Hardie smiled, and the lad continued:

"Now we had, perhaps, better be practical and consider how to get over the difficulties."

He grew less discursive when they fell in with his suggestion. George possessed sound sense and some power of leading, and for a while they were busy elaborating a plan of campaign, in which his advice was largely deferred to. Then there was an interruption, for Grierson, his hired man, came in.

"I was hauling hay from the big sloo when I saw the Hereford bull," he said. "He was by himself and bleeding from the shoulder. Thought I'd better bring him home, though he walked very lame."

"Ah!" exclaimed George sharply. "I'll come and look at him."

The others followed and on reaching the wire-fenced corral they found the animal lying down, with its forequarter stained with blood. George sent for some water, and he soon found the wound, which was very small and round.

"It's a curious mark," Hardie commented.

"Yes," said George; "it's a bullet hole."

The surprise of the others was obvious.

"I think it's a hint," George explained. "We'll try to get him on his feet."

They succeeded, and when the beast had been led into a stall, George turned to Hardie.

"As you said you wouldn't stay the night, would you mind starting for the settlement now? The livery stable fellow is said to be clever at veterinary work; you might send him out, and mail a note I'll give you to the police."

Hardie professed his willingness to be of service, and on getting into his buggy said, with some hesitation:

"I'm afraid you're right in your suspicions, and I'm particularly sorry. In a way, I'm responsible for this."

George smiled, rather grimly.

"One can't go into a fight without getting hurt; and we haven't come to the end of it yet. This affair won't cost you my support."

The clergyman's eyes sparkled as he held out his hand.

"I never imagined it—you have my sympathy, Mr. Lansing. It would give me the greatest pleasure to see the cowardly brute who fired that shot brought to justice."

He drove away, and George went moodily back to the house with Edgar.

"That's a man who has had to choose between his duty and his interest," George said; "but just now we have other things to think about. It's a pity I can't get the bullet out until help arrives."

The livery man turned up on the following day and succeeded in extracting it; and Flett made his appearance the morning after. He examined the wounded animal.

"It may have been done by accident; but, if so, it's curious the beast should have been hit close to a place where it would have killed him," he remarked.

"What's your private opinion?" George asked.

The constable smiled.

"As we haven't gone very far yet, I'll reserve it." He took up the bullet. "Winchester or Marlin; usual caliber; nothing to be made of that. Now let's go and take a look at the place where the shot was fired."

They traced back the path of the wounded beast from the spot where Grierson had found it, by the red splashes that here and there stained the short grass of the unfenced prairie. At last they stopped where the ground was broken by a few low sandy ridges sprinkled with small birches and poplars, and Flett pointed to the mark of hoofs in a strip of almost bare, light soil.

"This is where he was hit," he said. "You can see how he started off, going as hard as he could. Next, we've got to find the spot the man fired from."

It proved difficult. The dry grass revealed nothing, and they vainly searched several of the neighboring hillocks, where it grew less thickly. Scorching sunshine beat down on them and a strong breeze blew the sand about. At length Flett pointed to a few half-obliterated footprints on the bare summit of a small rise.

"The fellow stopped here with his feet well apart. He'd stand like that while he put up his gun. Sit down and smoke while I copy these marks."

He proceeded to do so carefully, having brought some paper from the homestead.

"Have you any reason for thinking it was a standing shot he took?" George asked.

"I haven't; I wish I had. Quite a lot depends upon his position."

George nodded.

"So it struck me. We'll look round for some more conclusive signs when you have finished."

Before this happened. Flora Grant rode up.

"I was going back from Forster's when I noticed you moving about the hills," she explained. "I made this round to find out what you were doing."

George told her, and her sympathy was obvious.

"I'm very sorry; but my father warned you," she said. "I'm afraid you're finding this an expensive campaign."

"I can put up with it, so long as I have my friends' support."

"I think you can count on that," she smiled. "But what is Flett's theory?"

"If he has one, he's clever at hiding it," Edgar broke in; "but I'm doubtful. In my opinion, he knows the value of the professional air of mystery."

"When I see any use in it, I can talk," retorted Flett. "What's your notion, Mr. Lansing? You don't agree that the fellow shot your beast from here?"

"No," answered George. "Of course, there are only two explanations of the thing, and the first is that it was an accident. In that case, the fellow must have been out after antelope or cranes."

"There's an objection: it's close season; though I wouldn't count too much on that. You farmers aren't particular when there's nobody around. Now, it's possible that a man who'd been creeping up on an antelope would work in behind this rise and take a quick shot, standing, when he reached the top of it. If so, I guess he'd have his eyes only on what he was firing at. Suppose he missed, and your beast happened to be in line with him?"

Flora smiled.

"It's not convincing, Mr. Flett. Seen from here, the bull would be in the open, conspicuous against white grass and sand."

"I didn't say the thing was likely. Won't you go on, Mr. Lansing?"

"The other explanation is that the fellow meant to kill or mark the bull; the place where it was hit points to the former. If that was his intention, he'd lie down or kneel to get a steadier aim. We had better look for the spot."

They spent some time before Flett thought he had found it.

"Somebody lay down here, and the bull would be up against a background of poplar scrub," he said. "I'll measure off the distance and make a plan."

He counted his paces, and had set to work with his notebook, when Flora interrupted.

"Wouldn't a sketch be better? Give me a sheet of paper; and has anybody another pencil?"

George gave her one, and after walking up and down and standing for a few moments on a low mound, she chose a position and began the sketch. It was soon finished, but it depicted the scene with distinctness, with the bull standing in the open a little to one side of the clump of scrub. George started as he saw that she had roughly indicated the figure of a man lying upon the little mound with a rifle in his hand. It struck him that she was right.

"It's a picture," said the constable; "but why did you put that fellow yonder?"

"Come and see."

They followed her to the mound, and after an inspection of it, Flett nodded.

"You'd make a mighty smart tracker, Miss Grant. I was against this mound being the firing place, because, to get to it, the fellow would have to come out into the open."

"Would that count? It was a bull he was after."

"It was," Flett agreed. "This fixes the thing."

George looked at him meaningly.

"Have you made up your mind about anything else?"

"Oh, yes," said Flett. "It was done with malicious mischief. If a poor white or an Indian meant to kill a beast for meat, he wouldn't pick a bull worth a pile of money, at least while there was common beef stock about."

"Then what do you mean to do?"

Flett smiled.

"Sooner or later, I'm going to put handcuffs on the man who did this thing. If you'll give me the sketch, Miss Grant, I'll take it along."

Flora handed it to him, and he and Edgar went away shortly afterward, leaving George with the girl. She sat still, looking down at him when he had helped her to the saddle.

"I'm afraid you have a good many difficulties to face," she said.

"Yes," assented George. "A dry summer is bad for wheat on my light soil, and that is why I thought of going in for stock." He paused with a rueful smile. "It doesn't promise to be a great improvement, if I'm to have my best beasts shot."

She pointed to the west. The grass about them was still scorched with fierce sunshine, but leaden cloud-masses, darkly rolled together with a curious bluish gleam in them, covered part of the sky.

"This time it will rain," she said. "We will be fortunate if we get no more than that. Try to remember, Mr. Lansing, that bad seasons are not the rule in western Canada, and one good one wipes out the results of several lean years."

Then she rode away, and George joined Edgar. He felt that he had been given a warning. On reaching home, he harnessed a team and drove off to a sloo to haul in hay, but while he worked he cast anxious glances at the clouds. They rolled on above him in an endless procession, opening out to emit a passing blaze of sunshine, and closing in again. The horses were restless, he could hardly get them to stand; the grasses stirred and rustled in a curious manner; and even the little gophers that scurried away from the wagon wheels displayed an unusual and feverish activity. Yet there was not a drop of rain, and the man toiled on in savage impatience, wondering whether he must once more resign himself to see the promised deluge pass away.

It was a question of serious import. A night's heavy rain would consolidate the soil that blew about with every breeze, revive the suffering wheat and strengthen its abraded stalks against any further attack by the driving sand. Indeed, he thought it would place the crop in security.

He came home for supper, jaded, dusty, and morose, and found that he could scarcely eat when he sat down to the meal. He could not rest when it was over, though he was aching from heavy toil; nor could he fix his attention on any new task; and when dusk was getting near he strolled up and down before the homestead with Edgar. There was a change in the looks of the buildings—all that could be done had been effected—but there was also a change in the man. He was leaner, his face was getting thin, and he looked worn; but he maintained a forced tranquillity.

