"Protector of the poor, it is well! To-morrow Vane Sahib shall be well, but now he must sleep."

"Very well, Koda Bux," replied Sir Arthur. "I know he can have no better nurse than you, and you will watch."

"Yes, sahib, I will watch as long as it is necessary."

Then Sir Arthur went downstairs to hear from Ernshaw and Dora the now inevitable story of the sin of the man who had been his friend for more than a lifetime. He heard it as a man who knew much of men and women could and should hear such a story—in silence; and then, saying a quiet good-night to them, he went up to his room to have it out with himself just as he had done on that other terrible night when he had found Vane drunk on the hearth-rug in the Den, and had recognised that he had inherited from his mother the fatal taint of alcoholic insanity.

When he awoke the next morning, after a few hours' sleep, Koda Bux was not there to prepare his bath and lay out his clean linen. It was the first time that it had happened for nearly twenty years, and it was not until Sir Arthur came downstairs that he heard the reason. Koda Bux had vanished. No one knew when or how he had gone, but he had gone, leaving no sign or trace behind him.

"Vane," said Sir Arthur, as soon as the truth dawned upon him, "we must go down to Worcester at once. I know where Koda Bux has gone, and what he has gone to do. Garthorne's crime was vile enough, God knows, but we mustn't let murder be done if we can possibly help it. Ah, there's an ABC, Vane, just see which train he can have got to Kidderminster. I know the next one is 9.50, which we can just catch when we have had a mouthful of breakfast; that's a fast one, too; at least, fairly fast; gets there about half past one."

"5.40, arriving 12.15, 6.30 arriving 12.20," said Vane, reading from the time-table.

"In any case, I am afraid he has more than an hour's start of us at Kidderminster. We can reduce that by taking a carriage to the Abbey because he would walk, and, of course, he may not, probably will not, be able to see Garthorne immediately, so we may be in time after all. Vane, do you feel strong enough to come?"

"Of course I do, dad," he replied. "As long as I could stand I would come."

"And may I come, too, Sir Arthur?" said Dora.

"You, Miss Russell!" he exclaimed, "but why? Surely there is no need for us to ask you to witness such a painful scene as this, of course, must be."

"I am Carol's friend, Sir Arthur," said Dora, "and I think it only right to do all that I can do to prove that her story is true. I have got the photographs, and I know the marks by which Sir Reginald can be identified. If we are not too late, such a man will, of course, answer you with a flat denial, but if I am there I don't think he can."

"Very well," said Sir Arthur. "It is very kind of you, and, of course, you can help us a great deal if you will."

"And, of course, I will," she said.



CHAPTER XXV.

Koda Bux, dressed in half-European costume, had taken the 5.40 newspaper train from Paddington to Kidderminster. He had been several times at Garthorne Abbey in attendance on Sir Arthur, and so he decided to carry out his purpose in the boldest, and therefore, possibly, the easiest and the safest way. He was, of course, well known to the servants as the devoted and confidential henchman of his master, and so he would not have the slightest difficulty in obtaining access to Sir Reginald. He walked boldly up the drive, intending to say that he had a letter of great importance which his master had ordered him to place in Sir Reginald's hand. Sir Reginald would see him alone in one of the rooms, and then a cast of the roomal over his head, a pull and a wrench—and justice would be done.

Koda Bux knew quite enough of English law to be well aware that it had no adequate punishment for the terrible crime that Sir Reginald had committed—a crime made a thousand times worse by deception of half a lifetime.

According to his simple Pathan code of religion and morals there was only one proper penalty for the betrayal of a friend's honour and his, Koda Bux's, was even more jealous of his master's honour than he was of his own, for he had eaten his salt and had sheltered under his roof for many a long year, and if the law would not punish his enemy, he would. For his own life he cared nothing in comparison with the honour of his master's house, and so how could he serve him better than by giving it for that of his master's enemy?

It was after lunch-time when he reached the Abbey. Sir Reginald had, in fact, just finished lunch and had gone into the library to write some letters for the afternoon post, when the footman came to tell him that Sir Arthur Maxwell's servant had just come from London with an urgent message from his master.

