"That is the reason, I suppose, why there are so few poor in New York," observed the Doctor with a smile.

"Exactly," said Barker; "they go West."

"I would like to discuss the political economy of this country with you, when I have been here six months."

"I hope you will not. And when you have been here six months you will be willing to pay a large sum rather than discuss it with any one."

And so they went up town, and Claudius watched everything with interest, and occasionally made a remark. Barker was obliged to go on, and he put Claudius out on the platform at the station nearest his hotel, and which was in fact at the same cross-street. As Claudius ascended the steps he was overtaken by the Duke, who was breathless with running.

"I—am afraid—it is too late," he panted; "come along," and he seized Claudius by the arm and dragged him to the corner of Fifth Avenue, before he could ask any questions.

"What is the matter?" asked the Doctor, looking about.

"He is gone," said the Duke, who had recovered his speech, "I knew he would, but I thought there was time. I was with a friend of mine, and I had just left him when I saw you, and as I have asked him to dinner I wanted to introduce you first. But he is always in such a hurry. Nowhere to be seen. Probably down town by this time." They turned back and went in. The Duke asked for the ladies. The Countess and her companion had gone to drive in the park, but Lady Victoria was upstairs.

"Vick, I am going to have a man to dinner—of course we will all dine together the first night ashore—a man you have heard me speak of; you will like him amazingly."

"Who is he?"

"He is the uncle of the whole human race."

"Including the peerage?" laughed Lady Victoria.

"Peerage? I should think so. The whole of Debrett and the Almanach de Gotha. Nobility and gentry, the Emperor of China and the North American Indians."

"That will suit Miss Skeat. She is always talking about the North American Indians. I think I know who it is."

"Of course you do, and now he is coming." There was a pause. "Vick, may I smoke?"

"Oh yes, if you like." His Grace lit a cigarette.

"Vick, I am afraid you have had a dreadfully stupid time of it on this trip. I am so sorry. Those people turned out rather differently from what I had expected." The Duke was fond of his sister, though she was much younger than he, and he began to reflect that she had been poorly provided for, as he had engaged Barker most of their time.

"Not at all. You know I am so fond of the sea and the open air, and I have enjoyed it all so much. Besides—"

"It is awfully good of you to say so, my dear, but I don't believe a word of it. 'Besides'—you were going to say something."

"Was I? Oh yes. Besides, you could not have had another man, you know, because it would have spoiled the table."

"No, but I was so selfish about Barker, because he can play cards, and Claudius would not, or could not."

"I am not sorry for that, exactly," said Lady Victoria. "You remember, we talked about him once. I do not like Mr. Barker very much."

"Oh, he is no end of a good fellow in his way," said her brother. "Have you—a—any reason for not liking him, Vick?"

"I think he is spiteful. He says such horrid things."

"Does he? What about?" said the Duke indifferently, as he tore a bit of charred paper from the end of his cigarette, which had burned badly. She did not answer at first. He inspected the cigarette, puffed it into active life again, and looked up.

"What about, Vick?"

"About his friend—about Doctor Claudius. I like Doctor Claudius." Lady Victoria smoothed her rebellious brown hair at the huge over-gilt pier-glass of the little drawing-room which she and Margaret had in common.

"I like him too," said the Duke. "He is a gentleman. Why don't you do your hair like the American women—all fuzzy, over your eyes? I should think it would be much less trouble."

"It's not neat," said her ladyship, still looking into the glass. Then suddenly, "Do you know what I think?"

"Well?"

"I believe Mr. Barker would like to marry Margaret himself."

"Pshaw! Victoria, don't talk nonsense. Who ever heard of such a thing! The Duke rose and walked once up and down the room; then he sat down again in the same place. He was not pleased at the suggestion.

"Why is it such nonsense?" she asked.

"Any number of reasons. Besides, she would not have him."

"That would not prevent him from wishing to marry her."

"No, of course not, but—well, it's great stuff." He looked a little puzzled, as if he found it hard to say exactly why he objected to the idea.

"You would be very glad if Claudius married her, would you not?" asked his sister.

"Glad—I don't know—yes, I suppose so."

"But you pretend to like Mr. Barker a great deal more than you like Doctor Claudius," said she argumentatively.

"I know him better," said the Duke; "I have known Barker several years."

"And he is rich—and that, and why should he not think of proposing to Margaret?"

"Because—well I don't know, but it would be so deuced inappropriate," in which expression the honest-hearted Englishman struck the truth, going for it with his head down, after the manner of his people.

"At first he was very nice," said Lady Victoria, who had gained a point, though for what purpose she hardly knew; "but after a while he began to say disagreeable things. He hinted in all sorts of ways that Claudius was not exactly a gentleman, and that no one knew where he came from, and that he ought not to make love to Margaret, and so on, till I wanted to box his ears;" and she waxed warm in her wrath, which was really due in great part to the fact that Mr. Barker was personally not exactly to her taste. If she had liked him she would have thought differently of the things he said. But her brother was angry too by this time, for he remembered a conversation he had had with Barker on the same topic.

"I told Barker once that Claudius was a gentleman, every inch of him, and I should think that was enough. As if I did not know—it's too bad, upon my word!" And the ducal forehead reddened angrily. The fact was that both he and his sister had taken an unaccountable fancy to this strange Northman, with his quiet ways and his unaffected courtesy, and at the present moment they would have quarrelled with their best friends rather than hear a word against him. "My guest, too, and on my yacht," he went on; and it did his sister good to see him angry—"it's true he brought him, and introduced him to me." Then a bright idea struck him. "And if Claudius were not a gentleman, what the deuce right had Barker to bring him to me at all, eh? Wasn't it his business to find out? My word! I would like to ask him that, and if I find him I will." Lady Victoria had no intention of making mischief between her brother and Mr. Barker. But she did not like the American, and she thought Barker was turning the Duke into a miner, or a farmer, or a greengrocer, or something—it was not quite clear. But she wished him out of the way, and fate had given her a powerful weapon. It was just that sort of double-handedness that the Duke most hated of all things in the earth. Moreover, he knew his sister never exaggerated, and that what she had told him was of necessity perfectly true.

Woe to Mr. Silas B. Barker junior if he came in the Duke's way that evening!

"I suppose he is coming to dinner?" said the Duke after a pause, during which his anger had settled into a comfortable ferocity.

"No," said Lady Victoria; "he sent some flowers and a note of regret."

"Well—I am glad of that. Would you like to go for a drive, Vick?"

"Yes, of all things. I have not been here since I was married"—which was about eighteen months, but she had already caught that matronly phrase—"and I want to see what they have been doing to the Park."

"All right. We'll take Claudius, if he is anywhere about the place."

"Of course," said Lady Victoria. And so the brother and sister prepared to soothe their ruffled feelings by making much of the man who was "a gentleman." But they were right, for Claudius was all they thought him, and a great deal more too, as they discovered in the sequel.

Having driven in the Park, the Duke insisting that Claudius should sit in the place of honour with Lady Victoria, and having criticised to their satisfaction the few equipages they met—for it was too early for New York—they went back to their hotel, and dispersed to dress for dinner. The Duke, as he had told his sister, had invited his friend to dine. They all sat together waiting his arrival. Punctual to the moment, the door opened, and Mr. Horace Bellingham beamed upon the assembled party. Ay, but he was a sight to do good to the souls of the hungry and thirsty, and of the poor, and in misery!

He requires description, not that any pen can describe him, but no one ever saw him who did not immediately wish to try. He was short, decidedly; but a broad deep chest and long powerful arms had given him many an advantage over taller adversaries in strange barbarous lands. He was perfectly bald, but that must have been because Nature had not the heart to cover such a wonderful cranium from the admiring gaze of phrenologists. A sweeping moustache and a long imperial of snowy white sat well on the ruddy tan of his complexion, and gave him an air at once martial and diplomatic. He was dressed in the most perfect of London clothes, and there were superb diamonds in his shirt, while a priceless sapphire sparkled, in a plain gold setting, on his broad, brown hand. He is the only man of his time who can wear precious stones without vulgarity. He moves like a king and has the air of the old school in every gesture. His dark eyes are brighter than his diamonds, and his look, for all his white beard and seventy years, is as young and fresh as the rose he wears in his coat.

There are some people who turn gray, but who do not grow hoary, whose faces are furrowed but not wrinkled, whose hearts are sore wounded in many places, but are not dead. There is a youth that bids defiance to age, and there is a kindness which laughs at the world's rough usage. These are they who have returned good for evil, not having learned it as a lesson of righteousness, but because they have no evil in them to return upon others. Whom the gods love die young, and they die young because they never grow old. The poet, who at the verge of death said this, said it of, and to, this very man.

The Duke went through the introductions, first to the Countess, then to Miss Skeat, then to his sister, and last of all to Claudius, who had been intently watching the newcomer. Mr. Bellingham paused before Claudius, and looked up in a way peculiarly his own, without raising his head. He had of course heard in New York of the strange fortune that had befallen Claudius on the death of the well-known Mr. Lindstrand, and now he stood a minute trying to take the measure of the individual before him, not in the least overcome by the physical proportions of the outer man, but struck by the intellectual face and forehead that surmounted such a tower of strength.

"I was in Heidelberg myself—a student," said he, his face lighting up with coming reminiscences, "but that was long before you were born, fifty years ago."

"I fancy it is little changed," said Claudius.

"I would like to go back to the Badischer Hof. I remember once—" but he broke off short and turned to the Countess, and sat down beside her. He knew all her people in America and her husband's people abroad. He immediately began telling her a story of her grandmother, with a verve and graphic spirit that enchanted Margaret, for she liked clever old men. Besides he is not old. It is not so long since—well, it is a long story. However, in less than one minute the assembled guests were listening to the old-time tale of Margaret's ancestress, and the waiter paused breathless on the threshold to hear the end, before he announced dinner.

