Finally, she got from Curtis everything there was to be got from him, and she laughed immoderately, when he excused himself on the grounds that it was all Leon's doings—Leon had told him to offer her a little compensation for the loss of her escort.

"And you have compensated me more than enough," Lilian Rosenberg said. "Now you shall have your reward," and she kissed him—kissed him three times for luck.

"But you're not going?" he said, staggering to his feet and attempting to hold her. "You're not going till the roshy morning sun shines shaucily in on us."

"Oh, yes, I am," she said. "I've had quite enough of you! Good-bye!"

And before he could prevent her, she had run to the front door and let herself out.



CHAPTER XXVI

IN HYDE PARK AT NIGHT

But now that Lilian Rosenberg was possessed of all this information respecting the trio, she was once again in doubt how to act, or whether to act at all. Supposing she were to attempt to warn Gladys Martin against Hamar, how would Gladys take the warning? Would she pay any attention to it? The odds were she would not; that having set her heart on marrying Hamar for his money, she would blind herself to his faults and resolutely shut her ears to anything said against him. Also there was the very great possibility of Gladys being rude to her—and even the thought of this was more than she could bear to contemplate. If only Shiel were reasonable! If only he could be made to see how utterly ridiculous it was for him to think of winning such a girl as Gladys—Gladys the pretty, dolly-faced, pampered actress, who had never known a single hardship, had always had a well-lined purse, and would never, never marry poverty! Then back to Lilian Rosenberg's mind came her parting with Shiel—she recalled his intense scorn and indignation. A liar! He did not wish to have anything to do with a liar! It's a good thing every man is not so fastidious, she said to herself bitterly, or the population of the world would soon fizz out. She laughed. He had never questioned her morals in any other sense—perhaps, in his innocence or assumed innocence, he had thought them spotless—at all events he had most graciously ignored them. But a liar! A liar—he could not put up with. And why! Because the lie had touched him on a sore point. When lies do not touch a sore point, they, too, are ignored.

She walked to the Imperial and looked again at Gladys's photographs. How any man could fall madly in love with such a face, was more than she could conceive. It was a mincing, maudlin, finicking face—it irritated her intensely. She turned away from it in disgust, yet came back to have another look—and yet another. God knows why! It fascinated her. Finally she left it, fully resolved to let its odious original go to her fate—without a warning. Soon after her return to the Hall in Cockspur Street, she was sent for by Hamar.

"Didn't I tell you," he said, "that you were on no account to encourage Mr. Kelson?"

"You did!" Lilian Rosenberg replied.

"Will you kindly explain, then," Hamar said, "why you have disobeyed my orders?"

"How have I disobeyed them?" Lilian Rosenberg asked.

"How!" Hamar retorted, his cheeks white with passion. "You dare to inquire how! Why, you were on the point of accompanying him to his rooms last night to supper, when I stopped you! I have overlooked your disobedience so many times that I can do so no longer. Your services will not be required by the Firm after to-day fortnight."

"Won't they?" Lilian Rosenberg replied, her anger rising. "I think you are mistaken. I know a great deal too much to make it safe for you to part with me. I know—for instance—all about your Compact with the Unknown!"

"You know nothing," Hamar said, his voice faltering.

"Oh, yes, I do!" Lilian Rosenberg answered. "I know everything. I know how you first got in communication with the Unknown in San Francisco; I know how you receive fresh powers from the Unknown every three months (the old powers being cancelled). I know the penalty you will undergo should the Compact be broken—and—what is more—I know how the Compact can be broken."

"How the deuce have you learned all this?" Hamar stammered.

"Never you mind. Am I to remain in your service or leave?"

"I think," Hamar said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "it is better that you should remain—better for all parties. I owe you some little recompense for your loyalty to the Firm, and for the admirable way you spoke up for the Firm in Court. I will make you out a cheque for a hundred pounds now—and your salary shall be doubled at the end of this week. Promise to keep out of Mr. Kelson's way in future—for the next six months at any rate—after that time you may see him as often as you like—and I will give you as a wedding present a cheque for twenty thousand pounds!"

"Twenty thousand pounds! You are joking!"

"I'm not. I vow and declare I mean it. Is that a bargain?"

"I will certainly think it well over," Lilian Rosenberg said, "and let you know my decision later on."

From what Curtis had told her she knew it was the last day of stage four, that the trio that evening would be initiated into stage five—the Stage of Cures, and a mad desire seized her to witness the initiation. But how would the Unknown manifest itself on this occasion—and to which of the trio? She could not keep a close watch on the three of them. If only she had been friends with Shiel, they might, in some way, have worked it together. Curtis had carefully avoided her since the supper; but she had seen Kelson, and he had looked at her each time he met her as if he yearned to fall down at her feet and worship her. Should she attach herself to him for the evening—and run the risk of another quarrel with Hamar? She dearly loved risks and dangers—and the danger she would encounter in defying Hamar appealed to her sporting nature. It was easy to secure Kelson—one glance from her eyes—and he would have followed her to Timbuctoo.

"Charing Cross—under clock—after show to-night," she whispered as she flew hurriedly past him. "I want to speak to you."

Now it so happened that Hamar had given Kelson orders to return to his rooms, directly the performance was over, and to remain in them till morning, in case he was wanted in connection with the initiation. But he might have spared himself the trouble. It was Lilian, and Lilian only, that Kelson now thought of—it was Lilian, and Lilian only, that he would obey. The idea of meeting her—of having her all to himself—of being able to do her a service—filled him with such uncontrollable delight, that he hardly knew how to comport himself so as not to arouse Hamar's suspicions. Directly the performance was over he sneaked out of the Hall, and pretending not to hear Hamar, who called after him, he jumped into a taxi, and was whirled away to the trysting-place. Lilian Rosenberg, who arrived a moment later, was dressed in a new costume, and Kelson thought her looking smarter and daintier than ever.

"You shall kiss me at once," she said, "if you promise me one thing."

"And what is that?" he asked, looking hungrily at her lips.

"I want you to let me see the Unknown when it comes to you to-night," she said.

"Good God! What do you know about the Unknown!" he exclaimed, his jaws falling, and a look of terror creeping into his eyes.

"A great deal," she laughed, "so much that I want to learn more"—and of what she knew she told him, just as much as she had told Hamar. "And now," she said, "I repeat my promise—you shall have a kiss—think of that—if only you will hide me somewhere so that I can see the Unknown or its emissary."

