Enid led the way into the drawing-room. She gave no reasons for the weird strangeness of the place, it was no time for explanations. As for Steel, he gazed around him in fascinated astonishment. A novelist ever on the look-out for new scenes and backgrounds, the aspect of the room fascinated him. He saw the dust rising in clouds, he saw the wilted flowers, he noted the overturned table, obviously untouched and neglected for years, and he wondered. Then he heard the babel of discordant voices overhead. What a sad house it was, and how dominant was the note of tragedy.

Meanwhile, with no suspicion of the path he was treading, Bell had gone upstairs. He came at length to the door of the room where the sick girl lay. There was a subdued light inside and the faint suggestion of illness that clings to the chamber of the sufferer. Bell caught a glimpse of a white figure lying motionless in bed. It was years now since he had acted thus in a professional capacity, but the old quietness and caution came back by instinct. As he would have entered Margaret Henson came out and closed the door.

"You are not going in there," she said. "No, no. Everything of mine you touch you blight and wither. If the girl is to die, let her die in peace."

She would have raised her voice high, but a lightning glance from Bell quieted her. It was not exactly madness that he had to deal with, and he knew it. The woman required firm, quiet treatment. Dr. Walker stood alongside, anxious and nervous. The man with the quiet practice of the well-to-do doctor was not used to scenes of this kind.

"You have something to conceal," Bell said, sternly. "Open the door."

"Really, my dear sir," Walker said, fussily. "Really, I fancy that under the circumstances—"

"You don't understand this kind of case," Bell interrupted. "I do."

Walker dropped aside with a muttered apology. Bell approached the figure in the doorway and whispered a few words rapidly in her ear. The effect was electrical. The figure seemed to wilt and shrivel up, all the power and resistance had gone. She stepped aside, moaning and wringing her hands. She babbled of strange things; the old, far-away look came into her eyes again.

Without a word of comment or sign of triumph Bell entered the sick room. Then he raised his head and sniffed the heavy atmosphere as an eager hound might have done. A quick, sharp question rose to his lips, only to be instantly suppressed as he noted the vacant glance of his colleague.

The white figure on the bed lay perfectly motionless. It was the figure of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, a beauty heightened and accentuated by the dead-white pallor of her features. Still the face looked resolute and the exquisitely chiselled lips were firm.

"Albumen," Bell muttered. "What fiend's game is this? I wonder if that scoundrel—but, no. In that case there would be no object in concealing my presence here. I wonder—"

He paused and touched the pure white brow with his fingers. At the same moment Enid came into the room. She panted like one who has run fast and far.

"Well," she whispered, "is she better, better or—Hatherly, read this."

The last words were so low that Bell hardly heard them. He shot a swift glance at his colleague before he opened the paper. One look and he had mastered the contents. Then the swift glance was directed from Walker to the girl standing there looking at Bell with a world of passionate entreaty and longing in her eyes.

"It is your sister who lies there," Bell whispered, meaningly, "and yet you—"

He paused, and Enid nodded. There was evidently a great struggle going on in Bell's mind. He was grappling with something that he only partially understood, but he did know perfectly well that he was being asked to do something absolutely wrong and that he was going to yield for the sake of the girl he loved.

He rose abruptly from the bedside and crossed over to Walker.

"You are perfectly correct," he said. "At this rate—at this rate the patient cannot possibly last till the morning. It is quite hopeless."

Walker smiled feebly.

"It is a melancholy satisfaction to have my opinion confirmed," he said. "Miss Henson, if you will get Williams to see me as far as the lodge-gates ... it is so late that—er—"

Williams came at length, and the little doctor departed. Enid fairly cowered before the blazing, searching look that Bell turned upon her. She fell to plucking the bedclothes nervously.

"What does it mean?" he asked, hoarsely. "What fiend's plaything are you meddling with? Don't you know that if that girl dies it will be murder? It was only for your sake that I didn't speak my mind before the fool who has just gone. He has seen murder done under his eyes for days, and he is ready to give a certificate of the cause of death. And the strange thing is that in the ordinary way he would be quite justified in doing so."

"Chris is not going to die; at least, not in that way," Enid whispered, hoarsely.

"Then leave her alone. No more drugs; no medicine even. Give Nature a chance. Thank Heaven, the girl has a perfect constitution."

"Chris is not going to die," Enid repeated, doggedly, "but the certificate will be given, all the same. Oh, Hatherly, you must trust me—trust me as you have never done before. Look at me, study me. Did you ever know me to do a mean or dishonourable thing?"

They were down in the drawing-room again; David waiting, with a strange sense of embarrassment under Margaret Henson's distant eyes; indeed, it was probable that she had never noticed him at all. All the same she turned eagerly to Bell.

"Tell me the worst," she cried. "Tell me all there is to know."

"Your niece's sufferings are over," Bell said, gravely; "I have no more to tell you."

A profound silence followed, broken presently by angry voices outside. Then Williams looked in at the door and beckoned Enid to him. His face was wreathed in an uneasy grin.

"Mr. Henson has got away," he said. "Blest if I can say how. And they dogs have rolled him about, and tore his clothes, and made such a picture of him as you never saw. And a sweet temper he's in!"

"Where is he now?" Enid asked. "There are people here he must not see."

"Well, he came back in through the study window, swearing dreadful for so respectable a gentleman. And he went right up to his room, after ordering whisky and soda-water."

Enid flew back to the drawing-room. Not a moment was to be lost. At any hazard Reginald Henson must be kept in ignorance of the presence of strangers. A minute later, and the darkness of the night had swallowed them up. Williams fastened the lodge-gates behind them, and they turned their faces in the direction of Rottingdean Road.

"A strange night's work," David said, presently.

"Aye, but pregnant with result," Bell answered. There was a stern, exulting ring in his voice. "There is much to do and much danger to be faced, but we are on the right track at last. But why did you send me that note just now?"

David smiled as he lighted a cigarette.

"It is part of the scheme," he said. "Part of my scheme, you understand. But, principally, I sent you the note because Miss Enid asked me to."



CHAPTER XVI

MARGARET SEES A GHOST

With a sigh of unutterable relief Enid heard Williams returning. Reginald Henson had not come down yet, and the rest of the servants had retired some time. Williams came up with a request as to whether he could do anything more before he went to bed.

"Just one thing," said Enid. "The good dogs have done their work well to-night, but they have not quite finished. Find Rollo for me, and bring him here quick. Then you can shut up the house, and I will see that Mr. Henson is made comfortable after his fright."

The big dog came presently and followed Enid timidly upstairs. Apparently the great black-muzzled brute had been there before, as evidently he knew he was doing wrong. He crawled along the corridor till he came to the room where the sick girl lay, and here he followed Enid. The lamp was turned down low as Enid glanced at the bed. Then she smiled faintly, yet hopefully.

There was nobody in the room. The patient's bed was empty!

"It works well," Enid murmured. "May it go on as it has been started. Lie down, Rollo; lie there, good dog. And if anybody comes in tear him to pieces."

The great brute crouched down obediently, thumping his tail on the floor as an indication that he understood. As if a load had been taken from her mind Enid crept down the stairs. She had hardly reached the hall before Henson followed her. His big face was white with passion; he was trembling from head to foot from fright and pain. There was a red rash on his forehead that by no means tended to improve his appearance.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, hoarsely.

Enid looked at him coolly. She could afford to do so now. All the danger was past, and she felt certain that the events of the evening were unknown to him.

"I might ask you the same question," she said. "You look white and shaken; you might have been thrown violently into a heap of stones. But please don't make a noise. It is not fitting now. Chris—"

Enid hesitated; the prevarication did not come so easily as she had expected.

"Chris has gone," she said. "She passed away an hour ago."

Henson muttered something that sounded like consolation. He could be polite and suave enough on occasions, but not to-night. Even philanthropists are selfish at times. Moreover, his nerves were badly shaken and he wanted a stimulant badly.

"I am going to bed," Enid said, wearily. "Goodnight."

She went noiselessly upstairs, and Henson passed into the library. He was puzzled over this sudden end of Christiana Henson. He was half inclined to believe that she was not dead at all; he belonged to the class of men who believe nothing without proof. Well, he could easily ascertain that for himself. There would be quite time enough in the morning.

For a long time Henson sat there thinking and smoking, as was his usual custom. Like other great men, he had his worries and troubles, and that they were mainly of his own making did not render them any lighter. So long as Margaret Henson was under the pressure of his thumb, money was no great object. But there were other situations where money was utterly powerless.

Henson was about to give it up as a bad job, for tonight at any rate. He wondered bitterly what his admirers would say if they knew everything. He wondered—what was that?

Somebody creeping about the house, somebody talking in soft, though distinct, whispers. His quick ears detected that sound instantly. He slipped into the hall; Margaret Henson was there, with the remains of what had once been a magnificent opera-cloak over her shoulders.

"How you startled me!" Henson said, irritably. "Why don't you go to bed?"

Enid, looking over the balustrade from the landing, wondered so also, but she kept herself prudently hidden. The first words that she heard drove all the blood from her heart.

"I cannot," the feeble, moaning voice said. "The house is full of ghosts; they haunt and follow me everywhere. And Chris is dead, and I have seen her spirit."

"So I'm told," Henson said, with brutal callousness. "What was the ghost like?"

"Like Chris. All pale and white, with a frightened look on her face. And she was all dressed in white, too, with a cloak about her shoulders. And just when I was going to speak to her she turned and disappeared into Enid's bedroom. And there are other ghosts—"

"One at a time, please," Henson said, grimly. "So Christiana's ghost passed into her sister's bedroom. You come and sit quietly in the library whilst I investigate matters."

Margaret Henson complied in her dull, mechanical way, and Enid flew like a flash of light to her room. Another girl was there—a girl exceedingly like her, but looking wonderfully pale and drawn.

"That fiend suspects," Enid said. "How unfortunate it was that you should meet aunt like that. Chris, you must go back again. Fly to your own room and compose yourself. Only let him see you lying white and still there, and he must be satisfied."

Chris rose with a shudder.

