"Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."

As the song died out into the August night, Nick rose. "That girl's a siren," he said. "Come along! We're wasting our time in here."

Max stooped laconically to knock the ashes from his pipe. His face as he stood up again was quite expressionless. "You lead the way," he said. "Are you going to leave your cigar behind? I suppose cigarettes are allowed?"

"I should think so, as the lady smokes them herself." Nick opened the door with the words, but paused a moment looking back at his companion quizzically. "Good luck to you, old chap!" he said.

Max's hand came out of his pocket with a jerk. He still had it bandaged, but he managed to grip hard with it nevertheless. But he did not utter a word.

They passed into the drawing-room with the lazy, tolerant air of men expecting to be amused; and Olga, with all her keenness, was very far from suspecting aught of what had just passed between them.

She and Violet were both near the open window, the latter with her instrument lying on her knee, its crimson ribbons streaming to the floor. She herself was very simply attired in white. The vivid beauty of her outlined against the darkness of the open French window was such as to be almost startling. She smiled a sparkling welcome.

"Dr. Wyndham, I've decided to call you Max; not because I like it,—I think it's hideous,—but because it's less trouble. I thought it as well to explain at the outset, so that there should be no misunderstanding."

"That is very gracious of you," said Max.

"You may regard it exactly as you please," she said majestically, "so long as you come when you're called. Allegretto, why do you move? I like you sitting there."

"I promised to go and say good-night to the boys," said Olga, who had sprung up somewhat precipitately at Max's approach. "Sit on the sofa, Nick, and keep a corner for me! I'm coming back."

She was gone with the words, a vanishing grey vision, the quick closing of the door shutting her from sight.

Violet leaned back in her chair, and dared the full scrutiny of Max's eyes.

"What a disturber of the peace you are!" she said. "What did you want to come here for before you had finished your smoke?"

"That was your doing," said Nick. "You literally dragged us hither. I'm inclined to think it was you who disturbed the peace."

"I?" She turned upon him. "Captain Ratcliffe—"

"Pray call me Nick!" he interposed. "It will save such a vast amount of trouble as well as keep you in the fashion."

She laughed. "You're much funnier than Max because you don't try to be. What do you mean by saying that I dragged you here? Was it that silly old song?"

"In part," said Nick cautiously.

"And the other part?"

"I won't put that into words. It would sound fulsome."

"Oh, please don't!" she said lightly. "And you, Max, what did you come for?"

He seated himself in the chair which Olga had vacated. "I thought it was time someone came to look after you," he said.

"How inane! You don't pretend to be musical, I hope?"

He leaned back, directly facing her. "No," he said. "I don't pretend."

"Never?" she said.

He smiled in his own enigmatical fashion. "That is the sort of question I never answer."

She nodded gaily. "I knew you wouldn't. Why do you look at me like that? I feel as if I were being dissected. I don't wonder that Olga runs away when she sees you coming. I shall myself in a minute."

He laughed. "Surely you are accustomed to being looked at!"

"With reverence," she supplemented, "not criticism! You have the eye of a calculating apothecary. I believe you regard everybody you meet in the light of a possible patient."

"Naturally," said Max. "I suppose even you are mortal."

"Oh, yes, I shall die some day like the rest of you," she answered flippantly. "But I shan't have you by my death-bed. I shouldn't think you had ever seen anybody die, have you?"

"Why not?" said Max.

"Nobody could with you standing by. You're too vital, too electric. I picture you with your back against the door and your arms spread out, hounding the poor wretch back into the prison-house."

Max got up abruptly and moved to the window. "You have a vivid imagination," he said.

She laughed, drawing her fingers idly across the strings of her mandolin.

"Quite nightmarishly so sometimes. It's rather a drawback for some things. How are you enjoying that book of mine? Do you appreciate the Arabian Nights' flavour in modern literature?"

"It's a bit rank, isn't it?" said Max.

She laughed up at him. "I should have thought you would have been virile enough to like rank things. To judge by the tobacco you smoke, you do."

"Poisonous, isn't it?" said Nick. "I suppose it soothes his nerves, but it sets everyone else's on edge."

Violet stretched out her hand to a box of cigarettes that stood on a table within reach. "You would probably feel insulted if I offered you one of these," she said, "but I practically live on them."

"Very bad for you," said Max.

She snapped her fingers at him. "Then I shall certainly continue the pernicious habit. Do you know Major Hunt-Goring? It was he who gave them to me. He thinks he is going to marry me,—but he isn't!"

"Great Lucifer!" said Nick.

She turned towards him. "What an appropriate name! I wish I'd thought of it. Do you know him?"

"Know him!" Nick's grimace was expressive. "Yes, I know him."

"Well?"

"Rather better than he thinks."

She laughed again, lightly, inconsequently, irresistibly. "He's a fascinating creature. It is his proud boast that he has kissed every girl in the neighbourhood except me."

"What an infernal liar!" said Nick.

"How do you know?" Gaily she challenged him. "It's quite probably true. He is exceedingly popular with the feminine portion of the community. I notice that friend Max maintains a shocked silence."

"Not at all," said Max. "I was only wondering why he had made an exception of you."

She tossed her head. "Can't you guess?"

"No, I can't," he returned daringly. "I should have thought you would have been the first on the list."

"How charming of you to say so!" said Violet. "Perhaps you are not aware of the fact that the sweetest fruit is generally out of reach."

"You might have let me say that," said Nick. "But the man is a liar in any case, and I hope he will give me the opportunity to tell him so."

Violet regarded him with interest. "I had no idea you were so pugnacious. Do you always tell people exactly what you think of them? Is it safe?"

"Quite safe for him," said Max.

"Why?" Violet turned back to him, her fingers carelessly plucking at the instrument on her knee.

Max made prompt and unflattering reply. "Because he's so obviously gimcrack that no one dares do anything to him for fear he should tumble to pieces."

"Many thanks!" said Nick.

Violet's peal of laughter mingled with the weird notes of her mandolin, and Olga, returning, desired to be told the joke.

Nick pulled her down beside him on the sofa. "Come and take care of me, Olga mia! I'm being disgracefully maligned. Can't you persuade Miss Campion to sing to us, by way of changing the subject?"

"Who has been maligning you?" demanded Olga, looking at Max with very bright eyes.

He looked straight back at her with that gleam in his eyes which with any other man would have denoted admiration but which with him she well knew to be only mockery.

"I admit it, fair lady," he said. "I threw a clod of mud at your hero. I thought it would be good for him. However, you will be relieved to hear that it went wide of the mark. He still sits secure in his tight little shrine and smiles magnanimously at my futility."

Olga's hand slipped into Nick's. "He's the biggest man you've ever seen!" she declared, with warmth.

"Please don't fight over my body!" remonstrated Nick. "I never professed to be more than a minnow among Tritons, and quite a lean minnow at that."

"You're not, Nick!" declared his champion impetuously. "You're a giant!"

"In miniature," suggested Max. "He is actually proposing to go and kick Major Hunt-Goring because—" He broke off short.

Into Olga's face of flushed remonstrance there had flashed a very strange look, almost a petrified look, as if she had suddenly come upon a snake in her path.

"Why?" she said quickly.

"Oh, never mind why," said Max, passing rapidly on. "That wasn't the point. We were trying to picture Hunt-Goring's amusement. He stands about seven feet high, doesn't he? And your redoubtable uncle—What exactly is your height, Ratcliffe?"

"Nick, why do you want to kick Major Hunt-Goring?" Very distinctly Olga put the question. She was evidently too proud to accept help from this quarter.

"It's a chronic craving with me," said Nick. "But Miss Campion has kindly undertaken the job for me. I am sure she is infinitely better equipped for the task than I am, and she will probably do it much more effectually."

"But not yet!" laughed Violet. "I like his cigarettes too well. Why do you look like that, Allegro? Doesn't he send you any?"

"If he did," said Olga, with concentrated passion, "I'd pick them up with the tongs and put them in the fire!"

Max laughed in a fashion that made her wince, but Nick's fingers squeezed hers protectingly.

"You don't like him any better than I do apparently," he said lightly. "But I suppose we must tolerate the man for Jim's sake. He wouldn't thank us for eliminating all his unpleasant patients during his absence. Now, Miss Campion, a song, please! The most sentimental in your repertoire!"

She flashed him her gay smile and flung the streaming ribbons over her arm. There was a gleam of mischief in her eyes as, without preliminary, she began to sing. Her voice was rich and low and wonderfully pure.

In vain all the knights of the Underworld woo'd her, Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, "so excelling, That Knight must the conqu'ror of conquerors be; He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in;— None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!"

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree; Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And worshipp'd at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; His vizor was down—but, with voice that thrill'd through her, He whisper'd his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden, I come with high spousals to grace thee, In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see; Enthron'd in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, And mine thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smil'd and in jewels array'd her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey'd her In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me? Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance, said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures." Then he lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground—'twas a skeleton's features, And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

The beautiful voice throbbed away into silence, and the mandolin jarred and thrummed upon the floor. Violet Campion sat staring straight before her with eyes that were wide and fixed.