There are two very different ways of dining—dining with Mr. Bellingham, and dining without him. But for those who have dined with him, all other prandial arrangements are an empty sham. At least so Claudius said to Margaret in an aside, when they got to the fruit. And Margaret, who looked wonderfully beautiful with a single band of gold through her black hair, laughed her assent, and said it was hopeless for the men of this day to enter the lists against the veterans of the ancien regime. And Claudius was not in the least hurt by the comparison, odious though it would have been to Mr. Barker, had he been there. Claudius had plenty of vanity, but it did not assume the personal type. Some people call a certain form of vanity pride. It is the same thing on a larger scale. Vanity is to pride what nervousness is to nerve, what morbid conscience is to manly goodness, what the letter of the law is to the spirit.

Before they rose from the table, Mr. Bellingham proposed that they should adjourn to Newport on the following day. He said it was too early to be in New York and that Newport was still gay; at all events, the weather promised well, and they need not stay more than twenty-four hours unless they pleased. The proposition was carried unanimously, the Duke making a condition that he should be left in peace and not "entertained in a handsome manner by the elite of our Newport millionaires"—as the local papers generally have it. Lady Victoria would not have objected to the operation of "being entertained" by Newport, for it amused her to see people, but of course she would enjoy herself very well without it. She always enjoyed herself, even when she went for a walk in the rain on a slippery Yorkshire road, all bundled up in waterproofs and hoods and things for her poor people—she enjoyed it all.

As for Claudius, he knew that if he went to Newport he must of necessity stay with the Barkers, but as he had not yet learned to look at Mr. Barker in the light of a rival, he thought this would be rather convenient than otherwise. The fact that he would be within easy reach of Margaret was uppermost in his mind.

During the last two days his relations with her had been of the happiest. There was an understanding between them, which took the place of a great deal of conversation. Claudius felt that his error in speaking too boldly had been retrieved, if not atoned for, and that henceforward his position was assured. He was only to be a friend, it was true, but he still felt that from friendship to love was but a step, and that the time would come. He thought of the mighty wooings of the heroes of his Northern home, and he felt in him their strength and their constancy. What were other men that he should think of them? He was her accepted friend of all others. She had said she hoped to find in him what she had never found before; and were not her words "always, always!" still ringing in his ears? She had found it then in him, this rare quality of friendship; she had found more,—a man who was a friend and yet a lover, but who could curb the strong passion to the semblance and docility of the gentler feeling. And when at last she should give the long-desired sign, the single glance that bids love speak, she would find such a lover as was not even dreamt of among the gods of the Greeks, nor yet among berserk heroes of ice and storm and battle. He felt to-day that he could endure to the end, for the end was worthy all endurance.

And now he sat by her side and looked down into her face when she spoke, and they laughed together. Verily was Claudius the proudest man in all earth's quarters, and his blue eyes flashed a deep fire, and his nostrils expanded with the breath of a victory won. Mr. Bellingham, on the other side of the table, sparkled with a wit and grace that were to modern table-talk what a rare flagon of old madeira, crusted with years, but brimming with the imperishable strength and perfume of eternal youth, might be to a gaudily-ticketed bottle of California champagne, effervescent, machine-made, cheap, and nasty. And his glance comprehended the pair, and loved them. He thought they were like a picture of the North and of the South; and the thought called up memories in his brave old breast of a struggle that shook the earth to her foundations, and made him think of problems yet unsolved. He sat in his place silent for some minutes, and the broad brown hand stroked the snowy beard in deep thought, so that the conversation flagged, and the Duke began to talk about the voyage. But Mr. Bellingham took his brimming glass, filled with the wine that ripened in the sun when he himself was but a little boy, and he held it a moment to the light; the juice was clearer now than it had been that day sixty years, and the hand that held the goblet was as a hand of iron for strength and steadiness, though the dark fingers might have plucked the grapes on the day they were pressed. And with an old-time motion he carried it to his lips, then paused one instant, then drank it slowly, slowly to the last drop. It was a toast, but the speech was unspoken, and none knew to whom or to what he drained the measure. In a little time he began to speak again; the conversation turned upon mutual friends in England, and the dinner was at an end.

But all through the evening Claudius never left Margaret's side. He felt that he was bridging over the difference between life at sea and life on land—that he was asserting his right to maintain in a drawing-room the privileges he had gained on the deck of the Streak. And Margaret, moreover, was especially friendly to-night, for she too felt the difference, and recognised that, after all, life on shore is the freer. There are certain conventionalities of a drawing-room that a man is less likely to break through, more certain to remember, than the unwritten rules of cruising etiquette. Most men who have led a free life are a little less likely to make love under the restraint of a white tie than they are when untrammelled by restraints of dress, which always imply some restraint of freedom.

At least Margaret thought so. And Claudius felt it, even though he would not acknowledge it. They talked about the voyage; about what they had said and done, about the accident, and a hundred other things. There is a moment in acquaintance, in friendship, and in love, when two people become suddenly aware that they have a common past. Days, weeks, or months have been spent in conversation, in reading, perhaps in toil and danger, and they have not thought much about it. But one day they wake up to the fact that these little or great things bind them, as forming the portion of their lives that have touched; and as they talk over the incidents they remember they feel unaccountably drawn to each other by the past. Margaret and Claudius knew this on the first evening they spent together on shore. The confusion of landing, the custom-house, the strange quarters in the great hotel—all composed a drop-curtain shutting off the ocean scene, and ending thus an episode of their life-drama. A new act was beginning for them, and they both knew how much might depend on the way in which it was begun, and neither dared plan how it should end. At all events, they were not to be separated yet, and neither anticipated such a thing.

Little by little their voices dropped as they talked, and they recked little of the others, as the dark cheek of the woman flushed with interest, and the blue light shone in the man's eyes. Their companions on the voyage were well used to seeing them thus together, and hardly noticed them, but Mr. Bellingham's bright eyes stole a glance from time to time at the beautiful pair in their corner, and the stories of youth and daring and love, that he seemed so full of this evening, flashed with an unwonted brilliancy. He made up his mind that the two were desperately, hopelessly, in love, and he had taken a fancy to Claudius from the first. There was no reason why they should not be, and he loved to build up romances, always ending happily, in his fertile imagination.

But at last it was "good-night." Mr. Bellingham was not the man to spend the entire evening in one house, and he moved towards Margaret, hating to disturb the couple, but yet determined to do it. He rose, therefore, still talking, and, as the Duke rose also, cleverly led him round the chairs until within speaking distance of Margaret, who was still absorbed in her conversation. Then, having finished the one thread, he turned round.

"By the by, Countess," he said, "I remember once—" and he told a graceful anecdote of Margaret's grandmother, which delighted every one, after which he bowed, like a young lover of twenty, to each of the three ladies, and departed.

The party dispersed, the Duke and Claudius for half an hour's chat and a cigar, and the ladies to their rooms. But Claudius and Margaret lingered one moment in their corner, standing.

"Has it been a happy day for you?" he asked, as she gave her hand.

"Yes, it has been happy. May there be many like it!" she answered.

"There shall be," said Claudius; "good-night, Countess."

"Good-night—good-night, Claudius."

The Duke waited fully ten minutes for the Doctor. It was the second time she had spoken his name without the formality of a prefix, and Claudius stood where she left him, thinking. There was nothing so very extraordinary in it, after all, he thought. Foreign women, especially Russians, are accustomed to omit any title or prefix, and to call their intimate friends by their simple names, and it means nothing. But her voice was so wonderful. He never knew his name sounded so sweet before—the consonants and vowels, like the swing and fall of a deep silver bell in perfect cadence. "A little longer," thought Claudius, "and it shall be hers as well as mine." He took a book from the table absently, and had opened it when he suddenly recollected the Duke, put it down and left the room.

Soon a noiseless individual in a white waistcoat and a dress-coat put his head in at the door, advanced, straightened the chairs, closed the book the Doctor had opened, put the gas out and went away, shutting the door for the night, and leaving the room to its recollections. What sleepless nights the chairs and heavy-gilt glasses and gorgeous carpets of a hotel must pass, puzzling over the fragments of history that are enacted in their presence!



CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Barker's urgent engagement up town that evening must have been to meet some one; but considering that the individual he might be supposed to be awaiting did not come, he showed a remarkable degree of patience. He went to a certain quiet club and ordered, with the utmost care, a meal after his own heart—for one; and though several members hailed him and greeted him on his return, he did not seem particularly interested in what they had to say, but sat solitary at his small square table with its exquisite service; and when he had eaten, and had finished his modest pint of Pommery Sec, he drank his coffee and smoked his own cigars in undisturbed contemplation of the soft-tinted wall-paper, and in calm, though apparently melancholy, enjoyment of the gentle light that pervaded the room, and of the sweet evening breeze that blew in from the trees of Madison Square, so restful after the dust and discomfort of the hot September day.

Whoever it was that he awaited did not come, and yet Mr. Barker exhibited no sign of annoyance. He went to another room, and sat in a deep arm-chair with a newspaper which he did not read, and once he took a scrap of paper from his pocket and made a short note upon it with a patent gold pencil. It was a very quiet club, and Mr. Barker seemed to be its quietest member. And well he might be, for he had made up his mind on a grave point. He had determined to marry.

