite so, my lord. I should like to see the room at once."

"Come on, then," said Heyton. He was quite calm, and was quite proud of
being so calm. The Inspector might look at the room as long as he liked;
it wouldn't tell him anything of the truth.

They went up to the dressing-room, and the Inspector walked straight to
the safe and began to look, not at its contents, but along the edge of
the door. He nodded with a kind of satisfaction, and said:

"I've wired for a detective; he's more at home at this kind of case than
I am."

He turned from the safe and examined the part of the floor on which the
Marquess had fallen; then he caught sight of the poker and pursed his
lips.

"That's what did it," he said, confidently. "The blood's still wet on
it."

Heyton made as if to pick up the poker, but the Inspector caught his arm
and stayed him.

"Beg pardon, my lord," he said, apologetically. "But you mustn't touch
anything. We'll let everything bide as it is until the detective comes
down from Scotland Yard."

He went to the window and examined it; but without touching it.

"Closed and hasped! Have you any idea how they got in, my lord; have any
of the servants found a window or a door open?"

"No," replied Heyton; then he added, as if he had suddenly remembered.
"Here, by George, that's strange! I mean about the window. I found one
of the back windows open when I went down this morning for a swim."

"Oh!" said the Inspector. "I should like to see that window, my lord.
But one moment! Was there anything of value--I mean, jewels or money or
anything of that kind--in the safe?"

"Not that I'm aware of," replied Heyton, almost instantly; but he had
had time to consider the question. "There may have been, of course. Not
jewels, because my father kept the family diamonds at the bank."

"That's something to be thankful for, my lord," said the Inspector, with
an approving shake of the head. "Quite the proper thing to do. There
wouldn't be half the burglaries, if the gentry didn't leave their jewels
about in the way they do. But there might have been money?"

"Oh, yes, there might," said Heyton.

The Inspector walked round the room cautiously, and presently went to
the outer door.

"Is this locked, my lord?"

"I don't know," said Heyton; and, as if he had forgotten the Inspector's
injunction, he tried the handle of the door before the Inspector could
stop him. "It's locked," said Heyton.

"Tut, tut!" said the Inspector to himself, as if he were much annoyed by
something.

"Come on," said Heyton. "I'll show you the window I found open." He was
consumed by a feverish desire to get the Inspector out of the room.

They went down to the lower hall, the white-faced servants staring at
them from coigns of vantage; and the Inspector glanced swiftly at the
window and then at the hall.

"That's where they got in," he said. "Nothing easier. There is no door,
I suppose, between the Marquess's room and the window here?"

"No," replied Heyton, moistening his lips as he stood behind the
Inspector.

"And you are sure this window was open when you went out this morning,
my lord? What time was that, by the way?"

"A little after six," replied Heyton. "It was deuced hot; I woke and had
a fancy for a swim. There was no one about, and I opened the door, this
door, for myself."

"Oh, it's plain enough," said the Inspector, nodding once or twice.
"It's quite easy for them to slip this hasp back with an ordinary knife.
The rest isn't difficult to guess. They must have made some noise while
they were breaking into the safe; well, not 'breaking into' it, for they
must have opened it with a key, because there wasn't even the mark of an
ordinary chisel on the safe. You noticed that, my lord, no doubt?"

"I--I can't say I did," said Heyton; "I'm a bit upset and confused, you
know."

"Yes, it was opened with a key," said the Inspector, "and that's the
only part of the business that troubles me. That's a good safe, my lord;
one of the first-class makers, and it couldn't have been opened with a
skeleton key; in fact, with anything but the proper key or a duplicate."

"Oh?" said Heyton. "Where did they get it?"

The Inspector shook his head. "Of course, that's just the puzzle, my
lord. I'm afraid we shall have to leave that to the Scotland Yard man."

As he spoke, he took out his whistle and blew sharply on it. A constable
came to the door and saluted.

"Got your men placed, Brown?" asked the Inspector. "Just put another man
on the drive, and give him orders that no man is to enter the lodge
gates excepting the detective, when he comes."

"What's that for?" asked Heyton, as if the question were inspired by his
desire to understand everything that was being done.

"I don't want a lot of people tramping over the place," said the
Inspector, rather evasively.

"Oh, ah, yes," said Heyton. "Well, I'll go upstairs again. Send for me,
if you want me, Inspector."

He went upstairs, paused a moment outside the Marquess's door, then went
on to his own dressing-room. He listened at the door leading to the
bedroom; but there was no sound. He touched the handle of the door; but
he could not open it, though he knew that Miriam was in the room, and
that he ought to go to her. He could not. He rang the bell, and when the
valet came, Heyton told him to bring some whisky and soda. But even the
draught of almost undiluted spirit could not give him sufficient courage
to face his wife.

For he knew that she would remember that she had told him the diamonds
were in the safe. And that he had wanted them.

CHAPTER XXVII

Mr. Jacobs, the detective from Scotland Yard, arrived at the Hall a
little after four. He was a short, comfortable-looking person, with a
round, almost boyish face, a pleasant smile and a pair of blue eyes,
with a frank and innocent expression; in fact, anything more unlike the
conventional detective beloved by the fictionist it would be difficult
to imagine. The Inspector had met him at the station, and had gone over
the case with meticulous care; and Mr. Jacobs, smoking placidly, had
listened--well, as you and I, dear reader, would listen to a tale which
had no very great interest for us. If the truth must be told, the worthy
Inspector was rather disappointed; he had expected the great man to
display a hawk-like acuteness and to ask a number of incisive questions;
but Mr. Jacobs asked none; he said merely, when the recital was
finished,

"You have done everything you could, Mr. Smith. Not a very difficult
case, eh?"

"Not difficult!" repeated the Inspector, with surprise. "Have you got a
clue already?"

Mr. Jacobs smiled. "Can't say yet," he replied.

As they drove up to the Hall, Heyton was seen standing just within the
threshold, as if waiting for them.

"Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," whispered the Inspector.

Mr. Jacobs nodded; he did not direct a piercing glance at Heyton's pale
face and bloodshot eyes, with their swollen lids; in fact, he did not
appear to notice anything, as he went forward, hat in hand.

A few words of commonplace greeting were exchanged; Mr. Jacobs expressed
his sympathy in a low voice, devoid of any acuteness, and Heyton drew a
breath of relief, as he led the way into the library; to him it seemed
that the man from Scotland Yard looked rather stupid than otherwise. Mr.
Jacobs took a seat, and Heyton, of his own accord, repeated, almost word
for word, the account he had given to the Inspector.

"It's my opinion," he wound up, "that you'll find the man amongst those
blackguard gipsies."

"Yes, my lord?" responded the detective, interrogatively. Then he went
upstairs to the dressing-room. "I think I should like to be alone in
here, my lord, if you don't mind," he said.

He took the key from the Inspector, and went in, closing the door after
him. When he came out, his round, innocent-looking face was grave, but
revealed nothing.

"Has the Marquess recovered consciousness?" he asked.

"Not yet, I am sorry to say," replied Heyton. "They are keeping the room
very quiet, and my wife will tell me the moment my father comes to."

"I should like to know, when he does so, my lord," said the detective.
"Is there anyone else with him--I mean, beside the doctor and the
nurse?"

"Mrs. Dexter, the housekeeper, and a young lady, Miss Grant, a kind of
secretary and librarian."

"Just so," said Mr. Jacobs. "Thank you, my lord. I don't use alcohol;
but I should like to have a cup of tea, if I may: great tea-drinker."

He took his cup of tea with the Inspector in the morning-room, and while
he drank it, he talked to the Inspector--of the country and the crops.

"I love the country," he said. "If I had my way, I would never put foot
in London again. When I retire, Inspector, I'm going to buy a little
farm--if it will run to it; and London won't see me again in a hurry.
Beautiful place, this; and they breed a remarkably good class of cattle.
I'm rather an authority on shorthorns; shall go in for some myself, if I
can afford it."

To all this the Inspector listened with amazement.

"Anything you'd like me to do, Mr. Jacobs?" he asked, in a tone that
verged on exasperation. "Is there anything else you'd like to see? That
window in the lower hall, for instance?"

"Thanks; I saw it as we passed through," replied Mr. Jacobs, simply.
"No; I don't think there's anything I want to see. Yes; this is a
beautiful house; quite a show-place. I should like to see something of
it presently; but one doesn't like to intrude at such a time as this."
The Inspector stared at him. "But perhaps I might go through what I
suppose you'd call the state rooms--and yes, upstairs."

"I thought you would have liked to examine the whole house without loss
of time," remarked the Inspector, with an aggrieved air.

"Oh, presently will do," said Mr. Jacobs; "don't want to make myself a
nuisance. We might walk round the grounds."

They went out, the Inspector still confused and aggrieved by what he
considered the detective's lack of business method, and Mr. Jacobs gazed
round him with approval and admiration.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!" he murmured. "Where's this lake Lord Heyton
spoke of? I should like to see that. In my opinion, every place of this
sort ought to have a bit of water: lends such a charm to the scenery,
don't you think, Inspector?"

"Oh, yes," assented the Inspector, almost with disgust. "This way."

"Ah, this is the nearest way from the house, across the lawn, of
course," said Mr. Jacobs. "I suppose this is the way Lord Heyton comes
when he goes for his bath. Right across the lawn, eh?"

The Inspector nodded indifferently. It seemed to him that the detective
was curious about everything unconnected with the case.

They went across the lawn, the detective still dilating on the charms of
a country life, and entered the wood. If they had not followed exactly
the line taken by Heyton in the morning, they had touched it now and
again; and when they reached the edge of the lake, Mr. Jacobs looked
round in a casual way and presently seated himself on the big stone on
which Heyton had sat while he dressed himself. Mr. Jacobs obviously was
delighted with the lake and its surroundings; and the Inspector would
not have been surprised if the great detective had proposed a swim; but
he stopped short of that eccentricity and they returned to the house.

They went into the state rooms, which received Mr. Jacobs' unstinted
admiration, and were crossing the hall to the little sitting-room which
had been set apart for him, when Celia met them. She was very pale, and
her brows were drawn together by trouble and anxiety; for a great deal
of responsibility had fallen suddenly on her shoulders. Though a duly
qualified nurse was in possession of the sick-room, Mrs. Dexter and
Celia were assisting her; and Celia had Miriam almost entirely on her
hands; for Miriam was almost in a state of collapse. Celia had expected
her to break down; but there was something in Miriam's condition which
puzzled Celia. She seemed not only overwhelmed by grief and anxiety, but
to be possessed of a nervous terror which expressed itself in an
avoidance of her husband. Lord Heyton had asked after his wife several
times that day; but Miriam had refused to see him, and once, when Celia
ventured to plead with her, and to try to persuade her to allow Lord
Heyton to come into the room, Miriam had sprung at the door and leant
with her back against it, panting, with absolute terror, and with a look
of horror on her face which at once stopped all Celia's attempts at
persuasion.

For a time, Miriam paced up and down the room, like one distraught,
continually muttering, "Will he die? Will it be murder?" But at last
Celia had succeeded in getting the hysterical woman to bed, where she
lay, exhausted by her emotions. Celia was on her way to ask Doctor Scott
for a sleeping draught, when she was met by the detective and the
Inspector.

"Miss Grant, the librarian," murmured the Inspector; and Mr. Jacobs
bowed politely.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Grant," he said. "Wish it were
in happier circumstances. How is the Marquess now?"

"Still the same," replied Celia. "He is not yet conscious."

"Dear me; dear me!" murmured Mr. Jacobs, sympathetically. "Now, my dear
young lady, may I ask you a favour--I don't want to trouble the doctor,
he's got quite enough to do; so have you, no doubt, for that matter; but
you know what doctors are?--What I want you to do, if you will be so
kind, and if you should be in the room and the Marquess recovers
consciousness, is to just send to me in the sitting-room here and let me
know."

"I will do so," said Celia, and she passed on to the morning-room, where
Doctor Scott was giving some directions to his assistant.

So suddenly had the terrible blow fallen that she had scarcely time to
think of her lover. It hurt her to imagine him waiting in the wood for
her, on the chance of seeing her, and to know that she could not send a
message to him, could not let him know. But she told herself that, no
doubt, by this time, he had heard of the terrible tragedy and would
understand. She could not afford much thought for him; her hands were
too full; indeed, in addition to her other responsibilities, she had, in
a measure, taken Mrs. Dexter's place in the household, and had to give
directions to the still scared servants.

