"Has he come?" she asked, as he bent over her fingers.

Saton's face clouded.

"Yes!" he answered. "He came last night. To tell you the truth, he has just gone away in a temper. I do not know whether he will return to the house or not."

"Why?" she asked quickly.

Saton laughed to cover his annoyance.

"He does not approve of the luxury of my surroundings," he answered. "He declined to write at my desk, or to sit in my room."

"I don't wonder at it," she answered. "You know how he worships simplicity."

"Simplicity!" Saton exclaimed. "You should see the place where he writes himself. There is no carpet upon the floor, a block of wood for a writing-table, a penny bottle of ink, and a gnawed and bitten penholder only an inch or two long."

Pauline nodded.

"I can understand it," she said. "I can understand, too, how your rooms would affect him. You should have thought of that. If he has gone away altogether, how will you be able to finish your work?"

"I must do without him," Saton answered.

Pauline looked at him critically, dispassionately.

"I do not believe that you can do without him," she said. "You are losing your hold upon your work. I have noticed it for weeks. Don't you think that you are frittering away a great deal of your time and thoughts? Don't you think that the very small things of life, things that are not worth counting, have absorbed a good deal of your attention lately?"

He was annoyed, and yet flattered that she should speak to him so intimately.

"It may be so," he admitted. "And yet, do you know why I have chosen to mix a little more with my fellows?"

"No!" she answered. "I do not know why."

"It is because I must," he said, lowering his tone. "It is because I must see something of you."

The lace of her parasol drooped a little. Her face was hidden now, and her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

"That is very foolish," she said. "In the first place, if my opinion of you is worth anything, I tell you frankly that I would rather see you with ink-stained fingers and worn clothes, climbing your way up toward the truth, working and thinking in an atmosphere which was not befouled with all the small and petty things of life. It seems to me that since it amused you to play the young man of fashion, you have lost your touch—some portion of it, at any rate—upon the greater things."

Saton was very angry now. He was only indifferently successful in his attempt to conceal the fact.

"You, too," he muttered. "Well, we shall see. Naudheim has brains, and he has worked for many years. He had worked, indeed, for many years when the glimmerings of this thing first came to me. He could help me if he would, but if he will not, I can do it alone."

"I wonder."

"You do not believe in me," he declared.

"No," she answered, "I do not believe in you—not altogether!"

Rochester and his wife drove down the Park. Saton followed her eyes, noticing her slight start, and gazed after them with brooding face.

"Rochester is becoming quite a devoted husband," he remarked, with a sneer.

"Quite," she answered. "They spend most of their time together now."

"And Lady Mary, I understand," he went on, "has reformed. Yesterday she was opening the new wing of a hospital, and the day before she was speaking at a Girls' Friendly Society meeting. It's an odd little place, the world, or rather this one particular corner of it."

She rose, with a little shrug of the shoulders, and held out her hand.

"I must go," she said. "I am lunching early."

"May I walk a little way with you?" he begged.

She hesitated. After all, perhaps, it was a phase of snobbery to dislike being seen with him—something of that same feeling which she had never failed to remark in him.

"If you please," she answered. "I am going to take a taximeter at the Park gates."

"I will walk with you as far as there," he said.

He tried to talk to her on ordinary topics, but he felt at once a disadvantage. He knew so little of the people, the little round of life in which she lived. Before they reached the gates they had relapsed into silence.

"It is foolish of me," he said, as he called a taximeter, "to come here simply in the hope of seeing you, to beg for a few words, and to go away more miserable than ever."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It is certainly very foolish," she admitted.

"I don't see why," he protested, "you should disapprove of me so utterly."

"I do not disapprove," she told him. "I have not the right. I have not the desire to have the right. Only, since you will have me tell you, I am interested in your work. I like to talk about it, to hear you talk when you are enthusiastic. It does not amuse me to see you come down to the level of these others, who while their morning away doing nothing. You are not at home amongst them. You have no place there. When you come to me as a young man in Society, you bore me."

She stepped into the taximeter and drove away, with a farewell nod, abrupt although not altogether unkindly. Yet as she looked behind, a few seconds later, her face was very much softer—her eyes were almost regretful.

"It may hurt him," she said to herself, "but it is very good that he should hear the truth."



CHAPTER XXXIV

A WOMAN'S TONGUE

The man was harmless enough, to all appearance—something less than middle-aged, pale, and with stubbly brown moustache. He was dressed in blue serge clothes, and a bowler hat a little ancient at the brim. Neither his appearance nor his manner was remarkable for any particular intelligence. Yet the girl who looked him over was at once suspicious.

"What can I do for you?" she asked a little curtly.

He pointed to the crystal upon the table, and held out his hand.

"I want my fortune told," he said.

Violet shook her head.

"I do not attempt to read fortunes," she said, "and I do not, in any case, see gentlemen here at all. I do not understand how the boy could have shown you up."

"It wasn't the boy's fault," the visitor answered. "I was very keen on coming, and I gave him the slip. Do make an exception for once, won't you?" he went on. "I know my hand is very easy to read. I had it read once, and nearly everything came true."

Again she shook her head.

"I cannot do anything for you, sir," she said.

The man protested.

"But you call yourself a professional palmist," he said, "and you add crystal gazing to your announcement. I have seen it being carried along on Regent Street."

"It is quite true," Violet said, "that I sometimes try to amuse ladies, but I make no serious attempt to tell fortunes. And as I said before, I do not even receive gentlemen here at all. I am sorry that you have had your visit for nothing."

