"Run, young fellow! Run on and they won't get you! Run!"

And men and women shouted after him encouragingly.

With their cries in his ears, Ansell mended his pace, but his pursuers were fast gaining upon him, and had almost overtaken him when he reached the narrow passage between two high, dark-looking houses, close to the river.

He was now near to the river-bank, and within sight of the Pont des Peupliers, which crosses the Seine to Issy. The two police-agents threw aside their cycles and sped after him, but he was too quick for them, and when they had passed through the passage, they saw him dashing along by the edge of the river.

In his mad haste he stumbled and fell, and his pursuers were instantly upon him. But ere they could reach him he had jumped again to his feet and, levelling his revolver, fired point-blank at them.

The bullet passed them harmlessly, but a group of men on their way to work, attracted by the shot and seeing the thief fleeing from justice, again shouted to him encouragingly, for the police of Paris are not in good odour with the public, as are the police of London.

"Keep on, brave boy!" they shouted. "Go it! Don't give up!" And so on.

The police-cyclists proved, however, to be good runners. They took no heed of the men's jeers. One of their colleagues had been shot; therefore they intended to arrest his assailant, alive or dead.

Indeed, the elder of the two men had drawn his heavy revolver and fired at Ansell in return.

"Coward!" cried the men, reproachfully. "You can't catch the man, so you'd shoot him down. Is that the justice we have in France?"

On went the hunted thief, and after him the two men, heedless of such criticism, for they were used to it.

At last, as they neared the bridge, Ralph Ansell felt himself nearly done. He was out of breath, excited; his face scarlet, his eyes starting out of his head.

He was running along the river-bank, and within an ace of arrest, for the two men had now out-run him.

They were within a dozen feet of his heels, one of them with a heavy, black revolver in his hand.

Should he give up, or should he make still one more dash—liberty or death?

He chose the latter, and ere his pursuers were aware of his intention, he halted on the stone edge of the embankment.

For a second he paused, and laughing back triumphantly at the agents, who had cornered him, he raised his hands above his head and dived into the swiftly flowing stream.

The men who had chased him drew up instantly, and the elder, raising his weapon, fired at the thief's head as it appeared above the water. Three times he fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the head disappear beneath the surface close to the dark shadow of the bridge.

That he had wounded him was plainly evident. Therefore, in satisfaction, the two men stood and watched to see the fugitive rise again.

But they watched in vain.

If he did rise, it was beneath the great bridge, where the dark shadow obscured him, for it was not yet daylight.

Ralph Ansell, alias "The American," and alias half-a-dozen other names, known in criminal circles in Paris, London, and New York, sank in the swift, muddy Seine flood—and disappeared.



CHAPTER XIII.

SISTERS IN SILENCE.

Just before eleven o'clock on the following morning two sisters of the Order of Saint Agnes, one of the religious Orders which devote themselves to nursing the poor, were passing through the Tuileries Gardens, sombre figures in their ample plain, black habits, black head-dresses, and deep, white collars, their hands beneath their gowns and gaze downturned, when one of them chanced to note the frail, pathetic little figure of a woman resting upon one of the seats.

It was Jean Ansell. Worn and weary after hours of aimless wandering, she had entered those gardens so beloved of Parisian bonnes and children, and sunk down upon that seat just within the high railings skirting the busy Rue de Rivoli, and had then burst into bitter tears. Her young heart was broken.

Within sound of the hum of the never-ceasing motor traffic, up and down that fine, straight street of colonnades to the great Place de la Concorde, where the fountains were playing, the stream of everyday life of the Gay City had passed her by. None cared—none, indeed, heed a woman's tears.

Men glanced at her and shrugged their shoulders, and the women who went by only grinned. Her troubles were no concern of theirs. Hatless, with only an old black shawl about her, and with her apron still on, she found herself hungry, homeless, and abandoned. Moreover, she was the wedded wife of a dangerous criminal!

Those who passed her by little dreamed of the strange tragedy that was hers, of the incidents of the past night, of the burglary, the betrayal, the arrest, the flight, and the crowning tragedy. Indeed, she herself sat in ignorance of what had happened to the pair after they had left the house.

She was only wondering whether Ralph had found her note, and whether on reading it, he had experienced any pang of regret.

She was only an encumbrance. He had bluntly told her so.

And as she again burst into tears, for the twentieth time in the half-hour she had rested upon that seat, the two grave-faced sisters noticed her. Then, after discussing her at a distance, they ventured to approach.

She was sitting in blank despair, her elbow upon the arm of the seat, her head bent, her hand upon her brow, her whole frame convulsed by sobs.

"Sister, you are in trouble," exclaimed the elder of the two thin-faced, ascetic-looking women, addressing her as she placed a hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "Can we be of any assistance?"

Poor Jean looked up startled, dazed for the moment. She was amazed at sight of them. Ah, only those who have been adrift in Paris—the bright, laughter-loving, gay city of world-wide fame—know how hard, cruel, and unsympathetic Paris is, how the dazzling shops, the well-dressed crowds, the brilliantly-lit boulevards, the merry cafes, and the clattering restaurants all combine to mock the hungry and weary, the despairing, the penniless.

The girl looked up into the kind, rather sad features framed by the white linen head-dress, and tried to speak. She endeavoured to reply, but so weak was she after a whole day and night without food, that she suddenly fainted.

It was some time before she recovered consciousness, but as soon as she was sufficiently calm she gave them a brief account of what had happened. She said nothing about her husband's latest exploit, but merely told them how she had left him because of his neglect and brutality, combined with the fact that she had made the astounding discovery that he was a thief.

They sat beside her, listening attentively to her story, and expressing the deepest sympathy.

Then, after a quarter of an hour's conversation, the two sisters agreed that they could not leave her there alone, and suggested that she should accompany them to the convent, situated a few kilometres out of Paris, close to Enghien.

So, after taking her to a small restaurant near and giving her some food, they took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and half an hour later entered the big convent of the Order, a grey, inartistic, but spacious place, with large shady gardens at the rear, sloping down to the Lake of Enghien.

In the heavy door was a small grille, and when one of the sisters rang the clanging bell a woman's face peered forth at them with curiosity before admitting them.

Jean, in her weak, nervous state, had visions of long, stone corridors, of ghostly figures in black habits and white caps moving noiselessly, and of a peace and silence entirely strange to her. Inside, no one spoke. Save those conducting her to the rooms of the Mother Superior, all were mute.

On every wall was a crucifix, and at each corner in a small niche stood a statue of the Holy Virgin.

They passed by the fine chapel, and Jean saw the long, stained-glass windows, the rows of empty chairs, and the Roman Catholic altar, the burning candles reflecting upon the burnished gilt, and the arum lilies in the big brass vases on either side.

At last, shown into a large bare room, the walls of which were panelled half-way up—a room bare, austere, and comfortless, with an utter lack of any attempt at decoration—Jean sank into a big leather-covered arm-chair, and one of the sisters took the old black shawl from her shoulders.

A few minutes later there entered an elderly, stately woman, with hard mouth and aquiline nose, yet in whose eyes was a pleasant, sympathetic expression—a woman very calm, very possessed, even austere. She was the Mother Superior.

With her was another sister, also a probationer in the white dress, big apron, and cap with strings, proclaiming her to be a nurse.

The two sisters who had found the poor girl introduced her to the Mother Superior, who at first looked askance at her and whose manner was by no means cordial.

She heard all in silence, gazing coldly at the girl seated in the chair.

Then she questioned her in a hard, unmusical voice.

"You have been brought up in London—eh?"

"Yes, madame. I was a modiste, and my father was a restaurant keeper."

"You speak English?"

"Quite well, madame. I have lived there ten years."

"We have a branch of the sisterhood in England—near Richmond. Perhaps you know it?"

"Yes, madame. I remember my father pointing the convent out to me."

"Ah, you know it!" exclaimed the elder woman. "I was there last year."

Then she reverted to Jean's husband, asking where they were married, and many details concerning their life since that event.

To all the questions Jean replied frankly and openly. All she concealed was the fact that Ralph and Adolphe had committed a burglary on the night when she had taken her departure.

"I could not stand it any longer, madame," she assured the Mother Superior, with hot tears in her big eyes. "He tried to strike me, but his friend prevented him."

"His friend sympathised with you—eh?" remarked the woman, who had had much experience of the wrongs of other women.

"Yes, madame."

"In love with you? Answer me that truthfully!" she asked sternly.

"I—I—I really don't know," was the reply, and a hot flush came to her pale cheeks.

The questioner's lips grew harder.

"But it is plain," she said. "That man was in love with you! Did he ever suggest that you should leave your husband?"

"No—never—never!" she declared very emphatically. "He never made such a suggestion."

"He did not know your intention of leaving your home?"

"No. He knew nothing."

The Mother Superior was silent for a few moments, surveying the pale, despairing little figure in the huge carved chair; then, with a woman's sympathy, she advanced towards her and, placing her hand upon her shoulder, said:

"My child, I believe your story. I feel that it is true. The man who was a criminal deceived you, and you were right to leave him to his own devices, if he refused to listen to your appeal to him to walk in the path of honesty. To such as you our Order extends its protection. Remain here with us, child, and your home in future shall be a home of peace, and your life shall be spent in doing good to others, according to the Divine command."

At her words the three sisters bent to her enthusiastically, calling her by her Christian name; while Jean, on her part, raised the thin, bony hand of the Mother Superior and kissed it in deep gratitude.

From that moment she became a probationer, and joined the peaceful, happy circle who kept their religious observations so rigidly, and who, during the hours of recreation, chattered and made merry together as women will.