She sent down to the village for the sleeping draught which Doctor Scott
prescribed for Miriam, and as soon as she could, went upstairs again. In
the corridor, she met Lord Heyton, and he looked so ill, so careworn,
that, for a moment, her dislike of him was outbalanced by pity. He
nodded to her, and she was about to pass on; then she paused and said:

"Have you had anything to eat, my lord? Everyone is so busy and so
confused, there will be no regular meals, I am afraid."

"Oh, that's all right," he said, glancing at her furtively, and then
lowering his eyes. "I'm not much in the humour for meals, as you may
guess. Has my father come to, yet? Look here, that officious fool of a
nurse has shut me out of the room. I wish you'd--yes, look here, just
let me know when he comes to. I shall be hanging about. I say," he
added, with another furtive glance at her pale face, "you're looking
pretty upset yourself. I suppose they've shoved everything on to
you.--And there's Miriam! What's become of her?"

"Lady Heyton is in bed--and asleep, I hope, my lord," said Celia; and
reluctantly and with a touch of colour, she added, "I think it would be
better not to disturb her ladyship; she--she is very much upset; very
ill, indeed."

He nodded. "Not to be surprised at!" he said. "I'm feeling pretty seedy
myself. Here, will you come with me and have a glass of wine?"

"No, thank you, my lord," replied Celia; and, all her dislike of him
active again, she left him.

About six o'clock the watchers by the sick bed noticed a change in the
Marquess. His eyelids flickered a moment, his lips moved. Celia, who was
standing nearest to him, bent over him and made a sign to Mrs. Dexter
and the doctor, and they hastened forward noiselessly. For some time,
the stricken man struggled for speech; then one word passed his lips,
almost inaudibly,

"Percy!"

Celia looked at the doctor questioningly. He nodded, and she went out.
She found Heyton in the smoking-room; there was a decanter of brandy in
front of him and his face was flushed; but it went white as she said, as
calmly as she could,

"The Marquess has recovered consciousness; he has asked for you, my
lord."

He got up and steadied himself, with one hand on the table, looking at
her with a curious expression in his face: in that instant, it reminded
her of the expression on that of his wife; it was one of absolute
terror. But it was only momentary; he nodded and went out of the room.
Celia was following him, when she caught sight of a small part of the
detective's figure, just inside the sitting-room; she had forgotten him,
but as she went towards him he made a sign as if he understood; indeed,
he waved her away.

Mr. Jacobs waited until Celia had gone; then he went upstairs softly; in
the corridor, near the Marquess's door, he met the doctor, followed by
Mrs. Dexter and the nurse, coming out.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I was just going up to have another look
at the dressing-room."

The doctor inclined his head. "Don't make any more noise than you can
help," he said. "We have left the Marquess alone with Lord Heyton; you
must do nothing to disturb them."

"Quite so; I'll go up presently," said Mr. Jacobs; and he walked down
the corridor. But when the others had disappeared, he turned quickly and
softly, and entered the dressing-room.

With the outer door open an inch, he watched and waited; and in a very
few minutes Heyton came out of the sick-room. He was white as death, and
he was shaking in every limb. The detective waited until he had heard
Heyton's slow and heavy steps descend the stairs, then Mr. Jacobs went
down, by the back stairs, to his sitting-room. He dined there, with the
Inspector, and entertained--though that is scarcely the word--the amazed
and disgusted Mr. Brown by an account of a visit Mr. Jacobs had paid to
a big agricultural show in the north.

After dinner, he smoked a cigar with an air of quiet and subdued
enjoyment proper to the circumstances; and a little later on, he went
for a stroll. The night was hot, and Heyton had gone on to the terrace;
he had had some more brandy, and was trying to smoke; but his throat and
lips were too parched to permit of his doing so, and with an oath, he
flung the cigar away. It fell very nearly on Mr. Jacobs' Homburg hat.

"All right, my lord," he said, as Heyton muttered a sullen apology. "I
was just taking a stroll." He went up the steps, and stood beside
Heyton, looking at the view with obvious admiration; then presently, he
said, "I was going to ask you if you'd mind signing a paper for me, my
lord. It's just a little report for Scotland Yard; scarcely necessary
perhaps, but still----"

"All right," said Heyton, dully. "Here, come in here!" They entered the
library by the French door.

"A beautiful room: magnificent!" murmured Mr. Jacobs. He drew a paper
from his pocket and spread it out on the writing-slope. "Just here, my
lord, if you please; it's a kind of authorization from you to take
charge of the case."

He handed Heyton a pen, and Heyton looked at the paper hazily and was
about to sign, when Mr. Jacobs, in drawing the inkstand nearer, had the
misfortune to upset it. The ink ran over the paper, and over Heyton's
fingers.

"What the devil!" he exclaimed, angrily.

"I beg your pardon, my lord! I'm very sorry; very sorry; it was
dreadfully clumsy of me. Dear, dear; it's all over your lordship's hand!
Here, wipe it on this, my lord!"

In his agitation and embarrassment, Mr. Jacobs actually caught hold of
Heyton's hand and pressed it on a sheet of paper.

"Tut, tut," he said. "I thought it was blotting-paper! Here it is! I
really am so sorry--never did such a thing in my life before!"

"Damned clumsy of you!" growled Heyton. "I'm in a beast of a mess!
Where's a cloth?"

"Pray take my handkerchief, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, offering it.

At this moment, Celia entered the room. She would have drawn back at
sight of the two men; but Heyton called to her over his shoulder.

"Hi! Have you got a cloth? The ink's upset----"

She ran to a drawer and took out a clean duster; and Heyton, swearing
under his breath, wiped the remainder of the ink from his fingers.

"I'd better go and wash it," he said; and he went out of the room.

"Tut, tut!" said Mr. Jacobs. "It was my fault, Miss Grant. I was
reaching for the ink, to bring it nearer his lordship, when my sleeve or
something caught the corner of the desk here and, before you could say
'Jack Robinson,' the mischief was done."

He seemed so greatly distressed and upset by the accident, that Celia
quite felt for him.

"Oh, it is not a very great matter," she said, soothingly. "There has
been no harm done."

Indeed, it did seem to her a very trivial affair, compared with the
awful tragedy in which they were moving. "I will get a cloth and wipe up
the ink; fortunately, it hasn't run on to the carpet."

As she spoke, she took up the sheets of writing-paper and blotting paper
between her finger and thumb, intending to put them in the waste-paper
basket; but, with a kind of apologetic laugh, Mr. Jacobs laid his hand
on her arm, and said:

"No, don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you will. I should like
to keep them as a kind of memento, as a sort of warning for the future
not to be so clumsy."

With a shadow of a smile, she gave the two pieces of paper to him, and
as he took them he said,

"I've got my own fingers inked. Serve me right. I'll go and wash my
hands. Really, I shall never forgive myself! No wonder his lordship was
angry."

"Was he?" said Celia, absently. "Yes; he was. But you must remember Lord
Heyton is very much upset; when one's nerves are on the rack, the least
thing, trifling though it may be----"

"Quite so; quite so," said Mr. Jacobs, with a nod of comprehension.

He was still so much upset by the accident, that he forgot to wash his
hands and went straight to his sitting-room, still carrying the two
sheets of paper, the evidences of his inexcusable clumsiness.

CHAPTER XXVIII

That night, Inspector Brown confided his disappointment in the ways of
Scotland Yard to the wife of his bosom. He was a conscientious man; and
it seemed to him that, in the face of Mr. Jacobs' obvious incapacity, it
behoved him, Mr. Brown, to follow the case with renewed energy. So far
as the worthy Inspector could see, Mr. Jacobs was doing absolutely
nothing, save eat his meals, smoke his cigar, and stroll about the
grounds and admire the scenery. Therefore, the Inspector enjoined his
men to keep a careful watch; and he himself, when not in Mr. Jacobs'
company, patrolled the woods and, following the clue Lord Heyton had
offered him, had visited the gipsy encampment and examined the members
of the tribe. He came upon nothing to rouse his suspicions of them;
indeed, he hit upon no clue whatever; but he still kept up a kind of
patrol and scrutinised every person who approached the Hall.

If Mr. Jacobs was aware of the Inspector's renewed vigilance, he made no
remark; and whenever they were together, and the Inspector wanted to
talk of the case, Mr. Jacobs politely and quite inoffensively--in fact,
he always listened most respectfully--led the conversation away from the
subject. Once or twice, the Inspector was absolutely on the point of
asking the famous detective why on earth he was lingering at the Hall;
but his courage always failed him; for, notwithstanding the detective's
boyish face and innocent-looking eyes, there was something about him
which inspired a kind of respect in Inspector Brown.

After that momentary glimpse of intelligence, and his interview with his
son, the Marquess had relapsed into unconsciousness; but the doctor, in
answer to Celia's anxious inquiries, had told her that there was a
chance, just a chance, of life.

As the great house settled into its nightly silence, Derrick's train was
speeding on its way. He had got through Donna Elvira's business
satisfactorily, and, moreover, following Reggie's instructions, obtained
his special licence; therefore, his heart was light as he sat and smoked
while the express tore through the silence of the night. He reached
Thexford at ten o'clock in the morning, and went straight to the inn.
Reggie, he was told, was out; and Derrick made a good breakfast and,
naturally enough, was drawn towards the wood. It was a hundred to one
chance that Celia should be there; but he decided to take the odds. The
morning was hot; it was not at all unlikely that, puzzled and perhaps
alarmed by his absence, she might go to the wood. On his way, it was
also natural that he should recall his sight of Heyton on the preceding
morning; and, having recalled that, it was also a corollary that he
should remember Heyton's mysterious proceedings.

When they occurred to Derrick, he was not very far from the spot where
Heyton had disappeared for a minute or two; and Derrick sauntered
towards the place and stood looking round him. He was keen-eyed, and in
some of his experiences in South America he had learnt a certain amount
of bush-craft; and he had no difficulty in finding the exact spot in
which he had lost sight, for a moment, of Heyton.

With a feeling that was scarcely one of curiosity, he examined the
ground in close proximity, and presently, he caught sight of a portion
of the fringe of a bathing-towel. He took it from the thorn on which it
hung, and fingered it absently; and while doing so, he noted the mark of
footsteps which had trodden down the bracken in front of a certain bush.
Almost at the same moment, he saw a little heap of dried leaves beneath
the bush, and, mechanically, he stirred them with his foot. To his
amazement, the displaced leaves revealed a box covered with morocco
leather. He stood and looked down at it with that sense of incredulity
which comes to all of us when we happen upon something absolutely
unexpected; then he knelt down and took up the box. It was heavy and,
when he shook it, it rattled softly.

He stood with the box in his hand, staring at it, and wondering whether
it was the thing Heyton had concealed, and what it contained. Also
another most important question was agitating him: What should he do
with it? Presumably, it was Heyton's property; and should be returned to
him at once. But why on earth should Heyton come out in the early
morning to conceal a morocco-covered box under a bush in Thexford Woods?

To say that Derrick was suspicious is to express inadequately the
feeling that suddenly assailed him. He knew that the man was a
scoundrel, and as unscrupulous as he was weak; a man who could forge a
cheque, and plant the blame on another, is capable of anything; and
Derrick scented a mystery, a base, ignoble one, with Heyton as its
centre. He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, the box in his hand,
and stared frowningly before him. He could find no answer to the enigma.
That he himself should march up to the Hall and restore the box to
Heyton, was impossible. After all, the affair was none of his, and,
perhaps, the best thing he could do would be to put the box back in its
hiding-place and leave things to work themselves out. He wanted to have
nothing more to do with Heyton, or any business of his. Yes; the easiest
and the safest plan would be to leave the box where he had found it and
have nothing more to do with it. With this more or less wise resolution,
he rose and had taken a step forward, when he heard a sound behind him,
felt a hand fall heavily on his shoulder, and, turning, met the stern
and agitated gaze of Inspector Brown.

"I arrest you for robbery and attempted murder!" said the Inspector.

