"What is affecting you?"

"Just this. You know quite well the financial position. You know what the upkeep of this house means. You can't do it. You plainly can't do it. Your income is not sufficient."

"But how does that affect you?"

"When tradespeople talk it affects me; it affects us all. Why not let this house and live quietly, somewhere in the country, 'til things blow over?"

"What do you mean by things blowing over?" asked Teresa. "One would think that you were talking of some disgrace that had happened."

Venetia pulled up her long left hand glove and moved as though about to depart. She said nothing but looked at her glove.

During the whole of this time she had neither looked at nor spoken to Jones, nor included him by word in the conversation. Her influence had been working upon him ever since she entered the room. He began now more fully to understand the part she had played in the life of Rochester. He felt that he wanted to talk to Venetia as Rochester had, probably, never talked.

"A man once said to me that the greatest mistake a fellow can make is to have a sister to live with him after his marriage," said Jones.

Venetia pulled up her right hand glove.

"A sister that has had to face mad intoxication and worse, can endorse that opinion," said she.

"What do you mean by worse?" fired Teresa.

"I mean exactly what I say," replied Venetia.

"That is no answer. Do you mean that Arthur has been unfaithful to me?"

"I did not say that."

"Well, what can be worse than intoxication—that is the only thing worse that I know of—unless murder. Do you mean that he has murdered someone?"

"I will not let you drag me into a quarrel," said Venetia; "you are putting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse than intoxication, inasmuch as it is committed by reasonable people uninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults levelled at inoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under the influence of that demon alcohol."

"Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted?"

"Good gracious—well, of course you don't know—you have not had to interview people."

"What people?"

"Sir Pleydell Harcourt for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to him only last week, to say nothing of pantechnicon vans and half the contents of Harrods' and Whiteleys', so that Arlington Street was blocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday."

"Did he say Arthur had sent them?"

"He had no direct proof—but he knew. There was no other man in London would have done such a thing."

"Did you send them, Ju-ju?"

"No," said Jones. "I did not."

Venetia rose.

"You admitted to me, yourself, that you did," said she.

"I was only joking," he replied.

Teresa went to the bell and rang it.

"Good night," said Venetia, "after that I have nothing more to say."

"Thank goodness," murmured Teresa when she was gone. "She made me shiver with her talk about extravagance. I've been horribly extravagant the last week—when a woman is distracted she runs to clothes for relief—anyhow I did. I've got three new evening frocks and I want to show you them. I've never known your taste wrong."

"Good," said Jones, "I'd like to see them."

"Guess what they cost?"

"Can't."

"Two hundred and fifty—and they are a bargain. You're not shocked, are you?"

"Not a bit."

"Well, come and look at them—what's the time? Half past ten." She led the way upstairs.

On the first landing she turned to the left, opened a door and disclosed a bed-room where a maid was moving about arranging things and unpacking boxes.

A large cardboard box lay open on the floor, it was filled with snow white lingerie. The instinct to bolt came upon Jones so strongly that he might have obeyed it, only for the hand upon his arm pressing him down into a chair.

"Anne," said the Countess of Rochester, "bring out my new evening gowns, I want to show them."

Then she turned to the cardboard box. "Here's some more of my extravagance. I couldn't resist them, Venetia nearly had a fit when she saw the bill—Look!"

She exhibited frilled and snow white things, delicate and diaphanous and fit to be worn by angels. Then the dresses arrived, and were laid out on the bed and inspected. There was a black gown and a grey gown and a confection in pale blue. If Jones had been asked to price them he would have said a hundred dollars. Like most men he was absolutely unconscious of the worth of a woman's dress. To a woman a Purdy and a ten guinea Birmingham gun are just the same, and to a man, a ten guinea Bayswater dress is little different, if worn by a pretty girl, from a seventy guinea Bond Street—is it Bond Street—rig out. Unless he is a man milliner.

Jones said "beautiful," gave the palm to the blue, and watched them carried off again by the maid.

He had left his cigarettes down stairs; there were some in a box on a table, she made him take one and lit it for him, then she disappeared into a room adjoining, returning in a few minutes dressed in a kimono covered with golden swallows and followed by the maid. Then she took her seat before a great mirror and the maid began to take down her hair and brush it.

As the brushing went on she talked to the maid and to Jones upon all sorts of subjects. To the maid about the condition of her—Teresa's—hair, and a new fashion in hair dressing, to Jones about the Opera, the stoutness of Caruso, and kindred matters.

The hair having been arranged in one great gorgeous plait, Jones suddenly breaking free from a weird sort of hypnotism that had held him since first entering the room, rose to his feet.

"I'll be back in a minute," said he.

He crossed the room, reached the door, opened it and passed out closing the door. In the corridor he stood for half a moment with his hand to his head.

Then he came down the stairs, crossed the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, put them on and opened the hall door.

All the way down the stairs and across the hall, he felt as though he were being driven along by some viewless force, and now, standing at the door, that same force pushed him out of the house and on to the steps.

He closed the door, came down the steps, and turned to the right.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE MENTAL TRAP

It was a beautiful night, warm and starlit, the waning moon had just begun to rise in the east and as he turned into the green Park a breath of tepid wind, grass-scented and balmy blew in his face.

He walked in the direction of Buckingham Palace.

Where was he to go? He had no ideas, no plans.

He had failed in performing the Duty that Fate had arranged for him to perform. He had failed, but not through cowardice, or at least not through fear of consequences to himself.

The man who refuses to cut a lamb's throat, even though Duty calls him to the act, has many things to be said for him.

His distracted mind was not dealing with this matter, however. What held him entirely was the thought of her waiting for him and how she would feel when she found he had deserted her. He had acted like a brute and she would hate him accordingly. Not him, but Rochester.

It was the same thing. The old story. Hatred, obloquy, disdain levelled against Rochester affected him as though it were levelled against himself. He could not take refuge in his own personality. Even on the first day of his new life he had found that out at the club. Since then the struggle to maintain his position and the battles he had fought had steadily weakened his mental position as Jones, strengthened his position as Rochester.

The strange psychological fact was becoming plain, though not to him, that the jealousy he ought to have felt on account of this woman's love for Rochester was not there.

This woman had fascinated him, as women had perhaps never fascinated a man before; she had kissed him, she loved him, and though his reason told him quite plainly that he was Victor Jones and that she loved and had kissed another man, his heart did not resent that fact.

Rochester was dead. It seemed to him that Rochester had never lived.

He left the Park and came along Knightsbridge still thinking of her sitting there waiting for him, his mind straying from that to the kiss, the dinner, the bowl of roses that stood between them—her voice.

Then all at once these considerations vanished, all at once, and like an extinguisher, fell on him that awful sensation of negation.

His mind pulled this way and that between contending forces, became a blank written across with letters of fire forming the question:

"Who am I?"

The acutest physical suffering could not have been worse than that torture of the over-taxed brain, that feeling that if he did not clutch at himself he would become nothing.

He ran for a few yards—then it passed and he found himself beneath a lamp-post recovering and muttering his own name rapidly to himself like a charm to exorcise evil.

"Jones—Jones—Jones."

He looked around.

There were not many people to be seen, but a man and woman a few yards away were standing and looking at him. They had evidently stopped and turned to see what he was about and they went on when they saw him observing them.

They must have thought him mad.

The hot shame of the idea was a better stimulant than brandy. He walked on. He was no longer thinking of the woman he had just left. He was thinking of himself.

He had been false to himself.

The greatest possession any man can have in the world is himself. Some men let that priceless property depreciate, some improve it, it is given to few men to tamper with it after the fashion of Jones.

