"Shall we patrol the place a little longer?"

The governor was silent for a few moments, and then, feeling that all possible had been done, he gave the word for the search to be given up, but sent half a dozen men to patrol the road leading to the mainland, feeling all the while that it was a hopeless task.

By this time the last man had climbed up from the dangerous cliff side, the ropes were coiled, and the party marched off toward the prison—the governor last—leaving the sentinel warder to his beat with the company of another man.

These two stood in silence till the footsteps had died out on the rocky path and the last blue light had ceased to send golden drops into the hissing water as the boats made for the man-of-war.

"Black night's work this, Jem," said the companion sentry. "Two of 'em gone and three wounded."

"No, no; not so bad as that."

"Yes, bad as that. Yon chap on the stretcher won't see to-morrow morning, and that other poor chap who shrieked when we fired went into the water like a stone. It was your shot did that."

"Ugh! I hope not," said the warder, with a shudder. "Seems to me time I tried another way of getting my bread and cheese. Hark!"

"What at?"

"That. Someone hailed off the water. Quite low and faint, like a man going down."

The clouds were lifting slowly in the east, and the misty, blurred face of the moon began to show in the east, over the brimming water's rim.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ALMOST BY ACCIDENT.

Time had crept on since the return of the Jerrolds, and by degrees the pain of the meeting between Myra and Stratton grew less, and the wound made that day began to heal.

"I'm sorry for him," Guest would say to himself; "but I can't keep away because he is unhappy."

So he visited at the admiral's, where he always found a warm welcome, but made little progress with Edie, who seemed to have grown cold.

Then, too, he met the cousins at Miss Jerrold's, and it naturally came about that one evening, after a good deal of persuasion, Stratton became his companion.

Myra was there that night, and once more their hands were clasped, while Stratton felt that it was no longer the girl into whose eyes he looked, but the quiet, thoughtful woman who had suffered in the struggle of life, and that he must banish all hope of a nearer tie than that of friendship.

For whatever Myra may have held hidden in her secret heart she was the calm, self-contained friend to her aunt's guest. Ready to sit and talk with him of current topics and their travels; to play or sing if asked; but Stratton always left the house with the feeling that unconsciously Myra had gravely impressed upon him the fact that she was James Barron's wife, and that she would never seek to rid herself of that tie.

"And I must accept that position." Stratton would say despairingly, after one of the meetings which followed; and then he would make a vow never to meet Myra again, for the penance was too painful to be borne.

The result was that the very next day after making one of these vows he received a letter from Edie, asking him, at her uncle's wish, to dinner in Bourne Square.

For the admiral had said to Edie, on hearing that they had met Stratton at her aunt's:

"Let bygones be bygones. I don't see why we should not all be friends again. I always liked the boy. He can talk well about scientific things without boring you. Ask him to dinner."

"Uncle wants him to come and wean poor Myra from that terrible business."

But Edie was wrong, for after approaching his daughter several times on the question of the possibility of obtaining a divorce, Myra had stopped the admiral so decidedly that he had been ready to believe she must have cared for Barron after all.

"First man who ever told her he loved her," the old man said to himself, "so, of course, she can't help feeling a kind of liking for him. But suppose he comes out on ticket-of-leave, don't they call it? And what if he comes here? Bah! I'll shoot him before he shall have her. That would bring Myra to book, too. That's a card I must play—possibility of his coming back. She'll give in, then. I must hear what a lawyer says."

But, in his unbusinesslike way, Sir Mark did nothing. Home was calm and pleasant again, and he had his little dinners, and his friends; and to him the existence of James Barron, alias Dale, at The Foreland became less and less clear. He was buried, as it were, in a living tomb, and there was no need to think of him for years.

Stratton came again and again for dinner, and now and then dropped in of an evening. Always against his will, he told himself; but the attraction was strong enough to draw him there. It was plain, too, that Myra's eyes brightened when he entered, but he felt that it was only to see her father's friend.

Then came one autumn night when, after a long and busy day, Stratton made up his mind to go to Bourne Square, undid it, made up his mind again, once more undid it, and determined that he would no longer play the moth round the bright candle.

He had dressed, and, throwing off his light coat and crush hat, he went out of his rooms and along the landing to Brettison's.

"I'll go and talk botany," he said. "Life is too valuable to waste upon a heartless woman."

He knocked; no answer. Again; no reply.

"Gone out," he said. "What shall I do?"

Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then went and fetched his hat and coat, descended, took a cab, and ordered the man to drive to Guest's, in Grey's Inn.

"Better have stopped at home," muttered Stratton; "he will talk about nothing else but Bourne Square." But he was wrong. Guest was out, so descending into the square, and walking out into Holborn, Stratton took another cab.

"Where to, sir?"

"Bourne Square."

Stratton sank back in his seat perfectly convinced that he had said Benchers' Inn, and he started out of a reverie when the cab stopped at the admiral's door.

"Fate," he muttered. "It was no doing of mine." Andrews admitted him as a matter of course, and led the way to the drawing room, where he announced his name.

Myra started from a couch, where she had been sitting alone, dreaming; and as Stratton advanced his pulses began to beat heavily, for never had the woman he idolised looked so beautiful as then.

There was a faint flush in her soft, creamy cheeks, the trace of emotion in her heaving bosom, as she greeted him consciously; for she had been sitting alone, thinking of him and his proposal to her father, and the next minute the door had been opened, and he stood before her.

"It is almost by accident that I am here," he said, in a low voice full of emotion, which he vainly strove to control. "Your cousin? The admiral?"

"Did you not know?" said Myra in a voice as deep and tremulous as his own. "Mr Guest came with tickets for the opera. He knew my father liked the one played to-night—'Faust.'"

"Indeed!" said Stratton huskily.

"He goes for the sake of the great scene of the return of the men from the war. I think he would never tire of hearing that grand march."

She left the couch, conscious of a strange feeling of agitation, and, crossing to the piano, seated herself, and began to play softly the second strain in the spirit-stirring composition, gradually gliding into the jewel song quite unconsciously, and with trembling fingers. Then she awoke to the fact that Stratton had followed her to the instrument, against which he leaned, with the tones thrilling his nerves, tones set vibrating by the touch of hands that he would have given worlds to clasp in his own, while he poured forth the words struggling for exit.

"It is fate," he said to himself, as he stood there gazing down at the beautiful head with its glossy hair, the curve of the creamy neck, and the arms and hands whiter than the ivory over which they strayed.

So sudden—so wondrous. The only thing in his thoughts had been that he might be near her for a time, and hear her words, while now they were alone in the soft, dim light of the drawing room, and the touch of her fingers on those keys sent that dreamy, sensuous, glorious music thrilling through every fibre of his body. Friend? How could he be friend? He loved her passionately, and, cold as she might ever be, however she might trample upon his feelings, she must always be the same to him—his ideal—his love—the only woman in the world who could ever stir his pulses.

And so silent now—so beautiful? If she had spoken in her customary formal, friendly way, it would have broken the spell. But she could not. The chain was as fast round her at that moment, though she longed to speak.

She could not, for she knew how he loved her; how his touch stirred each pulse; that this man was all in all to her—the one she loved, and she could not turn and flee.

At last, by a tremendous effort, she raised her eyes to his to speak indifferently and break through this horrible feeling of dread and lassitude, but as their eyes met, her hands dropped from the keys, as, with a passionate cry, he took a step forward, caught her to his breast, and she lay for the moment trembling there, and felt his lips pressed to her in a wild, passionate kiss.

"Myra!" he panted; "all that must be as a dream. You are not his. It is impossible. I love you—my own! my own!"

His words thrilled her, but their import roused in her as well those terrible thoughts of the tie which bound her; and, with a cry of anger and despair, she thrust him away.

"Go!" she cried; "it is an insult. You must be mad."

Then, with the calm majesty of an injured woman proud of her honour and her state, she said coldly, as she pointed to the door:

"Mr Stratton, you have taken a cruel advantage of my loneliness here. I am Mr Barron's wife. Go, sir. We are friends no longer and can never meet again."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE MORNING PAPER.

No one by any stretch of the imagination could have called the admiral a good reader. In fact, a person might very well have been considered to be strictly within the limits of truth if he had declared the old officer to be the worst reader he ever heard. But so it was, from the crookedness of human nature, that he always made a point of reading every piece of news in the paper which he considered interesting, aloud, for the benefit of those with him at the breakfast table.

Matters happen strangely quite as frequently as they go on in the regular groove of routine, and hence it happened, one morning at breakfast, that is to say, on the morning after the tragedy at the convict prison, that Sir Mark put on his gold spectacles as soon as he had finished his eggs and bacon and one cup of coffee, and, taking the freshly aired paper, opened it with a good deal of rustling noise, and coughed.

Edie looked across at her cousin with a mischievous smile, but Myra was gazing thoughtfully before her, and the glance missed its mark.

"Hum! ha!" growled Sir Mark. "'London, South, and Channel. Same as number three.' Confound number three! Who wants to refer to that? Oh, here we are: 'Light winds, shifting to east. Fine generally.' Climate's improving, girls. More coffee, Myra. Pass my cup, Edie, dear."

He skimmed over the summary, and then turned to the police cases, found nothing particular, and went on to the sessions, stopping to refresh himself from time to time, while Edie wondered what her cousin's thoughts might be.

"Dear me!" exclaimed the admiral suddenly; "how singular! I must read you this, girls. Here's another forgery of foreign banknotes."

The click of Myra's teacup as she suddenly set it down made the admiral drop the paper and read in his child's blank face the terrible slip he had made.

"O Myra, my darling!" he cried apologetically; "I am so sorry;" and he turned to Edie, who looked daggers.

"It is nothing, papa," said Myra coldly, as she tried hard to master her emotion.

