I paid my bill, left the hotel, and caught the five o'clock train from St. Pancras to Medchester. From there I had a ten-mile drive, and it was almost dusk when we turned off the main road into the private approach to Saxby Hall—my old home. Every yard of the land around, half meadow-land, half park, I knew almost by heart; every corner and chimney of the long irregular house was familiar to me. It all looked very peaceful as we drove up to the front; the blue smoke from the chimneys going straight up in a long, thin line; not a rustle of breeze or movement anywhere. Perkins, my butler, came out to the steps to meet me, and successfully concealed his surprise at my return two days before I was expected.

"Any news, Perkins?" I inquired, as he helped me off with my coat.

"Nothing in any way special, sir," Perkins replied. "The cricket team from Romney Court were over here yesterday, sir, for the day."

"Gave 'em a licking, I hope?" I remarked.

"We won by thirty runs, sir," Perkins informed me. "Johnson was bowling remarkably well, sir. He took seven wickets for fifteen!"

I nodded, and was passing on to my study. Perkins followed me.

"We got your first telegram early this morning, sir!" he remarked.

I stopped short.

"What telegram?" I asked.

"The one telling us to prepare for the gentleman, sir," Perkins explained. "We had to guess at the train; but we sent the brougham in for the twelve o'clock, and Johnson waited. We've given him the south room, sir, and I think that he's quite comfortable."

"What the devil are you talking about?" I asked.

It was Perkins' turn to stare, which he did for a moment blankly.

"The gentleman whose arrival you wired about, sir," he answered. "Mr. Guest, I believe his name is."

"Mr. Guest is here now?" I asked.

"Certainly, sir! In the south room, sir! He asked to be told directly you arrived, sir!"

I turned abruptly towards the staircase. I said not another word to Perkins, but made my way to the room which he had spoken of. I knocked at the door, and it was Guest's voice which bade me enter. It was Guest himself, who in a grey travelling suit, which made him look smaller and frailer than ever, lay stretched upon the sofa over by the great south windows!



CHAPTER X

"WORTLEY FOOTE—THE SPY"

He sat up at once, but he did not attempt to rise. His eyes watched me anxiously. My surprise seemed to trouble him.

"I am afraid—" he began hesitatingly.

"You need be afraid of nothing," I interrupted, going over and taking his hand. "Only how on earth did you get here?"

He looked around before replying. The old habits had not deserted him.

"Your friend, Miss Van Hoyt, arranged it," he said. "The others had another plan; but they were no match for her."

"But how did you come?" I asked. "You were not well enough to travel alone."

"She left me at Medchester station," he answered. "Your carriage brought me over here, and your servants have been most kind. But—but before I go to bed to-night, there are things which I must say to you. We must not sleep under the same roof until we have arrived at an understanding."

I looked at him with compassion. He had shaved recently, and his face, besides being altogether colorless, seemed very wan and pinched. His clothes seemed too big for him, his eyes were unnaturally clear and luminous.

"We will talk later on," I said, "if it is really necessary. Shall you feel well enough to come down and have dinner with me, or would you like something served up here?"

"I should like to come down," he answered, "if you will lend me your man to help me dress."

"Come as you are," I said. "We shall be alone!"

He smiled a little curiously.

"I should like to change," he declared. "A few hours of civilization, after all I have been through, will be rather a welcome experience."

"Very well," I told him, "I will send my man at once. There is just another thing which I should like to ask you. Have you any objection to seeing my doctor?"

"None whatever," he answered. "I think perhaps," he added, "that it would be advisable, in case anything should happen while I am here."

I laughed cheerfully.

"Come," I declared, "nothing of that sort is going to happen now. You are perfectly safe here, and this country air is going to do wonders for you."

He made no answer in words. His expression, however, plainly showed me what he thought. I did not pursue the subject.

"I will send a man round at once," I said, turning away. "We dine at eight."

My guest at dinner-time revealed traces of breeding and distinction which I had not previously observed in him. He was obviously a man of birth, and one who had mixed in the very best society of other capitals, save London alone. He ate very little, but he drank two glasses of my "Regents" Chambertin, with the air of a critic. He declined cigars, but he carried my cigarette box off with him into the study; and he accepted without hesitation some '47 brandy with his coffee. All the time, however, he had the air of a man with something on his mind, and we had scarcely been alone for a minute, before he brushed aside the slighter conversation which I was somewhat inclined to foster, and plunged into the great subject.

"Mr. Courage," he said, "I want to speak to you seriously." I nodded.

"Why don't you wait for a few days, until you have pulled up a little?" I suggested. "There is no hurry. You are perfectly safe down here."

He looked at me as one might look at a child.

"There is very urgent need for hurry," he asserted, "and apart from that, death waits for no man, and my feet are very near indeed to the borderland. There must be an understanding between us."

"As you will," I answered, "although I won't admit that you are as ill as you think you are!"

He smiled faintly.

"That," he said, "is because you do not know. Now listen. You have to make, within the next few minutes, a great decision. Very likely, after you have chosen, you will curse me all your days. It was a freak of fate which brought us together. But I must say this. You are the sort of man whom I would have chosen, if any measure of choice had fallen to my lot. And yet," he looked around, "I am almost afraid to speak now that I have seen you in your home, now that I have realized something of what your life must be."

All the time, underneath the flow of his level words, there trembled the sub-note of a barely controlled emotion. The man's eyes were like fire. His cigarette had gone out. He lit another with restless, twitching fingers.

"Words, at any rate, can do me no harm," I said encouragingly. "Go on! I should like to hear what you have to say."

"Words," he exclaimed, "bring knowledge, and with knowledge comes all the majesty or the despair of life. One does not need to be a student of character to know that you are a contented man. You are well off. You have a beautiful home, you are a sportsman, your days are well-ordered, life itself slips easily by for you. You have none of the wanderer's discontent, none of the passionate heart longings of the man who has lifted even the corner of the veil to see what lies beyond. If I speak, all this may be changed to you. Why should I do it?"

His words stirred me. The eloquence of real conviction trembled in his tone. I felt some answering spark of excitement creep into my own blood.

"Let me hear what you have to say, at all events!" I exclaimed. "Don't take too much for granted. Mine has been a simple life, but there have been seasons when I would have changed it. I come of an adventurous race, though the times have curbed our spirits. It was my grandfather, Sir Hardross Courage, who was ambassador at Paris when Napoleon—"

"I know! I know!" he exclaimed. "Your grandfather! Good! And Nicholas Courage—what of him?"

"My uncle!" I answered. "You have heard of him in Teheran."

A spot of color burned in his pallid cheeks.

"I hesitate no longer," he cried. "These were great men; but I will show you the way to deeds which shall leave their memory pale. Listen! Did you ever hear of Wortley Foote?"

"The spy," I answered, "of course!"

He started as though he were stung even to death. His cheeks were flushed, and then as suddenly livid. He seemed to have grown smaller in his chair, to be shrinking away as though I had threatened him with a blow.

"I forgot," he muttered. "I forgot. Never mind. I am Wortley Foote. At least it has been my name for a time."

It was my turn to be astonished. I looked at him for a moment petrified. Was this indeed the man who had brought all Europe to the verge of war, who was held responsible for the greatest international complication of the century? Years had passed, but I remembered well that week of fierce excitement when the clash of arms rang through Europe, when three great fleets were mobilized, and the very earth seemed to reverberate with the footsteps of the gathering millions, moving always towards one spot. Disaster was averted by what seemed then to be a miracle; but no one ever doubted but that one man, and one man alone, was responsible for what might have been the most awful catastrophe of civilized times. And it was that man who sat in my study and watched me now, with ghastly face and passionately inquiring eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded thin and cracked.

"I had forgotten," he said, "that I was speaking to one of the million. To you, mine must seem a name to shudder at. Yet listen to me. My life is finished. I have lied before now in great causes. No man in my position could have avoided it. To-day, I speak the truth. You must believe me! Do you hear?"

"Yes!" I answered, "I hear!"

"Death is my bedfellow," he continued. "Death is by my side like my own shadow. In straits like mine, the uses of chicanery are past. I come of a family of English gentlemen, even as you, Hardross Courage. We are of the same order, and I speak to you man to man, with the dew of death upon my lips. You will listen?"

"Yes!" I answered, "I will listen!"

"You will believe?"

"Yes!" I answered, "I will believe!"

He drew a breath of relief. A wonderful change lightened his face.

"Diplomacy demanded a victim," he said, "and I never flinched. Two men knew the truth, and they are dead. My scheme was a bold one. If it had succeeded, it would have meant an alliance with Germany, an absolute incontrovertible alliance and an imperishable peace. France and Russia would have been powerless—the balance of strength, of accessible strength, must always have been with us. Every German statesman of note was with me. The falsehood, the vilely egotistic ambition of one man, chock-full to the lips with personal jealousy, a madman posing as a genius, wrecked all my plans. My life's work went for nothing. We escaped disaster by a miracle and my name is written in the pages of history as a scheming spy—I who narrowly escaped the greatest diplomatic triumph of all ages. That is the epitome of my career. You believe me?"

"I must," I answered.

"I was reported to have committed suicide," he continued. "Nothing was ever farther from my thoughts."

I followed an ancient maxim. I sought safety in the shadow of the enemy. I went to Berlin."

"The man who foiled you—" I said slowly.

