"What!" exclaimed the captain, "you mean to say that scoundrel actually claimed to be the lost son? I always had a high opinion of his impudence, but I never imagined it capable of that. Why, my dear sir, I have known him as a pettifogging money-lender in India for years."

"Quite so; but did you know why and when he came to India?"

"I can't say I did. Surely you don't credit his story?"

"Well, not exactly. But it strikes me the gentleman will give us some difficulty."

"Why? What good can it do him even if he is what he claims! He cannot upset the will, which emphatically cuts him out of every possibility of benefit."

"No; that leaves him no loophole, certainly. But he may calculate on working on the chivalry of his younger brother, or if that fails, on blackmailing him."

"If so, he will have us to deal with. For once in a way Armstrong and I are likely to be of the same opinion. Surely there is evidence enough to prosecute for conspiracy."

"Hardly. He claims nothing but the name. He admits he has no rights. My opinion, Captain Oliphant, is that we have not heard the end of him."

"Very likely not, especially as I unluckily owe him money."

"That is awkward. The sooner you square accounts and get rid of him the better."

"Easier said than done," remarked the captain, and returned with a decided headache to Maxfield.

Roger, with Armstrong to nurse him, with Dr Brandram to attend him, with his own strong bias towards life to buoy him up, emerged slowly from the valley of the shadow of death, and in due time stood once more on his feet. Weeks before that happened he had told and heard all that was to be said about his lost brother. Dr Brandram had recounted the incident at Miss Jill's party, and he in turn had confided to his tutor his meeting with Fastnet, and the feeble clue in which that conference had resulted.

"Armstrong, old fellow," said he one day at the close of the year, "won't you help me in this? I know you hate the business, and think me a fool for my pains. I must do it, with you or without you, and would sooner do it with you. In ten months it will be too late."

"I hate the business, as you say, but you may count on me; only don't ask me to hail Mr Ratman as Squire of Maxfield, or subscribe a penny to his maintenance, a day before his claim is proved."

"You are a brick; I was a cad ever to doubt it. Let us start next week for Boulogne."

"Quite so," said the tutor, screwing his glass viciously into his eye; "let us go to Boulogne by all means."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE GHOST OF HAMLET.

It is possible to conceive of a more hopeful task than hunting up and down a large French town for tidings of a strolling player who, for one night only, played the ghost in Hamlet twenty years ago. But Roger, as, early in the year, he stepped ashore at Boulogne with Armstrong at his side, felt sanguine and of good cheer.

His recovery had been slow, and not without interruption. As soon as he could be moved he had returned to Maxfield, only to find Rosalind still away, and his guardian obdurate to any suggestion for expediting her return.

As to the proposed journey to Boulogne, the gallant captain looked upon that as a symptom of serious mental exhaustion on the part of the invalid. Roger, however, was in a mood impervious to argument.

When the time actually came, the captain surprised every one by giving in more readily than any one had expected. The truth was, Mr Ratman, though lost to sight, contrived to make himself very dear to his debtor's memory, and already a legal document had reached Maxfield demanding the payment in full of a certain bill within a certain date on pain of certain consequences. And Captain Oliphant felt it would be distinctly convenient, for a while, to be relieved of the presence both of his co-trustee and his ward. He felt himself quite competent to deal with the trust moneys which were shortly about to come in without assistance.

When, therefore, Roger with some hesitation returned to the charge, he said, somewhat severely—

"You are old enough to decide for yourself, my boy. You know my view of the matter. I conclude you are not going alone?"

"No; Armstrong is coming."

"Naturally. I wish you joy. On your return I shall be happy to resume my responsibility for your welfare. I cannot profess to feel oppressed by it in your absence."

This was enough. True, the captain contrived to get in a parting shot by announcing that Rosalind was likely to return shortly to Maxfield. But even that did not suffice to change the lad's purpose.

"Don't be very long away," said Jill to Mr Armstrong. "You are always going and leaving us. Rosalind will be very, very sorry to find you are away. She likes you—she told me so; but she doesn't like you half as much as I do."

The tutor flushed uncomfortably.

"Oh," said Tom, "you're always spoons on somebody, Jill. I heard you tell that Duke chap you liked him better than anybody in the world."

"O Tom! how dare you tell such a wicked falsehood? I told him I liked him nearly as much as Mr Armstrong, but not quite. Really I did, Mr Armstrong."

"I am very jealous of the Duke," said Mr Armstrong gravely.

Once across the Channel, Roger's spirits rose. He had a presentiment he was on the right track. Like a knight of old, set down to a desperate task, the fighting blood rose joyously within him. Whatever it cost, whoever deserted him, whoever opposed him, he would find his brother, and give to him his own.

For days they went hither and thither, inquiring at cafes, theatres, cabarets, custom-houses, police stations, and even cemeteries, without success. Most of the persons accosted laughed and shrugged their shoulders to be asked if they remembered the visit of strolling players to the town as far back as twenty years. Others bridled up suspiciously, as if the question were a preliminary to their detection in some old evil deed. Others utterly failed to comprehend the question; and a few pityingly tapped their own foreheads, and shook their heads at the two half-witted English holiday-makers. But no one could tell a word about Rogers.

A fortnight passed, and the thoughts of both, dispirited and worn, turned homeward. Rosalind, a letter had informed them, was back at Maxfield.

Of the two, perhaps Mr Armstrong displayed less disposition to own himself beaten. He had worked like a horse all the time. Roger had been compelled to own that without him his mission would have been a feeble farce. Not a stone did the dogged tutor leave unturned. Not a difficulty did he shirk. Not a man or woman, however forbidding, did he hesitate to tackle, who in the remotest degree might be suspected of being likely to give information. Now that it came to giving in, he hung back, reluctant to dip his colours.

"To-day's Thursday," said he. "Let's give ourselves till Saturday. If nothing turns up by then, I am your man to slink home."

Roger, a little ashamed to find the first last and the last first in the race after all, readily assented. And the two worked unflagging for two days longer.

Friday evening came, and the two sat dismally down to table d'hote with defeat staring them in the face. They said very little, but each knew the mortification in the other's breast.

At last, when the meal was over, Mr Armstrong said—

"I suppose we had better go and get our tickets."

"I suppose so."

But the bureau was closed for the night, and the two took a solitary walk along the beach. They walked on further than usual in the clear moonlight, till at last the tutor looked at his watch.

"It's nine o'clock," said he; "we must go back."

"Let's take the country road back."

"It is a mile longer."

"Never mind. It is our last night."

So they struck up by the cliffs, and followed the chalky country road back to Boulogne.

About two miles from the town the cheery lights of a wayside auberge attracted their attention.

"Let us get some coffee here," said Armstrong.

This solitary tavern rejoiced in the name of "Cafe d'Angleterre," but if its owner expected thereby to attract the custom of Mr John Bull, he was singularly mistaken. The chief customers of the place were labourers and navvies, who by their noisy jargon were evidently innocent of all pretensions to a foreign tongue.

Seeing two strangers, presumably able to pay ready money for what they consumed, the old landlord invited his visitors into the bar parlour, where at his own table he set before them that delightful concoction of chicory and sifted earth which certain provincial Frenchmen call cafe. And being a gregarious and inquisitive old man, and withal proud of his tolerable stock of English, he took the liberty of joining them.

"Inglese?" inquired he, with a pantomimic shrug.

"Quite so," said the tutor, putting up his glass, and inspecting the fellow carefully.

"This is the 'Cafe d'Angleterre,'" said the landlord, "but, helas! it is long since the Inglese gentleman come here. They like too well the great town."

"Ah, Boulogne has grown. Can you remember the place twenty years ago?"

"Can I? I can remember forty years."

"I wonder," broke in Roger, too impatient to allow his tutor to lead up gradually to the inevitable question, "if you can remember some English players coming over here about eighteen years ago and acting a play called Hamlet in English."

The landlord blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and stared round at the speaker as if he had been a ghost.

"Why do you ask me that? 'Amlet! Can I forget it?"

Here was a bolt out of the blue! The tutor's eye-glass dropped with a clatter against his cup, and Roger fetched a breath half gasp, half sigh.

"You remember it!" exclaimed he, seizing the man's hand; "do you know, we have been a fortnight in Boulogne trying to find some one who did!"

"Would not you remember it," replied the Frenchman, with a gesticulation, "if 'Amlet had put up at your inn and gone away without paying his bill?"

"Did one of the actors stay here, then?"

"One? There was twenty 'Amlets, and Miladi 'Amlets, and Mademoiselle 'Amlets. They all stay here, en famille. The house is full of 'Amlets. The stable is full. They bring with them a castle of 'Amlet, and a grave of 'Amlet. My poor house was all 'Amlet!"

"And," inquired Mr Armstrong, flushed with the sudden discovery, but as cool as ever, "you had a pass to see the play, of course?"

"Mon dieu! it was all the pay I got. 'Amlet come to my house with his twenty hungry mouth, and eat me up, flesh and bone. He sleep in my beds, he sleep on my roof, he sleep in my stable. The place is 'Amlet's. And all my pay is one piece of card bidding me see him play himself."

"And was it well played?" Asked Mr Armstrong.

"Well played? How do I know? But six persons came to see it—I one— and in six minutes it is all done. Your English 'Amlet will not play to the empty bench. He call down the curtain, and bid us go where we please. Not even will he pay us back our money. Then, when he come to leave the hall himself, voila, he has no money to pay his rent. His baggage is seized, and 'Amlet fights. Mon dieu, there was une emeute in Boulogne that night; and before day 'Amlet has vanish like his own ghost, and I am a robbed man; voila."

"Very rough on you," said the tutor. "So there was a ghost among the players?"

"Why no? It would not be 'Amlet without."

"Did the ghost stay here too?"

"Helas! yes. He eat, and drink, and sleep, and forgets to pay, like the rest."

"What did you lose by him?" asked Roger, with parched lips.

"Ah, monsieur, I was a Napoleon poorer for every 'Amlet in my house that night."

Roger put down two sovereigns on the table.

"That is to pay for the ghost," said he, flushing. "He was my brother."