He rose to his feet with a shrug of the shoulders. There was nothing to be done but to accept defeat. And then, at the moment of defeat, something happened which more than reconciled him to his wasted visit. The door was opened abruptly, and Saton entered.

He realized the situation, or its possibilities, in an instant. His bow to Violet was the bow of a stranger.

"You are engaged," he said. "I will come again. I am sorry that your boy did not tell me."

"This gentleman came under a misapprehension," Violet answered. "I am sorry, but the same thing applies to you. I do not receive gentlemen here."

Saton bowed.

"I am sorry," he said.

The page-boy for whom Violet had rung, opened the door. The first comer passed out, with obvious reluctance. The moment that the door was closed, Violet turned towards Saton with a little exclamation.

"Well," she said, "of all the idiots I ever knew. Haven't I told you time after time that this place is infested with detectives? We get them here every day or so, trying to trap us, women as well as men. And yet you walk in as though the place belonged to you. The one thing they are so anxious to find out is who is running this show."

"I was a fool to come, Violet," Saton admitted, "and I am going at once. You think, then, that he was a detective?"

"I am sure of it," she answered. "I was sure of it, from the moment he came in."

"I will go," Saton said.

"Did you come to see me?" she asked, with a momentary softening in her tone.

Saton nodded.

"It must be another time," he said. "I will not stop now, or that man below will suspect."

"When will our next evening be, Bertrand?" she begged, following him to the door.

"I'll send you a telegram," he answered—"perhaps, to-morrow."

Saton descended the stairs quickly. On the threshold of the door he paused, with the apparent object of lighting a cigarette. His eyes travelled up and down the street. Looking into a shop-window a few yards away, was the man whom he had found with Violet.

He strolled slowly along the pavement and accosted him.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Please don't think me impertinent, but I am really curious to know whether that young woman was honest or not. She refused to read my hand or look into the crystal for me, simply because I was a man. Did she treat you in just the same way?"

The detective smiled.

"Yes!" he said. "She was very much on her guard indeed. Declined to have anything to do with me."

"Well," said Saton, "I only went in for a joke. I'll try one of the others. There's a wonderful lady in Oxford Street somewhere, they tell me, with the biggest black eyes in London. Good day, sir!"

Saton walked off, and entered a neighboring tea-shop. From there he telephoned to Violet, who a few minutes later appeared.

"Sit down and have some tea," he said. "I want to talk to you."

"It's almost time, isn't it?" she asked, reproachfully.

"Never mind about that just now," he said. "You can guess a little how things are. Those questions in the House upset the Home Secretary, and I am quite convinced that they have made up their minds at Scotland Yard to go for us. You are sure that you have been careful?"

"Absolutely," she answered. "I have not once, to man or woman, pretended to tell their fortune. I tell them that the whole thing is a joke; that I will look into the crystal for them if they wish it, or read their hands, but I do not profess to tell their fortunes. What I see I will tell them. It may interest them or it may not. If it does, I ask them to give me something as a present. Of course, I see that they always do that. But you are quite right, Bertrand. Every one of our shows is being watched. Besides that fellow this afternoon I had two detectives yesterday, and a woman whom I am doubtful about, who keeps on coming."

"Three weeks longer," Saton remarked, half to himself. "Perhaps it isn't worth while. Perhaps it would be better to close up now."

"Only three weeks?" Violet asked eagerly. "Bertrand, what are you going to do then? What is going to become of me?"

Saton patted her on the hand.

"I will tell you a little later on," he said. "Everything will be arranged all right. The only thing I am wondering about is whether it wouldn't be better to close up at once."

"They've got a big piece of business on at the office," she remarked.

Saton frowned.

"I know it," he answered. "It's a dangerous piece of business, too. It's blackmail, pure and simple. I wonder Huntley dare tackle it. It might mean five years' penal servitude for him."

"He'd give you away before he went to penal servitude," Violet remarked. "You may make yourself jolly sure of that."

Saton passed his hand across his forehead.

"Phew!" he said. "How stuffy this place is! Violet, I wish you'd go round to Huntley, and talk to him. Of course, he gets a big percentage on the returns, and that makes him anxious to squeeze everyone. But I don't want any risks. We're nearly out of the wood. I don't want to be trapped now. And I've an enemy, Violet—a pretty dangerous enemy, too. I fancy that most of this activity at Scotland Yard and thereabouts lately, is due to him."

"I'll go," she said, drawing on her gloves. "Shall I telephone to you?"

He nodded.

"Telephone me at home," he said. "Tell Dorrington, or Huntley—whichever you see—that the affair must be closed up—either dropped or settled. The risk is too great. My other work is becoming more and more important every day. I ought not to be mixed up with this sort of thing at all, Violet."

"Why are you?" she asked.

"Money," he answered. "One must have money. One can do nothing without money. It isn't that you or any of the other places make such an amazing lot. It's from Dorrington, of course, that the biggest draws come. Still, on the whole it's a good income."

"And you're going to give it all up?" she remarked.

He nodded.

"I daren't go on," he said. "We've reached about the limit."

"How are you going to live, then?" she asked curiously. "You're not the sort of man to go back to poverty."

Saton considered for a moment. After all, perhaps it would pay him best to be straightforward with this girl. He would tell her the truth. If she were disagreeable about it, he could always swear that he had been joking.

