"This paper evidently has its doubts," Gladys commented. "They are frauds, of course."

"I dare say they are," the Vicar's wife replied, "though I believe in thought-reading and other things they say they can do. I advised Miss Rosenberg to see them about her dream. She went in by the nine o'clock train. Had you come a few minutes earlier you would have seen her."

"Well, thanks awfully," Gladys said, "for telling me about these people. Very probably I'll go in to Town some time during the day and call at Cockspur Street. I must apologize again for calling at such an unearthly hour. Good-bye," and Gladys smilingly took her departure.



CHAPTER IX

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

Shortly after Gladys reached home after her visit to the Vicarage, a young man with a serious expression somewhat out of keeping with his jaunty walk, entered the gate of Pine Cottage, and came to an abrupt halt.

"Well," he ejaculated, "this is a pretty place, and what's more—for dozens of houses and gardens are pretty—it's artistic!" In front of him stretched a miniature avenue of chestnut trees, which was rendered striking, even to the most casual observer, probably, not only on account of the irregular mounds of moss-covered stones that occupied its intervening spaces, but also, by reason of the masses of wild flowers (great clumps of which were springing up in the crevices of this impromptu wall) that lent to it an appearance half negligent, but wholly and entrancingly picturesque. Here, undoubtedly, was art. That did not astonish the young man. All avenues, in the ordinary sense, are works of art; and the mere excess of art he saw manifested did not surprise him; it was the character of the art that had brought him to a standstill and held him spellbound. And the longer he looked the more he became convinced, that whoever had superintended the arrangement of this scenery was an artist—an artist with a scrupulous eye for form.

The greatest care had been taken to keep the balance between neatness and gracefulness on the one hand and picturesqueness on the other. There were few straight lines, and no long uninterrupted ones; whilst at no one point of view did the same effect of curvature or colour appear twice. Variety in uniformity was the keynote.

At last tearing himself away from this one spot—where he felt he could have spent centuries—he turned to the right and then again to the left—for the path had now become serpentine, and at no moment could be traced for more than two or three paces in advance. Presently the sound of water fell gently on his ear, and in the shadiest of diminutive forests, amidst the interlacing branches of elm and beech, he caught the glimpse of a fountain. For an instant the wild thought of forcing his way through it, of plunging his burning forehead in its cooling spray, well-nigh mastered him. But his better sense conquered, and he kept to the path. Another turn, and he caught his first glimpse of a chimney; another—and the summit of a gable showed above the trees. The sun, which had been hitherto obscured, now came out, and suddenly—as if by the hand of magic—the whole scene was a brilliant blaze of colour. He had arrived at the end of the avenue, where the path forked; one branch turning sharply round in the direction of a side entrance to the house, whilst the other led with a gentle curvature to the front.

Facing the building was a broad expanse of velvety turf, relieved occasionally, here and there, by such showy shrubs as the hydrangea, rhododendron, or lilac; but more frequently, and at closer intervals, by clumps of geraniums, or roses—roses of every variety. There was nothing pretentious in the garden, any more than there was in the adjoining edifice. Its unusually pleasing effect lay altogether in its artistic arrangement; and one could hardly help imagining that the whole scene had, in reality, been called into existence by the brush of some eminent landscape painter.

The cottage itself was constructed of old-fashioned Dutch shingles—broad and with rounded corners—and painted a dull grey; a tint which, when contrasted with the vivid green of the tulip trees that overshadowed the entrance to the house, and reared themselves high above it on either side, afforded an artistic happiness perfectly intoxicating to its present visitor. The architecture of the cottage was—if not Early Tudor—something equally pleasing. Its roofs were divided into many gables; its windows were diamond paned and projecting, whilst oaken beams ran latitudinally and vertically over its grey shingle front. Encompassing the whole base of the exterior were masses of flowers—pinks, carnations, heliotrope, pansies, poppies, lilies, wallflowers, roses and jasmines; and besides the latter several other creepers had been planted beneath the walls, but had not yet attained to any height.

Shiel Davenport, for it was he, could not resist the temptation of peeping in at the windows; and he saw that the interior of the cottage was artistry and simplicity itself. At the windows, curtains of heavy white jaconet muslin, not too full, hung in sharp parallel plaits to the floor—just to the floor. The walls were papered with French papers of rare delicacy—to match the seasons; (spring, summer, autumn and winter were all most effectively depicted), and the furniture though light, was at the same time costly. And here again was the same effect of arrangement—an arrangement obviously designed by the same brain that had planned the building and grounds. Shiel could not conceive anything more graceful. Flowers—flowers of every hue and odour were the chief decoration of the cottage. On almost every table were vases—in themselves beautiful enough—yet filled to overflowing with the finest roses. Ox-eye daisies, hollyhocks and forget-me-nots clustered about the open windows. And every puff of wind, every breath of air transmitted scent—the most delicious medley of scent imaginable.

The young man drew in deep draughts of it; he threw back his head, and, opening his mouth, revelled in the joy of feeling it steal softly down his throat and permeate his lungs. He was thus engaged when the sound of a voice brought him sharply back to earth.

In the open doorway of the house, an amused expression in her violet eyes, stood a girl—so wondrously pretty, that at the sight of her Shiel was again overcome, and could only gaze in helpless admiration.

"Do you want to see my father?" she inquired. "He is getting ready to go out, but I daresay he will see you first."

"I—I am sure he will," the young man replied, "I'm Shiel Davenport. I've come to tell him my uncle died at four o'clock this morning."

"Oh, dear!" the girl exclaimed, "I am so sorry—sorry for you, and for my father. I'm sure he will be terribly upset. I'm Gladys Martin, perhaps you've heard of me—I knew your uncle."

"Often," Shiel said, "And I think my uncle's description of you an excellent one."

"His description of me!"

"Yes! he always spoke of you as the Queen of Flowers, and said you had a mania for all things beautiful, which was not surprising, seeing how beautiful you were yourself."

"That was very nice of him," Gladys said, looking amused again. "Won't you come in? If you will wait here"—she led him to the drawing-room—"I'll tell my father."

She disappeared, and Shiel heard her run lightly up the stairs.

"By Jove," he said to himself, "she's the loveliest girl I've ever seen. From being so much among flowers, she has become one herself. Violets, roses, and heliotrope have all had a share in her creation! What eyes, what a mouth! what teeth! what hands! Surely I have found here, not only the perfection of all things beautiful, but the perfection of all things natural, the perfection of natural grace in contradistinction from artificial grace. Moreover, she is a romanticist. There is an expression of romance, of unworldliness, in those deep-set eyes of hers, that sinks into my heart of hearts. 'Romance' and 'womanliness,' and the two terms appear to me to be convertible, are her distinguishing features. She is an artist, an idealist, and, over and above all—a woman! Hang it! I'm in love with her!"

More he could not evolve, for his meditations were abruptly cut short by the entrance of a servant, who ushered him, straightway, into the presence of John Martin.

The latter, though visibly affected by the news of his friend's death, was a man of the world, and, consequently, came to business at once. Much had to be discussed—arrangements for the funeral, the examination of correspondence relative to the firm, and plans for the immediate future.

"You don't know how my uncle's affairs stand, I suppose?" Shiel asked somewhat nervously.

"Yes," John Martin said, "I do. May I ask if you have any private means at all—or are you solely dependent on what you earn? By the way, what is your calling?"

"I am an artist," Shiel said. "No, I've nothing beyond what my uncle was good enough to allow me."

"An artist!" John Martin murmured, "how like Dick! Have you entertained the idea of inheriting a fortune? Have you any reason to suppose that your uncle was well off and had made you his heir!"

"I gathered so, sir, from the manner in which he lived and his attitude towards me."

"Well! we won't talk it over now—leave it till after the funeral. Are you bent on continuing painting? There is very little remuneration in it, is there?"

"Not much," Shiel answered gloomily, "but I shouldn't care to give it up—unless of course it is absolutely necessary for me to do so."

"Being an artist you wouldn't be much good in business."

"None!"

"At all events, you are candid. Well! I don't see any good in our dallying here—I had best go back with you to Sydenham. I've got a letter to write first, but I shan't be long."

He was long enough, however, for Shiel to have another chat with Gladys. "Do you believe in dreams?" she asked him. "I had such a queer one last night, about trees and flowers; and, oddly enough, my father also dreamed of trees and flowers, and of the very same ones too. I am going into Town to-day to consult a firm that has just set up, called the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. They profess to interpret dreams, and I am anxious to see whether they can."

"In Cockspur Street, aren't they?" Shiel asked. "I saw their advertisement in one of the papers. I presume you are not going there alone?"

"No!" Gladys laughed, "I shall go with a friend, though I often do go into Town alone. I can assure you I am quite capable of looking after myself. In that respect, at least, I am quite up to date. Probably you are more accustomed to French girls?"

"Yes! I have spent most of my life in Paris," Shiel said. "But how could you tell that?"

"Oh! I guessed you were an artist—and had probably spent some time in Paris"—Gladys rejoined, "by the way you looked at the house and garden. I could read appreciation in your eyes and gesture; such appreciation, as I knew, could only come from an artist. G.W. Barnett helped me in planning this cottage and the garden."

"What! Barnett the landscape painter! I am a great admirer of his work. Were you a pupil of his?"