The sky was barred with cloud now; the great breadth of grain had faded to a leaden hue, the prairie to shadowy gray. The wind had dropped, the air was tense and still; a strange, impressive silence brooded over everything.

Presently Edgar looked up at the clouds.

"They must break at last," he said. "One can't help thinking of what they hold—endless carloads of grain, wads of dollar bills for the storekeepers, prosperity for three big provinces. It's much the same weather right along to the Rockies."

"I wasn't considering the three provinces," said George.

"No," retorted Edgar. "Your attention was confined to the improvement the rain would make in Sylvia Marston's affairs. You're looking forward to sending her a big check after harvest."

"So far, it has looked more like facing a big deficit."

"You mean your facing it."

George frowned.

"Sylvia has nothing except this land."

"It strikes me she's pretty fortunate, in one way. You find the working capital and bear the loss, if there is one. I wonder what arrangements you made about dividing a surplus."

"That," said George, "is a thing I've no intention of discussing with anybody but my co-trustee."

Edgar smiled; he had hardly expected to elicit much information upon the point, having failed to do so once or twice already.

"Well," he said, "I believe we'll see the rain before an hour has passed."

Soon after he had spoken, a flash leaped from overhead and the prairie was flooded with dazzling radiance. It was followed by a roll of thunder, and a roar as the rain came down. For a few moments the dust whirled up and there was a strong smell of earth; then the air was filled with falling water. George stood still in the deluge, rejoicing, while the great drops lashed his upturned face, until Edgar laughingly pushed him toward the house.

"As I'm wet through, I think I'll go to bed. At last, you can rest content."

George, following his example, lay down with a deep sense of thankfulness. His cares had gone, the flood that roared against the board walls had banished them. Now that relief had come, he felt strangely weary, and in a few minutes he was sound asleep. He did not hear the thunder, which broke out again, nor feel the house shake in the rush of icy wind that suddenly followed; the ominous rattle on roof and walls, different from and sharper than the lashing of the rain, began and died away unnoticed by him. He was wrapped in the deep, healing slumber that follows the slackening of severe mental and bodily strain; he knew nothing of the banks of ragged ice-lumps that lay melting to lee of the building.

It was very cold the next morning, though the sun was rising above the edge of the scourged plain, when Edgar, partly dressed and wearing wet boots and leggings, came into the room and looked down at George compassionately.

The brown face struck him as looking worn; George had flung off part of the coverings, and there was something that suggested limp relaxation in his attitude; but Edgar knew that his comrade must bear his load again.

"George," he said, touching him, "you had better get up."

The man stirred, and looking at him became at once intent as he saw his face.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Something else gone wrong?"

Edgar nodded.

"I'm sorry," he answered simply. "Put on your things and come out. You had better get it over with."

In three or four minutes George left the house. Holding himself steadily in hand, he walked through the drenched grass toward the wheat. On reaching it, he set his lips tight and stood very still. The great field of grain had gone; short, severed stalks, half-buried in a mass of rent and torn-up blades, covered the wide stretch of soil where the wheat had been. The crop had been utterly wiped out by the merciless hail. Edgar did not venture to speak; any sympathy he could express would have looked like mockery; and for a while there was strained silence. Then George showed of what tough fiber he was made.

"Well," he said, "it has to be faced. After this, we'll try another plan; more stock, for one thing." He paused and then resumed: "Tell Grierson to hurry breakfast. I must drive in to the Butte; there's a good deal to be done."

Edgar moved away, feeling relieved. George, instead of despairing, was considering new measures. He was far from beaten yet.



CHAPTER XIII

SYLVIA SEEKS AMUSEMENT

It was a fine September afternoon and Sylvia reclined pensively in a canvas hammock on Herbert Lansing's lawn with one or two opened letters in her hand. Bright sunshine lay upon the grass, but it was pleasantly cool in the shadow of the big copper beech. A neighboring border glowed with autumn flowers: ribands of asters, spikes of crimson gladiolus, ranks of dahlias. Across the lawn a Virginia creeper draped the house with vivid tints. The scene had nothing of the grim bareness of the western prairie of which Sylvia was languidly thinking; her surroundings shone with strong color, and beyond them a peaceful English landscape stretched away. She could look out upon heavily-massed trees, yellow fields with sheaves in them, and the winding streak of a flashing river.

Yet Sylvia was far from satisfied. The valley was getting dull; she needed distraction, and her letters suggested both the means of getting it and a difficulty. She wore black, but it had an artistic, almost coquettish, effect, and the big hat became her well, in spite of its simple trimming. Sylvia bestowed a good deal of thought upon her appearance.

After a while Mrs. Lansing came out and joined her.

"Is there any news in your letters?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Sylvia; "there's one from George—it's a little disappointing, but you can read it. As usual, he's laconic."

George's curtness was accounted for by the fact that he had been afraid of saying too much, but Sylvia carelessly handed the letter to her companion.

"After all, he shows a nice feeling," Mrs. Lansing remarked. "He seems to regret very much his inability to send you a larger check."

"So do I," said Sylvia with a petulant air.

"He points out that it has been a bad season and he has lost his crop."

"Bad seasons are common in western Canada; I've met farmers who seemed to thrive on them."

"No doubt they didn't do so all at once."

"I dare say that's true," Sylvia agreed. "It's very likely that if I give him plenty of time, George will get everything right—he's one of the plodding, persistent people who generally succeed in the end—but what use will there be in that? I'm not growing younger—I want some enjoyment now!" She spread out her hands with a gesture that appealed for sympathy. "One gets so tired of petty economy and self-denial."

"But George and Herbert arranged that you should have a sufficient allowance."

"Sufficient," said Sylvia, "is a purely relative term. So much depends upon one's temperament, doesn't it? Perhaps I am a little extravagant, and that's why I'm disappointed."

"After all, you have very few necessary expenses."

Sylvia laughed.

"It's having only the necessary ones that makes it so dull. Now, I've thought of going to stay a while with Susan Kettering; there's a letter from her, asking when I'll come."

Mrs. Lansing was a lady of strict conventional views, and she showed some disapproval.

"But you can hardly make visits yet!"

"I don't see why I can't visit Susan. She's a relative, and it isn't as if she were entertaining a number of people. She says she's very quiet; she has hardly asked anybody, only one or two intimate friends."

"She'll have three or four men down for the partridge shooting."

"After all," said Sylvia, "I can't make her send them away. You have once or twice had men from town here."

"Susan leads a very different life from mine," Mrs. Lansing persisted. "She's a little too fond of amusement, and I don't approve of all her friends." She paused as an idea struck her. "Is Captain Bland going there for the shooting?"

"I really can't tell you. Is there any reason why she shouldn't invite him?"

Mrs. Lansing would have preferred that Sylvia should not see so much of Bland as she was likely to do if she stayed in the same house with him, though she knew of nothing in particular to his discredit. He had served without distinction in two campaigns, he lived extravagantly, and was supposed to be something of a philanderer. Indeed, not long ago, an announcement of his engagement to a lady of station had been confidently expected; but the affair had, for some unknown reason, suddenly fallen through. Mrs. Lansing was puzzled about him. If the man were looking for a wealthy wife, why should he be attracted, as she thought he was, by Sylvia, who had practically nothing.

"I'd really rather have you remain with us; but of course I can't object to your going," she said.

"I knew you would be nice about it," Sylvia exclaimed. "I must have a talk with Herbert; you said he would be home this evening."

Lansing's business occasionally prevented his nightly return from the nearest large town, but he arrived some hours later, and after dinner Sylvia found him in his smoking-room. He looked up with a smile when she came in, for their relations were generally pleasant. They understood each other, though this did not lead to mutual confidence or respect.

"Well?" he said.

Sylvia sat down in an easy chair, adopting, as she invariably did, a becoming pose, and handed him George's letter.

"He hasn't sent you very much," Herbert remarked.

"No," said Sylvia, "that's the difficulty."

"So I anticipated. You're not economical."

Sylvia laughed.

"I won't remind you of your failings. You have one virtue—you can be liberal when it suits you; and you're my trustee."

Lansing's rather fleshy, smooth-shaven face grew thoughtful, but Sylvia continued:

"I'm going to Susan's, and I really need a lot of new clothes."

"For a week or two's visit?"

"I may, perhaps, go on somewhere else afterward."

"I wonder whether you thought it necessary to tell Muriel so?"

Sylvia sighed.

"I'm afraid I didn't. I can hardly expect Muriel to quite understand or sympathize. She has you, and the flowers she's so fond of, and quiet friends of the kind she likes; while it's so different with me. Besides, I was never meant for retirement."

"That," laughed Lansing, "is very true."