"Dear me," said Sir Reginald, looking up, "that is very strange! Why couldn't he have written or telegraphed? It must be something very serious, I am afraid. Ah—yes, Ambrose, tell him to sit down in the hall, I'll see him in a few minutes."

The door closed, and, as it did so, out of the black, long, buried past there came a pale flash of rising fear.

Sir Reginald was one of those men who have practically no thought or feeling outside the circle of their own desires and ambitions. He had lived on good terms with his fellow men, not out of any respect for them, but simply because it was more convenient and comfortable for himself. He had committed the worst of crimes against his friend, Sir Arthur Maxwell, in perfect callousness, simply because the woman Maxwell had married and inspired him with the only passion, the only enthusiasm of which he was capable. He had never felt a single pang of remorse for it. The sinner who sins through absolute selfishness as he had done never does. In fact, his only uncomfortable feeling in connection with the whole affair had been the fear of discovery, and that, as the years had gone on, had died away until it had become only an evil memory to him. And yet, why did Koda Bux, the man who had so nearly discovered his infamy twenty-two years ago, come here alone to the Abbey to-day?

Ah, yes, to-day! A diary lay open on the writing-table before him. The 28th of June. The very day—but that of course was merely a coincidence. Well, he would hear what Koda Bux had to say. He signed a letter, put it into an envelope, and addressed it. Then he touched the bell. Ambrose appeared, and he said:

"You can show the man in now."

"Very good, Sir Reginald," replied the man, and vanished.

A few moments later the door opened again and Koda Bux came in, looked at Sir Reginald for a few moments straight in the eyes, and then salaamed with subtle oriental humility.

"May my face be bright in your eyes, protector of the poor and husband of the widow!" he said, as he raised himself erect again. "I have brought a message from my master."

"Well, Koda Bux," said Sir Reginald, a trifle uneasily, for he didn't quite like the extreme gravity with which the Pathan spoke.

"I suppose it must be something important and confidential, if he has sent you here instead of writing or telegraphing. Of course, you have a letter from him?"

"No, Sahib," replied Koda Bux, fingering at a blue silk handkerchief that was tucked into his waist-band. "The message was of too great importance to be trusted to a letter which might be lost, and so my master trusted it to the soul of his servant."

"That's rather a strange way for one gentleman to send a message to another in this country and in these days, Koda Bux," said Sir Reginald, getting up from his chair at the writing-table and moving towards the bell.

Instantly, with a swift sinuous movement, Koda Bux had passed before the fireplace and put himself between Sir Reginald and the bell.

"The Sahib will not call his servants until he has heard the message," he said, not in the cringing tone of the servant, but in the straight-spoken words of the soldier. Meanwhile, the fingers of his left hand were almost imperceptibly drawing the blue handkerchief out of his girdle.

Sir Reginald saw this, and a sudden fear streamed into his soul. His own Indian experience told him that this man might be a Thug, and that if so, a little roll of blue silk would be a swifter, deadlier, and more untraceable weapon than knife or poison, and his thoughts went back to the 28th of June, twenty-two years before.

"I am not going to be spoken to like that in my own house and by a nigger!" he exclaimed, seeking to cover his fear by a show of anger. "I don't believe in you or your message. If you have a letter from your master, give it to me, if you haven't, I shan't listen to you. What right have you to come here into my library pretending to have a message from your master, when you haven't even a letter, or his card, or one written word from him?"

"Illustrious," said Koda Bux, with a sudden change of manner, salaaming low and moving backwards towards the door, "the slave of my master forgot himself in the urgency of his message, which my lord, his friend, has not yet heard."

There was an almost imperceptible emphasis on the word "friend" which sent a little shiver through such rudiments of soul as Sir Reginald possessed. He said roughly:

"Very well, then, if you have brought a message what is it? I can't waste half the morning with you."

