He rose to throw more wood upon the fire and they changed the subject.



CHAPTER XII

THE MUSKEG

It was a fortnight later when the party entered a hollow between two low ranges. The hills receded as they progressed, the basin widened and grew more difficult to traverse, for the ground was boggy and thickly covered with small, rotting pines. Every here and there some had fallen and lay in horrible tangles among pools of mire. A sluggish creek wound through the hollow and the men had often to cross it, while as they plodded through the morass they found their loads intolerably heavy. Still Clarke's directions had plainly indicated this valley as their road, and they stubbornly pushed on, camping where they could find a dry spot.

They were generally wet to the waist and their temper began to give way under the strain, while Blake was annoyed to find his sleep disturbed when he lay down in damp clothes beside the fire at nights. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he lay awake shivering, for hours. He had, however, suffered from malarial fever in India without having it badly, and supposed that it had again attacked him now that he was feeling the hardships of the march. Saying nothing to his companions, he patiently trudged on, though his head throbbed and he was conscious of a depressing weakness; and the ground grew softer as they proceeded. The creek no longer kept within its banks but spread in shallow pools, the rotting trees were giving place to tall grass and reeds. The valley had turned into a very wet muskeg, but, after making one or two attempts, they failed to find a better road among the hills that shut it in. The rocky sides of the knolls were seamed by ravines and covered with banks of stones and short brush, through which it was very difficult to force a passage. Then one day, Blake, who felt his head reel, staggered and sat down heavily.

"I'm sorry I can't keep on my feet," he said. "Think it's malaria I've got."

For a moment or two his companions gazed at him in dismay. His face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and moving feebly he sank further down with his back against a stone. He looked seriously ill, but Harding, realizing that the situation must be grappled with, resolutely pulled himself together.

"You can't lie there; the ground's too wet," he said. "It's drier on yonder hummock and we'll have to get you across to it. If you can stand up and lean on us we'll fix you comfortably in camp in a few minutes."

When Blake had shakily risen they unstrapped his pack and afterwards with much trouble helped him to reach a small, stony knoll, where they made a fire and spread their blankets on a bundle of reeds for him to lie on.

"Thanks," he said in a listless voice. "I found it hard to keep my eyes open all morning and now I think I'll go to sleep. I'll no doubt feel better to-morrow."

By and by he fell asleep, but his rest was broken, for he moved his limbs and muttered now and then. It was a heavy, grey afternoon with a cold wind rippling the leaden pools and rustling the reeds, and the watchers felt dejected and alarmed. Neither had any medical knowledge, and they were a very long way from the settlements. Rocky hillsides and wet muskegs which they could not cross with a sick companion shut them off from all help; their provisions were not plentiful, and the rigorous winter would soon set in.

They scarcely spoke to one another as the afternoon wore away, but when supper time came Harding roused Blake and tried to give him a little food. He could not eat, however, and soon sank into restless sleep again, and his companions sat disconsolately beside the fire as night closed in. Their clothes were damp and splashed with mud, for they had to cross a patch of very soft muskeg to gather wood among a clump of rotting spruces. The wind was searching, the reeds clashed and rustled drearily, and they could hear the splash of the ripples on a neighbouring pool, It was all depressing, and as in turn they kept watch in the darkness their hearts sank.

Next morning Blake, who made an attempt to get up, was obviously worse, and though he insisted irritably that he would be all right again in a day or two the others felt dubious.

"How often must I tell you that the thing will wear off?" he said. "You needn't look so glum."

"I thought I was looking pretty cheerful," Harding objected with a forced laugh. "Anyway, I've been working off my best stories for the last hour, and I really think that one about the Cincinnati man——"

"It's located in half a dozen different places," Blake rejoined. "You overdo the thing, and the way Benson grins at your threadbare jokes would worry me if I were well. Do you suppose I'm a fool and don't know what you think?" He raised himself on his elbow, speaking angrily. "Try to understand that this is merely common malaria; I've had it several times, and it seldom bothers you much when you're out of the tropics. Why, Bertram—you've seen my cousin—was down with it a week at Sandymere; temperature very high, old fool of a family doctor looking serious and fussing. Then he got up all right one morning and rode to hounds next day. Very good fellow, Bertram; so's his father. If anybody speaks against my cousin, let him look out for me."

He paused and resumed with a vacant air: "Getting off the subject, wasn't I? Can't think with this pain in my head and back, but don't worry. Leave me alone; I'll soon be on my feet again."

Lying down, he turned away from them and they exchanged glances, for it looked as if their comrade's brain were getting clouded. Blake, who dozed part of the time, said nothing during the next few hours, and late in the afternoon an Indian reached the camp. He carried a dirty blue blanket and a few skins and was dressed in ragged white men's clothes. In a few words of broken English he made them understand that he was tired and short of food, and they gave him a meal. When he had finished it, they fell into conversation and Benson, who understood him best, told Harding that he had been trapping in the neighbourhood. His tribe lived some distance off, and though there were some Stonies not far away, he would not go to them for supplies. They were, he said, quarrelsome people.

Harding looked interested when he heard this and made Benson ask exactly where the Stony village lay; and when he had been told he lighted his pipe and said nothing for the next half hour. Rain had begun to fall, and though they had built a rude shelter of earth and stones to keep off the wind in place of the tent, which had been abandoned to save weight, the raw damp seemed to reach their bones. It was not the place to nurse a fever patient in and Harding was getting anxious. He had led his comrade into the adventure and felt responsible for him; moreover, he had a strong affection for the helpless man. Blake was very ill and something must be done to save him, but for a time Harding could not see how help could be obtained. Then an idea crept into his mind, and he got Benson to ask the Indian a few more questions about the locality. When they were answered he began to see his way, but he waited until supper was over before he spoke of his plan.

It was getting dark and raining hard; Blake was asleep, the Indian sitting silent, and the fire crackled noisily, throwing up a wavering light against the surrounding gloom.

"I suppose I needn't consider you a friend of Clarke's?" Harding remarked.

"There's no reason why I should feel grateful to him, though I can't blame him for all my misfortunes," Benson replied.

"That clears the ground. Well, it must have struck you that the fellow's account of the whereabouts of the Stony camp doesn't agree with what the prospectors and this Indian told us. He fixed the locality further west and a good deal farther off from where we are now. Looks as if he didn't want us to reach the place."

"He's a scheming brute, but I can't see his object in deceiving us."

"We'll leave that point for a minute. You must allow it's curious that when we asked him for the easiest way he sent us through these hills and muskegs; particularly as you have learned from the Indian that we could have got north with much less trouble had we headed further west."

"If that's true, it has an ugly look," Benson answered thoughtfully.

"Very well; I'm going to put the thing before you as I see it. Clarke has lent you money and has a claim on your homestead, which will increase in value as the settlement grows, while sooner or later they'll bring a railroad in. Now, after what you once told me, I don't think there's any reason why you shouldn't pay him off in a year or two if you keep steady and work hard, but while you were in his clutches that looked very far from probable."

"You might have put it more plainly—I was drinking myself to death." Benson's face grew stern. "You suggest that this is what the fellow wished?"

"You can form your own opinion. My point is that it would suit him if you didn't come back from this trip. With nobody to dispute his statements he'd prove he had a claim to all you own."

Benson started. "I believe he would stick at nothing; you may be right. But I'm only one of the party; what would he gain if you and Blake came to grief?"

"That," said Harding, "is not so clear."

He glanced at his companion searchingly and seeing that he suspected nothing, decided not to enlighten him. Benson seemed to have overcome his craving, but there was a possibility that he might relapse upon his return to the settlement and betray the secret in his cups. Harding thought Clarke a dangerous man of unusual ability and abnormal character. He had learned from Benson something of Blake's history and had seen a chance of extorting money from Colonel Challoner. Indeed, Clarke had made overtures to Blake on the subject, with the pretext of wishing to ascertain whether the latter was willing to seek redress, and had met with an indignant rebuff. This much was a matter of fact, but Harding surmised that the man, finding Blake more inclined to thwart than assist him, would be glad to get rid of him. With Blake out of the way, the Challoners, father and son, would be at his mercy; and it unfortunately looked as if his wishes might be gratified. Harding, however, meant to make a determined effort to save his comrade.

"I don't understand what you're leading up to," Benson remarked.

"It's this—I suspect Clarke intended us to get entangled among these muskegs where we'd have no chance of renewing our provisions, and misled us about the Stony village, which he didn't wish us to reach. Well, he has succeeded in getting us into trouble and now he has to help us out. The fellow is a doctor."

