"That," laughed Lisle, "is what you have been leading up to from the beginning."

"I'll admit it. As I've hinted, one of the differences between an American and an Englishman is that the former usually expresses more or less forcibly what he thinks, unless, of course, he's a financier or a politician; while you have often to learn by experience what the latter means. Better use your own methods in telling me what took place."

Lisle did so, omitting any reference to Bella, and Nasmyth looked disturbed and disgusted.

"Crestwick's as devoid of sense as he is of manners; he deserves to lose. What I can't get over is that fellow Batley's staying in what was once George Gladwyne's house, with Clarence standing sponsor for him."

Lisle fancied he could understand. Nasmyth had his failings, but he had also his simple, drastic code, and it was repugnant to him that a man of his own caste, one of a family he had long known and respected, should countenance an outsider of Batley's kind and assist him in fleecing a silly vicious lad.

"You have no reason to think well of Gladwyne," Lisle reminded him.

"I haven't," Nasmyth owned. "Still, though the man has made one very bad break, I hardly expected him to exceed every limit. At present it looks as if he might do so; he'll probably be forced to."

"I don't quite understand."

"Then I'll have to explain. It's unpleasant, but here the thing is, as I see it—Batley's not the kind of man Clarence would willingly associate with, and to give Clarence his dues, all his instinct must make him recoil from the fellow's game with Crestwick. Considering that he's apparently making no protest against it, this is proof to me that Batley has some pretty firm hold on him."

"What's Batley's profession?"

"I suspect he's something in the smart money-lending line; one of the fellows who deal with minors and others on post-obits."

"Post-obits?"

"Promises to pay after somebody's dead. Suppose there should be only an invalid or an old man between you and a valuable property; you could borrow on the strength of your expectations. Now, what Crestwick told you shows that the person who left him his money very wisely handed it to trustees, with instructions to pay him only an allowance until he's twenty-four. It's a somewhat similar case to the one I've instanced—he's drawing on a capital he can't get possession of for two or three years, and no doubt paying an extortionate interest. So far as I know, no respectable bank or finance broker would handle that kind of business."

"But if the boy died before he succeeded to the property?"

"Batley could cover the risk by making Crestwick take out an insurance policy in his favor."

Lisle's face grew stern, and Nasmyth lay smoking in silence for a while. Then he broke out again:

"It's intolerable! George Gladwyne's successor abetting that fellow in robbing the lad, luring him into wagers and reckless play with the result that most of the borrowed money goes straight back into the hands of the man who lent it!"

"Have you any suspicion that Gladwyne gets a share?"

"No," replied Nasmyth, with signs of strong uneasiness; "I can't believe he benefits in that manner—if he did, I'd feel it my duty to denounce him. Still, I expect he wins a little now and then, incidentally."

Again there was silence for a while, broken finally by Lisle.

"When I'd been here a week or two I began to see that my task wasn't quite so simple as it had appeared—you can't attack a man situated as Gladwyne is without hurting innocent people. Indeed, I've spent hours wondering how, when the time comes, I can clear Vernon's memory, with the least possible damage—that is my business, not the punishing of Gladwyne, though he deserves no consideration. As you say, a man may make a bad break and pull up again, but this one has had his chance and has gone in deeper. What he's doing now—helping to ruin that lad in cold-blood—is almost worse than the other offense."

Nasmyth made an acquiescent gesture.

"It's true; let it go at that. I don't see how the thing can be stopped. There's a fish rising in the slack yonder!"

Lisle saw a silvery gleam in a strip of less-troubled water behind a boulder and taking up his rod he cast the gaudy fly across the ripple. There was a jar, a musical clinking of the reel, and when Nasmyth waded in with ready net all thought of Gladwyne passed out of the Canadian's mind.

After a few minutes' keen excitement, they landed the beautiful glistening trout; and then they set off down-stream in search of another, scrambling over rock and gravel and wading amidst the froth in the pools. Overhead, soft gray clouds drifted by, casting long shadows across fern-clad hillside and far-reaching moor; and the flood flashed into silver gleams and grew dim again.

Both of the men were well content with their surroundings, and now and then Nasmyth wondered why Clarence could not be satisfied with the simple pleasures that were freely offered him. He could have had the esteem of his neighbors and the good will of his tenants, and there were healthful tasks that would have kept him occupied—the care of his estate, the improving of the homes and conditions of life of those who worked for him, experiments in stock-raising, local public duties. He had once slipped badly, so badly that the offense could hardly be contemplated; but that was when he was weak and famishing and under the influence of an overwhelming fear. At least, he could make some reparation by leaving the countryside better than he found it, and in this he had friends who would loyally assist him.

Clarence, however, had chosen another way, one that led down-hill to further dishonor; and Nasmyth considered gloomily what the end of it all would be. Occasionally he glanced at the lithe figure of the Canadian, standing knee-deep amid the froth of the stream. Serious-eyed, alert, resolute, he could be depended on to carry out any purpose he had determined on; it was his firm hands that would hold Clarence's scourge.



CHAPTER XII

MRS. GLADWYNE'S APPEAL

Millicent was sitting in a window-seat with a paint-box beside her and a drawing of a water-ouzel upon her knee. It was a lifelike sketch, but she had a great capacity for painstaking and she was not altogether pleased with the drawing. The bird stood on a stone an inch or two above a stream, its white breast harmonizing with the flecks of snowy froth, and the rest of its rather somber plumage of the same hue as a neighboring patch of shadow. This was as it should be, except that, as the central object of a picture, it was too inconspicuous. She was absorbed in contemplating it when Mrs. Gladwyne was shown in. Clarence's mother did not pay many visits and Millicent fancied she had some particular object in coming.

She sat down where the sunlight fell on her gentle face and silvery hair, her delicate white hands spread out on her dark dress.

"Busy, as usual, my dear," she said, glancing at the sketch. "That's very pretty."

"I think it's correct," returned Millicent; "but I'm not sure it's what it ought to be in other respects. You see, its purpose is to show people what a water-ouzel is like and it's hard to make the creature out. Of course, I could have drawn it against a background that would have forced up every line, but that wouldn't have been right—these wild things were made to fade into their surroundings." She laughed. "Truth is rigid and uncompromising—it's difficult to make it subservient to expediency."

Her visitor did not feel inclined to discuss the matter.

"You're too fastidious," she smiled, and added with a sigh: "George was like that. Little things keep cropping up every day to show it—I mean in connection with his care of the property. I'm sometimes afraid that Clarence is different."

Millicent could not deny this, but she did not see his mother's purpose in confessing it.

"Of course," she answered, as she rang for tea, "he hasn't been in charge very long. One can learn only by experience."

Mrs. Gladwyne looked grateful; but although she was very tranquil there was something in her manner that hinted at uncertainty.

"You will finish the book and these pictures some day," she said. "What will you do then?"

"I really don't know. Perhaps I shall start another. If not, there is always something I can turn my hand to. So many things seem to need doing—village matters alone would find me some occupation."

The elder lady considered this.

"Yes," she agreed with diffidence. "I'm now and then afraid everything's not quite so satisfactory as it used to be. The cottages don't look so pretty or well cared for, the people are not so content—some of them are even inclined to be bitter and resentful. Of course, things change, our relations with our dependents among them; but I feel that people like the Marples, living as they do, have a bad effect. They form a text for the dissatisfied."

Millicent contented herself with a nod. She could not explain that in spite of the changing mode of thought it is still possible for an old-fashioned landlord to retain almost everybody's good will. Sympathy and tactful advice are appreciated, though not effusively, and even a bluff, well-meant reproof is seldom resented. But when rents are rigorously exacted by a solicitor's or banker's clerk, and repairs are cut down, when indifference takes the place of judicious interest, it is hardly logical to look for the cordial relations that might exist. Nasmyth's tenants stopped and exchanged a cheery greeting or a jest with him; most of Gladwyne's looked grim when he or his friends, the Marples, passed.

Then tea was brought in and Millicent found pleasure in watching her guest. Mrs. Gladwyne made a picture, she thought, sitting with the dainty china in her beautiful hands; she possessed the grace and something of the stateliness which is associated with the old regime.

"How quick your people are," she commented. "You rang and the things were brought in. Our staff is large and expensive, but as a rule they keep us waiting. Though you paint and go out so much, you have the gift of making a home comfortable. It really is a gift; one that should not be wasted."

Millicent grew serious. It looked as if her companion were coming to the point, and this became plainer when Mrs. Gladwyne proceeded.

"Do you think the life you contemplate—writing books on birds and animals—is the best or most natural one for a woman?"

A little color crept into the girl's face.

"I don't know; perhaps it isn't. It is the one that seems open to me."

"The only one, my dear? You must know what I mean."

Millicent turned and faced her. She was disturbed, but she seldom avoided a plain issue.

"I think," she said, "it would be better if you told me."

"It's difficult." Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. "You must forgive me if I go wrong. Still, you know it was always expected that you would marry Clarence some day. It would be so desirable."

"For which of us?" Millicent's tone was sharp. She sympathized with Mrs. Gladwyne, but something was due to herself.

"It was Clarence that I was thinking of," admitted her visitor. "I suppose that I am selfish; but I am his mother." She laid down her cup and looked at the girl with pleading eyes. "I must go on, though I don't think I could say what I wish to any one but you. Clarence has many good qualities, but he needs guidance. An affectionate son; but it is my misfortune that I am not wise or firm enough to advise or restrain him. I have dropped behind the new generation; the standards are different from what they were when I was young."

This was true, but it was incomplete, and Millicent let her finish.