The landlord stared in blank amazement.

"Your brother! Monsieur le Ghost of 'Amlet was—pardieu!" exclaimed he, looking hard at his guest, "and he was like you. It was no fault of his 'Amlet did not take the favour, for he play in the first act and make us all laugh. If the other 'Amlets had been so amusing as him, the house would have been full—packed. Ha! now you say it, he was a gentleman, this poor Monsieur le Ghost. He held himself apart from the noisy company, and sulk in a corner, while they laugh, and drink, and sing the song. They were afraid of him, and, mon dieu! they might be—for once, when Monsieur Rosencrantz, as I remember, came and threw some absinthe—my absinthe, messieurs—in his face, Monsieur le Ghost he knocked him down with a blow that sounded—oh, like a clap of the thunder. And this pauvre ghost," added the man, "was monsieur's brother! Helas! he was come down very poor—his coat was rags, and his boots were open to the water of heaven. He eat little. Ah, monsieur, I have deceived you. He cost me not five franc; for, when I remember, he ate nothings—he starve himself."

"Was he ill?" asked Armstrong.

"Worse," said the landlord, lowering his voice; "he was in love. I could see it. She laugh and make the mock at him, and play coquet with the others before his face. It nearly killed him—this pauvre ghost. He would have give his hand for a kind glance, but he got it never."

"Who was the girl?" asked Roger.

"But a child, the minx—fifteen, perhaps sixteen, years, no more. She played the part of a page-boy, and only so because monsieur, her father, was manage the play. He was Frenchman, this monsieur, but mademoiselle was English like her mother. Helas! monsieur, your brother was deep in love. But there was no hope for him. A fool could see that."

This was all the host could tell them. He had never heard since of any member of the ill-fated company. He could introduce them to no one who remembered their visit. A few there might be who when appealed to might have recalled the disturbance on the night of the performance, and the absconding of the players. But who they were and what became of them no one could say.

On their return to the hotel at Boulogne at midnight they found a telegram and a letter awaiting them.

The former was from Dr Brandram to Mr Armstrong—

"Come at once."

The letter was a missive addressed to Roger at Maxfield from London, and forwarded back to Boulogne. It was from Mr Fastnet.

"Dear Ingleton,—Oddly enough I stumbled yesterday across the very piece of paper I spoke to you of. Here it is for what it was worth."

Roger eagerly opened the yellow sheet. It announced a performance of Hamlet at Folkestone by a celebrated company of stars under the direction of a Monsieur Callot. Among the actors was a Mr John Rogers, who took the part of the ghost in the first act. Further down was mentioned a Miss Callot, who acted the part of a page. And the bill announced that after the performance in Folkestone the company would perform for two nights only in Boulogne. More important, however, than any other particular was a footnote that Monsieur Callot was "happy to receive pupils for instruction in the dramatic art at his address, 2 Long Street, London, W. Terms moderate. Singing and dancing taught by Madame Callot."

Here at last seemed a clue. The pulses of the two friends quickened as they read and re-read the time-worn document.

"The boat sails in two hours," said Mr Armstrong, "I must leave you in town. Brandram would not telegraph for me like this unless he meant it."

"I suppose it means my bro— Ratman, has turned up again. If so, Armstrong—"

"Well?" inquired the tutor, digging his glass deep into his eye.

Roger said nothing.

On the following afternoon Mr Armstrong had a pleasant game of Association football with Tom on the Maxfield lawn, and Miss Jill, who volunteered as umpire, gave every point in favour of the tutor.

Just about the time when he kicked his final goal, Roger Ingleton, minor, in London arrived at the dreary conclusion, after an hour's painful study of directories and maps, that there was no such street as Long Street, London, W.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

SHARKS BY LAND AND WATER.

Mr Brandram's abrupt summons to Mr Armstrong was not due to the reappearance on the scene of the mysterious Robert Ratman. It was, in fact, at the instance of Miss Rosalind Oliphant that the doctor sent his message.

That young lady had returned a week ago to find everything at Maxfield awry. Her father was gloomy, mysterious, and haggard. The rumour of Mr Ratman's extraordinary claims had become the common property of the village. Roger and his tutor were away, no one exactly knew where or on what errand.

On the day following her return she walked across from the Vicarage to visit her father.

He sat in the library, abstracted, pale, and limp. The jaunty, Anglo- Indian veneer had for the time being dropped off, unmasking the worried exterior of a chicken-hearted man.

At the sight of his daughter he pulled himself together, and crushed in his hand the letter which he had been reading.

"Why, my child," said he, with unusual cordiality, "this is a pleasant apparition. Cruel girl, to desert us for so long. We have hardly existed without you, Roger and his tutor are away in France holiday- making, while I remain here on duty with no one to cheer me up."

"Dear father," said Rosalind, kissing him, "how worried you look! What is the matter? Won't you tell me?"

The father's eyes dwelt for a moment on her fair earnest face—so like her mother's, so unlike a daughter of his—then they fell miserably.

"Worried?" said he. "Do I show it as plainly as all that? I flattered myself I kept it to myself."

"Any one can see you are unhappy, father. Why?"

"I am in difficulties, my child, which you could not understand."

"I could. Do tell me."

"The fact is," said the captain, taking up his pen and dotting the blotting-pad as he spoke, "that when on former occasions I have tried to claim your sympathy I—well, I was not quite successful. I do not want the pain of a similar failure again."

"I would do anything, anything to help you, if I could!"

He took her hand and held it in his.

"I am in great straits," said he. "An old Indian debt has followed me here. I cannot meet it, and ruin stares me in the face. You know I am a poor man; that I am living on other people—you have reminded me of that often enough; that of all the money which passes my hands, scarcely enough to live on belongs by right to me. You know all that?"

"Yes; I know that we are poor. How much do you owe?" she asked.

"I cannot say. Not long ago it was some hundreds, but by this time it is nearer thousands. Nothing grows so rapidly as a debt, my child— even," added he, with an unctuous drop of his voice, "a debt of honour."

"And will not your creditor wait?"

"My creditor has waited, but refuses to do so any longer. In a month from now, my child, your father and those he loves best will be paupers."

"Is there no way of meeting it? None whatever?"

"I cannot pay; I shrink from borrowing. The trust funds in my charge are sacred—"

"Of course!" said she, astonished that he should name them in such a connection. "Is there nothing else?"

"My creditor is Robert Ratman—or as he calls himself, and possibly is, Roger Ingleton. As you know, he claims to be the elder brother of our Roger, and I—"

"Yes, yes," said she; "Roger told me about that. He is your creditor?"

"He is. I got into his clutches in India, little guessing who he was, and he is crushing me now. There is but one way, and one only, of escaping him—and that way is, I fear, impossible, Rosalind."

"What is it?" said she, with pale face, knowing what was to come.

"He loves you. As my son-in-law he would be no longer my creditor."

She drew away her hand with a shudder.

"Father," said she, in a dry hard voice which startled him, "do you really mean this?"

"Is it a time for jesting?" said he. "I ask nothing of you. I merely state facts. You dislike him—there is an end of it. Only remember we are not now dealing with Robert Ratman, but with an injured man who has not had a fair chance. The good in him," continued the father, deluded by the passive look on his daughter's face, and becoming suddenly warm in his championship of the absent creditor, "has been smothered; but for aught we know it may still be there. A wife—"

She stopped him with a peremptory motion of her hand.

"Please do not say anything more. Your debt—when does it fall due?"

"In a week or ten days, my child. Consider—"

She interrupted again.

"No more, please," she said, almost imploringly. "I will think what can be done to help you in a week. Good-bye, dear father."

She stooped, with face as white as marble, and touched his forehead with her cold lips.

"Loyal girl," said the father, when the door had closed behind her; "she will stand by me yet. After all, Ratman has his good points—clever, cheerful, good man of business—"

Here abruptly the soliloquy ended, and Captain Oliphant buried his face in his hands, a miserable man.

To Rosalind, as she walked rapidly across the park, there came but one thought. Her father—how could she help him? how could she save him, not so much from his debts as from the depths into which they were plunging him?

"My poor father," said she. "Only a man in desperate plight could think of such a remedy. He never meant it. He does not really suppose—no, no; he said he did not ask anything. He told me because I asked. Poor darling father!"

And with something very like a sob she hurried on to Yeld.

She went straight to Dr Brandram's.

"Well, my dear young lady, it does one good to see you back," said he; "but bless me, how pale you look."

"Do I? I'm quite well, thank you. Dr Brandram," said she, "do you know anything about this Mr Ratman?"

The Doctor stared at this abrupt inquiry.

"Nothing more than you and every one else does—that he is a rank impostor!"

"I don't mean that. I mean, where is he? I want to see him very much."

"You want to see him? He has vanished, and left no track. Is it nothing I can help you in?"

"No," said she, looking very miserable. "I hoped you could have told me where to find him. Good-bye, and thank you."

She departed, leaving the doctor sorely disturbed and bewildered. He stood watching her slight figure till it disappeared in the Vicarage garden, and then shrugging his shoulders, said, "Something wrong, somewhere. Evidently not a case for me to be trusted with. It's about time Armstrong came home."

Whereupon he walked over to the post office and dispatched the telegram which, as the reader knows, procured Tom Oliphant the unspeakable pleasure of a game of football on the following afternoon.

"Well," said the tutor to his friend in the doctor's parlour that evening, "what's all this about?"

"That's what I'm not likely to know myself," said the doctor; and he narrated the circumstances of Miss Oliphant's mysterious call.

"Humph!" said the tutor. "She wants to see him in his capacity of Robert Ratman, evidently, and not of Roger Ingleton, major."

"So it seemed to me."

"And you say she had just come from visiting her father at Maxfield?"

"Yes."

"On the principle that two and two make four, I suppose we may conclude that my co-trustee is on toast at present," said the tutor.

"And further, that that co-trustee being somebody's father, you are the man to get him off it."

The tutor's face clouded, and his glass dropped with a twang from his eye.