Benson looked up eagerly. "You're going to bring him here? It's a daring plan, because it will be difficult to make him come."

"He'll come if he values his life," said Harding drily. "The Indian will take me to the village, and perhaps see me through if I offer him enough; he seems to have some grudge against the Stonies. I'll have to drop in upon the doctor late at night when none of his Indian friends are about."

"But who'll look after Blake? He can't be left."

"That's your part. You'd run more risk than I would, and I'm his partner."

"I'd hate to stay," Benson protested, and added with feeling: "You know how I'm indebted to Blake."

"It's your place," said Harding. "Now you had better try to arrange the thing with the Indian."

It took some time, but the man proved amenable. He frankly owned that he would not have ventured near the Stony camp alone and hinted at some quarrel between its inhabitants and his tribe, originating, Benson gathered, over a dispute about trapping grounds; but he was ready to accompany the white man, if the latter went well armed.

"That's fixed; we start at daybreak," said Harding. "I'll lie down now; it's your watch."

Five minutes later he was sound asleep and awoke, quietly determined and ready for the march, in the cold of dawn. He was a man of the cities, bred to civilized life and had a just appreciation of the risks he ran, since he meant to abduct the doctor, who was dangerous to meddle with, from an Indian village where he was apparently held in some esteem. The Stonies, living far remote, had, so Harding understood, escaped the chastening influence of an occasional visit from the patrols of the North-West Police. Moreover there was a possibility that Clarke might prove too clever for him. It was certainly a strange adventure for a business man, but he believed that Blake would perish unless help was obtained. He shook hands with Benson, who wished him a sincere "Good-luck!" and then, with the Indian leading, struck out through the muskeg towards the shadowy hills.



CHAPTER XIII

CLARKE'S SUMMONS

Harding, who knew there was no time to lose, had cause to remember the forced march he made to the Stony village. The light was faint and the low ground streaked with haze as they floundered through the muskeg, sinking deep in the softer spots and splashing through shallow pools. When they reached the first hill bench he was hot and breathless, and their path led sharply upwards over banks of ragged stones which had a trick of slipping down when they trod on them. It was worse where they were large and he stumbled into the hollows between. Then they struggled through short pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick willows grew, and afterwards got entangled among thickets of thorny canes. Harding's clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his breath was laboured and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on upwards without slackening his pace.

It was exhausting toil, and until he entered the North-West, he had undergone no physical training and seldom tried his muscles; being left to shift for himself at an unusually early age had prevented his even playing any outdoor games. His career had been a humble one, but it had taught him self-reliance, and when he was thrown into the company of men brought up in a higher station he was not surprised that they accepted him as an equal and comrade. There was, however, nothing assertive in the man; he knew his powers and their limitations. Now he clearly recognized that he had undertaken a big thing, but the need was urgent, and he meant to see it through. He was of essentially practical temperament, a man of action, and it was necessary that he should keep up with his Indian guide as long as possible. Therefore he braced himself for the arduous task.

In the afternoon they reached a tableland where travelling was slightly easier, but when they camped without a fire among the rocks one of Harding's feet was bleeding and he was very weary. Walking was painful for the first hour after they started again at dawn, but by and by his galled foot troubled him less, and he doggedly followed the Indian up and down deep ravines and over rough stony slopes. Then they reached stunted timber; thickly-massed, tangled pines, with many dead trees among them and a number which had fallen, barring the way. The Indian seemed tireless; Harding could imagine his muscles having been toughened into something different from ordinary flesh and blood. He was feeling distress, but for the present there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to march. He saw it clearly with his shrewd sense, and though his worn-out body revolted his resolution did not flinch.

They forced a way through thickets, they skirted precipitous rocks, passed clusters of ragged pines, and plunged down ravines. In the afternoon the sun was hot, and when it got low a cold wind buffeted them as they crossed the height of land, but although Harding's side ached as well as his bleeding feet the march went on. Then just before dark he had a glimpse of a wide valley fading into the blue distance with water shining in its midst and grey blurs of willows here and there. The prospect, however, faded swiftly from his sight, and he found himself limping across a stony ridge into a belt of drifting mist. Half an hour afterwards he threw himself down exhausted beside a fire in a sheltered hollow.

Late at night they stopped a few minutes to listen and look about on the outskirts of the Indian village. Thick willows stretched close up to it with mist that moved before a light wind drifting past them; and the blurred shapes of conical tepees showed dimly through the vapour. The night was dark but still, and Harding thought a sound would carry some distance, but while he felt his heart beating there was nothing to be heard. He had seen dogs about the Indian encampments farther south and was horribly afraid of hearing a warning bark, but nothing broke the silence and he supposed that Clarke's friends were unable to find food enough for sledge-teams. This was reassuring, because the odds against him were heavy enough, knowing, as he did, that the Indian's sense of hearing is remarkably keen.

Feeling that his magazine pistol was loose, he signed to his guide and they moved cautiously forward. The ground was fortunately clear and their footsteps made little noise, though now and then tufts of dry grass which Harding trod upon rustled with what seemed to him alarming distinctness. Still nobody challenged them and reaching the centre of the village they stopped again. The nearest of the tepees was only thirty or forty yards away, though others ran back into the mist, and as Harding stood listening with tingling nerves he clearly recognized the difficulty of his enterprise. In the first place, there was nothing to indicate which tent Clarke occupied, and it was highly undesirable that Harding should choose the wrong one and rouse an Indian from his slumbers. Then it was possible that the man shared a tepee with some of his hosts, in which case Harding would place himself at his mercy by entering it. Clarke was a dangerous man, and his Stony friends were people with rudimentary ideas and barbarous habits. Harding glanced at his guide, but the man stood very still, and he could judge nothing about his feelings from his attitude. Pulling himself together with an effort, Harding went on.

Fortune favoured him, for as he made towards a tepee, without any particular reason for doing so, except that it stood a little apart from the rest, he saw a faint streak of light shine out beneath the curtain, This suggested that it was occupied by the white man, and it was now an important question whether he could reach it silently enough to surprise him. Beckoning the Indian to fall behind, he crept forward with his heart beating painfully and stopped a moment just outside the entrance. It was obvious that he had not been heard, but he could not tell whether Clarke was alone. Then the Indian, who had crept up behind him, dragged the doorway open and Harding, hastily stepping in, stood, ragged, unkempt, and strung up, blinking in the unaccustomed light.

The tent had an earth floor with a layer of reeds and grass thrown down on one side. It was frail and hinted at changing times and poverty, for the original skin cover had been patched and eked out with the products of civilization in the shape of cotton flour bags and old sacking. In the later repairs sewing twine had been used instead of sinews. A wooden case stood open near the reeds, and Harding saw that it contained glass jars and what looked like laboratory apparatus; a common tin kerosene lamp hung from the junction of the frame poles, which met at the point of the cone. A curious smell, which reminded him of the paint factory, filled the tent, though he could not recognize it.

Harding could not tell whether he noted all this at once, or if it afterwards impressed itself upon him by degrees, because as he entered Clarke, who sat beside the case, looked up. It was, Harding thought, a good test of his nerve, but his face was imperturbable and he showed no surprise. There was silence for a moment or two while the Indian stood motionless with his axe shining as it caught the light, and Harding's lips grew firmly set. Then Clarke spoke—

"So you have turned back. You found the muskeg too difficult to cross, and I suppose this fellow showed you the way here?"

Harding, who was worn out, crossed the floor to the heap of reeds and sat down facing Clarke.

"We have come for you and must start at once. My partner is very sick—fever he thinks—and you'll have to cure him."

"You're presuming on my consent."

"Yes," said Harding sternly; "I'm counting right on that. It wouldn't be wise of you to refuse."

"I don't agree with you. A shout or a shot would bring in my friends, and you'd find yourself in a very unpleasant position. You had better understand that the North-West Police have never visited this place and nobody troubles about what goes on up here, while I believe I'm a person of some influence." He indicated Harding's guide. "Then, though I don't know what he's doing in this neighbourhood, this fellow belongs to a tribe the Stonies have a grudge against. On the whole, I think you have been very rash."

"I guess you're clever enough to see that since I've taken some chances in coming I'm not likely to be bluffed off now. But we'll let that go. The most important thing is that Blake will die unless he gets proper treatment."

Clarke regarded him with a mocking smile. "It's a matter of indifference to me whether Blake dies or not."