Olga jumped up impulsively. "Violet, why did you sing that gruesome thing? Do you want to give us all the horrors?"

She picked up the mandolin with a swish of its red ribbons, and laid it upon the piano, where it quivered and thrummed again like a living thing, awaking weird echoes from the instrument on which it rested.

Then she turned back to her friend. "Violet, wake up! What are you looking at?"

But Violet remained immovable as one in a trance.

Olga bent over her, touched her. "Violet!"

With a quick start, as though suspended animation had suddenly been restored, Violet relaxed in her chair, leaning back with careless grace, her white arms outstretched.

"What's the matter, Allegretto? You look as if you had had a glimpse of the conqueror of conquerors yourself. I shall have to come and sleep with you to frighten away the spooks."

"I don't think I shall ever dare to go to bed at all after that," said Nick.

She laughed at him lazily. "Get Max to sit up with you and hold your hand! The very sight of him would scare away all bogies."

"The sign of a wholesome mind," said Max.

She turned towards him. "Not at all! Scepticism only indicates gross materialism and lack of imagination. There is nothing at all to be proud of in the possession of a low grade of intelligence."

Max's mouth went down, and Violet's face flashed into her most bewitching smile.

"I don't often get the opportunity to jeer at a genius," she said. "You know that I am one of your most ardent admirers, don't you?"

"Is that the preliminary to asking a favour?" said Max.

She broke into a light laugh. "No, I never ask favours. I always take what I want. It's much the quickest way."

"Saves trouble, too," he suggested.

"It does," she agreed. "I am sure you follow the same plan yourself."

"Invariably," said Max.

"It's a plan that doesn't always answer," observed Nick, in a grandfatherly tone. "I shouldn't recommend it to everybody."

"And it's horribly selfish," put in Olga.

"My dear child, don't be so frightfully moral!" protested Violet. "I can't rise to it. Nick, why doesn't it always answer to take what one wants?"

"Because one doesn't always succeed in keeping it," said Nick.

"He means," said Max, a spark of humour in his eyes, "that a champion,—no, a chaperon—sometimes comes along to the rescue of the stolen article. But—from what I've seen of life—I scarcely think the odds would be on the side of the chaperon. What is your opinion, Miss Campion?"

"If the chaperon were Nick, I should certainly put my money on him," she answered lightly.

"And lose it!" said Max.

"And win it!" said Olga.

"Order! Order!" commanded Nick. "Once more I refuse to be the bone of contention between you. You will tear me to shreds among you, and even the great Dr. Wyndham might find some difficulty in putting me together again. Olga, give us some music!"

"I can't, dear," said Olga.

He frowned at her. "Why not?"

She hesitated. "I'm not in the mood for it. At least—"

"Am I the obstacle?" asked Max.

She could not control her colour, though she strove resolutely to appear as if she had not heard.

He turned to Violet, faintly smiling. "Shall we take a stroll in the garden?"

She rose, flinging a gay glance at Olga. "Just two turns!" she said.

He held aside the curtain for her, and followed her out, with a careless jest. The two who were left heard them laughing as they sauntered away. Olga rose with a shiver.

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

To which she answered, "Nothing," knowing that he would not believe her, knowing also that he would understand enough to ask no more.

She went to the piano, put aside the mandolin, and began to play. Not even to Nick, her hero and her close confidant, would she explain the absolute repugnance that the association of Max Wyndham with her friend had inspired in her.

But though she played with apparent absorption, her ears were strained to catch the sound of their voices in the garden behind her, the girl's light chatter, her companion's brief, cynical laugh. For she knew by the sure intuition which is a woman's inner and unerring vision, that jest or trifle as he might his keen brain was actively employed in some subtle investigation too obscure for her to fathom, and that behind his badinage and behind his cynicism there sat a man who watched.



CHAPTER VI

THE PAIN-KILLER

"I am going over to Brethaven to see Mrs. Briggs to-day," Olga announced nearly a week later, waylaying Max after breakfast on his way to the surgery with the air of one prepared to resist opposition. "Are you wanting the car this morning, Dr. Wyndham?"

She knew that he would be engaged at the cottage-hospital that morning, but it was one of Dr. Ratcliffe's strict rules that the car should never be used unprofessionally without express permission from himself or his assistant. Naturally Olga resented having to observe this rule in her father's absence and her manner betrayed as much, but she was too conscientious to neglect its observance.

"You don't propose to go alone, I suppose?" said Max, pausing.

This was another of her father's rules and one which Olga had often vainly attempted to persuade him to rescind. Under these circumstances, Max's question seemed little short of an insult.

"I don't see what that has to do with it," she said.

Max looked at his watch, then turned squarely and faced her. "With me, you mean. Very likely not. But there is a remote connection or I shouldn't ask. Are you going to take Nick with you?"

"He is going part of the way," said Olga, striving for dignity.

"Only part?"

"As far as the station," she returned, almost in spite of herself.

"Going up to town, is he?" said Max. "Well, that doesn't help much. Take one of the boys!"

"I don't want one of the boys," Olga spoke with sudden irritation. "Violet is going with me," she said.

His face changed very slightly, almost imperceptibly. "In that case you must take Mitchel," he said.

"How absurd!" exclaimed Olga.

"No, it isn't absurd. It's quite reasonable from my point of view. If you can't take Mitchel with you, I can't spare the car."

He smiled a little as he pronounced this decision, but quite plainly his mind was made up.

Olga bit her lip in exasperation. "Do you think I am not to be trusted to take care of her?" she asked him scornfully. "I shall ask Nick if I need do anything so ridiculous!"

"Here he is," said Nick, coming lightly up behind her with the words. "What's the trouble now? If you are requiring my valuable advice, it is quite at your service."

Olga turned to him at once. "Nick, it's really too silly for words. Dr. Wyndham makes mountains out of molehills."

"That's very ingenious of him," commented Nick. "I shouldn't harass the man if I were you, Olga. He's been out all night."

Olga pounced upon this fact. "I expect Mitchel has too, then, so he just won't be able to go."

"No," said Max. "I didn't take the car or Mitchel. It chanced to be a case in the village, and I bicycled."

"Who was it?" asked Olga eagerly; and then restrained herself with annoyance. "But of course you won't tell me. You're much too professional."

"Keep to the point!" ordered Nick.

Olga slipped a coaxing arm round his neck. "Nick, don't you think it absurd that Violet and I shouldn't motor over to Brethaven without a man to take care of us? I am quite certain Dad wouldn't object."

"There you are wrong," said Max. "If your father were here, he would forbid it—as I do."

He spoke with emphasis, and glanced again at his watch as he did so.

"He doesn't object to my going alone with one of the boys," said Olga. "It's only Violet who is too precious to go motoring without a full-grown escort. As if I weren't quite capable of taking care of her!"

"It's not that at all," said Max curtly. "I can't stop to argue, so please make up your mind what you are going to do. I'm sorry you've been dragged into the discussion, Ratcliffe. I daresay it seems a senseless one to you, but I have my reasons."

Nick looked at him for a moment, a quick gleam of comprehension behind his flickering eyelids. "It won't hurt you to take Mitchel, Olga mia," he said.

"Oh, Nick!" There was deep reproach in Olga's voice, and at sound of it Max smiled with dry humour.

Nick laughed outright, openly heartless. "My beloved chicken, who is making mountains out of molehills now? I would escort you myself if I hadn't got to attend this committee meeting in town,—a million plagues upon it! Come along and open my letters for me! We are wasting time."

"I do think you needn't take his part," said Olga, as Max disappeared into the surgery. "He's quite bullying and tyrannical enough without that."

"I'm inclined to sympathize with the young man myself," said Nick. "He wouldn't bully you if you weren't so nasty."

"Nick, I'm not nasty!"

"I should detest you if I were Max," said Nick, squeezing her affectionately with his one wiry arm.

"It isn't my fault we are antipathetic," protested Olga. "For goodness' sake, Nick, don't start liking him! But I'm sure you don't in your heart of hearts. You simply couldn't."

"Why not?" said Nick.

"Oh, Nick, you don't! You know you don't! He's so cold-blooded and cynical."

"Do you want to know what he was up to last night?" said Nick.

"Yes, tell me!" said Olga.

"He was sent for last thing by some people who live in that filthy alley—near the green pond. A child was choking. They thought it had swallowed a pin. When he got there, he found it was diphtheria at its most advanced stage. The child was at death's door. He had to perform an operation at a moment's notice, hadn't got the proper paraphernalia with him, and sucked the poison out himself."

"Good heavens, Nick!" said Olga, turning very white. "And the child?"

"The child is better. It is to be taken to the hospital to-day."

"Will it—won't it—have an effect on him?" gasped Olga.

"Heavens knows," said Nick.

"And that's why he didn't come down to breakfast," she said. "How did you find out about it? He didn't tell you?"