"Yes, he was one of the visiting R.A.'s at the Beechcroft Studio in St. John's Wood, where I worked for three years. We were then living in Blackheath—St. John's Park—a hateful place. Mr. Barnett was awfully good, when I told him we were moving, and that I wanted to live in really artistic surroundings—he suggested that I should be my own architect, and promised to do everything he could to assist me,"

"And your father hadn't a say in the matter," Shiel commented, with an amused smile.

"Not in that," Gladys said complacently, "though there are one or two things in which he has a very decided say. Father can be very self-willed and obstinate, when he likes. But as I was remarking when you interrupted me—"

"I beg pardon!" Shiel murmured.

"Mr. Barnett promised to assist me. He came over here with me, and we chose this site."

"Is he an old man?" Shiel inquired, a trifle anxiously.

"Not much more than middle aged—fifty perhaps!" Gladys said, "though he looks much younger. He is still very good-looking. Well! he came over here—we chose this site, and—"

"Is he married?"

"No! Really you seem very interested in him. Perhaps you will meet him some day: he comes here a good deal. As I was saying, we chose the site together, and he supervized the plans I drew up for the garden and cottage; I don't think, perhaps, I should have thought of that avenue if it hadn't been for him!"

"At all events it does you both credit," Shiel remarked, "for a more charming house and garden I have never seen. I should like to live here all my life. I should like—" but he was interrupted by John Martin. "Come, it's time we were off," the latter called out brusquely, "time and trains wait for no man!"

"A young ass!" John Martin whispered in Gladys' ear, as the trio passed through the entrance of the railway station on to the platform, "not a bit of good to me. Don't encourage him, whatever you do!"

"Encourage him!" Gladys retorted indignantly, seeing that Shiel, who had his ticket to get, was out of hearing. "Do I encourage any one? All the same," she added defiantly, "I rather like him. It isn't every one's good fortune to be as smart as you, John Martin. Quick—hurry up! That's your train—and the guard's about to blow his whistle."

With a vigorous push she hustled her father into the first compartment they came to, and Shiel sprang in after him as the train moved out of the station.

An hour later Gladys, looking extremely demure and proper, was rapping with a daintily gloved hand at the inquiry office in the great stone lobby of the Modern Sorcery Company's building in Cockspur Street.

"Have you an appointment, madam?" the commissionaire, in a bright blue uniform, asked.

"No," Gladys replied. "Is it necessary?

"The firm are unusually busy," the man explained, "and unless you have made an appointment with them some days beforehand, it is doubtful whether they will be able to see you. However, if you will step into the waiting room and fill in one of the forms you see on the table, I will take it to them. Which member of the firm have you come to consult?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Gladys said. "I want to have a dream interpreted."

"Then, that will be Mr. Kelson," the man observed "he does all that kind of thing—tells dreams, characters, pasts, and reads thoughts. Mr. Curtis solves all manner of puzzles and tricks; and Mr. Hamar divines the presence of metals and water. There is a lady in the waiting-room now, come to have a dream interpreted. She's been there nearly an hour. This way, madam!"—and he escorted, rather than ushered, Gladys into a large, elaborately furnished room, in which a dozen or so well dressed people—of both sexes—were waiting, looking over the leaves of magazines and journals, and trying in vain to hide their only too obvious excitement.

Having filled in the necessary form, and given it to the commissionaire, Gladys looked round for a seat, and espying one, next to a strikingly handsome girl, she at once appropriated it.

There was something about this showy girl that had attracted Gladys. She was one of those rare people that have a personality, and although this was a personality that Gladys was not at all sure she liked, nevertheless she felt anxious to become more closely acquainted with it. Both girls suddenly realized that they were staring hard at one another. The girl with the personality was the first to speak. With a smile that, while revealing a perfect set of white teeth, at the some time revealed exceedingly thin lips, she remarked, "It's most wearisome work waiting. I've been here nearly an hour. I shouldn't stay any longer, only I've come from a distance. London is so hot and stuffy, I detest it."

"Do you?" Gladys observed. "I don't. I find it so full of human interest—indeed, of every kind of interest. Not that I should care to live in it, but I like being near enough to come up several times a week. I live at Kew."

"Then you're lucky!" the girl said, "I'd live at Kew if I could. But I can't—I'm one of those unfortunate creatures who have to earn their living."

"I sometimes wish I had to," Gladys remarked.

"Do you! Then you don't know much about it. It isn't all jam by a long way. I loathe work. I've been spending my holiday at Kew. I've just come from there."

"Are you by any chance Miss Rosenberg?" Gladys asked.

"That's my name," the girl replied with a look of astonishment. "How do you know?"

Gladys explained. "I've just been to the Vicarage," she said, "and Mrs. Sprat has told me about the verses. Did you really dream them?"

"Of course! I shouldn't have said so if I hadn't," Miss Rosenberg replied angrily. "I don't tell crams. Besides, I've never composed a line of poetry in my life. The verses were repeated to me in my sleep by some occult agency—of that I am quite certain. They were so vividly impressed on my mind that I had no difficulty at all in remembering them—every one of them, and I got up and wrote them down. Of course they must mean something."

Gladys was about to make some observation, when the commissionaire, opening the door of the room, called out, "Miss Rosenberg;" whereupon, with a sigh of relief, Miss Rosenberg took her departure.



CHAPTER X

HOW THE DREAMS WERE INTERPRETED

"Tell Miss Rosenberg I'll see her now," Matt Kelson said; and as he leaned back in his luxurious chair with that dignity of self-assurance only the man who is rich can maintain, it was hard to realise that he and the Matt Kelson of a year ago were the same. A year ago he had been a poor, underpaid, ill nourished pen-driver, with all the odious marks of a pen-driver's servility thick upon him. It was true he had been fastidious as to his appearance—that is to say, as fastidious as any one can be, who has to buy clothes ready made and can only afford to pay a few dollars for them; that he had sacrificed meals to wear white shirts—boiled shirts as one called them in San Francisco—and to get his things got up decently at a respectable laundry; but his teeth in those days did not receive the attention they ought to have received (he could not afford a dentist), the tobacco he smoked was often offensive; and there were to be found in him sundry other details that one usually finds in clerks, and in most other people who literally have to fight for a living.

But now, all that was changed. Kelson was rich. He bought his suits at Poole's, his hats at Christie's, his boots in Regent Street. He patronized a dentist in Cavendish Square, and a manicurist in Bond Street. He belonged to a crack club in Pall Mall, and never smoked anything but the most expensive cigars. His ambition had been speedily realized. He had passionately longed to be a fop—he was one. The only thing that troubled him, was that he could not be an aristocrat at the same time. But, after all, what did that matter? The girls looked at him all the same, and that was all he wanted. He worshipped, he adored, pretty girls; and he was most anxious that they should adore him.

Consequently, his first thought, when he saw Lilian Rosenberg's name on the form the commissionaire presented him, was "Is she pretty?" And the first thing he said to himself directly the door opened to admit her was, "By Jove! she is."

Then he assumed an air more suited to a partner in a big London firm, and flourishing a richly bejewelled hand, said "Pray take a seat, madam. What can I do for you?"

"I want you to tell me the meaning of these verses," Lilian Rosenberg said, handing him two sheets of foolscap and then sitting down. "They were suggested to me in my sleep—in other words, I dreamed them."

"You dreamed them, did you!" Kelson said, noticing with approval that the girl had well-kept white hands, and that her clothes, though not particularly expensive, were chic, and up-to-date. "Do you want me only to interpret this poem, or shall I tell you something about yourself first?"

"By all means tell me something about myself first—if you can," Lilian Rosenberg said. "I want to get as much as I can out of you. Your fees are exorbitant."

"Very well, then," Kelson rejoined with a smile. "Don't blame me if I tell you too much. You were born at sea. Being a troublesome girl at home, you were sent to a boarding-school, where you distinguished yourself in various ways, and last but not least, by making the headmistress—a married woman—desperately jealous. This led to your being removed. Removed is a more delicate term than 'expelled.' Am I right?"

"Yes! I believe you are inspired by the devil."

"Shall I go on?"

"Yes—I think so. Yes, go on, please."

"You came home. Your mother died. Your father married again. You disliked your stepmother—you considered she ill treated you."

"She did!"

"I won't dispute it. At all events you had your revenge. You pretended to commit suicide, and wrote several letters—to the police amongst others—declaring that you were about to drown yourself owing to the cruelty of your stepmother. And so cleverly did you manage it, that every one believed you were drowned, and blamed your stepmother accordingly. Changing your name to Lilian Rosenberg you came direct to London. For some time you worked in a milliner's shop in Beauchamp Gardens, and then you set up as a manicurist in Woodstock Street. Among your clients was the wife of the Vicar of St. Katherine's, Kew, who took a great liking to you—you have extraordinary personal magnetism. Unable, however, to do more than pay your way at legitimate manicuring you—"

"That will do," Lilian Rosenberg cried, a faint flow of colour pervading her cheeks. "That will do! Explain the verses."

"As you will!" Kelson said, "but mind, I don't insist on the necessity of your paying the slightest heed to my explanation. According to the usual method of interpreting dreams, the valley of flowers is symbolical of innocence and self-restraint—of that path in life with which the goody-goodies say every young lady should be satisfied.

"The hunter is representative of the love of change and excitement; the horse—of self-indulgence. The misty moon means ruin, the metamorphosis into the crawling phantasm—death. Leave the path of virtue, and give way to self-indulgence and a craving for everlasting change and excitement, and a miserable ending will be your mead—and has been the mead of all others who have done the same thing."

