It has been already hinted that the young man was a gambler, and it is likely that most of the reasons which made the money seem so welcome to him had their sources at the gaming table. He belonged to one of those clubs which deserve to be numbered among the blessings of modern society—where men do not meet for social intercourse and good-fellowship, or for dining purposes, or for any of the common and amiable reasons which draw men into club-life, but simply and purely to the end that they may win one another's money. It was a joint-stock swindling company to which young Mr. Barter belonged, and within its limits every man proposed to himself to get the better of every other man by such means as lay in his power. A pigeon got in amongst them every now and then, of course—came in well-feathered and went out plucked, but for the main part the rooks pecked hungrily at one another, and made but little of their time and pains. The one solitary advantage of these corporations is that they gather the depredatory birds together, and lead them to prey upon themselves instead of wandering abroad for the defeathering of the innocent and artless who abound even in these days. The well-constituted mind can hardly fail to take pleasure in the contemplation of these resorts, where Greek meets Greek (in the modern French sense as well as the old heroic)—where scoundrel encounters scoundrel, and learns that the pleasure of being cheated is by no means so great as that of cheating.

There were people of widely ranging social position in this curious contingent. One or two men of title, and one or two of the highest social or commercial respectability, lent their names for some inconceivable reason to grace the front page of the neatly-bound little volume of rules which govern, or sometimes fail to govern, the conduct of the corporation. Mr. Barter rubbed shoulders with young men—very young men they were—who would one day have handles to their names, and enjoy the control of considerable estates. He sat at the same table with men whose birth and antecedents, like those of the immortal Jeames, were shrouded in a mystery. He met men of his own position, who like himself were desperately glad of being numbered in the same club society with men eminent on the turf, or familiar in the gilded saloons of the great. He liked to think of those gilded saloons; it might be interesting to know what he thought they resembled—most probably a somewhat old-fashioned earthly paradise of ormolu. He bragged indefatigably of his club and the people whom he met there. He dated all his private correspondence from it, and spent hundreds of daylight hours above the ivories and the pasteboard.

At the time of that foolish and weak-willed Bommaney's disaster there were two or three I.O.U.'s for sums much more considerable than he could afford to part with in the hands of his fellow-members. Law is a necessity to human society. Even a band of brigands can't hang together without it. Debt, outside the club, was by no means a thing to be harshly spoken of, but debt to a fellow-member was a literal millstone round a man's neck, and would sink him out of sight in no time.

The elder Barter had gone over to the majority, despatched by that street accident, and if the old man had known nothing of the young man's courses, he had had it in his power to make him well-to-do. But he had paid his debts once at least, and had more than once had occasion to grieve over the boy's handling of the firm's money, and so had made his will entirely in his wife's favour, leaving his son dependent upon her good graces. The mother was disposed to be a little sterner than the father had been. Perhaps if young Barter had dreaded her less poor Bommaney's fallen notes might have been returned to him.

But, to get on with the story, the young man's chief creditor at the club was one Steinberg, a gentleman whose time appeared to be absolutely at his own disposal, though he was known by some of his fellow-members to have an address in Hatton Garden, and to be more or less of a diamond merchant there. He often carried about with him, in a pocket-book, or in neat little packages of grocer's gay paper, borne in the waistcoat-pocket, a collection of gems of considerable value, and would show them to his intimates with the insouciance of a man who was accustomed to handling things of price. He never was without money, made little journeys at times, which rarely took him away from town for more than a day or two, and was, almost always, wholly unoccupied except for the cards.

Now young Barter had a prodigious idea of this gentleman's astuteness. He had no particular belief in his honesty, and he believed him, not altogether unreasonably as the sequel proved, to be initiated into most of the mysteries of modern rascality. This was merely a general notion, based upon statements made by Steinberg himself, and supported by the opinion of his intimates. Nobody spoke ill of Steinberg; it was only understood that there was no move upon the board with which he was not familiar. Young Barter, meeting him one evening at the club, whilst Bommaney's disappearance was still a fresh topic of town conversation, spoke to him about it, with an assurance clearly begotten of practice.

'Now, look here, Steinberg,' he said, in his open and engaging way. 'Suppose you'd nobbled those notes, what should you do with 'em?'

Perhaps Mr. Steinberg resented the form of this inquiry. But be that as it may, he responded with some tartness,

'Suppose you'd nobbled them?'

At this chance thrust young Barter turned curiously red and white, and had some ado to recover that open smile of his.

'Hang it,' he said, 'you can't suppose I meant it that way. But,' with a half-hysteric courage, 'suppose you had—suppose I had—suppose anybody had—what would he do? You, I, anybody?'

Mr. Steinberg sipped at his lemon squash—he drank that inspiring liquid all the year round, and nothing else until cards for the day were over—and puffed at his cigar, and looking young Barter full in the face, nodded and smiled with an odd mingling of meaning and humour.

'Put him on to me,' he said, with perfect affability. 'I'll put him up to it.'

'Rather dangerous, wouldn't it be?' said Barter, showing his white teeth in a somewhat forced and ghastly manner.

'Everything's dangerous for an ass,' said Steinberg.

'I shouldn't have thought,' laughed Barter, 'that that was your line.'

He spoke as jestingly as he could, but he knew that his laugh was forced, and that the voice in which he spoke was unlike his voice of every day, and he wished, with the whole of his quaking heart, that he had left the theme alone.

'Well, no,' said Steinberg, 'I suppose you wouldn't.' He sipped his liquor through a straw, and blew half a dozen rings of smoke from his lips with practised dexterity, and kept a glittering German-Jewish eye on Barter. Perhaps he meant something by the glance, perhaps he meant nothing. He was a rather Machiavelian and sinister-looking personage, was Mr. Steinberg, and there was something even in the calm expression of those perfectly-formed rings of smoke and in the very way in which, he sipped his liquor, and most of all in the observant glitter of his eye, which spoke of a penetration and shrewdness very far out of the common. More and more young Barter wished that he had not broached this theme with Steinberg.

