'It's very hot, you know,' he said, in his rich voice, as Villiers accepted the flask.

'What, this?' asked Villiers, indicating the flask, as he slowly unscrewed the top.

'No; the day, my boy, the day. Ha! ha! ha!' said the lively stranger, going off into fits of laughter, which vibrated like small thunder amid the high rocks surrounding them. 'Good line for a comedy, I think. Ha! ha!—gad, I'll make a note of it,' and diving into one of the pockets of his coat, he produced therefrom an old letter, on the back of which he inscribed the witticism with the stump of a pencil.

Meanwhile Villiers, thinking the flask contained brandy, or at least whisky, took a long drink of it, but found to his horror it was merely a weak solution of sherry and water.

'Oh, my poor stomach,' he gasped, taking the flask from his lips.

'Colic?' inquired the stranger with a pleasant smile, as he put back the letter and pencil, 'hot water fomentations are what you need. Wonderful cure. Will bring you to life again though you were at your last gasp. Ha!' struck with a sudden idea, '"His Last Gasp", good title for a melodrama—mustn't forget that,' and out came the letter and the pencil again.

Mr Villiers explained in a somewhat gruff tone that it was not colic, but that his medical attendant allowed him to drink nothing but whisky.

'To be taken twenty times a day, I presume,' observed the stranger, with a wink; 'no offence meant, sir,' as Villiers showed a disposition to resent this, 'merely a repartee. Good for a comedy, I fancy; what do you think?'

'I think,' said Mr Villiers, handing him back the flask, 'that you're very eccentric.'

'Eccentric?' replied the other, in an airy tone, 'not at all, sir. I'm merely a civilized being with the veneer off. I am not hidden under an artificial coat of manner. No, I laugh—ha! ha! I skip, ha! ha!' with a light trip on one foot. 'I cry,' in a dismal tone. 'In fact, I am a man in his natural state—civilized sufficiently, but not over civilized.'

'What's your name?' asked Mr Villiers, wondering whether the portly gentleman was mad.

For reply the stranger dived into another pocket, and, bringing to light a long bill-poster, held it up before Mr Villiers.

'Read! mark! and inwardly digest!' he said in a muffled tone behind the bill.

This document set forth in red, black, and blue letters, that the celebrated Wopples Family, consisting of twelve star artistes, were now in Ballarat, and would that night appear at the Academy of Music in their new and original farcical comedy, called 'The Cruet-Stand'. Act I: Pepper! Act II: Mustard! Act III: Vinegar.

'You, then,' said Villiers, after he had perused this document, 'are Mr Wopples?'

'Theodore Wopples, at your service,' said that gentleman, rolling up the bill, then putting it into his pocket, he produced therefrom a batch of tickets. 'One of these,' handing a ticket to Villiers, 'will admit you to the stalls tonight, where you will see myself and the children in "The Cruet-Stand".'

'Rather a peculiar title, isn't it?' said Villiers, taking the ticket.

'The play is still more peculiar, sir,' replied Mr Wopples, restoring the bulky packet of tickets to his pocket, 'dealing as it does with the adventures of a youth who hides his father's will in a cruet stand, which is afterwards annexed by a comic bailiff.'

'But isn't it rather a curious thing to hide a will in a cruet stand?' asked Villiers, smiling at the oddity of the idea.

'Therein, sir, lies the peculiarity of the play,' said Mr Wopples, grandly. 'Of course the characters find out in Act I that the will is in the cruet stand; in Act II, while pursuing it, they get mixed up with the bailiff's mother-in-law; and in Act III,' finished Mr Wopples, exultingly, 'they run it to earth in a pawnshop. Oh, I assure you it is a most original play.'

'Very,' assented the other, dryly; 'the author must be a man of genius—who wrote it?'

'Its a translation from the German, sir,' said Mr Wopples, taking a drink of sherry and water, 'and was originally produced in London as "The Pickle Bottle", the will being hidden with the family onions. In Melbourne it was the success of the year under the same title. I,' with an air of genius, 'called it "The Cruet Stand".'

'Then how did you get a hold of it,' asked Villiers.

'My wife, sir,' said the actor, rolling out the words in his deep voice. 'A wonderful woman, sir; paid a visit to Melbourne, and there, sir, seated at the back of the pit between a coal-heaver and an apple-woman, she copied the whole thing down.'

'But isn't that rather mean?'

'Certainly not,' retorted Wopples, haughtily; 'the opulent Melbourne managers refuse to let me have their new pieces, so I have to take the law into my own hands. I'll get all the latest London successes in the same way. We play "Ours" under the title of "The Hero's Return, or the Soldier's Bride": we have done the "Silver King" as "The Living Dead", which was an immense success.'

Villiers thought that under such a contradictory title it would rather pique the curiosity of the public.

'To-morrow night,' pursued Mr Wopples, 'we act "Called Back", but it is billed as "The Blind Detective"; thus,' said the actor, with virtuous scorn, 'do we evade the grasping avarice of the Melbourne managers, who would make us pay fees for them.'

'By the way,' said Mr Wopples, breaking off suddenly in a light and airy manner, 'as I came down here I saw a lovely girl—a veritable fairy, sir—with golden hair, and a bright smile that haunts me still. I exchanged a few remarks with her regarding the beauty of the day, and thus allegorically referred to the beauty of herself—a charming flight of fancy, I think, sir.'

'It must have been Kitty Marchurst,' said Villiers, not attending to the latter portion of Mr Wopples' remarks.

'Ah, indeed,' said Mr Wopples, lightly, 'how beautiful is the name of Kitty; it suggests poetry immediately—for instance:

Kitty, ah Kitty, You are so pretty, Charming and witty, That 'twere a pity I sung not this ditty In praise of my Kitty.

On the spur of the moment, sir, I assure you; does it not remind you of Herrick?'

Mr Villiers bluntly said it did not.

'Ah! perhaps it's more like Shakespeare?' observed the actor, quite unabashed. 'You think so?'

Mr Villiers was doubtful, and displayed such anxiety to get away that Mr Wopples held out his hand to say goodbye.

'You'll excuse me, I know,' said Mr Wopples, in an apologetic tone, 'but the show commences at eight, and it is now half-past six. I trust I shall see you tonight.'

'It's very kind of you to give me this ticket,' said Villiers, in whom the gentlemanly instinct still survived.

'Not at all; not at all,' retorted Mr Wopples, with a wink. 'Business, my boy, business. Always have a good house first night, so must go into the highways and byways for an audience. Ha! Biblical illustration, you see;' and with a gracious wave of his hand he skipped lightly down the path and disappeared from sight.

It was now getting dark; so Mr Villiers went on his own way, and having selected a mining shaft where he could hide the nugget, he climbed up to the top of the hill, and lying down under the shadow of a rock where he could get a good view of Marchurst's house, he waited patiently till such time as his wife would start for home.

'I'll pay you out for all you've done,' he muttered to himself, as he lay curled up in the black shadow like a noisome reptile. 'Tit for tat, my lady!-tit for tat!'



CHAPTER XII

HIGHWAY ROBBERY

Dinner at Mr Marchurst's house was not a particularly exhilarating affair. As a matter of fact, though dignified with the name of dinner, it was nothing more than one of those mixed meals known as high tea. Vandeloup knew this, and, having a strong aversion to the miscellaneous collection of victuals which appeared on Mr Marchurst's table, he dined at Craig's Hotel, where he had a nice little dinner, and drank a pint bottle of champagne in order to thoroughly enjoy himself. Madame Midas also had a dislike to tea- dinners, but, being a guest, of course had to take what was going; and she, Kitty, and Mr Marchurst, were the only people present at the festive board. At last Mr Marchurst finished and delivered a long address of thanks to Heaven for the good food they had enjoyed, which good food, being heavy and badly cooked, was warranted to give them all indigestion and turn their praying to cursing. In fact, what with strong tea, hurried meals, and no exercise, Mr Marchurst used to pass an awful time with the nightmare, and although he was accustomed to look upon nightmares as visions, they were due more to dyspepsia than inspiration.

After dinner Madame sat and talked with Marchurst, but Kitty went outside into the warm darkness of the summer night, and tried to pierce the gloom to see if her lover was coming. She was rewarded, for M. Vandeloup came up about half-past eight o'clock, having met Pierre as arranged. Pierre had found out Villiers in his hiding- place, and was watching him while Villiers watched the house. Being, therefore, quite easy in his mind that things were going smoothly, Vandeloup came up to the porch where Kitty was eagerly waiting for him, and taking her in his arms kissed her tenderly. Then, after assuring himself that Madame was safe with Marchurst, he put his arm round Kitty's waist, and they walked up and down the path with the warm wind blowing in their faces, and the perfume of the wattle blossoms permeating the drowsy air. And yet while he was walking up and down, talking lover-like nonsense to the pretty girl by his side, Vandeloup knew that Villiers was watching the house far off, with evil eyes, and he also knew that Pierre was watching Villiers with all the insatiable desire of a wild beast for blood. The moon rose, a great shield of silver, and all the ground was strewn with the aerial shadows of the trees. The wind sighed through the branches of the wattles, and made their golden blossoms tremble in the moonlight, while hand in hand the lovers strolled down the path or over the short dry grass. Far away in the distance they heard a woman singing, and the high sweet voice floated softly towards them through the clear air.

Suddenly they heard the noise of a chair being pushed back inside the house, and knew that Madame was getting ready to go. They moved simultaneously towards the door, but in the porch Gaston paused for a moment, and caught Kitty by the arm.

'Bebe,' he whispered softly, 'when Madame is gone I am going down the hill to Ballarat, so you will walk with me a little way, will you not?'

Of course, Kitty was only too delighted at being asked to do so, and readily consented, then ran quickly into the house, followed by Vandeloup.

'You here?' cried Madame, in surprise, pausing for a moment in the act of putting on her bonnet. 'Why are you not at the theatre?'

'I am going, Madame,' replied Gaston, calmly, 'but I thought I would come up in order to assist you to put the nugget in the trap.'

'Oh, Mr Marchurst would have done that,' said Madame, much gratified at Vandeloup's attention. 'I'm sorry you should miss your evening's pleasure for that.'

'Ah, Madame, I do but exchange a lesser pleasure for a greater one,' said the gallant Frenchman, with a pleasant smile; 'but are you sure you will not want me to drive you home?'