"Of course," Sylvia went on; "I shall be very quiet, but there are things one really has to take part in."

"Bridge is expensive unless you're unusually lucky, or an excellent player," Lansing suggested. "However, it would be more to the purpose if you mentioned what is the least you could manage with."

Sylvia told him, and he knit his brows.

"Money's tight with me just now," he objected.

"You know it's only on account. George will do ever so much better next year; and I dare say, if I pressed him, he would send another remittance."

"His letter indicates that he'd find it difficult."

"George wouldn't mind that. He rather likes doing things that are hard, and it's comforting to think that self-denial doesn't cost him much. I'm thankful I have him to look after the farm."

Lansing regarded her with ironical amusement; he knew what her gratitude was worth.

"Yes," he agreed significantly, "George seldom expects anything for himself. I'm afraid I'm different in that respect."

Sylvia sat silent for a few moments, because she understood. If Herbert granted the favor, he would look for something in return, though she had no idea what this would be. She was conscious of a certain hesitation, but she did not allow it to influence her.

"I don't doubt it," she rejoined with a smile. "Can't you let me have a check? That will make you my creditor, but I'm not afraid you'll be very exacting.

"Well," was the response, "I will see what I can do."

She went out and Lansing filled his pipe with a feeling of satisfaction. He was not running much risk in parting with the money, and Sylvia might prove useful by and by.

Sylvia left Brantholme shortly afterward and, somewhat to her annoyance, found Ethel West a guest at the house she visited. Ethel had known Dick; she was a friend of George's, and, no doubt, in regular communication with her brother in Canada. It was possible that she might allude to Sylvia's doings when she wrote; but there was some consolation in remembering that George was neither an imaginative nor a censorious person.

Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings, when she descended the broad stairway one night with a shawl upon her arm and an elegantly bound little notebook in her hand. A handsome, dark-haired man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at her side. Bland's glance was quick and direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners were usually characterized by a humorous boldness. Still, it was difficult to find fault with them, and Sylvia had acquiesced in his rather marked preference for her society. She was, however, studying the little book as she went down the shallow steps and her expression indicated dissatisfaction.

"I'm afraid it was my fault, though you had very bad luck," said the man, noticing her look. "I'm dreadfully sorry."

"It was your fault," Sylvia rejoined, with some petulance. "When I held my best hand I was deceived by your lead. Besides, as I told the others, I didn't mean to play; you shouldn't have come down and persuaded me."

Bland considered. On the whole Sylvia played a good game, but she was obviously a little out of practise, for his lead had really been the correct one, though she had not understood it. This, however, was of no consequence; it was her concluding words that occupied his attention. They had, he thought, been spoken with a full grasp of their significance; his companion was not likely to be guilty of any ill-considered admission.

"Then I'm flattered that my influence goes so far, though it's perhaps unlucky in the present instance," he said boldly. "I'll own that I'm responsible for our misfortunes and I'm ready to take the consequences. Please give me that book."

"No," Sylvia replied severely. "I feel guilty for playing at all, but the line must be drawn."

"Where do you feel inclined to draw it?"

They had reached the hall and Sylvia turned and looked at him directly, but with a trace of coquetry.

"At allowing a comparative stranger to meet my losses, if I must be blunt."

"The arrangement isn't altogether unusual. In this case, it's a duty, and the restriction you make doesn't bar me out. I'm not a stranger."

"A mere acquaintance then," said Sylvia.

"That won't do either. It doesn't apply to me."

"Then I'll have to alter the classification." She broke into a soft laugh. "It's difficult to think of a term to fit; would you like to suggest something?"

Several epithets occurred to the man, but he feared to make too rash a venture.

"Well," he said, "would you object to—confidential friend?"

Sylvia's smile seemed to taunt him.

"Certainly; it goes too far. One doesn't become a confidential friend in a very limited time."

"I've known it happen in a few days."

"Friendships of that kind don't last. In a little while you find you have been deceived. But we won't talk of these things. You can't have the book, and I'm going out."

He held up the shawl, which she draped about her shoulders, and they strolled on to the terrace. The night was calm and pleasantly cool; beyond the black line of hedge across the lawn, meadows and harvest fields, with rows of sheaves that cast dark shadows behind them, stretched away in the moonlight. After a while Sylvia stopped and leaned upon the broad-topped wall.

"It's really pretty," she remarked.

"Yes," returned Bland; "it's more than pretty. There's something in it that rests one. I sometimes wish I could live in such a place as this altogether."

Sylvia was astonished, because she saw he meant it.

"After your life, you would get horribly tired of it in three months."

"After my life? Do you know what that has been?"

"Race meetings, polo matches, hilarious mess dinners."

He laughed, rather shortly.

"I suppose so; but they're not the only army duties. Some of the rest are better, abroad; but they're frequently accompanied by semi-starvation, scorching heat or stinging cold, and fatigue; and it doesn't seem to be the rule that those who bear the heaviest strain are remembered when promotion comes."

Sylvia studied him attentively. Bland was well and powerfully made, and she liked big men—there was more satisfaction in bending them to her will. In spite of his careless good-humor, he bore a certain stamp of distinction; he was an excellent card-player, he could dance exceptionally well, and she had heard him spoken of as a first-class shot. It was unfortunate that these abilities were of less account in a military career than she had supposed; but, when properly applied, they carried their possessor some distance in other fields. What was as much to the purpose, Bland appeared to be wealthy, and took a leading part in social amusements and activities.

"I suppose that is the case," she said sympathetically, in answer to his last remark. "You have never told me anything about your last campaign. You were injured in it, were you not?"

The man had his weaknesses, but they did not include any desire to retail his exploits and sufferings to women's ears. He would not speak of his wounds, honorably received, or of perils faced as carelessly as he had exposed his men.

"Yes," he answered. "But that was bad enough at the time, and the rest of it would make a rather monotonous tale."

"Surely not!" protested Sylvia. "The thrill and bustle of a campaign must be wonderfully exciting."

"The novelty of marching steadily in a blazing sun, drinking bad water, and shoveling trenches half the night, soon wears off," he said with a short laugh, and changed the subject. "One could imagine that you're not fond of quietness."

Sylvia shivered. The memory of her two years in Canada could not be banished. She looked back on them with something like horror.

"No," she declared; "I hate it! It's deadly to me."

"Well, I've an idea. There's the Dene Hall charity gymkana comes off in a few days. It's semi-private, and I know the people; in fact they've made me enter for some of the events. It's a pretty ride to the place, and I can get a good car. Will you come?"

"I don't know whether I ought," said Sylvia, with some hesitation.

"Think over it, anyway," he begged her.

One or two people came out, and when somebody called her name Sylvia left him, without promising. Bland remained leaning on the wall and thinking hard. Sylvia strongly attracted him. She was daintily pretty, quick of comprehension, and, in spite of her black attire, which at times gave her a forlorn air that made him compassionate, altogether charming. It was, however, unfortunate that he could not marry a poor wife, and he knew nothing about Sylvia's means. To do him justice, he had shrunk from any attempt to obtain information on this point; but he felt that it would have to be made before things went too far. His thoughts were interrupted by Ethel West, who strolled along the terrace and stopped close at hand.

"I didn't expect to find you wrapped in contemplation," she remarked.

"As a matter of fact, I've been talking."

"To Mrs. Marston? She's generally considered entertaining."

Bland looked at her with a smile. He liked Ethel West. She was blunt, without being tactless, and her conversation was sometimes piquant. Moreover, he remembered that Ethel and Sylvia were old acquaintances.

"I find her so," he said. "Though she has obviously had trouble, she's very bright. It's a sign of courage."

"In Sylvia Marston's case, it's largely a reaction. She spent what she regards as two harrowing years in Canada."

"After all, Canada doesn't seem to be a bad place," said Bland. "Two of my friends, who left the Service, went out to take up land and they evidently like it. They got lots of shooting, and they've started a pack of hounds."

Ethel considered. She could have told him that Sylvia's husband had gone out to make a living, and had not been in a position to indulge in costly amusements, but this did not appear advisable.

"I don't think Marston got a great deal of sport," she said. "He had too much to do."

"A big place to look after? I understand it's wise to buy up all the land you can."

Ethel's idea of the man's views in respect to Sylvia was confirmed. He was obviously giving her a lead and she followed it, though she did not intend to enlighten him.

"Yes," she answered; "that's the opinion of my brother, who's farming there. He says values are bound to go up as the new railroads are built, and Marston had a good deal of land. Sylvia is prudently keeping every acre and farming as much as possible."