"I have been a little anxious, perhaps foolishly so, about him now and then. I cannot approve of all his friends—sometimes they jar on me—and I do not like the views he seems to have acquired from them. They are not the ones his father held. Of course, this is only the result of wrong associations and of having a good-humored, careless nature; it would be so different if he could be brought under some wholesome influence." She smiled at Millicent. "One could trust implicitly to yours."

It was an old plea, fallacious often, but none the less effective. Millicent was devoid of officious self-righteousness, but she was endowed with a compassionate tenderness which prompted her to extend help to all who needed it. She thought that Clarence did so, but in spite of that she did not feel so responsive as she could have wished.

"There is one difficulty," she answered while the blood crept into her face. "I'll own that I recognized what your ideas and George's were about Clarence and myself. I may go so far. But of late there has been nothing to show that Clarence desired to carry out those ideas."

Mrs. Gladwyne gathered her courage.

"My dear, it is rather hard to say, but the truth is that a declaration from a man is not usually quite spontaneous. He looks for some tacit encouragement, a sign that one is not altogether indifferent to him. Now it has struck me that during the past year you have rather stood aloof from my son."

Millicent started slightly; there was some truth in this statement. Mrs. Gladwyne, however, was not wise enough to stop.

"I think that is why there is some risk of his falling into bad hands—that Crestwick girl isn't diffident," she went on. "I know the strong regard he has for you; but the girl sees a good deal of him, and a man is sometimes easily led where he does not mean to go."

Millicent's cheeks burned.

"Do you wish me to compete openly for Clarence's favor with Bella Crestwick?"

Mrs. Gladwyne spread out her hands in protest.

"Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I have said the wrong thing. I warned you that you might have to forgive me."

"But the thought must have been in your mind!"

"I only meant that you needn't repel or avoid him, as you have done of late."

Millicent felt compassionate. After all, Mrs. Gladwyne was pleading for what she believed would benefit her only son; but the girl was very human and a trace of her resentment remained. It was, however, obvious that Mrs. Gladwyne expected some response.

"I can venture to promise that I won't be openly rude," Millicent agreed with a faint smile.

"Can't you go a little beyond that, my dear?"

The girl, seeing the look in her eyes, yielded to an impulse which prompted her to candor.

"What there is to be said had better be spoken now," she replied. "I have confessed that I knew what was expected—Clarence showed that he knew it, too—and the idea was not altogether repugnant to me. But since he came back from Canada there has been a change in both of us. How or why I can't explain, but we have drifted apart. I don't know whether this will go on—I don't understand myself—I only know that I am as anxious for his welfare as I always have been. It must be left to him; there is nothing you must urge me to do."

Mrs. Gladwyne looked regretful, but she made a sign of acquiescence and rising came toward the girl and took her hand.

"What I could do I have done—badly perhaps," she said. "I can't blame you. I am only sorry."

She went out in a few minutes and left Millicent in a thoughtful mood. Looking back on the past, the girl recognized that she had been fond of Clarence—which was the best word for it—and that she would have married him had he urged it. He had, however, hardly been in a position to do so then, and she remembered that she had in no way regretted the fact. This was, she thought, significant. Then the change had gradually come about. She saw his faults more clearly and it grew increasingly difficult to believe that she could eradicate them. What was more, during the past few weeks she had once or twice felt scornfully angry with him. She had tried not to yield to the sensation, and now she wondered how it had originated and why she was less tolerant.

As she considered the question, a shadow fell upon the sunlit lawn and looking up she saw Lisle approaching with a creel upon his back. She started at the sight of him and once more felt her cheeks grow hot; then she smiled, for the half-formed suspicion that had flashed into her mind was obviously absurd. He saw her the next moment and strode toward the open window.

"We got a few good white trout, fresh run," he said. "It occurred to me that you might like one or two of them."

He glanced at the long French window.

"May I come in this way?"

"I've no doubt you could do so, but out of deference to conventional prejudices it might be better if you went round by the usual entrance."

"Charmed!" he smiled. "That's easy."

"Would you rather have it hard?"

"That wasn't the idea," he answered. "I only felt that a much greater difficulty wouldn't stop my getting in."

Millicent laughed.

"If one of my neighbors made such speeches, they'd sound cheap. From you they're amusing."

He affected to consider this.

"I suppose the difference is that I mean them. Anyway, I'll walk around."

She gave him some tea when he came in, and afterward admired the fish.

"They're well above the average weight," she said.

"We had two or three that would beat them," Lisle declared. "Miss Crestwick came along and corralled the finest."

"Was the explanation essential?" Millicent inquired with a smile.

"That was a bad break of mine. So bad that I won't try to explain it away."

"I think you are wise," Millicent retorted with a trace of dryness.

On the face of it, she was pleased with his answer, but the fact he had mentioned caused her some irritation. Bella Crestwick, not content with monopolizing Clarence, must also seek to include the Canadian in her train. It was curious that for the moment that seemed the more serious offense. The girl was insatiable and going too far, Millicent thought.

Lisle noticed her silence.

"Remember that I'm from the wilds," he said.

She smiled at him reassuringly.

"After all, that isn't a great drawback. Anyway, I'm grateful for the trout." Then, somewhat to his surprise, she abruptly changed the subject. "I wonder what you think of a tacit promise?"

His face grew thoughtful; she liked his quick change to seriousness.

"Well, I don't know that my opinion's of much value, but you may have it. Supposing two people allow each other to assume that they're agreed upon the same thing, it's binding upon both of them."

"But if only one actually made his wishes clear."

"In that case, the other had the option of showing that they couldn't be acceded to. Failing that, in my view, he can't go back on it." Then his eyes gleamed with amusement. "I don't often set up as a philosopher."

Millicent was a little vexed with herself for asking him and did not quite understand why she had done so, unless it was because she had not altogether recovered her usual collectedness after Mrs. Gladwyne's visit. Why she should be interested in this man's opinion was not clear, but she thought he was one who would act in accordance with it. She was afterward even more astonished at her next remark, which she made impulsively.

"You have seen a good deal of Miss Crestwick, one way or another."

He considered this gravely.

"Yes," he replied. "I like her. For one thing, she's genuinely concerned about that brother of hers."

"What do you think of him?"

"Not much," Lisle answered candidly. "I've no use for a man who needs a woman to keep him straight and look after him. But one feels a strong respect for the woman, even though it's obvious that she's wasting her time."

"Is it wasting time?"

"It strikes me like that. A man of that sort is bound to come down badly some day."

Millicent sat silent a while. The conversation had taken an unusually serious turn, but she wondered whether he were right. She had, she thought, allowed Clarence to assume that she would not repulse him when he formally claimed her and that—so this man from the wilds considered—constituted a binding obligation. She could not contest this view; but Clarence seemed more interested in Bella Crestwick than he was in her. Then she wondered why the girl had made so much of Lisle, unless it was to use him for the purpose of drawing Clarence on. If that were so, it seemed a pity that the confiding Canadian could not be warned, though that, of course, was out of the question.

"I'm afraid I'm not very amusing to-day," she acknowledged.

He smiled.

"I'll go the moment you want to get rid of me; but, even if you don't say anything, I like sitting here. This place rests me."

"I shouldn't have imagined you to be of a very restful nature."

"Oh," he declared, "there's a kind of quietness that braces you."

He was less reserved than the average Englishman, but he felt the charm of his surroundings more keenly than the latter would probably have done. Everything in the room was artistic, but its effect was deeper than mere prettiness. It was cool, though the autumn sunshine streamed in, and the girl had somehow impressed her personality upon it. Soft colorings, furniture, even the rather incongruous mixture of statuettes and ivory carvings, blended into a harmonious whole, and the girl made a most satisfactory central figure, as she sat opposite him in her unusually thoughtful mood. He felt the charm of her presence, though he could hardly have analyzed it. As he said, it was not even needful that she should talk to him.

"There are lakes in British Columbia from which you can look straight up at the never-melting snows," he went on. "You feel that you could sit there for hours, without wanting to move or speak, though it must be owned that one very seldom gets the opportunity."

"Why?" Millicent inquired.

"As a rule, the people who visit such places are kept too busy chopping big trees, hauling canoes round rapids, or handling heavy rocks. Besides, you have your food to cook and your clothes to mend and wash."

"Then, after the day's labor, a man must do his own domestic work?"

"Of course," answered Lisle. "Now and then one comes back to camp too wet or played out to worry, and goes to sleep without getting supper. I'm speaking of when you're working for your own hand. In a big logging or construction camp you reach the fringe of cooperation. This man sticks to the saw, the other to the ax, somebody else who gets his share of the proceeds chops the cord-wood and does the cooking."

"And if you can neither chop nor saw nor cook?"

"Then," Lisle informed her dryly, "you have to pull out pretty quick."

"It sounds severe; that's cooperation in its grimmest aspect, though it's quite logical—everybody must do his part. I'm afraid I shouldn't be justified if we adopted it here."

"Cooperation implies a division of tasks," Lisle pointed out. "In a country like this, they're many and varied. So long as you draw the wild things as you do, you'll discharge your debt."

"Do you know that that's the kind of work the community generally pays one very little for?"

"Then it shows its wrong-headedness," Lisle answered as he glanced meaningly round the room. "But haven't you got part of your fee already? Of course, that's impertinent."

"I believe we would shrink from saying it, but it's quite correct," Millicent replied. "Still, since you have mentioned the drawings, I'd like your opinion about this ouzel."

She took up the sketch and explained the difficulty, as she had done to Mrs. Gladwyne.

"It's right; don't alter it," advised Lisle. "It's your business to show people the real thing as it actually is, so they can learn, not to alter it to suit their untrained views."

He laughed and rose somewhat reluctantly.