He had long known it must come, and had said to himself more than once that "to every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late;" but being human, he had put off the evil day, having always thought that it must, of necessity, be evil. But now it was different. What he had said to the Duke, and what the Duke had said to him, that evening on the yacht when they were talking about marriage, was exactly what he had always expected to occur. The day, he said, must come when the enterprising mamma will get the better of Silas B. Barker junior. The girl of the season, with her cartload of bouquets slung all over her, her neat figure, her pink-and-white complexion and her matchless staying powers in a ballroom, will descend upon the devoted victim Barker, beak and talons, like the fish-hawk on the poor, simple minnow innocently disporting itself in the crystal waters of happiness. There will be wedding presents, and a breakfast, and a journey, and a prospect of everlasting misery. All these things, thought he, must come to every man in time, unless he is a saint, or an author, or has no money, and therefore they must come to me; but now it was different. If there is to be any fishing, he thought, I will be the hawk, and the minnow may take its chance of happiness. Why should the minnow not be happy? I am a hawk; well—but I am a very good hawk.

But these reflections were not what occupied his mind as he sat with his second cigar in the reading-room of his quiet club. These things he had elaborated in his brain at least three days ago, and they had now taken the form of a decision, against which there could be no appeal, because it was pleasant to the ego of Mr Barker. Judgments of that sort he never reversed. He had fully determined to be the hawk, he had picked out his minnow, and he was meditating the capture of his prey. A great many people do as much as that, and discover too late that what they have taken for a minnow is an alligator, or a tartar, or a salamander, or some evil beast that is too much for their powers. This was what Mr. Barker was afraid of, and this was what he wished to guard against. Unfortunately he was a little late in the selection of his victim, and he knew it. He had determined to marry the Countess Margaret.

He knew perfectly well that Claudius had determined upon the very same thing, and he knew that Claudius was intimate, to say the least of it, with the woman he loved. But Barker had made up his mind that Claudius had been refused, and had accepted the Platonic position offered him by the Countess, merely because he had not the strength to leave her. "Just like the vanity of a fellow like that," he argued, "not to be willing to believe himself beaten." He had drawn the whole situation in his mind entirely to his own satisfaction. If Claudius could only be removed, any other man would have as good a chance. The other man is Barker—therefore, remove Claudius at once. Remove him! Away with him! Let his place know him no more!

Mr. Barker sat unmoved in his chair; but he contemplated the nail on the middle finger of his left hand with absorbed interest, even bringing it nearer the light in order to obtain a better view.

He was one of those men who are seldom altogether unprepared. His mind was of the Napoleonic order, on a very small scale; with him to think of the end was to plan the means, and in the days that had followed the memorable night wherein the idea had struck him that he might marry the Countess in the teeth of Dr. Claudius, a project had grown up in his mind whereby he hoped now to effect his purpose. Perhaps the scheme had developed unconsciously, as often happens with persons whose lives are spent in planning. Perhaps he fondly hoped—for he was not without vanity—that he might yet win the Countess fairly, and had only contemplated his plot as a possibility. Be that as it may, from the moment he realised that a plan of action was necessary he also realised that the plan was ready, and he determined to put it into execution. It was an unfair plan he meditated, bad from the root up, and he knew it; but he did not hesitate on that account. Silas B. Barker junior had not enough conscience to make it an object for him to deceive himself as to the morality of his actions. A year or two since he would perhaps have defended himself in a general way by saying it was arrogance for a man to set himself up as any better than his surroundings. But between a year or two ago and this September evening there was set a gulf, represented by a couple of transactions in the "street," over which there was small joy in heaven and very little on earth.

Fair or unfair, it would be so much easier if Claudius were out of the way. It would simplify Mr. Barker's campaign so much; and, besides, it was so easy a matter to remove him, for a time at least. How? Why, simply by asserting that Claudius was not Claudius, that he was not the late Mr. Lindstrand's nephew, that he had no right to the fortune, and that if he wished to save himself trouble he had better return immediately to Heidelberg and resume his duties as a private lecturer in the University. It was easy enough! Who was there to show that Claudius was Claudius? There was nothing but the attestation of a wretched Heidelberg notary, who might easily have been persuaded to swear a little in consideration of a large bribe.

Besides, reflected Mr. Barker, the real Dr. Claudius was dead. He died about eight months ago; no doubt it was in the newspapers at the time, and a newspaper could certainly be found which should contain a notice of his death. Therefore, if the real Dr. Claudius were dead this Dr. Claudius was a sham, an impostor, a man obtaining money by personating the dead—in short, a criminal. However, it might not be necessary to proceed with all the rigour of the law, and he might be quietly sent back to Germany.

Of course Mr. Barker was responsible in some measure for having introduced this villain to the Countess and to the Duke. But how could Mr. Barker, a creature of sunny, lamb-like innocence, be expected to know an impostor at first sight? Claudius had acted his part so very well, you know, and Barker had been deceived by his apparent frankness; he had not even made any inquiries in Heidelberg, but had simply gone to the address his father had given him. Of course, also, the pretender had adopted the obvious expedient of taking the dead man's lodgings; had installed himself there, and called himself "Dr. Claudius." Nobody in America had ever seen the real Dr. Claudius; none of the yachting party had any means of knowing whether he were what he pretended to be or not; the only person who vouched for him was Silas B. Barker junior. And if Silas B. Barker junior would not vouch for him any longer, who would, pray? Obviously, no one.

"Dukes are very pretty things," said Mr. Barker; "and to know them intimately is a special grace. But they cannot swear to what they do not know anything about, any more than other people." And he lit another cigar, and looked at the clock, an old-fashioned black-marble timepiece with gilded hands. It wanted half an hour of midnight, and Mr. Barker's solitude had lasted since seven or thereabouts. Some one entered the room, bidding good-night to some one else at the door. Mr. Barker turned his eyes, and, recognising a friend, he smiled a wrinkled smile.

"Well, Mr. Screw, how goes it?" he said. "It is some time since we met."

"Happy to meet you, sir; glad to see you," replied the lawyer, putting out a long hand towards the part of the room where Mr. Barker was standing.

Mr. Screw was Mr. Scratch's partner. Mr. Screw was very tall, very thin, and exceedingly yellow. He had thick yellow hair, streaked with gray. His face seemed bound in old parchment, and his eyes were like brass nails driven very deep, but bright and fixed when he spoke. He had a great abundance of teeth of all sizes and shapes; his face was clean shaven; and he wore a stand-up collar, with a narrow black tie neatly adjusted in a bow. His feet and hands were of immense size. He was in evening-dress. He doubled up a few of his joints and deposited himself in a deep arm-chair—the twin of Barker's—on the other side of the fireplace.

"I thought very likely you would be here before the evening was out," said Mr. Barker. "Yes," he continued after a pause, "that is the reason I came here. I wanted to see you on business, and I missed you to-day down town."

"Oh! business, did you say?" inquired the other, rubbing his bony nose and looking at the empty grate.

"Yes, rather important to you—more than to myself, though it concerns me too. You have a new client, I believe; the nephew of our old partner Mr. Lindstrand."

"Dr. Claudius?" asked the lawyer, looking up.

"He calls himself so, at any rate," said Barker.

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Screw quickly, shifting his position.

"Do you think you have taken all the necessary steps towards ascertaining that he is the heir—the right man—the real Dr. Claudius?"

"Great heavens!" exclaimed the lawyer, surprised and terribly frightened by Barker's insinuation, "you don't mean to say there is any doubt about it, do you?"

"I am inclined to think there is doubt—yes, decidedly. It is a very serious matter, and I thought it best to speak to you about it before talking to my father. You see, though the loss might fall on us, indirectly, the moral responsibility is yours, since you are the lawyers in the case."

"But your father is one of the executors, Mr. Barker," said Mr. Screw, who felt obliged to say something, and wanted to gain time.

"My father—yes," and Barker smiled disagreeably. "Yes, he is one of the executors. But you yourself are the other, Mr. Screw. And as far as any intelligence in the matter is concerned, you might be alone." Barker was willing to flatter the lawyer at the expense of his fond parent. Screw would be of more use to him than many fathers in this matter. Mr. Screw relapsed into silence, and sat for some minutes, hooking one leg behind the other, and thrusting as much of his hands into his pockets as those receptacles would contain. After a time he changed his position, heaved a species of sigh that sounded like the sudden collapse of a set of organ-bellows, and ran his fingers through his thick hair.

Barker thought he was going to speak. But he was mistaken; Mr. Screw was too much taken aback to speak yet. Then Barker spoke for him.

"Well," said he, caressing his foot and looking at the ceiling, "what are you going to do about it?"

"I shall do what is proper in such cases. I will stop his drawing any more money, and investigate the matter. If this is not the real Claudius, the real Claudius must be somewhere, and can be found."

"Perhaps he is dead," suggested Barker.

"It is about as easy to find a dead man as a live man," said Screw. "It is a surer thing, on the whole. A dead man can't change his clothes, and get his beard shaved off, and cavoort around the corner."

"Not generally speaking," said the other, "no well-regulated corpse would do it, anyhow. Besides, if he is dead, there must have been some notice of it in the Heidelberg papers. He belonged to the University, and they always put those things in the local sheet in Germany."

"That's so," said the lawyer. "Do you know anybody in Heidelberg who would look the matter up, Mr. Barker?"

Mr. Barker did know some one in Heidelberg—the very man, in fact. He would write immediately, and set the inquiry on foot. Meanwhile there were other things to be settled. After the first shock the lawyer was not inclined to let Barker off so easily for having indorsed a man he suspected of being a humbug. Barker retorted that he had found Claudius in possession of the documents transmitted by Messrs. Screw and Scratch, and that it was not his fault if he supposed that those astute gentlemen had taken proper precautions to ascertain the identity of their client. He went into many details, explaining how his suspicions had been aroused by degrees in the course of many conversations. He was expecting a question from Mr. Screw. At last it came.

"Mr. Barker," said Screw, fixing his brass-headed eyes intently on his companion—for Mr. Screw was no fool—"Mr. Barker, you brought this man over here, and you know him better than any one else. Now, what I want to know is this. He may be the right man, after all. What we are going to do is entirely precautionary. Do you want to appear or not?" Barker had not expected the question to be put so directly, but he was perfectly prepared for it.