He saw this now, and just as though a pit had opened before him he drew back. He must stop this double life at once and become his own self in reality; failing to do that he would meet madness. He recognised this. No man's brain could stand what he had been going through for long; had he been left to himself he might have adapted his mind gradually to the perpetual shifting from Jones to Rochester and vice versa. The woman had brought things to a crisis. The horror that had now suddenly fallen on him, the horror of the return of that awful feeling of negation, the horror of losing himself, cast all other considerations from his mind.

He must stop this business at once.

He would go away, return straight to America.

That was easy to be done—but would that save him? Would that free him from this horrible clinging personality that he had so lightly cast around himself?

Nothing is stranger than mind. From the depth of his mind came the whisper, "No." Intuition told him that were he to go to Timbuctoo, Rochester would cling to him, that he would wake up from sleep fancying himself Rochester and then that feeling would return. What he required was the recognition by other people that he was himself, Jones, that the whole of this business was a deception, a stage play in real life. Their abuse, their threats would not matter. Their blows would be welcome, so he thought. Anything that would hit him back firmly into his real position in the scheme of things and save him from the dread of some day losing himself.

After a while the exercise and night air calmed his mind. He had come to the great decision. A decision immutable now, since it had to do with the very core of his being. He would tell her everything. To-morrow morning he would confess all. Her fascination upon him had loosened its hold, the terror had done that. He no longer loved her. Had he ever loved her? That was an open question, or in other words, a question no man could answer. He only knew now that he did not crave for her regard, only for her recognition of himself as Jones.

She was the door out of the mental trap into which his mind had blundered.

These considerations had carried him far into a region of mean streets and suburban houses. It was long after twelve o'clock and he fell to thinking what he should do with himself for the rest of the night. It was impossible to walk about till morning and he determined to return to Carlton House Terrace, let himself in with his latch key and slip upstairs to his room. If by any chance she had not retired for the night and he chanced to meet her on the stairs or in the hall then the confession must be made forthwith.

It was after two o'clock when he reached the house. He opened the door with his key and closing it softly, crossed the hall and went up the stairs. One of the hall lamps had been left burning, evidently for him: a lamp was burning also, in the corridor. He switched on the electric light in his room and closed the door.

Then he heaved a sigh of relief, undressed and got into bed.

All across the hall, up the stairs, and along the corridor he had been followed by the dread of meeting her and having to enter on that terrible explanation right away.

The craving to tell her all had been supplanted for the moment by the dread of the act.

In the morning it would be different. He would be rested and have more command over himself, so he fancied.



CHAPTER XIX

ESCAPE CLOSED

He was awakened by Mr. Church—one has always to give him the prefix—pulling up the blinds. His first thought was of the task before him.

The mind does a lot of quiet business of its own when the blinds are down and the body is asleep, and during the night, his mind, working in darkness, had cleared up matters, countered and cut off all sorts of fears and objections and drawn up a definite plan.

He would tell her everything that morning. If she would not take his word for the facts, then he would have a meeting of the whole family. He felt absolutely certain that explaining things bit by bit and detail by detail he could convince them of the death of Rochester and his own existence as Jones; absolutely certain that they would not push matters to the point of publicity. He held a trump card in the property he had recovered from Mulhausen, were he to be exposed publicly as an impostor, all about the Plinlimon letters, Voles and Mulhausen would come out. Mulhausen, that very astute practitioner, would not be long in declaring that he had been forced to return the title deeds to protect his daughter's name. Voles would swear anything, and their case would stand good on the proved fact that he, Jones, was a swindler. No, assuredly the family would not press the matter to publicity.

Having drunk his tea, he arose, bathed, and dressed with a calm mind.

Then he came down stairs.

She was not in the breakfast-room, where only one place was laid, and, concluding that she was breakfasting in her own room, he sat down to table.

After the meal, and with another sheaf of the infernal early post letters in his hand, he crossed to the smoking-room, where he closed the door, put the letters on the table and lit a cigar. Then, having smoked for a few minutes and collected his thoughts, he rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church.

"Church," said he when that functionary arrived, "will you tell—my wife I want to see her?"

"Her ladyship left last night, your Lordship, she left at ten o'clock, or a little after."

"Left! where did she go to?"

"She went to the South Kensington Hotel, your Lordship."

"Good heavens! what made her—why did she go—ah, was it because I did not come back?"

"I think it was, your Lordship."

Mr. Church spoke gravely and the least bit stiffly. It could easily be seen that as an old servant and faithful retainer he was on the woman's side in the business.

"I had to go out," said the other. "I will explain it to her when I see her—It was on a matter of importance—Thanks, that will do, Church."

Alone again he finished his cigar.

The awful fear of the night before, the fear of negation and the loss of himself had vanished with a brain refreshed by sleep and before this fact.

What a brute he had been! She had come back forgiving him for who knows what, she had taken his part against his traducers, kissed him. She had fancied that all was right and that happiness had returned—and he had coldly discarded her.

It would have been less cruel to have beaten her. She was a good sweet woman. He knew that fact, now, both instinctively and by knowledge. He had not known it fully till this minute.

Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to have played the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a moment to be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to such a course nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast it out so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness of the woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deception with her, even to think of it, was impossible.

More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell her all, and, to his honour be it said, his main motive now was to do his best by her.

He finished his cigar, and then going into the hall obtained his hat and left the house.

He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a taxi solved that question and shortly before ten o'clock he reached his destination.

Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, and whilst the girl in the manager's office was sending up his name and asking for an interview Jones took his seat in the lounge.

A long time—nearly ten minutes—elapsed, and then a boy brought him her answer in the form of a letter.

He opened it.

"Never again. This is good-bye." "T."

That was the answer.

He sat with the sheet of paper in his hand, contemplating the shape and make of an armchair of wicker-work opposite him.

What was he to do?

He had received just the answer he might have expected, neither more nor less. It was impossible for him to force an interview with her. He had overthrown Voles, climbed over Mulhausen, but the flight of stairs dividing him now from the private suite of the Countess of Rochester was an obstacle not to be overcome by courage or direct methods, and he knew of no indirect method.

He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel and took his way back to Carlton House Terrace.

If she would not see him she could not refuse to read a letter. He would write to her and explain all. He would write in detail giving the whole business, circumstance by circumstance. It would take him a long while; he guessed that, and ordinary note-paper would not do. He had seen a stack of manuscript paper, however, in one of the drawers of the bureau, and having shut the door and lit a cigarette he took some of the sheets of long foolscap, ruled thirty four lines to the page, and sat down to the business. This is what he said:

"Lady Rochester,

"I want you to read what follows carefully and not to form any opinion on the matter till all the details are before you. This document is not a letter in the strict sense of the term, it's more in the nature of an invoice of the cargo of stupidity and bad luck, which I, the writer, Victor Jones of Philadelphia, have been freighted with by an all-wise Providence for its own incomprehensible ends."

Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter or masculine?—he risked it and left it neuter and continued.

When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets of paper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy.

He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, and returned.

He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across.

That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. She would never read it through.

He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea-time, the reading of Rochester's death in the paper.

Well satisfied with his progress he took afternoon tea, and then sat down comfortably to read what he had written.

He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him were believable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing they had an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore the sheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took his seat in the armchair and began to think of the devil.

Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business and the manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him off from escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literary forlorn hope, when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause.

The door opened, and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat that seemed bigger than the one he had last beheld and her manner was wild.

She shut the door, walked to the table, placed her parasol on it and began peeling off a glove.

"She's gone," said Venetia.