"And if the wretch offers to touch me," she moaned, "If he does—"

"He will not. He dare not. Heaven help him if he tries any experiment of that kind. If he does, Rollo will kill him to a certainty."

"Ah, I had forgotten the faithful dog. Those dogs are more useful to us than a score of men. I will step by the back way and through my dressing-room. Oh, Enid, how glad I shall be to find myself outside the walls of this dreadful house!"

She flew along the corridor and gained her room in safety. It was an instant's work to throw off her cloak and compose herself rigidly under the single white sheet. But though she lay still her heart was beating to suffocation as she heard the creak and thud of a heavy step coming up the stairs. Then the door was opened in a stealthy way and Henson came in. He could see the outline of the white figure, and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him. A less suspicious man would have retired at once; a man less engaged upon his task would have seen two great amber eyes close to the floor.

"An old woman's fancy," he muttered. "Still, as I am here, I'll make sure that—"

He stretched out his hand to touch the marble forehead, there was a snarl and a gurgle, and Henson came to the ground with a hideous crash that carried him staggering beyond the door into the corridor. Rollo had the intruder by the throat; a thousand crimson and blue stars danced before the wretched man's eyes; he grappled with his foe with one last despairing effort, and then there came over him a vague, warm unconsciousness. When he came to himself he was lying on his bed, with Williams and Enid bending over him.

"How did it happen?" Enid asked, with simulated anxiety.

"I—I was walking along the corridor," Henson gasped, "going—going to bed, you see; and one of those diabolical dogs must have got into the house. Before I knew what I was doing the creature flew at my throat and dragged me to the floor. Telephone for Walker at once. I am dying, Williams."

He fell back once more utterly lost to his surroundings. There was a great, gaping, raw wound at the side of the throat that caused Enid to shudder.

"Do you think he is—dead, Williams?" she asked.

"No such luck as that," Williams said, with the air of a confirmed pessimist. "I hope you locked that there bedroom door and put the key in your pocket, miss. I suppose we'd better send for the doctor, unless you and me puts him out of his misery. There's one comfort, however, Mr. Henson will be in bed for the next fortnight, at any rate, so he'll be powerless to do any prying about the house. The funeral will be over long before he's about again."

* * * * *

The first grey streaks of dawn were in the air as Enid stood outside the lodge-gates. She was not alone, for a neat figure in grey, marvellously like her, was by her side. The figure in grey was dressed for travelling and she carried a bag in her hand.

"Good-bye, dear, and good luck to you," she said. "It is dangerous to delay."

"You have absolutely everything that you require?" Enid asked.

"Everything. By the time you are at breakfast I shall be in London. And once I am there the search for the secret will begin in earnest."

"You are sure that Reginald Henson suspected nothing?"

"I am perfectly certain that he was satisfied; indeed, I heard him say so. Still, if it had not been for the dogs! We are going to succeed, Enid, something at my heart tells me so. See how the sun shines on your face and in your dear eyes. Au revoir, an omen—an omen of a glorious future."



CHAPTER XVII

THE PACE SLACKENS

Steel lay sleepily back in the cab, not quite sure whether his cigarette was alight or not. They were well into the main road again before Bell spoke.

"It is pretty evident that you and I are on the same track," he said.

"I am certain that I am on the right one," David replied; "but, when I come to consider the thing calmly, it seems more by good luck than anything else. I came out with you to-night seeking adventure, and I am bound to admit that I found it. Also, I found the lady who interviewed me in the darkness, which is more to the point."

"As a matter of fact, you did nothing of the kind," said Bell, with the suggestion of a laugh.

"Oh! Case of the wrong room over again. I was ready to swear it. Whom did I speak to? Whose voice was it that was so very much like hers?"

"The lady's sister. Enid Henson was not at 218, Brunswick Square, on the night in question. Of that you may be certain. But it's a queer business altogether. Rascality I can understand. I am beginning to comprehend the plot of which I am the victim. But I don't mind admitting that up to the present I fail to comprehend why those girls evolved the grotesque scheme for getting assistance at your hands. The whole thing savours of madness."

"I don't think so," David said, thoughtfully. "The girls are romantic as well as clever. They are bound together by the common ties of a common enmity towards a cunning and utterly unscrupulous scoundrel. By the merest accident in the world they discovered that I am in a position to afford them valuable advice and assistance. At the same time they don't want me to be brought into the business, for two reasons—the first, because the family secret is a sacred one; the second, because any disclosures would land me in great physical danger. Therefore they put their heads together and evolve this scheme. Call it a mad venture if you like, but if you consider the history of your own country you can find wilder schemes evolved and carried out by men who have had brains enough to be trusted with the fortunes of the nation. If these girls had been less considerate for my safety—"

"But," Bell broke in eagerly, "they failed in that respect at the very outset. You must have been spotted instantly by the foe, who has cunningly placed you in a dangerous position, perhaps as a warning to mind your own business in future. And if those girls come forward to save you—and to do so they must appear in public, mind you—they are bound to give away the whole thing. Mark the beautiful cunning of it. My word, we have a foe worthy of our steel to meet."

"We? Do you mean to say that your enemy and mine is a common one?"

"Certainly. When I found my foe I found yours."

"And who may he be, by the same token?"

"Reginald Henson. Mind you, I had no more idea of it than the dead when I went to Longdean Grange to-night. I went there because I had begun to suspect who occupied the place and to try and ascertain how the Rembrandt engraving got into 218, Brunswick Square. Miss Gates must have heard us talking over the matter, and that was why she went to Longdean Grange to-night."

"I hope she got home safe," said David. "The cab man says he put her down opposite the Lawns."

"I hope so. Well, I found out who the foe was. And I have a pretty good idea why he played that trick upon me. He knew that Enid Henson and myself were engaged; he could see what a danger to his schemes it would be to have a man like myself in the family. Then the second Rembrandt turned up, and there was his chance for wiping me off the slate. After that came the terrible family scandal between Lord Littimer and his wife. I cannot tell you anything of that, because I cannot speak with definite authority. But you could judge of the effect of it on Lady Littimer to-night."

"I haven't the faintest recollection of seeing Lady Littimer to-night."

"My dear fellow, the poor lady whom you met as Mrs. Henson is really Lady Littimer. Henson is her maiden name, and those girls are her nieces. Trouble has turned the poor woman's brain. And at the bottom of the whole mystery is Reginald Henson, who is not only nephew on his mother's side, but is also next heir but one to the Littimer title. At the present moment he is blackmailing that unhappy creature, and is manoeuvring to get the whole of her large fortune in his hands. Reginald Henson is the man those girls want to circumvent, and for that reason they came to you. And Henson has found it out to a certain extent and placed you in an awkward position."

"Witness my involuntary guest and the notes and the cigar-case," David said. "But does he know what I advised one of the girls—my princess of the dark room—to do?"

"I don't fancy he does. You see, that advice was conveyed by word of mouth. The girls dared not trust themselves to correspondence, otherwise they might have approached you in a more prosaic manner. But I confess you startled me to-night."

"What do you mean by that?"

"When you sent me that note. What you virtually asked me to do was to countenance murder. When I went into the sick room I saw that Christiana Henson was dying. The first idea that flashed across my mind was that Reginald Henson was getting the girl out of the way for his own purposes. My dear fellow, the whole atmosphere literally spoke of albumen. Walker must have been blind not to see how he was being deceived. I was about to give him my opinion pretty plainly when your note came up to me. And there was Enid, with her whole soul in her large eyes, pleading for my silence. If the girl died I was accessory after and before the fact. You will admit that that was a pretty tight place to put a doctor in."

"That's because you didn't know the facts of the case, my dear Bell."

"Then perhaps you'll be so good as to enlighten me," Bell said, drily.

"Certainly. That was part of my scheme. In that synopsis of the story obtained by the girls by some more or less mechanical means, the reputed death of a patient forms the crux of the tale. The idea occurred to me after reading a charge against a medical student some time ago in the Standard. The man wanted to get himself out of the way; he wanted to be considered as dead, in fact. By the artful use of albumen in certain doses he produced symptoms of disease which will be quite familiar to you. He made himself so ill that his doctor naturally concluded that he was dying. As a matter of fact, he was dying. Had he gone on in the same way another day he would have been dead. Instead of this he drops the dosing and, going to his doctor in disguise, says that he is dead. He gets a certificate of his own demise, and there you are. I am not telling you fiction, but hard fact recorded in a high-class paper. The doctor gave the certificate without viewing the body. Well, it struck me that we had here the making of a good story, and I vaguely outlined it for a certain editor. In my synopsis I suggested that it was a woman who proposed to pretend to die thus so as to lull the suspicions of a villain to sleep, and thus possess herself of certain vital documents. My synopsis falls into certain hands. The owner of those hands asks me how the thing was done. I tell her. In other words, the so-called murder that you imagined you had discovered to-night was the result of design. Walker will give his certificate, Reginald Henson will regard Miss Christiana as dead and buried, and she will be free to act for the honour of the family."

"But they might have employed somebody else."

"Who would have had to be told the history of the family dishonour. So far I fancy I have made the ground quite clear. But the mystery of the cigar-case and the notes and the poor fellow in the hospital is still as much a mystery as ever. We are like two allied forces working together, but at the same time under the disadvantage of working in the dark. You can see, of course, that the awful danger I stand in is as terrible for those poor girls."

"Of course I do. Still, we have a key to your trouble. It is a dreadfully rusty one and will want a deal of oiling before it's used, but there it is."

"Where, my dear fellow, where?" David asked.

"Why, in the Sussex County Hospital, of course. The man may die, in which case everything must be sacrificed in order to save your good name. On the other hand, he may get better, and then he will tell us all about it."

"He might. On the other hand, he might plead ignorance. It is possible for him to suggest that the whole affair was merely a coincidence, so far as he was concerned."

"Yes, but he would have to explain how he burgled your house, and what business he had to get himself half murdered in your conservatory. Let us get out here and walk the rest of the way to your house. Our cabby knows quite enough about us without having definite views as to your address."