"I am sure I do not care," he said, with a fine indifference. "I have no objection. It is a mere question of expediency; do not consider me in the matter. Do what you think is right," he added, emphasising the last word, and meeting Screw's glance boldly enough. Screw looked at him for a moment or two in silence, and then turned his eyes away. There was the faintest reflection of a smile on his yellow face, and the expression became him well. Screw was astute, sharp as a ferret, relentless as a steel-corkscrew, crushing its cruel way through the creaking cork; but Screw was an honest man, as the times go. That was the difference between him and Barker. Screw's smile was his best expression, Barker's smile was of the devil, and very wily. Screw smiled because he was amused. Barker smiled when he was successful.

"I think for the present," said Mr. Screw, "that unless you positively wish to appear, it would be as well that you should not. If we are mistaken, and the Doctor is really what he pretends to be, it will be very unpleasant for you afterwards to have been concerned in an inquiry into the validity of his rights."

"Do you think so?" asked Barker, looking languidly across at Mr. Screw. "Very well, in that case you may conduct the inquiry, and I will not appear. I shall meet him just as if nothing had happened, and let him tell me what you have done. Of course he will tell me, the first thing. Besides, as you say, he may be the right man, after all."

"Exactly," said Mr. Screw. He knew perfectly well that Barker would not want Claudius to know the part he had played, in case all turned out to be right, though he did not know that Barker was deceiving him. He supposed that Barker really had serious doubts about Claudius, and as there was no one else to vouch for the latter, he was very honestly frightened. He reviewed the situation in his own mind, and he came to the conclusion that he had really been remiss in the performance of his duties as executor. It had not seemed in the least probable that any deception could be practised, and yet, when all was said, there was only the Heidelberg notary's attestation of the signature to support the claimant of Mr. Lindstrand's fortune. This reflection comforted Mr. Screw a little. At all events, he would be perfectly justified in calling on Claudius and stating his difficulty, requesting him to give what assistance was in his power towards a speedy identification of himself. In the meantime he set himself to cross-examine Mr. Barker, endeavouring to extract all the information he could. But extracting information from Mr. Barker was no easy task, as he very soon found, and as the hands of the clock pointed to one, he rose slowly, as by stages, from the depths of his arm-chair, and made up his mind that Barker did not know very much about the matter, though he knew more than any one else, and that the only thing to be done was to go straight to Claudius and state the case. No honest man ever had much difficulty in proving who he was, thought Mr. Screw, and if he is an impostor, he will very likely not show fight at all, but make off to parts unknown, where he can very easily be caught.

Barker rose from his seat too, and took leave of the lawyer, well pleased with the result of his evening's work. It was very satisfactory. He had produced exactly the impression on Mr. Screw's mind which he had intended to produce; and having set that engine of the law in motion, he knew that he could fold his hands and proceed to enjoy himself after his manner. He knew that everything would be done which could contribute to annoy and mortify Claudius, and that it would be done in such a way, with such paraphernalia of legal courtesy and mercantile formality, that the unhappy Doctor could not complain. Barker had shrewdly calculated the difficulties Claudius would have to surmount in identifying himself in a strange country, without friends, and against the prejudices of Mr. Screw, his uncle's executor. Moreover, if, after countless efforts and endless trouble, Claudius succeeded, as he probably would, in obtaining his fortune, Barker would be no worse off than before. He would have done nothing assailable, and he would have gained all the advantages of the time Claudius lost, not to mention the cloud of suspicion which must inevitably rest on the Doctor, until he should succeed in clearing himself before the world. With skill, courage, and money, there was no telling what progress Barker might make in his suit for the Countess, before Claudius was himself again. With such an advantage, if he could not outdo the Swede, he did not deserve to.

So saying, Mr. Barker, left once more alone in the sitting-room, paced slowly twice round the table, looked at himself in the glass, twisted his heavy moustache into shape, and smoothed his hair. Then he took his hat and went out. There was a cab at the door of the club, and in a minute more he was spinning along Fifth Avenue, in the direction of his father's house.

The machinery was wound up, and he had nothing more to do. To-morrow morning Claudius would pass a bad quarter of an hour with Mr. Screw, and in the afternoon Barker would call upon him and offer such consolation as was in his power; and when he had called on Claudius, he would call on the Countess Margaret and tell her what sad sceptics these legal people were, everlastingly pestering peaceable citizens in the hope of extracting from them a few miserable dollars. And he would tell her how sorry he was that Claudius should be annoyed, and how he, Barker, would see him through—that is, he hoped so; for, he would add, of course, such men as Mr. Screw and his own father would not make so much trouble if they did not at least think they had some cause for anxiety; and so forth, and so on. And he would leave the Countess with a most decided impression that there was something wrong about Claudius. Oh yes! something not quite clear about his antecedents, you know. Of course it would come right in the end—no doubt of that; oh dear, no.

It was a happy night for Mr. Barker; but Claudius slept ill. He had an evil dream.



CHAPTER XII

When Mr. Screw called at Claudius's hotel the next day, the Doctor had gone out. Mr. Screw said he would wait, and sat down with a book to pass the time, for he was fond of reading in his leisure moments, few as they were. Claudius had left the house early in the morning, and had gone to find the spot where his uncle had been buried—no easy matter, in the vast cemetery where the dead men lie in hundreds of thousands, in stately avenues and imposing squares, in houses grand and humble, high and low, but all closed and silent with the grandeur of a great waiting. Claudius was not sentimental in this pilgrimage; it was with him a matter of course, a duty which he performed naturally for the satisfaction of his conscience. He could not have told any other reason, though, if he had been called upon to analyse the feeling which impels most men to do the same thing, under the same circumstances, he would have replied that a scientific explanation of the fact could only be found in the ancient practices of "ancestor worship," of which some trace remains unto this day. But he would have added that it was a proper mark of reverence and respect for the dead, and that man naturally inclines to fulfil such obligations, unless deterred by indolence or the fear of ridicule. At any rate, he went alone; and it was late in the afternoon before he came back.

When at last he returned, he was not surprised to find Mr. Screw awaiting him. He had not found that gentleman on his first visit to Pine Street; and it seemed very natural that his uncle's executor should call upon him. He was cordial and courteous to his visitor, who took the Doctor's measure, and looked into his honest eyes, and realised that this claimant to Lindstrand's money was undoubtedly a very fine fellow indeed. Mr. Screw felt that it would be hard to tell such a man to his face that he was not altogether satisfied of his identity. But then, as the lawyer reflected, swindlers are generally fine fellows; indeed, their imposing appearance is often their whole capital and stock-in-trade. Mr. Screw had a profound knowledge of mankind, and he immediately determined upon his course of action, which should be cautious, but at the same time honest and straightforward. After a preliminary exchange of civilities, he opened fire.

"I have come on very delicate business, Dr. Claudius," said he; and he hooked one leg behind the other as he sat and ran his hands through his hair. Claudius settled himself in his chair and waited, not having any idea what the business might be.

"You will readily understand," continued Mr. Screw, "that in my position I feel obliged to take every conceivable precaution in administering the estate of the late Mr. Lindstrand. You will, therefore, not be offended at what I am going to say. My personality has nothing to do with it, nor can any personal impression you produce upon me, no matter how favourable, be considered in the light of evidence. I have never seen you before, and I am bound to say that the little I know of you, although perfectly satisfactory as far as it goes, is not sufficient to prove in a court that you are really the person indicated in Mr. Lindstrand's will." Here Mr. Screw paused to see how Claudius would take the hint that more evidence was required.

But Claudius, the embodiment of calm strength, intellectual and physical, was not to be moved by such trifles. He showed not the slightest emotion, nor did he betray any especial interest in what the lawyer was saying. His attitude was that of attention to a matter which it was his duty to understand and to elucidate. But that was all. He wished Mr. Screw would talk a little faster, and say what he required and go; but he was too courteous to hurry him.

"My dear sir," he answered, "I fully understand your position, and any apology from you would be out of place. Pray proceed."

"I have nothing more to say," said Mr. Screw, astonished at so much indifference where a great fortune was concerned. "I like to be brief in such matters. I have nothing more to say, sir, excepting that I would be greatly obliged if you would put into my hands such documents as you may think proper for the full establishing of your rights."

"Very well," said Claudius. "If you will tell me what evidence you require I will procure it immediately." "With that he rose, and lighted a cigarette.

"A properly-attested certificate of your birth would be all-sufficient," said Mr. Screw, who began to feel relieved by the conduct of the Doctor. The latter, however, suddenly stood still with the match in his fingers, and looked at the lawyer with a curious scrutiny.

"I would prefer," he said, "to give some other evidence of my identity than that, if it is the same to you."

"If you prefer it, of course," said the lawyer coldly. His suspicions were immediately roused, for he had named the simplest description of document he could think of, and it seemed odd that the Doctor should be so evidently disinclined to produce it.

"I suppose," said the Doctor, "that the formal attestation of my identity by the authorities of the University of Heidelberg would be sufficient?"

"Yes, I should think so," said Screw cautiously. "But will it not take some time to procure that?"

"Well? If it does, what then?"

"Only that—you will understand that until this matter is settled I should not feel justified in authorising you to draw upon the estate."

Claudius's sense of logic was offended.

"My dear sir," he replied, "have I drawn upon the estate for a single dollar yet?"

"No, sir, I am bound to say you have not, although you might have considered it natural to do so, and we should have put no obstacle—" Mr. Screw stopped short. He had betrayed himself, and felt extremely embarrassed. But he said enough to give Claudius an idea of the situation. Something had occurred, some one had spoken, to cast a doubt on his identity; and Mr. Screw was the chosen emissary of that "some one."