"He couldn't help it," said Nick. "He stole my bath this morning, and when I arrived he was lying in it face downwards boiling himself in some filthy disinfectant that made the bathroom temporarily uninhabitable. Naturally I lodged a complaint, and finally got at the whole story. By the way, he said I wasn' to tell you; but I told him I probably should. That's only a detail, but I mention it in case you should be tempted to broach the subject to him. I shouldn't advise you to do so, as I think you will probably find him rather touchy about it."

"But, Nick!" Olga's eyes had begun to shine. "It was very—fine of him," she said. "I wish I'd known before I was so cross to him. I—I should have made allowances if I had known."

"Quite so," said Nick. "Well, you can begin now if you feel so inclined, though I suppose the young man did no more than his duty after all."

"Oh, Nick, a man isn't obliged to go so far as that!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "There are plenty who wouldn't."

"Doubtless," agreed Nick, looking faintly quizzical. "It was the action of a fool—but a brave fool. We'll grant him that much, shall we?"

She laughed a little, her cheek against his shoulder. "Don't poke fun at me! It isn't fair. You know he isn't a fool perfectly well."

"By Jove! You are getting magnanimous!" laughed Nick.

"No, I'm not. I'm only trying to be fair. One must be that," said Olga, whose honest soul abhorred injustice of any description.

"Oh, of course," said Nick. "You'll have to spoil him now to make up for having been so—'horrid,' I think, is the proper term, isn't it? It's the most comprehensive word in the woman's vocabulary, comprising everything from slightly disagreeable to damned offensive."

"Really, Nick!"

Nick grinned. "Pardon my unparliamentary language!"

"But Nick, I've never been—that!" protested Olga.

"A matter of opinion!" laughed Nick.

But Olga did not laugh, she only flushed a little and changed the subject.

About an hour later, Max, taking his hat from a peg in the hall, preparatory to departing for the cottage-hospital, discovered the lining thereof to be pulled away in order to accommodate a twisted scrap of paper which had been pinned to it in evident haste.

He carried the hat to the consulting-room and there detached and examined its contents. He smoothed out the crumpled morsel with his customary deliberation, drawing his shaggy red brows together over a few lines of minute writing which became visible as he did so.

"Dear Max," he read, "I'm sorry I've been a beast to you lately. Please don't take any notice of this but let us just be friends for the future. Yours,

"Olga."

There was no mockery in the green eyes as they deciphered the impulsive note, nor did the somewhat hard lips smile. Max stood for some seconds after reading it, staring fixedly at the paper, and when at length he looked up his face wore a guarded expression with which many of his patients were familiar. He took a pocket-book from an inner pocket and laid the crumpled scrap within it. Then, without more ado, he put on his hat and departed.

Olga was by that time spinning merrily along the road to Brethaven, having parted with Nick at the railway-station. Violet was seated beside her, and the old servant Mitchel sat sourly behind them. He had a rooted objection to the back-seat, and held the opinion that a woman at the wheel was out of place.

Olga, however, was not prepared to yield on this point at least. She had brought him against her will, and she meant to forget him if possible. But it was not long before Violet had extracted from her an account of the discussion that had resulted in Mitchel's unwilling presence. She was not very anxious to supply the information, but Violet was insistent and soon possessed herself of the full details of the argument which she seemed to find highly amusing.

"Oh, my dear, he's in love with me of course!" she said "I discovered that the first night I was with you. Hence his solicitude."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Olga.

"What! You haven't noticed it? My dear child, where are your eyes? Haven't you seen the way he watches me?"

Yes, Olga had seen it; but somehow she did not think it meant that. She said so rather hesitatingly.

"What else could it mean?" laughed Violet. "But you needn't be afraid, dear. I'm not going to have him. He's much too anatomical for me, too business-like and professional altogether. I'd sooner die than have him attend me."

"Would you?" said Olga. "But why? He's very clever."

"That's just it. He's too clever to have any imagination. He would be quite unscrupulous, quite merciless, and utterly without sympathy. Can't you picture him making you endure any amount of torture just to enable him to say he had cured you? Oh yes, he's diabolically clever, but he is cruel too. He would take the shortest cut, whatever it meant. He wouldn't care what agony he inflicted so long as he gained his end and made you live."

"I don't think he is quite so callous as that," Olga said, but even as she said it she wondered.

"You will if he ever has to doctor you," rejoined Violet. "I wonder what Mrs. Briggs thought of him. We'll find out to-day."

Mrs. Briggs was the daughter of the old woman who had died the preceding week at "The Ship Inn," whither they were bound that morning. She had nursed Violet in her infancy, and was a privileged acquaintance of both girls.

They found her busy pastry-making, for the business of the establishment had not been suspended during her recent troubles. She greeted them both hospitably, though not without a hint of reproach, which found expression in words when she had come to the end of a detailed account of the funeral.

"I thought you'd 'a' been round long ago," she said. "Your flowers was lovely, Miss Olga. You ought to 'a' seen 'em a-layin' on pore mother. I made sure as you'd want to. And you too, Miss Violet. I kept the coffin open till the very last minute, thinkin' as you'd come."

"That was very sweet of you, Mrs. Briggs," said Violet. "It was all Dr. Wyndham's fault that we didn't. I'm staying there, you know, and whatever he says is law. I'm sure I don't know why, but there it is."

"Well, there!" said Mrs. Briggs. "I might 'a' known. Pore mother was frit to death o' he. 'There's black magic in 'im' she says to me. It was the day as she was took, too. 'Black magic,' she says. 'I've a-begged 'im to let me die easy, but Lor' bless yer, 'e don't take no more notice than if 'e were the Spink,'" Mrs. Briggs glanced over her shoulder. "But there's one thing as you'll both be glad to know," she said, lowering her voice confidentially, "she died easy, pore soul, in spite of 'im. 'E don't know 'ow that was."

"What?" gasped both girls in a breath.

Mrs. Briggs went to the door, peered out, softly closed it. Her eyes shone craftily as she returned. She took up her rolling-pin, holding it impressively between her floury hands.

"Two days afore pore mother went," she began, with an air of gruesome mystery, "Dr. Wyndham, 'e came and examined 'er, and 'urt 'er cruel, 'e did. I thought 'e'd 'ave killed 'er afore 'e'd finished. Well, just afore 'e left, 'e come to me with a dark blue bottle, and 'e says: 'Look 'ere, Mrs. Briggs, she won't last out the week. She's quiet now,' 'e says, 'for I've given 'er a dose as'll last for some hours. But when that's exhausted,' 'e says, 'the pain'll come back. And so I'm goin' to give you this.' 'E 'olds it up to the light, and looks at it. 'It's good stuff,' 'e says. 'It's warranted to kill pain. But it ain't a thing to play with. You give 'er a teaspoon of it,' 'e says, 'but only if she's took with bad pain. But she mustn't 'ave more than one in twenty-four hours,' 'e says. 'You mind that. And if you 'ave to give it to 'er, you send at once for me. If you don't send,' 'e says, 'I won't be 'eld responsible for the consequences.' With that 'e goes, and pore mother she seemed to take a turn, and all that day and the next she seemed to drowse like and not take much notice o' things. The neighbours come in and look at 'er, but she didn't seem to know. We 'ad two quiet nights with 'er, and then all of a sudden in the middle of the afternoon she started screamin' and writhin.' Oh, lor, Miss Olga, you never see the like. It was just as if she were bein' tortured over a slow fire. Well, Briggs, 'e was fair unmanned by it. 'For 'eaven's sake,' 'e says, 'give 'er the medicine as the doctor left, and I'll go and tell 'im as you've done it.' And off 'e goes, though it was gettin' latish and no one to attend to the bar. Well, I fetched the medicine, and I took it to 'er, and I says, ''Ere you are, mother,' I says, 'you 'ave a dose o' this. It'll kill the pain.' I gave it 'er in a teaspoon like 'e said, and she took it. But there, it didn't make no more difference to 'er than if it 'ad been water.'" Mrs. Briggs heaved a sob, and picked up a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes. "I told 'er as I dursn't give 'er any more because of what the doctor 'ad said, and I said as 'ow Briggs 'ad gone for him, and 'e'd know 'ow to quiet 'er when 'e came. But the very thought of 'im seemed to drive 'er crazy. And then she said that about the black magic, and 'ow 'e'd never be persuaded to let 'er die easy. And then she says to me. 'But you didn't shake the bottle,' she says. 'I expect the stuff that kills the pain is all at the bottom.' And I thought there might be somethin' in it, so I fetched the bottle again and shook it up. And I thought I'd give 'er just 'alf a dose more in case she 'adn't 'ad enough. But just as I was a-goin' to pour it out there was such a rappin' down in the bar, that I 'ad to just give it 'er and run. I was back in under a minute, and there was pore mother a-sittin' up in bed and a-smilin' at me as if all 'er troubles was past, and says she, 'Annie,' she says, 'I've 'ad enough and I don't want no more,' she says; 'it's killed the pain.' And then she laid down in bed still smilin', and says she, 'You tell the doctor when 'e comes as I'm sorry to 'a' fetched 'im for nothin', but I couldn't wait—.' And—if you'll believe me, Miss Olga,—those was the last words she spoke." Again vigorously Mrs. Briggs dried her eyes. "She just dropped off to sleep as easy as easy, and I left 'er and went back to the bar. There was a stick by the bedside, and I knew I should 'ear 'er knock if she wanted me. But she didn't knock, and she didn't knock, and I kept thinkin' to myself what a nice sleep she was 'avin', and I wouldn't disturb 'er till the doctor came. And then all of a sudden, it came into my mind to wonder about that there medicine. And I just run up to see. And there I found 'er a-laying' dead, and the stuff in the bottle were 'alf-gone!"

