Stratton groaned.

"Forgive me," he said feebly; "I was half-mad."

"Yes."

"How could I, crushed by the horror of having taken a fellow-creature's life, cursed by the knowledge that this man was—But you cannot know that."

"Take it, boy, that I know everything," said the old man, resuming his seat.

"Then have some pity on me."

"Pity for your folly? Yes."

"Folly! You are right. I will take it that you know everything, and speak out now. Brettison—"

He paused—he could not speak. But by a mighty effort he mastered his emotion.

"Now think, and find some excuse for me. I was in my room there, elate almost beyond a man's power to imagine; in another hour the woman whom I had idolised for years was to be my wife. Recollect that, two years before, my hopes had been dashed to the ground, and I had passed through a time of anguish that almost unhinged my brain, so great was my despair."

"Yes," said Brettison, "I recall all that."

"Then that man came, and I was face to face with the knowledge that once more my hopes were crushed, and—he fell."

Stratton ceased speaking, and sat gazing wildly before him into the past.

It was in a husky whisper that he resumed:

"I stood there, Brettison, mad with horror, distraught with the knowledge that I was the murderer of her husband—that my hand, wet with his blood, could never again clasp hers, even though I had made her free."

The old man bent his head; and, gathering strength of mind and speech, now that he was at last speaking out openly in his defence, Stratton went on:

"It was horrible—horrible! There it is, all back again before my eyes, and I feel again the stabbing, sickening pain of the bullet wound which scored my shoulder, mingled with the far worse agony of my brain. I had killed her husband—the escaped convict; and, above the feeling that all was over now, that my future was blasted, came the knowledge that, as soon as I called for help, as soon as the police investigated the matter, my life was not worth a month's purchase. For what was my defence?"

Brettison satin silence, smoking calmly.

"That this man had made his existence known to me, shown by his presence that his supposed death was a shadow—that, after his desperate plunge into the sea, he had managed to swim ashore and remain in hiding; the dark night's work and the belief that he had fallen shot, being his cloak; and the search for the body of a convict soon being at an end. You see all this?"

Brettison bowed his head.

"Think, then, of my position; put yourself in my place. What jury—what judge would believe my story that it was an accident? It seemed to me too plain. The world would say that I slew him in my disappointment and despair. Yes, I know they might have called it manslaughter, but I must have taken his place—a convict in my turn."

"You thought that?"

"Yes, I thought that—I think it now. I could not—I dared not speak. Everything was against me, and in my horror temptation came."

Brettison looked at him sharply.

"The hope was so pitiful, so faint, so weak, Brettison; but still it would linger in my maddened brain that some day in the future—after years, maybe, of expiation of the deed—I might, perhaps, approach her once again. I thought so then. The secret would be between me and my Maker, and in his good time he might say to my heart: 'It is enough. You have suffered all these years. Your sin is condoned—your punishment is at an end.' I tell you I thought all that, and in my madness I dared not let the thing be known. She would know it, too, and if she did I felt that hope would be dead indeed, and that I had, too, better die."

Stratton ceased speaking, and let his head fall upon his hand.

"Put yourself in my place, I say. Think of yourself as being once more young and strong—the lover of one whom, in a few short hours, you would have clasped as your wife, and then try and find excuse for my mad action—for I know now that it was mad, indeed."

"Yes, mad indeed," muttered Brettison.

"Well, I need say no more. You know so much, you must know the rest. They came to me, fearing I had been killed—robbed and murdered. They found me at last, when I was forced to admit them, looking, I suppose, a maniac; for I felt one then, compelled to face them, and hear the old man's reproaches, in horror lest they should discover the wretched convict lying dead, and no word to say in my defence. Nature could bear no more. My wound robbed me of all power to act, and I fainted—to come to, fearing that all was discovered; but their imaginations had led them astray. They had found my wound and the pistol. It was an attempt at suicide. Poor Guest recalled the first—I do not wonder. And they went away at last, looking upon me as a vile betrayer of the woman I loved, and sought in their minds for the reason of my despair, and the cowardly act I had attempted to escape her father's wrath. Brettison, old friend, I make no excuses to you now; but was I not sorely tried? Surely, few men in our generation have stood in such a dilemma. Can you feel surprised that, stricken from my balance as a man—a sane and thoughtful man—I should have acted as I did, and dug for myself a pit of such purgatory as makes me feel now, as I sit here making my confession, how could I have gone through so terrible a crisis and yet be here alive, and able to think and speak like a suffering man."

The silence in the room was terrible for what seemed an age before Brettison stretched out his trembling hand and took that of the man before him.

"Hah!"

Malcolm Stratton's low cry. It was that of a man who had long battled with the waves of a great storm, and who had at last found something to which he could cling.

There was another long and painful pause before Stratton spoke again, and then he slowly withdrew his hand.

"No," he said; "we must never clasp hands again. I must go on to the end a pariah among my kind."

Brettison shook his head.

"I have put myself in your place often," he said slowly, "and I have felt that I might have acted much the same."

Stratton looked at him eagerly.

"Yes; my great fault in you is that you should not have trusted me."

There was again a long silence before Stratton spoke.

"I felt that I was alone in the world to fight my own battle with all my strength," he said wearily.

"And that strength was so much weakness, boy. Mine, weak as it is, has proved stronger far."

Stratton looked at him wonderingly.

"Yes; how much agony you might have been spared, perhaps, if you had come to me. But I don't know—I don't know. You acted as you thought best; I only did the same, and, not knowing all your thoughts, I fear that I have erred."

Stratton sat thinking for a few moments, and then, raising his eyes:

"I have told you all. It is your turn now."

Brettison bowed his head.

"Yes," he said, "it is better that I should speak and tell you."

But he was silent for some time first, sitting back with the tips of his fingers joined, as if collecting his thoughts.

"You remember that morning—how I came to say good-bye?"

"Yes, of course."

"I started, and then found that I had forgotten my lens. I hurried back, and had just entered my room when I heard voices plainly in yours. My book-closet door was open, that of your bath room must have been ajar. I did not want to hear, but the angry tones startled me, and the words grew so fierce—you neither of you thought of how you raised your voices in your excitement—that I became alarmed, and was about to hurry round to your room, when a few words came to my ears quite plainly, and, in spite of its being dishonourable, I, in my dread that you were in danger, hurried into the book-closet and was drawn to the thin, loose panel at the end.

"There I was enchained; I could not retreat, for I heard so much of the piteous position in which you were placed. My mind filled in the blanks, and I grasped all.

"I need not repeat all you know—only tell you that, unable to master my curiosity, I placed my eye to one of the cracks in the old panelling, and could see the man's face—her husband's features—and I saw him glance again and again at the money, and felt that he meant to have it, though you seemed ignorant of the fact; and, dreading violence, I drew back to go for help. But I could not leave. It meant a terrible expose and untold horror for your promised wife. I tell you I could not stir, and the fact of my being a miserable eavesdropper died out in the terrible climax you had reached."

Brettison paused to wipe his brow, wet with a dew begotten by the agony of his recollections, before he continued:

"I stayed there then, and watched and listened, almost as near as if I had been a participator in the little life drama which ensued. There, I was with you in it all, boy—swayed by your emotions, but ready to cry out upon you angrily when I saw you ready to listen to the wretch's miserable proposals, and as proud when I saw your determination to sacrifice your desires and make a bold stand against what, for your gratification, must have meant finally a perfect hell for the woman you loved. Then, in the midst of my excitement, there came the final struggle, as you nobly determined to give the scoundrel up to the fate he deserved so well. It was as sudden to me as it was horrible. I saw the flash of the shot, and felt a pang of physical pain, as, through the smoke, I dimly saw you stagger. Then, while I stood there paralysed, I saw you fly at him as he raised his pistol to fire again, the struggle for the weapon, which you struck up as he drew the trigger."

"Yes," said Stratton, "I struck up the pistol as he drew the trigger; but who would believe—who would believe?"

"And then I saw him reel and fall, and there before me he lay, with the blood slowly staining the carpet, on the spot where I had so often sat."

He wiped his brow again, while Stratton rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, as if to hide from his gaze the scene his friend conjured up from the past.

"Malcolm Stratton," continued the old man, rising to lay his hand upon the other's head, "you were to me as a son. As a father loves the boy born unto him, I swear I felt toward you. I looked upon you as the son of my childless old age, and I was standing there gazing at you, face to face with the horror of that scene, while, with crushing weight, there came upon me the knowledge that, come what might, I must summon help. That help meant the police; and, in imagination, I saw myself sending you to the dock, where you would perhaps, from the force of the circumstances—as you have told me you might—stand in peril of your life. But still I felt that there was nothing otherwise that could be done; and, slowly shrinking back, I was on my way to perform this act of duty, when I heard a low, deep groan. That drew me back, and, looking into your room once more, a mist rose between me and the scene, my senses reeled, and I slowly sank down, fainting, on the floor."



