The suggestion in her last remark was not very flattering to Bobby, but he was too much interested to notice it.

"On that same ship was travelling your friend, Mr. Ramsey. He knew the Prince slightly, I do not know how."

"Oh, he always manages to get to know people somehow or other. That's one of Ramsey's special gifts," Bobby remarked with as near an approach to bitterness as he was capable of expressing.

"He used to come up and speak to the Prince when we were reclining on our deck chairs, but my companion did not encourage him. I think, Bobby, he was like you—a little jealous. Anyhow, towards the end of the voyage I received a note. It was handed to me by a stewardess. It was from Mr. Ramsey, and I handed it to the Prince. I do not exactly know what happened, for I did not see Mr. Ramsey again, but from what the Prince told me, he must have said something very disagreeable to Mr. Ramsey. That is all the story."

She had hardly said the words when there was a knock on the door, and Alistair Ramsey entered the room and stood before her, bowing. With a few easy words the new-comer settled himself in a chair, and at the invitation of Madame de Corantin lit a cigarette. Nothing in his attitude or in hers suggested that they had ever seen each other before, still less that an embarrassing episode figured in the background of their earlier acquaintance.

Madame de Corantin led the conversation by a few casual remarks, which were immediately taken up by Ramsey, and in a few minutes they were talking together as people do who, though they have not met before, have known of each other for years. Ramsey brought in the names of common acquaintances, of places they both knew, with an easy assumption of mutual understanding that what he had to say about them would interest her.

As a rule his attitude in the presence of ladies was that of a man accustomed to the recognition of his ascendency.

Perhaps this was one of the reasons of the quite peculiar hostility with which most men regarded him, but with Madame de Corantin his manner was deferential, and it was clear that he was doing everything in his power to ingratiate himself.

Bobby took little part in the conversation, and Ramsey's demeanour towards him was not such as to encourage him to do so. Ramsey had the assurance which comes from social success, and he took no trouble to conceal the indifference, if not contempt, with which he regarded the other man. His manner was alternately insolent and condescending; he kept his eyes fixed upon Madame de Corantin, ignoring Bobby's presence completely.

Glib of speech, Ramsey had a certain gift of humour, which displayed itself in flippant witticisms generally at the expense of others. He undoubtedly possessed the art of provoking laughter, but there was always malice behind his frivolity. In appearance he was elegant without being engaging, and one felt the spitefulness of the dark eyes beneath the abundant hair, and the hardness of his mouth showed itself even when he laughed. An onlooker could not have failed to contrast Madame de Corantin's two visitors, and an Englishman certainly would have done so to the disadvantage of Ramsey.

In spite of his German name Bobby was typically English in appearance, and no one would have supposed that of the two he was the more cosmopolitan. As he sat now listening to the conversation his good-natured face wore an expression of perplexity and discomfort. Bobby was suffering the pangs of jealousy, and at every fresh sally of the other he was watching Madame de Corantin's face to see its effect. No wonder, he thought, that Ramsey had few friends, and yet he could not help envying the caustic readiness of his tongue and the skill with which he had so quickly turned the situation to his advantage.

For an hour they talked until, in some subtle and indefinable manner, Bobby felt that Madame de Corantin desired to be left alone. He had frequently had this experience with her; she seemed to be able to indicate a desire without expressing it, and he rose now from his seat and wished her good-night. Ramsey did not move, and Bobby's heart sank within him at the prospect of leaving his rival in possession, but, as he took Madame de Corantin's hand, she held it an instant in hers, turning at the same time towards Ramsey.

"I am so sorry," she said to him, "that our agreeable little party must break up, but I have many letters to write this evening, and shall look forward to seeing you both to-morrow."

Bobby was elated as he went out of the room, closely followed by Ramsey; indeed, reaction prompted geniality.

"I think I'll go round to Maxim's for an hour; it's quite early. Will you join me? There are sure to be people you know there."

They were standing in the hall of the hotel.

"Thanks, it's very good of you, but I too have letters to write," Ramsey replied, and turning coldly on his heel he left Bobby to go out alone.

Bobby strolled down the Place de la Concorde, but before he reached Maxim's his heart misgave him; he was reviewing the events of the evening and, though he could not justify it, his mind was full of suspicion. It was queer her wanting to see Ramsey again after the way he had behaved. What could have been her object? Was he really so irresistible? She had certainly shown quite plainly that she wanted to see him, and yet she had shown equally plainly that she didn't want him to remain with her alone. He wondered how long Ramsey would be staying in Paris, and what effect his presence would have on his intercourse with Madame de Corantin. Would he be able to see as much of her or would she drop him in favour of Ramsey. The thought tortured him, but it wormed its way more and more into his brain. Bobby had very little confidence in his powers of pleasing; it was a common experience of his to be thrown over in favour of men much less attractive to women than Ramsey. It was true that hitherto he had not much cared, and when he had been given the "go-by" he had always reflected that there were as good fish in the sea, and so on; but that wasn't the case now.

Thinking deeply, he had reached the entrance of Maxim's without knowing it, but looking in, he turned away in disgust; he had no desire to face the crowd inside, he wanted to think things over. He walked on up the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and with every step his jealousy increased. The suspicion rankled; he felt certain that Ramsey would somehow or other manage to see her again before he could—why, he might even contrive to do so that very evening. He knew that Ramsey would dare anything where women were concerned. Very likely while he was walking up the Boulevard, Ramsey was sitting in her room.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. Turning, he walked swiftly back to the hotel; it was a little past eleven, too early to go to bed, too late in a darkened and subdued Paris to do anything else. He wondered where Ramsey was, and, going to the porter, asked him casually if he had seen him.

No, he had not seen Monsieur Ramsey since he had gone upstairs half an hour ago; he supposed he had gone to bed.

Had Ramsey gone to bed? The more Bobby turned it over in his mind the stronger his suspicions grew, and then came a moment of desperation—he must know, he could not bear the suspense. His own room was two floors above that on which was Madame de Corantin's apartment. Declining the lift, he walked slowly upstairs, and as though he were doing so by mistake, directed his steps softly past the door of her salon. No one was in the corridor, and noiselessly he approached the door. Was that a man's voice? Yes, there was not a doubt of it. He listened again, he looked up and down the passage, no one was in sight. He placed his head close to the woodwork of the door; with a sense of ignominy he realized that if there had been a keyhole he would have placed his ear to that—anything to know—anything. Yes, he recognized Ramsey's voice distinctly; he was there. On tiptoe he retraced his steps. Arrived at the entrance hall he flung himself into a chair, a prey to utter wretchedness.

* * * * *

Somehow the night passed.