'Not at all,' said Madame, as they all went outside; 'I am quite safe.'

'Still, with this,' said Mr Marchurst, bringing up the rear, with the nugget now safely placed in its wooden box, 'you might be robbed.'

'Not I,' replied Mrs Villiers, brightly, as the horse and trap were brought round to the gate by Brown. 'No one knows I've got it in the trap, and, besides, no one can catch up with Rory when he once starts.'

Marchurst put the nugget under the seat of the trap, but Madame was afraid it might slip out by some chance, so she put the box containing it in front, and then her feet on the box, so that it was absolutely impossible that it could get lost without her knowing. Then saying goodbye to everyone, and telling M. Vandeloup to be out at the Pactolus before noon the next day, she gathered up the reins and drove slowly down the hill, much to the delight of Mr Villiers, who was getting tired of waiting. Kitty and Vandeloup strolled off in the moonlight, while Marchurst went back to the house.

Villiers arose from his hiding-place, and looked up savagely at the serene moon, which was giving far too much light for his scheme to succeed. Fortunately, however, he saw a great black cloud rapidly advancing which threatened to hide the moon; so he set off down the hill at a run in order to catch his wife at a nasty part of the road some distance down, where she would be compelled to go slowly, and thus give him a chance to spring on the trap and take her by surprise. But quick as he was, Pierre was quicker, and both Vandeloup and Kitty could see the two black figures running rapidly along in the moonlight.

'Who are those?' asked Kitty, with a sudden start. 'Are they going after Madame?'

'Little goose,' whispered her lover, with a laugh; 'if they are they will never catch up to that horse. It's all right, Bebe,' with a reassuring smile, seeing that Kitty still looked somewhat alarmed, 'they are only some miners out on a drunken frolic.'

Thus pacified, Kitty laughed gaily, and they wandered along in the moonlight, talking all the fond and foolish nonsense they could think of.

Meanwhile the great black cloud had completely hidden the moon, and the whole landscape was quite dark. This annoyed Madame, as, depending on the moonlight, the lamps of the trap were not lighted, and she could not see in the darkness how to drive down a very awkward bit of road that she was now on.

It was very steep, and there was a high bank on one side, while on the other there was a fall of about ten feet. She felt annoyed at the darkness, but on looking up saw that the cloud would soon pass, so drove on slowly quite content. Unluckily she did not see the figure on the high bank which ran along stealthily beside her, and while turning a corner, Mr Villiers—for it was he—dropped suddenly from the bank on to the trap, and caught her by the throat.

'My God!' cried the unfortunate woman, taken by surprise, and, involuntarily tightening the reins, the horse stopped—'who are you?'

Villiers never said a word, but tightened his grasp on her throat and shortened his stick to give her a blow on the head. Fortunately, Madame Midas saw his intention, and managed to wrench herself free, so the blow aimed at her only slightly touched her, otherwise it would have killed her.

As it was, however, she fell forward half stunned, and Villiers, hurriedly dropping his stick, bent down and seized the box which he felt under his feet and intuitively guessed contained the nugget.

With a cry of triumph he hurled it out on to the road, and sprang out after it; but the cry woke his wife from the semi-stupor into which she had fallen.

Her head felt dizzy and heavy from the blow, but still she had her senses about her, and the moon bursting out from behind a cloud, rendered the night as clear as day.

Villiers had picked up the box, and was standing on the edge of the bank, just about to leave. The unhappy woman recognised her husband, and uttered a cry.

'You! you!' she shrieked, wildly, 'coward! dastard! Give me back that nugget!' leaning out of the trap in her eagerness.

'I'll see you damned first,' retorted Villiers, who, now that he was recognised, was utterly reckless as to the result. 'We're quits now, my lady,' and he turned to go.

Maddened with anger and disgust, his wife snatched up the stick he had dropped, and struck him on the head as he took a step forward. With a stifled cry he staggered and fell over the embankment, still clutching the box in his arms. Madame let the stick fall, and fell back fainting on the seat of the trap, while the horse, startled by the noise, tore down the road at a mad gallop.

Madame Midas lay in a dead faint for some time, and when she came to herself she was still in the trap, and Rory was calmly trotting along the road home. At the foot of the hill, the horse, knowing every inch of the way, had settled down into his steady trot for the Pactolus, but when Madame grasped the situation, she marvelled to herself how she had escaped being dashed to pieces in that mad gallop down the Black Hill.

Her head felt painful from the effects of the blow she had received, but her one thought was to get home to Archie and Selina, so gathering up the reins she sent Rory along as quickly as she could. When she drove up to the gate Archie and Selina were both out to receive her, and when the former went to lift her off the trap, he gave a cry of horror at seeing her dishevelled appearance and the blood on her face.

'God save us!' he cried, lifting her down; 'what's come t' ye, and where's the nugget?' seeing it was not in the trap.

'Lost!' she said, in a stupor, feeling her head swimming, 'but there's worse.'

'Worse?' echoed Selina and Archie, who were both standing looking terrified at one another.

'Yes,' said Mrs Villiers, in a hollow whisper, leaning forward and grasping Archie's coat, 'I've killed my husband,' and without another word, she fell fainting to the ground.

At the same time Vandeloup and Pierre walked into the bar at the Wattle Tree Hotel, and each had a glass of brandy, after which Pierre went to his bed, and Vandeloup, humming a gay song, turned on his heel and went to the theatre.



CHAPTER XIII

A GLIMPSE OF BOHEMIA

'AH!' says Thackeray, pathetically, 'Prague is a pleasant city, but we all lose our way to it late in life.'

The Wopples family were true Bohemians, and had not yet lost their way to the pleasant city. They accepted good and bad fortune with wonderful equanimity, and if their pockets were empty one day, there was always a possibility of their being full the next. When this was the case they generally celebrated the event by a little supper, and as their present season in Ballarat bid fair to be a successful one, Mr Theodore Wopples determined to have a convivial evening after the performance was over.

That the Wopples family were favourites with the Ballarat folk was amply seen by the crowded house which assembled to see 'The Cruet Stand'. The audience were very impatient for the curtain to rise, as they did not appreciate the overture, which consisted of airs from 'La Mascotte', adapted for the violin and piano by Mr Handel Wopples, who was the musical genius of the family, and sat in the conductor's seat, playing the violin and conducting the orchestra of one, which on this occasion was Miss Jemima Wopples, who presided at the piano. The Wopples family consisted of twelve star artistes, beginning with Mr Theodore Wopples, aged fifty, and ending with Master Sheridan Wopples, aged ten, who did the servants' characters, delivered letters, formed the background in tableaux, and made himself generally useful. As the cast of the comedy was only eight, two of the family acted as the orchestra, and the remaining two took money at the door. When their duties in this respect were over for the night, they went into the pit to lead the applause.

At last the orchestra finished, and the curtain drew up, displaying an ancient house belonging to a decayed family. The young Squire, present head of the decayed family (Mr Cibber Wopples), is fighting with his dishonest steward (admirably acted by Mr Dogbery Wopples), whose daughter he wants to marry. The dishonest steward, during Act I, without any apparent reason, is struck with remorse, and making his will in favour of the Squire, departs to America, but afterwards appears in the last act as someone else. Leaving his will on the drawing-room table, as he naturally would, it is seized by an Eton boy (Master Sheridan Wopples), who hides it, for some unexplained reason, in the cruet-stand, being the last piece of family plate remaining to the decayed family. This is seized by a comic bailiff (Mr Theodore Wopples), who takes it to his home; and the decayed family, finding out about the will, start to chase the bailiff and recover the stolen property from him. This brought the play on to Act II, which consisted mainly of situations arising out of the indiscriminate use of doors and windows for entrances and exits. The bailiff's mother-in-law (Mrs Wopples) appears in this act, and, being in want of a new dress, takes the cruet stand to her 'uncle' and pawns it; so Act II ends with a general onslaught of the decayed family on Mrs Wopples.

Then the orchestra played the 'Wopples' Waltz', dedicated to Mr Theodore Wopples by Mr Handel Wopples, and during the performance of this Mr Villiers walked into the theatre. He was a little pale, as was only natural after such an adventure as he had been engaged in, but otherwise seemed all right. He walked up to the first row of the stalls, and took his seat beside a young man of about twenty-five, who was evidently much amused at the performance.

'Hullo, Villiers!' said this young gentleman, turning round to the new arrival, 'what d'ye think of the play?'

'Only just got in,' returned Mr Villiers, sulkily, looking at his programme. 'Any good?' in a more amiable tone.

'Well, not bad,' returned the other, pulling up his collar; 'I've seen it in Melbourne, you know—the original, I mean; this is a very second-hand affair.'

Mr Villiers nodded, and became absorbed in his programme; so, seeing he was disinclined for more conversation, the young gentleman turned his attention to the 'Wopples Waltz', which was now being played fast and furiously by the indefatigable orchestra of two.

Bartholomew Jarper—generally called Barty by his friends—was a bank clerk, and had come up to Ballarat on a visit. He was well known in Melbourne society, and looked upon himself quite as a leader of fashion. He went everywhere, danced divinely—so the ladies said—sang two or three little songs, and played the same accompaniment to each of them, was seen constantly at the theatres, plunged a little at the races, and was altogether an extremely gay dog. It is, then, little to be wondered at that, satiated as he was with Melbourne gaiety, he should be vastly critical of the humble efforts of the Wopples family to please him. He had met Villiers at his hotel, when both of them being inebriated they swore eternal friendship. Mr Villiers, however, was very sulky on this particular night, for his head still pained him, so Barty stared round the house in a supercilious manner, and sucked the nob of his cane for refreshment between the acts.

Just as the orchestra were making their final plunge into the finale of the 'Wopples' Waltz', M. Vandeloup, cool and calm as usual, strolled into the theatre, and, seeing a vacant seat beside Villiers, walked over and took it.

'Good evening, my friend,' he said, touching Villiers on the shoulder. 'Enjoying the play, eh?'

Villiers angrily pushed away the Frenchman's hand and glared vindictively at him.

'Ah, you still bear malice for that little episode of the ditch,' said Vandeloup with a gay laugh. 'Come, now, this is a mistake; let us be friends.'

'Go to the devil!' growled Villiers, crossly.

'All right, my friend,' said M. Vandeloup, serenely crossing his legs. 'We'll all end up by paying a visit to that gentleman, but while we are on earth we may as well be pleasant. Seen your wife lately?'

