"Then it has been her doing," cried Stratton excitedly.

"Oh, yes; I think she has done something in it. Do the girls know?"

"No, sir; not yet," said Stratton hastily. "I felt that it was my duty to come to you first."

"Eh? Very good of you, I'm sure. I'll send for them. They'll be delighted."

He rose to ring, but Stratton interposed.

"Not yet, sir, please," he cried; "I have something else to say."

"Wants to borrow a hundred for his outfit," thought the admiral. "Well, I like the fellow; he shall have it. Now, my lad," he said aloud as he resumed his seat. "What is it?"

Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then hurriedly:

"I have met Miss Myra Jerrold and Miss Perrin frequently at their aunt's, Sir Mark, and to a great extent you have made me free of your house. You will grant, I hope, that feelings such as have grown up in me were quite natural. It was impossible for me to be in their society without forming an attachment, but I give you my word, sir, as a man, that never by word or look have I trespassed upon the kindness you have accorded me; and had I remained poor, as I believed myself yesterday, I should never have uttered a word."

"Humph!" ejaculated the admiral, gazing at him sternly.

"But now that I do know my position, my first step is to come to you and explain."

"And the young lady? You have not spoken to her on the subject?"

"Never, Sir Mark, I swear."

"A gentleman's word is enough, sir. Well, I will not profess ignorance. My sister did once drop me a kind of hint about my duties, and I have noticed a little thing now and then."

"You have noticed, sir?" cried Stratton, looking startled.

"Oh, yes," said the admiral, smiling. "I'm not an observant man over such matters; in fact, I woke up only three months ago to find how blind I could be; but in your case I did have a few suspicions; for you young men are very transparent."

"Really, Sir Mark, I assure you," faltered Stratton, "I have been most guarded."

"Of course you have, my lad. Well, I am a poor pilot in love matters, but I don't see here why we should not go straight ahead. You are both young and suitable for each other. Rebecca swears by you, and I confess that I rather like you when you are not so confoundedly learned."

"Sir Mark!" cried Stratton, his voice husky with emotion, "in my wildest moments I never thought—"

"That I should be such an easy-going fellow, eh? But we are running too fast, boy. There is the young lady to think about."

"Of course—of course, sir."

"Not the custom to consult the ship about her captain, but we will here," cried Sir Mark with a laugh; "they generally appoint the captain right off. We'll have her down, bless her. A good girl, Stratton, and I congratulate you."

"But one moment, sir," faltered the young man; "is it kind—so suddenly—give me leave to speak to her first."

"No," said the old sailor abruptly; "she shall come down, and it shall be yes or no right off."

He rang the bell sharply, and then crossed back to Stratton, and shook his hand again.

"You've behaved very well indeed, my lad," he said; "and I like you for it. I never knew your father, but he must have been a gentleman. Your mother, Becky's friend, was as sweet a lady as I ever met."

The butler entered.

"Mr Barron gone?"

"No, Sir Mark."

"Don't matter. Go and ask Miss Perrin to step down here."

The butler bowed, and left the room.

Stratton started from his seat with his face ghastly.

"Hullo, my lad! what's the matter? Time for action, and afraid to meet that saucy little thing. I say, you scientific fellows make poor lovers. Hold up, man, or she'll laugh at you."

"Sir Mark!" gasped Stratton. "Ring again—a horrible mistake on your part."

"What the deuce do you mean, sir? You come and propose for my niece's hand—"

"No; no, Sir Mark," cried the young man wildly.

"What! Why I've seen you attentive to her a score of times. I say again, what the deuce do you mean? Why—why—you were not talking about my own child?"

"My words all related to Miss Jerrold, Sir Mark," said Stratton, now speaking in a voice full of despair. "I never imagined that you could possibly misunderstand me."

"But, confound you, I did, sir. What the devil do you mean by blundering out such a lame tale as that?"

"Want me, uncle dear?" said Edie, entering the room.

"No, no, my dear. Run along upstairs. You're not wanted. I have business with Mr Stratton here."

Edie darted a frightened glance from the choleric, flushed countenance of her uncle to Stratton's, which was almost white.

"Oh, poor Mr Stratton," she thought as she drew back. "Then he did not know before."

The door closed, and Sir Mark turned upon Stratton fiercely.

"Why, confound you, sir!" he began; but the despairing face before him was disarming. "No, no," he cried, calming down; "no use to get in a passion about it. Poor lad! poor lad!" he muttered. Then aloud: "You were speaking, then, of Myra—my daughter—all the time?"

"Yes." Only that word in a despondent tone, for he could read rejection in every line of the old sailor's face.

"But I always thought—oh, what a confounded angle. This is not men's work. Why isn't Rebecca here? Mr Stratton, this is all a horrible blunder. Surely Myra—my daughter—never encouraged you to hope?"

"Never, sir; but I did hope and believe. Let me see her, Sir Mark. I thought I was explicit, but we have been playing at cross purposes. Yes; ask Miss Jerrold to see me here—in your presence. Surely it is not too late to remedy such a terrible mistake."

"But it is too late, Mr Stratton; and really I don't think I could ever have agreed to such an engagement, even if my child had been willing."

"Sir Mark!" pleaded Stratton.

"For Heaven's sake, let's bring it to an end, sir. I never imagined such a thing. Why, man, then all the time you were making friends with one cousin, so as to get her on your side."

"I don't know—was I?" said Stratton dejectedly.

"Of course, sir. Acting the timid lover with the old result!" cried Sir Mark angrily.

Stratton gazed excitedly in his face; there was so much meaning in his words.

"There," continued the admiral; "but it must come, sir, and you must bear it like a man. My child, Myra, has accepted my friend Mr Barron, and the marriage is to take place almost at once."

Stratton stood for a few moments gazing in Sir Mark's face, as if he failed to grasp the full tenor of his words. Then, turning slowly, and without a word, he left the room, walked back to his quaint, panelled chambers, and hid his despair from the eyes of man.



CHAPTER TEN.

AN UNOPENED BUD.

Myra Jerrold stood looking very calm and statuesque, with James Barron holding her hand.

"Yes," he said, "I am going now, but only for a few hours. I cannot live away from you. Only a fortnight now, Myra, and then good-bye to cold England. I take you to a land of beauty, of sunny skies, and joy and love."

"Can any land be as beautiful as that which holds one's home?" she said.

"No," replied Barron quickly, "but that will be your home."

"Trinidad," said Myra thoughtfully; "so many thousand miles away."

"Bah! what are a few thousand miles now? A journey in a floating hotel to a place where you can telegraph to your father's door—instantaneous messages, and receive back the replies."

"But still so far," said Myra dreamily.

"Try and drive away such thoughts, dearest," whispered Barron. "I shall be there. And besides, Sir Mark will run over and see us; and Edith, too, with her husband."

Myra's manner changed. The dreaminess passed away and she looked quickly in her betrothed's eyes.

"Yes, I always thought so," he said merrily. "'Tis love that makes the world go round. That Mr Stratton, your old friend, is below. Don't you understand?"

"No," said Myra quietly, "not quite."

"I think you do, dearest," he said, trying to pass his arm round her, but she shrank gently away.

"Very well," he said, kissing her hand, "I can wait. You will not always be so cold. Mr Stratton came to see your father on business, looking the lover from head to foot. I was sent up to you, and soon after our dear little Edie is summoned to the library. Come, don't look so innocent, darling. You do understand."

"That Mr Stratton has come to propose for Edie's hand?"

"Of course."

Myra's brow contracted a little, and there was a puzzled look in her eyes as she said gently:

"Yes, he has been very attentive to her often. Well, I like Mr Stratton very much, Mr Barron."

"James," he said reproachfully.

"James," she said, as if repeating a lesson, in a dreamy tone, and her eyes were directed toward the door.

"I like him, too, now that I am quite safe. There was a time, dear, when I first came here, and had my doubts. I fancied a rival in Mr Stratton."

"A rival?" she said, starting and colouring. "Yes; but so I did in any man who approached you, dearest. But there never was anything—the slightest flirtation?"

"No, never," she said quickly.

"Of course not; and I am so happy, Myra. You, so young and beautiful, to awaken first to love at my words. But are you not cruel and cold to me still? Our marriage so soon, and you treat me only kindly, as if I were a friend, instead of as the man so soon to be your husband."

Myra withdrew her hand, for the door opened, and Edith entered the room, looking troubled and disturbed.

"Good-bye, then, once more, dearest," said Barron, taking Myra's hand, "till dinner time. Ah, Edie!" he said as he crossed to the door, which she was in the act of closing. Then, in a whisper: "Am I to congratulate you? My present will be a suite of pearls."

Edie started, and Barron smiled, nodded, and passed out. As he descended the stairs his ears twitched, and his whole attention seemed to be fixed upon the library door, but he could hear no sound, and, taking his hat and gloves from the table, he passed out of the great hall, erect, handsome, and with a self-satisfied smile, before the butler could reach it in answer to the drawing room bell.

"Wedding a statue," he said to himself. "But the statue is thickly gilt, and the marble underneath may be made to glow without a West Indian sun. So it was little Edie, then. He hasn't bad taste. The dark horse was not dangerous after all, and was not run for coin."

He was so intent upon his thoughts that he did not notice a hansom cab drawn up about a hundred yards from the house, in which a man was seated, watching him intently, and leaning forward more and more till he was about to pass, when there was a sharp pst-pst, which made him turn and scowl at the utterer of the signal.

"Hi! What a while you've been."

"What the devil brings you here?" said Barron.

"To find you, of course," said the man sourly. "Thought you'd be there."

Barron looked quickly toward Sir Mark's house, turned, and said sharply:

"What is it?"

"Jump in, and I'll tell you," whispered the man. "Getting hot."

Barron jumped into the cab, which was rapidly driven off after instructions had been given through the trap to the driver, and the next minute it was out of sight.

Meanwhile, Edie had stood listening till she heard the hall door closed, and then turned to where her cousin was gazing thoughtfully at the window, not having moved since Barron left the room.

"Listening to his beloved footsteps, Myra?" said Edie sarcastically.

Myra turned upon her with her eyes flashing, but a smile came upon her lips, and she said:

"Well, Edie, am I to congratulate you, too?"