In her white dress, linen apron, and flat cap with strings, her first duties were in the linen-room, where she employed her time in sewing, with three other probationers as companions, while each day she attended a class for instruction in first aid in nursing.

Thus the weeks went on until, in the month of November, the Mother Superior came to her one afternoon with the news—not altogether welcome—that as she spoke English so well, it had been arranged that she should be transferred to the branch in London, and that she was to leave in two days' time.

So attached had she become to them all that she burst into tears and appealed to be allowed to remain. The matter, however, had been decided by the Council of the Order, therefore to stay was impossible. The only hope that the Mother Superior held out was that she might come back to Paris at frequent intervals as a visitor.

Long and many were the leave-takings, but at last came the hour of her departure.

Then, with a final farewell to the Mother Superior, she entered the taxi with her small belongings and drove to the Gare du Nord, where, in the black habit of the Order, she took train for London.

The journey by way of Calais and Dover had no novelty for her. She had done it several times before. But on the arrival platform at Charing Cross she saw two sisters of her Order awaiting her, and was quickly welcomed by them.

Then, hailing a taxi, the three drove at once away through Kensington, across Hammersmith Bridge, along Castlenau, across Barnes Common, and at last into Roehampton Lane, that long, narrow thoroughfare which, even to-day, retains a semi-rural aspect, its big, old-fashioned houses surrounded by spacious grounds, and its several institutions which have been built on sites of mansions demolished during the past five years or so.

The Convent of Saint Agnes was a big building, constructed specially by the Order some twenty years ago. Shut off from the dusty, narrow roads by a high, grey wall with a small, arched door as the only entrance, it stood about half-way between the border of Barnes Common and Richmond Park, a place with many little arched windows and a niche with a statue of the Virgin over the door.

Here the Mother Superior—a woman slightly older than the directress in Paris, but with a face rather more pleasant—welcomed her warmly, and before the next day had passed Jean had settled down to her duties—the same as those in Paris, the mending of linen, at which she had become an adept.

In the dull November days, as she sat at the window of the linen-room overlooking the frost-bitten garden with its leafless trees and dead flowers, she fell to wondering how Ralph fared. She wondered how all her friends were at the Maison Collette, and who was now proprietor of her dead father's little restaurant in Oxford Street.

Through the open windows of her little cubicle, in the silence of night, she could see the red glare over London, and could hear the distant roar of the great Metropolis. Oft-times she lay thinking for hours, thinking and wondering what had become of the man she so unwisely loved—the man who had destroyed all her fondest hopes and illusions.

December went on, a new year dawned—a year of new hopes and new resolutions.

She had settled down in her new home, and, among the English sisters, found herself just as happy as she had been at Enghien. No one in the whole sisterhood was more attentive to her instruction, both religious and in nursing, for she was looking forward with hope that by March she would pass from the grade of probationer to that of nurse, and that she would soon go forth upon her errands of mercy among the poor and afflicted.

And so, after the storm and stress of life in the underworld of Paris, Jean Ansell lived in an atmosphere of devotion, of perfect happiness, and blissful peace.



CHAPTER XIV.

JEAN LEARNS THE TRUTH.

Months—months of a quiet, peaceful, uneventful life—went by, and Jean had become even more popular among the English sisters than she had been in Paris.

Though her life had so entirely changed, and she had naught to worry her, not a thought nor a care beyond her religious duties and her nursing, in which she was now growing proficient, she would sometimes sit and think over her brief married life, and become filled by wonder.

Where was her husband? Where, too, was the low-born thief who had taken her part and prevented the blow upon that never-to-be-forgotten night?

Sometimes when she reflected upon it all she sat horrified. And when she recollected how shamefully she had been deceived by the man she so implicitly trusted and so dearly loved, tears would well in her great, big eyes. Sister Gertrude, one of the nurses, a tall, fair woman, who was her most intimate friend, often noticed the redness of her eyes, and guessed the truth.

Seldom, if ever, Jean went out farther than across Barnes Common or into Richmond Park for exercise, and always accompanied by Sister Gertrude, the latter wearing the black habit of the Sisterhood, while Jean herself was in a distinctive garb as a nurse of the Order of Saint Agnes.

Never once in all those months had she been in London. All she saw of it was the red glare upon the night sky. But she was happy enough. London, and especially the neighbourhood of Regent Street, would remind her too vividly of Ralph and of her dear father.

One spring afternoon, while seated at the open window finishing some needlework destined for a poor family living in a back street off the Hammersmith Broadway, she was chatting merrily with Sister Gertrude. Over their needlework the rules allowed them to chatter, and in that barely-furnished little room she and Sister Gertrude enjoyed many a pleasant gossip.

Outside, the garden was gay with daffodils and hyacinths, and the trees were just bursting into bud, the fresh green rendered the brighter by the warm sunshine.

Jean concluded her work at last, placed her needle in the cushion, and removed her thimble.

"At last!" she sighed. "I've been over this a whole week," she added.

"Yes; you've been most patient," declared her friend. "Soon you will abandon needlework and be sent out nursing. I heard the Mother Superior talking about it with Sister Lilian after vespers last night. Now that Sister Hannah has gone back to Paris we are one nurse short, and you are to take her place."

"Am I?" cried Jean, with delight, for she had studied long and diligently in the hope that soon outside work would be given her. She was devoted to nursing, and had made herself proficient in most of the subjects.

"Yes. I believe you will hear something in the course of a few days. But," added Sister Gertrude, "I know another secret. Your friend, the Mother Superior in Paris, is coming here, and ours has been transferred to Antwerp. The change will be announced, I expect, to-morrow."

At this news Jean expressed the greatest satisfaction, for the grave, yet rather hard-faced, directress of the convent at Enghien had been so good and generous that she had become devotedly attached to her. Indeed, to her she owed her life, for in her despondent state on that morning when found in the Tuileries Gardens she had seriously contemplated throwing herself into the Seine.

Jean was therefore loud in praise of the directress from Enghien, and highly delighted at the thought of her coming to take over the direction of the English branch of the Order.

"Here is some paper and string to wrap up your work," Sister Gertrude said at last, handing her an old copy of the Daily Telegraph. "I am taking it with me to Hammersmith this evening."

And then she left the room, promising to return in a few minutes.

Alone, Jean, standing at the window, gazed idly at the newspaper, the date of which was a Monday in the previous October.

It was strictly against the rules of the Order to read any newspaper, but as she turned it over, a column headed "Paris Day by Day" caught her eye. The temptation proved too much, and she scanned it down as she had been in the habit of scanning the paper each evening in the days when she had lived at home.

Suddenly a paragraph caught her eye. Her mouth stood open, her eyes started from their sockets as she read. Then she held her breath, placing her left hand to her breast as though to stay the beating of her heart.

Her countenance was blanched to the lips. The words she read were as follows:

"The daring exploits of the notorious criminal, Ansell, alias 'The American,' and Carlier, alias 'The Eel,' are at an end. Yesterday, in Paris, Carlier was sentenced to seven years' hard labour, and Ansell, it will be remembered, was shot by the police while swimming the Seine, but his body was never recovered."

"Dead!" she gasped, white as death. "Shot down by the police—my husband!"

She staggered, clutching at the small deal work-table for support, or she would have fallen.

"And Adolphe has been sent to prison for seven years!" she went on, speaking to herself in a low mechanical tone. "Was it for the crime committed on that night, I wonder? Were my fears well-grounded, and did my prediction of discovery come true? Ah, if Ralph had but listened to my appeal!" she cried in agony. "But he is dead—dead! Shot by the police—shot down like an animal. Ah, what an ignominious end!"

The newspaper fell from her fingers. The blow had stunned her.

She stood swaying slightly, her white face turned towards the open window, her eyes staring straight before her—silent, motionless, aghast.

Sister Gertrude entered, but so preoccupied was she that she was utterly unconscious of her presence.

"You are unwell, Jean," she said, in her soft, refined voice, for before entering the convent five years ago she had moved in society, being the daughter of a well-known Paris banker. "Tell me, dear, what ails you?"

Jean started, and stared at her in amazement.

"I—I—oh, there is nothing," she faltered. "I don't feel very well—that's all."

The newspaper lay on the floor, where it had fallen from her white, nerveless fingers.

In Jean's face was a hard, haggard look, and Sister Gertrude, a woman of the world, noted it, and wondered what could have affected her in those few moments of her absence.

"Tell me, dear, how you feel? Can I get you anything?" she asked her friend, to whom she was so much attached.

"Nothing, thanks," was her reply, with a great effort. "I shall be quite well soon, I hope."

Sister Gertrude advanced towards her, and, placing her hand upon the girl's shoulder tenderly, said:

"You will soon be all right again, dear, I hope. But why keep your secret? Why not confide in me?"

"Secret!" she echoed. "It is no secret!"

"Then why not tell me the truth right out? What has upset you?"

Jean clenched her teeth. How could she confess that she was the wife of a notorious thief—a man who had been shot like a dog by the police?

No. Her secret was hers, and it should remain so. Her past from that moment was buried. None, save the Mother Superior at Enghien and the two sisters who had found her in the Tuileries Gardens, knew the truth. And none should now know.

"Really, you are a little too solicitous of my welfare," she laughed, well feigning amusement at the situation. "I am quite well now. Quite well, I assure you."

And picking up the old copy of the newspaper, she resumed the wrapping up of the parcel of underclothing which she had made with her own hands for charitable purposes.

And the big bell having clanged out for tea in the refectory, Jean and Sister Gertrude passed arm-in-arm through the long stone corridor to the big, vaulted hall, where all the inmates of the convent had assembled and the Mother Superior was presiding over the four shining tea-urns at the top table.

