He sat down by her side. She was a young woman, and though her face was a little hardened by the constant use of cosmetics, she was still well enough looking.

"My dear Violet," he said, "of course I have not forgotten. Only don't you see how unwise it is of you to come down here? If she were to know——"

"She will not know," the girl interrupted. "She is safe in London, and will be there for a week."

"The servants here might tell her that you have been," he suggested.

"You will have to see to it that they don't," she said. "Bertrand, I am so unhappy. When are you coming back?"

"Very soon," he answered.

"We can spend the evening together, can't we?" she asked, looking at him anxiously. "My train doesn't go back until nine."

"That is just what we cannot do," he answered. "You did not tell me that you were coming, and I have to go out to dinner to-night."

"To dinner? Here?" she repeated. "You have soon made friends." And her face darkened.

"I stayed here when I was a boy," he answered. "There is someone living here who knew me then."

"Can't you put it off, Bertrand?" she begged. "It is five weeks since I have seen you. Every day I have hoped that you would run up, if it was only for an hour. Bertrand dear, don't go to this dinner. Can't we have something here, and go for a walk in the country before my train goes, or sit in your study and talk? There are so many things I want to ask you about our future."

He took her hand and leaned towards her.

"My dear Violet," he said, "you must be reasonable. I dare not offend these people with whom I have promised to dine, and apart from that, I think it is very unwise that I should spend any time at all here with you. You know what sort of a person it is whom we both have to consider. She would turn us both into the street and treat it all as a jest, if it pleased her. I tell you frankly, Violet, I have been too near starvation once to care about facing it again. I am going to send you back to the station in the car now. You can catch a train to London almost at once."

Her face grew suddenly hard. She looked older. The light which had flashed into her face at his coming, was gone. One saw now the irregularities of her complexion, the over-red lips.

"You dismiss me," she said, in a low tone. "I have come all this way, have waited all this time, and you throw me a kiss out of pity, and you tell me to go home as fast as I can. Bertrand, you did not talk like this a few months ago. You did not talk like this when you asked me to marry you!"

"Nor shall I talk like it," he answered, "when we meet once more in London, and have another of our cosy little dinners. But frankly, you are doing an absolutely unwise thing in staying here. These people are not my servants. They are hers. They are beyond my bribing. Violet," he added, dropping his voice a little, and drawing her into his arms, "don't be foolish, dear. Don't run the risk of bringing disaster upon both of us. You wouldn't care to have to do without her now. Nor should I. It was a little thoughtless of you to come, dear. Do follow my advice now, and I will try and make it up to you very soon. I shall certainly be in London next week."

She rested in his arms for a moment with half closed eyes, as though content with his words and his embrace. Yet, as she disengaged herself, she sighed a little. She was willing to deceive herself—she was anxious to do so—but always the doubt remained!

"Very well, Bertrand," she said, "I will go."

"You will just catch a fast train to London," he said, more cheerfully. "You will change at Mechester, and you will find a dining-car there. Have you plenty of money?"

"Plenty, thank you," she answered.

He walked with her out into the hall.

"Madame will be so sorry," he said, "to have missed you. The telegram must have been a complete misunderstanding. Till next week, then."

He handed her into the car, and raising her fingers to his lips, kissed them gallantly.

"To the station, William," he ordered the chauffeur, "and then get back for me as quickly as you can."

The car swung off. Saton stood watching it with darkening face. There was some pity in his heart for this somewhat passee young person, who had been kind to him during those first few weeks of his re-entering into life. He recognised the fact that his swift progress was unfortunate for her. He even sat for a moment or two smoking a cigarette in his very luxurious dressing-room, fingering the gold-topped bottles of his dressing-case, and wondering what would be the most effectual and least painful means of coming to an understanding with her!



CHAPTER VIII

AN INSTANCE OF OCCULTISM

The guests at Beauleys were all grouped together in the hall after dinner, the men, and some of the women, smoking cigarettes. Coffee and liqueurs were being served from the great oak sideboard. Lord Guerdon and his host had drawn a little apart from the others, at the former's instigation.

"Your friend Saton—extraordinary name, by the bye—seems to have struck upon an interesting theme of conversation," the judge remarked, a little drily, glancing across to where Saton stood, surrounded by most of the other guests.

"He has travelled a great deal," Rochester said, "and he seems to be one of that extravagant sort of persons who imbibe more or less the ideas of every country. Chiefly froth, I should imagine, but it gives him plenty to talk about."

The judge nodded thoughtfully.

"His face," he declared, "still puzzles me a little. Sometimes I am sure that I have seen it before. At others, I find it quite unfamiliar."

Rochester, who was watching Pauline, shrugged his shoulders.

"We may as well hear what the fellow is talking about," he remarked. "Let us join the adoring throng." ...

"I will tell you one thing which I have realized in the course of my travels," Saton was saying as they drew near. "Amongst all the nations of the world, we English are at once the most ignorant, and the slowest to receive a new thing. In the exact sciences, we are perhaps just able to hold our own, but when it comes to the great unexplored fields, the average English person turns away with a shrug of the shoulders. 'I do not believe!' he says stolidly, and that is sufficient. He does not believe! Since the birth of Time there has been no more pitiful cry than that."

"One might easily be convinced that the fellow is in earnest," Rochester whispered.

The judge laid his hand upon his host's shoulder. There was a curious gleam in those deep-set eyes.

"Let him go on," he said. "This is interesting. I begin to remember."

"We all have a hobby, I suppose," Saton continued. "Mine has always been the study of the least understood of the sciences—I mean occultism. I, too, was prejudiced at first. I saw wonderful things in India, and my British instincts rose up like a wall. I did not believe. I refused to believe my eyes. In Egypt, and on the west coast of Africa, I had the chance of learning new things, and again I refused. But there came a time when even I was impressed. Then I began to study. I began to see that some of those things which we accept as being wonderful, and from which we turn away with a shrug of the shoulders, are capable of explanation—are submissive, in fact, to natural laws. There is not a doubt that in the generations to come, people will smile upon us, and pity us for our colossal stupidity."

"No wise person, my dear Mr. Saton," Mrs. Hinckley remarked, "would deny that there is yet a great deal to learn in life. But tell us exactly to what you refer?"

Saton raised his dark eyes and looked steadfastly at her.

"I mean, madam," he said, "the apprehension of things happening in the present in other parts, the apprehension of things about to happen in the future. Our brain we realize, and our muscles, but there is a subtler part of ourselves, of which we are as ignorant to-day as our forefathers were of electricity."

Lady Mary drew a little sigh.

"This is so fascinating," she said. "Do you really believe, then, that it is possible to foretell the future?"

"Why not?" Saton answered quietly. "The world is governed by laws just as inevitable as the physical laws which govern the seasons. It is only a matter of apprehension, a deliberate schooling of ourselves into the necessary temperament."

"Then all these people in Bond Street—these crystal gazers and fortune-tellers—" Lois began eagerly.

"They are charlatans, and stand in the way of progress," Saton declared, fiercely. "They have not the faintest glimmering of the truth, and they turn what should be the greatest of the sciences into buffoonery. To the real student it is never possible to answer questions to foretell specific things. On the other hand, it is as sure as the coming of night itself that there are times when a person who has studied these matters even so slightly as I myself, can feel the coming of events."

"Give us an instance," Lady Mary begged. "Tell us of something that is going to happen."

Saton moved a little back. His face was unnaturally pale.

"No!" he answered. "Don't ask me that. Remember, this is not a game. It might even happen that I should tell you something terrifying. I am sorry that I've talked like this," he went on, a little wildly. "I am sorry that I came here to-night. Before I came I felt it coming. If you will excuse me, Lady Mary——"

She held out her hands and refused to accept his adieux.

"You shall not go!" she declared. "There is something in your mind. You could tell us something if you would."

Saton looked around, as one genuinely anxious to escape. On the outskirts of the circle he saw Rochester, smiling faintly, half amused, half contemptuous, and by his side the parchment-like face of Lord Guerdon, whose eyes seemed riveted upon his.

"My dear Saton," Rochester said, "pray don't disappoint us of our thrill, after all this most effective preliminary. You believe that you possess a gift which we none of us share. Give us a proof of it. No one here is afraid to hear the truth. Is it one specific thing you could tell?"

"One specific thing," Saton answered quickly, "about to happen to one person, and one person only."

"Is it a man or a woman?" Rochester asked.

"A man!" was the quick reply.

Rochester glanced carelessly around the little circle.