She saw this was satisfactory to Bland, and she had no hesitation in letting him conclude what he liked from it. It was not her part to caution him, and it was possible that if no other suitor appeared, Sylvia might fall back on George, which was a risk that must be avoided at any cost. Ethel did not expect to gain anything for herself; she knew that George had never had any love for her; but she was determined that he should not fall into Sylvia's hands. He was too fine a man, in many ways, to be thus sacrificed.

"But how can Mrs. Marston carry on the farm?" Bland inquired.

"I should have said her trustees are doing so," Ethel answered carelessly. "One of them went out to look into things not long ago."

Then she moved away and left Bland with one difficulty that had troubled him removed.



CHAPTER XIV

BLAND GETS ENTANGLED

When Mrs. Kettering heard of Sylvia's intention to attend the gymkana, she gave her consent, and said that, as she had an invitation, she would make up a party to go. This was not what Bland required. It was, however, a four-seated car that he had been promised the use of; and counting Sylvia and himself and the driver, there was only one place left. While he was wondering to whom it would be best to offer it, Sylvia thought of Ethel West, who had announced that she would not attend the function. By making a short round, they could pass through a market town of some importance.

"You mentioned that you wished to buy some things; why not come with us?" she said to Ethel. "We could drop you going out and call for you coming home. Susan will have the big car full, so she couldn't take you, and it's a long drive to the station and the trains run awkwardly."

Sylvia's motive was easy to discern, but Ethel agreed. She was, on the whole, inclined to pity Captain Bland; but he was a stranger and George was a friend. If Sylvia must choose between them, it would be much better that she should take the soldier. For all that, Ethel had an uncomfortable feeling that she was assisting in a piece of treachery when she set off soon after lunch on a fine autumn day; and the car had gone several miles before she began to enjoy the ride.

For a while the straight white road, climbing steadily, crossed a waste of moors. The dry grass gleamed gray and silver among the russet fern; rounded, white-edged clouds floated, scarcely moving, in a sky of softest blue. The upland air was gloriously fresh, and the speed exhilarating.

By and by they ran down into a narrow dale in the depths of which a river brawled among the stones, and climbed a long ascent, from which they could see a moving dust-cloud indicating that Mrs. Kettering's car was only a mile or two behind. After that there was a league of brown heath, and then they sped down to a wide, wooded valley, in the midst of which rose the gray walls of an ancient town. On reaching it, Ethel alighted in the market-square, hard by the lofty abbey, and turned to Bland.

"I have one or two calls to make after I've finished shopping, but if it takes longer than I expected or you can't get here in time, I'll go back by train," she said. "In that case, you must bring me home from the station."

Bland promised, and Ethel watched the car with a curious expression until it vanished under a time-worn archway. She was vexed with herself for playing into Sylvia's hands, though she had only done so in what she regarded as George's interest. If Sylvia married Bland, the blow would no doubt be a heavy one to George, but it would be better for him in the end.

In the meanwhile, the car sped on up the valley until it reached an ancient house built on to a great square tower, where Bland was welcomed by a lady of high importance in the district. Afterward he was familiarly greeted by several of her guests, which Sylvia, who had strong ambitions, duly noticed; these people occupied a different station from the one in which she had hitherto moved. When Bland was called away from her, she was shown to a place at some distance from Mrs. Kettering's party, and she sat down and looked about with interest. From the smooth lawn and still glowing borders before the old gray house, a meadow ran down to the river that wandered, gleaming, through the valley, and beyond it the brown moors cut against the clear blue sky. In the meadow, a large, oval space was lined with groups of smartly-dressed people, and in its midst rose trim pavilions outside which grooms stood holding beautiful glossy horses. Everything was prettily arranged; the scene, with its air of gayety, appealed to Sylvia, and she enjoyed it keenly, though she was now and then conscious of her somber attire.

Then the entertainment began, and she admitted that Bland, finely-mounted, was admirable. He took his part in several competitions, and through them all displayed a genial good-humor and easy physical grace. He had for the most part younger men as antagonists, but Sylvia thought that none of them could compare with him in manner or bearing.

After a while Sylvia noticed with a start of surprise and annoyance that Herbert Lansing was strolling toward her. He took an unoccupied chair at her side.

"What brought you here?" she asked.

"That," he said, "is easily explained. I got a kind of circular of invitation, and as I've had dealings with one or two of these people, I thought it advisable to make an appearance and pay my half-guinea. Then there's a man I want a talk with, and I find that the atmosphere of an office has often a deterrent effect on those unused to it. But I didn't expect to find you here."

"Susan and some of the others have come; I've no doubt you'll meet her."

The explanation appeared adequate on the face of it, but a moment later Herbert glanced at Bland, who was dexterously controlling his restive horse.

"The man looks well in the saddle, doesn't he?" he said.

"Yes," assented Sylvia in an indifferent tone, though she was slightly disturbed. Herbert was keen-witted, and she would rather not have had him take an interest in her affairs.

"I'm inclined to think it's fortunate I didn't bring Muriel," he resumed with a smile. "She's rather conventional, and has stricter views than seem to be general nowadays."

"I can't see why I should remain in complete seclusion; it's an irrational idea. But I've no intention of concealing anything I think fit to do."

"Of course not. Are you going to mention that you attended this entertainment when you write to Muriel?"

Sylvia pondered her reply. In spite of its dullness, Mrs. Lansing's house was a comfortable and secure retreat. She would have to go back to it presently, and it was desirable that she should avoid any cause of disagreement with her hostess.

"No," she said candidly; "I don't see any need for that; and I may not write for some time. Of course, Muriel doesn't quite look at things as I do, and on one or two points she's unusually sensitive."

Herbert looked amused.

"You're considerate; and I dare say you're right. There doesn't seem to be any reason why Muriel should concern herself about the thing, particularly as you're in Susan's hands."

The implied promise that he would not mention his having seen her afforded Sylvia some relief, but when he went away to speak to Mrs. Kettering, she wished she had not met him. Herbert was troubled by none of his wife's prejudices, but on another occasion he had made her feel that she owed him something for which he might expect some return, and now the impression was more marked; their secret, though of no importance, had strengthened his position. Herbert seldom granted a favor without an end in view; and she did not wish him to get too firm a hold on her. The feeling, however, wore off, and she had spent a pleasant afternoon when Bland came for her as the shadows lengthened.

He reminded her of Ethel:

"We'll have to get off, if we're to pick up Miss West."

Sylvia said that she was ready, though she felt it would have been more satisfactory had Ethel been allowed to go back by train. They began the journey, but after a few miles the car stopped on a steep rise. The driver with some trouble started the engine, but soon after they had crossed the crest of the hill it stopped again, and he looked grave as he supplied Bland with some details that Sylvia found unintelligible.

"You must get her along another mile; then you can go back on a bicycle for what you want," Bland told him, and turned to Sylvia. "We'll be delayed for an hour or so, but he can leave word for Miss West, and there's an inn not far off where they'll give us tea while we're waiting."

They reached it after turning into another road, though the car made alarming noises during the journey. Sylvia viewed the old building with appreciation. It stood, long and low and cleanly white-washed, on the brink of a deep ghyll filled with lichened boulders and russet ferns, with a firwood close behind it, and in front a wide vista of moors and fells that stood out darkly blue against the evening light. Near the stone porch, a rustic table stood beside a row of tall red hollyhocks.

"It's a charming spot," Sylvia exclaimed. "Can't we have tea outside?"

Bland ordered it and they sat down to a neatly-served meal. The evening was warm and very still and clear. A rattle of wheels reached them from somewhere far down the road and they could hear the faint splash of water in the depths of the ravine.

"This is really delightful," murmured Sylvia, when the table had been cleared. "I like the quietness of the country when it comes as a contrast, after, for example, such an afternoon as we have spent."

"Then you're not sorry you came?"

"Sorry? You wouldn't suggest it, if you knew how dull my days often are. But I mustn't be doleful. You may smoke, if you like."

Bland did not particularly wish to smoke, but he lighted a cigarette. It seemed to banish formality, to place them on more familiar terms.

"What is the matter with the car?" Sylvia asked.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you. It can't be got along without something the man has gone back for."

"They do stop sometimes. Is this one in the habit of doing so?"

"I can't say, as it isn't mine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh!" said Sylvia, "I had my suspicions. The man didn't seem in the least astonished or annoyed, for one thing. Then it broke down in such a convenient place."

Bland laughed; her boldness appealed to him.

"Well," he declared, "I'm perfectly innocent; though I can't pretend I'm sorry."

"You felt you had to say that."