But Jean sat silent and thoughtfully sipping her tea, heedless of all about her.

Her mind was full of that terse announcement which she had read, the obituary notice of the notorious thief known in Paris as "The American"—the man whom she loved and who was her husband.

She was thinking, too, of Fil-en-Quatre, the shock-headed, rather uncouth Parisian loafer—the man who had been sentenced to seven years' hard labour. That meant Cayenne, without a doubt—drudgery at Devil's Island, that ill-governed penal settlement established by the Republic of France.

She remembered him. Ah, how often he had sympathised with her! How frequently he had uttered cheering words to her in secret, although he had never once betrayed his friend's real profession, nor had he ever once spoken of the great and fervent affection which he had borne her.

Though he was a thief, a scoundrel of the underworld of Paris, ingenious, unscrupulous, and even dangerous if cornered, he was nevertheless loyal and honest towards his friend, and behaved as a gentleman towards his friend's wife.

Yes, Adolphe Carlier, though a thief, was still a gentleman in the true sense of the word.

The weeks went by, and poor Jean, a widow in secret—for she told no one of what had occurred—was sent forth daily in the poorer districts of London on her mission to the sick, to whom she carried food and delicacies prepared by the kind hands of the sisters.

The slums she visited in Clerkenwell and other places often reminded her of those last few days of her married life, those days before she parted for ever from "Le Costaud." Where men feared to venture, and where no police-constable cared to go alone, she went without fear, down into the deepest depths of the unknown underworld of London, and through months she worked hard each day amid the most sordid and poverty-stricken surroundings, returning each night to the convent fagged and hungry. But now that she knew the bitter truth, her whole life was devoted to her work of mercy and to her religious duties. Her sweetness of disposition, her calm patience, her soft voice, and her cheerful manner all endeared her to those whom she tended with such unremitting care.

Thus she passed the long summer days in the stifling slums of London.

So devoted was she, and so hard did she work, that at last a serious illness was threatened, in consequence of which she was sent by the Mother Superior to the West of England branch of the Order, who had a small convent at Babbacombe, near Torquay, and in the latter town, in better air, she continued her labours.

Not far from the convent, on the road leading to Newton Abbot, was the ivy-covered lodge and great, handsome gates of ornamental iron leading to Bracondale Park, the seat of the Right Honourable the Earl of Bracondale, K.G.

The park, a spacious domain with great oaks and elms, was situated high up, overlooking the English Channel, and away in the distance the long, rather low-built mansion with a square, castellated turret at the western end. The fine domain of the Bracondales, one of the most ancient families in England, extended over many thousands of fertile acres in Devon, besides which the Earl possessed a deer forest near Grantown, in the Highlands; a pretty winter villa at Beaulieu, close to Nice; the old-fashioned town house in Belgrave Square, and a pretty seaside villa in the new and fashionable little resort, Saint-Addresse, near Havre.

But, as His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the Earl of Bracondale had but little time in which to enjoy his beautiful residences. True, he spent a few weeks on the Riviera in winter, shot once or twice over the Bracondale coverts in the season, and spent an annual fortnight up at the shooting lodge in Scotland; but he was usually to be found either at Downing Street or down at Bracondale immersed and absorbed by the affairs of State.

His one hobby was motoring, and he frequently drove his own car—a big six-cylinder open one. Years ago, on the introduction of the motor-car, he had been a young man, and had quickly become an enthusiast. He had motored ever since the early days, and was still an expert driver. Once he had held a world's distance record, and nowadays, even with the heavy responsibilities upon him, he was never so happy as in overcoat and cap at the steering-wheel. And in this recreation he found a very beneficial change after so many hours of studying complicated reports and worrying despatches from the Embassies abroad.

One summer's night he had been addressing a big political meeting at Plymouth, and at ten o'clock he turned out of the garage of the Royal Hotel, and alone drove through the brilliant, starlit night back to Babbacombe. Usually when he went out at night he took Budron, the head chauffeur, with him. But on this occasion he had left the man in London, superintending some repairs to one of the other cars. Hence he put on a cigar, and, alone, drove leisurely along the rather narrow, winding high road which leads from Plymouth through Plympton and Ivybridge.

The distance was twenty-five miles or so, and he travelled swiftly during the last portion of it.

It was nearly half-past eleven when he passed through Torquay, then silent and deserted, and ascending the hill, was quickly on the Babbacombe road.

Suddenly, however, when within half a mile of his own lodge gates, at a sharp bend in the narrow road along the cliffs, he found himself facing a heavy wagon, the driver of which was asleep.

There was the crash of a heavy impact, a shattering of glass, a rearing of horses, and next second his lordship, shot out of his seat, was lying on the other side of a low hedge, doubled up and quite still, while the car itself was overturned and completely wrecked.



CHAPTER XV.

HIS LORDSHIP'S VISITOR.

The two doctors, summoned by telephone from Torquay, stood beside Lord Bracondale's bed, and after careful examination and long consultation, grew very grave.

His lordship had been carried unconscious to the park and upstairs into his own tastefully-furnished room, where he still remained motionless and senseless, though two hours had now passed.

In addition to severe contusions, his shoulder was badly dislocated, and it was also feared that he had suffered severe internal injury through being thrown against the steering-pillar of the car. The examination had occupied a long time, and the greatest consternation had been caused in the big household, the servants going about pale and scared.

Dr. Wright-Gilson, the elder of the two medical practitioners, a rather bent, grey-bearded man, addressing his colleague, said, after a long discussion:

"I really think that Morrison should see him. If I telephoned to him at Cavendish Square he could be down here by ten o'clock to-morrow. We could then have a consultation, and decide whether to operate or not."

To this the younger man agreed; therefore Wright-Gilson went into the library with Jenner, the stout, white-headed old butler, and, using the private telephone to Downing Street, which stood upon the big, littered writing-table, he was quickly put on to the house of Sir Evered Morrison, the great surgeon.

The specialist, who was asleep, answered the telephone at his bedside, and, hearing of the accident, promised he would catch the next train from Paddington. Then he rose, dressed hurriedly, and left by the newspaper-train.

At eleven o'clock the next morning—by which hour the world knew of his lordship's accident—the great specialist had made his examination and was seated in the library with the two Torquay doctors.

"No," said Sir Evered, a tall, thin, clean-shaven man, who was a personal friend of Lord Bracondale's. "In my opinion an operation is not advisable. The case is a serious one, and full of grave danger. But I do not think we need despair. I'll remain here, and by this evening I shall hope to see consciousness restored." Then he added: "By the way, are there any good nurses in Torquay?"

"The Convent of Saint Agnes is quite close. They are a Nursing Order, as you know," replied Dr. Wright-Gilson.

"Yes, and usually most excellent. We had better send for the Mother Superior and get her to give us two trustworthy nurses. Having myself had experience of them, I have always found them most painstaking, and in every way excellent."

"That is also my own experience, Sir Evered. Several of my patients have employed them with great success."

"Very well; we will have them." And Jenner was at once called and sent with a note from the great surgeon to the Mother Superior.

Twenty minutes later the grave-faced directress, who wore her black habit and wide, white collar, and spoke with a very pronounced French accent, arrived, accompanied by Jean and Sister Gertrude, whom she introduced to the three medical men standing in the library.

And very soon afterwards Jean found herself installed in the big, handsome bedroom beside the unconscious Cabinet Minister.

The white, inanimate face lay upon the pillow with the pallor of death upon it, the sheet edged with broad lace having been turned down and carefully arranged by the head housemaid.

Many and precise were the instructions which Sister Gertrude and Jean received from the great surgeon, who first explained to them the injuries from which his distinguished patient was suffering, and the nature of the treatment he intended to adopt.

The Honourable John Charlton, his lordship's private secretary, arrived post-haste from London at midday, and took over many of the confidential papers and other documents which were lying about upon the library table.

He was anxious for the Earl to recover consciousness in order to obtain instructions concerning the attitude to be adopted towards Austria, regarding whom a ticklish point of policy had on the previous evening arisen. The political horizon of Europe changes from hour to hour.

Our Ambassador in Vienna had wired in cipher urgently requesting a response, and this only the Foreign Minister himself could give.

But the doctors would not allow him to be disturbed.

A warm, anxious day went by, and Jean found herself amid surroundings so luxurious and artistic that she gazed about her open-mouthed in wonder.

As a nurse she soon showed her proficiency and her business-like methods—a manner which at once impressed Sir Evered.

But, alas! The Earl of Bracondale still remained unconscious. His pulse was feeble, his heart was just beating; the spark of life was still aglow.

From all quarters of the world, from every one of the Chancelleries of Europe, telegrams of regret arrived. Kings, statesmen, politicians of all grades, and all parties, lawyers, diplomats; in fact, all classes, sent messages, and all day long boys kept continually cycling up the long drive through the park bearing sheaves of orange-coloured envelopes, which were opened one after the other by the Honourable John Charlton.

Not before the following afternoon did consciousness return to the injured man, and then Jean's real work commenced.

His eyes, when they first opened, met her calm, anxious gaze.

He looked at her in astonishment, and then glanced at the other faces of the doctors around.

Sir Evered spoke as he bent over him.

"You know me—eh? Come, you're a lot better now, my dear fellow. Just drink this," and he took a glass from Jean's hand.

The prostrate man swallowed the liquid with an effort. Then, staring about him with an air of astonishment, he said:

"Why—it's you, Evered. You!"

"Yes; I'm here looking after you, and with good nursing you'll soon be quite right again."

