"Lorgorramighty!"

But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.

When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.

"Hello!" said Spike wearily. "Who are you?"

"I'm Fate, I am!" nodded the Old Un. "Persooin' Fate, that's me."

"What yer here for, anyway?" enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.

"I'm here to persoo!"

"Say, now, what's your game; what yer want?"

"I want you, me lad."

"Well, say—beat it, please—I want t' be alone."

"Not much, me lad. I'm Fate, I am, an' when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain't t' be shook off."

"Murder!" gasped Spike. "Oh, my God! I—I ain't—"

The lad sprang to his feet and was running on the instant, but turning to glance back, tripped over some obstacle and fell. Swaying he rose and stumbled on, but slower now by reason of the pain in his wounded arm. Thus, when at last he came out upon the road, the Old Un was still close behind him.



CHAPTER XLVI

IN WHICH GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE OBTAINS HIS OBJECT

Mrs. Trapes glanced sadly around her cosy housekeeper's room and sighed regretfully; she was alone, and upon the table ready to hand lay her neat bonnet, her umbrella, and a pair of white cotton gloves, beholding which articles her lips set more resolutely, her bony arms folded themselves more tightly, and she nodded in grim determination.

"The labourer is worthy of his hire!" she sighed, apparently addressing the bonnet, "but, if so be the labourer ain't worthy, why then, the sooner he quits—"

A sound of quick, light feet upon the stair and a voice that laughed gaily, a laugh so full of happiness that even Mrs. Trapes's iron features relaxed, and her grim mouth curved in her rare smile. At that moment the door opened and Hermione appeared, a radiant Hermione who clasped Mrs. Trapes in her arms and tangled her up in her long motor veil and laughed again.

"Oh, Ann, such a day!" she exclaimed, laying aside her long dust-coat. "New York is a paradise—when you're rich! No more bargain days and clawing matches over the remnant counter, Ann! Oh, it's wonderful to be able to buy anything I want—anything! Think of it, Ann, isn't it just a dream of joy? And I've shopped and shopped, and he was so dear and patient! I bought Arthur a complete outfit—"

"Arthur!" said Mrs. Trapes, and groaned.

"And you, Ann, you dear thing, I bought you—guess what? But you never could! I bought you a gold watch, the very best I could find, and he bought you a chain for it, a long one to go around your dear neck, set with diamonds and rubies, I mean the chain is—it's the cutest thing, Ann! You remember you used to dream of a gold chain set with real diamonds, some day? Well, 'some day's' to-day, Ann."

"But—oh, Hermy, I—I—"

"He wants to give it you himself, because he says you're the best friend he ever had and—oh, here he is! You did say so, didn't you, Geoffrey?"

"And I surely mean it!" answered Ravenslee, tossing his driving gauntlets into a chair, "though you certainly threw cold water upon my peanut barrow, didn't you, Mrs. Trapes?"

"Oh, Geoffrey, dear, do give her that precious package; I'm dying to see her open it!"

So Ravenslee drew the jeweller's neat parcel from his pocket and put it into Mrs. Trapes's toil-worn hand. For a moment her bony fingers clutched it, then she sighed tremulously and, placing it on the table, rose and stood staring down at it. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsher than usual.

"Hermy, dear—I mean Mrs. Ravenslee, ma'am, I—can't—take 'em!"

"But, dear—why not?"

"Because they're coals o' fire."

"But you must take them, dear; we bought them for you and—"

"Which jools, ma'am, I can in no wise accept."

"Why, Ann, dear, whatever—"

"Which jools, ma'am, having been a dream, must for me so remain, me not bein' faithful in my dooties to you an' Mr. Geoffrey. Consequently I begs to tender you now my resignation, yieldin' up my post in your service to one better worthy, and returnin' t' th' place wherefrom I come."

Here Mrs. Trapes put on her bonnet, setting it a little askew in her agitation.

"Th' labourer is worthy of his hire, but if he ain't—so be it!"

Here Mrs. Trapes tied her bonnet strings so tightly and with such resolute hands that she choked.

"Why, Ann dear," cried Hermione, "whatever do you mean? As if I could bear to part with you!" Here she untied the bonnet strings. "As if I could ever let you go back to Mulligan's!" Here she took off the bonnet. "As if I could ever forget all your tender love and care for me in the days when things were so hard and so very dark!" Here she tossed the bonnet into a corner.

"My land!" sighed Mrs. Trapes, "me best bonnet—"

"I know, Ann. I made it for you over a year ago, and it's time you had another, anyway! Now, open that parcel—this minute!"

But instead of doing so, Mrs. Trapes sank down in the chair beside the table and bowed her head in her hands.

