'Because I want to save Miss Bolivick,' he said.

'From what? Tell us plainly what you mean!'

'From promising to marry a man who is unworthy of her, and who would blacken her life.'

'Prove it. You have said too much or too little. Either prove what you have said, or withdraw it.'

Springfield laughed aloud. 'Surely,' he said, 'we have had enough of this! You see, after all his bluster, what it really amounts to.'

'Just a minute, please,' and Jack's voice became almost menacing. 'I am not in the habit of blustering. I have warned you to go away from here, and as you have forced me to go into details I will do so. You insist, then, that I lie when I say that I saw Maurice St. Mabyn alive in the July of 1914?'

'I do not say that, but I do say that you are suffering from an hallucination,' replied Springfield. 'You may have recovered your memory, but in doing so you suffer from remembering more than ever took place.'

'You insist on that?'

'Certainly I do. I can do no other. If you are not mentally deranged, you are a—— I would rather not use the word,' he added with a laugh.

'You see,' went on Jack, 'that he is very anxious to prove Maurice St. Mabyn to have been killed in a native uprising. I'll tell you why. He tried to murder him, and it was only by the mercy of God that he failed to do so.'

'Murder him! How dare you say such a thing?' gasped Sir Thomas.

'Maurice told me so himself—told me in India in 1914.'

'Great God, you shall prove this!' and now Springfield was really aroused. 'If he was not dead in July, 1914, where has he been these three years? Why has he sent no word? What has become of him? Who has seen him since April of that year when he was killed?—I mean besides this madman?'

'General Gregory, to whom he reported himself.'

'Do you mean to say that he reported himself to General Gregory?' His voice was hoarse, and I saw him reel as though some one had struck him.

'I do mean to say so. He told me so himself. If I have told a lie, you can easily prove it by communicating with him.'

Springfield laughed again, and in his laugh was a ring of triumph.

'It is easy to say that, because Gregory is dead. He died two years ago. A dead man is a poor witness.'

'I don't ask any one to accept my words without proof,' said Jack Carbis. 'Proof will not be wanting. You say that Maurice St. Mabyn was killed in a skirmish, that you saw his dead body, and that you had no hand whatever in it?'

'I do say it,' cried Springfield hoarsely. 'I swear by Almighty God that your charges are venomous lies, and——'

But he did not finish the sentence. At that moment I heard the murmur of voices outside the room, the door opened, and a tall, bronzed but somewhat haggard-looking man entered the room.

'Maurice!'

It was George St. Mabyn who uttered the word, but it was not like his voice at all.

The new-comer gave a quick glance around the room, as though he wanted to take in the situation, then he took a quick step towards Lady Bolivick.

'Will you forgive me for coming in this way, Lady Bolivick?' he said quietly. 'But I could not help myself. I only got back an hour or two ago, and the servants were so upset that they lost their heads entirely. But they did manage to tell me that George was here, so I took the liberty of an old friend and——; but what's this? Is anything the matter? George, old man, why—why——' and he looked at George St. Mabyn and Norah Blackwater inquiringly.

But George St. Mabyn did not speak; instead, he stood staring at his brother with terror-stricken eyes.

'You thought I was dead, eh?' and there was a laugh in Maurice St. Mabyn's voice. 'I'm worth a good many dead men yet.'

Again he looked around the room until his eyes rested upon Springfield, who had been watching his face from the moment of his entrance.

'By Jove, St. Mabyn,' he cried, and I could see he was fighting for self-mastery; 'but you have played us a trick. Here have we all been wasting good honest grief on you. But—but—I am glad, old man. I—I——'

His speech ended in a gasp. His words seemed to be frozen by the cold glitter of Maurice St. Mabyn's eyes. Never in my whole life have I seen so much contempt, so much loathing in a man's face as I saw in the face of the new-comer at that moment. But he did not speak. He simply turned on his heel, and addressed Sir Thomas Bolivick.

'You seem surprised, and something more than surprised at seeing me, Sir Thomas,' he said; 'but you are glad to see me, aren't you?'

'Glad!' cried the old man. 'Glad! Why, God bless my soul, Maurice! I—I—but—but glad?'—and he began to mop his eyes vigorously.