He could not help it for his soul. He could feel that his colour was coming and going with a dreadful fluttering alternation. He quailed before the Israelitish eye so shrewdly cocked at him, and when in a very spasm of despair he tried to meet it, he was so abjectly quelled by it that he felt his face a proclamation of his secret.

Steinberg went on sipping and smoking, and said nothing; but when the young scoundrel, his companion, had somewhat recovered himself and dared again to look at him, there was the same shrewd and wary glint in his eyes.

Young Barter had been unhappy enough before this, but after it the money became a burden hateful and horrible. He met Steinberg often, and forced himself to be noisy in his company. In his dread of seeming low-spirited, or ill at ease, he said things about his dead father which he would have left unsaid, had he consulted the little good that was left in him; and Steinberg seemed to watch him very closely.

Young Barter put off his creditor with promises. He would have lots of money by and by. That seemed credible enough in the position of affairs, and Steinberg waited. In a while, however, he became exigent, and declined any longer to be satisfied with promises. One night the unhappy rascal, playing all the more because of his troubles, all the more wildly, and certainly all the worse, fell back upon his LO.U.'s. Steinberg followed him from the club. It was late, and the streets were very quiet.

'This won't do, you know, Barter,' said Steinberg, tapping him on the shoulder as they walked side by side.

'Begad it won't,' said young Barter, doing his best to make light of it. 'They've been cutting into me pretty freely this past week or two.'

'Well,' said Steinberg, puffing at his eternal cigar, and looking askant at Barter under the light of a street-lamp which they happened to be nearing at the moment, 'what you've got to do, you know, is to find the man who knows Mr. Bommaney.'

The commotion which assailed Barter at this speech was like an inward earthquake.

'What—what do you mean?' he panted.

'That's what you've got to do,' said Steinberg tranquilly.

'Do you mean to insinuate——' Barter began to bluster; but the older, cooler, and more accomplished scoundrel stopped him contemptuously.

'You know where they are,' he said 'Why don't you get at 'em?'



VI

About noon on the following day Mr. Steinberg, seated in a small inner chamber in Hatton Garden, leisurely answering his sole business correspondent of that morning, was in no way surprised when the boy he employed to open the door and receive visitors brought in a card bearing the name of 'Mr. John Barter, jun.'

'Show him in,' said Mr. Steinberg; and young Mr. Barter, hearing this in the outer room, came in with a pale-faced and excited alacrity. The diamond merchant dismissed the boy with a word.

'Well,' he said, turning the tip of his cigar upwards by a protrusion of the under lip, 'what is it?'

'About that little matter,' said young Barter nervously, 'we were talking of last night.'

'The little matter we were talking of last night?' asked Steinberg idly, looking at him with half-shut eyes. 'That hundred you owe me?'

'Well, perhaps that afterwards,' said Barter with a frightened breathless laugh in his voice. 'But about the other matter first.'

'The other matter?' Steinberg asked, in a lazier manner than before. 'What other matter?' He took up his pen, dipped it in the inkstand before him, and tracing a line or two of his correspondent's communication with it, turned to his own unfinished letter.

Young Barter was already sufficiently agitated, and this curious reception made him more embarrassed than ever.

'About that affair of Bommaney's,' he said, feeling as if a rapid wheel had been somehow started in his brain.

'Ah!' said Steinberg, writing rapidly, and speaking in a voice which seemed to indicate that he neither understood nor cared to understand, 'that affair of Bommaney's, eh?'

This reception was nothing less than dreadful to the young criminal. He had reckoned on having his way made easy for him. Steinberg had actually offered to become his accomplice in crime, and had lured him to disclosure. He could have wished that the floor would open and let him through. He saw that he had already exposed his hand, and began to imagine all manner of consequences resulting from the exposure. Not one of the consequences he foresaw promised to be of a nature agreeable to himself, and for the moment the hatred with which Steinberg inspired him was of so mad a nature that there was nothing he would not have done to him if he had had the courage and the power.

Steinberg wrote on, shaking his fist in what seemed to be an unusual alert, and even threatening, manner. There was a great deal of unnecessary motion in Steinberg's hand, and Barter, looking at its swift and resolute movements, got a blind sort of impression of strength out of it, and nullified the feeling with which it inspired him. The letter written, enveloped, addressed, and stamped, Steinberg tossed it on one side, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turned an uninterested look once more upon his visitor.

'That affair of Bommaney's,' he said. 'What was that?'

Mr. Barter thought this inquiry altogether too barefaced, and responded, with a hectic flush of courage,

'Come, Steinberg, don't play the fool with a fellow. You know jolly well what it was last night.'

Mr. Steinberg's keen and impassive face underwent no change.

'What did I know last night?' he asked.

'You know,' Barter began angrily; and then the hectic flush of courage died, and a dreadful chill of fear succeeded it. What had he known? He had only guessed—till now. But now, young Mr. Barter felt, to employ the expressive ideas of his set, that he had given himself away. Steinberg capped the question in his mind. What did I know last night?

'You haven't come to waste your time or mine, I suppose? You've come to say something. Why not say it?'

His guest, sitting in a terrible confusion, and feeling himself altogether betrayed and lost, Steinberg marched to the door, and addressing the boy in the outer room, bade him carry the letter to the post and return no more that day. Then, having locked the outer door, he returned and resumed his seat.

'Now, what is it?' he asked.

Barter, recognising the fact that his own purpose was already exposed, made a desperate dash.

'About those notes old Bommaney was supposed to have run away with. I think—I think, mind you, that if there was any way of using them, I could lay my hands upon them.'

'I remember,' said Steinberg, 'you said something of the kind last night. I shouldn't advise you to touch 'em. It's a dangerous game. They're very worthless, and the game isn't worth the candle.'

'Worthless?' echoed Barter. 'They're worth eight thousand pounds.'