"You know who it was," he interrupted. "The man who believes that he hears voices from heaven, that by the side of his Divine wisdom his ministers are fools and children, crying for they know not what! I may not see it, but you most surely will see the pricking of the bubble of his reputation. His name may stand for little more than mine, when the book of fate is finally closed."

He was silent for a moment, and glanced towards the sideboard. I could see the perspiration standing out in little white beads upon his forehead; he had the air of a man utterly exhausted. I poured him out a glass of wine, and brought it over. He drank it slowly, and reached out his hand for a cigarette.

"Never mind these things," he said more quietly. "A man in my condition should avoid talking of his enemies. I lived for two years quietly in Berlin. I changed as much of my appearance as illness had left recognizable; and during all that time I lived the ordinary life of a German citizen of moderate means, without my identity being once suspected. I frequented the cafes, I made friends with people in official positions. At the end of that time, I commenced to shape my plans. You can imagine of what nature they were. You can imagine what it was that I desired. I wanted to catch my enemy tripping."

I looked across at him a little incredulously. This was a strange story which he was telling me, and I knew very well, from the growing excitement of his manner, that its culmination was to come.

"But how could you in Berlin, alone, hope to accomplish this?" I asked.

"I knew the ropes," he answered simply, "and I lived for nothing else. I saw him drive amongst his people every day, and I bowed with the rest, I who could have spat in his face, I who carried with me the secret of his miserable perfidy, who knew alone why his ministers regarded him as a spoilt and fretful child. But I waited. Gradually I wormed my way a little into the fringe of the German Secret Service. I took them scraps of information; but such scraps that they were always hungry for more. I posed as a Dutch South African. They even chaffed me about my hatred for England. All the time I progressed, until, by chance, I stumbled across one of the threads which led—to the great Secret!"

There was a discreet knocking at the door. We both turned impatiently around. A servant was just ushering in our village doctor.

"Dr. Rust, sir," he announced.



CHAPTER XI

A LEGACY OF DANGER

I was scarcely aware myself to what an extent my attention had been riveted upon this strange story of my guest's, until the interruption came. The entry of the cheerful little village doctor seemed to dissolve an atmosphere thick with sensation. I drew a long breath as I rose to my feet. There was a certain measure of relief in the escape from such high tension.

"Glad to see you, doctor," I said mechanically. "My friend here, Mr. Guest, Dr. Rust," I added, completing the introduction, "is a little run down. I thought that I would like you to have a look at him."

The doctor sniffed the air disparagingly as he shook hands.

"Those beastly cigarettes," he remarked. "If you young men would only take to pipes!"

"Our insides aren't strong enough for your sort of tobacco, doctor," I answered. "I will leave you with Mr. Guest for a few minutes. You may like to overhaul him a little."

I made my way into the gardens, and stood for a few minutes looking out across the park. It was a still, hot evening; the scene was perhaps as peaceful a one as a man could conceive. The tall elms stood out like painted trees upon a painted sky, the only movement in the quiet pastoral landscape was where a little string of farm laborers were trudging homeward across the park, with their baskets over their shoulders. Beyond, the land sloped into a pleasant tree-encompassed hollow, and I could see the red-tiled roofs of the cottages, and the worn, grey spire of the village church. There was scarcely a breath of wind. Everything around me seemed to stand for peace. Many a night before I had stood here, smoking my pipe and drinking it all in—absolutely content with myself, my surroundings, and my life. And to-night I felt, with a certain measure of sadness, that it could never be the same again. A few yards behind me, in the room which I had just quitted, a man was looking death in the face; a man, the passionate, half-told fragments of whose life had kindled in me a whole world of new desires. These two, the man and the girl, enemies perhaps, speaking from the opposite poles of life, had made sad havoc with my well-ordered days. The excitement of his appeal was perhaps more directly potent; yet there was something far more subtle, far stranger, in my thoughts of her. She and her maid and her queer, black-eyed poodle were creatures of flesh and blood without a doubt; yet they had come into my life so strangely, and passed into so wonderful a place there, that I thought of them with something of the awe which belongs to things having in themselves some element of the mystic, if not of the supernatural. The blue of her eyes was not more wonderful than the flawless grace of her person and her environment. I could compare her only with visions one has read and dreamed about in the unreal worlds of poetry and romance. Her actual existence as a woman of the moment, a possible adventuress, certainly a very material and actual person, was hard indeed to realize.

I moved a little farther away into the gardens. The still air was full of the perfume of sweet-smelling flowers, of honeysuckle and roses, climbing about the maze of arches which sheltered the lower walks. To-night their sweetness seemed to mean new things to me. The twilight was falling rapidly; the shadows were blotting out the landscape. Out beyond there, beyond the boundaries of my walled garden, I seemed to be looking into a new and untravelled world. I knew very well that the old days were over. Already the change had come.

I turned my head at the sound of a footstep upon the gravel path. The doctor was standing beside me.

"Well," I asked, "what do you think of him?"

He answered me a little evasively. The cheerful optimism which had made him a very popular practitioner seemed for the moment to have deserted him.

"Your friend is in rather a curious state of health," he said slowly. "To tell you the truth, I scarcely know how to account for certain of his symptoms."

I smiled.

"He seems in a very weak state," I remarked supinely.

"Is he a very old friend?" the doctor asked.

"Why do you ask that?" I inquired curiously.

"Simply because I thought that you might know something of his disposition," the doctor answered. "Whether, for instance, he is the sort of man who would be likely to indulge in drugs."

I shook my head.

"I cannot tell," I said.

"There is something a little peculiar about his indifference," the doctor continued. "He answers my questions and submits to my examination, and all the time he has the air of a man who would say, 'I could tell you more about myself, if I would, than you could ever discover.' He has had a magnificent constitution in his time."

"Is he likely to die?" I asked.

"Not from any symptoms that I can discover," the doctor answered. "Yet, as I told you before, there are certain things about his condition which I do not understand. I should like to see him again in the morning! I am giving him a tonic, more as a matter of form. I scarcely think his system will respond to it!"

"It has not occurred to you, I suppose," I remarked, "that he might be suffering from poisoning?"

The doctor shook his head.

"There are no traces of anything of the sort," he declared. "My own impression is that he has been taking some sort of drug."

"Will you come in and have something?" I asked, as we neared the house.

The doctor shook his head.

"Not to-night," he answered; "I have another call to pay."

So I went back into the house alone, and found my guest waiting for me in some impatience. He was lying upon a sofa, piled up with cushions, and the extreme pallor of his face alarmed me.

"Give me some brandy and soda," he demanded. "Your village Aesculapius has been prodding me about, till I scarcely know where I am."

I hastened to the sideboard and attended to his wants.

"Well, did he invent a new disease for me?" he asked.

"No!" I answered. "On the contrary, he admitted that he was puzzled."

"Honest man! What did he suggest?"

"He asked whether you were in the habit of taking drugs," I answered.

"Never touched such a thing in my life," he declared.

"Neither did I," I remarked grimly, "until last night." And then I told him what had happened to me. He listened eagerly to my story.

"So there is a division in the camp," he murmured softly. "I imagined as much. As usual, it is the woman who plays the whole game."

"I wonder," I said, "whether you would mind telling me what you know of Miss Van Hoyt?"

He moved on the couch a little uneasily. The request, for some reason or other, seemed to disquiet him. Nevertheless, he answered me.

"Miss Van Hoyt," he said, "is an American young lady of excellent family and great fortune. She has lived for the last few years in Berlin and other European capitals. She has intimate friends, I believe, attached to the court at Berlin. She is a young person of an adventurous turn of mind, and she has, I believe, no particular love for England and English institutions."

"You number her," I remarked, "amongst your enemies?"

"And amongst yours," he answered dryly.

"Yet it was through her that I was able to bring you away," I remarked.

He turned his head towards me.

"You are not supposing, for one moment," he said, "that any measure of kindness was included in her motive."

"I suppose not," I answered doubtfully.

"Listen!" he said, "I fell into a trap at the Universal. I have been in danger too often not to recognize a hopeless position when I see one. I knew that escape for me was impossible. It was not as though my task were finished. I had months of work before me, and I was tracked down, so that I could not have moved except on sufferance. Our genial friend, whom you will remember in the grey tweed suit and glasses, and who has the knack of sticking to any one in whom he is interested like a leech, thought that my death, with as much dispatch as was wise, would be the simplest and pleasantest way out of the difficulty. The young lady, however, plays for the great stakes, She wanted to succeed where others have failed."

He paused for a moment, and drank from his tumbler. There were dark lines under his eyes, and I felt that I ought to stop him talking.

"Tell me the rest in the morning," I suggested. "I am sure that you ought to go to bed."

"You forget," he remarked grimly, "that for me there may be no morning. I am drawing very near the end, or even she would not have dared to let me come. Besides, you must understand, for it must be through you that she hopes—to succeed. She expects that I shall tell you, that you will be the legatee of this knowledge, which she would give so much to gain. And I suppose—don't be offended—that she counts you amongst the fools whom a woman's lips can tempt to any dishonor. You needn't glare at me like that. Miss Van Hoyt is very young and very beautiful. She has not yet learnt all the lessons of life—amongst which are her limitations. You see I do not ask you for any pledge—for any promise. But I do ask you, as an Englishman—and a man of honor—to take my burden from my back, and carry it on—to the end!"

I came over to his side.

"What does it mean?" I asked quietly.