"No," he declared, with a direct glance; "I meant it."

Sylvia leaned back in her chair and glanced appreciatively at the moor.

"After all," she said, "it's remarkably pretty here, and a change is nice. I'll confess that I find Susan's friends a little boring."

The implication was that she preferred Bland's society, and he was gratified.

"That struck me some time ago," he rejoined. "I wonder if you can guess why I thought it worth while to put up with them?"

Sylvia smiled as she looked at him. She liked the man; she thought that he had a good deal she valued to offer her; but as yet she desired only his captivation. She must not allow him to go too far.

"You might have had a number of motives," she said carelessly. "I don't feel much curiosity about them."

Bland bore the rebuff good-humoredly. Patience was one of his strong points, and since his conversation with Ethel West on the terrace he had made up his mind. In arriving at a decision, the man was honest and ready to make some sacrifice. He had been strongly impressed by Sylvia on their first meeting, but he had realized that it would be a mistake to marry her unless she had some means. Hitherto he had found it difficult to meet his expenses, which were large. He did not believe now that Sylvia was rich, and he had seen enough of her to suspect that she was extravagant, but this did not deter him. She had undoubtedly some possessions, and he was prepared to retrench and deny himself a number of costly pleasures. Indeed, he had once or twice thought of leaving the army.

"Then I won't force an explanation on you," he said, and lighting another cigarette, lazily watched her and tried to analyze her charm.

He failed to do so. Sylvia was a born coquette, and most dangerous in that her power of attraction was natural, and as a rule she appealed to the better and more chivalrous feelings of her victims. Fragile, and delicately pretty, she looked as if she needed some one to shelter and defend her from all troubles. Bland decided that, although she rarely said anything brilliant, and he had seen more beautiful women, he had not met one who, taken all round, could compare with Sylvia.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked at length, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

"Oh," he answered, slightly confused, "my mind was wandering. I believe I was trying to explain a thing that's wrapped in impenetrable mystery."

"One wouldn't have imagined you were given to that kind of amusement, and it's obviously a waste of time. Wouldn't it be wiser to accept the object that puzzles you for what it seems, if it's nice?"

"It is," he declared, wondering whether this was a random shot on her part or one of the flashes of penetration with which she sometimes surprised him.

"Your advice is good."

"I believe so," responded Sylvia. "If a thing pleases you, don't try to find out too much about it. That's the way to disappointment."

She was a little astonished at his reply.

"Perhaps it's a deserved penalty. One should respect a beautiful mystery—unquestioning faith is a power. It reacts upon its object as well as upon its possessor."

"Even if it's mistaken?"

"It couldn't be altogether so," Bland objected. "Nothing that was unworthy could inspire real devotion."

"All this is far too serious," said Sylvia, petulantly; for her companion's moralizing had awakened a train of unpleasant reflections.

She did not think unquestioning faith was common, but she knew of one man who was endowed with it, and he was toiling for her sake on the desolate western prairie. Once or twice his belief in her had roused angry compunction, and she had revealed the more unfavorable aspects of her character, but he had refused to see them.

"Then what shall we talk about?" Bland inquired.

"Anything that doesn't tax one's brain severely. Yourself, for example."

"I'm not sure that's flattering, and it's an indifferent topic; but I won't back out. As I gave you your choice, I must take the consequences."

"Are you always ready to do that?" There was a tiny hint of seriousness in her voice.

"Well," he said with some dryness, "I generally try."

There was something that reminded her of George in his expression. The man, she thought, would redeem what pledge he gave; he might be guilty of rashness, but he would not slink away when the reckoning came. Then she became conscious of a half-tender regret. It was a pity that George was so fond of the background, and left it only when he was needed, while Brand was a prominent figure wherever he went, and this was, perhaps, the one of his characteristics which most impressed her. Then he rather modestly began the brief account of his career, adding scraps of information about his relatives, who were people of station. He did not enlarge upon several points that were in his favor, but he omitted to state that he had now and then been on the verge of a financial crisis.

Sylvia listened with keen interest, and asked a few questions to help him on; but when he finished she let the subject drop. Soon afterward she glanced down the road, which was growing dim.

"I wish your man would come. It's getting late," she said.

"He can't be much longer. I don't think you need be disturbed."

"I am disturbed," Sylvia declared. "I really shouldn't have come to-day; you will remember I hesitated."

"Then it was a temptation?"

Sylvia smiled rather wistfully. "That must be confessed; I need a little stir and brightness and I so seldom get it. You know Muriel; I owe her a good deal, but she's so dull and she makes you feel that everything you like to do is wrong."

"But you haven't been very long with Mrs. Lansing. Wasn't it different in Canada?" Bland had a reason for venturing on the question, though it was rather a delicate one.

"I can hardly bear to think of it! For four months in the year I was shut up, half-frozen, in a desolate homestead. There was deep snow all round the place; nobody came. It was a day's drive to a forlorn settlement; nothing ever broke the dreary monotony. In summer one got worn out with the heat and the endless petty troubles. There was not a moment's rest; the house was filled with plowmen and harvesters, uncouth barbarians who ate at our table and must be waited on."

Bland was moved to pity; but he was also consoled. As she had not mentioned Marston, she could not greatly have felt his loss. Sylvia must have married young; no doubt, before she knew her mind.

"I wish," he said quietly, "I could do something to make your life a little brighter."

"But you can't. I've had one happy day—and I'm grateful. It must last me a while."

He leaned forward, looking at her with an intent expression.

"Sylvia, give me the right to try."

She shrank from him with a start that was partly natural, for she was not quite prepared for a bold avowal.

"No," she said in alarm. "How can I do that?"

"Don't you understand me, Sylvia? I want the right to take care of you."

She checked him with a gesture.

"It is you who can't understand. Do you think I'm heartless?"

"Nothing could make me think hardly of you," he declared.

"Then show me some respect and consideration. It was what I looked for; I felt I was safe with you."

Though he had not expected strong opposition, he saw that she was determined. He had been too precipitate, and while he had no idea of abandoning his purpose, he bowed.

"If I've offended, you must forgive me—I thought of nothing beyond my longing for you. That won't change or diminish, but I've been rash and have startled you. I must wait."

He watched her in keen anxiety, but Sylvia gave no hint of her feelings. As a matter of fact, she was wondering why she had checked and repulsed him. She could not tell. A sudden impulse had swayed her, but she was not sorry she had yielded to it. Her hold on the man was as strong as ever; the affair was not ended.

There was silence for the next few minutes. It was growing dark; the hills had faded to blurs of shadows, and the moor ran back, a vast, dim waste. Then a twinkling light moved toward them up the ascending road. Bland rose and pointed to it.

"I dare say the man has got the things he needed. We'll be off again shortly," he said in his usual manner; and Sylvia was grateful.

In another half-hour the car was ready, and when Bland helped Sylvia in and wrapped the furs about her, there was something new in his care for her comfort. It was a kind of proprietary gentleness which she did not resent. Then they sped away across the dusky moor.



CHAPTER XV

HERBERT MAKES A CLAIM

Sylvia finished her round of visits in a state approaching insolvency. Mrs. Kettering, with whom she stayed some time, indulged in expensive amusements, and though she would have listened with good-humor to a plea of poverty, Sylvia declined to make it. She would not have Bland suspect the state of her affairs, and while he remained in the house she took her part in all that went on, which included card-playing for high stakes. As it happened, she had a steady run of misfortune. Bland sympathized with her and occasionally ventured a remonstrance, but she could see that the cheerful manner in which she faced her losses had its effect on him.

On the evening of her return, Herbert was strolling along the platform at a busy junction, in the gathering dusk, when he noticed Bland speaking to a porter. Soon afterward. Bland came toward him, and Herbert asked him if he were staying in the neighborhood.

"No," said Bland; "I'm passing through; only been here half an hour. We're probably on the same errand."

"I came to meet Mrs. Marston," Herbert told him. "And I broke my journey to town with the idea of being of some assistance when she changed."

"They don't give one much time here, and it's an awkward station," Herbert said, with a careless air.

It struck him that Sylvia's acquaintance with the man must have ripened rapidly, for he was well informed of her movements; but this was no concern of his. He had thought for some time that a match between her and George would be unsuitable. For a while he and Bland talked about indifferent matters, and then the latter turned to him with a smile.

"I was very lucky at a small steeplechase," he said. "Backed a rank outsider that only a few friends of mine believed in. Do you know of anything that's bound to go up on the Stock Exchange? It's in your line, I think."

"I don't. Such stocks are remarkably scarce. If there's any strong reason for a rise in value, buyers anticipate it."