This apparently careless inquiry caused Mr Villiers to jump suddenly out of his seat, much to the astonishment of Barty, who did not know for what reason he was standing up.

'Ah! you want to look at the house, I suppose,' remarked M. Vandeloup, lazily; 'the building is extremely ugly, but there are some redeeming features in it. I refer, of course, to the number of pretty girls,' and Gaston turned round and looked steadily at a red- haired damsel behind him, who blushed and giggled, thinking he was referring to her.

Villiers resumed his seat with a sigh, and seeing that it was quite useless to quarrel with Vandeloup, owing to that young man's coolness, resolved to make the best of a bad job, and held out his hand with a view to reconciliation.

'It's no use fighting with you,' he said, with an uneasy laugh, as the other took his hand, 'you are so deuced amiable.'

'I am,' replied Gaston, calmly examining his programme; 'I practise all the Christian virtues.'

Here Barty, on whom the Frenchman's appearance and conversation had produced an impression, requested Villiers, in a stage whisper, to introduce him—which was done. Vandeloup looked the young man coolly up and down, and eventually decided that Mr Barty Jarper was a 'cad', for whatever his morals might be, the Frenchman was a thorough gentleman. However, as he was always diplomatic, he did not give utterance to his idea, but taking a seat next to Barty's, he talked glibly to him until the orchestra finished with a few final bangs, and the curtain drew up on Act III.

The scene was the interior of a pawnshop, where the pawnbroker, a gentleman of Hebraic descent (Mr Buckstone Wopples), sells the cruet to the dishonest steward, who has come back from America disguised as a sailor. The decayed family all rush in to buy the cruet stand, but on finding it gone, overwhelm the pawnbroker with reproaches, so that to quiet them he hides them all over the shop, on the chance that the dishonest steward will come back. The dishonest steward does so, and having found the will tears it up on the stage, upon which he is assaulted by the decayed family, who rush out from all parts. Ultimately, he reveals himself and hands back the cruet stand and the estates to the decayed family, after which a general marrying all round took place, which proceeding was very gratifying to the boys in the gallery, who gave their opinions very freely, and the curtain fell amid thunders of applause. Altogether 'The Cruet Stand' was a success, and would have a steady run of three nights at least, so Mr Wopples said—and as a manager of long standing, he was thoroughly well up in the subject.

Villiers, Vandeloup, and Barty went out and had a drink, and as none of them felt inclined to go to bed, Villiers told them he knew Mr Theodore Wopples, and proposed that they should go behind the scenes and see him. This was unanimously carried, and after some difficulty with the door-keeper—a crusty old man with a red face and white hair, that stood straight up in a tuft, and made him look like an infuriated cockatoo—they obtained access to the mysterious regions of the stage, and there found Master Sheridan Wopples practising a breakdown while waiting for the rest of the family to get ready. This charming youth, who was small, dried-up and wonderfully sharp, volunteered to guide them to his father's dressing-room, and on knocking at the door Mr Wopples' voice boomed out 'Come in,' in such an unexpected manner that it made them all jump.

On entering the room they found Mr Wopples, dressed in a light tweed suit, and just putting on his coat. It was a small room, with a flaring gas-jet, under which there was a dressing-table littered over with grease, paints, powder, vaseline and wigs, and upon it stood a small looking-glass. A great basket-box with the lid wide open stood at the end of the room, with a lot of clothes piled up on it, and numerous other garments were hung up upon the walls. A washstand, with a basin full of soapy water, stood under a curtainless window, and there was only one chair to be seen, which Mr Wopples politely offered to his visitor. Mr Villiers, however, told him he had brought two gentlemen to introduce to him, at which Mr Wopples was delighted; and on the introduction taking place, assured both Vandeloup and Barty that it was one of the proudest moments of his life-a stock phrase he always used when introduced to visitors. He was soon ready, and preceded the party out of the room, when he stopped, struck with a sudden idea.

'I have left the gas burning in my dressing-room,' he said, in his rolling voice, 'and, if you will permit me, gentlemen, I will go back and turn it off.'

This was rather difficult to manage, inasmuch as the stairs were narrow, and three people being between Mr Wopples and his dressing- room, he could not squeeze past.

Finally the difficulty was settled by Villiers, who was last, and who went back and turned out the gas.

When he came down he found Mr Wopples waiting for him.

'I thank you, sir,' he said, grandly, 'and will feel honoured if you will give me the pleasure of your company at a modest supper consisting principally of cold beef and pickles.'

Of course, they all expressed themselves delighted, and as the entire Wopples family had already gone to their hotel, Mr Wopples with his three guests went out of the theatre and wended their way towards the same place, only dropping into two or three bars on the way to have drinks at Barty's expense.

They soon arrived at the hotel, and having entered, Mr Wopples pushed open the door of a room from whence the sound of laughter proceeded, and introduced the three strangers to his family. The whole ten, together with Mrs Wopples, were present, and were seated around a large table plentifully laden with cold beef and pickles, salads, bottles of beer, and other things too numerous to mention. Mr Wopples presented them first to his wife, a faded, washed-out looking lady, with a perpetual simper on her face, and clad in a lavender muslin gown with ribbons of the same description, she looked wonderfully light and airy. In fact she had a sketchy appearance as if she required to be touched up here and there, to make her appear solid, which was of great service to her in her theatrical career, as it enabled her to paint on the background of herself any character she wished to represent.

'This,' said Mr Wopples in his deep voice, holding his wife's hand as if he were afraid she would float upward thro' the ceiling like a bubble—a not unlikely thing seeing how remarkably ethereal she looked; 'this is my flutterer.'

Why he called her his flutterer no one ever knew, unless it was because her ribbons were incessantly fluttering; but, had he called her his shadow, the name would have been more appropriate.

Mrs Wopples fluttered down to the ground in a bow, and then fluttered up again.

'Gentlemen,' she said, in a thin, clear voice, 'you are welcome. Did you enjoy the performance?'

'Madame,' returned Vandeloup, with a smile, 'need you ask that?'

A shadowy smile floated over Mrs Wopples' indistinct features, and then her husband introduced the rest of the family in a bunch.

'Gentlemen,' he said, waving his hand to the expectant ten, who stood in a line of five male and five female, 'the celebrated Wopples family.'

The ten all simultaneously bowed at this as if they were worked by machinery, and then everyone sat down to supper, Mr Theodore Wopples taking the head of the table. All the family seemed to admire him immensely, and kept their eyes fastened on his face with affectionate regard.

'Pa,' whispered Miss Siddons Wopples to Villiers, who sat next to her, 'is a most wonderful man. Observe his facial expression.'

Villiers observed it, and admitted also in a whisper that it was truly marvellous.

Cold beef formed the staple viand on the table, and everyone did full justice to it, as also to beer and porter, of which Mr Wopples was very generous.

'I prefer to give my friends good beer instead of bad champagne,' he said, pompously. 'Ha! ha! the antithesis, I think, is good.'

The Wopples family unanimously agreed that it was excellent, and Mr Handel Wopples observed to Barty that his father often made jokes worthy of Tom Hood, to which Barty agreed hastily, as he did not know who Tom Hood was, and besides was flirting in a mild manner with Miss Fanny Wopples, a pretty girl, who did the burlesque business.

'And are all these big boys and girls yours, Madame?' asked Vandeloup, who was rather astonished at the number of the family, and thought some of them might have been hired for theatrical purposes. Mrs Wopples nodded affirmatively with a gratified flutter, and her husband endorsed it.

'There are four dead,' he said, in a solemn voice. 'Rest their souls.'

All the ten faces round the board reflected the gloom on the parental countenance, and for a few moments no one spoke.

'This,' said Mr Wopples, looking round with a smile, at which all the other faces lighted up, 'this is not calculated to make our supper enjoyable, children. I may tell you that, in consequence of the great success of "The Cruet Stand", we play it again to-morrow night.'

'Ah!' said Mr Buckstone Wopples, with his mouth full, 'I knew it would knock 'em; that business of yours, father, with the writ is simply wonderful.'

All the family chorused 'Yes,' and Mr Wopples admitted, with a modest smile, that it was wonderful.

'Practise,' said Mr Wopples, waving a fork with a piece of cold beef at the end of it, 'makes perfect. My dear Vandeloup, if you will permit me to call you so, my son Buckstone is truly a wonderful critic.'

Vandeloup smiled at this, and came to the conclusion that the Wopples family was a mutual admiration society. However, as it was now nearly twelve o'clock, he rose to take his leave.

'Oh, you're not going yet,' said Mr Wopples, upon which all the family echoed, 'Surely, not yet,' in a most hospitable manner.

'I must,' said Vandeloup, with a smile. 'I know Madame will excuse me,' with a bow to Mrs Wopples, who thereupon fluttered nervously; 'but I have to be up very early in the morning.'

'In that case,' said Mr Wopples, rising, 'I will not detain you; early to bed and early to rise, you know; not that I believe in it much myself, but I understand it is practised with good results by some people.'

Vandeloup shook hands with Mr and Mrs Wopples, but feeling unequal to taking leave of the ten star artistes in the same way, he bowed in a comprehensive manner, whereupon the whole ten arose from their chairs and bowed unanimously in return.

'Good night, Messrs Villiers and Jarper,' said Vandeloup, going out of the door, 'I will see you to-morrow.'

'And we also, I hope,' said Mr Wopples, ungrammatically. 'Come and see "The Cruet Stand" again. I'll put your name on the free list.'

M. Vandeloup thanked the actor warmly for this kind offer, and took himself off; as he passed along the street he heard a burst of laughter from the Wopples family, no doubt caused by some witticism of the head of the clan.

He walked slowly home to the hotel, smoking a cigarette, and thinking deeply. When he arrived at the 'Wattle Tree' he saw a light still burning in the bar, and, on knocking at the door, was admitted by Miss Twexby, who had been making up accounts, and whose virgin head was adorned with curl-papers.

'My!' said this damsel, when she saw him, 'you are a nice young man coming home at this hour—twelve o'clock. See?' and, as a proof of her assertion, she pointed to the clock.

'Were you waiting up for me, dear?' asked Vandeloup, audaciously.

'Not I,' retorted Miss Twexby, tossing her curl-papers; 'I've been attending to par's business; but, oh, gracious!' with a sudden recollection of her head-gear, 'you've seen me in undress.'