"Hermy," said she, "oh, my lamb, he's gone! You left Arthur in my care an'—he's gone, an' it's my fault. Went away at five o'clock, an' here it is nigh on to ten—an' him sick! God knows I've searched for him—tramped to th' ferry an' back, an' th' footmen they've looked for him an' so have th' maids—but Arthur's gone—an' it's my fault! So, Hermy—my dear—blame me an' let me go—"

The harsh voice broke and, bowing her head, she sat silent, touching the unopened packet of jewellery with one long, bony finger.

"Why, Ann—dear Ann—you're crying!" Hermione was down on her knees, had clasped that long bony figure in her arms. "You mustn't, Ann, you mustn't. I'm sure it wasn't your fault, so don't grieve, dear—there!" And she had drawn the disconsolate grey head down upon her shoulder and pillowed it there.

"But—oh, Hermy, he's gone! An' you told me to—look after him."

"Ann, if Arthur meant to go, I'm sure you couldn't have prevented him; he isn't a child any longer, dear. There, be comforted—we'll hunt for him in the car—won't we, Geoffrey?"

"Of course," nodded Ravenslee, "I'll 'phone the garage right away."

But as he opened the door he came face to face with Joe, who touched an eyebrow and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"S'cuse me, sir," said he, "but it's that Old Un, covered wi' dust 'e is, sir, an' wants a word wi' you. And, sir, 'e 's that mysterious as never was. Shall I let him come in, sir?"

"You try an' keep me out, my lad, that's all!" panted the Old Un, ducking under Joe's great arm, "I'm better man nor ever you'll be!"

So saying, the Old Un hobbled forward and, sinking into the nearest armchair, fanned himself with his hat, which, like the rest of his garments, bore the dust of travel.

"Greetin's, Guv!" said he, when he had caught his breath. "'Ere I be—a old man as 'as done more for ye than all th' young 'uns put t'gether. Mrs. Ravenslee, ma'am, best respex!"

"And what have you been doing now?" enquired Ravenslee, smiling.

"Well, Guv, I been an' got th' murderer for ye, that's all!"

Hermione caught her breath suddenly and gazed at the fierce, dusty old man with eyes full of growing terror; beholding which Ravenslee frowned, then laughed lightly and, seating himself on a corner of the table, swung his leg to and fro.

"So you've found him out, have you, Old Un?"

"Ah, that I have!"

"Are you sure?"

"Ah, quite sure, Guv."

"Well, where is he—trot him out."

"'E's comin' along—th' Spider's bringin' un. Ye see, he's a bit wore out same as I am—we been trampin' all th' arternoon. Look at me shoes, that's th' worst o' patent leather—they shows th' dust. Joe, my lad, jest give 'em a flick over with ye wipe."

But at this moment steps were heard slowly approaching, and Hermione uttered an inarticulate cry, then spoke in an agonised whisper: "Arthur!"

Pallid of cheek and drooping of head Spike stood in the doorway, his shabby, threadbare clothes dusty and travel-stained, his slender shape encircled by the Spider's long arm. At Hermione's cry he lifted his head and looked up yearningly, his sensitive mouth quivered, his long-lashed eyes swam in sudden tears, he strove to speak but choked instead; then Ravenslee's calm, pleasant voice broke the painful silence.

"Old Un," said he, rising, "I understand you are fond of jam—well, from now on you shall bathe in it if you wish."

"Spoke like a true sport, Guv!"

"Why, you see, you have surely done me a very great service."

"Meanin' because I found ye th' murderer."

"Murderer?" exclaimed Ravenslee, staring.

"Why, yes—there 'e is!" and the old man pointed a long finger at the shrinking Spike.

"Old Un," said Ravenslee, shaking his head, "don't joke with me—"

"I—I ain't jokin', Guv," cried the Old Un, rising. "Why—oh, Lorgorramighty, you don't mean t' say as this ain't 'im? Why, 'e 's confessed, Guv; I 'eard 'im!"

Ravenslee smiled gently and shook his head again.

"But he has been sick, Old Un; he was hurt, you know, when he saved my life."

"But, Lord, Guv, if 'e 's confessed—"

"He has been sick, Old Un, and when we are sick the wisest of us are apt to say silly things—even I did, so they tell me."

"What?" quavered the old man, "ain't I—ain't I found no murderer for ye, arter all, Guv?"

"You've done something much, very much better, Old Un—you've found me my brother!"

"Brother!" echoed Spike, "brother? Oh, Geoff—" he sighed deeply, and as Ravenslee crossed toward him he smiled wanly and sank swooning into the supporting arms of the Spider, who at a word from Hermione bore the boy up-stairs; but scarcely was he laid upon his bed than he opened his heavy eyes.