"Death, very likely," he answered. "Danger always. No more sport, no more living in the easy places. But in the end glory—and afterwards peace. A man can die but once, Courage!"

"I am not afraid," I answered slowly. "But am I the man, do you think, for a task like this?"

"None better," he answered. "Listen, where do you sleep?"

"In the next room to yours," I answered.

"Good! Will you leave your door open, so that if I call in the night you may hear?"

"Certainly! You can have a servant sleep on the couch in your room, if you like."

He shook his head.

"I would rather not," he answered. "Just now I cannot talk any more. If my time comes in the night, I shall wake you. If not—to-morrow!"



CHAPTER XII

OLD FRIENDS

A flavor of unreality hung about the events of the last few days. I felt myself slowly waking as though from a nightmare. The dazzling sunshine was everywhere around us; the whir of reaping machines, the slighter humming of bees, and the song of birds, were in our ears; the perfume of all manner of flowers, and of the new-mown hay, made the air wonderfully sweet. My guest, in a cool grey flannel suit and a Panama hat, was by my side, looking like a man who has taken a new lease of life. He had patted my shire horses, and admired those of my hunters which were on view. He had walked three times round my walled garden, and amazed my head-gardener by his intimate acquaintance with the science of pruning. We had talked country talk and nothing else. From the moment when, somewhat to my surprise, he had appeared upon the terrace just as I was finishing my after-breakfast pipe, no word of any more serious subject had passed our lips. We had talked and passed the time very much as any other host and guest the first morning in a quiet country house. We were standing now upon a little knoll in the park, and I was pointing out my deer. He looked beyond to where the turrets and chimneys of a large, grey, stone house were half visible through the trees.

"Who is your neighbor?" he asked.

"Lord Dennisford," I answered. "A very decent fellow, too, although I don't see much of him. He spends most of his time abroad."

"Lord Dennisford!"

I turned to look at my companion. He had repeated the name very softly, yet with a peculiar intonation, which made me at once aware that the name was of interest to him.

"Yes! Do you know him?" I asked inanely.

"Is his wife here?" he asked.

"Lady Dennisford is seldom away," I answered. "She entertains a good deal down here. A very popular woman in the county."

He seemed to be measuring the distance across the park with his eyes.

"Let us go across and see her," he said.

I looked at him doubtfully.

"Can you walk as far?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Yes! I have my stick, and, if necessary, you can help me!"

So we set out across the park. I asked him no questions. He told me nothing. But when we had crossed the road, and were on our way up the avenue to Dennisford House, he clutched at my arm.

"I want to see her—alone," he muttered.

"I will see what I can do," I answered. "Lady Dennisford and I are old friends."

We reached the great sweep in front of the house. I pointed to the terrace, on which were several wicker chairs.

"The windows from the drawing-room, where I shall probably see Lady Dennisford, open out there," I remarked. "If you could give me any message which would interest her, perhaps—"

"Tell her," he muttered, "that you have a guest who walked with her once under the orange trees at Seville, and who—in a few days—will walk no more anywhere! She will come!"

He made his way along the terrace, leaning heavily upon his stick, and sank with a little sigh of relief into one of the cushion-laden wicker chairs. I watched him lean back with half-closed eyes; and I realized then what an effort this walk must have been to him. Before me the great front doors stood open, and with the familiarity of close neighborship, I passed into the cool shaded hall, with its palms and flowers, its billiard-table invitingly uncovered, its tiny fountain playing in its marble basin. There was no one in sight; but, stretched upon a bright crimson cushion, set back in the heart of a great easy-chair, was a small Japanese spaniel.

Our recognition was mutual. The dog rose slowly to his haunches, and sat there looking at me. His apple-green bow had wandered to the side of his neck, and one ear was turned back. Yet notwithstanding the fact that his appearance was so far grotesque, I felt no inclinations whatever towards mirth. His coal-black eyes were fixed upon me steadfastly, his tiny wrinkled face seemed like the shrivelled and age-worn caricature of some Eastern magician. He showed no signs of pleasure or of welcome at my coming, nor did he share any of the bewilderment with which I gazed at him. But for the absurdity of the thing, I should have said that he had been sitting there waiting for me.

While I stood there dumfounded, not so much in wonder at this meeting with the dog, but amazed beyond measure at the things which his presence there seemed to indicate, he descended carefully from his chair, and crossing the smooth oak-laid floor, he made his way to the foot of the great staircase, and after a premonitory yawn, he indulged in one sharp penetrating bark. Almost immediately, the French maid came gliding down the stairs, still gowned in the sombrest black, still as pale as a woman could be. The dog looked at her and looked at me. Then, apparently conceiving that his duty was finished, he returned to his chair and curled himself up. I spoke to the maid.

"Is your mistress staying here?" I asked.

"But yes, monsieur!" she answered. "We arrived yesterday."

"Is she in now?" I asked. "Could I see her?"

"I will inquire," the maid answered. "Mademoiselle is in her room."

She turned and left me, and almost immediately the butler entered the hall. He was one of the local cricket eleven, and had been in service in the neighborhood all his life, so he knew me well, and greeted me at once with respectful interest.

"Is her Ladyship in, Murray?" I asked.

"I believe so, sir," he answered. "Will you come into the drawing-room?"

I followed him into Lady Dennisford's presence. She was writing letters in a small sanctum leading out of the drawing-room, and she looked round and nodded a cheery greeting to me.

"In one moment, Hardross," she exclaimed. "I've just finished."

I had known Lady Dennisford all my life; but I found myself studying her now with altogether a new interest. She was a slim, elegant woman, pale and perhaps a little insipid looking at ordinary times, but a famous and reckless rider to hounds, and an enthusiastic sportswoman. She was one of the few women concerning whom I never heard a single breath of scandal, notwithstanding her husband's long and frequent absences. She gave me little time, however, to revise my impressions of her; for, with a little spluttering of her pen, she finished her letter and came towards me.

"I hope you've come to lunch," she remarked; "I have the most delightful young person staying with me. You'll be charmed with her."

"A young lady?" I remarked.

"Yes! An American girl who talks English—and doesn't enthuse. Seems to know something about horses too!"

"Where did you discover this paragon?" I asked.

"My cousin sent her down. She knows everybody," Lady Dennisford answered. "I met her at lunch last week, and she spoke of hunting with the Pytchley next season. She's going to have a look at the country. Sorry the rain spoilt your match."

I hesitated a moment.

"Lady Dennisford," I said, "I had a particular reason for coming to see you this morning."

She raised her eyebrows.

"My dear Jim!"

"I, too, have a visitor," I told her; "rather a more mysterious person than yours seems to be. He is very ill indeed; and he is almost a stranger to me. But he was once, I believe, a friend of yours."

"A friend of mine!" she repeated. "How interesting! Do tell me his name!"

"I cannot do that," I answered, "because I do not know it—not his real name. But in the park this morning, I happened to tell him who lived here, and although he is very weak, he insisted upon paying you an immediate visit."

She looked around the room.

"But where is he?" she asked.

"He is outside on the terrace," I answered.

"My dear Jim!" she exclaimed, "really, all this mystery isn't like you. Aren't you overdoing it a little? Do call your friend in, and let me see who he is!"

"Lady Dennisford," I said, "of course, my guest may have misled me; but he seemed to think that an abrupt meeting might be undesirable. He wished me to tell you that he used once to walk with you under the orange trees of Seville, and to ask you to go out to him alone!"

Lady Dennisford sat quite still for several seconds. Her eyes were fixed upon me; but I am quite certain that I had passed from within the orbit of her vision. The things which she saw were of another world—somehow it seemed sacrilege on my part to dream of peering even into the dimmest corner of it. So I looked away, and I could never tell altogether what effect my words had had upon her. For when I looked up, she was gone! ...



CHAPTER XIII

THE SHADOW DEEPENS

"Mr. Courage!"

I looked up quickly. She was within a few feet of me, although I had not heard even the rustling of her gown. The dog, with his apple-green bow now put to rights, was sitting upon her shoulder. By the side of his uncanny features, it seemed to me that I had never sufficiently appreciated the fresh girlishness, the almost ingenuous beauty of her own face. She wore a plain, white, linen gown, and a magnificent blossom of scarlet geraniums in her bosom.

"Miss Van Hoyt!" I exclaimed.

She nodded, but glanced warningly at the window.

"They must not hear," she said softly. "Remember your cousin introduced you to me at Lord's—our only meeting."

My heart sank. I hated all this incomprehensible secrecy; a moment before she had seemed so different.

"Come out into the other room," she said. "They cannot hear us from there." We passed into the drawing-room. An uncomfortable thought struck me.

"You were here all the time!" I exclaimed.

"Certainly! I wanted to hear you and Lady Dennisford converse!"

"Eavesdropping, in fact," I remarked savagely.

"Precisely!" she agreed.

We were silent for a moment. Her eyes were full of mild amusement.

"I thought," she said demurely, "that you would be glad to see me."

"Glad! of course I am glad," I answered. "I'm such a poor fool that I can't help it. Why did you leave me in London without a word?"

"Why on earth not!" she exclaimed, smiling. "Besides, I knew that I should see you here very soon. I had to act quickly too! They did not want"—she glanced towards the terrace—"him to leave London."

"It was you, then," I remarked, "who had him sent down to my place?"

She nodded.