The cabman was dismissed with a handsome douceur, and the twain turned off the front at the corner of Eastern Terrace. Late as it was, there were a few people lounging under the hospital wall, where there was a suggestion of activity about the building unusual at that time of the night. A rough-looking fellow, who seemed to have followed Bell and Steel from the front, dropped into a seat by the hospital gates and laid his head back as if utterly worn out. Just inside the gates a man was smoking a cigarette.

"Halloa, Cross," David cried, "you are out late tonight!"

"Heavy night," Cross responded, sleepily, "with half a score of accidents to finish with. Some of Palmer of Lingfield's private patients thrown off a coach and brought here in the ambulance. Unless I am greatly mistaken, that is Hatherly Bell with you."

"The same," Bell said, cheerfully. "I recollect you in Edinburgh. So some of Palmer's patients have come to grief. Most of his special cases used to pass through my hands."

"I've got one here to-night who recollects you perfectly well," said Cross. "He's got a dislocated shoulder, but otherwise he is doing well. Got a mania that he's a doctor who murdered a patient."

"Electric light anything to do with the story?" Bell asked, eagerly.

"That's the man. Seems to have a wonderfully brilliant intellect if you can only keep him off that topic. He spotted you in North Street yesterday, and seemed wonderfully disappointed to find you had nothing whatever to do with this institution."

"If he is not asleep," Bell suggested, "and you have no objection—"

Cross nodded and opened the gate. Before passing inside Bell took the rolled-up Rembrandt from his deep breast-pocket and handed it to David.

"Take care of this for me," he whispered. "I'm going inside. I've dropped upon an old case that interested me very much years ago, and I'd like to see my patient again. See you in the morning, I expect. Good-night."

David nodded in reply and went his way. It was intensely quiet and still now; the weary loafer at the outside hospital seat had disappeared. There was nobody to be seen anywhere as David placed his key in the latch and opened the door. Inside the hall-light was burning, and so was the shaded electric lamp in the conservatory. The study leading to the conservatory was in darkness. The effect of the light behind was artistic and pleasing.

It was with a sense of comfort and relief that David fastened the door behind him. Without putting up the light in the study David laid the Rembrandt on his table, which was immediately below the window in his work-room. The night was hot; he pushed the top sash down liberally.

"I must get that transparency removed," he murmured, "and have the window filled with stained glass. The stuff is artistic, but it is so frankly what it assumes to be."



CHAPTER XVIII

A COMMON ENEMY

David idly mixed himself some whisky and soda water in the dining-room, where he finished his cigarette. He was tired and ready for bed now, so tired that he could hardly find energy enough to remove his boots and get into the big carpet slippers that were so old and worn. He put down the dining-room lights and strolled into the study. Just for a moment he sat there contemplating with pleased, tired eyes the wilderness of bloom before him.

Then he fell into a reverie, as he frequently did. An idea for a fascinating story crept unbidden into his mind. He gazed vaguely around him. Some little noise outside attracted his attention, the kind of noise made by a sweep's brushes up a chimney. David turned idly towards the open window. The top of it was but faintly illuminated by the light of the conservatory gleaming dully on the transparency over the glass. But David's eyes were keen, and he could see distinctly a man's thumb crooked downwards over the frame of the ash. Somebody had swarmed up the telephone holdfasts and was getting in through the window. Steel slipped well into the shadow, but not before an idea had come to him. He removed the rolled-up Rembrandt from the table and slipped it behind a row of books in the book-case. Then he looked up again at the crooked thumb.

He would recognise that thumb again anywhere. It was flat like the head of a snake, and the nail was no larger than a pea—a thumb that had evidently been cruelly smashed at one time. The owner of the thumb might have been a common burglar, but in the light of recent events David was not inclined to think so. At any rate he felt disposed to give his theory every chance. He saw a long, fustian-clad arm follow the scarred thumb, and a hand grope all over the table.

"Curse me," a foggy voice whispered, hoarsely. "It ain't here. And the bloke told me—"

The voice said no more, for David grabbed at the arm and caught the wrist in a vice-like grip. Instantly another arm shot over the window and an ugly piece of iron piping was swung perilously near Steel's head. Unfortunately, he could see no face. As he jumped back to avoid a blow his grasp relaxed, there was a dull thud outside, followed by the tearing scratch of boots against a wall and the hollow clatter of flying feet. All David could do was to close the window and regret that his impetuosity had not been more judiciously restrained.

"Now, what particular thing was he after?" he asked himself. "But I had better defer any further speculations on the matter till the morning. After the fright he had my friend won't come back again. And I'm just as tired as a dog."

But there were other things the next day to occupy David's attention besides the visit of his nocturnal friend. He had found out enough the previous evening to encourage him to go farther. And surely Miss Ruth Gates could not refuse to give him further information.

He started out to call at 219, Brunswick Square, as soon as he deemed it excusable to do so. Miss Gates was out, the solemn butler said, but she might be found in the square gardens. David came upon her presently with a book in her lap and herself under a shady tree. She was not reading, her eyes were far away. As she gave David a warm greeting there was a tender bloom on her lovely face.

"Oh, yes, I got home quite right," she said. "No suspicion was aroused at all. And you?"

"I had a night thrilling enough for yellow covers, as Artemus Ward says. I came here this morning to throw myself on your mercy, Miss Gates. Were I disposed to do so, I have information enough to force your hand. But I prefer to hear everything from your lips."

"Did Enid tell you anything?" Ruth faltered.

"Well, she allowed me to know a great deal. In the first place, I know that you had a great hand in bringing me to 218 the other night. I know that it was you who suggested that idea, and it was you who facilitated the use of Mr. Gates's telephone. How the thing was stage-managed matters very little at present. It turns out now that your friend and Dr. Bell and myself have a common enemy."

Ruth looked up swiftly. There was something like fear in her eyes.

"Have—have you discovered the name of that enemy?" she asked.

"Yes, I know now that our foe is Mr. Reginald Henson."

"A man who is highly respected. A man who stands wonderfully high in public estimation. There are thousands and thousands of people who look upon him as a great and estimable creature. He gives largely in charities, he devotes a good deal of his time to the poor. My uncle, who is a good man, if you like, declares that Reginald Henson is absolutely indispensable to him. At the next election that man is certain to be returned to Parliament to represent an important northern constituency. If you told my uncle anything about him, he would laugh at you."

"I have not the slightest intention of approaching your uncle on this matter at present."

"Because you could prove nothing. Nobody can prove anything."

"But Christiana Henson may in time."

Once more Ruth flashed a startled look at her companion.

"So you have discovered something about that?" she whispered.

"I have discovered everything about it. Legally speaking, the young lady is dead. She died last night, as Dr. Walker will testify. She passed away in the formula presented by me the night that I met her in the darkness at 218, Brunswick Square. Now, will you be so good as to tell me how those girls got hold of my synopsis?"

"That came about quite naturally. Your synopsis and proof in an open envelope were accidentally slipped into a large circular envelope used by a firm of seed merchants and addressed to Longdean Grange, sent out no doubt amongst thousands of others. Chris saw it, and, prompted by curiosity, read it. Out of that our little plot was gradually evolved. You see, I was at school with those two girls, and they have few secrets from me. Naturally, I suggested the scheme because I see a great deal of Reginald Henson. He comes here; he also comes very frequently to our house in Prince's Gate. And yet I am sorry, from the bottom of my heart, that I ever touched the thing, for your sake."

The last words were spoken with a glance that set David's pulses beating. He took Ruth's half-extended hand in his, and it was not withdrawn.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I shall come out all right in the end. Still, I shall look eagerly forward to any assistance that you can afford me. For instance, what hold has Henson got on his relatives?"

"That I cannot tell you," Ruth cried. "You must not ask me. But we were acting for the best; our great object was to keep you out of danger."

"There is no danger to me if I can only clear myself," Steel replied. "If you could only tell me where those bank-notes came from! When I think of that part of the business I am filled with shame. And yet if you only knew how fond I am of my home.... At the same time, when I found that I was called upon to help ladies in distress I should have refused all offers of reward. If I had done so I should have had no need of your pity. And yet—and yet it is very sweet to me."

He pressed the hand in his, and the pressure was returned. David forget all about his troubles for the time; and it was very cool and pleasant and quiet there.

"I am afraid that those notes were forced upon us," she said. "Though I frankly believe that the enemy does not know what we have learnt to do from you. And as to the cigar-case: would it not be easy to settle that matter by asking a few questions?"

"My dear young lady, I have done so. And the more questions I ask the worse it is for me. The cigar-case I claimed came from Walen's, beyond all question, and was purchased by the mysterious individual now in the hospital. I understood that the cigar-case was the very one I admired at Lockhart's some time ago, and—"

"If you inquire at Lockhart's you will find such to be the case."

David looked up with a puzzled expression. Ruth spoke so seriously, and with such an air of firm conviction, that he was absolutely staggered.

"So I did," he said. "And was informed in the most positive way by the junior partner that the case I admired had been purchased by an American called Smith and sent to the Metropole after he had forwarded dollar-notes for it. Surely you don't suppose that a firm like Lockhart's would be guilty of anything—"

Ruth rose to her feet, her face pale and resolute.

"This must be looked to," she said. "The cigar-case sent to you on that particular night was purchased at Lockhart's by myself and paid for with my own money!"



CHAPTER XIX

ROLLO SHOWS HIS TEETH

The blinds were all down at Longdean Grange, a new desolation seemed to be added to the gloom of the place. Out in the village it had by some means become known that there was somebody dead in the house, either madam herself or one of those beautiful young ladies whom nobody had ever seen. Children loitering about the great lodge-gates regarded Williams with respectful awe and Dr. Walker with curiosity. The doctor was the link connecting the Grange with the outside world.

To add to the gloom of it all the bell over the stables clanged mournfully. The noise made Walker quite nervous as he walked up the drive by Williams's side. Not for a pension would he have dared approach the house alone. Williams, in the seediest and most dilapidated rusty black, had a face of deepest melancholy.

"But why that confound—Why do they ring that bell?" Walker asked, irritably.