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE REVELATION.

"It was the act of a woman, Stratton," said Brettison with an apologetic smile, "but I am only a weak old man, and never weaker than in those moments.

"I could not have been there a moment, and I must have glided down, or you would have heard me. I came to and for a moment could not understand why I was there. Then all came back with overwhelming force, and I crept back to the panel to look through.

"You were returning from the door, and the next moment were standing by the body, with the pistol in your hand, apparently unharmed; and then, to my horror, it seemed as if you were about to use the weapon upon yourself; but to my intense relief I saw you thrust it into your pocket, and then stand by the body as if bereft of sense, utterly helpless as to what course to pursue. While sharing your misery I forgot my intentions of seeking help; and, nerving myself for the encounter, I was about to come round, but your looks chained me to the spot, and, utterly helpless now, I stayed there watching your wild, countenance and reading its meaning, as with an eager, hunted look you went to the outer door, opened it, and stood looking down. Then carefully closing both, you went to the window to peer out furtively from the side of the blind, as if to make out whether by any possibility anyone could have overlooked the scene.

"I knew that you had some plan in mind by your actions, and it rapidly dawned on me what it was, as, like one suffering from nightmare I stood watching, with the cold sweat gathering on my face, as I saw you go toward the other side of the fireplace, come into sight again and take a chair in the same direction.

"I soon divined, though, that it was to hold open the door, and now came the horror of the scene."

Stratton uttered a low groan as he sat there with his face buried in his hands, and Brettison went on:

"It was all clear to me now. You were seeking for a way out of your terrible dilemma by concealing the body, and I looked on, speechless with horror, as I saw you stoop to seize the arms, droop forward, and fall across the chest."

"I was faint from my hurt," said Stratton, almost in a whisper.

"But you rose directly, and I saw you drag the body toward the door of your bathroom and, as if drawn there to know the rest, I came back here and stood listening by that loose panel, where the scene stood out as vividly before me as if I were in the same room."

Stratton groaned, while, excited by his narration, Brettison went on:

"You were evidently faint still, and weak, for I heard you stop again and again, only to resume the dreadful task of dragging the body along the floor, till at last you stood within a few feet of me, and I could hear your laboured breathing for a few minutes, followed by a sound that I knew to be the throwing back of the bath lid; and then followed what you know—that horrible struggle with a weight with which you were not fit to cope. A minute later the lid was closed and you shut and locked the bath-closet door, while I sat down, faint and exhausted, to try and think out what I should do.

"I must have sat there for a long time, for I was roused by the sound of voices in your room, and heard the scene that took place with the admiral. I knew that you fainted, and that Guest tried the door which you had locked; and I shuddered as I thought of what that place contained, and how easily the discovery might follow.

"By this time I had made up my mind how to act; and, after stealing out to get the necessary tools, I waited my time and set to work. It was a long task, for I had to work and not make a sound; but the old fastening soon gave way, and I drew the door open and stood shivering in the narrow place, with yours and Guest's words coming plainly to me.

"At times you were angry, at other times Guest spoke loudly, and twice over he had the outer door open to talk to people on the landing.

"Those were my opportunities, and, helped by strength I did not think I possessed, I worked on, dragging the body out inch by inch, and lowering him down. A dozen times over I felt that I must be heard, but you were both too intent upon yourselves, and your words often rose to a quarrel on one side, and, as I said, at such times I worked, till at last I bore the man through the door and laid him there."

He pointed to the heavy rug in front of the fireplace, and, as if fascinated, Stratton gazed at the spot.

"The rest of the task was lighter for the moment; I had but to close the door, and secure it slightly. I left the proper fastening up till a future time, and I'll tell you that now—the fastening up took place at the time when you were working shudderingly in the dark, taking in cans of spirit, and pouring them gurgling and echoing into the bath; and I heard all this, and the final screwing down of the lid and screwing up of your door. I tell you I heard it all, boy, and still worked on in your service."

"In my service?" said Stratton blankly.

"Yes. Why did I do all this? Did I not know that, in spite of all your scheming and precautions, sooner or later the discovery must be made. Was I to let you live on with that horror waiting always at your elbow, driving you mad with dread, as I felt it was bound to do? It was for your sake, boy, that I fought as I did, and brought your victim out here."

"But tell me—what did you mean to do?"

"How can I, when my own ideas were all vague and strange, as I sat there that night with this,"—he tapped his water-pipe—"and tried to hit on some plan; and somehow the horror passed away, and I felt no fear of the poor wretch lying there before me. I wondered at myself—that I could sit there so calmly smoking, in the face of all that had passed; but I did, for I said to myself, 'What is death, after all, but sleep?'

"So I sat and thought, much as a man would under the circumstances—much as you did—and I felt that I had done right in this my first step toward saving you from the pain and suffering that was sure to come; for I had no doubt of the discovery. Then I argued that such a wretch was worthless, and that, even dead, he ought not to have the power to injure two people whom I loved. I knew that you meant to hide your—"

"Crime," interposed Stratton.

"I never looked upon it as a crime. Let us call it your misfortune in slaying another in the effort to save your own life. There, then, was my position. I had gone so far; and, difficult as the task had seemed, the task was easy beside that which was to come."

"Tell me what you did," said Stratton hoarsely.

"I tell you I sat down to think," said Brettison coolly, "and the more I thought the more impossible the task seemed to grow. I told myself that it must be done—that body must be concealed where no prying eyes could find it, and so that he who hid it could never be forced to bear the blame.

"If the poor wretch were discovered, it did not matter, thought I—no one would know him. Even if it was found who he was, it did not matter; for, I tell you, I felt no compunction, and I told myself that in time you would get over the shock and might be happy after all; for I said that you would have no greater cause for self-reproach than the soldier who slays an enemy to save his own life.

"What, then, could I do? Get the poor wretch carried down to a cab, have him borne to a hospital, and escape in the bustle of the ambulance being brought to him?

"That meant discovery, I felt sure. And I thought of the streets by night. In all probability, no one had seen him come up to the chambers; but I was damped directly there; for those who carried the man down would be able to tell whence he came, and hundreds would be glad to play the amateur detective and hunt me down.

"On all hands I was checked," continued Brettison, "and I could not help thinking, as I found myself hedged in by obstacles, how much safer we all are in London than we think. The difficulty seemed to increase, and at last I began to recall the story in the 'Arabian Nights' about the man choking himself to death with a bone, and the trouble his host had to dispose of the body. You remember about how they propped it up against another man's door, so that he knocked it down and imagined that he had killed the intruder. I fancied myself carrying the man into the streets myself, but I did not."

Brettison said all this in so careless and jaunty a manner, that Stratton raised his head and gazed at him in horror and disgust. For how could he treat so terrible an event so lightly, and discourse of all his thoughts as they came to him with the body lying on the rug just at his feet.

Stratton's look had its effect, for Brettison became a little uneasy.

"Ah, I see you are shocked at my way of treating the matter. Well, I suppose I am wrong. It is all fresh and terrible to you; it has no repulsion for me now. I am only able to look back upon it all as a curious experience of life—a singular turn of the wheel—by which I, a retiring, simple-minded botanist, whose greatest excitement was the discovery of a fresh herb or plant new to England, suddenly found himself playing the part of accomplice to one who had taken another's life."

"Accomplice?" faltered Stratton.

"Of course. The law would treat me as being so. Was I not trying to dispose of the body of the victim so as to screen you from discovery? Oh, yes; an accomplice. Yes, I argued to myself that the man died by his own hand, and that I was working for your happiness."

"For Heaven's sake, Brettison, don't talk like this!" cried Stratton, almost fiercely. "It is too horrible!"

"You think so," said the old man, with a faint smile of amusement. "Ah, well! we view these things from different points."

"Tell me at once what you did—with it."

"Let me tell you my own way. Old men are tedious, Stratton, and I am, I suppose, no exception to the rule. However, I will be brief, for I am torturing you, I fear. I racked my brains for hours and evoked dozens of plans, but there was always some terrible obstacle in the way, and at last I sat back here in utter despair, seeing nothing but the plain fact before me—that your wisdom was greater than mine, and that the only way out of the difficulty was the one you had chosen—to restore the body to the hiding-place in there.

"It was miserably humiliating, but I could do no more. It was madness to keep the poor wretch where I had laid him; discovery might come at any time. Once I thought of leaving him there and going away myself— disappearing, as it were, from the world. I could keep my chambers untouched for months—perhaps years—by sending a cheque to the agent from time to time. But I knew that this must end in discovery. An unforeseen event might result in the chambers being opened and searched, and, in all probability, the dead might take revenge and prove our betrayer—you, as a naturalist, know how.

"I gave that up, then, like the rest, and, in utter despair, began to unfasten the door again, drew it open, listened, and all was still. You and Guest were, in all probability, asleep.