Mrs. Briggs's information was imparted in a whisper and punctuated by sniffs. Her two listeners exchanged awe-stricken glances.

"How did you know she was dead?" asked Violet. "What did she look like?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Briggs, with solemn pride, "anyone as 'as seen death as often as I 'ave don't need to look twice."

Mrs. Briggs occupied the exalted position of layer-out in chief in Brethaven village, and right proud was she of her calling. It had been handed down from mother to daughter in her family for the past four generations. She literally swelled with importance as she resumed her narrative and her pastry-rolling at the same moment.

"Well, there she lay, pore dear, and I saw as the Lord 'ad took 'er right enough, and 'er troubles was well over. But there was this 'ere medicine-bottle, and I 'ad to think pretty quick about that; for just as I picked it up I 'eard the doctor's motor come round the corner. It came to me all in a minute, it did, and I upped with the water-jug and filled it to all but a spoonful of the top. For I knew what 'is first thought would be," said Mrs. Briggs grimly. "And I wasn't minded to let myself in for any questions. Yer see, my dear, 'e'd told me 'isself as the pore creature couldn't last the week. Well, I stuck the bottle on the shelf, and went to meet 'im. 'She's gone, sir,' I says. He come right past me without a word and stoops over the bed. And then, sure enough, quite sharp and sudden says 'e, 'You give 'er the pain-killer?' 'Just as you told me, sir,' I says, and with that I showed 'im the bottle. 'E took it into 'is 'and, and 'e give me a very straight look, and says 'e, frowning, 'Well, she'll never want any more of that.' And 'e just took it straight downstairs and emptied the bottle into the sink."

"He knew!" exclaimed Olga involuntarily.

"Lor' bless yer, no!" Mrs. Briggs's tone held unquestioning conviction. "'E was frownin' to 'isself all the time, and I could see as 'e was pretty mad that 'e'd come too late. I weren't sorry myself," she asserted boldly. "For I'd 'oped against 'ope after 'is last visit that 'e'd never see pore mother again alive. I couldn't 'a' stood it! There, I just couldn't."

Quite unexpectedly Mrs. Briggs suddenly broke down and dropped into a chair. Violet sprang to comfort, while Olga took possession of the rolling-pin and continued the pastry-making with deft hands.

After an interval poor Mrs. Briggs managed to recover somewhat of the hard demeanour that usually characterized her. "I've no call to fret," she said. "And don't you go rubbin' my dirty face with your clean 'andkerchief, Miss Violet. I ain't fit for you to touch, my dear."

"I'm only trying to get off the flour," explained Violet. "But I'm afraid you'll have to wash it after all. It's all gone into paste."

"And there's Miss Olga a-makin' my tarts for me like a ministerin' angel," said Mrs. Briggs, with a watery smile. "It's a pity you couldn't 'a' seen 'er in 'er coffin; for it was a beautiful coffin. Briggs said it was as fine a one as 'e'd seen. Well, well! She's gone, pore soul. And now you young ladies must try some of my rhubarb wine."

She rose briskly, and went to a cupboard. "We drank some of it at the funeral," she said. "And everyone liked it—even Briggs. But I thought I'd save the rest for when you came. Miss Olga always likes my rhubarb wine."

The rhubarb wine proved at least a welcome distraction, and under its genial influence Mrs. Briggs's spirits rose. She was quite cheery by the time her two visitors took their leave. They left her waving farewell from her doorstep, the patches of paste still upon her ruddy countenance, but with no other traces of her recent distress visible.

"Rum old thing!" said Violet. "I want to go round to the Priory and see Cork and Pluto next. I like to drop in unexpectedly when Bruce is away, and make sure that they are treated properly."

"We haven't much time," observed Olga.

"Oh, nonsense! Make time! We're not slaves," said Violet imperiously.

And Olga turned in the direction of the Priory without further words. It always took less time to yield to her friend's behests than to argue against them.



CHAPTER VII

THE PUZZLE

The visit to the Priory occupied some time, as Olga had foreseen. There were some things that Violet wanted to fetch from her own room and this entailed a search, for her possessions were always in the wildest disorder. Olga waited for her in the hall, chafing at the delay, since she knew that the car would be required by Max early in the afternoon to take him on his rounds.

Mitchel remained outside in the hot sunshine, severe disapproval in every line of him. Olga felt decidedly out of patience with him. As if it were her fault!

She sat on the old oak chest that Violet gaily called her coffin, and stared at the gruesome east window, while her thoughts dwelt upon the story she had just heard from Mrs. Briggs's lips. Had Max really intended to place freedom within the old woman's reach? For some reason wholly inexplicable she longed to know. She recalled the words he had uttered that day in the library of Redlands, his half-cynical talk of "a free pass," his reference to himself as "gaoler." Was it possible that she had formed a wrong impression of him? And if in this matter, perhaps in others also. Perhaps after all she had mistaken his attitude towards Violet. Perhaps after all he was human enough to feel the strong attraction of the girl's beauty. Perhaps after all he was beginning to care. And if so, what then? She felt her face burn in the coolness. Somehow she did not want him to be hurt, to suffer as she knew that other men had been made to suffer by the gay inconsequence of her friend. Only a week ago she had desired his ignominious downfall. To-day she wanted to save him from it. She had a desperate longing to warn him that Violet's favour was a thing of nought, that her treatment of him had all been planned between them beforehand, that it was all a game.

She could not picture him at any woman's feet. Yet undoubtedly Violet was hard to resist; their intimacy had grown apace during the past few days. And Violet knew so well how to wield her power, when to scorn and when subtly to flatter. She had never yet received a check in her triumphant career, and she boasted openly of her conquests.

No, Olga was fain to admit it. All her own private aversion notwithstanding, she did not want this man added to the list of victims. Cynical and even overbearing though he might be, she no longer desired to see him humiliated. And her face glowed more and more hotly as she remembered that it was she who had set the trap.

She fully realized, however, that an appeal to Violet at this stage would be worse than futile. Violet was too set on her mischievous course to do other than laugh and pursue it with renewed zest for her capture. Of course there remained Nick, chosen adviser and confidant; but for some reason Olga shrank from discussing Max with him. She had an uneasy dread lest Nick's intelligence should leap ahead of her and disclose to her with disconcerting suddenness facts and possibilities with which she was quite unprepared to reckon. She visualized his grin of amused comprehension over the means she had devised for her own deliverance and the unpleasant quandary in which it had placed her. Nick's sense of humour was at times almost too keen. She smiled faintly to herself over this reflection. She could not deny that there were points in the situation which appealed even to her own.

Yet she was more ashamed than amused. The discovery that Max was human had somehow altered everything, and made her own conduct appear dastardly. She had acted maliciously albeit, in self-defence; but now that it seemed that her point might pierce his armour, she wanted to withdraw it. She shrank unspeakably from seeing him vanquished. It would have hurt her to find him at her own feet, but the bare thought of him at Violet's—Violet who had no mercy upon old or young, who would trample him underfoot without a pang and pass gaily on—that thought was unbearable.

Of course she might be wrong. It was still possible that her original conception of him might be the correct one. He had a passion for his profession, she knew. It was quite possible that this had inspired his taking that awful risk the night before, quite possible also that a hopeless case did not appeal to him and that he had not therefore greatly cared how soon or in what manner Mrs. Stubbs had passed out through the prison-door which it was his work to guard. She realized vaguely that this form of callousness was not so hideous as she had at first deemed it. She also began to realize that for a man who had seen suffering and death in many forms and who found himself finally powerless to alleviate the one or avert the other, the inevitable end could not possess the tragic significance which it possessed for others.

Either point of view of his character was possible. She did not know him well enough to decide to her own satisfaction which was actually the true one. But the fact remained that she had delivered him to Violet to be tormented, and that before he had given any sign of suffering she had repented the rash act. He might be capable of suffering or he might not; but she had a passionate desire to know him safe before the fire had begun to kindle.

Violet's return at length broke up her reflections. She awoke from her reverie with a start to exclaim upon the lateness of the hour. It was already close upon luncheon-time.

"We shall have to scorch," laughed Violet.

And scorch they did at a rate that made the sober Mitchel swear inarticulately almost throughout the journey. They met with no mishap, however, and finally reached Weir flushed, dishevelled, but exultant.

Max came from the direction of the surgery as they entered.

"Can I speak to you a moment?" he said to Olga and drew her into her father's little smoking-room at the side of the hall almost before the words were uttered.

Olga faced him with a racing heart, burningly reminiscent of the note she had left in his hat, the note she had asked him to ignore.