"I would do anything for a kiss," Kelson said, "but I fear it is impossible to fulfil the condition, because I haven't the remotest idea where or when the Unknown will appear. Besides, it is just as likely to go to Hamar or Curtis as to come to me; and up to the present I haven't felt the remotest suggestion of its favouring me. Is this the only condition I can fulfil, so that you will let me kiss you?"

"Certainly," Lilian Rosenberg replied. "I am not in the habit of being kissed. Such an event can only happen in the most exceptional and privileged circumstances—such, for example, as exist at the present moment, when I ask you to put yourself to some considerable trouble—if not actually to incur danger—in order to accomplish what I wish."

"And yet I remember kissing you unconditionally," Kelson commented.

"Memory is a fickle thing," Lilian Rosenberg replied, "and so is woman. Times have changed. I'll leave you at once, unless you promise to do your very utmost to grant my request."

Kelson promised, and—after they had had supper at the Trocadero, suggested that they should take a stroll in Hyde Park.

"I hope you are not awfully shocked?" he inquired rather anxiously, "but a sudden impulse has come over me to go there. I believe it is the will of the Unknown. Will you come with me?"

"We shan't be able to get in, shall we, it's so late?" Lilian Rosenberg said. "Otherwise I should like to—I'm rather in a mood for adventure."

"They don't shut the gates till twelve," Kelson said, "and it's not that yet."

"Very well, let's go, then. I'm game to go anywhere to see the Unknown," and so saying Lilian rose from the table, and Kelson followed her into the street.

They took a taxi, and alighting at Hyde Park Corner entered the Park. It was very dark and deserted.

"It's nearly closing time," a policeman called out to them rather curtly.

"We are only taking a constitutional," Kelson explained. "We shall be back in five minutes."

They crossed the road to the statue, and were deliberating which direction to take, when they heard a groan.

"It's only some poor devil of a tramp," Kelson said. "The benches are full of them—they stay here all night. We had better, perhaps, turn back."

"Nonsense!" Lilian Rosenberg replied. "I'm not a bit afraid. There's another groan. I'm going to see what's up," and before he could stop her she had disappeared in the darkness. "Here I am," she called; "come, it's some one ill."

Plunging on, in the darkness, Kelson at last found Lilian. She was sitting on a chair under a tree, by the side of a man, who was lying, curled up, on the ground.

"He's had nothing to eat for two days, and has Bright's Disease," Lilian Rosenberg announced. "Can't we do something for him?"

"Two gentlemen told me just now," the man on the ground groaned, "that if I stayed here for a couple of hours—they would pass by again and guarantee to cure me. I reckoned there was no cure for Bright's Disease, when it is chronic, like it is in my case; but they laughed, and said, 'We can—or at least—shall be able to cure anything.'"

"What were the two gentlemen like?" Kelson asked.

"How could I tell?" the man moaned. "I couldn't see their faces any more than I can see yours—but they talked like you. Twang—twang— twang—all through their noses."

"Sounds as if it might be Hamar and Curtis," Kelson remarked.

"That's it!" the man ejaculated. "'Amar. I heard the other fellow call him by that name."

"How long ago is it since they were here?" Kelson asked.

"I can't say, perhaps ten minutes. I've lost count of time and everything else, since I've slept out here. They talked of going to the Serpentine."

"We had better try and find them," Kelson said.

"If you had the money couldn't you get shelter for the night," Lilian Rosenberg said. "It must be awful to lie out here in the cold, feeling ill and hungry."

"I dare say some place would take me in," the man muttered, "only I couldn't walk—at least no distance."

"Well! here's five shillings," Lilian Rosenberg said, "put it somewhere safe—and try and hobble to the gates. If they haven't closed them, you will be all right."

"Five shillings!" the man gasped; "that's—it's no good—I can't count. I've no head now. Thank you, missy! God bless you. I'll get something hot—something to stifle the pain." He struggled on to his knees, and Lilian Rosenberg helped him to rise.

"How could you be so foolish as to touch him," Kelson said, as they started off down a path, they hoped would take them to the Serpentine. "You may depend upon it, he was swarming with vermin—tramps always are."

"Very probably, but I run just as much risk in a 'bus, the twopenny tube, or a cinematograph show. Besides, I can't see a human being helpless without offering help. Listen! there's some one else groaning! The Park is full of groans."

What she said was true—the Park was full of groans. From every direction, borne to them by the gently rustling wind, came the groans of countless suffering outcasts—legions of homeless, starving men and women. Some lay right out in the open on their backs, others under cover of the trees, others again on the seats. They lay everywhere—these shattered, tattered, battered wrecks of humanity—these gangrened exiles from society, to whom no one ever spoke; whom no one ever looked at; whom no one would even own that they had seen; whose lot in life not even a stray cat envied. Here were two of them—a man and a woman tightly hugged in each other's embrace—not for love—but for warmth. Lilian Rosenberg almost fell over them, but they took no notice of her. Every now and then, one of them would emerge from the shelter of the trees, and cross the grass in the direction of the distant, gleaming water, with silent, stealthy tread. Once a tall, gaunt figure, suddenly sprang up and confronted the two adventurers; but the moment Kelson raised his stick, it jabbered something wholly unintelligible, and sped away into the darkness.

"A scene like this makes one doubt the existence of a good God," Lilian Rosenberg said.

"It makes one doubt the existence of anything but Hell," Kelson said. "Compared with all this suffering—the suffering of these thousands of hungry, hopeless wretches—the bulk of whom are doubtless tortured incessantly, with the pains of cancer and tuberculosis, to say nothing of neuralgia and rheumatism—Dante's Inferno and Virgil's Hades pale into insignificance. The devil is kind compared with God."

"I believe you are right," Lilian Rosenberg said, "I never thought the devil was half as bad as he was painted. The Park to-night gives the lie direct to the ethics of all religions, and to the boasted efforts of all governments, churches, chapels, hospitals, police, progress and civilization. There is no misery, I am sure, to vie with it in any pagan land, either now or at any other period in the world's history."

"True," Kelson replied, "and why is it? It is because civilization has killed charity. Giving—in its true sense—if it exists at all—is rarely to be met with—giving in exchange—that is, in order to gain—flourishes everywhere. People will subscribe for the erection of monuments to kings and statesmen, or to well-known and, often, richly-endowed charitable institutes, in exchange for the pleasure of seeing, in the newspapers, a list of the subscribers' names, and themselves included amongst those whom they consider a peg above them socially; or in exchange for votes, or notoriety, they will give liberally to the brutal strikers, or outings for poor."

"I suppose, by the poor, you mean the pampered, ill-mannered and detestably conceited County Council children," Lilian Rosenberg chimed in. "I wouldn't give a farthing to such a miscalled charity, no—not if I were rolling in riches."