"Violet," he said, "I will tell you what I am going to do. It does not sound very praiseworthy, but you must remember that my work, my real hard work, means a great deal to me, and for its sake I am willing to put up with a good deal of misunderstanding. I am going to ask you to break off our engagement. I am going to marry a young lady who has a great deal of money."

Violet sat perfectly still in her chair. For several seconds she did not utter a syllable. Her lips were a little parted. The color seemed suddenly drawn from her face, and her eyes narrowed. One realized then the pernicious effect of cosmetics. Her blackened eyebrows were painfully apparent. The little patch of rouge was easily discernible against the pallor of her powdered skin. She was suddenly ugly. Saton, looking at her, was amazed that he could ever have brought himself to touch her lips.

"Ah!" she remarked. "I hadn't thought of that. You want to marry some one else, eh?"

Saton nodded.

"It isn't that I want to," he declared, "only, as you know, I must have money. I can't marry you without it, can I, Violet? We should only be miserable. You understand that?"

"Yes, I understand!" she answered.

She was turning one of her rings round, looking down at her hands with downcast head.

"You're upset, Violet," he said, soothingly. "I'm sorry. You see I can't help myself, don't you?"

"Oh, I suppose so!" she answered. "Who is the young lady?"

"A Miss Lois Champneyes," Saton said. "She is a ward of a Mr. Henry Rochester, who has been my enemy all along. It is he, I believe, who has stirred up these detectives to keep watching us."

"Henry Rochester," she repeated. "Yes, I remember the name! He lives at the great house near Blackbird's Nest."

Saton nodded.

"He showed you the way to my cottage once there," he reminded her. "Well, I'm glad I've told you, Violet. I hope you understand exactly how much it means. It's Rachael's doings, of course, and I daren't go against her."

"No, I suppose not!" she answered.

They parted in the street. Saton called a taximeter and drove off. Violet walked slowly down Bond Street. As she passed the corner of Piccadilly, she was suddenly aware that the man who had visited her that afternoon was watching her from the other side of the street. She hesitated for a moment, and then, standing still, deliberately beckoned him over.

"You are a detective, are you not?" she asked, as he approached, hat in hand.

He smiled.

"You are a very clever young lady," he remarked.

"I don't want any compliments," she answered. "Did you come to my show this afternoon hoping just to catch me tripping, or are you engaged in a larger quest altogether?"

"In a larger quest," he answered. "I want some information, and if you can give it me, I can promise that you will be remarkably well paid."

"And the information?" she asked.

"I want," he said slowly, "to be able to connect the young man who came in and pretended to be a stranger, and who has just been having tea with you—I mean Mr. Bertrand Saton—I want to connect him with your establishment, and also with a little office where some very strange business has been transacted during the last few months. You know where I mean. What do you say? Shall we have a talk?"

She walked by his side along Piccadilly.

"We may as well," she said. "We'll go into the Cafe Royal and sit down."



CHAPTER XXXV

ON LOIS' BIRTHDAY

"Lois is late this morning," Vandermere remarked, looking up at the clock.

"And on her birthday, too!" Lady Mary declared. "Young people, nowadays, are so blase. Look at all those presents on the table for her, and here the breakfast gong has rung twice, and there is no sign of her."

Vandermere turned to his host.

"You haven't heard anything about that fellow Saton?" he asked. "You don't know whether he is in the neighborhood or not?"

"I have not heard," Rochester answered. "To tell you the truth, if he has as much sense as I believe he has, he is probably on his way to the Continent by now."

"I have an idea, somehow," Vandermere continued, "that Lois is afraid he'll turn up to-day."

"If Lois is afraid," Rochester remarked, "let me tell you in confidence, Vandermere, that I don't think you need be."

"My dear girl!" Lady Mary exclaimed, looking toward the staircase. "We were just going in to breakfast without you, and on your birthday, too!"

Lois came slowly down the broad stairs into the hall. It was impossible to ignore the fact that she was pale, and that she walked as one in fear. Her eyes were sunken, and spoke of a sleepless night. Her manner was almost furtive. She scarcely glanced, even, at the little pile of packages which stood upon the table.

"How nice of you all to wait!" she said. "Good morning, everybody!"

"Good morning, and many happy returns to you!" Lady Mary called out. "Will you look at your presents now or after breakfast?"

"I think after breakfast," she said. "Are there any letters?"

"They are on the table," Rochester said.

She glanced them through eagerly. When she had come to the last one, she drew a little breath of relief. A tinge of color came into her cheeks.

"You dear people!" she exclaimed, impulsively. "I know I am going to have ever such nice things to thank you for. May I be a child, and put off looking at them until after breakfast? Do you mind, all of you?"

"Of course not," Vandermere answered. "We want you to tell us how you would like to spend the day."

"I would like to ride—a long way away," she declared, breathlessly. "Or the motor-car—I shouldn't mind that. I should like to go as far away as ever we can, and stay away until it is dark. Could we start directly after breakfast?"

Rochester smiled.

"You can have the car so far as I am concerned," he said. "I have to go over to Melton to sit on the Bench, and your aunt and I are lunching with the Delameres afterwards. But if you can put up with Vandermere as an escort!"

"I'll try," she answered. "Dear Maurice, do order the car for half-an-hour's time, will you?"

He laughed.

"Why this wild rush?" he inquired.