He must have seen her embarrassment, for his green eyes studied her without mercy; but when he spoke it was not upon the subject of her overture.

"Look here!" he said. "Hunt-Goring is here. Do you mind if I ask him to luncheon?"

The news was unexpected. Olga gave a sharp, involuntary start. "Major Hunt-Goring!" she stammered. "Why—what is he doing here?"

"He walked over with a broken thumb for me to mend," said Max, still grimly watching her. "It's some way back to The Warren, and he's a bit used up. I fancy your father would make him lunch here under the circumstances, but you must do as you think best. It's not my house."

The colour sank rapidly from Olga's face under his look. "Oh, Dr. Wyndham," she said breathlessly, "do you think we need?"

He frowned at her agitation. "Of course, we needn't," he said. "If you don't want him, he can go to 'The Swan.' He is in the surgery at the present moment. I must go back and see how he is getting on."

"Wait a moment!" Olga broke in rapidly. "I—I'm afraid you're right. Dad would certainly keep him. Oh, why isn't Nick here? He needn't have chosen to-day to break this thumb."

"Kismet!" said Max, with a cynical lift of the shoulders. "I gather you don't like the man?"

She shrank at the question: it was almost a shudder. "No!"

He turned to the door. "Well, pull yourself together. I daresay he won't eat you. And you'll have Miss Campion to protect you. She would be proof against a dozen monsters."

He cast her a glance with the words that made her aware of a certain not very abstruse meaning behind them. Olga's cheeks burned again. Did he know, then? Had he guessed why Violet was in the house? Was that the reason of his curious vigilance, his guarded acceptance of her favours? She was possessed by an almost overwhelming desire to know, and yet no words could she find in which to ask.

"Well?" said Max, pausing in the act of opening the door. "You were going to say—"

She raised her eyes with a conscious effort, and nerved herself to speak.

"Max," she said desperately, "please don't mind my asking! It isn't from idle curiosity. Do you like her?" She saw the rough red brows go up, and swiftly repented her temerity. "I only asked," she faltered, "because—"

"Well?" Max said again. "It would be interesting to know why you asked."

She compelled herself to answer him, or perhaps it was he who compelled. In any case, with her head bent, her answer came.

"I had been thinking that perhaps you were getting fond of her, and—and—I should be sorry if that happened, because I know she isn't in earnest. I know she is only playing with you."

The words ran cut in a whisper. She dared not look at him. She could only watch with fascinated eyes the brown fingers that gripped the door-knob.

"She has told you that?" asked Max.

She quivered at the question. It was horribly difficult to answer. "I know it is so," she murmured.

She was thankful that he did not press her to be more explicit. He stood for a moment in silence; then: "Isn't it possible," he said in a very level tone, "for a woman to set out to catch a man and to end by being caught herself?"

"Not for Violet," said Olga.

"I wonder," said Max.

She looked up at him quickly, caught by something in his tone. His eyes, alert and green, looked straight into hers.

"Did you really think I was falling in love with her?" he said.

Olga hesitated.

"She thinks so?" he questioned.

"Yes." Against her will she answered. It was as if he wrung the word from her.

He smiled a grim smile. "Many thanks for your warning!" he said. "I take a deep interest in Miss Campion, as you seem to have divined. But the danger of my falling a victim to her charms is very remote. You need harbour no further anxieties on my account."

He opened the door as he spoke, and Olga passed out, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry that she had brought herself to speak.

She went upstairs to Violet and acquainted her with the fact of Major Hunt-Goring's presence and its cause.

"I do wish Nick had been here," she said in conclusion.

"He may elect to stay for ever so long. I don't know what we shall do with him."

Violet, however, was by no means dismayed by the prospect. "Oh, I enjoy Major Hunt-Goring," she said. "You leave him to me. I'll entertain him."

"Hateful man!" said Olga.

Whereat Violet laughed and pinched her cheek. "You know you like him!"

"I detest him!" said Olga quickly.

It was certainly with no excess of cordiality that a few minutes later she greeted her guest. He was standing in the hall with one arm in a sling when she and Violet descended the stairs, an immense man of about five-and-forty with a very decided military bearing and dark eyes of covert insolence.

Max was with him, and Olga experienced a very novel feeling of relief to see him there. She advanced and shook hands with extreme frigidity.

"I am sorry you have had an accident," she said.

"Very good of you," said Major Hunt-Goring, his eyes boldly passing her to rest upon Violet. "Managed to crack my thumb tinkering at my old motor. Dr. Wyndham tells me that you have been kind enough to ask me to lunch. How do you do, Miss Campion? Charmed to meet you! Someone told me you were yachting in the Atlantic."

"Heaven forbid!" said Violet. "Yachting is simply another word for imprisonment to me. I told Bruce I should certainly drown myself if I went with them."

"I should like to introduce you to a form of yachting that is not imprisonment," said Hunt-Goring.

Violet laughed. "Oh, I should have to be mistress of the yacht for that."

"Even so," he rejoined significantly.

"And I shouldn't have any men on board with the exception of the sailors," she went on.

"And the captain," said Hunt-Goring.

"Oh, dear me, no! I would be my own captain."

"You'd be horribly bored before the first week was out," observed the major, as he followed her into the dining-room.

She laughed gaily. "There isn't a single man of my acquaintance in whose company I shouldn't be bored to extinction long before that."

"Oh, come!" he protested. "You don't speak from experience. You condemn us untried."

"I know you all too well," laughed Violet.

"You know me not at all," declared Hunt-Goring. "I appeal to Miss Ratcliffe. Am I the sort of man to bore a woman?"

"I am no judge," said Olga somewhat hastily. "I never have time to be bored with anyone. Will you sit here, please? I am sorry to say my uncle is in town to-day."

"Where are the three boys?" asked Max.

Olga turned to him with relief. "They have gone for an all-day paper-chase with the Rectory crowd and taken lunch with them."

"Why didn't you go too?" he asked. "Too lazy?"

"Too busy," she returned briefly.

"That's only an excuse," said Max.

She glanced at him. "It's a sound one anyhow."

"What are you going to do this afternoon?" he asked.

"Mend."

"Mend what?"

"Stockings," said Olga.

"Great Scot!" said Max. "Do you mend the stockings of the entire family?"

"Including yours," said Olga.

"Oh, I say!" he protested. "That wasn't in the contract, was it? Pitch 'em into my room. I'll mend them myself or do without."

"One pair more or less doesn't make much difference," said Olga. "As to doing without,—well, of course, you're a man or you wouldn't make such a suggestion."

"You've thrown that in my teeth before," he observed. "I think you might remember that I am hardly responsible for my sex. It's my misfortune, not my fault."

She smiled, her sudden brief smile, but made no rejoinder.

Major Hunt-Goring and Violet, who had undertaken to cut up his meal for him, were engrossed in a frothy conversation which it was obvious that neither desired to have interrupted.

Max glanced towards them before he abruptly started another subject with Olga.

"How is Mrs. Briggs?"

Olga coloured hotly. "Oh, she seemed all right."

Max surveyed her rather pointedly. "Well? What had she got to say about me?"

"About you?" said Olga.

He laughed and looked away. "Even so, fair lady. I conclude it was something you would rather not repeat. I had already fathomed the fact that I was not beloved by Mrs. Briggs."

"It's your own fault," said Olga, speaking on the impulse to escape from a difficult subject. "You have such a knack of making all your patients afraid of you."

"Really?" said Max.

"Oh, don't be supercilious!" she said quickly. "You know it's true."

"It must be if you say so," he rejoined, "though there again it is more my misfortune than my fault. If my patients elect to make me the butt of their neurotic imagination, surely I am more to be pitied than blamed."

"No, I don't pity you at all," Olga said. "It's want of sympathy, you know. You go and do a splendid thing like—like—" She stopped suddenly.

"Please go on!" said Max. "Let's hear my good points, by all means!"

But Olga was in obvious confusion. "I didn't mean to mention it," she said. "It just slipped out. I was really thinking of—what happened last night."

He frowned instantly. "Who told you anything about it?"

"Nick."

"I should like to wring his skinny little neck," said Max.

"How dare you?" said Olga indignantly.

"You don't think I'm afraid of you, do you?" he said, with a smile.

"No," she admitted rather grudgingly. "I don't think you are afraid of anyone or anything. But it is a pity you spoil things by being so—unfriendly."

"Are you speaking on Mrs. Briggs's behalf or your own?" asked Max.

She met his eyes with a feeling of reluctance. "Well, I do hate quarrelling," she said.

"I never quarrel," said Max placidly.

"Oh, but you do!" she exclaimed. "How can you say such a thing?"

"No, I don't!" said Max. "I go my own way, that's all. If anyone tries to stop me, well, they get knocked down and trampled on. I don't call that quarrelling. It simply happens in the natural course of things."

"No wonder people don't like you!" said Olga.

"Don't you like me?" said Max.

He put the question with obvious indifference, yet his green eyes still studied her critically. Olga poured out some water with a hand so shaky that it splashed over. He reached forward and dabbed it up with his table-napkin.

"Well?" he said.