'They're worth eight thousand pounds,' responded Steinberg, 'to the man they belong to. They're not worth eight hundred to anybody else.'

Young Mr. Barter's whole soul seemed to rise in protest against this abominable fallacy. When he had screwed up his courage so far as to induce himself to accept this older and more experienced scoundrel's partnership, he had conceived the possibility of the partner crying out for halves. But that he should want so enormous a share of the spoil was quite intolerable.

'Not worth eight hundred?' He could only gasp the questioning protest.

'If I had 'em to sell,' Steinberg answered calmly, flicking the waste from his cigar by a movement of his little finger, 'I should think eight hundred an uncommon good price for 'em. Later on and sold at second hand they might fetch a thousand. Later on and sold at third hand they might fetch fifteen hundred. One can hardly tell. Of course the value will go on mounting with distance from the original source of danger and with the lapse of time.'

He said all this very calmly and reflectively, and young Barter, collecting his whirling wits as well as he could, tried a stroke of diplomacy, which, as he fondly hoped, would answer a double purpose.

'She'll never let them go for that, or for anything like it.'

'She won't, won't she?' asked Steinberg, smiling brightly, as if the statement amused him. 'Then she'll never let 'em go at all, my friend. How did you come to find she had 'em?'

'I made a little bit of a discovery,' Barter answered.

'Ah! That was it, was it,' said the elder rascal, falling back into his utter want of interest. 'You'll let me have that hundred.'

'I will in a day or two,' answered Barter, arreanti.

'Well, as for a day or two,' returned Steinberg, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and looking very careless and composed, 'I'm really very much afraid I can't let you have it. It's been outstanding a goodish time, and to tell you the truth, old man, I want it very badly. If you'll let me have it to-night I shall be obliged to you. I've been hit rather hard this last day or two. Shall we make that a bargain? To-night?'

'I—I'm afraid,' Barter stammered, 'it's no use talking about to-night.'

'Well,' said Steinberg, with a pitiless uninterested suavity, 'you know the rules.'

He drew a little book from his pocket, and tossed it over the table to his guest.

'You'll find it on page five. Rule fourteen. It's ticked in red ink, if you'll take the trouble to look at it.'

Barter opened the book and consulted its pages blindly for a while, and then the mist which seemed to obstruct brain and eyesight clearing away, he read the pages indicated. It set forth the principle that all moneys lost at games of skill or chance, or upon bets made within the limits of the club, were payable within four-and-twenty hours. It set forth further that debts not paid within that time might be brought under the notice of the Committee, who were empowered to act under Rule nine. Rule nine ordained the public posting of the defaulter's name, his suspension in default of payment, and, in case of continued obduracy or poverty, his expulsion.

'First and last, Steinberg,' said the wretched criminal, who began to find the way of the transgressor unreasonably hard and thorny, 'first and last, you've had a pretty tidy handful of money out of me.'

'Well, yes,' said Steinberg tangibly. 'Pretty fair.'

His very admission of this fact made Barter's case seem hopeless to himself. If he had brow-beaten, or blustered, if he had shown anger or impatience, or had been querulous, there might have seemed to exist some slenderest chance for him. But Steinberg was so unmoved that he seemed immovable.

'You'd better persuade her,' he said, with a scarcely perceptible grin. Looking at Barter, and observing that he sat with his eyes still bent upon the book of rules, and head dejected, he allowed the grin to broaden. Barter, suddenly looking up at him, saw him smiling like a gargoyle, with a look of infinitely relishing cruelty and cunning.

'You won't find her hard to persuade, I'm sure,' said Steinberg. 'Come, now, I'll talk business to you. I'll take ten of 'em for it, and cry quits, and I wouldn't do that for anybody but a friend.'

The frank admission of the value of his own friendship was plainly legible in that gargoyle smile, and the unhappy Barter read it clearly.

'I'll—I'll see what I can do with her,' he said, with a face and voice of pure misery.

'Do, my boy,' said Steinberg, rising, and swinging the key of his chambers upon his forefinger, 'see what you can do with her. I shan't send any notification to the Committee before nine o'clock, old chap. You can trust me for that. You go off at once, old fellow, and see what you can do for her.'

The fraudulent possessor of the notes felt their burthen more than ever insupportable. He rose, and went his way with remorse and rage and the bitterness of baffled stratagem in his heart. His wounded mind soared to so lofty a height of egotism in its struggles that he positively found the impudence to curse Bom-maney for having dropped the notes in his office. Then he cursed himself for having taken them, and cursed Steinberg for robbing him, and so moved off in a condition quite pitiable to one who could find the understanding and the heart to pity him.

Steinberg stopped behind, and smoked smilingly. He was the successful scoundrel, and found the transaction as sweet as the young Barter found it bitter.

'I don't think hell have much trouble with her,' he said to himself; and he enjoyed that little jest so much that he caught himself smiling at it a hundred times in the course of the afternoon and evening.



VII

Old Brown, who was one of the sunniest-natured of men, went gloomy when the news of his old friend's dreadful fall came to his ears. It does him no more than justice to say that he mourned Bommaney senior infinitely more than the money. He liked to trust people, and had all his life long been eager to find excuses for defaulters. He could find no excuse here. The theft was barefaced, insolent, dastardly. He puzzled over it, and grew more cynical and bitter in his thoughts of the world at large than he could have imagined himself. But then, when Bommaney junior came home, and insisted on the restoration of the missing eight thousand from his own small fortune, old Brown brightened up again. There was such a thing as honesty in the world, after all. The restoration warmed his heart anew. At first he fought against it, and would have none of it—the mere candid and honest offer of it was enough for him; but Philip was more resolute than himself, and the stronger man won. Phil should never have cause to repent his goodness, the old fellow declared to himself a thousand times. He should reap the proper reward of his own honour. Brown admired and loved Phil out of bounds for this little bit of natural honesty and justice. He thought there had never been a finer fellow in the world, and his heart warmed to him as if he had been a son of his own. As for that rascal of a father—and when he got so far in his thoughts he fumed so with wrath that he dared go no farther, and was compelled, for the sake of his own peace, to banish the friend of his schooldays from his mind a thousand times a week.