'And you look more charming than ever,' finished Vandeloup, as he took his bedroom candle from her. 'I will see you in the morning. My friend still asleep, I suppose?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I haven't seen him all the evening,' replied Miss Twexby, tossing her head, 'now, go away. You're a naughty, wicked, deceitful thing. I declare I'm quite afraid of you.'

'There's no need, I assure you,' replied Vandeloup, in a slightly sarcastic voice, as he surveyed the plain-looking woman before him; 'you are quite safe from me.'

He left the bar, whistling an air, while the fair Martha returned to her accounts, and wondered indignantly whether his last remark was a compliment or otherwise.

The conclusion she came to was that it was otherwise, and she retired to bed in a very wrathful frame of mind.



CHAPTER XIV

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Madame Midas, as may be easily guessed, did not pass a very pleasant night after the encounter with Villiers. Her head was very painful with the blow he had given her, and added to this she was certain she had killed him.

Though she hated the man who had ruined her life, and who had tried to rob her, still she did not care about becoming his murderess, and the thought was madness to her. Not that she was afraid of punishment, for she had only acted in self-defence, and Villiers, not she, was the aggressor.

Meanwhile she waited to hear if the body had been found, for ill news travels fast; and as everyone knew Villiers was her husband, she was satisfied that when the corpse was found she would be the first to be told about it.

But the day wore on, and no news came, so she asked Archie to go into Ballarar and see if the discovery had been made.

''Deed, mem,' said Archie, in a consoling tone, 'I'm thinkin' there's na word at all. Maybe ye only stapped his pranks for a wee bit, and he's a' richt.'

Madame shook her head.

'I gave him such a terrible blow,' she said, mournfully, 'and he fell like a stone over the embankment.'

'He didna leave go the nugget, onyhow, ye ken,' said Archie, dryly; 'so he couldna hae been verra far gone, but I'll gang intil the toun and see what I can hear.'

There was no need for this, however, for just as McIntosh got to the door, Vandeloup, cool and complacent, sauntered in, but stopped short at the sight of Mrs Villiers sitting in the arm-chair looking so ill.

'My dear Madame,' he cried in dismay, going over to her, 'what is the matter with you?'

'Matter enow,' growled McIntosh, with his hand on the door handle; 'that deil o' a' husband o' her's has robbed her o' the nugget.'

'Yes, and I killed him,' said Madame between her clenched teeth.

'The deuce you did,' said Vandeloup, in surprise, taking a seat, 'then he was the liveliest dead man I ever saw.'

'What do you mean?' asked Madame, leaning forward, with both hands gripping the arms of her chair; 'is—is he alive?'

'Of course he is,' began Vandeloup; 'I—' but here he was stopped by a cry from Selina, for her mistress had fallen back in her chair in a dead faint.

Hastily waving for the men to go away, she applied remedies, and Madame soon revived. Vandeloup had gone outside with McIntosh, and was asking him about the robbery, and then told him in return about Villiers' movements on that night. Selina called them in again, as Madame wanted to hear all about her husband, and Vandeloup was just entering when he turned to McIntosh.

'Oh, by the way,' he said, in a vexed tone, 'Pierre will not be at work today.'

'What for no?' asked McIntosh, sharply.

'He's drunk,' replied Vandeloup, curtly, 'and he's likely to keep the game up for a week.'

'We'll see about that,' said Mr McIntosh, wrathfully; 'I tauld yon gowk o' a Twexby to give the mon food and drink, but I didna tell him to mack the deil fu'.'

'It wasn't the landlord's fault,' said Vandeloup; 'I gave Pierre money—if I had known what he wanted it for I wouldn't have done it- -but it's too late now.'

McIntosh was about to answer sharply as to the folly of giving the man money, when Madame's voice was heard calling them impatiently, and they both had to go in at once.

Mrs Villiers was ghastly pale, but there was a look of determination about her which showed that she was anxious to hear all. Pointing to a seat near herself she said to Vandeloup—

'Tell me everything that happened from the time I left you last night.'

'My faith,' replied Vandeloup, carelessly taking the seat, 'there isn't much to tell—I said goodbye to Monsieur Marchurst and Mademoiselle Kitty and went down to Ballarar.'

'How was it you did not pass me on the way?' asked Madame, quickly fixing her piercing eyes on him. 'I drove slowly.'

He bore her scrutiny without blenching or even changing colour.

'Easily enough,' he said, calmly, 'I went the other direction instead of the usual way, as it was the shortest route to the place I was stopping at.'

'The "Wattle Tree", ye ken, Madame,' interposed McIntosh.

'I had something to eat there,' pursued Vandeloup, 'and then went to the theatre. Your husband came in towards the end of the performance and sat next to me.'

'Was he all right?' asked Mrs Villiers, eagerly.

Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.

'I didn't pay much attention to him,' he said, coolly; 'he seemed to enjoy the play, and afterwards, when we went to supper with the actors, he certainly ate very heartily for a dead man. I don't think you need trouble yourself, Madame; your husband is quite well.'

'What time did you leave him?' she asked, after a pause.

'About twenty minutes to twelve, I think,' replied Vandeloup, 'at least, I reached the "Wattle Tree" at about twelve o'clock, and I think it did take twenty minutes to walk there. Monsieur Villiers stopped behind with the theatre people to enjoy himself.'

Enjoying himself, and she, thinking him dead, was crying over his miserable end; it was infamous! Was this man a monster who could thus commit a crime one moment and go to an amusement the next? It seemed like it, and Mrs Villiers felt intense disgust towards her husband as she sat with tightly clenched hands and dry eyes listening to Vandeloup's recital.

'Weel,' said Mr McIntosh at length, rubbing his scanty hair, 'the deil looks after his ain, as we read in Screepture, and this child of Belial is flourishing like a green bay tree by mony waters; but we ma' cut it doon an' lay an axe at the root thereof.'

'And how do you propose to chop him down?' asked Vandeloup, flippantly.

'Pit him intil the Tolbooth for rinnin' awa' wi' the nugget,' retorted Mr McIntosh, vindictively.

'A very sensible suggestion,' said Gaston, approvingly, smoothing his moustache. 'What do you say, Madame?'

She shook her head.

'Let him keep his ill-gotten gains,' she said, resignedly. 'Now that he has obtained what he wanted, perhaps he'll leave me alone; I will do nothing.'

'Dae naethin'!' echoed Archie, in great wrath. 'Will ye let that freend o' Belzibub rin awa' wid a three hun'red ounces of gold an' dae naethin'? Na, na, ye mauna dae it, I tell ye. Oh, aye, ye may sit there, mem, and glower awa' like a boggle, but ye aren'a gangin' to make yoursel' a martyr for yon. Keep the nugget? I'll see him damned first.'

This was the first time that Archie had ever dared to cross Mrs Villiers' wishes, and she stared in amazement at the unwonted spectacle. This time, however, McIntosh found an unexpected ally in Vandeloup, who urged that Villiers should be prosecuted.

'He is not only guilty of robbery, Madame,' said the young Frenchman, 'but also of an attempt to murder you, and while he is allowed to go free, your life is not safe.'

Selina also contributed her mite of wisdom in the form of a proverb:—

'A stitch in time saves nine,' intimating thereby that Mr Villiers should be locked up and never let out again, in case he tried the same game on with the next big nugget found.

Madame thought for a few moments, and, seeing that they were all unanimous, she agreed to the proposal that Villiers should be prosecuted, with the stipulation, however, that he should be first written to and asked to give up the nugget. If he did, and promised to leave the district, no further steps would be taken; but if he declined to do so, his wife would prosecute him with the uttermost rigour of the law. Then Madame dismissed them, as she was anxious to get a little sleep, and Vandeloup went to the office to write the letter, accompanied by McIntosh, who wanted to assist in its composition.

Meanwhile there was another individual in Ballarat who was much interested in Villiers, and this kind-hearted gentleman was none other than Slivers. Villiers was accustomed to come and sit in his office every morning, and talk to him about things in general, and the Pactolus claim in particular. On this morning, however, he did not arrive, and Slivers was much annoyed thereat. He determined to give Villiers a piece of his mind when he did see him. He went about his business at 'The Corner', bought some shares, sold others, and swindled as many people as he was able, then came back to his office and waited in all the afternoon for his friend, who, however, did not come.

Slivers was just going out to seek him when the door of his office was violently flung open, and a tall, raw-boned female entered in a very excited manner. Dressed in a dusty black gown, with a crape bonnet placed askew on her rough hair, this lady banged on Slivers' table a huge umbrella and demanded where Villiers was.

'I don't know,' snapped Slivers, viciously; 'how the devil should I?'

'Don't swear at me, you wooden-legged little monster,' cried the virago, with another bang of the umbrella, which raised such a cloud of dust that it nearly made Slivers sneeze his head off. 'He ain't been home all night, and you've been leading him into bad habits, you cork-armed libertine.'

'Hasn't been home all night, eh?' said Slivers, sitting up quickly, while Billy, who had been considerably alarmed at the gaunt female, retired to the fireplace, and tried to conceal himself up the chimney. 'May I ask who you are?'

'You may,' said the angry lady, folding her arms and holding the umbrella in such an awkward manner that she nearly poked Slivers' remaining eye out.

'Well, who are you?' snapped Slivers, crossly, after waiting a reasonable time for an answer and getting none.

'I'm his landlady,' retorted the other, with a defiant snort. 'Matilda Cheedle is my name, and I don't care who knows it.'

'It's not a pretty name,' snarled Slivers, prodding the ground with his wooden leg, as he always did when angry. 'Neither are you. What do you mean by banging into my office like an insane giraffe?'—this in allusion to Mrs Cheedle's height.

'Oh, go on! go on!' said that lady defiantly; 'I've heard it all before; I'm used to it; but here I sit until you tell me where my lodger is;' and suiting the action to the word, Mrs Cheedle sat down in a chair with such a bang that Billy gave a screech of alarm and said, 'Pickles!'

'Pickles, you little bag of bones!' cried Mrs Cheedle, who thought that the word had proceeded from Slivers, 'don't you call me "Pickles"—but I'm used to it. I'm a lonely woman since Cheedle went to the cemetery, and I'm always being insulted. Oh, my nerves are shattered under such treatment'—this last because she saw the whisky bottle on the table, and thought she might get some.