"Then perhaps you know of something that has a better chance than the rest? I expect your tip's worth having."

"You might try—rubber!"

"Rubber? Hasn't that been a little overdone?"

Herbert considered, for this remark confirmed his private opinion. Rubber shares had been in strong demand, but he thought they would not continue in general favor. The suggestion made by an outsider might be supposed to express the view held by small speculators, which had its effect on the market.

"I gave you my idea, but I can't guarantee success," he said. "You must use your judgment, and don't blame me if things go wrong."

"Of course not; the risk's mine," returned Bland; and Herbert thought he meant to follow his advice.

A few minutes later, the train which they were waiting for came in, and Herbert tactfully stood aside when Bland helped Sylvia to alight. Watching her face, he concluded by the absence of any sign of surprise that the meeting had been arranged. Bland, however, had little opportunity for conversation amid the bustle; and the train was on the point of starting before Sylvia saw Herbert. He got in as it was moving, and she looked at him sharply.

"I didn't expect you would meet me."

"So I supposed," he told her.

"Oh, well," she said, smiling, "you might have been useful."

Herbert thought she might have thanked him for coming, considering that he had, by his wife's orders, made an inconvenient journey; but gratitude was not one of Sylvia's virtues.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked.

"Yes, on the whole, but I've been dreadfully unlucky. In fact, I'm threatened by a financial crisis."

Herbert made a rueful grimace.

"I know what that means; I'm getting used to it. But we'll talk the matter over another time. I suppose I'm neglecting my duties; I ought to lecture you."

"Isn't Muriel capable of doing all that's necessary in that line?"

"She's hampered by not knowing as much as I do," Herbert retorted with a meaning smile.

Nothing of moment passed between them during the rest of the journey, but some time after they reached home Herbert turned to Sylvia, who was sitting near him, in the absence of his wife.

"You're short of funds again?" he asked.

Sylvia explained her embarrassments, and Herbert looked thoughtful.

"So," he said, "you have spent what George sent, as well as what I advanced you in anticipation of his next remittance. This can't go on, you know."

"I'll be very economical for the next few months," Sylvia promised penitently.

"If you're not, you'll find very stern economy imperative during those that follow; but I'll let you have a small check before I leave."

Sylvia thanked him and they talked about other matters for a while. Then he said carelessly:

"There's a favor you could do me. It won't cost you any trouble. A young man is coming down here next week, and I want you to be as pleasant as you can and make him enjoy his visit. I'm inclined to think he'll appreciate any little attention you can show him."

"The last's a cheap compliment," Sylvia rejoined. "Aren't you asking me to undertake your wife's duty?"

Herbert smiled.

"Not altogether. Muriel's an excellent hostess; she will do her part, but I want you to assist her. You have exceptional and rather dangerous gifts."

"Don't go too far," Sylvia warned him. "But I'd better understand the situation. How long do you expect me to be amiable to the man?"

"Only for a couple of days. He might come down again, but that's not certain."

Sylvia considered, for she saw what Herbert required. She was to exert her powers of fascination upon the visitor, in order to make him more pliable in his host's hands. The task was not a disagreeable one, and she had foreseen all along that Herbert, in indulging her in various ways, would look for some return.

"After all," she said, "there's no reason why I should be ungracious to him, so long as he's pleasant."

Herbert carelessly nodded agreement, but Sylvia knew that he expected her to carry out his wishes; and she did not find it difficult when the guest arrived.

Paul Singleton was young, and perhaps unusually susceptible to the influences brought to bear upon him during his visit. Born with some talents, in very humble station, he had by means of scholarships obtained an excellent education, and had devoted himself in particular to the study of botany. A prosperous man who took an interest in him sent him out to a tropical plantation, where he wrote a work on the vegetable product of equatorial regions, which secured him notice. Indeed, he was beginning to make his mark as an authority on the subject. So far, however, his life had been one of economy and self-denial, and although Lansing's dwelling was not characterized by any very marked signs of culture or luxury, it was different from the surroundings to which Singleton was accustomed. His hostess was staidly cordial and at once set him at his ease; Sylvia was a revelation. Her piquant prettiness and her charm of manner dazzled him. She played her part well, not merely because she had agreed to do so, but because it was one that strongly appealed to her nature.

On the second evening of Singleton's visit, he was talking to Sylvia rather confidentially in the drawing-room, where Mrs. Lansing had left them, while Herbert was seated at a table in his library with a cigar in his hand and a litter of papers in front of him. He was thinking hard, and rubber occupied the foremost place in his mind. He was a director of a company, formed to exploit a strip of rubber-bearing territory in the tropics, which had hitherto been successful; but he felt that it was time to retire from the position and realize the profit on his shares. There was another company he and some associates had arranged to launch, but he was now very doubtful whether this would be wise. Rubber exploitations were overdone; there were signs that investors were losing their confidence. Withdrawal, however, was difficult, for it must be quietly effected without breaking prices by any unusual sales. It was therefore desirable that other holders should cling to their shares, and any fresh buying by outsiders would, of course, be so much the better. This was one reason why he had suggested a purchase to Bland.

Opening a book, he noted the amount of stock standing in George's name. This had been purchased by Herbert, who had been given such authority by his cousin at a time when the directors' position needed strengthening, though it had been necessary to dispose of sound shares, yielding a small return. The prompt sale of this stock would secure George a moderate profit, but after some consideration Herbert decided that it should remain. He had no wish that George should suffer, but his own interests stood first. Then he carefully studied several sheets of figures, which confirmed his opinion that a drop in the value of the stock he owned might be looked for shortly, though he thought very few people realized this yet. It was time for effective but cautious action. He must unload as soon as possible.

By and by he rang a bell, and passed across the cigar box when Singleton came in and sat down opposite him. He was a wiry, dark-haired man with an intelligent face which had grown rather white and haggard in the tropics. Just now he felt grateful to his host, who had made his stay very pleasant and had given him an opportunity for meeting Sylvia.

"I suppose you have read my report on your new tropical property?" he said.

"Yes," answered Herbert, picking up a lengthy document. "I've given it some thought. On the whole, it isn't optimistic."

Singleton pondered this. He had learned a little about company floating, and was willing to oblige his host as far as he honestly could. Lansing had enabled him to undertake a search for some rare examples of tropical flora by paying him a handsome fee for the report.

"Well," he said, "there is some good rubber in your territory, as I have stated."

"But not readily accessible?"

"I'm afraid I can't say it is."

Herbert smiled at him.

"I'm not suggesting such a course. In asking a man of your character and attainments to investigate, I was prompted by the desire to get a reliable report."

Singleton did not know what to make of this; so far as his experience went, gentlemen who paid for an opinion on the property they meant to dispose of did not want an unfavorable one.

"The rubber's scattered and grows in awkward places," he explained.

"Precisely." Herbert glanced at the paper. "You mentioned something of the kind. But what about planting and systematic cultivation?"

"Soil and climate are eminently suitable."

"I gather that there's a difficulty in the way of obtaining native labor?"

Singleton broke into a grim smile.

"It's a serious one. The natives consider strangers as their lawful prey, and they lately managed to give a strong punitive expedition a good deal of trouble. In fact, as they're in a rather restless mood, the authorities were very dubious about letting me go inland, and in spite of the care I took, they got two of my colored carriers. Shot them with little poisoned arrows."

"Ah!" ejaculated Herbert. "Poisoned arrows? That should have a deterrent effect."

"Singularly so. A slight prick is enough to wipe you out within an hour. It's merciful the time is so short."

"That," said Herbert, "was not quite what I meant. I was thinking of the effect upon the gentlemen who wish to launch this company."

"The risk isn't attached to their end of the business," Singleton dryly pointed out.

Herbert did not answer. While he sat, with knitted brows, turning over some of the papers in front of him. Singleton looked about. Hitherto his life had been spent in comfortless and shabby English lodgings, in the sour steam of tropic swamps, and in galvanized iron factories that were filled all day with an intolerable heat. As a result of this, his host's library impressed him. It was spacious and furnished in excellent taste; a shaded silver lamp stood on the table, diffusing a restricted light that made the room look larger; a clear wood fire burned in the grate. The effect of all he saw was tranquilizing; and the house as a whole, inhabited, as it was, by two charming, cultured women, struck him as a delightful place of rest. He wondered with longing whether he would have an opportunity for coming back to it.

Then his host looked up.

"Have you any strong objections to recasting this report?" he asked. "Don't mistake me. I'm not asking you to color things in any way; I want simple facts. After what you have told me, I can't consider the prospects of our working the concessions very favorable."