"It was not easy," she said. "If they had known that you were going to have a doctor to visit him, it would have been impossible."

"He has been poisoned, I suppose?" I said calmly.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He will die, and die very soon," she answered. "That is certain. But I think you will find no doctor here who will have anything to say about poison."

She moved a little nearer to me. The overhanging bunch of scarlet geraniums from her waistband brushed against my coat; the beady black eyes of the dog upon her shoulder were fixed steadily upon me.

"Has he said anything?" she murmured.

"Not yet," I answered.

"He will do so," she declared confidently, "and before long. That is why I am here. You must come to me the moment—the very moment you know! You understand that?"

"Yes!" I answered, a little discontentedly, "I understand!"

Her expression suddenly changed. A frown darkened her face.

"Perhaps," she said, "you have already repented."

"Repented of what?" I asked quickly.

"That you have moved a little out of the rut, that you have taken a hand, even if it is a dummy's hand, in the game of life! Do you wish to draw back?"

"No!" I answered.

"Do you wish to be relieved of Leslie Guest? I could arrange it; it would be a matter of a few hours only."

"No!" I answered again. "I wish for one thing only!"

"And that?"

"You know!" I declared.

She turned a little way from me.

"I am not a magician," she declared.

"And yet you know," I answered. "A woman always does! I have no idea what these ties are, which seem to bind you to a life of mystery and double-dealing, but I should like to cut them loose. You have talked to me of ambition, of a larger life, where excitement and tragedy walk hand in hand! I should like to sweep all that away. I should like to convert you to my point of view."

She looked at me curiously. Never in my experience of her sex had I seen any one who varied so quickly in appearance, who seemed to pass with such effortless facility from the girl with the Madonna-like face and dreamy eyes, to the thoughtful and scheming woman of the world. Her rapid changes were a torture to me! I felt the elusiveness of her attitude.

"You would like me," she said scornfully, "to lead your village life, to watch the seasons pass from behind your windows. I was not born for that sort of thing! The thirst for life was in my veins from the nursery. You and I are as far apart as the North Star and the unknown land over which it watches! Sin itself would be less terrible to me than the indolence of such a life!"

"You have never tried it," I remarked.

"Nor shall I ever," she answered, "unless—"

"Unless what?"

She raised her eyebrows and flashed a sudden strange look upon me. There was mockery in it, subtlety, and a certain uneasiness which pleased me most. After all, she was like a beautiful wild young creature. The ways of her life were not yet wholly decreed.

"Unless the great magician comes and waves his wand," she declared. "The magic may fall upon my eyes, you know, and I may see new things."

I touched her hand for a moment. The dog's face was wrinkled like a monkey's, he growled, and his narrow red tongue shot out threateningly.

"It is that," I murmured, "which I shall pray for!"

She raised her head suddenly. We heard Lady Dennisford moving upon the terrace. She leaned over towards me.

"Leslie Guest," she whispered, "will not live for more than forty-eight hours. Make him tell you—to-night! To-morrow may be too late. Do you hear?—to-night!"

I was absolutely tongue-tied. Wherever else she failed, she was certainly a superb actress. A moment ago, she had been keeping my earnestness at bay with bantering words; then, at the sound of Lady Dennisford's approach, had come those few dramatic words; and now, at her entrance, I felt at once that I was the casual guest, being entertained as a matter of duty during my hostess' absence.

"I told you, didn't I, that I had met Mr. Courage in town?" she remarked, looking up. "After all, it is such a small world, isn't it?"

Lady Dennisford was scarcely in a condition to be observant. I believe that if we had been sitting hand in hand, she would scarcely have noticed the fact. She was very pale, and her eyes were exceedingly bright. She passed half-way through the room without even seeming to realize our presence. Then she stopped suddenly and addressed me.

"I am ordering a pony-cart," she said, "to take Mr. Guest back. He seems over-fatigued."

"Very thoughtful of you, Lady Dennisford," I answered. "We certainly did not mean to walk so far when we came out into the park."

A servant entered the room. She gave him some orders, and then, with a word of excuse to Adele, she came over to my side.

"Hardross," she said softly, "what is the matter with him?"

"General breakdown," I answered; "I do not know of anything else."

"What does the doctor say?"

"The London doctor," I admitted, "gave little hope. Rust cannot discover that anything much is the matter with him."

"You yourself—what do you think?"

I hesitated. Her fingers gripped my arm.

"I think that he is very ill," I answered.

"Dying?"

"I should not be surprised."

She looked back towards the terrace. Her eyes were full of tears.

"Do what you can for him," she said softly. "He was once a great friend of mine. He was different then! Will you go out to him now? I promised to send you."

Guest was sitting upon the terrace, exactly as I had left him. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy, his lips were slightly curled in a meditative smile. There was a distinct change in his appearance. His expression was more peaceful, the slight restlessness had disappeared from his manner. But he had never looked to me more like a dying man.

"Lady Dennisford sent me out," I remarked, "She has ordered a pony-cart to take us home."

He nodded.

"I am quite ready," he said.

He tried to rise, but the effort seemed too much for him. I hastened to his aid, or I think that he would have fallen. He leaned on my arm heavily as we passed on our way to the avenue, where a carriage was already awaiting us.

"I was once," he remarked, in an ordinary conversational tone, "engaged to be married to Lady Dennisford."

"There was no—disagreement between you?" I asked.

"None that has not been healed," he answered softly.

"You would consider her to-day as a friend—not a likely enemy?" I asked.

He looked at me curiously.

"She is my friend," he answered softly. "Of that there is no doubt at all. Why do you ask?"

"Because," I answered, "for your friend, she has a strange guest."

"Whom do you mean?" he asked.

"Mademoiselle, and her maid—and poodle," I answered. "They are all here!"

I felt him shiver, for he was leaning heavily upon me. Nevertheless, he answered me with confidence.

"It is the gathering of the jackals," he muttered—"the jackals who are going to be disappointed. But you may be sure of one thing, my friend. The young lady is here as an ordinary guest! That was a matter very easy to arrange. There is a great social backing behind her. She can come and go where she pleases. But Lady Dennisford's knowledge of her is wholly innocent."

We drove back almost in silence. Rust was waiting for us when we arrived, and he eyed his patient curiously, and hurried him off to the house. They were alone together for some time, and when he came out his face was very grave. He came out into the garden in search of me!

"Courage," he said, "I wish to heavens I had never seen your guest!"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Have you been quarrelling?"

"Quarrelling, no! One doesn't quarrel with a dying man," he answered.

"A dying man!" I repeated.

He nodded.

"He was on the verge of a collapse just now," he said. "I honestly fear that he will not live many more hours. Yet, though I could fill in his death certificate plausibly enough, if you were to ask me honestly to-day what was the matter with him, I could not tell you. Do you mind if I wire for a friend of mine to come down and see him?"

"By all means," I answered; "you mean a specialist, I suppose?"

"Yes!"

"On the heart?" I asked.

"No! a toxicologist!" Rust remarked dryly.

I glanced into his face. He was in deadly earnest.

"You believe—"

"What the devil is one to believe?" the doctor exclaimed irritably. "The man is sound, but he is dying. If I told you that I understood his symptoms, I should be a liar. I can think only of one thing. You yourself gave me the idea."

"Wire by all means," I said.

"I shall go to the village," Rust said, "and return immediately. Don't let him be left alone. He has a draught to take in case of necessity."

I turned back to the house with a sigh. I am afraid that I had as little faith in medicine as Guest himself.



CHAPTER XIV

GATHERING JACKALS

Guest for the remainder of the morning seemed to have fallen into a sort of stupor. He declined to sit in the garden or come down to lunch. When I went up to his room, he was lying upon a couch, half undressed, and with a dressing-gown wrapped around him. He opened his eyes when I came in, but waved me away.

"I am thinking," he said. "Don't interrupt me; I want to be alone for an hour or so."

"But you must have something to eat," I insisted. "You will lose your strength if you don't."

"Quite right," he admitted. "Send me up some soup, and let me have pencil and paper."

He was supplied with both. When I went up an hour later, he was smoking a cigarette and writing.

"I do not wish," he said, "to be worried with any more doctors. It is only a farce, and I have little time to spare."

"Nonsense!" I answered. "Rust declares that there is very little the matter with you. He has sent for a friend to come and have a look at you."

A little gesture of impatience escaped him.

"My dear Courage," he said, "I am obliged to you for all this care; but I am quite sure that, in your inner consciousness, you realize as I do that it is sheer waste of time."

He drew his dressing-gown a little closer around him. The hollows under his eyes seemed to have grown deeper since the morning.

"I am fairly run to earth," he continued. "Even these few hours of life I owe to my enemies. They hope to profit by them, of course. If you are the man I think you are, they will be mistaken. But don't waste my time with doctors."

He began to write again. I made some perfunctory remark which he entirely ignored. Just then I was called away. He watched my departure with obvious relief.

I was told that a stranger was waiting to see me in the library. My first thought was of the doctor. When I arrived there, I found a young man whose face was familiar, but whom I could not at once place. Then, like a flash, I remembered. It was the younger of the two men who had forced their way into my room at the Hotel Universal.

Now I was in no very good humor for dealing with these gentry. I had a distinct inclination to take him by the collar of the coat and throw him out. I fancy that he divined from my face how I was feeling, for he began hastily to explain his presence.