His lordship drew a long breath, and for a few moments remained silent. Then he asked, in a low, weak whisper:

"What's happened?"

"Oh, nothing very much. Don't bother about it," was the great specialist's reply. "You were thrown out of your car, that's all. No bones broken."

"Ah! yes," he replied, slowly raising a hand to his brow. "Ah! yes—now I remember. That wagon—right across the road—and no light upon it! Yes—I—I remember!"

"Don't bother. That's enough now. Just go to sleep again, my dear fellow," said Sir Evered, soothingly, placing his hand upon his patient's brow. "Don't try and think. Just rest for the present."

And thus advised, his lordship closed his eyes wearily, and was soon asleep.

"Excellent," declared Sir Evered, much gratified when outside the room with the others, leaving Jean alone with the sleeper. "He'll recover—no doubt he will."

And five minutes later he was in the library, speaking over the telephone to the Prime Minister at Downing Street, while that same evening the papers gave the welcome news to the world that there was every hope of the Foreign Minister's restoration to health.

The three medical men had strapped up the injured shoulder and applied various remedies, therefore the patient that night was in no pain, though Sister Gertrude took Jean's place at ten o'clock and sat by his bedside all night, receiving hourly visits from the doctors.

Bracondale Park was a house of breathless anxiety through the days which followed. Sir Evered, though his presence was required hourly in London—as is the presence of such a great surgeon—remained at the bedside of his friend. They had been at Cambridge together, and ever since their undergraduate days had been intimate chums.

His lordship's illness proved of longer duration than was at first anticipated. Sir Evered remained at Bracondale a whole week, and then, finding that his patient was progressing favourably, returned to London, leaving the case in the hands of Dr. Wright-Gilson and Dr. Noel Tanner, while Sister Gertrude and Jean did the nursing.

Life at Bracondale Jean found extremely pleasant. The great house, with its luxuriously-furnished rooms, its fine picture-gallery, where, often, in her hours of recreation, she wandered; the big winter-garden with palms and exotic flowers, the conservatories, the huge ballroom—wherein long ago the minuet had been danced by high-born dames in wigs and patches—the fine suites of rooms with gilded cornices—all were, to her, full of interest.

The great house was built by the second Earl of Bracondale, who was the famous Chancellor of the Exchequer in the reign of Charles I., and ever since the Bracondales had borne their part in the government of England.

The room allotted to Jean was a visitor's room—a large, old-fashioned sitting-room, with a bed in one corner screened off; a room the long, leaded windows of which afforded beautiful views across the extensive, well-wooded park to the blue sea beyond. It was a place with a quiet, old-world atmosphere—a room that had never been changed for a century past. The old chintzes were of the days of our grandmothers, while the Chippendale chairs and tables would have fetched hundreds of pounds if put up at Christie's.

The elderly housekeeper, in her black silk cap, did all she could to make her comfortable, and treated her with the greatest consideration and respect—more so, perhaps, than she did Sister Gertrude, who, of course, wore the habit of the Order, while Jean still wore her French nurse's uniform.

Old Jenner, on the other hand, looked upon "them dressed-up Sisters o' Mercy," as he termed them in the servants' hall, as interlopers, and was often sarcastic at their expense. As an old servant of the family, he felt jealous that they should wait upon his master while his presence was not permitted in the sick-room.

All his life he had been used to wait upon "his young lordship," and he was annoyed that he was not allowed to do so at that critical hour.

As soon as the injured man was sufficiently well to talk and to recognise that he was being tended by sisters from the neighbouring convent, he treated both with the greatest consideration. A car was placed at their disposal every afternoon so that they might take an airing, while the whole house was thrown open to them to wander where they liked.

The library, however, was Jean's favourite room. It was a big, sombre, restful place, with high windows of stained glass, a great carved overmantel, and electric lights set in the ancient oaken ceiling. Lined from ceiling to floor with books, and with several tables set about the rich Turkey carpet, it was a cosy, restful place, where one could lounge in a big arm-chair and dream.

Jean's duties in the sick-room were never irksome. The pair took it in turns to sit with the patient every other night, and it was only then that the hours in the green-shaded night-light seemed never ending. By day she found Bracondale always interesting and frequently amusing.

After he had been in bed a fortnight the doctors allowed him to see visitors, and several distinguished men called and were admitted by Jean. These included the Prime Minister, politicians, and magnates of commerce. And there were some mysterious visitors also, including a Mr. Darnborough, who called one afternoon, being shown up by Jenner.

Jean, in surprise, found the butler and the visitor outside the door, whereupon Jenner explained:

"This is Mr. Darnborough, nurse, a very great friend of his lordship. He must see him alone, as they have confidential business to transact."

"Thank you, Jenner," replied Jean, rather stiffly. "If his lordship wishes to see Mr. Darnborough alone he will probably tell me so."

And, surveying the visitor with some suspicion, she ushered him to the sick man's side.

"Ah! my dear Darnborough!" cried his lordship, gaily, as soon as he recognised him. "I'm very glad to see you. I heard that you were in Cairo a week ago. Well, how are things in Egypt?"

"Just as full of trouble as ever," was the reply; "but——" and he glanced inquiringly at Jean.

"Oh, yes, I forgot," exclaimed the Earl. "Nurse Jean, might I ask the favour that you leave Mr. Darnborough to talk with me alone for half an hour? I shall be all right—and my medicine is not due until five o'clock."

Jean smiled at the pair.

"Certainly; I will come back when it is time for your lordship to have the next dose," she answered.

And with that she passed noiselessly out of the room, the Earl's dark eyes following her.

The door having closed, the pair were left alone. Then the Earl lay listening attentively to the all-important secret report which Darnborough had travelled down there to make.



CHAPTER XVI.

JEAN HAS A SURPRISE.

Jean, thus dismissed, descended to the library, where, across the dark crimson carpet, the last rays of the gorgeous sunset slanted in through the high windows in which were set the armorial bearings of the dead-and-gone Bracondales in stained-glass escutcheons.

She crossed the great sombre apartment and stood gazing through the diamond panes away over the level green of the broad park to where the sea lay bathed in the golden light of the dying day.

Her eyes were fixed vacantly into space. She was thinking—thinking again of that fateful paragraph in the paper—the unexpected news which had rendered her a widow. And poor Adolphe? Alas! though he had been her only friend and full of sympathy for her, yet he was now wearing out his days in penal servitude at the dreaded Devil's Island.

She thought of him often with feelings of pity. Though a criminal of a criminal stock, ill-bred, and with scarcely any education, yet he had behaved to her as few men had behaved. He had always held her in high esteem and respect. Even as she stood there she could hear his high-pitched voice addressing her as "Madame."

Upstairs, by the bedside of the sick Cabinet Minister, the thin, grey-faced man, "the eyes and ears of the Cabinet," was making a secret report to his lordship.

Though the Earl of Bracondale, K.G., was His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, yet Darnborough, the ever-astute, sleepless man of secrets, was the keeper of Great Britain's prestige abroad. Though his name never appeared on the roll of Government servants, and did not draw any salary as an official, yet he was the only man in England who could demand audience of the Sovereign at any hour by day or by night, or who had the free entree to the Royal residences and could attend any function uninvited.

As a statesman, as a secret agent, as an ingenious plotter in the interests of his country, he was a genius. He was a discovery of the late Lord Salisbury in the last days of the Victorian Era. At that time he had been a Foreign Office clerk, a keen-eyed young man with a lock of black hair hanging loosely across his brow. Lord Salisbury recognised in him a man of genius as a diplomat, and with his usual bluntness called him one day to Hatfield and gave him a very delicate mission abroad.

Darnborough went. He had audience with the Shah of Persia, juggled with that bediamonded potentate, and came back with his draft of a secret treaty directed against Russia's influence safely in his pocket. He had achieved what British Ministers to Teheran for the previous fifteen years had failed to effect. And from that moment Darnborough had been allowed a free hand in international politics.

Lord Rosebery, Lord Lansdowne, and Sir Edward Grey had adopted the same attitude towards him as the great Lord Salisbury. He was the one man who knew the secret policy of Britain's enemies, the man who had so often attended meetings of the Cabinet and warned it of the pitfalls open for the destruction of British prestige.

At that moment the renowned chief of the Secret Service was explaining the latest conspiracy afoot against England, a serious conspiracy hatched in both Berlin and Vienna to embroil our nation in complications in the Far East. Darnborough's agents in both capitals had that morning arrived at Downing Street post-haste and reported upon what was in progress, with the result that their chief had come to place before the Foreign Minister the latest iniquity of diplomatic juggling.

His lordship lay in bed and listened to the man of secrets without uttering a word.

At length he turned his head restlessly on the pillow and, with a weary sigh, remarked:

"Ah! Darnborough, I fear that each day brings us nearer the peril, nearer the day of Germany's attack. The exposure of those confidential reports upon our naval manoeuvres was serious enough to our diplomacy. The policy of the Government is, alas! one of false assurance in our defences. The country has been lulled to sleep far too long. False assurances of our national security have been given over and over again, and upon them the Cabinet have pursued a policy of bluff. But, alas! the days of Palmerston and Salisbury are past. Europe can gauge the extent and strength of our national defence, and, with the navigation of the air, we live no longer upon 'the tight little island' of our revered ancestors."

"Yes," replied the man seated in the chair by the bedside, as he stretched his legs forward and folded his arms. "In all the capitals it is to-day the fashion to laugh at England's greatness, and to speak of us as a declining Power. I hear it everywhere. The Great Powers are in daily expectation of seeing the tail of the British lion badly twisted, and I quite agree that the most unfortunate leakage of a national secret was that report upon the last naval manoeuvres. The bubble of our defensive and offensive power has burst."