"But it is something, my dear. I wouldn't have said a word only I caught sight of Percy Guest's name as junior for the defence."

It was Edie's turn now to look startled, and Sir Mark hurriedly fixed upon her to become the scapegoat for his awkward allusion, and divert Myra's attention.

"Can't congratulate the prisoner upon his counsel," he said. "The man's too young and inexperienced. Only the other day a mere student. It's like putting a midshipman as second in command of an ironclad."

Edie's eyes now seemed to dart flames, and she looked up boldly at her uncle.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I mean it. Very nice fellow, Percy Guest, in a social way, but I should be sorry to trust an important case with him. Here, I'll read it, and see what it's all about. No; never mind, I know you girls don't care about law."

The morning meal had been commenced cheerfully. There was sunshine without and at the table, Edie had thought how bright and well her cousin looked, and augured pleasant times of the future.

"If she could only feel herself free," was her constant thought when Myra gave way to some fit of despondency.

"I'm sure that she loves Malcolm Stratton, and what is the good of a stupid old law if all it does is to make people uncomfortable. I wish I knew the Archbishop of Canterbury or the judge of the Court of Divorce, or whoever it is settles those things. I'd soon make them see matters in a different light. Poor Myra would be obedient then, and there'd be an end of all this moping. I believe she delights in making herself miserable."

It was just when Edie had reached this point, and she was stirring her tea, and thinking how easily she could settle matters if she were at the head of affairs, so as to make everybody happy, herself included, when her uncle made his malapropos remarks.

There was no more sunshine in the dining room after that. Myra looked cold and pale, the admiral was uncomfortable behind the paper, in which he enveloped himself as in a cloud, from which came a hand at intervals to feel about the table in an absurd way for toast or his coffee cup, which was twice over nearly overturned.

Then he became visible for a moment or two as he turned the paper, but it closed him in again, and from behind it there came, now and then, a fidgeting nervous cough, which was as annoying to the utterer as to those who listened.

"Going out to-day, girls?" asked Sir Mark at last, but without removing the paper.

"Yes, uncle," said Edie sharply, for her cousin had given her an imploring look, and the girl could see that Myra was greatly agitated still; "the carriage is coming round at two. Shall we drop you at the club?"

"Great Heavens!" ejaculated the old man in a tone which startled both his hearers, and as if expectant from some premonition, Myra thrust back her chair, and sat gazing at the paper wildly.

"What is it, uncle?" cried Edie.

"Eh? Oh, nothing, my dear," said Sir Mark confusedly, as he rustled the paper and hurriedly turned it. "More horrors. These editors seem to revel in them, or the public do. So shocking; no sooner is one at an end, than another begins."

He had screened his face again as quickly as he could, for he was a miserable dissembler, and Edie and Myra exchanged glances. Then, rising slowly with her hand pressed to her breast, Myra made as if she would go to the other side of the table, but her strength failed her, and as her father cleared his throat with a sonorous cough, she clung to the edge, crumpling up the white cloth in her damp fingers.

Edie rose too, but throwing up her head, Myra motioned her back imperiously, and stood for a few moments with her lips parted and eyes dilated, gazing at the paper, as if devouring its contents, while from behind it came the admiral's voice with forced carelessness.

"For my part," he said, with a clumsy effort to hide his own emotion, "I am beginning to think that the ordinary daily newspapers are unsuitable reading for young ladies, who had better keep to the magazines and journals specially devoted to their wants."

There was no word spoken in return, and after another cough, the old man continued:

"What was that you said about dropping me at the club? By all means, yes. My leg was rather bad in the night. Don't care so much about walking as I used."

Still there was no reply, and, as if struck by the notion that he had been left alone in the room, Sir Mark coughed again nervously, and slowly moved himself in his chair, to turn the paper slightly aside, and, as if by accident, so that he could see beyond one side.

He sat there the next moment petrified, and staring at his daughter's wildly excited face, for, resting one hand on the table, she was leaning toward him, her hand extended to take the paper, and her eyes questioning his, while Edie, looking terribly agitated, was also leaning forward as if to restrain her cousin.

Sir Mark's lips parted and moved, but he made no sound. Then recovering himself, he hastily closed the paper, doubled it over again, and rose from his chair.

"Myra, my darling!" he cried, "are you ill?"

Her lips now moved in turn, but without a sound at first; then she threw back her head, and her eyes grew more dilated as she cried hoarsely:

"That paper—there is news—something about my husband."

"Edie, ring! She is ill," cried Sir Mark.

"No, stop!" cried Myra. "I am not a child now, father. I tell you that there is news in that paper about my husband. Give it to me. I will see."

Sir Mark was as agitated now as his child, and with a hurried gesture, perfectly natural under the circumstances, he thrust the paper behind him. "No, no, my child," he stammered, with his florid face growing mottled and strange.

"I say there is, father, and you are deceiving me."

"Well, yes, a little, my darling," he said hastily. "A little. Not for your ears, dear. Another time when you are cool and calm, you know. Edie, my dear, come to her; talk to her. Myra, my child, leave it to me."

Myra's hand went to her throat as if she were stifling, but once more she forced back her emotion.

"Something about—the prison—my husband?"

"Yes, yes, my dear. Nothing so very particular. Now do—do leave it to me, and try to be calm. You frighten me. There, there, my pet," he continued, trying to take her hand; "go to your room for a bit with Edie, and—yes, yes, lie down."

"Give me the paper," she said hoarsely.

"No, no, I cannot, indeed, my dear."

"Ah!" cried the agitated girl wildly. "I know—they have set him free?"

Sir Mark glanced at his niece, and then passed his hand over his beaded forehead.

"Yes, yes, my dear," he faltered; "he is free."

"Ah! and he will come here and claim me, and then—"

She reeled as if to fall, but her force of will was too great, and she mastered her emotion again, stepped forward, and seized the paper, her senses swimming as she turned it again and again, till the large type of the telegram caught her attention.

Then she closed her eyes for a few moments, drew a long breath, and they saw her compress her lips and read without a tremor:

Daring attempted Escape.

Serious Affray.

Our correspondent at Grey Cliff telegraphs of a desperate attempt made by three of the convicts at The Foreland last night about eight o'clock. By some means they managed to elude the vigilance of the warders after the cells had been visited and lights were out, reached the yard, and scaled the lofty wall. Then, favoured by the darkness of the night, they threaded their way among the sentries, and reached the cliffs of the dangerous rocky coast, where, their evasion having been discovered, they were brought to bay by a party of the armed warders. In the affray which ensued two of the warders were dangerously wounded with stones, and the convicts were making their way down the cliffs to the sea when orders were given to fire. One of the men was shot down, while, in the desperate attempts to escape recapture, the others went headlong down the almost perpendicular precipice which guards the eastern side of The Foreland.

Upon the warders descending with ropes, two of the men were brought up, one with a shot through the leg, the other suffering from a badly fractured skull, while, in spite of vigorous search by the boats of H.M.S. Merlin, the body of the third man, which had been heard to plunge into the sea, was not recovered. We regret to add that the man injured by his fall expired in the ambulance on the way back to the prison. He was the notorious convict Barron, or Dale, sentenced to seven years' penal servitude, about a twelvemonth ago, for the daring fraud upon the Russian government by the issue of forged rouble notes.

The paper fell from Myra's hands as she stood there motionless, and apparently unmoved by the tidings she had read. Then turning slowly, she held out her hand to Edie, who obeyed the imploring look in her eyes, and led her from the dining room to her own chamber without a word.

"Myra," she whispered then, and she pressed closely toward her cousin, whose lips now parted, and she heard almost like a sigh:

"Free—free!"

"Talk to me, dear, talk to me," whispered Edie. "It frightens me when you look like that."

Myra turned to her, caught her cousin to her breast, and kissed her rapidly twice. Then, thrusting her away, she whispered faintly:

"Go now—go, dear. I can bear no more;" and when, a few moments later, Edie looked back from the door she was about to close, Myra was in the act of sinking upon her knees by the bedside, where she buried her face in her hands.

But hardly had the door closed when she sprang to her feet, and hurried across to shoot the bolt, and then stand with her hands to her head, and starting eyes, picturing in imagination the scene of the past night. The darkness and James Barron—her husband—the man who had haunted her night and day in connection with the hour when he would come back and claim her, not at the end of seven years, but earlier, released before his time—that man—while she sat below in her room at the piano—yes, she recalled vividly every minute of the previous night—she sat playing the melodies of old ballads, favourites of her father, with Percy Guest talking to Edie, and at that time this man was fighting to escape—this man, her horror. And had he succeeded he would have come there.

She shuddered as, from the brief description of the struggle, she saw him trying to descend the rocky face of the cliff, stumble when shots were fired, and fall headlong upon the cruel stones.

It was horrible—too horrible to bear; and yet she felt obliged to dwell upon it all, and go over it again and again, shuddering at the pictures her active brain evoked till the agony was maddening.

Then, to make her horror culminate, doubt stepped in to ask her, as if in an insidious whisper, whether she could believe it to be all true, and not some reporter's error.

She felt as if she were withering beneath some cold mental blast, and in spite of the horror, her hopes and dreams, which would have place, shrank back again. For it might be a mistake. Some other wretched man had striven to escape, and in the hurry and darkness had been mistaken for her husband.

But hope came again directly, and while shuddering at the thoughts, she recalled how explicit it had all been. There could be no mistake. She was wife no longer—tied no more by those hated bonds to a wretched adventurer—a forger—whose sole aim had been to get her father's money—she was free, and Malcolm Stratton had told her—

She shuddered again at the horror of dwelling upon such thoughts at a moment when her ears were stunned by the news of death; but the thoughts were imperious. She had never loved this man, and the ceremony had only been performed under misapprehension. Once more she was free—free to follow the bent of her affections—free to give herself to the man she knew she loved.