"Madam ordered it, sir," Williams replied. "She's queerer than ever, is mistress. She don't say much, but Miss Christiana's death is a great shock to her. She ordered the bell to be tolled, and she carried on awful when Miss Enid tried to stop it."

Walker murmured vaguely something doubtless representing sympathy.

"And my other patient, Williams?" he asked. "How is he getting along? Really, you ought to keep those dogs under better control. It's a dreadful business altogether. Fancy a man of Mr. Henson's high character and gentle disposition being attacked by a savage dog in the very house! I hope the hound is securely kennelled."

"Well, he isn't, sir," Williams said, with just the glint of a grin on his dry features. "And it wasn't altogether Rollo's fault. That dog was so devoted to Miss Christiana as you never see. And he got to know as the poor young lady was dying. So he creeps into the house and lies before her bedroom door, and when Mr. Henson comes along the dog takes it in his 'ead as he wants to go in there. And now Rollo's got inside, and nobody except Miss Enid dare go near. I pity that there undertaker when he comes."

Walker shuddered slightly. Longdean Grange was a fearful place for the nerves. Nothing of the routine or the decorous ever happened there. The fees were high and the remuneration prompt, or Walker would have handed over his patient cheerfully to somebody else. Not for a moment did he imagine that Williams was laughing at him. Well, he need not see the body, which was a comfort. With a perfectly easy conscience he could give a certificate of death. And if only somebody would stop that hideous bell! Someone was singing quietly in the drawing-room, and the music seemed to be strangely bizarre and out of place.

Inside it seemed like a veritable house of the dead—the shadow of tragedy loomed everywhere. The dust rose in clouds from the floor as the servants passed to and fro. They were all clad in black, and shuffled uneasily, as if conscious that their clothes did not belong to them. Enid came out into the hall to meet the doctor. Her face seemed terribly white and drawn; there was something in her eyes that suggested anxiety more than grief.

"I suppose you have come principally to see Mr. Henson?" she said. "But my sister—"

"No occasion to intrude upon your grief for a moment, Miss Henson," Walker said, quietly. "As I have told you before, there was very little hope for your sister from the first. It was a melancholy satisfaction to me to find my diagnosis confirmed in every detail by so eminent an authority as Dr. Hatherly Bell. I will give you a certificate with pleasure—at once."

"You would like to see my sister?" Enid suggested.

The quivering anxiety was in her eyes again, the strained look on her face. Walker was discreetly silent as to what he had heard about that bloodhound, but he had by no means forgotten it.

"Not the least occasion, I assure you," he said, fervently. "Your sister had practically passed away when I last saw her. There are times when—er—you see—but really there is no necessity."

"Mr. Henson is terribly fastidious about these things."

"Then he shall be satisfied. I shall tell him that I have—er—seen the body. And I have, you know. In these matters a medical man cannot be too careful. If you will provide me with pen and ink—"

"Thank you very much. Will you come this way, please?"

Walker followed into the drawing-room. Mrs. Henson, wearing something faded and dishevelled in the way of a mourning dress, was crooning some dirge at the piano. Her white hair was streaming loosely over her shoulders, there was a vacant stare in her eyes. The intruders might have been statues for all the heed she took of them. Presently the discordant music ceased, and she began to pace noiselessly up and down the room.

"Another one gone," she murmured; "the best-beloved. It is always the best-beloved that dies, and the one we hate that is left. Take all those coaches away, send the guests back home. Why do they come chattering and feasting here? She shall be drawn by four black horses to Churchfield in the dead of the night, and there laid in the family vault."

"Mrs. Henson's residence," Enid explained, in a whisper. "It is some fifteen miles away. She has made up her mind that my sister shall be taken away as she says—to-morrow night. Is this paper all that is necessary for the—you understand? I have telephoned to the undertaker in Brighton."

Walker hastened to assure the girl that what little further formality was required he would see to himself. All he desired now was to visit Henson and get out of the house as soon as possible. As he hurried from the drawing-room he heard Mrs. Henson crooning and muttering, he saw the vacant glare in her eyes, and vaguely wondered how soon he should have another patient here.

Reginald Henson sat propped up in his bed, white and exhausted. Beyond doubt he had had a terrible shock and fright, and the droop of his eyelids told of shattered nerves. There was a thick white bandage round his throat, his left shoulder was strapped tightly. He spoke with difficulty.

"Do we feel any better this morning?" Walker asked, cheerfully.

"No, we don't," said Henson, with a total absence of his usual graciousness of manner. "We feel confoundedly weak, and sick, and dizzy. Every time I drop off to sleep I wake with a start and a feeling that that infernal dog is smothering me. Has the brute been shot yet?"

"I don't fancy so; in fact, he is still at his post upstairs, and therefore—"

"Therefore you have not seen the body of my poor dear cousin?"

"Otherwise I could have given no certificate," Walker said, with dignity. "If I have satisfied myself, sir, and the requirements of the law, why, then, everybody is satisfied. I have seen the body."

Technically the little doctor spoke the truth. Henson muttered something that sounded like an apology. Walker smiled graciously and suggested that rest and a plain diet were all that his patient needed. Rest was the great thing. The bandages need not be removed for a day or two, at the expiration of which time he would look in again. Once the road was reached in safety Walker took off his hat and wiped the beads from his forehead.

"What a house," he muttered. "What a life to lead. Thank goodness I need not go there again before Saturday. If anybody were to offer me a small glass of brandy with a little soda now, I should feel tempted to break through my rule and drink it."

Meanwhile the long terror of the day dragged on inside the house. The servants crept about the place on tiptoe, the hideous bell clanged out, Mrs. Henson paced wearily up and down the drawing-room, singing and muttering to herself, until Enid was fain to fly or break down and yell hysterically. It was one of Margaret Henson's worst days.

The death of Christiana seemed to affect her terribly. Enid watched her in terror. More than once she was fearful that the frail thread would snap—the last faint glimmer of reason go out for ever. And yet it would be madness to tell Margaret Henson the truth. In the first place she would not have understood, and on the other hand she might have comprehended enough to betray to Reginald Henson. As it was, her grief was obvious and sincere enough. The whole thing was refinedly cruel, but really there was no help for it. And things had gone on splendidly.

Henson was powerless to interfere, and the doctor was satisfied. Once she had put her hand to the plough Enid's quick brain saw her through. But she would have been hard put to it to deceive Henson under his very nose without the help of the bloodhound. Now she could see her way still farther. She waited nervously for a ring from the lodge-gates to the house, and about four o'clock it came. The undertaker was at the gates waiting for an escort to the Grange.

Enid passed her tongue out over a pair of dry lips. The critical moment was at hand. If she could get through the next hour she was safe. If not—but there must be no "if not," she told herself. The undertaker came, suave, quiet, respectful, but he dropped back from the bedroom door as he saw two gleaming, amber eyes regarding him menacingly.

"The dog loved my sister," Enid explained, quietly. "But he has found his way to her room, and he refuses to move. He fancies that we have done something her.... Oh, no, I couldn't poison him! And it would be a dreadful thing if there were to be anything like a struggle here. Come, Rollo."

Evidently the dog had learned his lesson well. He wagged his great tail, but refused to move. The undertaker took a couple of steps forward and Rollo's crest rose. There was a flash of white teeth and a growl. At the end of half an hour no progress had been made.

"There's only one thing for it," suggested Williams, in his rusty voice. "We can get the dog away for ten minutes at midnight. He likes a run then, and I'll bring the other dogs to fetch him, like."

"My time is very valuable just now," the undertaker suggested, humbly.

"Then you had better measure me," said Enid, turning a face absolutely flaming red and deadly white to the speaker. "It is a dreadful, ghastly business altogether, but I cannot possibly think of any other way. The idea of anything like a struggle here is abhorrent.... And the dog's fidelity is so touching. My sister and I were exactly alike, except that she was fairer than me."

The undertaker was understood to demur slightly on professional grounds. It was very irregular and not in the least likely to give satisfaction.

"What does it matter?" Enid cried, passionately. She was acting none the less magnificently because her nerves were quivering like harpstrings. "When I am dead you can fling me in a ditch, for all I care. We are a strange family and do strange things. The question of satisfaction need not bother you. Take my measure and send the coffin home to-morrow, and we will manage to do the rest. Then to-morrow night you will have a four-horse hearse here at eleven o'clock, and drive the coffin to Churchfield Church, where you will be expected. After that your work will be finished."

The bewildered young man responded that things should be exactly as the young lady required. He had seen many strange and wild things in his time, but none so strange and weird as this. It was all utterly irregular, of course, but people after all had a right to demand what they paid for. Enid watched the demure young man in black down the corridor, and then everything seemed to be enveloped in a dense purple mist, the world was spinning under her feet, there was a great noise like the rush of mighty waters in her brain. With a great effort she threw off the weakness and came to herself, trembling from head to foot.

"Courage," she murmured, "courage. This life has told on me more than I thought. With Chris's example before me I must not break down now."



CHAPTER XX

FRANK LITTIMER

The lamps gleamed upon the dusty statuary and pictures and faded flowers in the hall, they glinted upon a long polished oak casket there reposing upon trestles. Ever and anon a servant would peep in and vanish again as if ashamed of something. The house was deadly quiet now, for Mrs. Henson had fallen asleep worn out with exhaustion, and Enid had instantly stopped the dreadful clamour of the bell. The silence that followed was almost as painful as the noise had been.

On the coffin were wreaths of flowers. Enid sat in the drawing-room with the door open, where she could see everything, but was herself unseen. She was getting terribly anxious and nervous again; the hour was near eleven, and the hearse might arrive at any time. She would know no kind of peace until she could get that hideous mockery out of the house.

She sat listening thus, straining her ears to catch the slightest sound. Suddenly there came a loud clamour at the front door, an imperative knocking that caused Enid's heart to come into her mouth. Who could it be? What stranger had passed the dogs in that way?