"What about?" flashed out the girl, bitterly mortified by the position in which she had been placed. "Being made a laughing stock for you?"

"What do you mean, dear?" said Myra, startled by the girl's angry way; but there was no answer, and, full of eagerness now, Myra caught her hands. "Mr Barron said just now that Mr Stratton came to propose for you."

"For me?" cried Edith bitterly. "Absurd!"

"But I always thought he was so attentive to you, dear. I always felt that you were encouraging him."

"Oh, how can people be so stupidly blind!" cried Edie, snatching herself away. "It is ridiculous."

"But, Edie, he was always with you. When he came here, or we met him and his friend at auntie's—"

"Leave his friend alone, please," raged the girl. Then, trembling at her sudden outburst, she continued seriously:

"Always with me! Of course he was: to sit and pour into my ears praises of you; to talk about your playing and singing, and ask my opinion of this and that which you had said and done, till I was sick of the man. Do you hear? Sick of him!"

A mist began to form before Myra's eyes, gradually shutting her in as she sank back in her chair, till all around was darkness, and she could not see the unwonted excitement of her cousin, who, with her fingers tightly enlaced, kept on moving from place to place, and talking rapidly.

But there was a bright light beginning to flash out in Myra's inner consciousness, and growing moment by moment, till the maiden calm within her breast was agitated by the first breathings—the forerunners of a tempest—and she saw little thoughts of the past, which she had crushed out at once as silly girlish fancies, rising again, and taking solid shape. Looks that had more than once startled her and set her thinking, but suppressed at once as follies, now coming back to be illumined by this wondrous light, till, in the full awakening that had come, she grasped the sides of the chair and began to tremble, as Edie's voice came out from beyond the darkness, in which externals were shrouded, the essence of all coming home to her in one terrible reproach, as she told herself that she had been blind, and that the awakening to the truth had come too late.

"How could you—how could you!" cried Edie in a low voice, full of the emotion which stirred her. "You thought I loved Malcolm? O Myry, as if I should have kept it from you if I had. Like him? Yes, always as the dearest, best fellow I ever met. I didn't mean it, dear. I never was sick of him; but he used to make me angry, because I felt that he almost worshipped you, and was making me a stepping-stone to get nearer. Well, why don't you ask me why I did not speak?"

There was no reply, and Edie went on as if she had been answered.

"Of course I could not say a word. One day I felt sure that he loved you, and would confide in me; the next time we met he was so quiet and strange that I told myself it was all fancy, and that I should be a silly, match-making creature if I said a word. Besides, how could I? What would uncle, who has been so good to me, have thought if I had seemed to encourage it? And you, all the time, like a horrid, cold, marble statue at an exhibition, with no more heart or care, or else you would have seen."

Edie relieved her feelings by unlacing her fingers, taking out her handkerchief from her pocket and beginning to tear it.

"And now," she went on, "you tell me you believed that he cared for me, and suggest that but for this idea things might have been different. But they would not have been. You are a hard, cold, heartless creature, Myra. He was too poor for you, and not likely to buy you diamonds and pearls like Mr Barron does. Promise me pearls, would he! Insulting me as he did this morning! Why, I would rather have Malcolm Stratton without a penny than Mr Barron with all the West Indies and East Indies, too, for a portion. Malcolm is worth a hundred millions of him, and I hope you are happy now, for I shouldn't wonder if you've broken the poor fellow's heart."

Myra could bear no more, and turning sharply toward her cousin she stretched out her hands imploringly, as her pale face, with its wild looking, dilated eyes seemed to ask for help. But the look was not seen, for, bursting into a fit of weeping, Edie cried:

"But it's too late now! I hope you'll be happy, dear, and uncle satisfied; but you will repent it, I am sure, for I don't believe you love Mr Barron the slightest bit."

As she spoke those last words she left the room, and Myra was alone with thoughts which grew and swelled till she felt half suffocated, while, like some vibrating, echoing stroke of a distant knell, came the repetition of those two words, quivering through every nerve and fibre of her being:

"Too late—too late—too late!"

For the bud of love had been lying dormant in her breast, waiting to expand, and it was opening fast now, as she felt, but only to be withered as its petals fell apart.

Hurried on by Barron's impetuous advances, approved as a suitor by her father, her betrothed's courtship had carried all before it. His attentions had pleased her, and she had reproached herself at times after he had complained that she was cold. One evening, when assailed by doubts of herself, she had appealed to her father and asked him if he wished her to marry Mr Barron, and she recalled his words when she had dreamily said that she did not think she loved him.

"Why, of course I wish it, my darling," he cried; "and as to the love— oh, that will come. Don't let schoolgirl fancies and romances which you have read influence you, my child. You esteem Mr Barron, do you not?"

She had said that she did, and then let herself subside into a dreamy state, principally taken up by thoughts of the change, the preparations for that change, and visions of the glorious country—all sunshine, languor, and delights—which Barron never seemed to tire of painting.

But now the awakening had come—now that it was too late!

That night, hollow-eyed, and as if he had risen from a sick bed, Malcolm sat writing in his chambers by the light of his shaded lamp. The old panelled room looked weird and strange, and dark shadows lurked in the corners and were cast by the flickering flames of the fire on his left.

Since his return from the Jerrolds' he had gone through a phase of agony and despair so terrible that his actions, hidden from all within that solitary room, had resembled those of the insane; but at last the calm had come, and after sitting for some time looking his position in the face, he had set to work writing two or three letters, and then commenced one full of instructions to Percy Guest, telling him how to act when he received that letter, asking his forgiveness, and ending by saying:

I cannot face it. You will call me a coward, perhaps, but you would not if you could grasp all. I am perfectly calm now, sensible of the awful responsibilities of my act, but after what I have gone through since I have been here alone to-day I know perfectly well that my reason is failing, and that in a few hours the paroxysm will return, finding me weaker than before. Better the end at once than after a few months' or years' living death, confined among other miserables like myself.

It was my all—my one aim, Guest, for which I toiled so hard, fighting for success. And the good fortune has come in company with a failure so great that the success is nothing.

Good-bye.

He read his letter over as calmly as if it contained memoranda to send to a friend prior to his departure on a short journey. Then, folding it, inclosing it in an envelope, he directed it, and laid it carefully beside the others on the table before sinking back in his chair.

"Is there anything else?" he said quietly.

At that moment the clock on a cabinet rung out the musical chimes of four quarters, and a deeper toned bell sounded the hour.

"Ten," he said, smiling. "Two hours more and then the beginning of a longer day."

He opened a drawer, took out a parchment label, and wrote upon it carefully:

To Edward Brettison, when time is no more for his obliged and grateful friend, Malcolm Stratton.

Rising from his chair he crossed to the cabinet, tied the label to one of the handles of the clock, then opened the door beneath, and laid bare a shelf of bottles, while a penetrating odour of camphor and other gums floated out into the room—a familiar odour to those who study natural history, and preserve specimens of insect or bird life.

He had to move two or three bottles to get at one with a large neck and stopper, which he shook up and loosened several pieces of dull looking white crystal. One of these pieces he turned out on to the table by his letters, hesitated, and jerked out another. Then, setting down the bottle, he crossed the room to where a table-filter stood on a bracket, and returned with the large carafe and a tumbler, which he filled nearly full of water. These two he set down on the table, and taking up one of the lumps of crystal he dropped it into the glass, taking care that no water should sprinkle over the side.

He held it up to his lamp to see how quickly it would dissolve, set it down again, and dropped in the second piece before beginning to tap the table with his nails, watching the crystalline pieces the while.

"Quick and painless, I hope," he said quietly. "Bah! I can bear a little pain."

He turned in his chair with a laugh, which froze upon his lips as he saw his shadow on a panel a few yards away, the weird aspect of the moving figure having so terrible an effect upon his shattered nerves that he sprang from his seat and fled to the wall, where he stood breathing hard.

"Yes, I know," he cried wildly. "Only my shadow, but it is coming back—I cannot—it is more than man can bear."

There was a wild despair in his utterance, and he shrank away more and more toward the doorway leading to the further room. Then, as if making a supreme effort, he drew himself up erect, with his lips moving rapidly in a low murmur, stepped firmly toward the table and seized the glass.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

FATE!

Barron was back to dine at the admiral's that night, but the dinner was not a success. Myra was singularly cold and formal in her manner; Edie pleaded a headache; and the admiral was worried by recollections of the morning's blunder, and felt awkward and constrained with his guest.

Strive hard as he would he could not help making comparisons, and a curious feeling of pity came over him as he thought of Stratton's blank face and the look of despair in his eyes, while he half wished that he had not allowed himself to be so easily won over to the engagement.

"For he is, after all, nearly a stranger," he mused as his son-in-law elect tried hard to secure Myra's interest in a society anecdote he was retailing, to which she listened and that was all. "Yes, a stranger," mused Sir Mark. "I know very little about him. Bah! Absurd! What should I know of any man who wanted to marry my girl? I might meet his relatives, and there would be a certain amount of intercourse, but if I knew them for fifty years it would not make the man a good husband to my poor girl. He loves her dearly; he is a fine, clever, manly fellow; there is no doubt about the Barron estate in Trinidad, and he has a handsome balance at his banker's."

The ladies rose soon after, and Barron held the door open, returning slowly to his seat, and shrugging his shoulders slightly. For there had been no tender look as Myra passed out, and Barron's thought was justified.

"Don't seem as if we were engaged. I hope," he said aloud, "Myra is not unwell."

"Eh? Oh, no, my dear boy, no. Girls do come over grumpy sometimes. Here, try this claret, and let's have a cozy chat for an hour before we go up."

"An hour?" said Barron, with a raising of the eyebrows.

"Yes; why not? You're not a love-sick boy, and you'll have plenty of your wife by and by."

"Not a boy, certainly, sir. As to the love-sickness—well, I don't know. But—yes, that's a good glass of claret. Larose, eh?"

"Yes. Fill your glass again."

"Willingly," said Baron, obeying his host, and pushing back the jug, "for I want to talk to you, sir, very seriously, and one seems to get on over a glass of wine."

"To talk to me?" said Sir Mark sharply, for his nerves were still ajar. "Nothing the matter?"