"After that, I'd better get along. I have to thank you for allowing me to come in."

She let him go with a friendly smile, and then sat down to think about him. He was rather direct, but the good-humor with which he stated his opinions softened their positiveness. Besides, she had invited them; and she felt that they were correct. He was such another as Nasmyth, simple in some respects, but reliable; one who could never be guilty of anything mean. She liked the type in general, and she admitted that she liked this representative of it in particular.



CHAPTER XIII

A FUTILE PROTEST

It was late at night, but Gladwyne sat, cigar in hand, in his library, while Batley lounged beside the hearth. A wood fire diffused a faint aromatic fragrance into the great high-ceilinged room, and the light of a single silver lamp flickered on the polished floor, which ran back like a sheet of black ice into the shadow. Heavily-corniced bookcases rose above it on either band, conveying an idea of space and distance by the way they grew dimmer as they receded from the light.

The room had an air of stateliness in its severe simplicity, and its owner, sitting just inside the ring of brightness, clad in conventional black and white, looked in harmony with it. Something in his finely-lined figure and cleanly-molded face stamped him as one at home in such a place. A decanter stood near his elbow, but it was almost full. Gladwyne, in many ways, was more of an ascetic than a sensualist, though this was less the result of moral convictions than of a fastidious temperament. The man had an instinctive aversion for anything that was ugly or unpleasant. His companion, dressed with an equal precision, looked different, more virile, coarser; he was fuller in figure and heavier in face.

"No," declared Gladwyne with a show of firmness; "the line must be drawn. I've already gone farther than I should have done."

"I'm sorry for you, Gladwyne—you don't seem to realize that a man can't very well play two widely different parts at once," Batley rejoined, smiling. "Your interfering Canadian friend would describe your attitude as sitting upon the fence. It's an uncomfortable position, one that's not often tenable for any length of time. Hadn't you better make up your mind as to which side you'll get down on?"

Gladwyne looked uneasy. The choice all his instinct prompted him to make was not open to him, except at a cost which he was hardly prepared to face. He was known as a bold rider, he had the steady nerves that usually result from a life spent in the open air, but, as Batley recognized, he lacked stamina.

"You are going wide of the mark," he answered. "What I have asked you to do is to let the lad alone. The thing's exciting comment. You"—he hesitated—"have made enough out of him."

"I think," replied the other coolly, "I was very much to the point. If you don't recognize this, I'll ask: Suppose I don't fall in with your request, what then?"

Gladwyne examined his cigar. It was not in his nature to face an issue boldly, and his companion seemed determined to force one.

"I've asked it as a favor," he finally said.

"No," corrected Batley; "I don't think you did so. You intimated your wishes in a rather lordly style."

This was true, but Gladwyne winced at the man's cold smile. He had, in a fit of indignation which was both honest and commendable, expressed himself with some haughtiness; but he knew that he would be beaten if it came to an open fight. This was unfortunate, because his intentions were good.

"Besides," Batley continued, "I'm not in a position to grant expensive favors. My acquaintance with young Crestwick is, of course, profitable. What's more, I've very liberally offered you a share."

Gladwyne's face grew hot. He had acted, most reluctantly, as a decoy to the vicious lad, but he had never benefited by it, except when now and then some stake fell into his hands. The suggestion that he should share in the plunder filled him with disgust, and he knew that Batley had made it to humiliate him.

"You're taking risks," he continued. "There's legislation on the subject of minors' debts; Crestwick began to deal with you before he was twenty-one, and he's still in his trustees' hands. If he made trouble, I'm inclined to think some of your transactions would look very much like conspiracy."

"I know my man. You people would suffer a good deal, sooner than advertise yourselves through the law courts."

"Crestwick isn't one of us," Gladwyne objected.

"Then, as he aspires to be considered one, he'll go even farther than you would. None are so keen for the honor of the flock as those who don't strictly belong to the fold. There's another point you overlook—a person can't very well conspire alone, and inquiries might be made about my confederates. That, however, is not a matter of much importance, because I imagine Miss Crestwick would not allow any one to point to you. Besides, her money's safe, and she's a prepossessing young lady."

Gladwyne straightened himself sharply in his chair. "Don't go too far! There are things I won't stand!"

"Then we'll try to avoid them. All I require is that you still give the lad the entry of this house and don't interfere with me. You see I'm reasonable."

As Gladwyne had interfered, to acquiesce was to own defeat, which was galling, and while he hesitated Batley watched him with an air of indulgent amusement.

"It's a pity you were not quite straight with me at the beginning, Gladwyne; it would have saved you trouble," he remarked at length. "I took a sporting risk at pretty long odds—I have to do so now and then and I pay up when I lose. But if I'd known the money was to go to Miss Gladwyne and you would only get the land, I'd never have kept you supplied; and in particular I wouldn't have made the last big loan shortly before you and your cousin sailed for Canada."

"You knew it was a blind speculation—that I ran the same risk as George did, and that he might outlive me."

"You're wrong on one point," Batley objected dryly. "I'm acquainted with your temperament—it's not one that would lead you into avoidable difficulties. Well, you came through and your cousin died, but you failed to pay me off when you came into possession."

"I've explained that I couldn't foresee the trouble I have in meeting expenses. I've paid you an extortionate interest."

"That's in arrears," retorted Batley. "You should have pinched and denied yourself to the utmost until you had got rid of me. You couldn't bring yourself to do so—well, it's rather a pity one can't have everything."

Approaching the table, he quietly took up the lamp. It was heavy, standing on a massive silver pillar, but he raised it above his head so that the light streamed far about the stately room. Then he laughed as he set it down.

"It's something to be the owner of such a place and enjoy all that it implies—which includes your acknowledged status and your neighbors' respect. There would be a risk of losing the latter if it came out that, driven by financial strain, you had been speculating on your cousin's death."

Gladwyne made a little abrupt movement and Batley saw that his shot had told.

"It would be enough to place you under a cloud," he went on. "People might think that you had at least not been very reluctant to leave him to starve. Well, I've had to wait for my money, with the interest by no means regularly paid, and unless you can square off the account, I must ask you to leave me a free hand to deal with Crestwick as I think fit. In return, if it's needful, I'll see you through on reasonable terms until you marry Miss Crestwick or somebody else with money."

On the whole, Gladwyne was conscious of relief. He had been badly frightened for a moment or two. If Batley, who had good reasons for distrusting him, had accepted his account of his cousin's death, it was most unlikely that it had excited suspicion in the mind of anybody else. Crestwick, however, must be left to his fate. It was, though he failed to recognize this, an eventful decision that Gladwyne made.

"As you will," he answered, rising. "It's late; I'm going for my candle."

He strode out of the room, and Batley smiled as he followed him.

A day or two later Lisle stood on Gladwyne's lawn. Gladwyne entertained freely, and though his neighbors did not approve of all of his friends, the man had the gift of pleasing, and his mother unconsciously exerted a charm on every one. She rarely said anything witty, but she never said anything unkind and she would listen with a ready sympathy that sometimes concealed a lack of comprehension.

Lisle had a strong respect for the calm, gracious lady, though she had won it by no more than a smile or two and a few pleasant words, and he went over to call upon her every now and then. He was interested in the company he met at her house; it struck him as worth studying; and he had a curious feeling that he was looking on at the preliminary stages of a drama in which he might presently be called upon to play a leading part. Besides, he had reasons for watching Gladwyne.

The stage was an attractive one to a man who had spent much of his time in the wilderness—a wide sweep of sunlit sward with the tennis nets stretched across part of it; on one side a dark fir wood; and for a background a stretch of brown moor receding into the distance, dimmed by an ethereal haze. A group of young men and women, picturesquely clad, were busy about the nets; others in flannels and light draperies strolled here and there across the grass, and a few more had gathered about the tea-table under a spreading cedar, where Mrs. Gladwyne sat in a low wicker-chair. Over all there throbbed the low, persistent murmur of a stream.

Lisle was talking to Millicent near the table. He looked up as a burst of laughter rose from beside the nets and saw Bella Crestwick walk away from them. One or two of the others stood looking after her, and Mrs. Gladwyne glanced from her chair inquiringly.

"They seem amused," she said.

"It was probably at one of Miss Crestwick's remarks; she's undoubtedly original," returned Millicent. "Still, I think it was chiefly Mr. Marple's laugh you heard."

His voice had been most in evidence—it usually carried far—but Lisle was half amused at the disapproval in the girl's tone.

"I'm afraid I'm now and then a little boisterous, too," he ventured.

"It depends a good deal upon what you laugh at," Millicent informed him.

Mrs. Gladwyne looked up again, as if she had not heard, and the girl smiled at her.

"What I said isn't worth repeating."

She moved away a pace or two and Lisle watched Bella, who glanced once or twice in his direction as she crossed the lawn. Somehow he felt that he was wanted and a little later he strolled after the girl. Millicent noticed it with a slight frown, though she did not trouble to ask herself why she was vexed. When Lisle reached Bella, she regarded him with mischief in her eyes.

"As I once mentioned, you learn rapidly," she laughed. "You'll be thankful for the instruction some day, and I promise not to teach you anything very detrimental. But I'm a little surprised that Millicent Gladwyne allowed you to come."

"I dare say she could spare me; I'm not a very entertaining companion," Lisle said humbly.

"It wasn't that," Bella explained. "I don't think she'd like you spoiled—perhaps I should say contaminated; she has ideas on the subject of education, too. She always calls me Miss Crestwick, which is significant; I've no doubt she did so when Marple made himself conspicuous by his amusement just now."

Lisle had noticed the correctness of her assumptions on other occasions, but he said nothing, for he had noticed some bitterness in her voice. He walked on with her and she led him into a path through a shrubbery bordering the lawn, where she sat down on a wooden seat.