"The message is short, Sahib," replied Koda Bux, salaaming again, and moving a little nearer towards the door. "I am to ask you what you did at Simla two-and-twenty years ago this night—what you have done with the Mem Sahib who was faithful to my lord's honour when you, dog and son of a dog, betrayed it—and what has become of her daughter and yours? Oh, cursed of the gods, thou knowest these things as thou knowest the two marks of the African spear on thy left arm—but thou dost not know the depth of infamy which thy sin dug for thine own son to fall into."

As he was saying this Koda Bux backed close to the door, locked it behind him, and took the key out.

Bad as he was, the last words of Koda Bux hit Sir Reginald harder even than the others. His son, the heir to his name and fortune, what had he to do with that old sin of his committed before he was born?

"You must be mad or opium-drunk, Koda Bux," he whispered hoarsely, "to talk like that. Yes, it is the 28th of June, and I have two spear marks on my arm—but I am rich, I can make you a prince in your own land. Come, you know something about me. That is why you came here; but what has my son Reginald to do with it? If I have sinned, what is that to him?"

"In the book of the God of the Christians," said Koda Bux, very slowly, and approaching him with an almost hypnotic stare in his eyes, "in that book it is written that the chief God of the Christians will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children. This woman bore you a daughter; your lawful wife bore you a son. The woman who was once the wife of Maxwell Sahib was a drunkard, and now she's a mad-woman. Your own wife bore you a son, and in London your daughter and your son, not knowing each other, came together. Your daughter was what the good English call an outcast, and, knowing nothing of your sin, they lived—"

"God in heaven! can that be true?" murmured Sir Reginald, sinking back against the mantel-piece just as he was going-to pull the bell.

"No, it can't be! Koda Bux, you are lying; no such horrible thing as that could be."

"My gods are not thine, if thou hast any, oh, unsainted one!" said Koda Bux, "but, like the gods of the Christians, they can avenge when the cup of sin is full. Yes, it is true. Your son and your daughter—your son, who is now married to her who should have been the wife of Vane Sahib. There is no doubt, and it can be proved. But that is only a part of your punishment, destroyer of happiness and afflictor of many lives. That is a thought which thou wilt take to Hell with thee, and it shall eat into thy soul for ever and ever, and when I have sent thee to Hell I will tell thy son and the woman he stole from Vane Sahib when he persuaded him to take strong drink that morning at the college of Oxford. Yes, I have heard it all. I, who am only a nigger! Dog and son of a dog, is not thy soul blacker than my skin? And now the hour has struck. Thy breath is already in thy mouth!"

Koda Bux snatched the handkerchief from his waist-band and began to creep towards him, his Beard and moustache bristling like the back of a tiger, and his big, fierce eyes gleaming red. Sir Reginald knew that if he once got within throwing distance of that fatal strip of silk he would be dead in an instant without a sound. He made a despairing spring for the bell-rope, grasped it, and dragged it from its connection.

At the same moment there was a peal at the hall bell, followed by a thunderous knocking. Enid, who was in the morning-room with her husband, saw a two-horsed carriage come up the drive at a gallop, and the moment it had stopped Vane jumped out and rang and knocked. Then out of the carriage came Sir Arthur and a lady whom she had never seen before, but whom Garthorne, looking over her shoulder out of the window, recognised only too quickly.

"What on earth can Sir Arthur and Vane have come for in such a hurry as that!" she exclaimed. "Why, it might be a matter of life and death, and only such a short time after dear old Koda Bux, too. What can be the matter, Reginald?"

But Garthorne had already left the room, his heart shaking with apprehension. He ran up into the hall to open the door before one of the servants could do it.

"Ah, Sir Arthur, Vane—and Miss Russell—I believe it is——"

"Yes, Mr. Garthorne," said Sir Arthur coldly but quickly, as they entered the hall. "We have come to stop a murder if we can. I hope we are in time. Where is your father, and has Koda Bux been here?"

"Koda Bux has been in the library with my father for about half-an-hour, I believe," said Reginald. "What is the matter?"

"It is a matter of life or death," answered Vane, looking at him with burning eyes and speaking with twitching lips. "Perhaps something worse even than that. Where are they?—quick, or we shall be too late!"

