He held her hand until she gently drew it away.

'You will go up and tell grandfather,' she said, gravely; then added, before he could speak, 'But I'll just see him first for a minute. He hasn't been out of his room this morning yet. Please wait here.'

She left him, and Sidney fell back on his chair, woebegone, distracted.

Michael, brooding sorrowfully, at first paid no heed to Jane when she entered his room. It was not long since he had risen, and his simple breakfast, scarcely touched, was still on the table.

'Grandfather, Mr. Kirkwood is here, and wishes to speak to you.'

He collected himself, and, regarding her, became aware that she was strongly moved.

'Wishes to see me, Jane? Then I suppose he came to see you first?'

Prepared now for anything unexpected, feeling that the links between himself and these young people were artificial, and that he could but watch, as if from a distance, the course of their lives, his first supposition was, that Sidney had again altered his mind. He spoke coldly, and had little inclination for the interview.

'Yes,' Jane replied, 'he came to see me, but only to tell me that he is going to be married.'

His wrinkled face slowly gathered an expression of surprise.

'He will tell you who it is; he will explain. But I wanted to speak to you first. Grandfather, I was afraid yea might say something about me. Will you—will you forget my foolishness? Will you think of me as you did before? When he has spoken to you, you will understand why I am content to put everything out of my mind, everything you and I talked of. But I couldn't bear for him to know how I have disappointed you. Will you let me be all I was to you before? Will you trust me again, grandfather? You haven't spoken to him yet about me, have you?'

Michael shook his head.

'Then you will let it be as if nothing had happened? Grandfather—'

She bent beside him and took his hand. Michael looked at her with a light once more in his eyes.

'Tell him to come. He shall hear nothing from me, Jane.'

'And you will try to forget it?'

'I wish nothing better. Tell him to come here, my child. When he's gone we'll talk together again.'

The interview did not last long, and Sidney left the house without seeing Jane a second time.

She would have promised anything now. Seeing that life had but one path of happiness for her, the path hopelessly closed, what did it matter by which of the innumerable other ways she accomplished her sad journey? For an instant, whilst Sidney was still speaking, she caught a gleam of hope in renunciation itself, the kind of strength which idealism is fond of attributing to noble natures. A gleam only, and deceptive; she knew it too well after the day spent by her grandfather's side, encouraging, at the expense of her heart's blood, all his revived faith in her. But she would not again give way. The old man should reap fruit of her gratitude and Sidney should never suspect how nearly she had proved herself unworthy of his high opinion.

She had dreamed her dream, and on awaking must be content to take up the day's duties. Just in the same way, when she was a child at Mrs. Peckover's, did not sleep often bring a vision of happiness, of freedom from bitter tasks, and had she not to wake in the miserable mornings, trembling lest she had lain too long? Her condition was greatly better than then, so much better that it seemed wicked folly to lament because one joy was not granted her.—Why, in the meantime she had forgotten all about Pennyloaf. That visit must be paid the first thing this morning.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE TREASURY UNLOCKED

A Sunday morning. In their parlour in Burton Crescent, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Snowdon were breakfasting. The sound of church bells—most depressing of all sounds that mingle in the voice of London—intimated that it was nearly eleven o'clock, but neither of our friends had in view the attendance of public worship. Blended odours of bacon and kippered herrings filled the room—indeed, the house, for several breakfasts were in progress under the same roof. For a wonder, the morning was fine, even sunny; a yellow patch glimmered on the worn carpet, and the grime of the window-panes was visible against an unfamiliar sky. Joseph, incompletely dressed, had a Sunday paper propped before him, and read whilst he ate. Clem, also in anything but grande toilette was using a knife for the purpose of conveying to her mouth the juice which had exuded from crisp rashers. As usual, they had very little to say to each other. Clem looked at her husband now and then, from under her eyebrows, surreptitiously.

After one of these glances she said, in a tone which was not exactly hostile, but had a note of suspicion:

'I'd give something to know why he's going to marry Clara Hewett.'

'Not the first time you've made that remark,' returned Joseph, without looking up from his paper.

'I suppose I can speak?'

'Oh, yes. But I'd try to do so in a more lady-like way.'

Clem flashed at him a gleam of hatred. He had become fond lately of drawing attention to her defects of breeding. Clem certainly did not keep up with his own progress in the matter of external refinement; his comments had given her a sense of inferiority, which irritated her solely as meaning that she was not his equal in craft. She let a minute or two pass, then returned to the subject.

'There's something at the bottom of it; I know that. Of course you know more about it than you pretend.'

Joseph leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a smile of the loftiest scorn.

'It never occurs to you to explain it in the simplest way, of course, If ever you hear of a marriage, the first thing you ask yourself is: What has he or she to gain by it? Natural enough—in you. Now do you really suppose that all marriages come about in the way that yours did—on your side, I mean?'

Clem was far too dull-witted to be capable of quick retort. She merely replied:

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Of course not. But let me assure you that people sometimes think of other things besides making profit when they get married. It's a pity that you always show yourself so coarse-minded.'

Joseph was quite serious in administering this rebuke. He really felt himself justified in holding the tone of moral superiority. The same phenomenon has often been remarked in persons conscious that their affairs are prospering, and whose temptations to paltry meanness are on that account less frequent.

'And what about yourself?' asked his wife, having found her retort at length. 'Why did you want to marry me, I'd like to know?'

'Why? You are getting too modest. How could I live in the same house with such a good-looking and sweet-tempered and well-behaved—'

'Oh, shut up!' she exclaimed, in a voice such as one hears at the street-corner. 'It was just because you thought we was goin' to be fools enough to keep you in idleness. Who was the fool, after all?'

Joseph smiled, and returned to his newspaper. In satisfaction at having reduced him to silence, Clem laughed aloud and clattered with the knife on her plate. As she was doing so there came a knock at the door.

'A gentleman wants to know if you're in, sir,' said the house-thrall, showing a smeary face. 'Mr. Byass is the name.'

'Mr. Byass? I'll go down and see him.'

Clem's face became alive with suspicion. In spite of her careless attire she intercepted Joseph, and bade the servant ask Mr. Byass to come upstairs. 'How can you go down without a collar?' she said to her husband.

He understood, and was somewhat uneasy, but made no resistance. Mr. Byass presented himself. He had a very long face, and obviously brought news of grave import. Joseph shook hands with him.

'You don't know my wife, I think. Mr. Byass, Clem. Nothing wrong, I hope?'

Samuel, having made his best City bow, swung back from his toes to his heels, and stood looking down into his hat. 'I'm sorry to say,' he began, with extreme gravity, 'that Mr. Snowdon is rather ill—in fact, very ill. Miss Jane asked me to come as sharp as I could.'

'Ill? In what way?'

'I'm afraid it's a stroke, or something in that line. He fell down without a word of warning, just before ten o'clock. He's lying insensible.'

'I'll come at once,' said Joseph. 'They've got a doctor, I hope?'

'Yes; the doctor had been summoned instantly.'

'I'll go with you,' said Clem, in a tone of decision.

'No, no; what's the good? You'll only be in the way.'

'No, I shan't. If he's as bad as all that, I shall come.'

Both withdrew to prepare themselves. Mr. Byass, who was very nervous and perspiring freely, began to walk round and round the table, inspecting closely, in complete absence of mind, the objects that lay on it.

'We'll have a cab,' cried Joseph, as he came forth equipped. 'Poor Jane's in a sad state, I'm afraid, oh?'

In a few minutes they were driving up Pentonville Road. Clem scarcely ever removed her eye from Joseph's face; the latter held his lips close together and kept his brows wrinkled. Few words passed during the drive.

At the door of the house appeared Bessie, much agitated. All turned into the parlour on the ground floor and spoke together for a few minutes. Michael had been laid on his bed; at present Jane only was with him, but the doctor would return shortly.

'Will you tell her I'm here?' said Joseph to Mrs. Byass. 'I'll see her in the sitting-room.'

He went up and waited. Throughout the house prevailed that unnatural, nerve-distressing quietude which tells the presence of calamity. The church bells had ceased ringing, and Sunday's silence in the street enhanced the effect of blankness and alarming expectancy. Joseph could not keep still; he strained his ears in attention to any slight sound that might come from the floor above, and his heart beat painfully when at length the door opened.

Jane fixed her eyes on him and came silently forward.

'Does he show any signs of coming round?' her father inquired.

'No. He hasn't once moved.'

She spoke only just above a whisper. The shock kept her still trembling and her face bloodless.

'Tell me how it happened, Jane.'

'He'd just got up. I'd taken him his breakfast, and we were talking. All at once he began to turn round, and then he fell down—before I could reach him.'

'I'll go upstairs, shall I?'

Jane could not overcome her fear; at the door of the bedroom she drew back, involuntarily, that her father might enter before her. When she forced herself to follow, the first glimpse of the motionless form shook her from head to foot. The thought of death was dreadful to her, and death seemed to lurk invisibly in this quiet room. The pale sunlight affected her as a mockery of hope.

'You won't go away again, father?' she whispered.

He shook his head.

In the meantime Bessie and Clem were conversing. On the single previous occasion of Clem's visit to the house they had not met. They examined each other's looks with curiosity. Clem wished it were possible to get at the secrets of which Mrs. Byass was doubtless in possession; Bessie on her side was reserved, circumspect.

'Will he get over it?' the former inquired, with native brutality.

'I'm sure I don't know; I hope he may.'

The medical man arrived, and when he came downstairs again Joseph accompanied him. Clem, when she found that nothing definite could be learned, and that her husband had no intention of leaving, expressed her wish to walk round to Clerkenwell Close and see her mother. Joseph approved.

'You'd better have dinner there,' he said to her privately. 'We can't both of us come down on the Byasses.'