"Now," she said teasingly, "we have given the others something to think about; but I've really no designs on you. It wouldn't be much use, anyway. You're safe."

She looked up at him with elfish mischief in her aggressively pretty face. Dressed in some clinging fabric of pale watery green that matched the greenish light in her eyes and the reddish gleam in her hair, she was very alluring; but it was borne in upon Lisle that to take up her challenge too boldly would lower him in the girl's regard.

"I'm human," he laughed. "Perhaps I'd better mention it. But I think it's more to the purpose to say that I'm altogether at your disposal."

"Well," she answered, "I wanted you. As you're almost a stranger, it's curious, isn't it? But, you see, I haven't a real friend in the world."

"I wonder if that can be quite correct?"

"So far as the people here go, haven't you eyes?"

Lisle had seen the men gather about her, but it was those he thought least of who followed her most closely, and the women stood aloof.

"There are Miss Marple and her mother, anyway; they're friends of yours," he pointed out.

"Just so. Flo and I are in the same class, making the same fight; but that isn't always a reason for mutual appreciation or support. Mrs. Marple, of course, is her daughter's partizan, though in some ways it suits us to stand together. But I didn't bring you here to listen to my grievances, but because you happen to be the one man I can trust."

Lisle looked embarrassed, but merely bent his head.

"It's that silly brother of mine again," she went on.

"What has he been doing now?"

"It's what he's thinking of doing that's the worst. He has been led to believe it's easy to acquire riches on the stock exchange and that he has the makings of a successful speculator in him. Cards and the turf I've had to tolerate—after all, there were ways in which he got some return for what he spent on them—but this last craze may be disastrous."

"Where did he get the idea that he's a financial genius? It wouldn't be from you."

"No," she said seriously; "I'm his sister and most unlikely to encourage him in such delusions. I don't think Batley had much trouble in putting the notion into his mind." Her expression suddenly changed. "How I hate that man!"

Lisle looked down at her with grave sympathy.

"It's quite easy to get into difficulties by speculating, unless one has ample means. But I understood—"

Bella checked him with a gesture.

"Jim comes into money—we have a good allowance now—but it will be nearly two years before he gets possession. I want him to start fair when he may, perhaps, have learned a little sense, and not to find himself burdened with debts and associates he can't get rid of. At present, Batley's lending him money at exorbitant interest. I've pleaded, I've stormed and told him plain truths; but it isn't the least use."

"I see. Why don't you take him away?"

"He won't come. It would be worse if I left him."

"Do you know why Gladwyne tolerates Batley?"

"I don't." Bella looked up sharply. "What has that to do with it?"

Lisle thought it had a bearing on the matter, as the lad would have seen less of Batley without Gladwyne's connivance.

"Well," he countered, "what would you like me to do?"

"It's difficult to answer. He's obstinate and resents advice. You might, however, talk to him when you have a chance; he's beginning to have a respect for your opinions."

"That's gratifying," Lisle commented dryly. "He was inclined to patronize me at first."

She spread out her hands.

"You're too big to mind it! Tell him anything you can about disastrous mining ventures; but don't begin as if you meant to warn him—lead up to the subject casually."

"I'm afraid I'm not very tactful," Lisle confessed. "He'll see what I'm after."

"It's not very likely. Talk as if you considered him a man of experience. It's fortunate that you can be of help in this case, because I think some Canadian mining shares are to be the latest deal. From what Jim said it looks as if Batley was to give him some information about them on Wednesday, when Gladwyne and he are expected at Marple's. Can't you come? I understand you have been asked."

"Yes," promised Lisle. "If I have an opportunity, I'll see what can be done."

Bella rose and smiled at him.

"We'll go back; I'm comforted already. You're not profuse, but one feels that you will keep a promise."

They walked across the lawn, Bella now conversing in an animated strain about unimportant matters, though it did not occur to Lisle that this was for the benefit of the lookers-on. On approaching the tea-table, she adroitly secured possession of a chair which another lady who stood higher in her hostess's esteem was making for, and sitting down chatted cheerfully with Mrs. Gladwyne. Lisle was conscious of some amusement as he watched her. She was clever and her courage appealed to him; but presently he saw Millicent and strolled toward where she was standing. She spoke to him, but he thought she was not quite so gracious as she had been before he went away.



CHAPTER XIV

LISLE COMES TO THE RESCUE

A few days after his interview with Bella, Lisle overtook Millicent as she was walking up a wooded dale. She looked around with a smile when he joined her and they fell into friendly talk. There were points on which they differed, but a sense of mutual appreciation was steadily growing stronger between them. Presently Lisle happened to mention the Marples, and Millicent glanced at him thoughtfully. She knew that he met Bella at their house.

"You have seen a good deal of these people, one way or another," she remarked.

"These people? Aren't you a little prejudiced against them?"

"I suppose I am," Millicent confessed.

"Then won't you give me the reason? Your point of view isn't always clear to an outsider."

"I'll try to be lucid. I don't so much object to Marple as I do to what he stands for; I mean to modern tendency."

"That's as involved as ever."

The girl showed a little good-humored impatience. She did not care to supply the explanation—it was against her instincts—and she was inclined to wonder why she should do so merely because the man had asked for it.

"Well," she said, "the feudal system isn't dead, and I believe that what is best in it need never disappear altogether. Of course, it had its drawbacks, but I think it was better than the commercialism that is replacing it. It recognized obligations on both sides, and there is a danger of forgetting them; the new people often fail to realize them at all. Marple—I'm using him as an example—bought the land for what he could get out of it."

"About three per cent., he told me. It isn't a great inducement."

Millicent made a half-disdainful gesture.

"He gets a great deal more—sport, a status, friends and standing, and a means of suitably entertaining them. That, I suppose, is one reason why the return in money from purely agricultural land is so small."

"Then is it wrong for a business man to buy these things, if he can pay for them?"

"Oh, no! But he must take up the duties attached to his purchase. When you buy land, human lives go with it. They're still largely in the landlord's hands. Of course, we have legislation which has curtailed the land-owner's former powers, but it's a soulless, mechanical thing that can never really take the place of direct personal interest."

She stopped and glanced back down the winding dale. Here and there smooth pastures climbed the slopes that shut it in, but over part of them ranged mighty oaks, still almost green. Beyond these, beeches tinted with brown and crimson glowed against the dusky foliage of spruces and silver-firs.

"One needs wisdom, love of the soil and all that lives on it, and perhaps patience most of all," she resumed. "These woods are an example. They are not natural like your forests—every tree has been carefully planted and as it grew the young sheltering wood about it carefully thinned out. Then as the trunks gained in size it was necessary to choose with care and cut. With the oaks it's a work of generations, planting for one's great-grandchildren, and the point that is suggested most clearly is the continuity of interest that should exist between the men who use the spade and ax and the men who own and plan. It is not a little thing that the third and fourth generations should complete the task, when a mutual toleration and dependence is handed down."

Lisle was conscious of a curious stirring of his feelings as he listened to her. She was tall and finely proportioned, endowed with a calm and gracious dignity which was nevertheless, he thought, in keeping with a sanguine and virile nature. This girl was one of the fairest and most precious products of the soil she loved.

"It's a pity in many ways that the Gladwyne property didn't come to you," he observed.

Her expression changed and he spread out one hand deprecatingly.

"That's another blunder of mine. I haven't acquired your people's unfailing caution yet, but I only meant—"

"Perhaps it would be better if you didn't tell me what you did mean."

Lisle nodded. He felt that he had deserved the rebuke, as the truth of his assertion could not be admitted without disparaging Gladwyne. She would allow nothing to the latter's discredit to be said by a stranger, but it was unpleasant to think that she regarded him as one. He changed the subject.

"You mentioned that landlord and laborer had a joint interest in the soil, and that's undoubtedly right," he said. "The point where trouble arises is, of course, over the division of the yield. The former's share is obvious, but nowadays plowman and forester want more than their fathers seem to have been satisfied with. I don't think you can blame them—in Canada they get more."

"I'll give you an instance to show why one can't treat them very liberally. When my brother got possession he spent a great deal of money—it was left him by his mother and didn't come out of the land—in draining, improvements, and rebuilding homesteads and cottages, besides freely giving his time and care. For a number of years he got no return at all, and part of the expenditure will always be unproductive. It isn't a solitary case."

They went on together through the shadowy, crimson-tinted dale until Millicent stopped at the gate of a field-road.

"I am going to one of the cottages yonder," she explained. "I expect Nasmyth on Wednesday evening. Are you coming with him?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to Marple's. You see, I promised."

"Promised Marple?"

He was learning to understand her, for though she showed no marked sign of displeasure he knew that she was not gratified.

"No," he answered; "Miss Crestwick."

She did not speak, but there was something in her manner that hinted at disdainful amusement.

"I think you're hardly fair to her," he said.

"It's possible," Millicent replied carelessly. "Does it matter?"

"Well," he broke out with some warmth, "the girl hasn't such an easy time among you; and one can only respect her for the way she stands by her brother."

"Have you anything to say in his favor?"

"It would be pretty difficult," admitted Lisle. "But you can't blame his sister for that."

"I don't think I've shown any desire to do so," she retorted.

Lisle knit his brows.

"You people are rather curious in your ideas. Now, here's a lonely girl who's pluckily trying to look after that senseless lad, and not a one of you can spare her a word of sympathy, because she doesn't run on the same stereotyped lines as you do. Can you help only the people who will conform?"

Millicent let this pass, and after an indifferent word or two she turned away. Before she reached home, however, she met Nasmyth.