"Come," he said, "the women can have their thrill. There is nothing to fear. Penarvon here has all the pluck in the world. Hinckley is a V.C. Captain Vandermere is a soldier, and I will answer for it that he has no nerves. Guerdon and I, I am sure, are safe. Let us hear your gruesome prophecy, my dear Saton, and if it comes true, we will form a little society, and you shall be our apostle. We will study occultism in place of bridge. We will be the founders of a new cult."

Saton pushed them away from him. His face was almost ghastly.

"It is not fair, this," he cried. "You do not know what you are asking. Can't you feel it, any of you others, as I do?" he exclaimed, looking a little wildly around. "There is something else in the room, something else besides you warm and living people. Be still, all of you."

There was a moment's breathless silence. Some papers on the table rustled. A picture on the wall shook. Lady Mary sat down in a chair. Lois gave a little scream.

"There is a slight draught," Rochester remarked, calmly.

"It is no draught," Saton answered. "You want the truth and you shall have it. See, there are five men present."—He counted rapidly with his forefinger. "One of them will be dead before we leave this room."

Rochester strolled over to the sideboard, and helped himself to a cigarette.

"Come," he said, "this is going a little too far! Look at the cheeks of these ladies, Saton. A little melodrama is all very well, but you are too good an actor. Hinckley, and all of you," he said, looking around, "I propose that we end the strain. Let us go into the billiard-room and have a pool. I presume that the spell will then be broken."

Lady Mary shrieked.

"Don't move, any of you!" she cried. "I am afraid!"

Rochester laughed softly, and crossed the floor with firm footsteps. He stood on the threshold of the door leading to the billiard-room.

"Come," he said, "I am indeed between life and death, for I have one foot in one room and one in the other. Come, you others, and seek safety too."

The women also rose. There was a rush for the door, a swish of draperies, a little sob from Lois, who was terrified. Saton remained standing alone. He had not moved. His eyes were fixed upon the figure of the judge, who also lingered. They two were left in the centre of the hall.

"Come, Guerdon," Rochester cried. "You and I will take the lot on."

Guerdon did not move. He motioned to Saton slightly.

"Young man," he said, "we have met before. I said so when you first came in. My memory is improving."

Saton leaned forward.



"Be careful, judge," he said.

"Be careful be d—d!" the judge answered. "Rochester, come here. God in Heaven!"

His left hand went suddenly to his throat. He almost tore away the collar and primly arranged tie. Rochester was by his side in a second, and saved him from falling. His face was white to the lips. A shriek from the women rang through the hall, and came echoing back again from the black rafters.

"Some water quick, and brandy," Rochester cried, tearing open the shirt from the man he was supporting. "Send for a doctor, someone. Penarvon, you see to that. Let them take the motor. Keep those d—d women quiet!"

The judge opened his eyes.

"I remember him," he faltered.

"Drink some of this, old fellow," Rochester said. "You'll be better in a moment."

The judge's eyes were closed again. He had suddenly become a dead weight on Rochester's arm. Vandermere, who had done amateur doctoring at the war, brought a pillow for his head. They cut off more of his clothes. They tried by every means to keep a flicker of life in him until the doctor came. Only Rochester knew it was useless. He had seen the shadow of death pass across the gray, stricken face.



CHAPTER IX

A SENTIMENTAL TALK

Lois opened the gate and stole into the lane with the air of a guilty child. She gave a little gasp as she came face to face with Saton, and picking up her skirts, seemed for a moment about to fly. He stood quite still—his face was sad—almost reproachful. She dropped her skirt and came slowly, doubtfully towards him.

"I have come," she said. "I was forced to come. Oh, Mr. Saton! How could you?"

His features were wan. There were lines under his dark eyes. He was looking thin and nervous. His voice, too, had lost some of its pleasant qualities.

"My dear young lady," he said, "my dear Lois, what do you mean? You don't suppose—you can't—that it was through me in any way that—that thing happened?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she faltered, with white lips. "It was all so horrible. You pointed to him, and your eyes when you looked at him seemed to shine as though they were on fire. I saw him shrink away, and the color leave his cheeks. It was horrible!"

"But, Lois," he protested, "you cannot imagine that by looking at a man I could help to kill him? I can't explain what happened. As yet there are things in the world which no one can explain. This is one of them. I know a little more than most people. It is partly temperament, perhaps—partly study, but it is surely true that I can sometimes feel things coming. From the first moment I looked into Guerdon's face at dinner-time, I knew what was going to happen. Out there in the hall I felt it. Once before in South America, I saw a man shoot himself. I tell you that I was certain of what he was going to do before I knew that he had even a revolver in his pocket. It comes to me, the knowledge of these things. I cannot be blamed for it. Some day I shall write the first text-book that has ever been written of a new science. I shall evolve the first few rudimentary laws, and after that the thing will go easily. Every generation will add to them. But, Lois, because I am the first, because I have seen a little further into the world than others, you are not going to look at me as though I were a murderer!"

She drew a little breath, a breath of relief. Her hand fell upon his arm.

"No!" she said. "I have been foolish. It is absurd to imagine that you could have brought that about by just wishing for it."

"Why, even, should I have wished for it?" he asked. "Lord Guerdon was a stranger to me. As an acquaintance I found him pleasant enough. I had no grudge against him."

She drew him a little way on down the lane.

"I must only stay for a few minutes," she said. "If we walk down here we shall meet nobody. Do you know what Mr. Rochester has suggested?"

"No!" Saton answered. "What?"

"He says that Lord Guerdon had always been uneasily conscious of having seen you somewhere before. He says that at the very moment when he was stricken down, he seemed to remember!"

"That does not seem to me to be important," Saton remarked.

"Can't you understand?" she continued. "Mr. Rochester seems to think that Lord Guerdon had seen you somewhere under disgraceful circumstances. There! I've got it out now," she added, with a wan little smile. "That is why he feels sure that somehow or other you did your best to help him toward death."

"And the others?" Saton asked.

"Oh, it hasn't been talked about!" she answered. "Everyone has left the house, you know. I only knew this through Mary."

Saton smiled scornfully.

"My dear girl," he said, "I know for a fact that Lord Guerdon was suffering from acute heart disease. He went about always with a letter in his pocket giving directions as to what should become of him if he were to die suddenly."

"Is that really true?" she asked. "Oh, I am glad! Lord Penarvon said so, but no one else seemed sure."

"There is no need, even for an inquest," Saton continued. "I went to see the doctor this morning, and he told me so. I am very, very sorry," he went on, taking her hand in his, "that such a thing should happen to spoil the memory of these few days. They have been wonderful days, Lois."

She drew her hand quietly away.

"Yes!" she admitted. "They have been wonderful in many ways."

"For you," he continued, walking a little more slowly, and with his hands clasped behind him, "they have been, perhaps, just a tiny little leaf out of the book of your life. To me I fancy they have been something different. You see I have been a wanderer all my days. I have had no home, and I have had few friends. All the time I have had to fight, and there seems to have been no time for the gentler things, for the things that really make for happiness. Perhaps," he continued, reflectively, "that is why I find it sometimes a little difficult to talk to you. You are so young and fresh and wonderful. Your feet are scarcely yet upon the threshold of the life whose scars I am bearing."

"I am not so very young," Lois said, "nor are you so very old."

"And yet," he answered, looking into her face, "there is a great gulf between us, a gulf, perhaps, of more than years. Miss Lois, I am not going to ask you too much, but I would like to ask you one thing. Have these days meant just a little to you also?"

She raised her eyes and looked him frankly in the face. They were honest brown eyes, a little clouded just now with some reflection of the vague trouble which was stirring in her heart.

"I will answer you frankly," she said, "Yes, they have meant something to me! And yet, listen. I am going to say something unkind. There is something—I don't know what it is—between us, which troubles me. Oh, I know that you are much cleverer than other men, and I would not have you different! Yet there is something else. Would you be very angry, I wonder, if I told the truth?"

"No!" he assured her. "Go on, please."

"I feel sometimes," she continued, "as though I could not trust you. There, don't be angry," she went on, laying her fingers on his arm. "I know how horrid it sounds, but it is there in my heart, and it is because I would like to believe, it is because I want there to be nothing between us of distrust, that I have told you."

They walked slowly on, side by side. His face was turned a little from hers. She was bending forward, as though anxious to catch a glimpse of his expression. Through the case hardening of years, her voice for a moment seemed to have found its way back into the heart of the boy, to have brought him at least a momentary twinge as he realized, with a passing regret, the abstract beauty of the more simple ways in life. Those few minutes were effective enough. They helped his pose. The regret passed. A shadow of pain took its place. He came to a standstill and took her hands in his.