His voice, for all its sternness, shook and his face was red and
working; for this was the most important moment of Inspector Brown's
life, and it was little wonder that he was agitated and strung up. While
the great detective from Scotland Yard was doing nothing, here had he,
the Inspector, actually discovered the criminal, caught him red-handed,
so to speak!

"It is no use your offering any resistance," he said, brusquely. "Three
or four constables are within call; you could not possibly escape. I've
had my eye upon you for some time, my man, and have taken precautions."

This assertion was not strictly true, but the Inspector almost felt it
was.

Derrick stared at the red face in a kind of stupefied amazement; at last
he said:

"You mean that you are charging me with stealing this thing?"

"I do," replied the Inspector; "and you may as well hand it over to me
without any fuss."

"I shall be delighted to do so," said Derrick, grimly.

He had not yet realized the full significance of the Inspector's first
formal words; for the moment Derrick's mind was engrossed by the
sardonic irony of Fate. Here it was again! There was something really
monotonous in the way in which this peculiar phase of misfortune dogged
him. Was he really going to be again charged with an offence he had not
committed? He opened his lips to speak; to say where he had found the
box; then he remembered the words "attempted murder," and instead of
giving information--which the Inspector would certainly have received
with incredulity--Derrick said quietly and with a sudden pallor,

"Did I understand you to charge me with attempted murder as well as
robbery?"

"I did," responded the Inspector, sternly. "The attempted murder of the
Marquess of Sutcombe."

Derrick did not start, made no exclamation, but the pallor of his face
increased and he gave a little nod. If this box had been stolen, the man
who had hidden it was, in all probability, the thief--and attempted
murderer. Percy--the Marquess's own son! Confused and bewildered as he
was, Derrick had sense enough left in him to feel that he must hold his
tongue.

"All right," he said, very gravely. "I should like to say----"

"If you'll take my advice, you'll say nothing," broke in the Inspector,
in an official manner. "You must know as well as I do that everything
you say----"

"Quite so," said Derrick. "Where are you going to take me?"

"To the lock-up at Fleckfield," replied the Inspector, much relieved in
his mind now that he saw his prisoner was not going to offer any
resistance, give any trouble. "You're quite right to take it quietly. As
I said, we're surrounded by my men. What's this?"

"This" was Celia, coming through the wood and hastening her steps at the
sound of Derrick's voice. She stopped dead short, at sight of the two
men, looking from one to the other in surprise, but no alarm; then she
advanced to Derrick with, "Sydney!" on her lips.

"Why, it's you, Miss Grant!" said the Inspector. "I'm glad you've come
up--though this is no place for you." He paused and looked at her in a
puzzled way. "But you know this man, you called him 'Sydney'?"

"What does he mean?" asked Celia, in a bewildered fashion, of Derrick.
"Why does he speak like that?--Oh, what does it mean!"

"It means that the Inspector here is making a mistake, Celia," said
Derrick gravely, but without any resentment. "It appears that there has
been a robbery at the Hall----"

"You've heard nothing about it!" exclaimed Celia.

"No," said Derrick, quietly. "I left for London yesterday morning early;
I returned this morning, saw no one, heard nothing of it."

"Oh, come now, you'd better keep silent," interrupted the Inspector.
"Miss Grant, I met this gentleman"--he hesitated on the word--"with
this"--he tapped the box--"in his possession. I know, from the
description, that it is the missing jewel-case, and I have arrested him
on the charge of robbery and attempted murder. How you seem to know
him--I don't understand----"

Celia stood as if turned to stone for a moment or two; her eyes
wandering from the faces of the two men to the jewel-case; then she
broke out,

"Sydney, why don't you explain?--It's a mistake, Inspector, a terrible
mistake! I know this gentleman; I--I am engaged to him, I am going to be
his wife. It's--absurd to suspect him!--Sydney, where did you find the
thing?"

"Now, Miss Grant," said the Inspector soothingly, before Derrick could
reply. "Let me advise you, as I have already advised the prisoner, not
to say another word. I am sorry, truly sorry that a young lady of
your--position should be so intimately acquainted, should be----Dear,
dear, this is very sad, Miss Grant! I think you'd better go back to the
Hall. But please don't say anything to Mr. Jacobs; I will come back to
him directly I have seen the prisoner locked up."

Celia was calm now; her momentary terror had given place to grief and
pity for the man she loved. Not for a second did any doubt of his
innocence assail her. With that almost divine intuition of true love,
she knew, not only that he was innocent, but that this crime was in some
way or other connected with the former one, that of the forged cheque.

"Yes, I will go back to the Hall," she said; "but you will let me speak
to Mr. Green before I go?"

"Of course, I can't prevent you," said the Inspector; "but you must say
what you have to say in my hearing, and, of course, I shall take note of
every word."

Celia went to Derrick, put her arm round his neck and kissed him.

"I can wait, dearest," she said. "You will not let this--this weigh upon
you, trouble you?"

He was silent for a moment, his lips working; but the kiss she had
impressed upon him strengthened and nerved him.

"God bless you, Celia!" he murmured, very quietly. "Go now! One
moment--is the Marquess dying?"

"No," she said, with a dry little sob. "He is very bad, has been
dreadfully injured, but he may recover."

"Thank God!" said Derrick. "That is all I will say. Go back, now,
dearest. I will write to you--if they will let me."

The two men moved on; but she stood, her hand pressed against the tree,
as if for support, as if she were unable to move, her eyes following the
two figures; and as she watched them, in an agony, she saw a third
figure coming through the gate. For a moment she did not recognize it,
then she saw that it was Mr. Clendon. She saw him stop in front of the
other two men and she ran forward, calling his name, and, in another
instant, she was clinging to him. The old man murmured her name
soothingly, and she tried to control herself; but her voice was broken
by sobs, as she said:

"Oh, Mr. Clendon, I am in great trouble. They have arrested him--the man
I am going to marry----" She could get no further.

Mr. Clendon looked steadily, piercingly at Derrick; and Derrick, as if
answering the look, shook his head slightly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Who is this?" demanded the Inspector, impatiently; for, naturally, he
was anxious to get his prisoner under lock and key.

"I am a friend of Miss Grant's and this gentleman," said Mr. Clendon.
"You need not explain, I have heard of the robbery. I am on my way to
the Hall. The Marquess is--a friend of mine, an old friend. One moment,"
he added to the Inspector, "I want to tell this gentleman you have
arrested--under a mistake, I am convinced--that I am assured of his
innocence, and that I charge myself with his defence."

He held out his hand to Derrick as he spoke; the two men exchanged grips
and looked into each other's eyes; and again Derrick was conscious of
that peculiar thrill which he had felt when he first touched Mr.
Clendon's hand.

"Thank you, sir," he said, quietly. "Will you please take care of Miss
Grant--Celia? I should like you to take her away now."

"Come, my dear," said Mr. Clendon; and looking over her shoulder till
Derrick had disappeared, Celia went with Mr. Clendon, her hand in his.

"Do you think you can tell me all you know about this terrible
business?" he said, when she had yielded to the relief of tears and was
calmer and more composed.

Celia told him all she knew, and Mr. Clendon listened with attention and
in silence.

"Of course, he is innocent," she wound up. "Oh, Mr. Clendon, I'm so glad
you've come; it is as if--as if you had been sent to me. A moment or two
ago I felt as--as I saw him taken away--that I was left alone in the
world; but I feel now that I have a friend----"

"I trust that you have, my child," he said. "Don't cry any more. Tears
cost so much; and I am convinced that you need not weep for fear of your
lover's safety. He has been wrongfully accused; I do not doubt that for
a moment."

"You don't; I know you don't! But why?" said Celia. "The jewel-case--I
know it was the jewel-case, because the bank has telegraphed to say that
poor Lord Sutcombe took it from the bank, and he must have brought it
here--it was in the safe, was stolen from it. And the Inspector said
that he had found it in Sydney's possession. That looks so black against
him. And yet--you are as convinced of his innocence as I am!"

"Yes," said Mr. Clendon, quietly, "I am convinced. I could not tell you
why; let us say that it is because your lover's face is not that of a
guilty man. Besides," he added, with the ghost of a smile, "a man does
not walk about a wood with a stolen jewel-case under his arm--if he
himself is the thief."

"Of course!" cried Celia, stopping short, her face lighting up. "No one
would be such a fool--least of all Sydney," she added, more to herself
than to him, "who is so clever."

"Exactly," said Mr. Clendon. "So you see, my child, you have nothing to
be alarmed about. Here is the Hall!" He looked up at the noble façade
with a curious expression in his face. "It is years since I have been
here," he added, musingly.

"You have been here before, you know the Marquess?" said Celia. "Yes,
you said so. How strange! Why, Mr. Clendon," she broke off, turning upon
him, with a flush of gratitude, "I see now, I see now! It was _you_ who
got me the place here. And I never guessed it! Oh, how good you have
been to me! And you hid it." Her hand pressed his.

The old man frowned slightly. "You have caught me, my dear," he said.
"It was a great pleasure to me to be of assistance to you. But we have
other things to think of," he added, as they passed up the steps into
the hall.

The butler met them, suppressing the astonishment he felt at sight of
the poorly-dressed old man in Miss Grant's company, suppressing it not
only from the instincts of a well-trained servant, but because he knew,
at a glance, that shabby as the bent figure was, the stranger was a
gentleman.

"My name is Clendon," said Mr. Clendon. "I am an old friend of Lord
Sutcombe's; and I have come down to inquire after him, to see him if it
is possible."

"Certainly, sir," said the butler; and he led the way to the
drawing-room. But Celia drew Mr. Clendon into the library.

"Stay with me here," she begged him. "I will go up to the Marquess's
room and see if he is well enough to be told that you are here. I fear
that you will not be able to see him. And you must have something to
eat," she said, with womanly consideration.

"Thank you, my dear, I need nothing," he said.

As he spoke, the door was opened, none too gently, and Heyton stood on
the threshold. He looked from Celia to the old man with what was
intended to be a stare of haughty surprise; but was, in reality, a kind
of sullen insolence.

"Oh? Who is this?" he demanded.

"A friend of your father's, Lord Heyton," said Mr. Clendon, before Celia
could speak. "So old and so dear a friend that he is warranted in
intruding, even at such a moment."

"Well, you are intruding, right enough, though you may be an old
friend," said Heyton, thickly. "My father is very ill, dangerously ill,
as you may have heard. This is no time for--for visitors."

"Forgive me," said Mr. Clendon gently, but with a calmness and dignity
that impressed even the only half-sober Heyton, "but my intrusion is
justified, as Lord Sutcombe will bear me out, when he knows I am here."

"Oh, well," said Heyton, with an insolent shrug of his shoulders. "I
can't speak any more plainly. If you can't take a hint--but it doesn't
matter; I'm quite certain that you can't see my father, even if he can
be told that you are here."

"We will see," said Mr. Clendon.

Heyton looked at him for a moment, angrily and a trifle suspiciously;
then he swung on his heel and went out.

"You must not mind," said Celia. "Lord Heyton is, naturally, very much
upset. I should think he scarcely knows what he is saying to you."

"Very likely," assented Mr. Clendon gravely, and without any sign of
resentment.

"I will go up now," said Celia; "and I will come down again to you
directly."

"One moment," he said, staying her with a gesture. "Will you give me a
sheet of paper and a pen and ink?"

Celia did so. Mr. Clendon wrote the letter "W" on the paper, folded it
and handed it to her.

"Will you give him this, my dear? If he cannot read it, you may open it
and tell him what is written on it."

CHAPTER XXIX

Celia went up to the sick-room. She saw at a glance that the Marquess's
condition had improved; he was, of course, still dangerously ill, and
very weak; but his eyes, as they rested on her, were perfectly
intelligent and he smiled slightly as she bent over him. Then she turned
away to Doctor Scott and told him of Mr. Clendon's arrival and desire to
see the Marquess.

"I don't think he can do any harm, if he'll be quiet," said the doctor.
"At any rate, there is not sufficient reason for refusing to show the
paper to the Marquess."

Celia knelt beside the bed and conveyed gently Mr. Clendon's request for
an interview.

"Mr. Clendon?" repeated the Marquess, knitting his brows. "I don't know
him, my dear."