"Why don't you keep Mr. Lisle out of those Marples' hands?" she asked him.

"In the first place, I'm not sure that I could do so; in the second, I don't see why I should try," Nasmyth replied. "On the whole, considering that he's a Western miner, I don't think he's running a serious risk. Perhaps I might hint that Bella Crestwick's hardly likely to consider him as big enough game."

"Don't be coarse!" Millicent paused. "But he spoke hotly in her defense."

"After all," responded Nasmyth, "I shouldn't wonder if she deserves it; but it has no significance. You see, he's a rather chivalrous person."

Millicent flashed a quick glance at him, but his face was expressionless.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"I don't remember exactly: he hinted that we were narrow-minded and uncharitable."

Nasmyth laughed.

"I almost think there's some truth in it. I've seen you a little severe on those outside the fold."

"A man's charity is apt to be influenced by a pretty face," Millicent retorted.

"I'll admit it," replied Nasmyth dryly. "But I can't undertake to determine how far that fact has any bearing on this particular instance."

Millicent talked about something else, but she was annoyed with herself when the question Nasmyth had raised once more obtruded itself on her attention during the evening.

On Wednesday Lisle walked over to Marple's house, because he had promised to go, though he would much rather have spent an hour or two with Nasmyth and Millicent in the latter's drawing-room. He had no opportunity for any private speech with Bella, but she flung him a grateful glance as he came in. He waited patiently and followed her brother here and there, but he could not secure a word with him alone.

Some time had passed when, escaping from a group engaged in what struck him as particularly stupid badinage, he sauntered toward the billiard-room, struggling with a feeling of irritation. He was generally good-humored and tolerant rather than hypercritical, but the somewhat senseless hilarity of Marple's guests was beginning to jar on him. A burst of laughter which he thought had been provoked by one of Bella's sallies followed him down the corridor, but when he quietly opened the door the billiard-room was empty except for a group of three in one corner. He stopped just inside the threshold, glancing at them, and it was evident that they had not heard his approach.

Wreaths of cigar smoke drifted about the room; the light of the shaded lamps fell upon the men seated on a lounge, and their expressions and attitudes were significant. Gladwyne leaned back languidly graceful; Batley, a burlier figure, was talking, his eyes fixed on Crestwick; and the lad sat upright, looking eager. Batley appeared to be discussing the principles of operating on the stock exchange.

"It's obvious," he said, "that there's very little to be made by waiting until any particular stock becomes a popular favorite—the premium equalizes the profit and sometimes does away with it. The essential thing is to take hold at the beginning, when the shares are more or less in disfavor and can be picked up cheap."

Lisle stood still—he was in the shadow—watching the lad, who now showed signs of uncertainty.

"I dropped a good deal of money the last time I tried it," he protested. "The trouble is that if you come in when the company's starting, you can't form an accurate idea of how it ought to go."

"Exactly," replied Batley. "You can rarely be quite sure. What you need is sound judgment, the sense to recognize a good thing when you see it, pluck, and the sporting instinct—you must be ready to back your opinion and take a risk. It's only the necessity for that kind of thing which makes it a fine game."

He broke off, looking up, and as Lisle strolled forward with a glance at Crestwick, he saw Batley's genial expression change. It was evident that the idea of being credited with the qualities mentioned appealed to the lad, and Lisle realized that Batley was wishing him far away. He had, however, no intention of withdrawing, and taking out a cigar he chose a cue and awkwardly proceeded to practise a shot.

"This," he said nonchalantly, "is an amusement I never had time to learn, and I really came along for a quiet smoke. Don't let me disturb you."

He saw Crestwick's look and understood what was in the lad's mind. It was incomprehensible to the latter that a man should boldly confess his ignorance of a game of high repute. Batley, however, seeing that the intruder intended to remain, returned to the attack, and though he spoke in a lower voice Lisle caught part of his remarks and decided that he was cleverly playing upon Crestwick's raw belief in himself. This roused the Canadian to indignation, though it was directed against Gladwyne rather than his companion. Batley, he thought, was to some extent an adventurer, one engaged in a hazardous business at which he could not always win, and he had some desirable qualities—good-humor, liberality, coolness and daring. The well-bred gentleman who served as his decoy, however, possessed none of these redeeming characteristics. His part was merely despicable; there was only meanness beneath his polished exterior.

"It certainly looks promising," Lisle heard Crestwick say; "you have pretty well convinced me that it can't go wrong."

"I can't see any serious risk," declared Batley. "That, in the case of mining stock, is as far as I'd care to go. On the other hand, there's every prospect of a surprising change in the value of the shares as soon as the results of the first reduction of ore come out. I can only add that I'm a holder and I got you the offer of the shares as a favor from a friend who's behind the scenes. Don't take them unless you feel inclined."

This was a slip, as Lisle recognized. It is not in human nature to dispose of a commodity that will shortly increase in value. Crestwick, however, obviously failed to notice this; Lisle thought the idea of getting on to the inside track appealed to his vanity.

"It's a curious name they've given the mine," commented the lad, repeating it. "What does it mean?"

Lisle started, for he recognized the name, and it offered him a lead. Strolling toward the group, he leaned against the table.

"I can tell you that," he said. "It's an Indian word for a river gorge. I went up it not long ago."

"Then," exclaimed Crestwick, "I suppose you know the mine?"

Lisle glanced at the others. Their eyes were fixed upon him, Batley's steadily, Gladwyne's with a hint of uneasiness. It was, he felt, a remarkable piece of good fortune that had given him control of the situation.

"Yes," he answered carelessly, "I know the mine."

"I'm thinking of taking shares in it," Crestwick informed him.

"Well," said Lisle, "that wouldn't be wise."

Gladwyne leaned farther back in his seat, as if to disassociate himself from the discussion, which was what the Canadian had expected from him; but Batley, who was of more resolute fiber, showed fight. His appearance became aggressive, his face hardened, and there was a snap in his eyes.

"You have made a serious allegation in a rather startling way, Mr. Lisle. As I've an interest in the company in question, I must ask you to explain."

"Then I'd advise you to get rid of your interest as soon as possible; that is, so long as you don't sell out to Crestwick, who's a friend of mine."

Batley's face began to redden, and Lisle, looking around at the sound of a footstep, saw Marple standing a pace or two away. He was a fussy, bustling man, and he raised his hand in expostulation.

"Was that last called for, or quite the thing, Lisle?" he asked.

Batley turned to Gladwyne, as if for support, and the latter assumed his finest air.

"I think there can be only one opinion on that point," he declared.

Lisle's eyes gleamed with an amusement that was stronger than his indignation. That Gladwyne should expect this gravely delivered decision to have any marked effect tickled him.

"Well," he replied, "I'm ready to stand by what I said, and I'll add that if I had any shares I'd give them away to anybody who would register as their owner before the next call is made."

"I understood there wouldn't be a call for a long while," Crestwick broke in.

"Then whoever told you so must have been misinformed," Lisle rejoined.

"Are you casting any doubt upon my honor?" Batley demanded in a bellicose voice.

"I don't think so; anyway, so long as you don't rule out my suggestion. Still, I'm willing to leave Gladwyne to decide the point. He seems to understand these delicate matters."

Marple, looking distressed and irresolute, broke in before Gladwyne had a chance to reply.

"Do you know much about mining, Lisle?"

Lisle laughed.

"I've had opportunities for learning something, as prospector, locator of alluvial claims and holder of an interest in one or two comparatively prosperous companies."

He leaned forward and touched Crestwick's shoulder.

"Come along, Jim, and I'll give you one or two particulars that should decide you."

Somewhat to his astonishment, the lad rose and rather sheepishly followed him. There was an awkward silence for a few moments after they left the room; then Marple turned to his guests.

"I can't undertake to say whether Lisle was justified or not," he began. "I'm sorry, however, that anything of this nature should have happened in my house."

"So am I," said Gladwyne with gracious condescension. "There is, of course, one obvious remedy."

Marple raised his hands in expostulation. He liked Lisle, and Gladwyne was a distinguished guest. Batley seemed to find his confusion amusing.

"I think the only thing we can do is to let the matter drop," he suggested. "These fellows from the wilds are primitive—one can't expect too much. The correct feeling or delicacy of expression we'd look for among ourselves is hardly in their line."

Marple was mollified, and he fell in with Batley's suggestion that they should try a game.

In the meanwhile, Crestwick looked around at his companion as they went down the corridor.

"I believe I owe you some thanks," he admitted. "I like the way you headed off Batley—I think he meant to turn savage at first—and I wouldn't have been willing to draw in Gladwyne, as you did. He has a way of crushing you with a look."

"It's merely a sign that you deserve it," Lisle laughed. "You take too many things for granted in this country. Test another man's assumption of superiority before you agree with it, and you'll sometimes be astonished to find out what it's really founded on. And now we'd better join those people who're singing."



CHAPTER XV

BELLA'S DEFEAT

The afternoon was calm and hazy, and Lisle lounged with great content in a basket-chair on Millicent's lawn. His hostess sat near by, looking listless, a somewhat unusual thing for her, and Miss Hume, her elderly companion, genial in spite of her precise formality, was industriously embroidering something not far away. There was not a breath of wind astir; a soft gray sky streaked with long bars of stronger color hung motionless over the wide prospect. Wood and moorland ridge and distant hill had faded to dimness of contour and quiet neutral tones. Indeed, the whole scene seemed steeped in a profound tranquillity, intensified only by the murmur of the river.

Lisle enjoyed it all, though he was conscious that Millicent's presence added to its charm. He had grown to feel restful and curiously at ease in her company. She was, he thought, so essentially natural; one felt at home with her.