Towards morning, perhaps at six or seven, he fell into a heavy sleep, completely worn out by his mental sufferings. He awoke late, and, glancing at his watch, saw to his horror that it was already eleven o'clock. Cursing himself as he realized that this was the hour at which Madame de Corantin generally went out, he rang the bell. How he longed for his trusted valet, enlisted two months back. Now he had only a hotel servant to send on messages. When the man arrived he dispatched him instantly to find out whether Madame de Corantin had sent him any message, and began to dress hurriedly. The servant did not return, and in his impatience Bobby cursed him and rang again. Another servant appeared and was hurried off on the same errand. In this way twenty minutes passed; Bobby was dressed and flew downstairs. Unable to disguise his anxiety, he asked the porter if he had seen Madame de Corantin.

"Madame de Corantin left an hour ago, Monsieur."

"Left? What do you mean?"

"Yes, Monsieur, she left—left with her luggage and her maid—everything."

Controlling himself as best he could Bobby turned away in a state of complete dejection. He sought an out-of-the-way corner and sat down, trying to calm himself so that he could think.

"Gone away! Gone away!" He repeated the words mechanically. What did it all mean?

Somebody was approaching him; he looked up, a servant handed him a note. He tore it open breathlessly.

DEAR BOBBY, MY FRIEND,

News reached me early this morning which necessitated my immediate departure. I know, alas, that you will feel sad at not seeing me again. Believe me, so am I, but it is unavoidable. I asked for you before I left, but they told me at the hotel that you had not yet left your room. I scribble this line at the station. Forgive me, my dear friend, for all the trouble I have given you, and believe that I am very grateful. We shall meet again some day, and meanwhile keep a kindly remembrance of your friend

FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.

She gave no address.

Bobby read the letter again and again; he could hardly believe his eyes. The worst thing that could possibly happen had befallen him. Where could she have gone, and why couldn't she tell him, and oh, how could he have been such a fool as to have gone on sleeping like a stupid log at the moment that she was going away? He would never be able to forgive himself for that. Was there any connection between her departure and her meeting with Alistair Ramsey? Bobby tried to concentrate his mind on the problem, but it baffled him.

Completely bewildered, he cross-questioned the hall porter, but he could add nothing to what he had already said. Madame de Corantin had gone and she had left no address and he had not the slightest idea where, nor did he know to what station she had gone. A car had come for her, apparently a private one, she had not ordered it at the hotel. What trains were there leaving? Oh, there were numbers; there was one to Rouen and Havre and also to Dieppe about that time, to Bordeaux and San Sebastian, to all kinds of places. Bobby realized the utter hopelessness of attempting to trace her. Wretchedly the hours passed; in the middle of the afternoon he decided that whatever happened he would not stay another night in Paris. The thought of it sickened him. Paris, the hotel, and everything else had become hateful. No, he would spend that night at Dieppe, and go to London the next day, that was all he could think of.

Back in London, Bobby's condition of misery, so far from improving, became worse. His life, aimless enough ever since the War, seemed now more aimless than ever. Every man he knew had something to do; he alone was objectless and workless. More profoundly than ever he realized all that Madame de Corantin had meant to him. Her disappearance had made his life a blank. Had there been some glimmer of hope, however slight, of penetrating the mystery, had there been the faintest clue to her present whereabouts, he would have thrown himself heart and soul into the endeavour to trace her, but he had absolutely nothing to go upon.

Weary and desolate, he haunted restaurants and hotels, in the vague hope that chance might some day yield him a glimpse of her, as a gambler clings to a faint prospect of redeeming his fortunes through some wonderful and unexpected revulsion of luck. But the days passed without the slightest encouragement, and his misery turned almost to despair.

At last, at his wits' end to know what to do with himself, he besought a boon companion of his night life to come to his rescue. To this one war had brought opportunity. His name was Bertram Trent. He had lived all sorts of lives, had been married and divorced, and had made his appearance more than once in the Bankruptcy Court, but he had knocked about the world and seen service.

Offering himself at the beginning of the War, he had taken part in the Great Retreat and had been wounded. On his recovery he had been given the command of a battalion, and at Bobby's earnest entreaty he promised him a commission, provided he could get it confirmed at the War Office. This saved Bobby. He lost no time in putting in his application, and, awaiting the Gazette, he occupied himself in ordering his kit and in getting himself into some sort of physical condition to undertake duties for which his previous life had ill-prepared him. Though considerably past the age for military service, he had not contemplated the possibility of being refused a commission.

Dropping in one day at the Carlton for lunch, he met Harold Clancey, who, to his surprise, was wearing the Staff cap. Clancey told him that he had been working for some time at the War Office, and had been given the rank of captain.

"Let's have lunch together," suggested Bobby.

Bobby had met Clancey at all sorts of places, but they had never been on intimate terms; in fact, the two men had little more than a nodding acquaintance. Bobby had run into him the last time at Homburg, and Clancey had given him to understand that he had some sort of vague diplomatic appointment. He had drifted across Bobby's life afterwards in a shadowy way, seeming to have nothing special to do, but to know a great many people and to take life as a sort of a joke. He talked lightly and cynically about serious things, and used foreign expressions with great ease and fluency. It was characteristic of him that since the War he made frequent use of German idioms, and when conversation turned upon passing events he professed a complete contempt for English ideas, habits, and methods, and a great admiration for those of the Germans.

"What's your job at the War Office?" asked Bobby.

"As I really don't know myself it is rather difficult to explain it to you," answered the other, "but it seems chiefly to consist in sitting tight and preventing other people from annexing it."

"I'm up for a commission," remarked Bobby. "Can you do anything to help me about it?"

"Dear me, what a silly thing to do! What regiment?"

Bobby explained.

"I shall be charmed to do what I can," replied Clancey, "but as they simply loathe me at Headquarters I don't think it will do you much good."

They fell to discussing other things. Bobby, obsessed by his recent experiences, could not resist telling his companion something about them. But he did not mention Ramsey. The implied admission that he had been cut out was too humiliating. Clancey's interest was evidently aroused. He wanted to hear all about Madame de Corantin.

"She seems to have fascinated you," he remarked.

"She'd fascinate anybody."

"And you really don't know what has become of her? How extraordinary!"

"Isn't it?"

"You mean to say you cannot trace her in any way?"

"I have no more idea than the man in the moon where she is."

Clancey reflected.

"Did you say she was French?" he asked.

"Her husband was; she herself is Russian."

Clancey looked at him.

"Oh, Russian, is she? Corantin, Corantin. Let me see. I seem to remember the name somehow."

"No, do you?" Bobby's voice betrayed his interest.

"I must think about it," said Clancey. He pulled out his watch. "I think it is time I got back to the War Office. I'll see about the commission, Froelich, and let you know."

"This is where I live," said Bobby, handing him a card. "Do look me up. I do want that commission, and as quickly as possible."

They went out of the restaurant and separated in the street, Bobby taking his way towards his rooms in Down Street. He was wondering whether perhaps luck had come his way, and whether Clancey would reveal to him some means of finding Madame de Corantin. If he did, damn the commission!

That evening, as on all others, Bobby was bored to death; the habits of twenty years were not to be thrown off in a day. It was impossible for him to go to bed before the small hours, and not knowing how else to kill time he dropped in at the Savoy restaurant. It was late when he got there, and he strolled through the foyer, stopping at various tables to talk to acquaintances. He had no intention of taking supper, but just wanted to see who was there.