She nodded, and with a parting glance of hostile suspicion set forth. When she had crossed City Road, Clem's foot was on her native soil; she bore herself with conscious importance, hoping to meet some acquaintance who would be impressed by her attire and demeanour. Nothing of the kind happened, however. It was the dead hour of Sunday morning, midway in service-time, and long before the opening of public-houses. In the neighbourhood of those places of refreshment were occasionally found small groups of men and boys, standing with their hands in their pockets, dispirited, seldom caring even to smoke; they kicked their heels against the kerbstone and sighed for one o'clock. Clem went by them with a haughty balance of her head.

As she entered by the open front door and began to descend the kitchen steps, familiar sounds were audible. Mrs. Peckover's voice was raised in dispute with some one; it proved to be a quarrel with a female lodger respecting the sum of threepence-farthing, alleged by the landlady to be owing on some account or other. The two women had already reached the point of calling each other liar and thief. Clem, having no acquaintance with the lodger, walked into the kitchen with an air of contemptuous indifference. The quarrel continued for another ten minutes—if the head of either had been suddenly cut off it would assuredly have gone on railing for an appreciable time—and Clem waited, sitting before the fire. At last the lodger had departed, and the last note of her virulence died away.

'And what do you want?' asked Mrs. Peckover, turning sharply upon her daughter.

'I suppose I can come to see you, can't I?'

'Come to see me! Likely! When did you come last? You're a ungrateful beast, that's what you are!'

'All right. Go a'ead! Anything else you'd like to call me?'

Mrs. Peckover was hurt by the completeness with which Clem had established her independence. To do the woman justice, she had been actuated, in her design of capturing Joseph Snowdon, at least as much by a wish to establish her daughter satisfactorily as by the ever-wakeful instinct which bade her seize whenever gain lay near her clutches. Clem was proving disloyal, had grown secretive. Mrs. Peckover did not look for any direct profit worth speaking of from the marriage she had brought about, but she did desire the joy of continuing to plot against Joseph with his wife. Moreover, she knew that Clem was a bungler, altogether lacking in astuteness, and her soul was pained by the thought of chances being missed. Her encounter with the lodger had wrought her up to the point at which she could discuss matters with Clem frankly. The two abused each other for a while, but Clem really desired to communicate her news, so that calmer dialogue presently ensued.

'Old Snowdon's had a stroke, if you'd like to know, and it's my belief he won't get over it.'

'Your belief! And what's your belief worth? Had a stroke, has he? Who told you?'

'I've just come from the 'ouse. Jo's stoppin' there.'

They discussed the situation in all its aspects, but Mrs. Peckover gave it clearly to be understood that, from her point of view, 'the game was spoilt.' As long as Joseph continued living under her roof she could in a measure direct the course of events; Clem had chosen to abet him in his desire for removal, and if ill came of it she had only herself to blame.

'I can look out for myself,' said Clem.

'Can you? I'm glad to hear it.'

And Mrs. Peckover sniffed the air, scornfully. The affectionate pair dined together, each imbibing a pint and a half of 'mild and bitter,' and Clem returned to Hanover Street. From Joseph she could derive no information as to the state of the patient.

'If you will stay here, where you can do no good,' he said, 'sit down and keep quiet.'

'Certainly I shall stay,' said his wife, 'because I know you want to get rid of me.'

Joseph left her in the sitting-room, and went upstairs again to keep his daughter company. Jane would not leave the bedside. To enter the room, after an interval elsewhere, wrung her feelings too painfully; better to keep her eyes fixed on the unmoving form, to overcome the dread by facing it.

She and her father seldom exchanged a word. The latter was experiencing human emotion, but at the same time he had no little anxiety regarding his material interests. It was ten days since he had learnt that there was no longer the least fear of a marriage between Jane and Sidney, seeing that Kirkwood was going to marry some one else—a piece of news which greatly astonished him, and confirmed him in his judgment that he had been on the wrong tack in judging Kirkwood's character. At the same time he had been privily informed by Scawthorne of an event which had ever since kept him very uneasy—Michael's withdrawal of his will from the hands of the solicitors. With what purpose this had been done Scawthorne could not conjecture; Mr. Percival had made no comment in his hearing. In all likelihood the will was now in this very room. Joseph surveyed every object again and again. He wondered whether Jane knew anything of the matter, but not all his cynicism could persuade him that at the present time her thoughts were taking the same direction as his own.

The day waned. Its sombre close was unspeakably mournful in this haunted chamber. Jane could not bear it; she hid her face and wept.

When the doctor came again, at six o'clock, he whispered to Joseph that the end was nearer than he had anticipated. Near, indeed; less than ten minutes after the warning had been given Michael ceased to breathe.

Jane knelt by the bed, convulsed with grief, unable to hear the words her father addressed to her. He sat for five minutes, then again spoke. She rose and replied.

'Will you come with us, Jane, or would rather stay with Mrs. Byass?'

'I will stay, please, father.'

He hesitated, but the thought that rose was even for him too ignoble to be entertained.

'As you please, my dear. Of course no one must enter your rooms but Mrs. Byass. I must go now, but I shall look in again to-night.'

'Yes, father.'

She spoke mechanically. He had to lead her from the room, and, on quitting the house, left her all but unconscious in Bessie's arms.



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE HEIR

'And you mean to say,' cried Clem, when she was in the cab with her husband speeding back to Burton Crescent—'you mean to say as you've left them people to do what they like?'

'I suppose I know my own business,' re plied Joseph, wishing to convey the very impression which in fact he did—that he had the will in his pocket.

On reaching home he sat down at once and penned a letter to Messrs. Percival & Peel, formally apprising them of what had happened. Clem sat by and watched him. Having sealed the envelope, he remarked:

'I'm going out for a couple of hours.'

'Then I shall go with you.'

'You'll do nothing of the kind. Why, what do you mean, you great gaping fool?' The agitation of his nerves made him break into unaccustomed violence. 'Do you suppose you're going to follow me everywhere for the next week? Are you afraid I shall run away? If I mean to do so, do you think you can stop me? You'll just wait here till I come back, which will be before ten o'clock. Do you hear?'

She looked at him fiercely, but his energy was too much for her, and perforce she let him go. As soon as he had left the house, she too sat down and indited a letter. It ran thus:

'DEAR MOTHER,—The old feller has gawn of it apened at jest after six e'clock if you want to now I shall come and sea you at ten 'clock to-morow moning and I beleve hes got the will but hes a beest and theers a game up you may take your hothe so I remain C. S.'

This document she took to the nearest pillar-post, then returned and sat brooding.

By the first hansom available Joseph was driven right across London to a certain dull street in Chelsea. Before dismissing the vehicle he knocked at the door of a lodging-house and made inquiry for Mr. Scawthorne. To his surprise and satisfaction, Mr. Scawthorne happened to be at home; so the cabman was paid, and Joseph went up to the second floor.

In his shabby little room Scawthorne sat smoking and reading. It was a season of impecuniosity with him, and his mood was anything but cheerful. He did not rise when his visitor entered.

'Well now, what do you think brings me here?' exclaimed Joseph, when he had carefully closed the door.

'Hanged if I know, but it doesn't seem to be particularly bad news.'

Indeed, Joseph had overcome his sensibilities by this time, and his aspect was one of joyous excitement. Seeing on the table a bottle of sherry, loosely corked, he pointed to it.

'If you don't mind, Scaw. I'm a bit upset, a bit flurried. Got another wine-glass?'

From the cupboard Scawthorne produced one and bade the visitor help himself. His face beg auto express curiosity. Joseph tilted the draught down his throat and showed satisfaction.

'That does me good. I've had a troublesome day. It ain't often my feelings are tried.'

'Well, what is it?'

'My boy, we are all mortal. I dare say you've heard that observation before; can you apply it to any particular case?'

Scawthorne was startled; he delayed a moment before speaking.

'You don't mean to say—'

'Exactly. Died a couple of hours ago, after lying insensible all day, poor old man! I've just written your people a formal announcement. Now, what do you think of that? If you don't mind, old fellow.'

He filled himself another glass, and tilted it off as before. Scawthorne had dropped his eyes to the ground, and stood in meditation.

'Now what about the will?' pursued Joseph.

'You haven't looked for it?' questioned his friend with an odd look.

'Thought it more decent to wait a few hours. The girl was about, you see, and what's more, my wife was. But have you heard anything since I saw you?'

'Why, yes. A trifle.'

'Out with it! What are you grinning about? Don't keep me on hot coals.'

'Well, it's amusing, and that's the fact. Take another glass of sherry; you'll need support.'

'Oh, I'm prepared for the worst. He's cut me out altogether, eh? That comes of me meddling with the girl's affairs—damnation! When there wasn't the least need, either.'

'A bad job. The fact is, Percival had a letter from him at midday yesterday. The senior had left the office; young Percival opened the letter, and spoke to me about it. Now, prepare yourself. The letter said that he had destroyed his former will, and would come to the office on Monday—that's to-marrow—to give instructions for a new one.'

Joseph stood and stared.

'To-morrow? Why, then, there's no will at all?'

'An admirable deduction. I congratulate you on your logic.'

Snowdon flung up his arms wildly, then began to leap about the room.

'Try another glass,' said Scawthorne. 'There's still a bottle in the cupboard; don't be afraid.'

'And you mean to tell me it's all mine?'

'The wine? You're very welcome.'

'Wine be damned! The money, my boy, the money! Scawthorne, I'm not a mean chap. As sure as you and me stand here, you shall have—you shall have a hundred pounds! I mean it; dash me, I mean it! You've been devilish useful to me; and what's more I haven't done with you yet. Do you twig, old boy?'

'You mean that a confidential agent in England, unsuspected, may be needed?'

'Shouldn't wonder if I do.'

'Can't be managed under double the money, my good sir,' observed Scawthorne, with unmistakable seriousness. 'Worth your while, I promise you. Have another glass. Fair commission. Think it over.'

'Look here! I shall have to make the girl an allowance.'

'There's the filter-works. Don't be stingy.'

Joseph was growing very red in the face. He drank glass after glass; he flung his arms about; he capered.

'Damn me if you shall call me that, Scaw! Two hundred it shall be. But what was the old cove up to? Why did he destroy the other will? What would the new one have been?'

'Can't answer either question, but it's probably as well for you that to-morrow never comes.'