"Dear little girl," he said, "perhaps you are right. I am not altogether honest. I am not in the least like the sort of man who ought to look at you and feel towards you as I have looked and felt during these wonderful days. But all of us have our weak spots, you know. I think that you found mine. Good-bye, little girl!"

She would have called him back, but he had no idea of lending himself to anything so inartistic. With head thrown back, he left the footpath and climbed the hill round which they had been walking. Not once did he look behind. Not once did he turn his head till he stood on the top of the rock-strewn eminence, his figure clearly outlined against the blue sky. Then he straightened himself and turned round, thinking all the time how wonderfully effective his profile must seem in that deep, soft light, if she should have the sense to look.

She did look. She was standing very nearly where he had left her. She was waving her handkerchief, beckoning him to come down. He raised his hand above his head as though in farewell, and turned slowly away. As soon as he was quite sure that he was out of sight, he took his cigarette case from his pocket and began to smoke!



CHAPTER X

THE SCENE CHANGES

Saton left the country on the following afternoon, arrived at St. Pancras soon after five, and drove at once to a large, roomy house on the north side of Regent's Park. He was admitted by a trim parlormaid—Parkins had been left behind to superintend the removal from Blackbird's Nest—and he found himself asking his first question with a certain amount of temerity.

"Madame is in?" he inquired.

"Madame is in the drawing-room," the maid answered.

"Alone?" Saton asked.

"Quite alone, sir."

Saton ascended the stairs and entered the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, unannounced. At the further end of the apartment a woman was sitting, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes fixed upon the wall. Saton advanced with outstretched hands.

"At last!" he exclaimed.

The woman made no reply. Her silence while he crossed a considerable space of carpet, would have been embarrassing to a less accomplished poseur. She was tall, dressed in a gown of plain black silk, and her brown, withered face seemed one of those which defy alike time and its reckoning. Her white hair was drawn back from her forehead, and tied in a loose knot at the back of her head. Her mouth was cruel. Her eyes were hard and brilliant. There was not an atom of softness, or of human weakness of any sort, to be traced in any one of her features. Around her neck she wore a scarf of brilliant red, the ends of which were fastened with a great topaz.

Saton bent over her affectionately. He kissed her upon the forehead, and remained with his arm resting upon her shoulder. She did not return his embrace in any way.

"So you've come back," she said, speaking with a sharpness which would have been unpleasant but for the slight foreign accent.

"As you see," he answered. "I left this afternoon, and came straight here."

"That woman Helga has been down there. What did she want?" she demanded.

Saton shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turning away, fetched a chair, which he brought close to her side.

"I am afraid," he said bluntly, "that she came to see me."

The woman's eyes flashed.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Go on."

Saton took her hand, and held it between his. It was dry and withered, but the nails were exquisitely manicured, and the fingers were aflame with jewels.

"Dear Rachael," he said, "you must remember that when I was alone in London waiting to hear from you, I naturally saw a good deal of Helga. She was kind to me, and she was the means by which your letters and messages reached me. I am afraid," he continued, thoughtfully, "that I was so happy, in those days, to have found anyone who was kind and talked decently to me, that I may have misled her. There has been a little trouble once or twice since. I have tried to be pleasant and friendly with her. She seems—forgive me if it sounds conceited—she seems to want more."

"Hussy!" the old lady declared. "She shall go."

"Don't send her away," he begged, replacing her hand gently on her lap. "I daresay it was entirely my fault."

The woman looked at him, and a cruel smile parted her lips.

"I have no doubt it was," she said. "You are like that, you know, Bertrand. Still, one must have discipline. She asked for a day's holiday to go into the country to see her relatives, and I find her going to see you behind my back. It cannot be permitted."

"It will not happen again," he assured her. "I feel myself so much to blame."

"I have no doubt," she said, "that you are entirely to blame, but that is not the question. Unfortunately, there are other things to be considered, or she would have been sent packing before now. Tell me, Bertrand, what kept you down in the country these last few days?"

"I wanted a rest," he answered. "I have to read my paper to-night, you know, and I was tired."

"You have been spending your time alone?"

"No!" he answered, with scarcely a second's hesitation. "I have been once or twice to Beauleys."

"To see your friend Henry Rochester, I suppose?" she asked.

Saton's face darkened.

"No!" he answered. "I would not move a step to see him. I hate him, and I think he knows it."

"Who were the ladies of the party?" the woman asked. "Their names one by one, mind. Begin with the eldest."

"Lady Penarvon."

"I know. Go on," she said.

"Mrs. Hinckley."

"Go on."

"Miss Lois Champneyes."

"Young?" the woman asked.

"Yes!"

"Pretty?"

"Yes!"

"A victim?"

Saton frowned.

"There was also," he continued, "my hostess, Lady Mary Rochester."

"A silly, fluffy little woman," Madame declared. "Did she flirt?"

"Not with me, at any rate," Saton answered.

"Too experienced," Madame remarked. "Perhaps too good a judge of your sex. Who else?"

"Lady Marrabel."

"A very beautiful woman, I have heard," Madame remarked. "Also young, I believe. Also, I presume, a victim."

"It is not kind of you," Saton protested. "These women were staying in the house. One has to make oneself agreeable to them."

"Someone else was staying in the house," Madame continued, fixing her brilliant eyes upon his face. "Someone else, I see, died there."

"You mean Lord Guerdon?" Saton muttered, softly.

"He died there," she said, nodding. "Bertrand, did he—did he recognise you?"

"He would have done," Saton said slowly, "if he had not died. He was just beginning to remember."

She looked at him curiously for several minutes.

"Well," she said, "I ask no questions. Perhaps it is wiser not. But remember this, Bertrand, I know something of the world, and the men and women who live in it. You are a born deceiver of women. It is the role which nature meant you to play. You can turn them, if you will, inside out. Perhaps you think you do the same with me. Let that go. And remember this. Have as little to do with men as possible. Your very strength with women would be your very weakness with men. Remember, I have warned you."

"You don't flatter me," he said, a little unpleasantly.

"Bah!" she answered. "Why should you and I play with words? We know one another for what we are. Give me your hands."

He held them out. She took them suddenly in hers and drew him towards her.

"Kiss me!" she commanded.

He obeyed at once. Then she thrust him away.

"I go with you to this conversazione to-night," she said. "It is well that we should sometimes be seen together. I shall let it be known that you are my adopted son."

"That is as you will," he said, with secret satisfaction.

"Why not?" she declared. "I never had a son, but I'm foolish enough to care for you quite as much as I could for any child of my own. Go and get ready. We dine at seven.—No! come back."

She placed her long, clawlike fingers upon his shoulders, and kissed him on both cheeks. She held him tightly by the arms, as though there was something else she would have said—her lips a little parted, her eyes brilliant.

"Go and get ready," she said abruptly. "Look your prettiest. You have a chance to make friends to-night."



CHAPTER XI

A BUSY EVENING

The conversazione was, in its way, a brilliant gathering. There were present scientists, men of letters, artists, with a very fair sprinkling of society people, always anxious to absorb any new sensation. One saw there amongst the white-haired men, passing backwards and forwards, or talking together in little knots, professors whose names were famous throughout Europe.

A very great man indeed brought Saton up to Pauline with a little word of explanation.

"I am sure," he said to her—she was one of his oldest friends—"that you will be glad to meet the gentleman whose brilliant paper has interested us all so much. This is Lady Marrabel, Saton, whose father was professor at Oxford before your day."

The great man passed on. Pauline's first impulse had been to hold out her hand, but she had immediately withdrawn it. Saton contented himself with a grave bow.

"I am afraid, Lady Marrabel," he said, "that you are prejudiced against me."

"I think not," she answered. "Naturally, seeing you so suddenly brought into my mind the terrible occurrence of only a few days ago."

"An occurrence," he declared, "which no one could regret so greatly as myself. But apart from that, Lady Marrabel, I am afraid that you are not prepared to do me justice. You look at me through Rochester's eyes, and I am quite sure that all his days Rochester will believe that I am more or less of a charlatan."

"Your paper was very wonderful, Mr. Saton," she said slowly. "I am convinced that Mr. Rochester would have admitted that himself if he had been here."

"He might," Saton said. "He might have admitted that much, with a supercilious smile and a little shrug of the shoulders. Rochester is a clever man, I believe, but he is absolutely insular. There is a belt of prejudice around him, to the hardening of which centuries have come and gone. You are not, you cannot be like that," he continued with conviction. "There is truth in these things. I am not an ignorant mountebank, posing as a Messiah of science. Look at the men and women who are here to-night. They know a little. They understand a little. They are only eager to see a little further through the shadows. I do not ask you to become a convert. I ask you only to believe that I speak of the things in which I have faith."