Jones had risen to his feet.

"Who's gone?"

"Teresa—gone with Maniloff."

He sat down. Then she blazed out.

"Are you going to do nothing—are you going to sit there and let us all be disgraced? She's gone—she's going—to Paris. It was through her maid I learned it; she's gone from the hotel by this—gone with Maniloff—are you deaf or simply stupid? You must follow her."

He rose.

"Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything—I will go with you. There is a train at nine o'clock from Victoria, you have only just time to catch it."

"I have no money," said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, "only about four pounds."

"I have," replied she, "and our car is at the door—are you afraid, or is it that you don't mind?"

"Come on," said Jones.

He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia's sharp elbow poking him in the side.

He was furious.

There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting other people by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite Voles, Mulhausen, debts and want of balance one might hazard the opinion that it was Venetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act.

The prospect of a journey to Paris with this woman in pursuit of another man's wife was bad enough, but it was not this prospect that made Jones furious, though assisting. No doubt, it was Venetia herself.

She raised the devil in him, and on the journey to the station, though she said not a word, she managed to raise his exasperation with the world, herself, himself and his vile position to the limit just below the last.—The last was to come.

At the station they walked through the crowd to the booking-office where Venetia bought the tickets. Reminiscences of being taken on journeys as a small boy by his mother flitted across the mind of Jones and did not improve his temper.

He looked at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes of the starting time and he was in the act of evading a barrow of luggage when Venetia arrived with the tickets.

It had come into the mind of Jones that not only was he travelling to Paris with the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook, in pursuit of the wife of another man, but that they were travelling without luggage. If, in Philadelphia, he had dreamt of himself in such a position he would have been disturbed as to the state of his health and the condition of his liver, yet now, in reality, the thing did not seem preposterous, he was concerned as to the fact about the want of luggage.

"Look here," said he, "what are we to do—I haven't even a night-suit of pyjamas. I haven't even a toothbrush. No hotel will take us in."

"We don't want an hotel," said Venetia, "we'll come back straight if we can save Teresa. If not, if she insists in pursuing her mad course, you had better not come back at all. Come on and let us take our places in the train."

They moved away and she continued.

"For if she does you will never be able to hold up your head again, everyone knows how you have behaved to her."

"Oh, stop it," said he irritably. "I have enough to think about."

"You ought to."

Only just those three words, yet they set him off.

"Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about you."

"About me. What things?"

"Never mind."

"But I do," she stopped and he stopped.

"I mind very much. What things did she tell you?"

"Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that though I was bad you were worse."

Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train when she stopped dead like a pointer.

"That's them," she said, in a hard, tense whisper.

Jones looked.

A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were making their way through the crowd towards the train.

The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she.

It was then that Venetia's effect upon him acted as the contents of the white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder.

Venetia saw his face.

"Don't make a scene," she cried.

That was the stirring of the spoon.

He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their "power" and manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips.

Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger.

He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella—and then—swift as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the jaw.

The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under them, then, shouting for help—that was the humorous and pitiable part of it—scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again.

Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally injured.

The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds.

You can fancy the scene.

Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the display—and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to see worse—were moving away together through the throng, the floored one with arms still out, was murmuring: "Brandee—brandee," into the ear of a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side.

Jones took him apart a few steps.

"I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, in a half whisper. "That guy has got what he wanted—never mind what he was doing—kick the beast awake and ask him if he wants to prosecute."

The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was now leaning on one arm.

"Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?" asked the constable.

"Nichevo," murmured the other. "No. Brandee."

"Thought so," said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with the constable.

"My address is Carlton House Terrace," said he. "When you get that chap on his pins you can tell him to come there and I'll give him another dose. Here's a sovereign for you."

"Thanks, your Lordship," said the guardian of the Peace, "you landed him fine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the knock out—you won't have any more bother with him."

"I don't think so," said Jones.

He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all his evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance and the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when someone ran up from behind.

It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering.

"Teresa is in the car—You have done it now—you have done it now. What made you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open station—before everyone—you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on us—on me."

"Oh, shut up," said Jones.

He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundle in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off.

"Oh! oh! oh!" sighed and murmured the bundle.

Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turned to Venetia who had followed him.

"Get in," he said.

She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her head out of the window:

"Home," cried she to the chauffeur.

Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a weird sort of monologue.

"All this is nothing," said he, "you must both forget it. When you hear what I have to tell you to-morrow you won't bother to remember all this. No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and making for the cars—I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this—I must have a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Not about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with me. I have been trying to explain all day—tried to write it out but couldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all out of time."

Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate.

"I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it—I hate him—oh, Ju-Ju, if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, never, never, never."

"I know," he replied, "but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I had to go. You will know everything to-morrow—when you hear all you will very likely never speak to me again—though I am innocent enough, Lord knows."

Then came Venetia's voice:

"This is new—Heaven knows we have had disgrace enough—what else is going to fall on us?—Why put it off till to-morrow—what new thing have you done?"

Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased sniffing and turned on Venetia.

"No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to accuse him."

"Accuse him!" cried the outraged Venetia.

"Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible."

Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen.

Teresa had put her finger on the spot.

Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other people's sins gave her pleasure.

Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had suddenly entered his practical mind.

"Good heavens," said he, "what has become of your luggage?"

"I don't know and I don't care," replied the roused one, "let it go with the rest."

The car drew up.

"You will stay with us to-night, I suppose," said Venetia coldly.

"I suppose so," replied the other.

Jones got out.

"I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock," said he. "I want the whole family present."—Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct Rochester—"Don't worry about what took place this evening. It was all my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the morning."

She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was Curzon street. Then he walked home.

Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.

What a woman! and what a fate!

It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and lurid light.

Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never thought of her, or he had not cared.

And such a wife!

"That fellow ought to be dug up and—cremated," said Jones to himself as he opened the door with his latch key. "He ought, sure. Well, I hope I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow."

Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed.

He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the morrow, of what he would say to start with—then he gave up the attempt, determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment.



CHAPTER XX

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to the sounds of the house and the street outside.

He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices.

Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words.

One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his eye glasses.

He nodded at Jones.

"Morning," said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. "The women will be up in a moment." He took his seat and spread open the paper as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, "Glad to hear from Collins you've got that land back. I was in there just after you left and he told me."

"Yes," said Jones, "I've got it back." He had no time to say more as at that moment the door opened and the "women" appeared, led by the Dowager Countess of Rochester.

Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilst Jones, who had risen, reseated himself.

Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began:

"I have asked you all to come here this morning—I asked you to meet me this morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder into your family—"

"An intruder," cried the mother of the defunct. "Arthur, what are you saying?"

"One moment," he went on. "I want to begin by explaining what I have done for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds that would have been a dead loss only for me."

"You have acted like a man," said the Duke of Melford, "go on—what do you mean about intrusion?"

"Let me tell the thing in my own way," said Jones irritably. "The late Lord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with a woman—I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce now the fact of his death."

The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like frozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes at one another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke.

"We will leave your father's name alone," said he; "yes, we know he is dead—what more have you to say?"

"I was not talking of my father," said Jones, beginning to get bogged and slightly confused, also angry, "he was not my father. If you will only listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I am talking of myself—or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead—" He turned to Rochester's wife. "I hate to have to tell you this right out and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband. I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come from Philadelphia."

The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in her chair, sank back, she had fainted.

Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of Rochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran from the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread.

Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in lamentation:

"My boy—my poor boy."

Venetia had said nothing.

Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially.

The Duke of Melford shut the door.