"They are in the library," said Garthorne, as Enid came running out of the morning-room, saying:

"Oh, Sir Arthur and Vane, good morning! How are you? What a very sudden visit. I knew Sir Reginald asked you, but——"

"Never mind about that now, Enid," said Garthorne almost roughly. "Come along, Sir Arthur, this is the library."

He crossed the great hall, and went down one of the corridors leading from it, and the footman was already at one of the doors trying to open it. It was locked. Garthorne hammered on it with his fists and shouted, but there was no reply.

"I heard the library bell ring, sir," said Ambrose, "just as the front door bell went—after that Indian person had been with Sir Reginald some time."

"Never mind about that," said Garthorne; "run round to the windows, and if any of them are open get in and unlock the door."

But before he had reached the hall door the library door was thrown open. Koda Bux salaamed, and, pointing to the lifeless shape of Sir Reginald, lying on the hearth-rug, he said to Sir Arthur:

"Protector of the poor, justice has been done. The enemy of thy house is dead. Before he died he confessed his sin. Has not thy servant done rightly?"

"You have done murder, Koda Bux," said Sir Arthur sternly, pushing him aside and going to where Sir Reginald lay. He tried to lift him, but it was no use. There was the mark of the roomal round his neck, the staring eyes and the half-protruding tongue. Justice, from Koda Bux's point of view, had been done. There was nothing more to do but to have him carried up to his room and send for the police. Garthorne gripped hold of Koda Bux, and called to one of the servants for a rope to tie him up until the police came, but the Pathan twisted himself free with scarcely an effort.

"There is no need for that, Sahib; I shall not run away," said Koda Bux, drawing himself up and saluting Sir Arthur for the last time. "I came here to give my life for the one I have taken, so that justice might be done, and I have done it. In the next worlds and in the next lives we may meet again, and then you will know that neither did I kill your father nor die myself without good cause. Of the rest the gods will judge."

He made a movement with his jaws and crunched something between his teeth. They saw a movement of swallowing in his throat. A swift spasm passed over his features; his limbs stiffened into rigidity, and as he stood before them so he fell, as a wooden image might have done. And so died Koda Bux the Pathan, loyal avenger of his master's honour.

For a few moments there was silence—every tongue chained, every eye fixed by the sudden horror of the situation. Garthorne, roused by fear and anger, for a swift instinct told him that Dora had not come to the Abbey for nothing, was able to speak first. He was Sir Reginald now—but why, and how? When a man of this nature is very frightened, he often takes refuge in rage, and that is what Garthorne did. He turned on Sir Arthur and Vane, his hands clenched, and his lips drawn back from his teeth, and said, in a voice which Enid had never heard from him before:

"What does all this mean, Sir Arthur? My father murdered in his own house; his murderer tells you that he has 'done justice,' and avenged your honour—then poisons himself. If any wrong has been done, how did that nigger servant of yours get to know of it? Why should he have been let loose to murder my father? If you had anything against him, why didn't you charge him with it yourself, as a man and gentleman should? You must have been in it the whole lot of you or you wouldn't have been here!

"But, perhaps," he went on, with a sudden change of tone, "you would rather tell the police when they come; there must be some reason, I suppose, for your bringing that woman, a common prostitute, into my house, and into the presence of my wife."

"Oh, you fool, you hypocrite, you have asked for the punishment of your sin, and you shall have it!"

Dora had taken a couple of strides towards him, and faced him—cheeks blazing, and eyes flaming.

"Prostitute! yes, I was; but how do you know it? Because you lived in the same house with me. Yes, up to the very week of your wedding, with me and that man's daughter. You have asked why he was killed. He was killed righteously, because he wasn't fit to live. No, you didn't know that then, and so far you are innocent; but you are guilty of a crime nearly as great. Your father stole Carol's mother from her husband; you stole your wife from the man she loved and would have married but for you.