"I am very sorry to be an intruder, Mr. Courage," he said in his slow, precise English. "I had no wish to come at all. We were willing to leave you undisturbed. But we do not understand why you have sent for a doctor from London—and especially Professor Kauppmann!"

I looked at him deliberately. He was wearing English clothes—a dark tweed suit, ill-cut, and apparently ready-made; but the foreigner was written large all over him, from the tie of his bow to his narrow patent boots. His eyes were fixed anxiously upon me—large black eyes with long, feminine eyelashes. I think that if he had not been under the shelter of my own roof, I must have laid violent hands upon him.

"Why the devil should you understand?" I exclaimed. "Mr. Guest is my visitor, and if I choose to send for a doctor to see him, it is my business and nobody else's. If you have come here with any idea of bullying me, I am afraid you have wasted your time."

"You have evidently," he answered, "not troubled yourself to understand the situation! Mr. Guest is our prisoner!"

"Your what?" I exclaimed.

"Our prisoner," the young man answered. "Let me ask you this! Has Mr. Guest himself encouraged you in your attempt to interfere between him and his inevitable fate? No! I am sure that he has not! He accepts what he knows must happen! A few days more or less of life—what do they matter?"

"You make me feel inclined," I said grimly, "to test your theory."

The young man stepped back. My fingers were itching to take him by the throat, and I think that he read the desire in my face.

"Will you allow me to see Mr. Guest?" he asked.

"No! I'm d——d if I will," I answered. "I shall give you," I added, with my hand upon the bell, "exactly two minutes to leave this house."

The young man smiled superciliously, but he picked up his hat.

"I suppose, Mr. Courage, I must not blame you," he remarked, "You have all the characteristics of your country-people. You meet a delicate situation with the tactics of a bull!"

I laid my hand gently, but firmly upon his shoulder. We were half-way down the hall now, and the front door was wide open. I longed to throw him out, but I restrained myself. He was perfectly conscious, I am sure, of my inclination, but he showed no signs of uneasiness.

"I admit," I said calmly, "that you seem, all of you, to be engaged in proceedings of an extraordinary nature, which I do not in the least understand. But under my own roof, at any rate, I am master. I will not tolerate any interference with my guests; and as for Mr. Stanley from Liverpool and you, whatever you may call yourself, I will not have you near the place! You see my lodge gates," I added, pointing down the avenue, "I shall stand here until you have passed through them. If you come again, you will meet with a different reception!"

The young man laughed unpleasantly.

"Never fear, Mr. Courage," he answered. "Always we try first the simple means. If they should fail, we have many surer ways of gaining our ends. Au revoir!"

He left me and walked briskly off down the avenue. I fetched a pair of field-glasses, and watched him until he reached the lodge gates. A few moments later I saw him climb into a motor car, and vanish in a cloud of dust....

Later in the afternoon a victoria drew up before my front door just as I was starting for the village. Lady Dennisford leaned forward as I approached. She was closely veiled, but her voice shook with anxiety.

"How is he?" she asked.

"It is hard to say," I answered. "He has been writing for the last three hours. I was just going down to see if Rust has heard from the London man he wired for."

"Do you know why," she whispered, "he is so sure that he is going to die?"

I hesitated for a moment.

"He seems to imagine," I said, "that he has some enemies."

She sighed.

"I am afraid," she said, "that it is no imagination."

I looked at her in surprise.

"He has told me, perhaps," she said, a little hastily, "more than he has told you, and perhaps I am in a better position to understand. Mr. Courage, I wonder whether it would be possible for me to have an interview with any one of these men who are watching him."

"If you had been here a few hours ago," I said, "it would have been very possible indeed. One of them was here."

"What did he want?" she asked sharply.

"To see Mr. Guest, for one thing!"

"Did you allow it?"

"No! Guest is writing secrets with a loaded revolver by his side. He certainly does not want to see any of that crew."

"Oh! he is mad," she murmured. "Why should he not buy his life? What else is there that counts?"

"There are two to a bargain," I answered. "I do not think that he has value to give."

"Oh! he has," she answered, "if only he would be reasonable."

We were silent for a moment. In the distance, coming up the avenue, was the figure of a man. I watched him with curiosity. Finally I pointed him out to Lady Dennisford.

"Do you see this man coming up to the house?" I said—"a sleek, middle-aged man smoking a cigar?"

"I see him," she answered.

"What do you think he looks like?" I asked.

"A prosperous tradesman," she answered. "A friend of your bailiff's, perhaps."

"He calls himself Mr. Stanley from Liverpool," I answered, "and you can bargain with him for Guest's life."

"He is one of them!" she exclaimed.

"He is," I answered grimly, for I had good reason to know it.

She got out of the carriage at once.

"I am going to meet him," she said. "No! please let me go alone," she added, as I prepared to accompany her. "Afterwards we may need you."

I sent her carriage round to the stables, and I stood upon my steps watching her. Slim and elegant, she walked with swift level footsteps towards the approaching figure. I saw him shade his eyes with his hand as she approached; when she was within a few yards of him he took his cigar from his mouth and raised his hat. They stood for a moment or two talking; then Lady Dennisford turned, and they both came slowly towards the house. As they drew near me, she came on rapidly ahead.

"He is willing," she declared. "He will make terms. Where can we talk alone, we three?"

I led the way to my study. Mr. Stanley greeted me affably and with a commendable assumption of bluff respect.

"Fine place of yours, Mr. Courage," he declared. "Very fine place indeed. No wonder you prefer a country life. Finest thing in the world."

I made a pretence of answering him. But when we were in the study and the door was closed behind us, I felt that there was no longer any need to mince words.

"Mr. Stanley," I said, "Lady Dennisford says that you are willing to abandon your persecution of my guest for a consideration."

He smiled upon us slowly.

"Persecution," he remarked thoughtfully, "well, it is a harmless word. Mind, I admit nothing. But I am willing to hear what you have to say."

"This first, then," I declared. "Will you tell me why, as a magistrate of this county, I should not be justified in signing a warrant for your apprehension?"

"On what charge?" he asked.

"Conspiracy to murder," I answered.

He seemed to consider the suggestion with perfect seriousness.

"Yes!" he admitted, "it could be done. Putting myself in your place I should even imagine that it might be the most obvious course. But have you considered what the probable result would be?"

"It would keep you out of mischief for a time, at any rate."

"Not for a day," he answered softly. "In the first place, the slenderness of your evidence, which, by the by, when the affair came to trial would disappear altogether, would necessitate bail; and, in the second, were I to be swept off the face of the earth, there are thousands ready to take my place. Besides, no man likes to make himself the laughing stock of his friends and the press; and, forgive me, Mr. Courage, if I remind you that that is precisely what would happen in your case."

"Suppose, for a moment, then," said, "that I abandon that possibility. Make your own proposals. I do not know who you are or what you stand for. I do not know whether this is an affair of private vengeance, or whether you stand for others. That poor fellow upstairs cannot have a long life before him in any case. What is there we can offer you to leave him in peace?"

"You two—nothing," Mr. Stanley said gravely. "He himself can buy his life from us, if he wills."

"Then can I—or Lady Dennisford here," I asked, "be your ambassador? Can we tell him your terms?"

Mr. Stanley shook his head.

"It is impossible," he said. "Matters would have to be discussed between us which may not even be mentioned before any other person."

"You mean that you would have to see him alone?"

"Precisely!"

I turned to Lady Dennisford.

"He would never consent!" I declared.

"You must make him," she answered. "Mr. Courage!"

"Lady Dennisford!"

"Let me speak to you alone for a moment," she begged, laying her hand upon my arm. "Mr. Stanley will excuse us, I am sure."

"By all means," he declared, selecting an easy-chair.

"You will await us here?" I asked.

"Certainly!"

"On parole?"

"On parole, if you will give me a cigar."

I rang the bell for refreshments. Then Lady Dennisford and I left the room together.



CHAPTER XV

A DYING MAN

I had known Lady Dennisford for a good many years in a neighborly sort of way; but the woman who stood before me in the small sitting-room to which I had led her was a stranger to me. She had raised her veil; she was as pale as a woman may be, and her mouth, usually so firm and uncompromising, was now relaxed and tremulous. Before she spoke, I knew that tragedy was in the room with me. She tried to speak twice before the words came.

"Mr. Courage," she said, "may I speak to you as a friend?"

"Most certainly you can, Lady Dennisford," I answered.

I said and I meant it, for I was exceedingly sorry for her.

"Once I was to have married him," she said, "and I have cared for no one else all my life. There was a great scandal—a political scandal—and it was he upon whom the burden fell. His lips were sealed. I did not understand then, but I understand now. I sent him away! I joined with the others who persecuted him. And all the time—all the time he was innocent!"

Her last words were almost a wail. I was relieved to see that the tears were in her eyes at last.

"It was very hard fortune," I said awkwardly.

"His life has been one long exile," she said. "He has never married; he has been dead to the world for many years. His name, of course, is not Leslie Guest! If I dared tell you, you would understand I want him—oh! I want him so much to have a few years of happiness."

"What can we do, Lady Dennisford?" I asked earnestly.

"Take me up to him. Leave me with him alone."

I opened the door.

"At once!" I said.

He was still writing. The air of the room was thick with cigarette smoke. I opened the door gently, and Lady Dennisford glided past me. I myself hastened downstairs.

Mr. Stanley was apparently very comfortable. He was smoking one of my best cigars, and a whisky and soda stood at his elbow. He looked up from behind the Times as I entered.