Then, slowly, she showed him the paper; but he could not read the letter
on it and she told him what it was. A flush rose to the white face, and
he nodded once or twice; and it seemed to Celia that the inclination of
the head had in it something more than a consent to receive the visitor,
an indication of some resolution, decision. She went downstairs, and
told Mr. Clendon the Marquess would see him.

The old man rose, with the aid of a stick, and followed her through the
hall; he looked about him, not curiously, but musingly; and he paused
for a second or two before the portrait of the young man in hunting kit,
the Marquess's elder brother; the pause was almost imperceptible, but
Celia, remembering the scene between herself and the Marquess on the
night of his arrival, noticed the pause; but the old man's face conveyed
nothing and was as impassive as usual. She took him to the Marquess's
room. Lord Sutcombe, at sight of his visitor, tried to rise; but fell
back, stretching out his hand, murmuring,

"Wilfred!" Then he looked at the nurse and doctor. "Will you please
leave us alone for a little while. This gentleman is----"

Mr. Clendon laid his hand upon his brother's arm and stopped him.

Celia went downstairs, and found Mr. Jacobs standing before the portrait
of the Marquess's brother.

"Fine picture that, Miss Grant," he said. "He must have been a splendid
fellow: great pity he died. Oh, yes, I know who it is," he went on,
answering the question in Celia's eyes. "I've been making acquaintance
with the family portraits: very fond of pictures; almost as fond as I am
of cattle; but as I shan't be able to afford both, why----!"

At this moment Inspector Brown came hurriedly through the back hall; he
was very hot and wiped the perspiration from his sunburnt face with a
red bandana.

"I've news for you, Mr. Jacobs," he cried, as calmly as he could. "Will
you come into the sitting-room; will you come at once, please: most
important!"

Mr. Jacobs looked at him curiously; then beckoned to Celia.

"You come too, Miss Grant," he said. "You know shorthand--I saw some
scraps of paper in your waste-paper basket. You can take any notes we
want. Splendid thing, shorthand. Wish I could do it. Now then, Mr.
Brown!"--as he closed the door.

"Well, to put it in a word, Mr. Jacobs, _I've got our man_!"

Mr. Jacobs did not start or show any glad surprise, but looked steadily
at Inspector Smith, and at the same time, seemed to be listening; they
could all hear Lord Heyton pacing up and down the hall.

"Mind! I don't take any great credit for it, Mr. Jacobs. It was a fluke:
just a fluke. I caught him red-handed; found him in the wood with the
jewel-case in his hand. Yes, actually in his hand! He must have hidden
it and dug it up."

Mr. Jacobs nodded, but said nothing.

"I've got him in the lock-up," said the Inspector, with an air of
satisfaction which was pardonable in the circumstances. "He went very
quietly--declared his innocence, of course--well, implied it. I've got
notes of what he said. And I searched him."

Mr. Jacobs nodded again, and the Inspector drew from his pocket sundry
articles.

"Not much money on him--there's some loose change and this five-pound
note. Strange to say--a bit curious and suspicious!--he objected
strongly to my taking the note: said that it was worth more than five
pounds to him; in fact, he declared that he wouldn't part with it for
five thousand and begged me to take care of it and let him change it
back for gold." He smiled. Celia flushed hotly, her eyes glowed as they
dwelt on the note, and she stifled an exclamation. She listened with
parted lips, her breath coming fast. "Something in that, eh, Mr. Jacobs?
Then there are some various letters; several of them from a lady in
South America, invoices and letters about engineering. Seems to have
come from abroad. And here's this packet. It's sealed, as you see; and I
didn't care to open it by myself; thought you and I would open it
together. May be important evidence, you know."

Mr. Jacobs took up the packet, turned it over, then placed it on the
table and laid his hand on it.

"Shouldn't be surprised," he said, quietly. "And so you've got him in
the lock-up? What's his name?"

"Well, he calls himself 'Sydney Green': an alias, I dare say."

Mr. Jacobs nodded once more. "Very likely, I should say; very likely.
Well, I congratulate you, Inspector. You've done a good morning's work.
Bit of a fluke, as you say; but you've been on the close watch, haven't
you? And there's something more than luck in this. By the way, you
didn't find the two keys--the key of the safe and the key of the
jewel-box--on him?"

"No," said Mr. Brown, easily. "Of course, he's got rid of those; and, in
another hour or two, he'd have got clear off with the jewel-box. I've
got that locked up in my safe. So far as I can see--of course, you can't
tell--it looks as if the contents had not been disturbed; in fact, as if
we'd recovered all the missing property."

"Splendid!" murmured Mr. Jacobs.

"I suppose you'll go down and see him presently?" said Mr. Brown, almost
showing his impatience and irritation at the detective's phlegmatic
calm. Nothing seemed to move this man.

"Presently," said Mr. Jacobs, blandly. "There's a knock at the door.
Please open it, Miss Grant."

Celia did so. Mrs. Dexter stood there. She seemed very agitated.

"Will you please come upstairs, Miss Grant," she said; "and--and, yes,
you two gentlemen. Something strange, terrible, has happened."

Without a word, Mr. Jacobs signed to Celia to lead the way, placing the
packet in his pocket as she did so, and they followed her up to the
Marquess's room. He was lying back with his eyes closed; the doctor's
hand was on his pulse. Mr. Clendon was seated beside the bed, his hand
on the Marquess's shoulder. Mr. Clendon looked troubled, but was quite
calm.

"The Marquess has sent for you that you may hear something he has
resolved to tell you," he said, in a low voice.

The Marquess opened his eyes and looked round; then they fixed
themselves on Heyton, whom Mrs. Dexter had summoned, and who stood
regarding the group sullenly.

"Yes," said the Marquess, feebly, but quite distinctly. "I want to tell
you that this is my brother"--his hand reached for Mr. Clendon's--"my
elder brother. He is Lord Sutcombe, not I. He disappeared and was
supposed to have died. I knew some months ago that he was alive,
but----"

"Yielding to my earnest entreaty, my command, my brother consented to
conceal the fact," said Mr. Clendon, gravely.

"Yes, but it was wrong, Wilfred; and it was foolish," said the Marquess.
His eyes went to his son. "I am sorry, Percy. I believed that he was
dead; but I should have told you the moment I discovered the truth. Yes,
I see now that it was my duty to have done so."

Heyton had stood staring at the two old men dully; his sodden brain did
not realize at first the importance of the avowal; then the blood rushed
to his face and he stammered:

"What's all this? What's the meaning of this cock-and-bull story? I--I
don't understand. You don't suppose I'm going to cave in, accept this
fairytale? I'm your son--I'm the next in succession----"

"Yes," said the Marquess, with a deep sigh, and a look at his son which
Heyton understood and quailed from. "My brother is not married; you are
his heir--after me."

"I did not say I was not married, Talbot," said Mr. Clendon, almost
inaudibly. "I said that I had no son. But we will not dwell on that. If
I could have had my desire, the truth, my identity, would have been
buried with me."

"No, no," panted the Marquess; "even if you had not come to-day, I
should have told the truth, Wilfred. Would to God I had told it before!"

"Here, but look here!" Heyton broke out, with a kind of impatient
insolence. "This is all very well. This old man comes here, makes a
statement--gets you to make a statement--when, as everybody knows,
you're not in your right mind--Oh, I'm not going to accept it!"

"There are proofs. You know, Wilfred," said the Marquess. "But I can
talk no longer. Leave me with my brother."

They went, the doctor and nurse only remaining: the Marquess's little
strength had been sorely tried, and the doctor was watching him closely.
With a defiant air, Heyton swaggered down the steps. As he reached the
bottom, a hand fell on his shoulder; lightly enough, but Heyton started
and winced.

"Will you give me a minute or two in the sitting-room, my lord?" said
Mr. Jacobs, blandly.

"Eh, what is it?" said Heyton, with an oath. "What do you want? I don't
want to be bothered just now; got plenty of my own affairs on my mind."

But he followed the detective. Mr. Jacobs closed the door and stood, on
one side of the table, looking at Heyton on the other.

"Yes, this has been a most upsetting business for you, my lord," he
said. "You have had, and are having, a most trying time; this is the
kind of thing which will break down the strongest man; and I'm about to
take the liberty of offering you a word of advice." As he spoke, he took
up a Continental Bradshaw which was lying open on the table. "In cases
of your kind, there's nothing like a change of scene and air. You want
to go right away: I mean, a _long_ way.--I've been looking up one or two
places where a man could hide himself--I beg your pardon!--I mean,
seclude himself without fear of interruption or--interference."

Heyton stared at him; and as he stared, with a puzzled frown, his
swollen face grew mottled, livid in places, red in others.

"I don't know what the devil you mean!" he blurted out. "Why should I go
anywhere?"

"For the sake of your health, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, his innocent
blue eyes fixed on Heyton. "You want a change--and at once; in fact, it
is absolutely imperative." He leant forward across the table, patted the
Bradshaw and dropped his voice as he went on incisively, "You can catch
the night mail from Charing Cross. Book straight through by the
Trans-Siberian, by way of Moscow and Pekin. When you reach Harbin, go
right into the interior. There are mines there--anyhow, you can lose
yourself. You understand, my lord?"

The sweat stood out in great drops on Heyton's face; he tried to meet
the detective's eye with an insolent, indignant stare; but his eyes
wavered and fell and he sank into a chair.

"I--I don't know what you mean?" he stammered thickly.

"But you will go?" inquired Mr. Jacobs. "In fact, I am sure you will."

Cur as he was, Heyton made a last stand; he threw up his head, swore a
vile oath and struck the table.

"I'm hanged if I do!" he said.

"You'll be hanged, if you don't, my lord!" said Mr. Jacobs. Then, after
a pause, he said, with a shrug of the shoulders, "I thought you'd have
been sensible, that you'd have taken my tip without forcing me into
particulars; but if you must have them--well, Lord Heyton, if you are
here to-morrow morning, I shall arrest you for the robbery of the jewels
and the attempted murder of Lord Sutcombe."

Heyton sprang to his feet; then sank back again with a hoarse attempt at
a laugh.

"You must be a fool!"

"Well, one of us is a fool, but it's not me, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs,
imperturbably. "I knew the truth ten minutes after I had examined the
dressing-room. You see, the burglar who understands his business works
in kid gloves; they leave no finger-prints. There were prints on the
door of the safe, inside, on the poker--oh, well, everywhere; because,
you see, when a man's engaged in this kind of work, he's naturally
nervous, his hands are sweaty. And these finger-prints were those of a
gentleman's hands. Do you want me to go on, Lord Heyton?"

Heyton could not speak; his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his
mouth; he felt as if his spine were giving way, as if all his strength
of mind and body were ebbing from him.

"It's--it's ridiculous!" he stammered.

"No, my lord, it's quite simple, quite elementary. There were the
finger-prints, on the safe, on the walls, on the poker. I could read
them quite easily with a magnifying glass; and they never lie. 'Pon my
word, Lord Heyton!" he broke off musingly, his mouth twisting into a
smile, "I'm inclined to think they're the only things in this world one
can rely on. Now, you'll see why I upset the ink over your hand." He
took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and laid them on the table;
and beside them he placed a silver print of the finger-prints in the
room.

Heyton stared at them as if they were live things that could sting him.

"Another thing, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "I was in the dressing-room
just after the Marquess recovered consciousness, and heard him charge
you with the robbery. The evidence is quite conclusive. But there is, of
course, what we call collateral proof. I found these two keys under the
bed in your dressing-room. Of course, you intended throwing them in the
lake, when you went down with the jewel-case; but you dropped the keys
and didn't find them; there is always a little hitch like that--_it's
the hitch in the rope_. I know you took the jewel-case the morning you
went down to bathe, because I traced your footprints into the middle of
the wood, where you need not have gone, if you had been going merely for
a bath. I knew I should find the jewel-case just where you stopped; but
I didn't want to discover it. I was waiting for _you_ to go for it,
which you would have done presently. Unfortunately for him, another man
was in the wood that morning and saw you; and _he_ went for the
jewel-case. The Inspector has arrested him, worse luck. I say 'worse
luck,' because now we can't hush up the affair--and, you'll have to
_go_."

Heyton wiped the sweat from his face, his head sank on his breast; he
was in a condition of coma; so stupefied, indeed, that it was only by an
effort he could follow the detective's next words,

"There is only one other person--well, say, two--who suspect you, Lord
Heyton. But she will keep her lips shut. She is your wife--fortunately
for you."