"Say, Spider," said he wearily, "old Geoff sure does play square—even to a worm like me—well, I guess! No, don't go yet, I want yer to hear me try to explain the kind o' dirty dog I been—I guess he won't want t' call me 'brother' after that; no, siree, he'll cut me out same as you have an' serve me right too." Then turning toward where Ravenslee and Hermione stood he continued: "Geoff—Hermy, dear—ah, no, don't touch me, I ain't worth it. I'm too dirty—Spider says so—an' I guess he's right. Listen—I meant t' go away t'day an' leave you because I felt so mean, but th' old man followed me, an' I couldn't run because my arm pained some—y' see, I fell on it. So I let him bring me back because I guess it's up t' me t' let you know as I ain't fit t' be your brother, Geoff—or Hermy's." For a moment Spike paused, then with an effort he continued but kept his face averted. "Geoff, it was me—in the wood that time! Yes, it was me, an' I had a gun. I—I meant—t' do you in, Geoff—"

Spike's voice failed and he was silent again, plucking nervously at the sheet, while Hermione's proud head drooped and her hands clasped and wrung each other in an agony of shame; but to these painfully rigid hands came another hand, big and strong yet very gentle, at whose soothing touch those agonised fingers grew lax and soft, then clung to that strong hand in sudden, eager passion.

"Poor old Spike!" said Ravenslee, and his tone was as gentle as his touch.

"But—but, Geoff," stammered the boy. "I—oh, don't you see? I meant to—kill you?"

"Yes, I understand; you thought I deserved it—why?"

"Oh, I was crazy, I guess! Bud told me lies—an' I believed him—lies about you an' Hermy—he said—you'd make Hermy go—the same road—little Maggie Finlay went—so I came t' kill you—"

"Spike, if you believed that, if you really believed that, I don't blame you for trying a shot—"

"But I didn't—I couldn't! When I saw you sittin' there so unsuspectin', I just couldn't do it—I tried to, but I couldn't. An' somehow I dropped th' gun, an' then I heard a shot, an' when I looked up I saw you throw out your arms an' fall—my God, I'll never forget that! Then I saw Bud starin' down at you an' th' pistol smokin' in his hand. I meant t' do it but I couldn't, so Bud did it himself. I'm as bad as him, I reckon, but it was Bud shot you—Soapy saw him an' knows it was Bud—ask Soapy. An' now I've told you all; I guess I ain't fit t' stay here any longer."

Spike's voice choked upon a sob, he buried his face in the pillow, and so there fell a silence—a strange, tense hush, a pause so unexpected that he looked up and saw that Hermione's head was bowed no longer, but she stood, very proud and tall, gazing upon her husband, and in her eyes was a great and wondrous light; and as she looked on him so he gazed on her. They had no thought, no eyes for Spike just then, wherefore he hid his face again.

"I guess this about puts the kybosh on th' brother business!" he sighed miserably, "an' I sure ain't fit t' be th' Spider's pal, I reckon!"

But now the Spider spoke, rather quick and jerkily:

"Say, Kid—get onto this! I'm takin' back—everything I says t' you t'day, see? Because, oh, well—I guess you've sure woke up at last! So, Kid—give us your mitt!"

Eagerly Spike grasped the Spider's big fist, and they shook hands gravely and very deliberately, looking into each other's eyes the while. Then, still quick and jerkily, the Spider turned and hurried out of the room. Then Spike turned to Ravenslee.

"Geoff," he sighed, "I'm not goin' to ask you to forgive me yet, I can't—I'm goin' t' wait an' show you—"

But as he paused Ravenslee's hand was upon the lad's drooping shoulder.

"Arthur," said he, "from now on—from to-night—you are going to be my brother more than ever—a brother we shall both be proud of—what do you say?"

But Spike's eyes were wet, his mouth quivered, and instead of answering he buried his face in the pillow again.

"Say, Hermy," he mumbled, "take him away before I do th' tear-gushin' act! Take him down-stairs—give him a drink—light him a cigarette—kiss him! Only take him away before I get mushy. But, say—when I'm in bed, you'll—you'll come an'—say good night like—like you used to, Hermy dear?"

Swiftly she stooped and kissed that curly head.

"I'll come—oh, I'll come, boy, dear!" she murmured, land left him with Mrs. Trapes.

Down-stairs the fire glowed, filling the room with shadows, and side by side they stood looking down into the heart of the fire and were silent awhile, and, though she was so near, he didn't touch her.

"So it wasn't Arthur, after all!" he said at last.

"No," she answered softly, "it wasn't Arthur—thank God!"

"Amen!" said he, so fervently that she glanced up at him swiftly, then looked into the fire again. Seeing how the colour deepened in her cheek, he came a little nearer; but still he didn't touch her; instead, he took out tobacco pouch and pipe and began to fill it with strangely clumsy fingers, and Hermione saw that his hands were trembling.