Of a sudden, for no reason that he could possibly have explained, an impulse made him walk into the restaurant. In that instant he felt positively, he could have sworn that Madame de Corantin was there. His heart beat so that he thought it must be heard as he made his way to the entrance, and immediately, with a strange sort of intuition, his eyes found her.

There she was, at the table on the right. He could see her through the glass screen, and Ramsey was with her. He stood still a moment, devouring her with his eyes, and then she looked up and recognized him. Was she really beckoning to him? The reaction was so great that he dared not believe the evidence of his senses. No, there was no doubt; she was actually beckoning. As he walked towards the table he felt as though his legs would give way under him; and now he was by her; he held her hand.

"Ah, Bobby, my friend, I am so pleased to see you."

The familiar voice, the familiar glance! It was all too good to be true. He was blind to the presence of Ramsey. He was alone with her; Ramsey did not exist; the restaurant did not exist. The hum of voices, the clatter of plates, the movements of the waiters, were distant sounds: all he knew was that he was standing there by her.

"Sit down, Bobby."

Mechanically he seated himself, and gradually some of his equanimity returned. He could speak, but he said nothing of what he felt. Instinctively he knew that it was wiser to make no reference to anything that had passed.

Ramsey's face was set and cold, but all his capacity for insolent indifference did not enable him to conceal his annoyance. His eyes flashed with anger.

"I think we ought to be going; it is getting rather late. We don't want to be swept out with the dust, do we?" He addressed Madame de Corantin.

"Oh, I am in no hurry, Mr. Ramsey," she replied. "It gives me great pleasure to see Mr. Froelich again. I was obliged to leave Paris so suddenly, and never had an opportunity of showing him how much I appreciated his kindness to me."

Ramsey said nothing, but he glared at Bobby vindictively.

Presently Madame de Corantin rose, but as she left the room she made a point of keeping Bobby beside her, and in her inimitable way she asked Ramsey to fetch her cloak. For a moment Bobby had the exquisite joy of being alone with her.

"Only tell me one thing," he almost gasped. "Tell me that I may see you, and when."

She thought a moment. "Not tomorrow, I fear. I should like to so much, but I have not a moment. Come the next day to lunch. I am staying at Claridge's."

Ramsey appeared with the cloak, and she was gone.

What the next hours meant to Bobby can be imagined. They were passing somehow. The night, the morning, the afternoon wore away. He bought some magnificent roses and returned to his flat to dress, determined that he would take them himself to Claridge's, hoping that by some chance he might catch a glimpse of her.

He was just starting out when, to his surprise, Clancey was announced.

"There is something I wanted to tell you, Froelich."

Bobby waited impatiently.

"That lady you were talking about, Madame de Corantin. I think I remember something."

Bobby was nervously anxious to get away. What Clancey had to tell him mattered little now.

"Oh, thanks very much, Clancey. The fact is, I've seen her."

Clancey's nonchalant manner changed instantaneously.

"Really!" he exclaimed.

"At the Savoy last night. She is here in London. She is staying at Claridge's. In fact, to tell you the truth, I am taking these flowers there now. I am to lunch with her to-morrow. It has been a great surprise. I never dreamt of such a thing," Bobby stammered on excitedly.

Clancey became calm again.

"Oh, that's most interesting," he said. "You will lunch with her to-morrow! I say, Froelich, you might introduce me. I could turn up after lunch, you know."

Bobby's face got serious.

"Well, I tell you, Clancey, old chap, as a rule I am quite ready to introduce my friends to any lady I know, but in this particular case it is not quite the same. You see, the fact is—the last time I introduced a friend of mine the result was—well, it was not exactly what I bargained for."

"What do you mean?" asked Clancey.

"What I mean is that I introduced Alistair Ramsey to her in Paris, with the result that I have never seen her since until yesterday."

Clancey did not immediately reply, but a curious expression overspread his face. "Alistair Ramsey," he murmured, and then again, "Alistair Ramsey, dear me!"

Bobby looked at him wonderingly. Clancey laughed lightly.

"That reminds me," he said. "I inquired about your commission at the War Office. You know, I suppose, that Alistair Ramsey is private secretary to Sir Archibald Fellowes. Old Fellowes decides upon all commissions, and your charming friend, Mr. Ramsey, informed him you were not a fit person to wear his Majesty's uniform."

Bobby stared.

"The dirty dog!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm damned! That at the last, after everything!"

"Yes, just that," remarked Clancey. "So you introduced him to Madame de Corantin?"

"Not because I wanted to," replied Bobby.

"And she has been with him ever since?"

"Oh, I don't know that."

"But she was with him last night at the Savoy?"

"Yes. Damn him! I must be off now. Clancey, really, I'm awfully obliged to you."

"Well, may I come to Claridge's tomorrow? I promise I won't cut you out—I only want to make her acquaintance. She must be such a charming woman."

"All right. Look in after lunch," Bobby answered, and, seizing the huge parcel which contained his flowers, he led the way out of the room and thence out of the flat to the cab which was waiting for him.

Had Bobby looked out of the window of that cab he would have been surprised. Clancey was running down the street towards Piccadilly as fast as his legs could carry him.

* * * * *

Another shock was in store for poor Bobby. Jumping out of his taxi, he presented himself to the hall-porter, armed with his huge paper parcel from the florist.

"For Madame de Corantin," he said.

The porter looked at him; he knew him well and accepted the offering hesitatingly.

"For Madame de Corantin, you said, sir?"

"Yes," said Bobby.

"Madame de Corantin left early this afternoon, Mr. Froelich."

For a moment Bobby was speechless.

"Left?" he gasped. "Are you sure?"

"I'm perfectly certain, sir."

"But surely she is coming back again, isn't she? Why, I'm lunching with her to-morrow."

The porter looked at him in surprise.

"Take a seat for a moment, sir, and I'll go and inquire, though to the best of my belief she took all her luggage with her."

In a moment the man came back.

"Yes, sir, she and her maid and all her luggage left about two o'clock. There were two cars; one was brought by a gentleman."

Bobby pulled himself together.

"Ah! Mr. Alistair Ramsey, I suppose?" He tried to put indifference into his voice.

"Yes, sir, I think it was Mr. Alistair Ramsey."

Bobby walked out of the hotel. "Oh, damn him, damn him, damn him!" he muttered as he threw himself into a cab.

"Go to Down Street."