"I don't know," she murmured somewhat incoherently.

"Don't know! But you knew this morning!" The green eyes suddenly laughed at her. "I say, don't try to drink that yet!" he said. "You'll choke if you do. Go on! Tell me some more about Mrs. Briggs! Did she give you any of that filthy concoction she calls rhubarb wine?"

"It isn't filthy! It's delicious," declared Olga. "You can't have tasted it."

"Oh, yes, I had some the day the old woman died. In fact, I was trying to sleep off the effects that afternoon, when you caught me in Uncle Nick's library. It's horribly strong stuff. I suppose that is what made you so late for luncheon?"

"Indeed, it wasn't! We went to the Priory before coming home."

"Oh! What for?"

"Some things Violet wanted."

"What things?" said Max.

She looked at him in surprise. "I'm sure I don't know. I'm not so inquisitive as you are. You had better ask Violet."

"Ask me what?" said Violet, detaching her attention from Major Hunt-Goring for a moment.

"Nothing," said Max. "I was only wondering how many glasses of rhubarb wine you had at 'The Ship.'"

Carelessly he rallied her on the subject, carelessly let it pass. And Olga was left with a newly-awakened doubt at her heart. What was the reason for the keen interest he took in her friend? Had he really told her the truth when repudiating the possibility of his falling in love with her? She fancied he had; and if so, why was he so anxious to inform himself of her most trivial doings? It was a puzzle to Olga—a puzzle that for some reason gave her considerable uneasiness. Against her will and very deep down within her, she was aware of a lurking distrust that made her afraid of Max Wyndham. She felt as if he were watching to catch her off her guard, ready at a moment's notice to turn to his own purposes any rash confidence into which she might be betrayed. And she told herself with passionate self-reproach that she had already been guilty of disloyalty to her friend.

During the rest of luncheon she exerted herself to keep the conversation general, Max seconding her efforts as though unconscious of her desire to avoid him. In fact, he seemed wholly unaware of any change in her demeanour, and Olga noted the fact with relief, the while she determined to exclude him rigidly for the future from anything even remotely approaching to intimacy. Watch as they might, the shrewd green eyes should never again catch her off her guard.



CHAPTER VIII

THE ELASTIC BOND

Major Hunt-Goring was quite obviously in his element. To Olga's dismay he showed no disposition to depart when they rose from the luncheon-table. Violet suggested a move to the garden, and he fell in with the proposal with a readiness that plainly showed that he had every intention of inflicting his company upon them for some time longer.

"It's confoundedly lonely up at The Warren," he remarked pathetically, as he lounged after her into the sunshine.

Violet laughed over her shoulder, an unlighted cigarette between her teeth. "You're hardly ever there."

"No. Well, it's a fact. I can't stand it. I'm a sociable sort of chap, you know. I like society."

"Why don't you marry?" laughed Violet.

"That's a question to which I can find no answer," he declared. "Why—why, indeed!"

"Hateful man!" murmured Olga, looking after them. "How I wish he would go!"

"Leave them alone for a spell," advised Max. "Go and mend your stockings in peace! Miss Campion is quite equal to entertaining him unassisted."

But Olga hesitated to pursue this course, and finally collected her work and followed her two guests into the garden.

Max departed upon his rounds, and a very unpleasant sense of responsibility descended upon her.

She took up a central position under the lime-trees that bordered the tennis-court, but Major Hunt-Goring and Violet did not join her. They sauntered about the garden-paths just out of earshot, and several times it seemed to Olga that they were talking confidentially together. She wondered impatiently how Violet could endure the man at such close quarters. But then there were many things that Violet liked that she found quite unbearable.

Slowly the afternoon wore away. The young hostess still sat under the limes, severely darning, but Violet and her companion had disappeared unobtrusively into a more secluded part of the garden. For nearly half an hour she had heard no sound of voices. She wondered if she ought to go in search of them, but her pile of work was still somewhat formidable and she was both to leave it. She continued to darn therefore with unflagging energy, till suddenly a hand touched her shoulder and a man's voice spoke softly in her ear.

"Hullo, little one! All alone? What has become of the fiery-headed assistant?"

She flung his hand away with a violent gesture. So engrossed had she been with getting through her work that she had not heard his step upon the grass.

"Are you just off?" she asked him frigidly. "Will you have anything before you go?"

Hunt-Goring laughed—a soft, unpleasant laugh. "Many thanks!" he said. "I was just asking myself that question. Generous of you to suggest it though. Perhaps you—like myself—are feeling bored."

He lowered himself on to the grassy bank beside her chair, smiling up at her with easy insolence. Olga did not look at him. Handsome though he undoubtedly was, he was the one man of her acquaintance whose eyes she shrank from meeting. His very proximity sent a shiver of disgust through her. She made a covert movement to edge her chair away.

"Where is Miss Campion?" she said.

He laughed again, that hateful confidential laugh of his. "She has gone indoors to rest. The heat made her sleepy. I suggested the hammock, but she wouldn't run the risk of being caught napping. I see that there is small danger of that with you."

Olga stiffened. She was putting together her work with evident determination. "I will see you off," she said.

"You seem in a mighty hurry to get rid of me," he said, without moving.

She laid her mending upon the grass and rose. "I am busy—as you see," she returned.

He looked at her for a moment, then very deliberately followed her example. He stood looking down at her from his great height, a speculative smile on his face.

"You've soon had enough of me, what?" he suggested.

Olga's pale eyes gleamed for an instant like steel suddenly bared to the sun. She said nothing whatever, merely stood before him very stiff and straight, plainly waiting for him to go.

"It's a pity to outstay one's welcome," he said. "I wouldn't do that for the world. But what about that kiss you offered me just now?"

"I?" said Olga, quivering disdain in the word.

"You, my little spitfire!" he said genially. "And it won't be the first time, what? Come now! You're always running away, but you should reflect that you're bound to be caught sooner or later. You didn't think I was going to let you off, did you?"

She stood before him speechless, with clenched hands.

He drew a little nearer. "You pay your debts, don't you? And what more suitable opportunity than the present? You are so elusive nowadays. Why, I haven't seen you except from afar since last Christmas. You were always such a nice, sociable little girl till then."

"Sociable!" whispered Olga.

"Well, you were!" He laughed again in his easy fashion. "Don't you remember what fun we had at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, and how you came to tea with me on the sly a few days after, and how we kissed under the mistletoe, and how you promised—"

"I promised nothing!" burst out Olga, with flashing eyes.

"Oh, pardon me! You promised to kiss me again some day. Have you forgotten? I hardly think your memory is as short as that."

He drew nearer still, and slipped a cajoling arm about her. "Why are we in such a towering rage, I wonder? Surely you don't want to repudiate your liabilities! You promised, you know."

She flung up a desperate face to his. "Very well, Major Hunt-Goring," she said breathlessly. "Take it—and go!"

He bent to her. "But you must give," he said.

"Very well," she said again. "It—it will be the last!"

"Will it?" he questioned, pausing. "In that case, I feel almost inclined to postpone the pleasure, particularly as—"

"Don't torture me!" she said in a whisper half—choked.

Her eyes were tightly shut; but Hunt-Goring's were looking over her head, and a sudden gleam of malicious humour shone in them. He turned them upon the white, shrinking face of the girl who stood rigid but unresisting within the circle of his arm. And then very suddenly he bent and kissed her on the lips.

She shivered through and through and broke from him with her hands over her face.

"But you didn't pay your debt, you know," said Hunt-Goring amiably. "I won't trouble you now, however, as we are no longer alone. Another day—in a more secluded spot—"

No longer alone! Olga looked up with a gasp. Her face was no longer pale, but flaming red. She seemed to be burning from head to foot.

And there, not a dozen paces from her, was Maxwell Wyndham, carelessly approaching, his hands in his pockets, his hat thrust to the back of his head, a faint, supercilious smile cocking one corner of his mouth, his whole bearing one of elaborate unconsciousness.

This much Olga saw; but she did not wait for more. The situation was beyond her. An involuntary exclamation of dismay escaped her, an inarticulate sound that seemed physically wrung from her; and then, without a second glance, ignominiously she turned and fled.

The sound of Hunt-Goring's oily laugh followed her as she went, and added speed to her flying feet.

It was several minutes later that Max entered the surgery, carrying an armful of stockings, and found her scrubbing her face vigorously over the basin that was kept there. She had turned on the hot water, and a cloud of steam arose above her head.

"Don't scald yourself!" said Max. "Try the pumice!"

"Oh, go away!" gasped Olga, with a furious stamp.

"Not going," said Max.

He fetched out a clean towel, and placed it within her reach. Then he sat down on the table and waited, whistling below his breath.

Olga grabbed the towel at last and buried her face in it. "Do you want to make me—hate you?" She flung at him through its folds.

"Don't be silly!" said Max.

"I'm not!" she cried stormily. "I'm not! It's you who—who make bad worse—always!"

He stood up abruptly. "No, I don't. I help—when I can. Sit down, and stop crying!"

"I'm not crying!" she sobbed.

"Then take that towel off your face, and behave sensibly. I'll make you drink some sal volatile if you don't."