"Then the dream is a warning?"

Kelson was about to reply, when the door opened, and Hamar, with an apology for intruding, beckoned to him.

He spoke with him for several moments relative to a matter of some consequence, and then, glancing at Miss Rosenberg, and drawing Kelson still further aside, whispered, "Let me caution you again, Matt. On no account let your soft feelings with regard to the other sex get the better of you. Remember it is imperative for us to do evil not good—to lead our clients into temptation, not out of it. I am doing my best to follow the injunctions of the Unknown, but we must all work in harmony—that is the most vital point in our compact, and you know if we do not keep the compact something frightful will happen to us. I can't impress this fact on you too much. Only yesterday I had to pull you up for giving good advice to a lady. Damn your good advice, give bad—bad advice, I say; anything that will do people harm—no matter whether they are ugly or pretty—and if you are not jolly well careful, pretty girls will be your—and our—undoing. I see you have a pretty girl here now—and from what I can read in her face, she is not a saint. Rub it in to her—rub it into her well—persuade her to be a bigger sinner still. Now I can't wait to say more, I must go."

"I asked you," Lilian Rosenberg said, as Kelson resumed his seat, "if the dream was a warning?"

"No," Kelson said, "I shouldn't take it as such. Despite the rather peculiar form it took, I am inclined to think it isn't a dream with any real significance—but merely a chance dream—a dream compounded of sayings and actions of the past that have come back to you all higgledy-piggledy, as they so often do in dreams. You learned a lot of poetry I suppose when you were at school?"

"Yes, but none like this."

"No, I didn't suppose so, but the mere fact that your mind was at one time used to verses—acquainted with metre and rhythm, would account for the form adopted by your dream. I assure you it was purely chance—and that there is no significance in it! You are on the look out for work, is it not so?"

"I am," Lilian Rosenberg said. "Can you tell me where to go to get it?"

"I am just thinking," Kelson replied, "I believe my partner, Mr. Hamar, wants a secretary. I can't, of course, say whether you would suit him. Do you type?"

"I can type and do shorthand," Lilian Rosenberg replied eagerly, "and I can correspond in German and French."

"And the salary? Would two hundred a year do?"

"Yes," after a slight pause, "I could make it do. I should want one half-day holiday—from one o'clock—every week; and Sundays—and three weeks' holiday in the summer, and one at Christmas, and of course, the usual Bank Holidays."

"I see!" Kelson said thoughtfully; "you want plenty of time for amusement. Well! I will speak about it to Mr. Hamar, and if you leave me your address I will give it him. How nicely you keep your hands."

"I manicure them every day," Lilian Rosenberg said; then looking up at him from under the long lashes which swept her cheeks, she added, "You won't forget to tell Mr. Hamar about me, will you? I am very anxious to get a post. You don't know what it is to be hard up, do you?"

The earnest, pleading expression in her long, dark eyes appealed to Kelson as nothing else had ever appealed to him. Since his arrival in London, he had seen many pretty faces, many beautiful eyes, but assuredly none so lovely as these. And what features! what teeth! what lips! what a chin! what a figure! It seemed to him that she was not like an ordinary girl, that she was not of the same composition as any of the girls he had ever met; that she was something hardly human—something elfish, something generated by the beautiful English woods and glades, filled with the soft glamour of the moon and stars. And all the while he was thinking thus, his heart rising in rebellion against the words of Hamar, the girl continued gazing up at him, and toying with the rings on her slender, milk-white fingers.

At last he dare look at her no longer, but stammering out his promise to do all he could to get her the vacant post, he pressed her hand gently, and bade her good morning.

Then he returned to his chair, and, leaning back in it, was seeing once again in his mind's eye the fair face of the girl who had just left him, when there was a rap at the door, and the commissionaire announced Miss Martin.

"Another of them," Kelson said to himself. "And about as pretty in her way as the last. Now I wonder what she wants." He looked closely at her, but no past rose up before him—as far as this client was concerned his power of divination in that direction was nil—she was a blank.

"I've come to ask you the meaning of a dream I had last night," she began, inwardly shuddering at the sight of so much pomade and jewellery.

"Yes," he said with an encouraging smile, "what was it?"

Of course she did not tell him all, but merely that she had dreamed of certain flowers and trees as, curiously enough, so had her father.

Kelson looked at her thoughtfully. Once he opened his mouth to speak and then checked himself; and it was some seconds before he actually broke silence.

"Taken separately," he said at last, "the ash tree portends an unexpected visit; a poppy, a visit from a man; red roses, falling in love; lilac, a present; a willow, kisses—heaps of them; bluebells, a proposal; brambles, difficulties in the way—for example, tiresome relatives; buttercups, a marriage; an ash tree, a son and heir—a dear little——"

"Thank you!" Gladys remarked, rising frigidly. Thank you! I will go now. What is your fee?"

"I trust, madam, you are pleased," Kelson said in great distress.

"Will you kindly take your fee and let me out," Gladys demanded, as he nervously placed himself in her way. "Thank you. Good morning!"

And as she swept regally past him and down the stone passage, Hamar came out of his room and passed by her on his way to Kelson's office.

"Ye gods!" he exclaimed, eyeing the discomfited Kelson wrathfully. "What in the world have you done to offend the lady? I never saw any one look so angry in my life. D—n it all! I hope you didn't insult her!"

"It was all your fault!" Kelson wailed. "She asked me to tell her the meaning of a dream which was brimful of warnings against us."

"Against us!"

"Yes, against us! I have never listened to such admonitions in a dream before. She must have some very friendly spirits watching over her. Well! what was I to do? I did my best. Mindful of what you said to me a short time ago, I put her entirely off the track; gave her an entirely misleading—and as I thought very pleasant—interpretation of the dream."

"What did you say?"

Kelson told him.

"Jackass!" Hamar exclaimed. "Jackass! You were far too broad. What pleases a San Francisco girl shocks a London lady. For goodness sake have more tact another time, we don't want to get into hot water. I feel quite convinced that if any harm befalls us—if that compact is in any way broken—it will be through you. I wish to heaven the Unknown had given you some other power."

"So do I," Kelson groaned.

"At all events," Hamar went on, "the first three months is nearly at an end. Who was she?"

"Miss Gladys Martin!"

"Where does she live?"

"I don't know. I could divine nothing about her. She can't have any vices."

"I don't suppose she has," Hamar remarked dryly, "Not from the look of her anyway. But there is time yet. Matt! I've taken a fancy to that girl and I mean to get hold of her somehow. I wonder if she is related to Martin—Davenport's partner! Jerusalem! What sport if she is!"

"Why? Why sport?" Kelson asked.

"Dolt! Don't you see! Martin is at our mercy. We are more than his rivals. We can drive him out of London any moment we like. His tricks indeed! Pshaw! Curtis can do them all right off the reel! And Curtis shall—we will show Martin up—make a laughing stock of him—ruin him! Unless—unless—"

"Unless what?"

"Great Scott! Don't look so alarmed! Unless—supposing that girl is his daughter—unless he gives me permission to pay my addresses to her!"—and Hamar laughed coarsely.



CHAPTER XI

LEON HAMAR CALLS ON THE MARTINS

"Where's Gladys?" John Martin asked as he rose with an effort, stiff and tired, from the remains of a meat tea.

In reply Miss Templeton merely pointed a finger—and went on crocheting.

Following the direction indicated, John Martin stepped out on to the lawn, and glancing round the garden, called "Gladys!" Then he listened, and there came to him snatches of a song, the words of which, full of arch sentiment, allied with (and to a large extent dependent on), a unique knowledge of and love of nature—would not have disgraced a Herrick or a Raleigh—the music—a Schubert, or a Sullivan. John Martin had spared no money in educating Gladys, and she did him credit. He thought so now, as exhausted from a hard day's poring over letters, he paused and leaned his back against a tree. A gentle breeze blew her notes to him, full of melody and mirth; fresh and young and tender—as tender as the rosebuds and violets that nestled at her bosom.

"By Jove!" John Martin murmured. "Fancy my having a daughter like Gladys! I ought to be jolly well pleased. And so I am. The only thing I fear, is, that she'll marry some one who isn't half good enough for her! But who would be good enough for her! God alone knows! And God alone knows whether she or I ought to decide! Gladys!"

"Hulloa!", and the next moment a vision in pink emerged from the bushes.

"Gladys, I want to confide in you!"

"What's wrong, Daddy, dear?" Gladys said, thrusting an arm through his and walking him gently along with her through the glade. "You weren't at all nice to me when we parted this morning, but you look so wearied that I'll be magnanimous and forgive you. What is it?"

"Why it's like this!'" John Martin said, putting his arm round her and holding her close to him, as he used to do when, a little girl, she came sidling up to him for sugar-plums. "Poor Dick's affairs are in a terrible muddle. Unknown to me he speculated right and left, and he has not only muddled through everything he had, but he has left a number of debts, and unfortunately I have to meet them."

"You, Father! But why you?" Gladys cried.

"Because they were incurred in the name of the Firm. I can meet them all right, but it will be a big drain on my resources. That's worry number one. Worry number two is about young Davenport—Shiel. I don't know what to do about him. He was entirely dependent on Dick. His work as an artist doesn't bring him in enough to keep him in tobacco, and the worst of it is he doesn't seem capable of turning his hand to anything else; I can't see him starve, so I shall have to allow him something."