"I haven't often seen you with the unoccupied appearance you have just now," he remarked at length.

"I have sent the book off, and after being at work on it so long, I feel disinclined to do anything else," she said. "I've just heard from the publishers; they don't seem enthusiastic. After all, one couldn't expect that—the style of the thing is rather out of the usual course."

Lisle looked angry and she was pleased with his indignation on her behalf.

"They show precious little sense!" he declared; "but you're right. It's one of your English customs to go on from precedent to precedent until you get an unmodifiable standard, when you slavishly conform to it. Now your book's neither a classification nor a catalogue—it's something far bigger. Never mind what the experts and scientists say; wait until the people who love the wild things and want their story made real get it into their hands!"

His confidence was gratifying, but she changed the subject.

"You Canadians haven't much respect for precedent?"

"No; we try to meet the varying need by constantly changing means. They're often crude, but they're successful, as a rule."

"It's a system that must have a wide effect," she responded, to lead him on. She liked to hear him talk.

"It has. You can see it in the difference between your country and mine. This land's smooth and well trimmed; everything in it has grown up little by little; its mellow ripeness is its charm. Ours is grand or rugged or desolate, but it's never merely pretty. The same applies to our people; they're bubbling over with raw, optimistic vigor, their corners are not rubbed off. Some of them would jar on overcivilized people, but not, I think, on any one with understanding." He spread out his hands. "You have an example; I'm spouting at large again."

"Go on," she begged; "I'm interested. But have you ever thought that instead of being younger than we are you're really older. I mean that you have gone back a long way; begun again at an earlier stage, instead of going ahead?"

"Now you get at the bottom of things!" he exclaimed. "That's always been an idea of mine. The people of the newer countries, perhaps more particularly those to whom I belong, are brought back to the grapple with elemental conditions. We're on the bed-rock of nature."

"Are you too modest to go any further?"

He showed faint signs of confusion and she laughed. "No doubt, the situation makes for pristine vigor, and we are drifting into artificiality," she suggested. "Perhaps you, the toilers, the subduers of the wilderness, are to serve as an anchor for the supercivilized generations to hold on by." She paused and quoted softly: "'Pioneers; O pioneers!'"

"What can I say to that?" he asked with half-amused embarrassment. "We're pretty egotistical, but one can't go back on Whitman."

"No," she laughed mischievously; "I think you're loyal; and there are situations from which it's difficult to extricate oneself. Didn't you find it so, for example, when you declined to come here with Nasmyth, because Miss Crestwick had pressed you to go to Marple's?"

He could think of no neat reply to this and the obvious fact pleased her, for she guessed that he would rather have spent the evening with her. This was true, for now, sitting in the quiet garden in her company, he looked back on the entertainment with something like disgust. Marple's male friends were, for the most part, characterized by a certain grossness and sensuality; in their amusements at games of chance one or two had displayed an open avarice. These things jarred on the man who had toiled among the rocks and woods, where he had practised a stringent self-denial.

"I heard that you figured in a striking little scene," Millicent went on.

"I couldn't help it." Lisle appeared annoyed. "That man Batley irritated me; though, after all, I don't blame him the most."

This was a slip.

"Whom do you blame?" she asked sharply.

"Oh," he explained, "I wasn't the only person, present, and I hadn't arrived at the beginning. Somebody should have stopped the fellow; the shares he tried to work off on Crestwick were no good."

"Then Batley wanted to sell that silly lad some worthless shares—and there were other people looking on?"

He would not tell her that Gladwyne had watched the proceedings, to some extent acquiescing.

"I thought from what you said that you knew all about it," he answered.

"No," she replied, suspecting the truth, but seeing that it would be difficult to extract anything definite from him. "I only heard that you had an encounter of some kind with Batley. But why did you hint that he was not the worst?"

"He was merely acting in accordance with his instincts; one wouldn't expect anything else."

"The implication is that he was tacitly abetted by people of a different kind who ought to have known better."

He was not to be drawn on this point, and she respected him for it.

"Was it only an animus against Batley that prompted you?" she asked.

"No," he admitted candidly; "I wanted to get young Crestwick out of his clutches. I'm not sure he's worth troubling about, but I'm sorry for his sister. As I've said before, there's something fine in the way she sticks to him."

The chivalrous feeling did him credit, Millicent admitted, but she was dissatisfied with it and was curious to learn if it were the only one he cherished toward the girl.

"That's undoubtedly in her favor," she commented indifferently.

He did not respond and they talked about other matters; but Lisle was now sensible of a slight constraint in Millicent's manner and on the whole she was glad when he took his leave. Quick-witted, as she was, she guessed that he disapproved of the part Clarence had played in the affair at Marple's, and this, chiming with her own suspicions, troubled her. She had a tenderness for Clarence, and she wondered how far her influence might restrain and protect him if, as his mother had suggested, she eventually married him. Another point caused her some uneasiness—Bella Crestwick had boldly entered the field against her and was making use of the Canadian to rouse Clarence by showing him that he had a rival. The thought of it stirred her to indignation; she would not have Lisle treated in that fashion. After sitting still for half an hour, she rose with a gesture of impatience and went into the house.

On the same evening Bella Crestwick felt impelled to lecture her brother after dinner. That was not a favorable time, for the young man's good opinion of himself was generally strengthened by a glass or two of wine.

"I thought that matter of the shares would have taught you sense, but you must listen to Batley again this afternoon," she scolded. "You were with him for half an hour. I've no patience with you, Jim."

"He's not so easy to shake off, particularly as I'm in his debt," returned the lad. "Besides, he's an interesting fellow, the kind you learn a good deal from. It's an education to mix with such men."

"The trouble is that it's expensive. Come away with me before he ruins you. There's Mrs. Barnard's invitation to their place in Scotland; it would be a good excuse."

Her brother's rather lofty manner changed.

"You're a dear, Bella. You know you don't want to go."

Having a strong reason for wishing to stay, she colored at this. Among his other unprepossessing characteristics, Jim had a trick of saying things he should suppress.

"Never mind me," she answered. "Will you come?"

He had an incomplete recognition of the magnitude of the sacrifice she was ready to make, though it was not this that decided him not to fall in with it.

"No," he said with raw self-confidence. "I'm not one to run away; but I'll promise to keep my eye on the fellow after this and be cautious. All his schemes aren't in the same class as those mining shares, you know."

Bella lost her temper and told him some plain truths about himself, and this did not improve matters, for in the end she retired, defeated, leaving Jim rather sore but on the whole satisfied with the firmness he had displayed. The girl felt dejected and almost desperate. She could not continually apply to Lisle for assistance, and she shrank from the only other course that seemed open to her; but her affection for the misguided lad impelled her to make another attempt to rescue him, and a few days later she found her opportunity. It was a bold measure she had decided on, one that might cost her a good deal, but she was a young woman of courage and determination.

Mrs. Marple and her daughter drove over with her to call on Mrs. Gladwyne. They found several other people present, and as usual there was no ceremony; the day was fine, and the hostess sat outside, while the guests strolled about the terrace and gardens very much as they liked. Bella, hearing that Clarence was engaged in the library and would not be down for a little while, slipped away in search of him. Her heart beat painfully fast as she went up the wide staircase, but she was outwardly very collected—a slender, attractive figure—when she entered the room. In her dress as well as in her manner Bella was usually distinguished by something unconventional and picturesque. She was not pleased to see Batley standing beside the table at which Gladwyne sat, but the man gathered up some papers when he noticed her.

"I've explained the thing, Gladwyne, and I expect Miss Crestwick will excuse me," he said.

His manner was good-humored as he bowed to her and though she almost hated the man she was conscious of a faint respect for him. He might have thwarted her by remaining, for she had often made him a butt for her bitter wit. Now, however, when she had shown that his presence was not required, he was gallantly withdrawing. When he went out she sat down and Gladwyne rose and stood with one hand on the mantel, waiting for her to begin. Instead, she glanced round the room, which always impressed her. It was lofty and spacious, the few articles of massive furniture gave it a severe dignity, and there was no doubt that Gladwyne, with his handsome person and highbred air, appeared at home in it.

While she looked around, he was thinking about her. She was provocatively pretty; a fearless, passionate creature, addicted to occasional reckless outbreaks, but nevertheless endowed with a vein of cold and calculating sense. What was as much to the point, she was wealthy, and people were becoming more tolerant toward her; but in the meanwhile he wondered what she wanted.

"I came about Jim," she said at length.

"Well?"

The man's expression, which suddenly changed, was not encouraging and she hesitated.

"You know what he's doing. I've come to ask a favor."

He avoided the issue.

"It's nothing alarming; I don't suppose he's very different from most lads of his age. Perhaps it would be better to let him have his head."

"No," she replied decidedly. "The pace is too hot; I can't hold him. He'll come to grief badly if he's not pulled up. You know that as well as I do!"

Her anger became her, bringing a fine glow to her cheeks and a hint of half-imperious dignity into her pose. It had an effect on him, but he felt somewhat ashamed of himself.

"Well," he asked in a quiet voice, "what's the favor?"

"Shouldn't a sportsman and a man of your kind grant it unconditionally beforehand? Must you be sure you won't get hurt when you make a venture?"

"You'd risk it," he answered, bowing. "You're admirable, Bella. Still, you see, I'm either more cautious or less courageous."

She was badly disappointed. She knew that a good deal depended on his answer to her request, and shrank from making it, because it would prove the strength or weakness of her hold on him. The man attracted her, and she had somewhat openly attempted to capture him. She longed for the position he could give her; she would have married him for that and his house, but she was willing to risk her success for her brother's welfare.

"I want you to tell Batley that he must keep his hands off of Jim," she said.