Arrived at his rooms, Bobby cast his poor flowers into a corner, and, flinging himself on to a sofa, buried his face in his hands. What was the meaning of it, and how could she be so cruel as to play the same trick on him again? What was the object of telling him to come and see her? It would have been by far kinder to ignore him when she saw him at the Savoy. And yet even now Bobby was not resentful. He was bewildered, but far more was he humiliated at the thought of Ramsey's triumph. There must surely be some explanation. She had greeted him so kindly; she had shown such evident pleasure at seeing him again. Why should she have acted that part? There was no object in it. Something must have happened, something quite outside the range of ordinary events. As he had done a hundred times, Bobby returned on the past and tried to piece together consecutively all the incidents since his first meeting with Madame de Corantin. Gradually an impression formed itself in his mind that what at first had seemed an attractive mystery was something deeper than he had imagined. Gradually there spread over him a vague sensation of discomfort, of apprehension even. Still, when he thought about her it seemed impossible to connect anything sinister with a personality so charming, with a disposition so amiable. No, it was beyond him; it was useless his attempting to puzzle out the problem. Only time could explain it. As they had met at the Savoy, so sooner or later they would meet again. He knew it was useless to try and forget her; that was impossible, but, in the meantime, what?

Suddenly his reflections were interrupted. Some one was ringing the bell at the entrance. Bobby went to the door. Two men were standing outside—strangers to him.

"Are you Mr. Froelich?" one of them asked.

"Yes," answered Bobby. "Why? What do you want?"

"I should like to speak to you a moment."

"What about?" Bobby eyed them suspiciously.

"I am from Scotland Yard, Mr. Froelich. We'd better go inside to talk."

Bobby, quite bewildered, led them into his sitting-room, and shut the door.

"My name is Inspector Groombridge," said the spokesman of the two. "I have been instructed to place you under arrest."

"Me! Under arrest? What on earth have I done? There must be some mistake."

Bobby was horrified.

"Those are my instructions, Mr. Froelich, and I am afraid I must ask you to come with me. My colleague, Sub-inspector Dane, is to remain here in possession, and I am afraid I must ask you to hand him your keys."

"My keys?" Bobby felt in his pockets. "What sort of keys do you mean?" He pulled a gold chain out of his pocket to which were attached his latchkey and a few others. He held them in his hand, and ticked them off one by one mechanically. "This is the key of the cupboard where I keep my cigars and liqueurs; this is the key of my dispatch-box. I don't think I've got anything else locked up."

"Have you no safe, no desk or other receptacle where you keep your papers, Mr. Froelich—documents of any kind?"

"Papers—documents?" ejaculated Bobby. "No, I haven't got any documents or papers. What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm afraid it will be the duty of Sub-inspector Dane to search your apartment, Mr. Froelich, and I want to save you from having anything broken open if it can be avoided."

"There is nothing to break open. I don't lock anything up except cigars and things of that kind, and as to my dispatch-box, there's not much there either. I hardly know what there is—I haven't looked inside it for ever so long. There may be a few private letters."

"What sort of letters?" asked the inspector.

To Bobby this sounded menacing.

"Oh, I don't know; perhaps there may be one or two—well, what shall I call them?—love letters, I suppose. Anyhow, here are the keys." He handed them over to the other man as he spoke.

"Call a cab." The inspector spoke to his subordinate.

"I say," asked Bobby apprehensively, "am I going to be locked up?"

The inspector hesitated slightly. Bobby's innocence seemed to strike him. He was not the sort of person he was used to arresting.

"I am afraid it's more than likely, Mr. Froelich."

"Can't I change my clothes?" queried Bobby. "You see, I've got on evening dress, and I suppose I shan't have a chance of getting out of it."

The inspector reflected a moment.

"Oh yes, Mr. Froelich. I don't see why you should not change, but I'm afraid I must ask you to let me accompany you."

"Well, I'm—D'you think I'm going to try and escape?"

"Oh, I don't say that, Mr. Froelich, but sometimes things happen on these occasions, and it's my duty to be on the safe side. I'm sorry to inconvenience you."

"Come on in, then." Bobby led the way into his dressing-room, and in a few minutes he was rolling off with his strange companion to some destination unknown.

After the most uncomfortable night Bobby had ever spent in his life he was escorted next morning by Sub-inspector Dane to Scotland Yard. He was ushered into a waiting-room, and there he sat with the inspector, waiting until he should be summoned before the Assistant Commissioner. Had he been able to see what was going on in the adjoining room, he would have been exceedingly surprised.

The Assistant Commissioner, one of those public servants whose quiet, unobtrusive manner covers a strong character and a great efficiency, was sitting at his table talking to Harold Clancey. They were in earnest consultation.

"Then I understand, Captain Clancey," said the Assistant Commissioner, "that this lady has got clear off?"

Clancey smiled serenely.

"Oh, rather! Address: Hotel des Indes, The Hague—quite a comfortable place and quite an important German espionage centre."

"I gather that our man was too late."

"By some hours, I should say," Clancey replied. "You see, we only got the report in from France quite late. I sent your man to watch her while I went to see Froelich. I was sure he was all right, but I wanted to satisfy myself. By the time I reached our place I found the chief in the deuce of a stew. Your man had got back, and reported that she'd gone. They'd kicked up the devil's delight at Headquarters, and the chief was out for blood. He was determined to arrest somebody, and I suggested Ramsey, but he got purple in the face and told me he'd instructed your people to bag Froelich. I thought this quite idiotic, but it relieved the chief's feelings, and it was too late to do anything sensible. We knew the ship she took; of course, she was much too clever to sail under the English flag. Naturally we wirelessed, but they won't dare touch her. After that last row it's hands off these Dutchmen."

"And the view of your department, Captain Clancey, is that it's useless for us to detain Mr. Froelich?"

"Absolutely useless. I can swear to it. As I told you, I don't know him well, but I know all about him, and I am satisfied of his complete innocence, and that he is entirely unaware of Madame de Corantin's objects and activities."

"Then what do you propose that we should do, Captain Clancey?"

"I propose nothing at all, Mr. Crane."

"What, after her getting those passports?"

Clancey twisted his moustache.

"That's a matter which concerns spheres altogether over my head, Mr. Crane."

"But Mr. Ramsey says that it's entirely owing to Mr. Froelich's introduction that he provided the lady with passports, that he'd known her through him, and having been a friend of Mr. Froelich for many years, he had implicitly trusted him. He was here only a few minutes before you came, and he told me that there was no doubt at all but that he had been the victim of a conspiracy between Froelich and this Madame de Corantin. He admitted that he ought to have been on his guard, considering that Mr. Froelich's name was German, and of course it was natural that he would have German sympathies."

"Um! And what do you think, Mr. Crane?"

The Assistant Commissioner was silent for a moment.

"You see, I don't know Mr. Froelich," he said.

"But you do know Mr. Ramsey," replied Clancey.

"Not well."

"What about his chief? You know him well enough. Why not ask him?"

The Assistant Commissioner's answer was to throw a note across the table to his questioner. It ran as follows—

WAR OFFICE.

DEAR MR. CRANE,—

I desire you to take the most rigorous measures without fear or favour regarding this matter of the passports accorded to Madame de Corantin. There has been a disgraceful dereliction of duty, and I intend to make an example of the offender, whoever he may be.

Yours very truly,

ARCHIBALD FELLOWES.

Clancey whistled.

"That looks rather awkward for Master Alistair."

There was a knock on the door. It was Inspector Groombridge.

