"She doesn't inconvenience you."

"Not at all. She's amusing and that and moderate good looks are all you expect from a woman, so long as you don't mean to marry her. I'm interested in your friend; very much so, although I can't see her game."

"What do you mean by her game?"

"If you don't know, it isn't often you're so dull. She's up to something and Meg Keith sees it; she keeps a close watch on the woman and when she's forced to take her eyes off her sets Miss Graham on guard."

"Do you mean that Miss Graham informs her of what Mrs. Chudleigh says or does?"

"Nothing farther from my thoughts. Meg Keith has lots of pluck, but she'd be shy of suggesting such a course to that girl. What she does is not to trust the woman alone when she can help it; when you see Mrs. Chudleigh you'll generally find Meg or her companion in the neighbourhood. The plot's interesting and the Colonel's in it. I've an idea that Meg's somehow defending him. He's an old friend and she's as staunch as they're made."

"If there is more in the situation than appears on the surface, you had better leave it alone. You won't improve matters by interfering."

"Seen that all along," Foster agreed. "I'll stick to my shooting, but provided that I keep my hands off, there's no harm in looking on. But you mark me; there'll be developments."

He broke off with a chuckle and Mrs. Foster walked on in thoughtful silence. Her husband occasionally showed shrewd observation, and she believed that he was right in the present instance. Something was undoubtedly going on, but she could not determine what it was. As she entered the hall she saw Millicent talking to one of her sporting guests who had shown a preference for her society and Mrs. Chudleigh watching. The latter liked admiration but her expression indicated critical scrutiny rather than jealousy. Mrs. Foster imagined that she was trying to analyse the girl's charm. Then as she came forward with her husband the others joined them and shortly afterwards tea was brought in.



CHAPTER XVIII

COLONEL CHALLONER PROVES OBDURATE

A week after Mrs. Foster's visit Challoner drove over to Hazlehurst in the afternoon and on reaching the lodge found her setting out with several of her guests to meet Foster and his friends on their return from shooting. Refusing to allow her to turn back with him, he accompanied the party, and some time later Mrs. Keith, who had remained at home, went out on the terrace. Following it to the end of the house near which the stables stood, she saw a man leading in a horse which she thought she knew.

"Isn't that bay Colonel Challoner's?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," said the groom. "The gardener brought it up from the lodge. The Colonel went on with Mrs. Foster to the long wood."

Mrs. Keith turned away and sat down on a terrace seat feeling disturbed. Mrs. Chudleigh was with the others and would no doubt detach Challoner from them, as she generally succeeded in doing when Mrs. Keith was unable to prevent her. Now there was nobody to come to his rescue, he would be at the woman's mercy, and though she admitted that this was perhaps an exaggerated view to take, Mrs. Keith felt that he was threatened. It was, however, a long walk to the wood and she was old enough to shrink from it; besides there was a possibility that she was after all suspecting Mrs. Chudleigh without much cause, but she made up her mind to follow. By walking fast she might overtake the party before much harm was done. Entering the house, she put on thick boots and then set out with all the speed she was capable of.

In the meanwhile Mrs. Foster's party had split up, and Mrs. Chudleigh and Challoner were left together. The Colonel did not regret this, because he had found her an entertaining companion. Though it was a winter day, the weather was mild and the road almost dry, and after a time they reached a birch wood which skirted its eastern side. The rays of the low sun struck in among the trees, forcing up the silvery trunks and fragile twigs which looked like lacework against a background of blue shadow. Thick hollies and rhododendrons planted near the wayside kept off the light wind, and dead leaves and withered fern made patches of glowing colour. When they came to a gate leading to a drive through the wood Mrs. Chudleigh stopped.

"The others have vanished; I can't even hear them," she said. "I wonder which way they have gone."

Challoner listened, but could only distinguish the murmur of the wind among the birches and the rustle of fallen leaves. The rest of the party were obviously some distance ahead.

"The road's the longer, but as the field-path's often wet I can't tell which they've taken," he said.

"The field-path for me," Mrs. Chudleigh replied.

"I'm afraid I'm not very fond of walking."

They entered the wood and presently reached a stile, on the other side of which a boggy patch cut off the path from a strip of sticky ploughing. Mrs. Chudleigh regarded it with disapproval.

"I don't know if Mrs. Foster could jump over that, but I can't," she said.

She sat down upon the stile and Challoner leaned against the fence.

"There'll be time to meet them coming back before they reach the spot where the path rejoins the road. After all, I see no reason to complain of being left behind."

Mrs. Chudleigh smiled at him. "That's very nice of you, and while the sunshine lasts it's pleasant here. I often think an English wood, with the varied colours of the trunks and mosses showing, is most beautiful on a bright winter day. Besides, I wanted to talk to you. There's a favour I must ask."

"You can consider it granted if it's in my power."

"Don't be rash," she warned him. "You may be surprised when you hear what it is, but I want you to see the matter in its proper light and not to be actuated merely by a wish to please me."

"It's a wish I should like to gratify," Challoner assured her. "But please go on."

Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated. Beneath his formal, old-fashioned courtesy which she had found attractive she recognized a stern conscientiousness. He must, if possible, be convinced that the course she meant to urge was the best, though she had the means of putting pressure on him if this proved needful.

"Well," she said, "there is a rather important post vacant in a West African colony and you have influence. Mr. Greythorpe is an intimate friend of yours and may consult you about the matter. He will, no doubt, have a part in making the selection."

"I have heard about it," Challoner admitted guardedly.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Chudleigh started and clenched her hand, for she was looking towards the road and could see a woman's figure through an opening between the trees. She recognized the dress, which was behind the current fashion, and the new-comer's carriage, which somehow suggested determination, further indicated Mrs. Keith. Mrs. Chudleigh was glad that Challoner stood where he could not see the road, but she watched in keen suspense when Mrs. Keith reached the gate and stopped as if undecided which way to go. If she chose the field-path, Mrs. Chudleigh's opportunity would be gone, and it might be some time before she found another, while her business brooked no delay. It was, however, fortunate that she and her companion could not be plainly seen from the road because there were some bushes in the way and a tall thicket close by formed a background against which their figures would not show. After a few moments Mrs. Keith moved on and Mrs. Chudleigh, who was conscious of deep relief, saw that Challoner was waiting for her to speak.

"It is essential that the right man should be chosen," she resumed. "Our political and commercial interests demand this. There is a chance of acquiring a strip of territory which would open a way to the trade of the interior, but it must be done with tact as well as boldness. We need a man with firmness and judgment who can secure us this opening without giving the French definite ground for offence, and he must be experienced in West African affairs. The post could not be entrusted safely to a newcomer."

"Ah!" said Challoner; "as you seem so well informed, I presume you have somebody to suggest."

She could learn nothing from his manner, which had changed and grown formal.

"I know a man who has all the necessary qualifications. He is resolute and enterprising; a soldier who has distinguished himself in action and a clever administrator. What is more, the direction of affairs has been largely left in his hands for some time."

"You mean Captain Sedgwick?" Challoner's tone was discouragingly reserved. "May I ask what leads you to plead his cause?"

"First of all because I think he is the best man."

"A good reason," said the Colonel. "Still I'm inclined to think you have a better one."

Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated while the colour crept into her face; then she said simply, "I love him."

Challoner bowed. "I am honoured by your confidence, but if he were chosen, it would separate you. You could not stand the climate of Western Africa."

"I know," she said eagerly. "These appointments, however, are not for long and we are willing to defer our marriage if it will give him an opportunity of showing what he can do."

There was silence for the next minute. Challoner was somewhat touched by her frank appeal, and though he saw that she was sufficiently ambitious to subordinate her affection to her desire for her lover's advancement, it was an ambition he could sympathize with. The woman was willing to make a sacrifice. For all that, he felt that he could not conscientiously help her.

"I wish you had asked for something else," he said. "I'm sorry this favour is not in my power."

"You can know nothing against Captain Sedgwick," the answered sharply.

"Certainly not; the trouble is that personally I know nothing in his favour."

"But I have assured you that there is nobody so suitable."

"That is a different matter. Your opinion is very natural and does you credit; I will not suggest that your affection for him may lead you to rate Captain Sedgwick's qualifications too highly. No doubt, he is an excellent officer, but these appointments are not made on a lady's recommendation."

"Are they not?" Mrs. Chudleigh asked with a touch of irony. "Remember that I have lived at Simla and know that influence often goes a long way I have seen it at work."