"No," said Harding, "I allow it isn't quite so. On the whole, you would sooner he did die. He's in the way."

He could not tell whether this shot had reached the mark, for though Clarke's eyes were steadily fixed on him the man's face was inscrutable.

"If you're right, it's strange you should urge me to prescribe for him."

"There are some precautions I mean to take," said Harding drily. "However, I haven't come here to argue. For reasons of your own, you sent us into a belt of country which you thought we couldn't get through. My notion is that you expected us to be held up there until our stores ran out and winter set in, when these Stonies would, no doubt, have moved on. Well, part of what you wished has happened, but the matter is taking a turn you couldn't have looked for. You led us into difficulties and now you're going to get us out. I guess delay means danger—get ready to start."

Then the Indian raised his hand in warning. Footsteps approached the tepee with something strangely stealthy in their tread, and Clarke, turning his head, listened with a curious expression. Then he looked at Harding and as the steps drew nearer the American's lips set tight. His pose grew tense, but it was more expressive of determination than alarm. For a few moments none of the party moved and then the attitude of all relaxed as the footsteps passed and grew indistinct. Clarke broke into a faint smile.

"That was not an ordinary Stony but a gentleman of my profession, with similar interests, going about his business. There are reasons why he should undertake it in the dark. You were right in supposing that you were in some danger."

Harding felt a shiver. He had the repugnance of the healthy-minded man of affairs from any form of meddling with what he vaguely thought of as the occult; but in that remote, grim solitude he could not scoff at it.

"Understand this," he said curtly. "I mean to save my partner; I staked my life on doing so, and since I guess you're not ready to go so far as that, I've a pretty strong pull on you. But I've said enough. You're coming with me—now—and if you make any attempt to rouse your friends, you'll have a chance of learning something about the other world at first hand a few seconds afterwards."

Clarke saw that it was not an idle threat. The American meant what he said, and he hurriedly put a few things together and made them into a pack. Then he turned to Harding with a gesture of ironical resignation.

"I'm ready."

The Indian laid a firm hand on his arm and Harding, who took out his pistol, extinguished the lamp.

"Your interest in keeping quiet is as strong as mine," he sternly reminded Clarke.

He set his teeth as they passed a tepee at a few yards distance. He could see the dark gap of the doorway and had a nervous fancy that eyes were following his movements, for now he had succeeded in the more difficult part of his errand he was conscious of strain. Indeed, he feared he was getting shaky and the danger was not yet over. They were not clear of the village and a noisy stumble would bring the Indians out. Unless they reached camp in the next few days he thought Blake would die, and the journey was a long and arduous one. Still, he was determined that if disaster overtook him, the plotter who had betrayed them should not escape. Harding was a respecter of law and social conventions, but now he had suddenly become primitive under heavy stress.

They passed the tepee unnoticed, but the tension he felt did not slacken, because there was another they could not avoid. Nobody, however, called to them, and he felt easier as they drew away from the row of shadowy tents. Then, moving very cautiously, they reached the thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, and Harding, who found it hard to hold himself in hand, feared that he might grow limp with the reaction. Difficult as his task had looked, it had been successfully carried out.

"Get on," he said to Clarke and, walking faster, they plunged into the open waste.



CHAPTER XIV

THE CURE

It was noon when Harding returned to camp, ragged and exhausted, with Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The latter had suffered badly from the hurried march, but his conductor would brook no delay and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to the utmost exertion he was capable of. Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.

"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once." Then his face grew troubled as he asked Benson: "How long has he been like that?"

"The last two days," said Benson. "I'm afraid he's very bad."

Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache, he could scarcely hold himself upright, and his heart was heavy. He would miss Blake terribly; it was hard to think of going on without him, but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man, but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.

"Had you much trouble?" Benson asked as he laid out a meal.

"No," said Harding; "I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."

"Then I don't see how you overcame his objections."

Harding broke into a dry smile. "In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends upon how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."

"You mean your life?" said Benson. "I've no doubt you were in some danger, but was it so serious?"

"It would have been if I'd shot him, and I think he saw I meant that. What's more, I may have to do so yet."

Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced grave risks, but he was inclined to think that even before he had weakened it by excess his nerve had never been so good as this city drummer's.

"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake and recognize my debt to him, while we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than this, but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you. In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a trap for us, but if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."

He called Clarke, who had been busy examining Blake, to join them by the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his look. He ate greedily without speaking, and then glanced up at the others.

"Well," said Benson, "what's your opinion?"

"Your friend's state is dangerous, and he was right in his conclusions about what was the matter with him. How he came to suffer from a severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate I can't determine, and after all it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at his present temperature."

"And the remedy?"

"One of two is indicated, and the choice is difficult, because both are risky."

"Then they're risky to you as well as to your patient," Harding grimly reminded him.

Clarke made a contemptuous gesture which was not without a touch of dignity. His manner was now severely professional.

"One course would be to put him into the coldest water we can find; it's drastic treatment and sometimes effective, but there's a strong probability of its killing him."

"You had better mention the other."

"The administration of a remedy of my own, which I'll admit few doctors would venture to use. It's almost as dangerous as the first course, and in case of success recovery is slower."

Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man and believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the contrary.

"I must leave you to decide, but if the result's unfortunate I'll hold you responsible," he said.

"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith why do you put your partner in my charge?"

"I've some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding rejoined. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."

After giving him a curious glance Clarke got up. "I'll try the draught, and it had better be done now. There is no time to lose."

He moved towards Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping beside him, he took out a very small bottle, and after carefully letting a few drops fall into a spoon, with some trouble got the sick man to swallow them. Then he sat down and turned to Harding.

"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able to form some opinion."

Harding lighted his pipe and though he found it strangely hard to sit still smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied and bit savagely on its stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humour had lightened the toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out he had banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would hear his cheerful laugh no more, and Harding felt that if the worst came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.

Benson, who seemed to find the suspense equally trying, made no remark, and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impassive face. Harding could only wait with all the fortitude he could muster, but he long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still; there was no wind, a heavy grey sky overhung them, and the smoke of the fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through the silence. At length, when Harding felt the tension becoming unendurable, Clarke, who glanced at his watch, reopened the small bottle.

"We'll try again," he said gravely, and Harding thought he detected anxiety in his tone.

The dose was given and Harding, feeling the urgent need of action if he were to continue calm, got up and wandered about the muskeg. Coming back after a time, he looked at Clarke, who merely shook his head, though his face now showed signs of uneasiness. Harding sat down again and refilled his pipe, noticing that the stem was nearly bitten through. He gathered from the doctor's expression that they would soon know what to expect and he feared the worst. Now, however, he was growing cool; his eyes were very stern and his lips had set in an ominously determined fashion. Benson, who glanced at him once or twice, thought it boded trouble for the doctor if things went badly. The American had a ruthless air.

At length Clarke, moving silently but quickly, bent over his patient, felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing; and Harding leaned eagerly forward. Blake seemed less restless, his face, which had been furrowed, was relaxing; there was a faint damp on it. He moved and sighed, but the sigh was somehow reassuring, and then turning his head weakly, closed his eyes. A few moments later Clarke stood up, stretching out his arms with a gesture of deep weariness.

"I believe your partner has turned the corner," he said. "He must sleep as long as he is able."

Harding crept away, conscious of a relief so overpowering that he was afraid he might do something foolish and disturb his comrade if he remained. Scarcely noticing where he was going, he plunged into the swamp and ploughed through it, smashing down the reeds and splashing in the pools. Quick movement was balm to his raw-edged nerves, for the suspense of the last two hours had tried him very hard. When he returned to camp, rather wet and muddy, Clarke, who made him a sign demanding silence, was sitting by his patient's side, and Harding saw that Blake was sound asleep. Then with a sense of thankfulness too deep for expression he set about preparing the evening meal. Now he could eat with appetite.

Before he and Benson had finished their repast Clarke joined them and, answering a question, said, "I believe the worst danger's over, though there's a possibility of a relapse. He'll need careful attention for several days."

"Longer I think," said Harding. "Anyhow, you'll have to make up your mind to stop while it strikes us as necessary."

"My time's valuable and you run some risk in keeping me. You must recognize that there's a likelihood of the Stonies picking up my trail."

"If they get here, they'll run up against all the trouble they'll have any use for," Harding rejoined. "However, I told our guide, who seems pretty smart at such matters, to take precautions, and I understand he fixed things so it would be hard to follow our tracks. You may remember that he took us across all the bare rocks he could find and made us wade up a creek. Besides, as you seem to have played on your friends' superstitions, they mayn't find anything remarkable in your disappearing mysteriously."