"It was you who made Vane Maxwell drunk that morning at Oxford, in the hope of wrecking his career. You didn't do that, but you gained your end all the same, and your sin is just as great. How do I know this—how do we know it? I will tell you. Carol Vane, Mr. Maxwell's sister, and yours, went to your wedding. Carol recognised him as her father. Look, there is his photograph taken with her, when Carol was ten years old. If you don't believe that, look at his left arm, and you will find two spear stabs on it, and if that is not enough, I can bring police evidence from France to prove that he committed the crime for which he has died, and now, you—son of a seducer, libertine and thief of another man's love—you have got your answer and your punishment!"

Dora's words, spoken in a moment of rare, but ungovernable passion, had leaped from her lips in such a fast and furious torrent of denunciation, that before the first few moments of the horror she had caused were passed, she had done.

Enid heard her to the end, her voice sounding ever farther and farther away, until at last it died out into a faint hum and then a silence. Vane ran to her, and caught her just as she was swaying before she fell, and carried her to a sofa. It was the first time he had held her in his arms since he had had a lover's right to do so, and all the man-soul in him rose in a desperate revolt of love and pity against the coldly calculating villainy of the man who had used the vilest of means to rob him of his love.

The moment he had laid her on the sofa, Dora was at her side, loosening the high collar of her dress and rubbing her hands. Garthorne, crushed into silence by the terrible vehemence of Dora's accusation, had dropped into an armchair close by his father's body. Sir Arthur, half-dazed with the horror of it all, threw open the door with a vague idea of getting into the fresh air out of that room of death. As he did so, the hall door opened, and an Inspector of Police followed by two constables and a gentleman in plain clothes entered. The sight of the uniformed incarnation of the Law brought him back instantly to the realities of the situation. The Inspector touched his cap, and said, briefly, and with official precision:

"Good morning, Sir Arthur. This is Dr. Saunders, the Coroner. I met him on my way up from the village, and asked him to come with me. Very dreadful case, Sir; but I hope the bodies have not been disturbed?"

"Oh, no," said Sir Arthur, "they have not been touched, but Mrs. Garthorne is lying in the same room in a faint. I suppose we may take her out before you make your examination?"

"Why, certainly, Sir Arthur," said the Coroner. "Of course, we will take your word for that. But I believe Mr. Reginald Garthorne is at the Abbey, is he not?"

"Yes," replied Sir Arthur, in a changed tone, "he is there, in the library, but of course—well, I mean—what has happened has affected him terribly, and I don't think he will be able to give you very much assistance at present. In fact, he is almost in a state of collapse himself."

"That is only natural, under the very painful circumstances," said the Inspector, "please don't put him about at all, Sir Arthur. The last thing we should wish would be to put the family to any inconvenience or unpleasantness, and I am sure Dr. Saunders will arrange that the inquest will be as private and quiet as possible."

And so it was, but, somehow, the ghastly truth of it all leaked out, and for a week after the inquest the horrible story of Sir Reginald's crime and its consequences made sport of the daintiest kind for the readers of the gutter rags, those microbes of journalism, which, like those of cancer and consumption, can only live on the corruption or decay of the body-corporate of Society.

Only one name and one fact never came out, and that was due to Ernest Reed's uncompromising declaration that he would shoot any man who said anything in print about the identity of Carol Vane with the daughter of Sir Reginald Garthorne's victim. He worked by telegraph and otherwise for twenty-four hours on end, and the result was that his brother pressmen all over the country, being mostly gentlemen, recognised the chivalry of his attempt, and so chivalrously suppressed that part of the truth. And so effectually was it suppressed, that it was not until about a year afterwards that Mr. Ernest Reed found a rather difficult matrimonial puzzle solved for him by the receipt of Mr. Cecil Rayburn's cheque for a thousand pounds.



EPILOGUE.

A little more than a year had passed since the inquest on Sir Reginald and Koda Bux. For Vane Maxwell, the Missionary to Midas, as every one now called him, it had been a continued series of tribulations and triumphs. From Land's End to John o' Groats, and from Cork Harbour to Aberdeen he had preached the Gospel that he had found in the Sermon on the Mount. He had, in truth, proved himself to be the Savonarola of the twentieth century, not only in words, but also in the effects of his teaching.