"I don't know," she answered. "It is just a feeling, perhaps. I want to get away, a long way off, very soon. I can't explain. Don't ask me to explain, any of you. You are sure those are all the letters?"

"Certain," Rochester answered. "And, Lois," he added, looking up, "remember this. You speak and look this morning like one who has fears. I repeat it, you have absolutely nothing to fear. I am your guardian still, although you are of age, and I promise you that nothing harmful, nothing threatening, shall come near you."

She drew a little sigh. She did not make him any answer at all, and yet in a sense it was clear that his words had brought her some comfort.

"Don't expect us back till dinner-time," she declared. "I am going to sit behind with Maurice and be bored to death, but I am going to be out of doors till it is dark. I wish you did not bore me so, Maurice," she added, smiling up at him.

"I won't to-day, anyhow," he answered, "because if I talk at all I am going to talk about yourself."

As the day wore on, Lois seemed to lose the depression which had come over her during the early morning. By luncheon she was laughing and chattering, talking over her presents. Soon, when they were speeding on the road again, she felt her hand suddenly held.

"Lois," her companion said, "this is your birthday, and you are a free woman, free to give yourself to whom you will. It should be the happiest day of your life. Won't you make it the happiest day of mine?"

"Oh, if only I could!" she answered, with a sudden return of her old nervousness. "Maurice, if only I dared!"

He laughed scornfully.

"Dear Lois," he said, "you are impressionable, and you have let yourself become the victim of some very foolish fancies. You are a free agent. I tell you this now, and I tell you the truth. You are a free agent, free to give your love where you will, free to give yourself to whom you choose. And I come to you first on your birthday, Lois. You know that I love you. Give yourself to me, little girl, and never anything harmful shall come near you. I swear it, on my honor, Lois."

She drew a little sigh of content, and her arm stole shyly up to his shoulder. In a moment she was in his arms.

"Don't be angry with me, Maurice," she sobbed, "if I am a little strange just at first. I am afraid—I can't tell you what of—but I am afraid."

He talked to her reassuringly, holding her hands—most of the time, in fact, for the country was a sparsely populated one, with his arm around her waist. And then suddenly she seemed to lose her new-found content. Her cheeks were suddenly white. She looked everywhere restlessly about.

"What is the matter, dear?" he asked anxiously.

"I thought that I heard something!" she exclaimed. "What is the time?"

"Four o'clock," he answered, looking at his watch.

"Please tell the man to go back, straight back home," she said. "I am tired. I must get back. Please, Maurice!"

He gave the chauffeur instructions through the speaking-tube. The car swung round, and they sped on their way through the quiet lanes.

"Dear Lois," he said, "something has come over you. Your hands are cold, and you have drawn yourself away. Now please be honest and tell me all about it. If you have fears, all I can say is that you may dismiss them. You are safe now that you have given yourself to me, as safe as anyone in the world could be."

"Oh! If I could believe it!" she whispered, but she did not turn her head. Her eyes sought his no longer. They were fixed steadfastly on the road in front.

"You must believe it," he declared, laughing. "I can assure you that I am strong enough to hold you, now that I have the right. If any troubles or worries come, they are mine to deal with! See, we will not mince words. If that little reptile dares to crawl near you, I'll set my foot upon his neck. By God, I will!"

She took no notice of his speech, except to slowly shake her head. It seemed as though she had not heard him. By and bye he left off talking. There was nothing he could say to bring back the color to her cheeks, or the light to her eyes, or the confidence to her tone. Something had happened—he could not tell what—but for the moment she was gone from him. The little hands which his still clasped were as cold as ice. It seemed to him that they were unwilling prisoners. Once, when he would have passed his arm around her waist, she even shuddered and drew away.

The car rushed on its way, turned into the great avenue, and drew up in front of Beauleys. Lois stepped out quickly, and went on ahead. In the hall several people were standing, and amongst them Bertrand Saton!

Vandermere's face was dark as a thundercloud when his eyes fell upon the young man—carefully, almost foppishly dressed, standing upon the hearthrug in front of the open fire. Rochester was there with Pauline, and Lady Mary was seated behind the tea-tray. There was a little chorus as the two entered. Lois went straight to Saton, who held out his hands.

"Dear Lois," he said softly, "I could not keep away to-day. I have been waiting for you, waiting for nearly an hour."

"I know," she answered. "I came as soon as I knew."



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE CHARLATAN UNMASKED

There seemed for the next few minutes to be a somewhat singular abstention from any desire to interfere with the two people who stood in the centre of the little group, hand-in-hand. Saton, after his first speech, and after Lois had given him her hands, had turned a little defiantly toward Rochester, who remained, however, unmoved, his elbow resting upon the broad mantelpiece, his face almost expressionless. Vandermere, too, stood on one side and held his peace, though the effort with which he did so was a visible one. Lady Mary looked anxiously towards them. Pauline had shrunk back, as though something in the situation terrified her.

Even Saton himself felt that it was the silence before the storm. The courage which he had summoned up to meet a storm of disapproval, began to ebb slowly away in the face of this unnatural silence. It was clear that the onus of further speech was to rest with him.

Still retaining Lois' hand, he turned toward Rochester.

"You have forbidden me to enter your house, or to hold any communication with your ward until she was of age, Mr. Rochester," he said. "One of your conditions I have obeyed. With regard to the other, I have done as I thought fit. However, to-day she is her own mistress. She has consented to be my wife. I do not need to ask for your consent or approval. If you are not willing that she should be married from your roof, I can take her at once to the Comtesse, who is prepared to receive her."