He went to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and pushed the glass
towards the wretched man.

"Drink that, my lord, and pull yourself together," he said, in a
matter-of-fact way. "That's right," as Heyton stretched out a shaking
hand and poured some of the spirit down his throat and some over his
waistcoat. "Now, you'll want some money. Oh, I know! You wanted it badly
or you wouldn't have played this idiotic game. In this bag is some gold.
When you get to Harbin, you will find some more waiting for you. I'll
take it upon myself to arrange all that. Don't take much luggage: just a
change and a tooth-brush. Say you're going to town on business, any
business you can think of that requires your immediate presence. And,
mind! don't stop on the way; go straight through: you'll find the trains
fit in. I won't add, 'Keep your mouth shut'; you'll do that; unless"--he
nodded significantly at the empty glass--"you take too much of that.
That's rather a weakness of yours, Lord Heyton: master it, or it'll
master you. Now, there's no time to lose. I'll order a brougham for you.
Come, pull yourself together. Man!"--his disgust, impatience broke out,
for the first time--"try to think what you're running away from! It's a
long rope, and it'll take you all your time and wits to get beyond its
reach. And think of the risk I'm running; I'm compounding a felony.
I--Harry Jacobs!"

Heyton rose, clutching at the table, chair; his quivering lips opened
and shut; at last he cried hoarsely,

"Damn you!"

"That's all right, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "I'm glad I've roused your
spirit. Here, pull yourself together--your face is giving you away.
Upstairs and pack! The carriage will be waiting."

He held open the door; and Heyton, with a glance at him which meant
murder, passed out.

Half an hour later, Celia saw Lord Heyton enter the brougham.

"Is Lord Heyton going away?" she asked, with surprise, as she saw the
footman place a small portmanteau on the box. She hurried into the hall
as she spoke, and it was Mr. Jacobs, who was standing there with Mrs.
Dexter, who answered her.

"Yes, Miss Grant," he said. "Lord Heyton has been called away on most
important business. Most unfortunate! But there was no help for it."

He waited until Mrs. Dexter had gone, then, with his eyes fixed on
Celia's face, he said to her,

"Will you please tell the Marquess that Lord Heyton has gone? And you
might say that his return is quite uncertain; in fact--er--he has gone
abroad."

Celia's ingenuous countenance expressed her surprise, which seemed to
satisfy Mr. Jacobs.

"Now," he said, briskly, "I'm going to see the prisoner, Mr. Sydney
Green." The colour rose to Celia's face; but her eyes met Mr. Jacobs'
steadily. "Have you any message for him, Miss Grant?"

"Yes," said Celia in a low voice and after a pause. "Will you tell him,
please, that I will come to him, if--if I am allowed to do so?"

"You may go and see Mr. Green whenever you please, my dear Miss Grant,"
said Mr. Jacobs. As he turned away, he added, "By the way, perhaps you'd
like to know I'm going to take Mr. Clendon with me. I beg his lordship's
pardon--I mean, the Marquess."

Celia looked bewildered for a moment; then she sighed.

"Yes. I am rather confused. I am glad you are going to take him with
you; very glad."

"So am I," said Mr. Jacobs, with his bland, innocent smile.

CHAPTER XXX

In the circumstances, Derrick was not uncomfortably lodged. The lock-up
was an ancient, knock-down affair, and the Inspector had arranged that
Derrick should occupy one of the rooms in the adjoining police-station.
Here, Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Clendon found him, if not altogether resigned
to the situation, at any rate not cast down or despondent.

"Well, here we are," said Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "I hope they've made
you as comfortable as possible, Mr.--Green. I've brought a friend of
yours with me, and I have a message from another friend of yours, Miss
Grant. She says she will pay you a visit whenever you like to see her."

Derrick shook his head. "I don't want her to come here," he said. "But
I'm very glad to see Mr. Clendon."

"By the way," cut in Mr. Jacobs, "I ought to introduce this gentleman by
his right name, or, rather, title. You will be very much surprised to
hear, Mr. Green, that Mr. Clendon is the Marquess of Sutcombe. It's a
long story, but, with your permission, I will put it into a sentence.
His lordship is the elder brother, who was thought to be dead, but has
turned up--if his lordship will allow me the phrase."

"It is true," said Mr. Clendon, as we must still call him; and he made
the admission with an air of resignation and a gesture of regret. "But
we have come to talk of your affairs."

"Quite so, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "Now, Mr. Sydney Green--or shall I
call you, Mr. Derrick Dene?"

Mr. Clendon started slightly and bent his piercing eyes on Derrick, who
coloured and bit his lip.

"Yes, that's my name," he said; "but I don't know how you know it."

"My dear Mr. Dene," said Mr. Jacobs, blandly, "we people in Scotland
Yard know a great many things. Just as an instance, let me tell you what
I know about you. You were placed at an early age in the care of a
worthy couple named Jackson, who brought you up and started you in the
profession which I am sure you will adorn. Owing to a--well, let us say,
a misunderstanding--you left England--er--somewhat abruptly, and went
with a travelling circus to South America; in South America you left the
circus and found employment on a ranch, owned by a lady named Donna
Elvira----"

Derrick, frowning, stared at him and did not notice that Mr. Clendon had
quietly sunk into a chair and, with his hands leaning on his stick, was
looking fixedly at Derrick.

"You want to know how we came to know all this?" said Mr. Jacobs,
cheerfully. "Well, we had the little affair of the forged cheque placed
in our hands, and were following it up when a Mr. Brown, the Sutcombe
family solicitor, stepped in and stopped us. You see, the bank refused
to prosecute and we couldn't move without it. But, in the course of our
inquiries into the business of the forged cheque, we naturally traced
your antecedents, and it seemed to us--well, to put it shortly, that
your history was so interesting it was worth following. I have all the
notes here." He tapped a little book he had taken from his pocket. "You
will want to know why I brought it down with me, when I was engaged upon
another case and had little reason to expect that you would be arrested
on this charge?"

"The question was in my mind," said Derrick, gravely. "Perhaps you'll
explain."

"With pleasure," replied Mr. Jacobs, and his tone corroborated his
words. "But perhaps this packet which we have, in the discharge of our
duty, taken from you, will explain better than I can."

He took the packet from his pocket and laid it on the table. As he did
so, he glanced for the first time at the old man, who was sitting so
quietly, so immovably.

"Will you allow me to open it--or perhaps we will ask his lordship to do
so?"

Derrick looked from one to the other and bit his lip.

"That packet is a confidential one," he said; "but"--moved by an impulse
he could not understand--"I am willing that Mr. Clendon shall open it.
It has passed out of my hands. I suppose I have no right to it," he
added, rather bitterly.

"I made the proposition to save time," said Mr. Jacobs. "There is the
packet, your lordship."

With a glance at Derrick, the old man took it and broke the seals
slowly. There was no surprise on his face as he read the enclosures.
Perhaps he had foreseen that which the packet contained. He read, in
absolute silence, the two men watching him; Mr. Jacobs with a cheerful
countenance, Derrick with an anxious regard; then presently, Mr. Clendon
looked up. Now his face was working, his eyes were moist as he breathed,
"My God!" and there was remorse, as well as a kind of solemn joy in the
cry.

"You do not guess the truth contained in these papers?" he asked, in a
very low voice, as his gaze met Derrick's.

"No, sir," said Derrick.

Mr. Clendon turned his eyes to Mr. Jacobs, but Derrick felt that the old
man was addressing him.

"The lady who writes this letter, Mr. Jacobs, the Donna Elvira of whom
you have spoken, is--my wife. We have been separated for years. The
cause? Nothing that can cast a shadow of dishonour on her. I was
wandering in South America when I met her; we fell in love, were married
in haste. I was then a headstrong, hot-tempered, unreasonable youth;
she--well, she was Spanish, and with a temper and disposition that
matched mine. After many quarrels, we parted in anger. I went my way, a
wild, desperate way; needless to tell you whither such a way leads.
Wrecked in character and prospects, I decided to be quit of the world. I
had thought of suicide--but God held my hand. Suffice it that I
disappeared, that I concocted a false report of my death, and so made
room for my younger brother, Talbot, to take the place in the world
which I had rendered myself unfit to fill."

There was a pause, during which the old man strove for composure.
Derrick began to tremble. He remembered Donna Elvira's strange
tenderness to him, his strange tenderness towards her; and something
vague and nebulous was growing out of the Marquess's words, a hope that,
in its intensity, was more painful than joyous.

"I did not know," went on the Marquess in a lower voice, and with
obvious difficulty, "that, when I left my wife, she was about to become
a mother. I did not know that a child was born to me--a son. If I had
known--well, the whole course of my life would have been altered from
that moment. I should have gone back to her, should have claimed my
child; perhaps it is because she knew that I should have done so that
she concealed the fact from me. Be that as it may, I was kept in
ignorance until this moment; and even now, she does not tell me,
but--her son."

He raised his eyes to Derrick with something in them that made Derrick's
heart leap, the tears spring to his eyes.

"Yes; you are my son," said Mr. Clendon, and he held out his hand.

Derrick, moving as if in a dream, took the thin hand and grasped it in
both of his.

"Oh, is it true?" was all he could say, huskily.

"It is quite true," said Mr. Clendon. "The certificates are enclosed;
there is a minute account of the way in which your mother placed you in
the charge of these people; there are even periodical receipts for the
sums she paid for your maintenance. As to your identity----"

"No doubts about that," murmured Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "Proved up to
the hilt. Marquess, I congratulate you--and you, too, Lord Heyton."

Now, indeed, Derrick started.

"Do you mean that I----?" he stammered, overwhelmed by the significance
of the title by which Mr. Jacobs had addressed him.

Mr. Jacobs nodded, as cheerfully as before. "Quite so," he said. "Your
father being the Marquess of Sutcombe, you are, of course, Lord Heyton."

Derrick sank on to a chair, still holding his father's hand; and he was
silent for a moment or two; then he looked up.

"This charge?" he said, almost in a whisper. "You--both of you--know
that I am innocent?"

Mr. Jacobs nodded, and the father's hand closed tightly on his son's.

"Then," said Derrick hoarsely, "who--who is guilty?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Jacobs, with a shake of the head, his eyes fixed on the
carpet. "Very difficult to say. I'm afraid it will turn out to be one of
those undiscovered crimes with which the newspapers are always taunting
poor Scotland Yard." He rose as he spoke, and reached for his hat. "Now
I'll leave you two gentlemen together. By the way, Mr.--I beg your
pardon, Lord Heyton!--I'm afraid you'll have to remain here for another
hour or two; there are certain formalities which must be endured. For
instance"--he smiled--"I shall have to take you before a local
magistrate. Of course, we shall produce no evidence, throw any quantity
of ashes on our heads, and apologize for the cruel mistake we have made;
and the local magistrate, if he knows his business, will read me a
severe lecture on my stupidity and set you free with an apology from all
concerned. Now I'll leave you. You two gentlemen must have a great deal
to say to each other. And I beg you to believe"--he spoke with deep
feeling--"that I should not have intruded on this interview, if I had
not considered my presence necessary."

He opened the door, but closed it again, holding the handle, and said,
in a casual fashion,

"By the way, I am sorry to say that Lord Heyton--tut, tut!--the
gentleman who was Lord Heyton--has been called away on important
business. I am afraid he will be away some time; in fact, I have advised
him to go on a long tour, when his business is finished. He requires
change of air, a _long_ change; in fact, I don't think England will ever
suit him."

He spoke the last words over his shoulder and disappeared.

The father and son were engaged in a conversation that moved them both
deeply; and a knock had been repeated on the door twice, before they
heard it and Derrick said, "Come in!"

A policeman stood on the threshold.

"A lady and gentleman to see you, sir."

"I can see no one," said Derrick, trying to keep his voice steady; but
his father made a gesture with his hand and Derrick nodded reluctantly.

There entered Lady Gridborough and Reggie Rex, who had obtained
permission from Mr. Jacobs. Lady Gridborough was much agitated, and she
was going with outstretched hand, straight to Derrick, but stopped at
sight of the old man who had risen from his chair.