"And poor Richard Harborne lost his life," remarked the Earl.

"Yes," replied the other, thoughtfully.

"He was a fine fellow, Darnborough—a very fine young fellow. He came to see me once or twice upon confidential matters. You sent him to Mexico, you'll remember, and he came to report to me personally. I was much struck by his keen foresight and cleverness. Have you gained any further information concerning his mysterious end?"

"I have made a good many inquiries, both at home and abroad, but Harborne seems to have been something of a mystery himself. He was strangely reserved, and something of a recluse in private life—lived in chambers in the Temple when not travelling abroad, and kept himself very much to himself."

"For any reason?"

"None, as far as I can tell. He was a merry, easy-going young fellow, a member of the St. James's, and highly popular among the younger set at the club, but he held aloof from them all he could. As I told you some time ago, there was a lady in the case."

His lordship sighed.

"Ah! Darnborough, the best of men go under for the sake of a woman!"

"In this case I am not sure that Harborne was really a victim," replied his visitor. "Only the other day, when in Borkum, I ascertained that Harborne had been in Germany and met by appointment a young foreign woman named Fraeulein Montague. She was French, I was told, and very pretty. It was she who carried on the negotiations for the purchase of the secret of the new Krupp aerial gun."

"You ought to find her. She might tell you something."

"That's just what I am striving my utmost to do. I have learnt that she was the daughter of a French restaurant-keeper, living somewhere in London, and that after Harborne's death she married a Frenchman, whose name I am unable, as yet, to ascertain."

"You will soon know it, Darnborough," remarked the Earl with a faint smile. "You always know everything."

"Is it not my profession?" the other asked. "Yes, I shall try to discover this lady, for I have a theory that she knows something which we ought to know. In addition, she knows who killed Richard Harborne."

"I sincerely hope that you will be successful," declared the Foreign Minister. "By Harborne's death Britain has lost a fearless patriot, a man who served his country as truly and as well as any bedecorated general, and who had faced death a dozen times unflinchingly in the performance of his duties to his country and his sovereign."

"Yes," declared Darnborough, "if any man deserved a C.M.G. or a knighthood, Dick Harborne most certainly did. I am the only person who is in the position of knowing how devotedly he served his country."

"I know, I know!" exclaimed the Earl. "And if he had lived it was my intention of including his name in the next Birthday Honours list."

"Poor fellow," remarked his chief. "I wonder who that woman Montague was, and whether she really had any hand in the crime? That he was fond of her I have learned on good authority, yet Dick was, after all, not much of a ladies' man. Therefore I am somewhat surprised at the nature of the information I have gathered. Nevertheless, I mean to find the woman—and to know the truth."

"Have you any clue whatever to her identity?" inquired the Earl, looking at him strangely.

"None, save what I have told you," was the slow, deliberate reply. "But I think I shall eventually find her."

"You will, Darnborough. I know well what you mean when you reply in those terms. I have experienced your vague responses before," laughed his lordship.

But the great secret agent only grinned, and his grey face broadened into a smile, while the Earl lay wondering whether, after all, his visitor knew more concerning the mysterious female friend of Harborne than he had admitted.

Darnborough went on with his secret report, placing before the Secretary of State the exact nature of the war-cloud which once again threatened to arise over Europe, and of which our Embassies in Berlin and Vienna, with all the pomp of their officialdom, were as yet in ignorance.

And while the chief of the Secret Service was closeted with the Foreign Minister, and the latter was scribbling some pencil notes of his visitor's report, Jean waited downstairs in the library for the Earl's permission to return to his room.

As the soft after-glow of early autumn spread over the western sea before her, she turned at last from the long window and crossed the big room, wherein deep shadows were now falling.

The Earl's mysterious visitor had been shown in there by Jenner before being conducted to his lordship's room, and upon the Earl's pedestal writing-table, set in an alcove overlooking the terrace, stood a small, well-worn despatch-box of green enamelled steel, covered with dark green canvas.

It had been brought by Darnborough, and stood unlocked and open, just as he had taken from it the written reports of the agents of the Secret Service who had arrived at Charing Cross early that morning from the Continent.

Curiosity prompted Jean to pause and peer into it. She wondered what business that rather sour-faced man had with the Earl, and what that portable little steel box could contain.

A photograph—the photograph of a young and handsome woman—which was lying face upwards, first attracted her attention. Curious, she thought, that the man towards whom old Jenner had been so deferential should carry about the picture of a pretty woman.

She took it in her fingers and held it in the light in order to examine it more closely. Then, in replacing it, she glanced at the file of papers uppermost, a thick bundle of various documents, stamped with the arms of England and the words, "Foreign Office," and upon the outside of which was written in a bold, clerkish hand, "Re Richard Harborne, deceased."

Richard Harborne! Sight of that name caused her to hold her breath.

She took out the file of papers with trembling hand and bent to examine them in the light.

She saw there were newspaper cuttings, and long reports both in writing and typed—reports signed by persons of whom she had no knowledge.

In one paper at which she glanced Dick was referred to as "The Honourable Richard Davies Harborne, late of His Britannic Majesty's Secret Service."

She read eagerly, hoping to discover something to throw light upon the poor fellow's sad end, but the writing was small, cramped, and difficult for her to decipher.

Yet, so deeply interested did she become that she did not hear the door open.

Suddenly she heard a footstep behind her, and, starting quickly, turned to find his lordship's mysterious visitor standing facing her with a look of severe inquiry upon his grey, furrowed countenance.

"Oh! I—I—I'm so very sorry!" was all she could say, as she quickly replaced the file of papers in the despatch-box. "I—I——"

But further words failed her, and she stood abashed, confused, and ashamed.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE DARKENING HORIZON.

"Well, nurse, I hardly expected that," he said, reprovingly, his serious eyes fixed upon hers.

Jean turned scarlet, and then admitted, as she stood with her back to the writing table:

"I saw the photograph in your despatch-box, and it attracted me. Then I saw those papers."

"And they seem to have greatly interested you, nurse—eh?" Darnborough remarked.

"A woman is always interested in what does not concern her," she replied with a forced smile.

"Well, forgive me for saying so, but I consider it gross impertinence on your part to have pried into my papers, young lady," exclaimed the chief of the Secret Service, with some asperity.

"I trust you will forgive me, Mr. Darnborough, but, truth to tell, I could not resist the temptation."

"Just as many other people could not resist—if they knew what secrets this despatch-box of mine sometimes contains," he laughed. "Well, nurse, I forgive you," he added cheerfully, his manner changing. "Go back to Lord Bracondale, and make haste and get him well again. England is sorely in need of him to-day—I can assure you."

"Does he wish for me?"

"Yes, he gave me a message asking you to return to him at once."

"I'll go, then," she replied. "I'm so glad you've forgiven me. My action was, I know, horribly mean and quite unpardonable. Good evening."

"Good evening, nurse," Darnborough responded, as he busied himself repacking his papers. She left the room.

The great man of secrets was, as yet, in ignorance that the pretty, graceful, half-French nurse and Fraeulein Montague, Dick Harborne's friend, were one and the same person.

At that moment he had been talking with the very woman whom his agents had been hunting the whole of Europe to find. Yet he bowed her out of the room in entire ignorance of that fact.

And as she ascended the great, broad, thickly-carpeted staircase to the sick man's room she was filled with regret that Darnborough had not entered five minutes later, when, by that time, she would have learnt the secret of what was contained in those papers concerning Dick Harborne's death.

Her head swam as she recalled that tragic afternoon and also the afternoon succeeding it, when she had witnessed the terrible accident to Noel Barclay, the naval aviator. She recollected how Ralph had been at her side in the cab when they had both witnessed the collapse of the aeroplane, and how utterly callous and unmoved he had been.

For the thousandth time she asked herself whether Ralph Ansell, her dead husband, had ever discovered her friendship with Richard Harborne. It was a purely platonic friendship. Their stations in life had been totally different, yet he had always treated her gallantly, and she had, in return, consented to assist him in several matters—"matters of business" he had termed them. And in connection with one of them she had gone to Germany as Fraeulein Montague and met him on that memorable day when she acted as a go-between.

Had Ralph found this out? If so, had Dick died by her husband's hand?

She was at the door of his lordship's room, a pretty figure in her blue cotton gown and white nursing-apron and cap. For a moment she paused to crush down all recollections of the past. Then she turned the handle and entered on tip-toe, fearing lest her patient might be asleep.

But he was very wideawake—planning a line of policy to defeat the suggested Austro-German alliance against Great Britain. Prompt measures were necessary. At eight o'clock in the morning two King's Messengers would be at Bracondale ready to take the cipher despatches—autograph instructions to the British Ambassadors to the Courts of both Empires.

Though the Earl of Bracondale was confined to his bed, the foreign policy of the nation had still to be conducted, and he had resumed control of affairs as soon as ever his hand could use a pen.

A whole stream of officials from Downing Street, and others, called at Bracondale daily and passed through his room. And to each and sundry he gave precise and implicit instructions, the marvellously ingenious policy evolved by his remarkable brain.

"It is time for your medicine," Jean said, in a soft voice, as she entered. "It was due half an hour ago, but I hesitated to disturb you with your visitor."

"Quite right, nurse. Never disturb me when Mr. Darnborough calls. My business with him is always of the very highest importance, and always strictly confidential."

Jean crossed to the small round table whereon stood the bottle and medicine-glass, and after measuring the mixture carefully, handed it to him, asking:

"Is your shoulder quite easy now?"