"Then, Mr. Screw," said the Doctor in measured tones, "I would admonish you to be more careful how you insinuate that I might do anything of the kind. You have inconvenienced me quite enough already. You had better not inconvenience me any more. I consider your conduct a piece of unparalleled clumsiness, and your language little short of impertinent. What you have said now you should have said in the letter which announced my uncle's death. Or you should have instructed Mr. Barker, who was abroad at the time and found me in Heidelberg, to make the necessary investigations. The evidence shall be forthcoming in proper season, and until then I do not desire the advantage of your company."

Mr. Screw was so much astonished with this mode of address from a man whom he had foolishly imagined to be good-natured that he stood a moment by the table hesitating what he should say. Claudius took up a book and began to read.

"Well," said he, perceiving that Mr. Screw was still in the room, "why don't you go?"

"Really, Dr. Claudius, I am not accustomed—" he began.

"Go," said Claudius, interrupting him; "it is not of the smallest interest to me to know what you are accustomed to. There is the door."

"Sir—"

"Do you prefer the window?" asked the Doctor, rising in great wrath and striding towards the unhappy lawyer. Mr. Screw instantly made up his mind that the door was preferable, and disappeared. When he was gone Claudius sat down again. He was very angry; but, in his own view, his anger was just. It was very clear to him, from the words Mr. Screw had inadvertently let fall, that some one had, for reasons unknown, undertaken to cause him a great deal of unpleasantness. What he had said to Screw was not to be denied. If there was any question as to his identity, full proof should have been required from the first. But his autograph letter from Heidelberg, attested by a notary, had been accepted as sufficient; and "Screw and Scratch" had answered the letter, and Claudius had received their answer in Baden. It had never entered his head that anything more would be required. So long as Screw had confined himself to stating his position, merely asking for further evidence, the Doctor had nothing to say. But at the suggestion that Claudius might want to draw money from the estate before his claims were fully established, he lost his temper. It was an imputation on his honour; and, however slight it might seem to Mr. Screw, Claudius was not the man to bear it.

Ten minutes later Mr. Barker walked in unannounced. It was natural enough that he should call, but Claudius did not want him. The Doctor had not had time to think over the situation, but he had, a vague impression that Barker had something to do with this sudden cloud of annoyance that had risen to darken his path. Barker, on his side, was prepared for storms, but he intended to play the part of confidential friend and consoler. Claudius, however, wanted neither friends nor consolation, and he was in the worst of tempers. Nevertheless, he rose and offered his guest a chair, and asked him how he did. Barker took the chair and said he was fairly well, on the way to recovery from the voyage.

"What have you been doing all day, Claudius?" he asked.

"I have been to a place called Greenwood, to see where they had buried my uncle," answered Claudius, and relapsed into silence.

"No wonder you look so gloomy. Whatever induced you to do such a thing?"

"I was not induced," said Claudius. "He was my last relation in the world, and I did the only thing I could to honour his memory, which was to go and see his grave."

"Yes, very proper, I am sure," replied Barker. "If my relations would begin and die, right away, I would trot around and see their graves fast enough!"

Claudius was silent.

"What on earth is the matter with you, Claudius? Have you got a headache, or are you going to be married?"

Claudius roused himself, and offered Barker a cigar.

"There is nothing the matter," he said; "I suppose my excursion has made me a little gloomy; but I shall soon get over that. There are matches on the mantelpiece."

"Thanks. Why did you not come down town to-day? Oh! of course you were away. It was very good fun. We had a regular bear garden."

"It looked like something of that sort yesterday when I was there."

"Yesterday? Oh! you had never been there before. Yes, it is always like that. I say, come and take a drive in the park before dinner."

"No, thanks. I am very sorry, but I have an appointment in a few minutes. I would like to go very much; you are very kind."

"Business?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Barker.

"Well—yes, if you like, business."

"Oh!" said Barker. "By the by, have you seen any of your lawyer people to-day?" Barker had expected that Claudius would confide to him the trouble Screw was raising. But as Claudius did not begin, Barker asked the question.

"Yes," answered the Doctor, "Screw has been here. In fact he is just gone."

"Anything wrong?" inquired the tormentor.

"No, nothing wrong that I know of," said Claudius. Then he suddenly turned sharply on Barker, and looked straight at him. "Did you expect to hear that there was anything wrong?" he asked quickly. Claudius had a very unpleasant way of turning upon his antagonist just a minute before the enemy was ready for him. Barker had found this out before, and, being now directly interrogated, he winced perceptibly.

"Oh dear, no," he hastened to say. "But lawyers are great bores sometimes, especially where wills are concerned. And I thought perhaps Screw might be wearying you with his formalities."

"No," said Claudius indifferently, "nothing to—" he was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was the Duke's servant, a quiet man in gray clothes and gray whiskers. He had a bald head and bright eyes.

"His Grace's compliments, sir, and can you see him now, sir?"

"Yes, I will come in a moment," said Claudius.

"I think, sir," said the man, "that his Grace is coming to your rooms."

"Very good. My compliments, and I shall be glad to see him." The gray servant vanished.

Barker rose to go; but Claudius was begging him not to hurry, when there was another knock, and the Duke entered. He shook hands with Claudius, and spoke rather coldly to Barker. The latter was uneasy, and felt that he was in the way. He was. Barker had fallen into a singular error of judgment in regard to the relations existing between the Duke and Claudius. He had imagined it in his power to influence the Duke's opinion, whereas in trying to effect that object he had roused the Englishman's animosity. Besides, Mr. Barker was to the Duke a caprice. He found the quick-thinking man of business amusing and even useful, but for steady companionship he did not want him. A passage across the Atlantic was more than enough to satisfy his desire for Mr. Barker's society, even if Barker had not managed to excite his indignation. But Claudius was different. The honest nobleman could not tell why it was, but it was true, nevertheless. He looked upon the Doctor more as an equal than Barker. The Duke was a very great man in his own country, and it was singular indeed that he should find a man to his liking, a man who seemed of his own caste and calibre, in the simple privat-docent of a German university. Perhaps Barker felt it too. At all events, when the Duke sat himself down in Claudius's room, after begging permission to ring for lights, and made himself most evidently at home, Mr. Barker felt that he was in the way; and so, promising to call on Claudius again in the morning, he departed. Claudius stood by the mantelpiece while the servant lit the gas.

"I am very glad to see you," he said, when the man had gone.

"I am glad of that, for I want your society. The Countess Margaret has a headache, and Lady Victoria has gone to dine in her rooms, and to spend the evening with her."

"I am very sorry to hear that the Countess is not well," said Claudius, "but I am very glad of anything that brings you here to-night. I am in trouble—that is, I have been very much annoyed."

"Ah, very sorry," said the Duke.

"It so happens that you are the only person in America, as far as I know, who can help me."

"I?" The Duke opened his eyes wide. Then he reflected that it might be something concerning the Countess, and waited.

"You are a gentleman," said Claudius reflectively, and hardly addressing his visitor as he said it.

"Quite so," said the Duke. "It's a very fine word that."

"And a man of honour," continued Claudius in a meditative tone.

"The deuce and all, it's the same thing," said the Duke, rather puzzled.

"Yes; in some countries it is. Now, what I want to ask you is this. Could you, as a gentleman and a man of honour, swear in a court of law that you know me, and that I am the person I represent myself to be? That is the question."

The Duke was too much surprised to answer directly. He made a great fuss over his cigar, and got up and shut the window. Then he sat down in another chair.

"I don't know what you mean," he said at last, to gain time.

"I mean what I say," said Claudius. "Could you swear, before the Supreme Court of the United States, for instance, that I am Claudius, sometime student, now Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Heidelberg in Germany? Could you swear that?"

"My dear boy," said the other, "what in the world are you driving at?" The Duke realised that he could not conscientiously swear to any such statement as that proposed by Claudius; and, liking him as he did, he was much distressed at being put into such a corner.

"I will tell you afterwards what it is about, Duke," said Claudius. "I am serious, and I would like you to answer the question, though I foresee that you will say you could not swear to anything of the kind."

"Honestly, Claudius, though there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that you are what you appear to be, I could not conscientiously swear it in evidence. I do not know anything about you. But Barker could."

"No, he could not. He knows no more about me than you do, saving that he met me two or three days sooner. He met me in Heidelberg, it is true, but he made no inquiries whatever concerning me. It never entered his head that I could be anything but what I professed to be."

"I should think not, indeed," said the Duke warmly.

"But now that I am here in the flesh, these lawyers are making trouble. One of them was here a little while since, and he wanted documentary evidence of my identity."

"Who was the lawyer?"

"A Mr. Screw, one of the executors of the will."

"Who is the other executor?" asked the Duke quickly.

"Barker's father."

The Englishman's face darkened, and he puffed savagely at his cigar. He had been angry with Barker the day before. Now he began to suspect him of making trouble.

"What sort of evidence did the man want?" he asked at length.

"Any sort of documentary evidence would do. He asked me for my certificate of birth, and I told him he could not have it. And then he went so far as to remark in a very disagreeable way that he could not authorise me to draw upon the estate until I produced evidence."

"Well, that is natural enough."

"It would have been so at first. But they had accepted the mere signature to my letter from Heidelberg as proof of my existence, and I got word in Baden in July that I might draw as much as I pleased. And now they turn upon me and say I am not myself. Something has happened. Fortunately I have not touched the money, in spite of their kind permission."

"There is something very odd about this, Claudius. Have you got such a thing as a birth certificate to show?"

"Yes," answered Claudius, after a pause. "I have everything in perfect order, my mother's marriage and all."

"Then why, in Heaven's name, can you not show it, and put all these rascally lawyers to flight?"

"Because—" Claudius began, but he hesitated and stopped. "It is a curious story," he said, "and it is precisely what I want to talk to you about."

"Is it very long?" asked the Duke; "I have not dined yet."