"Oh, I came at once!" she said, tremulously. "I couldn't stay away. Oh,
Derrick, I am so sorry, so sorry. I might have known that you couldn't
be so bad, so wicked as they all said! Will you forgive me? Oh, do say
you'll forgive me for so cruelly misjudging you."

Derrick took the fat hand and looked, with a grave smile of more than
forgiveness, at the good-natured, agitated face.

"Don't say any more, Lady Gridborough," he said. "It was my fault. I
ought to have spoken--I see now what a fool I have been! My mistaken
sense of honour has caused all this trouble; and grieved you very much,
I see, dear Lady Gridborough. But how did you learn the truth--I mean
discover that I had not wronged poor Susie?"

"It was Mr. Rex here," said Lady Gridborough, her face all smiles now.
"He's an extraordinary young man, and has succeeded in doing that at
which we had all failed--opening Susie's lips. How he managed it, I do
not know! Perhaps he can tell you."

Derrick had got hold of Reggie's hand by this time, and was regarding
him with a half-smiling interrogation; and Reggie was also smiling with
that air of omniscience and supreme acuteness which sat so curiously on
his boyish face.

"A future wife should have no secrets from her future husband, as you
will be the first to admit, dear Lady Gridborough."

"'Future husband!'" echoed Derrick, with a surprise that was only
momentary.

"Yes," said Reggie, quietly. "I have won my angel. I don't deny that it
was difficult; but this last business of yours settled it. You see,
Susie felt that, if she told the truth, and showed up the right man--or,
rather, the wrong one; for, if there was ever a 'wrong un,' it is----;
but we won't mention names--Susie knew that she would be doing Celia a
service; besides, Susie felt that she could face the world much more
easily, if she had a great, hulking man beside her. And," he added
modestly, "there were--ahem--other reasons."

"I am sure there were," said Derrick, warmly; and he wrung Reggie's
hand. "I congratulate you--both."

"But how about this dreadful business of the robbery at the Hall?" said
Lady Gridborough, suddenly growing pale.

"So far as my son is concerned, madam," said Mr. Clendon, in his grave
voice which had grown very gentle, "you will be glad to hear that it has
ended satisfactorily; he has been proved innocent of the crime laid to
his charge."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Lady Gridborough, delightedly.
"But"--suddenly--"your son? You are his father? I didn't know--I thought
his father was dead."

"So I was, madam; to the world; but I have returned from the grave to
find my son," said Mr. Clendon.

"Well, I am glad!" cried Lady Gridborough. "You must both come and stay
with me. Now, you won't refuse, Mr. Dene, will you?" She looked at Mr.
Clendon pleadingly, and then with confusion and embarrassment, as they
both remained silent.

"My father's name is not 'Dene,'" said Derrick, who felt that the
explanation would have to come sooner or later. "He is Lord Sutcombe."

Reggie did not start; but, for the first time in his life, the young man
looked nonplussed and discomfited; he regarded the father and son with a
puzzled stare, then, with an exclamation, he cried,

"Of course, the _elder_ brother! Then--then _you_, Green, are Lord
Heyton?" He smiled as if he himself had conferred the title of nobility
on Derrick. "Well, this knocks me out. No more detective novels for me!
Realism is my line for the future. And yet, what a novel it would make!"

"You shall write it some day, Reggie," said Derrick, with a smile.

"Some day?" retorted Reggie. "I'm going to write it at once! Come away,
Lady Gridborough! This is no place for us," he added tactfully, and,
taking her hand, he led the bewildered old lady out of the room,
nodding, with a smile of intense gratification, over his shoulder at
Derrick.

CHAPTER XXXI

The following afternoon, as the London evening papers were publishing
what they were pleased to call "A Romance in High Life," Derrick and his
father made their way through an excited crowd, which had gathered about
the Court House. Affairs there had proceeded as Mr. Jacobs had
prophesied; the magistrates had listened with amazement, not only to Mr.
Jacobs' statement, but to the announcement which Mr. Clendon had made of
his identity and his relationship to Derrick; and the worthy chairman,
Sir Courtenay Comber, using almost the identical words Mr. Jacobs had
attributed to him, had congratulated Derrick and informed him that he
left the Court "without a stain on his character." Notwithstanding its
satisfactory conclusion, the ordeal had been a trying one for father and
son, and Derrick looked pale and somewhat worn as he grasped the hand of
Reggie, who had been in Court, and had hurried after him to congratulate
him.

"I've got a carriage here for you, round the corner," he said; "and I've
succeeded in stopping them ringing the bells."

"I'm glad," said Derrick; "but why should they want to ring the bells?"

"Well, you see," explained Reggie, as he led them to the carriage,
"Lord Heyton--I mean the other man--is not a great favourite; whereas,
somehow or other, you have caught the popular imagination; besides,
it has leaked out that you are going to marry Miss Grant; and
she is tremendously popular. She has been very kind, in the
do-good-and-blush-to-find-it-known way, to the poor people about her;
and Susie has told a good many of Miss Grant's angelic kindnesses to
her. Hence these tears," he added, as the people crowded about them and
cheered heartily. "Where shall I tell the man to drive, my lord?"

"To the Hall," replied Mr. Clendon gravely. "Yes," he said to Derrick,
as the carriage drove off, "the Marquess--I mean your uncle, Talbot,
wants to see you, naturally."

"You have told him?" said Derrick. "Poor man!"

"Yes, I have told him; and, strangely enough, he welcomed the news. And
yet it is not strange; for, alas! he knew the character of his son, knew
that he was not worthy to bear the title. There is something more on my
brother's mind than I am cognisant of. Some secret which worries him,"
he added.

Derrick remained silent. He dared not probe the mystery of the hidden
jewel-case, of Heyton's sudden flight; but it was evident to him that
Mr. Jacobs intended to conceal any knowledge he might have, and Derrick
was only too thankful to concur in that concealment.

On their way to the Hall, Derrick and his father spoke of many things of
the past and the future; and presently the old man said in a low voice,

"You will be married soon, Derrick?"

"The first moment Celia will have me," replied Derrick, promptly.

"I would like you to spend your honeymoon in South America," said his
father.

Derrick understood, and he nodded and laid his hand on the old man's.

"And you, sir? Shall you go there--soon?"

Mr. Clendon shook his head. "No," he responded. "The chasm between us is
too wide, has divided us for too long a time. But it shall be as your
mother wishes. You will talk to her----We will leave her future and mine
on the knees of the gods. But yours, thank God! is assured. How
strangely Fate works! How little I thought, when I helped Celia to come
to the Hall, that I was lending a guiding hand to the future of my son's
wife. Derrick, that same fate has been very good to you."

"Don't I know it, sir!" said Derrick in a low voice.

They reached the Hall; and as they entered, they could not but be
conscious of the stir of excitement there; the old butler and the other
servants looked at them with an intense interest. As the two men stood
in the hall, waiting the summons to the sick-room, Derrick looked round
him eagerly; but it was not at the subdued splendour surrounding him; he
scarcely noted the indications of luxury and wealth, the wealth and
state to which he was heir; he was looking and listening for some sign
of Celia; and he was so absorbed that he started when his father touched
his arm and directed his gaze to a portrait.

"That is mine, Derrick," he said. "Do you see any resemblance to
yourself?"

"Yes; I think--yes, I do," replied Derrick.

"I noticed it yesterday, directly I entered the hall, for the first time
for many years."

The footman came down to say that they might go up, and they ascended
the broad stairs, Derrick still looking about him and listening; but
Celia did not appear. They were ushered into the sick-room, and the door
closed on them; and they remained there for nearly half an hour; for the
injured man had recovered something of his old strength, as if a burden
had been lifted from his shoulders, and he was able to hear the story of
Derrick's identity and to speak a few words of relief and satisfaction.
When they left the room both Derrick and his father were much moved, and
they went down the stairs in silence. Derrick stopped as they reached
the hall, and again looked round him.

"You will find her in there," said his father, nodding towards the
library; and Derrick, with a sudden flush and a brightening of the eyes,
knocked at the door.

The voice that said, "Come in," made his heart leap. He turned the
handle of the door and entered. Celia had heard his voice in the hall,
was expecting him; she was standing by the table, her hand pressed on
it, her face pale but her eyes glowing with the ineffable light of love.

"Sydney!" she murmured, all her heart in her voice.

He took her in his arms and, for a moment, there was silence; then she
raised her head and whispered,

"It is all right, Sydney?"

"It is all right," he responded. "I am here, as you see; I am acquitted;
all is well. But, dearest," he hesitated apologetically, "you must not
call me 'Sydney.'"

She looked up at him, her brows knit slightly; and he gathered her to
him still more closely, as he went on.

"I've got the strangest news to tell you, Celia. You will think that you
are dreaming, as I have been dreaming ever since I myself heard it."

"They have been talking, saying strange things--the servants, I
mean--and Mrs. Dexter came in just now and tried to tell me--something;
but she was too excited and checked herself; she said I should hear it
from you! What is it, Syd----But I'm not to call you that? What am I to
call you?"

"Derrick," he said; "it is the name that you shall always call me by;
but the world will know me as Lord Heyton."

She started in his arms and, drawing back her head, gazed up at him in
amazement; and she listened as he told her the wonderful news; at first
with bewilderment and then with a gravity and a lack of enthusiasm which
surprised him.

"You are glad, dearest?" he asked. "You are surprised, astonished, of
course? It takes some time to realize. You are glad?"

"Are you?" she asked in a low voice.

Derrick shrugged his shoulders; then, as if he were ashamed of the
gesture, he said quickly,

"That I have found a father--and such a father--yes. And I have found a
mother too. Have you guessed that it is the Donna Elvira I have told you
so much about? You are surprised; and no wonder. It is part of the
strange story. I will tell you all about her presently. Of course, I am
glad. I was all alone in the world--but for you--but for you, Celia! and
the loneliness was hard sometimes to bear. But for the rest, the title
and the estates and the other things, I welcome them only because you
will share them with me. Celia, I'm not such an idiot as not to realize
that I am coming to you as something more than a penniless adventurer,
well-nigh nameless, a man of no account. If I had all the world at my
command, the highest title a man could bear, I should only value them
because I could lay them at your feet."

The tears welled to her eyes and, of her own accord, she drew his head
down to her and laid her sweet lips on his.

"You are too good to me; I am not worth it," she said, brokenly. Then,
with something like a start, she whispered, with a dawning fear and
horror in her eyes, "And the other--Lord Heyton? And his wife! Oh, poor,
poor woman! And she has borne so much already! She is lying there,
upstairs, prostrated. Who is to tell her? Oh, Derrick, dearest, who is
to tell her?"

"You," he said, gently. "No one can break it to her better than you
can."

"Oh, must I? Oh, it will be hard for her."

"It will be hard, Celia; but no one can do it better than you. You will
soften the blow. She will realise her debt to you, through me. Tell her
that her future shall be cared for--but you know that I shall look after
that. Celia, you, who are so quick, so acute, have divined the truth. It
was for Miriam that I took on myself the forged cheque. I--cared for her
once; I thought I was in love with her. I thought so until that night
you came to me and stood like an angel of rescue between me and a
shameful death. As to Miriam's husband----"

Derrick paused and, looking down at her steadily, laid his hand on her
shoulder with an almost masterful pressure.

"--There must be nothing more said about him between us two, Celia," he
continued, with solemnity in his voice and manner. "He is gone; let him
go and take the past with him. But one word: Celia, it was Heyton who
wronged Susie, it was Heyton who forged the cheque; it was because Lady
Gridborough thought me guilty of wrecking Susie's life, that she cut me
that morning when she passed us at the gate by the wood. She knows the
truth now; for Reggie has got Susie to reveal it----"

"Reggie!" murmured Celia.

"Yes; he fell in love with Susie the first time he saw her; he has been
telling me all about it."

"And Susie yielded! I can scarcely believe it," said Celia, with a note
of delight in her voice.

"She yielded," said Derrick, with a smile. "Reggie is a wonderful young
man; and has a way with him, as the saying is. He must have laid hard
siege to Susie's heart--perhaps he won her through the child. Anyway, he
has done so; and, in doing so, has cleared my name."