"Quite, nurse," was his reply, as, raising himself on his other elbow, he tossed off the medicine, pulling a wry face afterwards. Then, with a calm, set expression upon his countenance, he looked at her, and remarked:

"I should think nursing must be a terribly dull, monotonous life, isn't it? Surely the continual atmosphere of the sick-room is very depressing?"

"I do not find it so," she replied brightly, with her pretty French accent. "I am devoted to my calling."

"I quite recognise that," said his lordship, looking into her sweet, serious eyes. "Yet it requires a good deal of self-denial, I should imagine."

"Perhaps," and she smiled. "But self-denial is one of the first lessons learnt in our Sisterhood."

"You joined the Sisterhood in France, did you not?" he asked.

"Yes; at the chief convent at Enghien, near Paris. But, of course, I have not yet taken my vows as a nun."

"You intend to do so, I suppose?"

She was silent a few seconds; then, with her eyes averted, she answered frankly:

"It is more than possible."

"Would it not be a great sacrifice? Remember, you are young. Why should you cut yourself off so entirely from the world?"

Again she was silent. Then, seeing that he awaited her reply, she answered:

"If I take the vows I shall do so because I have certain reasons for so doing."

"Strong reasons?" he asked, still looking into her face.

She raised her fine eyes to his again, and nodded in the affirmative.

Then she turned and walked towards the table to put down the empty glass.

Lord Bracondale for the first time realised that the nurse by whom during the past few days he, confirmed bachelor that he was, had become so strangely attracted, possessed a chapter of her life which she hoped was closed for ever.

The curious situation attracted him. What, he wondered, could be the nature of the secret of such a good, pure-minded, honest woman?

His eyes followed her as she moved about the room in silence. He was wondering.

The autumn days passed slowly. His was a long illness.

Out in the great park the golden leaves, in falling, were swept along the wide avenue by the strong winds from the sea, and the face of the country had now become brown and desolate.

Jean, when she took her walk alone each afternoon, when off duty, wandered over the bare fields or beside the grey, chill sea until, so dispiriting did she find the scene, that she preferred to spend her hours of rest in the big, well-warmed house or at the convent itself.

His lordship's recovery was very slow.

Sir Evered Morrison had been down three times from London and seen the patient, and on the last occasion had been accompanied by another renowned surgeon.

Though it was kept a profound secret, the truth was that the Earl was not progressing as well as had been expected. Perhaps the strain of State affairs was too heavy upon him, for though far from recovered, he worked several hours with Mr. Charlton, his secretary, who sat at a table at his bedside, writing despatches as his lordship dictated them.

Thus three months went by. November came and went, and still the Earl had not left his room, although he was allowed to sit by the fire in his dressing-gown for two hours each day.

The room had been transformed into a small library, and here his lordship received callers who came from London upon official business. Indeed, he on more than one occasion received an ambassador of one of the Great Powers.

To Jean it was all a very novel and strange experience. At her patient's bedside she met some of the greatest of the land, men whose names were as household words. Even a royal prince called one day in his motor-car and sat beside the fire with the invalid. And if the truth be told, scarcely a person who visited the Earl did not remark upon his nurse's grace, sweetness, and good looks.

Inwardly, the Earl of Bracondale was much mystified. Unconsciously, though occupied with State affairs, he found himself thinking of her, and when she was absent for rest he looked forward eagerly to her return. To Sister Gertrude he spoke but little, while to Jean he was always frank, open, and exceedingly chatty.

Yet constantly did the suspicion arise in his mind that she was in possession of some dread secret, that there was a chapter in her past which she was undesirous of revealing.

In the middle of December he grew convalescent, and Sir Evered one day announced that he would, with care, completely recover.

The daily bulletins in the newspapers ceased to appear, and the world then knew that the renowned Foreign Secretary was on his way back to health.

This he attributed to Jean's careful nursing. To every one he was loud in her praises. Indeed, he often spoke of her in eulogistic terms while she was present, and on such occasions she would blush deeply and declare that she had only performed her duty.

In those weeks they had been constantly in each other's society. The long days in which she sat at his bedside reading or doing needlework, and the nights when each quarter of an hour she stole in stealthily to see that all was well, she had grown very partial to his society. He was so bright and intellectual, and possessed such a keen sense of humour when his mind was not overshadowed by the weight of political events. Often he would chat with her for hours, and sometimes, indeed, he would put a subtle question upon the matter in which he now took so keen an interest—her past.

But to all his cleverly-conceived inquiries she remained dumb. Her wit was as quick as his, and he saw that whatever was the truth, her intelligence was of a very high order. She would speak freely upon every other subject, but as to what she had done or where she had been before entering the Sisterhood she refused to satisfy him.

The past! To her it was all a horrible nightmare. Often, when alone, the face of Ralph Ansell, the man who had been shot like a dog by the police, arose before her. She tried to blot it out, but all was, alas! of no avail.

Sometimes she compared her patient with her dead husband. And then she would sigh to herself—sigh because she held the Earl in such admiration and esteem.

Just after Christmas another diplomatic bombshell burst in Europe. Darnborough came to and fro to Bracondale half a dozen times in the course of four or five days. Once he arrived by special train from Paddington in the middle of the night. Many serious conferences did he have with his chief, secret consultations at which Jean, filled with curiosity, of course was not present, though she did not fail to note that Darnborough usually regarded her with some suspicion, notwithstanding his exquisite politeness.

More than once in those last days of the year Jean suggested that her presence at Bracondale was no longer required. But her patient seemed very loath to part with her.

"Another week, nurse," he would say. "Perhaps I will be able to do without you then. We shall see."

And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried back to the convent.

It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.

The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long, French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the white iron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner—a fashion he usually affected—sat reading.

Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds, looking at him in silence.

Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.



CHAPTER XVIII.

LORD BRACONDALE'S CONFESSION.

"What!" he cried, with a look of dismay upon his pale face. "Are you really leaving, nurse?"

"Yes, Lord Bracondale. I have already sent my things back to the convent. I have come to wish you good-bye."

"To wish me good-bye!" he echoed blankly, looking her straight in the face. "How can I ever thank you—how can I ever repay you for all your kindness, care, and patience with me? Sir Evered says that I owe my life to your good nursing."

She smiled.

"I think Sir Evered is merely paying me an undeserved compliment," was her modest reply.

He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a moment he stood mute before her, overcome with gratitude.

"Sir Evered has spoken the truth, Nurse Jean," he said. "I know it, and you yourself know it. In all these weeks we have been together we have begun to know each other, we have been companions, and—and you have many a time cheered me when I felt in blank despair."

"I am very pleased if I have been able to bring you happiness," she replied. "It is sometimes difficult to infuse gaiety into a sick-room."

"But you have brought me new life, new hope, new light into my dull, careworn life," he declared quickly. "Since I found you at my bedside I have become a different man."

"How?" she asked, very seriously.

"You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations—and a fresh ambition."

"Of what?"

He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.

She tried to snatch it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her dark, startled eyes, replied:

"Of making you my wife, Jean."

"Your wife!" she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back, astounded at the suggestion.

"Yes. Listen to me!" he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with pale blue silk. "This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have watched you—watched you for days and weeks—for gradually I came to know how deeply attached I had become to you—that I love you!"

"No, no!" she exclaimed. "Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is madness. I refuse to hear you. Reflect—and you will see that I can never become your wife!"

And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.

"But I repeat, Jean—I swear it—I love you!" he said. "I again repeat my question—Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love me—will you——"

"I cannot bear it!" she cried, struggling to free herself from his strong embrace, while he held her hand and again passionately raised it to his lips. "Please recall those words. They are injudicious, to say the least."

"I have spoken the plain truth. I love you!"

Her eyes were downcast. She stood against a large, silk-covered settee, her hand touching the silken covering, her chest heaving and falling in deep emotion, so unprepared had she been for the Earl's declaration of affection.

Through her mind, however, one thought ran—the difference in their social status; he—a Cabinet Minister; and she—the widow of a thief!

Recollection of that hideous chapter of her life flashed upon her, and she shuddered.

Bracondale noticed that she shivered, but, ignorant of the reason, only drew her closer to him.

"Tell me, Jean," he whispered. "May I hope? Now that you are leaving, I cannot bear that you should go out of my life for ever. I am no young lover, full of flowery speeches, but I love you as fervently, as ardently, as any man has ever loved a woman; and if you will be mine I will endeavour to make you contented and happy to all the extent I am able."

"But, Lord Bracondale," she protested, raising her fine eyes to his, "I am unworthy—I——"

"You are worthy, Jean," he declared, earnestly. "You are the only woman in all my life that I have loved. For all these years I have been a bachelor, self-absorbed in the affairs of the nation, in politics and diplomacy, until, by my accident, I have suddenly realised that there is still something more in the world to live for higher than the position I hold as a member of the Cabinet—the love of a good woman, and you are that woman. Tell me," he urged, speaking in a low whisper as he bent to her, "tell me—may I hope?"

Slowly she disengaged the hand he held, and drew it across her white brow beneath her velvet hat.

"I—I—ah! no, Lord Bracondale," she cried. "This is all very unwise. You would soon regret."

"Regret!" he echoed. "No, I shall never regret, because, Jean, I love you!"

"Have you ever thought that, while you are a peer and a Cabinet Minister, I am only a nurse?"

"Social status should not be considered when a man loves a woman as truly and devotedly as I love you. Remember, to you I owe my recovery," he said frankly. "In the weeks you have spent at my side I have realised that life will now be a blank when you have left my roof. But must it be so? Will you not take pity upon me and try to reciprocate, in even a small degree, the great love I bear you? Do, Jean, I beg of you."