"Excuse me, sir, my man has just brought this. It was delivered by a stranger to the hall-porter of the building where Mr. Froelich occupies a flat." He handed a letter to the Assistant Commissioner, who read it slowly and without comment passed it to Clancey. Clancey, read it through, smiled, and passed it back.

"I think that settles it," he remarked, "and with your kind permission I will now depart."

Nodding farewell to the Assistant Commissioner, Clancey withdrew by the private exit opposite to the one which led into the room where Bobby was miserably awaiting his fate.

"Show Mr. Froelich in, Inspector Groombridge, and, by the way, I hope you have treated him with courtesy."

The inspector cleared his throat.

"Oh, I think so, sir. Of course, it's rather difficult in these cases to make a gentleman comfortable, but I gave him a shake-down in my own private room for the night and sent a man for his toilet things and so on in the morning."

"Very well, Inspector; show him in at once."

Bobby came into the room; his expression was more bewildered than apprehensive. The Assistant Commissioner held out his hand, which Bobby took with a look of surprise.

"Do sit down, Mr. Froelich. I am so sorry to have troubled you. You will, I am sure, understand that in times like these one has to be very careful, and your acquaintance with Madame de Corantin—"

"Madame de Corantin!" Bobby, exclaimed. "What in the world—"

"One moment, Mr. Froelich. I'll try and explain it to you. Madame de Corantin is known to us. She is a very clever emissary of the German Government, and she has succeeded in baffling us entirely up till now because by a chain of coincidences there has been no one who could identify her on the various occasions that she has been in England. Thanks to her influential connections, she has succeeded in obtaining information of considerable value, and has also been enabled to elude both the French authorities and ourselves. We have reason to believe that she has secured travelling facilities and passports through her relations with high Government officials, both French and English, whom she knew before the War. You will understand, therefore, that your acquaintance with her was at first sight a suspicious circumstance. I am glad to be able to tell you, however, that on inquiry we find that you are entirely innocent of any complicity with her plans, and this result of our investigations is confirmed by a letter which she apparently addressed to you."

Bobby's face had been growing longer and longer as the Assistant Commissioner proceeded. When Mr. Crane mentioned the letter Bobby could not restrain an exclamation.

"A letter?" he asked excitedly. "What letter?"

"This," said the Assistant Commissioner, handing him the note that Clancey and he had previously seen.

Bobby took it eagerly and read—

DEAR BOBBY, MY FRIEND,—

Once more I fear I am causing you unhappiness. I cannot explain everything, but I can at least tell you this. When I prevailed upon you to introduce Mr. Ramsey to me, so much against your will, I had an object. This object was very far from being a desire for Mr. Ramsey's acquaintance as you supposed, for I am still, and always shall be, devoted to that former friend of whom I told you. His name, I may now tell you, is Prince von Waldheim und Schlangenfurst. When I came to London I had hoped to have remained long enough to see you again, but I had no alternative but to go at a moment's notice. To have remained would have been dangerous.

This letter will be delivered to you by a person whom I can trust. By the time you get it I shall be in Holland.

Some day when peace is restored I hope we may meet, and it will give me great pleasure to see you and introduce you to Prince von Waldheim, who esteems loyalty as I do.

As to Mr. Ramsey I do not know which I despise most—his vanity or his stupidity.

With every good wish,

Believe me,

Always sincerely and gratefully yours,

FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.

As Bobby finished the letter he looked up and met the eyes of the Assistant Commissioner who rose from his chair.

"I need not detain you, Mr. Froelich; it only remains for me to apologize for any trouble I may have given you. I must ask you to be kind enough to lend me this letter, which, however, I shall send on to you in a few days."

Bobby returned to his flat, relieved but chastened. It was not long before he received the commission he coveted. The same Gazette contained two announcements: one that a commission as lieutenant had been granted to Mr. J. Froelich, the other that his Majesty had no further use for the services of Mr. Alistair Ramsey.



A WAR VICTIM



VI

A WAR VICTIM

Gilbert Baxendale is at fifty what people call "a nice-looking man." He hardly seems any older than he did ten years ago, except that he is rather stouter below the belt, and that when he takes off his hat one notices that he is getting a little bald. His skin is pink and unwrinkled, and his hair and moustache are so light that one does not notice whether they are turning grey or not, and he looks as spruce as ever. Baxendale always has been particular about his appearance, and he is never so pleased as when you ask him the name of his tailor. But his reply in that case is deprecating, implying that he doesn't think very much of him, do you? which is intended to draw further reassurance and compliment. On the other hand, if, inspired by the lustre of their beautiful polish, you should inquire where he gets his boots, his expression changes. Although boots are about as near a hobby as he has ever got, he is distressed about the shape of his feet, and says that his corns give him a lot of trouble. But he likes to talk about boots, and a recurring subject of conversation with him is the difficulty of finding a man who really understands doing them properly. He knows a great deal about blacking and brushes, and is no mean authority on the art of boning or polishing or varnishing refractory footgear of all kinds. To look at him one would think Baxendale has never had a day's illness in his life, but as a matter of fact he has never been well since any one can remember. He has always suffered from what one may call ailments, and when one saw him at the club or in Bond Street he would tell you he was not quite the thing—he was run down or had lumbago or a bit of a chill on the liver.

Baxendale is very particular about cooking. He used to complain a good deal about the food at the club, but after his marriage he said it had improved, which no one could understand, as the kitchen staff has not been changed for twenty years. Freddy Catchpole said that once when he dined with them Mrs. Baxendale asked him about the club cook, because Gilbert was very dissatisfied with theirs. Servants worried Baxendale a great deal after he got married. He said they almost made him long for his bachelor days, when he did not know what domestic cares were.

The Baxendales live in one of those new, well-built houses in the neighbourhood of Grosvenor Square. It was some time before Baxendale could make up his mind to buy the lease of it. For a year or two he tried taking furnished houses alternately in the country and in town. Being a cautious man, he wanted to give both a good trial, but his wife finally made up his mind for him. She took no end of trouble in decorating and furnishing their house in some antique style. At first Baxendale seemed to be pleased. Every now and then he told men at the club how clever she was at picking up bargains; but after a time he got gloomy when one asked how the house was getting on. He said he had met a man who had made a collection of antiques, and when he wanted to sell them he found they were all shams, and it nearly ruined him.

After it was all finished the Baxendales gave a house-warming party. Peter Knott said afterwards that Baxendale took him aside and confided to him that he wasn't at all pleased with the house. It faced west instead of south, and the drawing-room was so large one could never buy enough furniture to put in it, whereas his smoking-room was a rotten little hole you couldn't swing a cat in. Besides, it really was a mistake living in town; the country was much better for the health and less expensive on the whole, even if you had shooting and entertained a good deal. He had a great mind to sell the lease if he could get a good offer. Then he would have a flat just to run up to when he wanted to stay in town for a week at a time and do the theatres.