"No, it will not take long, and if you have nothing better to do we will dine together afterwards. But first there are two things I want to say. If I prove to you that I am the son of my uncle's sister, will you tell Mr. Screw that you know it for a fact, that is, that if it had to be sworn to, you would be willing to swear to it?"

"If you prove it to me so that I am legally sure of it, of course I will."

"The other thing I will ask you is, not to divulge what I shall tell you, or show you. You may imagine from my being unwilling to show these papers, even to a lawyer, when my own fortune is concerned, that I attach some importance to secrecy."

"You may trust me," said the Duke; "you have my word," he added, as if reluctantly. People whose word is to be trusted are generally slow to give it. Claudius bowed his head courteously, in acknowledgment of the plighted promise. Then he opened a trunk that stood in a corner of the room, and took from it the iron box in which he had deposited the lawyer's letter on that evening three months before, when his destiny had roused itself from its thirty years' slumber. He set the box on the table, and having locked the door of the room sat down opposite his guest. He took a key from his pocket.

"You will think it strange," he said with a smile, "that I should have taken the liberty of confiding to you my secret. But when you have seen what is there, you will perceive that you are the most fitting confidant in this country—for general reasons, of course; for I need not say there is nothing in those papers which concerns you personally." Claudius unlocked the box and took out a few letters that were lying on the top, then he pushed the casket across the table to the Duke.

"Will you please examine the contents for yourself?" he said. "There are only three or four papers to read—the rest are letters from my father to my mother—you may look at them if you like; they are very old."

All this time the Duke looked very grave. He was not accustomed to have his word of honour asked for small matters, and if this were some trivial question of an assumed name, or the like, he was prepared to be angry with Claudius. So he silently took the little strong box, and examined the contents. There were two packages of papers, two or three morocco cases that might contain jewels, and there was a string of pearls lying loose in the bottom of the casket. The Duke took the pearls curiously in his hand and held them to the light. He had seen enough of such things to know something of their value, and he knew this string might be worth anywhere from eight to ten thousand pounds. He looked graver than ever.

"Those are beautiful pearls, Dr. Claudius," he said; "too beautiful for a Heidelberg student to have lying about among his traps." He turned them over and added, "The Duchess has nothing like them."

"They belonged to my mother," said Claudius simply. "I know nothing of their value."

The Duke took the papers and untied the smaller package, which appeared to contain legal documents, while the larger seemed to be a series of letters filed in their envelopes, as they had been received.

"My mother's name was Maria Lindstrand," said Claudius. He leaned back, smoking the eternal cigarette, and watched the Duke's face.

Before the Englishman had proceeded far he looked up at Claudius, uttering an exclamation of blank amazement. Claudius merely bent his head as if to indorse the contents of the paper, and was silent. The Duke read the papers carefully through, and examined one of them very minutely by the light. Then he laid them down with a certain reverence, as things he respected.

"My dear Claudius—" he rose and extended his hand to the young man with a gesture that had in it much of dignity and something of pride. "My dear Claudius, I shall all my life remember that you honoured me with your confidence. I accepted it as a token of friendship, but I am now able to look upon it as a very great distinction."

"And I, Duke, shall never forget that you believed in me on my own merits, before you were really able to swear that I was myself." Claudius had also risen, and their hands remained clasped a moment. Then Claudius applied himself to rearranging the contents of his box; and the Duke walked up and down the room, glancing from time to time at the Doctor. He stopped suddenly in his walk.

"But—goodness gracious! why have you kept this a secret?" he asked, as if suddenly recollecting himself.

"My mother," said Claudius, "was too proud to come forward and claim what my father, but for his untimely death, would have given her in a few months. As for me, I have been contented in my life, and would have been unwilling to cause pain to any one by claiming my rights. My mother died when I was a mere child, and left these papers sealed, directing me not to open them until I should be twenty-one years old. And so when I opened them, I made up my mind to do nothing about it."

"It is not easy to understand you, Claudius; but I will swear to anything you like."

"Thank you; I am very grateful."

"Do not speak of that. I am proud to be of service. By the by, the present—the present incumbent is childless, I believe. He must be your father's brother?"

"Yes," said Claudius. "Should he die, I would not hesitate any longer."

"No indeed, I hope not. It is a shame as it is."

"By the by," said Claudius, who had put away his box; "why did you not go to Newport to-day? I meant to go on to-morrow and meet you there. This business had put it out of my head."

"Lady Victoria and the Countess both wanted to stay another day."

"Is the Countess ill?" asked Claudius. "Or do you think she would see me this evening?"

"I do not think there is anything especial the matter. She will very likely see you after dinner. As for me, I am hungry; I have walked all over New York this afternoon."

"Very well, let us dine. You know New York, and must select the place."

Arm-in-arm they went away together, and the Duke introduced Claudius to the glories of Delmonico's.



CHAPTER XIII.

Troubles never come singly; moreover, they come on horseback, and go away on foot. If Claudius had passed an unpleasant afternoon, the Countess's day had been darkened with the shadow of a very serious difficulty. Early in the morning her maid had brought her coffee, and with it a note in a foreign hand. The maid, who was French, and possessed the usual characteristics of French maids, had exhausted her brain in trying to discover who the sender might be. But the missive was sealed with wax, and a plain "N" was all the impression. So she adopted the usual expedient of busying herself in the room, while her mistress opened the note, hoping that some chance exclamation, or even perhaps an answer, might give her curiosity the food it longed for. But Margaret read and reread the note, and tore it up into very small pieces, thoughtfully; and, as an afterthought, she burned them one by one over a wax taper till nothing was left. Then she sent her maid away and fell to thinking. But that did not help her much; and the warm sun stole through the windows, and the noise in the street prevented her from sleeping, for she was unused to the sound of wheels after the long weeks at sea. And so she rang for her maid again. The maid came, bringing another note, which, she said, had been given her by "Monsieur Clodiuse;" and would there be an answer?

It was simply a few lines to say he was going to be away all day, and that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing the Countess in Newport to-morrow. But for some reason or other Margaret was not pleased with the note, and merely said there would be no answer.

"Madame would she dress herself to go out, or to keep the lodging?"

Madame would not go out. Was it warm? Oh yes, it was very warm. In fact it was hebetant. Would Madame see Monsieur le Duc if he called at eleven? Monseigneur's Monsieur Veelees had charged her to inquire of Madame. No, Madame would not see Monsieur le Duc this morning. But if any one called, Madame desired to be informed. Madame would be served. And so the toilet proceeded.

It was not very long before some one called. There was a knock at the door of the bedroom. Clementine left the Countess's hair, which she was busy combing and tressing, and went to the door. It was old Vladimir, Margaret's faithful Russian servant.

"At this hour!" exclaimed the Countess, who was not in the best of tempers. "What does he want?"

Vladimir ventured to make a remark in Russian, from the door, which produced an immediate effect. Margaret rose swiftly, overturning her chair and sweeping various small articles from the table in her rapid movement. She went very quickly to the door, her magnificent black hair all hanging down. She knew enough Russian to talk to the servant.

"What did you say, Vladimir?"

"Margareta Ivanowna"—Margaret's father's name had been John—"Nicolai Alexandrewitch is here," said Vladimir, who seemed greatly surprised. His geographical studies having been purely experimental, the sudden appearance of a Russian gentleman led him to suppose his mistress had landed in some outlying part of Russia, or at least of Europe. So she bade the old servant conduct the gentleman to her sitting-room and ask him to wait. She was not long in finishing her toilet. Before she left the room a servant of the hotel brought another box of flowers from Mr. Barker. Clementine cut the string and opened the pasteboard shell. Margaret glanced indifferently at the profusion of roses and pink pond-lilies—a rare variety only found in two places in America, on Long Island and near Boston—and having looked, she turned to go.

Clementine held up two or three flowers, as if to try the effect of them on Margaret's dress.

"Madame would she not put some flowers in her dress?"

No. Madame would not. Madame detested flowers. Whereat the intelligent Clementine carefully examined the name of the sender, inscribed on a card which lay in the top of the box. Mr. Barker knew better than to send flowers anonymously. He wanted all the credit he could get. The Countess swept out of the room.

At the door of the sitting-room she was met by a young man, who bent low to kiss her extended hand, and greeted her with a manner which was respectful indeed, but which showed that he felt himself perfectly at ease in her society.

Nicolai Alexandrewitch, whom we will call simply Count Nicholas, was the only brother of Margaret's dead husband. Like Alexis, he had been a soldier in a guard regiment; Alexis had been killed at Plevna, and Nicholas had succeeded to the title and the estates, from which, however, a considerable allowance was paid to the Countess as a jointure.

Nicholas was a handsome man of five or six and twenty, of middle height, swarthy complexion, and compact figure. His beard was very black, and he wore it in a pointed shape. His eyes were small and deep-set, but full of intelligence. He had all the manner and appearance of a man of gentle birth, but there was something more; an indescribable, undefinable air that hung about him. Many Russians have it, and the French have embodied the idea it conveys in their proverb that if you scratch a Russian you will find the Tartar. It is rather a trait of Orientalism in the blood, and it is to be noticed as much in Servians, Bulgarians, Roumanians, and even Hungarians, as in Russians. It is the peculiarity of most of these races that under certain circumstances, if thoroughly roused, they will go to any length, with a scorn of consequence which seems to the Western mind both barbarous and incomprehensible. Margaret had always liked him. He was wild; but he was a courteous gentleman, and could always be depended upon.

"Mon cher," said Margaret, "I need not tell you I am enchanted to see you, but what is the meaning of the things you wrote me this morning? Are you really in trouble?"

"Helas, yes. I am in the worst kind of trouble that exists for a Russian. I am in political trouble—and that entails everything else."

"Tell me all about it," said she. "Perhaps I may help you."