"Don't make that mistake again, Brandram—unless," and here his lips relaxed into a quiet smile, "you mean by somebody, Miss Jill."

Dr Brandram read a good deal in this short sentence, and, like a good friend, let the subject drop.

"As Tom has gone to the Rectory to dinner," said the tutor, "I take it the neighbourhood for twenty miles round will know of my return by this time. Meanwhile I must go back and possibly find out some thing from Oliphant himself."

Captain Oliphant, however, was in no mood for confidences. The sudden return of his co-trustee was extremely unwelcome at this juncture— indeed so manifestly unwelcome that Mr Armstrong was convinced he had come back not a day too soon.

The captain professed great annoyance and indignation at what he termed the desertion of his ward, and demanded to know when the tutor proposed to return to his duties.

"In fact, sir," said he, "I desire to know what brings you here in this uncalled-for manner."

"Business, my dear sir," replied the tutor. "It need not incommode you."

"Your proper place is with your pupil. Where have you left him?"

"In London, prosecuting a search which neither you nor I consider to be very hopeful. I should not be surprised to see him back any day."

"And may I ask the nature of the very pressing business which forms the pretext of this abrupt return? Am I to understand you and my ward have quarrelled?"

"No, sir; we are excellent friends. It's getting late; I'll say good night."

"By the way," said he at the door, "while I am here, there are a few small matters connected with the accounts which seemed to my unpractised eye, when I went through Pottinger's books, to require some little elucidation. If you have an hour or so to spare to-morrow, I should like to go through them with you. Good night."

He did not stay to notice the sudden pallor of his colleague's face, nor did he overhear the gasp which greeted the closing of the door.

The captain did not go to bed that night. For an hour he sat motionless in his chair, staring blankly into the fire; then, with a sudden access of industry, he went to the safe, and producing account-books, bank books, cheques, and other documents, spent some troubled hours over their contents. That done, for another hour he paced the floor, dismally smoking a cigar. Finally, when the early March dawn filtered through the blinds, he quitted the house, and surprised Mr Pottinger by an unexpected visit at breakfast-time. Thence he proceeded to the bank; and after transacting his business there, returned easier in mind, but exhausted in body, to the seclusion of his room at Maxfield.

The tutor meanwhile was abroad on horseback with Tom and Jill. The three took a scamper over the downs, and returned by way of the shore. Biding with Tom and Jill, as may be imagined, was a series of competitive exercises, rather than a straightforward promenade. Tom was an excellent rough horseman; and Jill, when Mr Armstrong was at hand, was not the young lady to stick at anything. They had tried handicaps, water-jumps, hurdles, and were about to start for a ding-dong gallop along the mile of hard strand which divided them from Maxfield, when the tutor's eye detected, perched a little way up the cliff, the figure of a young lady sketching.

"I'll start you two," said he, "I scratch for this race. Ride fair, Tom; and Jill, give the mare her head when you get past the boulders. I shall go back by the downs. Are you ready now? Pull in a bit, Tom. Now—off you go!"

Not waiting to watch the issue of this momentous contest, he turned to where Rosalind sat, and reining up at the foot of her perch, dismounted.

She came down to meet him, palette in hand.

"Mr Armstrong, I am so glad to see you. I want to speak to you dreadfully. Are you in a great hurry?"

"Not at all. Brandram told me you were in trouble, and I was wondering when and where I should have the opportunity of asking how I can help you."

He tied his horse to a stake, and helped her back to her seat on the cliff.

There was an awkward pause, which he occupied by examining her picture with a critical air.

"Do you like it?" said she.

"I don't know. I'm no great judge. Do you?"

"I did, before you came. I'm not so sure now. Do sit down and let me say what I want to say."

The tutor, with a flutter at his breast, sat meekly, keeping his eyes still on the picture.

"Mr Armstrong, it's about Mr Ratman."

"So Brandram said. What of him?"

Rosalind told her father's story, except that she omitted any reference to the desperate proposition for satisfying his claims.

"I am sure it is a fraud, or blackmail, or something of the sort. For all that, he threatens to ruin father."

"What does the debt amount to?"

"Father spoke of thousands."

"Does the creditor offer no terms?"

Rosalind flushed, and looked round.

"None; that is, none that can be thought of for a moment."

"I understand," said the tutor, to whom the reservation was explicit enough.

"The difficulty is, that he has disappeared. If we could find him I would—"

"You would allow me to go to him," said the tutor. "No doubt the opportunity will soon come. He wants money; he is bound to turn up."

"But why should you be mixed up in father's troubles?" asked Rosalind after a pause.

"Your father's troubles are yours; your troubles are—shall we say?— Roger's; Roger's troubles are mine."

There was another long silence, during which Rosalind took up her brushes and began work again on the picture, Mr Armstrong critically looking on.

"Have you no troubles of your own, then, that you have so much room in you for those of other people?" she said at last.

"I have had my share, perhaps. Your picture, with its wide expanse of calm sea, was just reminding me of one of them."

"Tell me about it."

"It was years ago, when, before I was a singer in London— You knew I followed that honourable vocation once, don't you?"

"I have heard father speak of it. Why not?"

"No reason at all. But before that I worked at the equally honourable profession of a common sailor on a ship between New York and Ceylon. At that time I was about as wild and reckless as they make them, and deluded myself into the foolish belief that I enjoyed it. How I had come to that pass I needn't tell you. It wasn't all of a sudden, or without the assistance of other people. I had a comrade on board—a man who had once been a gentleman, but had come down in the world; who was nearly as bad as I, but not quite; for he sometimes talked of his home and his mother, and wished himself dead, which I never had the grace to do."

"Are you making this all up for my benefit," asked Rosalind, "or is it true?"

"The story would not be worth telling if it were not true," said Mr Armstrong, screwing his glass into his eye and taking a fresh survey of the picture. "One very hot summer we were becalmed off Colombo, and lay for days with nothing to do but whistle for a wind and quarrel among ourselves. My mate and I kept the peace for a couple of days, but then we fell out like the rest. I forget what it was about—a trifle, probably a word. We didn't fight on deck—it was too hot—but jumped overboard and fought in the water. I remember, as I plunged, I caught sight, a hundred yards away, of an ugly grey fin lying motionless on the water, and knew it belonged to a shark. But I didn't care. Well, we two fought in the water—partly in spite, partly to pass the time. Suddenly I could see my opponent's swarthy face become livid. 'Good God!' he gasped; 'a shark!' and quick as thought he caught me by the shoulders and pushed me between him and the brute. I heard it swish up, and saw it half turn with gaping jaws. In that moment I lived over my life again, with all its folly and crime, and for the first time for years I prayed. How it happened I cannot tell; the shark must either have made a bad shot at me or else I must have ducked instinctively, for I remember feeling the scrape of his fin across my cheek and being pushed aside by his great tail. Next moment my mate's hands let go their grip of me and there was a yell such as I pray I may never hear again. When at last they hauled me on board I was not the same man who three minutes before had dived into the water. That was the scene your picture reminded me of, Miss Oliphant. You have told me one of your troubles, and I have told you one of mine, which makes us quits. But my horse is getting fidgety down there; I must look after him. Good-bye."

Mr Armstrong was a little surprised, when he came to go through the accounts with his co-trustee that afternoon, to find that he must have been mistaken in his previous supposition that they were not all correct and straightforward. Everything appeared quite plain and properly accounted for, and he agreed with the figures, rather abashed to feel that, after all, he was not as acute a man of business as he had flattered himself. Mr Pottinger and the captain rallied him about his deserted mares'-nest, and bored him with invitations to go through all the items again, to give him a chance of proving them wrong. He declined with thanks, and signed the balance with the best grace he could summon.

"Odd," said he to himself, as he strode home after the interview; "either you must be very clever or I must be very stupid. I should greatly like to know which it is."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MR. RATMAN VISITS HIS PROPERTY.

"Dear Armstrong," wrote Roger from London about a week after the tutor's return to Maxfield, "you will be surprised to hear I am just off to Paris to look for a Mr Pantalzar. This is how it comes about. Long Street does not exist, as I told you, nor any trace of the family Callot. But old Directories are still available, and in one of these I found that fifteen years ago there was a Long Street, and that Number 2 was then occupied by a person of the uncommon name I have mentioned. The name seemed too promising a one to be let drop; so I tracked it down to the year before last, when I found a Pantalzar was proprietor of a cook-shop in Shoreditch. Of course, when I went to inquire, my gentleman had vanished. I'm sick of asking the interminable question, 'Does So-and-so live here?' The present cook-man, however, remembered the queer name as that belonging to his predecessor, and informed me that, not having made the business pay over here, he had decamped two years ago without saying good-bye to his creditors, and announced his intention of starting a cafe in Paris. This, then, is my off-chance. Unless he has changed his name, I should be able to discover him in Paris; and if he turns out to be the man who once lived at Number 2 Long Street, he may be able to tell me something about the Callots; and the Callots, if by a miracle I can find them, may be able to tell me something about Rogers, the Ghost in Hamlet. I only wish you were coming to back me up, but, from what you say, I would ever so much rather you remained on the spot at Maxfield. I hope it will be possible to help Oliphant out of his fix. Try. You'd better write to the Poste Restante at Paris. Remember me at home.

"Yours ever,—

"R. Ingleton."

The tutor read this letter with a somewhat troubled countenance. It proved to him that his ward was desperately in earnest in his uphill quest, and it filled him with some concern to feel that he himself was not, where he should have liked to be, at the boy's side.

But to leave Maxfield at present seemed impossible. Rosalind claimed his help on behalf of her father; and the possibility that any day Mr Ratman might turn up and court exposure decided the tutor to remain where he was. Another motive for this step was a haunting perplexity as to the hallucination under which he had apparently laboured with regard to the estate accounts. He never flattered himself he was a particularly good man of business, but it puzzled him to explain why a few weeks ago there should have appeared to be discrepancies and irregularities to the tune of several hundred pounds, whereas now everything was in startling apple-pie order.