"Going back to the hearthrug, sick and in disgust, I stooped down to reverse my repulsive task, when, as I touched the body and half raised his head and shoulders from the floor, like a flash of lightning, the way out of the difficulty came. Then, overcome by my emotion, I literally reeled into my bedroom like a drunken man, and dropped upon my knees by my pillow in the thankfulness of my heart, though it was long before I could utter other words than—'Heaven, I thank thee! My poor lad is saved.'"



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

THE REVELATION CONTINUED—A LIGHTNING STROKE.

The moment before these last words escaped from Brettison's lips Stratton had been sitting there with his elbows on the table, his face worn, haggard, and full of horror and disgust; but now the interest in his old friend's statement returned, and he watched him eagerly. The explanation was coming at last. The half-cynical, indifferent manner, too, had passed away, as he continued:

"I came back to this very chair, Stratton, trembling and agitated as I had never been before, to stoop down at once, and then go upon one knee there—there on the rug. His head was just there, boy, and his face a little on one side, so that the profile of the vile scoundrel stood out, clearly cut, against the background of dark chocolate wood."

Brettison's manner was now excited, his words low and hoarse, and his manner had proved contagious; for Stratton's lips parted, and he leaned over toward the speaker.

"For a few minutes I could do no more," continued Brettison. "A horrible dread assailed me—that I had been deceived—that the door I had, in imagination, seen open before me had closed again, and that I was once more shut in with the terrible difficulty. But, nerving myself again, I passed one arm beneath the shoulders as before, raised him a little, and once more there was a low moan."

"What?" cried Stratton wildly, as he started from his seat.

"Wait patiently, and you shall hear," said Brettison; then, drawing a panting breath, as if the effort of recalling the terrible scene, with its excitement, was almost more than he could bear, he went on:

"I lowered him again, not daring to think that he was alive, knowing that the sound might have been caused by the escape of a little air from the cavity of the chest. For a few minutes I was sure that this was so, and my hopes were all dashed again. People have called me a learned man, Malcolm; but, before a difficulty like that, I was a poor, helpless, ignorant child.

"Mastering myself, though, at last, I thrust my hand into his breast; but I could feel nothing. I fancied there was a pulsation, but could not tell but that it might be caused by my own throbbing arteries. I tried the wrists, and then, tearing open the collar of his shirt, thrust my hand in there, and the pulsation was plain now. More, I distinctly felt a throb, as a low moan once more escaped from the man's lips."

"Not dead?" gasped Stratton. "Her husband! Living? Great Heavens!"

He sank back into his chair, staring wildly; and then, in a hoarse whisper:

"Go on!" he panted, "go on!"

"The way of escape was open widely now," cried Brettison, reaching over to clutch his companion's wrist, "and I could see my way clearly. It was madness to attempt to move the body of a dead man through the streets, boy—detection was certain; but to take a sick or injured man from one place to another was simplicity itself, and I breathed freely. I could act."

"Not dead—not dead!" muttered Stratton, who looked as if he had received some terrible mental blow, which had confused his faculties and made the effort of following his old friend's narrative almost beyond his powers.

"I closed that door at once, in dread now lest the moans should have been heard; and, able to grasp the position, I could work coolly enough. Going down on my knees with sponge and basin, I soon found that there was a small orifice behind the right ear. This had bled freely, but it had ceased; and, grasping at once that the bullet had gone upward, I examined next to find its place of exit.

"There was none. The bullet was, in all probability, still in the head.

"He moaned a little as I bathed away all traces of the injury; and when I had done, save that tiny orifice just behind the ear, there was nothing to show that he was not sleeping, for the face was quite composed.

"What to do next? Not a moment, I felt, must be lost, if I wished to save his life; and, with a feeling of grim cynicism, I asked myself whether I did. For I was in a dilemma. On the one hand, if I saved him, it cleared you from what might devolve into a charge of murder; on the other hand, if I let him die, Myra would be free, and some day—"

"No, no, impossible!" groaned Stratton. "Go on."

"I could not decide what I ought to do at first, for—I confess it—I was dragged both ways; but I took the right road, Stratton.

"It was late, but it was a case of emergency, and the man's face helped me to the tale I meant to tell. There was the swollen nose and there were the pimply blotches of the man who drank. That was sufficient for me; and with a strength of which I did not believe myself capable, I dragged him by the shoulders into my bedroom and locked him in. Then, taking my hat, I made my way out unseen, took a cab, and had myself driven to the house of an old servant, who was a pensioner of mine in South London. She was just about to retire for the night, but readily made preparations for the reception of an unfortunate friend of mine who had met with an accident, while I hurried back, discharged my cab, took a fresh one—the man, for ample pay, being willing enough to undertake my task, and soon found for me a strong helper.

"The rest was easy. I lied to them, and, on taking the man up with me, left him in my room, while I went into the chamber, trembling lest I should find our enemy was dead.

"But he was lying back as I had left him, on a lounge, and I returned to the fellow I had brought up. I gave the man brandy, took a glass myself, and, before utilising the help I had brought, purposely sprinkled the wounded man with spirit—a hint being sufficient to direct the helper's thoughts into the channel that this person he was to help to the cab was a victim to delirium tremens, for the face was evidence enough.

"My new companion was to have a sovereign for his pains, so he found no cause to object; and when I offered to help laughingly put me aside.

"'Oh, I can carry him,' he said, 'like a baby.'

"A bold, indifferent manner was all, I felt, that was necessary; and fortune favoured me, for we did not pass a soul, and the placing of an apparently tipsy man in a four-wheel cab was not novelty enough to excite the interest of passers-by. I was quite right, I tell you; a bold, careless front carried all before it, and in a very few minutes I had left my chambers locked up, the helper was on the box seat, and we were rolled over Blackfriars Bridge to my old servant's house.

"Here he was carried in, and old Mary shook her head at the scent of the spirits, but assisted willingly till my charge was laid upon the bed, the cabman and his companion dismissed, and then the doctor was fetched."

"Hah!" ejaculated Stratton, as he wiped the great drops of sweat from his brow.

"You are faint," said Brettison anxiously.

"Sick almost unto death," said Stratton hoarsely.

The old man rose and crossed to an old brass-bound cellarette, which he opened.

"No, no," cried Stratton excitedly; "go on, man, go on. You are torturing me. Let me know the worst—or the best," he cried with a bitter laugh. "Ought I to wish his life to be saved, and, know that I am not a murderer?"

"A man is no murderer who slays another in defence of his own life," said Brettison calmly, getting out an old spirit decanter and glasses.

"Leave that," cried Stratton, pushing away the glass his friend placed before him. "Go on—go on!"

"No," said Brettison sternly; "you need the stimulus now."

"Man, have you no feeling for me at such an anguish point as this?"

"Man, have you no feeling for one who is old and infirm, and who has shortened his poor share of life in his efforts to save you from the misery of your lot?"

"Forgive me," groaned Stratton. "I am not what I was, Brettison."

"No man could go through such a crucial passage in his life and come out the same," was the quiet reply. "There, drink that. I do not indulge in these things, as you know; but I am faint, and it is hard work to collect one's thoughts."

He poured out two little glasses of the contents of the old decanter, and drank one—Stratton, whose temples were throbbing, and whose hand trembled in a palsied way, following his example.

"Now," he said, "go on. I am in misery."

"You must know all. I must tell it in my own way, for my mind is confused all through with doubts as to whether I was right in keeping you in ignorance of all this. I did not see it before; I do see it now."

He looked upon Stratton's worn and aged face with a look full of pity and compunction.

"I acted for the best, my boy," he said—"I acted for the best; but I feel that I have been, in my zeal, half-mad. Still at such a time a man cannot be cool-blooded, and act as he would after longer thought."

Then, as he saw Stratton's hands raised:

"The doctor came, saw the patient, and made his examination carefully, ending by applying proper bandages to the wound, while Barron lay perfectly insensible, only uttering a low moan now and then, as if he felt pain when touched; otherwise he lay quite calmly, as if asleep.

"And as the doctor busied himself he asked no questions; but, as if he were influenced by my thoughts as I stood by him, watching him and waiting to give him a garbled—there, a lying—version of the incident, he at last took the very view as I wished to convey it to him by words.

"'A bad case, sir,' he said at last. 'I can do no more now. The bullet is evidently deeply imbedded. I will not take the risk of probing for it. Shall I get one of our eminent specialists in consultation?'

"I shook my head.

"'Fatal?' I said at last.

"He shrugged his shoulders.

"'Must speak plainly, sir,' he said. 'It is of no use to talk of hope to a man when one feels that there can be none. Poor fellow, his face tells the tale plainly enough. Drink. Stimulus after stimulus till the brandy, or whatever it is, ceases to have its effect. I knew one poor fellow who used to heat brandy over a spirit lamp to make its effect more rapid. Yes, ceases to have its effect, and more is used. Then the digestive powers break down, the over-goaded brain leaps from its bounds, and we have the delirium that ends in men feeling that life is not worth living, and makes them suicidal like this.'"