What had Malcolm Stratton said—what had he said?

A mist had been gathering about her mental vision, and she staggered toward her bedside, once more to sink down and bury her burning face in her hands, for her emotion was greater than she could bear.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"SILENCE GIVES CONSENT."

"Oh, it's you two again, is it?" said Miss Jerrold, in a tone of voice which might have been borrowed from her brother, as Stratton and Guest were shown up into her pretty little drawing room, where she sat ready to preside over her china tea tray with its quaint Sevres cups and saucers and parcel gilt apostle spoons, while a tall stand was on her left with its bronze kettle humming and whispering, and uttering a pleasant coo now and then, as it felt the warm kisses of the spirit lamp.

Stratton's brows contracted and a look of resentment darted from his eyes as he stopped short, but Guest laughed and said airily:

"Yes; it is your humble servant once again."

"Well, and what do you want?"

"Hear that, Stratton?" said Guest. "A lady sends you her cards, 'At home, Thursday, four to six;' we go to the expense of new lavender kids—no, come what may, I will be truthful, mine are only freshly cleaned—and new hats—no, truth shall prevail! a gloss over from the hatter's iron—drag ourselves all this way west to pay our devoirs—to drink tea out of thimbles, and eat slices of butter thinly sprinkled with bread crumbs, and the lady says, 'What do you want?'"

"Of course I do. There, sit down, both of you, and, Malcolm Stratton, don't put on that wicked, melodramatic frown; it does not become you. You're a pair of impostors. Think I'm blind? You don't come here to call upon a poor old woman like—Quick, Percy, my dear boy! Blow it out; we shall have the room in a blaze."

"No, no, be cool," said Guest, and he made for the spirit kettle, whose lamp had become overheated, and was sending up quite a volume of flame. But Stratton was nearer, and taking out his handkerchief, he turned it into a pad, dabbed it on the lamp, and the light was smothered.

"Oh, dear me!" sighed Miss Jerrold in tones full of relief, "now, that was very clever. I do like presence of mind. Sugar, Mr Stratton?"

He bowed stiffly.

"Haven't burned yourself, have you, my dear?"

"Oh, no; my glove protected my hand," said Stratton, looking at the stiff, formal, handsome old body; half amused, half pleased, by the maternal "my dear."

"Ah, now you're smiling at me," she said quickly. "Sugar, Percy?"

"A good deal, please, to take the taste of your harsh words out of my mouth."

"There, then—two lumps. I know you take sugar, Malcolm Stratton, and cream. Well, my dear, I'm obliged to speak out; for you really are a pair of impostors, and I cannot have my house made a meeting place for would-be lovers. There—there—there, Mr Stratton, don't pray turn like that, and look as if you were going to rush away. Mine is a very delicate position, and I know my brother will be taking me to task some day about all this. Now, do take my advice; and give it all up—Percy Guest, if you break that cup I'll never forgive you. It cannot be matched."

"Would you advise us to go and try our fortunes in Australia, Miss Jerrold?" said Guest quietly, as he replaced the tiny cup in the middle of its saucer, after nearly sending it on the carpet.

"No, I would not, you stupid boy. There, I don't mean you at all. I dare say Edie will be silly enough to let you wheedle her into matrimony some day—a goose."

Guest touched his breast.

"You? No," said the lady sharply, "Edie. But you two are nobodies. I was thinking about Mr Stratton, here. Now, don't you think, my dear, you had better give it all up?"

She held out her hand with a look of gentle sympathy to him, and he caught it and kissed it.

"Do you think I ever could?" he said, in a low voice while Guest began to display great interest in the painting of the teacup.

"No, I suppose not," said Miss Jerrold, with a sigh. "It's very sad, you see, poor girl, she's going through a curious morbid phase which has completely changed her. All that time she had her ideas that it was her duty to wait and suffer; and I do honestly believe that if that man had behaved himself, been released on a ticket of—ticket of—what do they call those tickets, Percy?"

"Leave," said the young barrister gravely.

"Yes; of course—she would have considered it her duty to go to him if he had come to claim her; and then died of misery and despair in a month."

"Had we not better change the conversation, Miss Jerrold?" said Stratton quietly.

"Yes, of course. I'm a very stupid old woman, I suppose; but Myra does worry me a great deal. One moment, and I've done, and I suppose things must take their course. But all this treating herself as a widow and— there—there—there—I have done. I suppose I need not tell you they are coming here to-day?"

"I did hope to see Miss—"

"Hush! Don't call her that, my dear. It must be Mrs Barron, or she will consider herself insulted. Ah, she's a strange girl, Mr Stratton, but we can't help liking her all the same, can we?"

She held out her hand to him with a pleasant smile and a nod; and Guest saw his friend's eyes brighten, and then noted his passionate, eager look, as there was a ring and knock.

But the ladies who came up were strangers; and it was not until quite the last that Myra and her cousin arrived, the former in black, and with a calm, resigned look in her pale face, which had grown very thoughtful and dreamy during the six months which had elapsed since that morning at breakfast, when the news came of James Dale's tragic end.

And now her eyes softened as she greeted Stratton, and she sat talking to him in a quiet, subdued way, till the gentlemen took their leave, and made their way back to Benchers' Inn.

Hardly a word was spoken till they were in Stratton's room, where Guest threw his hat and umbrella down impatiently, walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace, opened it, went in, and returned with a cigar box, which he set down, and then went back to fetch out the spirit-stand and a siphon from another shelf, while, dreamy looking and thoughtful, Stratton sat back in an easy-chair watching his friend's free and easy, quite at home, ways, but thinking the while of Myra.

"Might have troubled yourself to get the glasses," said Guest ill-humouredly, as he fetched a couple of tall, green Venice cups from a cabinet, poured out some whisky, frothed it up from the siphon, and drank.

"That's better," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Aren't you going to have one?"

"Presently."

"Presently? Bah! It's always presently with you. I'm tired of presently. Edie would say 'Yes,' directly, and I could get Aunt Jerrold to coax the old man round if he wanted coaxing. But it's always the same. Look here; if you don't keep your cigars somewhere else, and not on a shelf over that damp bath, I won't smoke 'em. Hardly get 'em to light. Here," he continued, thrusting a cigar and a match-box into Stratton's hands, "do smoke and talk, you give a fellow the blues with your dismal looks."

"I'm very sorry, old fellow," said Stratton, lighting the cigar. "I am not dismal. I feel very happy and contented."

"Then you're easily satisfied," cried Guest.

"Yes; because I hope and believe that if I am patient, my time will come."

"Not it. It's too bad of Myra."

"No; I would not have her change," said Stratton dreamily. "It is a hard and long probation, but I can wait, and I love her all the more dearly for her true womanly behaviour. There, hold your tongue, you miserable, selfish reviler of one whom in your heart you look up to as a pattern of womanhood. The joy would be almost greater than I could bear if she said 'Yes'; but she is right, and I will patiently wait, for some day the time will come."

"There you go again. Presently. It's all very well for you with your calm worship of your ideal woman, and your high-falutin talk about womanhood, etcetera, but I love my little Edie in a non-aesthetic, Christian-like, manly way; and it's maddening to be always kept off by the little thing with, 'No, not till I see poor Myra happy. Then, perhaps, you may begin to talk.' Perhaps and presently make poor food for a fellow like me."

Stratton smiled at him gravely.

"That's right—laugh at me. Tell you what, Mal, you're a poor lover. Why don't you ask her plump and plain?"

Stratton made no reply but sat back smoking, and his friend said no more for a time. At last, quietly:

"Not such a bad cigar after all, Mal."

Stratton did not reply for a few moments. Then, in a low voice, full of emotion:

"Percy, lad, you must bear with me: it is all too deep for words. If we could change places you would do as I do. Speak to her? pray to her? Have I not done all this till now when her eyes gaze in mine with their gentle, pleading calm, and say to me—'Bear with me; be patient. If you love me, give me time till all these sorrows of the past have grown blurred and faint with distance.' Guest, old fellow, she gives me no hope. There is no verbal promise, but there is a something in her gentle, compassionate look which says to me—'Wait; if ever I can forget the past—if ever I marry man—it will be you.'"

There was a deep silence in the room, and faintly heard came the roar of the great city street.

Stratton was the first to break the silence by saying softly to himself:

"Yes; wait: the time will come." Again the silence was broken, this time by a strange hurrying, rustling sound behind the wainscot, followed by a dull thud.

"What's that?" said Guest sharply. "That? Oh, only the rats. There are plenty in this old house."

"Ugh! Brutes."

"They only have runs behind the panelling. They never come into the rooms."

There was another silence before Guest spoke. "Mal, old chap," he said, "I'm a miserable, impatient beast. You are quite right; I'm in my ordinary senses once more. Edie speaks just as you do, and she's as wise a little thing as ever stepped. We must wait, old man; we must wait."

Malcolm Stratton waited till one evening, when fortune favoured him for the moment once again. It was by accident that he found Myra alone. He had heard the tones of the piano as he went up to the drawing room in Bourne Square, and his heart had begun to beat wildly and then its pulsations grew to throbs and bounds, as he went in, to find her alone and playing softly in the half light.

She did not cease, but her fingers strayed on over the keys, and once more as his arm rested upon the piano, the chords thrilled through his very being; and when, without a word, his hands were outstretched to take her to his breast, she sank upon it with a sigh of relief. At that moment steps were heard upon the landing, and Edie and Miss Jerrold entered the room dressed to go to some concert, Sir Mark following directly after, from the dining room, with Guest.

Myra did not shrink from Stratton till all had seen what had taken place. Then, gravely crossing to her father, she laid her hands together upon his breast, while he waited for her to speak.