Challoner frowned. "So have I, but it is a thing I have always set my face against. The man for a post of this kind must be chosen on his merits."

"How are they to be ascertained, unless you take the opinion of those who know him best?"

"It is often difficult, but the safest test is his work as it is known to his official superiors. Unless he is judged by this, there is a risk of partiality and unfairness. Social influence is a dangerous thing and deplorable mistakes have been made when it has been allowed to have effect."

"Then you will do nothing?"

Her tone was harsh and Challoner looked at her in surprise.

"It is possible that Greythorpe may consult me, though I do not know what weight my opinion would have with him. If the information he lays before me seems to indicate that Captain Sedgwick is the best man, I should suggest his appointment."

Mrs. Chudleigh appeared to acquiesce and said nothing for some minutes. She was sorry that Challoner had not proved more amenable, since his stubbornness forced her into a distasteful line of action, but she could not spare him when her lover's future was at stake.

"After all," she said, "a soldier's official record is sometimes as little to be trusted as you think his friends' estimate of him ought to be. I have an instance in view; two men I know took part in an action on the Indian frontier, and one gained a reputation for courage, and the other obloquy. As it happened, neither was deserved."

"On the Indian frontier?" Challoner glanced at her sharply.

"Yes; some time since. A night attack was made upon a hill which formed the key to the position of a small British force. An order to retreat was wrongly given."

"Ah!" said Challoner; "I have good reason to remember that affair. May I ask what you know about it?"

"I'm convinced I know the truth, which has been concealed."

Challoner started and his face grew eager. "Then your knowledge is of great importance and I must beg you to share it with me. It may clear a man I have a strong affection for."

"At the cost of involving another."

"I suppose that follows."

"Then you do not believe it wiser to let a painful matter which is already almost forgotten rest? You would rake it up, even if it brought trouble upon innocent people?"

"Justice must be done," said Challoner. "I have always hated jobbery. If a wrong has been committed, it must be put right."

"You no doubt know that the order to retreat could only have been given by one of two officers?"

There were signs of tension in Challoner's face and Mrs. Chudleigh pitied him, but she was forced to be merciless.

"That seems to have been taken for granted. What then?"

"It was a dark night and nobody saw who gave the order, but Blake was stationed with his electric apparatus in the ravine and the bugler some distance behind him. Besides, the latter was attached to Captain Challoner's company."

"But Blake did not fire the mine." Challoner's voice was strained.

"That is true. The conclusion was that he had deserted his post, but I believe it must be wrong because he was seen busy with the wires."

"Who saw him?"

"One of his comrades, after the attack began, and it seems impossible that Blake could have reached the bugler when the retreat was sounded. There were one or two other points which might have been raised, only that he made no defence. I will mention them."

She had after a long and careful consideration arranged her evidence in a skilful manner. Facts which had appeared of minor importance to the men who had noticed them had now, as she handled them, a telling effect and Challoner grew troubled.

"If needful, I believe I could prove all this, though it would require strong pressure to make my informant speak," she concluded. "You must see what it implies?"

"That my son is a coward and gave the shameful order?" Challoner's eyes glittered, though his face was colourless. "It's unthinkable!"

"Nevertheless it's true. Why did he, without permission and abusing his authority over the guard, spend two hours late at night with Blake who was under arrest? What had they to say that took so long, when there was a risk of Captain Challoner's being discovered? Why did Blake make no defence, unless it was because he knew that to clear himself would throw the blame upon his friend?"

"You press me hard," said Challoner in a hoarse voice. "But that my son should so have failed in his duty to his country and his cousin is impossible."

"Yet you were willing to believe your nephew guilty. Had you any cause to doubt his courage?"

"No," said Challoner. "I used to think he loved a risk."

He felt beaten by her remorseless reasoning; there was scarcely a point he could contest and his heart grew very heavy. A conviction that humbled him to the dust was being forced on him.

"There is only one conclusion," Mrs. Chudleigh resumed. "The order to retreat was given by the weaker man, Bertram Challoner."

He turned to her with a gesture that begged her to desist. "My dear lady, this is very painful. I must try to think it out calmly, and I am not able now."

For a time there was strained silence, and Mrs. Chudleigh waited until he roused himself.

"I must know if what you have told me has any bearing on your request that I should recommend Captain Sedgwick's appointment?"

She paused before she answered, for he was very stern and peremptory.

"Not a direct one. I have kept the secret out of consideration for you and your son, but since I have done so, I ventured to believe you would not refuse me a favour that would only cost you a few words to your friend."

"I'm relieved to hear it," Challoner grimly replied. "You wish to appeal to my gratitude and not my fears? Has it struck you that, if you are correct in your conclusions, by keeping silent you were wronging an innocent man?"

"Think!" she said impressively. "In a sense, Blake stands by himself, a man of no importance; your son is heir to a fine estate and is expected to carry on the traditions of the family. He has a young wife who adores him, and many friends. Is a career such as lies before him to be destroyed by one weak action which he has since well atoned for? I believe your nephew saw that his cousin's disgrace would be a disaster and felt that at any cost the situation must be saved."

Challoner regarded her with a stern smile. "One would imagine that you are trying to heighten the value of your silence."

"You misjudge me, but since you take this line, I have some claim on your gratitude. Can you deny it?"

"I had better answer frankly. If my opinion is desired, I will try to consider Captain Sedgwick's appointment on its merits. You must not count on more than this."

Mrs. Chudleigh rose and they turned back to the road in silence. It looked as if she had failed, but she would not give up the game yet. When Challoner had time to think he would, no doubt, realize the necessity of safeguarding his son's good name and even his austere uprightness might fail to stand the strain.

It was half an hour later when Mrs. Keith, who had walked as fast as she was able, met Foster and the others coming back. She stopped, hot and breathless, with keen disappointment, for neither Colonel Challoner nor Mrs. Chudleigh were among them. Then, rousing herself, with an effort, she asked where they were.

"I can't tell," Mrs. Foster replied. "They dropped behind us and may have gone home. Mrs. Chudleigh soon gets tired of walking."

Mrs. Keith's heart sank and Foster noticed her expression. "It's a good way from Hazlehurst, but you look as if you had been hurrying," he remarked. "Are you very much disappointed that you didn't meet us earlier?"

"I am disappointed that I missed Challoner," Mrs. Keith answered with a forced smile.

Foster, who gave her a keen glance, tactfully talked about his shooting as they went back together, and on reaching the house they found that Challoner had already driven home.



CHAPTER XIX

CHALLONER'S DECISION

The morning was mild and Challoner paced slowly up and down his shrubbery. Bright sunshine fell upon him, the massed evergreens cut off the wind, and in a sheltered border spear-like green points were pushing through the soil in promise of the spring. Challoner knew them all, the veined crocus blades, the tight-closed heads of the hyacinths, and the twin shoots of the daffodils, but, fond as he was of his garden, he gave them scanty attention, and by and by sat down in a sheltered nook lost in painful thought. He had a careworn look and had left the house in a restless mood with a wish to be alone in the open air.

Mrs. Chudleigh's revelation had been a shock. With his sense of duty and family pride, he had, when the news of the frontier disaster first reached him, found it almost impossible to believe that his nephew had been guilty of shameful cowardice; and now it looked as if the disgrace might be brought still closer home. Bertram would presently take his place and, retiring from active service, rule the estate in accordance with Challoner traditions and perhaps exert some influence in politics; he remembered that Mrs. Chudleigh had laid some stress on this. She had, however, told him that Bertram, from whom so much was expected, had shown himself a poltroon and, what was even worse, had allowed an innocent man to suffer for his baseness. Challoner had spent the last few days pondering the evidence she had offered him and had seen one or two weak points in it. By making the most of these, it might, perhaps, be rebutted, but his honesty rendered such a course out of the question if she were right in her conclusions, and he was forced to admit that this was possible. Bertram had shown timidity in his younger days—Challoner remembered that they had had some trouble in teaching him to ride—and there was no doubt that his was a highly-strung and nervous temperament. He had not the calm which marked the Challoners in time of strain. Then Dick Blake was recklessly generous and loved his cousin; it would be consistent with his character if he were willing to suffer in Bertram's stead. Moreover there were reasons which might have had some effect in inducing Bertram to consent, because Challoner knew the affection his son bore him and that he would shrink from involving him in his disgrace. What Bertram would certainly not have done to secure his own escape he might have done for the sake of his father and the girl he was to marry.