She heard crabbed, sour, but courageous old Williams go to the door. She heard the clang of bolts and the rattle of chains, and then a weird cry from Williams. A voice responded that brought Enid, trembling and livid, into the hall. A young man with a dark, exceedingly handsome face and somewhat effeminate mouth stood there, with eyes for nothing but the shining flower-decked casket on the trestles. He seemed beside himself with rage and grief; he might have been a falsely imprisoned convict face to face with the real culprit.

"Why didn't you let me know?" he cried. "Why didn't you let me know?"

His voice rang in the roof. Enid flew to his side and placed her hand upon his lips.

"Your mother is asleep, Frank," she said. "She has had no sleep for three nights. A long rest may be the means of preserving her sanity. Why did you come here?"

The young man laughed silently. It was ghastly mirth to see, and it brought the tears into Enid's eyes. She had forgotten the danger of the young man's presence.

"I heard that Chris was ill," he said. "They told me that she was dying. And I could not keep away. And now I have come too late. Oh, Chris, Chris!"

He fell on his knees by the side of the coffin, his frame shaken by tearless sobs. Enid bit her lips to keep back the words that rose to them. She would have given much to have spoken the truth. But at any hazard she must remain silent. She waited till the paroxysm of grief had passed away, then she touched the intruder gently on the shoulder.

"There is great danger for you in this house," she said.

"What do I care for danger when Chris lies yonder?"

"But, dear Frank, there are others to consider besides yourself. There is your mother, for instance. Oh, you ought not to have come here to-night. If your father knew!"

"My father? He would be the last person in the world to know. And what cares he about anything, so long as he has his prints and his paintings? He has no feelings, no heart, no soul, I may say."

"Frank, you must go at once. Do you know that Reginald Henson is here? He has ears like a hare; it will be nothing less than a miracle unless he hears your voice. And then—"

The young man was touched at last. The look of grief died out of his eyes and a certain terror filled them.

"I think that I should have come in any case," he whispered. "I don't want to bring any further trouble upon you, Enid, but I wanted to see the last of her. I came here, and some of the dogs remembered me. If not, I might have had no occasion to trouble you. And I won't stay, seeing that Henson is here. Let me have something to remember her by; let me look into her room for a moment. If you only knew how I loved her! And you look as if you had no grief at all."

Enid started guiltily. She had quite forgotten her role for the time. Indeed, there was something unmistakably like relief on her face as she heard the porter's bell ring from the lodge to the house. Williams shuffled away, muttering that he would be more useful in the house than out of it just now, but a glance from Enid subdued him. Presently there came the sound of wheels on the gravel outside.

"They have come for the—the coffin," Enid murmured. "Frank, it would be best for you to go. Go upstairs, if you like; you know the way. Only, don't stay here."

The young man went off dreamily. A heavy grief dulled and blinded his senses; he walked along like one who wanders in his sleep. Christiana's room door was open and a lamp was there. There were dainty knick-knacks on the dressing-table, a vase or two of faded flowers—everything that denotes the presence of refined and gracious womanhood.

Frank Littimer stood there looking round him for some little time. On a table by the bedside stood a photograph of a girl in a silver frame. Littimer pounced upon it hungrily. It was a good picture—the best of Christiana's that he had ever seen. He slipped out into the corridor and gently closed the door behind him. Then he passed along with his whole gaze fixed on the portrait. The girl seemed to be smiling out of the frame at him. He had loved Christiana since she was a child; he felt that he had never loved her so much as at this moment. Well, he had something to remember her by—he had not come here in vain.

It seemed impossible yet to realise that Christiana was dead, that he would never look into her sunny, tender face again. No, he would wake up presently and find it had all been a dream. And how different to the last time he was here. He had been smuggled into the house, and he had occupied the room with the oak door. He—

The room with the oak door opened and a big man with a white bandage round his throat stood there with tottering limbs and an ugly smile on his loose mouth. Littimer started back.

"Reginald," he exclaimed, "I didn't expect to see you here, or—"

"Or you would never have dared to come?" Henson said, hoarsely. "I heard your voice and I was bound to give you a welcome, even at considerable personal inconvenience. Help me back to bed again. And now, you insolent young dog, how dare you show your face here?"

"I came to see Chris," Littimer said, doggedly. "And I came too late. Even if I had known that I was going to meet you, I should have been here all the same. Oh, I know what you are going to say; I know what you think. And some day I shall break out and defy you to do your worst."

Henson smiled as one might do at the outbreak of an angry child. His eyes flashed and his tongue spoke words that Littimer fairly cowed before. And yet he did not show it. He was like a boy who has found a stone for the man who stands over him with the whip. With quick intuition Henson saw this, and in a measure his manner changed.

"You will say next that you are not afraid of me," he suggested.

"Well," Littimer replied, slowly; "I am not so much afraid of you as I was."

"Ah! so you imagine that you have discovered something?"

Littimer apparently struggled between a prudent desire for silence and a disposition to speak. The sneer on the face of his enemy fairly maddened him.

"Yes," he said, with a note of elation in his voice, "I have made a discovery, but I am not going to tell you how or where my discovery is. But I've found Van Sneck."

A shade of whiter pallor came over Henson's face. Then his eyes took on a murderous, purple-black gleam. All the same, his voice was quite steady as he replied.

"I'm afraid that is not likely to benefit you much," he said. "Would you mind handing me that oblong black book from the dressing-table? I want you to do something for me. What's that?"

There was just the faintest suggestion of a sound outside. It was Enid listening with all her ears. She had not been long in discovering what had happened. Once the ghastly farcical incubus was off her shoulders she had followed Littimer upstairs. As she passed Henson's room the drone of voices struck on her ears. She stood there and listened. She would have given much for this not to have happened, but everything happened for the worst in that accursed house.

But Henson's last words were enough for her. She gathered her skirts together and flew down the stairs. In the hall Williams stood, with a grin on his face, pensively scraping his chin with a dry forefinger.

"Now what's the matter, miss?" he cried.

"Don't ask questions," Enid cried. "Go and get me the champagne nippers. The champagne nippers at once. If you can't find them, then bring me a pair of pliers. Then come to me on the leads outside the bathroom. It's a matter of life and death."



CHAPTER XXI

A FIND

David did not appear in the least surprised; indeed, he was long since past that emotion. Before the bottom of the mystery was reached a great many more strange things were pretty sure to happen.

"So you bought that cigar-case yourself?" he said.

"Indeed, I did," Ruth answered, eagerly. "Of course I have long known you by name and I have read pretty well all your tales. I—I liked your work so much."

David was flattered. The shy, sweet admiration in Ruth's eyes touched him.

"And I was very glad to meet you," Ruth went on. "You see, we all liked your stories. And we knew one or two people who had met you, and gradually you became quite like a friend of ours—Enid and Chris and myself, you understand. Then a week or two ago I came down to Brighton with my uncle to settle all about taking the house here. And I happened to be in Lockhart's buying something when you came in and asked to see the cigar-case. I recognised you from your photographs, and I was interested. Of course, I thought no more of it at the time, until Enid came up to London and told me all about the synopsis, and how strangely the heroine's case in your proposed story was like hers. Enid wondered how you were going to get the girl out of her difficulty, and I jokingly suggested that she had better ask you. She accepted the idea quite seriously, saying that if you had a real, plausible way out of the trouble you might help her. And gradually our scheme was evolved. You were not to know, because of the possible danger to yourself."

"At the hands of Reginald Henson, of course?"

"Yes. Our scheme took a long time, but we got it worked out at last. We decided on the telephone because we thought that we could not be traced that way, never imagining for a moment that you could get the number of your caller over the trunk line. Enid came up to town, and worked the telephone, Chris was in No. 218, and I brought the money."

"You placed that cigar-case on my doorstep?"

"Yes, I was wound up for anything. It was I whom you saw riding the bicycle through Old Steine; it was I who dropped the card of instructions. It seems a shameful thing to say and to do now, but I—well, I enjoyed it at the time. And I did it for the sake of my friends. Do I look like that sort of a girl, Mr. Steel?"

David glanced into the beautiful shy eyes with just the suggestion of laughter in them.

"You look all that is loyal and good and true," he exclaimed. "And I don't think I ever admired you quite so much as I do at this moment."

Ruth laughed and looked down. There was something in David's glance that thrilled her and gave her a sense of happiness she would have found it hard to describe.

"I am so glad you do not despise me," she whispered.

"Despise you!" David cried. "Why? If you only knew how I, well, how I loved you! Don't be angry. I mean every word that I say; my feelings for you are as pure as your own heart. If you could care for me as you do for those others I should have a friend indeed."

"You have made me care for you very much indeed, Mr. Steel," Ruth whispered.

"Call me David..... How nice my plain name sounds from your lips. Ruth and David. But I must hold myself in hand for the present. Still, I am glad you like me."

"Well, you have been so good and kind. We have done you a great deal of injury and you never blamed us. And you are just the man I have always pictured as the man I could love ... David!"

"Well, it was only one little kiss, and I'm sure nobody saw us, dear. And later on, when you are my wife—"

"Don't you think we had better keep to business for the present?" Ruth said, demurely.

"Perhaps. There is one little point that you must clear up before we go any farther. How did you manage to furnish those two big dining-rooms exactly alike?"

"Why, the furniture is there. At the top of the house, in a large attic, all the furniture is stored."

"But the agent told me it had been removed."

"He was wrong. You can't expect the agent to recollect everything about a house. The place belonged to the lady whom we may call Mrs. Margaret Henson at one time. When her home scheme fell through she sold one house as it was. In the other she stored the furniture. Enid knew of all this, of course. We managed to get a latch—key to fit 218, and Enid and a man did the rest. Her idea was to keep you in the dark as much as possible. After the interview the furniture was put back again, and there you are."

"Diplomatic and clever, and decidedly original, not to say feminine. In the light of recently acquired knowledge I can quite see why your friends desired to preserve their secret. But they need not have taken all those precautions. Had they written—"

"They dared not. They were fearful as to what might become of the reply."

"But they might have come to me openly."

"Again, they dared not for your sake. You know a great deal, David, but there is darkness and trouble and wickedness yet that I dare not speak of. And you are in danger. Already Reginald Henson has shown you what he can do."