Much to Mr Pottinger's annoyance, he took to visiting the honest lawyer's office every other day, and spent hours in trying to discover where it was he had made his great mistake. Mr Pottinger was unable to render him any assistance; and the captain, when once he referred to the subject, only smiled pityingly and advised him to take a few lessons in the elements of finance; which advice, to do him justice, the tutor humbly proceeded to take. The result was to deepen his perplexity and cause him to regret that he had so compliantly countersigned an account which, every time he studied it in the light of his new wisdom, appeared to bristle with problems.

Faithful to her promise, at the end of a week Rosalind presented herself at Maxfield.

"Well, my child?" said the parent blandly, laying down his newspaper.

"I said I would come and speak again about what you were saying the other day. Have you heard any more from your creditor?"

"Things remain, as far as he is concerned, in statu quo; and I am no nearer being able to satisfy him to-day than I was a week ago; unless, indeed—"

"All I have to say," said Rosalind nervously, "is, that I would work like a slave to help you, if I could."

"Is that all?" asked the captain with falling face.

"You know it is, father. You knew it a week ago. You knew I would even go to this man and on my knees beg him to be merciful."

Her father laughed dismally.

"In other words," said he, "you can do nothing. I do not complain; I expected nothing, and I have not been disappointed. I was foolish to think such a thing possible; Heaven knows I have been punished for my folly."

She tried hard to keep back the tears, and rose to go.

"Stay!" said he sternly; "I have a question to ask you. A week ago you seemed to hold a different mind to this. What has changed it?"

"No," said she, "it was out of the question; you said so yourself."

"I ask you," repeated he sternly, and not heeding her protest, "what has changed it? Have you taken counsel with any one on the subject? Have you spoken to any one of this wretched business?"

"Yes; I have spoken to Mr Armstrong."

"Exactly. I thought as much. I understand. Leave me, Rosalind."

"Father, you are wrong— Oh, but you must hear me," she said, as he raised his hand deprecatingly and took up his newspaper. "You must not misunderstand. I told Mr Armstrong of your difficulties, and who your creditor was. I told him no more. My only object was to see if there was any way to help you."

"You mean to tell me," said he, interrupting in an angry voice, "that you considered it consistent with your duty as a daughter to gossip about my private affairs with a scoundrel who—"

"No, father," she said. "Mr Armstrong is a gentleman—"

"Naturally you say so. But enough of this. I forbid you, as I have already done, to hold any communication with Mr Armstrong. Know that, of the two men, the man you affect to scorn is infinitely less a villain than this smug hypocrite. Go!"

She made no reply, but went, choking with misery and a smarting sense of injustice. No longer was it easy to hug herself into the delusion that this was all a horrid dream. Her father stood on the brink of ruin, and she could not help him.

"If only," said she, "it had been anything else! O God, pity my poor father!"

The captain's thoughts were of a very different kind. He had clung to the hope that Rosalind would after all solve his difficulties by undertaking the venture he had set before her. He had already in imagination soothed his own conscience and smoothed away all the difficulties which beset the undertaking.

"It might be for her good, after all, dear girl! She will reclaim him. A fortune lies before them; for Roger will be easily convinced, and will surrender his claim to them. Ratman is too long-sighted not to see that I can help him in the matter, and that on my own terms. We shall start fresh with a clear balance-sheet, and live in comfort." Now, however, these bright hopes were dashed, and to the captain's mind he owed his failure, first and last, to Mr Frank Armstrong. Had he not come home, he said to himself, Rosalind would have yielded.

With him still at Maxfield everything came to a dead lock. Ratman could not be propitiated, still less satisfied. The accounts would be restlessly scrutinised.

Rosalind, and in less degree Tom and Jill, would be mutinous. Roger, at home or abroad, would be beyond reach.

All the grudges of the past months seemed to culminate in this crowning injury; and if to wish ill to one's fellow is to be a murderer, Captain Oliphant had already come perilously near to adding one new sin to his record.

But where, all this while, was the ingenuous Mr Ratman? Why had he not, true to his word, come to claim his own—if not the Maxfield estate, at any rate the little balance due to him from his old Indian crony?

The captain, after a week or two of disappointed dread, was beginning to recover a little of his ease of mind, and flattering himself that, after all his creditor's bark was worse than his bite, when the blow abruptly fell.

Mr Armstrong had gone for the day to visit one of his very few old college friends on the other side of the county, and Tom, released from his lessons (the captain's animosity for the tutor, by the way, stopped short at withdrawing his son from the benefit of the gratuitous education of which for the last year that youth had been the recipient) was trundling a "boneshaker" bicycle along the Yeld lanes, when he perceived the jaunty form of Mr Ratman, bag in hand and cigar in mouth, strolling leisurely in the direction of Maxfield.

Tom, who was only a beginner in the art of cycling, was so taken aback by this apparition, that, after one or two furious lurches from one side of the road to the other, and a frantic effort to keep his balance, he came ignominiously to the ground at the very feet of the visitor.

"Hullo!" said that worthy; "as full of fun as ever, I see."

"Hullo, Ratty!" said Tom, picking himself up; "got over your kicking?"

This genial reference to the circumstances under which the so-called lost heir had last quitted Maxfield grated somewhat harshly on the feelings of the gentleman to whom it was addressed.

"Look here, young fellow," said he, "you'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, or I shall have to pull your ear."

"Try it," retorted Tom.

Mr Ratman seemed inclined to accept the invitation; but as he was anxious for information just now, he decided to forego the experiment.

"Is your father at home?" he demanded.

"Rather. You'd better go back the way you came. We know all about you up there," said Tom.

"That's all right. And how are your pretty sisters, Tommy?"

If any insult more than another could disturb the temper of Master Oliphant, it was to be called "Tommy," as many of the rustic youths of the neighbourhood knew to their cost. He therefore replied shortly, "Find out," and proceeded to address himself to the task of remounting his machine.

"That's what I'm going to do. Here, let me hold it for you, or you'll break your neck."

"Look here," said the outraged Tom, thoroughly roused by this crowning indignity, "I don't want to be seen out here talking to cads. I don't mind fighting you. If you don't care for that, keep your cheek to yourself, and go and talk to somebody who's fond of rot. I'm not." And the young bruiser, who had an uncommonly broad pair of shoulders, looked so threatening that Mr Ratman began to feel a little concerned.

"Ha, ha!" said he, "how well you do it! I always liked you, Tommy, my boy. I'll let your tutor know what a credit you are to him."

"I wish to goodness Armstrong was at home," growled Tom; "he'd make you sit up."

This was just the information Mr Ratman had been anxious to get. The prospect of encountering Mr Armstrong had interfered considerably with his pleasure in arranging this visit. But if he was out of the way— well, so much more the luck of Mr Ratman. Therefore, without wasting time in further parley with this possible brother-in-law, he proceeded jauntily on his way.

"You won't fight, then?" said Tom by way of farewell.

"Some day."

"All right. Coward! Good-bye, Mr Roger Ingleton, major!"

Having relieved himself of which appropriate sentiment, Tom felt decidedly better, and walked his bicycle down the hill, determined to keep clear of Maxfield till the evening.

Mr Ratman, somewhat ruffled, but on the whole cheerful, swaggered on to his destination.

The captain was luxuriously smoking a cigar and solacing himself with a sporting paper, when Raffles sent his heart to his mouth by announcing—

"Mr Ingleton, sir, to see you."

"Ah, Ratman!" said he with a forced air of welcome as his creditor entered. "I didn't recognise you by your new name. You're keeping it up, then?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Mr Ratman, taking an easy-chair and helping himself to a cigar from the captain's box. "It's you who are keeping it up, I fancy. I'll trouble you to drop the Ratman."

The captain laughed unpleasantly.

"As you like," said he.

"Now to business. Of course, you're ready to make good these little bills," and he pulled four or five blue slips from his pocket.

"No, I'm not. You may as well know it at once."

"Hum! What do you propose, then? Do you know there's a writ out?"

"I propose nothing. I want to know what you propose."

The two men regarded one another in silence; one insolent and sneering, the other desperate and scowling.

"What do I propose?" said Ratman, puffing away cheerfully. "Scarcely anything—only to make a little communication to the War Office, give a few instructions to the Sheriff, write a paragraph or two to the county papers, and tell a few interesting anecdotes to your charming daughters."

Captain Oliphant started to his feet with a smothered exclamation.

"Not the last, Ratman! I'm in your clutches; but for Heaven's sake don't bring them into it!"

Ratman laughed.

"You will insist on forgetting my name, my dear fellow. Yes, that's my little programme. I fancy I may as well begin at the end."

"Look here," pleaded the victim; "I know it's no use appealing to your pity, for you have none; or your honesty, for you've less of that than I have. But doesn't it occur to you that it would be decidedly against your interest to ruin me just now?"

"What do you mean?" said Ratman with a yawn.

"Why, you claim a certain name, and you have to prove your claim. Roger has got the romantic notion into his head that if his elder brother can be found, that brother shall have the property. He is more than half inclined to credit your story already. You have to satisfy two other persons, of whom I am one. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," said Mr Ratman, who began to be interested. "I anticipate no difficulty there."

"You forget that at present only a sickly boy stands between myself and the property. It would surely mean something on my part for me to admit a second life between."

"What is the use of talking nonsense?" said Ratman. "Even if you did, for the sake of a little longer credit I might give you, own my right to my own name, what's the use of that, when this man Armstrong has to be satisfied too? If you could crack that nut there might be something in it."

The captain groaned. He knew that every project would be pulled up short at this sticking-point.

"Come," said Ratman encouragingly, "if you could work things in that direction, it might be worth my while to give you time."

"I can do nothing. The fellow is immovable. In six months—"

"In six months everything will be too late. And now, what about the other matter? Is that all right?"

Once more the captain groaned. "I can say nothing about it yet. She knows my wishes, but as Robert Ratman she will not hear a word of it. As Roger Ingleton, the elder, you may depend on it the matter will take another view. All depends on your success there. When that's achieved, the rest will come if you give her time."

Mr Ratman sneered.