"You remember the very words?" said Stratton, looking at his friend wonderingly.

"Word for word," said Brettison slowly, "and always shall. I remember, too, the thrill of horror that ran through my nerves as he stood for a few moments with his back to me, between me and the bed, bending first over his patient, and then straightening himself up and raising one arm—his right—with the fist clenched, all but the index finger, which he passed over his shoulder to touch, with the point of the finger, the spot behind his own ear where the bullet had entered.

"For a few moments I did not understand his gesture; then I grasped the fact, and followed his thoughts. He was, in imagination, holding a pistol to his head as he thought his patient must have held it when the trigger was drawn. He had completely taken my view that I wished to impart, and he was thinking of the inquest and the evidence he would have to give."

Stratton looked at him for a few moments with dilated eyes.

At last he spoke, for Brettison had become wrapped in thought, and sat gazing before him, as if seeing the whole horror once again.

"And did he," said Stratton, in broken words, "attend him—to the end; did he say—at the inquest—that it was suicide?"

"No," said Brettison, looking up with a start from his musings, and watching the effect of his words on his companion; "he tended him, but James Dale, or Barron, did not die. He is living now."



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

BRETTISON IS MYSTERIOUS.

"James Barron living now?" cried Stratton excitedly. "Thank Heaven!"

But as the words left his lips his whole manner changed. His face had lighted up at Brettison's announcement, for the knowledge that he was not answerable for the convict's death—that he had not slain the husband of the woman he loved—was a tremendous weight, which had crushed him down, suddenly removed; but, like a sudden, scathing flash, came the horror of Myra's position once more.

There was no selfishness in the feeling; his thoughts were solely of and for her. That man still lived, and she was his wife—tied to an escaped convict, and at his mercy, unless Brettison had done his duty and handed him over to the authorities. But with his sympathetic feeling for her, there came over him a sense of overwhelming despair at his own helpless position.

He passed his hand across his eyes, threw up his head, and seemed more like the old Malcolm Stratton, as he held out his hand to his friend, took that which was eagerly extended to him, and the two men sat, hand grasped in hand, silently for the space of some minutes.

Brettison was the first to speak.

"Then you think, in spite of all, I did wisely?"

"I think you saved that man's life," said Stratton with a faint, sad smile upon his lip. "But for you I must have gone to the grave with that knowledge always on my brain. You have spared me that. I can sleep without waking to think of that man's blood being on my hands."

"And there is hope for you yet," whispered Brettison earnestly.

"Where?" said Stratton mournfully. "In the other world?"

"Bah! Despairing at your age? Why, man, this life is full of change and surprise. Nothing comes to pass so often as the unexpected."

Stratton shook his head.

"What! Doubting, in the face of all I have told you just now? Why, man, my news must have come upon you like a miracle. Come, I shall see you and Myra happy yet."

"Silence!" cried Stratton sternly. "Impossible! All that is past. Brettison, I accept my fate in all thankfulness for what I know. If Myra and I ever meet again, I can take her hand and look her calmly in the eyes. I know my position now; and, thank God, I am once more a man—free from the great horror of my life. Now, tell me. The man recovered from his wound?"

"Yes," said Brettison, looking at Stratton curiously, "he is quite recovered from that; only much changed."

"You have seen him lately, then?" cried Stratton eagerly.

"Yes; not many hours since."

"Brettison!"

"Yes? Why do you start like that?"

"Then you have not handed him over to the authorities?"

"No. Why should I?"

"Man, you ask me that? You leave him free to go yonder and make her life a burden?"

"I did not say so," replied Brettison calmly. "Suppose I had handed the man over to the authorities, what then? The news would have been in every paper of the convict's marvellous escape from death. Pleasant reading for the Bourne Square breakfast table. Surely that poor girl has suffered enough?"

Stratton gazed at him wildly.

"I thought it all out, and I said to myself: 'James Dale, or Barron, died that night to the world, when he escaped from the convict prison. Why should I bring him to life? For everyone's sake, let him be dead still.'"

"Impossible!" cried Stratton. "The man will take advantage of his freedom, and Myra's position must become intolerable. You have done wrong, sir. He must be given up at once."

"But the knowledge of what has passed must reach Myra's ears, and the pain and agony of spirit it will cause will be more than she can bear."

Stratton groaned.

"And don't you see you are cutting the last piece of ground from beneath your feet—letting yourself sink at once into a slough of despond?"

"Don't tempt me, man!" cried Stratton angrily. "Heaven knows how weak I am, and how gladly I would fall in with your ideas, but they are impossible. You must be mad to propose them."

"Perhaps so," said Brettison. "I often think I must be a little wanting, now. But, Malcolm, my boy, think of yourself. If Myra knows that this man is still living, she will never see you again."

"Never," said Stratton firmly; "but she will get to know the reason of my conduct on that day, and I shall be forgiven for playing the part I did. She will know all this and forgive me. That is my reward. I tell you, I accept my position. James Barron must be given up."

"You are determined upon that?"

"Yes. It was my decision that morning before the struggle. It was the only course for an honourable man. What was right then must be doubly right now. If Myra were here, she would bid me act as I propose, even if it broke her heart."

"Even if it broke her heart," said Brettison thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I should sin deeply sooner than let her break her heart."

"Brettison!" cried Stratton; "is my old friend to become my tempter now at another crisis in my life? But you do not mean it. You are trying me. Come, I have been tried enough. You seem to have given me a new lease of life. Let us have no more trifling with duty; we have both suffered enough. Tell me, where is this man?"

Brettison was silent for a few moments, and then looked up quietly.

"I will tell you soon. First of all, you are judging too hastily."

"No; I am saying what is right."

"Under certain circumstances; but you do not know all yet."

"What! Have you kept something back?"

"Yes."

"First, tell me where is this man. He has been in your charge ever since his recovery."

"From the wound? Yes."

"And he submits to your dictation—to your rule?"

"Yes."

"Because he fears that you will give him up?"

"No; he does not fear that. But listen to me; you shall not judge too hastily. Wait till you know all my reasons."

"Tell me them."

"Not now."

"When, then?"

"After you have seen James Barron."

"Seen him? Meet that man again?" cried Stratton, with a look of horror.

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"No; it is my wish—my prayer. Come with me and see him. Then you shall decide what should be done; and I give you my word that I will follow out your wishes to the letter."

"You promise that?"

Brettison gave him his hand in token of his promise, and Stratton stood thinking for a moment or two.

"Yes," he said then, "I have no cause to fear. It is cowardly to refuse. When shall the meeting be?"

"To-morrow."



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A DOUBLE SURPRISE.

Land was not so valuable when Queen Charlotte's Road was built, and people who directed letters to their friends in that locality did not then place the letters "S.E." at the bottom of the address. In fact, so low in price was the land that the speculative builder of that day— whose name, by the way, was not Jeremiah, or Jerry, for the houses are still standing—gave to each of the double-barrelled, or semi-detached cottages, a goodly piece of garden back and front; and, instead of piling up so many rooms by the side of a fire-escape sort of staircase, planted them, for the most part, side by side, and ran a good broad veranda along the front. He or his tenants planted trees as well—trees that once gave the straight broad road which ran down to the strawberry and rhubarb fields quite a countrified air.

The houses are there still, but many of them have been found substantial enough to bear a couple of floors on the top of the old structure; and some of the trees are still in their old places—vigorous old fellows of artful nature, who declined to trust their roots where they would be poisoned by the company's gas mains or cut off by the picks and shovels of the navvies at work on the main drainage scheme. Consequently, they lived, though in a sad, decrepit, mutilated way; bent back, beheaded, carved and cropped—limbless dwarfs, for the most part, but always ready to put forth plenty of tender, green leaves in the spring-time, and to make a litter of the dead early in the autumn, while the country trees were still in full costume.

The road—which ran at right angles out of what was once a highly respectable retired-tradesman thoroughfare, with gardens rich in lilac and laburnum, now all busy shops—no longer lost itself in rhubarb gardens, but was carried on through miles of crowded streets; and it was through these, by an ingenious short cut and long fare process, that a hansom cab was being driven, till Queen Charlotte's Road was reached, and a signal given for the man to stop by a semaphore use of Brettison's gouty umbrella.

Stratton gazed wonderingly at the neat, green-verandahed cottage, half-hidden by the cropped trees and a well kept privet hedge, and noted as they entered the gate that there was a cane armchair just outside the French window, sheltered by the broad veranda, and that there were many wheel-marks on the gravel, suggestive of perambulators and children; but, in its well painted, clean windows, carefully tended garden, and general aspect of comfort, the place was anything but that where Stratton had expected to find an escaped convict confined.

Hardly a word had been said during the drive out, but Stratton had quite made up his mind what to do. He felt that he would be running counter to his friend's wishes, and might seem unmerciful, but at the cost of any suffering to Myra he felt that it was the best thing, and would result in saving her future cares.