He started at this.

"He can't do the lad much harm. Aren't you attaching a little too much importance to the matter?"

"No; not in the least," she answered vehemently. "I've told you so already. But can't you keep to the point? My brother's being ruined in several ways besides the debts he's heaping up; and I've humbled myself to beg your help."

"Was it so very hard?" he asked, and his voice grew soft and caressing.

She was shaken to the verge of yielding. The man was handsome, cultivated, distinguished, she thought. Whether she actually loved him, she did not know, but he could gratify her ambitions and she was strongly drawn to him. He had given her a lead, an opening for a few telling words that might go far toward the accomplishment of her wishes; but, tempted as she was, she would not utter them. She was loyal to the headstrong lad; Jim stood first with her.

"That is beside the point," she said with a becoming air of pride. "I expected you would be willing to do whatever you could. To be refused what I plead for is new to me."

He considered for a moment or two, watching her with keen appreciation. Bella in her present mood, with her affectations cast aside, appealed to him. She was not altogether the woman he would have chosen, but since he must secure a rich wife, there were obvious benefits to be derived from a match with her. He devoutly wished he could accede to her request.

"Well?" she broke out impatiently.

"I'm sorry," he said; "I'm unable to do as you desire. Of course, I wish I could, if only to please you, though I really don't think the thing's necessary."

"You needn't tell me that again! It's a waste of time; I'm not going to discuss it. Face the difficulty, whatever it is. Do you mean that you can't warn off Batley?"

Gladwyne saw that she would insist on a definite answer and in desperation he told the truth.

"It's out of the question."

It was a shock to her. In a sudden flash of illumination she saw him as he was, weak and irresolute, helpless in the grip of a stronger man. It was significant that she felt no compassion for him, but only disgust and contempt. She was no coward, and even Jim, who could so easily be deluded, was ready enough to fight on due occasion.

"You are afraid of the fellow!" she exclaimed.

Gladwyne colored and moved abruptly. He had imagined that she was his for the asking, but there was no mistaking her cutting scorn.

"Bella," he pleaded, "don't be bitter. You can't understand the difficulties I'm confronted with."

"I can understand too much!" Her voice trembled, but she rose, rather white in face, with an air of decision. "When I came I expected—but after all that doesn't matter—I never expected this!"

He made no answer; the man had some little pride and there was nothing to be said. He had fallen very low even in this girl's estimation and the fact was almost intolerably galling, but he could make no effective defense. She went from him slowly, but with a suggestive deliberation, without looking back, and there was a hint of finality in the way she closed the door.

Once outside, she strove to brace herself, for the interview had tried her hard. She had had to choose between Gladwyne and her brother, but for that she was now almost thankful. The man she had admired had changed and become contemptible. It was as if he had suddenly collapsed and shriveled before her startled eyes. But that was not all the trouble—she was as far from saving Jim as ever.

It cost her an effort to rejoin the others, but she was equal to it and during the rest of her stay her conversation was a shade more audacious than usual.



CHAPTER XVI

GLADWYNE SURRENDERS

Evening was drawing on when Bella strolled aimlessly down the ascending road that led to Marple's residence. On one hand of the road there was a deep rift, filled with shadow, in which a beck murmured among the stones, and the oaks that climbed to the ridge above flung their great branches against the saffron glow in the western sky. Fallen leaves, glowing brown and red, had gathered thick beneath one hedgerow and more came slowly sailing down; but Bella brushed through them unheeding, oblivious to her surroundings. She had suffered during the few days that had followed her interview with Gladwyne and even the sharp encounter with Miss Marple in which she had recently indulged had not cheered her, though it had left her friend smarting.

Presently she looked around with interest as a figure appeared farther up the road, and recognizing the fine poise and vigorous stride, she stopped and waited. Lisle was a bracing person to talk to, and she wanted to see him. He soon came up with her and she greeted him cordially. Unlike Gladwyne, he was a real man, resolute and resourceful, with a generous vein in him, and she did not resent the fact that he looked rather hard at her.

"You don't seem as cheerful as usual," he observed.

"I'm not," she confessed. "In fact, I think I was very nearly crying."

"What's the trouble?" He showed both interest and sympathy.

"Oh, you needn't ask. It's Jim again. I've tried every means and I can't do anything with him."

"He is pretty uncontrollable. Seems to have gone back to Batley again. I wonder if it would be any good if I looked for an opportunity for making a row with the fellow?"

"No," she answered, with appreciation, for this was very different from Gladwyne's attitude. "It would only separate Jim from you, and I don't want that to happen. Please keep hold of him, though I know that can't be pleasant for you."

"He is trying now and then, but I'll do what I can. Gladwyne, however, has more influence than I have. Did you think of asking him?"

She colored, and in her brief confusion he read his answer with strong indignation—she had pleaded with Gladwyne and he had refused to help.

"Do you know," she said, looking up at him, "you're the only real friend I have. There's nobody else I can trust."

"I think you're wrong in that," he declared; and acting on impulse he laid a hand protectingly on her shoulder, for she looked very dejected and forlorn. "Anyway, you mustn't worry. I'll do something—in fact, something will have to be done."

"What will you do?"

He knitted his brows. There was a course, which promised to be effective, open to him, but he was most averse to adopting it. He could give Gladwyne a plain hint that he had better restrain his confederate, but he could enforce compliance only by stating what he knew about the former's desertion of his cousin. He was not ready to do that yet; it would precipitate the climax, and once his knowledge of the matter was revealed his power to use it in case of a stronger need might be diminished. The temptation to leave Jim Crestwick to his fate was strong, but his pity for the anxious girl was stronger.

"I'll have a talk with Gladwyne," he promised.

"That wouldn't be of the least use!"

"I think he'll do what I suggest," Lisle answered with a trace of grimness. "Make your mind easy; I'll have Batley stopped."

She looked at him in surprise, filled with relief and gratitude. He was one who would not promise more than he could perform; but how he could force his will on Gladwyne she did not know.

"You're wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Whatever one asks you're able to do."

"And you're very staunch."

"Oh!" she said, standing very close to him, with his hand still on her shoulder, "we won't exchange compliments—they're too empty, and you deserve something better." She glanced round swiftly. "Shut your eyes, tight!"

He obeyed her, and for a moment light fingers rested on his breast; then there was a faint warm touch upon his cheek. When he looked up she was standing a yard away, smiling mockingly.

"Don't trust your imagination too much—it might have deceived you," she warned. "But you have sense; you wouldn't attach an undue value to anything."

"Confidence and gratitude are precious," he answered. "I'd better point out that I haven't earned either of them yet."

Bella was satisfied with this, but she grew graver, wondering how far she might have delivered Gladwyne into his hands. She was angry with the man, but she would not have him suffer.

"I don't know what power you have—but you won't make too much use of it—I don't wish that," she begged. "After all, though, Jim must be got out of that fellow's clutches."

"Yes," assented Lisle, "there's no doubt of it."

She left him presently and he went on down the dale, not exactly repenting of his promise, but regretting the necessity which had led to his making it. The task with which he had saddled himself was an exceedingly unpleasant one and might afterward make it more difficult for him to accomplish the purpose that had brought him to England, but he meant to carry it out.

As it happened, he met Mrs. Gladwyne at Millicent's, where he called, and he spent an uncomfortable half-hour in her company. She had shown in various ways that she liked him, and calling him to her side soon after he came in, she talked to him in an unusually genial manner. He felt like a traitor in this gracious lady's presence and it was a relief when she took her departure.

"You look troubled," Millicent observed.

"That's how I feel," he confessed. "After all, it isn't a very uncommon sensation. It's sometimes difficult to see ahead."

"Often," she answered, smiling. "What do you do then—stop a little and consider?"

"Not as a rule. The longer you consider the difficulties, the worse they look. It's generally better to go right on."

Millicent agreed with this; and soon afterward Lisle took his departure and walked back to Nasmyth's in an unusually serious mood. They were sitting smoking when his host broached the subject that was occupying him.

"It's some time since you said anything about the project that brought you over," he remarked.

"That's so," assented Lisle. "I'm fixed much as I was when we last spoke of it. When I was in Canada, I thought I'd only to find Gladwyne and scare a confession out of him. Now I find that what I've undertaken isn't by any means so simple."

"I warned you that it wouldn't be."

"You were right. There's his mother to consider—it's a privilege to know her—she's devoted to the fellow. Then there's Millicent; in a way, she's almost as devoted, anyhow she's a staunch friend of his. I don't know how either of them would stand the revelation."

"It would kill Mrs. Gladwyne," Nasmyth declared.

There was silence for a while, and then Lisle spoke again.

"I'm badly worried; any move of mine would lead to endless trouble—and yet there's the black blot on the memory of the man to whom I owe so much; I can't bring myself to let it remain. Besides all this, there's another complication."

"Young Crestwick's somehow connected with it," Nasmyth guessed.

Lisle did not deny it.

"That crack-brained lad seems to be the pivot on which the whole thing turns. Curious, isn't it? I wish the responsibility hadn't been laid on my shoulders. Just now I can't tell what I ought to do—it's harassing."

"Don't force things; wait for developments," Nasmyth advised him. "I'm not trying to extract information; the only reason I mentioned the subject is that a man in the home counties has asked me to come up for a few weeks and bring you along. He's a good sort, there's fair sport, and it's a nice place; but I don't mind in the least whether I go or not."

"Then I'd rather stay. I've a feeling that I may be wanted here."

"I'm quite satisfied, for a reason I'll explain. You have ridden that young bay horse of mine. He comes of good stock and he's showing signs of an excellent pace over the hurdles. Now I couldn't expect to enter him for any first-rate event—he's hardly fast enough and it's too expensive in various ways—but there's a little semi-private meeting to be held before long at a place about thirty miles off. I might have a chance there if we put him into training immediately. You know something about horses?"