Singleton was surprised; Lansing's attitude was puzzling, considering that he had suggested the flotation of the projected company.

"Do you want the drawbacks insisted on?" he asked.

Herbert smiled.

"I don't want them mitigated; state them clearly. Include what you told me about the trouble with the natives, and the poisoned arrows."

Then a light broke in upon Singleton. He had not placed his host in the same category with Mrs. Lansing and Sylvia. It looked as if he had changed his plans and wished to prevent the company from being formed. This caused Singleton to consider how far he would be justified in assisting him. He could honestly go some length in doing so, and, having fallen a victim to Sylvia's charm, he was willing to do his utmost.

"There's no doubt that some of the facts are discouraging," he said.

Herbert looked at him keenly.

"That is what struck me. Suppose you think the thing over and bring me down a fresh report a week from to-day. Stay a day or two, if you're not busy; I can get you some shooting, and we can talk over any points that seem to require it at leisure."

Singleton sat silent a moment. He wanted to come back, and he did not believe the concession could be profitably worked by any usual methods. For all that, he thought he could make something of the property; it was not altogether worthless, though it would require exceptional treatment.

"Perhaps that would be better," he replied, "I should be delighted to make another visit."

Herbert took up the paper and looked at Singleton with a smile as he flung it into the fire.

"Now I think we'll go down," he said. "Mrs. Lansing will be waiting for us."

Singleton spent the remainder of the evening with great content, talking to Sylvia. When she left him, Herbert met her in the hall.

"Thanks," he smiled meaningly. "Did you find the man interesting?"

"To some extent," returned Sylvia; "he's a type that's new to me. Still, of course, he's a little raw, and inclined to be serious. I think one could see too much of him."

"He's coming down again in a week."

"Oh!" said Sylvia, with signs of protest. "And after that?"

Herbert laughed.

"I don't think he'll make a third visit."



CHAPTER XVI

A FORCED RETIREMENT

Singleton came down again to Brantholme, bringing his amended report, which met with Herbert's approval. He spent one wet day walking through turnip fields and stubble in search of partridges, and two delightful evenings with Mrs. Lansing and Sylvia, and then he was allowed to depart. He had served his purpose, and Herbert was glad to get rid of him. Lansing generally found it desirable to drop men for whom he had no more use; but he had not done with Singleton.

A day or two later, after his guest had left, Herbert sat in his office in a busy town with an open ledger in front of him. He looked thoughtful, and, as a matter of fact, he was reviewing the latter part of his business career, which had been marked by risks, boldly faced, but attended by keen anxiety. Though his wife had some money, Lansing had been hampered by lack of capital, and George's money had been placed at his disposal at a very opportune time. It had enabled him to carry the rubber company over what might have proved a crisis, and thus strengthen his position as director, by purchasing sufficient shares on George's account to keep the price from falling and defeat the intrigues of a clique of discontented investors. Now, however, the strain had slackened; Herbert's schemes had succeeded, and he had only to take his profit by selling out as quietly as possible. He had already given a broker orders to do so. He rather regretted that he could not dispose of George's shares, but these must be kept a little longer; to throw a large quantity upon the market would have a depressing effect and might arouse suspicion.

Presently a man with whom he had dealings was shown in and sat down. His appearance indicated some degree of prosperity, but he looked disturbed and anxious.

"I met Jackson yesterday, and after what he told me of his interview with you, I thought I'd better run up and see you at once," he explained.

Herbert had expected the visit.

"I'm at your service," he said.

"What about the new company? I understand you haven't come to any decision yet about the suggestions we sent you for its flotation."

"No," replied Herbert. "In fact, I've reasons for believing it wouldn't be wise to go any farther in the matter."

The other looked at him in astonishment.

"Well," he said, "I heard that you were not so enthusiastic as you were not long ago, which is why I came down; but I never expected this! Anyway, after what we have done, you are bound to go on with the thing. Our success with the first company will help the shares off."

"That's not certain." Herbert handed him a paper. "You haven't seen Singleton's report."

The man read it hastily, his face changing. Then he looked up with signs of strong indignation.

"You let him give you a thing like this? Paid him for it?"

"What could I do? The man's honest. He declares the country's dangerous; he had two carriers killed. There's no prospect of our obtaining the needful native labor."

"Send somebody else out at once!"

"With the same result. Besides, it's expensive. Singleton's fee wasn't so big, because he shared the cost of his orchid collecting or something of the kind with us. Then he might talk, and there would always be the risk of somebody's challenging us with suppressing his report. If things went wrong, that would lead to trouble."

"Would there be any use in my seeing him?"

Herbert smiled. Singleton would not turn against him; Sylvia had made her influence felt.

"Not the slightest," he answered. "You can take that for granted."

His visitor pondered for a moment or two; and then he crumpled the report in his hand, growing red in the face.

"You seem content with this production. It looks as if you had meant to back out."

Herbert looked at him tranquilly.

"Well," he said, "that's my intention now; and I don't think that you can induce me to alter it. I can't see that we would be justified in floating the concern."

"But it was you who suggested it and led us on! What about the money we have already spent?"

"It's gone. I'm sorry, but things don't always turn out right. When I first mentioned the matter, the prospects looked good; investigation places them in a less favorable light, for which you can hardly hold me responsible. You took a business risk."

The other man angrily flung the report on the table.

"This has been a blow to me, and I'm far from appreciating the course you've taken. But what about the older concern? Though we don't seem to have turned out much rubber yet, I suppose its position is still satisfactory?"

Herbert saw suspicion in the man's face and he rang a bell.

"I think you had better satisfy yourself; I have the necessary particulars here."

He indicated some books on a neighboring shelf; and then added, when a clerk appeared:

"Will you bring me the extract of our working expenses that I asked you to make out?"

The clerk came back with a sheet of figures, which Herbert handed to his visitor with one of the books, and the man spent some time carefully examining them.

"Everything looks satisfactory; I've no fault to find," he said at length. "But I feel very sore about your giving up the new undertaking."

"It can't be helped," explained Herbert. "If it's any comfort to you, I dropped as much money over preliminary expenses as you did."

After a little further conversation, his visitor left and Herbert resumed his work. On the whole, the interview had been less embarrassing than he expected, and though it was likely that the rest of his colleagues would call and expostulate, he was ready to meet them. His excuse for abandoning the project was, on the face of it, a good one; but he had no thought of giving these men, who were largely interested in the original company, a word of warning. It was undesirable that they should sell their shares until he had disposed of his. They had, he argued, the same opportunities for forecasting the course of the market and gaging the trend of investors' ideas as he enjoyed, and if they did not make use of them, it was their fault. The stock had reached a satisfactory premium, which was all that he had promised; he could not be expected to guarantee its remaining at the high level.

During the next three or four weeks his broker sold out his shares in small blocks, and when the quantity had been largely reduced, Herbert decided that he would dispose of those he had purchased on George's account. Though there were signs of a diminishing interest in such stock, values had scarcely begun to fall, and having made his position secure, he did not wish his cousin to incur a loss. Accordingly he sent instructions to sell another lot of shares.

He was very busy the next day when a telegram was brought him, but he sat still for some minutes considering it. The market, it stated, had suddenly fallen flat, and as prices were giving way sharply, further orders were requested. The change Herbert had foreseen had come a little sooner than he had expected. He still held some shares, which he had thought of keeping, because it might, after all, prove judicious to retain a degree of control in the company, and having sold the rest at a good profit, a moderate fall in their value would be of less consequence. The drop, however, was marked, and he decided to further reduce the quantity standing in his name, instead of realizing those belonging to his cousin. George must take his chance; and the market might rally. As a result of these reflections he wired his broker to sell, and in a few hours received an answer.

"Sale effected within limit given, market since broken badly, expect slump."

Herbert saw that he had acted with prudence, though it was evident that his cousin had incurred a serious loss. He was sorry for this, but it could not be helped.

A few days later he was sitting beside the fire at home after his evening meal when Sylvia entered the room in his wife's absence. She stood near the hearth, examining some embroidery in her hand, but she looked up presently, and it became evident that she had been reading the papers.

"There seems to be a sharp fall in rubber shares," she said. "Will it affect you?"

"No," replied Herbert, "not seriously."

"I suppose that means you must have anticipated the fall and sold out—unloaded, I think you call it—in time?"

Herbert did not wish to discuss the matter. He had already had one or two trying interviews with his business colleagues, and the opinions they had expressed about him still rankled in his mind. He was not particularly sensitive, but the subject was an unpleasant one.

"Something of the kind," he answered. "One has to take precautions."