"Yes—and no."

"Look here, Barron," cried Sir Mark excitedly, "no beating about the bush. If you want to draw back from your engagement say so like a man."

"If I want to draw back from my engagement, my dear sir? What in the world are you thinking about?"

"I—er—well, your manner was so strange."

"Not strange, Sir Mark: serious. There are serious moments in my life. By the way, I have seen my solicitor again respecting the settlements, and the papers will be ready at any time."

"No hurry, sir, no hurry," said Sir Mark, frowning. "Well?"

Barron drew a long breath.

"Well, what is it, man—what is wrong?"

"Only the old story. When the cat's away the mice will play."

"What do you mean?"

"I've had bad news from my agent in Trinidad."

"Indeed!"

"He writes to me by this mail that he has done his best, but the estate needs my immediate supervision—that he cannot exert the same influence and authority that I should."

"Losses?"

"Oh, no; gains—that is, a little on the right side. But a little is absurd. Those plantations ought to produce a princely revenue."

The admiral looked at his guest keenly.

"Well," he said at last, "what does this mean?"

"That in spite of everything—my own desires and the love I have for England—I shall have to run across as soon as possible."

"For how long?"

"I cannot say—probably for a year."

"Hah!" ejaculated the admiral, with a sigh of relief. "A year before he would be compelled to part with his child."

"And under the circumstances, Sir Mark, I am obliged to throw myself upon your mercy."

"What do you mean?" cried the admiral in alarm.

"Can you ask, sir?" said Barron reproachfully. "I know it is making a great demand upon you and dear Myra; but life is short, and I ask you if my position would not be terrible. It would be like exile to me. I could not bear it. I would say to my agent, 'Let the estate go to—' never mind where; but that would be courting ruin at a time when I am beginning to learn the value of money, as a slave of the lamp, who can, at my lightest order, bring everything I desire to lay at my darling's feet."

"You mean," cried the admiral hotly, "that you want the wedding hurried on?"

"To be plain, Sir Mark, I do. In a month from now. I must go by the next mail boat but one."

"It is impossible, sir!" cried Sir Mark.

Barron shook his head and the admiral changed his position in his chair.

"But Myra?" he cried. "Oh, she would never consent to its being so soon."

"I believe our dear Myra would, in the sweetness of her disposition alone, consent, Sir Mark," said Barron gravely; "and as soon as she knows of the vital importance of time to the man who will be her husband, she will endeavour to meet his wishes in every way."

"Yes, yes; she is a dear, good girl," said Sir Mark; "but this is terrible: so soon."

"The time for parting must come, Sir Mark, sooner or later; and think: it is for her benefit and happiness. Well, yes, I must confess to my own selfish wishes."

"And then there is her aunt—my sister. She would never consent to— Yes, I know exactly what she would say—such indecent haste."

"Only an elderly lady's objection, Sir Mark," said Barron, smiling. "You are certainly bringing forward a real difficulty now, for I fear that I have never found favour in Miss Jerrold's eyes. But surely she has no right to dictate in a case like this. Nay, let us have no opposition. I will appeal to Miss Jerrold myself. She is too high-minded and sweet a lady to stand in the way of her niece's and my happiness. I am satisfied of that. Come, Sir Mark, look at the case plainly. You have been a sailor, sir, and know the meaning of sudden orders to join. Nothing would stop you. Mine are not so sudden, for I have—that is, at all risks, I will have—a month. My fortune is at stake—Myra's fortune, I may say. Help me as you feel the case deserves."

The admiral was silent for a few minutes, during which he filled and emptied his claret glass twice.

"You've floored me, Barron," he said at last. "I can't find an argument against you."

"Then you consent? And you will help me in every way?"

"It is hard work, my boy—a terrible wrench, but I suppose I must. In a month," he muttered; "so soon—and for her to sail right away for a whole year."

Barron wrung his hand hard and smiled.

"How long will it be, my dear sir, before your old taste for the sea returns? Why, you'll be running across before three months are past. Really I should not be surprised if you announced that you meant to come with us."

"Hah! Why not?" cried Sir Mark eagerly. "No, no; that would not do. But I certainly will run over before long."

"Do, sir," cried Barron eagerly.

"Barbadoes, Bahamas, Bermuda," cried Sir Mark. "Why, I could take a trip anywhere among the islands. It's all familiar ground to me. But poor Myra—a month; so soon. I don't feel as if I am doing right, Barron; but there, it is fate."

"Yes, sir, it is fate."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

GUEST PAYS A LATE VISIT.

The crystals had dissolved in the glass as Stratton held it up and gazed fixedly at its contents, his face, stern and calm, dimly seen in the shadow, while the shape of the vessel he grasped was plainly delineated against the white blotting paper, upon which a circle of bright light was cast by the shaded lamp.

He was not hesitating, but thinking calmly enough. The paroxysm of horror had been mastered, and as a step was faintly heard crossing the court, he was trying to think out whether there was anything else which he ought to do before that cold hand gripped him and it would be too late.

He looked round, set down the glass for a moment by his letters, and thrusting aside the library chair he used at his writing table, he wheeled forward a lounge seat ready to receive him as he sank back, thinking quietly that the action of the terrible acid would perhaps be very sudden.

Anything more?

He smiled pleasantly, for a fresh thought flashed across his mind, and taking an envelope he bent down and directed it plainly, and without the slightest trembling of his hand, to Mrs Brade.

"Poor, gossiping old thing!" he said. "She has been very kind to me. It will be a shock, but she must bear it like the rest."

He took a solitary five-pound note from his pocketbook, thrust it into the envelope, wrote inside the flap, "For your own use," and moistened and secured it before placing it with the other letters.

"About nine to-morrow morning she will find it," he thought, "and then— poor soul! poor soul! The police and—I shall be asleep."

"God—forgive me!" he said slowly as, after a step in front of the easy-chair he had placed ready, he once more raised the glass, and closing his eyes:

"To Myra," he said, with a bitter laugh; and it was nearly at his lips when there was a sharp double knock at his outer door.

A fierce look of anger came into his countenance as he stood glaring in the direction of the summons. Then, raising the glass again, he was about to drink when there was a louder knocking.

Stratton hesitated, set down the glass, crossed the room, and threw open the doors, first one and then the other, with the impression upon him that by some means his intentions had been divined and that it was the police.

"Having a nap, old fellow?" cried Guest hurriedly, as he stepped in, Stratton involuntarily giving way. "I was crossing the inn and saw your light. Thought I'd drop in for a few moments before going to my perch."

He did not say that he had been pacing the inn and its precincts for hours, longing to hear the result of his friend's visit to Bourne Square, but unable to make up his mind to go up till the last, when, in a fit of desperation, he had mounted the stairs.

"I will not quarrel with him if he is the winner. One was obliged to go down. I can't afford to lose lover and friend in one day, even if it does make one sore."

He had taken that sentence and said it in a hundred different ways that evening, and it was upon his lips as he had at last knocked at Stratton's door.

Upon his first entrance he had not noticed anything particular in his friend, being in a feverish, excited state, full of his own disappointment; but as Stratton remained silent, gazing hard at him, he looked in his face wonderingly; and as, by the half light, he made out his haggard countenance and the wild, staring look in his eyes, a rush of hope sent the blood bubbling, as it were, through his veins. "Has she refused him?" rang in his ears, and, speechless for the moment, with his heart throbbing wildly, and his throat hot and dry, he took a step forward as he saw carafe and water glass before him, caught up the latter, and raised it to his lips.

But only to start back in wonder and alarm, for, with a hoarse cry, Stratton struck the glass from his hand, scattered its contents over the hearthrug, and the glass itself flew into fragments against the bars of the grate.

"Here, what's the matter with you, old fellow?" cried Guest wonderingly. "Don't act like that."

Stratton babbled a few incoherent words, and sank back in the lounge, covering his face with his hands, and a hoarse hysterical cry escaped from his lips.

Guest looked at him in astonishment, then at the table, where, in the broad circle of light, he saw the letters his friend had written, one being directed to himself.

They explained little, but the next instant he saw the wide-mouthed, stoppered bottle, caught it up, examined the label, and held it at arm's length.

"The cyanide!" he cried excitedly. "Mal! Stratton, old chap! Good God! You surely—no, it is impossible. Speak to me, old man! Tell me, or I shall go mad! Did Edie refuse you?"

Stratton's hands dropped from his face as he rose in his seat, staring wildly at his friend.

"Edie!" he said wonderingly.

"Yes, Edie!" cried Guest excitedly as he bent down toward his friend. "Here, stop a minute; what shall I do with this cursed stuff?"

Striding to the window, he threw it open, leaned out, and dashed the bottle down upon the pavement, shivering it and its contents to fragments.

"Now speak," he cried as soon as he had returned. "No fooling, man; speak the truth."

"Edie?" said Stratton again as he sat there trembling as if smitten by some dire disease.

"Yes. You told me you were going to tell her of your success—to ask the admiral to give you leave to speak to her."

"No, no," said Stratton slowly.

"Are you mad, or have you been drinking?" cried Guest angrily, and he caught his friend by the shoulders.

"Don't—don't, Percy," said Stratton feebly. "I'm not myself to-night. I—I—Why did you come?" he asked vacantly.

"Because it was life or death to me," cried Guest. "I couldn't say a word to you then, but I've loved little Edie ever since we first met. You were my friend, Mal, and I couldn't say anything when I saw you two so thick together. She seemed to prefer your society to mine, and she had a right to choose. I've been half-mad to-day since you told me you cared for her, but I couldn't sleep till I knew all the worst."

"I told you I loved Edith Perrin?"

"Yes! Are you so stupefied by what you have taken that you don't know what you are saying?"

"I know what I am saying," said Stratton, almost in a whisper. "I never told you that."

"I swear you did, man. You don't know what you say."

"I told you I was going to see the admiral. All a mistake—your's— mine," he gasped feebly.

"What do you mean?" cried Guest, shaking him.

"I always liked little Edie, but it was Myra I loved."

"What?" cried Guest wildly.

"I spoke to her father to-day, plainly, as—as—an honest man. Too late, old fellow; too late."

"Too late?"

"She is engaged—to be married—to the admiral's friend."

"Barron?"