It was about a year later than the disgrace of the house of Bommaney that old Brown, to his daughter's perplexity and grief, began to show signs of trouble almost as marked as those he had displayed after his old friend's defection. The old boy's newspaper no longer interested him of a morning. He began to be lax about that morning ride which he had once regarded as being absolutely necessary to the preservation of health in London. He had been impassioned with the theatre, and had become a diligent attendant at first-night performances. Even these ceased to have any joy for him, and he neglected, in fine, all his old sources of amusement He went about sorrowful and grumpy, expressing the dolefullest opinions about everything. There was going to be war, stocks were going down, trade was crumbling, there was no virtue in man.

Patty tried her best to coax him from these pessimistic moods, but the old boy was not to be persuaded. On fine evenings, when there was nothing better to be done, he had loved greatly, between the quiet old-fashioned tea and the quiet old-fashioned supper, to dress for out of doors, and with Patty on his arm to wander into Regent's Park, and there inhale the best imitation of country atmosphere that London could afford. He dropped this amiable and affectionate habit, and took to rambling out alone, coming home late, and haggard, and not infrequently, at such times, staring at his daughter with an aspect so sorrowing and wretched that she knew not what to make of him.

The girl, watching him with a constantly increasing solicitude, could at last endure this condition of affairs no longer. He came home one night, leaving neither his stick nor hat in the outer hall, and sat down in the dining-room, muffled and great-coated, the picture of dejection. Patty, kneeling before him, removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and began to unbutton his overcoat.

'Papa!' she cried suddenly, 'what is the matter with you? Why are you so changed?'

He breathed a great sigh, and laid his hand upon her head. Then he turned his face away from her—to hide his eyes, she fancied.

'You are in trouble,' she went on. 'It is not kind to keep it from me. Is it anything that I have done, or anything I could do.'

'No, no, my darling,' he said softly, laying his hand upon her head again.

'Is it money, dear?'

'No, no. It isn't money. Don't talk about it, my dear. Don't talk about it.'

'Now, papa, you make me think it very grave indeed.'

'There,' he said, rising, 'you shan't see any more of it, and we'll say no more about it Well be gay and bright again, and well hope that things will turn out for the best.'

The attempt to be gay and bright again resulted in most mournful failure, and the girl grew frightened. She had nursed her fears for many days, and had hidden them.

'Papa!' she said, trembling ever so little, 'you must let me know what it is. Let us bear it together, dear. Whatever it may be it can't matter very much if it leaves us two together—and——'

'Ah! 'said old Brown, looking at her with a pitying smile.

'Is it anything——?' She stopped short, and really found no courage to complete the question.

'My darling,' he answered, folding her in his arms, and staring sadly over her shoulder. She felt the hands that embraced her quiver, and she knew he had understood her half-expressed query. This frightened her so much that it gave her boldness.

'There is something the matter with Phil,' she said, pushing the old man away, and holding him at arm's length. 'Tell me what it is.'

'My dear,' he answered, 'you shouldn't leap at conclusions in that way.' But the disclaimer was altogether too feeble to deceive her. Philip was the mysterious cause of her father's trouble. Her wandering, pained eyes, her parted lips, the terror and inquiry in her face, frightened the old man. 'No, no,' he cried, 'you must not think it too bad. I'm not sure of anything. I don't suppose it's at all a matter of consequence. I daresay he's an old fool. I hope I am.'

These hints and innuendoes were about the last thing in the world to satisfy a girl who had been made anxious about her lover.

'Tell me,' she commanded. 'I have a right to know. What has happened?' She was no more inclined to be jealous than girls who are in love commonly are. She had, indeed, a native fund of confidence, and her trust in Phil's loyalty had been of the unquestioning sort, quite profound and settled. Yet for a moment there rose before her mental vision the dim picture of some possible rival, and at the mere hint of this she grew ashamed, and flamed into indignation against herself.

'Tell me,' she said; 'I insist on knowing.'

'Well, my dear,' said the old man miserably and reluctantly, I've been told that his father hastened his own ruin with dice and cards.' It was the first time he had mentioned Bommaney senior in his daughter's hearing for a year. She looked at him with eyes still intent, but somehow milder and less alarmed. 'Phil,' the old boy continued, 'I'm afraid that Phil is travelling in his father's steps.'

'Phil a gambler!' she said, with an honest scorn of conviction. 'I know better. What makes you think it?'

'There are a lot of beastly clubs at the West End,' said the old man, beginning to struggle with his overcoat, partly because he wished to avoid the girl's look, and partly because the motion was a relief to him. 'Gambling-places. Places where men meet for no other earthly purpose than to cheat one another. I'm as fond of a rubber at whist as anybody; but no honest man would put his head into one of those holes of infamy if he knew its character.'

'Are you speaking of Phil, papa?' she asked. Her voice was low and tremulous, and there was almost a note of threatening in it. The gentlest creature will fight for her own—a fact for which some of us have reason to be grateful.

'Yes, my dear,' her father answered with a kind of sullen sadness; 'I'm talking about Phil. He's a member of the vilest crowd of the whole lot, and he's there night after night.' He dashed his overcoat into an arm-chair with despairing anger, and went marching up and down the room. 'I saw him one night by accident as he was going in. I knew the place. You might have knocked me down with a feather. I've watched him there night after night. Don't tell me I hadn't the right to watch him. I had the right My little girl shan't marry a gambler. I won't have my fortune wasted by a gambler, and my child's heart broken. I took a room,' he pursued wrathfully, 'opposite the place. I've sat there in the dark with the window open, and caught the d—— worst cold I ever had in my life watching for him. I've seen him go in again and again. He's a lost man, I tell you,' he cried in answer to his daughter's look and gesture; 'the man who has that vice in his blood is lost!'