Admitting all this, Challoner could not take his son's guilt for granted. There was room for doubt, and soon after leaving Mrs. Chudleigh he had cabled a friend in Montreal asking him to spare no effort to trace Blake. If the latter could be found, he must be summoned home and forced to declare the truth. By and by Challoner heard a footstep and looking up saw Foster approaching. He stopped and regarded the Colonel with surprise, for it was seldom Challoner was to be seen sitting moodily idle.

"I'm taking a short cut through your grounds to the fir spinney," he said. "As I was leaving home Mrs. Chudleigh asked me to give you this note, and when I looked in at the house Miss Challoner said she didn't know where you were and a telegram had just come in. Thinking I might find you, I brought it along." Handing the other two envelopes he added: "Sorry to see you're not looking as brisk as usual."

"There's not much the matter," Challoner replied, forcing a smile. "Still, I do feel a trifle slack, and I've had something to worry me."

Foster gave him a sympathetic nod. "Worry's bad; make a rule to avoid it when I can. But will you walk as far as the wood?"

He went on when Challoner said he would sooner remain, and the latter eagerly opened the telegram. It was in answer to his cable and read—

"Blake and two others left Sweetwater settlement. Destination supposed far North."

This implied the impossibility of learning anything from his nephew for some time, and Challoner could not recall his son, who was then in Japan and must shortly rejoin his Indian regiment. Besides, if Bertram were blameless, it would be a cruel blow for him to find that his father had suspected him of a shameful deed, while if he were guilty, something must be done. This would probably lead to a disastrous change in their relations and compel Bertram to leave the army. Though the suspense was hard to bear, Challoner, as Mrs. Chudleigh had foreseen, was beginning to feel afraid to learn the truth and inclined to temporize.

Then he opened her note and read—

"As I hear you expect Mr. Greythorpe, shortly, I venture to believe that now you have had time for reflection you will see that it would be better for everybody if you did as I suggested. This would be a great favour and you could count upon my gratitude and discretion."

Studying it carefully, Challoner saw a threat as well as a promise that she would keep his secret if he complied, but he tore the note up and trod the fragments into the soil. So far as the African appointment was concerned, he was not to be influenced. He would not offer a bribe for her silence, nor would he derive a personal advantage from a piece of jobbery. On that point his mind was made up.

A little later Mrs. Keith opened a neighbouring gate and came towards him.

"The fine morning tempted me out, and as Lucy Foster was passing with the car, I thought I'd look your sister up," she said. "But I'm afraid you're in trouble. The last time we met you had a downcast air and you don't look much brighter to-day."

"It's unpleasant to think I'm in the habit of showing my feelings so plainly," he answered.

"You don't, but your moody calm has its meaning. I've known you long enough to recognize it. You can't deny that something is disturbing you."

"No," said Challoner. "I'm not clever enough to hide it from your keen eyes."

"They're very friendly, as you know. I'll strain a friend's privilege far enough to guess that your perplexities began the last time you and Mrs. Chudleigh met."

He wondered how much she knew and longed to confide in her. She was very staunch, but his secret must be kept until he had learned the truth.

"I'm sorry, Margaret, but I can't tell you what is troubling me."

She made a sign of acquiescence. "You would if it were possible and I won't press you, but you know I can be trusted if you need me. I was afraid of that woman; I felt she threatened you."

Their glances met and lingered, and Challoner felt that the reason for his grief was but thinly veiled from her. Still, for his son's sake, he could not confirm her suspicions, and he broke into a dry smile.

"I believe you tried to protect me, and it certainly wasn't your fault that you failed. I appreciate it, Margaret, but after all there may be less cause for anxiety than I imagine, and we'll talk about something else. Will you come up to the house?"

They walked slowly across the lawn, and though his companion chatted about indifferent matters Challoner knew he had her sympathy. When they reached the door she stopped.

"I needn't bring you in, because I have something to ask Hilda. No doubt, it's unnecessary, but you won't mind my warning you not to be influenced by anything that woman said."

"I had already decided to disregard it."

A look of gratified confidence came into her eyes. "That is what I expected; you are not easily swayed, but I see signs of strain. There is some crisis you must face, and I think it is connected with Greythorpe's visit."

"You have guessed correctly."

"When one is in difficulties the easiest way out is not always the best. But you know that."

"I have learned it. One has often to chose between the right and the most prudent thing."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Keith, "I believe they are generally the same in the end; that is, if one has the courage to choose the former."

Challoner bowed. "You have never failed me, Margaret, and you give me good counsel now."

She went in, and he turned away, feeling encouraged; but a reaction followed, and he spent the rest of the day in troubled thought. A day or two later Greythorpe arrived and in the early evening sat with his host in the library. Though dusk was closing in, a window near them stood open and a single shaded candle burned upon a neighbouring table. Presently Greythorpe opened some papers.

"We have not settled the African appointment yet," he said. "The matter, of course, is not altogether in my hands, but my recommendation will have weight, and I should be glad of your opinion before making it. You will find the names and qualifications of the candidates here."

Challoner studied the papers, and then gazed out of the window without speaking. It was not quite dark, and he could see the great oaks in the park, and the sombre masses of the woods rolling back up the valley. In the foreground, a sheet of water shone with a pale gleam. It was a rich and beautiful countryside and much of it belonged to him. Though his wife had brought him money, Sandymere had long been the property of the Challoners, and the old house had a picturesque stateliness, while every field and farmstead had been well cared for.

In process of time it would all be his son's, and, in that sense, Bertram had more than an individual importance. He was one of a line of men who had served their country well in court and field, and any disgrace that fell upon him would taint a respected name and reflect upon his children, for the family honour was indivisible, a thing that stretched backwards to the past as well as forward. Now, however, it was threatened by an unprincipled woman who claimed the power to drag it in the mire; but Challoner recognized that he could not allow this to influence him. His private affairs must not count where the interests of his country were concerned.

"Well," he said at length, "the matter seems difficult to decide. You have two men of excellent character, whom I know something about, and a third who has shown ability in a subordinate post."

"Sedgwick? Your manner leads me to believe that you don't quite class him with the others."

"There is a difference. The first two are honest and reliable but not brilliant men. Sedgwick is obviously more capable than either, but I suspect that self-interest is his strongest motive. I knew a major in his regiment. He might use this appointment to force himself into prominence."

"It's possible, but that needn't prove a great drawback."

"Is the Cabinet ready to embark upon a bold course of Colonial expansion?"

"No," said Greythorpe with a smile, "not so far as I'm acquainted with their views, but we would like the strip of unoccupied territory, and Sedgwick seems alive to its importance."

"He'll probably get it for you if you give him a chance, but I imagine he won't stop there. In fact, he may take you much farther than you wish to go. Suppose he brings off some sensational coup in which you would have to support him at the expense of France?"

"There might be some risk of that, but he's undoubtedly an able man."

"I think so," Challoner agreed. "It's his disinterestedness I suspect."

"Then if the post were at your disposal, you would not offer it to him?"

Challoner was silent for a few moments. It looked as if Greythorpe were disposed to favour Sedgwick's claim and to concur might save a good deal of trouble. Even then, it did not follow that Sedgwick would be chosen, because there were higher authorities to be consulted. Challoner thought he would not be blamed if they refused the man the post, because he did Mrs. Chudleigh the justice to believe that she would not doubt his assurance that he had done his best and that she would afterwards put no further pressure on him. It was her lover's promotion she wished to secure. For all that, easy as it would be to humour her, he had been asked for his opinion by a man who trusted him, and he must give it honestly.

"No," he said with a resolute air, "I should prefer either of the others. On the whole, I believe I'd select the first on your list."

"You seem to have thought it well over."

"That's true. It's a rather grave matter," Challoner answered drily.

"Well," said Greythorpe, "my idea is that Sedgwick should be left in charge a month or two longer. Then if we send out another man, we'll try to find him something else."

He changed the subject and Challoner lighted a cigar and listened, sitting back in the shadow where his companion could not see him. He felt weary, because he had borne a heavy strain during the last few days, and the course he had taken had cost him a good deal. Now he knew that if Sedgwick were not appointed Mrs. Chudleigh would hold him responsible.