"You're a capable man," Clarke told him with an air of resignation. "Anyway, I find this case appeals to my professional interest. For one thing, it's curious that the malaria should attack him in a severe form after a lengthy absence from the tropical jungles where he caught it. By the way, how long is it since he left India?"

Harding shrewdly returned an evasive answer. He did not think it desirable that Clarke should learn too much about his comrade's connexion with India.

"I can't fix the date, but it's some time. However, I understand he was afterwards in an unhealthy part of Africa, which may account for the thing. I don't think he's been in this country more than a year or two."

"Did he ever speak of having malaria here? It is apt to return within a rather elastic period."

"Not so far as I can recollect," said Harding.

Seeing that he could extract no useful information from him, Clarke abandoned the attempt and discussed the case from a medical point of view. Then he said, "As we're not out of the wood yet, and I don't expect I'll be needed for a while, I'd better get some sleep. You must waken me if there's any sign of a change."

Drawing his blanket round him, he lay down on a bed of branches and reeds and when his deep, regular breathing indicated that he was asleep Harding looked at Benson.

"I guess he'll do all that's possible, for his own sake. It strikes me he's a pretty good doctor."

"I understand he once promised to become a famous one," Benson replied. "Though I left you to deal with the matter, I kept my eye on him, and my idea is that while he wouldn't have scrupled much about letting Blake die if it had suited his purpose, as soon as you showed him the danger of that course his professional feelings came uppermost. In fact, I believe Blake couldn't have got better treatment in Montreal or London. Now the fellow has taken his case up, he'll make a cure. But I'll keep the first watch; you need a rest."

In a few minutes Harding was fast asleep and when he relieved Benson late at night he found Clarke at his post. Shortly afterwards Blake opened his eyes and asked a few intelligent questions in a weak voice before he went to sleep again. Next morning he was obviously improving, but although a strong man often recovers rapidly from an attack of malarial fever, Clarke stayed several days and gave Harding a number of careful instructions on parting.

"I don't think that can do much harm," said Harding, looking him in the face.

"Your suspicions die hard," Clarke rejoined with a mocking laugh.

"That's so," said Harding coolly. "As soon as you leave this camp I lose my hold on you. However, I've given you the Indian as guide, and he'll see you safe to about a day's march from your friends' village, and I've put up food enough for the journey. Considering everything, that's all the fee I need offer you."

"There wouldn't be much use in urging my claim," Clarke acquiesced.

"Then what about Benson? I noticed you didn't seem particularly anxious to renew your acquaintance. Are you willing to leave him with us?"

Clarke smiled in an ironical manner. "Why do you ask, when you mean to keep him? So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to the man; I make you a present of him. Have you had enough of this trip yet, or are you going on?"

"We're going ahead; you can do what you like about it. And now, while I admire the way you pulled my partner through, there's not much more to say. I wish you a safe journey and good-morning."

He waved his hand and turned back towards the fire, while Clarke, following the Indian, moved forward across the muskeg. A week later they broke camp and, finding a somewhat better path along the hillside, went on by easy stages towards the north.



CHAPTER XV

MRS. CHUDLEIGH FINDS A CLUE

On a dark November morning when a blustering wind drove the rain against the windows Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favourite gun in the room he called his study at Hazlehurst in Shropshire. The shelves on the handsome panelled walls contained a few works on agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks were filled with guns and fishing rods and the table Foster was seated at had a vice clamped to its edge. He had once had a commodious gunroom, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, who thought she could make a better use of it, since Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the Field.

Foster was a red-faced country gentleman who found his greatest interest in outdoor sports and was characterized by some native shrewdness and a genial but rather abrupt manner. He laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.

"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she said, sitting down opposite him.

"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster answered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and I wouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch. Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no good at a gun."

"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."

"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cart after he collapsed in the wood, but it wasn't my fault. He was keen on coming."

Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, Lieutenant Walters, lately invalided home from India.

"Perhaps you were not so much to blame, but that was not what I came to talk about," she said.

"Then I suppose you want my approval of some new plans. Go ahead with any arrangements you wish to make, but as far as possible, leave me out. Though it was a very wet spring, I never saw the pheasants more plentiful; glad I stuck to the hand-rearing, though Jenkins wanted to leave the birds alone in the higher woods. Of course, now we've cleared out the vermin——"

"Oh! never mind," his wife broke in. "You would talk about such things all day. The question is——"

"It strikes me it's—— When are we going to have the house to ourselves? Though I don't interfere much, I've lately felt that I'm qualifying for a hotel-keeper."

"You have been unusually patient, and I'm getting rather tired of entertaining people, but Margaret Keith says she'd like to come down. You don't mind her?"

"Not a bit, if she doesn't insist on bringing a menagerie. It was cats last time, but I hear she's now gone in for wild animals. If she turns up with her collection, we'll probably lose Pattinson; he had all he could stand on the last occasion. Still, Meg's good fun; ready to meet you on any ground, keen as a razor. But what about Mrs. Chudleigh? Is she going?"

"She hasn't mentioned it. In fact, I was wondering——"

"Whether she'd stop if you pressed her? Try it and see. Anyhow, she's not in my way and the place seems to meet with her approval. But what's she after? It can't be young Jimmy; he's hardly worth powder and shot from her point of view."

"You're rather coarse, but I agree," Mrs. Foster answered. "Jimmy's too young and hasn't much beside his pay. His admiration's respectfully platonic, but it's largely on his account I thought of asking her to remain. I'm grateful to her for amusing the poor fellow, because, as he can't get about with the others, he'd have been left a good deal to himself if she hadn't taken him up. She's excellent company when she exerts herself, and she talks and reads to him with great good-nature."

"Do what you wish. Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken so freely about a friend of yours."

"I don't know whether I quite consider her a friend or not," Mrs. Foster thoughtfully replied. "She was staying at Mabel's when I was there, but we didn't become intimate. In fact, I think I asked her down because she made me feel she wanted to come."

"A delicate hint sometimes goes a long way. Still, there's no doubt she has brightened Jimmy up, and one feels sorry for him."

Mrs. Foster went out, and, finding her guest, asked her to stay on, which, after a few demurs, Mrs. Chudleigh agreed to do, and on being left alone smiled in a satisfied manner. She had played her cards cleverly in obtaining a footing at Hazlehurst, which was a pleasant house to stay at, and thought that with good luck she might win the game she had begun. She was a hard and somewhat unscrupulous woman, but a tender look crept into her eyes as she thought of the man whose prospects she meant to improve.

Left a widow at an early age by the death of an elderly Anglo-Indian whom she had married under pressure from her parents, she had spent some years in social enjoyments before she met Sedgwick, with whom she fell in love. She was clever enough to recognize his faults, but she liked his bold, ambitious nature. Though he had no private means and she was rich, she knew her money would not count for much against the prospects of a brilliant career. The man had real ability and meant to make his mark, and in this she was anxious to assist him. She was even willing to defer their marriage until he had had an opportunity of displaying his talents in the administration of the West African territory he had lately returned to, and her object was to secure his appointment to the post left vacant by the retirement of his superior.

During the evening she sat with Lieutenant Walters in the conservatory. There were other guests at Hazlehurst, and Mrs. Foster had asked some of her neighbours to join them in an informal dance. Coloured lamps hung among the plants, throwing a soft light upon clustering blossoms and forcing up delicate foliage in black silhouette. Here and there lay belts of shadow, out of which came voices and a smell of cigar smoke; but near where Mrs. Chudleigh sat screened by a palm a French window opened into the hall. The half-light that fell sideways upon her face suited her, for it failed to reveal the hardness of her lips and eyes, and made her look gentler. Walters, who was charmed with her, had no suspicion that she had cultivated his society merely because she thought he might prove useful. On hearing what regiment he belonged to, she had marked him down for study.

"I'm afraid I'm selfish in keeping you here, though I know how good-natured you are," he said by and by. "You might have been enjoying yourself instead of letting me bore you."

Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a gracious smile. "I've lost my enthusiasm for dancing and need a rest now and then. Besides, I like a talk with interesting people."

"That's a thing I'm seldom credited with being. You're making fun of me."

"Far from it," she assured him. "If you are very modest, I'll confess that your knowing places and people I've seen in past days enhances the interest. Were you long in India?"