"I am glad, glad!" Celia murmured, giving him a little hug. "Yes; he is
a wonderful young man; I saw that the first time I met him." She told
him of that meeting in the British Museum Reading Room. "Oh, I can quite
understand, now I come to think of it; with all her seeming coldness,
Susie has a tender heart. I've found that out----"

"By the surest way, the revelation of your own," said Derrick. He looked
round the room, as if everything in it were precious to him. "And this
is where you have worked," he said.

"Yes," she nodded, also looking round; "and I have been very happy
here--or should have been," she went on softly, her eyes on his, "if I
had been able to keep a certain man out of my thoughts. But he was there
all the time; I could close my eyes and be back at 'The Jail,' looking
over the rails at his upturned face and hearing his voice. What a
wonderful thing love is!"

"And yet so easy to understand," he said with a smile, as he caught her
to him again. There was silence for a while; then he said, "We'll be
married soon, Celia?"

She blushed and her eyes fell for a moment; then she raised them to his
and whispered,

"Yes."

"My father wants us to spend our honeymoon in South America; wants us to
go to my mother. You will go; you will not mind the long journey?"

She was silent for a moment; then, almost solemnly, but with an infinite
love in her eyes and her voice, she murmured,

"'Whither thou goest, I will go ... thy people shall be my people.'"

As Celia went to Miriam's room, can it be wondered that her step grew
slower and, notwithstanding her own happiness, that her heart waxed
heavy with sorrow for the wretched young wife? She found Miriam lying
back in her chair, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, her face almost
vacant of any expression; she seemed weighed down by the apathy
resulting from utter hopelessness, from a knowledge of some evil from
which she could not escape. She turned her eyes to Celia, and Celia's
heart was made to ache by the look of dumb suffering in them, that look
which the weak always wear when the world is going wrong with them.

Celia knelt down beside the chair, and took one of the nerveless hands.

"Are you better, getting stronger, Lady Heyton?" she asked, gently.

Miriam shook her head listlessly, and gazed out of the window; then she
turned her eyes again slowly to Celia, and said, in a toneless voice,

"Is it true, what the servants are saying, that the Marquess's elder
brother has been discovered, and that the Marquess, our Marquess, is no
longer the master here? Marie came and told me something about it; but
she was confused and rambled, and I could make very little of it."

"It is true," said Celia. "The elder brother is alive, is here in the
house. He had been living in seclusion for years; the Marquess
discovered a little while ago that his brother was alive; but the real
Marquess did not wish to displace his younger brother. He was living in
poverty, working for his living. I knew him at that time."

Miriam looked only slightly interested. "You knew him? That's strange."

"Yes; it is all very strange," Celia agreed. "It was Mr. Clendon--we
still call him that; it is so difficult to remember that he is the
Marquess--and I lived in the same building; we called it 'The Jail'; it
was so prison-like." Her voice grew dreamy, as she spoke. "He played the
violin in the orchestra of a theatre; I used to hear him practising; the
music floated up to my room; how long ago it seems! It was he who
persuaded Lord Sutcombe to engage me as librarian, here at the Hall."

"It sounds like a novel," commented Miriam, absently.

"Yes," assented Celia; "but it isn't any more wonderful and astounding
than the occurrences one reads of in the newspapers almost every day."

"And there is no doubt? I mean, it is all settled; he _is_ the
Marquess?" said Miriam, still apathetically, as if no change, however
revolutionary, could affect her.

"Yes, it is all settled, or will be very soon," said Celia. "The lawyers
are coming down to-morrow; the evidence is quite complete." There was
silence for a minute or two; then Celia, with her heart beating fast and
heavily, said, in a still lower voice, "There is something else I must
tell you, Lady Heyton. Mr. Clendon, the real Marquess, has--has a son."

She stopped to let this sink in, and Miriam's brows knit slightly; then
she said, almost inaudibly,

"You mean that--that Heyton, my husband, is not the heir, is not Lord
Heyton?"

"Yes," said Celia in a whisper. It seemed to her that Miriam drew a long
breath of relief; but she made no comment and Celia went on, with still
greater difficulty, "I must tell you who he is, Lady Heyton. I want to
prepare you for a shock, and I don't know how to do it. You--you know
him."

"I know him?" repeated Miriam, with dull surprise. "You mean I have met
him. What is his name? Heyton, of course."

"That is his name, his title," said Celia; "but he has borne several
names, has had a strange history. You knew him by the name of Derrick
Dene."

Miriam did not start; but the pallor of her face increased, and her
tear-swollen eyes fixed themselves with a kind of wan wonder and shame
on Celia.

"Derrick Dene!" she echoed, faintly.

"Yes," murmured Celia; and, as briefly and gently as she could, she told
Miriam of Derrick's recent experiences. Miriam's hands went up to her
face; but they dropped into her lap again and she looked before her and
said, in a stricken voice,

"I see you know everything. Yes, it was Heyton, my husband, who forged
the cheque; I know it now: he is capable of--anything." She shuddered.
"It was to save me from the shame and unhappiness of being a felon's
wife that Derrick sacrificed himself. Yes; it was just what he would
do." She glanced at Celia. "You know, of course, that I--I once cared
for him; that we were to be married; I jilted him for a title, for
money----"

"Don't say any more," pleaded Celia; but Miriam went on ruthlessly.

"I was a weak fool; I might have known that no good would come of such
treachery--oh, yes, I knew in my heart; I knew that Derrick was worth a
hundred of _him_. I sinned with my eyes open; no, I shut them; I was
blinded by the thought, the prospect of being--what I am," she added
bitterly; then, suddenly, she fixed her eyes on Celia's downcast face.
"Derrick told you this? Then he knows you very well; you are a close
friend of his; you are----?"

"Yes," murmured Celia. "I am going to be his wife--very soon. We met in
'The Jail.'" She did not, she could not tell how that meeting had been
brought about; she wanted to spare Miriam all she could; but,
notwithstanding her resolution, the next words slipped out
unconsciously. "He was accused of the robbery of the jewels----" She bit
her lip; but it was too late for remorse.

Miriam dropped back in the chair, her eyes closed and her lips became
livid.

"He did not do it!" she gasped.

"No, no!" said Celia, quickly; "he has been proved innocent."

There was silence for a moment; while Miriam evidently made an effort to
control her agitation.

"Who--who----? Have they found out who did it?"

"No," broke in Celia, swiftly and tremulously. "No one has been
discovered. Mr. Jacobs, the detective, said that no one will be
discovered. The jewels have been found."

"I know," murmured Miriam.

"There will be no more trouble," whispered Celia, soothingly.

Again there was a pause, then Miriam asked brokenly,

"Heyton--my husband?"

"He has gone abroad," said Celia, hanging her head; "he will be away
some time."

Miriam's lips moved; she whispered, at last,

"I understand!--I must leave here--at once. I will go back to my people
or hide myself somewhere in London."

"Oh, go back to your people," said Celia. "I--I want to tell you how
sorry the Marquess, all of us, are for you, how deeply we sympathise
with your loss; it weighs upon us all."

"It need not do," said Miriam, with a touch of bitterness. "I have
always been a stranger and an alien here. Strangely enough, Celia, I
have felt as if I--I have been walking on quicksand that might swallow
me up at any moment. Oh, I have been as unhappy as I deserve. All the
time, I have felt a sense of--of--oh, I can't explain; but it seemed to
me as if my treachery to Derrick would come back on me. And it has! If
you knew"--she shuddered--"but I can't tell you. I shall never open my
lips--I want to go at once. Yes; I am quite strong enough. I want to go
away from here--from you all. I want to be at rest, somewhere where I
can try to forget. What a downfall! What a downfall!"

Celia, with the tears in her eyes, put her arm round the trembling form.

"Dear Lady Heyton," she murmured, "you must not give way. It may not be
all as black as you think. And--and Derrick wishes me to tell you that
your future--oh, how am I to put it!--that you will be well cared for;
that you will have no need for anxiety about the future."

"Derrick!" breathed Miriam, ashamedly. "Yes, it is what he would do. It
is like him to think of me, even in the moment of his own happiness. Oh,
God, how ashamed I am!"

"You will not refuse--to let them help you, to let them look after you?"
pleaded Celia.

"No," replied Miriam, with a bitter laugh. "I'll take their charity
thankfully enough. It's part of my punishment, I suppose. But I want to
go at once. You seem to pity me----"

"Oh, Lady Heyton!"

"Then help me to get away. Send a telegram to my people to say that I am
coming; tell Marie to pack----"

"Yes," said Celia, feeling that Miriam had decided on the best course.
"I will see to everything. Will you lie down and rest, while I get
everything ready?"

"Rest!" echoed Miriam, bitterly. "There cannot be a moment's rest
for me while I am in this house. I have lain awake listening,
listening----" She shuddered. "Go now. I'd try to thank you, if I could.
You've been kind to me--Derrick's wife!" She pushed Celia from her and
rose unsteadily. "Oh, go; I'm grateful, but the sight of you reminds
me----"

With the tears running down her cheeks, Celia left her, to find Marie
and send off the telegram.

CHAPTER XXXII

In the matter of an early marriage, both Derrick's father and he whom we
have known as the Marquess, were on Derrick's side; indeed, the sick man
was, if possible, more anxious than the others that the wedding should
take place without delay.

"I want everything settled before--before I go, Wilfred," he said.
"Something of the burden on my mind--not all! Ah, not all--will be
lifted, if I can know that I shall, under Providence, leave the
succession settled. You and I are old men, Wilfred--I am very near the
grave. It is our duty to see, as far as lies within our power, that the
future of the house is set upon a sound foundation. Your son, Derrick,
will be a worthy successor; Celia--I need say nothing in her praise; she
has won all our hearts, and she will lend a lustre to the title that
will come to her."

A fortnight is not a long time in which to prepare the trousseau of a
future Marchioness; but, with Lady Gridborough's enthusiastic
assistance, Celia did her best; though, it must be confessed, she did
not attach so much importance to this matter of the trousseau as it
usually demands and receives from the bride elect; in fact, though Lady
Gridborough has been described as an assistant, she bore the lion's
share of the business, while Celia, as Lady Gridborough expressed it, in
homely language, "gadded about, and mooned" with her lover.

She wanted a quiet wedding, but the church was full, and some ardent
spirits had insisted upon decorating it, and an avenue of children,
clothed in white and armed with flower blossoms to throw upon the
pathway of the bride. Reggie was best man; and, consciously or
unconsciously, had the air of one who had brought about the whole
affair.

"If you had fixed the date a day later," he confided to Derrick, as he
helped him into the regulation frock coat, and impressed upon him the
solemn fact that the wedding ring was in the right-hand pocket of his
waistcoat, "you'd have had to find another best man; for Susie and I are
going to be married to-morrow at a quiet little church not a hundred
miles from here. Ours is going to be really a quiet wedding: bride and
bridegroom; parson, pew-opener and perhaps two sniffling children. We
are going straight to France; address uncertain. And we're going to live
there--that's one of the advantages of my profession, one of the
precious few advantages; you can carry it on anywhere."

"I'm glad," said Derrick, as he wrung Reggie's hand. "No wonder you look
so happy to-day: and I thought it was on my account!"

"So it is--partly," said Reggie. "You see, you're filling the bill so
eminently satisfactorily. Between you and me, it isn't often that the
hero in real life--in real life and out of fiction, mind you!--finishes
up the last chapter looking absurdly happy in a frock coat and lavender
trousers. You're the most satisfying 'hero' I've ever met with. And as
to the bride--well, you wouldn't be married this morning, old chap, if I
sat down right here and told you what I think of her."

"But you've told me already," said Derrick, laying his hand on Reggie's
shoulder and shaking him affectionately.

To Lady Gridborough's intense satisfaction and delight, the sun shone
brightly on Celia who, as the oldest inhabitant declared, was the most
beautiful bride that had ever stood before the altar of the old church.
One wedding is monotonously similar to another; and on this occasion
there was nothing to distinguish Derrick's and Celia's, save the fact
that the bridegroom had only just been acquitted of a criminal charge
and had been discovered to be the heir to a marquisate; but the crowd
which filled the church and gathered outside, felt these facts to be
important ones, and they cheered the bride and bridegroom as they
emerged from the church, husband and wife.