Slivers took the hint, and filling a glass with whisky and water passed it to her, and Mrs Cheedle, with many protestations that she never touched spirits, drank it to the last drop.

'Was Villiers always in the habit of coming home?' he asked.

'Always,' replied Mrs Cheedle; 'he's bin with me eighteen months and never stopped out one night; if he had,' grimly, 'I'd have known the reason of his rampagin'.'

'Strange,' said Slivers, thoughtfully, fixing Mrs Cheedle with his one eye; 'when did you see him last?'

'About three o'clock yesterday,' said Mrs Cheedle, looking sadly at a hole in one of her cotton gloves; 'his conduct was most extraordinary; he came home at that unusual hour, changed his linen clothes for a dark suit, and, after he had eaten something, put on another hat, and walked off with a stick under his arm.'

'And you've never seen him since?'

'Not a blessed sight of him,' replied Mrs Cheedle; 'you don't think any harm's come to him, sir? Not as I care much for him—the drunken wretch—but still he's a lodger and owes me rent, so I don't know but what he might be off to Melbourne without paying, and leaving his boxes full of bricks behind.'

'I'll have a look round, and if I see him I'll send him home,' said Slivers, rising to intimate the interview was at end.

'Very well, mind you do,' said the widow, rising and putting the empty glass on the table, 'send him home at once and I'll speak to him. And perhaps,' with a bashful glance, 'you wouldn't mind seeing me up the street a short way, as I'm alone and unprotected.'

'Stuff!' retorted Slivers, ungraciously, 'there's plenty of light, and you are big enough to look after yourself.'

At this Mrs Cheedle snorted loudly like a war-horse, and flounced out of the office in a rage, after informing Slivers in a loud voice that he was a selfish, cork-eyed little viper, from which confusion of words it will easily be seen that the whisky had taken effect on the good lady.

When she had gone Slivers locked up his office, and sallied forth to find the missing Villiers, but though he went all over town to that gentleman's favourite haunts, mostly bars, yet he could see nothing of him; and on making inquiries heard that he had not been seen in Ballarat all day. This was so contrary to Villiers' general habits that Slivers became suspicious, and as he walked home thinking over the subject he came to the conclusion there was something up.

'If,' said Slivers, pausing on the pavement and addressing a street lamp, 'he doesn't turn up to-morrow I'll have a look for him again. If that don't do I'll tell the police, and I shouldn't wonder,' went on Slivers, musingly, 'I shouldn't wonder if they called on Madame Midas.'



CHAPTER XV

SLIVERS IN SEARCH OF EVIDENCE

Slivers was puzzled over Villiers' disappearance, so he determined to go in search of evidence against Madame Midas, though for what reason he wanted evidence against her no one but himself—and perhaps Billy—knew. But then Slivers always was an enigma regarding his reasons for doing things, and even the Sphinx would have found him a difficult riddle to solve.

The reasons he had for turning detective were simply these: It soon became known that Madame Midas had been robbed by her husband of the famous nugget, and great was the indignation of everyone against Mr Villiers. That gentleman would have fared very badly if he had made his appearance, but for some reason or another he did not venture forth. In fact, he had completely disappeared, and where he was no one knew. The last person who saw him was Barty Jarper, who left him at the corner of Lydiard and Sturt Streets, when Mr Villiers had announced his intention of going home. Mrs Cheedle, however, asserted positively that she had never set eyes on him since the time she stated to Slivers, and as it was now nearly two weeks since he had disappeared things were beginning to look serious. The generally received explanation was that he had bolted with the nugget, but as he could hardly dispose of such a large mass of gold without suspicion, and as the police both in Ballarat and Melbourne had made inquiries, which proved futile, this theory began to lose ground.

It was at this period that Slivers asserted himself—coming forward, he hinted in an ambiguous sort of way that Villiers had met with foul play, and that some people had their reasons for wishing to get rid of him. This was clearly an insinuation against Madame Midas, but everyone refused to believe such an impossible story, so Slivers determined to make good his words, and went in search of evidence.

The Wopples Family having left Ballarat, Slivers was unable to see Mr Theodore Wopples, who had been in Villiers' company on the night of his disappearance.

Mr Barty Jarper, however, had not yet departed, so Slivers waylaid him, and asked him in a casual way to drop into his office and have a drink, with a view of finding out from him all the events of that night.

Barty was on his way to a lawn tennis party, and was arrayed in a flannel suit of many colours, with his small, white face nearly hidden under a large straw hat. Being of a social turn of mind, he did not refuse Slivers' invitation, but walked into the dusty office and assisted himself liberally to the whisky.

'Here's fun, old cock!' he said, in a free and easy manner, raising his glass to his lips; 'may your shadow never be less.'

Slivers hoped devoutly that his shadow never would be less, as that would involve the loss of several other limbs, which he could ill spare; so he honoured Mr Jarper's toast with a rasping little laugh, and prepared to talk.

'It's very kind of you to come and talk to an old chap like me,' said Slivers, in as amiable a tone as he could command, which was not much. 'You're such a gay young fellow!'

Mr Jarper acknowledged modestly that he was gay, but that he owed certain duties to society, and had to be mildly social.

'And so handsome!' croaked Slivers, winking with his one eye at Billy, who sat on the table. 'Oh, he's all there, ain't he, Billy?'

Billy, however, did not agree to this, and merely observed 'Pickles,' in a disbelieving manner.

Mr Jarper felt rather overcome by this praise, and blushed in a modest way, but felt that he could not return the compliment with any degree of truth, as Slivers was not handsome, neither was he all there.

He, however, decided that Slivers was an unusually discerning person, and worthy to talk to, so prepared to make himself agreeable.

Slivers, who had thus gained the goodwill of the young man by flattery, plunged into the subject of Villiers' disappearance.

'I wonder what's become of Villiers,' he said, artfully pushing the whisky bottle toward Barty.

'I'm sure I don't know,' said Barty in a languid, used-up sort of voice, pouring himself out some more whisky, 'I haven't seen him since last Monday week.'

'Where did you leave him on that night?' asked Slivers.

'At the corner of Sturt and Lydiard Streets.'

'Early in the morning, I suppose?'

'Yes—pretty early—about two o'clock, I think.'

'And you never saw him after that?'

'Not a sight of him,' replied Barty; 'but, I say, why all this thusness?'

'I'll tell you after you have answered my questions,' retorted Slivers, rudely, 'but I'm not asking out of curiosity—its business.'

Barty thought that Slivers was very peculiar, but determined to humour him, and to take his leave as early as possible.

'Well, go on,' he said, drinking his whisky, 'I'll answer.'

'Who else was with you and Villiers on that night?' asked Slivers in a magisterial kind of manner.

'A French fellow called Vandeloup.'

'Vandeloup!' echoed Slivers in surprise; 'oh, indeed! what the devil was he doing?'

'Enjoying himself,' replied Barty, coolly; 'he came into the theatre and Villiers introduced him to me; then Mr Wopples asked us all to supper.'

'You went, of course?'

'Rather, old chap; what do you take us for?'—this from Barty, with a knowing wink.

'What time did Vandeloup leave?' asked Slivers, not paying any attention to Barty's pantomime.

'About twenty minutes to twelve.'

'Oh! I suppose that was because he had to drive out to the Pactolus?'

'Not such a fool, dear boy; he stayed all night in town.'

'Oh!' ejaculated Slivers, in an excited manner, drumming on the table with his fingers, 'where did he stay?'

'At the Wattle Tree Hotel.'

Slivers mentally made a note of this, and determined to go there and find out at what time Vandeloup had come home on the night in question, for this suspicious old man had now got it into his head that Vandeloup was in some way responsible for Villiers' disappearance.

'Where did Villiers say he was going when he left you?' he asked.

'Straight home.'

'Humph! Well, he didn't go home at all.'

'Didn't he?' echoed Barty, in some astonishment. 'Then what's become of him? Men don't disappear in this mysterious way without some reason.'

'Ah, but there is a reason,' replied Slivers, bending across the table and clawing at the papers thereon with the lean fingers of his one hand.

'Why! what do you think is the reason?' faltered Barty, letting his eye-glass drop out of his eye, and edging his chair further away from this terrible old man.

'Murder!' hissed the other through his thin lips. 'He's been murdered!'

'Lord!' ejaculated Barty, jumping up from his chair in alarm; 'you're going too far, old chap.'

'I'm going further,' retorted Slivers, rising from his chair and stumping up and down the room; 'I'm going to find out who did it, and then I'll grind her to powder; I'll twist her neck off, curse her.'

'Is it a woman?' asked Barty, who now began to think of making a retreat, for Slivers, with his one eye blazing, and his cork arm swinging rapidly to and fro, was not a pleasant object to contemplate.

This unguarded remark recalled Slivers to himself.

That's what I want to find out,' he replied, sulkily, going back to his chair. 'Have some more whisky?'

'No, thanks,' answered Barty, going to the door, 'I'm late as it is for my engagement; ta, ta, old chap, I hope you'll drop on the he or she you're looking for; but you're quite wrong, Villiers has bolted with the nugget, and that's a fact, sir,' and with an airy wave of his hand Barty went out, leaving Slivers in anything but a pleasant temper.

'Bah! you peacock,' cried this wicked old man, banging his wooden leg against the table, 'you eye-glass idiot—you brainless puppy— I'm wrong, am I? we'll see about that, you rag-shop.' This last in allusion to Barty's picturesque garb. 'I've found out all I want from you, and I'll track her down, and put her in gaol, and hang her—hang her till she's as dead as a door nail.'

Having given vent to this pleasant sentiment, Slivers put on his hat, and, taking his stick, walked out of his office, but not before Billy saw his intention and had climbed up to his accustomed place on the old man's shoulder. So Slivers stumped along the street, with the cockatoo on his shoulder, looking like a depraved Robinson Crusoe, and took his way to the Wattle Tree Hotel.