'I think there'll be a lot of explanations by and by,' went on Maurice,' especially after I've had a chat with my old friend, Jack Carbis, over there. Jack, you rascal, you've a lot to tell me, haven't you? By the way, George,'—and he gave Springfield a glance,—'I understand that this fellow is a guest at St. Mabyn. Will you tell him, as you seem friendly with him, that my house is not good for his health.'

Springfield looked from one to another like a man in despair. The coming of Maurice St. Mabyn had been such a confirmation of all that Jack Carbis had said, that he saw no loophole of escape anywhere. But this was only for a moment. Even in his defeat the man's character as a fighter was evident.

'St. Mabyn,' he said hoarsely, 'I swear by Heaven that you are mistaken! Of course I was mistaken—and—and no one is gladder than I—that you have turned up. Give me fair play,—give me a chance—give me time, and I'll clear up everything!'

'Will you tell the fellow,' and Maurice St. Mabyn still spoke to his brother, 'that a motor-car will be placed at his disposal to take him to any place he chooses to go. Tell him, too, that I do not propose to—to have anything to do with him in any way unless he persists in hanging on to you; but that if he does, the War Office and the world shall know what he is, and what he has done.'

Still Springfield did not give in. He turned again to Lorna Bolivick, and as he did so I realized, as I never realized before, that the man really loved her. I believed then, as I believe now, that all his hopes, all his plottings, were centred in one desire, and that was to win the love of this girl.

'Miss Bolivick, Lorna,' he said hoarsely, 'you do not tell me to go, do you? You believe in me? I will admit that things look against me; but I swear to you that I am as innocent of their charges as you are; that—that——' He ceased speaking suddenly, as though his words were frozen on his lips, then he burst out like a man in agony, 'Why do you look at me like that?' he gasped.

But she did not speak. Instead, she stood still, and looked at him steadily. There was an unearthly expression in her eyes; she seemed to be trying to look into his soul, to read his innermost thoughts. For a few seconds there was a deathly silence, then with a quick movement she turned and left the room.

Again Springfield looked from face to face as if he were hoping for support; then I saw pride flash into his eyes.

'Lady Bolivick, Sir Thomas,' he said quietly, 'I am deeply sorry that this—this scene should have taken place. As you know I am not responsible. Thank you for your kind hospitality.' Then he turned and left the room, and a few seconds later we heard his footsteps on the gravel outside.



CHAPTER XL

MAURICE ST. MABYN'S GENEROSITY

Of what happened afterwards, and of the explanations which were given, it is not for me to write. They do not come within the scope of this history, and would be scarcely of interest to the reader. One thing, however; specially interested me, and that was the large-heartedness of Maurice St. Mabyn. He refused to allow his brother to attempt any explanation, although I felt sure he understood what his brother had done.

'Of course you could not help believing me dead, George,' he said with a laugh. 'That fellow Springfield sent home and brought home all sorts of circumstantial evidence, and you naturally took things over. No, not another word. The fellow has gone, and I'll see that he stays away.'

'But—but why didn't you write, Maurice?' stammered the other.

'Couldn't, my dear chap. For more than two years I was away from civilization; for six months I was a prisoner among the Turks; and when at length, after the taking of Baghdad I was released, I was too ill to do anything, Besides, I thought Jack Carbis would have set your minds at rest. But there, I shall have a great yarn to tell you later.'

To Norah Blackwater he was coldly polite. That she had become his brother's fiancee within a few months of his reported death evidently wounded him deeply, although he made not the slightest reference to it. For my own part I was almost sorry for the girl. I do not believe she had ever cared for George St. Mabyn, although there could be no doubt of his fondness for her. Even when she had accepted him, her heart belonged to Maurice, but being desperately poor, and believing George to be the true heir to the St. Mabyn estates, she had given her promise. But this is only conjecture on my part. Nevertheless, it was impossible not to pity her. Her eyes, as she looked at Maurice, told their own story; she knew that she loved him; knew, too, that she had lost him for ever.

I was not present during the long conversation Maurice St. Mabyn and Jack Carbis had together that night, but before I went to sleep the latter came into my room.

'This has been a great night, Luscombe,' he said.