"Ah no! you cannot help. It is not for that I am come. I have a confession to make that concerns you."

"Well?" said she, with a smile. She did not suppose it could be anything very bad.

"You will be angry, of course," he said, "but that is nothing. I have done you an injury that I cannot repair."

"Enfin, my dear Nicholas, tell me. I do not believe anything bad of you."

"You are kindness itself, and I thank you in advance. Wait till you have heard. I am 'suspect,'—they think I am a Nihilist I am exiled to the mines, and everything is confiscated. Voila! Could it be worse?"

Margaret was taken off her guard. She had herself been in more than easy circumstances at the time of her marriage, but the financial crisis in America, which occurred soon after that event, had greatly crippled her resources. She had of late looked chiefly to her jointure for all the luxuries which were so necessary to her life. To find this suddenly gone, in a moment, without the slightest preparation, was extremely embarrassing. She covered her eyes with one hand for a moment to collect her thoughts and to try and realise the extent of the disaster. Nicholas mistook the gesture.

"You will never forgive me, I know. I do not deserve that you should. But I will do all in my power to repair the evil. I will go to Siberia if they will consider your rights to the estate."

Margaret withdrew her hand, and looked earnestly at the young man.

"Forgive you?" said she. "My dear Nicholas, you do not suppose I seriously think there is anything to forgive?"

"But it is true," he said piteously; "in ruining me they have ruined you. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! If I only had a friend—"

"Taisez vous donc, mon ami. It is everything most bete what you say. You have many friends, and as for me, I do not care a straw for the money. Only if I had known I would not have left Europe. Voila tout."

"Ah, that is it," said Nicholas. "I escaped the police and hurried to Baden. But you were gone. So I took the first steamer and came here. But I have waited ten days, and it was only last night I saw in the papers that you had arrived yesterday morning. And here I am."

Margaret rose, from a feeling that she must move about—the restless fiend that seizes energetic people in their trouble. Nicholas thought it was a sign for him to go. He took his hat.

"Believe me—" he began, about to take his leave.

"You are not going?" said Margaret. "Oh no. Wait, and we will think of some expedient. Besides you have not told me half what I want to know. The money is of no consequence; but what had you done to lead to such a sentence? Are you really a Nihilist?"

"Dieu m'en garde!" said the Count devoutly. "I am a Republican, that is all. Seulement, our Holy Russia does not distinguish."

"Is not the distinction very subtle?"

"The difference between salvation by education and salvation by dynamite; the difference between building up and tearing down, between Robespierre and Monsieur Washington."

"You must have been indiscreet. How could they have found it out?"

"I was bete enough to write an article in the Russki Mir—the mildest of articles. And then some of the Nihilist agents thought I was in their interests and wanted to see me, and the police observed them, and I was at once classed as a Nihilist myself, and there was a perquisition in my house. They found some notes and a few manuscripts of mine, quite enough to suit their purpose, and so the game was up."

"But they did not arrest you?"

"No. As luck would have it, I was in Berlin at the time, on leave from my regiment, for I was never suspected before in the least. And the Nihilists, who, to tell the truth, are well organised and take good care of their brethren, succeeded in passing word to me not to come back. A few days afterwards the Russian Embassy were hunting for me in Berlin. But I had got away. Sentence was passed in contempt, and I read the news in the papers on my way to Paris. There is the whole history."

"Have you any money?" inquired Margaret after a pause.

"Mon Dieu! I have still a hundred napoleons. After that the deluge."

"By that time we shall be ready for the deluge," said Margaret cheerfully. "I have many friends, and something may yet be done. Meanwhile do not distress yourself about me; you know I have something of my own."

"How can I thank you for your kindness? You ought to hate me, and instead you console!"

"My dear friend, if I did not like you for your own sake, I would help you because you are poor Alexis's brother." There was no emotion in her voice at the mention of her dead husband, only a certain reverence. She had honoured him more than she had loved him.

"Princesse, quand meme," said Nicholas in a low voice, as he raised her fingers to his lips.

"Leave me your address before you go. I will write as soon as I have decided what to do." Nicholas scratched the name of a hotel on his card.

When he was gone Margaret sank into a chair. She would have sent for Claudius—Claudius was a friend—but she recollected his note, and thought with some impatience that just when she needed him most he was away. Then she thought of Lady Victoria, and she rang the bell. But Lady Victoria had gone out with her brother, and they had taken Miss Skeat. Margaret was left alone in the great hotel. Far off she could hear a door shut or the clatter of the silver covers of some belated breakfast service finding its way up or down stairs. And in the street the eternal clatter and hum and crunch, and crunch and hum and clatter of men and wheels; the ceaseless ring of the tram-cars stopping every few steps to pick up a passenger, and the jingle of the horses' bells as they moved on. It was hot—it was very hot. Clementine was right, it was hebetant, as it can be in New York in September. She bethought herself that she might go out and buy things, that last resource of a rich woman who is tired and bored.

Buy things! She had forgotten that she was ruined. Well, not quite that, but it seemed like it. It would be long before she would feel justified in buying anything more for the mere amusement of the thing. She tried to realise what it would be like to be poor. But she failed entirely, as women of her sort always do. She was brave enough if need be; if it must come, she had the courage to be poor. But she had not the skill to paint to herself what it would be like. She could not help thinking of Claudius. It would be so pleasant just now to have him sitting there by her side, reading some one of those wise books he was so fond of.

It was so hot. She wished something would happen. Poor Nicholas! He need not have been so terribly cut up about the money. Who is there? It was Vladimir. Vladimir brought a card. Yes, she would see the gentleman. Vladimir disappeared, and a moment after ushered in Mr. Horace Bellingham, commonly known as "Uncle Horace."

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Bellingham," said Margaret, who had conceived a great liking for the old gentleman on the previous evening, and who would have welcomed anybody this morning.

Mr. Bellingham made a bow of the courtliest, most ancien-regime kind. He had ventured to bring her a few flowers. Would she accept them? They were only three white roses, but there was more beauty in them than in all Mr. Barker's profusion. Margaret took them, and smelled them, and fastened them at her waist, and smiled a divine smile on the bearer.

"Thank you, so much," said she.

"No thanks," said he; "I am more than repaid by your appreciation;" and he rubbed his hands together and bowed again, his head a little on one side, as if deprecating any further acknowledgment. Then he at once began to talk a little, to give her time to select her subject if she would; for he belonged to a class of men who believe it their duty to talk to women, and who do not expect to sit with folded hands and be amused. To such men America is a revelation of social rest. In America the women amuse the men, and the men excuse themselves by saying that they work hard all day, and cannot be expected to work hard all the evening. It is evidently a state of advanced civilisation, incomprehensible to the grosser European mind—a state where talking to a woman is considered to be hard work. Or—in fear and trembling it is suggested—is it because they are not able to amuse their womankind? Is their refusal a testimonium paupertatis ingenii? No—perish the thought! It may have been so a long time ago, in the Golden Age. This is not the Golden Age; it is the Age of Gold. Messieurs! faites votre jeu!

By degrees it became evident that Margaret wanted to talk about Russia, and Mr. Bellingham humoured her, and gave her a good view of the situation, and told anecdotes of the Princess Dolgorouki, and drew the same distinction between Nihilists and Republicans that Count Nicholas had made an hour earlier in the same room. Seeing she was so much interested, Mr. Bellingham took courage to ask a question that had puzzled him for some time. He stroked his snowy beard, and hesitated slightly.

"Pardon me, if I am indiscreet, Madam," he said at last, "but I read in the papers the other day that a nobleman of your name—a Count Nicholas, I think—had landed in New York, having escaped the clutches of the Petersburg police, who wanted to arrest him as a Nihilist. Was he—was he any relation of yours?"

"He is my brother-in-law," said Margaret, rather startled at seeing the point to which she had led the conversation. But she felt a strong sympathy for Mr. Bellingham, and she was glad to be able to speak on the subject to any one. She stood so much in need of advice; and, after all, if the story was in the papers it was public property by this time. Mr. Bellingham was a perfect diplomatist, and, being deeply interested, he had soon learned all the details of the case by heart.

"It is very distressing," he said gravely. But that was all. Margaret had had some faint idea that he might offer to help her—it was absurd, of course—or at least that he might give her some good advice. But that was not Mr. Bellingham's way of doing things. If he intended to do anything, the last thing he would think of would be to tell her of his intention. He led the conversation away, and having rounded it neatly with a couple of anecdotes of her grandmother, he rose to go, pleading an engagement. He really had so many appointments in a day that he seldom kept more than half of them, and his excuse was no polite invention. He bowed himself out, and when he was gone Margaret felt as though she had lost a friend.

She wearied of the day—so long, so hot, and so unfortunate. She tried a book, and then she tried to write a letter, and then she tried to think again. It seemed to her that there was so little to think about, for she had a hopeless helpless consciousness that there was nothing to be done that she could do. She might have written to her friends in Petersburg—of course she would do that, and make every possible representation. But all that seemed infinitely far off, and could be done as well to-morrow as to-day. At last Lady Victoria came back, and at sight of her Margaret resolved to confide in her likewise. She had so much common sense, and always seemed able to get at the truth. Therefore, in the afternoon Margaret monopolised Lady Victoria and carried her off, and they sat together with their work by the open window, and the Countess was "not at home."