"I'm sure you won't. I—I—I'm not a bit afraid of you!" came in muffled tones of distress from the crumpled towel.

"All right. Who said you were?" said Max. "Sit down now! Here's a chair. Now—let me have the towel! Yes, really, Olga!" He loosened her hold upon it, and drew it away from her with steady insistence. "There, that's better. You look as if you'd got scarlet fever. What did you want to boil yourself like that for? Now, don't cry! It's futile and quite unnecessary. Just sit quiet till you feel better! There's no one about but me, and I don't count."

He turned to the pile of stockings he had brought in with him, and began to sort them into pairs.

"By Jove! You're in the middle of one of mine," he said. "I'll finish this."

He thrust his hand into it and prepared to darn.

"Oh, don't!" said Olga. "You—you will only make a mess of it."

He waved his hand with airy assurance.

"I never make a mess of anything, and I'm a lot cleverer than you think. What train is Nick coming home by?"

"I don't know. The five-twenty probably."

He glanced at the clock. "Half an hour from now. And where is the fair Violet?"

"I don't know. He said she had gone in. I suppose I ought to go and see."

"Sit still!" said Max, frowning over his darning. "She is probably reading some obscene novel, and won't be wanting you."

"Max!"

"I apologize," said Max.

Olga smiled faintly. "It's horrid of you to talk like that."

"It's me," said Max.

She dried the last of her tears. "What—what did you do with him?"

"Packed him into the motor and told Mitchel to drive him home."

"I wish Mitchel would run into something and kill him!" said Olga, with sudden vehemence.

Max's brows went up. "Afraid I didn't give Mitchel instructions to that effect."

He spoke without raising his eyes, being quite obviously intent upon his darning. Olga watched him for a few seconds in silence. Finally she gave herself a slight shake and rose.

"You're doing that on the right side," she said.

"It's the best way to approach this kind of hole," said Max.

She came and stood by his side, still closely watching him.

"Dr. Wyndham!" she said at last, her voice very low.

"Please don't make me nervous!" said Max.

"Don't, please!" she said. "I want to speak to you seriously."

He drew out his needle with a reflective air. "Are you going to ask me to prescribe for you?"

"No."

"Then don't call me 'Dr. Wyndham'!" he said severely. "I don't answer to it, except in business hours."

She smiled faintly. "Max, then! Will you do me a favour?"

Max's eyes found hers with disconcerting suddenness. "On one condition," he said.

"What is it?"

The corner of his mouth went up. "I will name my condition when you have named your favour."

She hesitated momentarily. "Oh, it isn't very much," she said. "I only want you not to tell—Nick, or anyone—about—about what happened this afternoon."

"Why isn't Nick to know?" asked Max.

"He would be so angry," she said, "and he couldn't do any good. He would only go and get himself hurt."

"Would you care to know what Hunt-Goring said to me after you had effected a retreat?" asked Max.

The hot colour began to fade out of her cheeks. "Yes," she said, under her breath.

"He said—you know his breezy style: 'Don't be astonished! Miss Ratcliffe and I understand one another. In fact, we've been more or less engaged for a long time, though it isn't generally known.'"

"Max!" Olga started back as if from a blow. "He never said—that!"

"Yes, he did. I guessed it was a lie," said Max, "in spite of appearances."

She winced. "It is a lie!" she said with vehemence. "You—you told him so?"

"I was not in a position to do that," said Max. "But if you authorize me to do so—"

"Yes—yes?" she said feverishly.

"I can only do it if you accept my condition," he said.

"That means you want me to tell you everything," she said.

"No, it doesn't. I know quite as much as I need to know, and I shan't believe anything he may be pleased to say on the subject. It's up to you to tell me as much or as little as you like. No, the condition is this, and there is nothing in it that you need jib at. If you really want me to give him the lie, you must furnish me with full authority. You must put me in a position to do it effectually."

He was looking straight into her face of agitation. There was a certain remorselessness about him that made him in a fashion imposing. Olga quivered a little under the insistence of his eyes, but she flinched no more.

"Yes?" she said. "Well, I do authorize you. It's got to be stopped somehow. I never dreamed of his saying that."

"Quite so," said Max. "But that isn't enough. You will have to go a step further. Give me a free hand! It's the only way if you don't want Nick rushing in. Give me the right to protect you! I promise to use it with discretion."

He smiled very slightly with the words; but Olga only gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

"How? I don't know what you mean."

He held out his hand to her abruptly. "Don't faint!" he said. "Let me tell him—as a dead secret—that you are engaged to me!"

Olga gasped.

Max got up. "Only as a temporary expedient," he said. "I'll let you go again—when you wish it."

His hand remained outstretched, and after a very considerable pause she laid hers within it.

"But really," she said, with an effort, "I don't think we need do anything so desperate as that."

"A desperate case requires a desperate remedy sometimes," said Max, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes "It doesn't mean anything, but we must floor this rascal somehow. Is it a bargain?"

She hesitated. "You won't tell anyone else?"

"Not a soul," said Max.

She still hesitated. "But—he won't believe you."

"He will if I refer him to you," said Max.

Olga pondered the matter. "Are you sure it's the only way?"

"If you don't want Nick to know," he said.

"And what if he—spreads it abroad?" she hazarded.

"We can always treat it as idle gossip, you know," said Max. "Imminent but not actual—the sort of thing over which we blush demurely and say nothing."

She smiled in spite of herself. "It's very good of you," she said with feeling.

"Not a bit," said Max. "I shall enjoy it. I think it ought to put an effectual stop to all unwelcome amenities on his part. We'll try it anyhow."

He released her hand, and resumed his darning, still looking quizzical.

Olga lingered, dubiously reminding herself that only a few hours before she had distrusted this man whom circumstance now made her champion.

"Scissors, please!" said Max.

She gave them to him absently. He held out the unsevered wool, his eyes laughing at her over it.

"You can do the cutting," he said.

She complied, and in the same instant she met his look. "Max," she said rather breathlessly, "I—don't quite like it."

"All right," he said imperturbably. "Don't do it!"

She paused, looking at him almost imploringly. "You're sure it won't mean anything?"

"It can mean as much or as little as you like," said Max.

"I didn't mean—quite that," faltered Olga. "But—it won't be—it never could be—like a real engagement; could it?"

"Like, yet unlike," said Max. "It will be a sort of elastic and invisible bond, made to stretch to the utmost limit, never breaking of itself, though capable of being severed by either party at a moment's notice."

Olga drew a breath of relief. "If that is really all—"

"What more could the most exacting require?" said Max.

What indeed! Yet the phrase struck Olga somehow as being not wholly satisfactory. Perhaps even then, vaguely she began to realize that the species of bond he described might prove the most inviolable of all. But she raised no further argument, doubts notwithstanding; for, in face of his assurance, there seemed nothing left to say.



CHAPTER IX

THE PROJECT

The sound of Nick's cheery, untuneful humming seemed to invest all things with a more normal and wholesome aspect. Olga went to meet him with unfeigned delight.

He put his arm around her, flashing a swift look over her as he did it. "Well, Olga mia. I trust there has been no more bickering in my absence."

"No, I've made friends with Max," she said. "Come and have tea!"

He went through the house with her to the garden where tea awaited him. Max was seated alone beside the little table under the trees.

"You're not a very large party," commented Nick.

"Best we can do under the circumstances," said Max. "The kids are still paper-chasing, and Miss Campion, overcome by the heat, has retired to bed. I propose to follow her example if the company will excuse me. I only put in two hours last night, and may have to attend another case to-night. Here, Ratcliffe, you can have my chair."

"Are you coming down to dinner?" asked Olga.

"I am," he said.

"Because you needn't. I can send it up."

"Thanks! I'll come down," said Max.

He turned away towards the house, but stopped abruptly as Violet suddenly sauntered forth. She was yawning as she came.

"Good people, pray excuse me! I'm always sleepy after a motor-run. What has become of the dear major, Allegro? You haven't banished him already!"

"Did you think he was going to live here?" said Olga, with a very unwonted touch of asperity.

"I expect he will, dear, now he knows I'm here." Violet subsided into the vacant chair with a languid smile at Nick who offered it to her. Her eyes were wonderfully bright, but the lids were heavy. "I'm horribly sleepy still," she said. "Give me some tea, quick, to wake me up! Max, I haven't the energy to amuse you, so you may consider yourself excused."

"Many thanks!" said Max. "I am going to give myself the pleasure of waiting upon you."

"Nick can do that," said Olga. "Do go and get a rest!"

"My dear, if you show yourself so anxious to be rid of him, he'll stay," protested Violet. "Haven't you discovered that yet? You should display an elegant indifference, a pray-stay-if-you've-a-mind-to-but-don't- imagine-that-I-want-you kind of attitude. There are not many men who can face that for long." She broke off to yawn. "No, thanks. Nothing to eat. I'm too sleepy. Well, Nick, have you settled the affairs of the nation satisfactorily?"

"On the contrary. The nation is trying to settle mine," said Nick.

"Oh, really! What more could anyone want you to do?"