"Your mother—I mean Lady Rochester's heart is not strong," said he, going to the bell and touching it. "I must send for the doctor to see her."

Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down again.

"Look here," said he, "I can't make you all out—you've called me no names—you haven't let me fully explain, the old lady is the only one that seems to have taken the news in. Can't you understand what I have told you?"

"Perfectly," said the old gentleman, "and it's the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard—and the most interesting—I want to have a long talk about it.—James," to the servant who had answered the bell, "telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack."

"Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. Simms."

"That will do," said his grace.

"Yes, 'pon my soul, it's quite extraordinary," he took a cigar case from his pocket, proffered a cigar which Jones took, and then lit one himself.

"Look here," said Jones suddenly alarmed by a new idea, "you aren't guying me, are you?—you haven't taken it into your heads that I've gone dotty—mad?"

"Mad!" cried the old gentleman with a start. "Never—such an idea never entered my mind. Why—why should it?"

"Only you take this thing so quietly."

"Quietly—well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good of shouting—ever? Not a bit. It's bad form. I take everything as it comes."

"Well, then, listen whilst I tell you how all this happened. I came over here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than ten pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came a man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn't place his name on him. We had drinks together in the American bar, then we went upstairs to the lounge. He would not tell me who he was. 'Look in the looking-glass behind you,' said he, 'and you will see who I am.' I looked and I saw him. I was his twin image. I must tell you first that I had been having some champagne cocktails and a whisky and soda. I'm not used to drink. We had a jamboree together and dinner at some place, and then he sent me home as himself—I was blind.

"When I woke up next morning I said nothing but lay low, thinking it was all a joke. I ought to have spoken at once, but didn't, one makes mistakes in life—"

"We all do that," said the other; "yes—go on."

"And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I had committed suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committed suicide; did it on the underground.—Then I was in a nice fix. There I was in Rochester's clothes, with not a penny in my pockets; couldn't go to the hotel, couldn't go anywhere—so I determined to be Rochester, for a while, at least.

"I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business about the coal mine. Well, I've managed to right his affairs. I wasn't thinking of any profit to myself over the business, I just did it because it was the right thing to do.

"Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on this game always and lived in Rochester's shoes only for two things, one is his wife, the other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if I carried on any longer I might go dotty. Times I've had attacks of a feeling that I did not know who I was. It's leading this double life, you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear of all this. You can't think what it has been, carrying on this double life, hearing the servants calling me 'your lordship.' I couldn't have imagined it would have acted on the brain so. I've been simply crazy to hear someone calling me by my right name—well, that's the end of the matter, I want to settle up and get back to the States—"

The door opened and a servant appeared.

"Dr. Simms has arrived, your grace."

The Duke of Melford rose from his chair.

"One moment," said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door.

Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardiniere near by.

He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which his wonderful confession had been received. "Can it be they are laying low and sending for the police?" thought he.

He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walked in, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man; after this latter came a cadaverous gentleman, wearing glasses.

The bald man was Dr. Simms, the cadaverous, Dr. Cavendish.

Simms nodded at Jones as though he knew him.

"I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in and talk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester," said the Duke. "She has been taken to her room, and is not yet prepared for visitors."

"I shall be delighted to help in any way," said Simms; "my services, professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace." He sat down and turned to Jones. "Now tell us all about it," said he.

Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing.

Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel who, having finished that musical obstacle race The Grand Polonnaise, finds himself requested to play it again.

"I've told the whole thing once," said he, "I can't go over it again—the Duke knows."

Suddenly Cavendish spoke:

"I understand from what his grace said on the stairs, that there is some trouble about identity?"

"Some trouble," said Jones; "I reckon you are right in calling it some trouble."

"You are Mr. Jones, I think," said Simms.

"Victor Jones was the name I was christened by," answered Jones.

"Quite so, American?"

"American."

"Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask where you live in America?"

"Philadelphia."

"And in Philadelphia what might be your address?"

"Number one thousand, one hundred and one, Walnut Street," replied Jones.

Cavendish averted his head for a moment and the Duke shifted his position on the hearthrug, leaving his elbow on the mantel and caressing for a moment his chin.

Simms alone remained unmoved.

"Just so," said Simms. "Have you any family?"

"Nope."

"I beg your pardon."

"No."

"I thought you said nope—my mistake."

"Not a bit, I did say nope—it's short for no."

"Short for no—I see, just so."

Cavendish interposed with an air of interest.

"How would you spell that word?" asked he. Jones resented Cavendish somehow.

"I don't know," said he, "this isn't a spelling bee. N-o-p-e I suspect. You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family as to my identity, I think we had better stick to that point."

"Just so," said Simms, "precisely—"

"Excuse me," said the Duke of Melford, "I think if Mr. er—Jones wishes to prove his identity as Mr. Jones he will admit that his actions will help. Now Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, quiet in his actions."

"Oh, was he," said Jones, "that's news."

"Quiet, that is to say, in his movements—let it stand at that. Now my friend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document—"

Jones bristled. "Collins had no right to tell you that," said he, "I told him that privately. When did he tell you that?"

"When I called, just after his interview with you—he did not say it in anyway offensively. In fact he seemed to admire you for your—energy and so forth."

"Did you, in fact, eat a document?" asked Simms, with an air of bland interest.

"I did—and saved a very nasty situation, and a million of money."

"What was the document?" asked Cavendish.

"A bill of exchange."

"Now may I ask why you did that?" queried Simms.

"No, you mayn't," replied Jones, "it's a private affair affecting the honour of another person."

"Quite so," said Simms, "but just one more question. Did you hear a voice telling you to—er—eat this paper?"

"Yes."

"What sort of voice was it?"

"It was the sort of voice that belongs to common-sense."

"Ha, ha," laughed Cavendish. "Good, very good,—but there is just something I want to ask. How was it, Mr.—er—Jones, that you turned into your present form, exchanged your position as it were with the Earl of Rochester?"

"O Lord," said Jones. Then to the Duke of Melford, "Tell them."

"Well," said the Duke. "Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of an hotel when a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize."

"Couldn't place his name," cut in Jones.

"Precisely. The gentleman said 'turn round and look in that mirror'—"

"You've left the drinks out," said Jones.

"True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks."

"What were the drinks?" put in Simms.

"Champagne cocktails, whisky and soda, then a bottle of Bollinger—after," said Jones.

"Mr. Jones looked into the mirror," continued the Duke, "and saw that he was the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester."

"No, the twin image," put in Jones.

"The twin image—well, after that more liquor was consumed—"

"The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself," cut in Jones, "and I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the window blinds."

"A guy?" put in Cavendish.

"A chap. Church is his name—I thought I was being bamboozled, so I determined to play the part of Lord Rochester—you know the rest." Turning to the Duke of Melford.

"Well," said Cavendish, "I don't think we need ask any more questions of Mr. Jones; we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and—er—the Earl of Rochester are different."

"Quite so," said Simms, "we are sure of his bonafides and of course it is for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. I am sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It is quite evident he had no wrong intent."

"Now you are talking," said Jones.

"Quite so—One more question, does it seem to you I have not been talking at all up to this?"

Jones laughed. "It seems to me you have uttered one word or two—ask a bee in a bottle, has it been buzzing."

The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance presented no signs of a sense of humour, exploded at this hit, but Simms remained unmoved.

"Quite so," said he. "Well, that's all that remains to be said—but, now as a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. Jones?—I should think it was enough to try any man's health."