'Great night!' I repeated. 'I can hardly believe that I have not been dreaming all the time.'

'But you haven't,' he replied with a laugh. 'All the same, I almost believed I was losing my head when Maurice St. Mabyn came into the room. Isn't he a splendid chap though? No noise, no bluster, no accusations. But he understood.'

'Understood what?'

'Everything.'

'And you believe that Maurice knows of George's complicity in Springfield's plans?'

'Of course he knows. But he'll not let on to George. He realizes that Springfield played on his brother's weakness and made his life one long haunting fear.'

'But what about Norah Blackwater?'

'Ah, there we have the tragedy!'

'Why, do you think Maurice cares for her still?'

'I'm sure she cares for him. But he's adamant. He'll never forgive her, never. I wonder—I wonder——'

'What?'

He started to his feet and left the room.

I hadn't a chance of speaking with him the next day, for he left by an early train with his father and mother. They had naturally insisted on his returning to his home with them, and although they asked me to accompany them, I was unable to do so, as I had to report myself to my C.O. on the following day. I had arranged to catch the afternoon train to London, and then motor to the camp in time for duty.

About eleven o'clock I saw Lorna Bolivick leave the house and make her way towards a rosery which had been made some little distance away.

'Lorna,' I said, 'I have to leave directly after lunch; you don't mind my inflicting myself on you, do you?'

She looked at me with a wan smile.

'It's splendid about Maurice St. Mabyn, isn't it?'

'It's wonderful,' she replied, but there was no enthusiasm in her tones.

There was a silence between us for some seconds, then I said awkwardly, 'His—his—coming was a wonderful vindication of my friend, wasn't it?'

'Did he need any vindication?' she asked.

'I imagined you thought so last night—forgive me,' I replied, angry with myself for having blurted out the words.

I saw the colour mount to her cheeks, and I thought her eyes flashed anger.

'It might seem as though everything had been pre-arranged,' I went on, 'but I'm sure he could not help himself. Never did a man love a woman more than Edgecumbe—that is Jack Carbis, loves you. He felt it to be his duty to you to expose Springfield. He knew all along that he was an evil fellow.'

She did not speak, and again I went on almost in spite of myself.

'I have thought a good deal about what you said. Surely you never thought of marrying him?'

'Yes, I did.'

'Because you loved him?'

She shook her head. 'No, I never loved him,' she replied quickly, angrily. 'The very thought of——' she stopped suddenly, and was silent for a few seconds; and then went on, 'I cannot tell you. It would——; no, I cannot tell you.'

'I know it's no business of mine,' I continued,' and yet it is. No man had a better friend than Jack, and—and—owing to the peculiar way we were brought together perhaps, no man ever felt a deeper interest in another man than I feel in him. That is why——; I say, Lorna, I'm afraid he'd be mad with me for telling you, but—but—he'd give the world to marry you.'

'I shall never marry him,' and her words were like a cry of despair.

'But—but——'

'I shall never marry him,' she repeated, still in the same tones.

At that moment we heard Sir Thomas Bolivick's voice, and turning, saw him coming towards us with a look of horror on his face.

'I say, this is ghastly,' he said.

'What is it, dad?' asked Lorna anxiously.

'It's terrible, simply terrible,—and yet—you see—Maurice St. Mabyn has just telegraphed me. He says he has just received a message from Plymouth. That man Springfield was found dead an hour or so ago.'

'Found dead!' I gasped.

'Yes, in his room in the —— Hotel. Committed suicide.'

I looked at Lorna's face almost instinctively. It was very pale, and there could be no doubt but that she was terribly shocked by the news. And yet I felt sure I saw a look on her face which suggested relief. But beyond her quick breathing she uttered no sound.

'It's terrible,' went on Sir Thomas, 'but after—after last night I'm not sure—it's—it's not a relief to us all. Evidently the fellow——; but—but it's terrible, isn't it? Of course the hotel people wired St. Mabyn, as he told them at the bureau that he had just come from his house.'

'How did he die?' I asked.

'Poison,' replied Sir Thomas. 'He seems to have injected some sort of Indian poison into his veins. Evidently he had it with him, as the doctor says it is unobtainable anywhere in England. He left a letter, too.'

'A letter? To whom?'