'Now just see how things turn out!' went on the other, in the joy of his heart. 'All the thought and the trouble that I've gone through this last year, when I might have taken it easy and waited for chance to make me rich! Look at Kirkwood's business. There was you and me knocking our heads together and raising lumps on them, as you may say, to find out a plan of keeping him and Jane apart, when all the while we'd nothing to do but to look on and wait, if only we'd known. Now this is what I call the working of Providence, Scawthorne. Who's going to say after this, that things ain't as they should be? Everything's for the best, my boy; I see that clearly enough.'

'Decidedly,' assented Scawthorne, with a smile. 'The honest man is always rewarded in the long run. And that reminds me; I too have had a stroke of luck.'

He went on to relate that his position in the office of Percival & Peel was now nominally that of an articled clerk, and that in three years' time, if all went well, he would be received in the firm as junior partner.

'There's only one little project I am sorry to give up, in connection with your affairs, Snowdon. If it had happened that your daughter had inherited the money, why shouldn't I have had the honour of becoming your son-in-law?'

Joseph stared, then burst into hearty laughter.

'I tell you what,' he said, recovering himself, 'why should you give up that idea? She's as good a girl as you'll ever come across, I can tell you that, my boy. There's better-looking, but you won't find many as modest and good-hearted. Just make her acquaintance, and tell me if I've deceived you. And look here, Scawthorne; by George, I'll make a bargain with you! You say you'll be a partner in three years. Marry Jane when that day comes, and I'll give you a thousand for a wedding present. I mean it! What's more, I'll make my will on your marriage-day and leave everything I've got to you and her. There now!'

'What makes you so benevolent all at once?' inquired Scawthorne, blandly.

'Do you think I've got no fatherly feeling, man? Why, if it wasn't for my wife I'd ask nothing better than to settle down with Jane to keep house for me. She's a good girl, I tell you, and I wish her happiness.'

'And do you think I'm exactly the man to make her a model husband?'

'I don't see why not—now you're going to be a partner in a good business. Don't you think I'm ten times as honest a man to-day as I was yesterday? Poor devils can't afford to be what they'd wish, in the way of honesty and decent living.'

True enough for once,' remarked the other, without irony.

'You think it over, Scaw. I'm a man of my word. You shall have your money as soon as things are straight; and if you can bring about that affair, I'll do all I said—so there's my hand on it. Say the word, and I'll make you acquainted with her before—before I take that little trip you know of, just for my health.'

'We'll speak of it again.'

Thereupon they parted. In the course of the following day Scawthorne's report received official confirmation. Joseph pondered deeply with himself whether he should tell his wife the truth or not; there were arguments for both courses. By Tuesday morning he had decided for the truth; that would give more piquancy to a pleasant little jest he had in mind. At breakfast he informed her, as if casually, and it amused him to see that she did not believe him.

'You'll be anxious to tell your mother. Go and spend the day with her, but be back by five o'clock; then we'll talk things over. I have business with the lawyers again.'

Clem repaired to the Close. Late in the afternoon she and her husband again met at home, and by this time Joseph's elation had convinced her that he was telling the truth. Never had he been in such a suave humour; he seemed to wish to make up for his late severities. Seating himself near her, he began pleasantly:

'Well, things might have been worse, eh?'

'I s'pose they might.'

'I haven't spoken to Jane yet. Time enough after the funeral. What shall we do for the poor girl, eh?'

'How do I know?'

'You won't grudge her a couple of pounds a week, or so, just to enable her to live with the Byasses, as she has been doing?'

'I s'pose the money's your own to do what you like with.'

'Very kind of you to say so, my dear. But we're well-to-do people now, and we must be polite to each other. Where shall we take a house, Clem? Would you like to be a bit out of town? There's very nice places within easy reach of King's Cross, you know, on the Great Northern. A man I know lives at Potter's Bar, and finds it very pleasant; good air. Of course I must be within easy reach of business.'

She kept drawing her nails over a fold in her dress, making a scratchy sound.

'It happened just at the right time,' he continued. 'The business wants a little more capital put into it. I tell you what it is, Clem; in a year or two we shall be coining money, old girl.'

'Shall you?'

'Right enough. There's just one thing I'm a little anxious about; you won't mind me mentioning it? Do you think your mother'll expect us to do anything for her?'

Clem regarded him with cautious scrutiny. He was acting well, and her profound distrust began to be mingled with irritating uncertainty.

'What can she expect? If she does, she'll have to be disappointed, that's all.'

'I don't want to seem mean, you know. But then she isn't so badly herself, is she?'

'I know nothing about it. You'd better ask her.'

And Clem grinned. Thereupon Joseph struck a facetious note, and for half an hour made himself very agreeable. Now for the first time, he said, could he feel really settled; life was smooth before him. They would have a comfortable home, the kind of place to which he could invite his friends; one or two excellent fellows he knew would bring their wives, and so Clem would have more society.

'Suppose you learn the piano, old girl? It wouldn't be amiss. By-the-by, I hope they'll turn you out some creditable mourning. You'll have to find a West End dressmaker.'

She listened, and from time to time smiled ambiguously. . . .

At noon of the next day Clem was walking on that part of the Thames Embankment which is between Waterloo Bridge and the Temple Pier. It was a mild morning, misty, but illuminated now and then with rays of sunlight, which gleamed dully upon the river and gave a yellowness to remote objects. At the distance of a dozen paces walked Bob Hewett; the two had had a difference in their conversation, and for some minutes kept thus apart, looking sullenly at the ground. Clem turned aside, and leaned her arms on the parapet. Presently her companion drew near and leaned in the same manner.

'What is it you want me to do?' he asked huskily. 'Just speak plain, can't you?'

'If you can't understand—if you won't, that is—it's no good speakin' plainer.'

'You said the other night as you didn't care about his money. If you think he means hookin' it, let him go, and good riddance.'

'That's a fool's way of talkin'. I'm not goin' to lose it all, if I can help it. There's a way of stoppin' him, and of gettin' the money too.'

They both stared down at the water; it was full tide, and the muddy surface looked almost solid.

'You wouldn't get it all,' were Bob's next words. 'I've been asking about that.'

'You have? Who did you ask?'

'Oh, a feller you don't know. You'd only have a third part of it, and the girl 'ud get the rest.'

'What do you call a third part?'

So complete was her stupidity, that Bob had to make a laborious explanation of this mathematical term, She could have understood what was meant by a half or a quarter, but the unfamiliar 'third' conveyed no distinct meaning.

'I don't care,' she said at length. 'That 'ud be enough.'

'Clem—you'd better leave this job alone. You'd better, I warn you.'

'I shan't,'

Another long silence. A steamboat drew up to the Temple Pier, and a yellow shaft of sunlight fell softly upon its track in the water.

'What do you want me to do?' Bob recommenced. 'How?'

Their eyes met, and in the woman's gaze he found a horrible fascination, a devilish allurement to that which his soul shrank from. She lowered her voice.

'There's lots of ways. It 'ud be easy to make it seem as somebody did it just to rob him. He's always out late at night.'

His face was much the colour of the muddy water yellowed by that shaft of sunlight. His lips quivered. 'I dursn't, Clem. I tell you plain, I dursn't.'

'Coward!' she snarled at him, savagely. 'Coward! All right, Mr. Bob. You go your way, and I'll go mine.'

'Listen here, Clem,' he gasped out, laying his hand on her arm. 'I'll think about it. I won't say no. Give me a day to think about it.'

'Oh, we know what your thinkin' means.'

They talked for some time longer, and before they parted Bob had given a promise to do more than think.

The long, slouching strides with which he went up from the Embankment to the Strand gave him the appearance of a man partly overcome with drink. For hours he walked about the City, in complete oblivion of everything external. Only when the lights began to shine from shop-windows did he consciously turn to his own district. It was raining now. The splashes of cool moisture made him aware how feverishly hot his face was.

When he got among the familiar streets he went slinkingly, hurrying round corners, avoiding glances. Almost at a run he turned into Merlin Place, and he burst into his room as though he were pursued.

Pennyloaf had now but one child to look after, a girl of two years, a feeble thing. Her own state was wretched; professedly recovered from illness, she felt so weak, so low-spirited, that the greater part of her day was spent in crying. The least exertion was too much for her; but for frequent visits from Jane Snowdon she must have perished for very lack of wholesome food. She was crying when startled by her husband's entrance, and though she did her best to hide the signs of it, Bob saw.

'When are you going to stop that?' he shouted.

She shrank away, looking at him with fear in her red eyes.

'Stop your snivelling, and get me some tea!'

It was only of late that Pennyloaf had come to regard him with fear. His old indifference and occasional brutality of language had made her life a misery, but she had never looked for his return home with anything but anxious longing. Now the anticipation was mingled with dread. He not only had no care for her, not only showed that he felt her a burden upon him; his disposition now was one of hatred, and the kind of hatred which sooner or later breaks out in ferocity. Bob would not have come to this pass—at all events not so soon—if he had been left to the dictates of his own nature; he was infected by the savagery of the woman who had taken possession of him. Her lust of cruelty crept upon him like a disease, the progress of which was hastened by all the circumstances of his disorderly life. The man was conscious of his degradation; he knew how he had fallen ever since he began criminal practices; he knew the increasing hopelessness of his resolves to have done with dangers and recover his peace of mind. The loss of his daily work, in consequence of irregularity, was the last thing needed to complete his ruin. He did not even try to get new employment, feeling that such a show of honest purpose was useless. Corruption was eating to his heart; from every interview with Clem he came away a feebler and a baser being. And upon the unresisting creature who shared his home he had begun to expend the fury of his self-condemnation.

He hated her because Clem bade him do so. He hated her because her suffering rebuked him, because he must needs be at the cost of keeping her alive, because he was bound to her.

As she moved painfully about the room he watched her with cruel, dangerous eyes. There was a thought tormenting his brain, a terrifying thought he had pledged himself not to dismiss, and it seemed to exasperate him against Pennyloaf. He had horrible impulses, twitches along his muscles; every second the restraint of keeping in one position grew more unendurable, yet he feared to move.