"I am quite sure that you do," she answered, with a marked access of cordiality in her tone. "Believe me, it was not from any distrust of that sort that I perhaps looked strangely at you when you came up. You must remember that it is a very short time since our last meeting. One does not often come face to face with a tragedy like that."

"You are right," he answered. "It was awful. Yet you saw how they drove me on. I spoke what I felt and knew. It is not often that those things come to one, but that there was death in the room that night I knew as surely as I am sitting with you here now. They goaded me on to speak of it. I could not help it."

"It was very terrible and very wonderful," she said, looking at him with troubled eyes. "They say that Lady Mary is still suffering from the shock."

"It might have happened at any moment," he reminded her. "The man had heart disease. He had had his warning. He knew very well that the end might come at any moment."

"That is true, I suppose," she admitted. "The medical examination seemed to account easily enough for his death. Yet there was something uncanny about it."

"The party broke up the next day, I suppose," he continued. "I have been down in the country, but I have heard nothing."

"We left before the funeral, of course," she answered.

"Fortunately for me," he remarked, "I had important things to think of. I had to prepare this paper. The invitation to read it came quite unexpectedly. I have been in London for so short a time, indeed, that I scarcely expected the honor of being asked to take any share in a meeting so important as this."

"I do not see why you should be surprised," she said.

"You certainly seem to have gone as far in the study of occultism as any of those others."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"You yourself should read a little about these things," he said—"read a little and think a little. You would find very much to interest you."

"I am sure of it," she answered, almost humbly. "Will you come and see me one day, and talk about it? I live at Number 17, Cadogan Street."

"I will come with pleasure," he answered, rising. "Will you forgive me if I leave you now? There is a man just leaving with whom I must speak."

He passed away, and left the room with a little thrill of satisfaction. He had contrived to impress the one woman whom he was anxious to impress! Children like little Lois Champneyes and those others, were easy. This woman he knew at once was something different. Besides, she was a friend of Rochester's, and that meant something to him.

He walked along Regent Street to the end, and crossing the road, entered a large cafe. Here he sat before one of the marble-topped tables, and ordered some coffee. In a few minutes he was joined by another man, who handed his coat and hat to the waiter, and sat down with the air of one who was expected. Saton nodded, a little curtly.

"Will you take anything?" he asked.

"A bottle of beer and a cigar," the newcomer ordered. "A shilling cigar, I think, to-night. It will run to it."

"Anything special?" Saton asked.

"Things in general are about the same as usual," his companion answered. "They did a little better in Oxford Street and Regent Street, but Violet had a dull day in Bond Street. I have closed up the Egyptian place in the Arcade—'Ayesha' we called it. The police are always suspicious of a woman's name, and I had a hint from a detective I know."

Saton nodded.

"You have something else to tell me, haven't you?" he asked.

"Yes!" the other answered. "We had a very important client in Bond Street this afternoon, one of those whose names you gave me."

Saton leaned across the table.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"Lady Mary Rochester of Beauleys," the other answered—"got a town house, and a big country place down in Mechestershire."

Something flashed for a moment in Saton's eyes, but he said nothing. His companion commenced to draw leisurely a sheet of paper from his breast coat pocket. He was fair and middle-aged, respectably dressed, and with the air of a prosperous city merchant. His eyes were a little small, and his cheeks inclined to be fat, or he would have been reasonably good-looking.

"Lady Mary called without giving her name," he continued, "but we knew her, of course, by our picture gallery. She called professedly to amuse herself. She was told the usual sorts of things, with a few additions thrown in from our knowledge of her. She seemed very much impressed, and in the end she came to a specific inquiry."

"Go on," said Saton.

"The specific inquiry was briefly this," the man continued. "She gave herself away the moment she opened her mouth. She behaved, in fact, like a farmer's daughter asking questions of a gipsy girl. She showed us the photograph of a man, whom we also recognised, and wanted to know the usual sort of rubbish—whether he was really fond of her, whether he would be true to her if she married him."

"Married him?" Saton repeated.

"She posed as a widow," the other man reminded him.

"What was the reply?"

"Violet was clever," the man remarked, with a slow smile. "She saw at once that this was a case where something might be done. She asked for three days, and for a letter from the man. She said that it was a case in which a sight of his handwriting, and a close study of it, would help them to give an absolutely truthful answer."

"She agreed?" Saton asked.

The other nodded, and produced a letter from his pocket.

"She handed one over at once," he said. "It isn't particularly compromising, perhaps, but it's full of the usual sort of rot. She's coming for it on Tuesday."

Saton smiled as he thrust it into his pocketbook.

"I will put this into Dorrington's hands at once," he said. "This has been very well managed, Huntley. I will have a liqueur, and you shall have some more beer."

"Don't mind if I do," Mr. Huntley assented cheerfully. "It's thirsty weather."

They summoned a waiter, and Saton lit a cigarette.

"You've been amongst the big pots to-night," Huntley remarked, looking at him.

Saton nodded.

"I have been keeping our end up," he said, "in the legitimate branch of our profession. You needn't grin like that," he added, a little irritably. "There is a legitimate side, and a very wonderful side, only a brain like yours is not capable of assimilating it. You should have heard my paper to-night upon self-directed mesmeric waves."

The man shook his head, and laughed complacently.

"It's not in my way," he answered. "Our business is good enough as it is."

"You are a fool," Saton said, a little contemptuously. "You can't see that but for the legitimate side there would be no business at all. Unless there was a glimmer of truth at the bottom of the well, unless there existed somewhere a prototype, Madame Helga, and Omega, and Naomi might sit in their empty temples from morning till night. People know, or are beginning to know, that there are forces abroad beyond the control of the ordinary commonplace mortal. They are willing to take it for granted that those who declare themselves able to do so, are able to govern them."

He broke off a little abruptly. Huntley's unsympathetic face, with the big cigar in the corner of his mouth, choked the flow of his words.

"Never mind," he said. "This isn't interesting to you, of course. As you say, the business side is the more important. I will see you at the hotel to-morrow night. Considering where I have been this evening, it is scarcely wise for us to be seen together."

Huntley took the hint, finished his drink, and departed. Saton sat for a few more minutes alone. Then he too went out into the street, and walked slowly homewards. He let himself into the house in Regent's Park with his latchkey, and went thoughtfully upstairs. The room was still brilliantly illuminated, and the woman who was sitting over the fire, turned round to greet him.

"Well?" she asked.

Saton divested himself of his hat and coat. Madame's black eyes were still fixed upon him. He came slowly across towards her.

"Well?" she repeated.

"You were there," he reminded her. "I saw you sitting almost in the front row. What did you think of it?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"What does it matter what I think of it? Tell me about the others."

"My paper was pronounced everywhere to be a great success," he declared. "Many of the cleverest men in London were there. They listened to every syllable."

Madame nodded.

"Why trouble to teach them?" she asked, a little scornfully. "What of Huntley? Have you seen him? How have they done to-day?"

"It goes well," he answered. "It always goes well."

She moved her head slowly.

"Yet to-night you are not thinking of it," she said. "For many nights you have not counted your earnings. You are thinking of other things," she declared harshly. "Don't look away from me. Look into my eyes."

"It is true," he answered. "To-night I have been with clever men. I have measured my wits against theirs. I have pushed into their consciousness things which they were unwilling to believe. I have made them believe. There were many people there who felt, I believe, for the first time, that they were ignorant."

The woman looked at him scornfully. There was no softening in her face, and yet she had taken his hand in hers and held it.

"What do we gain by that?" she asked harshly. "What we want is gold, gold all the time. You ought to know that, you, who have been so near to starvation. Are you a fool that you don't realize it?"

"I am not a fool," Saton answered calmly, "but there is another side to the whole matter. A meeting such as to-night's gives an immense fillip on the part of society to what they are pleased to call the supernatural. It is only the fear of ridicule which keeps half the people in the world from flooding our branches, every one of them eager to have their fortunes told. A night like to-night is a great help. Clever men, men who are believed in, have accepted the principle that there are laws which govern the future so surely as the past in its turn has been governed. One needs only to apprehend those laws, to reduce them to intelligible formulae. It is an exact study, an exact science. This is the doctrine which I have preached. When people once believe it, what is to keep them from coming in their thousands to those who know more than they do?"

The woman shook her head derisively.

"No need to wait for those days," she answered. "The world is packed full of fools now. No need to wrestle with nature, to wear oneself inside out to give them truth. Give them any rubbish. Give them what they seem to want. It is enough so long as they bring the gold. How much was taken to-day altogether?"