The words came at last:

"Father, dear, Malcolm has asked me to be his wife."

Sir Mark drew her tightly to him, and held out his hand to Stratton.

"Soon, dear, very soon, but it must be very quiet, and not from here."

"Anything, my darling, to see you happy once again."

The butler just then brought in a lamp, and they could see the love light beaming from her eyes.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

AT THE SILENT DOCK.

Even as Percy Guest rushed at his friend's door to bring one foot against the lock with all his might, he felt the futility of the proceeding. For he knew how solid the old oak outer panels had been made; but he did not pause, and as his foot struck against it there was a dull sound—nothing more.

Guest drew back again, fully impressed by the hopelessness of his proceedings, for the outer door opened toward him, and the effect of his next thrust was only to drive it against the jamb.

He was recoiling again, with his muscles quivering from the violence of his efforts, when Miss Jerrold caught his arm.

"Mr Guest," she said firmly, "this is madness. You will bring a crowd of people about us, and only workmen could open that door."

Guest hesitated a moment or two.

"Stop!" he said. "His friend, Mr Brettison, is in the next chambers, perhaps. I'll go and see."

"Come, Rebecca," said the admiral scornfully; "we have no business here."

He held out his arm, but his sister thrust it away.

"Yes; we have business here," she said. "If, as Mr Guest suspects, some accident has befallen Malcolm Stratton, would you care to meet Myra without having been there?"

She whispered this to her brother while Guest had gone to Brettison's door, at which he knocked sharply.

The admiral turned fiercely upon his sister, but she did not shrink.

"You know it's right," she said. "Be reasonable, Mark. Malcolm Stratton could not have insulted us all like this."

"I can't make him hear," said Guest, after a second sharp summons at Brettison's door. "I must fetch up a carpenter and make him force open this door."

"You have no right to proceed to such violent measures, Mr Guest."

"Then I shall assume the right, sir. I believe that my friend lies behind that door wounded or murdered for the sake of the money he had ready for his wedding trip, and do you think I am going to stand on punctilio at a time like this?"

Miss Jerrold looked very white and faint as she said quietly:

"He is quite right, Mark."

"Get workmen, then, in Heaven's name, sir, or the police."

Guest took a step toward the stairs, but turned again.

"I don't like the expose, sir," he said sharply. "There might be reasons why I should repent going."

"But you must have that door opened at once," cried Sir Mark, now once more growing excited, as if Guest's manner were contagious.

Guest drew his hand over the door in search of a hold to try and drag it toward him, ending by thrusting it in by the letter slit and giving it a vigorous shake.

He withdrew it, shaking his head, and paused, for steps were heard. But they passed the doorway at the bottom of the building and died away, while, as he listened, all seemed to be silent upstairs and down.

"We must have a carpenter," he said aloud; and, once more placing his ear to the letter slit, he listened, and then came away to where Sir Mark stood.

"I'm certain I heard breathing within there," he whispered. "Someone is listening, and I'm sure there is something wrong; but I don't like to leave you here alone, Sir Mark."

"Why?"

"In case some scoundrel should make a sudden rush out and escape."

"Fetch a policeman," said Sir Mark sturdily. "Let him try it while you are gone."

At that moment, Guest uttered an eager cry, and thrust his hand into his pocket.

"I'd forgotten that," he said, in answer to Miss Jerrold's inquiring look; "and I don't know now that it will fit."

He had taken out his latchkey on the chance of that which fitted the lock of one set of chambers fitting that of another, and, thrusting it into the keyhole, he was in the act of turning it when, as if someone had been listening to every word and act, a bolt was suddenly shot back, and the door thrown open against Guest's chest. He started back in astonishment, for there, in the dark opening, stood Malcolm Stratton, his face of a sickly sallow, a strange look in his eyes, and a general aspect of his having suddenly turned ten years older, startling all present.

"What do you want?" he said harshly.

The question was so sudden that Guest was stunned into muteness, but the admiral stepped forward fiercely.

"You—you despicable scoundrel!" he roared; and as Stratton stepped back the old man followed him quickly into the room, and caught him by the throat.

"Mark! Mark!" cried Miss Jerrold, following to seize her brother's arm, while Guest, relieved beyond measure at finding his friend in the flesh, instead of his murderer, hurriedly entered and closed the outer door.

"Stand aside, woman!" cried the admiral, fiercely wresting himself free in ungovernable rage on seeing the man who had caused the morning's trouble standing there unharmed. The fact of Stratton being uninjured and making so insulting a demand half maddened him, and, seizing his collar, he was bearing him back, when Guest interposed, and separated them.

"This will do no good, Sir Mark," he cried. "For everybody's sake, sir, be calm."

"Calm!" roared the old sailor furiously.

"Yes, Mark, calm," whispered his sister, clinging to him firmly. "Is it the act of an officer and a gentleman to behave like this?"

"You don't know—you cannot feel as I do," he raged.

"For Myra's sake," whispered Miss Jerrold quickly; and the old man made an effort and calmed down.

"Let him explain then. Let him say what it means. A public insult. To be degraded like this. And after what is past."

Meanwhile Stratton was looking wildly about him. The sweat stood in great drops upon his haggard face, and he trembled violently, though it was apparent to his friend that he was fighting hard to be composed.

Guest turned to Sir Mark.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "There must, as I have said, be good reasons for poor Stratton's actions. Pray be patient with him. You see, sir— you see, Miss Jerrold, he is ill and suffering. Now, Stratton, for Heaven's sake speak out. You must explain. Tell Sir Mark what it is."

"Take them away," said Stratton in a hoarse whisper; "take them away."

"Yes, yes, but say something. What is it—some sudden attack? Come, man, don't look at me in that ghastly way; are you ill?"

"No—no. I don't know," faltered Stratton.

"Then you must have some explanation to make."

"No—no. None. Go!"

"Mark—my dear brother," whispered Miss Jerrold.

"Flesh and blood can't stand it, girl," he panted, with the veins in his temples purple; and snatching himself away, he thrust Guest aside and once more seized Stratton—this time by the arms.

"Now, sir," he said hoarsely, "I know I ought to leave you in contempt for your cursed shilly-shallying, pusillanimous conduct, but with my poor child's agonised past before me, I can't behave as a polished gentleman should."

Stratton glared at him in silence, with the pallor increasing, and his face assuming a bluish-grey tinge.

"I came here believing—no, trying to believe—that you had been taken ill; that there was good reason for my child being once more exposed to a cruel public shame that must make her the byword of society. I ask you for an explanation, and in this cursedly cool way you say you have none to offer. You are not ill; you have not, as we feared, been attacked for your money, for there it lies on the table. There is nothing wrong, then, with you, and—good God! what's this?"

He started away in horror, for the hand he had in his anger shifted to Stratton's shoulder was wet, and, as he held it out, Miss Jerrold uttered a faint cry, for it was red with blood; and, released from the fierce grasp which had held him up, Stratton swayed forward, reeled, and fell with a crash on to the carpet.

"He's hurt. Wounded," cried Guest, dropping on one knee by his friend's side, but only to start up and dash into the adjoining room, to come back directly with basin, sponge, and water.

"Damn!" raged the admiral, "what a brutal temper I have. Poor lad! poor lad! Fetch a doctor, Guest. No. That's right, sponge his temples, 'Becca. Good girl. Don't fetch a doctor yet, Guest. I am a bit of a quack. Let me see."

He went behind the prostrate man, who lay perfectly insensible, and kept on talking hurriedly as he took out a penknife and used it freely to get at the injury in the shoulder.

"Why didn't he speak? You were right, then, Guest. Some scoundrel has been here. Curse him! we'll have him hung. To be sure—a bullet gone right through here—no; regularly ploughed his flesh. Thank Heaven! not a dangerous wound. I can bandage it. But too much for a bridegroom. Poor lad! poor lad!"

He tore up his own handkerchief and made a pad of his sister's, but these were not enough. "Look here, Rebecca," he said; "you'd better go and leave us."

"Nonsense!" said the lady sternly. "Go on with your work, and then a doctor must be fetched."

"Very well, then, if you will stay. There, don't try to revive him yet. Let's finish. Guest, my lad, take that knife and slit one of the sheets in the next room; then tear off a bandage four inches wide and as long as you can. Let's stop the bleeding, and he won't hurt."

All was done as he ordered, and the bandage roughly fixed, Stratton perfectly insensible the while.

"'Becca, my dear—Guest, my lad," said the admiral huskily. "Never felt so sorry in my life." Then, taking Stratton's hand between both his own, he said, in a low voice, "I beg your pardon, my lad, humbly."

"I don't like this long insensibility, Mark," said Miss Jerrold.

"No; it's too long. Has he any rum or brandy in the place?"

"Yes," said Guest eagerly, and he hurried to the door of the bath-closet, and turned the handle, but it was locked. "How tiresome!" he muttered. "Here, I know."

He dropped quickly on one knee by his friend, and thrust a hand into his coat pocket for his bunch of keys; when his hand came in contact with something, which he drew out with an ejaculation, and looked up at Sir Mark.

"A pistol!" said the latter, and they stared in each other's eyes, just as Stratton began to show signs of recovery.

"Why has he a pistol?" whispered Miss Jerrold; and her brother's whole manner changed.

"I was thinking that you ought to have fetched the police at once, my lad," he said; "but it's as well you did not. There are things men like hushed up."

"I—I—don't know what you mean," faltered Miss Jerrold, while Guest slowly laid the weapon on the table, looking ghastly pale, and feeling a sensation of heart-sickness and despair.

"Plain enough," said the admiral coldly. "There is something more, though, behind. Do you know what?" he cried sternly, as he fixed Guest with his eyes.

"On my honour, no, Sir Mark."

"It does not matter to us."