He was storming loudly, for he was one of those in whom emotion must have expression in noise, but a sudden loud peal at the bell cut short his harangue, and he and Patty stood in silence to know who it might be who called so late. As it happened, it was no other than the lost man himself. He was shown in according to wont and usage without previous announcement, and entered gay and smiling, elate and tender.

As he looked from one to the other the expression of his face changed. He moved quickly towards Patty, and took her hands in his.

'There's something the matter,' he said gently. 'You're in trouble!'

The old boy, glaring at him, growled, 'We are,' and snatching up his overcoat, threw it over his arm, and slipped his hat upon his head with a gesture which Philip took for one of defiance. As a matter of fact it expressed no more than wrathful grief, but then gesture and expression are hard to read unless you have the key to them.

'We'd better have it out, Phil,' said the old man, 'here and now. You've turned gambler, and I've found you out.'

'No,' Phil answered, with an odd smile; 'I haven't turned gambler, I assure you. You've heard that I've joined the Pigeon Trap? That's what they call it in the City. I prefer to call it the Hawks' Roost. There are too few pigeons go there to be plucked to justify the other title, and I give you my word of honour, Mr. Brown, that I'm not one of them.'

The young man's air was candid and amused. There was an underlying gravity beneath the smile, and for people who had believed in him as devoutly as his two listeners it was hard to disbelieve him now.

'You've gone into the infernal hole,' said old Brown, more than half abandoning suspicion, and yet inclined to leave it growlingly, as a dog might surrender a bone he conceived himself to have a right to. 'What do you want there?'

'I want to do a very important stroke of business there, sir,' Philip answered. The smile quite disappeared from his eyes at this moment, and he looked very grimly resolute. 'I will tell you this much,' he added, 'because you have a right to know it. I am in pursuit of a brace of scoundrels there. I think I've salted the tail of one of 'em already. I believe with all my heart, sir, that I'm going to clear my father's character, and I would go into worse places than the Pigeon Trap if I saw my way to doing that.'

Patty of course was clinging to him without disguise by this time, anxious only to atone for having given an ear to any word against him, even for a moment. Phil put his arm about her waist and kissed her. He had never to his knowledge performed this act in the presence of a third person until now, but he got through it without embarrassment.

'You think you can clear your father's character?' asked his sweetheart's father. There was a tinge of scepticism in his voice, though he tried to hide it.

'Yes, sir,' said Phil, his head thrown back a little, and his eyes gleaming. Nobody had ever looked so handsome to Patty's fancy as he did at that moment 'I know already that there was no real stain upon his honour, and I'm surprised myself for thinking that there ever could have been, bad as things looked. My father never took wrongful possession of your money. He was robbed of it, and I think I can lay my hand upon the thief.'

There was a prodigious excitement at this declaration, and the young man was overwhelmed with questions. He could name no names, of course, and give no clue, but he sketched the story. He contented himself by describing young Barter as Thief Number One, and he was satisfied to describe Steinberg as Probable Thief Number Two. He had learned, it appeared, that Thief Number One had succeeded on his father's death to a carefully limited partnership in a business affair in the city. The guiding spirit in the concerns of Thief Number One had been his father's managing clerk. The income of Thief Number One was strictly limited, and his actual control over the affairs of the firm was non-existent. Notwithstanding these facts, the young man was guilty of countless extravagances, and was a reckless gambler. Within the last twelve months he could hardly have paid away at the club less than a thousand pounds. He had been extremely hard up before the loss of the money, and it was in his offices that the roll of banknotes had been lost. As for Probable Thief Number Two, he played rook to Number One's pigeon. He had a visible hold upon him; Number One trembled before him, and did what he was bidden to do. Number Two had plenty of money, and as shady a reputation as any man in London who was not among the known criminal classes. Phil's belief was that Number Two was disposing of the notes for Number One, and that this simple fact accounted for his power over him.

'And I'm going to follow their track,' said Phil, tapping the clenched knuckles of his right hand upon the open palm of his left with a quiet vehemence, 'until I find out everything, if I follow it until I am gray.'



VIII

It would appear that a spider may be among the most daring, skilful, and predatory of his species, that he may be gifted with the most constant watchfulness and appetite, and yet, whether by the intrusion of an accidental walking-stick or broom (which would assuredly seem providential to the fly), or by stress of weather, or the desperate activity of a victim, may have his best laid schemes brought to nought, and his most mathematically laid web rent to tatters. In the entomological world a solitary interview between fly and spider is usually fatal to the one, and satisfactory to the other. But we of the higher developments, who model ourselves, or are modelled, upon the lines of myriads of remote ancestors, and far-away relatives, have refined upon their primitive proceedings, and have made their simple activities complex by development.

In an absolutely primitive condition the Steinberg spider would have drained the Barter fly at a single orgie, and would have left him to wither on the lines. As things were, he came back to him with a constant gusto of appetite, tasting him on Monday, despatching him to buzz among his fellows until Saturday, and then tasting him again, the Barter fly seeming for a while—for quite a considerable time in fact—lusty and active and able-bodied, and looking as though this kind of thing might go on for ever without much damage to him, and the spider himself giving no sign of overtaxed digestive powers.

Not to run this striking and original simile out of breath, the Barter fly endured for a round twelve months, without showing signs of anaemia so pronounced as to look dangerous to his constitution. At the end of that time, however, all the surplus blood had been drawn from his body, and the spider had grown so keen by the habit of constant recurrence to him that any prolonged connection between them began to look desperate. In plain English, the eight thousand pounds which had once so lightly passed from the hands of Mr. Brown to the hands of Mr. Bommaney had now passed, with just as little profit to the man who parted with them, from the hands of young Barter to the hands of Steinberg.