CHAPTER XX

MRS. CHUDLEIGH MAKES A FRESH ATTEMPT

Next evening Challoner and Greythorpe dined at Foster's with several other guests, and the Colonel was placed next to Mrs. Chudleigh, while Mrs. Keith sat opposite. He found his position uncomfortable, because when he looked up he saw that his old friend was watching him, and, though she chatted carelessly, there was now and then a hint of tension in his companion's manner. It was a relief when Mrs. Foster rose, but he afterwards felt that opposing influences were being brought to bear on him. When the party dispersed, as was usual at Hazlehurst, some to play billiards and some to the drawing-room, Mrs. Keith engaged him in casual talk and stuck to him determinedly for a time. He had no doubt that her intentions were good, since he noticed Mrs. Chudleigh hovering in the background, but he wished that she would leave him alone. By and by their hostess took Mrs. Keith away, but then Millicent, whom he suspected had been told to do so, came up and spoke to him. It looked as if he were to be saved from his persecutor, even against his will, for he was anxious to meet her and get the unpleasant business over, but he liked Millicent and courtesy demanded that he should listen. Presently she rather hesitatingly mentioned his nephew.

"Have you heard anything from Mr. Blake since he left Montreal?"

"Nothing," said Challoner with a trace of grimness. "He does not correspond with me."

"Then I suppose you don't know where he is?"

"I took some trouble to find out, but nothing came of it. I merely learned that he had left a small settlement on the Western prairie and started for the North." He gave her a sharp glance. "Are you interested in my nephew?"

"Yes," she said frankly. "I don't know him very well, but on two occasions he came to my assistance when I needed it. He was very tactful and considerate."

"Then he's fortunate in gaining your good opinion. No doubt, you know something about his history?"

"I daresay my good opinion is not worth much, but I feel that he deserves it, in spite of what I've been told about him," she answered with a blush. "It is very sad that he should have to give up all he valued, and I thought there was something gallant in his cheerfulness; he was always ready with a jest."

"Have you met his companion? I understand that he is not a man of my nephew's stamp."

Millicent smiled. "Hardly so, from your point of view."

"Does that mean that yours is not the same as mine?"

"I have had to earn my living, which changes one's outlook; perhaps I'd better not say enlarges it. However, you shall judge. Mr. Harding is a traveller for an American paint factory and had to begin work at an age when your nephew was at Eton, but I think him a very fine type. He's serious, courteous, and sanguine, and seems to have a strong confidence in his partner."

"Ah!" said Challoner; "that is not so strange. The Blakes have a way of inspiring trust and liking. It's a gift of theirs."

"Your nephew undoubtedly has it. He uses it unconsciously, but I think that those who trust him are not deceived."

Challoner regarded her with a curious expression. "After all," he said, "that may be true."

Then Greythorpe came up in search of Millicent, and when she went away with him Challoner saw Mrs. Chudleigh approaching. Obeying her sign he followed her to a seat in the recess in the hall.

"Mr. Greythorpe came down yesterday," she said. "I suppose you have already had a talk with him."

"Last night. As you anticipated, he asked my opinion about the African matter. Several names have been submitted; trustworthy men."

"Come to the point," she told him sharply. "What did you do about Captain Sedgwick?"

Challoner gravely met her insistent gaze. "I felt compelled to suggest that he was not the best man for the post."

Mrs. Chudleigh's eyes sparkled and the blood swept into her face. Her pose grew tense and she looked dangerous, but with an obvious effort she controlled her anger.

"Then if I were a revengeful person, I would warn you that you must take the consequences."

"I suppose that follows, but I would prefer to think you are fair enough to make allowances for a man who tried to do the right thing in a difficult situation."

She was silent for a moment, watching him with a curious, half-ashamed feeling. Then she made an abrupt movement.

"It's hard to do so. A word or two, which you would not speak, would have led to the appointment of the most talented man. I'm not a saint; you mustn't expect a higher standard from me than I'm capable of."

She dismissed him with an angry gesture and got up as Mrs. Foster came in with Greythorpe. When the latter left his hostess she beckoned him and led him to a seat near the hearth.

"How far does Colonel Challoner's opinion go with you?" she asked boldly.

"That depends," he answered, smiling. "On some matters it goes a long way."

"On the choosing of a West African officer, for instance?"

"Ah!" said Greythorpe, "now I begin to understand. If I am not indiscreet in mentioning it, I thought my old friend was rather in disgrace with you."

"You are keen," she told him. "I must warn you that Challoner is prejudiced."

"If that is so, there is probably a reason for it."

"There is," she said coolly. "I'm afraid it is my fault. I made a mistake in trying to force the Colonel to speak in favour of one of the candidates."

"It was unwise," Greythorpe agreed. "Our friend is by no means amenable to treatment of the kind."

"Still you would not let a good officer suffer because of my tactlessness?"

"Certainly not; the only thing that could count against any of the men we are considering is some shortcoming of their own."

"Then I must try to remove a wrong impression and my task is difficult because you know Challoner better than I do. We can, however, agree that he is honest."

"Eminently conscientious," Greythorpe remarked.

"Then you must allow for a reaction against the injudicious course I took. I urged him to speak for a friend of mine, which was, no doubt, very wrong, and it seems I went too far. Can you not imagine his resenting it and being so determined not to be influenced that he became hypercritical?"

Greythorpe thought this clever, since it was the best means of lessening the value of Challoner's opinion that she could use.

"I gather that you put too severe a strain upon his friendship."

"I'm afraid there's a breach between us now, but that is not the point."

"No," said Greythorpe. "In a general way, your reasoning is logical, but I hardly think it applicable to Challoner. He might resent your action; but it would not make him unjust. I presume the man you favour is Captain Sedgwick?"

"He's much the best of the three you have in view."

"Then you know something about the matter? We thought it was secret."

She laughed. "Secrets are not always well kept. I know the other men, and though there is nothing that can be urged against their character, they are plodders, men of routine, without much foresight or enterprise."

"Allowing that you are right, isn't there something to be said for the steady plodder?"

"I daresay he's useful," Mrs. Chudleigh agreed with a touch of scorn. "But for the vacant post you want a bold determined man who can see ahead."

"To some extent, I must agree. You believe Captain Sedgwick is such a man?"

He felt a certain tempered admiration for her. She made no secret of her aim, though he supposed she must find it embarrassing to plead for her lover, since he did not doubt that she loved Sedgwick. She had courage and cleverness and he listened with close attention while she spoke about the man's exploits and abilities. Then she looked up with an eagerness which somewhat moved him.

"Have I convinced you?" she asked.

Greythorpe smiled. "That Sedgwick is a dashing and intrepid soldier? Yes. But there are other points to take into account, and the matter does not entirely rest with me. Still, I think if he serves us well, we may find some use for him."

It was a guarded promise and by no means all that she desired, but she knew she must be content with it.

"Then I have accomplished something and will remember the consideration and patience you have shown," she said, and when some of the other guests came in moved away to join them.

In the meanwhile, Millicent had been sitting alone for a few minutes at the opposite end of the hall. Somebody was singing in the adjoining drawing-room, the door of which stood open, and she could see several people gathered about the piano, though she was herself partly secluded by a screen. By and by Lieutenant Walters came in, and as he made his way towards her after looking round she felt tempted to change her place, but could not do so without making her retreat too marked. Now and then he suffered from a relapse, and she felt compassionate as she noticed the heaviness of his movements and his pinched expression. Still his eyes had been eager as he searched the room, and this had caused her some alarm, because he had lately shown a noticeable preference for her society. When he stopped he laid his hand, as if for support, on the back of a chair and glanced towards a window that opened into the conservatory.

"I've been hanging about since dinner trying to get hold of you, but you were in too great demand," he said. "Shall we slip out to the seat among the palms yonder for a quiet talk?"

The conservatory looked inviting with the coloured lamps hanging among the flowers and screens of trailing plants throwing their shadows across warm, scented nooks. Walters, however, had framed his question injudiciously, because it implied a mutual desire to escape observation and confidential relations which did not exist.

"I think not," said Millicent. "I may be wanted."

"Mrs. Keith's talking to Challoner and won't ask for you," Walters objected. "Be good-natured; it's quiet yonder. That fellow in the drawing-room can't sing and the piano makes my head ache."

"It really oughtn't to. The girl who's accompanying him plays well, but I'm afraid you're not feeling very fit to-night."

"I'm not; I suppose it's weak, but when I seem to be going back instead of picking up, I get depressed. That's partly why I came for you; you know how to cheer one."

"I feel flattered," Millicent rejoined, smiling. "But you shouldn't be downcast. You're making excellent progress."

"Oh! well," he said irritably, "don't let us talk about my ailments; I'm tired of them. But this light's glaring. Take pity on me and come in among the flowers, where it's quiet and dim."