"Yes."

"I thought as much. Then it was all a mistake about Edie!" cried Guest wildly. "I beg your pardon, Mal. I'm excited, too. I'm awfully sorry, though, old man. But tell me," he cried, changing his manner. "Those letters—that glass? Great Heavens! You were never going to be such a madman, such an idiot, as to—Oh, say it was all a mistake!"

"That I should have been a dead man by this?" said Stratton solemnly. "That was no mistake," he murmured piteously. "What is there to live for now?"



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE WEDDING DAY.

Four weeks had passed since Malcolm Stratton's insane attempt—four weeks of an utterly prostrating illness from which he was slowly recovering, when, one morning, Guest entered the room where Brettison was seated by his friend's couch, and made an announcement which wrought a sudden change in the convalescent.

"I expected it," he said quietly; and then, after a pause, "I will go with you."

Guest opened and shut his mouth without speaking for a few moments. Then:

"Go—with me? You go with me? Why, it would be madness."

"Madness, madness, old fellow," said Stratton feebly, "but I tell you I am quite strong now."

"Very far from it," said Brettison.

"And I say so too," cried Guest. "Look here, old fellow, do you mean to assert that you are compos mentis?"

"Of course," said Stratton, smiling.

"Then I say you are not," cried Guest, "and Mr Brettison will second me. You are weak as a rat in spite of all our watching, and feeding, and care."

"All this long, weary month," sighed Stratton. "Heaven bless you both for what you have done."

"Never mind about blessings; be a little grateful to Mr Brettison, who has been like a hundred hospital nurses rolled into one, and give up this mad idea."

"But it is not mad," pleaded Stratton. "I only want to go to the church. I am quite strong enough now. I want to see her married, that is all. Mr Brettison, you see how calm I am."

"Yes, very," said the old botanist, smiling sadly. "Calm with your temples throbbing and your veins too full. My dear boy, if you go to that wedding, you will over-excite yourself and we shall have a serious relapse."

"If I do go?" said Stratton quietly. "I shall certainly have it. I mean to go."

He rose from the couch on which he had been lying, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door.

"Did you ever see such a mule, Mr Brettison?" cried Guest as soon as they were alone. "I was a fool to come in and tell him I was going; but I thought he had got over it, and he knew it was to-day."

"You are going as one of the friends?"

"Yes, Miss Jerrold asked me," said Guest, rather consciously; "and of course he would have known afterward, and reproached me for not telling him. What is to be done?"

"Certainly not thwart him," replied Brettison. "I was going out into the country to-day."

"Collecting?"

"Yes, my dear sir, a little. My great hobby, Mr Guest. But I will not go. We should do more harm than good by stopping him, so I'll go to the church with him."

"But I dread a scene," said Guest. "Suppose he should turn wild at seeing her lead up the aisle. Fancy the consequences. It would be cruel to the lady. It is not as if she had jilted him."

"Never cared for him a bit, did she?" whispered Brettison.

"H'm! Well, sir, I don't quite like to say. At all events, Miss Myra Jerrold accepted this Mr Barron before poor old Malcolm spoke a word, and I am convinced that she felt certain he did not care for her."

"An unfortunate business, Guest. Poor lad! poor lad! But there, he recovered, and any opposition would, I am sure, throw him back."

"But the lady?"

"Have no fear; Malcolm Stratton will, I am sure, be guilty of no insane folly. I know him better than you, Guest."

"I think not," said the young man, smiling.

"We will not argue the point," replied the old botanist, taking Guest's hand. "We both think we know him better than anyone else, and after all have not half sounded the depths of his nature."

"Well, I leave him to you," said Guest. "I have no time to spare. I'm off now, old fellow," he cried, approaching the bedroom door.

"All right," cried Stratton cheerfully as he came back and held out his hand. "My kindest regards to Edie. Don't be afraid, old fellow; I am going to behave sensibly. You need not fear a scene."

"But I—"

"Don't deny it, lad. Off with you," said Stratton, smiling at his friend's confusion; and he accompanied him out on to the landing. "God bless her!" he said. "I wish her every happiness with the man of her choice. It's all over now, and I can bear it like a man."

They shook hands and parted, and when, an hour later, Guest saw Myra enter the room, where he was just snatching a hurried word with Edie, he was startled at the white, set face, and strange, dreamy eyes, which looked in his when he spoke to her.

But what had been a bitter fight was at an end, and all its secrets hidden in the bride's own breast. For a time, as it had dawned upon her that there was something warmer than friendship in her breast for Malcolm Stratton, she shrank in horror from the idea of pledging herself to the man she had accepted; but she fought with and crushed down her feelings. Stratton must, she felt, despise her now, and she was engaged to Barron. It was her father's wish, and she had promised to be this man's wife, while that he loved her he gave her no room to doubt.

"I will do my duty by him," she said proudly to herself as she took her father's arm; and as Guest was driven in another of the carriages to the church, he thought to himself that his friend had been blind in his love, for Myra was hard and unemotional as her cousin was sweet and lovable he misjudged her again as he saw her leave the church leaning upon her husband's arm, while now he was privileged to escort Edie, one of the four bridesmaids, back to Bourne Square.

"She never would have cared for poor old Malcolm," he said to himself as he followed the newly married couple with his eyes, Barron careworn and nearly as pale as his wife, but looking proud, eager, and handsome, as he handed Myra into the carriage.

"The happy pair," whispered Edie as she placed her little hand upon Guest's arm. "Get me to the carriage, please, as quickly as you can, or I shall cry and make a scene."

"Yes, yes," he whispered back. "This way; but, Edie, I've been looking all round the church and can't see him. Did you catch sight of Stratton?"

"No," said the girl with some asperity, "and did not wish to. I could only see that poor girl going through the ceremony, and I felt all the time I could read her thoughts. O Percy Guest, if she only had not had so much pride, or Malcolm Stratton had been as bold as he was shrinking and strange, this never could have been!"

Back at Bourne Square, with all the hurry and excitement of a wedding morning. The house crowded with friends, and Sir Mark all eagerness to do the honours of his place well to all. Carriages thronged the roadway; a couple of policemen kept back the little crowd, and the admiral's servants, re-enforced by half a dozen of Gunter's men, had a busy time supplying the wants of the guests.

"Well, you two," said a voice, suddenly, behind Edie, who was listening to a remark made by Guest, "don't look in that dreamy way at everyone. I've been watching you for ever so long. Don't you know that this is the happiest day of Myra's life?"

"No, aunt," said Edie shortly; "do you?"

Miss Jerrold shrugged her shoulders.

"Go and keep near her, my dear, till they leave. I haven't the heart. Edie, am I a wretchedly prejudiced old maid, or is there something not nice about that man?"

"Ah, there you are, Edie," cried the admiral excitedly. "Myra is just going to cut the cake. Mr Guest, take my sister and give her some champagne. Edie, my dear, I don't like poor Myra's looks. I must see to the people, and have a word with James Barron before they start; and I've got to speak, too, and how to get through it I don't know."

"What do you want me to do, uncle?"

"What I told you, my dear," cried the old man testily. "Go and keep with my poor darling till the last."

Edie crept to her cousin's side and stayed there during the admiral's speech, one which contained more heart than head; listened with heaving breast to the toast of the bride's health, and to the well-spoken, manly reply made by James Barron. And so on till the time when the bride might slip away to change her dress for the journey down to Southampton, the wedding trip commencing the next day on board the great steamer outward bound for the West.

"Guest, my lad," said the admiral, drawing the young man aside, "servants are all very well, but I'd be thankful if you'd see yourself that Mr Barron's carriage is up to the door in time. Myra is not well, and she has sent a message to me to beg that she may be allowed to slip away quietly with few good-byes. I suppose the people will have all the satin slipper and rice throwing tomfoolery."

"You may depend upon me, Sir Mark," said Guest eagerly; and he set about his task at once, greatly to the butler's disgust.

The minutes went swiftly then; the guests gathering on the staircase and crowding the hall, while the carriage, with its servants, stood waiting, with an avenue of people down to the door.

Guest was on the step seeing that the wraps and various little articles needed on the journey were handed in. Barron, looking flushed and proud, was in the hall, with his hand grasped by Sir Mark, and a murmur of excitement and a cheer announced that the bride was coming down, when the bridegroom's carriage began to move on.

The sudden starting of the horses made Guest turn sharply.

"Hi! Stop! Do you hear?" he shouted, and several of the servants waiting outside took up the cry, "Coming down." But the carriage moved on and a four-wheeled cab took its place, amid a roar of laughter from the crowd.

At the same moment three businesslike looking men stepped into the hall, and before the butler and footmen could stop them they were close up to the foot of the staircase.

Sir Mark turned upon them angrily, but one of them gripped his arm and said quickly:

"Sir Mark Jerrold?"

"Yes. What is this intrusion?"

"Upstairs, sir, quick. Stop the young lady from coming down."

The man's manner was so impressive that it forced Sir Mark to act, and he shouted up the broad staircase:

"Edie! one moment—not yet."

Then, as if resenting the fact that he should have obeyed this man, he turned sharply in time to hear the words:

"James Dale—in the queen's name. Here is my warrant. No nonsense; we are three to one."

The bridegroom was struggling in the policemen's arms, and in the hand which he freed there was a revolver.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

STRATTON'S THANKSGIVING.

There was a slight struggle, the sharp click of steel, and before Sir Mark could find words to express his rage and astonishment, Barron was being hurried out of the hall by two of the men who had made the unceremonious entry, while the two policemen there for another purpose, in answer to some freemasonry of the force, opened the cab door, and saw the vehicle driven off.

Sir Mark had meantime made an effort to follow, but the man who had spoken barred his way.

"You scoundrel! Who are you?" roared the admiral. "What does this mean?"

"Superintendent Abingdon, Great Scotland Yard, sir," was the quiet reply. "It means, sir, that I've saved the young lady from a painful scene, and you from a terrible mishap."

"But, oh, there is some horrible blunder! That is my friend, my son-in-law, Mr Barron."

"No, sir, an alias. James Dale, whom we have wanted for months. Dodged us by keeping abroad. Couldn't run him to earth before—stayed on the Continent; and he was off abroad again, but we were just in time."