"And yet he doesn't know everything," David smiled. "He may have stabbed me in the back, but he is quite ignorant as to what advice I gave to Enid Henson, which brings me back to the cigar-case. You saw me looking at it in Lockhart's. Go on."

"Yes, I watched you with a great deal of curiosity. Finally you went off out of the shop saying that you could not afford to buy the cigar-case, and I thought no more of the matter for a time. Then we found out all about your private affairs. Oh, I am ashamed almost to go on."

The dainty little face grew crimson; the hand in David's trembled.

"But we were desperate. And, after all, we were doing no harm. It was just then that the idea of the cigar-case came into my mind. We knew that if we could get you to take that money it would only be as a loan. I suggested the gift of the case as a memento of the occasion. I purchased that case with my own money and I placed it with its contents on the doorstep of your house."

"Did you watch it all the time?"

"No, I didn't. But I was satisfied that nobody passed, and I was sufficiently near to hear your door open at the hour appointed. Of course, we had carefully rehearsed the telephone conversation, and I knew exactly what to do."

David sat very thoughtfully for some little time.

"The case must have been changed," he said. "It is very difficult to say how, but there is no other logical solution of the matter. At about half-past twelve on that eventful night you placed on my doorstep a gun-metal cigar-case, mounted in diamonds, that you had purchased from Lockhart's?"

"Yes, and the very one that you admired. Of that I am certain."

"Very well. I take that case with me to 218, Brunswick Square, and I bring it back again. Did I take it with me or not? Anyhow, it was found on the floor beside the body. It never passed out of my possession to my knowledge. Next day I leave it at the office of Messrs. Mossa and Mack, and it gets into the hands of the police."

"Was it not possibly changed there, David?"

"No, because of the initials I had scratched inside it. And beyond all question that case—the same case, mind you, that I picked up on my doorstep—was purchased by the man now lying in the hospital here from Walen's, in West Street. Now, how was the change made?"

"If I could only see my way to help you!"

"The change was made the day you bought the case. By the way, what time was it?"

"I can't tell you the exact time," Ruth replied. "It was on the morning of the night of your adventure."

"And you kept it by you all the time."

"Yes. It was in a little box sealed with yellow wax and tied with yellow string. I went to 219 after I had made the purchase. My uncle was there and he was using the back sitting-room as an office. He had brought a lot of papers with him to go through."

"Ah! Did you put your package down?"

"Just for a moment on the table. But surely my uncle would not—"

"One moment, please. Was anybody with your uncle at the time?"

Ruth gave a sudden little cry.

"How senseless of me to forget," she cried. "My uncle was down merely for the day, and, as he was very busy, he sent for Mr. Reginald Henson to help him. I did not imagine that Mr. Henson would know anything. But even now I cannot see what—"

"Again let me interrupt you. Did you leave the room at all?"

"Yes. It is all coming back to me now. My uncle's medicine was locked up in my bag. He asked me to go for it and I went, leaving my purchase on the table. It is all coming back to me now.... When I returned Mr. Henson was quite alone, as somebody had called to see my uncle. Mr. Henson seemed surprised to see me back so soon, and as I entered he crushed something up in his hand and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. But my parcel was quite intact."

"Yellow wax and yellow string and all?"

"Yes, so far as I remember. It was Mr. Henson who reminded my uncle about his medicine."

"And when you were away the change was made. Strange that your uncle should be so friendly with both Henson and Bell. Have they ever met under your roof?"

"No," Ruth replied. "Henson has always alluded to Dr. Bell as a lost man. He professes to be deeply sorry for him but he has declined to meet him. Where are you going?"

"I am going with you to see if we can find anything in the waste-paper basket at No. 219. Bell tells me that your servants have instructions to touch no papers, and I know that the back sitting-room of your house is used as a kind of office. I want, if possible, to find the paper that Henson tried to hide on the day you bought the cigar-case."

The basket proved to be a large one, and was partially filled with letters that had never been opened—begging-letters, Ruth said. For half an hour David was engaged in smoothing out crumpled sheets of paper, until at length his search was rewarded. He held a packet of note-paper, the usual six sheets, one inside the other, that generally go to correspondence sheets of good quality. It was crushed up, but Steel flattened it out and held it up for Ruth's inspection.

"Now, here is a find!" he cried. "Look at the address in green at the top: '15, Downend Terrace.' Five sheets of my own best notepaper, printed especially for myself, in this basket! Originally this was a block of six sheets, but the one has been written upon and the others crushed up like this. Beyond doubt the paper was stolen from my study. And—what's this?"

He held up the thick paper to the light. At the foot of the top sheet was plainly indented in outline the initials "D. S."

"My own cipher," David went on. "Scrawled in so boldly as to mark on the under sheet of paper. Almost invariably I use initials instead of my full name unless it is quite formal business."

"And what is to be done now?" Ruth asked.

"Find the letter forged over what looks like a genuine cipher," David said, grimly.



CHAPTER XXII

"THE LIGHT THAT FAILED"

Bell followed Dr. Cross into the hospital with a sense of familiar pleasure. The cool, sweet smell of the place, the decorous silence, the order of it all appealed to him strongly. It was as the old war-horse who sniffs the battle from afar. And the battle with death was ever a joy to Bell.

"This is all contrary to regulations, of course," he suggested.

"Well, it is," Cross admitted. "But I am an enthusiast, and one doesn't often get a chance of chatting with a brilliant, erratic star like yourself. Besides, our man is not in the hospital proper. He is in a kind of annexe by my own quarters, and he scoffs the suggestion of being nursed."

Bell nodded, understanding perfectly. He came at length to a brilliantly-lighted room, where a dark man with an exceedingly high forehead and wonderfully piercing eyes was sitting up in bed. The dark eyes lighted with pleasure as they fell upon Bell's queer, shambling figure and white hair.

"The labour we delight in physics pain," he greeted with a laugh and a groan. "It's worth a badly twisted shoulder to have the pleasure of seeing Hatherly Bell again. My dear fellow, how are you?"

The voice was low and pleasant, there was no trace of insanity about the speaker. Bell shook the proffered hand. For some little time the conversation proceeded smoothly enough. The stranger was a good talker; his remarks were keen and to the point.

"I hope you will be comfortable here," Bell suggested.

A faint subtle change came over the other's face.

"All but one thing," he whispered. "Don't make a fuss about it, because Cross is very kind. But I can't stand the electric light. It reminds me of the great tragedy of my life. But for the electric light I should be a free man with a good practice to-day."

"So you are harping on that string again," Bell said, coldly. "I fancied that I had argued you out of that. You know perfectly well that it is all imagination, Heritage."

Heritage passed his left hand across his eyes in a confused kind of way.

"When you look at one like that I fancy so," he said. "When I was under your hands I was forgetting all about it. And now it has all come back again. Did I tell you all about it, Cross?"

Bell gave Cross a significant glance, and the latter shook his head.

"Well, it was this way," Heritage began, eagerly. His eyes were gleaming now, his whole aspect was changed. "I was poor and struggling, but I had a grand future before me. There was a patient of mine, a rich man, who had a deadly throat trouble. And he was going to leave me all his money if I cured him. He told me he had made a will to that effect, and he had done so. And I was in direst straits for some ready cash. When I came to operate I used an electric light, a powerful light—you know what I mean. The operation failed and my patient died. The operation failed because the electric light went out at a critical time.

"People said it was a great misfortune for me, because I was on the threshold of a new discovery which would have made my name. Nothing of the kind. I deliberately cut the positive wire of the electric light so that I should fail, and so that my patient might die and I might get all his money at once. And he did die, and nobody suspected me—nobody could possibly have found me out. Then I went mad and they put me under Bell's care. I should have got well, only he gave up his practice and drifted into the world again. My good, kind friend Reginald Henson heard of my case; he interested some people in me and placed me where I am at present."

"So Reginald Henson knows all about it?" Bell asked, drily.

"My dear fellow, he is the best friend I have in the world. He was most interested in my case. I have gone over it with him a hundred times. I showed him exactly how it was done. And now you know why I loathe the electric light. When it shines in my eyes it maddens me; it brings back to me the recollection of that dreadful time, it causes me to—"

"Heritage," Bell said, sternly, "close your eyes at once, and be silent."

The patient obeyed instantly. He had not forgotten the old habit of obedience. When he opened his eyes again at length he looked round him in a foolish, shamefaced manner.

"I—I am afraid I have been rambling," he muttered. "Pray don't notice me, Bell; if you are as good a fellow as you used to be, come and see me again. I'm tired now."

Bell gave the desired assurance, and he and Cross left the room together.

"Any sort of truth in what he has been saying?" asked the latter.

"Very little," Bell replied. "Heritage is an exceedingly clever fellow who has not yet recovered from a bad breakdown some years ago. I had nearly cured him at one time, but he seems to have lapsed into bad ways again. Some day, when I have time, I shall take up his case once more."

"Did he operate, or try some new throat cure?"

"Exactly. He was on the verge of discovering some way of operating for throat cases with complete success. You can imagine how excited he was over his discovery. Unfortunately the patient he experimented on died under the operation, not because the light went out or any nonsense of that kind, but from failure of the heart's action owing to excitement. Heritage had no sleep for a fortnight, and he broke down altogether. For months he was really mad, and when his senses came back to him he had that hallucination. Some day it will go, and some day Heritage will take up the dropped threads of his discovery and the world will be all the better for it. And now, will you do me a favour?"

"I will do anything that lies in my power."

"Then be good enough to let me have a peep at the man who was found half-murdered in my friend David Steel's conservatory. I'm interested in that case."

Cross hesitated for a moment.

"All right," he said. "There can't be any harm in that. Come this way."

Bell strolled along with the air of a man who is moved by no more than ordinary curiosity. But from the first he had made up his mind not to lose this opportunity. He had not the remotest idea what he expected to find, but he had a pretty good idea that he was on the verge of an important discovery. He came at length to the bedside of the mysterious stranger. The man was lying on his back in a state of coma, his breath came heavily between his parted lips.