Millicent was tempted to agree. She liked the man and felt sorry for him; he was frank, rather handsome, and generally a pleasant companion, but she thought their friendship was ripening too fast and was not prepared to see it change to something deeper Indeed, since it was pleasant to be sought after, she feared she had allowed herself to drift too far, and now the time to pull up had come.

"No," she said, "I must stay here."

He looked at her rather hard, for there was decision in her tone and he was not dull. She was very attractive; he liked her thoughtful expression and her gentle firmness. Half-consciously he compared her with the highly polished, clever woman, who had at first fascinated him, and his appreciation of the girl grew stronger. Mrs. Chudleigh, who did not improve upon close acquaintance, had been inclined to leave him alone of late, and though he could not resent this he had an unflattering suspicion that he had somehow been made use of and had served his turn. Miss Graham was different; she was genuine, which was the word that occurred to him, and he was growing fond of her.

"As you wish, of course," he said. "Am I allowed to remain?"

She indicated a place on the corner seat and when he took it began to talk, carefully avoiding any personal topic, but after a time he interrupted her—

"I heard Mrs. Keith say she was going to the Vivians in Durham later. I suppose she will take you?"

Millicent said she believed so, and he continued: "It's possible I may turn up there."

He watched her closely, but could see nothing that suggested satisfaction.

"Do you know the people?" she inquired.

"I used to know Herbert Vivian, though I haven't seen him for some time. No doubt, if he got a hint he'd ask me down."

"It's a high, bleak place," said Millicent. "We were nearly frozen on our last visit, and I'm afraid you wouldn't find the cold good for you. Were you not recommended to stay in Devonshire?"

Walters gave her a half-indignant glance. "When that brute of a hill man knocked me out I'd no suspicion how much his shot would cost me. Anyhow, I'm not going to Devonshire, and I ventured to think you might have been glad to see me at the Vivians'."

"Why should I wish you to do an unwise thing?" Millicent asked.

"That's an evasion," he answered bluntly. "I'll be candid. This place won't be the same after you have gone."

Millicent was silent a moment. She knew he wanted a tacit admission that their acquaintance need not end with her visit to Hazlehurst, but he would be right in attaching some significance to her action if she made it. The man, who had only known her a few weeks, could go no further yet, and he was eminently likeable, but she would not lead him on.

"That," she said, "was very nice of you, but you will soon get used to the change."

"You may," he replied with rather bitter humour.

"After all," said Millicent, "one meets pleasant people here and there, and though one regrets it has to part from them."

Looking at her fixedly, he understood. Her expression was quietly resolute, and he recognized that their friendship must shortly come to an end. The girl knew her mind and had obviously made it up.

"Well," he said in a resigned tone, "you won't be forgotten. I must get back to India as soon as I can."

By and by he went away and Mrs. Keith joined Millicent.

"What have you been saying to Walters?" she asked. "I met him going out, and he looked very crestfallen."

"He hinted that he might follow us to the Vivians' and I suggested that it was too cold a place for him," Millicent answered with a blush.

"I see," remarked Mrs. Keith, who was sometimes blunt. "Well, I daresay you were wise; though I'm told he'll be captain shortly, and he has his good points, Jimmy is no catch. You certainly might do better."

Millicent turned her head, half-indignant, half-embarrassed, and Mrs. Keith laughed.

"My dear," she resumed gently, "I'm glad you have some sense. It's perhaps not impossible for the wife of a young Indian officer to live upon her husband's pay, but unless they're exceptional people it's apt to lead to disaster."

"It wasn't that," Millicent protested, unwilling to be suspected of a mercenary mind, and Mrs. Keith's eyes twinkled.

"Then what was it that influenced you?"

As the girl did not answer, she turned away and left her to face the question. It proved troublesome, for Millicent was not daunted by poverty and could find no fault with Walters; indeed, she was sensible of some esteem for him. Then, though she would not admit that this was her reason for checking his advances, her thoughts centred on another man. He was in disgrace, but she remembered how chivalrously and adroitly he had come to her rescue in London and had again been of assistance on the St. Lawrence steamer. He was prompt in action, pitiful and humorous. She remembered his gay buoyancy, she could imagine his facing his troubles with a laugh. It was characteristic of him that he had gone up into the wilds of the frozen North with an inexperienced companion on a rash search for fortune, which she gathered would probably elude him. Still, she knew that he would struggle gallantly against the perils and hardships he might have to face. Then she remembered that by sitting alone with an abstracted air she might excite curiosity, and rousing herself, went to look for her hostess.



CHAPTER XXI

A NEW PERSECUTOR

Soon after Greythorpe's visit Mrs. Chudleigh went away, leaving Challoner unpleasantly uncertain about the course she might take. He was still without news of Blake; he could not question his son, whose integrity he tried hard to believe in, and he spent a few anxious weeks. Then one evening when he came home from a neighbour's house he was told that a man who had called to see him some time earlier was in the library. Challoner glanced at the card his servant gave him.

"Clarke? I don't know anybody of that name," he said and then started as he saw the word Sweetwater in small type at the bottom of the card.

Taking off his coat he went up the staircase with some eagerness. The lamps had been lighted in the library and a good fire burned on the hearth, near which his visitor was comfortably seated in a big leather chair. He rose as Challoner entered, and the latter was not favourably impressed by him. There was a hint of grossness about the fellow which repelled the Colonel, who was of an ascetic type; besides, he was badly and carelessly dressed, and Challoner was fastidious in such matters. Also the man had an irritating air of assurance.

"Colonel Challoner, I presume?" he said.

Challoner bowed. "You have brought me some news of my nephew, Richard Blake?"

This disconcerted Clarke, who had not imagined that his object would be known and had counted upon Challoner's being surprised when he heard it and thrown off his guard. It, however, looked as if the Colonel had been making inquiries about Blake, and Clarke wished he could guess his reason, because it might affect the situation.

"That is correct," he said. "I have a good deal to tell you and it may take some time."

Signing him to be seated, Challoner rang a bell, and wine and cigars and hothouse fruit were brought in. These he offered his guest, who helped himself freely and then said, "Your nephew spent a week in the settlement where I live, preparing for a journey to the North. Though his object was secret, I believe he went in search of something to make varnish of, because he took a young American traveller for a colour factory with him, besides another man."

"I know this," Challoner replied. "I heard about his American companion; who was the other?"

"We will come to him presently. There is still something which I think you do not know."

"Then I should be glad to be informed. But, first of all, could you find Blake if it were necessary?"

"I'm doubtful; the thing would be difficult," Clarke answered in a significant tone. "He hadn't returned when I left, and the country he meant to cross is rugged and covered deep with snow all winter. Food is hard to get and the temperature varies from forty to fifty degrees below."

"I suppose it could be traversed by a properly equipped expedition?"

Though Challoner's face was calm, Clarke inferred some anxiety to find his nephew, and answered cautiously: "It would be possible, but whether a party sent up could strike the others' trail is a different matter."

"Very well," said Challoner; "we'll talk of it again. Go on with what you wished to say."

He was suspicious, for his visitor's looks were not in his favour, and the man gave him a keen glance.

"It concerns your nephew's earlier history."

"That is of most importance to himself and me. It can't interest you."

"It interests me very much," Clarke rejoined with an ironical smile. "I must ask you to let me tell you what I know."

Challoner, who thought he had better learn it, consented, and Clarke gave him what he admitted was a very accurate account of the action on the Indian frontier.

"Now," he concluded, "the question, Who gave the order to retreat? is of vital importance to you."

"In a sense, it has been answered."

"I think incorrectly."

"Then if you differ from the general opinion on the matter, you can let me have your theory of what occurred."

It took Clarke some minutes to give it and Challoner's heart sank, for the man carefully arranged his points and the damaging inference could hardly be shirked. On the whole, his account agreed with Mrs. Chudleigh's, although it was more cleverly worked out, but there was nothing to be learned from Challoner's expression. He was now not dealing with a woman who had the excuse that she was acting in her lover's interest.

"Your suggestions are plausible, but you can't seriously expect me to attach much weight to them," he remarked. "Besides, you seem to have overlooked the important fact that at the regimental inquiry the verdict was that nobody in particular was to blame.