Pennyloaf had the ill-luck to drop a saucer, and it broke on the floor. In the same instant he leapt up and sprang on her, seized her brutally by the shoulders and flung her with all his force against the nearest wall. At her scream the child set up a shrill cry, and this increased his rage. With his clenched fist he dealt blow after blow at the half-prostrate woman, speaking no word, but uttering a strange sound, such as might come from some infuriate animal. Pennyloaf still screamed, till at length the door was thrown open and their neighbour, Mrs. Griffin, showed herself.

'Well, I never!' she cried, wrathfully, rushing upon Bob. 'Now you just stop that, young man! I thought it 'ud be comin' to this before long. I saw you was goin' that way.'

The mildness of her expressions was partly a personal characteristic, partly due to Mrs. Griffin's very large experience of such scenes as this. Indignant she might be, but the situation could not move her to any unwonted force of utterance. Enough that Bob drew back as soon as he was bidden, and seemed from his silence to be half-ashamed of himself.

Pennyloaf let herself lie at full length on the floor, her hands clutched protectingly about her head; she sobbed in a quick, terrified way, and appeared powerless to stop, even when Mrs. Griffin tried to raise her.

'What's he been a-usin' you like this for?' the woman kept asking. 'There, there now! He shan't hit you no more, he shan't!'

Whilst she spoke Bob turned away and went from the room.

From Merlin Place he struck off into Pentonville and walked towards King's Cross at his utmost speed. Not that he had any object in hastening, but a frenzy goaded him along, faster, faster, till the sweat poured from him. From King's Cross, northwards; out to Holloway, to Hornsey. A light rain was ceaselessly falling; at one time he took off his hat and walked some distance bareheaded, because it was a pleasure to feel the rain trickle over him. From Hornsey by a great circuit he made back for Islington. Here he went into a public-house, to quench the thirst that had grown unbearable. He had but a shilling in his pocket, and in bringing it out he was reminded of the necessity of getting more money. He was to have met Jack Bartley to-night, long before this hour.

He took the direction for Smithfield, and soon reached the alley near Bartholomew's Hospital where Bartley dwelt. As he entered the street he saw a small crowd gathered about a public-house door; he hurried nearer, and found that the object of interest was a man in the clutch of two others. The latter, he perceived at a glance, were police-officers in plain clothes; the man arrested was—Jack Bartley himself.

Jack was beside himself with terror; he had only that moment been brought out of the bar, and was pleading shrilly in an agony of cowardice.

'It ain't me as made 'em! I never made one in my life! I'll tell you who it is—I'll tell you where to find him—it's Bob Hewett as lives in Merlin Place! You've took the wrong man. It ain't me as made 'em! I'll tell you the whole truth, or may I never speak another word! It's Bob Hewett made 'em all—he lives in Merlin Place, Clerkenwell. I'll tell you—'

Thus far had Bob heard before he recovered sufficiently from the shock to move a limb. The officers were urging their prisoner forward, grinning and nodding to each other, whilst several voices from the crowd shouted abusively at the poltroon whose first instinct was to betray his associate. Bob turned his face away and walked on. He did not dare to run, yet the noises behind him kept his heart leaping with dread. A few paces and he was out of the alley. Even yet he durst not run. He had turned in the unlucky direction; the crowd was still following. For five minutes he had to keep advancing, then at last he was able to move off at right angles. The crowd passed the end of the street.

Only then did complete panic get possession of him. With a bound forward like that of a stricken animal he started in blind flight. He came to a crossing, and rushed upon it regardless of the traffic, Before he could gain the farther pavement the shaft of a cart struck him on the breast and threw him down. The vehicle was going at a slow pace, and could be stopped almost immediately; he was not touched by the wheel. A man helped him to his feet and inquired if he were hurt.

'Hurt? No, no; it's all right.'

To the surprise of those who had witnessed the accident, he walked quickly on, scarcely feeling any pain. But in a few minutes there came a sense of nausea and a warm rush in his throat; he staggered against the wall and vomited a quantity of blood. Again he was surrounded by sympathising people; again he made himself free of them and hastened on. But by now he suffered acutely; he could not run, so great was the pain it cost him when he began to breathe quickly. His mouth was full of blood again.

Where could he find a hiding-place? The hunters were after him, and, however great his suffering, he must go through it in secrecy. But in what house could he take refuge? He had not money enough to pay for a lodging.

He looked about him; tried to collect his thoughts. By this time the police would have visited Merlin Place; they would be waiting there to trap him. He was tempted towards Farringdon Road Buildings; surely his father would not betray him, and he was in such dire need of kindly help. But it would not be safe; the police would search there.

Shooter's Gardens? There was the room where lived Pennyloaf's drunken mother and her brother. They would not give him up. He could think of no other refuge, at all events, and must go there if he would not drop in the street.



CHAPTER XXXVII

MAD JACK'S DREAM

It was not much more than a quarter of an hour's walk, but pain and fear made the distance seem long; he went out of his way, too, for the sake of avoiding places that were too well lighted. The chief occupation of his thoughts was in conjecturing what could have led to Bartley's arrest. Had the fellow been such a fool as to attempt passing a bad coin when he carried others of the same kind in his pocket? Or had the arrest of some other 'pal' in some way thrown suspicion on Jack? Be it as it might, the game was up. With the usual wisdom which comes too late, Bob asked himself how he could ever have put trust in Bartley, whom he knew to be as mean-spirited a cur as breathed. On the chance of making things easier for himself, Jack would betray every secret in his possession. What hope was there of escaping capture, even if a hiding-place could be found for a day or two? If he had his hand on Jack Bartley's gizzard.

Afraid to appear afraid, in dread lest his muddy clothing should attract observation, he kept, as often as possible, the middle of the road, and with relief saw at length the narrow archway, with its descending steps, which was one entrance to Shooter's Gardens. As usual, two or three loafers were hanging about here, exchanging blasphemies and filthy vocables, but, even if they recognised him, there was not much fear of their giving assistance to the police. With head bent he slouched past them, unchallenged. At the bottom of the steps, where he was in all but utter darkness, his foot slipped on garbage of some kind, and with a groan he fell on his aide.

'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,' cried a high-pitched voice from close by.

Bob knew that the speaker was the man notorious in this locality as Mad Jack. Raising himself with difficulty, he looked round and saw a shape crouching in the corner.

'What is the principal thing?' continued the crazy voice. 'Wisdom is the principal thing.'

And upon that followed a long speech which to Bob sounded as gibberish, but which was in truth tolerably good French, a language Mad Jack was fond of using, though he never made known how he had acquired it.

Bob stumbled on, and quickly came to the house where he hoped to find a refuge. The door was, of course, open; he went in and groped his way up the staircase. A knock at the door of the room which he believed to be still tenanted by Mrs. Candy and her son brought no reply. He turned the handle, but found that the door was locked.

It was not late, only about ten o'clock. Stephen Candy could not, of course, be back yet from his work, and the woman was probably drinking somewhere. But he must make sure that they still lived here. Going down to the floor below, he knocked at the room occupied by the Hope family, and Mrs. Hope, opening the door a few inches, asked his business.

'Does Mrs. Candy still live upstairs?' he inquired in a feigned voice, and standing back in the darkness.

'For all I know.'

And the door closed sharply. He had no choice but to wait and see if either of his acquaintances returned. For a few minutes he sat on the staircase, but as at any moment some one might stumble over him, he went down to the backdoor, which was open, like that in front, and passed out into the stone-paved yard. Here he seated himself on the ground, leaning against a corner of the wall, He was suffering much from his injury, but could at all events feel secure from the hunters.

The stones were wet, and rain fell upon him. As he looked up at the lighted windows in the back of the house, he thought of Pennyloaf, who by this time most likely knew his danger. Would she be glad of it, feeling herself revenged? His experience of her did not encourage him to believe that. To all his ill-treatment she had never answered with anything but tears and submission. He found himself wishing she were near, to be helpful to him in his suffering.

Clem could not learn immediately what had come to pass. Finding he did not keep his appointment for the day after to-morrow, she would conclude that he had drawn back. But perhaps Jack Bartley's case would be in the newspapers on that day, and his own name might appear in the evidence before the magistrates; if Clem learnt the truth in that way, she would be not a little surprised. He had never hinted to her the means by which he had been obtaining money.

Voices began to sound from the passage within the house; several young fellows, one or other of whom probably lived here, had entered to be out of the rain. One voice, very loud and brutal, Bob quickly recognised; it was that of Ned Higgs, the ruffian with whom Bartley's wife had taken up. The conversation was very easy to overhear; it contained no reference to the 'copping' of Jack.

'Fag ends!' this and that voice kept crying.

Bob understood. One of the noble company had been fortunate enough to pig up the end of a cigar somewhere, and it was the rule among them that he who called out 'Fag ends!' established a claim for a few whiffs. In this way the delicacy was passing from mouth to mouth. That the game should end in quarrel was quite in order, and sure enough, before very long, Ned Higgs was roaring his defiances to a companion who had seized the bit of tobacco unjustly.

'I 'ollered fag-end after Snuffy Bill!'

'You're a —— liar! I did!'

'You! You're a ——! I'll —— your —— in arf a —— second!'

Then came the sound of a scuffle, the thud of blows, the wild-beast bellowing of infuriate voices. Above all could be heard the roar of Ned Higgs. A rush, and it was plain that the combatants had gone out into the alley to have more room. For a quarter of an hour the yells from their drink-sodden throats echoed among the buildings. Quietness was probably caused by the interference of police; knowing that, Bob shrank together in his lurking-place.

When all had been still for some time he resolved to go upstairs again and try the door, for his breathing grew more and more painful, and there was a whirling in his head which made him fear that he might become insensible. To rise was more difficult than he had imagined; his head overweighted him, all but caused him to plunge forward; he groped this way and that with his hands, seeking vainly for something to cling to on the whitewashed wall. In his depth of utter misery he gave way and sobbed several times. Then once more he had the warm taste of blood in his mouth. Terror-stricken, he staggered into the house.