"Lady Dennisford is with him," I said. "She will endeavor to persuade him to see you."

"Excellent!" he remarked. "Pray do not trouble to stay with me, if you have other matters to attend to. I have both time and patience to spare."

I went out into the garden. I began to feel the need of being alone. Events had marched rapidly with me during the last few hours and I was not used to such eruptions in my quiet life. I gave a few orders to my bailiff and gamekeeper, who were waiting to see me. I little guessed then how unimportant to me would be the prospects of the coming sport. It must have been nearly an hour before a servant found me, and announced that my guest desired to see me in his room. I hastened there at once.

Lady Dennisford was sitting at the table by Guest's side. She looked up as I entered, and I saw that the shadows lay deeper still upon her face.

"He chooses death!" she said simply.

He leaned over and touched her hand. His tone and manner had softened wonderfully.

"Eleanor," he said earnestly, "it is not I who choose. There is no choice! Your friend downstairs would say, 'Tell me all that you know of a certain matter, and the sentence which has been passed upon you shall be held over.' But when I had told him, when he knew everything, no agreement, no promise, could possibly be binding. I could not myself expect it. In his place I should make very sure that in a matter of hours I was a dead man. I say that myself, whose whole life has been sacrificed to a matter in which honor was largely concerned."

Lady Dennisford began to weep softly. He laid his hand upon hers.

"Are you sure, Mr. Guest," I said, "that you are not exaggerating the importance of this secret knowledge of yours? I dare say that Mr. Stanley, like every other man, has his price. If money—"

He interrupted me with a slight gesture of impatience.

"My young friend," he said, "I am not a poor man. Mr. Stanley is not to be dealt with as a single individual. He represents a system. I do not blame you for not being able to grasp these things. There is scarcely one Englishman in a thousand who would. I think that you have shown a great amount of trust as it is. Believe me now when I tell you that there are only two things in the world which can be done for me. The first is that you leave me a few minutes to say good-bye to Lady Dennisford; and the second that you keep every one away from me for one hour, while I Finish—these documents."

I left them alone! There was nothing else which I could do, and I waited in the hall below for Lady Dennisford.

When she came, she walked like a woman in a dream. Her veil was close drawn, and I could not see her face; but I was very sure that she had been weeping. I had already ordered her carriage round, and she took her place in it without a word.

I went back to the man whom I had left in the library.

He had lighted a fresh cigar, and was showing no signs of impatience.

"Our friend," I said, "has asked for one hour for consideration. If you will allow me, I should be pleased to show you the gardens and stables."

He accepted my offer at once, and proved himself an intelligent sightseer. He seemed to know a little about everything, including horses. I took him on to the orchid-houses, and it was quite an hour and a half before we returned to the house. I left him once more in the library, and I was on my way upstairs, when I came face to face with Rust and another man on their way down. For a moment I was speechless.

"Professor Kauppmann was unfortunately indisposed," Rust explained; "but he has sent this gentleman down—Dr. Kretznow, Mr. Courage. Curiously enough, Dr. Kretznow has already been called in to attend our friend upstairs."

"Mr. Courage no doubt remembers me," the newcomer remarked. "I am sorry to find our patient no better."

I looked him steadily in the face.

"You think that he will die?" I asked.

"I must admit," the doctor answered, "that I think he has very little chance of recovery. His constitution has gone. He has no recuperative powers."

Rust drew me a little on one side.

"You will be relieved to hear," he said, "that Dr. Kretznow considers his state quite a natural one. He does not encourage in any way the suspicions which, I must admit, I had formed."

"Indeed!" I answered.

"We are going to try an altogether new treatment," Rust continued, as we stood together upon the landing. "I think perhaps you ought to know, however, that our friend here gives very little hope."

I nodded.

"I shall leave you to entertain Dr. Kretznow," I said, "for a few minutes. I want to see Mr. Guest!"

I found him anxiously awaiting me. He had ceased writing but he held a roll of papers in his hand, and there was an ominous bulge in the pocket of his dressing-gown. He had more color than I had yet seen him with, and his eyes were unusually bright.

"For Heaven's sake come in, Courage, and close the door," he said irritably. "You see the result of your little doctor meddling with things he does not understand. I could have told you that no one would be allowed to enter these doors who might possibly give them away."

"We sent for Kauppmann," I explained.

"Of course! You will not realize what you are up against. You might as well have sent for the Angel Gabriel. Now will you do exactly as I ask you?"

"Go on," I said.

"Ring for your man and let him sit in the room with me. Go downstairs and get rid of those doctors. Then come up yourself, and be prepared to spend at least three hours here."

I obeyed him. I kept silent as to the fact that Stanley was in the house. I thought that he was already sufficiently excited. Downstairs I found that Dr. Kretznow was on the eve of departure. I did not seek to detain him for a moment. Rust, I think, wondered a little at my apparent lack of courtesy; but I almost bundled them out of the house.

He offered me his hand as he climbed up into the dog-cart, which I pretended, however, not to see.

"Mind, I give you very little hope, Mr. Courage," he said. "I studied the case very seriously in London, and I perceived symptoms which our friend here has not yet had the opportunity of observing. My own opinion is that his time is short."

"I am sorry to hear you say so, doctor," I answered; "for I quite believe that you are in a position to know."

He blinked at me for a moment from behind his thick spectacles, and I fancied that he was going to say something more. Apparently, however, he changed his mind, and the carriage drove off. I made my way at once into the library. Mr. Stanley was still awaiting me.

"My mission," I announced, "has been a failure. He declines even to discuss the matter."

Mr. Stanley knocked the ash off his cigar and rose to his feet. His face showed neither disappointment nor surprise.

"The lady, I am afraid," he remarked, "will be sorry."

"It will be a great blow to her," I answered, "if he should die!"

Mr. Stanley shrugged his shoulders.

"He will die, and very soon," he declared. "You and I know that very well. You are a young man, Mr. Courage," he added very slowly, and with his eyes fixed intently upon me. "You have a beautiful home and a simple, useful life—a long one, I trust—before you! Mr. Guest is not by any means old, but he made enemies! It is never wise to make enemies."

"Is this a warning?" I asked.

"Accept it as one, if a warning is necessary," he answered. "Take my advice. If Leslie Guest, or the man who is dying upstairs, has a legacy to leave, let him choose another legatee! There is death in that legacy for you!"

"Death comes to all of us," I answered. "We must take our risks."

He picked up his hat.

"Number 317, was it not?" he repeated thoughtfully, "an unlucky number for you, I fear! ... By the bye, Mademoiselle is in the neighborhood."

"What of it?" I asked.

He looked at me long and curiously. Then he sighed and lit still another of my finest Havanas as he prepared to depart.

"You will be better off," he said, "without that legacy!"



CHAPTER XVI

I TAKE UP MY LEGACY

Towards dawn I lit another lamp in my study and chanced to catch a glimpse of my face in a small mirror which stood upon my writing-table. Almost involuntarily I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to find another man there. It was a moment's madness, but as a matter of fact I did not recognize myself. It seemed to me that the change in the man upstairs, who had passed from the world of living things with breath in his body and life in his brain to the cold negation of death, was a change no greater than had come to me. For I was passing, as I knew very well, from behind the fences of my somewhat narrow but well-contained life into the great world of tragical happenings, where life and death are but small things, and one's self but a pawn in the great game. This, because I believed, because I had accepted the trust of the man who, a few hours ago, had closed his eyes with his hand in mine, and the faint welcoming smile upon his lips of a brave but weary man, who finds nothing terrible in death.

There was something almost fearful in a change so absolute and vital as that which had come over my life. I realized this as I allowed myself a few moments' rest, and threw myself upon the sofa. The old outlook, the old ideas had been torn up by the root. The things which had seemed to be of life itself only a few hours ago seemed now to have lapsed into the insignificance of trifles. I thought of myself and my old life with the tolerance of one who watches a child at play. Sport and all its kindred delights—the whole glorification of the physical life—I viewed as a Stock Exchange man might view the gambling for marbles of his youth. It was incredible that I had ever even fancied myself content. My brain was still in a whirl, but it seemed to me that I was already conscious of new powers. My thoughts travelled more quickly, I felt a greater alertness of brain, a swifter rush of ideas. But it seemed to me, also, that something had gone, that never again would I find my way lie through the rose gardens of life.

I must have dozed for a time upon the sofa, and was awakened by a soft tapping upon the low, old-fashioned windows, which opened upon the terrace. I sprang up, and, for a moment, it seemed to me that I must be dreaming. It was Adele who stood there, all in white, with sunlight around her.... I gasped for a moment, and then recovered myself. It was Adele sure enough, in a white linen riding habit, and morning had come while I slept. But I knew then that one link at least remained with the old life.

She tapped upon the window-pane a little imperiously, and I threw open the sash. Her eyes were fixed upon my face. I think that she, too, saw the change. With the opening of the window came a rush of sweet fresh air. She stepped into the room.

"Don't look at me as though I were something unreal!" she exclaimed. "I told them that I was fond of early morning rides, and I saw your light burning here from the park. Tell me—is he worse?"

I was suddenly calm. I realized that this was the beginning.

"He is dead," I answered. "He died about midnight."

There was a momentary horror in her face, for which I was grateful—I scarcely knew why.

"Dead," she repeated softly, "so soon!"