"Oh! no," Clarke rejoined with a harsh laugh. "I merely question its validity. I imagine that reasons which would not be officially recognized led the court to take a lenient view; but what of that? Blake had to leave the army, a ruined man, and I've good reason for knowing what an acquittal like his is worth." He paused a moment. "I may as well tell you candidly, because it's probable that you'll make inquiries about me. Well, I'd won some reputation as a medical specialist when I became involved in a sensational police case—you may recollect it."

Challoner started. "Yes," he said. "So you are the man! I think nothing was actually proved against you."

"No," said Clarke drily; "there was only a fatal suspicion. As it happens, I was innocent, but I had to give up my profession and my life was spoiled. There's no reason why you should be interested in this, and I mentioned it merely because a similar misfortune has befallen Richard Blake. The point, of course, is that it has done so undeservedly. I think you must see who the real culprit is."

"I'll admit that you have told me a rather likely tale. As you don't speak of having been in India, who gave you the information?"

"Blake's companion, the man I've mentioned, a former Indian officer called Benson."

"His full name, please."

Clarke gave it him and Challoner, crossing the floor, took a book from a shelf and turned it over by a lamp.

"Yes; he's here. What led him to talk of the thing to an outsider?"

"Drink," said Clarke. "I'll own to having taken advantage of the condition he was often in."

Challoner, sitting down, coolly lighted a cigar. His position seemed a weak one, but he had no thought of surrender.

"Well, you have given me some interesting information; but there's one thing you haven't mentioned, and that is your reason for doing so."

"Can't you guess?"

"I shouldn't have suspected you of being so diffident, but I daresay you thought this was a chance of earning some money easily."

"Yes," said Clarke. "For five thousand pounds I'll undertake that no word of what I've told you will ever pass my lips again."

"You're not flattering. Do you suppose I'd pay five thousand pounds to see my nephew wronged?"

"I believe you might do so to save your son."

Challoner, who wished to lead the man on and learn something about his plans, made a negative sign.

"Out of the question."

"Then I'll make you an alternative offer, and it's worth considering. Take, or get your friends to subscribe for, ten thousand pounds worth of shares in a commercial syndicate I'm getting up, and you'll never regret it. If you wish, I'll make you a director so you can satisfy yourself that the money will be wisely spent. You'll get it back several times over."

Challoner laughed. "This is to salve my feelings; to make the thing look like a business transaction?"

"No," said Clarke, leaning forward and speaking eagerly. "It's a genuine offer, and I'll ask your attention for a minute or two. Canada's an undeveloped country; we have scarcely begun to tap its natural resources, and there's wealth ready for exploitation all over it. We roughly know the extent of the farming land and the value of the timber, but the minerals still to a large extent await discovery, while perhaps the most readily and profitably handled product is oil. Now I know a belt of country where it's oozing from the soil and with ten thousand pounds I'll engage to bore wells that will give a remarkable yield."

His manner was impressive, and though Challoner had no cause to trust him he thought the man sincere.

"One understands that in Canada all natural commodities belong to the State and any person discovering them can work them on certain terms. It seems to follow that if your knowledge of the locality is worth anything, it must belong to you alone. How is it that nobody else suspects the belt contains oil?"

"A shrewd objection, but easily answered. The country in question is one of the most rugged tracts in Canada, difficult to get through in summer, while the man who enters it in winter runs a serious risk. Now I'll allow that what you know about me is not likely to prejudice you in my favour, but on your promise to keep it secret I'll give you information that must convince you."

"Why don't you make your offer to some company floater or stockjobber?"

Clarke smiled in a pointed manner. "Because I've a damaging record and no friends to vouch for me. I came here because I felt I had some claim on you."

"You were mistaken," said Challoner drily.

"Hear me out; try to consider my proposition on its merits. For a number of years I've known the existence of the oil and have tried to prospect the country. It was difficult; to transport enough food and tools meant a costly expedition and the attracting of undesirable attention. I went alone, living with primitive Russian settlers and afterwards with the Indians. To gain a hold on them I studied the occult sciences and learned tricks that impose upon the credulous. To the white men I'm a crank, to the Indians something of a magician, but my search for the oil has gone on, and now while I already know where boring would be commercially profitable, I'm on the brink of tapping a remarkable flow."

"What will you do if it comes up to your expectations?" Challoner asked, for he had grown interested.

"Turn it over to a company strong enough to exact good terms from the American producers or, failing that, to work the wells. Then I'd go back to London where with money and the standing it would buy me I'd take up my old profession. I believe I've kept abreast of medical progress and could still make my mark and reinstate myself. It has been my steadfast object ever since I became an outcast; I've schemed and cheated to gain it, besides risking my life often in desolate muskegs and the Arctic frost. Now I ask you to make it possible, and you cannot refuse."

Challoner was silent for a minute or two while Clarke smoked impassively. The former knew he had a determined man to deal with and believed moreover that he had spoken the truth. Still, the fellow, although in some respects to be pitied, was obviously a dangerous rascal, embittered and robbed of all scruples by injustice. There was something malignant in his face that testified against him, and, worse than all, he had come there resolved to extort money as the price of his connivance in a wrong.

"Well?" Clarke said, breaking the pause.

"So far as I can judge, your ultimate object's creditable, but I can't say as much for the means you are ready to employ in raising the money. If you go on with the scheme, it must be without any help of mine."

Clarke's face grew hard, and there was something forbidding in the way he knitted his brows.

"Think! Have you gauged the consequences of your refusal?"

"It's more to the purpose that I've tried to estimate the importance of your version of what happened during the night attack. It has one fatal weakness which you seem to have overlooked."

"Ah!" said Clarke with ironical calm. "You will no doubt mention it."

"You suggest Blake's innocence, but you must be content with doing so. You cannot prove it in the face of his denial."

To Challoner's surprise, Clarke smiled.

"So you have seen that! The trouble is that your nephew may never have an opportunity of denying it. He left for the North very badly equipped, and he has not come back yet." Then he rose with an undisturbed air. "Well, as it seems we can't come to terms, I needn't waste my time, and it's a long walk to the station. I must try some other market, and while I think you have made a grave mistake that is your affair."

Challoner let him go and afterwards sat down to think. There had been nothing forcible or obviously threatening in the man's last few remarks, but their effect was somehow sinister. Challoner wondered whether he had done well in suggesting that Blake's denial would prove Clarke's greatest difficulty. After all, he had a strong affection for his nephew, who might be in danger, and knew that the wilds of Northern Canada might prove deadly to a weak party unprovided with proper sledges and stores. Still, something might, perhaps, be done, and by and by he wrote a letter to a friend who had once made an adventurous journey across the frozen land.



CHAPTER XXII

CLARKE MODIFIES HIS PLANS

A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was Arctic when Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he walked back from Sweetwater. He had gone there for his mail, which included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel. It was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western sky and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the glittering plain. There was no fence, not a tree to break the white expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke, who had lately returned from England, that the place looked very dreary.

He walked on with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on his furs, and on reaching the homestead went first to the stable. It was built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawn lumber, and, lighting a lantern, he fed his teams. The heavy Clydesdales and lighter driving horses were all valuable, for Clarke was a successful farmer and had found that the purchase of the best animals and implements led to economy, though it was said he seldom paid the full market price for them. He had walked home because it was impossible to keep warm driving, and felt tired and morose. The man had passed his prime and was beginning to find the labour he had never shirked more irksome than it had been, while he dispensed with a hired hand in winter, when there was less to be done. Clarke neglected no opportunity of saving a dollar.

When he had finished in the stable, he crossed the snow to the house, which was dark and silent. After the bustle and stir of London where he had spent some time, it was depressing to come back to the empty dwelling, and he was glad that he had saved himself the task of getting supper. Shaking the snow from his furs, he lighted the lamp and filled up the stove before he sat down wearily. The small room was not a cheerful place in which to spend the winter nights alone, though he remembered that for a number of years he had not noticed this. Walls and floor were uncovered and roughly boarded with heat-cracked lumber; the stove was rusty and gave out a smell of warm iron, while a black distillate had dripped from its pipe. There were, however, several well-filled bookcases and one or two comfortable chairs.

Clarke lighted his pipe and drawing his seat as near the stove as possible opened an English newspaper, which contained some news that interested him. A short paragraph stated that Captain Bertram Challoner, then stationed at Delhi, had received an appointment which would shortly necessitate his return from India. This, Clarke imagined, might be turned to good account, but the matter demanded thought, and for a time he sat motionless, deeply pondering. His farming had prospered, though the bare and laborious life had tried him hard, and he had made some money by more questionable means, lending to unfortunate neighbours at extortionate interest and foreclosing on their possessions. No defaulter got any mercy at his hands and shrewd sellers of seed and implements took precautions when they dealt with him.