This time a voice answered to his knock. He opened the door.

The room contained no article of furniture. In one corner lay some rags, and on the mantel-piece stood a tin teapot, two cups, and a plate. There was no fire, but a few pieces of wood lay near the hearth, and at the bottom of the open cupboard remained a very small supply of coals. A candle made fast in the neck of a bottle was the source of light.

On the floor was sitting, or lying, an animated object, indescribable; Bob knew it for Mrs. Candy. Her eyes looked up at him apprehensively.

'I want to stay the night over, if you'll let me.' he said, when he had closed the door. 'I've got to hide away; nobody mustn't know as I'm here.'

'You're welcome,' the woman replied, in a voice which was horrible to hear.

Then she paid no more attention to him, but leaned her head upon her hand and began a regular moaning, as if she suffered some dull, persistent pain.

Bob crept up to the wall and let himself sink there. He could not reflect for more than a minute or two continuously; his brain then became a mere confused whirl. In one of the intervals of his perfect consciousness he asked Mrs. Candy if Stephen would come here to-night. She did not heed him till he had twice repeated the question, and then she started and looked at him in wild fear.

'Will Stephen be coming?'

'Stephen? Yes, yes. I shouldn't wonder.'

She seemed to fall asleep as soon as she had spoken; her bead dropped heavily on the boards.

Not long after midnight the potman made his appearance. As always, on returning from his sixteen-hour day of work, he was all but insensible with fatigue. Entering the room, he turned his white face with an expression of stupid wonderment to the corner in which Bob lay. The latter raised himself to a sitting posture.

'That you, Bob Hewett?'

'I want to stop here over the night,' replied the other, speaking with difficulty. 'I can't go home. There's something up.'

'With Pennyloaf?'

'No. I've got to hide away. And I'm feeling bad—awful bad. Have you got anything to drink?'

Stephen, having listened with a face of a somnambulist, went to the mantel-piece and looked into the teapot. It was empty.

'You can go to the tap in the yard,' he said.

'I couldn't get so far. Oh, I feel bad!'

'I'll fetch you some water.'

A good-hearted animal, this poor Stephen; a very tolerable human being, had he had fair-play. He would not abandon his wretched mother, though to continue living with her meant hunger and cold and yet worse evils. For himself, his life was supported chiefly on the three pints of liquor which he was allowed every day. His arms and legs were those of a living skeleton; his poor idiotic face was made yet more repulsive by disease. Yet you could have seen that he was the brother of Pennyloaf; there was Pennyloaf's submissive beast-of-burden look in his eyes, and his voice had something that reminded one of hers.

'The coppers after you?' he whispered, stooping down to Bob with the teacup he had filled with water.

Bob nodded, then drained the cup eagerly.

'I get knocked down by a cab or something,' he added. 'It hit me just here. I may feel better when I've rested a bit. 'Haven't you got no furniture left?'

'They took it last Saturday was a week. Took it for rent. I thought we didn't owe nothing, but mother told me she'd paid when she hadn't. I got leave to stop, when I showed 'em as I could pay in future; but they wouldn't trust me to make up them three weeks. They took the furniture. It's 'ard, I call it. I asked my guvnor if it was law for them to take mother's bed-things, an' he said yes it was. When it's for rent they can take everything, even to your beddin' an' tools.'

Yes; they can take everything. How foolish of Stephen Candy and his tribe not to be born of the class of landlords! The inconvenience of having no foothold on the earth's surface is so manifest.

'I couldn't say nothing to her,' he continued, nodding towards the prostrate woman. 'She was sorry for it, an' you can't ask no more. It was my fault for trustin' her with the money to pay, but I get a bit careless now an' then, an' forgot. You do look bad, Bob, an' there's no mistake. Would you feel better if I lighted a bit o' fire?'

'Yes; I feel cold. I was hot just now.'

'You needn't be afraid o' the coals. Mother goes round the streets after the coal-carts, an' you wouldn't believe what a lot she picks up some days. You see, we're neither of us in the 'ouse very often; we don't burn much.'

He lit a fire, and Bob dragged himself near to it. In the meantime the quietness of the house was suffering a disturbance familiar to its denizens. Mr. Hope—you remember Mr. Hope?—had just returned from an evening at the public-house, and was bent on sustaining his reputation for unmatched vigour of language. He was quarrelling with his wife and daughters; their high notes of vituperation mingled in the most effective way with his manly thunder. To hear Mr. Hope's expressions, a stranger would have imagined him on the very point of savagely murdering all his family.

Another voice became audible. It was that of Ned Higgs, who had opened his door to bellow curses at the disturbers of his rest.

'They'll be wakin' mother,' said Stephen. 'There, I knew they would.'

Mrs. Candy stirred, and, after a few vain efforts to raise herself, started up suddenly. She fixed her eyes on the fire, which was just beginning to blaze, and uttered a dreadful cry, a shriek of mad terror.

'O God!' groaned her son. 'I hope it ain't goin' to be one of her bad nights. Mother, mother! what's wrong with you? See, come to the fire an' warm yourself, mother.'

She repeated the cry two or three times, but with less violence; then, as though exhausted, she fell face downwards, her arms folded about her head. The moaning which Bob had beard earlier in the evening recommenced.

Happily, it was not to be one of her bad nights. Fits of the horrors only came upon her twice before morning. Towards one o'clock Stephen had sunk into a sleep which scarcely any conceivable uproar could have broken; he lay with his head on his right arm, his legs stretched out at full length; his breathing was light. Bob was much later in getting rest. As often as he slumbered for an instant, the terrible image of his fear rose manifest before him; he saw himself in the clutch of his hunters, just like Jack Bartley, and woke to lie quivering. Must not that be the end of it, sooner or later? Might he not as well give himself up to-morrow? But the thought of punishment such as his crime receives was unendurable. It haunted him in nightmare when sheer exhaustion had at length weighed down his eyelids.

Long before daybreak he was conscious again, tormented with thirst and his head aching woefully. Someone had risen in the room above, and was tramping about in heavy boots. The noise seemed to disturb Mrs. Candy; she cried out in her sleep. In a few minutes the early riser came forth and began to descend the stairs; he was going to his work.

A little while, and in the court below a voice shouted, 'Bill Bill!' Another worker being called, doubtless.

At seven o'clock Stephen roused himself. He took a piece of soap from a shelf of the cupboard, threw a dirty rag over his arm, and went down to wash at the tap in the yard. Only on returning did he address Bob.

'Feelin' any better?'

'I think so. But I'm very bad.'

'Are you goin' to stay here?'

'I don't know.'

'Got any money?'

'Yes. Ninepence. Could you get me something to drink?'

Stephen took twopence, went out, and speedily returned with a large mug of coffee; from his pocket he brought forth a lump of cake, which had cost a halfpenny. This, he thought, might tempt a sick appetite. His own breakfast he would take at the coffee-shop.

'Mother'll get you anything else you want,' he said. 'She knows herself generally first thing in the morning. Let her take back the mug; I had to leave threepence on it.'

So Stephen also went forth to his labour—in this case, it may surely be said, the curse of curses. . . .

At this hour Pennyloaf bestirred herself after a night of weeping. Last evening the police had visited her room, and had searched it thoroughly. The revelation amazed her; she would not believe the charge that was made against her husband. She became angry with Mrs. Griffin when that practical woman said she was not at all surprised. Utterly gone was her resentment of Bob's latest cruelty. His failure to return home seemed to prove that he had been arrested, and she could think of nothing but the punishment that awaited him.

'It's penal servitude,' remarked Mrs. Griffin, frankly. 'Five, or p'r'aps ten years. I've heard of 'em gettin' sent for life.'

Pennyloaf would not believe in the possibility of this befalling her husband. It was too cruel. There would be some pity, some mercy. She had a confused notion of witnesses being called to give a man a good character, and strengthened herself in the thought of what she would say, under such circumstances on Bob's behalf. 'He's been a good 'usband,' she kept repeating to Mrs. Griffin, and to the other neighbours who crowded to indulge their curiosity. 'There's nobody can say as he ain't been a good 'usband; it's a lie if they do.'

By eight o'clock she was at the police-station. With fear she entered the ugly doorway and approached a policeman who stood in the ante-room. When she had made her inquiry, the man referred her to the inspector. She was asked many questions, but to her own received no definite reply; she had better look in again the next morning.

'It's my belief they ain't got him,' said Mrs. Griffin. 'He's had a warnin' from his pals.'

Pennyloaf would dearly have liked to communicate with Jane Snowdon, but shame prevented her. All day she stood by the house door, looking eagerly now this way, now that, with an unreasoning hope that Bob might show himself. She tried to believe that he was only keeping away because of his behaviour to her the night before; it was the first time he had laid hand upon her, and he felt ashamed of himself. He would come back, and this charge against him would be proved false; Pennyloaf could not distinguish between her desire that something might happen and the probability of its doing so.

But darkness fell upon the streets, and her watch was kept in rain. She dreaded the thought of passing another night in uncertainty. Long ago her tears had dried up; she had a parched throat and trembling, feverish hands. Between seven and eight o'clock she went to Mrs. Griffin and begged her to take care of the child for a little while.

'I'm goin' to see if I can hear anything about him. Somebody may know where he is.'

And first of all she directed her steps to Shooter's Gardens. It was very unlikely that her mother could be of any use, but she would seek there. Afterwards she must go to Farringdon Road Buildings, though never yet had she presented herself to Bob's father.

You remember that the Gardens had an offshoot, which was known simply as The Court. In this blind alley there stood throughout the day a row of baked-potato ovens, ten or a dozen of them, chained together, the property of a local capitalist who let them severally to men engaged in this business. At seven o'clock of an evening fires were wont to be lighted under each of these baking-machines, preparatory to their being wheeled away, each to its customary street-corner. Now the lighting of fires entails the creation of smoke, and whilst these ten or twelve ovens were getting ready to bake potatoes the Court was in a condition not easily described. A single lamp existed for the purpose of giving light to the alley, and at no time did this serve much more than to make darkness visible; at present the blind man would have fared as well in that retreat as he who had eyes, and the marvel was how those who lived there escaped suffocation. In the Gardens themselves volumes of dense smoke every now and then came driven along by the cold gusts; the air had a stifling smell and a bitter taste.