They were met at the door by the comely looking grey-haired woman who had played the part of nurse, and she drew back, smiling, to show them into a cheerful sitting room, well-furnished, with a canary on one side of the window and a particularly sage-looking starling in a wicker cage on the other.

"Ah, Dick!" said Brettison, rubbing his finger along the sides of the canary's cage. "Well, Jack!"

The yellow bird burst into song, and the speckled starling uttered a sharp, jarring sound, and set up all its sharp-pointed, prickly looking plumes till it resembled a feathered porcupine.

"Not such an uncomfortable place for a man to live in, eh?" said Brettison cheerily. "Better than our dull, dusty chambers, eh?"

Stratton's eyes were wandering about, noting a clay tobacco pipe on the hob, a jar on the table, and an easy-chair and spittoon by the fireplace, while flowers were in a vase on the table, and a couple of solemn looking, swollen-eyed, pompous goldfish sailed round and round their little crystal globe, as if it were their world, and nothing outside were of the least consequence, unless it might have been the fat cat, with fish-hook claws, half asleep where the sun made a patch on the stone outside the French window.

"Like this place better than the old street, eh, Mary?" said Brettison.

"Oh, indeed yes, sir! It's quite like being in the country, and yet with all the advantages of town."

"As the house agent said in his advertisement, eh? Well, where is Mr Cousin?"

"Only gone to get his morning shave, sir. He'll be back soon."

"Humph! Pretty well?"

"Oh, yes, sir; he's nicely, thank you. Really, sir, I don't think he wants the chair at all. It's only because he likes it and has grown used to it."

"Yes, yes; I suppose so. Creatures of habit, Mary. Want any money—any rates or taxes due? Coal cellar all right—want another ton?"

"Oh, no, sir, thank you. I haven't near got through the last money yet."

"Mary, you're a paragon of economy," said Brettison. "There, that will do now. I'll sit down and have a chat with my friend till he comes back."

There was a smile and a courtesy, and the woman withdrew.

"Sit down, my dear boy. No use to make a labour of our task. Not bad quarters, eh? Not to be changed lightly for the locks and bars of The Foreland, eh?"

Stratton looked at him reproachfully.

"Are you not taking all this too lightly?" he said.

"Oh, I hope not. But we shall see. I'm afraid that I should never have done for a judge, Malcolm. I should have let all the prisoners off with light sentences. Ah, here he comes!"

For there was the sound of wheels, a faint creaking, and from where Stratton sat, with his back to the window, he could hear the brushing of a light vehicle against the shrubs, as it was evidently being pushed up to the side door.

Stratton's first impulse was to turn round and gaze out at the man he had come to see, but he mastered his desire and sat up rigidly, with his eyes fixed upon the door, and the scenes of the past flitting before him in a rapid sequence. Now he was listening to the flushed, coarse looking, brutalised scoundrel, boasting of his position and power to wreck the future of a beautiful, innocent woman; then they were talking fiercely together, and there was the struggle. And, again, that horrible scene—with the smoke gradually spreading through the room, while Barron lay prone upon the carpet, with a little thread of blood slowly trickling down from behind his ear. This gave place, as there was a rustling in the entry, to a picture of the moments when there was another terrible rustling as he dragged the body into the bath-closet and strove so hard to hide all traces of the catastrophe.

Then the door slowly opened, there was the thumping of a couple of sticks, and, in utter astonishment, Stratton was gazing at a grey-haired, cleanly shaven, heavy looking man, whose pallid face had a peculiar, inanimate aspect, and who came in, making no sign of recognition, but walked slowly across the room to the easy-chair by the fireside. He stood his two crutch-handled sticks by the mantelpiece, and subsided into the chair with a sigh of content, and began passing his hand over his smoothly shaven face, as if in search of stubble that the razor had missed.

Stratton was astounded. He had expected an angry start as a precursor to a fierce scene between them; but the man paid not the slightest heed to either of the visitors. There was a dreamy look in his lack-lustre eyes, and his heavy lips moved slightly, as if he were whispering to himself.

The man seemed to be imbecile, and Stratton grasped now his friend's object in bringing them face to face. It was to show him how little so mindless a creature ought to influence the future of two people's lives, and to consult with him as to what ought to be done.

Brettison watched his friend closely to see what effect the meeting had upon him, but directly after he was as keenly noting every movement and look of James Barron, to see if there was the slightest shade of recognition.

At last, apparently satisfied, he said aloud:

"Well, Mr Cousin, been for your morning visit?"

Barron seemed as if an appeal to his ear was the way to attract his attention, and not to the eyes; for he looked up with a slight display of animation, and he nodded.

"Yes," he said, "been to get shaved—been to get shaved."

He reached over to the fireplace and took the pipe, tapped it slowly on the hob, sat back, passed his hand over his face again in search of the stubble, and then leaned forward to get the jar from the table; after which he began to fill his pipe by pinching out a sufficient quantity from the jar, placing it in his left palm; and applying the opening of the bowl thereto, worked it round and round till the whole of the tobacco had been worked in, when, after a finishing pressure with one finger, he took a match-box from his pocket and began to smoke in placid content.

Brettison still watched his friend intently, to see the effect of all this upon him; and after a quick and meaning glance, he turned to Barron.

"Tobacco good?" he said,

"Tobacco? Yes, capital tobacco. Have a pipe?"

"Not now. I've brought a friend to see you."

"Friend? Where is he?" said Barron, peering round through the smoke. "Ho, there! How do—how do? Have a pipe?"

Stratton made no reply, but gazed at the man in horror.

"Never been shot, I suppose?" said Barron suddenly.

Stratton started as if he had been stung.

"No, no," said Brettison hastily. "My friend has never been shot."

"Ho! pity. Can't grasp it, then. You've never been shot either, but you do. Wonderful case mine, eh?"

"Yes, very," said Brettison.

"Can't find the bullet, you know. Big bullet shot me; I want it to have it set for my watch chain—I say."

"Yes."

"Doctor's very proud of me, eh!"

"Yes; he considers yours a wonderful case."

"Yes; wonderful case."

"How did it happen?" said Brettison, with a glance at his friend.

"Happen? Ah! I can't find out how it happened. Must have been before I was born."

This last in a very thoughtful tone; and then, more loudly:

"Of course, if it had happened since, I should have known, eh?"

"Very probably," said Brettison.

"I often try to think about it; but it don't matter. I say."

"Yes."

"Doctor's very proud of my case, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, very."

"Don't think he has stolen the bullet, do you?"

"Oh, no, no; not likely."

"No, of course not," said Barron thoughtfully, as he sank back in his chair and went on smoking.

Brettison spoke to him again and again, but his words had not the slightest effect; the man seemed perfectly unconscious of all that was said, and at last there was a tap at the door, and the nurse entered with a tray, and a little tureen of beef tea, with thin slices of toast.

"He always has this, sir, about this time," said the nurse apologetically, "and the doctor said that it must be given regularly."

"Quite right, Mary. Of course."

"He has been talking a little, sir?"

"Oh, yes, for a time, and then he finished; and we have not had a word since."

"No, sir, and you would not till to-morrow now, when he'll wake up a little again, and talk about what a wonderful case his is."

"Poor fellow!" said Brettison compassionately.

"And he always seems to have got that bullet on his brain, sir."

"Naturally," muttered Brettison.

"And, if you'll believe me, sir, if he didn't ask me to confess yesterday that I'd stolen it to show to people, because his was such a curious case."

Stratton glanced at the man seated there, still smoking placidly, and evidently not grasping a word that was said.

The tray was taken to him, and he submitted to the pipe being removed from his hand, after which, in perfect silence, and in the most mechanical manner, he went on with his meal, while, after a few more words with the nurse, Brettison led the way out into the road, and he and Stratton went back toward the West End.

"Now," said Brettison at last, "you have seen our deadly enemy—the being who crushes down the future of two people I love. What do you say?"

Stratton was silent for a few moments.

"Will he recover?" he said at last.

"Not in this world. The bullet lodged somewhere about the brain, and it has produced, by its pressure, this peculiar form of imbecility. The past is an utter blank to him, and it is only for a short time every morning that he has the power of expressing himself at all."

"You feel certain that he will not recover?"

"I have had the opinions of two of our most famous specialists, and they say it is impossible. The man is, to all intents and purposes, mentally dead. Now, then, as an enemy, Myra has no cause to fear him."

"None."

"He can never trouble you or her for blackmail, even if he had dared, after what has passed; so I think he may be left out of the question altogether. You will not, I am sure, think of handing the man over to the police."

Stratton was silent for a few moments.

"No," he said at last; "it is impossible."

"I thought you would feel like this," said Brettison. "Let the poor wretch end his days in peace."

"At your cost?" said Stratton sharply.

"Oh, pooh! A mere nothing, my dear boy," cried Brettison; "and I am not poor."

"I cannot allow that," said Stratton, after a few moments' thought; "and we must do something else. There should be no risk of those two ever coming face to face again."