Sylvia laughed.

"One could imagine your taking them. You're not the man to be caught at a disadvantage, are you?"

"Well," he said dryly, "it's a thing I try to avoid."

Sylvia sat down, as if she meant to continue the conversation, which was far from what he desired, but he could not be discourteous.

"Had George any shares in your company?" she asked.

There was no way of avoiding a reply, without arousing her suspicions; Herbert knew that she was keen-witted and persistent.

"Yes," he said, "he had a quantity."

"Have those shares been sold?"

This was a more troublesome question, but Herbert was compelled to answer.

"No; not yet. It's unfortunate that the market broke before I could get rid of them, but it may rally. I'm rather disturbed about the matter; but, after all, one has to take one's chance in buying shares. Dealing in the speculative sorts is to a large extent a game of hazard."

"I suppose so, but then somebody must win."

"No," returned Herbert, "now and then everybody loses."

Sylvia glanced at him with a mocking smile.

"Even those in the inside ring? When that happens, it must be something like a catastrophe. But I'm sorry for George; he doesn't deserve this."

Herbert could not deny it; but, to his surprise, the girl leaned forward, speaking in an authoritative tone.

"I don't know what you can do, but you must do something to get George out of the difficulty. It's obvious that you led him into it—he isn't the man to go in for rash speculation; he would have chosen something safe."

It was a relief to Herbert that his wife came in just then; but, as he had reason for believing that she would not remain, he decided that he would go out and post some letters. Sylvia seemed to be in an inquisitive mood, and he did not wish to be left alone with her.

The night was fine but dark; in places a thin, low-lying mist that hung over the meadows obscured the hedgerows, and it grew more dense as Herbert approached the river, which brawled noisily among the stones. The man, however, scarcely noticed this; his mind was occupied with other matters. Sylvia's attitude had disturbed him. She was useful as an ally, but she could not be allowed to criticize his conduct or to give him orders. Moreover, he had reasons for believing that investors in his company might share her views, and he looked for serious trouble with two or three gentlemen who blamed him for their losses, and had so far incivilly refused to be pacified by his explanations.

Herbert was of a philosophic disposition, and realized that one must not expect too much. Having made a handsome profit, he felt that he ought to be content, and bear a certain amount of suspicion and contumely with unruffled good-humor. For all that, he found it disagreeable to be looked upon as a trickster, and it was worse when his disgusted associates used more offensive epithets in his presence.

He was considering how he should deal with them when he entered a thicker belt of mist. It shut him in so that he could see nothing ahead, but there was a strong fence between him and the river, and he went on, lost in thought, until the mist was suddenly illuminated and a bright light flashed along the road. The hoot of a motor-horn broke out behind him, and, rudely startled, he sprang aside. He was too late; somebody cried out in warning, and the next moment he was conscious of a blow that flung him bodily forward. He came down with a crash; something seemed to grind him into the stones; there was a stabbing pain in his side, and he lost consciousness.

Fortunately, the big car was promptly stopped, and two men sprang down. An indistinct object lay just behind the forward pair of wheels, and in anxious haste they dragged it clear and into the glare of the lamps. Herbert's hat had fallen off; he was scarcely breathing, and his face was ghastly white; but one of the men recognized him.

"It's Lansing," he exclaimed. "Seems badly hurt, though I'd nearly pulled her up when she struck him."

"He was dragged some way; jacket must have caught the starting crank or something; but that doesn't matter now." He raised his voice. "Dreadfully sorry, Mr. Lansing; can you hear me?"

There was no answer, and the man shook his head.

"I'm afraid this is serious."

His companion looked unnerved, but he roused himself with an effort.

"It is, and we're behaving like idiots, wasting time that may be valuable. Get hold and lift him in; his house is scarcely a mile away."

They had some difficulty in getting the unconscious man into the car; and then its owner backed it twice into a bank before he succeeded in turning round, but in three or four minutes they carried Herbert into Brantholme, and afterward drove away at top speed in search of assistance. It was, however, an hour later when they returned with a doctor, and he looked grave after he had examined his patient.

"Your husband has two ribs broken," he told Mrs. Lansing. "In a way, that's not very serious, but he seems to be prostrated by the shock. There are a few things that must be done at once; and then we'll have to keep him as quiet as possible."

It was two hours later when he left the house, promising to return early the next day with a nurse; and Herbert lay, still and unconscious, in a dimly lighted room.



CHAPTER XVII

HERBERT IS PATIENT

On the second morning after the accident, Herbert, lying stiffly swathed in bandages, opened his eyes in a partly darkened room. A nurse was standing near a table, and when the injured man painfully turned his head, the doctor, who had been speaking to her, came toward him.

"I think we can let you talk a little now," he said. "How do you feel?"

Herbert's face relaxed into a feeble smile.

"Very far from happy. I suppose I've been badly knocked about?"

"I've treated more serious cases, and you'll get over it. But you'll have to reconcile yourself to lying quiet for a long while."

Herbert made no reply to this, but his expression suggested that he was trying to think.

"Has the thing got into the papers?" he asked.

The doctor was a little surprised; it seemed a curious point for his patient to take an interest in, but he was willing to indulge him.

"It's early yet, but one of the Courier people stopped me as I was driving out and I gave him a few particulars. You can't hush the matter up."

"No," said Herbert. "You did quite right. Hadn't you better mention exactly what's the matter with me?"

"If I did, you wouldn't understand it," said the doctor, who generally adopted a cheerful, half-humorous tone. "In plain English, you have two ribs broken, besides a number of contusions, and I'm inclined to suspect your nervous system has received a nasty shock."

"And the cure?"

"Complete rest, patience, and perhaps a change of scene when you're able to get about."

"That means I'll have to drop all active interest in my business for some time?"

"I'm afraid so; by and by we'll consider when you can resume it."

It struck the doctor that Herbert was not displeased with the information; and that seemed strange, considering that he was a busy, energetic man. He lay silent a while with an undisturbed expression.

"I wonder if you would write a telegram and a letter for me?" he asked at length.

"With pleasure, if you don't think you have talked enough. Can't you wait until to-morrow?"

"I'll feel easier when I've got it off my mind."

The doctor thought this likely. He made a sign of acquiescence and took out his notebook; and Herbert give him the rubber company's London address and then dictated:

"Regret I am incapacitated for business for indefinite period by motor accident. If advisable appoint new director in my place before shareholders' meeting, which cannot attend. Compelled to remain in strict quietness."

"You might send these people a short note," he added, "stating that I'm submitting to your advice, and giving them a few particulars about my injuries."

"I'll be glad to do so."

"Then there's only another thing. I'd like some notice of the accident put into a leading London paper—it will explain my retirement to people who would soon begin to wonder why I wasn't at my post."

"It shall be attended to; but I scarcely think Mr. Phillips and his motoring friend will appreciate the notoriety you will confer on them."

Herbert smiled.

"There's no reason why I should consider Phillips. If he will drive furiously in the dark and run over people—this isn't his first accident—he must take the consequences. But you can tell him, with my compliments, that I'll let him off, if he'll be more cautious in future. Now I feel that I'd like to rest or go to sleep again."

The doctor went out somewhat puzzled—his patient seemed singularly resigned to inaction and glad to escape from commercial affairs, instead of chafing at his misfortune. After exchanging a few words with Mrs. Lansing, he met Sylvia in the hall.

"How is he this morning?" she asked.

"Better than I expected, able to take an interest in things. I was glad to find him so acquiescent—it isn't usual. He didn't seem disturbed when he asked me to write a telegram expressing his willingness to give up his director's post."

He had not mentioned this matter to Mrs. Lansing. In several ways Sylvia struck him as being the more capable woman, though this was not the impression her appearance had upon the less practised observers. She looked thoughtful at his news.

"I suppose such a course is necessary," she remarked.

"I believe it's advisable; that is, if there's any likelihood that his duties will make much demand on him for some time to come."

Sylvia changed the subject.

"Have you any particular instructions?"

"None beyond those I've given the nurse. Quietness is the great thing; but it doesn't look as if he'll cause you much trouble."

The prediction was justified. With the exception of a few complaints about his physical discomfort, Herbert displayed an exemplary patience and soon began to improve, for his recovery was assisted by the tranquil state of his mind. The accident had happened at a very opportune time: it furnished an excellent excuse for withdrawing from an embarrassing situation and it would save his credit, if, as seemed probable, difficulties shortly threatened the rubber company. It would look as if any trouble that might fall upon the concern was the result of his having been forced to relinquish control, and nobody could rationally blame him for being run over.