'I don't quite know. To George St. Mabyn I expect. Awful, isn't it?'

I saw him look at Lorna; but her face told him nothing. She appeared perfectly calm, although I felt sure she was suffering.

'I am awfully sorry your visit should have ended like this, Luscombe,' said Sir Thomas three hours later; 'but you must come down again when you can get a day or two off. Don't wait for a formal invitation; we shall always be glad to see you.'

'Thank you, I'll take you at your word, Sir Thomas; meanwhile you'll keep me posted up with the news, won't you?'

'You mean about—— Yes, I'll let you know what happens. Where are you going, Lorna?'

'I'm going with Major Luscombe to the station, if he'll let me,' was her reply.

'You've something to tell me, Lorna,' I said when we had started.

She shook her head.

'You are sure? Has Springfield's death made no difference?'

'No,' she replied, then she hesitated, and repeated the word.

'Jack'll ask you again, Lorna. Of course he's not told me; but he will. He is one who never gives up. Never.'

'It's no use,' she said wearily. 'It's impossible, everything's impossible.'

'Nothing's impossible to a chap like Jack. You don't mean to say that Springfield——'

'Don't,' she pleaded. 'You don't know; he—he doesn't know; if he did——,' and then she lapsed into silence.

'I'm coming down again soon,' I said as I entered the train. 'I promised your father I would.'

'Do, do,' and she held my hand almost feverishly.



CHAPTER XLI

THE NEW HOPE

Nothing more than was absolutely necessary appeared in the newspapers about Springfield's death. In a letter which he wrote before taking his life he explained his action in a few characteristic words.

'Life's not worth living, that's why I'm going to die. I do not wish any question asked of any one why I intend to solve the "great secret," very suddenly. I'm tired of the whole show. That's enough explanation for any one. I am quite sane, and I hope no fool set of jurymen will bring in a verdict about my taking my life while in an unsound mind. I am reaping as I've sown, and I dare say if I had been a pattern young man things might have ended differently. But there it is. The game, as far as I am concerned, is not worth the candle. Besides, the game's played out. I am grateful to those of my friends who have been kind to me. The personal letters I am writing must be regarded as private and confidential. By that I mean they must not be read to satisfy the vulgar curiosity of the gaping crowd, and no questions must be asked of their recipients. Their contents are meant only for those to whom they are addressed.'

According to the newspaper reports, no awkward questions were asked of Sir Thomas Bolivick, or any members of the party with whom he had dined the night before he died, and the twelve jurymen who brought in a verdict of suicide said nothing about an 'unsound mind.'

Mention was made, however, of a sealed letter, placed by the side of the one I have copied. This letter bore no address, and nothing was written on the envelope but the words: 'This package must not be opened within a week of my burial.'

Comparing this instruction with the 'open letter,' I judged that the package contained more than one letter, but no further information was given.

At the beginning of August two letters arrived by the same post. One was from Lorna Bolivick, and the other was from my friend. The latter was simply a command to get a few days off, and to come and see him. He wanted a chat badly, he said, and if I could not get away, he would come to me, but surely I was not so important that I couldn't be spared for a week-end, if not more. He also insisted that I must send him a wire at once.

On opening Lorna's letter, I found practically the same request. The doctor had forbidden her resuming her nursing work for some months, she said, and had suggested that she should go to the seaside. But this she had refused to do, as she hated leaving her home. Besides, her brother Tom might come home on leave almost any day, and she wanted to be there to meet him.

'But you said you promised dad to pay us another visit as soon as you could,' her letter concluded, 'and I am writing to remind you of your promise. You told me you had some leave still due to you after your last visit, so why not come at once? The sooner the better.'

She gave no special reason for asking me to come, but I read into her appeal a desire to tell me something, and perhaps to ask my advice. I therefore had a chat with my C.O., with the result that I started to see my friend the same day.

On arriving at the station I found him on the platform awaiting me.

'Now this is sensible,' he cried with a laugh. 'This is something like dispatch. Come on, I have a motor outside. I suppose you will trust me to drive you.'

'You look fit, anyhow,' I said.

'Fit as a fiddle,' he replied. 'I go back to the front in four days.'