In the circumstances, it was not possible that there should be any
festivities at the Hall--they would come later, all felt, when the happy
couple returned from their honeymoon. There was an affecting scene when
Derrick and Celia stood beside the bed of the injured man. But as he
took Derrick's hand, and signed to Celia to bend down that he might kiss
her, there was, plainly, an expression of relief in the dying man's
wasted face. The great wrong had been set right; the elder brother
restored to his own, his son, this handsome, erect young fellow, with
the frank and honest eyes, established, or on the way to being
established, as the heir.

The old man, lying there, a statesman and an aristocrat, recognized the
responsibilities of his position, all that was due to the great family
of which he had supposed himself the head; and that due was now being
paid. As he blessed them both, his hand sought that of his elder
brother, whom he had put in his proper place, and his eyes turned
affectionately, restfully, to his.

Of course, Lady Gridborough and Reggie had been invited to the
breakfast, which was disposed of somewhat hurriedly; for there was a
train to catch. There were no speeches; they were not necessary; Lady
Gridborough did most of the talking, breaking off now and then,
sometimes to smile happily at Derrick and Celia, at others to wipe her
eyes; for Lady Gridborough, at a wedding, was always hovering between
smiles and tears.

They gathered in the hall, waiting for Celia to appear in her travelling
dress; and presently she came down, radiant, blushing; but, before she
went to her husband, she drew Reggie aside.

"I want to ask you to take a message from me to Susie," she whispered.
"Tell her that I saw her in the church this morning; tell her that I
shall always love her, and that some time--before long, I hope--we shall
meet." Reggie, very red, and looking very happy, nodded. "And will you
give her this as a wedding present?"

He opened the small case she slipped into his hand, and saw a pendant in
the form of a ruby heart set round with diamonds. It was not a very
costly gift, though doubtless it would seem so in Susie's eyes. But
Reggie understood all it meant; the emblem of affection, warm and
glowing; and again he could only nod.

Derrick's last word was with his father. The two men stood, with hands
enclasped, looking at each other in a mute exchange of affection and
trust.

"You will not be away too long?" said the father. "You are needed here."
He glanced upwards towards his brother's room. "And I need you too,
Derrick--my son that was lost and is found." He paused, then he added,
"Tell her that it shall rest with her."

Derrick gave the hand a pressure of comprehension.

As the carriage was starting, Celia's eyes wandered over the group
gathered to see them off: Mrs. Dexter, as well as Lady Gridborough,
between tears and smiles. Mr. Douglas, holding back Roddy, who was
making frantic efforts to follow the carriage; but Derrick's eyes were
fixed on his father.

In due course--how ecstatically happy was that course!--Derrick and
Celia reached the ranch. On the steps stood Donna Elvira, his mother,
awaiting them, with a kind of proud patience. She had drawn herself up
to her full height, was evidently fighting for self-composure; but, at
the sight of her son, her hauteur melted, and, with a cry, she clasped
him in her arms; but, the next moment, with a Spanish courtesy which
swiftly melted to tenderness, she turned to the rather pale and
trembling girl, and embraced her. With a hand of each in hers, she drew
them into the house. There are moments too sacred for intrusion; such
moments were those which passed between these three. At first sight, the
Donna's heart had gone out to her son's beautiful young wife; and it was
with a sigh that she said, after much talk had passed between them,

"Yes, you must not forget, dearest child, that you have a mother, and
another home, here in the South. You will come sometimes? And for a long
visit? The journey is so short nowadays, is it not? You will not forget
altogether the lonely woman who has found a son--and a daughter?"

It was not until he and his mother were alone together that Derrick
delivered his father's message; and he did so gently, tenderly, with his
hand laid in hers. Donna Elvira was silent for a long time; then she
said, in a low voice,

"We will leave it to time, Derrick. You say, in your language, that Time
heals all things. And the wound is now almost healed. We will
wait----Yes, we will leave it to time."

And with that Derrick had to be satisfied.

It was towards the close of their stay at the ranch that Derrick
received a letter from his father containing the news of the death of
him who had been known so long to the world as the Marquess of Sutcombe.
The last days of the stricken man had passed in peacefulness and
forgetfulness. He had never spoken of his son, had seemed to remember
nothing of the terrible tragedy which had cast its shadow over all their
lives; all his conscious thought had been of the brother whose place he
had usurped, at first innocently, but whom now he had restored to his
own. The letter closed with a hint that Derrick's father found the
responsibility of his titles and honours somewhat hard to bear; and
Derrick knew that the old man needed him.

This letter brought their visit--already a long one--to an end, and
Derrick and Celia started for home. Nothing shall be said of their
reception; indeed, the most eloquent pen could not attempt to vie with
the glowing periods in which the great event was enshrined in the
columns of the local paper; suffice it that, after a progress through
many triumphal arches, much cheering; some speechifying on the part of
Derrick--which was by no means particularly happy but was received with
delirious enthusiasm--the carriage conveyed them to the Hall, where
Derrick's father and Celia's old friend stood, leaning on his stick, and
awaited them.

"Thank God you've come back, Derrick!" said his father, fervently. "You
and Celia are wanted here, very badly. You see," he added, with a touch
of pathos, "I have been away from all this so long, I am so unused to
everything----My dear, will you believe me"--he turned to Celia with a
smile that had not a little pathos in it--"I sometimes long for the
quietude, the--the bareness of 'The Jail'!"

"I know," said Celia in a low voice, and with a glance at Derrick beside
her.

For she and Derrick, on their way home, had stopped for a night in
London and had gone back to "The Jail." They had slept in her old room,
and they had stood, hand in hand, in his, where first they had met,
where she had come to him, an angel of rescue.

There were festivities enough now and to spare. The whole place seemed
permeated by their happiness, and Derrick was wondering how long the
rollicking would last and when he should be able to take up the duties
which devolved upon him. One evening it chanced that he and Celia were
walking through the village, on their way from Lady Gridborough's,
engaged in earnest converse about those same duties; and, in the middle
of a sentence, Celia broke off, and, catching at his arm, exclaimed,

"Derrick! Oh, Derrick, look!"

Derrick followed the direction of her eyes, and saw a huge tent with a
number of persons bustling about it. It was a circus tent; and,
moreover, it was Bloxford's Mammoth Circus itself. He stopped and
stared; then he laughed.

"Why, it's old Bloxford!" he cried, brightly. "Celia, this is a piece of
luck. Think of his coming here--here, of all places! By George! how glad
I shall be to see him; and I've an idea he'll be glad to see me! We'll
go--no, not now"--stopping short--"I'll go to the show to-night."

"You'll take me, Derrick?" she said, eagerly. "I want to see him so
badly."

Restraining the desire to go there and then, they had an early dinner
and, on foot, made their way to the circus. The tent was crammed; the
performance had just begun; Derrick and Celia got seats in the best
part, and, exchanging glances of pleasure, they looked on. The whole
company was there in force; and when Isabel rode into the ring on her
black charger, Celia pressed Derrick's arm and whispered
enthusiastically,

"What a splendid woman, Derrick! Oh, she's really grand! And how she
rides!"

"Yes," responded Derrick, a trifle confusedly; for--well, while
recounting his adventures to Celia, he had omitted any mention of the
Isabel episode. "She is a great friend of mine. And so is that
fine-looking chap who is going to do the trapeze act presently. There he
is, standing by the entrance, where they come into the arena. His name
is Sidcup: splendid fellow, isn't he?"

"Splendid," murmured Celia, admiringly. "How clever they all are!"

"Here, come, let's go round at once, now," said Derrick, as the
performance came to an end and the band played "God save the King." He
led her round to the performers' tent, and almost ran against Mr.
Bloxford. Needless to say, he wore his fur coat. At sight of Derrick's
smiling face and outstretched hand, Mr. Bloxford started and stared, in
a bewildered fashion, then he recognised Derrick and, grasping the hand,
shook it heartily.

"Why, dash my stars and stripes, if it isn't Sydney Green!" he
exclaimed, with so evident a pleasure that Celia's eyes glowed and she
smiled upon him; and Mr. Bloxford, as if drawn by the smile, turned to
her, and, sweeping off his hat, said,

"And I take it you're his young lady, miss?"

"I'm his wife," said Celia, with unabashed pride.

"You don't say!" commented Mr. Bloxford, his admiration eloquently
expressed in his staring, Simian eyes. "Well, Mr. Green, you've taken
the cake! Lor' bless my soul, what a picture you'd make in the
high-stepping act! And you're well, and doing well, I should say, by the
look of you, Mr. Green," he said to Derrick, who, indeed, looked
absurdly happy and proud at that moment. "Well, you deserve it. Look
here, ma'am, I could tell you a sight about this big gentleman of yours.
You take it from me that he's a topper, a tip-topper. Here, just step in
here, and I'll tell you how he saved the whole show from a wrecking out
there in that darned dingo-land, Buenos Aires."

"I should like to hear it very much, Mr. Bloxford," said Celia, still
glowing on him; "though my husband has already told me about it."

"Oh, well, you don't want to hear it from me; though, mind you, it was
one of the coolest things I've ever seen done. Oh, he's grit all
through, is that good man of yours."

"I know he is," said Celia, her face radiant, her smile fascinating and
bewildering.

"But, look here!" he said. "The company will want to see you. Here, come
along! I tell you, ma'am"--over his shoulder to Celia, as he led the way
to the "Green Room"--"he is the most popular man we've ever had. And got
a head as well as a heart; the best head _I_ ever saw. Here, ladies and
gentlemen," he cried to the medley group in the performers' tent,
"here's an old friend come to pay you a visit. Here's Mr. Sydney Green,
_and_ his missis!"

They all turned and stared for a moment in silence. Isabel's face went
pale, but not so pale as Alice's. Isabel was the first to recover. With
a flush on her face now, she came forward with her graceful swing and
held out her hand, first to Derrick and then, after a momentary pause,
to Celia; her hand was grasped warmly by both. An excited interchange of
talk ensued; and presently, in the midst of it, Derrick felt a hand on
his arm, and Sidcup, to whom he had spoken already, signed to him.
Derrick went out of the tent with him.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Sidcup," he began; but
Sidcup interrupted him with a nod and a smile.

"I wanted to get you away for a moment, to tell you that it's--all
right," said Sidcup, colouring a little and looking just a trifle
embarrassed, and yet with a tone of pride in his voice. "Isabel and I
have fixed it up. Yes; we were spliced before we left South America.
It's all right, old boy! Congratulate me!"

Derrick shook his hand until Sidcup winced, and they both laughed like a
couple of boys.

"Congratulate you! I should think I do!" said Derrick. "I wish you could
have heard my wife just now, expressing her admiration for yours. She is
more beautiful than ever."

"Oh, well," said Sidcup, with a modest pride; "come to that, you've got
a beauty too. Tell you what, Green, we're both of us deuced lucky men."

"You never spoke a truer word in your life," said Derrick; "and you, at
any rate, deserve your luck."

They returned to the tent, talking as they went; and there, lo and
behold! they found the future Marchioness of Sutcombe the centre of a
laughing and talking group, the hearts of all of which she had conquered
at first sight. For, consider: she was now a future Marchioness, but not
long since she had been Celia Grant, living on a pound a week in Brown's
Buildings--as she told them. Derrick tore her away at last, leaving the
circus company ignorant of the exalted position of their guests; but,
half an hour afterwards, they were astounded beyond words to receive an
invitation to dine next night at Thexford Hall; an invitation from
Sydney Green and his wife, otherwise, Lord and Lady Heyton.

That dinner is marked with a white stone in the history of Derrick and
Celia.

One is reluctant to strike a discordant note, a note of squalid tragedy,
in the harmony to which the lives of Celia and Derrick moved; but this
record would not be complete without an account of the ending of the man
who was known as Lord Heyton. Such an ending as his was inevitable. He
died in a drunken brawl in a Chinese doss-house in Manchuria. For months
before his death he had been a cause of trouble and anxiety to the
authorities of the district; in such a place villainy and roguery have
full scope; but poor Heyton never rose to the height of either. Small
and petty offences only were those which came within his capacity.

For some time he had been connected with a gang of card-sharpers, living
under an alias, and depending for his food and drink upon the small wits
which Providence had vouchsafed him. It was during a dispute in one of
the lowest doss-houses in the place that he met his death. There had
been a quarrel, a scuffle, a death-thrust with a knife by a cold-blooded
Chinaman, and it was not until the authorities had searched the body,