"I tell you," thundered Sir Mark, "it is a horrible mistake. Here, Guest—the carriage: we must follow them at once. Ladies, some of you— oh, here is my sister. Rebecca, go up to Myra and keep her in her room. A little mistake; Barron has been called away—a business mistake. Tell her to be calm. Now, sir," he cried sternly to the officer, "you do not leave my side. Mr Guest, come with us."

"Where to, Sir Mark?" said the man quietly.

"To Scotland Yard."

"Excuse me, sir; it is no mistake. I'll go with you, of course, but you will thank me one of those days for being so prompt. You have been imposed upon by one of the cleverest scoundrels of his time. James Dale is—"

"Mr James Barron, man."

"No, Sir Mark; James Dale, charged with swindling the Russian government of a tremendous sum by the issuing of forged rouble notes."

"What?"

"And just off to Buenos Ayres."

"To the West Indies, man—to his estate."

"Yes, sir," said the man dryly; "he's going to his estate, but it isn't there."

Sir Mark looked wildly round at the crowd of friends who were drawing away, and without another word accompanied the officer to the carriage, where, as soon as they were started, the latter addressed himself to Guest, the admiral having sunk back in one corner, trying to collect his thoughts, but only to begin listening intently.

"No mistake, sir," said the officer. "I wish for the gentleman's sake there was. The prisoner has been carrying on the game for a long time with a copper-plate printer, a man named Henderson—Samuel Henderson. We took him an hour ago, and it was through a letter we found in his pocket that we knew what was going on here, and arrived just in time for the young lady."

Guest glanced at Sir Mark and met his eyes.

"Quite the gentleman, our friend Dale," continued the officer. "Schoolmaster once, I found. Speaks languages, plays, and sings. Great yachting man. Deceive anybody; but his game's up now. Couldn't live in England as it was. Where did he say he was going—West Indies, sir?"

Guest nodded.

"Well, he was going on farther south. He had taken tickets for the River Plate."

Sir Mark started violently.

There was silence for a few moments, and Guest's resentment against Myra died out as he thought of the poor girl in the power of a scoundrel thousands of miles from home.

"Lady has money, I suppose?" whispered the officer from behind his hand.

Guest gave a short, sharp nod, and then felt annoyed with himself, but the officer took no heed and went on:

"Of course she would have, sir. Well, my gentleman will not be able to touch that, and I suppose there will be no difficulty about getting a divorce."

At those words a flood of thought flashed through Guest's brain, and he recalled conversations held with Edie respecting the marriage, and the girl's boldly expressed belief that her cousin would gladly have drawn back but for her promise and her pride.

He would have hurried off to Benchers' Inn with the information, but he was bound to go on to the police office and see the matter through with Sir Mark; and in due time they reached Scotland Yard, to find Barron, or Dale, in a kind of desk, listening carelessly to the evidence given by the officers who had helped to execute the warrant.

But the man's whole aspect changed as he saw Sir Mark and Guest enter.

"Hah!" he cried; "at last. Now, Mr Inspector, or whatever you are, this is Admiral Sir Mark Jerrold, my father-in-law. The whole affair is one of mistaken identity. For Heaven's sake, my dear sir, satisfy these people as to my responsibility, and act as bail for my reappearance. Of course there will be no Southampton to-day. How does Myra bear the shock?"

Sir Mark's opinion veered toward the speaker directly, and turning to the officer who had been his companion from the house, he found him smiling.

"There, sir, I told you it was all a mistake."

"Yes, Sir Mark, you did," said the man respectfully; and then to a couple of policemen: "Bring them in."

"The luggage?" cried Guest as he saw what was being borne in by the men.

"Yes, sir," said the officer. "I stepped back to give instructions to our men to bring on everything from the carriage, and the trunks sent on to Waterloo. They must be searched for incriminating evidence. The lady's luggage will be sent back to Bourne Square at once."

"The insolence of the scoundrels!" cried Barron. "My dear Sir Mark, pray get this wretched business finished."

"I can save the gentleman a good deal of trouble, Dale," said the inspector in charge.

"Are you addressing me, sir?" said the prisoner haughtily.

"Won't do, Dale; the game's up," said the inspector, smiling. Then to Sir Mark:

"I am sorry for you, sir, but this is no case for bail."

"But I will be his security for any amount," cried Sir Mark, who crushed down the belief that he had been deceived.

"Yes, of course, of course," cried the prisoner.

"No good, Mr Dale. You can renew the application to the magistrate," said the inspector.

He made a sign, and after a furious burst of protestations the prisoner gave up.

"Communicate with Garner of Ely Place at once for me, Sir Mark," he said at parting. "It will be all right. Comfort Myra, and tell her it's an absurd mistake," he continued as Guest was looking at a letter the detective officer held for his perusal; and then he turned indignantly as Barron held out his hand.

Sir Mark was about to take it when Guest struck the hand down.

"How dare you?" began the prisoner.

"Don't touch the scoundrel, Sir Mark," cried Guest fiercely. "It is all true."

"You cur!" roared the prisoner. "You turn against me? But I know the reason for that: our friend the rejected in Benchers' Inn."

"Come away, Sir Mark," cried Guest. "The man is an utter knave."

"I will not believe it," cried Sir Mark.

"Read that letter, then," said Guest quietly, "written on paper bearing your crest, from your own house, to his confederate Samuel Henderson, the printer of the forged Russian notes."

Sir Mark sat silent and thoughtful in the corner of his carriage as he and Guest were driven back, till they were near the house, when he turned suddenly to his companion.

"Thank you, Guest," he said warmly. "Nothing like a friend in need. Hang it, sir, I'd sooner take my ships into action again than meet my guests here at home. But it has to be done," he said, "and our side beaten. I will not believe that Mr Barron is guilty, nor yet that I could have been made a fool. The man is a gentleman, and I'll stand by him to the last in spite of all that is said against him. What do you say, sir—what do you say?"

"Do you wish me to speak, Sir Mark?"

"Of course."

"Then I say that the man is an utter scoundrel; that you have been horribly deceived; and that—there, I am making you angry."

"Not a bit, Guest; not a bit. I'm afraid you are right, but I must fight this out."

The door was reached and Sir Mark uttered a sigh of relief, for there was no crowd—not a carriage to be seen; and, upon entering the house, it was to find that every friend and visitor had departed.

Sir Mark strode in upright and firm, and Guest stopped to say good-bye.

"No, no, my lad; don't leave me yet," said the old man. "Come up and face the ladies first."

He led the way up into the drawing room, expecting to find Myra prostrate; but there was only one figure to greet him—his sister. The door, however, had hardly closed before Edie, who had been with her cousin, ran into the room flushed and eager.

"Where is Myra?"

"Lying down, uncle. We—auntie and I—persuaded her to go to her room."

"Is she much broken down—much—"

"My dear Mark!" cried his sister sharply, "Myra is a sensible girl. Now, then, don't keep us in suspense. Tell me: is it all true about that man?"

"Yes, Rebecca—I mean no," cried Sir Mark furiously; "of course not, and I'm going to instruct counsel and—damme, it's some enemy's work. I'll pour such a broadside into him! Why, confound it all!" he cried, as a sudden thought struck him, and he turned to Guest, "this must be some of your friend's work."

"Sir Mark!"

"Oh, uncle!"

"Don't talk stuff, Mark," cried his sister almost at the same moment. "Is it likely? Then it is all true. What an escape! Well, I'm glad it happened when it did."

Sir Mark gave a furious stamp on the floor, but turned calmly enough on Guest offering his hand.

"You will excuse me now, Sir Mark."

"Eh? What? Going? Well, if you must. But don't leave me in the lurch, my lad. Come back and have a bit of dinner with me. I shall be very dull. No; I won't ask you here. It will be miserable. Meet me at the club."

Guest promised, and then shook hands with Miss Jerrold, who pressed his fingers warmly; but when he turned to say good-bye to Edie she was not in the room.

"Too upset," he muttered as he went down. "Might have said good-bye, though."

"Good-bye, Mr Guest," came from the little conservatory half-way down to the hall; and there was Edie waiting. "No, no; don't stop me. I must run up to Myra. Good-bye, Percy. Oh, I am so glad."

"Good-bye, Percy—good-bye, Percy," Guest kept on saying to himself as he walked slowly along one side of the square. "Percy, for the first time. Good Heavens, Mal!" he cried, starting as a hand was thrust under his arm—"you? I was coming on. I've something particular to tell you."

"Thank you," said Stratton quietly. "I know everything."

"What? I did not see you at the church."

"No; I had not the heart to come. I said I would, but I stayed away."

"Good. Right," said Guest.

"But I was obliged to come to see her go—for one glance unseen."

"And you saw the arrest?"

"I saw the struggle in the crowd. A man hurried into a cab, which was driven off. I was some distance away—in the square."

"Ah!" ejaculated Guest, and then there was a pause, broken at last by Stratton, who said solemnly:

"Saved from a life of misery and despair. Thank God! thank God!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WIFE TO A CONVICT.

Sir Mark awoke the next morning thoroughly convinced that he had been the victim of a scoundrel, but he kept his word, and did everything possible in the way of providing able legal assistance for his son-in-law. He had taken Myra and her cousin at once to a retired seaside place within easy reach of town, and made James Dale's case the sole business of his life.

It was a two days' business, that trial, owing to the efforts made by the counsel for the defence, who fought their client's cause gallantly. But it was a losing game from beginning to end; the proofs were utterly crushing. James Dale had obtained a large income from the forgeries for years, and his companion in the iniquity had purchased property extensively. The West Indian estates were certainly in existence, and belonged to a family named Barron, but in the prisoner's case the name was assumed, and in his real patronymic he, with his confederate, was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

"Deserved it, every hour," said Sir Mark, with a sigh of relief, as he drove away from the court with Guest. "Now for a few months of quiet abroad, and then I shall have to see the lawyers again."

Guest looked at him inquiringly.

"Eh? What do I mean? Well, I don't understand much about such matters, but surely under the circumstances the laws of England will not keep my child tied to such a rascal as that."

Guest was about to speak, but the old man interrupted him.

"Fancy, my lad, after an apprenticeship of seven years to a convict's life that fellow knocking at my door, and Andrews coming up to say that he had called for his wife."