'If,' argued Slivers to himself, as he pegged bravely along, 'if Villiers wanted to get rid of the nugget he'd have come to me, for he knew I'd keep quiet and tell no tales. Well, he didn't come to me, and there's no one else he could go to. They've been looking for him all over the shop, and they can't find him; he can't be hiding or he'd have let me know; there's only one explanation—he's been murdered—but not for the gold—oh, dear no—for nobody knew he had it. Who wanted him out of the way?—his wife. Would she stick at anything?—I'm damned if she would. So it's her work. The only question is did she do it personally or by deputy. I say deputy, 'cause she'd be too squeamish to do it herself. Who would she select as deputy?—Vandeloup! Why?—'cause he'd like to marry her for her money. Yes, I'm sure it's him. Things look black against him: he stayed in town all night, a thing he never did before—leaves the supper at a quarter to twelve, so as to avoid suspicion; waits till Villiers comes out at two in the morning and kills him. Aha! my handsome jackadandy,' cried Slivers, viciously, suddenly stopping and shaking his stick at an imaginary Vandeloup; 'I've got you under my thumb, and I'll crush the life out of you—and of her also, if I can;' and with this amiable resolution Slivers resumed his way.

Slivers' argument was plausible, but there were plenty of flaws in it, which, however, he did not stop to consider, so carried away was he by his anger against Madame Midas. He stumped along doggedly, revolving the whole affair in his mind, and by the time he arrived at the Wattle Tree Hotel he had firmly persuaded himself that Villiers was dead, and that Vandeloup had committed the crime at the instigation of Mrs Villiers.

He found Miss Twexby seated in the bar, with a decidedly cross face, which argued ill for anyone who held converse with her that day; but as Slivers was quite as crabbed as she was, and, moreover, feared neither God nor man—much less a woman—he tackled her at once.

'Where's your father?' he asked, abruptly, leaning on his stick and looking intently at the fair Martha's vinegary countenance.

'Asleep!' snapped that damsel, jerking her head in the direction of the parlour; 'what do you want?'—very disdainfully.

'A little civility in the first place,' retorted Slivers, rudely, sitting down on a bench that ran along the wall, and thereby causing his wooden leg to stick straight out, which, being perceived by Billy, he descended from the old man's shoulder and turned the leg into a perch, where he sat and swore at Martha.

'You wicked old wretch,' said Miss Twexby, viciously—her nose getting redder with suppressed excitement—'go along with you, and take that irreligious parrot with you, or I'll wake my par.'

'He won't thank you for doing so,' replied Slivers, coolly; 'I've called to see him about some new shares just on the market, and if you don't treat me with more respect I'll go, and he'll be out of a good thing.'

Now, Miss Twexby knew that Slivers was in the habit of doing business with her parent, and, moreover was a power in the share market, so she did not deem it diplomatic to go too far, and bottling up her wrath for a future occasion, when no loss would be involved, she graciously asked Slivers what he'd be pleased to have.

'Whisky,' said Slivers, curtly, leaning his chin on his stick, and following her movements with his one eye. 'I say!'

'Well?' asked Miss Twexby, coming from behind the bar with a glass and a bottle of whisky, 'what do you say?'

'How's that good-looking Frenchman?' asked Slivers, pouring himself out some liquor, and winking at her in a rakish manner with his one eye.

'How should I know?' snapped Martha, angrily, 'he comes here to see that friend of his, and then clears out without as much as a good day; a nice sort of friend, indeed,' wrathfully, 'stopping here nearly two weeks and drunk all the time; he'll be having delirious trimmings before he's done.'

'Who will ?' said Slivers, taking a sip of his whisky and water.

'Why, that other Frenchman!' retorted Martha, going to her place behind the bar, 'Peter something; a low, black wretch, all beard, with no tongue, and a thirst like a lime-kiln.'

'Oh, the dumb man.'

Miss Twexby nodded.

'That's him,' she said, triumphantly, 'he's been here for the last two weeks.'

'Drunk, I think you said,' remarked Slivers, politely.

Martha laughed scornfully, and took out some sewing.

'I should just think so,' she retorted, tossing her head, 'he does nothing but drink all day, and run after people with that knife.'

'Very dangerous,' observed Slivers, gravely shaking his head; 'why don't you get rid of him?'

'So we are,' said Miss Twexby, biting off a bit of cotton, as if she wished it were Pierre's head; 'he is going down to Melbourne the day after to-morrow.'

Slivers got weary of hearing about Pierre, and plunged right off into the object of his visit.

'That Vandeloup,' he began.

'Well?' said Miss Twexby, letting the work fall on her lap.

'What time did he come home the night he stopped here?'

'Twelve o'clock.'

'Get along with you,' said Slivers, in disgust, 'you mean three o'clock.'

'No, I don't,' retorted Martha, indignantly; 'you'll be telling me I don't know the time next.'

'Did he go out again?

'No, he went to bed.'

This quite upset Slivers' idea—as if Vandeloup had gone to bed at twelve, he certainly could not have murdered Villiers nearly a mile away at two o'clock in the morning. Slivers was puzzled, and then the light broke on him—perhaps it was the dumb man.

'Did the other stay here all night also?'

Miss Twexby nodded. 'Both in the same room,' she answered.

'What time did the dumb chap come in?'

'Half-past nine.'

Here was another facer for Slivers—as it could not have been Pierre.

'Did he go to bed?'

'Straight.'

'And did not leave the house again?'

'Of course not,' retorted Miss Twexby, impatiently; 'do you think I'm a fool—no one goes either in or out of this house without my knowing it. The dumb devil went to bed at half-past nine, and Mr Vandeloup at half-past twelve, and they neither of them came out of their rooms till next morning.'

'How do you know Vandeloup was in at twelve?' asked Slivers, still unconvinced.

'Drat the man, what's he worryin' about?' rejoined Miss Twexby, snappishly; 'I let him in myself.'

This clearly closed the subject, and Slivers arose to his feet in great disgust, upsetting Billy on to the floor.

'Devil!' shrieked Billy, as he dropped. 'Oh, my precious mother. Devil—devil—devil—you're a liar—you're a liar—Bendigo and Ballarat—Ballarat and Bendigo—Pickles!'

Having thus run through a portion of his vocabulary, he subsided into silence, and let Slivers pick him up in order to go home.

'A nice pair you are,' muttered Martha, grimly, looking at them. 'I wish I had the thrashing of you. Won't you stay and see par?' she called out as Slivers departed.

'I'll come to-morrow,' answered Slivers, angrily, for he felt very much out of temper; then, in a lower voice, he observed to himself, 'I'd like to put that jade in a teacup and crush her.'

He stumped home in silence, thinking all the time; and it was only when he arrived back in his office that he gave utterance to his thoughts.

'It couldn't have been either of the Frenchmen,' he said, lighting his pipe. 'She must have done it herself.'



CHAPTER XVI

MCINTOSH SPEAKS HIS MIND

It was some time before Mrs Villiers recovered from the shock caused by her encounter with her husband. The blow he had struck her on the side of the head turned out to be more serious than was at first anticipated, and Selina deemed it advisable that a doctor should be called in. So Archie went into Ballarat, and returned to the Pactolus with Dr Gollipeck, an eccentric medical practitioner, whose peculiarities were the talk of the city.

Dr Gollipeck was tall and lank, with an unfinished look about him, as if Nature in some sudden freak had seized an incomplete skeleton from a museum and hastily covered it with parchment. He dressed in rusty black, wore dingy cotton gloves, carried a large white umbrella, and surveyed the world through the medium of a pair of huge spectacles. His clothes were constantly coming undone, as he scorned the use of buttons, and preferred pins, which were always scratching his hands. He spoke very little, and was engaged in composing an erudite work on 'The Art of Poisoning, from Borgia to Brinvilliers'.

Selina was not at all impressed with his appearance, and mentally decided that a good wash and a few buttons would improve him wonderfully. Dr Gollipeck, however, soon verified the adage that appearances are deceptive—as Selina afterwards remarked to Archie— by bringing Madame Midas back to health in a wonderfully short space of time. She was now convalescent, and, seated in the arm-chair by the window, looked dreamily at the landscape. She was thinking of her husband, and in what manner he would annoy her next; but she half thought—and the wish was father to the half thought—that having got the nugget he would now leave her alone.

She knew that he had not been in Ballarat since that fatal night when he had attacked her, but imagined that he was merely hiding till such time as the storm should blow over and he could enjoy his ill-gotten gains in safety. The letter asking him to give up the nugget and ordering him to leave the district under threat of prosecution had been sent to his lodgings, but was still lying there unopened. The letters accumulated into quite a little pile as weeks rolled on, yet Mr Villiers, if he was alive, made no sign, and if he was dead, no traces had been found of his body. McIntosh and Slivers had both seen the police about the affair, one in order to recover the nugget, the other actuated by bitter enmity against Madame Midas. To Slivers' hints, that perhaps Villiers' wife knew more than she chose to tell, the police turned a deaf ear, as they assured Slivers that they had made inquiries, and on the authority of Selina and McIntosh could safely say that Madame Midas had been home that night at half-past nine o'clock, whereas Villiers was still alive in Ballarat—as could be proved by the evidence of Mr Jarper—at two o'clock in the morning. So, foiled on every side in his endeavours to implicate Mrs Villiers in her husband's disappearance, Slivers retired to his office, and, assisted by his ungodly cockatoo, passed many hours in swearing at his bad luck and in cursing the absent Villiers.

As to M. Vandeloup, he was indefatigable in his efforts to find Villiers, for, as he very truly said, he could never repay Madame Midas sufficiently for her kindness to him, and he wanted to do all in his power to punish her cruel husband. But in spite of all this seeking, the whereabouts of Mr Randolph Villiers remained undiscovered, and at last, in despair, everyone gave up looking. Villiers had disappeared entirely, and had taken the nugget with him, so where he was and what he was doing remained a mystery.

One result of Madame's illness was that M. Vandeloup had met Dr Gollipeck, and the two, though apparently dissimilar in both character and appearance, had been attracted to one another by a liking which they had in common. This was the study of toxicology, a science at which the eccentric old man had spent a lifetime. He found in Vandeloup a congenial spirit, for the young Frenchman had a wonderful liking for the uncanny subject; but there was a difference in the aims of both men, Gollipeck being drawn to the study of poisons from a pure love of the subject, whereas Vandeloup wanted to find out the secrets of toxicology for his own ends, which were anything but disinterested.

Wearied of the dull routine of the office work, Vandeloup was taking a walk in the meadows which surrounded the Pactolus, when he saw Dr Gollipeck shuffling along the dusty white road from the railway station.

'Good day, Monsieur le Medecin,' said Vandeloup, gaily, as he came up to the old man; 'are you going to see our mutual friend?'