"He seemed to me very intelligent," Gladys observed, "couldn't you take him into the Firm? Who are you going to have in his uncle's place?"

"That's the trouble!" John Martin replied. "I do feel I want some one. I am getting on in years, my brain is not so vigorous as it used to be, and I can't go on inventing fresh tricks ad infinitum. Moreover, I need assistance in the purely business side of the concern. I want some one who is both business-like and inventive—some one young, brilliant and reliable."

"You couldn't sell out I suppose?"

"No, not just at present. Thanks to poor old Dick the Firm is in rather a precarious condition! Another six months over, and we may be perfectly all right. No! I must stick on, and get another partner. And look here, Gladys, you know I let you do pretty nearly everything you like. But let me beg of you not to be too friendly with that young Davenport. I caught him looking very impressibly at you this morning, and I am quite sure, if he sees anything more of you, he will be falling head over ears in love. Which is the very last thing in the world I want!"

"That's making me out to be very attractive, Daddy," Gladys said, looking round at him mischievously.

"And so you are, dear!" John Martin said. "Wonderfully attractive! and none knows it better than yourself. But in this case you must think of consequences—consequences that might be disastrous to us all! Confound it all, who's this? What on earth does he want?"

Gladys gazed in astonishment. A young and very smartly dressed man was advancing towards them with a soft, cat-like tread. He was of medium height and slim build. His head disproportionately large; his right ear standing out, in proof that it had long been used as a pen-rest; his nose pronounced and Semitic in outline; his eyes, big, projecting and yellowish brown; his chin, retreating; his complexion, dark and saturnine.

Gladys shivered. "What a horrible person!" she whispered, "there is something positively uncanny about him. I feel cold all over and how he stares!"

"Yes—what is it?" John Martin demanded. "Do you want to see me?"

"You're Mr. Martin, I reckon!" the stranger replied in the soft drawl, characteristic of California. "I've come to have a little talk with you on business."

"With me—on business!" John Martin cried. "I don't know you! I've never seen you before!"

"You see me now anyway!" the stranger laughed, casting approving eyes at Gladys. "My name's Leon Hamar, and I've come to talk over that show of yours."

"D—n your impudence!" John Martin said, raising his stick threateningly. "How dare you intrude upon me here on such a pretext."

"Calmly, calmly, sir!" Hamar cried, his cheeks paling. "I've come here with every intention of being civil. I am chief partner in the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd., and as conjuring figures prominently in our programme I thought you might prefer to have us as friends rather than rivals."

"I'm sure my father need not fear your rivalry," Gladys broke in, meeting Hamar's admiring gaze stonily.

Hamar bowed.

"If," he said, "you desire a proof of our ability to accomplish what we profess, I will give that proof without delay. With your per—"

"You have no permission from me, sir," John Martin cried fiercely. "Go!"

Hamar merely shrugged his shoulders. "You ought not to get so heated," he said, "considering that exactly twenty feet below where you are standing is a spring. All you have to do is to mark the spot, and sink a well, and there will be no need for you to use the Company's water. As you are probably aware, spring water is a thousand times clearer and purer. Also," he went on, stepping hastily back as John Martin again raised his stick, "in the trunk of that elm over yonder is a hollow about eight feet from the ground, and if you look inside it, you will discover an iron box full of curios and jewellery. Shall I—"

"No!" retorted John Martin. "If you don't go instantly I'll send for the police,"—and Hamar, coming to the conclusion that upon this occasion discretion was better than valour, hurriedly beat a retreat.

"You'll be sorry, John Martin!" he shouted from a safe distance, "and so will Miss Gladys, charming Miss Gladys. But remember you have only yourselves to blame. Ta-ta!", and the next moment he was lost to sight.

"Well!" Gladys ejaculated, "of all the beastly cads I have ever seen he fairly takes the biscuit. What colossal cheek! The idea of his coming here and speaking to us like that! Can't we prosecute him, Father?"

"Hardly!" John Martin replied, "best leave him alone. I wish he hadn't come! He's upset me! My nerves are anyhow! Which was the tree he spoke about?"

"This one," Gladys exclaimed, walking up to an elm, and patting it with her hand, "but you surely don't believe what he said, do you? It was all rubbish from start to finish. Daddy, my dear old Daddy, I do believe you are worrying about it."

"Hold my hat and stick a moment," John Martin said, and making a spring, which for one of his age and weight showed surprising agility, he succeeded in catching hold of one of the nearest lateral branches. The elm being old, the bark had become very gnarled and uneven, and thus the difficulty of ascension lay more in semblance, perhaps, than in reality. Embracing the huge trunk, as closely as possible, with his arms and knees, much to the detriment of his clothes, seizing with his hands some projections, and resting his feet upon others, John Martin, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length wriggled himself into the first great fork, and paused to wipe his forehead.

"Oh, do take care, Father!" Gladys pleaded, "you'll fall and break your neck. Do be sensible and come down now."

But John Martin paid no attention, he went on groping.

"I've found it," he suddenly shouted. "That bounder was right, the trunk is hollow." He was silent then, for some minutes, and Gladys could only see his boots. Then there was a muffled oath, a sound of choking and gasping, which made Gladys's blood run cold, and then—a great cry. "There's something here, something hard and heavy. It's a box, an iron box! Take it from me." And leaning as far down as he dared, he placed in Gladys's outstretched hands, a rusty iron box. Then there was the sound of scraping and tearing, and John Martin gradually lowered himself to the ground—his coat covered with green, and the knees of his trousers ripped to pieces.

Gladys ran indoors for a hammer and chisel, and, the hinges of the box being worn with age and exposure, it was but the work of a few seconds to break it open. It was full of gold and silver coins and jewellery; there were only a few gold pieces, the greater number of the coins were silver—the bulk Georgian—and their dates ranged from 1697 to 1750. The jewellery consisted of several massive gold bracelets, (two or three of very fine workmanship); some dozen or so plain gold rings; two silver watches, and a varied assortment of silver trinkets. All were more or less antique, but none—apart from the gold bracelets—of any great value.

"Well!" John Martin exclaimed, as they concluded their examination of the articles, "what do you make of it?"

"Why that man put them there, of course," Gladys said, "can't you see the whole thing is nothing but a dodge to intimidate you into forming a friendship with him. I daresay he has heard that Mr. Davenport is dead, and thinks he sees an opportunity to be taken into partnership. He had a horrid face—sly and cunning, and his way of looking at me was positively disgusting. It makes me feel sick and horrid even to think of it."

"What shall we do with these things?" John Martin asked, picking up one of the watches and eyeing it with curiosity.

"Are they ours?" Gladys replied.

"I certainly consider we've a right to keep them," her father said, "since we've found them ourselves on our own property, but I suppose, legally, they are treasure trove and ought to be given up."

"Then surely the Government would pay us something for them, wouldn't it?"

"I should think so, at least a decent Government would. Anyhow, I think to give them up will be our best course. I doubt if the whole lot is worth fifty pounds. Where was it he said there was water?"

"Good gracious!" Gladys exclaimed, "you don't mean to say you are going to bother about that now!"

"It was here, I think," John Martin went on, thrusting his stick in the ground, "to the best of my knowledge—and I had experts' advice—there is no water any where near here. Had there been, I should not have gone to the expense of having pipes laid down to feed the pond."

"Oh, Father, how can you be so silly," Gladys cried, "of course there isn't any water here. It's only a trick, a trick to frighten you—and I'm beginning to think it has succeeded."

"I shall try here anyway to-morrow," John Martin said grimly. "Let us go in now."

When Gladys went into the garden on the following morning she beheld an extraordinary sight. Her father, the gardener, and a man whom she did not recognize at first, as his back was turned towards her, but who, to her utter astonishment, proved to be Shiel Davenport, were hard at work, digging a pit.

Her father paused every now and then, and rested; but he did not allow the others a moment's respite. Every time they were about to slack, he urged them on. It was all very well for the gardener who was accustomed to it, but it was obviously killing work for Shiel Davenport, and Gladys—as soon as she had overcome a preliminary outburst of laughter—gave vent to her sympathies.

"What a shame," she exclaimed, "Father how can you? Poor Mr. Davenport looks ready to drop. Take a rest, Mr. Davenport! Do—you have my permission."

Looking very hot and exhausted, Shiel Davenport threw down his spade and attempted to make himself presentable.

"His clothes will be ruined, Father," Gladys said, indignantly.

"They're not his clothes—he's wearing an old suit of mine," John Martin explained, trying to appear unconcerned.

Shiel forced a laugh. "I'm rather out of form, Miss Martin, I haven't had much exercise lately."

"You're getting it now anyway," John Martin chuckled.

"And it's blistered your hands horribly!" Gladys cried, pointing to several raw places. "I will fetch you a pair of father's gloves—he's a brute!"

"Please don't trouble," Shiel exclaimed, "I'll use my handkerchief instead. Digging is even harder work than painting—in one way."

"It's not fit work for you," Gladys replied with another reproachful glance at her father. "When did you arrive, I never heard you?"

"I 'phoned to him last night," John Martin said, looking rather sheepish. "I thought a day out here would do him good. He thought so too, and came on by the seven o'clock train. We've been digging ever since breakfast—but a bit of exercise won't hurt him, and I'll give him plenty of vaseline presently."