He looked years younger than when I had first seen him. The old wistful look in his eyes had almost entirely gone, while the parchment-like skin had become almost as smooth and ruddy as that of a boy.

'Oh, it has been glorious,' he said. 'I've taken the little mother to all sorts of places, and dad declares she looks twenty years younger. More than once we've been taken for lovers.'

'And your memory, Jack?'

'Sound as a bell. Wonderful, isn't it? Sometimes I'm almost glad I went through it all. After—after—years of darkness and loneliness, to emerge suddenly into the light! To have a mother, and a father, and—a home!'

'And you and your father get on well together?'

'Yes, in a way. But I have a lot to tell you about that. Here we are!'

I shall not attempt to describe Jack Carbis's home, nor the welcome I received. Had I been their son, Lord and Lady Carbis could not have received me with greater joy.

It was not until late that Jack and I were able to be alone, but at length when the others had gone to bed we found ourselves in a kind of snuggery which had been especially set apart for his own personal use.

'It's great, having you here,' he cried, as he threw himself into an arm-chair; 'great to feel alive, and to remember things. Have you heard from Bolivick?'

'Yes, Sir Thomas sent me a line, also a newspaper containing a report of the inquest. Have you?'

He shook his head. 'We wrote immediately after we left, and Lady Bolivick has written to mother, but—nothing more.'

'Of course you got particulars about Springfield. It seems he left a sealed packet. Did it contain a letter for you?'

'No, nothing. I often wonder who he wrote to. Do you know anything?'

'Nothing. But I propose going to Bolivick to-morrow; perhaps they'll tell me.'

'To-morrow! I say, old man, have you heard from her?'

I nodded. 'No, her letter contained nothing that would interest you,' I continued as I noted the look of inquiry in his eyes. 'Why don't you go with me? It would seem quite natural, seeing you are off to the front so soon.'

He hesitated a second, and then shook his head. 'No, Luscombe,' he said, 'she'll send for me if she wants me.'

'That's not the way to win a girl. How can she send for you?'

'I seem to have lost confidence since my memory came back,' he replied. 'When I told her I loved her, although I didn't seem to have the ghost of a chance, I felt confident, serene. Now I'm sure of nothing.'

'Nothing?' I queried. 'Do you mean to say that—that your faith in God and that kind of thing is gone?'

'No, no,' he replied quickly. 'That remains. It's the foundation of everything, everything. But God doesn't do things in the way we expect, and when we expect. After all, our life here is only a fragment, and God has plenty of time. He's never in a hurry. It's all right, old man. She'll be mine some time. If not in this world, in another.'

'If I loved a girl, I'd move heaven and earth to get her in this life.'

'Yes, don't fear that I'm not going to do my bit; but I've had a little time for thinking, and I've had to adjust myself to—to my new conditions.'

'With what results? How do things strike you now?'

'What things? The war?'

'Yes, that among others. Have you the same views you had? After our peregrinations through London, you were not optimistic, I remember. You seemed to regard England as in a bad way. You said we were not fit for victory. What are your views now?'

He was silent a few seconds before replying.

'I expect I was a bit of a fool,' he said presently. 'I'm afraid my outlook was narrow and silly. You see, I had no experience to go on. I had no standards.'

'No standards?' I repeated. 'You mean, then, that you've given all your fine sentiments the go-by?'

'And if I had?' he said with a smile. 'Should you be sorry or glad?'

I was silent. As I have stated I had not agreed with him, and yet I should have been sorry had he become like many another of his class.

'I see,' and he laughed gaily. 'No, old man, I've given nothing the go-by. No doubt, I overstated things a bit. No wonder. I saw things only in the light of the present. But in the main I was right.'

'Then what do you mean by saying that your outlook was narrow and silly?'

'I mean this. I looked on life without being able to compare it with what it was before the war. When I went with you through London, and saw the things I saw, when I saw the basest passions pandered to, when I saw vice walking openly, and not ashamed, I said, "God is keeping victory from us because we are not fit for it." In a sense I believe it still. Admiral Beatty was right. "Just so long as England remains in a state of religious indifference, just so long will the war continue. When the nation, the Empire comes to God with humility and with prayer on her lips, then we can begin to count the days towards the end." And that's right. The nation itself, by its lack of faith in God, by its materialism, by its want of prayer, by its greed, and its sin, has kept victory from coming. I tell you the great need of the age is prophets, men of God, calling us to God.'