She looked around the room and back at me.

"Turn out the lamps," she said. "This light is ghastly."

There was little more color in her face than mine. Even the sunlight seemed cold and cheerless. She came a little nearer to me.

"He was conscious—at the end?"

"Yes!" I answered.

Her breath seemed to be coming a little faster. Her eyes were full of eager questioning.

"You were with him?"

"Yes!"

Again there was a pause. I was steadfastly silent.

"Don't keep me in suspense," she muttered. "He told you?"

"Yes!" I answered, "he told me—certain things."

She drew a long breath of relief. I could see that she was trembling all over. She sank into a chair.

"I felt that he would," she declared. "I knew that he could not carry his secret to the grave. Is the door locked?"

"Yes!" I answered. "The door is locked."

She was still pale, but her eyes were burning.

"Go on!" she said; "don't lose a moment. I am waiting."

"For what?" I asked calmly.

"To hear everything," she answered quickly.

"I have nothing to tell you," I said.

She stamped her foot with the petulance of a spoilt child.

"Oh! how dense you are!" she exclaimed. "Repeat to me exactly what he said to you—now, before you forget a single word!"

"I cannot do that," I said.

She leaned a little forward in her chair. Even then she did not understand.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean that the things which he told me with his last breath were for my own ear and my own knowledge alone," I answered. "I cannot share that knowledge even with you."

It seemed to me that there was something unreal, almost hideous, about the silence which followed. Through the open window there drifted into the room the early morning sounds of an awakening world—the whistling of birds in the shrubberies and upon the lawn, the more distant whir of a reaping machine at work in the cornfields. But between us—silence. I could not move my eyes from her face. There was no anger there, only a slowly dawning horror. She seemed to be looking upon me as a man doomed. I lit a match, and, taking some papers from my pocket, I slowly destroyed them.

"There go the last records," I said, blowing the ashes away, "I have learnt them by heart."

"I never thought of this," she murmured. "I never thought that you might be—oh! you cannot understand," she broke off. "You cannot know what you are doing."

"I have an idea," I answered grimly. "He warned me."

"Yet you cannot understand," she persisted. "Do you know that, even in saying this much to me, you are signing your death-warrant—that from this moment your life will not be safe for a single moment?"

"I know that there is danger," I answered; "but I am not an easy person to kill. I have had narrow escapes before, and escaped without a scratch."

She rose to her feet.

"If only I could make you understand," she muttered.

"Leslie Guest did his best," I answered. "He told me what the last few years of his life had been. I know that I have to face great odds. I can but do my best. We only die once."

Then she came swiftly over to me and laid her hands upon my shoulders. There was now something more human in her face. Her eyes seemed to plead with mine, and the joy of her near presence was a very real and subtle thing. I felt my eyes kindle and my heart beat fast. There was no other danger to be compared with this.

"I did not dream that this might happen," she said softly. "I meant to use you as a tool, I even thought that you had consented. Oh! I am sorry. I shall be sorry all my life that I asked you to bring him here. Will you listen to me for a moment?"

"I am listening all the time," I answered, taking one of her hands in mine.

"Have you realized what all this means?" she continued. "Are you prepared to give up your life here, your sports, your beautiful home, to feel that you have spies and enemies on every side, working always in the dark against you? The man who lies dead upstairs knew every move of the game—yet you see what has happened to him. How can you hope to succeed when he failed? Forget last night, my friend! I Believe that it was a nightmare, and I, too, will forget what you have told me. Come, it is not too late. We will say that he died suddenly in a stupor, and that, whatever his secrets were, he carried them with him. Is it agreed?"

I shook my head.

"One cannot break faith with the dead," I answered. "That is amongst the impossible things. Let us speak no more of it."

She leaned towards me. Her breath was upon my cheek, and her eyes shone into mine.

"Men have done more than this," she murmured, "when a woman has pleaded—and—it is for your own sake. Think! Must I count you amongst my enemies?"

"God only knows why you should," I answered. "I am no judge of others; but if I betrayed the trust of a dead man, even for the sake of the woman I loved, I should put a bullet in my brain sooner or later. What I cannot understand, dear, is why you are not on my side. You are practically an Englishwoman. What have you to do with Leslie Guest's enemies?"

She turned away sadly.

"There are some things," she said, "which cannot be altered. You and I are on opposite sides. We may as well say good-bye. We shall never meet again like this."

"I cannot believe it," I answered. "There are many things which seem dark enough in the future to me, but I shall never believe that this is our good-bye."

It seemed to me strange afterwards, that of the immediate future neither of us spoke. I did not even ask her how long she was going to stay with Lady Dennisford; she did not speak to me of my plans. As she had come, so she went, silently and unexpectedly. She would not even let me follow her out onto the terrace; from the window I watched her mount her horse and ride away. Only just before she went she had looked back.

"I must see you again," she said. "You, too, must have time to think. I am going to forget this morning, I am going to forget that I have seen you. You, too, must do the same!"

Forget! She asked a hard thing.



CHAPTER XVII

NAGASKI'S INSTINCT

I was busy all the morning sending and receiving telegrams, and making certain plans on my own account. Rust was with me a good deal of the time; but the visitor whose coming I was expecting every minute did not arrive till early in the afternoon. I sent out word to Mr. Stanley that I was exceedingly busy, and should be glad to be excused; but, as I had confidently expected, he was insistent. In about a quarter of an hour I received him in the library.

He sank softly into the chair towards which I had pointed. For a moment he sat and blinked at me behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

"So our friend," he murmured, "has passed away! It is very sad—very sad indeed."

I leaned back in my chair and regarded him steadfastly.

"Mr. Stanley," I said, "you did not come here to express your sympathy with the man whom you have done your best, if not to kill, at least to frighten to death. Ask me all the questions you want to—say anything you think necessary. Only finish it up. When you leave this room, let me feel that circumstances will not require any further meeting between us."

My words seemed to afford Mr. Stanley matter for thought. His brows were slightly puckered. I knew that from behind his glasses I was being subjected to a very keen examination.

"I only trust, Mr. Courage,"' he said softly, "that the wish you have expressed may become a possibility. I myself have always regretted your intervention in this affair. You are, if you will forgive my saying so, in strange waters."

"I don't know about that," I answered curtly. "I don't see now how I could have done other than I have done. But anyhow, I'm sick of it. I don't want to seem discourteous, but if you could manage to say to me, in the course of a quarter of an hour, all that you have to say, and ask all the questions you want to, I should be glad to have done with the whole business, once and for all!"

My visitor nodded thoughtfully.

"Very good, Mr. Courage," he said. "I will endeavor to imitate your frankness. Is there to be a post-mortem?"

"There is not," I answered. "Dr. Rust does not consider it necessary, and I am forced to confess that I cannot see anything to be gained by it. You and your friends may have been responsible for his death. I cannot say! At any rate, I am sure that we should never be able to fix the guilt in the proper quarter."

Mr. Stanley shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"I must congratulate you upon your common sense, Mr. Courage," he said. "I pass on now to a more important question. Did our friend, before he died, impart to you any of the hallucinations under which he suffered? Are you his legatee?"

"I am not," I answered. "I believe that he meant me to be; but his death, when it came, was quite sudden. All the secret information I had from him was his name, and the address of his lawyers."

There was a short silence. I was able to bear with perfect calmness the keen scrutiny to which my visitor was subjecting me.

"I congratulate you heartily, Mr. Courage," he said at last. "Mr. Guest's story, if he had told it to you, would have been a mixture of stolen facts and hallucinations, which might have influenced your life very forcibly for evil. I wished for his death! I admit it freely. But I wished it for this reason: because in all Europe yesterday, there did not breathe a more dangerous man than the man who called himself Leslie Guest."

"Well, he has gone," I said, "and his life, so far as I know of it, has been a very sad one. I have already explained to you my wishes in the matter. I want to forget as speedily as possible the events of the last eight days."

"I should like," Mr. Stanley said, "to see him."

"I am sorry," I answered, "but that is impossible. The nurses are busy in the room now, and apart from that, the dead, at least, should have peace from their enemies. Of one thing I can assure you. Every scrap of paper he had with him is burnt. There is nothing about him or the room which could be of interest to you. I have sent for his lawyer, and am making arrangements for the funeral. There is nothing more to be said or done, except to say good afternoon to you, Mr. Stanley,"

He rose slowly up from his chair.

"You are a little precipitate, Mr. Courage," he said, "but I do not know that I can blame you. Do you object to telling me when the funeral will be?"

"I am not myself informed, at present," I answered. "I am waiting for the arrival of the lawyer."

I had risen to my feet, and was standing with the handle of the door in my hand. Mr. Stanley took the hint, yet I fancied that he departed unwillingly.

"I should like," he admitted, "to have seen—him, and also the lawyer."

"Then you can find another opportunity," I answered stiffly. "Mr. Guest's friends would receive every consideration from me. His enemies, I must admit, I cannot, under the circumstances, see the back of too quickly."

Mr. Stanley had no alternative but to depart, which he did with as good a grace as possible. I was glad to be alone for a few minutes. My ordinary share of the vices of life, both great and small, I was, without a doubt, possessed of. But I had never been a liar. I had never looked a man in the face and made statements which I had known at the time were absolutely and entirely false. This was my first essay in a new role.