They resumed work again; and Gladys retired indoors. At eleven o'clock John Martin let Shiel go. "You can amuse yourself till luncheon with books and papers," he said, "you'll find plenty of them in my study. I'll join you later."

But Shiel had other ideas of amusing himself, and as soon as he had washed and changed back into his own clothes, he followed the sounds of music until he reached the drawing-room.

"I'm sure you must feel dreadfully tired," Gladys said, leaving off playing. "It was too bad of Father to make you work like that."

"I'm afraid your father thinks me a very useless article," Shiel replied, seating himself in an easy chair, and trying his hardest not to look too ardently. "And an artist is not much good outside his profession."

"Who is?" Gladys smiled. "Shall you still go on painting?"

"Now that my uncle has died? It all depends—depends on whether he has been able to leave me anything in his will. From one or two things your father has said I fear he has not—in which case I don't quite know what I shall do. I could hardly expect Mr. Martin to take me into his firm."

"Aren't you any good at invention?" Gladys asked, "I know he wants some one who is—some one who can help him devise fresh tricks. This everlasting racking of the brains to think of something new is beginning to be too much for him."

"I wish I could be of some use," Shiel said, "both for his sake and mine, and may I add yours. Anyhow I'll try. I have a certain amount of imagination—I suppose most artists have, and henceforth I'll devote it to trickery."

"No, not to trickery!" Gladys said, "to conjuring!"

"Well, to conjuring then—to planning something novel and startling in the way of a trick. And as they say, two heads are better than one, perhaps, you will help me."

"I," Gladys laughed, "why I've never invented anything in my life, barring a song."

"Nevertheless I'm sure you would be of great help to me," Shiel said; "you would at least criticize my efforts, wouldn't you?"

"Oh! I should certainly do that," Gladys laughingly rejoined, "and probably do more harm than good."

"You could never do any harm!" Shiel said, with so much eagerness that Gladys got up and began searching for a piece of music. "I would give anything to paint you."

"I have been painted—twice," Gladys observed.

"For the R.A.?"

"Yes! I didn't much care about it, and I grew desperately tired of sitting."

"Who painted you?"

"Heniblow painted me once, and Darker painted me once."

"Then it's useless for me even to think of it. How did they treat you in their pictures?"

"Heniblow painted me in evening dress, and Darker painted me in the character of Enid—you know, the Enid in the 'Idylls of the King.'"

"Yes. But I should like to paint you as 'Melody in Flower Land.'"

"I'm afraid I can't grasp it," Gladys said.

"Can't you!" Shiel exclaimed, "I can. The idea came to me when I heard you singing just now, and saw you sitting here, in the midst of flowers, and dressed like a rose. I should paint you clad as you are now—all in pink—seated in the garden singing; and all the flowers leaning towards you listening. I would give anything to paint it," and he spoke with such enthusiasm that Gladys, remembering her dream, flushed.

"I think," she said, "we might go into the garden and see how the work is progressing."

"I fear I can't do any more digging," Shiel put in hastily, "I willingly would if I could, but I really can't use my hands."

"And you've not had any vaseline," Gladys cried. "I'll get you some," and before he could prevent her she had gone.

She was back again, however, in a few moments with a tiny white jar and some linen bandages. "I couldn't find my aunt," she began, "or she would bandage your hands for you."

"Won't you?" Shiel asked. "Do!"

He thrust his hands towards her as he spoke, and Gladys uttered an exclamation of horror—the palms and fingers were raw and swollen.

"I feel heartily ashamed of myself for being so thin-skinned," Shiel said. But Gladys had disappeared. She returned almost immediately with a bowl of water.

"I'm sure they must hurt you dreadfully," she exclaimed, as she gently bathed the hands. "It makes me feel quite ill to see them."

For the next few moments Shiel was in Paradise. The touch of her cool, white fingers on his hot and burning skin was far nicer than anything he had ever imagined. Her sweet-scented breath stealing gently up his nostrils soothed away all his care—even the remembrance of his recent loss.

With his whole heart and soul concentrated in his gaze, he watched her every movement—watched the waving and tossing of the stray wisps of hair over her temples and ears, as the breeze rustled through the open windows; and the gentle tightening and relaxation of her delicately moulded lips each time she breathed.

Shiel had always led a very solitary existence. Apart from his uncle he had no near relatives, and with the exception of the five or six weeks in the year he had spent at Dick Davenport's house at Sydenham, he had always been in rooms. He had often felt lonely, but never quite so lonely as now—now that the only person he had known intimately and for whom he had entertained any real affection, was suddenly taken away. He was now absolutely alone in the world, and the poignancy of his position came home to him acutely.

It is a terrible thing to be lonely. Lonely men do all sorts of dreadful things—things they would certainly never dream of doing if they had companionship. And Shiel was doing a dreadful thing now. Every moment he was falling more and more desperately in love, despite the fact that he had no money, and worse still—no prospects of ever making any. And loneliness was in the main responsible for it.

Had he not been so lonely—had he not spent days and days, alone in lodgings, with no one to talk to—no one to care whether he were ill or dying; had this not been his experience—the experience he was even then undergoing, reason would have outweighed folly, and even though he might have realized that in Gladys Martin he had found his ideal of beauty—of womanliness, he would have been content only to admire.

As it was, he was in that very dangerous mood when the heart yearns for sympathy; when a plain woman's sympathy means much—and a pretty woman's more than much. It is no exaggeration to say that Shiel would have lain down and died for Gladys ten times over. For her sake—if only to see her smile, no mere physical pain would have been too excruciating for him to bear. And when she put the finishing touches to the bandages, and quite by chance, of course, their eyes met, he looked at her as if he never meant to leave off looking at her, as if he never meant to do anything else but look at her for all eternity.

Whether she understood as much or not, is impossible to say. Shiel asked himself the question over and over again before the day was out, and in his sleep, and during the next day, and for many days afterwards. Could she tell how much he admired her? How much he worshipped her? All that he was prepared to do for her sweet sake? All this he asked himself repeatedly, and went on thinking of her when he knew he ought never to have thought of her at all.

"I'm sure your hands are more comfortable now. Won't you go into the garden and see how the work is progressing?" she said. "Or if you are afraid Father will want you to dig again, perhaps you would like to go into his study and read the papers."

"I should like to stay here and listen to you singing," he said. "Mayn't I do that?"

"You might," she said, "but I have to go out."

"Then I'll stay here till you return," he said, "I've never been in such a delightful room."

"What do you think of Shiel Davenport?" Gladys remarked to her aunt a few minutes later. "I don't think I've ever met such an extraordinary young man. He does nothing but stare at me, and when I ask him to do one thing he suggests doing another. He's the most difficult person to manage. In fact, I can't manage him at all."

"Never mind about managing him, my dear," Miss Templeton replied, "so long as you don't let him manage you. Young men who do nothing but stare are not merely difficult—they are dangerous."



CHAPTER XII

THE GREAT CHALLENGE

When John Martin came into tea that afternoon, he gave Gladys a shock. Despite the fact that he had been in the sun all day and was much tanned in consequence he had never looked—so Gladys thought—so old and haggard.

"You dear old Daddie!" she said, hastening to pour him out some tea, "you shouldn't work so hard—this silly digging has quite knocked you up! Haven't you finished?"

"Yes, I've finished!" John Martin said, catching his breath. "I've found water!"

"Nonsense!"

"It's true all the same. We struck it at exactly the distance he said—twenty feet."

"Then of course he knew."

"How? How the deuce could he have known?"

"I can't say," Gladys replied. "All I know is, that he's not straight, and that there's some underhand trickery going on. But do have your tea now, and dismiss it from your mind. Anyhow, he can do you no harm."

"Here's a letter for you, John," Mrs. Templeton exclaimed, entering the room at that moment.

John Martin took it from her, and tore open the envelope curiously. It was a handwriting he did not know, and did not like—its characteristics were sinister.

"I knew it!" he cried; "I knew the fellow was a scoundrel. What the deuce do you think he has the impertinence to do now?"

"He!" Gladys said, looking anxiously at her father. "Whoever do you mean?"

"Why, that confounded young bounder who came here last night—Leon Hamar he signs himself. In this letter he declares that he can perform any of our tricks, and will accept the wager I offered for their solution some little time ago. He also says that unless I consent to see him, and to listen courteously to what he has to say, he will publicly announce his intention of taking up the wager, at our Hall, in Kingsway, to-night."

"Do you think there is any possibility of his having discovered the secrets of your tricks?" Gladys asked. "Could he have bribed any one to tell him?"

"I don't think so," John Martin said. "The only people who have any clue as to how they are done are my two attendants—both as you know natives of Cashmere, and men who, I feel pretty certain, could not be 'got at.'"

"In that case," Gladys remarked, "I fail to see what there is to worry about. Your course is perfectly clear—take no notice of it."

John Martin was silent—dazed. He did not know what to think or do! There was something painfully ominous to him in the discovery of the money and the water—something that accentuated the impression Hamar's sinister appearance had made on him. The man did not look ordinary—his manner, gestures, walk and expression were decidedly abnormal—in fact they put him in mind of the superphysical. The superphysical! Might not that account for his knowledge? Bah! There was no such thing as the superphysical. The man was extraordinary—but, after all, only a man—his knowledge only that of a man. And it must be as the shrewd Gladys conjectured—he had put the money in the tree himself and had learned of the presence of water through some subtle artifice—perhaps only guessed at it. He would defy him—let him do what he would!