Bell bent low partly to examine the patient, partly to hide his face from Cross. If Bell had made any discovery he kept the fact rigidly to himself.

"Looks very young," he muttered. "But then he is one of those men who never grow any hair on their faces. Young as he looks, I should judge him to be at least forty-five, and, if I am not mistaken, he is a man who has heard the chimes at midnight or later. I'm quite satisfied."

"It's more than I am," Cross said, when at length he and his visitor were standing outside together. "Look here, Bell, you're a great friend of Steel's, whom I believe to be a very good fellow. I don't want to get him into any harm, but a day or two ago I found this letter in a pocket-book in a belt worn by our queer patient. Steel says the fellow is a perfect stranger to him, and I believe that statement. But what about this letter? I ought to have sent it to the police, but I didn't. Read it."

And Cross proceeded to take a letter from his pocket. It was on thick paper; the stamped address given was "15, Downend Terrace." There was no heading, merely the words "Certainly, with pleasure, I shall be home; in fact, I am home every night till 12.30, and you may call any time up till then. If you knock quietly on the door I shall hear you.—D.S."

"What do you make of it?" Cross asked.

"It looks as if your patient had called at Steel's house by appointment," Bell admitted. "Here is the invitation undoubtedly in Steel's handwriting. Subsequently the poor fellow is found in Steel's house nearly murdered, and yet Steel declares solemnly that the man is a perfect stranger to him. It is a bad business, but I assure you that Steel is the soul of honour. Cross, would you be so good as to let me have that letter for two or three days?"

"Very well," Cross said, after a little hesitation. "Good-night."

Bell went on his way homeward with plenty of food for thought.

He stopped just for a moment to light a cigar.

"Getting towards the light," he muttered; "getting along. The light is not going to fail after all. I wonder what Reginald Henson would say if he only knew that I had been to the hospital and recognised our mutual friend Van Sneck there!"



CHAPTER XXIII

INDISCRETION

The expression on Henson's usually benign countenance would have startled such of his friends and admirers as regarded him as a shining light and great example. The smug satisfaction, the unctuous sweetness of the expansive blue eyes were gone; a murderous gleam shone there instead. His lips were set and rigid, the strong hand seemed to be strangling the bedclothes. It wanted no effort of imagination to picture Henson as the murderer stooping over his prey. The man had discarded his mask altogether.

"Oh," he said, between his teeth, "you are a clever fellow. You would have made an excellent detective. And so you have found out where Van Sneck is?"

"I have already told you so," Littimer said, doggedly.

"How many days have you been hanging about Brighton?"

"Two or three. I came when I heard that Chris was ill. I didn't dare to come near the house, at least not too near, for fear of being seen. But I pumped the doctor. Then he told me that Chris was dead, and I risked it all to see the last of her."

"Yes, yes," Henson said, testily; "but what has this to do with Van Sneck?"

"I was looking for Van Sneck. I found that he had been here. I discovered that he had left his rooms and had not returned to them. Then it occurred to me to try the hospital. I pretended that I was in search of some missing relative, and they showed me three cases of bad accidents, the victims of which had not been identified. And the third was Van Sneck."

Littimer told his story with just the suggestion of triumph in his voice. Henson was watching him with the keenest possible interest.

"Do you know how Van Sneck got there?" he asked.

Littimer nodded. Evidently he had heard most of the story. Henson was silent for some little time. He was working out something in his mind. His smile was not a pleasant one; it was nothing like his bland platform smile, for instance.

"Give me that black book," he said. "Do you know how to work the telephone?"

"I daresay I could learn. It doesn't look hard."

"Well, that is an extension telephone on the table yonder worked in connection with the main instrument in the library. I like to have my own telephone, as it is of the greatest assistance to me. Turn that handle two or three times and put that receiver to your ear. When the Exchange answers tell them to put you on to O,017 Gerrard."

Littimer obeyed mechanically, but though he rang and rang again no answer came. With a snarling curse Henson dragged himself out of bed and crossed the room, with limbs that shook under him.

He twirled the handle round passionately.

"You always were a fool," he growled, "and you always will be."

Still no reply came. Henson whirled angrily, but he could elicit no response. He kicked the instrument over and danced round it impotently. Littimer had never seen him in such a raging fury before. The language of the man was an outrage, filthy, revolting, profane. No yelling, drunken Hooligan could have been more fluent, more luridly diffuse.

"Go on," Littimer said, bitterly. "I like to hear you. I like to hear the smug, plausible Pharisee, the friend of the good and pious, going on like this. I'd give fifty years of my life to have just a handful of your future constituents here for a moment."

Henson paused suddenly and requested that Littimer should help him into bed.

"I can afford to speak freely before you," he said. "Say a word against me and I'll crush you. Put out a hand to injure me and I'll wipe you off the face of the earth. It's absolutely imperative that I should send an important telephone message to London at once, and here the machine has broken down and no chance of its being repaired for a day or two. Curse the telephone."

He lay back on his bed utterly exhausted by his fit of passion. One of the white bandages about his throat had started, and a little thin stream of blood trickled down his chest. Littimer waited for the next move. He watched the crimson fluid trickle over Henson's sleeping-jacket. He could have watched the big scoundrel bleeding to death with the greatest possible pleasure.

"What was Van Sneck doing here?"

The voice came clear and sharp from the bed. Littimer responded to it as a cowed hound does to a sudden yet not quite unexpected lash from a huntsman's whip. His manliness was of small account where Henson was concerned. For years he had come to heel like this. Yet the question startled him and took him entirely by surprise.

"He was looking for the lost Rembrandt."

But Littimer's surprise was as nothing to Henson's amazement. He lay flat on his back so that his face could not be seen. From the expression of it he had obtained a totally unexpected reply to his question. He was so amazed that he had no words for the moment. But his quick intelligence and amazing cunning grasped the possibilities of the situation. Littimer was in possession of information to which he was a stranger. Except in a vague way he had not the remotest idea what Littimer was talking about. But the younger man must not know that.

"So Van Sneck told you so?" he asked. "What a fool he must have been! And why should he come seeking for the Rembrandt in Brighton?"

"Because he knows it was there, I suppose."

"It isn't here, because it doesn't exist. The thing was destroyed by accident by the police when they raided Van Sneck's lodgings years ago."

"Van Sneck told me that he had actually seen the picture in Brighton."

Henson chuckled. The noise was intended to convey amused contempt, and it had that effect, so far as Littimer was concerned. It was well for Henson that the latter could not see the strained anxiety of his face. The man was alert and quivering with excitement in every limb. Still he chuckled again as if the whole thing merely amused him.

"'The Crimson Blind' is Van Sneck's weak spot," he said. "It is King Charles's head to him. By good or bad luck—it is in your hands to say which—you know all about the way in which it became necessary to get Hatherly Bell on our side. All the same, the Rembrandt—the other one—is destroyed."

"Van Sneck has seen the picture," Littimer said, doggedly.

"Oh, play the farce out to the end," Henson laughed, good-humouredly. "Where did he see it?"

"He says he saw it at 218, Brunswick Square."

Henson's knees suddenly came up to his nose, then he lay quite flat again for a long time. His face had grown white once more, his lips utterly bloodless. Fear was written all over him. A more astute man than Littimer would have seen the beads standing out on his forehead. It was some little time before he dared trust himself to speak again.

"I know the house you mean," he said. "It is next door to the temporary residence of my esteemed friend, Gilead Gates. At the present moment the place is void—"

"And has been ever since your bogus 'Home' broke up. Years ago, before you used your power to rob and oppress us as you do now, you had a Home there. You collected subscriptions right and left in the name of the Reverend Felix Crosbie, and you put the money into your pocket. A certain weekly journal exposed you, and you had to leave suddenly or you would have found yourself in the hands of the police. You skipped so suddenly that you had no time even to think of your personal effects, which you understood were sold to defray expenses. But they were not sold, as nobody cared to throw good money after bad. Van Sneck got in with the agent under pretence of viewing the house, and he saw the picture there."

"Why didn't he take it with him?" Henson asked, with amused scorn. He was master of himself again and had his nerves well under control.

"Well, that was hardly like Van Sneck. Our friend is nothing if not diplomatic. But when he did manage to get into the house again the picture was gone."

"Excellent!" Henson cried. "How dramatic! There is only one thing required to make the story complete. The picture was taken away by Hatherly Bell. If you don't bring that in as the denouement I shall be utterly disappointed."

"You needn't be," Littimer said, coolly. "That is exactly what did happen."

Henson chuckled again, quite a parody of a chuckle this time. He could detect the quiet suggestion of triumph in Littimer's voice.

"Did Van Sneck tell you all this?" he asked.

"Not the latter part of it," Littimer replied, "seeing that he was in the hospital when it happened. But I know it is true because I saw Bell and David Steel, the novelist, come away from the house, and Bell had the picture under his arm. And that's why Van Sneck's agent couldn't find it the second time he went. Check to you, my friend, at any rate. Bell will go to my father with Rembrandt number two, and compare it with number one. And then the fat will be in the fire."

Henson yawned affectedly. All the same he was terribly disturbed and shaken. All he wanted now was to be alone and to think. So far as he could tell nobody besides Littimer knew anything of the matter. And no starved, cowed, broken-hearted puppy was ever closer under the heel of his master than Littimer. He still held all the cards; he still controlled the fortunes of two ill-starred houses.

"You can leave me now," he said. "I'm tired. I have had a trying day, and I need sleep; and the sooner you are out of the house the better. For your own sake and for the sake of those about you, you need not say one word of this to Enid Henson."

Littimer promised meekly enough. With those eyes blazing upon him he would have promised anything. We shall see presently what a stupendous terror Henson had over the younger man, and in what way all the sweetness and savour of life was being crushed out of him.

He closed the door behind him, and immediately Henson sat up in bed. He reached for his handkerchief and wiped the big beads from his forehead.