Saton passed on to her the papers which the man Huntley had given him in the cafe.

"There is the account," he said. "You see it grows larger every day."

"What becomes of the money?" she asked.

"It is paid into the bank, and the banker's receipt comes to me each morning. There is no chance for fraud. I must make some more investments soon. Our balance grows and grows."

The woman's eyes glittered.

"Bring me some money to-morrow," she begged, grasping his other hand. "I like to have it here in my hands. Money and you, Bertrand, my son—they are all I care for. Banks and investments are well enough. I like money. Kiss me, Bertrand."

He laughed tolerantly, and kissed her cheek.

"My dear Rachael," he said, "you have already bagsful of gold about the place."

"They are safe," she assured him, "absolutely safe. They never leave my person. I feel them as I sit. I sleep with them at night. I am going to bed now. Bertrand!"

"Well?" he asked.

She pointed to him with long forefinger, a forefinger aflame with jewels.

"Look! We play with no fortune-telling here. What is there in your face? What is there in your life you are not telling me of? Is it a woman?"

"There are many women in my life," he answered. "You know that."

"I do," she answered. "Poor fools! Play with them all you will, but remember—the one whom you choose must have gold!"

He nodded.

"I am not likely to forget," he said.

She left the room with a farewell caress. There was something almost tigress-like about the way in which her arms wound themselves around him—some gleam of the terrified victim in his eyes, as he felt her touch. Then she left the room. Saton sank back into an easy-chair, and gazed steadfastly into the fire through half-closed eyes.



CHAPTER XII

A CALL ON LADY MARRABEL

Saton, after the reading of his paper before the members of the London Psychical Society, established a certain vogue of which he was not slow to avail himself. His picture appeared in several illustrated papers. His name was freely mentioned as being one of the most brilliant apostles of the younger school of occultism. He subscribed to a newspaper cutting agency, and he read every word that was written about himself. Whenever he got a chance, he made friends with the press. Everything that he could possibly do to obtain a certain position in a certain place, he sedulously attempted. He was always carefully dressed, and he was quite conscious of the fact that his clothes were of correct pattern and cut. His ties were properly subdued in tone. His gloves and hat were immaculate.

Yet all the time he lacked confidence in himself. The word charlatan clung to him like a pestilential memory. His hair was cropped close to his head. He had shaved off his moustache. He imitated almost slavishly the attire and bearing of those young men of fashion with whom he was brought into contact. Yet he was somehow conscious of a difference. The women seemed never to notice it—the men always. Was it jealousy, he wondered, which made them, even the most unintelligent, treat him with a certain tolerance, as though he were a person not quite of themselves, whom they scarcely understood, but were willing to make the best of?

With women it was different always. His encounter with Pauline Marrabel at the conversazione had given him the keenest pleasure. He had at once fixed a day sometime ahead upon which he would take to her the books he had spoken of. The day had arrived at last, but he had first another engagement. Early in the afternoon he turned into Kensington Gardens, and walked up and down the broad path, glancing every now and then toward one of the entrances. He saw at last the person for whom he was waiting.

Lois, in a plain white muslin gown, and a big hat gay with flowers, came blithely towards him, a little Pomeranian under one arm, and a parasol in the other hand.

"I do hope I'm not too dreadfully late!" she exclaimed, setting the dog down, and taking his hand a little shyly. "It seems such an age since I saw you last. Where can we go and talk?"

"You are not frightened at me any more, then?"

"Of course not," she answered. "We spoke about that at Beauleys. I do not want to think any more of that evening. It is over and done with. What a clever person you are becoming!" she went on. "I saw your name one day last week in the Morning Post. You read a paper before no end of clever men. And do you know that your photograph is in two or three of the illustrated papers this week?"

His cheeks flushed with pleasure. He was unreasonably glad that she appreciated these things. His vanity, which had been a trifle ruffled by some incident earlier in the day, was effectually soothed.

"These things," he said, "are absolutely valueless to me except so far as they testify to the importance of my work. Before long," he went on, "I think that there will be many other people like you, Miss Lois. They will believe that there is a little more in life than their dull eyes can see. You were one of those who understood from the first. But there are not many."

She sighed.

"I don't think I am a bit clever," she admitted.

"Cleverness," he answered, "is not a matter of erudition. It is a matter of instinct, of capacity for grasping new truths. You have that capacity, dear Lois, and I am glad that you are here. It is good to be with you again."

"You really are the most wonderful person," she declared, poking at her little dog with the end of her fluffy parasol. "You make me feel as though I were something quite important, and you know I am really a very unformed, very unintelligent young person. That is what my last governess said."

"Cat!" he answered laughing. "I can see her now. She wore a pince-nez and a bicycling skirt. I am sure of it. Come and sit down here, and I will prove to you how much cleverer I am than that ancient relic." ...

They parted at the gates, an hour or so later. Saton resented a little her evident desire to leave him there, and her half frightened refusal of his invitation to lunch, but he consoled himself by taking his mid-day meal alone at Prince's, where several people pointed him out to others, and he was aware that he was the object of a good deal of respectful interest.

Later in the day, with several books under his arm, he rang the bell at 17, Cadogan Street. He was committed now to the enterprise, which had never been out of his thoughts since the night of the conversazione.

Pauline kept him waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour. When at last she entered, he found himself lost in admiration of the marvelous simplicity of her muslin gown and her perfect figure. There was about her some sort of exquisite perfection, a delicacy of outline and detail almost cameolike, and impossible of reproduction.

She welcomed him kindly, but without any enthusiasm. He felt from the first that he still had prejudices to conquer. He sat down by her side and commenced his task. Very wisely, he eliminated altogether the personal note from his talk. He showed her the books which he had brought, and he talked of them fluently and well. She became more and more interested. It was scarcely possible that she could refrain from showing it, for he spoke of the things which he knew, and things which the citizens of the world in every age have found fascinating. He seemed to her to have gone a little further into the great mysterious shadowland than anyone else—to have come a little nearer reading the great riddle. She was a good listener, and she interrupted him only once.

"But tell me this," she asked, towards the close of one of his arguments. "This apprehension which you say one must cultivate, to be able—how is it you put it?—to throw out feelers for the things which our ordinary senses cannot grasp—isn't it a matter largely of temperament?"

"One finds it difficult or easy to acquire," he answered, "according to one's temperament. A nervous, magnetic person, who is not afraid of solitude, of solitary thought, of taking the truth to his heart and wrestling with it—that person is, of course, always nearer the truth than the person of phlegmatic temperament, who has to struggle ever so hard to be conscious of anything not actually within the sphere of his physical apprehension. These things in our generation will have a great effect. In centuries to come, they will become less and less apparent. We move rapidly," he went on, "and I am still a young man. Before I die, it is my ambition to leave behind me the first text-book on this new science, the first real and logical attempt to enunciate absolute laws."

"It is all very wonderful," she said, sighing gently. "Do you think that I shall understand any more about it when I have read these books?"

"I am sure that you will," he answered. "You have intelligence. You have sensibility. You are not afraid to believe—that is the trouble with most people."

"Answer me one question," she begged. "All these fortune-telling people who have sprung up round Bond Street—I mean the palmists and crystal-gazers, and people like that—do they proceed upon any knowledge whatever, or are they all absolute humbugs?"

"To the best of my belief," he answered fervently, "every one of them. Personally, I haven't very much information, but it has not come under my notice that there is a single one of these people who even attempts to probe the future scientifically or even intelligently, according to the demands made upon them. They impose as much as they can upon the credulity of their clients. I consider that their existence is absolutely the worst possible thing for us who are endeavouring to gain a foothold in the scientific world. Your friend Mr. Rochester, you know, called me a charlatan."

"Mr. Rochester is never unjust," she answered quietly. "Some day, perhaps, he will take that word back."

He tried to give their conversation a more personal note, but he found her elusive. She accepted an invitation, however, to be present at a lecture which he was giving before another learned society during the following week. With that he felt that he ought to be content. Nevertheless, he left her a little dissatisfied. He was perfectly well aware that the magnetism which he was usually able to exert over her sex had so far availed him nothing with her. Her eyes met his freely, but without any response to the things which he was striving to express. She had seemed interested all the time, but she had dismissed him without regret. He walked homewards a little thoughtfully. If only she were a little like Lois!

As he passed the entrance to the Park, an electric brougham was suddenly pulled up, and a lady leaned forward towards him. He stepped up to her side, hat in hand. It was Lady Mary Rochester. She was exquisitely gowned and hatted, with a great white veil which floated gracefully around her picture-hat, and she welcomed him with a brilliant smile.