The Baxendales have no children, and apparently no nephews, nieces, nor other youthful belongings in whom they take any special interest. One day Peter Knott met Baxendale playing golf with a young man whom he introduced to him as his nephew, Dick Barnard, but the youth did not reappear on any other occasion, and Peter remembers that Baxendale told him in confidence that the boy put on side and was cheeky.

Baxendale always tells things in confidence to people, and occasionally they happen to meet and compare notes; in this way they sometimes get to know what Baxendale thinks about them, and this does not add to his popularity. Baxendale retired from business after his marriage, and invested his capital as remuneratively as security permitted. He came to the conclusion that as his wife's income, added to his own, provided all the money they needed, there was no object in boring himself by going to the City. After he gave up business, every week when in town Baxendale had certain obligations which filled up his time agreeably for him. For instance, he looked over the share list every morning to see that his and Mrs. Baxendale's investments were all right. He liked a pleasant object for a walk, so at least once a week he made a point of fetching his passbook from the bank. One day Freddy Catchpole met him just as he was coming out, and he said he was awfully upset about his quarter's balance, which had never been so low before. Freddy told him he had never had a balance at the end of a quarter in his life, and Baxendale replied that, at all events, that saved him anxiety about investing it.

There used to be lots of other ways in which Baxendale passed his time. There was always something or other to order at his tailor's or his shirtmaker's. He was never extravagant in these matters, but when he decided to get something he took time and trouble over it, and would go several times to try things on. He used to say that in this way he got quite a lot of exercise. On Saturdays and Sundays he and his wife sometimes motored down to play golf at one or the other of their clubs. Baxendale said since his marriage he was off his game, and it was really no fun playing with a woman. Mrs. Baxendale asked Peter Knott's advice about it. She said it was such a pity Gilbert lost his temper and never would finish the round when she was one up, as the exercise really was good for him. During the racing season Baxendale generally managed to avoid golf and go down to Sandown or Kempton or Gatwick instead; he said he got just as much air and exercise there, and there was always a chance of paying your expenses. Sometimes he succeeded, as he was very careful; but whenever he failed he would say he'd chuck it up altogether, the game wasn't worth the candle.

In the winter Baxendale used at one time to take a shoot near London, but he gave it up because he got bored with looking after it and arranging parties. He said he was sick of being sponged on by men who never asked him back.

He complained a good deal about the snobbishness of people generally. Somebody was always cutting or ignoring him, and then "look at the sort of men that one meets nowadays; fellows whose fathers keep shops and haven't an 'h' in their alphabets." He couldn't understand how people could stand the cads that went about; yet you could go into the Ritz or the Carlton and see the Countess of Daventry and Lady FitzStuart lunching and dining with "bounders like that fellow Clutterbuck."

After his marriage Baxendale became absorbed more and more by his wife's family. He seemed to be impressed especially by old Sir Robert and Jack Barnard, his wife's uncle and brother. Whatever Jack did interested Baxendale, and whatever he said Baxendale repeated in confidence to most of his acquaintances. Of course Jack is a romancer, but Baxendale never knows whether to believe him or not, and Jack, being aware of this, concocts imposing fairy tales for Baxendale's benefit. Sir Robert is supposed to be very rich, and the amount of his fortune and what he is going to do with it are matters of deep concern to Baxendale, who made a habit of calling on him daily and constantly inviting him to dinner. He told Peter Knott he was sorry for the old man being so lonely, and that his wife was his favourite niece and much attached to him; but Jack declared that his uncle was horribly mean, and only tolerated Baxendale because he could get dinner at his house for nothing.

At the beginning of the War Baxendale began complaining about his nerves. Somehow he didn't enjoy his food and couldn't get a proper night's sleep. He'd tried Benger's Food last thing at night and Quaker Oats for breakfast, but nothing seemed to do him any good.

The curious part of Baxendale's illness was that he continued to look perfectly well, but he seemed to get offended if people said so; what really touched him was pity. There's a man at the club called Funkelstein whom everybody supposed was a German, but now he says he's Dutch. Just after the War broke out, Baxendale told every one confidentially he was a spy, but, to our surprise, they suddenly became quite friendly. It seemed that Funkelstein also suffered from nerves. Baxendale said he was most sympathetic to him personally, and alluded to him as "poor Funkelstein." As time went on Baxendale's nerves grew worse, and it was thought he must have been badly hit financially by the War, till Peter Knott told us that he had invested most of his wife's and his own money in shipping companies and coal-mine debentures which had done nothing but rise ever since the War began. On the strength of this satisfactory information Baxendale was occasionally approached for subscriptions; but his response was generally evasive, or the amount offered so minute that he felt compelled to explain it by expressing his apprehensions about new taxation and the insane extravagance of the Government.

After a time Baxendale told us he could hardly bear to open a paper; he never knew what he might read next, and he felt he could not stand any more shocks. That made us suppose he had a brother or some near relative at the Front, and for some days we were rather apologetic in our attitude towards him, as, what with the War and our own anxieties, we had shown some indifference to Baxendale's nerves.

But one day Jack Barnard turned up as a major in khaki, and said something so rude to his brother-in-law, who was sitting in the corner with Funkelstein, that the latter turned pale and left the room hurriedly. It appeared afterwards that Jack had got his back up against "that blighter Gilbert" because he hadn't done a thing for Dick, who had been at Sandhurst, and was now with his regiment in France. "It wasn't as though the selfish swine had kids of his own or some one else's whom he cared about. Not a soul. Sickening, I call it. He didn't even say good-bye to him or ask after him."

* * * * *

Later on Baxendale developed a habit of questioning every one as to what they were doing. On one occasion he asked Postlethwaite, who runs a convalescent home at Margate, if there was anything he could do down there. Postlethwaite suggested that he might drive wounded soldiers down to Margate in his car if he liked. Baxendale said he'd think it over, but when Postlethwaite had gone he asked Peter Knott in confidence if he didn't think it was taking advantage of people to mess up their cars like that.

Another time he tackled old Colonel Bridge, who had been up all night doing special constable duty, and was not in the sweetest of tempers. When Baxendale asked him what he was doing he told him he'd better come round to the police-station at three the next morning and see for himself.

Baxendale has not turned up at the club since, and we were all hoping he had found suitable employment. This happens to nearly every one sooner or later except to us seniors. But it had not happened to Baxendale; for Freddy Catchpole, who has managed to get a job at the War Office, dined one evening with Mrs. Baxendale, and she told him poor Gilbert had got so bad with his nerves that he had to go to a nursing-home in the country to take a cure. And there, for all I know, he will stay till the War is over.



DULCE ET DECORUM



VII

DULCE ET DECORUM

David Saunderson lived on the top floor of one of the few lofty buildings in Chelsea, and as his years increased, the ascent of the five flights of stairs became a serious matter. His heart was none too sound, and the three minutes he once needed to reach his attic from the ground floor had already become five when the War began.

With the first shock of battles the emaciated remains of his bedridden brother were borne down the steep stairs and out of the little flat he had not left for the last five years of his life.