Guest shuddered: the idea was horrible.

"No, no, my lad; that would not do at all. But there, say no more about it now. By and by I shall hear what the lawyers think about a divorce."

They shook hands and parted, the admiral going home, and Guest straight to his friend's chambers, where he knocked, but there was no answer.

Brettison came out, though, from the adjoining room.

"He has not come back yet from the trial," Brettison said.

"Indeed! I looked round the court, but could not see him there. You have heard, of course?"

"The verdict? Yes, I was there."

The two men looked inquiringly into each others' eyes, and just then a step was heard upon the stairs.

"Here he is," whispered Guest, and the next minute, looking very calm and self-possessed, Stratton joined them, and asked them in; but Brettison declined, and went back to his own chambers, while Guest followed his friend into his room, thinking, as he entered the quiet, retired place, of how his coming had changed the current of Stratton's career.

"Sit down, old fellow," said Stratton cheerfully, and he opened the closet by the fireplace to reach down a box of cigars, which he handed to Guest, and then took one himself.

"Now for it," thought Guest as Stratton sat back, looking pale still and thin from his illness; but he only went on smoking, apparently waiting for his friend to speak.

"And I don't know what to say," thought Guest.

He was relieved from his embarrassment at last by Stratton beginning to talk about one of the current topics of the day, and he left the chambers at last without there having been the slightest reference to the trial.

Guest found his way to Bourne Square the next afternoon, and was startled to find all the shutters closed and the blinds drawn in the upper rooms.

"Out of town" seemed written plainly all over the house, for that nothing serious was the matter was evident from a friendly chat going on at the area gate between two maids, who had dispensed with the hated headgear of slavery—caps—and were laughing with a rustic looking young milkman.

Guest took a cab and drove to Miss Jerrold's, in Bayswater, to find that lady at home and ready to welcome him.

"Gone, my dear boy," she said. "Gone to Rome first, and the best thing too. Ugh! I never liked that man, Percy Guest. He looked like silver, but I could feel that he was only electro-plate. Well, poor Myra had a terrible escape. It was, of course, her money, and he looked for some of mine."

"But when are they coming back, Miss Jerrold?"

"Oh, not for a long time, I hope. It will be the best thing in the world for poor Myra, and I have been thinking that I shall go and join them soon. Not till they have all had time to calm down. There is nothing to mind till then."

She said these last words so meaningly that Guest gave her an inquiring look, and the old lady smiled.

"You want to know why I said that," she said, "Well, I'll tell you, Percy Guest. Old women can speak pretty plainly, and I can trust you to be discreet. The fact is, my brother is one of the best men that ever breathed, and at sea he had few officers who were his equal, but on shore he is one of those men whom any clever, designing scoundrel could impose upon, and if I don't go to them and play the dragon of watchfulness we shall be having a foreign count without a penny, or some other dreadful swindler, hoodwinking him till there is another engagement, and poor Myra driven half-mad."

"What, after such a lesson as this has been, Miss Jerrold?"

"Of course. Poor Mark will think the best thing for Myra to do will be to marry, so as to get rid of the ambiguous position in which she is placed. Wife to a convict serving his time. Poor child, it gives me a shudder every time I think of it. There, I will not think of it any more. I've made my mind up, and I shall go."

"I would," said Guest eagerly.

"Eh? And pray why, sir?" cried the old lady sharply.

"I thought it would be better," said Guest confusedly.

"For someone we know, eh? No, no, sir. That's all over now. Some people had better treat their lives as schoolboys do their slates: sponge them neatly, make them clean, and begin all over again."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"I SHALL HAVE TO GO."

A year passed rapidly away, during which time Guest's visits were pretty constant to Benchers' Inn, or to that institution where the new curator seemed to have thrown himself with so much spirit into his work that Guest often came to the conclusion that he must have treated his past after the fashion suggested by the admiral's sister. For there were no friendly confidences, and it was only a supposition that Stratton might be well informed as to the doings of the family abroad.

At last one morning, after being expectant and on thorns for weeks, Guest made his way to Bayswater, sending the cabman by a circuitous route, so as to pass through Bourne Square.

The family had not returned, but there were painters at work; and excited by this, he rang at Miss Jerrold's, was shown up, and as soon as he had shaken hands the old lady tightened her lips and shook her head at him.

"All my good advice thrown away, boy," she said. "Now no deceit; you've heard news?"

"Indeed, no," he cried. "I only came through the square."

"On purpose?"

"Well, yes, and saw that there were men at work painting."

"Pooh!" ejaculated Miss Jerrold. "That may mean my brother is going to let the house."

"But Sir Mark is not going to let the house, Miss Jerrold?"

"Of course not. Yes; you are right: they will be back in about a week."

"In a week?" cried Guest joyously.

"Yes. I wanted to see you, though. How about your friend, Mr Stratton: he has forgotten all that mad nonsense, I suppose?"

Guest was silent for a few moments while the old lady looked at him inquiringly.

"You do not know Malcolm Stratton as I do," he said sadly. "He has never mentioned Miss Myra Jerrold's name—"

"Mrs Dale's or Barron's," said the lady sternly, but Guest shook his head.

"Since the wedding day, but if I know anything of my friend she has never since been out of his thoughts."

The tears started to Miss Jerrold's eyes.

"Poor boy," she said sadly. "But he must not think of her. My brother had certain thoughts about getting the marriage cancelled, but Myra will not hear of it."

"Surely she does not care for this man?"

"I don't know, my dear boy. She is a mystery to me. I tried to talk to her several times when I was near, but she closed my lips at once. I am nobody now. I can pretty well manage her father, but—who in the world can this be?" she cried hastily. "I'm not at home."

She rose to ring the bell, but there were steps already on the stairs, and the servant, looking a little startled, opened the door.

"Mr Stratton, ma'am. He says—"

Stratton was already at the door, looking pale, but with a red spot burning in each cheek.

"You here, Guest!" he said excitedly. "Miss Jerrold, pray ask your niece to see me, if only for a minute."

"My niece, Mr Stratton," said the old lady coldly, "is in Paris."

"No, no," he cried. "They reached Charing Cross not half an hour ago."

"Stratton, old man," whispered Guest, "for goodness sake, contain yourself. Indeed they are not here."

"Hah!" cried Stratton excitedly as a cab drew up to the door; and he grasped how he had, in his excitement, outstripped with a fast hansom the slow four-wheeled cab; and without giving aunt or friend another thought he dashed downstairs and out to the cab door.

Myra was looking eagerly up at the house as the front door opened, and Edie heard her give a hoarse gasp as she shrank back into the corner of the seat with her face convulsed by a spasm at the unexpected sight of Stratton.

It was only momentary. By the time he reached the cab door, flung it open, and held out his hand, she had drawn herself up, and it was a calm, dignified, graceful woman of the world who gave the trembling man her hand to help her to alight.

"Ah, Mr Stratton," she said, and her voice thrilled him, "I did not expect to see you here. I hope you have quite recovered from your illness. Thanks. Mr Guest too. Yes, you may take my wrappers. Ah, there is aunt. Aunt dear, we have taken you quite by storm. Papa had letters yesterday which he said must be attended to personally at once. Can you take us in, or must we go to an hotel?"

This last in the hall, to which, trembling at the meeting, Aunt Rebecca had come down to embrace her nieces.

"Yes, yes, my dear; come in. So glad—so very glad. Mr Guest, would you mind—the cabman?"

She handed the young man her purse, but Myra checked her.

"No, no, aunt dear; papa did see to that. So kind of you to have old friends here as a surprise."

"No, no, my dear, an accident; and—and—they were just going away."

"Yes," said Stratton in a strange voice as he held out his hand and gazed with agonised eyes wistfully in those which looked so calmly in his; "we were just going—Miss Jerrold."

"Mrs Barron, Mr Stratton," said Myra quietly, with just a suspicion of reproach in her voice, as she gave him her hand. "Papa was talking about you the other day. I am sure he will be glad to see old friends again."

She turned from him and shook hands with Guest, while Edie, with tears in her eyes, approached Stratton.

"So—to see you again, Mr Stratton," she whispered, with the "glad" inaudible, but it was of no consequence, being quite out of place.

He shook hands with her mechanically, but he did not seem to see her or hear her words, and she caught Guest's arm.

"Get him away," she whispered. "It was madness. Pray go, for everyone's sake."

Guest nodded, took his friend's arm, and the pair walked slowly away in silence till Stratton uttered a low, strange laugh, and as Guest met his wild eyes:

"No, old fellow," he said quietly. "I am not going mad—unless it was madness to obey the promptings of my poor, weak nature. Better come with me to my rooms, for something seems to keep on asking me if life is not all one great mistake."

Meanwhile at Miss Jerrold's house, the moment the door was closed, Myra had caught wildly at her cousin's hand.

"Quick!" she cried in a hoarse whisper, "take me to our room," and with wild energy she hurried her cousin upstairs to close and lock the door before she gave vent to the wild, hysterical burst of agony that was struggling for exit.

"So cruel—so heartless," she sobbed as she paced the floor, wringing her hands and rejecting every attempt at consolation on her cousin's part. "He must have known. Oh, it's maddening."

"Myra, be calm, be calm."

"Calm!" cried Myra wildly, "it is not possible. Do you think me made of stone instead of flesh and blood like yourself? You—my father—my aunt—all treat me as if I were a child whom a word or two will set free. I tell you again I am that man's wife. In my weakness and folly, blind to what I called my duty, I went headlong into that gulf of despair. I swore before the altar to be his wife till death should us part. It is my fate, and there can be no change."

"But Myra—dear cousin!"

"I tell you, Edie, there is not an hour passes without my seeing him once more before me holding my hand, with his eyes telling me that I am his wife, and," she cried passionately as a low tapping was heard at the door, "I am waiting for the day when he will be released and come, wherever I may be, to claim me and bid me follow him, whatever may be his future. And I shall have to go—I shall have to go."

"Myra," whispered Edie, throwing her arms about her cousin's neck, "hush, pray! Pray hush! Auntie is at the door; she must not hear you talk like this. These terrible fits are only for me to hear; my own sister, pray, pray be calm."