This was John Martin's decision as he finished tea. An hour later he had changed his mind, and was speaking to Hamar on the telephone, expressing his willingness to grant him a brief interview if he came at once.

In rather less than an hour a motor drew up at the Martins' door and Hamar stepped out of it.

"Glad to find you in a more tractable mood, Mr. Martin," he exclaimed on being ushered into the latter's presence. "I reckoned you would sing to a different tune when you found that water. Would you like me to give you a few more samples of my skill, before we proceed to business?"

"Name your business at once," John Martin replied gruffly; "I haven't many minutes to spare."

"No!" Hamar said, "that's a pity; because part of what I have at the back of my brain may take more than a few minutes arranging. The situation in a nutshell is this. You have a pretty daughter, Mr. Martin?"

"How dare you, sir?" John Martin broke in, clenching his fist.

"Gently, gently, Mr. Martin!" Hamar observed, backing towards the door. "Gently—you promised to give me a courteous hearing. I meant no offence. I say I admire your daughter immensely—she takes the shine out of our American girls."

"The deuce she does!" John Martin foamed.

"She does, you bet!" Hamar went on. "And I see no reason if she likes me, why we couldn't get engaged. I would do the thing handsomely as far as money goes. What do you say?"

"I say that unless you're very careful I shall break my promise and kick you."

"I would pay you a big lump sum to take me into partnership," Hamar went on complacently, "and I would introduce a number of new tricks that would stagger creation. I shouldn't be in any hurry to marry—the length of the engagement would be for you to decide."

"Then it would be ad infinitum," John Martin said grimly, "for you'll never get my consent to a marriage."

"Never is a long day—and even a John Martin may change. You want new blood and new capital in your Firm—you would have both in me. I assure you your show would boom as it has never boomed before!"

"And the only condition on which you offer me all this is my daughter?"

"You have said it—that is the one and only condition. Your daughter—my brains, my dollars."

"I have decided!" John Martin said.

"Good!" Hamar exclaimed; "I guessed you would! There's nothing like the almighty dollar, is there?"

"Yes!" John Martin rejoined; "the almighty fist—and that's what you'll get if you don't clear out of this house instantly. And if you ever come skulking round here again, or write me any more letters I'll set my. solicitor on to you."

"Then it's war—war to the knife!" Hamar sneered. "How melodramatic! But it won't last long. I shall yet be your partner—and I shall yet have Miss Gladys! Au revoir—I won't say good-bye!" and with a mock bow he hurriedly took his departure.

That night Messrs. Martin and Davenport's entertainment had progressed as usual for about half an hour when it suddenly came to a full stop. A man in the lowest tier of boxes had risen and was addressing the audience in a loud voice: "Ladies and gentlemen!"

In an instant all heads swung round and there were stentorian shouts of "Silence!"

But Curtis—for it was he—was not easily daunted. "Do you call this fair play!" he demanded; "I am here to-night to make a sporting offer, and one which will afford you vast entertainment."

Cries of "Shut up!" "Silence!" "He's drunk!" "Turn him out!" merging into one loud roar forced him to pause. Several uniformed officials now invaded the box, but Hamar—who, as well as Kelson, was with Curtis—fixing them with his big dark eyes that gleamed eerily in the half-lowered lights of the house—for the stage only at that moment was fully illuminated—held them in check, and they hung back not knowing what to do. This move of Hamar's took with a large section of the audience—some of whom were possessed with sporting instincts, whilst others were merely curious—and the somewhat premature cries of "Turn him out!" etc., were soon lost in vociferous shouts of: "Let them alone!" "Let them speak!" "Let us hear what they have to say." It was in the midst of this hubbub that John Martin in a great state of nervous agitation came to the front of the stage and inquired the cause of the commotion. The shouting still continued, and Gladys, who had come to the performance anticipating something of the sort, called to her father, from the wings, bidding him give Curtis permission to speak.

"You will lose all sympathy if you don't, Father," she added; "and besides you have nothing to fear. It's sheer bravado and impudence on their part."

Thus advised, for Gladys was a level-headed girl, John Martin gave in; and the audience showed their approval by a vigorous round of clapping.

"I wish I were spokesman," Kelson sighed, his eyes glistening at the sight of so many pretty upturned faces. "Go on, old man!" he added, giving Curtis a nudge. "Fire away, and show them you know a bit about elocution, for the credit of the Firm."

Curtis needed no encouragement. What little bashfulness he had once possessed he had certainly left behind in San Francisco, for he leaned over the front of the box and smiled familiarly at the audience.

"I am Edward Curtis," he said, "one of the directors of the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. Messrs. Martin and Davenport have so often boasted that no one outside their firm can perform their tricks that I have come here to-night resolved to disillusion them. I not only accept their offer of ten thousand pounds for the solution of their tricks, but I agree to pay them double that amount—cash down—if I do not do everything they do—from 'The Brass Coffin' to their world-famed 'Pumpkin Puzzle.' With Messrs. Martin and Davenport's permission I will explain one and all of their tricks to you to-night, and the only thing I ask of you, ladies and gentlemen, is to see that I get fair play."

A spontaneous outburst of clapping followed this speech, and as soon as it had ceased one of the audience who had risen and was waiting to speak, said: "I trust Messrs. Martin and Davenport will accept this challenge, and allow the Modern Sorcery Company the opportunity here, in this hall to-night, of displaying their skill—or their ignorance, as the case may be. If Messrs. Martin and Davenport's tricks cannot be performed by any outsider—the Firm in accepting this challenge will merely be twenty thousand pounds the richer—and if—as is hardly likely, Messrs. Martin and Davenport should be outwitted, I am sure they themselves will be amongst the first to congratulate their successful rivals. I, for one, am quite ready to act as referee."

"I too!" shouted a dozen other voices. "Be a sport and accept his bet!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," John Martin replied with dignity, "you have given me no alternative; I accept the challenge. Perhaps those who have so kindly volunteered to act as referees will see that order is maintained whilst I go on with my performance, at the conclusion of which Mr. Curtis—I think that is the name of my rival—will be quite at liberty to try his exposition of my tricks."

The performance then proceeded, and when it was over, Curtis, Hamar and Kelson, accompanied by six of those of the audience who had volunteered to act as referees, stepped on to the stage. Seats were provided for the referees—three on the one side of the stage and three on the other; and having seen that everything was fair and square John Martin retired to the O.P. wing, behind which Gladys was concealed.

A brief description of "The Brass Coffin" trick, which was the first Messrs. Hamar, Curtis and Kelson proceeded to explain, will, perhaps, suffice.

A massively constructed brass-bound coffin is handed round to the audience, who carefully examine it, and being unable to discover anything amiss, pronounce themselves satisfied that it is genuine.

The operator then summons an assistant, jokingly refers to him as "the corpse"—puts him into a sack, made to represent a winding-sheet, securely binds the sack with a piece of cord, and asks one of the audience to seal it. The sack and its contents are then placed in the coffin which is locked and corded. The operator then throws a sheet over the coffin, lets it remain there for a few seconds, and on removing it and opening the lid, the coffin, is found to be empty. A shout from the front of the House makes every one turn round, when, to their amazement, "the corpse" is seen standing up at the back of "the Pit," holding the sack with the rope and seal—intact—in his hand. Such was the marvellous feat which had been accomplished in Martin and Davenport's Hall night in and night out for years, the solution of which no one as yet had been able to discover. One can imagine, in these circumstances, the tremendous excitement of the audience at the prospect of seeing this notorious puzzle tackled—and tackled by a member of a Firm which was already reputed to be doing all kinds of weird and extraordinary things. But, whereas it was quite obvious that John Martin was greatly perturbed (his eyebrows were working nervously, and his lips and fingers twitching), Curtis, on the other hand, was as cool as possible—he literally did not turn a hair.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, turning to the referees, "keep your eyes well skinned and observe everything I do. Ladies and gentlemen," he went on, raising his voice, "I am now about to show you how the coffin trick is done. Observe me—I'm 'the corpse'—Mr. Kelson, here, is the operator—" and Matt Kelson, rather to Hamar's annoyance advanced, down the stage to take part in the proceedings.

"Watch me get into the sack!" He stepped into it as he spoke. "Look at what I have in my hand," he went on, holding up his right hand in full view of the audience. "I have a plug of wood covered with the same material as this sack. As soon as I stoop down and the sack is pulled over me I shall thrust this plug into the mouth of it and Mr. Kelson will bind the sack round it. I shall then be put into the coffin. You think you know this coffin but you don't. See!"—and stepping out of the sack he tapped the head of the coffin, which was very broad and deep. "Come closer!" and he beckoned to the referees, whose numbers were now augmented by three newspaper reporters—representatives of the Daily Snapper, the Planet and the Hooter respectively. "Here is a secret panel worked by a spring. I will press, and you will press too."

And amidst a breathless silence—the nine members of the audience on the stage following every movement—Curtis put his hand inside the head of the coffin and touched a very slight elevation in the wood. In an instant, by a wonderfully neat piece of mechanism, a panel slid back, leaving just sufficient room for a man of moderate dimensions to squeeze through.