"And I think you would be right," Kelson replied. "But for these really poor Park refugees it is a different matter. Obviously, no one will make the slightest effort to work up the public interest on their behalf, simply because they are labelled 'useless.' They belong nowhere—they have no votes—they are too feeble to combine—they are even too feeble to commit an atrocious murder; consequently, for the help they would receive, they could give nothing in return. By the bye, I doubt if they could muster between them a pair of suspenders—a bootlace—a shirt-button, or even a—"

Lilian Rosenberg caught him by the arm. "Stop," she said, "that's enough. Don't get too graphic. What's the matter with that tree?"

They were now close beside the banks of the Serpentine; the moon had broken through its covering of black clouds, and they perceived some twenty yards ahead of them, a tall, isolated lime, that was rocking in a most peculiar manner.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE RIGHT GIRL TO MARRY

Though the wind was nothing more than the usual night breeze of early autumn, the lime-tree was swaying violently to and fro, as if under the influence of a stupendous hurricane. Lilian Rosenberg and Kelson were so fascinated that they stood and watched it in silence. At last it left off swaying and became absolutely motionless. They then noticed, for the first time, that there were three figures standing under its branches, and that one of the figures was a policeman.

"Hide quickly," Kelson whispered, "those two are Hamar and Curtis. Quick, for God's sake—or they will see you."

Lilian Rosenberg hid behind an elm.

"Hulloa!" Kelson called out, advancing to the group.

"Why it's you, Matt!" Curtis cried. "Hamar said you would come!"

"Said I would come! How the deuce did he know?" Kelson exclaimed. "I didn't know myself till the moment before I started."

"I willed you," Hamar explained; "as soon as I got back to my rooms after the Show, a voice said in my ears—I heard it distinctly—'Be at the Serpentine—the south bank—underneath a lime-tree—you will know which—at twelve to-night.' I looked round—there was no one there. Naturally, concluding this was a message from the Unknown I hastened off to Curtis, who was in his digs—and needless to say—eating, and having dragged him away with me in a diabolical temper—I then sought you. Where were you?"

"Taking a walk. I felt I needed it."

"Alone! Are you sure you weren't out with some girl."

"I swear it."

"It seems as if I'm not the only liar!" Lilian Rosenberg said to herself in her place of concealment. "What would Shiel say to that?"

"Humph! I don't know if I ought to believe you," Hamar remarked. "Did you feel me willing you to come here?"

"Rather!" Kelson said. "That is why I came. I seemed to hear your voice say 'To Hyde Park—to Hyde Park—the Serpentine—the Serpentine.'" Then sinking his voice he whispered, "What's up with the policeman, he looks deuced queer?"

"He's in a trance. We found him like this," Hamar said. "He is undoubtedly under the control of the Unknown. I expect it to speak through him every moment. Get ready to take down all he says. I've come prepared," and he handed Kelson and Curtis, each, a pencil and a reporter's notebook.

He had hardly done so, when the policeman—a burly man well over six feet in height, who was standing bolt upright as if at "attention," his limbs absolutely rigid, his eyes wide open and expressionless—began to speak in a soft, lisping voice that the trio at once identified with the voice of the Unknown—the voice of the tree on that eventful night in San Francisco.

"The great secret of medicine—the secret of healing—will now be revealed to you," the voice said. "Pay heed. In cases of tumours and ulcers take a young seringa, lay it for half an hour over the stomach of the afflicted person, then plant it with the mumia, i.e. either the hair, blood, or spittle of the sick person, at midnight. As soon as the seringa begins to rot, the ulcer will heal.

"In phthisis pulmonalis, the mumia of the sick person should be planted with a cutting of the catalpa, after the latter has been subjected for some minutes to the breath of the diseased person. As soon as the cutting shows signs of decay, the sick person will be cured.

"In diabetes, plant the mumia of the patient with a bignonia, and as soon as the latter begins to rot, the diabetes will go.

"In appendicitis, cover the stomach of the sick person with a piece of raw beef, until the sweat enters it. Then give the meat to a cat, and as soon as the latter has eaten it, the patient will recover."

"What becomes of the cat?" Kelson asked.

"The appendicitis is transferred to it," the voice explained. "It should be killed at once.

"In cancer take the sea wrack Torrek Mendrek—a weed of deep mauve colour streaked with white. It must be boiled for three hours in clear spring water (3 ozs. of wrack to half a pint of water), and then let to cool. When quite cold, a dessert-spoon of it should be taken by the sufferer every four hours—and at the end of two days the disease will have completely disappeared. The wrack is to be found at the twenty fathom level, six miles west-south-west of the Scilly Isles.

"In Bright's disease, the mumia of the afflicted should be planted at 1 a.m., with a cutting of sassafras, after the latter has been slept on, for one whole night, by the sufferer. As soon as the sassafras begins to rot, the patient will be cured.

"In dropsy, place a hare, that has been strangled, over the diseased portion of the body, and let it remain there for one hour. Then bury the hare, together with the mumia of the sick person, and as soon as the hare begins to decay, the patient will recover.

"In jaundice and liver diseases (apart from sarcoma), plant the mumia of the afflicted, at 2 a.m., with a cutting of black walnut, and as soon as the latter begins to decay, the sufferer will get well.

"In all skin diseases, the mumia of the patient must be planted, at midnight, with a cutting of hickory, and when the latter begins to rot the disease disappears.

"In all fevers, the mumia must be planted, at 3 a.m., with laurel cuttings, after the latter have been placed under the bed of the patient for one night. As soon as the cuttings show signs of rotting, the fever abates.

"In acute inflammations, diseases of the heart, rheumatism, and lumbago, the mumia must be buried, at midnight, with a raven that has been drowned, and placed on a chair by the left side of the patient for one night. As soon as the raven begins to rot, the patient will be fully restored to health.

"In cases of insanity, hysteria, and nervous diseases the mumia of the sufferer must be planted, at 2 a.m., with a cutting of white poplar, and as soon as the latter shows evidences of decay, the afflicted will get well.

"In cases of hypochondria, and melancholia, the mumia of the sufferer must be planted, at 4 a.m., with a crocus, and as soon as the latter begins to rot, the disease will depart.

"In every case it will be necessary to prelude the performance with the following invocation—

"'Oh most powerful and prescient Unknown, before whom the greatest of the Atlanteans prostrate themselves. That was in the Beginning, that is now and always will be. I conjure thee by the magic symbols of the club-foot, the hand with the fingers clenched, and the bat, in this the magical year of Kefana, to extend to me thy wonderful powers of healing. Rena Vadoola Hipsano Eik Deoo Barrinaz.'"