"A very pleasant little arrangement," Rochester said, speaking for the first time. "I am afraid, however, that you will have to alter your plans."

"I do not admit your right to interfere in them," Saton answered. "If you continue your opposition to my marriage with your ward, I shall take her away with me this afternoon."

Rochester shook his head.

"I think not," he answered.

"Then we shall see," Saton declared. "Lois, come with me. It does not matter about your hat. Your things can be sent on afterwards. Come!"

She would have followed him towards the door, but Rochester, leaning over, touched the bell, and almost at once two men stepped into the hall. One, Saton remembered in an instant. It was the man whom he had found with Violet—the man who was there to have his fortune told. The other was a stranger, but there was something in his demeanor, in the very cut of his clothes, which seemed to denote his profession.

Saton was suddenly pale. He realized in a moment that it was not intended that he should leave the room. He looked toward Rochester as though for an explanation.

"My young friend," Rochester said, "when you leave this place, you will leave it, unless I change my mind, in the company of those friends of mine whom you see there. I don't want to terrify you unnecessarily. These gentlemen are detectives, but they are in my employ. They have nothing to do with Scotland Yard. I can assure you, however, that there need not be ten minutes' delay in the issuing of a warrant for your arrest."

"My arrest?" Saton gasped. "What do you mean?"

Rochester sighed.

"Ah!" he said. "Why should you force me for explanations? Ask yourself. Once before you have stood in the dock, on the charge of being connected with certain enterprises designed to wheedle their pocket-money from over-credulous ladies. You got off by a fluke, but you did not learn your lesson. This time, getting off will not be quite so easy, for you seem to have added to your former profession one which an English jury seldom lets pass unpunished. I am in a position to prove, Bertrand Saton, that the offices in Charing Cross Road, conducted under the name of Jacobson & Company, and which are nothing more nor less than the headquarters of an iniquitous blackmailing system, are inspired and conducted by you, and that the profits are the means by which you live. A more despicable profession the world has never known. There are a sheaf of cases against you. I will remind you of one. My wife—Lady Mary here—left a private letter in the rooms of a Madame Helga. The letter was passed on at once to the blackmailing branch of your extremely interesting business, and the sum of, I think, five hundred pounds, was paid for its recovery. You yourself were personally responsible for this little arrangement. And there are many others. If all the poor women whom you have robbed," Rochester continued, "had had the common sense of my wife, and brought the matter to their husbands, you would probably have been a guest of His Majesty some time ago."

Such fear as had at first drawn the color from Saton's cheeks, and filled his eyes with terror, passed quickly away. He stood upright, his head thrown back, a faint smile upon his lips. He had some appearance, even, of manhood.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I deny your charges. I have no connection with the fortune-telling establishments to which you have alluded. I know nothing of the blackmailing transactions you speak of. You have been my enemy, my hopeless and unforgiving enemy. I am not afraid of you. If this is your great blow, strike. Let me be arrested. I will answer everything. Afterwards, you and I will have our reckoning. Lois," he added, turning to her, "you do not believe—say that you do not believe these things."

"I—do—not—believe—them—Bertrand," she answered slowly.

"You will come with me?"

"I—will—come—with—you," she echoed.

"By God, sir, she shan't!" cried Vandermere. "Take your hands off her, sir, or you shall learn how mountebanks like yourself should be treated."

Saton struck him full in the face, so that losing for a moment his balance upon the slippery floor, Vandermere nearly fell. In a moment he recovered himself, however. There was a struggle which did not last half-a-dozen seconds. He lifted Saton off his feet and shook him, till it seemed as though his limbs were cracking. Then he threw him away.

Rochester stepped forward to interfere.

"Enough of this, Vandermere," he said sternly. "Remember that the fellow's career is over. He may try to bluff it out, but he is done for. I have proofs enough to send him to prison a dozen times over."

Saton rose slowly to his feet. Unconsciously his fingers straightened his tie. He knew very well that life—or rather the things which life meant for him—was over. He had only one desire—the desire of the born poseur—to extricate himself from his present position with something which might, at any rate, seem like dignity.

"Do I understand," he asked Rochester, "that my departure from this house is forbidden?"

Rochester shook his head.

"No!" he answered. "For what you are, for the ignoble creature that you have become, I accept a certain amount of responsibility. For that reason, I bid you go. Go where you will, so long as your name or your presence never trouble us again. Let this be the last time that any one of us hears the name of Bertrand Saton. I give you that chance. Find for yourself an honest place in the world, if you can, wherever you will, so that it be not in this country. Go!"

Saton turned toward the door with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"You need have no fear," he said. "The country into which I go is one in which you will never be over-anxious to travel."

He passed out, amidst a silence which seemed a little curious when one considered the emotions which he left behind. Lois' pale face seemed all aglow with a sort of desperate thankfulness. Already she was in Vandermere's arms. And then the silence was broken by a woman's sobbing. They all turned towards her. It was Pauline who had suddenly broken down, her face buried in her hands, her whole frame shaking with passion.

Rochester moved towards her, but she thrust him aside.

"You are a brute!" she declared—"a brute!"

She staggered across the room towards the door by which Saton had departed. Before she could reach it, however, they heard the crunching of wheels as his car swept by the front on its way down the avenue.