"But it does, Mark," cried Miss Jerrold piteously; "and I am confused. What does it all mean?"

"Heaven and the man himself alone know."

"But, Mark, dear; I cannot understand."

"Not with this before you plainly stamped," said the admiral bitterly. "Some old trouble—a lady, I suppose—men are all alike—there was an expose imminent, I expect, and he sought a way out of it—the coward's way, and was too great a cur to take aim straight."

They all looked down in horror at Stratton, where he lay, to see that he was now sensible to their words, and glaring wildly from face to face.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE MAN IS MAD.

Stratton rose slowly, and he was evidently confused and not quite able to grasp all that had been going on, till a pang from his injured shoulder spurred his brain.

His right-hand went up to the bandage, and he began hastily to arrange his dress.

He was evidently sick and faint, but to restore his garments was for the moment the dominant idea.

Then another thought came, and he looked wildly round, hardly appearing to grasp the fact that friend and visitors had drawn back from him, while the former slowly uncocked the revolver and carefully extracted the cartridges, noting that four were filled, and two empty.

Guest knew the billet of one of the bullets, and he involuntarily looked round for the other.

He had not far to seek. The shade covering the wired and mounted bones of an ancient extinct bird standing on a cabinet was shattered, and the bullet had cut through the neck vertebrae, and then buried itself in the oaken panelling.

Guest lowered his eyes to his task again, and slowly placed the cartridges in one pocket, the pistol in the other, when, raising his eyes, he met the admiral's shadowed by the heavy brows; and the old officer gave him a nod of approval.

"Well, Rebecca," he said, in a deep voice which seemed to hold the dying mutterings of the storm which had raged in his breast but a short time before; "we may go. I can't jump on a fallen man."

"Yes," said Miss Jerrold, with a look of sadness and sympathy at Stratton, who stood supporting himself against the table; "we had better go. O Malcolm Stratton," she cried passionately, "and I did so believe in you."

He raised his face, with a momentary flush of pleasure bringing back something of its former aspect. But the gloom of despair came down like a cloud over a gleam of sunshine, and his chin fell upon his chest, though a movement now and then told that he was listening bitterly to every word.

"Yes," said Sir Mark; "it's as well you did not get in the police. Keep it all quiet for everyone's sake. The doctor must know, though."

Stratton's face was a little raised at this, and he turned slightly as Guest said:

"Of course. It is not a dangerous wound, but look at him."

Stratton's chin fell again upon his breast.

"In a few hours," continued the admiral, "fever will probably set in."

A low, catching breath shook Stratton, and one hand grasped the table edge violently.

"And he will be delirious."

Stratton strove hard to contain himself, but he started violently, and raising his face he passed his right-hand across his dripping brow.

"I cannot stop here, Guest," said Sir Mark. "Come, Rebecca, my dear. You must not leave him alone. Shall I send in a medical man?"

"No!" cried Stratton hoarsely, in so fierce a voice that all started, and the admiral shrugged his shoulders, and drawing himself up crossed to the door, his sister following him with her face full of perplexity and commiseration.

But she turned as she reached the door, hesitated for a moment, and the rigid hardness in her face, with its anger against the man who had done her niece so cruel a wrong, died away to give place to a gentle, womanly look of sorrow and reproach as she hurried back to where Stratton stood with his back to the table, grasping its edge, while the objects thereon trembled and tottered from the motion communicated by the man's quivering muscles.

"Heaven forgive you, Malcolm Stratton!" she said slowly. "I cannot now. I am going back to her. Man, you have broken the heart of as true and sweet a woman as ever lived."

Stratton did not stir, but stood there bent, and as if crushed, listening to the rustle of his visitor's rich silk, as she hurried back to her brother; then the door was opened, closed upon them, and a dead silence reigned in Stratton's study, as he and Guest stood listening to the faint sound of the descending steps till they had completely died away.

Then Guest turned to his friend:

"Now," he said coldly, "give me your arm. No; stop. Where are your keys?"

Stratton raised his head sharply.

"Where are your keys?"

"What for?"

"I want to get the spirits to give you a dram."

"No, no," said Stratton firmly. "Now go!"

"Of course," said Guest bitterly. "That's my way when you're in trouble. You miserable fool! You madman!" he roared, flashing out suddenly with passion. "What is it? Two years ago, when I came here and found you with that cyanide bottle on the table, and the glass ready with its draught, I stopped you then, you coward. This time you were alone to attempt your wretched work."

Stratton glared at him wildly.

"And here have we all been scared to death, fearing that you had been attacked. The admiral said you were a miserable coward, and you are. Where is your manhood? Where is your honour, to carry on like this with poor Myra till the last moment, and then do this? Hang it, man, why didn't you aim straight and end it, instead of bringing us to such a pitiful scene as this?"

Stratton drew his breath hard.

"There, I've done. It's jumping, as he said, on a fallen man. But I was obliged to speak. Now, then, those keys."

"Go!" cried Stratton sternly. "Go. Leave me!"

"To play some other mad prank? Not I. I want those keys to get out the brandy."

"I tell you no—no."

"Very well. It was to save you from fainting. Faint then, and be hanged. Give me your arm."

"Will you go?" cried Stratton fiercely.

"Yes, when you are on your bed, and then only to the door to call someone—"

"What?"

"To fetch the nearest doctor. Come along."

"Percy Guest—" began Stratton fiercely.

"It's of no use," said Guest. "Only waste of words. Come along."

Stratton made a quick movement to avoid him, and staggered into a chair; when his eyes closed, and he lay back fainting.

"Poor wretch!" muttered Guest, snatching the basin and sponge to begin bathing the already damp face. "I oughtn't to have bullied him."

In a few moments Stratton opened his eyes again, and his first look was directed round the room.

"It's all right, old chap," said Guest. "Temper's gone. Come, be sensible. I won't say disagreeable things to you. Give up the keys. You'd be better for a drop of brandy."

"No," said Stratton hastily. "Go and leave me now."

"Impossible. You must have the doctor."

"I cannot; I will not."

"But you must."

"Do you hear what I say?" cried Stratton fiercely.

"Yes. There is no occasion to fly out at me for wanting to be of service."

"I want no help. I must be alone."

"To go wandering off into a fit of delirium. There, I'll call old mother Brade to fetch a surgeon."

"You will not do so. I forbid it."

"Exactly, but you are a patient now. There, don't be idiotic. I can read you like a book."

Stratton looked up at him sharply.

"You don't want the doctor to see your wound and know how it came— there, don't stare in that wild way—leave it to me. It was an accident. You were fooling about with a revolver. Cleaning it, say; and it went off. That's all the doctor need know."

"No one must know even that."

"But your wound must be properly dressed."

"I will not have it touched," cried Stratton decisively. "Now, once more. I am not much hurt. Go."

Guest laughed bitterly.

"No, my boy, you don't get rid of me. I'll stick to you like your conscience."

Stratton's eyes dilated.

"And I'm going to be master here till you are well bodily and mentally."

"I tell you I am not much hurt. Mentally! Pooh, I'm as well as you are."

"Better, of course. Why, what nonsense you are talking!" cried Guest, pointing to the other's wounded shoulder. "Come, don't let us argue more. Give in sensibly, there's a good fellow, and let me do my best for you. I know you see things in a wrong light now, but you'll thank me some day."

They watched each other furtively, and Guest could see how hard his friend was evidently planning to get rid of him, while, on his own part, he was calculating his chances. He knew that mad people were superhumanly strong, but then in spite of his conduct he could not in his own mind grant that Stratton was mad. It was a case of what coroners call "temporary insanity," due to some trouble which had been kept hidden; and if there should be a struggle, Guest felt that he would be more than a match for his friend, injured as he was.

Stratton was the first to speak, in a low voice, which suggested his being faint and in great pain.

"Now I'm better. Will you go and leave me?"

Guest took a chair, and placing its back opposite to his friend, strode across it, and rested his arms on the rail.

"Look here, Stratton, old fellow; I've always trusted you, and you've always trusted me."

"Yes, of course," said Stratton hurriedly.

"Well, then, as your old chum—the man who has stuck to you and is going to stick to you all through this hobble into which you have got yourself—don't you think it would be as well to make a clean breast of it—to me?"

Stratton's eyes dilated as he spoke, and his look was so strange that Guest involuntarily prepared himself for some outbreak.

"You can trust me," continued Guest, and he saw a look of despair come into his friend's countenance. "Come, old chap, what's the use of a friend if he is not to help you? You know I want to."

Stratton's lips parted in an almost inaudible, "Yes."

"Well, then, for poor Myra's sake."

Stratton started as if he had been stung.

"I can't help hurting you, and I repeat—for her sake. She is a woman. She loves you."

"For pity's sake, don't, don't," groaned Stratton in a voice full of unutterable anguish.

"She loves you, I say," continued Guest firmly; "and, whatever has been the cause of this madness, she will forgive you."

Stratton shook his head slowly.

"But I say she will. Come, we are none of us perfect. I tell you I am fighting for you now as well as myself. Your act this morning injures Edie and me too. So take it like this, old fellow. You have done wrong in some way; is not an attempt to make amends the first step toward showing repentance?"

"You don't know—you don't know," groaned the wretched man.

"Not yet; you will not be open. Come now, be frank with me. In your utter despair, consequent upon your nerves being weak with mental worry, you used that pistol."

Stratton buried his face in his hands.

"The old man was right," continued Guest; "it was a cowardly way to get out of the difficulty. Let me help you. Come, once more, make a clean breast of it."

Stratton's hands fell again, and there was an eager look in his face; his lips parted and he was about to speak, but the look faded away and in a despondent, weary way he sank back once more.

"Very well. I will not press you now," said Guest. "You'll think better of it, old fellow. I'll wait. Now, then, let me help you into your room."