It was just about the time when this lingering but inevitable transaction was completed that chance led young Barter to his encounter with the son of the man whose belongings he had appropriated. Everybody knows how apt newly-made acquaintances sometimes are to renew themselves again and again. You meet a man whom you have never seen before, see him just long enough to take a passing interest in him, and to know generally who and what he is, and you run against him on the morrow, and again on the morrow, and so on, until in a week he has grown as familiar to your thoughts as any other mere acquaintance of whose identity you may have been aware for years. This happened in the case of Philip Bommaney and younger Mr. Barter. They entered the Inn together, or left it together, or Philip ran upstairs or downstairs as Barter was in the very act of leaving or entering his chambers. Putting together a certain family resemblance which he thought he noticed, the identity of a rather uncommon name, and the curious frequency of these chance encounters, Barter found it hard to avoid the belief that his new-made acquaintance had a rather careful eye upon him. His nerve was a good deal shaken, and he was by no means the man he had been. To the unobservant stranger the frank gaiety of his laugh was as spontaneous as ever, but then that had never had much to do with Barter's inward sensations. Perhaps he got the laugh in some remote fashion from an ancestor who really ought to have had it, and who may have been as dull and as little laughter-loving to look at as his successor was within. Philip rather took to the fellow at first sight, and was slow to suspect him, even when James Hornett had told his story. But the young Barter was not satisfied, as he should have been, with playing the part of one insect at a time. It was unwholesome enough, one might have thought, for him to play fly to Steinberg's spider, and yet he must needs take to playing moth to Philip Bommaney's candle, a light of danger to him, as he recognised almost from the first He was always polite to Phil, and always stopped him for a moment's conversation at their chance encounters. Phil, having been inspired at least with a suspicion that this engaging young man was responsible for the actual disgrace which had fallen upon Bommaney senior, always bent a grave scrutiny upon him. Barter sometimes wondered whether his new-found acquaintance's way of looking at him were habitual or particular, but he could never solve that problem. To Barter's nerves the glance of dispassionate analysis always seemed to ask—Did you steal those notes? and whether his mind and nerves were at accord or no made but little difference to him. His mind rejected the idea of suspicion, but his nerves accepted it with trembling. He knew perfectly well that he could not endure the certainty of Phil Bommaney's knowledge, but none the less he found the uncertainty tantalising and painful. This is perhaps one of the hardest things an undetected criminal has to endure, that he lives in a world of suspicion of his own making, where every imagination is real and as dreadful as the fact. In his own mind young Barter credited himself with courage when he made overtures for Philip's companionship. In reality he made the overtures because he was a coward, and a braver scoundrel would have disdained them.

Philip felt himself impelled to watch this young man, and was not altogether displeased that he found the opportunity thrust upon him. Almost facing the gateway of the old Inn there is an old-fashioned restaurant, deserted from its hour of opening until noon, and from then crowded inconveniently till two o'clock, deserted again till five, and once more inconveniently crowded till seven. Philip, having the power to choose his own time for meals, and frequenting this old house, sometimes met Barter in the act of coming away from it with the dregs of the stream of the late lunchers or diners. He fell into the habit of going a little earlier, and Barter would signal him to the table at which he sat, if by rare chance there happened to be a vacant seat at it. The young rascal's tendency lay towards monologue, and since it was his cue to be open-hearted, and very unsuspicious of being suspected, he talked with much freedom of himself, his pursuits, and his affairs. The question which Barter's nerves were always finding in Philip's eyes was, as a matter of fact, not often absent from his mind. 'Now, how did you steal those notes?' was the one active query of his intelligence as he listened to Barter's candid prattle.

It was in the course of these confidences that Philip learned of the existence of that Pigeon Trap of which Mr. Barter was so proud to be an inhabitant. It was at Barter's solicitation that he visited the place, and it was Barter who proposed him as a member.

Being a member it was not long before he discovered the fact of Steinberg's influence over the young solicitor. He noticed a terrified deference in Barter's manner towards the other, a frightened alacrity of obedience to his suggestions. He noticed also that Steinberg and Barter played a good deal by themselves, and that Barter always lost.

The men of Hawks' Boost talked pretty freely about each other in the absence of such of their fellow clubmen as were under discussion. Barter was spoken of as Steinberg's Mug, Berg's Juggins, Stein's Spoofmarker. It was generally admitted that Stein made a good thing out of him, and the wonder was where Barter got his money. There was a pretty general apprehension that the young man, at no very far future date, would come to grief. The contemplation of this probability affected the Boosters but little in an emotional way, but it made them keen to see that Mr. Barter paid up punctually, and though they were very shy of paper acceptances from their comrades as a general thing, they were shyer of his than of most men's.

These things Philip Bommaney junior attentively noted. At first the clubmen rather wondered at him. He was in their precincts often, and would smoke his pipe and watch whatever game might be going with tranquil interest, but he never played, and could not be induced to bet. Que diable faisant-il dans cette gaiere? the clubmen wanted to know. He never told them, and in a while they grew accustomed to him and his ways. He continued his quiet watch upon Mr. Barter, and included Steinberg in his field of observation. One evening, dining at the old restaurant, he marked Barter, melancholy and alone. He was sitting in an attitude of apparent dejection, tapping upon the table with a fork, and deep sunk in what seemed to be an uncomfortable contemplation. But when the moth saw his candle he brightened, and fluttered over to it.

'You might come over,' said Barter, when they had sat together until the latest of the dining guests had gone away. 'You might come over to my chambers and smoke a cigar if you've nothing else to do. I don't care about going down to the club tonight.'