Pennyloaf found nothing remarkable in this phenomenon; it is hard to say what would have struck her as worthy of indignant comment in her world of little ease. But near the entrance to the Court, dimly discernible amid sagging fumes, was a cluster of people, and as everything of that kind just now excited her apprehensions, she drew near to see what was happening. The gathering was around Mad Jack; he looked more than usually wild, and with one hand raised above his head was on the point of relating a vision he had had the night before.

'Don't laugh! Don't any of you laugh; for as sure as I live it was an angel stood in the room and spoke to me. There was a light such as none of you ever saw, and the angel stood in the midst of it. And he said to me: "Listen, whilst I reveal to you the truth, that you may know where you arc and what you are; and this is done for a great purpose." And I fell down on my knees; but never a word could I have spoken. Then the angel said: "You are passing through a state of punishment. You, and all the poor among whom you live; all those who are in suffering of body and darkness of mind, were once rich people, with every blessing the world can bestow, with every opportunity of happiness in yourselves and of making others happy. Because you made an ill use of your wealth, because you were selfish and hard-hearted and oppressive and sinful in every kind of indulgence—therefore after death you received the reward of wickedness. This life you are now leading is that of the damned; this place to which you are confined is Hell! There is no escape for you. From poor you shall become poorer; the older you grow the lower shall you sink in want and misery; at the end there is waiting for you, one and all, a death in abandonment and despair. This is Hell—Hell—Hell!"'

His voice had risen in pitch, and the last cry was so terrifying that Pennyloaf fled to be out of hearing. She reached the house to which her visit was, and in the dark passage leaned for a moment against the wall, trembling all over. Then she began to ascend the stairs. At Mrs. Candy's door she knocked gently. There was at first no answer, but when she had knocked again, a strange voice that she did not recognise asked 'Who's that?' It seemed to come from low down, as if the speaker were lying on the floor.

'It's me,' she replied, again trembling, she knew not with what fear. 'Mrs. Hewett—Pennyloaf.'

'Are you alone?'

She bent down, listening eagerly.

'Who's that speakin'?'

'Are you alone?'

Strange; the voice was again different, very feeble, a thick whisper.

'Yes, there's nobody else. Can I come in?'

There was a shuffling sound, then the key turned in the lock, Pennyloaf entered, and found herself in darkness. She shrank back.

'Who's there? Is it you, mother? Is it you, Stephen?'

Some one touched her, at the same time shutting the door; and the voice whispered:

'Penny—it's me—Bob.'

She uttered a cry, stretching out her hands. A head was leaning against her, and she bent down to lay hers against it.

'O Bob! What are you doin' here? Why are you in the dark? What's the matter, Bob?'

'I've had an accident, Penny. I feel awful bad. Your mother's gone out to buy a candle. Have they been coming after me?'

'Yes, yes. But I didn't know you was here. I came to ask if they knew where you was. O Bob! what's happened to you? Why are you lyin' there, Bob?'

She had folded her arms about him, and held his face to hers, sobbing, kissing him.

'It's all up,' he gasped. 'I've been getting worse all day. You'll have to fetch the parish doctor. They'll have me, but I can't help it. I feel as if I was going.'

'They shan't take you, Bob. Oh no, they shan't. The doctor needn't know who you are.'

'It was a cab knocked me down, when I was running. I'm awful bad, Penny. You'll do something for me, won't you?'

'Oh, why didn't you send mother for me?'

The door opened. It was Mrs. Candy who entered. She slammed the door, turned the key, and exclaimed in a low voice of alarm:

'Bob, there's the p'lice downstairs! They come just this minute. There's one gone to the back-door, and there's one talkin' to Mrs. Hope at the front.'

'Then they've followed Pennyloaf,' he replied, in a tone of despair. 'They've followed Pennyloaf.'

It was the truth. She had been watched all day, and was now tracked to Shooter's Gardens, to this house. Mrs. Candy struck a match, and for an instant illuminated the wretched room; she looked at the two, and they at length saw each other's faces. Then the little flame was extinguished, and a red spot marked the place where the remnant of the match lay.

'Shall I light the candle?' the woman asked in a whisper.

Neither replied, for there was a heavy foot on the stairs. It came nearer. A hand tried the door, then knocked loudly.

'Mrs. Candy,' cried a stranger.

The three crouched together, terror-stricken, holding their breath. Pennyloaf pressed her husband in an agonised embrace.

'Mrs. Candy, you're wanted on business. Open the door. If you don't open, we shall force it.'

'No—no!' Pennyloaf whispered in her mother's ear. 'They shan't come in! Don't stir.'

'Are you going to open the door?'

It was a different speaker—brief, stern. Ten seconds, and there came a tremendous crash; the crazy door, the whole wall, quivered and cracked and groaned. The crash was repeated, and effectually; with a sound of ripping wood the door flew open and a light streamed into the room.

Useless, Pennyloaf, useless. That fierce kick, making ruin of your rotten barrier, is dealt with the whole force of Law, of Society; you might as well think of resisting death when your hour shall come.

'There he is,' observed one of the men, calmly. 'Hollo! what's up?'

'You can't take him away!' Pennyloaf cried, falling down again by Bob and clinging to him. 'He's ill, You can't take him like this!'

'Ill, is he? Then the sooner our doctor sees him the better. Up you get, my man!'

But there are some things that even Law and Society cannot command. Bob lay insensible. Shamming? Well, no; it seemed not. Send for a stretcher, quickly.

No great delay. Pennyloaf sat in mute anguish, Bob's head on her lap. On the staircase was a crowd of people, talking, shouting, whistling; presently they were cleared away by a new arrival of officials. Room for Law and Society!

The stretcher arrived; the senseless body was carried down and laid upon it—a policeman at each end, and, close clinging, Pennyloaf.

Above the noise of the crowd rose a shrill, wild voice, chanting:

'All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever!'



CHAPTER XXXVIII

JOSEPH TRANSACTS MUCH BUSINESS

Amid the anguish of heart and nerve which she had to endure whilst her grandfather lay dead in the house, Jane found and clung to one thought of consolation. He had not closed his eyes in the bitterness of disappointment. The end might have come on that miserable day when her weakness threatened the defeat of all his hopes, and how could she then have borne it? True or not, it would have seemed to her that she had killed him; she could not have looked on his face, and all the rest of her life would have been remorsefully shadowed. Now the dead features were unreproachful; nay, when she overcame her childish tremors and gazed calmly, it was easy to imagine that he smiled. Death itself had come without pain. An old man, weary after his long journeys, after his many griefs and the noble striving of his thought, surely he rested well.

During the last days he had been more affectionate with her than was his habit; she remembered it with gratitude. Words of endearment seldom came to his lips, but since the reconciliation he had more than once spoken tenderly. Doubtless he was anxious to assure her that she had again all his confidence. Strengthening herself in that reflection, she strove to put everything out of her mind save the duty which must henceforth direct her. Happily, there could be no more strife with the promptings of her weaker self; circumstances left but one path open before her; and that, however difficult, the one she desired to tread. Henceforth memory must dwell on one thing only in the past, her rescue by Michael Snowdon, her nurture under his care. Though he could no longer speak, the recollection of his words must be her unfailing impulse. In her his spirit must survive, his benevolence still be operative.

At her wish, her father acquainted Sidney Kirkwood with what had happened. Sidney did not visit her, but he wrote a letter, which, having read it many times, she put carefully away to be a resource if ever her heart failed. Mr. Percival came to the house on Monday, in the company of Joseph Snowdon; he was sympathetic, but made no direct reference to her position either now or in the future. Whilst he and her father transacted matters of business in the upper rooms, Jane remained downstairs with Mrs. Byass. Before quitting the house he asked her if she had had any communication with Miss Lant yet.

'I ought to write and tell her,' replied Jane.

'I will do so for you,' said the lawyer, kindly.

And on taking leave he held her hand for a moment, looking compassionately into her pale face.

On Thursday morning there arrived a letter from Miss Lant, who happened to be out of town and grieved that she could not return in time for the funeral, which would be that day. There was nothing about the future, excepting a promise that the writer would come very shortly.

Michael was buried at Abney Park Cemetery; no ray of sunlight fell upon his open grave, but the weather was mild, and among the budded trees passed a breath which was the promise of spring. Joseph Snowdon and the Byasses were Jane's only companions in the mourning-carriage; but at the cemetery they were joined by Sidney Kirkwood. Jane saw him and felt the pressure of his hand, but she could neither speak nor understand anything that was said to her.

On Friday morning, before she had made a show of eating the breakfast Bessie Byass prepared for her, a visitor arrived.

'She says her name's Mrs. Griffin,' said Bessie, 'and she has something very important to tell you. Do you feel you can see her?'

'Mrs. Griffin? Oh, I remember; she lives in the same house as Pennyloaf. Yes: let her come in.'

The woman was introduced to the Byasses' parlour, which Bessie thought more cheerful for Jane just now then the room upstairs.

'Have you heard anything of what's been goin on with the Hewetts, Miss?' she began.

'No, I haven't been able to go out this week. I've had trouble at home.'

'I see at once as you was in in mournin', Miss, an' I'm sorry for it. You're lookin' nothing like yourself. I don't know whether it's right to upset you with other people's bothers, but there's that poor Mrs. Hewett in such a state, and I said as I'd run round, 'cause she seems to think there's nobody else can come to her help as you can. I always knew as something o' this kind 'ud be 'appenin'.'

'But what is it? What has happened?'

Jane felt her energies revive at this appeal for help. It was the best thing that could have befallen, now that she was wearily despondent after yesterday's suffering.

'Her 'usband's dead, Miss.'

'Dead?'