Gollipeck, ever sparing of words, nodded in reply, and trudged on in silence, but the Frenchmen, being used to the eccentricities of his companion, was in nowise offended at his silence, but went on talking in an animated manner.

'Ah, my dear friend,' he said, pushing his straw hat back on his fair head; 'how goes on the great work?'

'Capitally,' returned the doctor, with a complacent smile; 'just finished "Catherine de Medici"—wonderful woman, sir—quite a mistress of the art of poisoning.'

'Humph,' returned Vandeloup, thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette, 'I do not agree with you there; it was her so-called astrologer, Ruggieri, who prepared all her potions. Catherine certainly had the power, but Ruggieri possessed the science—a very fair division of labour for getting rid of people, I must say—but what have you got there?' nodding towards a large book which Gollipeck carried under his arm.

'For you,' answered the other, taking the book slowly from under his arm, and thereby causing another button to fly off, 'quite new,— work on toxicology.'

'Thank you,' said Vandeloup, taking the heavy volume and looking at the title; 'French, I see! I'm sure it will be pleasant reading.'

The title of the book was 'Les Empoisonneurs d'Aujourd'hui, par MM. Prevol et Lebrun', and it had only been published the previous year; so as he turned over the leaves carelessly, M. Vandeloup caught sight of a name which he knew. He smiled a little, and closing the book put it under his arm, while he turned smilingly towards his companion, whom he found looking keenly at him.

'I shall enjoy this book immensely,' he said, touching the volume. Dr Gollipeck nodded and chuckled in a hoarse rattling kind of way.

'So I should think,' he answered, with another sharp look, 'you are a very clever young man, my friend.'

Vandeloup acknowledged the compliment with a bow, and wondered mentally what this old man meant. Gaston, however, was never without an answer, so he turned to Gollipeck again with a nonchalant smile on his handsome lips.

'So kind of you to think well of me,' he said, coolly flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette with his little finger; 'but why do you pay me such a compliment?'

Gollipeck answered the question by asking another.

'Why are you so fond of toxicology?' he said, abruptly, shuffling his feet in the long dry grass in which they were now walking in order to rub the dust off his ungainly, ill-blacked shoes.

Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.

'To pass the time,' he said, carelessly, 'that is all; even office work, exciting as it is, becomes wearisome, so I must take up some subject to amuse myself.'

'Curious taste for a young man,' remarked the doctor, dryly.

'Nature,' said M. Vandeloup, 'does not form men all on the same pattern, and my taste for toxicology has at least the charm of novelty.'

Gollipeck looked at the young man again in a sharp manner.

'I hope you'll enjoy the book,' he said, abruptly, and vanished into the house.

When he was gone, the mocking smile so habitual to Vandeloup's countenance faded away, and his face assumed a thoughtful expression. He opened the book, and turned over the leaves rapidly, but without finding what he was in search of. With an uneasy laugh he shut the volume with a snap, and put it under his arm again.

'He's an enigma,' he thought, referring to the doctor; 'but he can't suspect anything. The case may be in this book, but I doubt if even this man with the barbarous name can connect Gaston Vandeloup, of Ballarat, with Octave Braulard, of Paris.'

His face reassumed its usual gay look, and throwing away the half- smoked cigarette, he walked into the house and found Madame Midas seated in her arm-chair near the window looking pale and ill, while Archie was walking up and down in an excited manner, and talking volubly in broad Scotch. As to Dr Gollipeck, that eccentric individual was standing in front of the fire, looking even more dilapidated than usual, and drying his red bandanna handkerchief in an abstract manner. Selina was in another room getting a drink for Madame, and as Vandeloup entered she came back with it.

'Good day, Madame,' said the Frenchman, advancing to the table, and putting his hat and the book down on it. 'How are you today?'

'Better, much better, thank you,' said Madame, with a faint smile; 'the doctor assures me I shall be quite well in a week.'

'With perfect rest and quiet, of course,' interposed Gollipeck, sitting down and spreading his handkerchief over his knees.

'Which Madame does not seem likely to get,' observed Vandeloup, dryly, with a glance at McIntosh, who was still pacing up and down the room with an expression of wrath on his severe face.

'Ou, ay,' said that gentleman, stopping in front of Vandeloup, with a fine expression of scorn. 'I ken weel 'tis me ye are glowerin' at- -div ye no' ken what's the matter wi' me?'

'Not being in your confidence,' replied Gaston, smoothly, taking a seat, 'I can hardly say that I do.'

'It's just that Peter o' yours,' said Archie, with a snort; 'a puir weecked unbaptised child o' Satan.'

'Archie!' interposed Madame, with some severity.

'Your pardon's begged, mem,' said Archie, sourly turning to her; 'but as for that Peter body, the Lord keep me tongue fra' swearin', an' my hand from itching to gie him ain on the lug, when I think o' him.'

'What's he been doing?' asked Vandeloup, coolly. 'I am quite prepared to hear anything about him in his present state.'

'It's just this,' burst forth Archie, wrathfully. 'I went intil the toun to the hotel, to tell the body he must come back tae the mine, and I find him no in a fit state for a Christian to speak to.'

'Therefore,' interposed Vandeloup, in his even voice, without lifting his eyes, 'it was a pity you did speak to him.'

'I gang t' the room,' went on Archie excitedly, without paying any attention to Vandeloup's remark, 'an' the deil flew on me wi' a dirk, and wud hae split my weasand, but I hed the sense to bang the door to, and turn the key in the lock. D'y ca' that conduct for a ceevilized body?'

'The fact is, M. Vandeloup,' said Madame, quietly, 'Archie is so annoyed at this conduct that he does not want Lemaire to come back to work.'

'Ma certie, I should just think so,' cried McIntosh, rubbing his head with his handkerchief. 'Fancy an imp of Beelzebub like yon in the bowels o' the earth. Losh! but it macks my bluid rin cauld when I think o' the bluidthirsty pagan.'

To Vandeloup, this information was not unpleasant. He was anxious to get rid of Pierre, who was such an incubus, and now saw that he could send him away without appearing to wish to get rid of him. But as he was a diplomatic young man he did not allow his satisfaction to appear on his face.

'Aren't you rather hard on him?' he said, coolly, leaning back in his chair; 'he is simply drunk, and will be all right soon.'

'I tell ye I'll no have him back,' said Archie, firmly; 'he's ain o' they foreign bodies full of revolutions an' confusion o' tongues, and I'd no feel safe i' the mine if I kenned that deil was doon below wi' his dirk.'

'I really think he ought to go,' said Madame, looking rather anxiously at Vandeloup, 'unless, M. Vandeloup, you do not want to part with him.'

'Oh, I don't want him,' said Vandeloup, hastily; 'as I told you, he was only one of the sailors on board the ship I was wrecked in, and he followed me up here because I was the only friend he had, but now he has got money—or, at least, his wages must come to a good amount.'

'Forty pounds,' interposed Archie.

'So I think the best thing he can do is to go to Melbourne, and see if he can get back to France.'

'And you, M. Vandeloup?' asked Dr Gollipeck, who had been listening to the young Frenchman's remarks with great interest; 'do you not wish to go to France?'

Vandeloup rose coolly from his chair, and, picking up his book and hat, turned to the doctor.

'My dear Monsieur,' he said, leaning up against the wall in a graceful manner, 'I left France to see the world, so until I have seen it I don't think it would be worthwhile to return.'

'Never go back when you have once put your hand to the plough,' observed Selina, opportunely, upon which Vandeloup bowed to her.

'Mademoiselle,' he said, quietly, with a charming smile, 'has put the matter into the shell of a nut; Australia is my plough, and I do not take my hand away until I have finished with it.'

'But that deil o' a Peter,' said Archie, impatiently.

'If you will permit me, Madame,' said Vandeloup, 'I will write out a cheque for the amount of money due to him, and you will sign it. I will go into Ballarat to-morrow, and get him away to Melbourne. I propose to buy him a box and some clothes, as he certainly is not capable of getting them himself.'

'You have a kind heart, M. Vandeloup,' said Madame, as she assented with a nod.

A stifled laugh came from the Doctor, but as he was such an extremely eccentric individual no one minded him.

'Come, Monsieur,' said Vandeloup, going to the door, 'let us be off to the office and see how much is due to my friend,' and with a bow to Madame, he went out.

'A braw sort o' freend,' muttered Archie, as he followed.

'Quite good enough for him,' retorted Dr Gollipeck, who overheard him.

Archie looked at him approvingly, nodded his head, and went out after the Frenchman, but Madame, being a woman and curious, asked the doctor what he meant.

His reply was peculiar.

'Our friend,' he said, putting his handkerchief in his pocket and seizing his greasy old hat, 'our friend believes in the greatest number.'

'And what is the greatest number?' asked Madame, innocently.

'Number one,' retorted the Doctor, and took his leave abruptly, leaving two buttons and several pins on the floor as traces of his visit.



CHAPTER XVII

THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST PART

Union is strength, and if Dr Gollipeck had only met Slivers and revealed his true opinion of Vandeloup to him, no doubt that clever young man would have found himself somewhat embarrassed, as a great deal of a man's past history can be found out by the simple plan of putting two and two together. Fortunately, however, for Gaston, these two gentlemen never met, and Gollipeck came to the conclusion that he could see nothing to blame in Vandeloup's conduct, though he certainly mistrusted him, and determined mentally to keep an eye on his movements. What led him to be suspicious was the curious resemblance the appearance of this young man had to that of a criminal described in the 'Les Empoisonneurs d'Aujourd'hui' as having been transported to New Caledonia for the crime of poisoning his mistress. Everything, however, was vague and uncertain; so Dr Gollipeck, when he arrived home, came to the above-named conclusion that he would watch Vandeloup, and then, dismissing him from his mind, went to work on his favourite subject.

Meanwhile, M. Vandeloup slept the sleep of the just, and next morning, after making his inquiries after the health of Madame Midas—a thing he never neglected to do—he went into Ballarat in search of Pierre. On arriving at the Wattle Tree Hotel he was received by Miss Twexby in dignified silence, for that astute damsel was beginning to regard the fascinating Frenchman as a young man who talked a great deal and meant nothing.

He was audacious enough to win her virgin heart and then break it, so Miss Twexby thought the wisest thing would be to keep him at a distance. So Vandeloup's bright smiles and merry jokes failed to call forth any response from the fair Martha, who sat silently in the bar, looking like a crabbed sphinx.