Her touch, her kisses, had the desired effect; and as the tapping at the door was resumed, Myra sank down sobbing on a chair, and buried her flushed face in Edie's breast.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

BREAKING THE CAGE.

Night at The Foreland—and a dark night; the moon not due for hours, and when she rose not likely to be seen for the heavy clouds which blotted out the stars. Lights were out in the great building, which stood up by day gloomy, many-windowed, and forbidding on the huge promontory, crossed by wall and works, and with sentries between the convict establishment and the mainland. The other three sides had the waves, which washed the nearly perpendicular precipices, for warders, and it was only here and there that an active man well acquainted with the cliffs could descend to the sea, and such an acquaintanceship was not likely to be made by the wretched men marched out, fettered and guarded, to the great quarries day after day, and then carefully watched back to their cells.

At times the sentinel duty outside the building could easily be relaxed on the sea side, for the billows came thundering in, smiting the polished rocks and flying high in air with a deafening din; but on a calm, warm, dark night, when it was possible for a boat to approach close in, a stricter watch was kept, lest one of the more hardened prisoners should contrive to elude the vigilance within the buildings and make a desperate effort to win his freedom.

But, as a rule, attempts at evasion were made when the men were marched out to the quarries, when a dash would be made during a sea fog, or a convict would crawl into some hollow among the freshly hewn stones, and lie there, hoping not to be missed till he had made good his escape.

On this particular night a young member of the warder guard stood, rifle on shoulder, looking out to sea from the mere shelf of level rock near the top of the cliff.

A great steamer was making her way down channel, and her lights shone like stars away on the black waters.

"West Indy or South America; and a Dutch boat, I should say," muttered the sentry; and he turned his eyes to where, well up under the shelter of the great promontory, the lights of several vessels showed where they lay at anchor.

"This is a miserable dog's life," muttered the man, "and I get precious sick of it, but I think I'd rather be here than there. One can feel bottom and be safe—sailors can't. That one nighest in is the little man-o'-war, I suppose, and yon's the big one. How dark it is!"

He stood there trying to pierce the blackness, out of which the anchor lights of the ships stood like stars, but he could see nothing save a faint bluish-greeny gleam now and then far below, where the phosphorescence of the sea washed gently, like so much luminous oil, over the bases of the cliffs and played among the masses of seaweed lying awash.

"How unked the sea is of a dark night. Fancy going sailing right away yonder, not knowing what you may hit upon next. Shore's good enough for me, even if it's being at Foreland convict prison, with a day out now and then."

He turned his face shoreward, looking across the bay, dotted with faint lights, to where the red lamps of the harbour shone out with their lurid glow.

"That's better," he said as he followed the curve of the shore, with the faint golden gleam sent up by the gas lamps which dotted the bow like so many bright beads strung along the shore, on and on by the line of houses facing the sea front, till they ran out for a short distance to sea, and ended in quite a cluster, out of which flashed one with a bluish glare, whose rays cut the darkness, for it was the electric light at the end of the pier.

"Band's playing," said the man, listening intently; but the distance across the curve to the town pier was too great, and he could make out nothing but a stray note of a cornet now and then.

"Come, play up louder, old man; can't hear. Nothing like a bit of music now and then. That's one good in being a soldier: you do have a band, while we poor beggars have to carry a rifle without. But there, a man can drop this when he likes, and a soldier can't."

He took a turn or two up and down, and stopped again to look up the steep cliff slope running high above him from the shelf on which his duty lay, this being over one of the spots where it would be possible for a daring cragsman to get down to the sea.

"Shouldn't mind a glass of beer," he thought. "Salt in the air, I suppose. Well, I can get that by and by. Lord, what's a fellow got to grumble about? How would it be to do one's bit inside! Some of 'em pays pretty dear for their little games, and one can't help feeling sorry for one now and then. Bah! lot's of 'em are best there. They'd think no more of coming behind me in the dark and chucking me into the sea than kissing their hands. Ugh!" he ejaculated, with a shudder, as he gripped his piece more tightly, and gave a sharp glance; round and up above him at the black crags. "What a fool I am to think of such things, only a chap can't help it in such a lonesome place. Well, one side is safe," he muttered, with a half laugh. "So are the others, stupid poor devils! Not much chance for any of them coming out for a quiet pipe to-night."

A faint note or two from the distant band on the pier, floated to the warder, and he went on musing:

"Now, I dessay if I was over yonder having a smoke and listening to that music I should think nothing of it, and be for getting back somewhere to have a bit o' supper; but because I'm here and can't get near it every tootle of that old cornet sounds 'eavenly; and the lights seem grand. It was just the same down at home; there was our big old apple tree, the Gennet-Moyle, as I could get up when I liked, or knock as many down as I pleased with mother's clothes props—good apples they was, too; but they wouldn't do—one always wanted to get over Thompson's walls to smug those old hard baking pears, which was like nibbling the knobs off the top of the bedposts."

He laughed until his shoulders shook.

"Poor old Thompson!" he said half aloud. "Said he'd have some of us put in prison for stealing. Wonder whether some of these poor beggars began that way and then went on. Humph! maybe. Well, they should have known better."

He continued his march up and down for a while, and then stopped once more, grounded his piece, and stood there quite invisible to anyone a few yards away. He went on thinking about the town at the head of the bay, and the music, and of how time was going; and then his thoughts went back to the great body of dangerous criminals shut up in the huge, grim buildings, and of how much depended on the care and diligence of those in charge—a mere handful compared to those they guarded.

"Only we've got the law on our side and they haven't," he thought; and as the thought ran through his brain he felt the blood pulsate sharply and there was a heavy throb at his heart, for there was a peculiar sound away to his right, high up the steep slope of the cliff, as if a stone had been dislodged and had slipped down a few yards before stopping in a cleft. He stood listening intently, but the sound was not repeated—all was still as death; but the man's pulses had been stirred, and his heart beat in a manner that was painful.

It was not that he was particularly wanting in courage, but, shut in there by the darkness, it was impossible to keep back the thought that a desperate man who had stolen out or hidden might be lurking close by ready to spring upon him in an unguarded moment, drive him off the cliff shelf which formed his beat, and all would be over in an instant. For a fall there meant death by drowning or the fearful crash on to the rocks below.

"They shan't take me unawares," he thought, and then he hesitated as to whether he should give the alarm by firing his piece.

In an instant he had raised it and his finger was on the trigger, but he did not make its flash cut the darkness for a moment and its report run re-echoing along the cliffs.

"What for?" he said to himself; "bring the fellows here to laugh at me because I heard a rabbit on the move. I should never hear the last of it."

He again grounded his piece, but very softly, and stood with his back to the sea, straining his eyes in the direction from whence the sound had come, but the stones that towered up were all blurred together into one black mass, and though he fancied several times over that he could make out the figure of a man half-hidden by some projection, he was fain to confess directly after that it was all fancy.

"But fancy or not," he said to himself, "I don't mean to be taken on the grand hop,"—and he did not stir from his position where he stood on the very edge of the cliff shelf, but kept on glancing to right and left along the stone path, and sweeping the slope in front.

Ten minutes passed like this—ten long-drawn intervals of time—and then the man threw up his rifle and stood ready, fully expecting an attack, certain now that there had been good reason for the dislodgement of the stone. For from high up on the top of one of the ranges of prison buildings a sound rang out which sent a thrill through the watcher's nerves.

It was the alarm bell, which might mean the escape of prisoners or an attack from a deadly enemy; but it could not be the latter, for there was no reflection of a fire.

"Now for it!" muttered the man, with his finger on the trigger, prepared for the rush of a man or men, and he thought over the formula he must utter before he fired.

"I don't want to hurt anybody," he said softly, "but no one shall drive me over without getting something first. It's that Ratcliff Highway chap at his games again. I wish they'd hang him or send him somewhere else."

And he thought of a warder who had been disabled for life, and another who was absent twelve months, both from injuries inflicted by a savage brute whom all the men feared.

Another instant and all doubts were at an end, for there was a bright flash, and directly after the heavy, reverberating roar of a gun.

"Sharp's the word!" said the man softly as, taught by training, his fingers involuntarily drew forth aloud clicking from the lock of the piece he held; and as he stood there, breathing hard, every nerve and muscle was on the strain, for he could hear steps coming rapidly in his direction, and they must pass him—there was no other way; and it meant a desperate attack made by men armed with hammers and bars, perhaps only stones, and on the warder's part duty and self defence.

"Someone's number crossed out," he muttered fiercely, for there was no feeling of dread now.

Then a change came over him as, with an intense feeling of satisfaction, he grasped the fact that the measured beat of feet was that of their more disciplined men.

He challenged, and there was the reassuring response.

"Anyone been this way?" cried a sergeant breathlessly as he halted four men.

"No."

"Three of 'em got out and half killed two warders. They came along here, we think."

"Nobody been this way."

"Keep a sharp lookout, then. We're going on. Challenge, of course, but if they don't stand let them have it. They won't spare you. Ready, there; we'll go on to the next post, and come back directly."

"Stop!" said the sentry huskily; "I thought I heard a stone roll down from up yonder a few minutes ago."

"They are there, then," cried the sergeant, "safe enough. Now, then," he shouted; "the game's up, my lads. Give in. No stones, or I'll give orders to fire. Ready, there; present!"

There was a dead silence.

"Nobody could get over the cliff here," growled one of the men. "Monkeys might, perhaps."

"Silence!" cried the sergeant. "They must be there. Now, then, will you come down, or are we to pick you off?"

"Hush! What's that?"

The unmistakable rattling of stones and a scrambling sound as if someone had slipped.

"Hah! that's good enough. Now, then, is it surrender?"

Silence again, and the darkness in front blacker than ever.

"You will have it, then," cried the sergeant. "One and four, a dozen paces right and left."

The evolution was performed, and then with a man on each side of him the sergeant once more shouted to the convicts to give in.

"Hi, look out!" roared one of the warders.

"In the queen's name, surrend—"

A dull, heavy blow, and a groan were heard almost together, cutting short the sergeant's challenge, for a heavy piece of rock struck him full in the face, while a couple more blocks whizzed by the others, to fall heavily far below where they stood. Simultaneously three dark figures bounded on to the edge and made at the little group.