"What for?" cried Stratton suspiciously.

"Because a wounded man must be better lying down."

"So that you can lock me in and go for people—for doctors?"

"He is queer," thought Guest. "The cunning of a man off his head."

As he thought this he rose, walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and took the key out to hand to his friend.

"There, are you satisfied? Look here, Mal, even to better you I will not play any treacherous trick like that?"

"I believe you," said Stratton quietly; and he waved away the hand holding the key.

"So far, so good, then. Will you come and lie down while I fetch a doctor?"

"No. I will not have a doctor. It is a mere scratch."

"Very well. Come and sit down, then."

Stratton shook his head.

"Invalids must be humoured, I suppose. Sit where you are then, and try and have a nap. You'll be calmer afterward—I hope," he added to himself.

Guest changed the position of his chair, took up a book, and crossed to a lounge, but as he was in the act of turning it he saw that Stratton was watching him keenly.

"Don't do that. I want you to leave me now."

"I know you do," said Guest quietly; "but I am not going."

Stratton drew a heavy, catching breath, and lay back in his chair, while Guest opened the book he had taken at random, and read from it half a dozen romances which he made up as he went on. For he could not see a word of the printed matter, and in each of these romances his friend was the hero, who was being hunted to desperation by some woman with whom he had become entangled.

From time to time he glanced across at his friend as the hours glided by, hoping to see that he slept; but he always caught a glimpse of a pair of eager eyes watching him.

At last, about six o'clock, faint, weary, and oppressed by the terrible silence in the room, Guest laid down the book.

"Going?" said Stratton eagerly.

"No. Only to send for Mrs Brade."

"What for?"

"To get her to run to the Peacock, and tell them to bring some dinner and a bottle of Bass. You can eat something?"

"Bring dinner—here?" gasped Stratton.

"Yes. I have had nothing since early breakfast."

"You cannot have it here," said Stratton, making an effort, and speaking firmly. "I am better and calmer now. After a night's rest I shall be myself again."

"I hope so," said Guest quietly.

"So go now, there's a good fellow. I'll explain everything to you some day, and I shall be far better alone."

"Yes; you are fit to trust!"

"You need not sneer. You think I shall make some insane attempt upon my life."

Guest looked at him fixedly.

"Yes; you have good reason for doubting me, but I swear to you that you may trust me."

At that moment steps were heard upon the stairs, almost inaudible; but whoever it was whistled some melody, and before Stratton could stay him, Guest threw open the door, and called to the whistler to come back.

"Want me, sir?" said a telegraph boy, appearing in the opening.

"Yes," said Guest, giving the boy sixpence; "ask the woman at the lodge to come up here directly."

"All right, sir."

Guest returned to his seat, and saw that Stratton's face was averted and his eyes closed.

"Finds he must give way," said the young barrister to himself; and once more there was silence, till Mrs Brade's knock was heard.

Guest admitted her, and cut short a string of wondering exclamations by giving her his orders.

"Oh, certainly, sir," she cried; "but I thought—"

"Yes, of course you did, my dear madam, but unfortunately Mr Stratton was suddenly taken ill."

"Oh, poor dear!" cried Mrs Brade, in deep concern. "Let me go and ask my doctor to—"

"No," cried Stratton so fiercely that the woman started and turned pale.

"Go and do as I said," whispered Guest; and after a while the refreshments were brought, partaken of, and, in spite of his friend's protests, Guest insisted upon passing the night in an easy-chair, dropping off to sleep occasionally, to dream that Stratton was threatening to destroy his life, and waking to find him in his easy-chair thrust back to the side of the fireplace between him and the panelled door.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

TWO NIGHTS OF WATCHING.

"Thank goodness!" said Guest to himself, as he moved slightly and saw that his companion appeared to be sleeping heavily; but as he rose Stratton followed his example, looking very pale, but more like himself.

"Morning; how are you?" said Guest.

"Better—much better."

"You should have undressed and gone to bed, and you'd have been better still. How's the shoulder?"

"Gave me a good deal of pain several times in the night, but it is easier now."

"Glad of it, but take my advice; let's have in a doctor, and let him dress it properly."

"There's no need," said Stratton quietly. "A wound only needs to be kept from exposure to the air to heal itself."

"Well, of all the obstinate fellows!"

"Oh, no," said Stratton, with a wan smile. "You see I have been very obedient. If the wound is disposed to turn bad, as I shall soon know, I will have medical advice. If there is no need, surely you can spare me the annoyance of answering a surgeon all kinds of questions, and being tied-down to his routine."

"Well, I will not worry you, old fellow, for you do seem to be better."

"Much," said Stratton quietly. "I only want to be at peace for a time. I think I shall go into the country."

"Will you?"

"Y-e-s, I think I will."

"With me. Then we'll go as soon as you can start."

"No, no," cried Stratton excitedly. "I should be poor company, and would rather go alone."

"Not fit. Look here. Happy thought. I'll ask Brettison in."

"No, no!" cried Stratton excitedly.

"But he's the very man. Quiet, calm, and don't talk. Go and pick buttercups and daisies along with him for a few days, and then come back to me quite compos mentis, and we'll see what can be done."

Guest made toward the door, but Stratton intercepted him.

"I tell you no," he said firmly, "and—and—Brettison is out."

"Out?"

"Gone into the country."

"Humph!" ejaculated Guest, looking at his friend curiously, for there was something in his manner which puzzled him. But Stratton said cheerfully:

"Nearly nine. Will you order some breakfast from the tavern?"

"Eh, to be sure. Let's go. No; afraid you are not well enough. I'll send Mrs Brade. But no nonsense," said Guest.

"I give you my word," said Stratton quietly.

"I take it;" and after a visit to the bedroom Guest came back, looking refreshed and ready to go out and order the meal to be brought.

In due time this was at the door, and, to the young barrister's great satisfaction, his friend drank a cup of coffee, and ate sparingly of some dry toast, looking every minute more and more himself.

There were moments when his face twitched and his eyes looked strange; but that Guest set down to the pain of his wound; and in the course of the morning, feeling more and more relieved, he said:

"Look here, old fellow, I think if you'll give me your word of honour there shall be no nonsense, I'll go back to my place and change,"—he glanced at his wedding garments as he spoke.

"Yes, I would," said Stratton quietly.

"You are not going to be ill?"

"Certainly not."

"And I can trust you?"

"Of course."

"Then I will go."

"Oh, yes; I shall be all right now, and I may write to you from the country and ask you to join me."

"Thanks," said Guest dryly; "but you are not going yet. We'll talk about that when I come back."

"Come back?" said Stratton wildly.

"Oh, yes; I shan't be above an hour."

"But, really, my dear Percy—"

"I will not hear a word now. There, let some fresh air into the room; the place smells stuffy; my fault, I suppose. It's as if the ghosts of all the cigars I have smoked here were rising up in evidence against me. Ta ta! I shall not be long."

Stratton made no reply, but smiled at him faintly as he passed out and closed the door after him. But the moment Stratton was alone there was a sudden change. He clasped his hands to his head, and began to pace the room with rapid strides, but dropped one arm directly as he turned pallid with pain.

"What to do?" he muttered—"what to do? Mad? Enough to make me. Well, let them think what they please. It makes no difference now."

He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out a key, and then shuddered; but drawing himself up, he set his teeth hard and crossed to where the easy-chair stood in which he had passed the night, wheeled it from the door, and went to the window after slipping the bolt.

His hand was on the blind, and he was in the act of drawing it down when there was a knock, and he stood as if paralysed.

"Back so soon!" he thought, and, as if recalling the scene of the previous day, when Guest insisted upon admission, he gave a sharp glance round the room, smoothed his hair, and went and opened the door.

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs Brade, stepping in; and he involuntarily gave way. "Mr Guest asked me to come in and tidy you."

"No, no, not to-day. I—"

"But Mr Guest said I was to, sir, and if you objected I was to tell you to be calm. It's very glad I am to see you much better," said the woman, going to the bedroom. "Why, you haven't been to bed all night, sir. I don't wonder you look pale," she continued, re-entering and crossing the room. "Did you use your bath?"

She uttered a wild cry as Stratton rushed at her, caught her by the shoulder with a fierce grip, and swung her away.

"I tell you," he cried, with a fierce growl, "I will not have the place touched. Go! At once!"

The woman was too much alarmed to speak, and, making for the door, hurried out, and made for the porter's lodge, "that agitated," as she said to herself afterward, "that she felt as if she could never go there again."

Stratton wiped the cold sweat from his brow as soon as he was alone, and once more began to pace the room, with the key in his hand. But he did not use it. Thrusting it back in his pocket, he sat down and hurriedly wrote a letter, in which he inclosed a cheque; then looking out an address from a directory, he fastened down the envelope, and opened the window, at which he waited till he saw a familiar face, and asked its owner to slip the letter in the first pillar box.

This act seemed to revive him, and he grew a little calmer. He turned to a cabinet containing natural history specimens preserved in spirits, and taking out first one and then another, he carefully examined them, removing the tied-down stoppers of several of the large-mouthed vessels; and he was still examining one of these, with the spirit therein looking limpid still, when there was a double knock.

His first idea, as he started up, was to hurriedly replace the glass vessel, but a moment's thought decided him upon leaving it on the table and opening the door.

"Back again, you see," said Guest, looking at him inquiringly. "Ah, busy with your specimens. That's right. Nothing like keeping the mind busy; but clear away; the fellow will be here soon with the dinner, and I've brought some cigars. Mrs Brade been?"

"Yes; but you are not going to stay here this evening?"

"Indeed, but I am."

Stratton frowned, but said nothing, and in due time the dinner came, was eaten, and the evening became a repetition of the last, but with the difference that Stratton seemed far more calm and able to keep himself under control.