"Three years. In some respects, I was sorry to leave, but the doctors decided it would be twelve months before I was fit for work again, and I felt very much at a loose end when I got home. I can't dance, I can't ride, and I mustn't walk far; in fact, there seems to be nothing that I am allowed to do. I'd have found my helplessness harder only that you have taken pity on me."

"But you are getting stronger; I've noticed a marked improvement, since I came. But we were speaking of India. You were on the North-West frontier, were you not?"

"Yes," he said and looked round as a man passed the window. "Who's that? I've seen most of Lucy's neighbours, but I don't know him."

The man moved into the light and stood gazing towards them absent-mindedly, as if thinking of something. Walters noticed his white hair and thin face, the keenness of his blue eyes, the firmness of his mouth, and the erectness of his figure.

"That is Colonel Challoner," Mrs. Chudleigh replied.

"Ah!" said Walters; "I thought I recognized the stamp. Foster told me he lived a few miles off, but I'll have to move on if he comes in here."

"Why?" Mrs. Chudleigh asked in well-simulated surprise, though she saw the opportunity she had been waiting for was now offered her.

"I knew his son and nephew; served with them in India for a time," Walters answered with some embarrassment. "That's why Foster warned me to keep out of Challoner's way. He seemed to think it would be considerate."

Challoner passed on, and Mrs. Chudleigh fixed her eyes on Walters. "I see. You must have taken part in a certain unfortunate affair on the frontier in which the hill men get the best of it."

The blood crept into Walters' face, but he answered simply: "I did. It is not a subject one talks about."

"That's natural; one can understand the feelings of the mess, but the thing isn't quite a secret, and I daresay you break through your reserve now and then. Surely you don't refuse your confidence to your friends?"

Her manner was reproachful, as though she felt hurt because he could not trust her, and he looked confused.

"I couldn't doubt that anything I said would be safe with you, but it's a painful subject. Besides, you obviously know something about the matter."

"I do, but not much. I knew Bertram Challoner and have met Richard Blake. Then at one time I heard a good deal about the frontier and that makes me curious." She paused, and gave him a look he could not resist. "I want to know what really happened; won't you tell me? You can rely upon my treating it in the strictest confidence."

Walters felt reluctant, but he was grateful to her, and flattered by her preference. She was a handsome woman and much sought after, but she had often devoted an hour to enlivening his forced idleness when there were more exciting occupations open to her.

"I couldn't refuse you anything after the way you have helped me through a rather trying time," he declared. "When one has been pretty active, it isn't easy to resign oneself to being laid upon the shelf, and you cheered me up when I most needed it. Well, I was with the expedition and we had shelled an old hill fort to bits and laid a heavy fire on two or three villages, with the object of keeping their inhabitants quiet, but it hadn't that effect. All their friends came down to help in cutting us off as we went home and I'm still surprised that they didn't succeed. They sniped our camp every night and had a number of brushes with the rearguard as we hurried back through the hills; but it wasn't until we were nearly clear that things got badly threatening and we had to make a stand. I believe the idea was that we must hold our ground until help arrived. But am I boring you?"

"Oh! no," said Mrs. Chudleigh. "Please don't stop."

"Well, we were awkwardly placed in the bottom of a pass, but there was a small steep hill that strengthened our position and Blake made the trenches. He did it well, in the daylight, because there was no time to lose, with marksmen we couldn't see firing at him from among the rocks. I must say that although they made very good shooting and got several of his men he never flinched."

"He was not a nervous man, was he?"

"One wouldn't have imagined so after seeing him coolly doing his work with the bullets flattening on the stones all round; but I'll confess I could never understand what happened afterwards. The orders were that the hill must be held at any cost, but as our line was long we couldn't send up many men. Blake stayed with his few sappers, we had a gun from the mule battery, and there was Challoner, myself, and two more officers with a handful of native infantry. It was about two in the morning when the fellows made their rush, a band of Ghazees leading it, and I'll own that we were all a little overstrung. Forced marches on half rations and lying awake night after night expecting an attack are wearing. For all that, it was a strong position, and though there were not many of them we felt we could trust the men. The hill was hard to climb except by a ravine the gun did not command and Blake had laid a mine there. Challoner held the ridge immediately above."

"What is your opinion of Bertram Challoner? Is he a good officer?"

"One of the best. He's what you could call conscientious; took his duties seriously and knew more about the scientific side of his business than any of us. In a way, that was curious, because I imagine that he hadn't much natural aptitude for soldiering and while he was cool in action one felt he had to work himself up to it. Nobody doubted his pluck, but I've seen him looking rather white after a hot brush."

"A nervous temperament, held well in hand," Mrs. Chudleigh suggested. "But go on; I'm sorry I interrupted you."

"There was a challenge, a yell from the stabbed sentry, and the beggars were upon us. No time to think; the face of the hill swarmed with them. The gunners only fired one round before they were cut down, and the mine did not explode. It was a thick, dark night, and we were horribly outnumbered, but the orders were to hold on—we could send for support if very hard pressed, but we mustn't yield a yard of ground. It was hot work in front of the trench upon the ridge—they poured into it at one end, but for a time we stayed as well. Then——"

Walters broke off and looked at his companion with appeal. "I've been talking too freely; said more than I should have done, in fact. You had better admit that you don't find all this interesting."

"It wouldn't be true," Mrs. Chudleigh declared, determined not to be put off. "I'm extremely interested, and you must keep your promise. Tell me all you can."

He made a gesture of resignation. "Well, there was an order given—in a white man's voice—and the bugle called us off. Somebody had ventured to disobey instructions, and after that the fight was over; we got away as best we could. They rolled over us like a wave as we went downhill and there were not many of us when we reached the bottom. Then some Gurkhas came up and held them a bit with the steel, a gun opened, and somehow the main camp was saved, though our ranks were thin at the next muster."

"There was an inquiry, of course. Did you give evidence?"

"I had to," said Walters ruefully. "I confined my answers as much as possible to 'Yes, sir,' and 'No,' but one can make a good deal out of these if the questions are judiciously framed. The bugler was killed, so they could learn nothing from him, but Watson was forced to declare that the order came from near the ravine where Blake should have fired the mine. After some badgering from the Colonel I had to admit that that was my opinion. There were other points against Blake and he did not try to clear himself. It was a very bad business, and I remember that Challoner broke down after his examination."

"But Blake was not cashiered."

"No; to tell the truth, I think some influence was at work. Colonel Challoner was known and respected on the frontier and he had powerful friends, though, of course, that sort of thing is not supposed to count. Anyhow, the official verdict was, 'Not guilty,' but nobody had much confidence in it and Blake had to leave us. In spite of everything, I was sorry for the man and felt that he might have made things look better if he had tried."

"It was very sad," said Mrs. Chudleigh. "You have my thanks for the story. I can understand that it was painful to tell."

Then she changed the subject and soon afterwards a man came in and claimed her for a dance.



CHAPTER XVI

MRS. KEITH ENTERS THE FIELD

A day or two after the dance Mrs. Chudleigh was sitting with Lieutenant Walters in a recess of the big hall when she heard a car coming up the drive. It stopped, a voice she thought familiar rose from the vestibule, and her face hardened as Foster came in with Mrs. Keith and Millicent Graham. Then Mrs. Foster, who did not notice that there was anybody else about, moved forward to meet the newcomers and led them through the hall.

"You looked surprised," Walters remarked when the others had disappeared. "Didn't you know these people were coming?"

"I think you meant displeased, and you were right," said Mrs. Chudleigh, who was capable of boldly correcting a mistake. "We made such a pleasant friendly party here that I felt the presence of anybody else would be rather a nuisance." She laughed as she went on: "Of course it was a very selfish view to take, especially as I know Mrs. Keith, and, now I recollect, Mrs. Foster did say some friends were coming down, though she didn't tell me who they were."

Walters left her by and by, but she sat still to think. It was most likely by chance that Mrs. Keith had decided to visit Hazlehurst just then, but there was a possibility that it was due to design. During their conversation on the Canadian river boat she had incautiously mentioned that she was going to Shropshire, and Mrs. Keith was an intimate friend of the Challoners. Mrs. Chudleigh had no wish to be subjected to the keen old woman's observation, but after all Mrs. Keith had no knowledge of her plans and would accordingly find it difficult to interfere with them. Still, she must be careful and avoid any cause for suspicion.