She was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed across the terrace upon the pretty Italian garden, to the belt of high, dark firs beyond.

"You ask me this, Lord Bracondale, and yet you do not even know my surname!" she remarked at last.

"Whatever your surname may be, it makes no difference to me," was his reply. "Whatever skeleton may be hidden in your cupboard is no affair of mine. I ask nothing regarding your past life. To me, you are honest and pure. I know that, or you would not lead the life you now lead. I only know, Jean, that I love you," and, again taking her soft hand tenderly, he once more raised it to his lips and imprinted upon it tender kisses.

His words showed her that his affection was genuine. His promise not to seek to unveil her past gave her courage, for she had all along been suspicious that he was endeavouring to learn her secret. What would he say, how would he treat her, if he ever knew the ghastly truth?

"Now, I wish to assure you," he went on, "that I have no desire whatever that you should tell me the slightest thing which you may wish to regard as your own secret. All of us, more or less, possess some family confidence which we have no desire to be paraded before our friends. A wife should, of course, have no secrets from her husband after marriage. But her secrets before she becomes a wife are her own, and her husband has no right to inquire into them. I speak to you, Jean, as a man of the world, as a man who has sympathy for women, and who is cognisant of a woman's feelings."

"Do you really mean what you say, Lord Bracondale?" she asked, raising her serious eyes inquiringly to his.

"I certainly do. I have never been more earnest, or sincere, in all my life than I am at this moment."

"You certainly show a generous nature," she replied. His assurance had swept away her fears. She dreaded lest he should know the truth of the tragedy of her marriage. She held Darnborough in fear, because he seemed always to suspect her. Besides, what could that file of papers have contained—what facts concerning her friend's tragic end?

"I hate to think of your wearing your life out in a sick-room, Jean," he said. "It is distressing to me that you, whom I love so dearly, should be doomed to a convent life, however sincere, devout, and holy."

"It is my sphere," she replied.

"Your proper sphere is at my side—as my wife," he declared. "Ah, Jean, will you only give me hope, will you only endeavour to show me a single spark of affection, will you try and reciprocate, to the smallest extent, my love for you? Mine is no boyish infatuation, but the love of a man whose mind is matured, even soured by the world's follies and vanities. I tell you that I love you. Will you be mine?"

She still hesitated. His question nonplussed her.

How could she, the widow of a notorious thief dare to become Countess of Bracondale!

He noticed her hesitation, and put it down to her natural reticence and shyness. He loved her with all his heart and soul. Never, in all his career, had he ever met, in society or out of it, a woman to whom he had been so deeply devoted. He had watched her closely with the keen criticism of a practised mind, and he had found her to be his ideal.

She was still standing against the pale blue settee, leaning against it for support. Her face was pale as death, with two pink spots in the centre of the cheeks betraying her excitement and emotion. She dare not open her mouth lest she should betray the reason of her hesitation. It was upon the tip of her tongue to confess all.

Yet had he not already told her that he had no desire to probe the secret of her past—that he only desired her for herself, that her past was her own affair, and that his only concern was her future, because he loved her so? She recognised how good, how kind, how generous, and how every trait of his character was that of the high-born English gentleman. In secret she had long admired him, yet she had been careful not to betray an undue interest beyond that of his accident. In such circumstances a woman's diplomacy is always marvellous. In the concealment of her true feelings, woman can always give many points to a man.

Bracondale was awaiting her answer. His eyes were fixed upon hers, though her gaze was averted. He held her in his arms, and again repeated his question in a low, intense voice, the voice of a man filled with the passion of true affection.

"Will you be mine, dearest?" he asked, a second time. "Will you trust in me and throw in your lot in life with mine?"

She shook her head.

"No, Lord Bracondale; such a marriage would, for you, be most injudicious. You must marry one of your own people."

"Never!" he cried in desperation. "If I marry, it will be only your own dear self."

"But think—think what the world will say."

"Let the world say what it likes," he laughed. "Remember my policy and my doings are criticised by the Opposition newspapers every day. But I have learned to disregard hard words. I am my own master in my private life as well as in my public life, and if you will only consent to be my wife I shall tackle the difficult European problems with renewed vigour, well knowing that I have at least one sympathiser and helpmate—my wife."

He paused, and looked into her dark eyes for quite a long time.

Then, bending till his lips almost touched hers, and placing his arm tenderly about her waist, he asked breathlessly:

"Jean, tell me, darling, that you do not hate me—that you will try to love me—that you will consent to become my wife. Do, I beg of you."

For a few seconds she remained silent in his embrace, then slowly her lips moved.

But so stirred by emotion was she that no sound escaped them.

"You will be mine, darling, will you not?" he urged. "Jean, I love you—I'll love you for ever—always! Do, I beseech of you, give me hope. Say that you love me just a little—only just a little."

Tears welled in her great, dark eyes, and again her chest heaved and fell.

Then, of a sudden, her head fell upon his shoulder and she buried her face, sobbing in mute consent, while he, on his part, pressed her closely to him and smothered her cheek with burning kisses.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

Six years later.

The years had gone by—happy, blissful years, during which the Countess of Bracondale had become a popular society and political hostess.

At Bracondale, and in Scotland, the Earl and his wife had on three occasions entertained the Sovereign at shooting-parties, and no social function was complete without the handsome, half-French Lady Bracondale.

After her marriage, though she had no ambition to enter that wild world of unrest which we call modern society, she realised that, in order to assist her husband in his political and diplomatic work, she was compelled to take her place in London life. So she had entered upon it cheerfully; the town house had been redecorated, and many brilliant functions—dinners, balls, diplomatic receptions, and the like—had been given, while at the Foreign Office receptions her ladyship always acted as hostess to the corps diplomatique.

The society newspapers gave her portrait constantly, and declared her to be among the most beautiful women in England.

Wealth, position, popularity, all were hers, and, in addition, she had the great love of her devoted husband, and the comfort of her sweet little daughter, Lady Enid Heathcote—a child with pretty, golden hair—whom she adored. The happiest of wives and mothers, she also bore her part as one of the great ladies of the land, and her husband was ever proud of her, ever filled with admiration.

It was eight o'clock on a warm, August morning at Bracondale, where Jean and her little daughter, with Miss Oliver, the governess, were spending the summer.

Jean came down to breakfast in a pretty gown of Japanese silk embroidered with large, crimson roses, and passed through the dining-room out upon the terrace overlooking the park, where, on warm mornings, it was their habit to take their coffee in Continental style.

As she went along to where the table was set, little Enid, with her hair tied at the side with blue ribbon, and wearing a pretty, cotton frock, came dancing along the terrace, where she was walking with her governess, crying in her childish voice:

"Good morning, mother, dear. I wish you many happy returns of your birthday."

"Thank you, darling," replied Jean, catching the child up in her arms and kissing her, while Miss Oliver, a tall, discreet, and rather prim person, at that moment came up with a great bunch of fresh roses which she had just cut for the table.

Bracondale had been absent on official duties at Downing Street for a week, but had returned by special train from Paddington, arriving at Torquay at half-past three in the morning. He had indeed placed aside some most pressing affairs of State in order to spend his wife's birthday in her company.

And hardly had she kissed her child before he stepped forth from the dining-room, exclaiming:

"Ah! good-morning, Jean. A very happy birthday, dearest," and bending, he kissed her fondly, while she returned his caress.

"Gunter told me that you did not get home until nearly four o'clock. You must be tired," she said.

"No, not very," he laughed. "I had a few hours' sleep in the train. I've just come down to spend the day with you, dearest. I must get back at midnight."

"It is really very good of you, dear," she replied. "You know how pleased we both are to have you at our side, aren't we, Enid?"

"Yes, mother, of course we are," declared the child, as her father bent to kiss her.

"And now, Jean, I've brought you down a little present, which I hope you will like. Men are all fools when they buy a present for a woman. But I've got this little trifle for you as a souvenir."

And placing his hand in the pocket of his dark, flannel jacket, he drew out a magnificent string of pearls—a gift worth, at the least, fifteen thousand pounds. Indeed, that was the price he had paid for them to a dealer in Hatton Garden.

And he had carried them loose in his pocket, leaving the dark green leather case lying upon the library table.

"Oh, how lovely!" Jean cried, in delight, as she saw them. Her eyes sparkled, for she had often wished for such a beautiful row. Pretty things delighted her, just as they delight a child. "It is good of you, dearest," she said, looking fondly into his face. "I never dreamed that I should have such a handsome present as that!"

"Let me put them on," he suggested.

Therefore she stood beside the little tea-table, and with Enid clinging to her gown, Lord Bracondale clasped the pearls around his wife's neck, and then bent to kiss her, a caress which she at once reciprocated, repeating her warm thanks for the magnificent gift.

They suited her well, and Miss Oliver at once went and obtained a small mirror so that her ladyship should see the effect for herself. Jean was not vain. She only liked to wear jewels because it pleased her husband. In the great safe in her dressing-room was stored an array of beautiful jewels—the Bracondale heirlooms. Some of the diamonds had been reset, and she wore them at various official functions. But she prized only those which her husband had given to her. In the Bracondale family jewels she took but little interest.

After all she was essentially modern and up-to-date. Her birth, her youthful experience, the bitterness of her first marriage, and her curious adventures had all combined to render her shrewd and far-seeing. She had kept abreast of the times, and that being so, she could, by her knowledge, often further her husband's interests.

It being her birthday, she invited Miss Oliver to take her coffee with them, and they were a merry quartette when they sat down to chat in the bright morning sunshine.

The scene was typically English—the long sweep of the park, the great elms dotted here and there, and behind the dark belt of firs the blue Channel sparkling in the morning sun.