"Well, is it likely? West End and East End do not often mix."

"No, but there is always the possibility. An accident might bring Myra to some spot where he had been taken. Who can guard against such things?"

"None of us; but I thought I had taken precautions enough."

"But we must take the greatest," said Stratton excitedly.

"What would you do?"

Stratton made no reply, and seemed so plunged in thought that Brettison respected his silence, and they rode back together, with the old man's face lighting up as he felt more at rest and satisfied with the way in which matters had shaped themselves.

They reached the narrow entrance to the inn in due course, and Stratton led the way up into his chambers, closed the door, and pointed to a seat, but kept on pacing the room himself; thoughtful and silent, as if some doubt as to his course were still lingering in his mind.

At last he threw himself into a chair.

"This is neither the time nor place to talk of your devotion to me, Brettison. Heaven reward you for it! You have brought me back to a new, even if hopeless, life. Let us now talk of the future."

"Yes, yes," said Brettison eagerly, for he had grown uneasy at his friend's words.

"There must never be the slightest risk of Myra and that man meeting again. Here in England it would always be possible."

"No, no; don't say you will send the poor wretch back to the prison."

"No; as I have said before, that is out of the question now, but he must leave England."

"Yes; but how?"

"You must help me again, Brettison."

"Of course, boy; but how?"

"You are a wanderer; ready to go anywhere to study plant life?"

"Yes."

"Then you must select some place to begin with and settle there for a time—say in Brittany, inland or on the coast. Let that man be with you, and his nurse, and always under your eye."

"Willingly."

"When tired of one place go to another; but he must not be left."

"I'll do it," said Brettison eagerly.

"I knew you would. But listen; I shall share your task. I'll give up everything to guard against that horror. Will you help me?"

"My boy, I tell you, yes; and gladly, too, now that this black shadow is being swept from your life."

"Thank you, Brettison. We will start to-morrow, if possible; if not, as soon as it is."

"Good. He will be no trouble, and it will be like old times again, Malcolm. Bless you, my boy! It gives me life to see you growing firm and like yourself again. Who's that?"

He started as he stood up and clasped Stratton's hand, for there was a sharp double knock at the outer door.

"Guest," said Stratton. "There, our plans are made. They are for ourselves alone I trust Guest, but not yet with this."

He threw open the inner door, and unfastened the outer, which was drawn from his hand, and the man regarding whom they had been planning, looking intent and strange, strode into the room.

"James Barron!"

"Yes; I have business with you, sir," he said, in quite his old tone. "Mr Malcolm Stratton, I believe?"



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

FLASHING BACK TO LIFE.

Brettison leaped from his chair, and Stratton literally staggered back against a glass case so violently that a figure upon it toppled over and fell with a crash, as if emblematic of another downfall of all hope.

For it seemed incredible. Little more than an hour before they had left this man apparently a helpless imbecile, unable to concentrate his mental faculties save upon one point, and only at certain times upon that, at all others hopelessly blank. While now the vacuity had apparently departed, his face looked eager and animated, and the helpless log had turned into a dangerous enemy, whose fresh coming upon the scene completely upset all calculations, and the question staring them in the face was how to act next.

For it was quite plain; so long as the man had gone on in his quiet, regular track, with his nurse in attendance, and his invalid-chair waiting to take him a short distance every morning, his mind had remained blank; but though he had made no sign—though he had apparently not been in any way impressed by Stratton's company—beneath the calm, dreamy surface the old man had been evoked, the thoughts lying dormant had suddenly been awakened; and with the last scene of which he was conscious, before the shot had prostrated body and mind at one blow, once more vividly before his mind, he had risen from his seat during his nurse's absence, and made straight for the chambers, bent upon finishing the task upon which he had set his mind.

As he mounted the stairs, nearly everything was as clear as on the day when he had presented himself. Only one matter was confused, and, strangely enough, that was the point upon which, during his imbecile condition, he had been able to dwell—to wit, his wound. One set of ideas swept away the other, and he could only go back to the moment when he had presented that revolver at Stratton.

And now, as he entered the room and spoke, it was to him the same day and the continuation of his interview with Stratton. It puzzled him a little that he should have had to come through the streets to continue that scene, but not much, for his mind had been gradually opening out from the time he left Queen Charlotte Road, and it was only when he reached Stratton's door that he had gained its full expansion. He was a little surprised, too, at seeing Brettison there. The latter had come in suddenly like one in a dream, but he did not let it trouble him. If Stratton was willing to let a third person share the secret, that was his lookout. Brettison was evidently not connected with the police, and he felt that the power he held made him more than a match for both.

He smiled as he saw the effect his arrival had produced on the occupants of the chambers, and looked sharply from one to the other before turning, and turning the bolt of the inner door into its socket. Then his hand went suspiciously to his pocket and then to his breast. Not finding what he sought, he looked at the table and the floor in search of it.

He shook his head then as if to clear his mind, and turned to Brettison.

"Who are you?" he said sharply. "Friend of his—a friend of the lady? Why have you come? Don't matter. If he doesn't mind, it's nothing to me. Get the old man and the aunt, and my wife too, if you like, for she is my wife, mind. You can't get out of that—my wife, Mrs James Barron. Do you hear, Stratton?—Mrs James Barron."

Stratton uttered a peculiar sound, between a groan and a cry of rage, and he took a step toward the man, who drew himself up threateningly.

"No nonsense," he said, with a fierce snarl.

"No games, or you'll repent it. I'm playing high, and I'll stand no humbug. Look here, old man," he continued, turning to Brettison, "you sit down there, whoever you are. I don't want to hurt you. I warn you, for I may turn rusty. What you've got to do is to take a sensible view of the case, and advise him to do the same. Sit down."

He spoke as fiercely as if it were to an obstinate dog, and Brettison sank back in an easy-chair, looking stunned.

"That's right. Now you, Stratton, you'd better squat down, too. I've come on particular business. I expected you to turn nasty, and I'm quite prepared."

He tapped his breast where he had felt for the revolver, and a look of low cunning crossed his heavy face.

Stratton also sank into a chair—not so much in obedience to the man's words as to gain time and settle upon some plan of action.

"Come, that's sensible," said the man, smiling. "I see we shall come to good terms suitable to all parties. I hate quarrelling, specially when all the good cards are in my hand. It's like being forced to take a cowardly advantage of the other side."

Brettison turned a hopeless look upon Stratton, and the man saw it and said sharply:

"Never mind him. I'll tell you, as you were not here. I propose a handsome sum down. Hallo! he has pocketed those notes that were on the table. But it doesn't matter, they're easily brought out. A handsome sum down, and a regular quarterly payment. He has only to agree to that, and James Barron goes about in the dark and he never sees him. It'll be just as if James Barron was shot and drowned, as the papers said, in an attempt to escape off The Foreland one dark night about a year ago. Ugh! it was rough work," he added, with a shudder, "and I deserve a little extra for leaving the lady alone for so long. Now, then, isn't that a fair offer?"

Brettison's lips moved as he sat there perfectly prostrated, wishing that in his zeal he had not interfered; for had he not, the man before them would have been dead and powerless to work all this evil—unless discovery had made him a more deadly enemy still.

"I say, isn't that a fair offer?" he repeated. "Silence gives consent. There we are, then. Come, Stratton. They must be ready to start for the church by this time, so look alive and let's get the business done. Just a few strokes of the pen, the handing over of some filthy lucre in the shape of notes—Bank of England, mind," he said with a peculiar laugh, "none of your Russian roubles. By jingo, what notes those were, though. They didn't find 'em out for years. Well?"

He looked from one to the other as they sat watching him in helpless dismay.

"Come; don't fool. You are keeping the lady waiting, and old Jerrold is a regular Tartar, I can tell you. He will not stand any nonsense. I know him of old. Come, what is it to be?"

He looked fixedly at Stratton, as if urging him to speak, but no words came.

"I say, what is it to be?" cried the man fiercely. "No shilly-shally! Don't put me out, or I shall be more nasty than you like. There, there, don't let's quarrel, gentlemen," he cried, changing his tone. "We're all men of the world, and we've got to deal with an ugly difficulty. Let's settle it sensibly. I'm sorry for you, Stratton. It's disappointing for you to have a dead man come to life and claim his wife just as you are going to take the pretty widow to the church; but these accidents will occur, and when they do let's repair damages the best way we can. Well; why don't you speak; don't let me do all the talking."

Stratton drew a deep breath.

"Oh, it's of no use to sigh over it, sir, not a bit. Nothing to sigh for. Come, hang it all, Myra Barron's worth a few hundreds down, and a little income for her lawful lord. I don't want her, but I can't afford to sell her too cheaply—hang the thing!"

He gave his head an uneasy jerk, and his hand played about his neck and the back of his right ear for a few moments, as if something troubled him. But it passed off directly, and he looked from one to the other again as he took a chair, turned it, and supported himself by propping himself with the back.