'But that ain't the worst of it. He was took by the perlice last night, which they wanted him for makin' bad money. I always have said as it's a cruel thing that: 'cause how can you tell who gets the bad coin, an' it may be some pore person as can't afford to lose not a 'apenny. But that's what he's been up to, an' this long time, as it appears.'

In her dialect, which requires so many words for the narration of a simple story, Mrs. Griffin told what she knew concerning Bob Hewett's accident and capture; his death had taken place early this morning, and Pennyloaf was all but crazy with grief. To Jane these things sounded so extraordinary that for some time she could scarcely put a question, but sat in dismay, listening to the woman's prolix description of all that had come to pass since Wednesday evening. At length she called for Mrs. Byass, for whose benefit the story was repeated.

'I'm sure you oughtn't to go there to-day,' was Bessie's opinion. 'You've quite enough trouble of your own, my dear.'

'And that's just what I was a-sayin', mum,' assented Mrs. Griffin, who had won Bessie's highest opinion by her free use of respectful forms of address. 'I never saw no one look iller, as you may say, than the young lady.'

'Yes, yes, I will go,' said Jane, rising. 'My trouble's nothing to hers. Oh, I shall go at once.'

'But remember your father's coming at half-past nine,' urged Bessie, 'and he said he wanted to speak to you particular.'

'What is the time now? A quarter to nine. I can be back by half-past, I think, and then I can go again. Father wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes. I must go at once, Mrs. Byass.'

She would hear no objection, and speedily left the house in Mrs. Griffin's company.

At half-past nine, punctually, Mr. Snowdon's double knock sounded at the door. Joseph looked more respectable than ever in his black frock-coat and silk hat with the deep band. His bow to Mrs. Byass was solemn, but gallant; he pressed her fingers like a clergyman paying a visit of consolation, and in a subdued voice made affectionate inquiry after his daughter.

'She has slept, I hope, poor child?'

Bessie took him into the sitting-room, and explained Jane's absence.

'A good girl; a good girl,' he remarked, after listening with elevated brows, 'But she must be careful of her health. My visit this morning is on matters of business; no doubt she will tell you the principal points of our conversation afterwards. An excellent friend you have been to her, Mrs. Byass—excellent.'

'I'm sure I don't see how anyone could help liking her,' said Bessie, inwardly delighted with the expectation of hearing at length what Jane's circumstances really were.

'Indeed, so good a friend,' pursued Joseph, 'that I'm afraid it would distress her if she could no longer live with you. And the fact is'—he bent forward and smiled sadly—'I'm sure I may speak freely to you, Mrs. Byass—but the fact is, that I'm very doubtful indeed whether she could be happy if she lived with Mrs. Snowdon. I suppose there's always more or less difficulty where step-children are concerned, and in this case—well, I fear the incompatibility would be too great. To be sure, it places me in a difficult position. Jane's very young—very young; only just turned seventeen, poor child! Out of the question for her to live with strangers. I had some hopes—I wonder whether I ought to speak of it? You know Mr. Kirkwood?'

'Yes, indeed. I can't tell you how surprised I was, Mr. Snowdon. And there seems to be such a mystery about it, too.'

Bessie positively glowed with delight in such confidential talk. It was her dread that Jane's arrival might put an end to it before everything was revealed.

'A mystery, you may well say, Mrs. Byass. I think highly of Mr. Kirkwood, very highly; but really in this affair! It's almost too painful to talk about—to you.'

Bessie blushed, as becomes the Englishwoman of mature years when she is gracefully supposed to be ignorant of all it most behoves her to know.

'Well, well; he is on the point of marrying a young person with whom I should certainly not like my daughter to associate—fortunately there is little chance of that. You were never acquainted with Miss Hewett?'

'Ye—yes. A long time ago.'

'Well, well; we must be charitable. You know that she is dreadfully disfigured?'

'Disfigured? Jane didn't say a word about that. She only told me that Mr. Kirkwood was going to marry her, and I didn't like to ask too many questions. I hadn't even heard as she was at home.'

Joseph related to her the whole story, whilst Bessie fidgeted with satisfaction.

'I thought,' he added, 'that you could perhaps throw some light on the mystery. We can only suppose that Kirkwood has acted from the highest motives, but I really think—well, well, we won't talk of it any more. I was led to this subject from speaking of this poor girl's position. I wonder whether it will be possible for her to continue to live in your friendly care Mrs. Byass?'

'Oh, I shall be only too glad, Mr. Snowdon!'

'Now how kind that is of you! Of course she wouldn't want more than two rooms.'

'Of course not.'

Joseph was going further into details, when a latch-key was heard opening the front door. Jane entered hurriedly. The rapid walk had brought colour to her check; in her simple mourning attire she looked very interesting, very sweet and girlish. She had been shedding tears, and it was with unsteady voice that she excused herself for keeping her father waiting.

'Never mind that, my dear,' replied Joseph, as he kissed her cheek. 'You have been doing good—unselfish as always. Sit down and rest; you must be careful not to over-exert yourself.'

Bessie busied herself affectionately in removing Jane's hat and jacket, then withdrew that father and child might converse in private. Joseph looked at his daughter. His praise of her was not all mere affectation of sentiment. He had spoken truly when he said to Scawthorne that, but for Clem, he would ask nothing better than to settle down with this gentle girl for his companion. Selfishness, for the most part, but implying appreciation of her qualities. She did not love him, but he was sincere enough with himself to admit that this was perfectly natural. Had circumstances permitted, he would have tried hard to win some affection from her. Poor little girl! How would it affect her when she heard what he was going to say? He felt angry with Kirkwood; yes, truly indignant—men are capable of greater inconsistencies than this. She would not have cared much about the money had Kirkwood married her; of that he felt sure. She had lost her lover; now he was going to deprive her of her inheritance. Cruel! Yes; but he really felt so well-disposed to her, so determined to make her a comfortable provision for the future; and had the money been hers, impossible to have regarded her thus. Joseph was thankful to the chance which, in making him wealthy, had also enabled him to nourish such virtuous feeling.

How should he begin? He had a bright idea, an idea worthy of him. Thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out half-a-crown. Then:

'Your humble friend's in a sad condition, I'm afraid, Jane?'

'She is, father.'

'Suppose you give her this! Every little helps, you know.'

Jane received the coin and murmured thanks for his kindness, but could not help betraying some surprise. Joseph was on the watch for this. It gave him his exquisite opportunity.

'You're surprised at me offering you money, Jane? I believe your poor grandfather led you to suppose that—that his will was made almost entirely in your favour?'

Jane could not reply; she searched his face.

'Would it disappoint you very much, my child,' he continued, sympathetically, 'if it turned out that he had either' altered his mind or by some accident had neglected to make his will? I speak as your father, Janey, and I think I have some knowledge of your character. I think I know that you are as free from avarice as anyone could be.'

Was it true? he began to ask himself. Why, then, had her countenance fallen? Why did such a look of deep distress pass over it?

'The fact is, Janey,' he continued, hardening himself a little as he noted her expression, 'your grandfather left no will. The result—the legal result—of that is, that all his property becomes—ah—mine. He—in fact he destroyed his will a very short time, comparatively speaking, before he died, and he neglected to make another. Unfortunately, you see, under these circumstances we can't be sure what his wish was.'

She was deadly pale; there was anguish in the look with which she regarded her father.

'I'm very sorry it pains you so, my dear,' Joseph remarked, still more coldly. 'I didn't think you were so taken up with the thought of money. Really, Jane, a young girl at your time of life—'

'Father, father, how can you think that? It wasn't to be for myself; I thought you knew; indeed you did know!'

'But you looked so very strange, my dear. Evidently you felt—'

'Yes—I feel it—I do feel it! But because it means that grandfather couldn't get back his trust in me. Oh, it is too hard! When did he destroy his will? When, father?'

'Ten days before his death.'

'Yes; that was when it happened. You never heard; he promised to tell nobody. I disappointed him. I showed myself very foolish and weak in—in something that happened then. I made grandfather think that I was too selfish to live as he hoped—that I couldn't do what I'd undertaken. That was why he destroyed his will. And I thought he had forgiven me! I thought he trusted me again! O grandfather!'

Snowdon was astonished at the explanation of his own good luck, and yet more at Jane's display of feeling. So quiet, so reserved as he had always known her, she seemed to have become another person. For some moments he could only gaze at her in wonder. Never yet had he heard, never again would he hear, the utterance of an emotion so profound and so noble.

'Jane—try and control yourself, my dear. Let's talk it over, Jane.'

'I feel as if it would break my heart. I thought I had that one thing to comfort me. It's like losing him again—losing his confidence. To think I should have disappointed him in just what he hoped more than anything!'

'But you're mistaken,' Joseph exclaimed, a generous feeling for once getting the better of prudence. 'Listen, my dear, and I'll explain to you. I hadn't finished when you interrupted me.'

She clasped her hands upon her lap and gazed at him in eager appeal.

'Did he say anything to you, father?'

'No—and you may be quite sure that if he hasn't trusted you, he would have said something. What's more, on the very day before his death he wrote a letter to Mr. Percival, to say that he wanted to make his will again. He was going to do it on the Monday—there now It was only an accident; he hadn't time to do what he wished.'

This was making a concession which he had expressly resolved to guard against; but Joseph's designs ripened, lost their crudity, as he saw more and more of his daughter's disposition. He was again grateful to her; she had made things smoother than he could have hoped.

'You really think, father, that he would have made the same will as before?'

'Not a doubt about it, my love; not a doubt of it. In fact—now let me set your poor little mind at rest—only two days before his death—when was it I saw him last? Friday? Thursday?—he said to me that he had a higher opinion of you than ever. There now, Jane!'

She would have deemed it impossible for anyone to utter less than truth in such connection as this. Her eyes gleamed with joy.