Tea was being brought in when Mrs. Keith and Millicent returned to the hall and for a few moments Mrs. Chudleigh sat watching the girl. The house was old and the dark panelling formed a good background for Millicent's delicate beauty, which was of the blonde type. Mrs. Chudleigh had to admit that she was pretty, and though she tried to think of her as unformed, there was something in her face that hinted at strength of character. Foster, who was as a rule indifferent to women's society, obviously found her interesting, for he was talking to her with animation, and Mrs. Chudleigh realized that the girl was capable of exciting the admiration of well-matured men. For all that, she did not consider her a dangerous rival, because she knew there was a cold, calculating vein in Sedgwick which would prevent his indulging unduly in romantic weaknesses. Self-interest bound him to her and she tried to overlook his occasional sentimental vagaries. Indeed, the indifference he now and then displayed strengthened his hold on her. Then she rose to meet Mrs. Keith, who was coming her way.

"We shall have an opportunity of renewing a pleasant acquaintance," she said. "You are looking well, and Miss Graham is as fresh and pretty as when I last saw her."

Mrs. Keith glanced at Millicent. "Yes," she said, "I think so, and she is really a very nice girl." Then her eyes twinkled with dry amusement. "I'm not sure that you expected to see me."

It was obvious to Mrs. Chudleigh that she had betrayed her feelings on her companion's arrival. Nothing seemed to escape Mrs. Keith's attention.

"I did not," she admitted. "Indeed, I'll confess that I was somewhat startled when you came in. You see, I imagined that you were still in Canada."

"I didn't stay very long after you. One or two things turned up that brought me back."

"But you have no family ties, have you?"

"I have some old friends. Now and then I'm vain enough to believe that one of them needs me."

As they spoke Mrs. Foster joined them.

"Colonel Challoner is eager to see you, Margaret," she interposed. "He excused himself for not coming this evening because Greythorpe is staying with him for a day or two, but he made me promise to bring you over to-morrow." She turned to Mrs. Chudleigh. "You must join us. Have you met Greythorpe? He's down here now and then."

It seemed to Mrs. Chudleigh that fortune was favouring her. After a long parliamentary career during which he had been distinguished by his sound sense and the moderation of his views, Greythorpe had been entrusted with an office in connexion with the administration of Colonial affairs. What was more to the purpose, he seemed to be a friend of Colonel Challoner's, whose assistance Mrs. Chudleigh thought she had means of securing in the plan she was working out.

"I should be delighted," she declared. "I don't know Mr. Greythorpe except by reputation and, as it happened, I hadn't an opportunity of speaking to Colonel Challoner on the evening when he was here, though I once met him."

Seeing that Mrs. Keith was watching her, she was glad of the chance of explaining that she had not renewed her acquaintance with the Colonel. As she had now spent a fortnight with Mrs. Foster, who knew him well, this should disarm any suspicion that Mrs. Keith might entertain.

"I don't know why we're standing when there's room for all of us in the recess," said their hostess, who led the way towards it, and they dropped into casual conversation when tea was brought them.

The evening passed pleasantly, for Mrs. Chudleigh who possessed some charm of manner, exerted herself to be agreeable to the newcomers. Nevertheless she was looking forward to the next day's visit with eagerness and wondering how she could best make use of the opportunity.

At Sandymere, three miles away, Colonel Challoner spent the evening in his library with his guest. It was a large and simply furnished room, but there was a tone of austere harmony in all its appointments. The dark oak table, rows of old books in faded leather bindings, antique lamps, and straight-backed chairs were in keeping with the severe lines of the sombre panels and the heavy, square moulding of the ceiling. Two or three wax candles in an old silver holder stood on a small table by the wide hearth on which a cheerful wood fire burned, but most of the room was shadowy.

The sense of empty space and gloom had, however, no effect upon the two elderly men who sat with a cigar box and decanter in front of them, engaged in quiet, confidential talk. Challoner was white-haired, straight, and spare, with aquiline features and piercing eyes; Greythorpe broad-shouldered and big, with a heavy-jawed, thoughtful face. They had been fast friends since they had met a number of years ago when Challoner was giving evidence before a parliamentary commission.

"So you have not heard from Blake after the day he came here," Greythorpe said by and by.

"Never directly," Challoner replied. "On the whole, it is better so, though I regret it now and then. A weakness on my part, perhaps, but I was fond of Dick and expected much from him. However, it seems that Bertram and Margaret Keith met him in Montreal, and she is coming here to-morrow."

"A very sad affair." Greythorpe mused. "A promising career cut short and a life ruined by a moment's failure of nerve. The price paid for it was a heavy one. Still, I found the matter difficult to understand, because, so far as I could tell, there was nothing in Blake's character that made such a failure possible. Then it's known that personal courage was always a characteristic of your family."

"His mother was my sister. You have seen her portrait."

Greythorpe made a sign of assent. He knew the picture of the woman with the proud, determined face.

"And the other side? Was the strain equally virile?" he asked.

"You shall judge," said Challoner. "You and Margaret Keith are the only people to whom I have ever spoken freely of these things. I am sure of your discretion and sympathy."

He crossed the floor and opening a cabinet came back with a photograph, which he gave to his companion.

"Dick's father. He was famous as a daring rider across an Irish, stone-wall country, and was killed when taking a dangerous leap."

Greythorpe studied the face, which was of Irish type, with bold eyes in which a reckless twinkle showed. On the whole, it suggested an ardent and somewhat irresponsible temperament.

"No sign of weakness there," he said. "Though he might be careless and headstrong, this man would ride straight and stand fire. I can't hint at an explanation of his son's disaster, but I imagine that one might have been found if it had been diligently searched for. My opinion is that there's something hidden, but whether it will ever come out is another matter. But your nephew hasn't forfeited my liking. If I can ever be of any service."

"Thanks; I know," said Challoner. "It looks as if he meant to cut loose from all of us, and while I'm sorry for this I can't say that he's wrong or that it's not a proper feeling. And now I think we'll let the subject drop." He lighted a cigar before he resumed: "You look rather jaded, and I understand that your responsibilities have been added to. What have you done about the African appointment you mentioned when last here? To be candid, I never thought the man lately invalided home was in his right place."

"He was hardly decided enough," Greythorpe answered thoughtfully. "So far, we haven't filled the post, though two or three names have been suggested. We have a man out there now who has shown some enterprise and ability, and are inclined to leave him informally in charge while we consider things."

"In view of our friendly relations with the French, one would imagine that the appointment needs careful thought. It's easy for undesirable disputes to crop up, when you have turbulent native subjects to keep in hand along another power's frontier."

"That's true. Our territory adjoins theirs for some distance, but, as it happens, our respective fields of influence outside the recognized boundaries have not been very clearly defined. Now there's reason to believe that part of the unclaimed neutral belt would be valuable to us, and I needn't point out that the Imperial expansionists have made their influence felt."

"It's a pity the Government seems able to resist it," Challoner drily remarked.

Greythorpe smiled, for he and his host took different sides in party politics, though they often agreed on points that concerned their country's foreign policy.

"I think they're wise in their moderation, but I've had plain hints about the desirability of extending our influence in Africa, which is why we attach some importance to the appointment in question. Its holder must be a man of tact, able to keep on friendly terms with the French officials, and yet bold enough to secure us any advantage that may offer in the unoccupied belt. In fact, though the post is not highly paid, he must have exceptional talent."

"Men of that kind are hard to pick up."

"Very true. None of the candidates quite satisfies us, but when we have investigated their qualifications fully I may ask you what you think. It would be premature just now."

"Always glad to be of service," Challoner replied. "But the men you'll have to choose among have grown up since my day."

"That is not important. It's largely a question of personal character, and you're a judge of that when it must be coupled with military skill."

Challoner smiled in a sombre manner. "I used to think so, but I've come to doubt it. I made a grave mistake about my nephew. However, there's a matter you were speaking of this morning and a point has since occurred to me."

Greythorpe said he would be glad to hear it, and they talked over the subject until they went to bed.

The next afternoon was bright and mild, and soon after Mrs. Foster and her party arrived Challoner offered to show them his winter shrubbery.

"I have lately planted a number of new specimens which you and Margaret have not seen," he said. "Your friends may be interested to learn what effects can be got by a judicious mingling of bushes remarkable for the beauty of their berries and branch-colouring among the stereotyped evergreens."

They went out and Mrs. Chudleigh thought the front of the old house with its mullioned windows, heavy, pillared coping, and angular chimney stacks, made a picturesque background for the smooth-clipped yew hedges and broad sweep of lawn. Behind it a wood of tall beeches raised their naked boughs in pale, intricate tracery against the soft blue sky. The shrubs proved worth inspection, for some were rich with berries of hues that varied from crimson to lilac and the massed twigs of others formed blotches of strong colouring. The grass was dry and lighted by gleams of sunshine, the air only cold enough to make movement pleasant, and Mrs. Chudleigh felt content as she paced a sheltered walk with Colonel Challoner, whom she unobtrusively studied.