"Oh, my health is all right," said Jones. "I can eat and all that, but, times, I've felt as if I wasn't one person or the other, that's one of my main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see I had to carry on up to a certain point, and, if you'll excuse me blowing my own horn, I think I've not done bad. I could have put my claws on all that money—If I hadn't been a straight man, there's a lot of things I could have done, 'pears to me. Well, now that everything is settled, I think that ought to be taken into consideration. I don't ask much, just a commission on the money salved."

"Decidedly," said Simms. "In my opinion you are quite right. But as a professional man my concern just a moment ago was about your health."

"Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right."

"Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct—and I am giving you my services for nothing, if you will let me—I notice signs of nerve exhaustion—Let's look at your tongue."

Jones put out his tongue.

"Not bad," said Simms. "Now just cross your legs."

Jones crossed his legs, right over left, and Simms, standing before him, gave him a little sharp tap just under the right knee cap. The leg flew out.

Jones laughed.

"Exaggerated patella reflex," said Simms. "Nerve fag, nothing more. A pill or two is all you want. You don't notice any difficulty in speech?"

"Not much," said Jones, laughing.

"Say—'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.'"

"'Peter Peter piped a pick—'" began Jones, then he laughed.

"You can't say it," said Simms, cocking a wise eyebrow.

"You bet I can," said the patient. "'Peter Piper pucked a pick'"—

"Nerve exhaustion," said Simms.

"Say, Doc," cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. "What are you getting at, you're beginning to make me feel frightened, there's not anything really wrong with me, is there?"

"Nothing but what can be righted by care," replied Simms.

"Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test," said Cavendish. "Say: 'She stood at the door of the fish-sauce shop in the Strand welcoming him in.'"

"She stood at the door of the fish shauce shop in the Strand welcom-om ming im," said Jones.

"H'm, h'm," said Cavendish.

"That's crazy," said Jones, "nobody could say that—Oh, I'm all right—I reckon a little liver pill will fix me up."

The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Then they both nodded to the Duke of Melford.

"Well," said the Duke, "that's settled and now, Mr. Jones, I hope you will stay here for luncheon."

Jones had had enough of that house.

"Thanks," said he, "but I think I'll be getting back. I want a walk. You'll find me at Carlton House Terrace where we can finish up this business. It's a weight off my mind now everything is over—whew! I can tell you I'm hungry for the States."

He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the Duke of Melford and turned to the door.

Simms was standing in front of the door.

"Excuse me," said Simms, "but I would not advise you to go out in your condition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered."

Jones stared at him.

"My nerves are all right," said he.

"Don't, my dear fellow," said Cavendish.

Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door.

Simms was barring the way still.

"Don't talk nonsense," said Jones, "think I was a baby. I tell you I'm all right—what on earth do you mean—upon my soul, you're like a lot of children."

He tried to pass Simms.

"You must not leave this room yet," said Simms. "Pray quiet yourself."

"You mean to say you'll stop me?"

"Yes."

Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered him to be Rochester—Rochester gone mad.

Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady had fainted, that was why his wife—at least Rochester's wife, had run from the room like a blind woman.

He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he spoke:

"Open that door—get away from that door."

"Sit down and quiet yourself," said Simms, staring him full in the eye, "you—will—not—leave-this—house."

It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones.

Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of Cavendish, the rough and tumble began.

They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinieres, little tables, costly china.

Jones' foot went into a china cabinet carrying destruction amongst a concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms' portly behind bumped against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke of Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that recalled Eton across a long vista of years.

Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back with the Duke's bandanna handkerchief.

Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it.

"Nothing," said he, "nothing wrong. Off with you."

He shut the door and turned to the couch.

Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms beside him and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses.

He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds' worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. Simms was patting his shoulder.

He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to fight without raising ire in one's antagonists, to smash with impunity—to murder without being brought to justice.

Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a mad-man—that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and madness have awful similarities.

He moved slightly away from Simms.

"I reckon I've been a fool," said he, "three to one is not fair play. Come, let my hands free, I won't fight any more."

"Certainly," said Simms. "But let me point out that we were not fighting you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd handkerchief?"

Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists.

"What are you going to do now?" asked he.

"Nothing," said Simms, "you are perfectly free, but we don't want you to go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that you feel all right. No matter, take a physician's advice and just remain here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little prescription for you?"

"Look here," said Jones. "Let's talk quietly for a moment—you think I'm mad."

"Not in the least!" said Simms. "You are only suffering from a nerve upset."

"Well, if I'm not mad you have no right to keep me here."

This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning like anger, is an attribute of madness as well as of sanity.

"Now," said Simms, with an air of great frankness, "do you think that it is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered matters a bit you can use your own discretion about going."

Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale was such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, he would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester's bad reputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester.

Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration seized him.

He stopped at the drawing-room door.

"Look here," said he, "one moment. I can prove what I say. You send out a man to Philadelphia and make enquiries, fetch some of the people over that knew me. You'll find I'm—myself and that I've told you no lie."

"We will do anything you like," said Simms, "but first let us go down to the library."

They went. It was a large, pleasant room lined with books.

Simms sat down at the writing-table, whilst the others took chairs. He wrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servant to take the prescription to the chemists.

Then during the twenty minutes before the servant returned they talked. Jones, giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yet real, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who would know him.

"You see, gentlemen," said he, "it's just this, I have only one crave in life just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to be recognized as myself. You can't imagine what that feeling is. You needn't tell me. I know exactly what you think, you think I'm Rochester gone crazy. I know the yarn I've slung you sounds crazy, but it's the truth. The fact is I've felt at times that if I didn't get someone to recognize me as myself I'd go crazy. Just one person to believe in me, that's all I want and then I'd feel free of this cursed Rochester. Put yourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everything you ever were, that you were playing another man's part and that everyone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think of that for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. I wouldn't want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at all events that my story was true. I wouldn't want to go back to the States, not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish but it's a bed-rock fact. I have to make good on this position, convince someone who knows the facts, and so get myself back. It wouldn't be any use my going to Philadelphia. I'd say to people I know there, 'I'm Jones.' They'd say, 'Of course you are,' and believe me. But then, do you see, they wouldn't know of this adventure and their belief in me wouldn't be a bit of good. Of course I know I'm Jones, all the same I've been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I've almost believed I'm him, times I've lost myself, and I have a feeling at the back of my mind that if I don't get someone to believe me to be who I am, I may go dotty in earnest. It's a feeling without reason, I know. It's more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want to get rid of that grit, and I can't take it out myself, someone else must do it. One person would be enough, just one person to believe in what I say and I would be myself again. That's why I want you to send to Philadelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen, the freedom of the body is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be free till another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. I could not have imagined anyone being trapped like this—I've heard of an actor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himself the character. I'm not like that, I'm as sane as you, it's just this uneasy, uncomfortable feeling—this want to get absolutely clean out of this business, that's the trouble."

"Never mind!" said Simms cheerfully, "we will get you out only you must not worry yourself. I admit that your story is strange, but we will send to Philadelphia and make all enquiries—come in."

The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Simms sent him for a wine glass and when it arrived he poured out a dose.

"Now take a dose of your medicine like a man," said the kindly physician, jocularly, "and another in four hours' time, it will re-make your nerves."

Jones tossed the stuff off impatiently.

"Say," said he, "there's another point I've forgot. You might go to the Savoy and get the clerk there, he'd recognize me, the bar tender in the American bar, he'd maybe be able to recognise me too, he saw us together—I say I feel a bit drowsy, you haven't doped me, have you?"

Simms and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, had a moment's conversation on the steps.

"What do you think of him?" said Simms.

"Bad," said Cavendish. "He reasons on his own case, that's always bad, and did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someone to believe in him."