'Now you understand just how it was, Jane. What we have to talk about now is, how we can arrange things so as to carry out your grandfather's wish. I am your guardian, my dear. Now I'm sure you wouldn't desire to have command of large sums of money before you are twenty-one? Just so; your grandfather didn't intend it. Well, first let me ask you this question. Would you rather live with—with your stepmother, or with your excellent friend Mrs. Byass? I see what your answer is, and I approve it; I fully approve it. Now suppose we arrange that you are to have an allowance of two pounds a week? It is just possible—just possible—that I may have to go abroad on business before long; in that case the payment would be made to you through an agent. Do you feel it would be satisfactory?'

Jane was thinking how much of this sum could be saved to give away.

'It seems little? But you see—'

'No, no, father. It is quite enough.'

'Good. We understand each other. Of course this is a temporary arrangement. I must have time to think over grandfather's ideas. Why, you are a mere child yet, Janey. Seventeen! A mere child, my dear!'

Forgetting the decorum imposed by his costume, Joseph became all but gay, so delightfully were things arranging themselves. A hundred a year he could very well afford just to keep his conscience at ease; and for Jane it would be wealth. Excellent Mrs. Byass was as good a guardian as could anywhere be found, and Jane's discretion forbade any fear on her account when—business should take him away.

'Well now, we've talked quite long enough. Don't think for a moment that you hadn't your grandfather's confidence, my dear; it would be distressing yourself wholly without reason—wholly. Be a good girl—why, there you see; I speak to you as if you were a child. And so you are, poor little girl—far too young to have worldly troubles. No, no; I must relieve you of all that, until—Well now, I'll leave you for to-day. Good-bye, my dear.'

He kissed her cheek, but Jane, sobbing a little, put her pure lips to his. Joseph looked about him for an instant as if he had forgotten something, then departed with what seemed unnecessary haste.

Jane and Mrs. Byass had a long talk before dinner-time. Mystery was at an end between them now; they talked much of the past, more of the future.

At two o'clock Jane received a visit from Miss Lant. This lady was already apprised by her friend Mr. Percival of all that had come to pass; she was prepared to exercise much discretion, but Jane soon showed her that this was needless, The subject of pressing importance to the latter was Pennyloaf's disastrous circumstances; unable to do all she wished, Jane was much relieved when her charitable friend proposed to set off to Merlin Place forthwith and ascertain how help could most effectually be given. Yes; it was good to be constrained to think of another's sorrows.

There passed a fortnight, during which Jane spent some hours each day with Pennyloaf. By the kindness of fate only one of Bob's children survived him, but it was just this luckless infant whose existence made Pennyloaf's position so difficult. Alone, she could have gone back to her slop-work, or some less miserable slavery might have been discovered; but Pennyloaf dreaded leaving her child each day in the care of strangers, being only too well aware what that meant. Mrs. Candy was, of course, worse than useless; Stephen the potman had more than his work set in looking after her. Whilst Miss Lant and Jane were straining their wits on the hardest of all problems—to find a means of livelihood for one whom society pronounced utterly superfluous, Pennyloaf most unexpectedly solved the question by her own effort. Somewhere near the Meat Market, one night, she encountered an acquaintance, a woman of not much more than her own age, who had recently become a widow, and was supporting herself (as well as four little ones) by keeping a stall at which she sold children's secondhand clothing; her difficulty was to dispose of her children whilst she was doing business at night. Pennyloaf explained her own position, and with the result that her acquaintance, by name Mrs. Todd, proposed a partnership. Why shouldn't they share a room, work together with the needle in patching and making, and by Pennyloaf's staying at home each evening keep the tribe of youngsters out of danger? This project was carried out; the two brought their furniture together into a garret, and it seemed probable that they would succeed in keeping themselves alive.

But before this settlement was effected Jane's own prospects had undergone a change of some importance. For a fortnight nothing was heard of Joseph Snowdon in Hanover Street; then there came a letter from him; it bore a Liverpool postmark, but was headed with no address. Joseph wrote that the business to which he had alluded was already summoning him from England; he regretted that there had not even been time for him to say farewell to his daughter. However, he would write to her occasionally during his absence, and hoped to hear from her. The allowance of two pounds a week would be duly paid by an agent, and on receiving it each Saturday she was to forward an acknowledgment to 'Mr. H. Jones,' at certain reading-rooms in the City. Let her in the meantime be a good girl, remain with her excellent friend Mrs. Byass, and repose absolute confidence in her affectionate father—J. S.

That same morning there came also a letter from Liverpool to Mrs. Joseph Snowdon, a letter which ran thus:

'Clem, old girl, I regret very much that affairs of pressing importance call me away from my happy home. It is especially distressing that this occurs just at the time when we were on the point of taking our house, in which we hoped to spend the rest of cur lives in bliss. Alas, that is not to be! Do not repine, and do not break the furniture in the lodgings, as your means will henceforth be limited, I fear. You will remember that I was in your debt, with reference to a little affair which happened in Clerkenwell Close, not such a long time ago; please accept this intimation as payment in full. When I am established in the country to which business summons me, I shall of course send for you immediately, but it may happen that some little time will intervene before I am able to take that delightful step. In the meanwhile your mother will supply you with all the money you need; she has full authority from me to do so. All blessings upon you, and may you be happy.—With tears I sign myself,

'YOUR BROKEN-HEARTED HUSBAND.'

Joseph's absence through the night had all but prepared Clem for something of this kind, yet he had managed things so well that up to the time of his departure she had not been able to remark a single suspicious circumstance, unless, indeed, it were the joyous affectionateness with which he continued to behave, She herself had been passing through a time of excitement and even of suffering. When she learned from the newspaper what fate had befallen Bob Hewett, it was as though someone had dealt her a half-stunning blow; in her fierce animal way she was attached to Bob, and for the first time in her life she knew a genuine grief. The event seemed at first impossible; she sped hither and thither, making inquiries, and raged in her heart against everyone who confirmed the newspaper report. Combined with the pain of loss was her disappointment at the frustration of the scheme Bob had undertaken in concert with her. Brooding on her deadly purpose, she had come to regard it as a certain thing that before long her husband would be killed. The details were arranged; all her cunning had gone to the contrivance of a plot for disguising the facts of his murder. Savagely she had exulted in the prospect, not only of getting rid of him, but of being revenged for her old humiliation. A thousand times she imagined herself in Bob's lurking-place, raising the weapon, striking the murderous blow, rifling the man's pockets to mislead those who found his body, and had laughed to herself triumphantly. Joseph out of the way, the next thing was to remove Pennyloaf. Oh, that would easily have been contrived. Then she and Bob would have been married.

Very long since Clem had shed tears, but she did so this day when there was no longer a possibility of doubting that Bob was dead. She shut herself in her room and moaned like a wild beast in pain. Joseph could not but observe, when he came home, that she was suffering in some extraordinary way. When he spoke jestingly about it, she all but rushed upon him with her fists. And in the same moment She determined that he should not escape, even if she had to murder him with her own hands. From that day her constant occupation was searching the newspapers to get hints about poisons. Doubtless it was as well for Joseph to be speedy in his preparations for departure.

She was present in the police-court when Jack Bartley came forward to be dealt with. Against him she stored up hatred and the resolve of vengeance; if it were years before she had the opportunity, Jack should in the end pay for what he had done.

And now Joseph had played her the trick she anticipated; he had saved himself out of her clutches, and had carried off all his money with him. She knew well enough what was meant by his saying that her mother would supply what she needed; very likely that he had made any such arrangement! You should have heard the sterling vernacular in which Clem gave utterance to her feelings as soon as she had deciphered the mocking letter?

Without a minute's delay she dressed and left the house. Having a few shillings in her pocket, she took a cab at King's Cross and bade the driver drive his hardest to Clerkenwell Close. Up Pentonville Hill panted the bony horse, Clem swearing all the time because it could go no quicker. But the top was reached; she shouted to the man to whip, whip? By the time they pulled up at Mrs. Peckover's house Clem herself perspired as profusely as the animal.

Mrs. Peckover was at breakfast, alone.

'Read that, will you? Read that?' roared Clem, rushing upon her and dashing the letter in her face.

'Why, you mad cat!' cried her mother, starting up in anger. 'What's wrong with you now?'

'Read that there letter! That's your doin', that is! Read it? Read it!'

Half-frightened, Mrs. Peckover drew away from the table and managed to peruse Joseph's writing. Having come to the end, she burst into jeering laughter.

'He's done it, has he? He's took his 'ook, has he? What did I tell you? Don't swear at me, or I'll give you something to swear about—such languidge in a respectable 'ouse! Ha, ha? What did I tell you? You wouldn't take my way. Oh no, you must go off and be independent. Serve you right! Ha, ha! Serve you right! You'll get no pity from me.'

'You 'old your jaw, mother, or I'll precious soon set my marks on your ugly old face! What does he say there about you? You're to pay me money. He's made arrangements with you. Don't try to cheat me, or I'll—soon have a summons out against you. The letter's proof; it's lawyer's proof. You try to cheat me and see.'

Clem had sufficient command of her faculties to devise this line of action. She half believed, too, that the letter would be of some legal efficacy, as against her mother.

'You bloomin' fool!' screamed Mrs. Peckover. 'Do you think I was born yesterday? Not one farden do you get out of me if you starve in the street—not one farden! It's my turn now. I've had about enough o' your cheek an' your hinsults. You'll go and work for your livin', you great cart-horse!'

'Work! No fear! I'll set the perlice after him.'

'The perlice! What can they do?'

'Is it law as he can go off and leave me with nothing to live on?'

'Course it is! Unless you go to the work'us an' throw yourself on the parish. Do, do! Oh my! Shouldn't I like to see you brought down to the work'us, like Mrs. Igginbottom, the wife of the cat's-meat man, him as they stuck up wanted for desertion!'

'You're a liar!' Clem shouted. 'I can make you support me before it comes to that.'

The wrangle continued for some time longer; then Clem bethought herself of another person with whom she must have the satisfaction of speaking her mind. On the impulse, she rushed away, out of Clerkenwell Close, up St. John Street Road, across City Read, down to Hanover Street, literally running for most of the time. Her knock at Mrs. Byass's door was terrific.