The lisping voice ceased, and, with a convulsive start, the policeman came to himself.

"Hulloa!" he said, in his natural gruff tones, rubbing his eyes. "I must have 'dropped off.' Who are you? What are you doing in the Park at this time of night?"

"We've been watching you!" Hamar said. "It is a bit of a phenomenon to see a London bobby asleep on his beat."

"And to hear him talking in his sleep too," Curtis added.

"I didn't know I was talking," the policeman muttered. "It all comes of being too many hours on duty. What have you got those note-books out for? Not been taking down anything about me, have you?"

"Show us out of the Park and you'll hear no more about it," Hamar said.

"And we'll give you half a sovereign into the bargain," Kelson chimed in.

"Follow me then," the policeman said. "I'll take you to one of the side entrances."

"Matt!" Hamar exclaimed as they passed the tree behind which Lilian Rosenberg was hiding, "I smell scent—and what is more I recognize it. It is Violette de mer—the scent that—Rosenberg uses! You were with her this evening!"

"I swear I wasn't!" Kelson replied. "I bought some scent in Regent Street this afternoon."

"Humph," Hamar grunted. "I have my doubts."

They walked on in silence till they came to a small iron gate, where the policemen left them, whilst he went to the lodge for the keys; and all the while Kelson was in terror, lest Hamar should catch sight of Lilian Rosenberg, who had kept close behind them, and was now standing, but a few yards away, trying to conceal her identity and escape notice.

But the policeman on his return with the keys called out to her, and Kelson, fearing that she might be either taken in charge for loitering there, in apparently suspicious circumstances, or made to remain in the Park all night—neither of which contingencies he could possibly permit—at once came forward, and explained that she was a friend of his.

The policeman was satisfied. The sight of another half-sovereign had rendered him more than polite, and, without saying a word, he let them all out together.

The moment they were in the street, Hamar turned on Kelson, white with passion.

"So," he said, "I was right after all—liar! fool! You would risk all our lives for a few hours' flirtation with this silly girl."

"If it's only flirtation, Leon, what does it matter?" Curtis interposed. "For goodness' sake shut up wrangling and let's get home. I'm starving."

"I shall have something to say to you to-morrow morning," Hamar remarked, in an undertone, to Lilian Rosenberg.

"And I to you," was the furious reply. "I shall not forget the disrespectful way in which you have just spoken of me, in alluding to the scent."

She signalled to a taxi, and giving Kelson a friendly good-night, jumped into it and was speedily whirled away.

On the whole, the evening had been a disappointment. She had wanted to see the Unknown—the awful thing that had inspired Kelson and his colleagues with such unmitigated horror—and instead she had seen only an obsessed policeman—a cataleptic "copper"—who, had he not spoken in a strangely uncanny voice, would certainly have seemed to her absolutely ordinary.

With regard to Hamar's displeasure, she was not in the slightest degree disturbed. He would never dare say anything to her. And after all that had occurred he would never venture to "sack her." All the same she hated him. There was just sufficient in her conduct to make the name he had called her by applicable—therefore her bitterest wrath and indignation were aroused against him. He had behaved unpardonably. She could kill him for it.

"I'll just show him," she said to herself, "what that uncivil tongue of his can do. He shall see that it can do him infinitely more harm than all Kelson's love-making. For one thing I'll spoil his chances with Gladys Martin; and—I wonder if I could make use of what I know about him, as a means of getting friendly again with Shiel. At all events I'll try."

With this object in view she went round to Shiel's lodgings, and was informed by the landlady that Shiel was ill.

"Nothing serious I hope?" she asked.

"It has been," the landlady replied, "but he is better now. It all came through his not taking proper care of himself."

"May I see him, do you think?" Lilian Rosenberg inquired.

"I don't know," the landlady grumbled. "He's in a very touchy mood—no one can do nothing right for him. But maybe there won't be any harm in your trying," she added, her eyes wandering to the half-crown in Lilian Rosenberg's fingers.

She opened the door somewhat wider, and Lilian Rosenberg entered. Shiel was immensely surprised to see her. Illness and solitude had very considerably subdued him, and though at first he showed some resentment, he speedily softened under her sympathetic solicitation for his health. She put his room straight and dusted the furniture, got tea for him, and when she had completely won him over by these kindly actions, and made him beg her pardon for ever having spoken harshly to her, she broached the subject all the while uppermost in her mind—the subject of Hamar and Gladys.

"He hasn't the slightest intention of marrying her," she said. "All he wants is to make her his mistress, so as to be able to throw her over the moment he gets tired of her, and then marry some one of title. He is tremendously taken with her of course—her physical beauty, which he had the impudence to tell me surpassed that of any other woman he had seen, appeals strongly to his grossly sensual nature. If she won't give in to him now, she will be obliged to do so in six months' time."

"I don't understand you," Shiel said feebly; "why in six months' time?"

Lilian Rosenberg then told him what she knew about the compact.

"So you see," she added, "that if the final stage is reached no woman will be safe—the trio will have any girl they fancy entirely at their mercy."

"How inconceivably awful!" Shiel exclaimed. "Surely there is some way of stopping them."

"There is only one way," Lilian said slowly, "the union between the three must be broken—they must quarrel, and dissolve partnership."

"You may be sure they will take good care not to do that."

"Don't be too sure," Lilian Rosenberg replied. "Matthew Kelson is very fond of me. With a little persuasion he would do anything I asked."

"Then do you think you could bring about a rupture between him and Hamar!" Shiel asked eagerly.

"I might!"

"And you will—you will save Gladys Martin after all!"

Lilian did not reply at once.

"Do you think she is the sort of girl who would marry poverty," she said, evasively, "poverty like this!" and she glanced round the room.

"I won't ask her to!" Shiel exclaimed. "Whilst I have been lying in bed, ill, I have thought of many things—and have come to the conclusion I have no right ever to think of marrying. It is difficult for me to earn enough to keep one person in comfort—and I've lost all hope of ever earning enough to keep two."

"Well, if you don't ask her," Lilian Rosenberg said, "there's one thing, she will never ask you. And I think you are remarkably well out of it. If you do ever marry, marry a girl that has grit—a girl that would be a real 'pal' to you—a girl that would help you to win fame!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

WHOM WILL HE MARRY?