"My dear Mr. Saton," she exclaimed, "what a fortunate meeting! Only a few minutes ago I was thinking of you."

"I am very much flattered," he answered.

"I mean it," she declared. "I wonder whether you could spare me a few minutes. I don't mean here," she added. "One can scarcely talk, driving. Come in after dinner, if you have nothing to do, just for half-an-hour. My husband is down in the country, and I am not going out until eleven."

"I shall be very pleased," he answered, a little mechanically, for he found the situation not altogether an easy one to grasp.

"Don't forget," she said. "Number 10, Berkeley Square," with a look of relief.

The electric brougham rolled on, and Saton crossed the road thoughtfully. Then a sudden smile lightened his features. He realized all at once what it was that Lady Mary wanted from him.

* * * * *

Rachael was waiting for him when he returned. She was seated before the table, her head resting upon her hands, her eyes fixed upon the little piles of gold and notes which she had arranged in front of her. She watched him come in and take off his hat and coat, in silence.

"Well?" she asked. "How do things go to-day?"

"I have not the reports yet," he answered. "It is too early. I shall have them later."

"What have you been doing?" she asked.

"I walked with a girl, Lois Champneyes, in Kensington Gardens most of the morning, and I called upon a woman—Lady Marrabel—this afternoon," he answered.

Rachael nodded.

"Safe companions for you," she muttered. "Remember what I always tell you. You are of the breed that can make fools of women. A man might find you out."

He turned an angry face upon her.

"What is there to find out?" he demanded. "I am not an impostor. I am a man of science. I have proved it. Your fortune-telling temples are all very well, and the money they bring is welcome enough. But nevertheless, I am not the vulgar adventurer that you sometimes suggest."

The woman laughed, laughed silently and yet heartily, but she never spoke. She looked away from him presently, and drawing the pile of gold and notes nearer to her, began to recount them with her left hand. Her right she held out to him, slowly drawing him towards her.



CHAPTER XIII

LADY MARY'S DILEMMA

Lady Mary's boudoir was certainly the most luxurious apartment of its sort into which Saton had ever been admitted. There were great bowls of red roses upon the small ormolu table and on the mantelpiece. Several exquisite etchings hung upon the lavender walls. The furniture was all French. Every available space seemed occupied with costly knick-knacks and curios. Photographs of beautiful women, men in court dress and uniform, nearly all of them signed, were scattered about on every available inch of space, and there was also that subtle air of femininity about the apartment, to which he was unaccustomed, and which went to his head like wine. It was evident that only privileged visitors were received there, for apart from the air of intimacy which seemed somehow to pervade the place, there were several articles of apparel, and a pair of slippers lying upon the hearthrug.

Lady Mary herself came rustling in to him a few minutes after his arrival, gorgeous in a wonderful shimmering gown, which seemed to hang straight from her shoulders—the very latest creation in the way of tea-gowns.

"I know you will forgive my receiving you like this," she said, holding out her hand. "To tell you the truth, I dined here absolutely alone, and I thought that I would not dress till afterwards. I am going on to the ball at Huntingford House, and it is always less trouble to go straight from one's maid. You have had coffee? Yes? Then sit down at the end of this couch, please, and tell me whether you think you can help me."

Saton was not altogether at his ease. The brilliancy of his surroundings, the easy charm of the woman, were a little disconcerting. And she was Rochester's wife, the wife of the man whom he hated! That in itself was a thing to be always kept in mind. Never before had she seemed so desirable.

"If you will tell me in what way I can be of service, Lady Mary," he began——

She turned towards him pathetically.

"Really," she said, "I scarcely know why I asked for your help, except that you seem to me so much cleverer than most of the men I know."

"I am afraid you over-rate my abilities," he said, with a slight deprecating smile. "But at any rate, please be sure of one thing. You could not have asked the advice of anyone more anxious to serve you."

"How kind you are!" she murmured. "I am going to make a confession, and you will see, after all, that the trouble I am in has something to do with you. You remember that night at Beauleys?"

"Yes!" he answered.

"We won't talk about it," she continued. "We mustn't talk about it. Only it gave me foolish thoughts. From being utterly incredulous or indifferent, I went to the other extreme. I became, I suppose, absolutely foolish. I went to one of those stupid women in Bond Street."

"You went to have your fortune told?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Oh, I suppose so!" she said. "I asked her a lot of things, and she looked into a crystal globe and told me what she saw. It was quite interesting, but unfortunately I went a little further than I meant to. I asked her some ridiculous questions about—a friend of mine."

He smiled sympathetically.

"Well," he said, "this all seems rather like a waste of time, but I scarcely see how it would be likely to land you in a difficulty."

"But it has," she answered. "That is what I want to explain to you. The woman insisted upon having a letter in the handwriting of the person I asked questions about, and I foolishly gave her one that was in my pocket. When I asked for it back again, the day afterwards, she said she had mislaid it."

"But was the letter of any importance?" he asked.

"There wasn't much in it, of course," she answered, "but it was a private letter."

"It is infamous!" he declared. "I should give information to the police at once."

She held out her hands—tiny little white hands, ringless and soft.

"My dear man," she exclaimed, "how can I? Give information to the police, indeed! What, go and admit before a magistrate that I had been to a fortune-teller, especially," she added, looking down, "on such an errand?"

He drew a little nearer to her.

"I beg your pardon," he answered. "I was thoughtless. That, of course, is not possible. Tell me the name and the address of the person to whom you went."

"The woman's name was Helga," she answered, "and it was in the upper end of Bond Street. Daisy Knowles told me about the place. Heaps of people I know have been."

"And the letter?" he asked. "Tell me, if you can, what is its precise significance?"

"It was a letter from Charlie Peyton," she answered—"Major Peyton, in the Guards, you know. There wasn't anything in it that mattered really, but I shall not have a moment's peace until it is returned to me."

"Have you told me everything?" he asked.

"No!" she admitted.

"Perhaps it would be as well," he murmured.

She produced a letter from the bosom of her gown.

"I received this last night," she said.

He glanced it rapidly through. The form of it was well-known to him.

"Dear Madam,

"A letter addressed to you, and in the handwriting of a certain Major Charles Peyton, has come into our hands within the last few hours. It is dated from the Army and Navy Club, and its postmark is June 1st. The contents are probably well-known to you.

"It is our wish to return same into your hands at once, but we may say that it was handed to us in trust by a gentleman who is indebted to us for a considerable sum of money and he spoke of this document, which we did not inspect at the time, as being a probable form of security.

"Perhaps your ladyship can suggest some means by which we might be able to hand over the letter to you without breaking faith with our friend.

"Sincerely yours, "Jacobson & Co.—Agents.

"17, Charing Cross Road."

"A distinct attempt at blackmail!" Saton exclaimed, indignantly.

"Isn't it wicked?" Lady Mary replied, looking at him appealingly. "But how am I to deal with it? What am I to do? I don't wish to correspond with these people, and I daren't tell Henry a thing about it."

"Naturally," he answered. "My dear Lady Mary, there are two courses open to you. First, you can take this letter to the police, when you will get your own letter back without paying a penny, and these rascals will be prosecuted. The only disadvantage attached to this course is that your name will appear in the papers, and the letter will be made public."

"You must see," she declared, "that that is an absolute impossibility. My husband would be furious with me, and so would Major Peyton. Please suggest something else."

"Then, on the other hand," he continued, "the only alternative course is to make the best bargain you can with the scoundrels who are responsible for this."

"But how can I?" she asked plaintively. "I cannot go to see these people, nor can I have them come here. I don't know how much money they want. You know I haven't a penny of my own, and although my husband is generous enough, he likes to know what I want money for. I have spent my allowance for the whole of the year already. I believe I am even in debt."

Saton hesitated for several moments. Lady Mary watched him all the time anxiously.

"If you will allow me," he said, "I will take this letter away with me, and see these people on your behalf. I have no doubt that I can make much better terms with them than you could."

She drew a little sigh of relief.

"That is just what I was hoping you would propose," she declared, handing it over to him. "It is so good of you, Mr. Saton. I feel there are so few people I could trust in a matter like this. You will be very careful, won't you?"

"I will be very careful," he answered.

"And when you have the letter," she continued, "you will bring it straight back to me?"

"Of course," he promised, "only first I must find out what their terms are. They will probably begin by suggesting an extravagant sum. Tell me how far you are prepared to go?"

"You think I shall have to pay a great deal of money, then?" she asked, anxiously.

"That depends entirely," he answered, "upon what you call a great deal of money."

"I might manage two hundred pounds," she said, doubtfully.