"Now then: the parson's waiting, and the carriages and the people. Drink my health after its all over, and think to yourself I've behaved like a trump. Write out a cheque, and send the old man here to cash it, only look here, old fellow, no games, no tricks. You'll play fair—or I shall make it pretty unpleasant for all concerned, I can tell you. All right, you'll be square. You can't afford to play tricks. Now, then, we are agreed, eh? That's right. Better than having a furious row about nothing. What do you say?"

"I was about to speak to my friend, sir," said Stratton quietly. Then turning to Brettison—"Now what do you think; we must completely alter our plans."

"Yes," said Brettison, with a sigh.

"Make your plans, gentlemen, when you've settled with me," said the man sternly, and he jerked one hand up to his neck again, and withdrew it with a gesture of annoyance. "Come, Stratton, it's only a few lines written with a pen, and you win all you want. Where do you keep your cheque-book? In your table-drawer."

"There is only one way out of the difficulty, Brettison," said Stratton with a sigh.

"Only one," said the old man sadly.

"Bravo, that's common-sense," cried the man. "Sound wisdom. I told you so. Out with that cheque-book at once."

"I'm afraid, sir," said Stratton sternly, "that we are at cross purposes."

"What do you mean?"

"That no money would ever buy your silence, even if I were disposed to play the part of scoundrel. You will get no hush money from me."

"What?"

"There is only one way out of this difficulty."

"Oh, indeed!" said the man sarcastically; "and that is—"

"To hand you over to the police."

"What?"

"You heard my words, sir! I need not repeat them. The prison is the only place for such as you, where the power of doing mischief is beyond you. Brettison, go down and fetch a policeman—two—at once."

"Let him stir, and I'll send a bullet through his skull," cried the man fiercely, as his hand was thrust behind him beneath his coat.

"Go at once, Brettison, I'll take care he does not harm you."

"Don't listen to him, you, sir," cried the scoundrel. "I warn you; you stir from that chair and you're a dead man!"

"My dear Stratton," said Brettison, rising from his sea.

"Go at once! Never mind his threats," said Stratton fiercely.

"All right, I've warned you," said the man, drawing back his lips from his teeth like some wild animal about to bite, and, stepping quickly to the door, he stood near it with his hand behind him still, as if about to draw a revolver from his hip pocket.

Brettison did not stir.

"He has a pistol there," he whispered.

"Of course. Suppose I was coming on a job like this, to make my gentleman there disgorge, and not have a mate to back me? Now, then, both of you; it's of no use to get into a passion. You threaten police. I checkmate you with the little tool I have here—my reserve force. There, you had better take it quietly, Stratton. What are a few hundreds to you? I give up the girl and her fortune; what more do you want? As for myself, I only wish for enough to live comfortably and in peace without troubling anybody. There, let's talk again like men of the world. You put my back up when you begin talking all that nonsense about the police. Be sensible, Mr Stratton. I've had one dose of over yonder that was not pleasant. I don't want to get on trial for shooting you—if caught."

He said the last words with a forced laugh, and took a step or two forward in a jaunty fashion, in wonderful contrast with his manner an hour or so before.

"Now, then, Mr Stratton, we'll forget all that, please. Sit down, as I said before, and write that cheque."

Stratton stood motionless in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed upon his visitor; and his strength of mind and determination seemed to grow rapidly. The old nervous horror was gone, and, quite equal to his task, he never for a moment removed his eyes from his adversary.

"Come, we're wasting time, Mr Stratton. You're wanted yonder. No more shilly-shallying, please; that cheque."

"Fetch the police, Brettison," said Stratton sternly; and, in obedience to the order, Brettison took a step forward, while the savage aspect came again into the ex-convict's countenance as he took a step back and covered the door.

"No, you don't," he said, making a gesture as if tugging a pistol from his pocket. "I warn you both, I'm a desperate man. I've been skulking about for over a twelvemonth now, waiting for my chance, and it's come. I'll have that money before I go. Write out that cheque, and get it cashed. Send him, I say again, to get the money; and as for you," he snarled, as he turned his eyes on Brettison, "you play any games, you so much as look at a policeman while you are out, and I warn you he'll suffer for it before you can break in here with any of your cursed hounds."

"It's of no use," said Brettison hoarsely. "Let him say how much he wants, and I'll write a cheque and get the money."

"Hah! That's talking sense," said the man exultantly, but never for a moment relaxing his watchfulness—keeping his eyes upon Stratton, but noting as well Brettison's actions as he took out his pocketbook and drew a blank cheque from one of the folds.

"How much must I draw this for, Mr Cousin?" he said hurriedly.

"Cousin? Who's Mr Cousin? Draw it to James Barron, Esquire. No. What for? Draw it to yourself. Five hundred pounds, now."

Brettison shrugged his shoulders, and moved toward the table.

"Stop!" cried Stratton firmly. "What are you going to do?"

"Give him the money," said Brettison. "You see; we must."

"Fetch the police," repeated Stratton. "I cannot leave you and go myself."

"But the man is armed," said Brettison. "My dear boy, he is desperate."

"I tell you, I will protect you, man. Now, come on."

He took a step forward, and the ex-convict gave a fierce tug to draw his weapon, but stopped, for Brettison seized his friend, and held him back.

"The pistol! Mind!" he cried.

"He has no pistol," roared Stratton, dragging himself free; and, seizing the man by the collar with both hands, he flung him aside. "Now, then, the police at once."

Brettison rushed to the door; but stopped short to gaze in wonder at the group before him.

For as if Stratton's touch had discharged all power from the man he had seized, the fierce look faded from his face, which grew heavy, vacuous, and dull; his legs trembled beneath him, and he lurched forward, and was only saved from falling by a rapid movement on Stratton's part as he swung him into an easy-chair, where his enemy sank back with his head lying over on one shoulder, and his leaden eyes staring heavily at the floor.

The strength which had animated him with the flush of memory which had come back, had passed away, and he was once more the feeble imbecile, slowly raising his hand to his neck, where his fingers wandered about the scar of his wound; while at that moment there was faintly heard on the staircase the cheery humming-over of a scrap from an opera, followed by voices and steps on the stone landing, which halted at the door.

Then came a long, rolling knock, followed by a merry laugh, and Stratton, with a quick movement, raised his hand and whispered:

"Hush!"



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

TO SAVE HER.

The knock was repeated as Brettison and Stratton stood gazing at each other, and then at the miserable imbecile before them in the chair.

At that moment a familiar voice, muffled by the doors, but still silvery and clear, said:

"No use; not at home."

"One more try!" came plainly to their ears, followed by a cleverly executed roulade with the little brass knocker.

Then there was a short pause, and the rattle of the little copper-plate of the letter-box as if something had been dropped in; the babble of merry voices, and descending steps.

Stratton waited till the last sound had died out, when he opened the inner door, and took out two cards.

"Edie and Guest," he said, as he came back and reclosed the door.

Just then a line or two in pencil caught his eye, and he read:

"Come on to my rooms as soon as you can. News.

"P.G."

"Impossible?" muttered Stratton, tossing the cards on to the table. "Now, Brettison, we must act at once."

"Yes. Yes; of course. But, my dear lad, what a pity you found me, and I took you there."

"Too late to talk of that, man," said Stratton, who was full of energy now as he stood frowning. "But have you ever had any scene like this before? I mean, has he returned to his former self?"

"No. He has always been as you saw him this morning. His memory was a blank as to the past. Your coming and the sound of your voice must have revived it all."

"But he made not the faintest sign of recognition."

"No; but we cannot understand the workings of the brain. It was, perhaps, the expiring effort of his reason, for look at him now."

"Expiring!" cried Stratton. "Yes; but how many more flashes of reason may spring up before the light goes right out?"

Brettison gazed at the man in a perplexed way, and bent over and touched him, but there was no sign.

"This settles it," said Stratton at last. "We must act at once."

"Yes. What shall we do?"

"You see, he may have a hundred returns of his memory, and come here again and again threatening and making demands; and if he has reason enough at these times to come here, what is to prevent his going up to the admiral's and making a terrible scene there?"

Brettison nodded.

"Yes," he said hopelessly. "What, indeed! Malcolm, my dear lad. I thought by going into hiding with him, and devoting myself to his care, I was doing you a great service; but I'm getting old and weak, I suppose. I will go by all you say now. I haven't an opinion of my own."

"You did everything you could for me," said Stratton warmly; "and you must go on helping me still."

"I will do anything if you will only trust me."

"Trust you," cried Stratton reproachfully. "There, we must act at once."

"What do you propose doing?"

"Making sure that the man has no further opportunity of doing harm to anyone."

"You will not hand the poor wretch over to the police?"

"No," said Stratton sternly. "I cannot; he is her husband. That blow must not come from me. Either you or I must always be with him abroad."

"Yes, it would be best. Beyond reach of doing harm. Where shall I take him?"