But as the night wore on he stubbornly refused to go to bed. If his friend intended to stay there in a chair, he would do the same.

"Compulsion will only make him wild and irritate his wound," thought Guest, and twelve o'clock struck as they settled themselves in their chairs as before.

"Better humour him," said Guest to himself, as he felt more content with the change growing in his friend; "he'll be better to-morrow, and then, perhaps, tell me all about his trouble."

The lamp had been turned down, so that the room was very gloomy, but there was light enough for Guest to make out the weird aspect of the busts and various natural history specimens about, one great eagle owl over the door catching a gleam of the lamp, and looking, with its fixed glass eyes, fully aware of the mystery overhanging the place. The various articles of furniture, too, assumed a strange guise, and cast shadows of a startling nature; but, after a few minutes, Guest settled down to the contemplation of his friend, whose eyes seemed to be closed, though a few minutes later a faint scintillation showed that he was still awake and watchful.

But Guest was too weary now to feel any dread. Stratton was evidently sorry for his mad attempt, and perfectly sane, so, after a few brave efforts to keep awake, the young barrister calmly dropped off into a deep sleep, and the busy working of a dream, in which Edie was scornfully telling him that she had discovered all about his escapade with a dark woman resembling the queen of spades, and when he tried to catch her in his arms and convince her that he was a perfectly innocent man, she sprang from her seat, uttering a piercing cry.

Trembling and startled, Guest leaped up, to find the lamp turned to its full height, and, with the strange hoarse cry still ringing in his ears, he saw Stratton standing back against the cabinet farthest from the fireplace, glaring wildly, while from out of the closet, apparently, a curious rustling noise, followed by a dull blow upon something hollow, fell upon his ear.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MRS BRADE HAS IDEAS.

Thinking over the events of the past nights, and the overwrought state of his friend's nerves, which had made him start in horror from his sleep at the noise made by the rats which infested the old house, Guest went on to muse over his position, and the prospects of the admiral accepting him as a husband for his niece, while Myra's engagement stood as it did.

"Time cures all things," he muttered. "Wonder how the poor boy feels now. By George, he startled me and spoiled my night."

He had been having an early walk, Stratton seeming calm enough that morning, and he was now returning through the archway when there was a low cough, and he heard his name uttered.

Turning sharply, it was to see Mrs Brade at her doorway, beckoning to him.

"Good-morning. You wish to speak to me?"

"Yes, sir, if you would not mind stepping inside, sir. I'm all alone, except my husband, sir."

Guest stepped into the little room, half parlour, half kitchen, of the porter's lodge, and Mrs Brade carefully wiped a highly polished, well beeswaxed chair with her apron and set it by the fire.

"No, no, not there," said Guest hastily. "I'm hot enough already."

"Of course, sir," said the woman, changing the position; "and you've been walking, sir. One oughtn't to have a fire on a day like this; only you see, sir, one must cook and do everything here when one only has one room."

"Of course, Mrs Brade; but it is quite a little palace of cleanliness."

"Which it's very good of you to say so, sir," said Mrs Brade, with an ill-used air, "and it would be if it wasn't for my husband. He's one of the best of men, sir, but that untidy in his habits. What with one boot here, and another boot there, and tobacco ashes all over the place, he nearly worries my life out."

A low, peculiar sound came from an ajar door, sounding like a remonstrant growl from the gentleman in question, whereupon Mrs Brade went and shut the door, and drew an old moreen curtain across the opening.

"He do breathe a little hard in his sleep, sir," she said apologetically.

"And likes plenty of it, eh?"

"Oh, dear no, sir. It's only eleven yet," replied Mrs Brade, glancing at a sallow-faced Dutch clock on the wall. "He isn't doo till twelve. You forget, sir, as he's up pretty well all night to let in gents at all hours."

"Loose fish?"

"Some of 'em, sir—if you means gents as don't behave themselves and comes home smelling of spirits horrid. But most of 'em's from Fleet Street, sir, from the noosepapers, as keeps 'em till two and three and four o'clock, and sometimes later."

"Of course, of course, Mrs Brade," said Guest, rising. "We must have our morning papers."

"Yes, sir, and our bread and rolls; not that I wish you to think we've anyone in the inn as is a baker."

"I did not think so, Mrs Brade; but I'm in a hurry."

"And I won't detain you, sir. But, of course, you were going in to see poor Mr Stratton, sir."

"Yes; what of that," said Guest sharply.

"I wanted to speak to you, sir, about him very serious, sir. Only yesterday, sir—"

"Yes; go on, my good woman, go on. Is there anything fresh?"

"Oh, yes, sir," said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes. "I know all about his love troubles from the first."

"Yes, yes."

"And how he was disappointed about having Miss Jerrold."

"Well?"

"And then, sir, when at last it was to come off, you see it was too much for him."

"And he has turned a little ill. There, he will soon be better."

"I hope so, sir," said Mrs Brade, shaking her head, "but I'm afraid."

"Look here, you have seen or heard something to account, perhaps, for his sudden illness."

"Don't call it illness, sir; the poor dear gentleman is mad."

"Mrs Brade!"

"It's a fact, sir, I assure you, and we may as well out with the truth."

"Look here," said Guest, speaking hoarsely, for he felt startled at the woman's words, coinciding so exactly with horrible thoughts hidden in his own breast. "This is a very serious thing to say. What grounds have you for such an assertion?"

"Well, sir, if you'll sit down I'll tell you."

Guest reseated himself, feeling that if he wished to hear, he must let the woman go on in her own way.

"I've always liked Mr Stratton, sir, since he's been here, and his name always putting me in mind of Lady Burdett Coutts' house at the corner of Strutton Street, where I have visited one of the servants."

Guest made an impatient gesture.

"Yes, sir, I am coming to it as fast as I can. You see doing for him so long and looking upon him like a son, and doing for Mr Brettison, too, as is always most aggravating about his dusting, and his room's a disgrace, but I never thought of Mr Stratton turning like that."

"Like what?"

"I'm telling you, sir. Getting so that it's a favour to be allowed to go into his room to tidy up, and him watching you and following you about with his eyes, and glaring at you all the time."

"Of course, he does not like his specimens touched."

"All which I know, sir, and I've studied him; but he never went on as he does now."

"Oh, nonsense! he's ill and doesn't want to be worried."

"He's mad, sir, as Bedlam."

"Mrs Brade!"

"He is, sir, and last night he tried to strangle me."

"What?"

"He did, sir, as I'm a sinful soul, and when I got away from him down the stairs and back here into my room, it's a mercy as I didn't faint away."

"He touched you?"

"Touched me, sir? He seized me. Oh, poor, dear gentleman, he's gone."

"Look here," said Guest sharply, "have you told anybody about it?"

"No, sir; not yet."

"Then for Heaven's sake don't, Mrs Brade," said Guest, in a low, hurried tone. "It was, perhaps, only a sudden paroxysm. You say you like him."

"Which indeed I do, sir."

"Then pray be silent. If such a report were spread it would be his ruin."

"Yes, sir, I thought of all that, and doctors signing things, and keepers coming to take him to shut him up in cells, with chains, and darkness, and howlings, and gnashing his teeth. Oh, my poor dear! my poor dear! Such a bonnie, good, lovable gentleman as you were!"

Mrs Brade threw up her apron to her face and burst out into such a genuine passion of sobs and tears that Guest was touched, and he rose and placed his hand upon her arm.

"Hush, hush!" he whispered; "don't take on like that. Perhaps it is only due to excitement, and he'll soon come round."

"Do you think so, sir?" cried the woman, dropping her apron.

"I do, indeed, if he is kept quiet. Why, if it was known—"

"And the keepers came, sir?"

"Come, come, it's not so bad as that. You have curious ideas about the treatment of the insane."

"Oh, no, sir; I've heard so much, sir."

"Never mind: we will not argue that. One thing is certain—any worry or excitement would be sure to make him worse."

"Of course, sir."

At that moment Mr Brade's hard breathing was audible through the door and curtain, and Guest looked at it uneasily.

"Then you have not told your husband?"

"Indeed, no, sir."

"Then do not. Nor anyone else. We must keep this as our secret, Mrs Brade. My poor friend will come right I hope and feel, in time; so help me to guard him from all worry."

"Indeed I will, sir."

"No one must know. It would be bad for him at the institution."

"Yes, sir, and he'd have to give up his chambers, of course, if any of the neighbours—I mean gentlemen in the other rooms—made complaints."

"All of which we can avoid. It only wants time. There, I'll go up and see him now, and Mr Brettison, too. Mind, I rely upon your being discreet."

"Of course, sir, and thank you for coming in. You don't know how much good you've done me, sir."

"I'm glad you spoke to me," said Guest; and he went across the inn to Stratton's chambers.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

IN GROSS DARKNESS.

The staircase was very gloomy and quiet as Guest ascended, and he paused on the landing on finding Stratton's outer door shut, and after a few moments' hesitation, turned off to the left, meaning to have a few words with Brettison about their friend's state.

This door was also shut and he turned back, but feeling that, perhaps, after all, Brettison might be in, he knocked; waited; knocked again, and stood listening.

"Off somewhere again picking flowers," muttered Guest. "Men begin by picking them as children, and some end their lives gathering the sweet, innocent looking things."

He, however, gave one more double knock before turning away and going back to Stratton's door.

Here he knocked gently, but there was no reply. He knocked again, feeling a sensation of nervousness come over him as he thought of the words of the porter's wife; and, as there was no reply, he could not help a little self-congratulation at there being no admission.

But he frowned at his weakness directly.

"Absurd! Cowardice!" he muttered. "This is nothing like acting the friend."

He knocked again, and, as there was still silence, he lifted the cover of the letter slit and placed his lips to the place.