'Is my friend Pierre in?' asked Vandeloup, leaning across the counter, and looking lovingly at Miss Twexby.

That lady intimated coldly that he was in, and had been for the last two weeks; also that she was sick of him, and she'd thank M. Vandeloup to clear him out—all of which amused Vandeloup mightily, though he still continued to smile coolly on the sour-faced damsel before him.

'Would you mind going and telling him I want to see him?' he asked, lounging to the door.

'Me!' shrieked Martha, in a shrill voice, shooting up from behind the counter like an infuriated jack-in-the-box. 'No, I shan't. Why, the last time I saw him he nearly cut me like a ham sandwich with that knife of his. I am not,' pursued Miss Twexby, furiously, 'a loaf of bread to be cut, neither am I a pin-cushion to have things stuck into me; so if you want to be a corpse, you'd better go up yourself.'

'I hardly think he'll touch me,' replied Vandeloup, coolly, going towards the door which led to Pierre's bedroom. 'You've had a lot of trouble with him, I'm afraid; but he's going down to Melbourne tonight, so it will be all right.'

'And the bill?' queried Miss Twexby, anxiously.

'I will pay it,' said Vandeloup, at which she was going to say he was very generous, but suppressed the compliment when he added, 'out of his own money.'

Gaston, however, failed to persuade Pierre to accompany him round to buy an outfit. For the dumb man lay on his bed, and obstinately refused to move out of the room. He, however, acquiesced sullenly when his friend told him he was going to Melbourne, so Vandeloup left the room, having first secured Pierre's knife, and locked the door after him. He gave the knife to Miss Twexby, with injunctions to her to keep it safe, then sallied forth to buy his shipwrecked friend a box and some clothes.

He spent about ten pounds in buying an outfit for the dumb man, hired a cab to call at the 'Wattle Tree' Hotel at seven o'clock to take the box and its owner to the station. And then feeling he had done his duty and deserved some recompense, he had a nice little luncheon and a small bottle of wine for which he paid out of Pierre's money. When he finished he bought a choice cigar, had a glass of Chartreuse, and after resting in the commercial room for a time he went out for a walk, intending to call on Slivers and Dr Gollipeck, and in fact do anything to kill time until it would be necessary for him to go to Pierre and take him to the railway station.

He walked slowly up Sturt Street, and as the afternoon was so warm, thought he would go up to Lake Wendouree, which is at the top of the town, and see if it was any cooler by the water. The day was oppressively hot, but not with the bright, cheery warmth of a summer's day, for the sun was hidden behind great masses of angry- looking clouds, and it seemed as if a thunderstorm would soon break over the city. Even Vandeloup, full of life and animation as he was, felt weighed down by the heaviness of the atmosphere, and feeling quite exhausted when he arrived at the lake, he was glad enough to sit down on one of the seats for a rest.

The lake under the black sky was a dull leaden hue, and as there was no wind the water was perfectly still. Even the trees all round it were motionless, as there came no breeze to stir their leaves, and the only sounds that could be heard were the dull croaking of the frogs amid the water grasses, and the shrill cries of children playing on the green turf. Every now and then a steamer would skim across the surface of the water in an airy manner, looking more like a child's clockwork toy than anything else, and Vandeloup, when he saw one of these arrive at the little pier, almost expected to see a man put in a huge key to the paddle wheels and wind it up again.

On one of the seats Vandeloup espied a little figure in white, and seeing that it was Kitty, he strolled up to her in a leisurely manner. She was looking at the ground when he came up, and was prodding holes in the spongy turf with her umbrella, but glanced up carelessly as he came near. Then she sprang up with a cry of joy, and throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him twice.

'I haven't seen you for ages,' said Kitty, putting her arm in his as they sat down. 'I just came up here for a week, and did not think I'd see you.'

'The meeting was quite accidental, I know,' replied Gaston, leaning back lazily; 'but none the less pleasant on that account.'

'Oh, no,' said Kitty, gravely shaking her head; 'unexpected meetings are always pleasanter than those arranged, for there's never any disappointment about them.'

'Oh, that's your experience, is it?' answered her lover, with an amused smile, pulling out his cigarette case. 'Well, suppose you reward me for my accidental presence here, and light a cigarette for me.'

Kitty was of course delighted, and took the case while M. Vandeloup leaned back in the seat, his hands behind his head, and stared reflectively at the leaden-coloured sky. Kitty took out a cigarette from the case, placed it between her pretty lips, and having obtained a match from one of her lover's pockets, proceeded to light it, which was not done without a great deal of choking and pretty confusion. At length she managed it, and bending over Gaston, placed it in his mouth, and gave him a kiss at the same time.

'If pa knew I did this, he'd expire with horror,' she said, sagely nodding her head.

'Wouldn't be much loss if he did,' replied Vandeloup, lazily, glancing at her pretty face from under his eyelashes; 'your father has a great many faults, dear.'

'Oh, "The Elect" think him perfect,' said Kitty, wisely.

'From their point of view, perhaps he is,' returned Gaston, with a faint sneer; 'but he's not a man given to exuberant mirth.'

'Well, he is rather dismal,' assented Kitty, doubtfully.

'Wouldn't you like to leave him and lead a jollier life?' asked Vandeloup, artfully, 'in Melbourne, for instance.'

Kitty looked at him half afraid.

'I—I don't know,' she faltered, looking down.

'But I do, Bebe,' whispered Gaston, putting his arm round her waist; 'you would like to come with me.'

'Why? Are you going?' cried Kitty, in dismay.

Vandeloup nodded.

'I think I spoke about this before,' he said, idly brushing some cigarette ash off his waistcoat.

'Yes,' returned Kitty, 'but I thought you did not mean it.'

'I never say anything I do not mean,' answered Vandeloup, with the ready lie on his lips in a moment; 'and I have got letters from France with money, so I am going to leave the Pactolus.'

'And me?' said Kitty, tearfully.

'That depends upon yourself, Bebe,' he said rapidly, pressing her burning cheek against his own; 'your father would never consent to my marriage, and I can't take you away from Ballarat without suspicions, so—'

'Yes?' said Kitty, eagerly, looking at him.

'You must run away,' he whispered, with a caressing smile.

'Alone?'

'For a time, yes,' he answered, throwing away his cigarette; 'listen—next week you must meet me here, and I will give you money to keep you in Melbourne for some time; then you must leave Ballarat at once and wait for me at the Buttercup Hotel in Gertrude Street, Carlton; you understand?'

'Yes,' faltered Kitty, nervously; 'I—I understand.'

'And you will come?' he asked anxiously, looking keenly at her, and pressing the little hand he held in his own. Just as she was going to answer, as if warning her of the fatal step she was about to take, a low roll of thunder broke on their ears, and Kitty shrank back appalled from her lover's embrace.

'No! no! no!' she almost shrieked, hysterically, trying to tear herself away from his arms, 'I cannot; God is speaking.'

'Bah!' sneered Vandeloup, with an evil look on his handsome face, 'he speaks too indistinctly for us to guess what he means; what are you afraid of? I will join you in Melbourne in two or three weeks, and then we will be married.'

'But my father,' she whispered, clasping her hot hands convulsively.

'Well, what of him?' asked Vandeloup, coolly; 'he is so wrapped up in his religion that he will not miss you; he will never find out where you are in Melbourne, and by the time he does you will be my wife. Come,' he said, ardently, whispering the temptation in her ear, as if he was afraid of being heard, 'you must consent; say yes, Bebe; say yes.'

She felt his hot breath on her cheek, and felt rather than saw the scintillations of his wonderful eyes, which sent a thrill through her; so, utterly exhausted and worn out by the overpowering nervous force possessed by this man, she surrendered.

'Yes,' she whispered, clinging to him with dry lips and a beating heart; 'I will come!' Then her overstrained nature gave way, and with a burst of tears she threw herself on his breast.

Gaston let her sob quietly for some time, satisfied with having gained his end, and knowing that she would soon recover. At last Kitty grew calmer, and drying her eyes, she rose to her feet wan and haggard, as if she was worn out for the want of sleep, and not by any manner of means looking like a girl who was in love. This appearance was caused by the revolt of her religious training against doing what she knew was wrong. In her breast a natural instinct had been fighting against an artificial one; and as Nature is always stronger than precept, Nature had conquered.

'My dear Bebe,' said Vandeloup, rising also, and kissing her white cheek, 'you must go home now, and get a little sleep; it will do you good.'

'But you?' asked Kitty, in a low voice, as they walked slowly along.

'Oh, I,' said M. Vandeloup, airily; 'I am going to the Wattle Tree Hotel to see my friend Pierre off to Melbourne.'

Then he exerted himself to amuse Kitty as they walked down to town, and succeeded so well that by the time they reached Lydiard Street, where Kitty left him to go up to Black Hill, she was laughing as merrily as possible. They parted at the railway crossing, and Kitty went gaily up the white dusty road, while M. Vandeloup strolled leisurely along the street on his way to the Wattle Tree Hotel.

When he arrived he found that Pierre's box had come, and was placed outside his door, as no one had been brave enough to venture inside, although Miss Twexby assured them he was unarmed—showing the knife as a proof.

Gaston, however, dragged the box into the room, and having made Pierre dress himself in his new clothes, he packed all the rest in a box, corded it, and put a ticket on it with his name and destination, then gave the dumb man the balance of his wages. It was now about six o'clock, so Vandeloup went down to dinner; then putting Pierre and his box into the cab, stepped in himself and drove off.

The promise of rain in the afternoon was now fulfilled, and it was pouring in torrents. The gutters were rivers, and every now and then through the driving rain came the bluish dart of a lightning flash.

'Bah!' said Vandeloup, with a shiver, as they got out on the station platform, 'what a devil of a night.'

He made the cab wait for him, and, having got Pierre's ticket, put him in a second-class carriage and saw that his box was safely placed in the luggage-van. The station was crowded with people going and others coming to say goodbye; the rain was beating on the high- arched tin roof, and the engine at the end of the long train was fretting and fuming like a living thing impatient to be gone.

'You are now on your own responsibility, my friend,' said Vandeloup to Pierre, as he stood at the window of the carriage; 'for we must part, though long together have we been. Perhaps I will see you in Melbourne; if I do you will find I have not forgotten the past,' and, with a significant look at the dumb man, Vandeloup lounged slowly away.