The two had lived together since Philip had returned from India as a man of fifty, with the reasonable hope of enjoying his pensioned retirement. Philip had spent his energy freely in the Indian Civil Service, and the two middle-aged brothers, either too poor to marry, too shy, or both, determined to combine resources with companionship and keep house together.

For a time they sailed contentedly downstream. Philip's public spirit and industrious habits would not permit of what he called "a life of indolent ease." He rose early and put in a good eight hours' day at various unpaid labours. He became churchwarden of the parish, joined the vestry, and was a much valued unit of that obscure element in the population which does a great part of the public work for which individuals of a less modest type get the recognition.

David earned his living as a journalist and literary hack. He had never done or been anything else in his life, although to his small circle he loved, in a guileless way, to convey the impression that his youthful performances had been of no little brilliance.

He would mention the names of the celebrated editors by whom he had been employed as literary or dramatic critic, and was never tired of eulogizing these and other lettered heroes for whom he had slaved in the distant past. He insisted on the appreciation that these forgotten lions had shown of his work; but, however that might be, its manifestation had certainly never been translated into terms of cash, for within no one's memory had David's pecuniary resources been other than exiguous.

He was a great lover of the Arts, but his tastes were catholic and he worshipped at many shrines. He had no great patience with those who admire the modern to the exclusion of the old, or whose allegiance to one school precludes acceptance of another. He held his arms wide open and embraced Art in all its manifestations.

He was a great hero-worshipper; there was no sort of achievement he did not admire, but he had his special favourites; generally these were successful playwrights or novelists whose work he revised for publication at a minimum rate and whose additional recognition, in the form of a back seat for a first night or a signed presentation copy, produced in him a quite inordinate gratitude.

David Saunderson was the embodiment of ponderousness; he spoke as slowly as he moved his cumbersome limbs. So gradual were his mental processes that his friends forbore to ask him questions, knowing that they would not have time to wait for his replies. For these reasons the agile in body and mind avoided encounters with him, but if he chanced to meet them where there was no escape they would evade him by cunning or invent transparent excuses which only one so artless as he would have believed.

Now and then he paid visits to old friends who were sometimes caught unawares. Then he would settle his huge bulk in an arm-chair, and his head, bald except for a fringe of grey hair about the ears, seemed to sink into his chest, upon which the bearded chin reposed as though the whole affair were too heavy to support. At such times he gave one the impression of a massive fixture which could be about as easily moved as a grand piano, and his hosts would resign themselves to their fate.

If any one had the temerity to provoke him to discussion, he would wait patiently for an opening, and once he secured it, would maintain his opinion steadily, the even, dispassionate voice slowly wearing down all opposition.

He was not without humour and a certain shrewdness in judging men and things, and would smile tolerantly when views were advanced with which he disagreed. It was not difficult to make merry at his expense, for he suspected no one, and only those who spoke ill of their neighbours disturbed his equanimity. Towards cynics his attitude was compassionate.

Directly war broke out David enrolled himself in the special volunteer corps of artists raised by an eminent Academician. He took his duties very seriously, and was at great pains to master the intricacies of squad-drill. He never admitted that some of the exercises, especially the one that consists in lying on the ground face downwards and raising yourself several times in succession by your arms, were trying to a man of his weight and proportions, but about the time he was beginning to pride himself on his military proficiency Philip's death occurred. He said little about it and quietly occupied himself with the funeral and with settling his dead brother's small affairs, but the battalion were little surprised when shortly afterwards his resignation followed on medical grounds.

The Saundersons were connected with a family of some distinction, the head of which, knowing that Philip's pension died with him and that David's earnings were smaller than ever since the War, would gladly have offered him some pecuniary assistance. But David's pride equalled his modesty, and Peter Knott had to be charged with the mission of approaching him.

One afternoon Peter found David in his attic going through his dead brother's papers and smoking a pipe. Peter knew his man too well to attempt direct interrogation. He felt his way by inquiries as to the general situation of Art, and David was soon enlarging on the merits of sundry unknown but gifted painters and craftsmen whose work he hoped Peter might bring to the notice of his wealthy friends.

"The poor fellows are starving, Knott," he said in his leisurely way as he raised himself painfully from his chair and walked heavily to a corner where lay a portfolio.

Every piece of furniture in the small sitting-room was littered with a heterogeneous collection of manuscripts and books; the latter were piled up everywhere. David slowly removed some from a table and laid the folio upon it.

"Now, here's—a charming—etching." He had a way of saying a word or two and then pausing as though to take breath, which demanded great patience of a listener.

Peter stood by him and examined it, David meanwhile puffing at his pipe.

"The man—who did that—is one of our best line engravers—his name is Macmanus—he's dreadfully hard up—look at this."

He held another before his visitor.

"That's by Plimsoll—a silver point—isn't it a beautiful thing?"

"Delightful," replied Peter.

"Well, do you know—Knott—that—" David's pipe had gone out. He moved slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. "Do you know, Plimsoll is one of the most gifted"—he was holding a match to his pipe as he spoke—"gifted young artists in the country—and two days ago—he—was literally hungry—" David took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Peter to see the effect of his words.

"It's very sad, very"—Peter Knott's tone was sympathetic—"but after all, they're young; they could enlist, couldn't they?"

David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before answering.

"They're—neither of them—strong, Knott. They'd—be laid up in a week."

"Um—hard luck that," Peter Knott agreed. "But what's to be done? Everybody's in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they're just as badly hit, aren't they?"

"That depends—" David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his sentence. "The occasional—er—contributors—are having a bad time—but the regular journalists—the people on the staffs—are all right—of course I know cases—there's a man called—er, let me see—I've got a letter from him somewhere—Wyatt's his name—now, he's—" David's huge body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.

"By the way," he remarked briskly, "I saw your friend Seaford yesterday."

David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up at the name.

"Frank Seaford—oh, did you? How is he? I haven't seen him for some time—"

"So I gathered," Peter remarked dryly. "He seems to be getting on very well since Ringsmith took him up."

"Ah! Ringsmith's right. He's a beautiful—artist. Did you—see—"

Peter interrupted. "I think I've seen all Seaford's work. Anyhow he owes his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely on your recommendation two years ago. He's sold a lot of pictures during that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?"

David stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Let me see—some time before the War—it must have been—more than a year ago."

"Not very grateful," Peter could not help rapping out.

David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.

"You're quite wrong, Knott. He sent me—that exquisite study—on the wall yonder." He pointed as he spoke to a small drawing in water colours.

Peter got up, looked at it a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.

"If you're satisfied, I've got nothing to say."

"Satisfied—of course I'm satisfied—" A tolerant, almost condescending smile stole over David's eyes and mouth. "You don't understand—artists, Knott."

"Perhaps not, perhaps not." Knott pulled out his watch. "Anything doing in your own line, Saunderson?" he asked in a tone of careful indifference.

David puffed at his pipe.

"I'm not very busy—but—you know—that's rather a good thing—now I'm a special constable."

Peter Knott's single eyeglass wandered over the unwieldy frame sitting opposite him.