Had Lilian Rosenberg been able to see the effect of her conversation upon Shiel after she had left him, she would have been disappointed. He had, prior to this interview with Lilian Rosenberg, as he told her, made up his mind to abandon all idea of marrying Gladys Martin; and there is a possibility that had her name not been mentioned, had she not been recalled so vividly to his mind, he would have adhered to that resolution—at all events so long as he refrained from seeing her. But such is human nature—or at least man's nature—that directly Lilian Rosenberg had left him, Shiel's love for Gladys burst out with such wild, invigorated force that it swept reason and everything else before it. Gladys! He could think of nothing else! Every detail in her appearance, every word she had spoken, came back to him with exaggerated intensity. Her beauty was sublime. There was no one like her, no one that could inspire him with such a sense of ideality, no one that could lead him on to such dizzy heights of greatness. It was all nonsense to say, as Lilian Rosenberg had said, there were just as many good fish in the sea as had ever come out of it—there was only one Gladys. Hamar should never marry her—he would marry her himself. She must be told at once of Hamar's infamous designs. A mad desire to see her came over him, and disregardful of the doctor's orders that he should remain in bed several more days, he got up, and dressing as fast as his weak condition would allow him, took a taxi and drove to Waterloo.

On reaching the Cottage, at Kew, he found Gladys at home, and to his great joy, alone.

There is nothing that appeals to a woman more than a sick man, and Shiel, in coming to Gladys in his present condition, had unwittingly played a trump card. Had he appeared well and strong she would probably have received him none too cordially—for she was very tired of men just then; but the moment her eyes alighted on his thin cheeks and she saw the dark rings under his eyes, pity conquered. This man at least was not to blame—he was not of the same pattern as other men, he was not like so many men whose adulations had grown fulsome to her, and—he was totally unlike Hamar.

In very sympathetic tones she inquired how he was, and on learning that he had been sufficiently ill to be kept in bed, asked why he had not told her.

"Aunty and I would have called to see you," she said, "and brought you jelly and other nice things. Who waited on you, had you no nurse?"

Fearful lest he should give her the impression he was speaking for effect, or trying to trade on her feelings (Shiel was one of those people who are painfully exact), he told her as simply as he could just how he had been placed.

"But why come here," Gladys demanded, "when you were told to stay in bed till the end of the week. It is frightfully risky."

Shiel then explained to her the purport of his visit.

"Then it was to warn me, to put me on my guard against Hamar, that you disobeyed the doctor's orders," she said.

Shiel nodded. "You are not displeased, are you?" he asked nervously.

"I am displeased with you for thinking so little of yourself," Gladys said, "and more than obliged to you for thinking so much of me. You know I only consented to marry Mr. Hamar to save my father—and you say he no longer has the power to work spells?"

"I believe that to be a fact," Shiel replied.

"Then he lied to me!" Gladys observed. "He threatened that unless I saw him as often as he wished, and went with him wherever he wanted, and a good many more things, he would inflict my father with every conceivable disease. You are quite sure your information is correct?"

"Absolutely!"

"Then, thank God!" Gladys said with a great sigh of relief. "I shall know how to act now."

"You will break off your engagement?" Shiel inquired eagerly.

"No! I can't do that!" Gladys said sadly. "I've promised to marry Mr. Hamar, and, therefore, marry him I must."

"Promises made under such conditions are mere extortions, they don't count."

"I fear they do," Gladys replied. "I've never yet broken my word."

"Then there's no hope for me," Shiel gasped. "I must go—it maddens me to see you the affianced bride of that devil."

He rose to go, but had hardly gained his feet, when his strength utterly failed and he collapsed. Gladys helped him into a chair, and then flew for some brandy. In the hall, she met her aunt, who had just returned from an afternoon call. In a few words she explained what had happened.

"Poor young man," Miss Templeton said. "I thought he looked very ill the last time I saw him. And he came here solely to benefit you! Well, you have a good deal to answer for, and your face is not only your own misfortune, but other people's too. But it will never do for your father to see Mr. Davenport. He went off in a very bad temper this morning, and if he comes back and finds him here, there'll be a scene."

Miss Templeton and Gladys consulted together for some minutes, and then decided to send for a taxi and have Shiel conveyed back to his rooms, Miss Templeton accompanying him.

Miss Templeton knew that Shiel was poor, but like most people who have lived in comfortable surroundings all their lives, she had no idea of what poverty was like—the poverty of a seven-and-sixpenny a week room in a back street; and when she saw it she nearly swooned.

"Why this is a slum!" she ejaculated as the taxi stopped next door to a fried fish shop in a narrow street swarming with children sucking bread and jam, and rolling each other over in the gutters.

"I don't wonder the man is ill here!" she said to herself, as the door of the house they stopped at opened and she snuffed the atmosphere. "The place reeks—and—oh! gracious! is this the landlady?"

Yet the woman was ordinary enough—the type of landlady one sees in all back streets—greasy face, straggling hair, dirty blouse, black hands, bitten fingernails, short skirts, prodigious feet, a grubby child clinging on to her dress and every indication of the speedy arrival of another.

"I suppose you're 'is mother hain't you, mum?" she said, gaping at Miss Templeton's rather fashionable clothes in open-mouthed wonder. "I told 'im 'ee ought not to go out, but 'ee never 'eeds what I says."

Miss Templeton, though not particularly flattered at being taken for Shiel's mother—since, like most ladies of mature age, she wished to be regarded as much younger—nevertheless, thought it better not to disillusion the woman. The poor, she told herself, often have very decided views on propriety. With the woman's aid she got Shiel upstairs, and, as he was too feeble to undress himself, despite his protestations, helped to disrobe him. She had thought, when she first saw the slum, of returning to Kew at once, but she did no such thing. She stayed with Shiel; persuaded the landlady to make him some gruel (which proved to be a sorry mess, but had at least the advantage of being hot), and bribed one of the children to fetch the doctor. Shiel nearly died. Had it not been for the careful nursing and good food provided by Miss Templeton, who visited him every day, he would never have turned the corner.

"The poor boy is terribly fond of you," Miss Templeton said to Gladys. "In his delirium he talked of nothing but saving you from Leon Hamar—from that devil Leon Hamar—and if one can place any reliance at all, on the ravings of a sick man, a devil, Leon Hamar undoubtedly is. What a pity it is Shiel hasn't money."

These remarks were naturally not without effect on Gladys, and she could not help growing more and more interested in the man, whose love for her had proved so deep-rooted and ideal, that he had practically sacrificed his life, in an attempt to serve her. Finally, she found herself awaiting her aunt's daily report of his illness with an anxiety that was almost acute.

In the meanwhile, John Martin came home one evening in a rare state of excitement.