"Let me!" she said gently. So he surrendered pipe and pouch and, watching, saw that her hands trembled also; when at last she had filled the pipe, he took it and laid it on the table.

"Aren't you going to smoke, dear?"

"No, not now. You'll remember that Arthur also suggested you should—"

"Give you something to drink!" she added a little breathlessly and crossed to the cellaret in the corner. "Will you have brandy and soda?"

"Thanks—yes—that will do," he answered absently, and when she dutifully brought the filled glass he took it and set it down untasted beside the pipe.

"Why, Geoffrey!" she said in murmurous surprise, "aren't you thirsty?"

"No, not now. You will probably remember that Arthur also suggested you should—"

"I know!" she breathed, "but, oh, Geoffrey, dear—wait—just a little longer."

"Why?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Because!" she answered, staring down at her clasped hands.

"Why?"

"Because, my Geoffrey, if—if I let myself—kiss you now, I—shall never be able to—tear myself away, and I must say good night to Arthur and—"

She paused as a knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Trapes appeared.

"Why, dear land o' my fathers!" she exclaimed. "Ain't you had time t' take off your bonnet yet, Hermy?"

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Hermione, "I forgot it!" So saying, off it came, and there was the curl above her eyebrow more wantonly alluring than ever.

"An' there's that blessed b'y," continued Mrs. Trapes, "a-layin' up-stairs yearnin' for you, Hermy, an' him s' pale an' gentle—God bless him! An' it now bein' exackly twenty-two an' a half minutes past 'leven by my beautiful new watch as ticks most musical! Time as you was in bed—both of you! an' that reminds me, Hermy, I sent your maid t' bed like you told me, an' with my own two hands I laid out one o' them lovely noo nightdresses—the one with the short sleeves an' lace as you showed me last night an'—Land sakes, she's gone! Think o' that now—my, my! Mrs. Ravenslee's wonderful quick an' light on her feet, Mr. Geoffrey!"

Here Mrs. Trapes raised the watch to her ear and hearkened to its tick again, smiling at Ravenslee's broad back as he turned to reach his glass.

"Them nightdresses," she sighed, "as is all fluffs an' frills an' openwork, may be all right when you're young, but for true comfort give me—flannel, every time."

Here Ravenslee, in the act of sipping his brandy and soda, choked; when at last he glanced around, Mrs. Trapes was gone.

Then he drew a chair to the fire and, sitting down, took up his pipe and tried to light it, but Hermione's nervous white fingers had packed it too tightly for mortal suction, whereat he sighed and, yielding to the impossible, sat with it in his hand, lost in happy thought and waiting for the swift light footsteps he yearned to hear.

The clock in the hall without struck midnight, but long after the mellow chime had died away he sat there waiting; but the great house lay very still about him, and no sound broke the pervading quiet. Wherefore at last he grew restless, frowned at the dying fire, and his strong fingers clenched themselves fiercely about the pipe they still held.

All at once he started, rose to his feet, and turned toward the door eager-eyed, as a hand knocked softly; before he could speak it opened, and Mrs. Trapes reappeared; she was clad in a long flannel dressing gown, and as she paused in the shadows by the door he could vaguely define that she still held the precious watch to her ear.

"It do tick that musical," she said, "an' I can't sleep this night till I've tried t' thank ye both for—for all your goodness to a lonely woman. Ah, Mr. Geoffrey, I guess th' day as you came seekin' lodgin's at my little flat was a good day for Ann Angelina Trapes—why, my land, Mr. Geoffrey—ain't Hermy here?"

"No," answered Ravenslee a little bitterly. "Oh, no, I'm quite alone—as usual, Mrs. Trapes."

"Why, now, that's queer!"

"How queer?"

"Because I've jest been into her bedroom, an' there's her things—except that nightdress—but she—ain't!"

"Not there? She must be! Did you look in—her bed?"

"Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—her bed ain't been tetched!"

"Then where in the world is she?"

"Well," said Mrs. Trapes, consulting her watch again, "it is now exactly fifteen and three-quarter minutes after midnight, so I guess she's in bed somewhere. But this is a big house, an' there's lots of bedrooms, so if I was you, I'd go an' look—till I found her—"

Ravenslee was at the door so swiftly that Mrs. Trapes started, and she saw his eyes were very bright, and the hands he laid on her bony shoulders were quivering.

"Mrs. Trapes," said he, "I will!"

Then he stooped, very suddenly, and kissed the thin, grey hair above her grim eyebrow, and so—was gone.

"Find her?" mused Mrs. Trapes, glancing after him up the wide stairs. "Why, yes, I guess he will sure find her—where she should have been weeks ago. Lord, what a silly, beautiful, lovely thing love is!" and she stood awhile smiling down into the fire, and her smile was very tender.

Then she sighed, switched off the lights, and went softly away.

THE END