"A special constable?" he echoed.

David puffed complacently.

"Sergeant," he replied.

Peter Knott dropped his glass.

"Really, you know, Saunderson. For a man at your time of life, and obliged to work for his living, it's—" He hesitated. "Well, you oughtn't to do it."

David smiled in a superior way.

"That's just where—you're wrong—Knott—we relieve the—younger men—that's our job—and I'm proud to—"

Peter Knott's kindly old eyes twinkled at the thought of David tackling a lusty cracksman, twinkled and then became grave.

"Supposing you get laid up, injured in some way?" he asked.

"We don't think about that." David's expression was serene. "I go on—duty at—two—very quiet then—lovely it is—on fine nights—when I've been working—to get out—into the cool air—"

As David spoke Peter Knott pulled out his watch again and then got up.

"I saw your cousin Herbert a few days ago, Saunderson. He said he hadn't seen you for a long time, wondered whether you'd go down to Rendlesham for a few weeks. He wants a catalogue of his prints, and there are some old manuscripts he would like your opinion about. I'm going down this week-end. What shall I tell him?"

David put down his pipe.

"Tell him—I'm much obliged—later on perhaps—I can't—leave my duties—while these Zeppelin scares last. They need experienced men—one doesn't know what—may happen." He had got on his feet and had gradually reached the door of the tiny flat. "Good-bye, Knott," he said as he took the other's hand. "Don't forget—about Macmanus and—Plimsoll—"

His visitor was two flights below when David called to him—

"If you happen—to hear of—a secretaryship—Wyatt's—"

But by the time he got the words out Peter Knott was out of hearing.

In due course Peter Knott reported the result of his visit to Sir Herbert Saunderson. The latter, a kindly man with an income barely enough for the responsibilities a large family entailed on him, took counsel with his old friend as to what could be done next. There was reason for believing that David's stolid silence regarding his own concerns concealed a general impecuniousness quite as pronounced as that of the artist friends whose cause he pleaded.

"Why not send him the prints with a cheque on account and say you need the catalogue soon, as you may make up your mind to sell them?"

"A capital idea," replied the other, and the suggestion was promptly carried into effect.

* * * * *

One winter morning, some months afterwards, a seedy-looking individual called at Portland Place with a typewritten letter, requiring an answer.

Sir Herbert Saunderson, busy reading and signing letters, tossed it over to his secretary. The young lady read it aloud according to rule.

DEAR HERBERT [it ran],—

I have finished the catalogue, but there are one or two details which I should like to settle before sending it to the printers. My friend Mr. Wyatt, who has been kindly helping me with the work since my little accident, will explain the different points to you and take your instructions, I am so sorry I can't come myself, but Mr. Wyatt is thoroughly competent and I can strongly recommend him if you have any other work of an analogous character.

Yours ever,

D.S.

The one ear with which Sir Herbert Saunderson was listening while he went on signing the papers before him had caught part though not all of the letter.

"Did I hear the word 'accident,' Miss Milsome?" he asked, looking up.

"Yes, Sir Herbert."

"How did it happen? Let's have a look."

The busy man glanced through it.

"Send for Mr. Wyatt, please."

The seedy little man entered and was asked courteously to seat himself.

"What has happened to my cousin?" asked Sir Herbert.

Mr. Wyatt seemed embarrassed by the question.

"The fact is, Sir Herbert," he began hesitatingly, "Mr. Saunderson didn't want much said about that. His great wish is that I should be given certain necessary data regarding the catalogue, but to tell you the truth—"

Mr. Wyatt stopped. There was a note of anxiety in his pleasant, cultivated voice.

Sir Herbert Saunderson and Miss Milsome exchanged glances.

"Pray don't hesitate to tell me if anything is wrong with my cousin, Mr.—er—"

"Wyatt," added Miss Milsome softly.

"I'm afraid he's rather bad."

The little man looked at Miss Milsome as he spoke. Her expression was sympathetic, and he continued—

"You know, I believe, that he has been a special constable?"

Sir Herbert Saunderson nodded.

"As sergeant, he had charge of the arrangements for reducing the lighting of the streets in his own district. One evening, about a month ago, he was returning from duty, when he slipped on a curbstone owing to the darkness. Fortunately it was close to his own place, and he was able, though with difficulty, to make his way slowly up to his flat. When I got there in the morning, at our usual hour for work, he was in great pain. He had injured his arm and right hand—twisted it in some way so that it was quite useless—"

Mr. Wyatt paused.

"I hope you sent for a doctor?" There was evident apprehension in Sir Herbert's question.

"He absolutely refused to have one. He said he was only one of the light casualties, and that doctors must be spared in these times for important cases. He gave me quite a lecture about it. The charwoman came in with a laudanum dressing from the chemist, who, he said, was a friend of his, and just as good as a doctor."

"But this is madness—simple madness!" Sir Herbert's voice was agitated.

"Oh, his hand soon got better," the little man broke in, "and the pain gradually eased off. In a couple of days he went on working again, but of course he couldn't write. He joked about it. He seemed to like thinking he was in a sort of way in the firing line, as though he was slightly wounded."

Mr. Wyatt laughed very softly.

"But I must see to this at once. Miss Milsome, kindly ring up Dr. Freeman. Tell him I'll call for him." Sir Herbert looked at his table, covered with papers, and then at his watch. His fine mouth closed firmly. "Now, at once, as soon as he can be ready."

Miss Milsome took the telephone from the stand beside her.

Sir Herbert Saunderson rose hurriedly and rang the bell.

"The car, at once!" he ordered as the servant entered.

* * * * *

"It's his heart I'm afraid of," said Mr. Wyatt. He was sitting on the front seat of the landaulette, facing Sir Herbert Saunderson and Dr. Freeman. "I don't think he knows how bad he is."

They were already in Chelsea.

"I think it will be better if Mr. Wyatt and I go up together first," the doctor suggested as they arrived at the door. "If his heart is weak, a sudden emotion might be injurious."

"I quite agree," Sir Herbert replied. "In fact, you need not mention my presence. I only want to know your opinion. Now that he will be in good hands I shall feel relieved."

The doctor jumped out. Sir Herbert detained the other an instant.

"Please keep me informed, Mr. Wyatt. I'm very much indebted to you for telling me about this and for your care of my cousin."

Mr. Wyatt acknowledged the courteous utterance with a deprecating gesture as they shook hands and followed quickly after the doctor, who was proceeding slowly up the steep staircase.

* * * * *

Sir Herbert Saunderson buried himself in The Times, always placed in his car. Suddenly he was disturbed. Mr. Wyatt, pale and hatless, stood on the pavement.

"We were too late!" He uttered the words in a whisper, which ended in a gulp.

The awed face told its own tale. Sir Herbert got out of his car and followed him without a word.

At the bedside the three men stood silently, reverently looking down on David Saunderson.

On his face that happy, superior smile seemed to say to them: "What a lucky fellow I am to have the best of it like this—and Wyatt provided for, too!"

THE END