They walked down the street together.

"That smash has been coming for a long time," said Simms—"it's an heirloom. It's a good thing it has come, he was getting to be a bye-word—I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element into insanity; that address, for instance, one thousand one hundred and ninety one Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person's head."

"Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange," said Cavendish. "Well, he will be all right at Hoover's. What was the dose you gave him?"

"Heroin, mostly," replied the other. "Well, so long."



CHAPTER XXI

HOOVER'S

Jones, after the magic draught administered by Simms, entered into a blissful condition of twilight sleep, half sleep, half drowsiness, absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door and entered a motor car, it did not matter to him what he entered or where he went, he did not want to be disturbed.

He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of something held to his lips by someone, and sank back, tucking sleep around him like a warm blanket.

In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that, his weary and harassed brain revelled in moments of semi-consciousness, and then sank back into the last abysms of oblivion.

He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutely clear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bed-room, a cheerful bed-room, lit by the morning sun, a bed-room with an open window through which came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage.

A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair by the window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant.

Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening of the sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together.

Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, whatever it was; they had thought him mad—they had carted him off to a mad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant. He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light.

It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to get free from—but there was plenty of time, and there was no room for making mistakes.

Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire to recover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longer active in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious craving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognize him as Jones.

No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered his personality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was the recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, he determined to "lie low."

"Say," said Jones.

The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to the bedside.

"What o'clock?" said the patient.

"It has just gone half past eight, sir," replied the other. "I hope you have slept well."

Jones noticed that this person did not "my Lord" him.

"Not a wink," said he, "tossed and tumbled all night—oh, say—what do you think—"

The young man looked puzzled.

"And would you like anything now, sir?"

"Yes—my pants. I want to get up."

"Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready," replied the other.

He went to the fire-place and touched an electric button, then he bustled about the room getting Jones' garments together.

The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a bath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, "Hot or cold?"

"Hot," said Jones.

"Hot," said the attendant.

"Hot," said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering the order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of minutes the voice:

"Gentleman's bath ready."

Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon him and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone was watching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other door, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon and sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the pleasant summery sound of croquet balls knocking together, he looked out of the window.

Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderly gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel trousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking cigarettes.

He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy enough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast.

He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor quality—of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be "inmates." He had never considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague recollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade had surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather beds and brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite ordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemen lunatics, gave him a grue.

The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner was beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to play croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and yet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner.

He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he did fully realise that he had lost his liberty.

Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute.

The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all that haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the National Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seize it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of Rochester—oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual fact of lost liberty—so he told himself.

A servant brought up the Times and he opened it, and lit a cigarette.

Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an extraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter was relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down the street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-room adjoining.

Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried away the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay outside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him turn.

"Do you require anything, sir?"

It was the attendant.

"Nothing," said Jones. "I was just looking to see where this place led to." He came back into the room.

He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted the fact without comment. He sat down and took up the Times whilst the attendant went back to the bed-room.

He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of reasoning now and casting about him for a method.

He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had all at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the attendant.

"I want to see the gentleman who runs this place."

"Dr. Hoover, sir?"

"Yes."

"Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for."

He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message.

Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes passed and then the door opened and a gentleman entered.

A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge and with a rose in his button-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye of the man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, for all the smile upon the pleasant face.

Jones rose up.

"Dr. Hoover, I think," said he.

"Good morning," said the other in a hearty voice. "Fine day, isn't it? Well, how are we this morning?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Jones. "I want to have a little talk with you." He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed it.

"For your sake," said Jones, "it's just as well we have no one listening, the attendant is in there—you are sure he cannot hear what we say, even with the door shut?"

"Quite," said Hoover, with a benign smile.

He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food.

He did not expect what followed.

"I am not going to grumble at your having me here," said Jones; "it's my fault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go the length of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them."

"And what name was that?" asked Hoover kindly.

"Jones."

"Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I'm the Earl of Rochester."

This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face shewed nothing.

"Indeed," said he, "then why did you call yourself Jones?"

"For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, and I drank it—you must have seen the condition I was in when I got here."

"Hum, hum," said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of gentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms and Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones.

"Well," he said, with an air of absolute frankness, "this takes me by surprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?"

"I know," said Jones, "it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery—but you see how I am landed."

Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it.

Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevant enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out such a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practical joke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester he could hold that title against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and so forth?

"Now suppose," said Dr. Hoover, "I were to contest the title with you and say 'you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester,' how would you establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether what you consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memory on your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused by fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks or months.

"Now I must point out to you that, as—practical joke or not—you came here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for proof that you are not Mr. Jones. See my point?"

"Quite."

"Well, then, prove your case," said the physician jovially.

"How can I?"

"Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is your banker?"

"Coutts."

Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester's banker might be, but the promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness was also an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which he was acquainted.

"And how many brothers and sisters have you?"

That was fatal.

Jones' eye fell under the pressure of Hoover's.

"There is no use in going on with these absurd questions," said he, "a thing everyone knows."

"But I just want to prove to you," said Hoover, gently, "that your mind, which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a little bit shaky—now how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It's just a test memory question."

Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverous Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense.

Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to the grand determination to try back.

"Look here," said he, "let's be straight with one another. I can't answer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you to be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves is mad, you will recognize why I can't answer your questions. I'm not Rochester. I thought I'd get out of here by pretending that I'd played a practical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, but when I fixed on the idea, I didn't know the man I had to deal with. If you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this business came about."

"Go on," said Hoover.

Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the end of a quarter of an hour or so, Jones scarcely believed it himself. It sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of Melford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was something in Hoover's eye, something in his make up and personality, something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence.

"I have asked them to make enquiries," finished Jones, "if they will only do that everything will be cleared up."

"And you may rest content we will," said Hoover.

"Now for another thing," said Jones. "Till I leave this place, which will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant not to be always watching me. I don't know whether you think me mad or sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I'm not going to do anything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would be feeling that I am always watched like a child."

Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then he said:

"You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse yourself. I'll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it's a sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe for neuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others who make up my household—you can come on down with me now—are you a billiard player?"

"Yes, I can play—but, see here, before we go down, where is this place?—I don't even know what part of the country it's in."

"Sandbourne-on-sea," replied Hoover, leading the way from the room.

Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, at a dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relative to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance:

"Only to-day," said Simms, "I had a case in point. A man gave me as his supposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, Walnut Street, Philadelphia."

"But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia," said Took, "and it's ten miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that."

Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage.

"Savoy Hotel, Strand," said he to the coachman.



CHAPTER XXII

AN INTERLUDE

Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in the direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but seeing nothing.

I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description could adequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the appearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above all things discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passing into the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with a request for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, his deputy supplied his place.

"Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel and on the night of the first of June had met with 'an accident' on the underground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. Walnut Street, Philadelphia."

"Thanks," said Simms, "I came to enquire because a patient of mine fancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must have been mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank you—quite so—good evening."

In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy for the American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water.

There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for his drink he had a word with the bar tender.

"Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were very much alike?"

The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatic happenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, he had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy demise he had read in the papers.

He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but still like. His assistant had seen them too.

"Quite so," said Simms; "they are friends of mine and I hoped to see them again here this evening—perhaps they are waiting in the lounge."

He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephone office and rang up Curzon Street.

The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at the Buffs' Club in Piccadilly.

Simms drove to the Club.

The Duke was in the library.

His Grace had literary leanings. His "History of the Siege of Bundlecund," of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained unsold, had not deterred him from attempting the "Siege of Jutjutpore." He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was in the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, the leader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced.