* * * * *

Rochester pushed open the black gate which led from the road into the plantation at the back of the hill, and they passed through and commenced the last short climb. No word passed between them. The silence of the evening was broken only by the faint sobbing of the wind in the treetops, and the breaking of dried twigs under their feet. They were both listening intently—they scarcely knew for what. The far-away rumble of a train, the barking of a dog, the scurrying of a rabbit across the path—these sounds came and passed—nothing else.

They neared the edge of the plantation. There was only a short climb now, and a gray stone wall. Rochester passed his arm through his companion's. Her breath was coming in little sobs.

"We shall be there in a moment, Pauline," he said. "It is only a fancy of mine. Perhaps he is not here after all, but at any rate we shall know."

She said nothing. She seemed to be bracing herself for that last effort. Now they could see the bare rocky outline of the summit of the hill. A few steps more, and they would pass through the gate. And then the sound came, the sound which somehow they had dreaded. Sharp and crisp through the twilight air came the report of a revolver. They even fancied that they heard a little moan come travelling down the hillside.

Rochester stopped short.

"We are too late," he said. "Pauline, you had better stay here. I will go on and find him."

She shook her head.

"I am coming," she said. "It is my fault!—it is my fault!"

He held out his hand.

"Pauline," he said, "it may not be a fit sight for you. Sit here. If you can do any good, I will call to you."

She brushed him aside and began to run. With her slight start she outdistanced him, and when he scrambled up to the top, she was already on her knees, kneeling down over the crouching form.

"He is not dead," she cried. "Quick! Tell me where the wound is."

Rochester stooped down on the other side, and Saton opened his eyes slowly.

"I am a bungler, as usual!" he said.

Rochester opened his coat carefully.

"He has shot himself in the shoulder," he said to Pauline. "It is not serious."

Saton pointed to the rock.

"Lift me up a little," he said. "I want to sit there, with my back to it. Carefully!"

Rochester did as he was bid. Then he took his handkerchief and tried to staunch the blood.

"I don't know why you came," Saton faltered—"you especially," he added to Rochester. "Haven't you had all the triumph you wanted? Couldn't you have left me alone to spend this last hour my own way? I wanted to learn how to die without fear or any regret. Here I can do it, because it is easier here to realize that failure such as mine is death."

"We came to try and save you," said Rochester quietly.

"To save you!" Pauline sobbed. "Oh! Bertrand, I am sorry—I am very, very sorry!"

He looked at her in slow surprise.

"That is kind of you," he said. "It is kind of you to care. You know now what sort of a creature I am. You know that he was right—this man, I mean—when he warned you against me, when he told you that I was something rotten, something not worth your notice. Give me the revolver again."

Rochester thrust it in his pocket, shaking his head.

"My young friend, I think not," he said. "Listen. I have no more to say about the past. I am prepared to accept my share of the responsibility of it. You are still young. There is still time for you to weave fresh dreams, to live a new life. Make another start. No! Don't be afraid that I'm going to offer you my help. There was a curse upon that. But nevertheless, make your start. It isn't I who wish it. It is—Pauline."

Saton looked at her wonderingly.

"She doesn't care," he said. "She knows now that I am really a charlatan. And I needn't have been," he added, with a sudden fury. "It was only that cursed taste for luxury which seemed somehow or other to creep into my blood, which made me so dependent upon money. Naudheim was right! Naudheim was right! If only I had stayed with him! If only I had believed in him!"

"It is not too late," she whispered, stooping low over him. "Be a man, Bertrand. Take up your work where you left it, and have done with the other things. This slipping away over the edge, slipping into Eternity, is the trick of cowards. For my sake, Bertrand!"

He half closed his eyes. Rochester was busy still with his shoulder, and the pain made him faint.

"Go back to Naudheim," she whispered. "Start life from the very bottom rung, if he will have it so. Don't be afraid of failure. Keep your hands tight upon the ladder, and your eyes turned toward Heaven. Oh! You can climb if you will, Bertrand. You can climb, I am sure. Don't look down. Don't pause. Be satisfied with nothing less than the great things. For my sake, Bertrand! My thoughts will follow you. My heart will be with you. Promise!"

"I promise," he murmured.

His head sank back. He was half unconscious.

"We will stay with him for a moment," Rochester whispered. "As soon as he comes to, I will carry him down to the car."

In a moment or two he opened his eyes. His lips moved, but he was half delirious.

"Anything but failure!" he muttered to himself, with a little groan. "Death, if you will—a touch of the finger, a stroke too far to seaward. Oh! death is easy enough! Death is easy, and failure is hard!"

Her lips touched his forehead.

"Don't believe it, dear," she whispered. "There is no real failure if only the spirit is brave. The dead things are there to help you climb. They are rungs in the ladder, boulders for your feet."

He leaned a little forward. It seemed as though he recognised something familiar amongst the treetops, or down in the mist-clad valleys.

"Naudheim!" he cried hoarsely. "I shall go to Naudheim!"



EPILOGUE

THE MAN

About half-way up, where the sleighs stopped, Lady Mary gave in. Pauline and Rochester went forward on foot, and with a guide in front. Below them was a wonderful unseen world, unseen except when the snow for a moment ceased to fall, and they caught vague, awe-inspiring glimpses of ravines and precipices, tree-clad gorges, reaching down a dizzy height to the valley below. Above them was a plateau, black with pine trees. Higher still, the invisible mountain tops.

"It is only a few hundred yards further," Rochester said, holding his companion by the arm. "What a country, though! I wonder if it ever stops snowing."