"I'm specially qualified for many things, it seems," said Nick modestly. "What has Hunt-Goring been here for?"

"Managed to break his thumb," said Max.

"Yes, and stayed philandering all the afternoon," chimed in Violet. "How did you manage to get rid of him, Allegro? He wouldn't go for me."

"Dr. Wyndham came back early and sent him home in the car," said Olga, with a slight effort.

"I was bored to death with him," declared Violet. "I simply deserted him at last because I couldn't keep my eyes open. Give me my tea strong, please, or I shall fall asleep again under your eyes."

"Do you mind if I smoke?" said Max.

"Not in the least; quite delighted."

He offered her his cigarette-case. "P'raps you'll join me."

"No, thanks. I've been smoking all the afternoon." She stretched up her arms behind her head; they were bare to the elbow, soft and white and rounded. Her eyelids began to droop a little more. She snuggled down into the chair, plainly on the verge of slumber.

And in that moment Olga looked at Max. He was intently watching the girl, so intently that he was oblivious of everything else; and into her mind, all-unbidden, there flashed again the memory of the green dragon-fly—the monster of the stream—darting upon the little scarlet moth. It sent a curious revulsion of feeling through her. For the moment she felt physically sick.

Then impetuously, desperately, she intervened, "Violet, dear, wake up and have your tea! It's this horrid thundery weather that is affecting you. I've felt it myself. Max, you won't get much of a rest if you don't go soon."

Instantly his eyes were turned upon her, and she was conscious of the sudden quickening of her heart; for she saw at a glance that he resented her interference.

"Go on, Max!" grinned Nick. "Why can't you take a graceful hint, man? There may be another luckless little brat wanting you to-night."

"One thing at a time," said Max curtly.

He took out a cigarette and lighted it, a frown between his shaggy brows. He looked neither at Violet nor Olga but his attitude was one of stubborn determination.

"Are you waiting to see me drink my tea?" asked Violet, rousing herself in response to Olga's hand on her arm.

"I am," he said.

"Oh, well, that's soon done," she said, and raised the cup to her lips.

Max smoked on, taciturn and frowning. Violet finished her tea, and asked for more. He finished his cigarette and turned to her.

"I wonder if you would let me try one of yours."

"Not now, I'm afraid," she made answer. "I left my case upstairs."

He lighted another of his own and rose.

"Good-night!" said Nick.

"I shall be down to dinner," Max responded gruffly, and sauntered away.

"Ill-tempered cuss!" said Nick. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's jealous," said Violet.

"Of whom?" Nick was frankly curious.

"Of Major Hunt-Goring. He's been dangling after me half the afternoon. How would you like me to marry him, Allegro?"

"Who?" said Olga, turning crimson.

"Oh, not Max, you may be sure!" Her friend laughed mischievously. "Max is only an interlude."

"And Hunt-Goring the main theme?" suggested Nick.

She laughed again indifferently. "Perhaps, I can't say I'm enamoured of him, though. He's rather a brute at heart, underneath the oil-silk. Well, I'm going to lie in the hammock and sleep."

She got up, stretched luxuriously, and strolled away over the grass.

Nick watched her go with flickering, observant eyes; but he made no comment upon her. Only as she passed from sight, he made an odd little grimace as if dismissing a slightly distasteful subject from his mind. Then he turned to his niece.

"Well, my chicken, you've had a busy afternoon."

"A beastly afternoon, Nick!" she responded warmly. "And I'm very glad it's over, and I don't want to talk about it. Tell me about your doings instead! What were you wanted for?"

"Prepare for a shock!" said Nick. "I haven't got over it myself yet. They want to pack me off to India again. I told 'em I couldn't go, but they seem to take it for granted that I shall. Don't know what Muriel will say to it, I'm sure. They say it would be only a six months' job, but I have my doubts of that."

"Nick! India!"

"India, my child—naked and unadulterated India! The Imperial Commissioners have quite decided that I'm the man for the job. I kept on saying 'Can't!' and 'Won't!' But that didn't make the least difference. Old Reggie Bassett's doing, I'll lay a wager. He will have it that my genius is thrown away in England. And they inform me rather brutally that my seat in Parliament would be far more easily filled than this Sharapura post. Also the young Rajah has done me the honour to ask for me. We went pig-sticking together once—years ago, and I chanced to head off Piggie at a critical moment for young Akbar. On the strength of that, he wants me to go and be his political adviser for a few months. It seems the State is in rather a muddle. His father was a shocking old shuffler, and there are plenty of budmashes about, if report says true. But this young Rajah is anxious to get things straightened out, and the Commissioner wants a report made and so on. Altogether," Nick paused with a smile on his yellow face, "they were very persuasive," he said.

"Nick! You're going!" Olga exclaimed.

He laughed. "If you want my impartial opinion as to that," he said, "I believe I am."

She drew a deep breath. Her eyes were shining. "Oh, how I wish I were a man! I'd come with you."

"Ladies are admitted," said Nick.

"Ah! I wonder what Muriel will say," she said. "Does she like India?"

"India is a large place," he pointed out. "She doesn't like Ghawalkhand, and she isn't keen on Simla—which is sheer prejudice on her part. Sharapura she has never seen. It's a small State in the very middle of the Empire. There are rivers and jungles and tigers and snakes—quite a lot of snakes; a decent little capital and a hill-station, healthy enough though not very high. The natives are exactly like monkeys. I learnt to speak their lingo one winter from a villainous bearer I had when some of us were stationed there. There is a small native garrison in cantonments at the capital. There is also a fort and a race-course. I won the Great Mogul's Cup there—a memorable occasion. My mount was a wall-eyed lanky brute of a Waler, with the action of a camel. But he had the spirit of an Olympian, and we won at a canter."

Nick stopped. His eyes also had begun to shine. Olga was listening enraptured.

"How I wish I was Muriel!" she said. "Of course she'll want to go, Nick. It sounds perfectly enchanting."

"Especially the tigers and snakes," laughed Nick. "Poor Muriel! It's rather a shame to ask her. She had an overdose of the East at the outset, and she has never got over it."

"Oh, but that's aeons ago!" protested Olga.

"I know; but it went deep." Nick leaned back abruptly, with closed eyes. "I wonder if I can bring myself to refuse finally and conclusively—without telling her," he said ruminatively.

"Never, Nick!" Olga sprang from her chair. "You shan't think of such a thing! Nick! A heaven-sent chance like that! Oh, it wouldn't be fair. I'm sure she would say so. You must—you must tell her!"

Nick's hand clenched upon the arm of his chair. He kept his eyes shut. "You see, dear," he said, "there's the kiddie too. I'm an unnatural beast. I'd actually forgotten him for the moment. One-eyed of me, wasn't it?"

"Nick—darling!" Suddenly Olga was kneeling beside his chair; she put her arms about his neck. "You shan't call yourself anything so horrid!" she said. "Dad and I will take care of little Reggie. You know you can trust him to me, Nick. I'll watch over him day and night."

"Bless your heart!" said Nick. He lodged his head against her shoulder after the fashion she most loved. "You're a sweet little pal," he said. "But I doubt if Muriel would consent to go so far away from him, and I'm a selfish hound myself to contemplate such a thing. No; don't contradict me! It's rude. I'm that, and several other things besides. I'd no idea I was so much in the grip of the East. It's a curious thing. One feels it in the blood. It's six years—more—since I climbed on to the shelf, and I've been quite smug and self-satisfied most of the time. There's been a twinge of regret every now and then, but nothing I couldn't whistle away. But now—" his words quickened; he spoke them whimsically, yet passionately, in her ear—"between you and me, I'd give an eye, an ear, or a leg—anything I possess in duplicate—to come off the shelf, and have one more fling. I'm stiff! I'm stiff! And, ye gods, I'm only four-and-thirty! I always thought I'd go till sixty at least. I entered Parliament just to keep going; but that's only a steady progress downhill—a sort of frog's march in which you kick and are kicked, but don't do much besides. I'm a fighter, kiddie. I wasn't made to ornament the shelf. I'm not a hero; only an ordinary, restless, discontented mortal. They told me this afternoon that it was time I did something, that I was dropping out, that I should ossify if I sat still much longer. (A good term that; worthy of our friend Max!) And, by Heaven, they're right! But how can I help it? I know in my heart of hearts that it would be sheer brutality to spring this on Muriel now."

He ceased to speak, and there fell a silence. Olga's arms clasped him very tightly. Her cheek pressed his forehead. It was not often that Nick opened his heart to her thus. Only twice before had it ever happened, and on each occasion he had been in trouble—once when the woman he loved had sent back his engagement ring through her, and once again nearly two years later when that same woman—Muriel, his wife—had lain at death's door all through one dreadful night while they two, close pals, had waited huddled together in the passage outside her room. Those two occasions were sacred to Olga, never spoken of to any, shrined deep in the most inner, most secret recesses of her heart. Nick's confidence had ever been her most cherished possession. It thrilled her now with something more than pride; and through her silence her sympathy came out to him in a flood of understanding which needed no verbal expression.