The attack was so sudden and direful in its results that the warders gave way right and left, while the convicts stooped, literally glided over the edge of the path, and began to descend the horribly steep cliff.

"Don't keep together," cried a hoarse voice from below. "Every man for himself now."

"Fire!" shouted one of the warders; and almost together three rifles flashed out their contents, followed by a derisive laugh.

Then the warder who had been ordered off to the right fired, and as the shot echoed along the cliff there was a terrible cry, followed by a rush as of something falling.

"Now, then, surrender!" cried one of the warders, who was reloading rapidly, just as rapid steps were heard coming along the path.

"Where are they?" shouted an authoritative voice as ten or a dozen more men were now halted on the shelf-like path.

"Right below here, sir. One of 'em down."

"Halt, there! Do you hear, men? Surrender at once; you can't escape."

No reply, but those above could hear the scuffling noise of those descending and the rattle of a heavy stone, followed by a dull plunge.

"Your blood be on your own heads, then," said the officer who had now come up. "Once more: in the queen's name, surrender!"

No answer, but the hurried rustle of the descending fugitives.

Sharp orders were given, and then came the fatal word:

"Fire!"

Several rifles rattled out their deadly challenge now, and as the warders peered over into the darkness, up through the heavy smoke came a peculiar snarl, more like the cry of a savage beast than the utterance of a human throat, while directly after, sending a thrill of horror through the men who were looking down, there was the sound of the heavy plunge as of something falling from a great height into the sea.

Then silence, save that the heavy breathing of the warders was audible as they listened for the cry, "Help!" which they expected to hear from the water when the wounded man rose to the surface, not one of the guard daring in his own mind to think upon either of the shots fired as being fatal.

At that moment there was a flash from off the sea a quarter of a mile away, and a few moments later another glare, both sending a brilliant path of light across the smooth water. And now, plainly seen in the midst of a bluish halo on the black night, there stood out the rigging and hull of a ship, with figures moving here and there; two boats were lowered down, and directly after the water flashed and sparkled as oars were dipped, and the man-of-war cutters, with their armed crews, were rowed in toward the rocks.

By this time there were fresh arrivals on the cliff path, the firing having drawn there men bearing lanterns, and the officer in charge shouted:

"Got them?"

"No, sir," said the first officer respectfully. "Sergeant Liss is down badly hurt with a stone, and Raddon's shoulder is hurt."

"But the prisoners, man?" cried the newcomer, evidently one high in authority.

"I'm afraid, sir—"

"The prisoners?"

"Below here somewhere, sir—two of them."

"Yes, and the other?"

"We were obliged to fire, sir, and there was a cry, and we heard one fall into the sea."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

FREE!

It was a slim, grey-haired, military looking man who listened to these words with the light of one of the lanterns full upon his face, which contracted into a heavy frown.

"You challenged them—warned them well?"

"Again and again, sir. It was not until they were right down here, after the sergeant had been hurt, that we fired."

The governor, for he it was, shrugged his shoulders and gave his orders. Then four of the most active of the warders began to descend, lanterns in hand, each looking like a spark on the face of the black rock.

The task was so perilous that at the end of a few minutes the governor ordered the men to halt, while ropes were fetched, and in due time these were brought and secured to the climbers' waists, the ropes being paid out by the warders on the shelf, the light of the lanterns being now supplemented by the blue lights held in the sterns of the fast approaching cutters.

"Ahoy, there, ashore!" was shouted by the officer in one of the boats; "men escaping?"

"Yes; three," was shouted back. "Row to and fro, and see if you can make out a man swimming."

"Right! Swimming, indeed! Where's he to swim to?" grumbled the officer; and at a word then the boats separated, and were rowed slowly along at a short distance from the shore.

Then came a hall from below, and a man bearing one lantern began to climb sidewise to where another had become stationary.

"Well?" from the shelf.

"One of 'em, sir."

"Mind. Wait for help and look out for treachery."

"He won't show no treachery," muttered the warder, holding the lantern over a ghastly face contorted by agony. "Well, mate, I'd give in now."

"Yes," said the man with a groan. "I'm sick as a dog. Hold me. I shall go into the sea. Get me back. The doctor."

He said no more. His grasp of the rock to which he clung relaxed, and he began to slide down sidewise till the warder thrust his leg beneath him and grasped one arm.

"Look sharp!" he said to his companion. "Set the lantern down, and mine too."

"Can you hold him?"

"Yes; all right. Now untie the rope from round me, and make it fast under his arms."

"Where's he hurt?" said the second warder.

"Leg, I think. His things are all wet with blood. Look sharp."

The knots were untied, and as the insensible, wounded man was held up, the rope was made fast under his arms, and at the word, the unfortunate wretch was carefully hauled up.

But before he was half-way to the shelf there was a second hail from close down the water side.

"Here's another of 'em, sir."

"Hurt?"

"Yes, sir, or else shamming."

"Wait till another man gets down to you," cried the governor. "Be careful!"

The man who had given up his rope was not far above the spot where the second convict lay; and he managed to lower himself down, holding his lantern the while in his teeth, and soon after adding its light to that of the other warder's.

"Think he's shamming?" asked the man who had found him.

The fresh comer stooped down without hesitation, in spite of the warning from above; and after looking fixedly in the convict's closely shaven face, passed his hand here and there about the prison clothes.

"Don't feel nothing," he said, "but this isn't shamming. Here, hold up, my lad. Where are you hurt?"

There was no reply, and the cleanly cut, aristocratic features of the man looked very stony and fixed.

"I don't think he's shamming, mate," whispered the warder, "but cover him with your piece; I don't want to be hurt."

It was an awkward place to use a rifle, but the warder addressed altered his position a little, and brought the muzzle of his piece to bear on the convict's breast.

"Well, you two below there," shouted the governor. "What do you make out?"

"One moment, sir. Ugh! No shamming here, mate. Feel his head."

"Take your word for it," said the other gruffly.

"Let's have your rope, then, and send him up."

"Badly hurt?" cried the governor.

"Very, sir," shouted the warder who was manipulating the rope. "Wait a minute," he continued, and, stripping off his tunic, he threw it over the injured man's head, and passed the sleeves under the rope about his chest.

"Mind what you're doing, or he'll slip away."

"He'll slip away if I do mind," muttered the warder. "Here, steady, mate; I only wanted to keep the rocks from chafing you."

For the convict had suddenly torn at the tunic; but his hands dropped again directly, word was given to haul gently, and holding on by either side of the loop about the prisoner's breast, the warders climbed as the rope was hauled, and kept the unfortunate man's head from the rock.

This last was a slower process than the sending up of the first prisoner, but the rest of the warders were searching about still, especially down close to the edge of the sea, in the expectation of seeing the third man hiding among the rocks half covered with the long strands of the slimy fucus that fringed the tide-washed shore. And all the while the two boats made the water glisten, and the blue lights threw up the face of the rock so clearly that, unless he had found some deep, dark, cavernous niche, there was but little chance for an escaping convict to cling anywhere there unseen.

By the time the second man was taken to the shelf a fresh arrival was upon the scene in the person of the jail surgeon, who, fresh from attending sergeant and warder, made a rapid examination of the first prisoner, and then began to open a case by the light of one of the lanterns.

"Dangerous?" said the governor sharply.

"No. Bullet clean through one thigh and the other regularly ploughed. Send for stretchers."

He knelt down as he spoke, and with the convict groaning piteously he rapidly plugged one of his wounds, and bandaged both.

"Now the other," he said; and he turned to the second patient, who was lying, talking quickly, a few yards away.

Just then the governor hailed the men below.

"You must find him, my lads," he cried. "Who heard him plunge in?"

"I did, sir," came back.

"Well, then, he is ashore again somewhere, holding on by the rocks; no man would swim out to sea with such a tide on. He would be carried right away. Keep a good lookout, and if he's wise he will surrender. Well, doctor, this one much hurt?"

"Yes, horribly. Head crushed."

"Not by a bullet?"

"No: fall. How long are those stretchers going to be?"

"Some distance for the men to go, doctor," said the governor quickly. "You forget they were being used for the sergeant and the man."

"Poor fellows! yes," said the doctor, rapidly continuing his manipulations; "there, that is all I can do."

He rose from his knee and stood looking out at the boats below turning the water into silvery blue as port fire after port fire was burned, while others lit up the man-of-war from which the boats had come.

"I'm glad it was not a bullet," said the governor quietly, as his men below searched the rocks and shouted—now to their companions who paid out the rope, now answered hails from the boats.

"Yes; one man's enough to shoot a night," said the surgeon grimly.

"Beg pardon, sir," said a warder, coming up, lantern in hand, and saluting.

"Yes; what is it?"

"I don't think you'll find the other poor chap, sir."

"Why?"

"Blades, who was one of the men here first, and tired, says there was a shriek just before they heard the splash in the water."

"Tut—tut—tut!" ejaculated the governor. "Poor wretch! Where is Blades?"

"Here, sir," said a man who was holding one of the ropes.

"Why didn't you say this before, man?"

"Didn't like to, sir; and besides, I thought the others knew."

"One does not seem to have been enough," whispered the surgeon. "Aynsley, I did not know your men could shoot so well. Hah! the stretchers."

For lanterns were seen approaching, and directly after a party came up with the ambulance apparatus. The two convicts were lifted on and borne off along the path traversed only a short time before by their victims— one of them groaning piteously; the other lying silent and calm, gazing straight up at the black darkness, while his lips moved slightly from time to time.

"Most unfortunate! most unfortunate!" muttered the governor as soon as he was left alone with his subordinates. "Poor, blind fools! how they rush upon their fate! Well," he shouted, "see him?"

"No, sir. Boats are coming back, sir."

This was plain enough, and a few minutes later both rowed up in close with fresh blue lights illuminating the scene.

"Ahoy! Who's up yonder?" shouted a naval officer.

"I am," cried the governor.

"Oh, you, Sir William! Well, sir, I'll keep my men on if you like, but no swimmer could have got to shore from hereabouts. If there is a man living he must be somewhere on these rocks."

"My men say they have searched thoroughly," said the governor. "Every ledge and crack is well known. There can be no one here."