The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together into a cosy corner, the two men talked.

"Your Grace," said Simms, "we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself to be."

"What! What! What!" cried the Duke.

"There can be no doubt at all," said Simms. "I have made enquiries."

He gave details. The Duke listened, his narrow brain incensed at this monstrous statement that had suddenly risen up to confront it.

"I don't believe a word of it," said he, when the recital was over, "and what's more, I won't believe it. Do you mean to tell me I don't know my own nephew?"

"It's not a question of that," said Simms. "It's just a question of the facts of the case. There is no doubt at all that a man exactly like the late—your nephew, in fact, stayed at this hotel, that he there met the—your nephew. There is no doubt that this man gave the address to the hotel people he gave to us, and there is no doubt in my mind that he could make out a very good case if he were free. That there would be a very great scandal—a world scandal. Even if he were not to prove his case, the character of—your nephew—would be held up for inspection. Then again, he would have very powerful backers. Now you told me of this man Mulhausen. How would that property stand were this man to prove his claim and prove that Lord Rochester was dead when the transfer of the property was made to him? I am not thinking of my reputation," finished the ingenuous Simms, "but of your interests, and I tell you quite plainly, your Grace, that were this man to escape we would all be in a very unpleasant predicament."

"Well, he won't escape," said the Duke. "I'll see to that."

"Quite so, but there is another matter. The Commissioners in Lunacy."

"Well, what about them?"

"It is the habit of the Commissioners to visit every establishment registered under the act and unfortunately, they are men—I mean of course that, fortunately, they are men of the most absolute probity, but given to over-riding, sometimes, the considered opinion of those in close touch with the cases they are brought in contact with. They would undoubtedly make strict enquiries into the truth of the story that Lord Rochester has just put up, and the result—I can quite see it—would drift us into one of those exposes, those painful and interminable lawsuits, destructive alike to property, to dignity, and that ease of mind inseparable from health and the enjoyment of those positions to which my labours and your Grace's lineage entitle us."

"Damn the Commissioners," suddenly broke out his Grace. "Do you mean to say they would doubt my word?"

"Unfortunately, it is not a question of that," said Simms. "It is a question of what they call the liberty of the subject."

"Damn the liberty of the subject—liberty of the subject. When a man's mad what right has he to liberty—liberty to cut people's throats maybe. Look at that fool Arthur, liberty! Look at the use he made of his liberty when he had it. Look what he did to Langwathby: sent a telegram leading him to believe that his wife had broken out again—you know how she drinks—and had been gaoled in Carlisle. And the thing was so artfully constructed, it said almost nothing. You couldn't touch him on it. Simply said, 'Go at once to police court Carlisle.' See the art of it? Never mentioned the woman's name. There was no libel. Langwathby, to prosecute, would have to explain all about his wife. He went. What happened! You know his temper. He went to Langwathby Castle before going to the police court, and the first person he saw was his wife. Before all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, he said to her, 'So they have let you out of prison and now you'd better get out of my house.' You know her temper. Before all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, she accused him of that disgraceful affair in Pont Street when he was turned out in his pyjamas—and they half ripped off him—by Lord Tango's brother. Tango never knew anything of it. Never would, but he knows now, for Lucy Jerningham was at Langwathby when the scene occurred and she's told him. The result is poor Langwathby will find himself in the D. C. Liberty! What right has a man like that to talk of liberty?"

"Quite so," said Simms, utterly despairing of pressing home the truth of the horrible situation upon this brain in blinkers. "Quite so. But facts are facts and the fact remains that this man—I mean—er—Lord Rochester, possesses on your own shewing great craft and subtlety. And he will use that with the Commissioners in Lunacy when they call."

"When do they call?"

"Ah, that's just it. They visit asylums and registered houses at their own will, and the element of surprise is one of their methods. They may arrive at Hoover's any time. I say, literally, any time. Sometimes they arrive at a house in the middle of the night; they may leave an asylum unvisited for a month and then come twice in one week, and they hold everyone concerned literally in the hollows of their hands. If denied admittance they would not hesitate to break the doors down. Their power is absolute."

"But, good God, sir," cried the Duke, "what you tell me is monstrous. It's un-English. Break into a man's house, spy upon him in the middle of the night! Why, such powers vested in a body of men make for terrorisation. This must be seen to. I will speak about it in the House."

"Quite so, but, meanwhile, there is the danger, and it must be faced."

"I'll take him away from Hoover's."

"Ah," said Simms.

"I'll put him somewhere where these fellows won't be able to interfere. How about my place at Skibo?"

Simms shook his head.

"He is under a certificate," said he. "The Commissioners call at Hoover's, inspect the books, find that Lord Rochester has been there, find him gone, find you have taken him away. They will simply call upon you to produce him."

"How about my yacht?" asked the other.

"A long sea voyage for his health?"

"Ah," said Simms, "that's better, but voyages come to an end."

"How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there he will be safe enough."

"Of course," said Simms, "that will mean he will always have to be there—always."

"Of course, always. D'you think now I have got him in safety I will let him out?"

Simms sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. He knew for a matter of fact and also by intuition that Jones was Jones and that Rochester was dead and his unfortunate position was like this:

1. If Jones escaped from Hoover's unsoothed and furious he might find his way to the American Consul or, horror! to some newspaper office. Then the band would begin to play.

2. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke's yacht and sequestrated, the matter at once became criminal, and the prospect of long years of mental distress and dread lest the agile Jones should break free stood before him like a nightmare.

3. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones and that Rochester was dead.

The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe him and implore of him to get back to America as quick as possible.

This being clear before the mind of Simms, he at once proceeded to act.

"It is not so much the question of your letting him out," he said, "as of his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation is at stake and I must ask you to come with me to Curzon Street and put the whole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation."

The Duke demurred for a moment. Then he agreed and the two men left the club.

At Curzon Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrook about to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had already retired, and, though invited to the conference, refused to leave her room.

Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Simms, relying on the intelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, his tale.

He convinced the women, and by one o'clock in the morning, still standing by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundlecund, the Duke had to confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered in fact.

"But what is to be done?" asked the distracted mother of the defunct. "What will this terrible man do if we release him?"

"Do," shouted the Duke. "Do—why the impostor may well ask what will we do to him."

"We can do nothing," said Venetia. "How can we? How can we expose all this before the servants—and the public? It is all entirely Teresa's fault. If she had treated Arthur properly none of this would ever have happened. She laughed and made light of his wickedness, she—"

"Quite so," said Simms, "but, my dear lady, what we have to think of now is the man, Jones. We must remember that whilst being an extremely astute person, inasmuch as he recovered for you that large property from the man Mulhausen, he seems honest. Indeed, yes, it is quite evident that he is honest. I would suggest his release to-morrow and the tendering to him of an adequate sum, say one thousand pounds, on the condition that he retires to the States. Then, later, we can think of some means to account for the demise of the late Earl of Rochester or simply leave it that he has disappeared."

The rest of this weird conclave remains unreported, Simms, however, carrying his point and departing next day, after having seen his patients, for Sandbourne-on-Sea, where he arrived late in the afternoon.

When the hired fly that carried him from Sandbourne Station arrived at the Hoover establishment, it found the gate wide open, and at the gate one of the attendants standing in an expectant attitude glancing up and down the road as though he were looking for something, or waiting for somebody.



CHAPTER XXIII

SMITHERS

Hoover, leading the way downstairs, shewed Jones the billiard-room on the first floor, the dining-room, the smoke-room. All pleasant places, with windows opening on the gardens. Then he introduced him to some gentlemen. To Colonel Hawker, just come in from an after breakfast game of croquet, to Major Barstowe, and to a young man with no chin to speak of, named Smithers. There were several others, very quiet people, the three mentioned are enough for consideration.