He smiled.

"I am afraid," he said, "that Messrs. Jacobson & Co., or whatever their name is, will expect more than that."

"It is so unlucky," she murmured. "I have just paid a huge dressmaker's bill, and I have lost at bridge every night for a week. Do the best you can for me, dear Mr. Saton."

He leaned towards her, but he was too great an artist not to realize that her feeling for him was one of pure indifference. He was to be made use of, if possible—to be dazzled a little, perhaps, but nothing more.

"I will do the best I can," he said, rising, as he saw her eyes travel towards the clock, "but I am afraid—I don't want to frighten you—but I am afraid that you will have to find at least five hundred pounds."

"If I must, I must," she answered, with a sigh. "I shall have to owe money everywhere, or else tell Henry that I have lost it at bridge. This is so good of you, Mr. Saton."

"If I can serve you," he concluded, holding her hand for a moment in his, "it will be a pleasure, even though the circumstances are so unfortunate."

"I shall esteem the service none the less," she answered, smiling at him. "Come and see me directly you know anything. I shall be so anxious."

Saton made his way to the cafe at the end of Regent Street. This time he had to wait a little longer, but in the end the man who had met him there before appeared. He came in smoking a huge cigar, and with his silk hat a little on one side.

"A splendid day!" he declared. "Nearly double yesterday's receipts. The papers are all here."

Saton nodded, taking them up and glancing them rapidly through.

"Do you know where I can find Dorrington?" he said. "I want that letter—the Peyton letter, you know."

Huntley nodded.

"I've got it in my pocket," he said. "I was keeping it until to-morrow."

Saton held out his hand.

"I'll take it," he said. "I can arrange terms for this matter myself."

Huntley looked at him in surprise.

"It isn't often," he remarked, "that you care to interfere with this side of the game. Sure you're not running any risk? We can't do without our professor, you know."

Saton shivered a little.

"No! I am running no risk," he said. "It happens that I have a chance of settling this fairly well."

He had a few more instructions to give. Afterwards he left the place. The night outside was close, and he was conscious of a certain breathlessness, a certain impatient desire for air. He turned down toward the Embankment, and sat on one of the seats, looking out at the sky signs and colored advertisements on the other side of the river, and down lower, where the tall black buildings lost their outline in the growing dusk.

His thoughts travelled backwards. It seemed to him that once more he sat upon the hillside and built for himself dream houses, saw himself fighting a splendid battle, gathering into his life all the great joys, the mysterious emotions which one may wrest from fate. Once more he thrilled with the subtle pleasure of imagined triumphs. Then the note of reality had come. Rochester's voice sounded in his ears. His dreams were to become true. The sword was to be put into his hand. The strength was to be given him. The treasure-houses of the world were to fly open at his touch. And then once more he seemed to hear Rochester's voice, cold and penetrating. "Anything but failure! If you fail, swim out on a sunny day, and wait until the waves creep over your neck, over your head, and you sink! The men who fail are the creatures of the gutter!"

Saton gripped the sides of his seat. He felt himself suddenly choking. He rose and turned away.

"It would have been better! It would have been better!" he muttered to himself.



CHAPTER XIV

PETTY WORRIES

Saton threw down the letter which he had been reading, with a little exclamation of impatience. It was from a man whom, on the strength of an acquaintance which had certainly bordered upon friendship, he had asked to propose him at a certain well-known club.

"My dear Mr. Saton," it ran, "I was sent for to-day by the Committee here upon the question of your candidature for the club. They asked me a good many questions, which I answered to the best of my ability, but you know they are a very old-fashioned lot, and I think it would perhaps be wisest if I were to withdraw your name for the present. This I propose to do unless I hear from you to the contrary.

"Sincerely yours, "Gordon Chambers."

Saton felt his cheeks flush as he thrust the letter to the bottom of the little pile which stood in front of him. It was one more of the little annoyances to which somehow or other he seemed at regular intervals to be subjected. Latterly, things had begun to expand with him. He had persuaded Madame to give up the old-fashioned house in Regent's Park, and they had moved into a maisonette in Mayfair—a little white-fronted house, with boxes full of scarlet geraniums, a second man-servant to open the door, and an electric brougham in place of the somewhat antiquated carriage, which the Countess had brought with her from abroad. His banking account was entirely satisfactory. There were many men and women who were only too pleased to welcome him at their houses. And yet he was at all times subject to such an occurrence as this.

His lips were twisted in an unpleasant smile as he frowned down upon the tablecloth.

"It is always like it!" he muttered. "One climbs a little, and then the stings come."

Madame entered the room, and took her place at the other end of the breakfast table. She leaned upon her stick as she walked, and her face seemed more than ever lined in the early morning sunlight. She wore a dress of some soft black material, unrelieved by any patch of color, against which her cheeks were almost ghastly in their pallor.

"The stings, Bertrand? What are they?" she asked, pouring herself out some coffee.

Saton shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing that you would understand," he answered coldly. "I mean that you would not understand its significance. Nothing, perhaps, that I ought not to be prepared for."

She looked across the table at him with cold expressionless eyes. To see these two together in their moments of intimacy, no one would ever imagine that her love for this boy—he was nothing more when chance had thrown him in her way—had been the only real passion of her later days.

"You do not know," she said, "what I understand or what I do not understand. Tell me what it is that worries you in that letter."

He pushed it away from him impatiently.

"I asked a friend—a man named Chambers—to put me up for a club I wanted to join," he said. "He promised to do his best. I have just received a letter advising me to withdraw. The committee would not elect me."

"What club is it?" she asked.

"The 'Wanderers'," he answered. "The social qualification is not very stringent. I imagined that they would elect me."

The woman looked at him as one seeking to understand some creature of an alien world.

"You attach importance," she asked, "to such an incident as this? You?"

"Not real importance, perhaps," he answered, "only you must remember that these are the small things that annoy. They amount to nothing really. I know that. And yet they sting!"

"Do not dwell upon the small things, then," she said coldly. "It is well, for all our sakes, that you should occupy some position in the social world, but it is also well that you should remember that your position there is not worth a snap of the fingers as against the great things which you and I know of. What do these people matter, with their strange ideas of birth and position, their little social distinctions, which remind one of nothing so much as Swift's famous satire? You are losing your sense of proportion, my dear Bertrand. Go into your study for an hour this morning, and think. Listen to the voices of the greater life. Remember that all these small happenings are of less account than the flight of a bird on a summer's day."

"You are right," he answered, with a little sigh, "and yet you must remember that you and I can scarcely look at things from the same standpoint. They do not affect you in the slightest. They cannot fail to remind me that I am after all an outcast, rescued from shipwreck by one strange turn in the wheel of chance."

She looked at him with penetrating eyes.

"Something is happening to you, Bertrand," she said. "It may be that it is your sense of proportion which is at fault. It may be that your head is a little turned by the greatness of the task which it has fallen to your lot to carry out. It is true that you are a young man, and that I am an old woman. And yet, remember! We are both of us little live atoms in the great world. The only things which can appeal to us in a different manner are the everyday things which should not count, which should not count for a single moment," she added, with a sudden tremor in her tone.

"You are right, of course," he answered, "and yet, Rachael, you must remember this. You have finished with the world. I am compelled to live in it."

"If you are," she rejoined, "is that any reason, Bertrand, why you should pause to listen to the voices whose cry is meaningless? Think! Remember the blind folly of it all. A decade, a cycle of years, and the men who pass you in Pall Mall, and the women who smile at you from their carriages, will be dead and gone. You—you may become the Emperor of Time itself. Remember that!"

"And in the meantime, one has to live."

"Keep your head in the clouds," she said. "Make use of these people, but always remember that in the light of what may come, they are only the dirt beneath your feet. Remember that you may be the first of all the ages to solve the great secret—the secret of carrying your consciousness beyond the grave."

"Life is short," he said, "and the task is great."

"Too great for cowards," she answered. "Yet look at me. Do I despair? I am seventy-one years old. I have no fear of death. I have learnt enough at least to help me into the grave. That will do, Bertrand. Go on with your breakfast, and burn that letter."

He tore it in half, and went to the sideboard to help himself from one of the dishes. When he returned, Madame was drumming thoughtfully upon the tablecloth with her long fingers.

"Bertrand," she said.

He looked toward her curiously. There was a new note, a new expression in the way she had pronounced his name.

"The girl, the little fair fool of a girl with money—Lois Champneyes you called her—where is she?"

"She is in London," he answered.

"With the Rochesters?"

"Yes!"

Rachael frowned.

"You find it difficult to see her, then?" she remarked, thoughtfully.