'And do you stand by what you said about drink?'

'To every word. That phase of our national life has been and is horrible. While vested interests in this devilish thing remain paramount, we are partly paralysed. You see, it is the parent of a great part of the crime of the country. Oh, yes, I stand by that. All the same I was wrong.'

'Why wrong?'

'Because I did not look deep enough. Because I was not able to see the tremendous change that has been wrought.'

'I don't understand,' I said.

'It's this way. You, because the change which has come over the land has come slowly and subtly, have hardly been able to see it. But when, a few weeks ago, my memory came back to me, I realized a sort of shock. I saw how tremendous the change was, and is. A few years ago I was home for a long leave, and I went a good deal into society. What did I see? I saw that the women of England were in the main a mass of useless, purposeless butterflies. I saw that the great mass of the young men of our class were mere empty-headed, worthless parasites. The whole country was given over to money getting and pleasure seeking. I didn't realize it then; but I do now. On every hand they were craving for unnatural excitement, and doubtless there was a great danger of our race becoming decadent. But these last few weeks I've realized the difference. Why, our people have been glorious, simply glorious! See what an earnest tone pervades all life. Think of what the women of all classes have done, and are doing! Think of their change of outlook! Instead of being mere bridge-playing, gambling, purposeless things, finding their pleasures in all sorts of silly fads and foolishness, they've given themselves to service—loyal, noble service. The young fellows who filled up their time by being mere club-loungers, empty-headed society dudes, whose chief talk was women, the latest thing in neckties, or their handicap at golf, are now doing useful work, or fighting for the best in life. As for the rank and file, life has a new meaning to them, and they've become heroes.

'Mind you, we've still a long way to go; but we are on the right road. God is speaking out of the whirlwind and the fire. Religion may not be expressing itself in Church-going, but it is expressing itself in deeper, grander ways. I failed to see it; but I see it now. Oh, man, if England will only be true to the call of God, we can become the wonder and glory of the world!'

'Then you believe we are ready for victory?'

'I do not say that; but we are getting ready. God has been putting us through the refining fires, and I can see such a democracy emerging out of this world upheaval as was never known before.'

'And yet the war does not appear to be coming to an raid,' I urged. 'Think of Russia. Russia is a wild chaos, the victim of every passing fancy. Anarchy is triumphant, and the great army which should be a tower of strength is a rope of sand. If Russia had been true, we should have been——'

'Don't be in a hurry, my friend. God never is. Things will brighten in that direction. I don't say the war will be ended on the battlefield. Sometimes I think it won't. God does things in big ways. Surely the history of the last few months has taught us that. With Him nothing is impossible. People say that Kaiserdom stands more firmly than ever. What of that? The Kaiser may become more autocratic than ever, but his doom is written for all that. What is happening to his invincible legions? They will never save him. We are going to have a new world, my friend, and the pomp of the Kaiser will become a thing of yesterday.'

He was silent a few seconds, and then went on.

'There is something else, too. Russia has failed us, failed us because of corruption, and injustice. But God does not fail. No sooner did Russia yield, than America spoke. Her voice was the voice of the new Democracy. America's action is one of the greatest things in the world. Without thought of gain and realizing her sacrifice she has answered the call of God, and thrown herself into this struggle for the liberty and justice of the world. Had our cause not been righteous America would not have done this, but because it is God's Cause she could not resist the call to give her all. Yes, my friend,

'The mills of God grind slowly, But they grind exceeding small.'



CHAPTER XLII

AN UNFINISHED STORY

I left Jack Carbis the following day, and made my way to Bolivick. I did my best to persuade him to come with me; but he would not.

'No, not yet,' he said in answer to my entreaties, and yet I knew that he longed to come.

We had talked far into the night, and he had opened his heart to me as never before; but it is not for me to tell all he said.

When I reached Bolivick I found Lorna looking pale and ill, and I felt sure something was preying on her mind. The house was nearly empty, too. Her brother had not yet arrived from the front, and there were no visitors. I was glad of this, however, as it gave me a chance of talking with her alone.