"It is wonderful!" she murmured. "Wonderful!"

And then, as though in some strange relation to his words, the storm of whirling snow-flakes suddenly ceased. The thin veil passed away from overhead like gossamer. They saw a clear sky. They saw, even, the gleam of reflected sunshine, and as the mist lifted, the country above and beyond unrolled itself in one grand and splendid transformation scene: woods above woods; snow-clad peaks, all glittering with their burden of icicles and snow; and above, a white chaos, where the mountain-peak struck the clouds.

They paused for a moment, breathless.

"It is like Naudheim himself," she declared. "This is the land he spoke of. This is the place to which he climbed. It is wonderful!"

"Come," Rochester said. "We must be up before the darkness."

Slowly they made their way along the mountain road, which their guide in front was doing all he could to make smooth for them. And then at the corner they found a log hut, to which their guide pointed triumphantly.

"It is there!" he exclaimed—"there where they live, the two madmen. Beyond, you see, is the village of the woodhewers."

Rochester nodded. They struggled a few steps upwards, and then paused to look with wonder at the scene below. The one log cabin before which they were now standing, had been built alone. Barely a hundred yards away, across the ravine, were twenty or thirty similar ones, from the roofs of which the smoke went curling upwards. It seemed for a moment as though they had climbed above the world of noises—climbed into the land of eternal silence. Before they had had time, however, to frame the thought, they heard the crashing of timber across the ravine, and a great tree fell inwards. A sound like distant thunder rose and swelled at every moment.

"It is the machinery," their guide told them. "The trees fall and are stripped of their boughs. Then they go down the ravine there, and along the slide all the way to the river. See them all the way, like a great worm. Day and night, month by month—there is never a minute when a tree does not fall."

Again they heard the crashing, and another tree fell. They heard the rumble of the slide in the forest. The peculiar scent of fresh sap seemed like a perfume in the air. Then suddenly the snow began to fall again. They could not see across the ravine.

The guide knocked at the door and opened it. Rochester and Pauline passed in....

There was something almost familiar about the little scene. It was, in many respects, so entirely as she had always imagined it. Naudheim, coatless, collarless, with open waistcoat, twisted braces, and unkempt hair, was striding up and down the room, banging his hands against his side, dictating to the younger man who sat before the rude pine table.

"So we arrive," they heard his harsh, eager tones, "so we arrive at the evolution of that consciousness which may justly be termed eternal—the consciousness which has become subject to these primary and irresistible laws, the understanding of which has baffled for so many ages the students of every country. So we come——"

Naudheim broke off in the middle of his sentence. A rush of cold air had swept into the room. He thrust forward an angry, inquiring countenance toward the visitors. The young man sprang to his feet.

"Pauline!" he exclaimed.

He recognised Rochester, and stepped back with a momentary touch of his old passionate repugnance, not unmixed with fear. He recovered himself, however, almost immediately, Rochester gazed at him in amazement. It would have been hard, indeed, to have recognised the Bertrand Saton of the old days, in the robust and bearded man who stood there now with his eyes fixed upon Pauline. His cheeks were weather-beaten but brown with health. He wore a short, unkempt beard, a flannel shirt with collar but no tie, tweed clothes, which might indeed have come, at one time or another, from Saville Row, but were now spent with age, and worn out of all shape.

Pauline's heart leaped with joy. Her eyes were wet. It had been worth while, then. He had found salvation.

"We hadn't the least right to come, of course," she began, recognising that speech alone could dissolve that strange silence and discomposure which seemed to have fallen upon all of them. "Mr. Rochester and Lady Mary and I are going to St. Moritz, and I persuaded them to stay over here and see whether we couldn't rout you out. What a wonderful place!" she exclaimed.

"It is a wonderful place, madam!" Naudheim exclaimed glowering at them with darkening face. "It is wonderful because we are many thousands of feet up from that rotten, stinking little life, that cauldron of souls, into which my young friend here had very nearly pitched his own little offering."

"It was we who sent him to you," Pauline said gently.

"So long as you have not come to fetch him away," Naudheim muttered.

Pauline shook her head.

"We have come," she said, "because we care for him, because we were anxious to know whether he had come to his own. We will go away the moment you send us."

"You will have some tea," Naudheim growled, a little more graciously. "Saton, man, be hospitable. It is goat's milk, and none too sweet at that, and I won't answer for the butter."

Saton spoke little. Pauline was content to watch him. They drank tea out of thick china cups, but over their conversation there was always a certain reserve. Naudheim listened and watched, like a mother jealous of strangers who might rob her of her young. After tea, however, he disappeared from the room for a few moments, and Rochester walked toward the window.

"It is very good of you to come, Pauline," Saton said. "I shall work all the better for this little glimpse of you."

"Will the work," she asked softly, "never be done?"

He shook his head.

"Why should it? One passes from field to field, and our lives are not long enough, nor our brains great enough, to reach the place where we may call halt."

"Do you mean," she asked, "that you will live here all your days?"

"Why not?" he answered. "I have tried other things, and you know what they made of me. If I live here till I am as old as Naudheim, I shall only be suffering a just penance."

"But you are young," she murmured. "There are things in the world worth having. There is a life there worth living. Solitude such as this is the greatest panacea the world could offer for all you have been through. But it is not meant to last. We want you back again, Bertrand."

His eyes were suddenly on fire. He shrank a little away from her.