"You are a glib talker, Oliphant. I admire you. Now listen. You want credit, and you know how to buy it. One way or another, this business must come to an end. I'll take new bills with interest at three months. By that time everything must be square and smooth; otherwise you'll be sorry you and your children were born, my boy. Order dinner. I'm going back by the six train. Pass me that paper, and don't disturb me any more by your talking."

As Mr Ratman, very well satisfied with his day's business, strolled serenely back through the park that afternoon, he was surprised to hear light footsteps behind him, and, on turning, to discover that his pursuer, of all people, was Miss Rosalind Oliphant.

"Hullo!" said he, "this is flattering, with a vengeance."

"Mr Ratman, I want to speak to you, please," said Rosalind, very pale and nervous.

"Excuse me," said he, "that's not my name; my name is Roger Ingleton. What's the matter?"

"It's about my father. Have you seen him?"

"Just left the dear man."

"He says he owes you money, and that you threaten to ruin him. Is that so?"

"Upon my word, if you want to know, it is."

"How much is it, please?"

Ratman laughed.

"Nothing. A trifle. Fifteen hundred pounds or thereabouts."

"Fifteen hundred!" faltered she. "Does he owe you all that."

The little she had to offer was a drop in the bucket only.

"Look here," said he; "Miss Rosy, your father's in a fix. I don't want to be hard on him, but I must have my money or its equivalent. Now, I should consider it a very fair equivalent to be allowed to call him father-in-law. I may not be up to your mark in some things, Miss Rosalind, but I've a good name, and I flatter myself I know beauty when I see it. Now, think over it. It's the only chance your father's got, and you might do worse for yourself than become the mistress of Maxfield. Good-bye. Shake hands."

She drew herself up with an air and a flush of colour which redoubled his admiration, and without a word, turned away with rapid steps.

Mr Ratman was sorely tempted to follow this beautiful creature, who, in all his chequered career, had been the only human being to discover the few last dregs of affection in his nature. As much as it was possible in such a man, he was in love with this debtor's daughter. The sensation was novel and exhilarating enough to afford him food for cheerful reflection as he walked on towards the station.

So engrossed was he in his day-dreams that he forgot that even country trains are occasionally punctual, and that, at least, he had not much time left him to catch the one he aimed at. Indeed, it was not till, within a few minutes of the station, he caught sight of the train already standing at the platform that it occurred to him to bestir himself. He ran, shouted, and waved his arm all at the same time, but to no effect. The whistle blew as he entered the yard, and as he reached the platform the guard's van was gliding out of the station.

Thoroughly ruffled—for this was the last train to town—Mr Ratman vented his wrath on the world in general, and the railway officials in particular, even including in his objurgations an unlucky passenger who had arrived by the train and shared with him the uninterrupted possession of the platform.

"Easy, young man," said the latter, a substantial-looking, bony individual with a wrinkled face, and speaking with a decided American twang. "You'll hurt yourself, I reckon, if you talk like that. It's bad for the jaws."

Mr Ratman took a contemptuous survey of the stranger and quitted the platform.

His first idea was to return to Maxfield and demand entertainment there for the night. But since he would have to walk all the way, and the first train in the morning left Yeld at eight, he decided to put up at the little hotel of the village instead, and with that object threw himself and his bag into the omnibus of that establishment which waited on the trains.

Somewhat to his disgust, the stranger, after collecting his baggage, entered the same vehicle and took a seat opposite him.

"Wal," said he, "you'll have time to cool down before the next train, young man. Putting up at the hotel?"

"Where else should I put up?" growled Ratman. "What business is it of yours?"

"I guess it's my business to get all the information I can on this trip. I came over this side to learn."

"You've come to a queer hole to do it," said Ratman, beginning to feel he might as well resign himself to circumstances.

"Just so. It's changed a bit since I was here last. We had to drive from Barbeck then."

"So you know the place, do you?" inquired Ratman.

"That's so," was the laconic rejoinder. "A resident, likely?"

"Well, not at present, or I shouldn't be going to the inn."

"Down here on business, I reckon? I was a bagman myself once."

"You're wrong again. I've been down to see my property, if you want to know."

"Large estate, no doubt? Anywhere near my friend Ingleton's plot, now?"

Mr Ratman stared at the stranger with something like consternation.

"Ingleton!" he exclaimed. "What do you know of Ingleton?"

Here the omnibus pulled up.

"Wal, I reckon I should know something of my own family," drawled the stranger as he alighted. "What say?—shall we have a snack of something in the parlour! Come along."

The landlord led the way into the coffee-room. He knew Mr Ratman by this time.

"Sorry we can't give you and your friend the private room, sir, but there's only one other gentleman in the coffee-room, and he's going directly."

As they entered, the other gentleman, who was drying his boots at the fire, turned round, and Mr Ratman had the rapture of finding himself face to face with Mr Armstrong.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

CAPTAIN OLIPHANT PAYS ONE OF HIS DEBTS.

Mr Ratman's natural modesty prompted a precipitate retreat from the embarrassing vicinity of the gentleman whom he had last seen with a horsewhip in his hand; but prudence and the presence of the stranger, and the lack of any other place to go to, prevailed upon him to remain.

The stranger, apparently unaware of the presence of a third party, continued his conversation where it had been interrupted.

"Yes," said he, "I reckon I should know something of my own family, although it's a generation since I set foot in these parts."

"Yes; all right," said Ratman uncomfortably. "I'll go and order dinner."

But the entrance of the landlord prevented this manoeuvre.

"The gig from Maxfield is in the village, Mr Armstrong," said he, addressing the tutor. "I've sent word to Robbins to call for you in half an hour. Maybe, if Mr Ratman is going up, you could give him a lift."

"Mr Ratman is not going up," said Mr Armstrong.

The stranger here took notice of the tutor.

"Friend of my friend, eh?" said he. "Pleased to know you, sir. Resident in these parts, I presume? What?"

"Quite so," said Mr Armstrong, putting up his glass, and honouring the speaker with a minute survey.

"As I was saying to our young friend here, there's been changes in this locality since I was here about the time of Noah. You named Maxfield just now, sir. Likely you know Squire Ingleton, my relative, at the manor-house there?"

The tutor's glass dropped abruptly.

"Your relative? What relation were you to the old Squire?"

"Was I—is he dead, then?"

"More than a year ago."

"Sir," said the stranger, with some excitement, "that man was my sister's husband. I guess I've come here a trifle late. Dead? He didn't look to have it in him. What say?"

It said a good deal for Mr Ratman's nerve that in the tutor's presence he took upon himself to reply boldly—

"My father died rather suddenly a year since. So you are my uncle?"

The American mayor stared at the speaker in bewilderment, which was not lessened by an abrupt laugh from the gentleman at the fireplace.

"I guess I'll take a seat and work this out," said he. "I'm your uncle, am I? I never should have known it, if you hadn't been so obliging as to tell me, young man. Which branch of the family tree do you hang on to?"

"Your sister had a son, Roger Ingleton. That's my name."

"Is that so? And you're the present Squire of Maxfield? Well, well. When did you come to life again?"

"There was a false report of my death," said Ratman, glancing a little nervously at the tutor, who was diligently removing the mud from his riding-boots.

"Wal, it's singular. I never expected to see a nephew of mine again. Why, how long is it, now, since I went over? Thirty-seven years if it's a day."

"I can't remember that," said Ratman tentatively.

"Seeing you weren't born, you'd find it hard," said Mr Headland. "But, say, by all accounts you were a troublesome boy."

"I was not all I might have been," replied Mr Ratman, beginning to wish this cross-examination was over.

"Put it that way, certainly. You ran away, and left your mother, my sister, with a broken heart, I've heard say."

"My father and I quarrelled, and I left home—yes."

Here the tutor quitted the fire and came to where the two men sat.

"Excuse my interrupting you, sir," said he to the stranger, "but your conversation interests me. The fact is, the Squire married a second time, and left a son, whose guardian I happen to be. By the old man's will my ward is the heir. You will allow I have a right to feel interested in this gentleman, who only discovered six months ago that he was the lost elder brother."

The good American sat back in his chair and looked from Ratman to Armstrong, and from Armstrong back to Ratman, in a state of painful bewilderment.

"Now," said the tutor, "my ward feels a little curiosity about his elder brother—only natural, is it not?—and I, as his legal guardian, naturally share that curiosity."

"Why, certainly," said the Mayor, beginning to be interested.

Mr Ratman began to lose countenance, and fidgeted uncomfortably with the forks and spoons.

"I have heard a little of this gentleman's romantic career," continued the tutor, with his half-drawl. "He has been good enough to tell us, in fact, that when he left home—by the way, when was that, Ratman?"

"When I know your right to ask me questions," growled Ratman, "I'll see about answering them."

"Seems to me," said the Mayor, assuming judicial functions for the time being, "unless you've disgraced yourself, you can't hurt much by saying. You say you're the Squire's son; this gentleman—I didn't catch your name, sir?—Armstrong?—Mr Armstrong says he's not as sure as you are. Seems to me, if you tell one thing, you may as well tell another. It's all one story, and if it's true, it's a good one."

Mr Ratman did not like the turn affairs were taking. If he refused to reply to the questions put to him, he was aware that he was damaging his own claim. If he answered, how was he to know if the risk was not even greater? And yet, what more was Armstrong likely to know about the lost son than he himself? He might as well go through with it. So he replied, sullenly—

"I left home a year before my mother died. He can get the date of that from the tombstone, if he wants it."

"Thanks; I'll look at it," said the tutor with aggravating cheerfulness. "You went up to London, didn't you?"

"I've told you so, and that I lived there with a man called Fastnet."

"And then you went abroad, I think you said?"

"Yes; to India."

"Just so; that's where you died, is it not? You stayed in London long enough to go to the dogs, I understood you to say?"

"That didn't take long. I spent all my money in six months, and then enlisted," said Ratman, feeling fairly launched by this time.

"Quite so. And you died, I believe, in India?"

"I was supposed to have died in a skirmish; and they sent news home that I had. I never corrected it."

"Whereabouts was the skirmish, if it's a fair question?"

"On the frontier. I forget the name."