Everyone now looked at John Martin—he was leaning back in his chair, breathing hard, his eyes starting out of his head, his cheeks white. Hamar saw him and grinned, grinned malevolently, but the smile died out of his face when he glanced at Gladys—the scorn in the girl's eyes made his blood boil.

"All right, Miss Martin," he muttered between his teeth; "you adopt that attitude now, but you will adopt a very different one later on! I'll win you body and soul, or my name is not what it is."

He was interrupted in this amiable reflection by Curtis. "I'm too stout to play the role of the corpse, and so is Matt," Curtis said to him; "you must undertake that part. Now!" he went on, "take this plug and get into the sack," and he whispered a few instructions in his ear. Then he tied the top of the sack—in reality tying it round the plug Hamar was holding—and one of the audience sealed the knot. Curtis and Kelson then lifted Hamar into the coffin, shut the lid and corded it. Then Curtis, turning to the audience, said:

"What is now happening inside the coffin is this—'the corpse' pulls the plug out of the mouth of the sack from the inside. The cord thus becomes loose and 'the corpse' is able to open the sack. He at once touches the spring I pointed out to you in the head of the coffin, and the panel slides back—So!"

And as the audience looked, they saw the panel slide back, and first of all Hamar's head, and then his body, wriggle through the aperture thus made.

"The reason why you, audience, cannot see him make his escape is this," Curtis explained; "the head of the coffin is always turned away from you and placed against a mirror which you can't see, and which to you appears but the continuation of the stage. In this mirror exactly opposite the head of the coffin is an aperture, and it is through this 'the corpse' makes his exit to the back of the stage. I will show it you. Here it is"—and beckoning to the referees to come quite close, he pointed to a glass screen, in the centre of the base of which was a glass trap-door, corresponding in height and girth to the head of the coffin. "Here, corpse!" Curtis said, "crawl through"—and Hamar, looking as if he by no means appreciated the undignified task of wriggling on his stomach before so many eyes, drew himself as tight together as he could, and squirmed through.

"Does that satisfy you, gentlemen?" Curtis inquired.

"Perfectly!" the referees answered. "Nothing could be plainer. We see exactly, now, how the trick is done."

At this there was a loud outburst of clapping, and Curtis bowed in the elegant manner in which he had been patiently and assiduously coached by Kelson.

He then proceeded to the second trick—"Eve at the Window," a trick almost, if not quite, as famous as "The Brass Coffin," and for the solution of which Martin and Davenport had frequently offered huge sums of money.

A large pane of glass some nine by six feet in area, and set in a frame, made to represent that of a window, is placed on the stage, about eighteen inches from the floor. Thirty-six inches from the ground a wooden shelf is placed against the window. An assistant—usually a woman—then mounts on the shelf and, looking out of the glass, proceeds to kiss her hand vigorously. The operator in a shocked voice asks her to desist. She refuses and, to the amusement of the audience, carries on her pantomimic flirtation more desperately than before. The operator pretends to lose his temper, and snatching up a screen places it at the back of her. He then fires a pistol, pulls aside the screen, and she has vanished. As the top, bottom and sides of the window, all in fact except the very middle, have been in full view of the audience, and as the window has been tightly closed all the time, the disappearance of the girl completely mystifies the audience.

Curtis explained it all. He pointed out that the keynote to the illusion lay behind the wooden shelf, which was so placed as to conceal the fact that the lower part of the window was made double, the bottom of the upper part being concealed from view by a second sheet of silvered glass placed in front of it. The shelf covers the line of junction and enables the window frame to be scrutinized by the audience.

As soon as the screen is put in front of the lady on the shelf—the glass pane slides up about a foot and a half into the top of the frame, purposely made very deep. The bottom of the window is cut away in the middle, leaving an aperture about two feet square, which was previously hidden from view by the double glass at the base. Eve makes her exit through this hole, and slides on to a board placed behind the window in readiness for her. The pane of glass then slides down again, the screen is removed, and the window appears just as solid as before.

When Curtis concluded his verbal explanation he gave the audience a practical illustration of how the thing was done; he manipulated the screen and pistol, whilst Hamar posed as Eve, and directly he had finished there was another outburst of applause. Kelson dared not look at John Martin or Gladys. The brief glance he had taken of them at the conclusion of the giving away of the first trick had shocked him—and he purposely stood with his back to them. With Hamar it was otherwise—the joy of triumph was strong within him, and the picture of John Martin, leaning forward in his chair, with his mouth half open and a dazed, glassy expression in his eyes, only thrilled him with pleasure; he laughed at the old man, and still more at Gladys.

"That's the way to treat a girl of that sort," he whispered to Kelson; "scoff at her—scoff at her well. Let her see you don't care a snap for her—and in the end she'll run after you and haunt you to death."

"I'm not so sure," Kelson said. "It might act in some cases, perhaps, but I don't think you can quite depend on it."

"Pooh! You are no judge of women, in spite of all your experience," Hamar retorted. "I'll bet you anything you like she'll come round and make a tremendous fuss of me."

"Supposing you fall in love with her, how about the compact?" Kelson asked. "You've warned me often enough."

"Oh, but I'm not like you," Hamar replied. "There's nothing soft in my nature. I fall in love! Not much! Why, you might as well have apprehensions of my joining the Salvation Army, or wanting to become a Militant Suffragette—either would be just about as possible. No—! I shall make the girl love me—and we shall be engaged for just as long as I please. If I find some one that attracts me more, I shall throw her aside—if not, maybe, I shall marry her—but in either case there will be no question of love—at least not on my part. She shall do as I want—that is all! Hulloa! Curtis is beginning again."

There were five other tricks on the programme—all of which were world renowned. They were "The Floating Head"; "The Mango Seed"; "The Haunted Bathing-machine," "The Girl with the Five Eyes," and "The Vanishing Bicycle" illusion. As with the first two tricks, so Curtis did with the following five—he explained them, and then, aided by Hamar and Kelson, gave practical demonstrations of their solutions; and so thoroughly and clearly were these solutions demonstrated that the referees asked no questions—they were absolutely satisfied. Turning to the audience—at a sign from Curtis—they announced that the whole of Messrs. Martin and Davenport's tricks had been solved to their entire satisfaction, and that Messrs. Hamar, Curtis and Kelson of the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. had, without doubt, won the wager.

"Have you anything to say?" Curtis asked, addressing John Martin.

"I acknowledge my defeat, though I do not understand it!" John Martin said with very white lips. "I shall pay you the ten thousand pounds to-night."

"Don't worry about that," Hamar interposed; "we don't want to take your money, all we wanted to do was to prove to you we could perform the tricks you believed to be insoluble.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he went on, raising his voice, "the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. has given you some proof to-night of their capabilities in the conjuring line, and if you will give us the pleasure of your company to-morrow night—we invite you all free of charge for the occasion—we will give you a still further demonstration of our powers. May we count upon your patronage?"

A terrific storm of clapping was the reply, and as the audience slowly filed from the hall, John Martin staggered into the wing, reeled past Gladys ere she could catch him, and sank helplessly on to the floor.



CHAPTER XIII

THE MODERN SORCERY COMPANY LTD. GIVE A GRATIS PERFORMANCE

The days that followed were dark days for Gladys. Her father, whom she loved—and, until now, had never realized how much she loved—lay seriously ill. He had had a stroke which, although fortunately slight, must, as the doctor said, be regarded as a prelude to what would happen, unless he was kept very quiet. And to keep him quiet was not an easy thing to do. His mind continually reverted to what had just taken place, and he was for ever asking Gladys to tell him whether anything further had occurred in connection with it, whether there was anything about it in the papers.

Gladys, of course, was obliged to dissemble. She hated anything approaching dissimulation, but on this occasion there was no help for it, and what she told John Martin was the reverse of what she knew to be actually happening. The papers were full to overflowing with accounts of that fatal night's proceedings, and of the marvellous gratis exhibition given on the succeeding evening by the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.

The Hooter, for example, had a full column on the middle page headed in large type—

EXTRAORDINARY SCENE AT MARTIN AND DAVENPORT'S THE GREATEST CONJURING TRICKS IN THE WORLD SOLVED!

Whilst the Daily Snapper, determined to be none the less sensational, began thus:

MYSTERIES NO LONGER! "THE BRASS COFFIN TRICK" AND "EVE AT THE WINDOW" DONE AT LAST! MARTIN AND DAVENPORT LOSE THEIR PRESTIGE

This was bad enough, but the Planet published a paragraph that was even more galling, viz.—

"Now that Messrs. Martin and Davenport's great Illusions have been explained and their Hall in Kingsway, so long famous as the Home of Puzzledom, of necessity shorn of its glamour, one need not be surprised if those who delight in this kind of mystery, should turn elsewhere for their amusement. The British Public, which is above all things enamoured of novelty, will, doubtless, now resort to the Modern Sorcery Company, whose House in Cockspur Street bids fair to become the future home of everything uncanny. Their programme—to the uninitiated—presents possibilities—and impossibilities."

So said the Planet, and as the number of attendances at Martin and Davenports' fell from 820 on the night of the challenge to 89 on the succeeding night, whilst the Modern Sorcery Company's Hall was filled to overflowing, there was every prospect of its prediction being verified. The solution of Martin and Davenports' tricks had taken place (Hamar had so planned it) on the last night the trio possessed the property of divination, and, consequently, on the night that terminated the first stage of their compact. The following night they would be in possession of new powers, such powers as would warrant them giving a gratis exhibition—an exhibition of jugglery absolutely new and unprecedented. That the exhibition was successful may be gathered from the following article in the Daily Cyclone—

"MARVELLOUS DISPLAY OF PSYCHIC PHENOMENA IN COCKSPUR STREET.