"Don't!" he begged. "Don't, Pauline. I am living my punishment here, and I have borne it without once looking back. Don't make it harder."

"I do not wish to make it harder," she declared, "and yet I meant what I said. It is not right that you should spend all your days here. It is not right for your own sake, it is not right——"

She held out her hands to him suddenly.

"It is not right for mine," she whispered.

Rochester stepped outside. Again the snow had ceased. In the forest he could hear the whirl of machinery and the crashing of the falling timber. He stood for a moment with clenched hands, with unseeing eyes, with ears in which was ringing still the memory of that low, passionate cry. And then the fit passed. He looked down to the little half-way house where he had left his wife. He fancied he could see someone waving a white handkerchief from the platform of pine logs. It was all so right, after all, so right and natural. He began to descend alone.

Saton brought her down about an hour later. Their faces told all that there was to say.

"Bertrand is going to stay here for another year," Pauline said, answering Lady Mary's unspoken question. "The first part of his work with Naudheim will be finished then, and we think he will have earned a vacation."

Saton held out his hands to Rochester.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I have never asked you to forgive me for all the hard things I have said and thought of you, for my ingratitude, and—for other things."

"Don't speak of them," Rochester interrupted.

"I won't," Saton continued quickly. "I can't. That chapter of my life is buried. I cannot bear to think of it even now. I cannot bear to come in contact with anything which reminds me of it."

Rochester took his hand and grasped it heartily.

"Don't be morbid about it," he said. "Every man should have at least two chances in life. You had your first, and it was a rank failure. That was because you had unnatural help, and bad advice. The second time, I am glad to see that you have succeeded. You have done this on your own. You have proved that the real man is the present man."

Saton drew Pauline towards him with a gesture which was almost reverent.

"I think that Pauline knows," he said. "I hope so."

Early in the morning their sleigh rattled off. Saton stood outside the cottage, waving his hand. Naudheim was by his side, his arm resting gently upon the young man's shoulder. A fine snow was falling around them. The air was clean and pure—the air of Heaven. There was no sound to break the deep stillness but the tinkle of the sleigh-bells, and behind, the rhythmic humming of the machinery, and the crashing of the falling trees.

"Naudheim is a great master," Rochester said.

Pauline smiled through her tears.

"Bertrand isn't such a very bad pupil."

THE END



E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels

He possesses the magic art of narration.—New York Herald.

Mr. Oppenheim never fails to entertain us.—Boston Transcript.

The author has acquired an admirable technique of the sort demanded by the novel of intrigue and mystery.—The Dial, Chicago.

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.—London Morning Post.

By all odds the most successful among the writers of that class of fiction which, for want of a better term, maybe called "mystery stories."—Ainslee's Magazine.

E. Phillips Oppenheim has a very admirable gift of telling good stories, thoroughly matured, brilliantly constructed, and convincingly told.—London Times.

Readers of Mr. Oppenheim's novels may always count on a story of absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with dexterous craftsmanship.—Literary Digest, New York.

We do not stop to inquire into the measure of his art, any more than we inquire into that of Alexandre Dumas, we only realize that here is a benefactor of tired men and women seeking relaxation.—The Independent, New York.



E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels

The Moving Finger.

A mystifying story dealing with unexpected results of a wealthy M. P.'s experiment with a poor young man.

Berenice.

Oppenheim in a new vein—the story of the love of a novelist of high ideals for an actress.

The Lost Ambassador.

A straightforward mystery tale of Paris and London, in which a rascally maitre d'hotel plays an important part.

A Daughter of the Marionis.

A melodramatic romance of Palermo and England, dealing with a rejected Italian lover's attempted revenge.

Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown.

A murder-mystery story rich in sensational incidents.

The Illustrious Prince.

A narrative of mystery and Japanese political intrigue.

Jeanne of the Marshes.

Strange doings at an English house party are here set forth.

The Governors.

A romance of the intrigues of American finance.

The Missioner.

Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a worldly heroine.

The Long Arm of Mannister.

A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man's ingenious revenge.

As a Man Lives.

Discloses the mystery surrounding the fair occupant of a yellow house.

The Avenger.

Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and private revenge.

The Great Secret.

Unfolds a stupendous international conspiracy.

A Lost Leader.

A realistic romance woven around a striking personality.

A Maker of History.

"Explains" the Russian Baltic fleet's attack on the North Sea fishing fleet.

Enoch Strone: A Master of Men.

The story of a self-made man who made a foolish early marriage.

The Malefactor.

An amazing story of a man who suffered imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.

The Traitors.

A capital romance of love, adventure and Russian intrigue.

A Prince of Sinners.

An engrossing story of English social and political life.

A Millionaire of Yesterday.

A gripping story of a wealthy West African miner.

The Man and His Kingdom.

A dramatic tale of adventure in South America.

Anna the Adventuress.

A surprising tale of a bold deception.

Mysterious Mr. Sabin.

An ingenious story of a world-startling international intrigue.

The Yellow Crayon.

Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a powerful secret society.

The Betrayal.

A thrilling story of treachery in high diplomatic circles.

A Sleeping Memory.

A remarkable story of an unhappy girl who was deprived of her memory.

The Master Mummer.

The strange romance of beautiful Isobel de Sorrens.

Little, Brown, & Co., Publishers, Boston



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

2. In the advertising pages at the end of this book, titles were set in bold typeface; this is noted by the = at the beginning and end of the title.