"What do you think!" he exclaimed, throwing a bundle of letters on the table, "one of Dick's speculations has turned out trumps, after all. He had invested several thousands of pounds—in Shiel's name—in enamel-ivorine, the new stuff for stopping teeth, which looks exactly like part of the teeth. I remember I thought it an absurd venture at the time, but for once in a way I was wrong—"

"Ahem!" interrupted Gladys.

"There has been a sudden boom in the patent, every dentist is using it, and, as a consequence, the shares have risen enormously. I've heard from Dick's lawyer to-day that Shiel is now worth fifty thousand pounds!"

"Good heavens!" Miss Templeton ejaculated, "and Gladys has bound herself to Hamar! I suppose," she said afterwards, when John Martin and she were alone together, "that you would not have any objection to Shiel now, if Gladys were free to marry him."

"Certainly not!" John Martin said, "certainly not, I always liked Shiel. A fine manly young fellow, very different to the type one usually meets nowadays. I only wish Gladys were free!"

"You would raise no obstacle to her becoming engaged to Shiel?"

"None whatsoever! But what's the good of talking about an impossibility. Gladys is stubbornness itself—when once she has made up her mind to do a thing, nothing in God's world will make her not do it."

"Wait," Miss Templeton said, "wait and see. I think I can see a possible way out of it."

She had learned much from Shiel in his "wanderings." He had constantly alluded to Hamar, Curtis, Kelson—and Lilian Rosenberg; to the great compact, and to the one possible way of breaking that compact—namely through the instigation of a quarrel between the trio. From several of the statements he had made, Miss Templeton deduced that Kelson was greatly under the influence of Lilian Rosenberg—and it was from these statements that she finally received an inspiration.

Miss Templeton saw deeper than Shiel—it had always been her custom to read between the lines. "Now," she argued, "if Kelson were so easily influenced by Lilian Rosenberg, who was young and attractive, it was almost a sine qua non that he was in love with her," and as marriage was one of the eventualities strictly forbidden to the trio in the compact—"they must neither quarrel nor marry," Shiel had exclaimed—here was their chance. Kelson must marry Lilian Rosenberg, and by so doing, break the compact and overwhelm the trio in some sudden and dire catastrophe. But the marriage must take place within six months' time. How could that be arranged? Could Lilian Rosenberg be bribed or persuaded into it? for of course Miss Templeton being a woman—albeit an old maid—had at once divined that Lilian Rosenberg was in love with Shiel—that she did not care a straw for Kelson, and that to marry the latter she would need some very strong inducement. And the only inducement she could think of was Lilian's genuine love for Shiel.

"Yes, it is upon this one weakness of Lilian's that I must work," she said to herself. "It is the only way I can see of saving Gladys."

Resolved at any rate to experiment upon these lines, she lost no time in seeking out Lilian Rosenberg, who received her very coldly and was distinctly rude.

"What have my affairs to do with you? Who sent you here?" she demanded.

"Humanity!" Miss Templeton replied. "I have come entirely of my own accord to plead the cause of one who is seriously ill—possibly dying!"

"Seriously ill!—possibly dying!" Lilian Rosenberg said incredulously, nevertheless, turning pale. "Mr. Davenport is surely not as bad as all that!"

"When did you see him last?" Miss Templeton asked.

"A fortnight ago," Lilian Rosenberg replied. "I have been inundated with work the past two weeks."

"Then you've not heard that he's had a relapse," Miss Templeton said, "and is now in a most critical condition! He has something on his mind, and the doctor assures me that whilst he is still worrying over that something, there is no chance of his recovery."

"Do you know what it is—the something?" Lilian Rosenberg asked, the white on her cheeks intensifying.

"Yes!" Miss Templeton said slowly, and trying to appear calm. "He is very worried about Miss Martin's engagement to Mr. Hamar."

"And why, pray?"

"Because he knows all about Mr. Hamar—and the compact."

"He has told you?"

"I have gleaned it from what he has said in his delirium."

"Has he been as ill as that?"

"Yes, he has. He had a temperature of a hundred and four the day before yesterday."

For a few moments there was silence. Then Lilian Rosenberg said, "Can you believe what a man says in delirium?"

"In this instance I feel sure you can," Miss Templeton replied.

"Why should Miss Martin's engagement be of such interest to Mr. Davenport?"

Miss Templeton thought for a moment. "Because," she said at last, "he is in love with her."

"Are you sure of it?"

"Absolutely!"

"Do you think she cares for him, even as much as that?" and she snapped her fingers.

"I think she may care for him a very great deal some day—she has begun to care for him already!"

"But she would never dream of marrying any one as badly off as Mr. Davenport. He is practically starving."

"He was—but he's not now. He's come into money." And she explained about the fifty thousand pounds.

"I see!" Lilian Rosenberg said after a prolonged pause, "that accounts for her having just begun to care for him. Supposing there was some one who had been fond of him all along—in the days when he hadn't a halfpenny to his name, and every one else shunned him!"

"I should feel very sorry for that person," Miss Templeton said, "but setting aside the sacrifice of his happiness—it would be wrong for him to marry her if his heart was fixed elsewhere."

"Which you say it is."

"Which I am sure it is!"

"Well, supposing it is—what does it concern me? Why tell me all this?"

"Because it lies in your power to put an end to the Compact and bring about the catastrophe the Unknown threatened."

"I think you credit me with rather too much. I do not quite see how I can accomplish all this?"

"But I do," Miss Templeton said, briskly. "I believe I am right in saying Mr. Kelson is in love with you—that you can make him do pretty well anything you please. Well, all you have to do is to lead him on to propose and insist on his marrying you at once—or at all events before the expiration of the Compact. If you succeed in doing this the Compact will be broken!"

"That may be," Lilian Rosenberg exclaimed, "but where, pray, should I come in? Why on earth should I marry a man I don't care a snap for?"

"Why!" Miss Templeton replied, slowly, "why, because by marrying a man you don't care a snap for, you would save the life of a man—I am quite sure, you care a very great deal for."



CHAPTER XXIX

THE END AND "THE BEYOND"

It took Lilian Rosenberg some time to make up her mind.

"It's extraordinary," she said to herself, "how fond I am of Shiel. I used to think it an impossibility for me to be really fond of anyone.... The question is, however, am I sufficiently in love with him, to give him up to that soft little cat—Gladys Martin! If it weren't for this illness—if I could only persuade myself that he isn't as ill as Miss Whatever-her-name-is—said, I shouldn't think twice—I should let things be—but as I feel sure he is really ill—dangerously ill—and the only chance of his recovery lies in the possibility of his marrying Martin—I must deliberate. Shall I or shall I not? If it were any other woman I shouldn't so much mind—but—Gladys Martin! I can't endure her. There is one hope, however, namely—that if he marries her, he will soon tire of her—and—and come to me. What a tremendous score off her that would be! But, no! I wouldn't do that! Because—because—well there—just like my infernal luck—I love him. Could I marry him, I wonder, even if there were no Gladys Martin? It is doubtful! Yet I believe I could. But what is the good of conceiving impossibilities! There is a Gladys Martin—and—I can never have Shiel. The only question I have to settle is—Shall she have him? Shall I marry Kelson so that Martin can marry Shiel?"