Colonel Hawker and Major Barstowe were having an argument in the smoking-room when Hoover and Jones entered.

"I did not say I did not believe you," said Barstowe, "I said it was strange."

"Strange," cried the Colonel, "what do you mean by strange—it's not the word I object to, it's the tone you spoke in."

"What's the dispute?" asked Hoover.

"Why," said Barstowe, "the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs in Burmah sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter."

"Oh, that story," said Hoover; "yes, there's nothing strange in that."

"I'll knock any man down that doubts my word," said the Colonel, "that's flat."

Hoover laughed, Jones shivered.

Then the disputants went out to play another game of croquet, and Jones, picking up with Smithers, played a game of billiards, Hoover going off and leaving them alone.

After playing for about five minutes, Smithers, who had maintained an uncanny silence, broke off the game.

"Let's play something better than this," said he. "Did you know I was rich?"

"No," said Jones.

"Well, I'm very rich—Look here," he took five sovereigns from his pocket and shewed them with pride. "I play pitch and toss with these," said he. "Hoover doesn't mind so long as I don't lose them. Pitch and toss with sovereigns is fine fun, let's have a game?"

Jones agreed.

They sat on the divan and played pitch and toss. At the end of ten minutes, Jones had won twenty pounds.

"I think I will stop now," said Smithers. "Give me back that sovereign I lent you to toss with."

"But you owe me twenty pounds," said Jones.

"I'll pay you that to-morrow," said Smithers; "these sovereigns are not to be spent, they are only for playing with."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," said Jones, handing back the coin, and recognising that, penniless as he was, here was a small fund to be drawn upon by cunning, should he find a means of escape. "I'm rich. I'm worth ten millions."

"Ten million sovereigns?"

"Yes."

"Golden ones, like these?"

"Yes."

"I say," said Smithers, "could you lend me one or two?"

"Yes, rather."

"But you mustn't tell Hoover."

"Of course I won't."

"When will you lend me them?"

"When I get my bag of sovereigns from London. They are coming down soon."

"I like you," said Smithers. "We'll be great friends, won't we?"

"Rather, come out in the garden."

They went out.

The garden encircled the house, big wrought iron gates, locked, gave upon the road.

The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house, brick walls, covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wall on the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and he noticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover's patients were evidently not of the dangerous and agile type.

"What's at the other side of this wall?" asked Jones, as they passed along by the left hand barrier. Smithers giggled.

"Girls," said he.

"Girls! what sort of girls?"

"Little ones with long hair and bigger ones; they learn their lessons there, it's a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and I climbed up. There were a lot of girls there. I nodded to them, and they all came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come over the wall and toss for sovereigns—then a lady came and told me to go away. She didn't seem to like me."

Jones, all during luncheon—the meal was served in his own apartments—revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. Smithers' mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by giving him these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones had satisfied himself of that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, was evidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones had come down from London dressed just as he had called at Curzon Street. That is to say in a black morning coat and grey trousers. His tall hat had evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he asked for a cap to wear in the garden, and was supplied with a grey tweed shooting cap of Hoover's.

With this on his head he took his seat in an arbour, an arbour which, he noticed, had its opening facing the house.

Here, smoking, he continued revolving his plans, and here afternoon tea was served to him.

Ten minutes later the colonel and the major began another game of croquet, and five minutes after that, came from the house Smithers, with a butterfly net in his hand.

Jones left the arbour and joined Smithers.

"The sovereigns have come," said Jones.

"The bag of sovereigns?"

"Yes, with a big red seal from the bankers. I'm going to give you fifty."

"Oh, Lord," said Smithers, "but you haven't said anything to Hoover?"

"Not a word—but you must do something for me before I give you them."

"What's that?"

"I want you to go up to Colonel Hawker and take him aside."

"Yes?"

"And tell him that Major Barstowe says he's a liar."

"Yes."

"That's all."

"That's easy enough," said Smithers.

"I'll stand by the wall here, and if any of the girls look over, as they probably will, for I'm going to whistle to them, I'll make them come over and toss for sovereigns."

"That would be a lark," said the unfortunate.

"Bother," said Jones, "I've forgot."

"What?"

"All my sovereigns are upstairs in the bag—I know—lend me yours whilst I'm waiting."

"I—I never lend sovereigns," said Smithers.

"Why, I'm going to give you fifty—and I only ask you to lend me five for a moment in case those girls—"

Smithers put his hand in his pocket and produced the coins; they were in a little chamois leather bag. "Don't open the bag," said he, "just shake it and they'll know there are sovereigns in it by the noise."

"Right," said Jones. "Now go and tell Colonel Hawker that Major Barstowe says he's a liar."

Smithers went off, butterfly net in hand.

Jones was under no delusion. He reckoned that the garden was always under surveillance, and that a man getting over a wall would have little chance of reaching the street, unless he managed to distract the attention of watchers. He thought it probable that his conversation with Smithers had been watched, and possibly the handing over of some article noted.

There was a seat just here, close to the wall. He sat down on it, pulled his cap over his eyes, and stretched out his legs. Then under the peak of the cap, he watched Smithers approaching Colonel Hawker, interrupt him just as he was on the point of making a stroke, and lead him aside.

The effect on the colonel's mind of the interruption to his stroke, followed by the sudden information that his veracity had been impeached, was miraculous and sudden as the slap on the side of the face that sent the butterfly hunter flying. The attack on Barstowe, who seemed to fight well, the cries, the shouts, the imprecations, the fact that half a dozen people, inmates and attendants, joined in the confusion as if by magic, all this was nothing to Jones, nor was the subsidiary fact that one of the inmates, a quiet mannered clergyman, with a taste for arson, had taken advantage of the confusion and was patiently and sedulously at work, firing the thatch of the summer house in six different places, with a long concealed box of matches.

Jones, on the stroke of the Colonel, had risen from the seat, and with the aid of a wall-trained plum tree, had reached the top of the wall and dropped on the other side into a bed of mignonette. It was a hockey day at the school, and there were no girls in the garden. He ran across it to the open front gate and reached the road, ran down the road, which was deserted, and burning in the late afternoon sunshine, reached a side road and slackened his pace. All the roads were of the same pattern, broad, respectable, and lined with detached and semi-detached houses set in gardens, and labelled according to the owner's fancy. Old Anglo-Indian colonels and majors lived here, and one knew their houses by such names as "Lucknow," "Cawnpore," etc., just as one knows azaleas by their blossoms. Jones, like an animal making for cover, pushed on till he reached a street of shops. A long, long street, running north and south with the shop fronts on the eastern side, sun-blinded and sunlit. A peep of blue and perfect sea shewed at the end of the street, and on the sea the white sail of a boat. Sandbourne-on-Sea is a pleasant place to stay at, but Jones did not want to stay there.

His mind was working feverishly. There was sure to be a railway station somewhere, and, as surely, the railway station would be the first place they would hunt for him.

London was his objective. London and the National Provincial Bank, but of the direction or the distance to be travelled, he knew no more than the man in the moon.



CHAPTER XXIV

HE RUNS TO EARTH

As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide in. Across the road a narrow house, set between a fishmonger's shop and a sea-side library, displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word "Apartments." Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at the hall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and every second a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistants streaming like hounds on a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell and pulled it.

Almost on the pull the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyed and cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo brooch and cornelian rings. She wore other things but you did not notice them.