He looked rather stern and worn, and his soft grey tweed showed the leanness of his figure, but his expression and bearing indicated force of will. In his conversation with women he was marked by an air of old-fashioned gallantry, and though his wit was now and then ironical his companion found him attractive. She had cleverly appropriated and separated him from the rest soon after they entered the garden, but she was too clever to approach too soon the object she had in view. First of all, she must ingratiate herself with him, and she saw that he liked her society, though she made one or two mistakes about the shrubs in which she professed a keen interest.

"I'm afraid you don't quite grasp my meaning," he said with a smile. "It's a difference between varieties, not between species. They are not the same thing."

"I should have remembered," Mrs. Challoner [Transcriber's note: Chudleigh?] replied. "I must own that I'm not a botanist, but one can appreciate the beauty of plants without knowing all about them. Perhaps the same applies to beauty in any form."

"No doubt. Harmonies of outline, and concords of colour make an unconscious appeal, but in Nature's products knowledge adds to admiration. The deeper you probe, the more you reveal, until you come to mysteries beyond our solving." He added with some dryness: "It's often otherwise with man's work; knowledge means disillusion. You see how the trick is done."

"Must it always be a trick?"

"Oh! no; not necessarily. There is a sincerity of effort that leads to lasting and beautiful work, but perhaps it's not common."

"I'm afraid you're a pessimist."

"I wouldn't like to think so, but I have lived a long time and insisted on using my eyes, even when clearsightedness may not have been a benefit. There's a penalty attached to the habit of close observation; one sees things that hurt."

He spoke with dry humour, but his words had their effect on his companion, who was by no means philosophical. When she studied human weaknesses it was with the object of turning them to her advantage, but the shrewd, upright soldier saw them as things to avoid or recognize with scorn. He, however, plucked a bunch of crimson berries which he gave her.

"This," he said, "is in my opinion an exceptionally beautiful bush. Mrs. Keith sent it me from the Tyrol some years ago."

"You are old friends then?"

"Our friendship is of forty years standing, which I should imagine is a severe test, but in many ways we are alike, and Margaret Keith knows enough about me to make allowances. We are both well-seasoned and strong-willed, and sometimes we differ, but I must confess that whenever the point has been one of importance time has proved her right."

Mrs. Chudleigh looked up at him, smiling. "That is a handsome admission, because I shouldn't imagine you easily changed your mind."

"No; as one grows older one's ideas are apt to fall into a groove. It requires an effort to force them out of it."

She said nothing for a few minutes, though his confession had its significance, since she must sooner or later persuade him to abandon one fixed idea.

"After all, none of us find that easy," she remarked.

He glanced across the lawn, where Millicent was talking to Greythorpe. "That girl has a very attractive face. I don't merely mean that it's pretty."

"What do you call it then?"

He seemed to ponder. "I think I could best say it looks untainted, though that is rather vague. There's purity in it, by which I don't mean the guilelessness of inexperience."

"That could hardly be, considering who Miss Graham's father was, and that she has earned her living for some years."

There was a hint of surprise in the look Challoner gave her and she saw that she had made a mistake.

"A few people have natures which can't be spoiled," he said. "To them knowledge brings pity or shrinking instead of temptation. I think Miss Graham is to be numbered among these, and she is in good hands with my old friend."

Two or three minutes afterwards, Mrs. Keith resolutely crossed the lawn towards them, but her determined expression softened as she approached Challoner.

"Do you know that I feel neglected?" she said. "Where are those American azaleas you promised to show me?"

Challoner made her an apologetic bow. "Have I been remiss? I saw you with Greythorpe, and understood you found him interesting."

"I've nothing against the man, and he never bores one, but he's a friend of yesterday by comparison; it's only six years since I first met him."

"Ah!" said Challoner; "the old ties are strongest."

Mrs. Keith insisted on examining the azaleas, though they were dry and leafless, and Mrs. Chudleigh, seeing no further opportunity of a quiet talk with Challoner, left them. When she had gone, Mrs. Keith looked at her companion with a twinkle.

"Well," she said, "what do you think of Mrs. Chudleigh?"

"You'll allow me to say that I find her charming? It's a comprehensive word."

"And means anything or nothing. But I understand. You're often only conventional when you think yourself gallant."

"It's possible, but what would you have me say? She's attractive, a pleasant talker, and I think intelligent."

"Highly intelligent," Mrs. Keith remarked pointedly "Do you think she's to be trusted?"

"It doesn't enter into the question. I don't see that either of us is required to trust her."

"I'm inclined to think that's fortunate," Mrs. Keith rejoined.

For the next half hour she kept Challoner at her side and then left him with Mrs. Foster. It was hard to resist Margaret Keith when she had made up her mind, and Challoner had no wish to do so. Moreover he was glad to talk to Mrs. Foster, whom he liked, but he had other guests to whom he owed some attention and he felt as if he were being gently but firmly kept away from them. Mrs. Chudleigh and Millicent, however, seemed to be content with Greythorpe's society, and finding it difficult to leave Mrs. Foster he acquiesced.

Presently she suggested that he should show her friends his pictures, but he said that as it was near sunset and the gallery was badly lighted it would be better if she brought her party back in a day or two. Having promised to do so she summoned the others, and they were driven home.



CHAPTER XVII

THE PICTURE GALLERY

Mrs. Foster brought her guests back to Sandymere, and when Challoner had shown them the best bits of the old carved oak with which the house was decorated and some curious works of art he had picked up in India, he took them to the picture gallery which ran round the big square hall. A lantern dome admitted a cold light, but a few sunrays struck through a window looking to the south-west and fell in long bright bars on polished floor and sombre panelling. On entering the gallery, Challoner took out a case of miniatures and placing it on a small table brought a chair for Mrs. Keith.

"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interested you, and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you were last here," he said.

Mrs. Keith sat down. She was fond of miniatures, and though she would have preferred to accompany her host she had kept him away from Mrs. Chudleigh since their arrival and thought she must be content with that. She seldom overdid anything and had no wish to make her object too plain; Geoffrey Challoner was by no means a fool. As she expected, Mrs. Chudleigh found an opportunity of joining him after a time and diverted his attention from Mrs. Foster, who left him to talk to his sister. Mrs. Keith watched the manoeuvre, which was cleverly carried out, with ironical amusement, though she was troubled by a faint uneasiness. She felt that her old friend was threatened, but she could not see where the danger lay, and, sitting with the miniatures before her, she tried to formulate her suspicions.

In the first place, she had unwisely given Mrs. Chudleigh to understand that it was doubtful whether Richard Blake had merited his disgrace. Then the former had met Lieutenant Walters, who had fought in the frontier action, and had gained his confidence. It was possible that she had led him on to talk about the affair with injudicious freedom, and now she had met Greythorpe and seemed desirous of cultivating his acquaintance. All this had an ominous look, because the woman was ambitious and scheming, besides being in love with Sedgwick, who was something of an adventurer. She would no doubt seize upon any opportunity of securing his promotion.

Margaret's Keith's suspicions were justified, for Mrs. Chudleigh was then cleverly clearing the ground for future action. She had some knowledge of art and the row of family portraits, hung between suits of armour and trophies of Eastern weapons, interested her, while Challoner was gratified by the way she listened as he spoke of them. One or two were by well-known artists, and the faces of the old Challoners, some of whom wore wigs and rich court dress, and some obsolete uniforms, fixed her attention. The resemblance between them all was recognizable, and she thought the family strain must be unusually strong. They had obviously been stern, masterful men, practical rather than imaginative and not likely to be troubled by any emotional weaknesses. Then she glanced at the picture of a young woman with a face of singularly delicate beauty. Its expression was gentle and pensive.

"My wife; she died in Simla twenty years ago," said Challoner gravely, and passing on, stopped before a water-colour drawing of his son.

It had been painted when Bertram was young, and he had his mother's dreamy look. Mrs. Chudleigh missed the hardness of expression that marked the Challoners.

"A sketch rather than a finished study, but there's talent in it," she remarked. "The subject's temperament has been cleverly seized; I have met Captain Challoner."

"My wife's work," said the Colonel. "Although I value it, I have thought she was mistaken in this drawing. My son is a man of action, and this is the face of a sentimentalist."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Chudleigh; "his mother should know him best."