"We will take him across to France first," said Stratton, emphasising the first word. "Let's get him to Saint Malo, and then along the coast to some secluded fishing village, till we can think out a better plan."

"Good; and when will you start?"

"At once—that is, to-night. You could be ready?"

"A man who can draw a little money is always ready," replied Brettison, smiling. "Then I'll take him back with me in a cab, pack up some things, and you will join us in time to catch the train which meets the Southampton boat this evening."

"No. Leave him with me," said Stratton firmly. "Go and get your luggage ready, and call for me with a cab at nine; that will be plenty of time for us to catch the train."

"But—er—leave you—with him?" said Brettison hesitatingly.

Stratton laughed bitterly.

"Don't be afraid, old fellow," he said. "I shall not try to murder him this time."

"My dear Malcolm!" cried the old man reproachfully.

"Well," said Stratton, smiling sadly; "if you did not exactly think that, you had some hazy notions of its being unsafe to leave me with my incubus."

"I—that is—" faltered Brettison weakly.

"There, say no more. He's safe with me. I shall not try to buy her freedom at such a cost. You know that."

"At nine o'clock, then," said Brettison hastily. "You are sure you will not mind being left with him?"

"Mind?" said Stratton with a smile. "Yes, I mind it, but it is our duty, old fellow; and we are going to do that duty to the end."

He wrung his old friend's hand as he saw him off, and then, with a complete change coming over his countenance, he carefully locked the door, placed the inner key in his pocket, and walked steadily across to where his unwelcome visitor lay back in his seat, with his hand still playing furtively about the red scar behind his ear. His eyes stared in a leaden way at the rich carpet; and, as Stratton followed them he shuddered, and the whole scene of that terrible night came back, for the eyes were fixed upon a stain only partly obliterated, and it was there where his head had lain after he received the shot.

A peculiar sense of shrinking ran through Stratton as he saw himself again passing through the struggle and dragging the man into the bath-closet, while once more he had to fight with the feelings of dread of detection, and recalled how he had argued with himself, upon the necessity for hiding away the wretch whose existence had been as a blight on Myra's young life, and who, dead, was the great bar to their future happiness.

"And," he muttered aloud with a bitter sigh, "living—as great a barrier still."

"If he would but die," something seemed to say; "and free her."

But he shook his head directly.

"A vain hope," he said—"a vain hope."

He shuddered and clenched his hands, closing his eyes directly after, for a maddening, horrible feeling of temptation had come over him. They were alone in that solitary room—he with this wretch whose existence in his sane moments was a curse; and who now, as he lay back there feeble, vacuous, existing only in body, not in mind, was a mere blot upon the earth, less worthy of the space he occupied than the vilest animal classed as vermin, and which man crushed out of his way without compunction, without a second thought. What sin would it be to quench the flickering life before him? He must give up all hope of ever clasping Myra to his heart, as he had given it up before, and suffer as he had suffered then; but she would be free. There would never then be any possibility of her coming face to face with this horror. And it would be so easy! One firm grasp of his nervous fingers, and the feeble beating of the miserable wretch's arteries would cease.

And after?

Brettison would return and find that his preparations had been vain— that the man was lying back there in his chair—dead from a fit—the precarious life had come to an end, as might have been foretold after such a seizure—such a stroke. And it would be so easy—so easy.

Stratton opened his eyes and stood gazing down at the vacant face with the lids half-closed now, and remained there as if fascinated, unable to drag himself away till, with one vigorous wrench, he turned and literally rushed into his chamber to prepare for the journey.

He was absent about half an hour before he returned to make a few more preparations there.

He went about the room opening cabinet and case to find money and other necessaries for his journey, busying himself, and taking care not to let his eyes rest for a moment on the figure sitting back in the chair and uneasily moving from time to time.

"He is safe with me—safe with me," Stratton muttered as he went to and from his bedroom. "What thoughts will force themselves into a man's head at times!"

The hours had glided by till it had grown quite dark, and still he was busy for the sake of occupying himself. But at last he could see to do no more, and he went softly to a drawer to get out matches and light his lamp.

The drawer creaked as he pulled it out, and deadened a sound behind him as of one softly rising from a chair, and a piece of stone—a large fossil—grated as it was taken from the mantelpiece; but, rapt in thought, Stratton did not hear it as he opened the box, took out and struck a match, which flashed, and threw a bluish, ghastly light upon a hideous face, with beside it an arm raised to strike.

The next minute there was a crash and a heavy fall.

It was about half an hour later that Brettison ascended the staircase, and as he reached the landing there was a puffing and panting behind him.

"It is you, then, Mr Brettison," cried Mrs Brade joyfully; "I thought it was you as you passed the lodge, and I am glad, sir. We began to think you must be dead and gone. Now do let me come and tidy up your room, sir, and make you a cup of tea."

"No, no," said Brettison. "I am going in here. Mr Stratton and I are leaving town."

"Mr Stratton has gone, sir. Leastwise not at home."

"What!"

"Mr Guest was here a quarter of an hour ago, and said he'd been here once before. He couldn't make no one hear."

"Something has happened then," said Brettison to himself, and a thrill of horror ran through his frame.



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

A PLACE OF REST.

"Well, if ever two strange gentlemen did live in inns it's Mr Stratton and Mr Brettison," said Mrs Brade as she reluctantly went back to her lodge. "Nice state their rooms must be in; and him, once so civil and polite, as awkward and gruff as you please."

She had some cause for complaint, Brettison having dismissed her with a request not to talk quite so much.

In spite of the woman's declaration of Stratton's absence, the old man felt that he must be there; and after knocking twice, each time with his heart sinking more and more with dread, he applied his lips to the letter-box after forcing open the spring flap.

"Stratton, if you are there, for Heaven's sake open at once!" he whispered loudly.

There was a rustling sound directly, the bolt was shot back, and Stratton admitted him, afterward taking a letter from the box, glancing at it, and thrusting it into his pocket.

"That woman said you had gone out," said Brettison eagerly. "I was alarmed. I thought—how is he?"

Stratton pointed to the chair where the man lay as if asleep.

"Why, how haggard you look," said Brettison excitedly. "Has there been anything the matter?"

"Nothing much; only I have had a struggle with a madman who tried to murder me."

"My dear boy!"

"It is a fact," said Stratton. "I found him with that piece of rock in his hand, and about to strike me down."

He pointed to the massive stone lying on the table, and then said, smiling:

"I was just in time to save myself."

"Good Heavens! Was he dangerous for long?"

"For long enough. We had a short struggle, and he went down with a crash. One moment he was tremendously strong; the next helpless as a child, and he has been like that ever since. Our plans must be altered."

"No, not now," said Brettison decisively. "The man has been over-excited to-day. Your presence seems to have roused up feelings that have been asleep. I ought not to have left you alone with him. Come, it is getting late. We have very few minutes to spare."

"Then you mean to go?"

"Yes, I mean to go. You shall see us to the station. I have no fear of him; he will be calm enough with me."

"Very well," said Stratton, "anything to get him away from here. If he keeps on turning violent he must be placed under restraint." Stratton opened the door, placed his travelling bag outside, and came back.

"What does that mean?" said Brettison, pointing to the bag.

"Mine. You do not suppose I shall let you go alone."

"You cannot go now. I have managed him so long, and I can manage him still."

"We shall miss the train," said Stratton quietly; and taking the man's arm he drew it quietly through his, and after pausing to secure the door, walked with him down to the cab, Brettison following with the little valise.

They reached the station within five minutes of the time, and soon after were rattling down to Southampton, Stratton throwing himself back in a corner to draw a deep breath of relief as they left the busy town behind, and taking out his letter, but only to glance at the handwriting, and thrust it back.

Their prisoner sank back to sleep heavily, and he was still in a drowsy state as they went on board, lying down quietly enough in his berth, where they left him and went on deck as soon as they were well out of the dock.

"Safe!" said Stratton exultingly. "Now, Brettison, that man must never see England again."

They reached Jersey in due time, and next morning were in Saint Malo, where they stayed two days, making inquiries which resulted in their taking boat and being landed twenty miles along the coast at a picturesque, old-world fishing village—Saint Garven's—where, lodgings being found, they both drew breath more freely, feeling at ease now— their companion having settled down into a calm, apathetic state, apparently oblivious of all that went on around him.

It was hard to believe that the dull, vacant-looking man was the same being as the one with whom Stratton had had his late terrible encounter; for in spite of the light, indifferent way in which he had treated it to his friend, none knew better than he that he had been within an inch of losing his life. It was hard even to Stratton, and as the days glided by in the peaceful calm of the tiny bay, with its groups of fishermen and women on the soft white sands, or wading into the clear blue water to reach their boats, the surroundings made the place a pleasant oasis in the desert of his life. The rest was sweet and languorous, and he passed his time now strolling out on the dry, warm sands, thinking, now high up on the grassy top of the cliff, where he could look down on people enjoying their seaside life.