My next visitor was a very different sort of person, a fair, florid little man, with easy, courteous manners, and dressed in deep mourning. He introduced himself as Mr. Raynes, of Raynes and Bishop, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn, and alluded to the telegram which I had sent him earlier in the morning.

"May I inquire," he asked, after we had exchanged a few commonplaces, "if you are aware that Mr. Leslie Guest was an assumed name of the deceased?"

"I was in his confidence towards the last," I answered. "He told me a good deal of his history."

The lawyer nodded sympathetically.

"A very sad one, I fear you found it," he remarked.

"Very sad indeed," I assented.

"I have here," he continued, "Lord Leslie's will, and instructions as to his burial. I presume you would like me to take entire charge of all the arrangements?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"His Lordship wished to be buried very quietly in the nearest churchyard to the place where he died," the lawyer continued. "I presume that can be arranged."

"Quite easily," I answered. "The clergyman is waiting to see you now; if you like I will take you to him."

In the hall we met Lady Dennisford. She was plainly dressed in black, and she carried a great bunch of white roses. I introduced Mr. Raynes to the vicar, and hurried back to her.

"You would like to see him?" I asked.

She nodded, and I led the way upstairs. I opened the door and closed it again softly, leaving them alone....

I descended into the hall, and there upon the steps, looking at me with black, beady eyes, deep set in his wrinkled face, was my friend, or rather my enemy, Nagaski. He eyed my approach with gloomy disfavor. He opened his mouth in a seeming yawn, a little, red tongue shot out from between his ivory teeth. Then I heard him called by a familiar voice, and passing out, I found his mistress leaning back in the corner of Lady Dennisford's victoria.

She welcomed me with a slow, curious smile.

"I will get out," she said. "There is something I should like to say to you."

I handed her down. She led the way on to the terrace. A few paces behind, Nagaski, with drooping head and depressed mien, followed us. When we halted, he sat upon his haunches and watched me.

"Nagaski," I remarked, "does not seem to be quite himself to-day."

"It is your presence," she answered, "which affects him. He dislikes you."

I looked at him thoughtfully. If Nagaski disliked me, I was very sure that I returned the sentiment to a most unreasonable extent.

"I wonder why," I said. "I have always been decent to him."

"Nagaski has antipathies," she said quietly. "It is a good thing that we are not in his own country. There his breed are supposed to have some of the qualities of seers, and his dislike would be a very ominous thing."

"Are you superstitious?" I asked.

"I am not sure," she answered gravely. "If I were, I should certainly avoid you. His attitude is a distinct warning."

I drew a little nearer to her. It seemed to me that she was very pale, and there was trouble in her face.

"Do you think it possible?" I asked, "that I could bring sorrow upon you?"

"Very possible indeed," she murmured, avoiding my eyes, and looking steadily across the park.

"Since when have you discovered this?" I asked.

"Within the last hour," she answered.

I laid my hand upon hers. She withdrew it at once. There was a distinct change in her manner towards me.

"I suppose," she remarked, "that I ought to congratulate you. You are certainly cleverer than I gave you credit for. You have deceived Mr. Stanley, and he is not at all an easy person for a beginner to deceive."

I kept silence. I began to see the trouble into which I was drifting.

"But," she continued, "you did not attempt to deceive me. And in this matter, Mr. Stanley and I are one!"

"You have told him!" I exclaimed.

"Not yet," she answered, "but I am forced to do so, unless—"

"Unless what?"

She looked me in the face.

"Unless you give me your word of honor that you make no attempt to carry on the task which Leslie Guest had assigned himself, that you do not regard yourself in any shape or form as his successor. Don't you see that it must be so? You plead that you must keep faith with the dead. I, at least, must keep faith with the living. I offer you a chance of safety, and I beg you to take it. I can do no more."

There was a sharp, little yap from Nagaski. We looked around, Lady Dennisford had come out. We turned towards her. Nagaski trotted on ahead. His demeanor was generally more brisk, and his expression one of relief. A cloud of anxiety seemed to have rolled away from his small brain. Adele pointed to him significantly.

"You see," she said, "his instinct is right. There are evil things between you and me. If I speak, there is no hope for you, and if I keep silent, there is danger for me, and I am a woman forsworn. If only I had never gone to Lord's and seen you play cricket!"

"Would that have helped us?" I asked.

"Of course! I should never have counted upon you as a possible tool! I saw you strain every nerve in your body to catch a ball, and I judged you by your pursuits, and—all this has come of it. Nagaski was right. We go ill together, you and I, and one of us must suffer."

"I can only pray then," I answered, as I handed her into the carriage, "that it may be I."

Nagaski sprang upon his mistress' lap, and his was the only farewell I received as the carriage drove away. His upper lip was drawn back over his red gums; there was something fiendish and uncanny in his snarl, and the hatred which shone from his tiny black eyes. I watched the carriage until it disappeared. He had not moved. He was still looking back at me.



CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE DEATH CHAMBER

I sat up suddenly in bed and turned on the light. It was barely two o'clock by my watch, but I felt sure that I had not been mistaken. Some one had knocked at my door.

In the act of springing out of bed the sound was repeated. This time there was certainly no mistake about it, and I heard my name called—

"Mr. Courage! Mr. Courage!"

I opened the door. The landing was dimly lit, and I could see little else except the figure of the woman who stood there. With one hand she was leaning against the wall, her face was as white as a sheet; she wore a hastily thrown on dressing-gown of dingy red. Her whole appearance was that of a person convulsed with fright.

"Who are you?" I asked. "What do you want?"

Her lips parted. She seemed to have the intention of speaking, but no words came. Her teeth began to chatter.

"Come," I said brusquely, "you must—why you are the nurse whom Dr. Rust sent, aren't you?" I asked, suddenly recognizing her. "What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"

All the time, although she was silent, her eyes, distended and terror-stricken, were fixed upon me. She nodded feebly.

"Something—is wrong!" she faltered at last. "Come!"

She turned away, still with one hand holding on to the wall. She evidently wished me to follow her.

"One moment," I said. "Wait while I put something on."

I turned back into my room and wrapped my dressing-gown around me. Then I followed her along the corridor. She led the way to the room which had been occupied by Leslie Guest. Outside the door she hesitated. She turned and faced me abruptly. She was white to the lips. Her appearance was horrible.

"I dare not go in!" she moaned. "I have been a nurse for fifteen years, and I have never known anything like this!"

"Like what?" I asked, bewildered. "What is it that has happened?"

She shivered, but she did not answer me. I was beginning to feel impatient.

"Are you hysterical?" I asked. "I wish you would try and tell me what is the matter."

"Go in," she answered; "go in, and see—if you can see anything."

I opened the door and entered. The room was dimly lit by a lamp, placed on the table near the window. Upon the bed, covered by a sheet, his waxen-like face alone visible, was the body of the man who had been my guest. Beyond, with the connecting door wide open, was the anteroom where the nurse had been sleeping. Except for the ticking of a clock, there was no sound to be heard; there was no sign anywhere of any disturbance or disorder. I looked back at the nurse for an explanation.

"What is it that has upset you so?" I asked. "I can see nothing wrong."

She pointed to the bed.

"His eyes!" she murmured. "Go and look!"

I walked over to the bedside, and leaned reverently over the still figure. Suddenly I felt as though I were turned to stone. The blood in my veins ran cold, I staggered back. My gaze had been met with an upturned glassy stare from a pair of wide-opened, deep-set eyes!

"Good God!" I cried, "his eyes are open!"

The nurse, who had gained a little courage, came to my side.

"I closed them myself," she whispered. "I closed them carefully. I thought that I heard a noise and I came in. I lit a lamp and I saw—what you can see! Fifteen years I have been a nurse, and I have watched by the dead more times than I can count. But I have never known that happen!"

Once more I approached the bedside. One arm was drawn up a little from under the clothes. I noticed its somewhat unnatural position and pointed it out to the nurse.

"Did you leave it like that?" I asked.

Her teeth chattered.

"No!" she answered, "The arms were quite straight. Some one has been in the room—or—"

"Or what?" Tasked.

"He must have moved," she whispered in an unnatural tone.

Once more I bent over the still form. The pupils of the wide-open eyes were slightly dilated; they seemed to meet mine with a horrible, unseeing directness. There was no sign about his waxen face or still, cold mouth that life had lingered for a moment beyond the stated period. And yet something of the nurse's terror was slowly becoming communicated to me. I felt that I was in close company with mysterious things.

I turned towards the nurse.

"Go to your room," I said, "and shut yourself in there. I am going to send for Dr. Rust. Understand it is you that are ill. I do not want a word of this to be spoken of amongst the servants."

She passed into her room and closed the door without a word. I had a telephone from my room to the stables, and in a few moments I had succeeded in awakening one of the grooms.

"The nurse is ill," I told him. "Take a dog-cart and go down and fetch Dr. Rust. Ask him to come back with you at once."

I heard his answer, and a few minutes later the sound of wheels in the avenue. Then I put on my clothes, and going downstairs, fetched some brandy and took it up to the nurse. She, too, was dressed; and, although she was still pale, she had recovered her self-possession.

"I am very sorry to have been so foolish, sir," she said, declining the brandy. "I have never had an experience like this before, and it rather upset me."

"You think," I asked, "that he has lived, since—"

"I am sure of it," she answered. "His was a very peculiar illness, and I know that it puzzled the doctor very much. It was just the sort of illness to have led to a case of suspended animation."