"Undoubtedly," agreed Challoner, who looked disturbed at the suggestion. "Still, perhaps, in painting a portrait the artist may be misled into unduly emphasizing some single, passing phase of the sitter's character. A lad's moods are variable; his nature has not had time to harden into its mould. I imagine this is what has happened, because if the likeness is faithful, my son has changed since then."

"One does not change much in essentials," Mrs. Chudleigh answered thoughtfully. "But what would you have different? It is a good and very likeable face."

"There is a hint of weakness; something that suggests a too sensitive disposition." The Colonel pointed to an officer in the old East India Company's uniform whose expression was grim and arrogant. "A crude piece of work, but he has the Challoner look."

"It may sound presumptuous, but I think you are scarcely doing the family justice. One can see the salient characteristics of the male line in this example, but they're too strongly marked. Good qualities, such as resolution and courage, may degenerate through being developed to exaggeration at the expense of others, and after all Captain Challoner strikes me as a much finer type. I'm afraid you undervalue the gift of imagination."

"These others," said Challoner, indicating the portraits generally, "had imagination enough to do their duty, often in difficult situations. I don't know that one needs much more."

"A stern doctrine; it seems to bar out a good deal of the beauty and joy of life. But I see some landscapes yonder."

She led him up to several small impressionist sketches in water-colour of Indian subjects, and stopped in admiration.

"These are very good. I know the country, and they make you realise what it is like. There is genius here."

"My son did them," said Challoner with dry amusement. "I can see their cleverness, but I'll admit that I think them rather a waste of time."

"A shocking view. Would you sooner have had him study his drill book or attend a kit inspection?"

"On the whole, I believe so. It would be more in line with his profession."

Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a direct, reproachful glance. "I know your son and that he is a good soldier, but I feel you were wrong when you sent him into the army. With training, he might have made a great artist."

Challoner regarded her with frank astonishment. "But, my dear lady, would you prefer the latter; a coverer of canvases, a mere portrayer of action instead of a doer? Is it better to paint human passions and emotions than to control and direct your own and those of others?"

"Painting is his work," Mrs. Chudleigh persisted. "He has the temperament; you can see it triumphing over circumstances. In spite of his duties, the amusements he must be expected to take part in, and, no doubt, the banter of the mess, he finds time to make these sketches. Then they exhibit more than mere skill with the brush; they show clear understanding and the power of feeling."

"The latter is a dangerous gift. A man of action is better without it."

"Your son has it, and it cannot be got rid of; but in a sense, you're right. Sensibility must be a handicap to a soldier now and then, making him realize dangers and cruelties he had better have been blind to." Mrs. Chudleigh paused and added with a thoughtful air: "Captain Challoner's courage and coolness are known, but I think they must cost him more than is required of his comrades. I mean that his having something to overcome before he can practise them, and yet always doing so, shows a fine moral fibre."

Challoner looked grave. He had suspected what he thought were symptoms of weakness in his son, though Bertram had never given way to it. His companion's talk disturbed him because it seemed to prove the correctness of his suppositions, but he was shortly relieved of her.

Margaret Keith, who had watched closely, decided that Mrs. Chudleigh had been alone with her host long enough, but for a time she could see no suitable means of separating them. By and by, however, Millicent came towards her and she beckoned the girl.

"Isn't Arrowdale near your aunts' place in the North?" she said. "There's a picture of the hills round it that I think you would like. Ask Colonel Challoner to show it you."

Millicent joined the others, and when she spoke about the picture Mrs. Chudleigh went away. She thought she had said enough, for her object had been to plant a seed of doubt about his son's character in Challoner's; mind. If he considered sensitiveness, artistic talent, and imagination failings in a Challoner, she had given him food for thought, which was as far as she wished to go just then, and on the whole she thought she had reason to be satisfied. When she had moved away, Challoner showed Millicent a picture of grey hills and a sullen tarn, half revealed between folds of rolling vapour, and the girl was stirred to keen appreciation.

"It's beautiful and full of life," she said. "One can see the mist drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it's because I know the tarn I like the picture so much, but it makes one realize the rugged grandeur and melancholy charm of the place. I suppose that is genius; who is the painter?"

"My son," said the Colonel, and added with a curious smile: "You are the second person who has lately tried to persuade me that he should have been an artist."

Millicent saw he was troubled, though she could not imagine the reason.

"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I only met once, but it is obvious that he has talent. You would sooner have him a soldier?"

"Very much sooner."'

"But he is one and I understand has distinguished himself. After all, it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to one ability, music or painting for example. Real genius, the power of understanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to be successful at whatever he undertakes."

"I'm dubious," said Challoner. "It strikes me as a rather daring theory."

"It isn't mine," Millicent answered, blushing. "It's a favourite theme of a philosopher I'm fond of, and he insists upon it when he speaks about great men. Perhaps I'm talking too freely, but I feel that Captain Challoner's being able to paint well shouldn't prevent his making a good officer."

"Great men are scarce. I'm content that my son has so far done his duty quietly and well; all I could wish for is that if any exceptional call should be made on him he should rise to the occasion. That is the supreme test, and men one expects much from sometimes fail to meet it."

Millicent guessed that he was thinking of a man who had been dear to him and had apparently broken down beneath sudden stress.

"It must be hard to judge them unless one knows all the circumstances," she remarked.

"Not when a man has entered his country's service. He must carry out his orders; what he is sent to do must be done. No excuse can justify disobedience and failure. But we are getting too serious and I am boring you. There is another picture I think you would like to see."

Soon afterwards Mrs. Foster said that she must go, and when she and her friends had left, Challoner sat alone for a time while the pictures faded as dusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities with a stern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all that made its strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought were vocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a man should exploit his emotions by expressing them for public exhibition. Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a failing, and it had been suggested that his son possessed the dangerous gift. One of his guests had gone further and hinted that Bertram should never have been a soldier. Challoner could not agree with this conclusion, but he thought there was, perhaps, a grain of truth in it. Then he banished his disturbing thoughts and went out in search of Greythorpe.

During the next week Mrs. Chudleigh met Challoner twice and skilfully led the conversation to his son. Then she heard from Sedgwick, who said that if he could obtain the vacant appointment it would give him an opportunity of making his mark. The time was ripe for a bold stroke which would lead to the acquisition of valuable territory, but he could not carry out his plans unless he had full command. They were, he felt, bound to succeed, but he frankly owned that he meant to force the hand of the Colonial authorities and could not act while he held a subordinate position. Accordingly he begged Mrs. Chudleigh to exert all her influence to secure his promotion, adding that his name had been mentioned in connexion with the post, but that there were other candidates with stronger claims on those who had the power to make the appointment.

Mrs. Chudleigh had already been at work in different quarters, but she thought Colonel Challoner the most likely man to help her, though he might be difficult to persuade and she could not hurry him. She had moreover had several confidential talks with Lieutenant Walters and had extracted a good deal of information. This enabled her to form a plausible theory of what had happened during the night attack, and she was inclined to think that even an experienced soldier could not find much fault with the conclusions she had arrived at, but she did not wish to make use of it unless compelled.

When it was getting dark one evening Foster, who was crossing a meadow with two young men carrying guns dropped behind to speak to a keeper as Mrs. Chudleigh and Millicent came forward to meet the party. Soon afterwards he joined his wife, who had waited for him, and they walked to the house behind the others.

"How did you get on at the Seymours' this afternoon?" he asked. "Did Ada air her views for the benefit of your friends?"

Mrs. Foster laughed, for Ada Seymour was a lady with strong opinions which she was fond of proclaiming.

"Yes," she said; "in fact, she went farther than usual and rather forgot her manners. After a while Mrs. Chudleigh took exception to something she said and Miss Graham was drawn into the argument. Somewhat to my surprise, she supported Ada and spoke really well, but Ada was getting angry and I was so busy trying to smooth things down that I hardly know what it was all about."

"The degeneracy of the age and the insidious influence of luxury no doubt. Ada can't keep off these topics and she makes some surprising statements when she warms up, but I'm not surprised that Mrs. Chudleigh and Miss Graham took opposite sides."

"Why?"

"They're very different types; about as different as a moonlight night and a spring morning."

Mrs. Foster looked at him sharply and he chuckled.

"Not often so poetical, am I? But I prefer the bright morning; moonlight's a tricky, elusive thing, apt to dazzle and mislead one. However, does Mrs. Chudleigh intend to remain long? She looks like a fixture."