"I can see her whenever I choose to," he answered.

"You must marry her," Rachael said. "The girl will serve your purpose as well as another. She is rich, and she is a fool."

"She is not of age," Saton said drily, "and Mr. Rochester is her guardian."

"She will be of age very soon," Rachael answered, "and the money is sure."

"Do we need it?" he asked, a little impatiently. "We are making now far more than we can spend."

"We need money all the time," she answered. "At present, things prosper. Yet a change might come—a change in the laws, a campaign in the press—anything. Even the truth might leak out."

Saton rose from his place, and going once more to the sideboard, took up and lit a long Russian cigarette. He returned with the box, and laid it before Rachael.

"If the truth should leak out," he said, "that would be the end of us in this country. We have had one escape. I do not mean to find myself in the prisoner's dock a second time."

"There is no fear of that," she answered. "The whole business is so arranged that neither you nor I would be connected with it. Besides, we have rearranged things. We are within the pale of the law now. To return to what I was saying about this girl."

"There is no hurry," he said. "Marriage does not interest me."

"Marriage for its own sake, perhaps, no," she answered, "and yet money you must have. No man has ever succeeded in any great work without it. If a pauper proclaims a theory, he is laughed to scorn. He is called a charlatan and an impostor. If a rich man speaks of the same thing, his words are listened to as one who stirs the world. There is a change in you, Bertrand," she continued. "You have avoided this girl lately. You have avoided, even, your work. What is it?"

"Who knows?" he answered, lightly. "The weather, perhaps—the moon—one's humor. I will walk this morning in Kensington Gardens. Perhaps I shall see Lois."

He left the house half-an-hour later, after dictating some letters to a newly installed secretary. He accepted a carefully brushed hat from a well-trained and perfectly respectful servant, who placed also in his hands his stick and gloves. He descended a few immaculate steps and turned westward, frowning thoughtfully. The matter with him! He knew well enough. He had taken his fate into his hands, played his cards boldly enough, but Fate was beginning to get her own back.

He turned not toward Kensington Gardens, but towards Cadogan Street. He rang the bell at one of the most pretentious houses, and asked for Lady Marrabel. The butler was doubtful whether she would be inclined to receive anyone at that hour. He was shown into a morning-room and kept waiting for some time. Then she came in, serene as usual, with a faint note of inquiry in her upraised eyebrows and the tone of her voice as she welcomed him.

"I must apologize," he began, a little nervously. "I have no right to come at such an hour. I heard this morning that Max Naudheim will be in London before the end of the week, and I wondered whether you would care to meet him."

"Of course I should," she answered, "only I hope that he is more comprehensible than his book."

"I have never met him myself," Saton answered, "but I know that he has a letter to me. He will come to my house, I believe, and if he follows out his usual custom, he will scarcely leave it while he stays in England. I shall ask a few people to talk one night. I cannot attempt anything conventional. It does not seem to me to be an occasion for anything of the sort. If you will come, I will let you know the night and the time."

She hesitated for a moment.

"And if you should come," he continued, "even though it be the evening, please wear an old dress and hat. Naudheim himself seldom appears in a collar. Any social gathering of any sort is loathsome to him. He will talk only amongst those whom he believes are his friends."

"I will come, of course," Pauline answered. "It is good of you to think of me."

"He may speak to you," Saton continued. "He takes curious fancies sometimes to address a perfect stranger, and talk to them intimately. Remember that though he lives in Switzerland, and has a German name, he is really an Englishman. Nothing annoys him more than to be spoken to in any other language."

"I will remember," Pauline said.

There was a moment's silence. Saton felt that he was expected to go. Yet there was something in her manner which he could not altogether understand, some nervousness, which seemed absolutely foreign to her usual demeanour. He took up his hat reluctantly.

"You are busy to-day?" he asked.

"I am always busy," she answered. "Perhaps it is because I am so lazy. I never do anything, so there is always so much to do."

He made the plunge, speaking without any of his usual confidence—hurriedly, almost indistinctly.

"Won't you come and have some luncheon with me at the Berkeley, or anywhere you please? I feel like talking to-day. I feel that I am a little nearer the first law. I want to speak of it to someone."

She hesitated, and he saw her fingers twitch.

"Thank you," she said, "I am afraid I can't. If you like, you can come and have luncheon here. I have one or two people coming in."

"Thank you," he said. "I shall be glad to come. About half-past one, I suppose?"

"From that to two," she answered. "My friends drop in at any time."

He passed out into the street, not altogether satisfied with his visit, and yet not dissatisfied. He had an instinctive feeling that in some degree her demeanour towards him was changed. What it meant he could not wholly tell. She no longer met his eyes with that look of careless, slightly contemptuous interest. Yet when he tried to find encouragement from the fact, he felt that he lacked all his usual confidence. He realized with a little impulse of annoyance that in the presence of this woman, whom he was more anxious to impress than anyone else in the world, he was subject to sudden lapses of self-confidence, to a certain self-depreciation, which irritated him. Was it, he wondered, because he was always fancying that she looked at him out of Rochester's eyes?

A cab drove past him, and stopped before the house which he had just left. He looked behind, with a sudden feeling of almost passionate jealousy. It was Rochester, who had driven by him unseen, and who was now mounting the steps to her house.



CHAPTER XV

ROCHESTER IS INDIGNANT

Rochester accepted his wife's offer of a lift in her victoria after the luncheon party in Cadogan Street.

"Mary," he said, as soon as the horses had started, "I cannot imagine why you were so civil to that insufferable bounder Saton."

She looked at him thoughtfully.

"Is he an insufferable bounder?" she asked.

"I find him so," Rochester answered, deliberately. "He dresses like other men, he walks and moves like other men, he speaks like other men, and all the time I know that he is acting. He plays the game well, but it is a game. The man is a bounder, and you will all of you find it out some day."

"Don't you think, perhaps," his wife remarked, "that you are prejudiced because you have some knowledge of his antecedents?"

"Not in the least," Rochester answered. "The fetish of birth has never appealed to me. I find as many gentlefolk amongst my tenants and servants, as at the parties to which I have the honor of escorting you. It isn't that at all. It's a matter of insight. Some day you will all of you find it out."

"All of us, I presume," Lady Mary said, "includes Pauline."

Rochester nodded.

"Pauline has disappointed me," he said. "Never before have I known her instinct at fault. She must know—in her heart she must know that there is something wrong about the fellow. And yet she receives him at her house, and treats him with a consideration which, frankly, shall we say, annoys me?"

"One might remind you," Lady Mary remarked, "that it is you who are responsible for this young man's introduction amongst our friends."

"It is true," Rochester answered. "I regret it bitterly. I regret it more than ever to-day."

"Because of Pauline?" Lady Mary asked.

"Because of Pauline, and for one other reason," Rochester answered, lowering his voice, and turning a little in his seat towards his wife. "Mary, I was unfortunate enough to hear a sentence which passed between you and this person in the hall. I would have shut my ears if I could, but it was not possible. Am I to understand that you have made use of him in some way?"

Lady Mary gasped. This was a thunderbolt to descend at her feet without a second's warning!

"As a matter of fact," she said slowly, "he has done me a service."

Rochester's face darkened.

"I should be interested," he said, "to know the circumstances."

Lady Mary was not a coward, and she realized that there was nothing for it but the absolute truth. Her husband's eyes were fixed upon her, filled with an expression which she very seldom saw in them. After all, she had little enough to fear. Their relations were scarcely such that he could assume the position of a jealous husband.

"I suppose that you will laugh at me, Henry," she said. "Perhaps you will be angry. However, one must amuse oneself. Frankly, I think that all this talk that is going on about occultism, and being able to read the future, and to find new laws for the government of the will, has perhaps turned my brain a little. Anyhow, I went to one of those Bond Street people, and asked them a few questions."

"You mean to one of these crystal-gazers or fortune-tellers?" he asked.

"Precisely," she answered. "No doubt you think that I am mad, but if you had any idea of the women in our own set who have done the same thing, I think you would be astonished. Well, whilst I was there I chanced to drop, or leave behind—it scarcely concerns you to know which—a letter written to me by a very dear friend. One of my perfectly harmless love affairs, you know, Henry, but men do make such idiots of themselves when they have pen and paper to do it with."

Rochester moved a little uneasily in his place.

"May I inquire——" he began.

"No, I shouldn't!" she interrupted. "You know very well, my dear Henry, the exact terms upon which we have both found married life endurable. If I choose to receive foolish letters from foolish men, it concerns you no more than your silent adoration of Pauline Marrabel does me. You understand?"