He had asked tens and hundreds of thousands of professing Christians, just as he had asked the congregation of St. Chrysostom, to choose honestly between their creed and their wealth, to be honest, as he had said then, with themselves or with God; to choose openly and in the face of all men between the service of God and of Mammon. And his appeal had been answered throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Never since the days of John Wesley had there been such a re-awakening of religious, really religious, feeling in the country. Just as the rich Italians brought their treasures of gold and silver and jewels and heaped them up under the pulpit of Savonarola in the market-places, so hundreds of men and women of every social degree recognised the plain fact that they could not be at the same time honestly rich and honestly Christians, and so, instead of material treasure, they had sent their cheques to Vane.

Before the year was over he found himself nominally the richest man in the United Kingdom. He had more than five millions sterling at his absolute disposal, almost countless thousands of pounds given up for conscience' sake because he had said that honest Christians could not own them; and he and Father Philip, Father Baldwin and Ernshaw, having given many hours and days of anxious consideration to the very pressing question as to which was the best way of disposing of this suddenly, and, as they all confessed, unexpectedly acquired wealth, decided to devote it to the extirpation, so far as was possible in England, of that Cancer in Christianity which Christians of the canting sort call the Social Evil.

As Jesus of Nazareth had said to the woman taken in adultery, "Go thou and sin no more!" so the Missionary and his helpers said:

"You have sinned more through necessity than choice, and the Society which denies you redemption is a greater sinner than you, since it drives you into deeper sin. There is no hope for you here. Civilization has no place for you, save the streets or the 'homes,' which are, if anything, more degrading than the streets.

"Those who are willing to save themselves we will save so far as earthly power can help you. We will give you homes where you will not be known, where, perhaps, you may begin to lead a new life, where it may be that you will become wives and mothers, as good as those who now, when they pass you in the street, draw their skirts aside fearing lest they should touch yours. And, if not that, at least we will save you from the horrible necessity of keeping alive, by living a life of degradation."

The foregoing paragraphs are, to all intents and purposes, a precis of a charter of release to the inhabitants of the twentieth century Christian Inferno which was drawn up by Dora Russell the day before she yielded to Ernshaw's year-long wooing, and consented to be his helpmeet as well as his helper.

It was scattered broadcast in hundreds of thousands all over the country. Storms of protest burst forth from all the citadels of orthodoxy and respectability. It seemed monstrous that these women, who had so far defied all the efforts of official Christianity to redeem them, should be bribed—as many put it—bribed back into the way of virtue, if that were possible, with the millions which had been coaxed out of the pockets of sentimental Christians by this Mad Missionary of Mayfair—as one of the smartest of Society journals had named him.

But, for all that, the Mad Missionary said very quietly to Ernshaw a few hours before he intended to marry him to Dora:

"These good Christians, as they think themselves, are wofully wrong. It seems absolutely impossible to get them to see this matter in its proper perspective. They can't or won't see that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it is one of absolute necessity—the choice between that and misery and starvation. They don't see that this accursed commercial system of ours condemns thousands of girls——"

"Yes," interrupted Dora, "I know what you are going to say. I was a shop-girl myself once, a slave, a machine that was not allowed to have a will or even a soul of its own, and I——"

Before she could go on, the door of the Den at Warwick Gardens—where the conversation had taken place—opened, and Sir Arthur came in with some letters in his hands.

"I just met the postman on the doorstep," he said, "and he gave me these.

"Here's one for you, Vane. There's one for me, and one for Miss Russell—almost the last time I shall call you that, Miss Dora, eh?"

Vane tore his envelope open first. As he unfolded a sheet of note-paper, a cheque dropped out. The letter was in Carol's handwriting. His eye ran over the first few lines, and he said:

"Good news! Rayburn and Carol are coming home next week and bringing a fine boy with them—at least, that is what the fond mother says—and—eh?—Rayburn has made another half million out there, and, just look, Ernshaw—yes, it is—a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds, to be used, as she says here in the postscript, 'as before.'"