"That's unfortunate. By the way, to go back to London, do you recollect where Mr Fastnet lived? I should like to call on him."

"You won't find him; he died before I went abroad—drank himself to death."

"I'm sorry to hear that. And you enlisted under your present name of Ratman, of course?"

"My present name is Ingleton. If I called myself Ratman, that was because I didn't want my father to hear of me. I never told any one my real name."

"Seems to me," said the Mayor, "it's odd how your medical adviser on the field of battle found out where to write home to say you were dead."

"It is still more odd, sir," said the tutor, fixing the claimant with his glass, "that this Mr Fastnet (who, you will be glad to hear, has also come to life again, was still in good health when my ward saw him a few weeks ago) retains a vivid recollection of the runaway son having entertained him for a year at his own lodgings; at the end of which time the prodigal, so far from enlisting, took to the stage, and spent another year, at least, with a company of strolling players.

"We have your unfortunate's nephew's story," proceeded the tutor, "carefully traced up to a certain point, and if either you or Mr Ratman are interested in the matter, we can produce our witnesses. Your memory is a treacherous one, Robert Ratman. It is no use asking you, I fear, what became of you after a certain riot in Boulogne when you, as the Ghost in 'Hamlet,' and your fellow-tragedians were mobbed for not paying the rent of your hall?"

Mr Ratman, who during this cross-examination had passed through all the stages from blustering rage to abject discomfiture, sank back on his chair and turned a livid face to his questioner. He had sense enough to see that the game was up; and not being an actor himself, he was at a loss to conceal his defeat. The tutor's cold, keen gaze took the heart out of him.

"Lying dog!" snarled he, "I've had enough of your questions. You think yourself clever, but I'll be even with you yet. I'll ruin the lot of you—you and your fellow-scoundrel and his brats, who don't know yet what it is to have a felon for a father. You'll be sorry for this."

So saying, he took up his bag, and with the best swagger he could assume slunk from the room.

"See—stay here, young man," said the Mayor excitedly; "there's something else."

But he was gone. The outer door slammed to and his footsteps died gradually away down the street.

Mr Armstrong and the stranger exchanged glances in silence. Then the Mayor turned to Mr Armstrong with a stern face.

"Seems to me, sir," said he, "that if that young man's the knave, you're uncommon like the fool. You'll excuse me mentioning it after the service you have just rendered to the cause of veracity, but it's a solemn fact."

"I have heard the same opinion expressed by other authorities, and I have no doubt it is true. You mean to tell me I should have extorted from him a written recantation of his claim?"

"That's so; you guess right. Consequence is, I'm bound to stay now as a witness to see this quarrel through. Here have I come on a pleasure- trip to see my relatives, and it seems I've got to combine business and pleasure after all."

"You forget I've no hold over this man. He does not claim the property, although he guesses that my ward will hand it over to him if he proves his identity. I can only show him to be a liar."

"You seem pretty sure of that."

"I am myself; and I hope, for everybody's sake, that your nephew, if he should turn up, will be a better credit to the name than this land- shark."

"Well, sir, I don't thank you for dragging me into the business; but, since I am here, I stay to see it out."

"I am relieved to hear you say so."

"Tell me now," said the Mayor, "what the story is; and what does our young friend mean by his farewell threats?"

Thereupon Mr Armstrong gave his new ally a faithful account of the family difficulty: of Captain Oliphant's embarrassing relations to the claimant, of Miss Rosalind's dilemma, of Roger's quixotic determination to find his lost brother, and of his own—the tutor's—conviction of the hopelessness of the quest.

The visitor by no means shared the last conclusion.

"I rather calculate that lost young man ain't as dead as you think," said he. "By all accounts he wasn't born to be drowned, and he's not hung yet. You bet, the young brother will come up with him before time's called."

"Well, by the last accounts he seems to have a vague clue as to his whereabouts fifteen years ago," said the tutor; "we shall hear what he makes of it. To-morrow you must come up to Maxfield and see my co- trustee."

The presence of this unexpected friend of the family, in the capacity of impartial umpire, struck the tutor as particularly opportune at this juncture. He had been a witness to Ratman's virtual admission to his imposture, and his natural interest in the discovery of his own nephew was not likely to warp his determination to see fair play for Roger.

Captain Oliphant, when he heard next morning of the new arrival, by no means shared his co-trustee's satisfaction. The news, indeed, agitated him to a remarkable degree, and he astonished the tutor by his ill- concealed reluctance to meet him.

"It is important that you should see him," remarked the tutor. "As the uncle of the lost elder brother he is entitled, I think, to our confidence. I can imagine no reason why you should be afraid to see him."

"Afraid! Who says I am afraid to see him?"

"I can think of no other explanation of your reluctance—"

"Please, sir, Mr Headland to see you," announced Raffles.

Captain Oliphant changed colour as he turned to greet the visitor.

"You'll pardon the early call," said the latter, "but they gave me such a shocking supper at the inn, that I resolved to try my luck up here for breakfast. Captain Oliphant, I presume?—friend of my friend Armstrong. Pleased to know you, sir. Pity you weren't with us last night to see the decline and fall of your ingenious friend, R. Ratman. Your colleague, sir, put that young man to bed in a way that would have made you enjoy yourself. Seems to me, captain, you are well rid of him."

"I fail to understand all this," said the captain. "If you refer to Mr Ratman's claims to be the lost Roger Ingleton—"

"My nephew," interposed the American.

"All I can say is, that I am not at all satisfied the claim is not a just one."

"Well, sir," said Mr Headland, "if that's your opinion, it's more than that young man thinks himself by this time. But never mind that."

"I do mind it, sir; and I should like to know what right any one has to decide the matter for me? I would suggest that, though we are pleased to see you, you should allow us to attend to our own business."

"I not only allow you, sir, but I expect it of you. And that reminds me of a question that has been puzzling me ever since I heard of the Squire's death. I wrote him a letter in the fall of last year."

The captain was seized with a sudden impulse to stir the fire, and as he stood thus with his back turned, Mr Armstrong could not help wondering what there was in the operation so violently to agitate the operator's frame.

"Yes, sir, a letter dated November 9th, which must have been delivered, as I have made inquiries, and find it was not returned. It contained money, and as it was never acknowledged, I had fears it was lost."

"Any letters for the Squire have been opened by his executors. I recollect none from abroad—do you, Captain Oliphant?" said the tutor.

The Captain, still with his back turned, said— "No; it never came into my hands."

"Mrs Ingleton would hardly be likely to have opened it. It would be only a short time before her death."

"It's singular," said the Mayor. "My clerk posted it. He should have registered it, but omitted."

"How was it directed?" asked the captain, turning at last, and pale after his exertions.

"Roger Ingleton, senior, Maxfield, England."

"Hum! Did your clerk know it contained money?"

"Which means, did he purloin it? Well, sir, we shall see. An English bank-note can be traced. That's one advantage you have over us on the other side."

Mr Armstrong during this short colloquy experienced a curious depression of spirits. He was thinking, not of the bank-notes, or the American mayor, or even of Captain Oliphant, but of Rosalind and Jill and Tom; and the thought of them just at this moment made him feel very melancholy.

As for the captain, if his thoughts for a moment turned in the same direction, they came back instantly, with a strong revulsion of hate against the man who stood in his way at every turn; who seemed to read him through, to unmask him silently whenever he sought to take refuge in a lie, to pin him ruthlessly down to the consequences of his own delinquencies. But for Armstrong he might have been a free man—free of his debts, free of his frauds, clear in his children's eyes, able to hold up his head to all the world. As it was, everything seemed to conspire with his enemy to pinion him and hold him fast, a prey to the Nemesis that was on its way! What would he not give to have this stumbling-block out of the path, and feel himself free to breathe and hope once more?

In such a mood he spent the morning; and about midday, shaking off his visitor, wandered out into the park for fresh air and space to think. As he paced, there returned to him memories of old half-forgotten days, of faces that once looked into his trustfully, voices that once made his heart glad, children that once ran to welcome him; visions of vanished hopes, ambitions, ideals. Where were they all now? Who believed in him to-day? Who would believe in him a week hence? What voices rejoiced him now? Into whose life did he carry strength and cheer? The park stretched bleak and desolate before him; the earth lay sullen under his feet, the very trees drooped around him, and the great restless ocean beyond moaned at his coming. It was nothing to him that the smell of spring was in the air; that the lark was carolling high overhead; that the declining sun was darting his rays through the trees.

Near at hand rose a sound of laughter. He durst not turn that way, lest he should meet his own children.

Far away, through a break in the trees, he could catch a glimpse of the old church at Yeld with the Vicarage beside it, where dwelt the one being he dreaded most—his own daughter. From behind wafted a sound of music through an open window, where sat the man who had found him out and could ruin him by a word.

Which way was he to turn? Which way shall a man turn who would escape from himself?

For two long hours he wandered on caring not which way he took, and feeling himself step by step closer beset by his dismal forebodings. Presently he found himself beyond the park boundaries on the open downs which stretched to the edge of the cliff. The touch of the salt sea- breeze on his fevered brow startled him and made him shiver. The last gleam of daylight was fading in the west, and when presently it flickered out and left him in the dark, he felt that the last ray of his own hope had vanished too. And yet, strange as it may seem, this man had never been quite as honest with himself as he was now. The game was fairly up. He had long since given up deluding himself that he was better than he seemed. Now the time was come when it hardly seemed worth while to delude other people. It was no use. Nor, to such a pass had he come, did it seem much use to be a coward. The dog whose last hope has gone will gather himself together for a final fling at his persecutors; the poltroon driven back against the wall, unable to retreat farther, will sometimes turn and make a stand such as he never deemed himself capable of before. And so Captain Oliphant, because he could do nothing else, plucked up a little courage and groped about in the dark for some new fragments of his lost manhood.

He would go back and face the worst. If he was to be ruined, he would pull the mask off himself, and not leave it to Armstrong or any one else to do it. Whatever befell, nothing could well be more wretched than the plight in which he now stood. He had no amends to make, but he could at least simplify the labours of those whose business it was to expose and punish him. With which poor spark of resolution he turned dismally to go back to Maxfield.