"So the danger has come at last," he muttered. "I am face to face with it, and I knew I should be. Hatherly Bell is not the man to quietly lie down under a cloud like that. The man has brains, and patience, and indomitable courage. Now, does he suspect that I have any hand in the business? I must see him when my nerves are stronger and try and get at the truth. If he goes to Lord Littimer with that picture he shakes my power and my position perilously. What a fool I was not to get it away. But, then, I only escaped from the Brighton police in those days by the skin of my teeth. And they had followed me from Huddersfield like those cursed bloodhounds here. I wonder—"

He paused, as the brilliant outline of some cunning scheme occurred to him. A thin, cruel smile crept over his lips. Never had he been in a tight place yet without discovering a loophole of escape almost before he had seen the trap.

A fit of noiseless laughter shook him.

"Splendid," he whispered. "Worthy of Machiavelli himself! Provided always that I can get there first. If I could only see Bell's face afterwards, hear Littimer ordering him off the premises. The only question is, am I up to seeing the thing through?"



CHAPTER XXIV

ENID LEARNS SOMETHING

Reginald Hensen struggled out of bed and into his clothing as best he could. He was terribly weak and shaky, far more weak than he had imagined himself to be, but he was in danger now, and his indomitable will-power pulled him through. What a fool Littimer had been to tell him so much merely so that he might triumph over his powerful foe for a few minutes. But Henson was planning a little scheme by which he intended to repay the young man tenfold. He had no doubt as to the willingness of his tool.

He took a bottle of brandy from a drawer and helped himself to a liberal dose. Walker had expressly forbidden anything of the kind, but it was no time for nice medical obedience. The grateful stimulant had its immediate effect. Then Henson rang the bell, and after a time Williams appeared tardily.

"You are to go down to Barnes and ask him to send a cab here as soon as possible," Henson said. "I have to go to London by the first train in the morning."

Williams nodded, with his mouth wide open. He was astonished and not a little alarmed at the strength and vitality of this man. And only a few hours before Williams had learnt with deep satisfaction that Henson would be confined to his bed for some days.

Henson dressed at length and packed a small portmanteau. But he had to sit on his bed for some little time and sip a further dose of brandy before he could move farther. After all there was no hurry. A full hour was sure to elapse before the leisurely Barnes brought the cab to the lodge-gates.

Henson crept downstairs at length and trod his catlike way to the library. Once there he proceeded to make a minute inspection of the telephone. He turned the handle just the fragment of an inch and a queer smile came over his face. Then he crept as silently upstairs, opened the window of the bathroom quietly, and slipped on to the leads. There were a couple of insulators here, against the wire of one of which Henson tapped his knuckles gently. The wire gave back an answering twang. The other jangled limp and loose.

"One of the wires cut," Henson muttered. "I expected as much. Madame Enid is getting a deal too clever. I suppose this is some suggestion of her very astute friend David Steel. Well, I have given Mr. Steel one lesson in minding his own business, and if he interferes further I shall have to give him another. He will be in gaol before long charged with attempted murder and robbery with violence, and so exit Steel. After that the girl will be perhaps chary of seeking outside assistance. And this will be the third I have had to get rid of. Heavens! How feeble I feel, how weak I am. And yet I must go through this thing now."

He staggered into the house again and dropped into a chair. There was a loud buzzing in his ears, so that he could hardly hear the murmur of voices in the drawing-room below. This was annoying, because Henson liked to hear everything that other folks said. Then he dropped off into a kind of dreamy state, coming back presently to the consciousness that he had fainted.

Meanwhile Frank Littimer had joined Enid in the drawing-room. The house was perfectly quiet and still by this time; the dust-cloud hung on the air and caused the lamps to burn with a spitting blue flame. Enid's face looked deadly pale against her black dress.

"So you have been seeing Reginald," she said. "Why—why did you do it?"

"I didn't mean to," Frank muttered. "I never intended him to know that I had been in the house at all. But I was passing his room and he heard me. He seemed to know my footsteps. I believe if two mice ran by him twice in the darkness he could tell the difference between them."

"You had an interesting conversation. What did he want to use the telephone for?"

"I don't know. I tried to manipulate it for him, but the instrument was out of order."

"I know. I had a pretty shrewd idea what our cousin was going to do. You see, I was listening at the door. Not a very ladylike thing to do, but one must fight Henson with his own tools. When I heard him ask for the telephone directory I ran out and nipped one of the wires by the bathroom. Frank, it would have been far wiser if you hadn't come."

Littimer nodded gloomily. There was something like tears in his eyes.

"I know it," he said. "I hate the place and its dreadful associations. But I wanted to see Chris first. Did she say anything about me before—before—"

"My dear boy, she loved you always. She knew and understood, and was sorry. And she never, never forgot the last time that you were in the house."

Frank Littimer glanced across the room with a shudder. His eyes dwelt with fascination on the overturned table with its broken china and glass and wilted flowers in the corner.

"It is not the kind of thing to forget," he said, hoaresly. "I can see my father now—"

"Don't," Enid shuddered, "don't recall it. And your mother has never been the same since. I doubt if she will ever be the same again. From that day to this nothing has ever been touched in the house. And Henson comes here when he can and makes our lives hideous to us."

"I fancy I shook him up to-night," Littimer said, with subdued triumph. "He seemed to shudder when I told him that I had found Van Sneck."

Enid started from her chair. Her eyes were shining with the sudden brilliancy of unveiled stars.

"You have found Van Sneck!" she whispered. "Where?"

"Why, in the Brighton Hospital. Do you mean to say that you don't know about it, that you don't know that the man found so mysteriously in Mr. David Steel's house and Van Sneck are one and the same person?"

Enid resumed her seat again. She was calm enough now.

"It had not occurred to me," she said. "Indeed, I don't know why it should have done. Sooner or later, of course, I should have suggested to Mr. Steel to try and identify the man, but—"

"My dear Enid, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Nonsense," Enid said, in some confusion. "Things you don't understand at present, and things you are not going to understand just yet. I read in the papers that the man was quite a stranger to Mr. Steel. But are you certain that it is Van Sneck?"

"Absolutely certain. I went to the hospital and identified him."

"Then there is no more to be said on that point. But you were foolish to tell Reginald."

"Not a bit of it. Why, Henson has known it all along. You needn't get excited. He is a deep fellow, and nobody knows better than he how to disguise his feelings. All the same, he was just mad to know what I had discovered, you could see it in his face. Reginald Henson—"

Littimer paused, open-mouthed, for Henson, dressed and wrapped ready for the journey, had come quietly into the drawing-room. The deadly pallor of his face, the white bandages about his throat, only served to render his appearance more emphatic and imposing. He stood there with the halo of dust about him, looking like the evil genius of the place.

"I fear I startled you," he said, with a sardonic smile. "And I fear that in the stillness of the place I have overheard a great part of your conversation. Frank, I must congratulate you on your discretion, so far. But seeing that you are young and impressionable, I am going to move temptation out of your way. Enid, I am going on a journey."

"I trust that it is a long one, and that it will detain you for a considerable period," Enid said, coldly.

"It is neither far, nor is it likely to keep me," Henson smiled. "Williams has just come in with the information that the cab awaits me at the gate. Now, then!"

The last words were flung at Littimer with contemptuous command. The hot blood flared into the young man's face. Enid's eyes flashed.

"If my cousin likes to stay here," she said, "why—"

"He is coming with me," Henson said, hoarsely. "Do you understand? With me! And if I like to drag him—or you, my pretty lady—to the end of the world or the gates of perdition, you will have to come. Now, get along before I compel you."

Enid stood with fury in her eyes and clenched hands as Littimer slunk away out of the house, Henson following between his victim and Williams. He said no words till the lodge-gates were past and the growl of the dogs had died into the distance.

"We are going to Littimer Castle," said Henson.

"Not there," Littimer groaned—"not there, Henson! I couldn't—I couldn't go to that place!"

Henson pointed towards the cab.

"Littimer or perdition!" he said. "You don't want to go to the latter just yet? Jump in, then!"



CHAPTER XXV

LITTIMER CASTLE

If you had asked the first five people on the Littimer Estate what they thought of the lord of the soil you would have had a different answer from every one. One woman would have said that a kinder and better man never lived; her neighbour would have declared Lord Littimer to be as hard as the nether millstone. Farmer George would rate him a jolly good fellow, and tell how he would sit in the kitchen over a mug of ale; whilst Farmer John swore at his landlord as a hard-fisted, grasping miser devoid of the bowels of compassion.

At the end of an hour you would be utterly bewildered, not knowing what to believe, and prepared to set the whole village down as a lot of gossips who seemed to mind everything but its own business. And, perhaps, Lord Littimer might come riding through on his big black horse, small, lithe, brown as mahogany, and with an eye piercing as a diamond-drill. One day he looked almost boyishly young, there would be a smile on his tanned face. And then another day he would be bent in the saddle, huddled up, wizened, an old, old man, crushed with the weight of years and sorrow.

In sooth he was a man of moods and contradictions, changeable as an April sky, and none the less quick-tempered and hard because he knew that everybody was terribly afraid of him. And he had a tongue, too, a lashing, cutting tongue that burnt and blistered. Sometimes he would be quite meek and angry under the reproaches of the vicar, and yet the same day history records it that he got off his horse and administered a sound thrashing to the village poacher. Sometimes he got the best of the vicar, and sometimes that worthy man scored. They were good friends, these two, though the vicar never swerved in his fealty to Lady Littimer, whose cause he always championed. But nobody seemed to know anything about that dark scandal. They knew that there had been a dreadful scene at the castle seven years before, and that Lady Littimer and her son had left never to return. Lady Littimer was in a madhouse somewhere, they said, and the son was a wanderer on the face of the earth. And when Lord Littimer died every penny of the property, the castle included, would go to her ladyship's nephew, Mr. Reginald Henson.

In spite of the great cloud that hung over the family Lord Littimer did not seem to have changed. He was just a little more caustic than ever, his tongue a little sharper. The servants could have told a different story, a story of dark moods and days when the bitterness of the shadow of death lay on the face of their master. Few men could carry their grief better, and because Littimer carried his grief so well he suffered the more. We shall see what the sorrow was in time.