Lilian Rosenberg turned this question over in her mind for a whole day and night, sometimes arriving at one decision, sometimes at another. In the end—very elaborately dressed, and looking daintier than she had ever done in her life, she waylaid Kelson and asked him to have tea with her.

Any pretty face, accentuated by all the allurements of a large mushroom hat and hobble skirt, was enough for Kelson; but when that face belonged to the one girl for whom, above all other girls, he had a colossal weakness, he simply could not feast his eyes enough on it.

"Have tea with you? Of course I will," he said. "But we must be careful. Hamar is about. If you walk on up the Haymarket, I'll follow in a taxi, and pick you up, directly I get to a safe distance."

"I see you are as much in awe of Mr. Hamar as ever," Lilian Rosenberg laughed. "I'm not! I've found him out—he's all talk. But do as you will—get your taxi and I'll walk on—we'll have tea in my new flat."

Kelson was so delighted he hardly knew if he stood on his head or his heels. "You are prettier than ever," he said, as the taxi-door shut and they sped away. "I declare there seems no limit to your beauty."

"Only because you're partial," she said. "I shall grow ugly one day. Perhaps—soon." With a savage energy, she set to work to completely overcome him. With a languishing expression in her eyes—eyes, which she made use of mercilessly, without giving him a moment's respite—she watched his whole being vibrate with love and adoration.

They had hardly entered the drawing-room of her flat when he threw himself at her feet, and poured forth his worship of her in the most extravagant phrases.

"Look here, Mr. Kelson," she said at length, withdrawing the hand it seemed as if he would never leave off kissing, "this is all very well; but I daresay you make love to countless other girls in this same fashion. How can I tell if you are really serious?"

"Don't I look as if I am?" he cried.

"One can never judge correctly by looks," she replied; "they are terribly deceptive. You are very emphatic in your avowals of love, but you say nothing about marriage."

"Then you do care for me! Jerusalem! How happy I should be if only I thought that!"

"Think it, then," Lilian Rosenberg said, "and let us come to an understanding. Can you afford to keep a wife—keep her, as I should expect to be kept—plenty of new dresses, jewelry, theatres, balls, motors, Ascot, Henley, Cowes?"

"I reckon I could do all that," Kelson replied. "I've just over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in the bank, and with this 'cure' business, I'm taking on an average ten thousand per week. I would settle a hundred thousand on you, and make you a handsome allowance—a thousand a week—more if you wanted it."

"Well!" Lilian Rosenberg said after a slight pause, during which Kelson had again seized her hand and was kissing it convulsively, "to quote one of your Americanisms—I reckon I'll fix up with you. On one condition, however."

"And that," Kelson murmured, still kissing her feverishly.

"That we marry a week to-day!"

Kelson dropped her hand as if he had been shot. "We can't!" he cried. "The Compact!"

"Oh, damn the Compact!" Lilian Rosenberg said coolly. "You marry me then—or not at all!"

"You are joking—you know what the Compact means!"

"I know what you think it means. For my own part I don't see that you have the slightest reason to fear. The Unknown cannot really harm you. All you have to do is to turn religious. Anyhow you must risk it—that is to say, if you want me."

"It will lead to a quarrel with Hamar," Kelson said desperately. "The Firm will dissolve—and I shan't get a cent more money."

"I'll be content with what you have in the bank now. We can live on the interest of fifty thousand. The hundred thousand you will, of course, settle on me at once."

He was silent. She taunted him, she ridiculed him; she at last lost her temper with him—whereupon he succumbed. The marriage should take place at a registry office within the week.

"There'll be no time for a trousseau!" he said.

"Oh, hang the trousseau!" she said. "I shall have the hundred thousand pounds. And now for a word of advice. Be sure that you do not let Hamar get any inkling of our approaching marriage, and be most careful to avoid doing anything that might arouse his suspicions. It isn't that I'm afraid of him—but I don't want rows—I'm sick to death of them!"

"You can rely on me to be careful, darling!" Kelson said, kissing her on the lips. "I'll be discretion itself," and so he meant to be. All the same—as is the case with every lover—every lover worthy of the name of lover—who loves with all the full, ripe vigour of genuine passion, his heart played havoc with his head; and he was blind to everything save visions of his beloved. In other circumstances this would not have mattered very much, but with Hamar's lynx eyes continually watching him, it was certain to lead to disaster.

"Ed!" Hamar said to Curtis one day. "Matt's been getting into mischief. I know the symptoms well. He can't look me in the face, and every now and then, when he fancies my attention is attracted elsewhere, I catch him peeping furtively at me as if he were frightened out of his life I should ferret out some secret. It would be deplorable if now that we have got so near the end of the Compact, we should be held up by some idiotic blunder—some nonsensical love affair of his. I wonder whether it's Rosenberg or some other girl. Will you find out?"

"How can I?" Curtis growled. "I'm not his keeper."

"I know that!" Hamar said. "Come be reasonable. You want to be a Croesus—so that you can eat and drink your head off—don't you! Well! You will! You will be one of the three wealthiest men in the world—you will have the world at your feet, if only you stick to me for the next seven months: till we have passed the seventh stage. If you don't—if either you or Matt deliberately quarrel with me, or marry—then, as I've dinned into your ears a thousand times, the Compact will be broken, and—not only that, but some frightful catastrophe will wipe us off. Now will you do what I ask? Come—a dinner with me every night this week, at the Piccadilly—champagne—and no vegetables!"

"All right," Curtis said sulkily, "for the good of the cause I suppose I must, but I hate spying."

Two nights later in a private room at the Piccadilly, after dinner, when the champagne and liqueurs had got into Curtis's head and he was leaning back in his chair, smiling and silly, Hamar suddenly said, "Ed! you remember what I told you—about watching Kelson. Have you discovered anything?"

"Shupposing I have," Curtis replied, "shupposing I haven't—whatch then?"

"Ah, but I know you have," Hamar said, striving to hide his eagerness. "Come, tell me, another liqueur—I'll square it with the Unknown—it won't hurt you!"