In truth, a woman of the world in trouble of any kind could not do better than confide in Lady Victoria. She is so frank and honest that when you talk to her your trouble seems to grow small and your heart big. She has not a great deal of intellect; but, then, she has a great deal of common sense. Common sense is, generally speaking, merely a dislike of complications, and a consequent refusal on the part of the individual to discover them. People of vivid imagination delight in magnifying the difficulties of life by supposing themselves the centre of much scheming, plotting, and cheap fiction. They cheerfully give their time and their powers to the study of social diplomacy. It is reserved for people intellectually very high or very low in the scale to lead a really simple life. The average mind of the world is terribly muddled on most points, and altogether beside itself as regards its individual existence; for a union of much imagination, unbounded vanity, and unfathomable ignorance can never take the place of an intellect, while such a combination cannot fail to destroy the blessed vis inertiae of the primitive fool, who only sees what is visible, instead of evolving the phantoms of an airy unreality from the bottomless abyss of his own so-called consciousness. Fortunately for humanity, the low-class unimaginative mind predominates in the world, as far as numbers are concerned; and there are enough true intellects among men to leaven the whole. The middle class of mind is a small class, congregated together chiefly within the boundaries of a very amusing institution calling itself "society." These people have scraped and varnished the aforesaid composition of imagination, ignorance, and vanity, into a certain conventional thing which they mendaciously term their "intelligence," from a Latin verb intelligo, said to mean "I understand." It is a poor thing, after all the varnishing. It is neither hammer nor anvil; it cannot strike, and, if you strike it, dissolution instantly takes place, after which the poor driveller is erroneously said to have "lost his mind," and is removed to an asylum. It is curious that the great majority of lunatics should be found in "society." Society says that all men of genius are more or less mad; but it is a notable fact that very few men of genius have ever been put in madhouses, whereas the society that calls those men crazy is always finding its way there. It takes but little to make a lunatic of poor Lady Smith-Tompkins. Poor thing! you know she is so very "high-strung," such delicate sensibilities! She has an idee fixe—so very sad. Ah yes! that is it. She never had an idea before, and now that she has one she cannot get rid of it, and it will kill her in time.

Now people whose intellect is of a low class are not disturbed with visions of all that there is to be known, nor with a foolish desire to appear to know it. On the other hand, they are perfectly capable of understanding what is honourable or dishonourable, mean or generous, and they are very tenacious of these principles, believing that in the letter of the law is salvation. They are not vain of qualities and powers not theirs; and, consequently, when they promise, they promise what they are able to perform. Occasionally such characters appear in "society,"—rare creatures, in whom a pernicious education has not spoiled the simplicity and honesty which is their only virtue. They fall naturally into the position of confessors to the community, for the community requires confessors of some sort. In them confides the hardened sinner bursting with evil deeds and the accumulation of petty naughtiness. To them comes the beardless ass, simpering from his first adventure, and generally "afraid he has compromised" the mature woman of the world, whom he has elected to serve, desiring to know what he ought to do about it. To them, too, comes sometimes the real sufferer with his or her little tale of woe, hesitatingly told, half hinted, hoping to be wholly understood. They are good people, these social confessors, though they seldom give much advice. Nevertheless, it is such a help to tell one's story and hear how it sounds!

Lady Victoria was not a woman of surpassing intellect; perhaps she had no intellect at all. She belonged to the confessors above referred to. She was the soul of honour, of faith, and of secrecy. People were always making confidences to her, and they always felt the better for it—though she herself could not imagine why. And so even Margaret came and told her troubles. Only, as Margaret was really intelligent, she did not hesitate or make any fuss about telling, when once she had made up her mind. The story was, indeed, public property by this time, and Lady Victoria was sure to know it all before long from other people. When Margaret had finished, she laid down her work and looked out of the window, waiting.

"I need not tell you I am sorry," said Lady Victoria. "You know that, my dear. But what will you do? It will be so very awkward for you, you know."

"I hardly can tell yet—what would you do in my place?"

"Let me see," said the English girl. "What would I do? You must have a Russian minister here somewhere. I think I would send for him, if I were you."

"But it takes so long—so dreadfully long, to get anything done in that way," said Margaret. And they discussed the point in a desultory fashion. Of course Lady Victoria's suggestion was the simplest and most direct one. She was quite certain that Margaret would get her rights very soon.

"Of course," said she, "they must do it. It would be so unjust not to." She looked at Margaret with a bright smile, as if there was no such thing as injustice in the world. But the Countess looked grave; and as she leaned back in her deep arm-chair by the window, with half-closed eyes, it was easy to see she was in trouble. She needed help and sympathy and comfort. She had never needed help before, and it was not a pleasant sensation to her; perhaps she was dissatisfied when she realised whose help of all others she would most gladly accept. At least it would be most pleasant that he should offer it. "He"—has it come to that? Poor Margaret! If "he" represented a sorrow instead of a happiness, would you confide that too to Lady Victoria? Or would you feel the least shadow of annoyance because you miss him to-day? Perhaps it is only habit. You have schooled yourself to believe you ought to do without him, and you fancy you ought to be angry with yourself for transgressing your rule. But what avails your schooling against the little god? He will teach you a lesson you will not forget. The day is sinking. The warm earth is drinking out its cup of sunlight to the purple dregs thereof. There is great colour in the air, and the clouds are as a trodden wine-press in the west. The old sun, the golden bowl of life, is touching earth's lips, and soon there will be none of the wine of light left in him. She will drink it all. Yet your lover tarries, Margaret, and comes not.

Margaret and Lady Victoria agreed they would dine together. Indeed, Margaret had a little headache, for she was weary. They would dine together, and then read something in the evening—quite alone; and so they did. It was nearly nine o'clock when the servant announced Claudius and the Duke. The latter, of course, knew nothing about Margaret's troubles, and was in high spirits. As for Claudius, his momentary excitement, caused by Mr. Screw's insinuations, had long since passed away, and he was as calm as ever, meditating a graphic description of his day's excursion to Greenwood Cemetery for Margaret's benefit. It was a lugubrious subject, but he well knew how to make his talk interesting. It is the individual, not the topic, that makes the conversation; if a man can talk well, graveyards are as good a subject as the last novel, and he will make tombstones more attractive than scandal.

No one could have told from Claudius's appearance or conversation that night that there was anything in the world to cloud his happiness. He talked to the woman he loved with a serene contempt for everything else in the world—a contempt, too, which was not assumed. He was perfectly happy for the nonce, and doubly so in that such a happy termination to a very long day was wholly unexpected. He had thought that he should find the party gone from New York on his return from Greenwood, and this bit of good luck seemed to have fallen to him out of a clear sky. Margaret was glad to see him too; she was just now in that intermediate frame of mind during which a woman only reasons about a man in his absence. The moment he appears, the electric circuit is closed and the quiescent state ceases. She was at the point when his coming made a difference that she could feel; when she heard his step her blood beat faster, and she could feel herself turning a shade paler. Then the heavy lids would droop a little to hide what was in her dark eyes, and there were many voices in her ear, as though the very air cried gloria, while her heart answered in excelsis. But when he was come the gentle tale seemed carried on, as from the hour of his last going; and while he stayed life seemed one long day.

She had struggled hard, but in her deepest thoughts she had foreseen the termination. It is the instinct of good women to fight against love—he comes in such a questionable shape. A good woman sees a difference between being in love and loving—well knowing that there is passion without love, but no love without passion. She feels bound in faith to set up a tribunal in her heart, whereby to judge between the two; but very often judge and jury and prisoner at the bar join hands, and swear eternal friendship on the spot. Margaret had feared lest this Northern wooer, with his mighty strength and his bold eyes, should lead her feelings whither her heart would not. Sooner than suffer that, she would die. And yet there is a whole unspoken prophecy of love in every human soul, and his witness is true.

All this evening they sat side by side, welding their bonds. Each had a secret care, but each forgot it utterly. Claudius would not have deigned to think of his own troubles when he was with her; and she never once remembered how, during that morning, she had longed to tell him all about her brother-in-law. They talked of all sorts of things, and they made up their minds to go to Newport the next day.

Miss Skeat asked whether Newport was as romantic as Scarborough.



CHAPTER XIV.

There were odours of Russian cigarettes in Mr. Horace Bellingham's room, and two smokers were industriously adding to the fragrant cloud. One was the owner of the dwelling himself, and the other was Claudius. He sat upon the sofa that stood between the two windows of the room, which was on the ground floor, and looked out on the street. The walls were covered with pictures wherever they were not covered with books, and there was not an available nook or corner unfilled with scraps of bric-a-brac, photographs, odds and ends of reminiscence, and all manner of things characteristic to the denizen of the apartment. The furniture was evidently calculated more for comfort than display, and if there was an air of luxury pervading the bachelor's quiet rez-de-chaussee, it was due to the rare volumes on the shelves and the good pictures on the walls, rather than to the silk or satin of the high-art upholsterer, or the gilding and tile work of the modern decorator, who ravages upon beauty as a fungus upon a fruit tree. Whatever there was in Mr. Bellingham's rooms was good; much of it was unique, and the whole was harmonious. Rare editions were bound by famous binders, and if the twopenny-halfpenny productions of some little would-be modern poet, resplendent with vellum and aesthetic greenliness of paper, occasionally found their way to the table, they never travelled as far as the shelves. Mr. Bellingham had fools enough about him to absorb his spare trash.

On this particular occasion the old gentleman was seated in an arm-chair at his table, and Claudius, as aforesaid, had established himself upon the sofa. He looked very grave and smoked thoughtfully.

"I wish I knew what to do," he said. "Mr. Bellingham, do you think I could be of any use?"

"If I had not thought so, I would not have told you—I could have let you find it out for yourself from the papers. You can be of a great deal of use."

"Do you advise me to go to St. Petersburg and see about it then?"

"Of course I do. Start at once. You can get the necessary steps taken in no time, if you go now."

"I am ready. But how in the world can I get the thing done?"

"Letters. Your English friend over there will give you letters to the English Ambassador; he is Lord Fitzdoggin—cousin of the Duke's. And I will give you some papers that will be of use. I know lots of people in Petersburg. Why, it's as plain as a pikestaff. Besides, you know the proverb, mitte sapientem et nihil dicas. That means then when you send a wise man you must not dictate to him."