"The Modern Sorcery Company Ltd., in their new premises in Cockspur Street, gave the most remarkable display of Phenomena it has ever yet fallen to our lot to report. Indeed, the performances were of such an extraordinary nature that the huge audience, en masse, was scared; not a few people fainted, whilst every now and again were heard screams of terror intermingled with long protracted 'Ohs!'"

A brief resume of the entertainment ran as follows:—The first part of the Modern Sorcery Company's programme was carried out by Mr. Leon Hamar, solus, who, stepping to the front of the stage, announced that he was about to give a display of clairvoyance. Without further prelude he pointed to various members of the audience, and described spiritual presences he saw standing behind them. He did not say he could see a spirit, answering to the name of James or George—or some such equally familiar name—and then proceed to give a description of it, so elastic, that with very little stretching it would undoubtedly have fitted nine out of every ten people one meets with every day, but unlike any other clairvoyants we have known, he described the individual physical and moral traits of the people he professed to see. For example: To a lady sitting in the third row of the stalls, he said: "There is the phantasm of an elderly gentleman standing behind you. He has a vivid scar on his right cheek that looks as if it might have been caused by a sabre cut. He has a grey military moustache, a very marked chin; wears his hair parted in the middle, and has light-blue eyes that are fixed ferociously on the gentleman seated on your left. Do you recognize the person I am describing?"

"I think so," the lady answered in a faint voice.

"I will spare you a description of his person," Hamar went on, "but I should like to remind you that he met with a rather peculiar accident. He was looking over some engineering works in Leeds, when some one pushed him, and he was instantly whipped off the ground by a piece of revolving mechanism and dashed to pieces against the ceiling. Am I right?"

There was no reply—but the sigh, we think, was more significant than words.

Mr. Hamar then turned to a lady in the next row. "I can see behind you," he said, "an old dowager with yellow hair. She wears large emerald drop earrings, black satin skirt, and a heliotrope bodice of which she appears to be somewhat vain. She is coughing terribly. She died of pneumonia, brought about by the excessive zeal of—Ahem!—of her relatives—for the open-air treatment. Contrary to expectations, however, all her money went to a Society in Hanover Square—a Society for the Anti-propagation of Children. I think you know the lady to whom I refer."

Mr. Hamar had again hit the mark.

"Only too well!" came the indignant and spontaneous reply.

Mr. Hamar then turned to a man in the fifth row. "Hulloa!" he exclaimed. "What have we here—an Irish terrier answering to the name of 'Peg.' It is standing upright with its two front paws resting on your knees. It is looking up into your face, and its mouth is open as if anticipating a lump of sugar. From the marks on its body I should say it has been killed by being run over?"

Again Mr. Hamar was correct. "What you say is absolutely true," the gentleman replied; "I had a dog named Peg. I was greatly attached to it, and it was run over in Piccadilly by a motor cyclist. I hate the very sight of a motor bicycle."

After a brief interval of awestruck silence a voice from the gallery called out—

"You are in league with him!"

Then the man in the stalls stood up, and essayed to speak; but his voice was drowned in a perfect tornado of applause. He had no need—he was instantly recognized—he was J—— B——. With a few more examples of clairvoyance Mr. Hamar continued to entertain his audience for half an hour or so, by the end of which time, we have no hesitation in saying that every one was convinced that he actually saw what, he said, he saw.

The second part of the programme was entirely in the hands of Mr. Curtis, who now came forward with a bow. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said; "you all know that man is complex—that he is composed of mind and matter, the material and immaterial. I now propose to give you a physical demonstration of this fact. Will twelve of the audience kindly come up on the stage and sit around me, so that you may feel quite certain that I have here no mechanical devices to assist me?"—And amongst other well-known people who responded to Mr. Curtis's request, were Lord Bayle, Sir Charles Tenningham and the Right Hon. John Blaine, M.P. Having arranged these twelve volunteers in a semi-circle at the back of the stage, Mr. Curtis, standing in the centre of the stage, again addressed his audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said; "the secret of separating the mind—or what Spiritualists, who love to bolster up their pretended knowledge of the other world by the invention of pretentious nomenclature, call the 'ethical ego'—from the body, lies in intense concentration. If you wish to acquire the power, practise concentration—concentrate on being in a certain place. If nothing happens at first, don't be discouraged, but keep on trying, and a time will come when you will suddenly leave your body, in a form, which is the exact counterpart of the body you have left. You will visit the place whereon you are concentrating. Perhaps the best method of practising projection is to put your forehead against a door or wall, and concentrate very hard on being on the other side. It may take weeks before you get a result, but if you persevere, you will eventually succeed in leaving your physical form and passing through the door, or wall, into the space beyond. Now watch me! I shall concentrate on projecting my immaterial body, and of walking in it, three times round my material body."

Mr. Curtis closed his eyes, and for some seconds appeared to be thinking very hard. Then the audience witnessed a remarkable phenomenon—a figure, the exact counterpart of Mr. Curtis, stepped out, as it were, from his body, and slowly walking round it three times, deliberately glided into it, and apparently amalgamated with it. The twelve members from the audience who were within a few feet of the alleged ethereal body, as it walked past them, declared they saw it most vividly, and that feature for feature, detail for detail, it was the exact counterpart of Mr. Curtis, whose material body remained standing, upright and motionless, with its eyes tightly closed. Our representative questioned several of these eye-witnesses very closely, and they were all most emphatic in their belief that what they had seen was a bona-fide case of spiritual projection. At the request of a large part of the audience, Mr. Curtis repeated his demonstration, a further complement of men from the stalls joining those already on the stage to witness the operation.

Several tests were now applied to the ethereal body of Mr. Curtis, as it walked round his material body. One man, clutching at its sleeve, tried to detain it, but his hand passed through the sleeve, and held—nothing. Another man put out an arm to act as a barrier, and the projection, without swerving from its course, passed right through it; and, on the completion of the third round, disappeared as before.

In answer to inquiries, Mr. Curtis stated that the phenomenon might be taken as a good illustration of projections; and that he was prepared to project himself once again, in order to prove that it was erroneous to suppose that phantasms could not do all manner of physical actions. A deal table (upon which stood a tumbler and jug of water), a grandfather clock, and a piano were brought on to the stage, and Mr. Curtis once again projected his spirit form. The latter at once walked to the table, and, taking up the tumbler, filled it with water from the jug; after which it wound up the clock, and, sitting down on a seat in front of the piano, played "Killarney" and "The Star-spangled Banner." And then, amidst the wildest applause—the first time assuredly "a ghost" has ever received public plaudits in recognition of its services—it modestly re-entered its physical home.

Mr. Curtis then announced that not only could he project his ethereal body from his material body in the manner he had already demonstrated, but that with his ethereal body he could amalgamate with inorganic matter. He bade those on the stage approach the table in convenient numbers, i.e. two or three at a time, and listen attentively. He then took his stand on one side of the stage, about fourteen feet from the table; and the audience approaching the table and listening attentively, first of all heard it pulsate as with the throbbings of a heart, and then breathe with the deep and heavy respirations of some one in a sound sleep. The table then raised itself some three or four inches from the ground and moved round the stage; at the conclusion of which feat Mr. Curtis informed the audience that "table-turning"—when not accomplished through the trickery of one of the sitters—was frequently performed by the work of some earth-bound spirit—usually an Elemental—that could amalgamate with any piece of furniture, in precisely the same way as his own projection had amalgamated with the table in front of them. "Elementals," Mr. Curtis continued, "are responsible for many of the foolish and purposeless tricks performed at seances; and for the unintelligible and useless kind of answers the table so often raps out. The best you can hope for, from an Elemental, is amusement—it will never give you any reliable information; nor will it ever do you any good."

With these words Mr. Curtis's share in the entertainment concluded. He retired to the wings, whilst Mr. Kelson stepping forward—begged those several gentlemen who, on Mr. Curtis's exit, had reseated themselves among the audience, once again to step up on to the stage.

"Be good enough," he said addressing them in his most polite manner, "to observe me very closely. I am about to give you a few further examples of what intense mental concentration can do, thus proving to you to what an unlimited extent mind can gain dominion over matter. You all know that will-power can overcome any of the internal physical forces; for instance, when you have tooth or ear ache—you have only to say to yourselves: 'I shan't suffer'—and the suffering ceases. But what you may not know—what you may not have realized, is that will-power can over-rule external forces and principles—as for example—gravity. As a matter of fact, airships and aeroplanes are absolutely superfluous—and the time, money and labour they involve is a prodigious waste. Any man with strong mental capacity can fly without the aid of mechanism. He has only to will himself to be in the air—and he is there. Look!" And to the amazement—the indescribable, unparalleled amazement—of all present, Mr. Kelson knit his brows, as if engaged in intense thought, and, jumping off his feet, remained in the air, at a height of some four feet from the floor.

At his request members of the audience came up to him, and passed their hands under, over and all around him, to make sure there were no wires. He then struck out with his hands and legs after the manner of a swimmer, and moving first of all round the stage, and then over the stalls and pit, gradually ascended higher and higher, till he reached the level of the boxes, to the occupants of which he spoke.