The Steinberg spider was supposed to be waiting there, coldly patient and insatiable, and Barter dreaded him. Philip had never entered the rooms, but they had an attraction for him. He accepted his companion's invitation, and they entered the chambers together. A fire lingered in the grate, and Barter replenished it, and, having produced a box of cigars and a bottle of cognac, proffered refreshment to his guest. The honest man began somewhat to recoil from himself and from his companion. What was he there for? The answer was pretty evident. There was nothing between this loud-babbling youth and himself which could have drawn them into even a momentary comradeship, if it had not been for the suspicion his father's story had inspired in him. Frankly, he was there because he suspected the man, because he desired to watch him, because, if he found the chance, he was willing to set him in the dock. To smoke his tobacco and drink his liquor in those circumstances had undoubtedly an air of treachery. In a while he hardened himself, and closed his ears to all casuist pleadings, whether for or against the course he had adopted. He would clear his father if he could, and if there were any mere hope of doing it, he would watch this fellow as a cat watches a mouse, and would go on doing it until both of them were gray.

'By the way,' said Barter innocently, 'do you never take a hand at——'

His supple fingers supplied the hiatus, dealing out an imaginary pack of cards with the flourishing dexterity native to them.

'That's what I'm here for, is it?' thought Philip in his own mind. 'We shall see.' He said aloud, 'Sometimes,' in an indifferent tone.

'There's nothing worth seeing anywhere to-night,' said young Barter. 'Suppose we try a hand. What do you say to a game at Napoleon?'

Philip consented, and his host produced two packs of cards from the business safe.

They fixed upon the points and they began to play. The points were not those for which Mr. Barter really cared to play; for he was one of those people who find no joy in cards unless they risk more than they can afford to lose. But little fish are sweet, and he thought he had secured a greenhorn. As it happened, the greenhorn, though he was but eight-and-twenty, had travelled the world all over, and had found himself compelled to survey mankind from China to Peru. He was, moreover, one of those men who like to know things, and those quietly-observant eyes of his had taken note of the proceedings of a hundred scoundrels in whose hands the redoubtable Steinberg himself would have had but poor chances. The Greek had been Philip's standing joy, the dish best spiced to suit his intellectual palate. He had delighted over him aboard ship, on the monstrous dreary railway journey between Atlantic and Pacific, in the little towns which form the centre of scores of Texan ranches, in hells at the Cape and in California, in the free ports of China, and on the borders of the Bosphorus. In point of fact he was by experience as little fitted to be played upon by a gentleman of young Mr. Barter's limited accomplishments as almost any man alive.

Phil's interest in the game had grown grimly observant in the first ten minutes. Young Mr. Barter had a knack, when he shuffled the cards, of slily inclining the painted sides upwards. He had another knack of leaving an honour at the bottom. He made a false cut with fair dexterity for an amateur. He could, when occasion seemed to make it profitable, discard with a fair air of unconsciousness. An ace dropped out of sight a hand or two earlier, was followed by a valueless card dropped openly. The ace was taken to supply its place with a perfect smiling effrontery. But Mr. Barter's favourite trick came out when he had a weak hand. Then he smiled across at his opponent, breathed softly the words 'six cards,' and dropped the worthless hand on the top of the pack, calling for a new deal All this Philip Bommaney watched with a complete seeming innocence and good temper. He lost his sixpences handsomely, made no protest, and looked unruffled.

'You play false for sixpences, do you?' he said inwardly. 'I suppose a scoundrel is a scoundrel all through, and that if you'll sell your soul for so little, you could hardly object to driving a bargain for a larger sum.'

He was often tempted in the course of a quarter of an hour to try Mr. Barter with a sudden challenge, and see what would come of it. Surveying his companion with that placid inquiry which Barter felt to be so excessively uncomfortable, he came to have but a poor opinion of his courage. He was one of those men who, even without knowing it, take profound observations of their fellow-creatures. The true observer of human nature is by no means a personage who is always on the strain after insight into character. He is, on the contrary, pretty generally an inward-looking man, who seems to notice little, and takes in his surroundings as the immortal Joey Ladle did his wine. Philip judged Barter to be a nervous man, and supposed him, even when strung to his bent, to have no great tenacity or continuance of courage. He had learned more and more to believe his father's story, though he had perhaps too carefully guarded himself from his own eager desire to accept it Barter's every action with the cards offered confirmation of the belief that he had taken possession of the lost notes. He was certainly a petty rascal, and there was obviously nothing but opportunity needed to make him bloom into a rascal on a larger scale. So the temptation to drop the cards upon the table, to look his companion in the face, and to ask simply, 'How about that eight thousand pounds?' grew more and more upon him, and had to be more and more strenuously resisted. It seemed worth while to resist it To begin with, if young Barter should be innocent, the querist could evidently expect nothing else than to be taken for a madman. To continue, if his name and the likeness to his father had already set the thief upon his guard, and had prepared him for accusation, the question would only reveal his own suspicion, and thereby weaken the chances of discovery.

Philip combated his inward desire, but could not quell it. There seemed a kind of intuition in it, a lurking certainty lay hidden behind all the doubts he saw, and pushed him forward.

By and by young Mr. Barter tripped on the false cut, which he had hitherto executed with a fair amateur dexterity.

'Excuse me,' said Phil, as he gathered the spilt cards together. 'You should make the three separate motions look like one. Do the trick so.'

He performed the trick slowly, looking Barter in the face, and then went through it swiftly.

'That is how the thing ought to be done, Mr. Barter,' he said, with a placidity which his companion found singularly disquieting.

And now, that same unhappy want of self-command which had given Steinberg so clear an insight into his young friend's mind, fell once more upon Barter. He tried to look wondering, he tried to laugh. The result of that frightened contortion of the features was nothing less than ghastly. Unhappily for himself he knew it, and so he grew ghastlier yet, and for the life of him could not tell where to set his eyes.

'So you're a sharper in a small way, are you, Mr. Barter?' Philip inquired suavely.