"Not much," responded Lisle. "I've made one long journey in the saddle in Alberta; but you've seen our British Columbian trails. Our cayuses have generally to climb, and as a rule I've used horses only for packing. Still, I'm fond of them; I'd be interested in the thing."

Nasmyth nodded.

"One difficulty is that there's nothing in the neighborhood that I could try him for pace against except that horse of Gladwyne's."

"He'd no doubt let you have the beast."

"It's possible," Nasmyth agreed dryly. "But I've objections to being indebted to him; and I don't want Batley, Marple and Crestwick to take a hand in and put their money on me. However, we'll think it over."

They retired to sleep soon afterward; and the next day Lisle walked across to call on Gladwyne, in a quietly determined mood. Clarence was in his library, and he looked up with some curiosity when Lisle was shown in. Lisle came to the point at once.

"You've no doubt noticed that Jim Crestwick has been going pretty hard of late," he said. "Bets, speculation, and that sort of thing. He can't keep it up on a minor's allowance. It will end in a bad smash if he isn't checked."

Gladwyne's manner became supercilious.

"I fail to see how it concerns you, or, for that matter, either of us."

"We won't go into the question—it's beside the point. What I want you to do is to pull him up."

He spoke as if he meant to be obeyed, and Gladwyne looked at him in incredulous astonishment.

"Do you suppose I'm able to restrain the lad?"

"You ought to be," Lisle answered coolly. "It's your friend Batley who's leading him on to ruin; I'm making no comments on your conduct in standing by and watching, as if you approved of it."

The man grew hot with anger.

"Thank you for your consideration." His tone changed to a sneer. "I suppose you couldn't be expected to realize that the attitude you're adopting is inexcusable?"

"If you don't like it, I'll try another," Lisle returned curtly. "You'll give Batley his orders to leave the lad alone right now."

Gladwyne rose with his utmost dignity, a fine gentleman whose feelings had been outraged by the coarse attack of a barbarian; but Lisle waved his hand in a contemptuous manner.

"Stop where you are; that kind of thing is thrown away on me. You're going to listen for a few minutes and afterward you're going to do what I tell you. To begin with—why, after you'd opened it, didn't you wipe out all trace of the cache on the reach below the last portage your cousin made?"

The shot obviously reached its mark, for Gladwyne clutched the table hard, and then sank back limply into his seat. He further betrayed himself by a swift, instinctive glance toward the rows of books behind him, and Lisle had no doubt that the missing pages from George Gladwyne's diary were hidden among them. He waited calmly, sure of his position, while Gladwyne with difficulty pulled himself together.

"Have you any proof that I found the cache?" he asked.

"I think so," Lisle informed him. "But we'll let that slide. You'd better take the thing for granted. I'm not here to answer questions. I've told you plainly what I want."

There was silence for nearly a minute during which Gladwyne sat very still in nerveless dismay. All resistance had melted out of him, his weakness was manifest—he could not face a crisis, there was no courage in him.

"The miserable young idiot!" he broke out at length in impotent rage. "This is not the first trouble in which he has involved me!"

"Just so," said Lisle. "Not long ago his sister came here, begging you to save him, and you wouldn't. It's not my part to point what she must think of you. But I'm in a different position; you won't refuse me."

Gladwyne leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair as if he needed support, and his face grew haggard.

"The difficulty is that I'm helpless," he declared.

Lisle regarded him with contempt.

"Brace up," he advised him. "The fellow you're afraid of is only flesh and blood; he has his weak point somewhere. Face him and find it, if you can't talk him round. There's no other way open to you."

A brief silence followed; and then Gladwyne broke it.

"I'll try. But suppose I can induce him to leave Crestwick alone?"

"So much the better for you," Lisle answered with a dry smile. "I'm not here to make a bargain. I don't want anything for myself."

He went out, consoling himself with the last reflection, for the part he had played had been singularly disagreeable. Passing down the wide staircase and through the great hall, he turned along the terrace with a sense of wonder and disgust. It was a stately house; the wide sweep of lawn where two gardeners were carefully sweeping up the leaves, the borders beyond it, blazing with dahlias and ranks of choice chrysanthemums, conveyed the same suggestion of order, wealth and refinement. One might, he thought, have expected to find some qualities that matched with these—dignity, power, a fine regard for honor—in the owner of such a place, but he had not even common courage. An imposing figure, to outward seeming, the Canadian regarded him as one who owed everything to a little surface polish and his London clothes.

Lisle paused to look back when he reached the end of the terrace, from which a path that would save him a short walk led through a shrubbery. One wing of the building was covered with Virginia creeper that glowed with the gorgeous hues of a fading maple leaf, the sunlight lay on the grass, and the feeling of tranquillity that hung about the place grew stronger. He thought that he could understand how the desire to possess it would stir an Englishman reared in such surroundings, and yet he was now convinced that this was not the impulse which had driven Gladwyne into deserting his starving cousin. The man had merely yielded to craven fear.

He heard footsteps, and looking around was a little surprised to see Batley moving toward him.

"You have just called on Gladwyne," Batley began.

Lisle stopped. There was, so far as he knew, nothing to be said in favor of the man, but his cool boldness was tempered by a certain geniality and an occasional candor that the Canadian could not help appreciating. He preferred Batley to Gladwyne.

"That's so," he agreed.

"I'm inclined to think your visit concerned me. I've noticed your interest in young Crestwick—it's obvious—I don't know whether one could say the same of the cause of it?"

"We won't discuss that. If you have anything to say to me, you had better adopt a less offensive style."

Batley smiled good-humoredly.

"You're quick at resenting things. I don't see why you should expect a longer patience from me."

"I don't expect anything from you," Lisle informed him. "In proof of it, I'll mention that I called to tell Gladwyne he must keep you off of Jim Crestwick."

He made a slip in the last few words, which the other quickly noticed.

"Ordered him, in fact," he said.

Lisle made no answer and Batley resumed:

"You have some kind of a hold on Gladwyne; so have I. Of course, it's no news to you. I'm a little curious to learn what yours consists of."

"Why?"

"It struck me that we might work together."

"I'm not going in for card-sharping or anything of that kind!"

The man seemed roused by this, but he mastered his anger.

"Civility isn't expensive and sometimes it's wise," he observed. "I won't return the compliment; in fact, I'll credit you with the most disinterested motives. All I mean is that I might help you and you might help me. I'm not quite what you seem to think I am, and if I can get my money back out of Gladwyne I won't harm him."

"I don't care in the least whether you harm him or not. But I'll try to arrange that you drop Crestwick."

Batley considered this for a moment or two.

"Well," he said, "I'm sorry we can't agree; but as regards Crestwick you can only head me off by forcing Gladwyne to interfere. Between ourselves, do you think he's a man who's likely to take a bold course?"

"I think so—in the present case."

"You mean if the pressure's sufficient. Now you have given me a glimpse at your hand and I'll be candid. Gladwyne rather let me in, and there's a risk in dealing with a lad who's to all intents and purposes a minor; I've gone about as far with him as I consider judicious. Don't do anything that may damage Gladwyne financially without giving me warning, and in return I'll let Crestwick go. To some extent, I only got hold of him as an offset to the trouble I've had with Gladwyne. Is it a bargain? You can trust me."

"We'll let it go at that," replied Lisle. "But I'll keep my eye on you."

Batley's gesture implied that he would not object to this, and he turned away, leaving the Canadian to walk back to Nasmyth's thoughtfully. Lisle did not think he had done Gladwyne much harm by his tacit admissions, and he had some degree of confidence in Batley's assurance.



CHAPTER XVII

A BAD FALL

Gladwyne spent the first few days that followed Lisle's visit in a state of dread and indecision. He had allowed the Canadian to understand that he would endeavor to prevent Crestwick's being further victimized, but he had already failed to induce Batley to abandon the exploitation of the lad and he had no cause for believing that a second attempt would be more successful. Moreover, he shrank from making it; the man had shown him clearly that he would brook no interference.

On the other hand, he was equally afraid of Lisle. This cool, determined Canadian was not to be trifled with, and he knew or suspected enough about the tragedy in British Columbia to make him dangerous. It was certain that a revelation of Batley's speculation would go a very long way toward establishing the truth of any damaging story Lisle thought fit to tell. Supposing the two by any chance combined their knowledge—that he had raised money in anticipation of his cousin's death, and afterward left him to perish—nothing that he could say would count against the inference. George had been a healthy man, not much older than Clarence, when the money was borrowed, and his decease within a limited time had appeared improbable. Nobody would believe the actual truth that Batley with characteristic boldness had, in return for what he thought a sufficient consideration in the shape of an exorbitant interest, taken a serious risk. The thing would look like a conspiracy between the heir presumptive and the speculator who lent the money; and in this, for a bold man, there might have been a loophole for escape, but Gladwyne knew that he had not the nerve to use the fact against his ally.

Nevertheless, Gladwyne was really guiltless in one respect—he had not desired his cousin's death; he would have gone back to the rescue had he not dreaded that he would share George's fate. Lack of courage had been his bane, and it was so now, for instead of speaking to Batley he temporized. The man had made no further attempt upon Crestwick, and Gladwyne decided that until he did so there was no need for him to interfere. Still, as the next few weeks passed, he was conscious of a growing dread of the Canadian which, as sometimes happens, became tinged with hatred. Lisle was the more serious menace, and it was ominous that he now and then exchanged a word or two with Batley. If the two formed an offensive alliance, he would be helpless at their hands.