"Oh, I'm so glad," exclaimed Dora, as she was opening her own envelope. "Fancy having Carol back again. Mark, I won't marry you till she comes. You must put everything off. I won't hear of it and—oh—look!" she went on, after a little pause, "Sir Arthur, read that, please. Isn't it awful?"

"The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small," said Sir Arthur when he had looked over the sheet of note-paper. "Shall I read it, Miss Russell?"

Dora nodded, and he read aloud:

"I have just heard that my husband, whom, as you know, I have not seen since that terrible day at the Abbey, has died in a fit of delirium tremens. The lawyers tell me that everything will be mine. If so, Garthorne Abbey shall go back to the Church if Vane will take it, and if you will let me come and help you in your work."

"Thank God!" said Sir Arthur, as he gave the letter back, "not for his death, for that was, after all that we have heard, inevitable; but for what Enid has done. Vane, she is your latest and, perhaps, after all, your worthiest convert. And now, what's this?"

He tore open his own envelope, which was addressed in the handwriting of one of his solicitor's clerks. The letter was very brief and formal, but before he had read it through his face turned grey under the bronze of his skin. He passed it over to Vane, and left the room without a word.

Vane looked at the few formal lines, and, as he folded the letter up with trembling fingers, he said almost in a whisper:

"The tragedy is over. My mother is dead."



THE END.



List of Popular Novels Published by F. V. White & Co. Limited, 14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.



F.V. WHITE & CO., LTD., Publishers, SIX SHILLING NOVELS. In 1 Vol., Cloth Gilt, price 6/- each.

A MATTER OF SENTIMENT. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. POOR FELLOW. By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL. A DREAM OF FREEDOM. By HUME NISBET. THE MYSTERY OF A SHIPYARD. By R. H. SAVAGE. DEACON AND ACTRESS. By A. O. GUNTER. THE MISSIONARY. By GEORGE GRIFFITH. THE MAN I LOVED. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. THE JOSS—A Reversion. By RICHARD MARSH. QUEEN SWEETHEART. By Mrs. C. N. WILLIAMSON. A LOSING GAME. By HUME NISBET. IN THE HOUSE OF HIS FRIENDS. By RICHARD HENRY SAVAGE. THE COURT OF HONOUR. By WILLIAM LE QUEUX. FROM DEAL TO SOUTH AFRICA. By HELEN C. BLACK. A MANUFACTURER'S DAUGHTER. By A. C. GUNTER. THE CAREER OF A BEAUTY. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. MAY SILVER. By ALAN ST. AUBYN. A SOLDIER FOR A DAY. By EMILY SPENDER. DENVER'S DOUBLE. By GEORGE GRIFFITH. A CRAFTY FOE. By HUME NISBET. MOSTLY FOOLS AND A DUCHESS. By LUCAS CLEEVE. AN UNCONGENIAL MARRIAGE. By COSMO CLARKE. DOL SHACKFIELD. By HEBER K. DANIELS. THE MAJOR-GENERAL. A Story of Modern Florence. By MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL. THE KING'S SECRET. By RICHARD HENRY SAVAGE. WAR—AND ARCADIA. By BERTRAM MITFORD. THE WORLD'S BLACKMAIL. By LUCAS CLEEVE. THE LOVE OF TWO WOMEN. By JOHN JONES. THE FLICK OF FORTUNE. By THOMAS PARKES. LOVE'S GUERDON. By CONRAD H. CARRODER. MIRIAM ROZELLA. By B. L. FARJEON. MERELY PLAYERS. By Mrs. AYLMER GOWING. THE EVOLUTION OF DAPHNE. By Mrs. ALEC MCMILLAN. MISTRESS BRIDGET. By E. YOLLAND. THE ATTACK ON THE FARM. By ANDREW W. ARNOLD. (Illustrated.) THE BRIDE OF GOD. By CONRAD H. CARRODER. ROMANCE OF THE LADY ARBELL. By ALASTOR GRAEME (MRS. F. T. MARRYAT). BELLING THE CAT. By PERRINGTON PRIMM. THE GODS SAW OTHERWISE. By F. H. MELL. SAROLTA'S VERDICT. By E. YOLLAND.