His money, however, would not last him long if he returned to England and attempted to regain a footing in his profession, and he had daringly schemed to increase it. Glancing across the room, his eyes rested on a bookcase, with a curious smile. It contained works on hypnotism, telepathy, and psychological speculations in general, and he had studied some with ironical amusement and others with a quickening of his interest. Amidst much that he thought of as sterile chaff he saw germs of truth, and had once or twice been led to the brink of a startling discovery. There the elusive clue had failed him, though he felt that strange secrets might be revealed some day.

After all, the books had served his purpose, as well as kept him from brooding when he sat alone at nights while the icy wind howled round his dwelling. He passed for a sage and something of a prophet with the primitive Dubokars, his Indian friends regarded him as a medicine man, and both had unknowingly made his search for the petroleum easier. Then, contrary to his expectations, he had found speculators in London willing to venture a few hundred pounds on his scheme, but the amount was insufficient and the terms were exacting. It would pay him better to get rid of his associates. He was growing old; it would be too late to return to his former life unless he could do so soon, but he must make a fair start with ample means. The man had no scruples and no illusions; money well employed would buy him standing and friends. People were charitable to a man who had something to offer them, and the blot upon his name must be nearly forgotten.

First of all, however, the richest spot of the oil field must be found and money enough raised to place him in a strong position when the venture was put on the market. He had failed to extort any from Challoner, but he might be more successful with his son. The man who was weak enough to allow his cousin to suffer for his fault would no doubt yield to judicious pressure. It was fortunate that Bertram Challoner was coming to England, because he could be more easily reached. This led Clarke to think of Blake, since he realized that Challoner was right in pointing out that the man was his greatest difficulty. If Blake maintained that the fault was his, nothing could be done; it was therefore desirable that he should be kept out of the way. There was another person to whom the same applied; Clarke had preyed on Benson's weakness, but if the fellow had overcome it and returned to farm industriously, his exploitation would be no longer possible. On the other hand, if he failed to pay off his debts, Clarke saw how he could with much advantage seize his possessions. Thus both Blake and Benson were obstacles, and now they had ventured into the icy North it would be better if they did not reappear.

Clarke refilled his pipe and his face wore a sinister look as he took down a rather sketchy map of the wilds beyond the prairie belt. After studying it for a time he sank into an attitude of concentrated thought. The stove crackled, its pipe glowing red, driving snow lashed the shiplap walls, and the wind moaned drearily about the house. Its occupant was, however, oblivious to his surroundings and sat very still in his chair, with pouches under his fixed eyes and his lips set tight. He looked malignant and dangerous, and perhaps his mental attitude was not quite normal. Close study and severe physical toil, coupled with free indulgence, had weakened him; there were drugs he was addicted to which affected the brain, and he had long been possessed by one fixed idea. By degrees it had become a mania, and he would stick at nothing that might help him to carry his purpose out. When at length he got up with a shiver to throw wood into the stove as the room grew cold, he thought he saw how his object could be secured.

A month before Clarke spent the evening thinking about them, Blake and his comrades camped at sunset in a belt of small spruces near the edge of the open waste that runs back to the Polar Sea. They were worn and hungry, for the shortage of provisions had been a constant trouble and such supplies as they obtained from Indians, who had seldom much to spare, soon ran out. Once or twice they had feasted royally after shooting a big bull moose, but the frozen meat they were able to carry did not last long, and again they were threatened with starvation.

It was a calm evening with a coppery sunset flaring across the snow, but intensely cold, and though they had wood enough and sat close beside a fire with their ragged blankets wrapped round them they could not keep warm. Harding and Benson were openly dejected, but Blake had somehow preserved his cheerful serenity. As usual after finishing their scanty supper, they began to talk, for during the day conversation was limited by the toil of the march. By and by Harding took a few bits of resin out of a bag.

"No good," he said. "It's common fir gum, such as I could gather a carload of in the forests of Michigan. Guess there's something wrong with my theory about the effects of extreme cold." Then he took a larger lump from a neat leather case. "This is the genuine article, and it's certainly the product of a coniferous tree, while the fellow I got it from said it was found in the coldest parts of North America. Seems to me we have tried all the varieties of the firs, but we're as far from finding what we want as when we started."

"Hard luck!" Benson remarked gloomily.

Harding broke off a fragment and lighted it. "Notice the smell. It's characteristic."

"The fellow may have been right on one point," said Blake. "When I was in India I once got some incense which was brought down in small quantities from the Himalayas, and, I understood, came from near the snow-line. The smell was the same, one doesn't forget a curious scent."

"That's so. Talking about it reminds me that I was puzzled by a smell I thought I ought to know when I brought Clarke out of the tepee. I remembered what it was not long since and the thing's significant. It was gasoline."

"They extract it from crude petroleum, don't they."

"Yes; it's called petrol on your side. Clarke's out for coal-oil, and I guess he's struck it."

"Then he's lucky, but his good fortune doesn't concern us and we have other things to think about. What are you going to do, now we don't seem able to find the gum?"

"It's a difficult question," Harding answered in a troubled voice. "I'd hate to go back, with nothing accomplished and all my dollars spent, and take to the road again. Marianna's paying for this journey in many ways, and I haven't the grit to tell her we're poorer than when I left. She wouldn't complain, but when you have to live on a small commission that's hard to make, it's the woman who meets the bill."

Blake made a sign of sympathy. He had never shared Harding's confidence in the success of his search and had joined in it from love of adventure and a warm liking for his comrade.

"Well," he said, "I've no means except a small allowance which is so tied up that it's difficult to borrow anything upon it, but it's at your disposal as far as it goes. Suppose we keep this prospecting up."

"If Clarke's mortgage doesn't stop me, I might raise a few dollars on my farm," Benson remarked. "I'll throw them in with pleasure, because I'm pretty deep in your debt."

"Thanks," said Harding. "I'm sorry I can't agree, but I wouldn't take your offer when you first made it, and I can't do so now my plan's a failure. Anyway, we're doing some useless talking, because I don't see how we're to go on prospecting or get south again when we have only three or four days' food in hand."

He stated an unpleasant truth which the others had characteristically shirked, for Blake was often careless and Benson had taken the risks of the journey with frank indifference, though they had the excuse that after nearly starving once or twice they had succeeded in getting fresh supplies. Now, however, their hearts sank as they thought of the expanse of frozen wilderness that lay between them and the settlements.

"Well," said Blake, "there's a Hudson's Bay factory somewhere to the east of us. I can't tell how far off it is, though it must be a long way, but if we could reach it, the agent might take us in."

"How are you going to find the place?"

"I don't know, but a Hudson's Bay post is generally fixed where there are furs to be got, and there will, no doubt, be Indians trapping in the neighbourhood. We must take our chances of hitting their tracks."

"But we can't make a long march without food," Benson objected.

"The trouble is that we can't stay here without it," Blake rejoined with a short laugh.

This was undeniable, and neither of his companions answered. They were unkempt, worn out, and ragged, and had travelled a long way through fresh snow on short rations in the past week. Ahead of them lay a vast and almost untrodden desolation; behind them a rugged wilderness which there seemed no probability of their being able to cross. Lured by the hope of finding what they sought they had pushed on from point to point, and now it was too late to return.

By and by Blake got up. "Our best chance is to kill a caribou, and this is the kind of country they generally haunt. Since the sooner we look for one the better, I may as well start at once. There'll be a moon to-night."

He threw off his blanket and picking up a Marlin rifle, which was their only weapon, strode out of camp, and as he was a good shot and tracker they let him go. It was getting dark when he left the shelter of the trees and the cold in the open struck through him like a knife. The moon had not risen yet and the waste stretched away before him, its whiteness changed to a soft blue-grey. In the distance scattered bluffs rose in long dark smears, but there was nothing to indicate which way he should turn, and he had no reason to believe there was a caribou near the camp. As a matter of fact, they had found the larger deer remarkably scarce. He was tired after breaking the trail since sunrise, and the snow was loose beneath his big net shoes, but he plodded towards the farthest bluff, feeling that he was largely to blame for the party's difficulties.