As he did so he became aware of footsteps close at hand on the cliff- path. Whoever the passenger might be—at such an hour and place it was not likely to be any one but a coastguard or a fisherman—Captain Oliphant was in no mood for company. He therefore stepped off the path and sat down on a seat on the edge of the cliff till the intruder had passed.

It was not so dark but that the latter perceived the movement, and halting suddenly, said—

"Who's that?"

The voice was that of Mr Ratman. What brought him here at this moment, to extinguish, perhaps, the little gleam of courage that flickered in the breast of his wretched dupe?

For a moment the captain was tempted to run like a thief from a policeman; but his very desperation came to his rescue.

"What do you want here, Ratman?"

"Hullo, it's Oliphant! Here's a piece of luck. You're the very man I wanted to see. I've changed my mind since I said good-bye yesterday, my boy, and mean to remain here on the spot and see the end of this business. I was on my way to see you. Come along."

"You'd better say what you want to say here. You won't find any admirers of yours up at the house."

"Ah! then you've heard of last night's business? What on earth brings this Yankee idiot here at this time to spoil everything? Now, Teddy, the long and short of this business is, that you must stir yourself. You've shuffled long enough. First of all you were going to marry the widow; you boggled that. Then you were going to succeed to the property; you've boggled that. Then you were to clear the tutor out of the way; you've boggled that. Then you were to raise the wind and pay me off, and you've boggled that. I've given you long enough rope, goodness knows. I mean to haul in now."

Captain Oliphant rose from his seat with a dismal laugh. "I'm tired of hearing you say that, Ratman. I wish you'd do it and be done with it."

Ratman peered through the gloom at the speaker in surprise. "Hullo!" said he, "that's a new tune for you. Now look here; I suppose you've not forgotten our talk yesterday?"

"Well?"

"You've two things to do; you've to recognise me as Roger Ingleton when the time comes. There'll be proofs and witnesses. They must satisfy you, mind. Make no mistake of that. Then I must have Rosalind. I love her. On the day I'm your son-in-law you shall have back every bill I hold against you. Now, is it a bargain? It's a cheap one for you, I can tell you."

The blood rose to Captain Oliphant's brow. A few hours ago he would have faltered and evaded, half whined, half promised; now sheer desperation made him reckless.

He laughed bitterly.

"Recognise you—you shark! Never! And if you ever dare to speak of my daughter, I'll shake you like a cur. There now, do as you like; you've got my answer."

Ratman dropped his jaw in utter amazement. For a minute the words would not come. Then, with a face so livid that Oliphant could see its whiteness through the night, he hissed—

"You mean it? You defy me?—me, with these papers in my hand, and the whole story of your villainy in my keeping? You—"

As he held up the bills a wild impulse prompted the wretched captain to make a grab at them.

There was a short struggle. Oliphant, with his back to the cliff, kept his hold for a moment; then a fierce blow sent him reeling backwards to the edge, with the torn half of the documents in his hand. There was a gasp, a half cry, and next moment only one man stood in the place, peering with ashen face into the black darkness below.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE BILLIARD-MARKER AT "L'HOTEL SOULT."

In the salon of a small dilapidated hotel in one of the southern suburbs of Paris sat Roger, three weeks after the event recorded in the last chapter. He had the dull place, apparently, to himself. The billiard-room, visible through the folding-doors, was deserted. In the dining-room the waiter dozed undisturbed by a single guest. The landlady in her bureau yawned and hummed, and had not even a bill to make out.

She had already made out that of the young English gentleman, and a pretty one it was! A guest such as he was worth a season to the landlady of "L'Hotel Soult." Three weeks ago, half dead with cold and weariness, he had come and asked for a bed; and in that bed till yesterday he had remained, feverish, coughing, sometimes gasping for breath. Compared with the attack he had had in London in the winter, this was a mild one; but in this dreary place, with not a friend at hand, with a doctor who could not understand a word he said, with a voluble landlady who, when she visited him, never gave him a chance of getting in a word, and with a few servants who stared at him blankly whenever he attempted to lift his voice, it was the most miserable of all his illnesses.

He was as close a prisoner as if he had been in jail. The doctor, who took apartments at his expense in the hotel, would not allow him to move. No one to whom he appealed could be made to understand that he had friends in England with whom he desired to communicate. One letter to Armstrong which he had tried to write the landlady impounded and destroyed as waste-paper, perhaps not quite by accident. This well-to- do young guest was worth nursing. His friends would only come and fetch him away; whereas she, motherly soul! was prepared to take him in and do for him. The pocket of the coat which on the day of his arrival she had carried off to her kitchen to dry contained satisfactory proof that Monsieur was a young gentleman who could pay; and although she was too honest to recoup herself for her services in advance, she had kept the coat hanging up in her room for a week, as a pleasant reminder of the joys of hospitality.

Only yesterday the invalid had recovered sufficiently to rout the doctor and stagger down to the telegraph-office; and to-day, propped up with pillows on the uncomfortable stuff-sofa, he was expiating his rashness with a day of miserable coughing.

At the sound of his handbell, the landlady, a buxom dame of forty-five autumns, hastened to the couch of her profitable visitor.

Roger was too weak to oppose the flood of her congratulations and compliments on his recovery, and allowed her to talk herself breathless before he put in his word.

"Madame has not been many years in these parts?" he inquired in his best French.

Madame threw up her shoulders and protested she had lived in those parts from a child, when the dull suburb was once a festive little rustic village, and the great city now gobbling it up once loomed mysteriously in the north, with acres and miles of green fields and woods between.

"But this hotel," said Roger, "has not stood here so long?"

"Ma foi!" said she, "since I can remember, when I used to visit my good uncle here every Sunday, I remember 'L'Hotel Soult.' Why, when I married my cousin and became Madame l'hotesse, it was all fields between us and Paris. Yes, and little enough change about the house. We cannot afford, Monsieur, to build and decorate. By a miracle we escaped the German shells. Ah! a merry time was the year of the war! France suffered, alas! but the 'L'Hotel Soult' prospered. 'Twas the year I was left a widow! I had ten waiters then, Monsieur, and two billiard-markers, a chef from the best kitchen in Paris, and stables, and chambrieres, and—why, Monsieur, the wages of one week were twenty—twenty-five napoleons!"

"That was after the war?" asked Roger.

"Yes. Before that I had more. But, alas! they left me for the field, and came no more."

"Were all your waiters Frenchmen?" asked Roger.

Madame stared curiously at the questioner.

"Why do you ask? I have had many kinds. Some English, like Monsieur."

"A year or two after the war," said Roger, "there was an Englishman, a relation of mine, who was a waiter in an hotel in one of the suburbs south of Paris. I want to hear of him. I have hunted for weeks. I could hear nothing of him. I came here before I gave it up as a hopeless search, and, as you know, I've been laid up ever since. You have been kind to me, Madame; something makes me think I was not kept here for nothing. Can you help me to find my friend?"

The landlady began to have inward misgivings that she had not behaved to this pleasant-spoken young guest of hers as nicely as she might have done, and she secretly resolved to revise the bill in his favour before presenting it.

"Why, Monsieur, I had plenty English in my time. The year after the war I had—let me think—two or three. Your friend—was he the little lame one who waited beautiful at table, but that he cough, cough, till I must send him away?"

"No; that's not the one."

"Then it was the fat one?—John Bull, we call him, who eat more than he served, never used a fork when he had his fingers. Ah, he was a dirty one, was your friend!"

"No," said Roger; "that's not he. My friend was not much older than I am, and a gentleman."

"A gentleman—and a waiter!" laughed the landlady. "But tell me, what was his name?"

"He used to call himself Rogers."

She shook her head.

"No one of that name was here. I had English, one or two—Bardsley, and Jackson, and Smith; he was a gentleman, but he was not young. He was fifty years, Mr Smith—a good servant. Also there was Monsieur Callow."

"Callot!" exclaimed Roger, starting at the familiar name. "Was he an Englishman?"

"Surely. C-a-l-l-o-w—Callow. Ah! he was a droll one, was Monsieur Callow, and a gentleman too. I never had a billiard-marker like him. He could play any man, and lose by one point; and he could recite and sing; and oh, he eat so little! Every one laughed at him; but he laughed little himself, and thought himself too good for his fellow- waiters."

"What was he like?" asked Roger, flushing with excitement.

"A fine young man, with long curly hair, and whiskers and a beard. He was afraid of nothing, tall and strong. Ah me! I have seen him knock a man down at a blow. He was a wild, reckless man, was Monsieur Callow; but a good servant, and oh! a beautiful billiard player. He always knew how to lose a game, and oh! it made my table so popular!"

"Had he any friends in Paris?"

"Yes; he went often to see his father—so he told me—an actor who gave lessons. I never saw Monsieur le pere."

"How long did he stay with you?"

"Callow? For five years he served me well. Then there was a fracas, a quarrel; I remember it now. An English officer was here, and played with him, and was beaten. 'Twas the only time I ever knew Callow win a game; but he lost his temper this time, and won. Then Milord called him a cheat, and without a word Monsieur Callow knocked him down. The police came, and Monsieur Callow knocked him down. Then he put on his hat and walked, and I never saw him more. He always said he would go to sea, and I think he would keep his word. Ah, a telegram! 'Tis long since telegrams came to my hotel. Helas! not for me; for you, Monsieur."

It was from Armstrong.

"Shall be with you, ten to-morrow morning."

The three weeks which had passed at Maxfield had been terrible.

The discovery of Captain Oliphant's body at the foot of the cliff, with the clear traces of a struggle on the brink above, had created a profound sensation at Maxfield and the country round.

For a day the air was full of wild conjectures of suicide, incident, foul play; until the last-named theory was finally confirmed by the discovery in the tightly-clenched hand of the dead man of a fragment of a promissory note bearing the signature of Robert Ratman.