"Won't it!" Curtis gurgled. "Wont'ch it! I'll tell you everything. No—nothingsh, I mean."

But Hamar when once he had smelt a rat, was not easily put off. He coaxed, and coaxed, and eventually succeeded.

"Leonsh!" Curtis said, with a sudden burst of drunken confidence. "Leonsh! it's worse than either you or I shuspected. I caught them alone this morning—in my offish."

"Them! Rosenberg and Matt!"

"Yesh, of course, shilly! I told Matt I was going out. He thought I had—so into the room I came—quite unshuspected, unobsherved. She was sitting on hish knees, cuddling—and he was putting a ring on her finger. 'Four more days, darling,' shays he, 'and we are married! Jerushalem! Damn the Compact and damnsh Hamar!' 'Hamar doesn't shuspect, does he?' Rosenberg shays. 'Not a bit—not in the slightest,' old Matt replieshes, 'why it is I who amsh brave now.' Then he kisshes her, and fearing they would detect my presence, I slipsh quietly out."

"Will you swear this is true?" Leon said, his voice trembling with excitement.

"I'll schwear it!" Curtis answered, "but you look crossh. Whatsh the matter, Leon? God! What's the matter!"

An hour later, as Kelson was rising from his chair in front of the fire to gaze, for the hundredth time that evening, into the eyes of Lilian Rosenberg's portrait on the mantelshelf, the door of his room flew open and in staggered Curtis—white, wet and bloated.

"Great heavens!" Kelson cried. "What the deuce have you been doing to yourself? You look a perfect devil!"

"I am one!" Curtis groaned. "I am one, Matt! I've given your show away."

"My show away! Why, what the deuce do you mean?"

In a string of broken sentences Curtis explained what had happened. "I'm damned sorry, Matt, old man," he pleaded. "It was the drink that did it—I didn't know what I was saying till it was too late—till I saw Leon's face—and that cleared my brain—brought me to myself. It was hellish. I remember the moment I mentioned the word marriage—he sprang up from his chair, and as he hurried out, I heard him mutter, 'I'll go to her straight—I'll—' Matt, old man, he meant mischief. I'm certain of it. Come with me to her flat—for God's sake—COME." And catching hold of Kelson, who leaned against the mantelshelf, dazed and stupefied, he dragged him into the street.

To revert to Hamar. Curtis's information had transformed him. He was, now, another creature. Prior to his conversation with Curtis, he had suspected, at the most, that Kelson might be contemplating a secret engagement to Lilian Rosenberg—but a hasty marriage—a marriage in a few days' time—he had never dreamt that Kelson could be as mad as that. It was outrageous! It was abominable! It was sheer wholesale homicide! At all costs the marriage must be stopped. And mad with rage, Hamar dashed out of the hotel, and calling a taxi, drove direct to Lilian Rosenberg's flat.

He found her alone—alone—and with a strange expression in her eyes—an expression he had never noticed in them before. She was in the act of examining a magnificent diamond ring.

"You're quite out of breath," she said coolly, "didn't you come up by the lift?"

"I've come to talk business," Hamar panted. "It's no use looking like that. I know your secret."

"My secret!" Lilian Rosenberg replied, opening her eyes and simulating the greatest unconcern, "what secret? I don't understand."

"Oh, yes, you do!" Hamar said, "you understand only too well—you deceitful minx. Had I only been smart—I should have given you the sack months ago. This marriage of yours with Kelson shall not come off."

"My marriage with Mr. Kelson!" Lilian Rosenberg said, turning a trifle pale. "I really don't know what you are talking about."

"You do!" Hamar shouted, his fury rising. "You do! You know all about it. You were seen sitting on his knee this morning, and all your conversation was overheard. I have found out everything. And I tell you, you shan't marry him."

"I shan't marry him!" Lilian Rosenberg said with provoking coolness. "Whoever thinks I want to marry him?"

"He does—I do!" Hamar shouted—his voice rising to a scream. "You've hoodwinked me long enough—you hoodwink me no longer. You've encouraged him from the first—made eyes at him every time you've seen him—taken advantage of my absence to prowl about the passages to waylay him—had him round to your rooms and visited him in his. You've no sense of shame or honour—you've broken your promises to me—you're a liar!"

"Anything else Mr. Hamar!" Lilian Rosenberg said, her eyes glittering. "When you've quite finished, perhaps—you'll kindly go and leave me in peace."

"Go! Leave you in peace!" Hamar shouted. "Damn you, curse your impertinence! Go! I'll not budge an inch till I wring from you an oath—a solemn binding oath, that you'll break off your engagement with Kelson at once."

"Really, Mr. Hamar!" Lilian Rosenberg said, "I cannot put up with quite so much noise. Will you go, or shall I ring for the porter to turn you out?"

She moved in the direction of the bell as she spoke, but before she could touch it Hamar had intercepted her.

"Stop this foolery!" he said catching hold of her wrist, "I'm in grim earnest—the lives of all three of us are at stake—jeopardized through you—through your infernal greed and selfishness. Do you hear!"

"Please let go my wrist," she said quietly.

"I won't!" he shouted. "I'll squeeze, crush it, break it! Break you, too, unless you swear to break off your marriage!"

"I'll swear nothing," Lilian Rosenberg said faintly. "You're a brute. Let me go or I'll cry for help."

She screamed, but before she could repeat the scream, Hamar had her by the throat—and then blind with passion and before he fully realized what he was about, he had shaken her to and fro—like a terrier shakes a rat—and had dashed her on the floor.

For some minutes he stood rocking with passion, and then, his eyes falling on the inanimate form at his feet, he gave a great gasping cry and bent over it.

"God in Heaven!" he ejaculated, "she's dead! I've killed her!"

He was still bending over her—still feeling her lifeless pulse, still trying to resuscitate her—feebly wondering how he had killed her, feverishly debating the best course to pursue—when Curtis and Kelson burst in on him.

At the sight of Lilian Rosenberg's lifeless body both men started back. "Great God! Hamar!" Curtis gasped. "What have you done to her?"

"Nothing!" Hamar said, turning a ghastly face to them. "I—I found her like this!"

"Liar!" Kelson shouted beside himself with fury. "Liar! We heard her scream. Look at your hands—there's blood on them! You've killed her!"

Before Curtis could stop him he sprang at Hamar, and the next moment both men were rolling on the floor.

"Call for the police, Ed!" Kelson gasped, "the police—or—" But before he could utter another syllable, walls, floor and ceiling shook with loud, devilish laughter. There was then silence—enthralling, impressive, omnipotent silence—the electric light went out—and the room filled with luminous, striped figures.

THE END