"I think in the second week of September I may be able to get away from Downing Street," Bracondale said, as he sipped his cup of black coffee, for he seldom took anything else until his lunch, served at noon. Morning was the best time for brain work, he always declared, and mental work upon an empty stomach was always best.

"Shall we go to Saint Addresse?" suggested Jean. "The sea-bathing is always beneficial to Enid, and, as you know, the villa, though small, is awfully comfortable."

"We will go just where you like, dearest. I leave it for you to arrange," was his reply.

"I love the villa," she replied, "and Enid does, too."

"Very well, let us go," he said. "I'll make arrangements for us to leave in the second week in September."

Enid was delighted, and clapped her tiny hands with glee when Miss Oliver told her of her mother's decision, and then the governess took the child for a stroll around the rosery while husband and wife sat together chatting.

Bracondale sat with his wife's hand in his, looking into her eyes, and repeating his good wishes for many a happy return of that anniversary.

"I hope you are happy, Jean," he said at last. "I am trying to make you so."

"I am very happy—happier now than I have ever been before in all my life," she answered, looking affectionately into his face. "But do you know that sometimes," she added, slowly, in an altered voice, "sometimes I fear that this peace is too great, too sweet to last always. I am dreading lest something might occur to wreck this great happiness of mine."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Why do you dread that?" he asked.

"Because happiness is, alas! never lasting."

"Only ours."

"Ah!" she sighed, "let us hope so, dearest. Yet this strange presage of coming evil, this shadow which I so often seem to see, appears so real, so grim, and so threatening."

"I don't understand why you should entertain any fear," he exclaimed. "I love you, Jean; I shall always love you."

She was silent, and he saw that something troubled her. Truth to tell, the shadow of her past had once again arisen.

"Ah! But will you always love me as fondly as you now do?" she asked, rather dubiously.

"I shall, Jean. I swear it. I love no other woman but yourself, my dear, devoted wife."

"Many men have uttered those same words before. But they have lived to recall and regret them."

"That is true," he said. "Yet it is also true that I love you with all my heart and all my soul, and, further, that my love is so deep-rooted that it cannot be shaken."

"We can only hope," she said in a low voice, sighing again. "Though my happiness is so complete, I somehow cannot put this constant dread from me. It is a strange, mysterious feeling that something will one day happen to sweep away all my hopes and aspirations—that you and I might be parted."

"Impossible, darling!" he cried, starting to his feet; and standing behind her, he placed his arm tenderly around her neck. "What could ever happen that would part us?"

Then the thought flashed across his mind. Her past was enveloped in complete mystery, which, true to his word, he had never sought to probe.

"We never know what trials may be in store for us," she remarked. "We never know what misfortunes may befall us, or what misunderstandings may arise to destroy our mutual affection and part us."

"But surely you don't anticipate such a calamity?" he asked, looking into her handsome countenance, his eyes fixed upon hers.

"Well, I—I hardly anticipate it, yet I cannot get rid of this ever-increasing dread of the future which seems so constantly to obsess me."

"Ah, I think it may be your nerves, darling," he remarked. "You had a great strain placed upon you by the London season. All those entertainments of yours must have run you down. You must go to Monplaisir. The bracing air there will benefit you, no doubt. Here, in Devon, it is highly relaxing."

"No, it is not my nerves," she protested. "It is my natural intuition. Most women can scent impending danger."

He was inclined to laugh at her fears, and bent again to kiss her upon the cheek.

"Take no heed of such unpleasant forebodings," he exclaimed cheerily. "I, too, sometimes look upon the darker side of things, yet of late I've come to the conclusion that it is utterly useless to meet trouble half-way. Sufficient the day when misfortune falls."

"But surely we ought always to try and evade it?"

"If you are foredoomed to misfortune, it cannot be evaded," he declared.

"That is exactly my argument," she replied. "I feel that one day ere long a dark shadow, perhaps of suspicion, I know not what, will fall between us."

"And that we shall be parted!" he cried, starting. "You are certainly cheerful to-day." And he smiled.

"I ought to be, after your lovely present," she said, touching the pearls upon her neck with her white hand. "But I confess to you, dearest, I am not. I am too supremely happy, and for that reason alone I dread lest it may pass as all things in our life pass, and leave only bitter regrets and sad disappointments behind."

"You speak in enigmas, Jean," he said, bending earnestly to her again. "Tell me what really distresses you. Do you fear something real and tangible, or is it only some vague foreboding?"

"The latter," she responded. "I seem always to see a grim, dark shadow stretched before my path."

Bracondale remained silent in wonder for some time.

Then with words of comfort and reassurance, he again pressed his lips to hers, and urged her to enjoy her happiness to its full extent, and to let the future take care of itself.

"Have no care to-day, darling," he added. "It is your birthday, and I am with you."

"Ah, yes, you are here—you, my own dear husband!"

And raising her lips, she smiled happily, and kissed him of her own accord.



CHAPTER XX.

CROOKED CONFIDENCES.

About noon on the same day which Jean and her husband spent so happily together by the Devon sea, two men of about thirty-five met in the cosy little American bar of a well-known London hotel.

Both were wealthy Americans, smartly dressed in summer tweeds, and wore soft felt hats of American shape.

One, a tall, thin, hard-faced man, who had been drinking a cocktail and chatting with the barmaid while awaiting his friend, turned as the other entered, and in his pronounced American accent exclaimed:

"Halloa, boy! Thought you weren't coming. Say, you're late."

The other—dark, clean-shaven, with a broad brow, and rather good-looking—grasped his friend's hand and ordered a drink. Then, tossing it off at one gulp, he walked with his friend into the adjoining smoking-room, where they could be alone.

"What's up?" asked the newcomer, in a low, eager voice.

"Look here, Hoggan, my boy," exclaimed the taller of the two to the newcomer, "I'm glad you've come along. I 'phoned you to your hotel at half-past ten, but you were out. It seems there's trouble over that game of poker you played with those two boys in Knightsbridge last night. They've been to the police, so you'd better clear out at once."

"The police!" echoed the other, his dark brows knit. "Awkward, isn't it?"

"Very. You go, old chap. Get across the Channel as quick as ever you can, or I guess you'll have some unwelcome visitors. Don't go back to the hotel. Abandon your traps, and clear out right away."

Silas P. Hoggan, the man with the broad brow, had no desire to make further acquaintance with the police. As a cosmopolitan adventurer he had lived for the past six years a life of remarkable experiences in Vienna, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and Rome. He posed as a financier, and had matured many schemes for public companies in all the capitals—companies formed to exploit all sorts of enterprises, all of which, however, had placed money in his pocket.

Two years before he had been worth thirty thousand pounds, the proceeds of various crooked businesses. At that moment he had been in San Francisco, when, by an unlucky mischance, a scheme of his had failed, ingenious as it was, and now he found himself living in an expensive hotel in London, with scarcely sufficient to settle his hotel bill.

Since the day when he had stolen those notes from the coat pocket of his accomplice, and locked him in the trap so that the police should arrest him, and thus give him time to escape—for Silas P. Hoggan and Ralph Ansell were one and the same person—things had prospered with him, and he had cultivated an air of prosperous refinement, in order to move in the circle of high finance.

After his escape across the Seine, he had sought refuge in the house of a friend in the Montmartre, where he had dried the soddened bank-notes and turned them into cash. Then, after a week, he had taken the night rapide to Switzerland, and thence to Germany, where in Berlin he had entered upon financial undertakings in partnership with a "crook" from Chicago. Their first venture was the exploiting of a new motor tyre, out of which they made a huge profit, although the patent was afterwards found to be worthless. Then they moved to Russia, and successively to Austria, to Denmark, and then across to the States.

Losses, followed by gains, had compelled him of late to adopt a more certain mode of living, until now he found himself in London, staying at one of its best hotels—for like all his class he always patronised the best hotel and ate the best that money could buy—and earning a precarious living by finding "pigeons to pluck," namely, scraping up acquaintanceship with young men about town and playing with them games of chance.

As a card-sharper, Silas P. Hoggan was an expert. Among the fraternity "The American" was known as a clever crook, a man who was a past-master in the art of bluff.

Yet his friend's warning had thoroughly alarmed him.

The circumstance which had been recalled was certainly an ugly one.

He had found his victims there, in a swell bar, as he had often found them. About many of the London hotels and luxuriously appointed restaurants and fashionable meeting places are always to be seen young men of wealth and leisure who are easy prey to the swindler, the blackmailer, or the sharper—the vultures of society.

A chance acquaintanceship, the suggestion of an evening at cards, a visit to a theatre, with a bit of supper afterwards at an hotel, was, as might be expected, followed by a friendly game at the rooms of the elder of the two lads at Knightsbridge.

Hoggan left at three o'clock that morning with one hundred and two pounds in his pocket in cash and notes, and four acceptances of one hundred pounds each, drawn by the elder of the two victims.

Five hundred pounds for one evening's play was not a bad profit, yet Hoggan never dreamed that the London police were already upon his track.

What his friend had suggested was the best way out of the difficulty. As he had so often done before he must once again burn his boats and clear.

The outlook was far too risky. Yet he was filled with chagrin. In the circumstances, the acceptances were useless.

"I shall want money," he remarked.

"Well, boy, I guess I haven't any cash-money to spare just at the moment, as you know," replied his accomplice. "We've been hard hit lately. I'm sorry we came across on this side."

"Our luck's out," Hoggan declared despondently, as he selected a cigarette from his case and lit it. "What about little Lady Michelcoombe? She ought to be good for a bit more."