To the tutor, as he held the paper in his hand, everything became startlingly clear. This was the last act of a tragedy which had been going on for months; and now that the curtain had abruptly fallen, he could not help, in the midst of this horror, owning to a sense of thankfulness, for the sake of others, that the troubled career of his rival and enemy had stopped short at a point beyond which nothing but disgrace and scandal and misery awaited it.

From that disgrace it was his business now, by every means in his power, to shield the innocent brother and sisters who still honoured the dead man as their father.

Many a grievous task had been thrown upon the tutor in his day, but none cost him more effort than this, of breaking to the children of his enemy the news of their father's death. But he went through it manfully and ably.

Rosalind, on whom the blow fell hardest, because on her spirit the burden of her father's cares had lain heaviest, rose, with a heroine's courage, to the occasion, and earned the tutor's boundless gratitude by making his task easy. She said little; she understood everything. She remembered nothing but the father's love—his old caresses and confidences and kindnesses. The tears she shed blotted out all the anxieties and misgivings and heart-sinkings of recent weeks. All that remained was crowded with love.

Tom, dulled and stunned, took the story in gradually, and got used to it as he went along. He came and slept at night in the tutor's room, and felt how much worse things might have been had it not been for the stalwart protector who put hope and cheer into him, and filled the blank in his heart with sturdier views of life than the boy had ever harboured there before.

As for Jill, for a week all was blackness and darkness to her. She felt deserted—lost. She cried herself to sleep at night, and by day wandered over the house, peeping into her father's room, and half expecting to see him back. Then her gentle spirit took courage, and she looked up, and her eyes lit with comfort and hope on Mr Armstrong. Everything could not be lost if he was there; and when he sometimes came, and took her little hand in his, and invited her to be his companion in his rides, or sought her out in her lonely walks and made her teach him the haunts of her favourite flowers or read to him from her favourite books, she began to think there was still some joy left on earth.

"Dear Mr Armstrong," she said one day when, by invitation, she came to make afternoon tea for him in his room, "you are so awfully kind to me! If I was only as old as Rosalind, I would marry you."

This rather startling declaration took the tutor considerably aback. He laughed and said—

"You are very nice as you are, Jill."

"You think I'm silly, I know," said she, "but I'm not. Would you hate me if I was older?"

"I don't think I could hate you, not even if you were a hundred."

"I love you ever so much," said she. "Please don't believe what Tom said about the Duke. I don't like him a millionth part as much as you."

"Poor Duke!" said the tutor.

"Really and truly. And oh, Mr Armstrong, if you would only wait I would love to marry you some day! How soon shall I be big enough?"

This was getting embarrassing. But the tutor was in a tender mood, and had it not in his heart to thwart the little Leap-year maid. "Time flies fast," said he; "you'll be grown up before we know where we all are."

She sighed.

"I know you'd sooner have Rosalind. But she doesn't care for you as much as I do. She likes Roger best; but I don't; I like you fifty thousand times better. Would it be an awful bother, Mr Armstrong?"

"What! to have Jill for my little wife?" said he. "Not a bit. If ever I want one, she's the first person I mean to ask."

With this declaration Jill had to rest content. It solaced her sorrow vastly; and even though Rosalind, to whom she confided the compact under a pledge of secrecy, scolded and laughed at her alternately, she felt a new prospect open before her, and set herself resolutely to the task of growing up worthy of Mr

Armstrong's affection.

But amid all these troubles and hopes at Maxfield, two questions were on every one's lips: "Where was Roger? Where was Robert Ratman?"

Roger had written once after reaching Paris, a letter full of hope, which had arrived a few days before Captain Oliphant's death. He had succeeded at last in tracking the man Pantalzar to a low lodging in the city, and from him had ascertained somewhat of the history of the Callot family. They had lodged with him at Long Street in London, where they had given lessons in acting, elocution, and music; and Pantalzar clearly remembered the lad Rogers as a constant visitor at the house, partly in the capacity of a promising student of the dramatic art, and partly as a hopeless lover of his preceptor's wayward daughter.

After a year, his troubles in the latter capacity were abruptly cut short by the illness and death of the young lady; a blow which staggered the parents and broke up the establishment at Long Street. It failed, however, to drive Rogers from the party, who, with a romantic loyalty, attached himself to the fortunes of the old people, and became like a son to them in their distresses.

Eventually the bereaved family migrated to Paris, whence Pantalzar had once heard from the father, who had found employment as stall manager of a third-rate theatre in one of the fauxbourg. Hither Roger tracked him, and after dogged search, often baffled, sometimes apparently hopeless, discovered some one who remembered the reputed son of the old couple, who, as far as this witness could remember, was thought to have hired himself out as billiard-marker in an hotel in one of the southern suburbs of the city.

Thus far he had succeeded when he wrote home. What transpired subsequently, and how he dropped for a season out of all knowledge, the reader already knows.

The suspense occasioned by his sudden disappearance, as may be imagined, added a new element of wretchedness to the situation at Maxfield. Telegrams, letters, inquiries, alike failed to discover his whereabouts or the secret of his silence. As post after post came and brought neither message nor tidings, the hearts of the watchers grew sick. To the tutor especially, tied as he was to the scene of the tragedy, those three weeks were a period of torture. He urged Dr Brandram to go over to Paris to make inquiries; but the Doctor, after a fortnight of fruitless search, returned empty-handed.

Mr Armstrong thereupon resolved at all hazards to quit his post and go himself. He knew something of Paris. He had old associations with the city, and once, as the reader has heard, possessed acquaintances there. If any one could find the boy, he thought he could; and with such trusty substitutes as the Doctor and Mr Headland, who remained at Yeld, to leave behind, he felt that he might, nay rather that he must, venture on the journey.

It was on the morning of his departure, as he was waiting for the trap to carry him to the station, that Roger's telegram was put in his hand:—

"Come—have been ill—better now—Hotel Soult—no news."

Twenty-four hours later the tutor was at his pupil's side, with a heavy weight lifted from his heart, and resolved, come what would, not to quit his post till he had the truant safe back at Maxfield.

The news he brought with him served to drive from Roger's mind all thoughts of continuing his sojourn a day longer than was necessary to recover his strength.

"It seems pretty certain," said he, "that my brother, when he left here, returned to England, and probably went to sea very soon after. There is no object in staying here. Look in that room there, Armstrong. That's the billiard-room in which he spent most of his time, and that's the very table on which he let himself be beaten regularly for the good of the house."

The tutor walked across to the folding-doors and surveyed the dingy room with critical interest.

"And that must have been little more than twelve years ago," said he. "Do you still hold to your theory that Ratman is your brother?"

"I have no theory. I must find my brother, even if he is a—a murderer," said the boy with a groan. "But, I say, has nothing been heard of him?"

"The police have traced him to London; there the scent ends for the present. He is probably in hiding there, and one may have to wait weeks or months till he gets off his guard and is caught."

About ten days later they started, by slow stages, on the homeward journey. Whether Madame received all she expected for her hospitality is doubtful. Mr Armstrong undertook the duties of cashier, and used his eye-glass considerably in scrutinising the figures. He craved an interview with Madame in her parlour to discuss her arithmetic, and although he appeared eventually to arrive at a satisfactory understanding with the good lady (so much so, that she shed tears at his departure), he did not complain that her charges were extortionate, as French hotels go.

The home-coming of the heir of Maxfield created a welcome flutter of excitement among the desolate occupants of the manor-house and their neighbours. But the flutter in their hearts was nothing compared with that in the heart of the heir himself as he walked across the park on the day after his return to call at the Vicarage and invite Rosalind to accompany him in a ride. What passed—whether the flutter was contagious, what brought back the deserted colour to Miss Rosalind's cheeks, why they rode so slow and left so much of their course to the decision of their steeds,—all this and many other matters for wonder, history recordeth not, as is quite proper. But it does record that when, on their return, Mr Armstrong chanced to come out on to the door- step, where the two stood unmounted, Roger said—

"Armstrong, Rosalind has promised to be my wife."

The tutor flushed a little at this not unexpected announcement; then taking his pupil's arm, he said—

"It means great happiness for you both. I am glad—very glad."

But why, if he was so glad, did he slink off to his study forthwith and play a dirge on his piano, and there sit listlessly in his chair for the rest of the morning staring out of the window through his glass, till Jill tripped in and fetched him down to lunch, saying—

"Dear Mr Armstrong, try not to be too awfully sorry. I think no one is as nice as you."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE HEIR OF MAXFIELD COMES OF AGE.

It wanted but a month to Roger's majority, that important day on which the fate of so many persons was to be decided, when a letter was delivered to the heir of Maxfield as he sat at breakfast.

The weeks that had passed since Captain Oliphant's sudden death had been uneventful. To Rosalind and Roger the discovery that they loved one another went far to lighten the sorrow which had befallen both—one in the death of a father, the other in what appeared to be the hopeless loss of a brother.

Roger had by no means yet abandoned his search. Twice already had he and Armstrong been up to London to make inquiries, but without avail. The billiard-marker of "L'Hotel Soult" had vanished as completely as— well, as Mr Ratman.

"You know, of course," said the tutor once, with the rather unsympathetic drawl in which he was wont to allude to the lost Ingleton—"you know, of course, that if the man you want is Ratman, you are having the assistance of the police in your search. A warrant is out against him, and heaven and earth is being moved to capture him."

Roger sighed.

"I am looking for no one but my brother," said he, "Even if he turns out to be this miscreant, I cannot help it."

"Quite so. Only it is right to remember that to find Ratman means to hang him. That at least is the object the police have in view. But you need not disturb yourself on that score. Roger Ingleton, major, if we find him, may be a villain, but he won't be the murderer of Miss Oliphant's father."

They returned presently, baffled, to Maxfield. No one at the depots, or recruiting head-quarters, or pension offices could tell them a word of a soldier or a sailor named Callot who might have enlisted or gone to sea about twelve years ago. How could they expect it? Nor did the most careful search among the old Squire's papers lead to the discovery of any record of the supposed report of the lad's death.

As a matter of fact, if the billiard-marker at "L'Hotel Soult" was the man, they had already traced him down to a date long subsequent to that of his rumoured death.