'I have just come from Jack,' I said, as we left the house for a walk after dinner.

She did not speak, but I knew by the quick catch in her breath what interest my words had to her.

'He's going to France in three days,' I went on. 'He is reported fit for general service. I tried to persuade him to come with me.'

'I dare say he has much to occupy him,' she said coldly.

'It's not that,' I replied. 'He wanted to come; but he thinks you do not want him. He said he would not come till you sent for him.'

'And does he think I'll do that?' she asked, a little angrily I thought.

'No, I don't think he does. But he's sensitive, and—and of course he heard what Springfield said. He remembers, too, what you told him—that is, just before Maurice St. Mabyn came.'

'Does he think I—I cared for—for that man?'

'I don't know. It would be no wonder if he did. I say, Lorna, I don't understand your relations to Springfield. Was there anything between you?'

'Yes,' she replied.

'He asked you to marry him; of course that's no secret. You'll forgive my speaking plainly, won't you?'

'What do you want to say?'

'What was his power over you? I am taking advantage of our friendship, even at the risk of being rude and impertinent.'

'He had no power over me,—in the way you think.'

'That sounds like an admission. Is it?'

'Yes, if you like.'

'Then what was his power?'

She looked at me for a few seconds without speaking.

'I can't tell you,' she replied presently.

For some time we walked on in silence; I thinking what her words might mean, she apparently deep in thought.

'According to the newspaper,' I said after we had gone some distance, 'Springfield left a sealed packet containing letters. Was one of them for you?'

'Yes.'

'You do not feel disposed to tell me what it contained?'

'I would if I could, but I—can't.'

'Then I'm going to see George St. Mabyn, and get it out of him.'

'George does not know.'

Again there was a painful silence between us, and again I tried to understand what was in her mind.

'Lorna,' I said, 'I want to tell you something. It has been in my mind a long time, but if there's one thing you and I both despise it's speaking ill of another. But I can't help myself. You must know the truth.'

Thereupon I told her the whole of Springfield's story as I knew it. I related to her the conversation I had heard between Springfield and George St. Mabyn. I described the attempts made to kill Jack Carbis. I told her what Colonel McClure had said, both in our conversations and in the letter he wrote me after Springfield's death.

'Why have you told me all this?' she asked, and her voice was hard, almost bitter.

'Because I do not think you understand the kind of man Springfield was.'

'Excuse me, I understand perfectly.'

'You knew all the time! Knew what I have just told you?'

'No, I knew nothing of that; but I knew he was a bad man, knew it instinctively from the first. That's what makes everything impossible now.'

'I don't understand.'

'No, of course you don't. Oh, I wish I could tell you.'

'Then do. I wouldn't ask you, only my friend's happiness means a lot to me.'

She caught my arm convulsively. 'Do you think he cares for me still?' she asked. 'Do you really?'

'I'm sure he does,' I replied.

'And you do not believe that the change in his life has made any difference to—to that?'

'Not a bit.'

'Oh, I have been mad—criminally mad!' she burst out passionately. 'No one despises me more than I despise myself. You say he loves me, but he would hate me, scorn me if—if he knew.'

'Knew what?'

'I can't tell you. I simply can't.'

'But you will!' I said grimly; 'you will tell me now.'

'Major Luscombe!'

'Yes, be as angry as you like, I am angry too. And I tell you plainly that I am not going to allow my friend's life to be ruined because of the vagaries of a silly child. For you are a silly child. You have got hold of some hare-brained fancy, and you are magnifying it into a mountain. You've got to tell me all about it, because I'm sure it stands in the way of my friend's happiness.'

'But you don't understand. I've been—oh, I'm ashamed of myself!'

Some men perhaps would, on listening to this outburst, have imagined some guilty secret on her part. But knowing her as I did, it was impossible for me to do so.

'You are going to tell me about it,' I said. 'What is it?'

'But you'll not tell him; promise me that.'

'You must trust me,' I replied, 'and your trust must be complete. What power had Springfield over you? What did he say to you in that letter?'

She was silent for a few seconds, then she said, 'You remember what I said about him when I first saw him?'

'Yes, you said he made you think of snakes. You told me you disliked him.'