"Here, Malcolm, old fellow, open this door," he cried. "I'm sure you are there."

A faint rustling sound within told him he was right, and directly after the door was opened.

"You, Percy!" said the hollow-faced, haggard man, staring at him, and giving way unwillingly as, forcing himself to act, Guest stepped forward and entered the room.

He repented the moment he was inside, for the room looked strange and gloomy through the window blind being drawn down, and there was a singularly wild, strained look in Stratton's eyes, which never left him for a moment, suggestive of the truth of Mrs Brade's words.

Stratton had hurriedly closed the outer door upon his friend's entrance, but he had left the inner undone; and now stood holding it open as if for his visitor to go.

Guest felt ready to obey, but he again mastered his weakness and took a chair, knowing that if he was to perform a manly act and save his friend, he must be calm and firm. But in spite of himself, as he took his seat he gave a hasty glance round the room, thinking of its loneliness, and the extreme improbability of anyone hearing a cry for help.

"Why have you come back so soon?" said Stratton at last.

"The old reason. Sort of stupid, spaniel-like feeling for the man who kicks me."

Stratton made a hasty gesture.

"Didn't like to stop away long after your being so upset last night."

Stratton shuddered, and his friend watched him curiously again.

"I'm much better now."

"Glad of it, but your nerves are terribly unstrung; or you wouldn't be ready to jump out of your skin at the sound of a rat."

Stratton shuddered.

"I know you couldn't help it."

"No, but it's going off now fast, and if I could be alone I should soon be right."

"Doubt it. No good; you must put up with me for a bit."

He tried to look laughingly in his companion's eyes, but there was a strong feeling of dread at his heart as he felt that wild thoughts evidently existed in his friend's brain, and that there was some terrible mischief hatching there.

"Look here, Mal," he said, mastering his own shrinking by remembrance of how the strong-witted man could often master the brain unhinged; "my impression is that you want change. Suppose you and I take a run. What do you say to Switzerland, and start to-day?"

Stratton shuddered, and a curious, sneering smile dawned on his face.

"Why don't you ask me to explain my conduct again?" he said fiercely.

"Because I have no right to. You are your own master, and are answerable to yourself."

"I'll tell you," continued Stratton, without heeding his visitor's words, "it is because you think I am mad."

"Do I? Absurd!"

"Yes. That is why you are here."

"I am not going to contradict you; but I will tell you why I am here. My old friend and companion suddenly turned queer, attacked with some illness, and I said to myself, 'If I were to be bad like that I hope poor old Mal would come to me as I'm going to him.'"

A hoarse sound, like a suppressed sob, escaped from Stratton's lips, and, by a rapid movement, he caught and wrung Guest's hand. But the wild look never left his eyes, and at the end of a few seconds he cast the hand away.

"Oh, it's true enough, old lad," said Guest, smiling. "You know it, too. I want to do it for everybody's sake."

Stratton made a peculiar movement in the air with his extended hands.

"Come, come, don't take it that way, old fellow," cried Guest. "Sit down."

Stratton hesitated, and seemed to be trying to resist, but his friend's calm firm way mastered him.

"That's better; now, then, let's look matters plainly in the face, as doctor and patient if you like. You're off the line, Mal. There's no denying it. Overstrain. Well, it's bad. Painful for you and everybody."

A low moan escaped from Stratton.

"Bah! don't groan over it, man. The human mind is a wonderful bit of machinery, and it gets out of order if you don't take care. You haven't taken enough care, and have broken down. Bad; but we've got to mend you and make you stronger than ever."

Stratton shook his head, and his pallor was so ghastly, as he now sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, that Guest was startled, and sprang up and made for the closet where he knew from of old that the spirit-stand was kept.

But at the first movement in that direction Stratton leaped to his feet and intercepted him.

"Stop!" he cried. "I am not ill. Let me be, Guest. You can do me no good."

"How do you know? I say I can," cried the young man sharply, "and what's more, I will. Now, come, lad, be reasonable. You're out of gear, and you're going to submit to me."

"I am my own master, as you said, and I will not be spied over or interfered with."

"Spied over" sounded bad—not like the words of a sane man.

"Bah! Who wants to spy over you?"

"Interfered with, then. Now go and leave me to myself."

"I shall not," said Guest doggedly.

"You will, sir. These are my rooms; your visit is ill timed; please to go, and wait till I ask you to visit me again."

"Hah, that settles it, if there were any doubt before. That's not my old schoolfellow talking. You are ill—mentally ill, lad—so give in."

"Leave my rooms, sir!"

"If I do, it will be to bring others back with me who will insist upon your yielding to proper treatment."

"Hah, you confess then? You think me mad."

"I did not say mad; I told you what I know now to be a fact. Will you give in and let me treat you on sound, common-sense principles, or drive me away to come back with others?"

"You would not dare," said Stratton, in a low, fierce whisper.

"But I do dare anything for your sake—there, I'll speak out!—for Myra's."

A spasm convulsed Stratton's face, and he ground his teeth as if in agony.

"I can't help it, lad; I'm being cruel to be kind. Now, then, do you persist in sending me away!"

Stratton looked round in a furtive, frightened way, shuddered, and was silent.

"Then I am to go and send others who will treat you. I must tell you the truth, lad; they may insist upon your leaving here and taking up your abode somewhere in the country."

Stratton started.

"No, no; not at a madhouse. You are not mad. Only suffering from a nervous fit. It would be to stay for a time at some doctor's, and I think it would be the best thing. It would get you away from the dull, gloomy chambers, where you hardly ever see the sun. They are bad enough to upset anyone. Once more, which is it to be?"

Guest had been startled enough before by his friend's acts and ways; his conduct now indorsed all prior thoughts of his state. For, as he rose and moved toward the door as if to go, Stratton sprang to him and caught his arm.

"I give in," he said huskily. "You are right. A little out of order. Nerves, I suppose. But no doctor. There is no need. I'll—I'll do everything you wish."

"Then you'll come abroad with me?"

"No. No, I cannot. I will not."

"Very well, then, I'm not going to see you grow worse before my eyes. I shall do as I said."

"No, no, for Heaven's sake, don't be so mad as to do that. Look here, Guest. I am ill, and weak, and low. I confess it, but I shall be better here. It is as you say, overstrain. If you force me to go somewhere else, I shall be ten times worse. I'll do anything you advise, yield to you in every way, but I must stay here. The institution, you know."

"Leave of absence for a sick man."

"I could not ask for it. Besides, my work will do me good. I should mope and be miserable away."

"Not on the Swiss Alps."

"I tell you I will not go," said Stratton fiercely.

"Very well, I'll be satisfied with what you have promised. So just draw up that blind and open the window wide."

Stratton hesitated.

"At once, man. Your promise. The air of Benchers' Inn is not particularly good; but it's better than this mephitic odour of stuffiness and gas. Why, Mal, old lad, I can smell the methylated spirits in which you preserve your specimens quite plainly."

A faint ring of white showed round Stratton's eyes; but Guest did not notice it, for his back was turned as he made for the window and let in the light and air.

"That's better. Now go to your bedroom, and make yourself look more like the Malcolm Stratton I know. I'll be off now. I shall be back at a quarter to seven, and then we'll go out and have a bit of dinner together."

"No, no; I could not go."

"What! I'm coming, I say, at a quarter to seven, and then we're going out to dine."

"Very well," said Stratton meekly, and his friend left the chambers.

"Only touched a little," said Guest, as he went across the inn, put his head in at the lodge, and nodded pleasantly to Mrs Brade, for she was engaged with someone else.

"Better, Mrs Brade—nothing to mind. He'll soon be all right," he continued to himself. "Poor old chap. Only wants a strong will over him. Wish mine were stronger, and I had a little more manly pluck; but he did not see how nervous I was; and, take it altogether, I did not do so badly."

What time Stratton was pacing his room and talking hurriedly to himself.

"It is horrible," he muttered; "too much for a man to bear. Do I look so wild?"

He stopped in front of an old Venetian mirror, and scanned his haggard countenance for a few moments before turning away with a shudder, to resume his walk up and down the room.

"They could do it," he said fiercely. "I could not help myself. My conduct would be sufficient plea. A visit from a couple of doctors, and no matter what I said, I might be taken away. Medical supervision," he said, with a bitter laugh; "imprisonment till such time as they chose to set me free. Well, it would be pleasant to be able to throw all responsibilities upon someone else if one could only cease to think. But that would be too terrible. I must give up everything and trust to Guest."

He looked sharply round the room again, and stood listening, for he fancied that he heard a sound, and, stepping softly to the panel door on the right of the fireplace, he placed his ear to the woodwork, and stood listening for some moments.

But he was evidently dissatisfied. He seemed to be trying to make out whether anyone was in Brettison's room but he was listening at the end of a passage turned into a closet like his own, and he knew that if the door at the other end were closed it was in vain.

He came away at last with a quick gesture indicating his discontent, and stood hesitating for a few minutes, when he again started and looked wildly toward the fireplace, for he was convinced that he heard sounds in the next chambers.

They ceased, though, directly, and might have come from above; but he once more went back to the panel on the right, listened, and came away dissatisfied still.

"I must know," he said with a heavy sigh; and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he stood selecting one which looked black and rusty, a good-sized key, from among those which had been worn smooth and remained bright.

This done, he stood hesitating; and, looking straight before him, he shrank slowly backward till checked by a bookcase standing against the wall, when with an angry gesture that he should have been startled by the sight of his own ghastly face in the old mirror, he walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace. Again he paused for a few moments, and then, with the sweat standing in great beads upon his brow, and the hair at his temples wet and clinging, he slowly, and without a sound, inserted the key, turned it in the well oiled lock, and drew open the door, which came toward him with a faint creak.