Knowing something of the country, he should have insisted on turning back when he found they could obtain no dog-teams to transport their supplies. Occasionally the Hudson's Bay agents and patrols of the North-West Police made long journeys in Arctic weather, but they were provided with proper sledges and sufficient preserved food. Indeed, Blake was astonished that he and his comrades had got so far. He had, however, given way to Harding, who hardly knew the risks he ran, and now he supposed must take the consequences. This did not daunt him badly. After all, life had not much to offer an outcast, and though he had managed to extract some amusement from it he had nothing to look forward to. There was no prospect of his making money—his talents were not commercial—and the hardships he could bear with now would press on him more heavily as he grew older. These considerations, however, were too philosophical for him to continue. He was essentially a man of action and feeling unpleasantly hungry, and he quickened his pace, knowing that the chance of his getting a shot at a caribou in the open was small.

The moon had not risen when he reached the bluff, but the snow reflected a faint light and he noticed a row of small depressions on its surface. Kneeling down, he examined them, but there had been wind during the day and the marks were blurred. He felt for a match, but his fingers were too numbed to open the watertight case, and he proceeded to measure the distance between the footprints. This was an unreliable test because a big deer's stride varies with its pace, but he thought the tracks indicated a caribou. Then he stopped, without rising, and looked about.

Close in front the trees rose in a shadowy wall against the clear blue sky; there was no wind, and it was oppressively still. He could see about a quarter of a mile across the open, but the darkness of the wood was impenetrable and its silence daunting. The row of tracks was the only sign of life he had seen for days.

While he listened a faint howl came out of the distance and was followed by another. After the deep silence, the sound was startling and there was danger in it, for Blake recognized the cry of the timber wolves. The big grey brutes would make short work of a lonely man and his flesh crept as he wondered whether they were on his trail. On the whole, it did not seem likely, though they might get scent of him, and, rising to his feet, he felt that the rifle magazine was full before he set off at his highest speed.

The snow was loose, however, and his shoes packed and sank; his breath got shorter, and he began to feel distressed. There was no sound behind him, but that somehow increased his uneasiness and now and then he anxiously turned his head. Nothing moved on the sweep of blue-grey shadow and he pressed on, knowing how poor his speed was compared with that the wolves were capable of making. At length it was with keen satisfaction he saw a flicker of light break out from the dark mass of a bluff ahead and a few minutes later he came, breathing hard, into camp.

"You haven't stayed out long," Benson remarked. "I suppose you saw nothing."

"I heard wolves," Blake answered drily. "You had better gather wood enough to keep a big fire going, because I've no doubt they'll pick up my trail. However, it's a promising sign."

"I guess we could do without it," Harding broke in. "I've no use for wolves."

"They must live on something," Blake rejoined. "Since they're here, there are probably moose or caribou in the neighbourhood. I'll have another try to-morrow."

"But the wolves."

"They're not so bold in daylight. Anyhow, it seems to me we must take some risks."

This was obvious, and when they had heaped up a good supply of wood Harding and Blake went to sleep, leaving Benson to keep watch.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE CARIBOU

When Blake was awakened by Harding, the cold was almost unendurable, and it cost him a determined effort to rise from the hollow he had scraped out of the snow and lined with spruce twigs close beside the fire. He had not been warm there, and it was significant that the snow was dry, but sleep had brought him relief from discomfort and he had found getting up the greatest hardship of the trying journey. In answer to his drowsy questions, Harding said he had once or twice heard a wolf howl in the distance, but that was all, and then lay down, leaving Blake on guard. He sat with his back to a snowbank which afforded some shelter and imagined from his sensations that the temperature must be about fifty degrees below zero. The frost bit through him, stiffening his muscles until he felt that if vigorous movement were demanded of him he would be incapable of it, and dulling his brain. He could not reason clearly, though he had things to consider, and he looked about with heavy eyes, trying to forget his physical discomfort, while his mind wandered through a maze of confused thought.

There was a half-moon in the sky, which was pitilessly clear, for cloudiness might have made it warmer; when the firelight sank he could see the slender spruce trunks cutting against the silvery radiance and the hard glitter of the snow. Everything was tinted with blue and white, and the deathly cold colouring depressed him. Then he began to consider their position, which was serious. They were worn out and half-fed; their furs were ragged, and shortage of money and the difficulty of transport had forced them to cut down their camp equipment. Indeed, looking back on the long march, he was surprised that they had escaped crippling frostbite, although both Benson and Harding were somewhat lame from the strain which the use of snowshoes puts upon the muscles of the leg. There was, moreover, a risk of this becoming dangerous.

He imagined that it must be two hundred miles to the Hudson's Bay post and recognized that the chances were against their reaching it; but just then a howl rang, harsh and ominous, through the frosty air, and with a nervous start he reached for his rifle. The wolves had scented them, and, turning his back to the light, he spent some minutes gazing fixedly at the glistening white patches among the straggling trees, but could make out none of the stealthy, flitting shapes he had half expected to see. It was encouraging that the wolves had not overcome their timidity of the fire. Keen hunger might have driven them to an attack, and Blake had no illusions about the result of that. However, since the fierce brutes were not starving, they must have found something to eat, and what a wolf could eat would feed men who were by no means fastidious. Seeing nothing that alarmed him, Blake resumed his musing.

Their search for the gum had proved useless and he pitied Harding, who had staked his future upon its success. The man had not complained much, but Blake knew what he must feel and thought with compassion of the lonely woman who had bravely sent his comrade out and was now waiting for him in the mean discomfort of a cheap tenement. It was not difficult to imagine her anxiety and suspense.

Next he began to ponder his own affairs, which were not encouraging, though he did not think he really regretted the self-sacrificing course he had taken. His father had died involved in debt, and Blake suspected that it had cost Challoner something to redeem the share of his mother's property which brought him in a small income. That it had been carefully tied up was not, he thought, enough to guard it from the Blake extravagance and ingenuity in raising money. Afterwards the Colonel had brought him up and sent him into the army, doing so with a generous affection which was very different from cold charity, and demanded some return. Then Bertram had never been jealous of the favour shown his cousin, but had given him warm friendship, and Blake, who was much the stronger, had now and then stood between the lad and harm. He had done so again in Bertram's greatest need, and now he must not grumble at the consequences.

Of late they had seemed heavier than formerly, for in tempting him Clarke had made a telling suggestion—suppose he married? This appeared improbable; for one thing, no girl he was likely to be attracted by would look with favour on a man with his reputation, but he had thought a good deal about Millicent Graham during the weary march. He imagined that she had inherited enough of her father's reckless character to make her willing to take a risk. She would not have a man betray his friend for an advantage that he might gain; she had a courage that would help her, for love's sake, to tread a difficult path. Still, there was no reason to believe that she had any love for him, or indeed that she thought of him except as a stranger to whom she had, perhaps, some reason to be grateful. Resolutely breaking off this train of thought, he threw fresh wood upon the fire and sat shivering and making plans for the march to the factory, until Benson relieved him. When the grey dawn broke above the trees he got up stiff with cold and after eating his share of a very frugal breakfast carefully examined his rifle. Though he kept it clean of superfluous grease, there was some risk of the striker and magazine-slide freezing, and a missfire might prove disastrous. Then he glanced up between the branches and noticed the low, dingy sky, while he thought it was not quite so cold.

"I'm going to look for a caribou," he said. "I'll be back by dark."

"We'll have snow," said Harding. "If there's much, you'll find it hard to get home."

"I'd find it harder to do without breakfast and supper, which is what may happen very soon," Blake rejoined. "One can eat the tripe de roche which grows upon the stones, but I don't know where to look for it, and a North-West Police trooper who once tried it told me that it made him very ill."

"Anyway, you had better take one of us along."

"With the axe?" Blake said, laughing. "It's bad enough to reach a caribou with a rifle, and Benson's as poor a hand at stalking as I know, while a day's rest may save you from getting a snowshoe leg. As we haven't a sledge, it would be awkward to carry you to the factory."

They let him go, but when he reached the open his face hardened. The sky had a threatening look, the snow was soft, and there were wolves about, but he was comparatively safe while daylight lasted and food must be found. During the morning he saw wolf tracks, but no sign of a deer, and at noon sat down for a few minutes in a sheltered hollow and managed to light the half-frozen pipe he kept in an inner pocket. He had brought nothing to eat, since they had decided that it would be prudent to dispense with a midday meal, and getting stiffly on his feet by and by, he plodded from bluff to bluff throughout the afternoon. For the most part, they were thin and the trees very small, while so far as he could make out the country between them was covered with slabs of rocks and stones. It was utterly empty, with no sign of life in it, but he continued his search until the light began to fail, when he stopped to look about.