'That's why I'm so ashamed. I knew he was a bad man, and yet he fascinated me. I was afraid of him, and yet he almost made me promise to marry him.'

'Go on,' I said when she hesitated, 'tell me the rest.'

'When—when—your friend came here for the first time, he—he——'

'Fell in love with you. Yes, it is no use mincing words. The moment he saw you, he gave his life to you. He told me so. He told you so.'

'I knew it before he told me.'

'How did you know?'

Her tell-tale blush, her quivering lips, told their own story, and I could not help laughing aloud.

'Don't be cruel!' she cried.

'I am not cruel, I am only very happy. I am happy because my friend is going to be happy.'

'But you don't know all.'

'I know that love overcomes all difficulties, and I know that you love each other.'

'Yes, but listen. He—that is, that man—told me that although you did not know who your friend was, he knew. He said that he had been guilty of deeds in India, which if made known would mean life-long disgrace. That he, that is Colonel Springfield, had only to speak and—and oh, I can't tell you! I'm too ashamed!'

'I don't need telling,' I laughed. 'I know. He bound you to secrecy before telling you anything. He found out that you loved Jack, and he used your love as a lever. Like the mean scoundrel he was, he tried to make you promise to marry him, by threatening to expose Jack if you wouldn't. And you, because you were a silly girl, were afraid of him. You were the victim of an Adelphi melodrama plot.'

'Oh, I am ashamed,' she cried; 'but—he showed me proofs, or what seemed to be proofs of his guilt. He said his loss of memory was real, but that he, Colonel Springfield, knew who he was, and—oh, I am mad when I think of it!'

'And that's all!' I laughed, 'Why, little girl, when Jack knows, he'll rejoice in what you've told me.'

'No, he won't,' she cried piteously. 'Don't you see, he made me believe it! That is why—why I'm so ashamed. What will he think when he knows I believed him guilty of the most horrible things?'

'I know what he'll think when he knows that in order to save him you were ready to——'

'Besides, don't you see?' she interrupted, 'I refused him when he was nameless, and—and all that sort of thing, while now as Lord Carbis's son——'

But she did not finish the sentence. At that moment Jack Carbis leapt over a stile into the lane where we were walking.

With that quick intuition which I had so often noticed, he seemed to divine in a moment what we were talking about. He looked at us both for a few seconds without speaking, while both of us were so startled by his sudden appearance, that I think we were both incapable of uttering a word.

'How did you get here?' I gasped presently.

'I motored over,' he said. 'After you had left this morning—I—I—thought I would. It was only a hundred and fifty miles. They told me at the house which way you had gone, and——'

'You followed us,' I interjected. 'Jack, I think you have something to say to Lorna, and I fancy Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick may be lonely. I shall see you presently, shan't I?'

Lorna looked at me with frightened eyes, as if in protest, then she turned towards my friend.

'Will you come with me?' said Jack, and his voice was tremulous, 'I say, you will come, won't you?'

She hesitated a second, and then the two walked away together in the quiet Devonshire lane, while the shadows of evening gathered.

* * * * *

I did not go into the house on my return. Instead I sat on the lawn and awaited them. Darker and darker the night shadows fell, while the sky became star-spangled. Away, two hundred miles distant, the guns were booming, but here was peace.

The mystery, the wonder of it all came to me as I sat thinking. On the long battle line the armies of Empires were engaged in a deadly struggle, while close by a man was telling a girl that he loved her, while she would be foolishly trying to explain what required no explanation.

The moon was rising as they came back. The first beams were shining through the trees as I saw them approach.

'Well, Lorna?' I said as they came close to where I was.

She looked at me shyly, and then lifted her eyes to Jack's. In the pale moonlight I saw the look of infinite happiness on her face.

'May I, Jack?' I said. 'This morning you called me your brother, and as Lorna is to be my sister, may I claim a brother's privilege?'

For answer, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

'I say,' cried Jack with a happy laugh, 'you are coming it a bit thick, aren't you? I didn't get one as easily as that.'

'Of course not—you didn't deserve to. But where are you off to?

'I'm going to beard the lion in his den. I'm going to have a serious talk with Sir Thomas. Will you look after Lorna till I return?'

THE END