Novels at Three Shillings and Sixpence. In 1 Vol., Cloth Gilt, price 3/6 each.

THE MARRIED MISS BINKS. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. WAR—AND ARCADIA. By BERTRAM MITFORD. FOR RIGHT AND ENGLAND. By HUME NISBET. THE GIRL AT RIVERFIELD MANOR. By PERRINGTON PRIMM. IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING. By HUME NISBET.



FIVE SHILLING NOVELS. In Cloth Gilt, Bevelled Boards, Illustrated, price 5/- each.

THE CURSE OF THE SNAKE. By GUY BOOTHBY. THE CHILDERBRIDGE MYSTERY. By GUY BOOTHBY.



A NEW JUVENILE BOOK. In Cloth Gilt, Illustrated, price 2/6.

THE MAGIC GARDEN. By CECIL MEDLICOTT.



ONE SHILLING NOVELS. In Paper Covers.

LORD BROKE'S WIFE. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. SHE WAS CALLED NOEL, by the same Author. BITS OF TURF. By NATHANIEL GUBBINS. THE SACK OF LONDON. By ONE WHO SAW IT. A GUIDE BOOK FOR LADY CYCLISTS. By MRS. EDWARD KENNARD. CONTINENTAL CHIT CHAT. By MABEL HUMBERT. PISCATORIAL PATCHES. By MARTIN PESCADOR. A NEAR THING. By H. CUMBERLAND BENTLEY. THE PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN. By COSMO CLARKE. RAILWAY SKETCHES. By MARY F. CROSS.



SIXPENNY NOVELS. COPYRIGHT SERIES.

A NAME TO CONJURE WITH. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE. By WILLIAM LE QUEUX. THE SECRET OF THE DEAD. By L. T. MEADE. AUNT JOHNNIE. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. STREET DUST. By OUIDA. THE MEMOIRS OF AN INSPECTOR. By GEORGE GRIFFITH. TURF TALES. By NATHANIEL GUBBINS. STORIES WEIRD AND WONDERFUL. By HUME NISBET. A SWEET SINNER. By HUME NISBET. A RISE IN THE WORLD. By ADELINE SERGEANT. IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE. By WILLIAM LE QUEUX. THE BLACK DROP. By HUME NISBET. BROTHERS OF THE CHAIN. By GEORGE GRIFFITH. THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. JOHN AMES, Native Commissioner. By BERTRAM MITFORD. A MAGNIFICENT YOUNG MAN. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. BROUGHT TO BAY. By R. H. SAVAGE. LITTLE MISS PRIM. By FLORENCE WARDEN. THE JUSTICE OF REVENGE. By GEORGE GRIFFITH. QUEEN SWEETHEART. By Mrs. C. N. WILLIAMSON. IN WHITE RAIMENT. By WILLIAM LE QUEUX. A BORN SOLDIER. By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. ALETTA. By BERTRAM MITFORD. THE EMPIRE MAKERS. By HUME NISBET. A RATIONAL MARRIAGE. By FLORENCE MARRYAT. THE SECRET OF LYNNDALE. By FLORENCE WARDEN. NEW NOVEL. By GUY BOOTHBY.

Other Stories by the most Popular Authors of the day will follow in succession.



MISCELLANEOUS.

GOOD FORM: a Book of Every Day Etiquette. By MRS. ARMSTRONG, Author of "Modern Etiquette in Public and Private." Limp Cloth, 2s.

LETTERS TO A BRIDE, Including Letters to a Debutante. By MRS. ARMSTRONG. Cloth Gilt, 2s. 6d.



14, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.



Transcriber's Note

Alternative spellings and hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original publication. Other punctuation, including quotation marks, has been standardized.

In chapter XVII, in the sermon headline beginning with "WEIGHTY WORDS TO RICH AND POOR," the name "Maxwell Vane" has been changed to "Vane Maxwell."

THE END