'How dare you talk to me like that?' the detected rascal stammered. 'You come into a gentleman's rooms, and lose an odd half-crown or two——'

When he had got as far as this he ventured to look his companion in the face, and seeing there a very marked and readable prophecy of unpleasant things, he backed, and in the act of doing so, tripped, and fell into a chair. The intention in Phil's mind became simply unconquerable. He cast rapidly about him for an instant, saw all the consequences of failure which might follow if he denounced the trembling wretch at once, and set him on his guard. And yet he could not help doing what he did, and could not restrain the words which rose to his lips. He took Barter by the collar, and lifted him to his feet with an unsuspected strength, and put the question to him quietly.

'How many of those stolen notes has Steinberg changed for you?'

It was a bold thing to do, it was perhaps a foolish thing to do, and yet it was the game. Barter stared at him speechlessly. His lips moved, but he said nothing. Then his jaw fell as a dead man's jaw falls, and being released at that instant, he dropped into the chair like a sack.

'Now the best thing for you to do,' said Phil, sternly regarding him, 'will be to make a clean breast of it. I have been tracking you since the second day of our acquaintance.'

Barter groaned, with a tremulous and hollow sound, but made no other answer.

'How many of those notes are in Steinberg's hands?' Phil asked.

The rascal's wits had begun to work again, if only a little, and he could by this time have answered if he would. But he knew that his own cowardice, if nothing else, had given away the game. After such a confession as his own terror had made, what was the use of bluster or pretence? He could not guess how much was known. He was completely cornered, and must fight or yield. His native instinct at any moment was ready to teach him how much discretion was the better part of valour, and now to fight seemed mere madness. In the very terror of the night which thus suddenly enveloped him he saw one gleam of hope. There was one stroke to be made which might save him, in part at least, from the consequences of his own misdeed.

Philip gave these reflections but little time to grow distinct to Barter's mind.

'How many of those notes?' he asked slowly, emphasising almost every word by a tap of his knuckles upon the table, 'have passed into Steinberg's hands?'

'All,' gasped Barter; 'every one of them!'

'That will do for the present,' said Philip, and at that instant there came a loud summons at the door, whereat the miserable Barter started, and clasped his hands in renewed terror. He fancied an officer of justice there, his arrival accurately timed.

Philip, throwing a glance about the room, and assuring himself that there was no means of unobserved exit, answered the summons in person. He had until that moment kept perfect possession of himself except for his obedience to that overmastering intuition, but beholding Mr. Steinberg at the doorway he felt a great leap at his heart, and a sudden dryness in his throat. He examined these phenomena afterwards, and decided in his own mind that they were assignable to fear. He came to the belief which he cherishes until now, that he had to screw up his courage pretty tightly before he could face the idea of confronting the partners in rascality together. But here it may be observed in passing that this kind of self-depreciation is a favourite trick with men of unusual nerve, and is rarely resorted to by any but the most courageous.

Steinberg recognised him by the light of the gas-lamp.

'Good-evening,' he said, nodding. 'Barter's here, I suppose.'

'Sir,' said Phil, with recovered coolness, a certain light of humour dawning in his mind, 'Mr. Barter is within, and I have no doubt will be very happy to see you.'

Steinberg cast a sidelong glance at him, and entered. Phil closed the door, and followed close upon his heels. Barter, with his pale complexion fallen to the tint of dead ashes, sat huddled in the arm-chair, staring white-eyed like a frightened madman. Steinberg stared back at him in sheer amazement at his looks, and Phil, closing the door, turned the key in the lock and pocketed it.

'Hillo!' cried Steinberg, turning swiftly round at the click, 'what's this mean?' He measured Philip with his eye—a very evil and wicked eye it was—and dropped back a step or two.

'What's this mean?' Steinberg asked again, his quick glance darting from one to the other.

'It means, sir,' said Phil, with a glad tranquillity, 'that your fellow-scoundrel, the courageous gentleman in the arm-chair there, is in the act of making his confession.'

Steinberg sent one savage glance at Barter, and then dashed at him, and planting both hands within the collar of his shirt, so banged him to and fro that he would inevitably have done him a mischief of a serious sort but for Phil's intervention. The method of intervention was less tranquil than Philip's motion up to this time had been. He tore Steinberg from his grip of the betrayer with a force he had no time to measure, and hurled him across the room. He staggered at the door, and his head coming noisily in contact with it, he slipped down into a sitting posture with an expression suddenly changed from ferocity to a complete vacuity and indifference.

Now Mr. Barter, scared as he had been, and shaken to his centre, had begun to think again, and when he saw that Steinberg's chance in the enemy's hands was less than nothing, that fact formed as it were the last necessary plank for the raft of safety he desired to construct. He got up from his place, animated by this great idea, and staggering to the helpless Steinberg, fell down beside him and gripped his hands.

'Tie him, Mr. Bommaney, tie him!' gurgled Barter. 'He's been the ruin of me, curse him. I should have been an honest man if it hadn't been for him. It's him that led me into it, and he's had every sixpence of the money. I've been his tool, his miserable tool. Tie him, Mr. Bommaney, before he comes round again. I'll hold him for you.'

One may get good advice from the most unexpected quarter, and whencesoever good advice may come it is worth while to follow it. Phil took a dandy scarf from Steinberg's own neck, and tied him tightly, wrist to wrist Then he helped him to his feet, and set him in a chair.

'He came here to-night,' Barter gurgled on, with tears of sincerest penitence, 'to bleed me again. He's got my I.O.U. for L82 he cheated me of last week. He's had every penny of the money. I haven't had so much as a single farthing of it myself. I'll swear I haven't.'

'That's your lay, is it?' said Steinberg, whose scattered wits were coming back to him. 'You shall answer for this violence in the proper quarter, Bommaney.'

'I will answer for it in the proper quarter,' Phil replied. 'I will trouble you, Mr. Steinberg, to come to the proper quarter now.'

'You won't forget,' said Barter, 'that I helped to capture him. You'll speak a word for me, Mr. Bommaney?

'I've been that villain's victim all along. I should never have gone wrong if it hadn't been for him, and I've wanted to send the money back over and over again, but he got it into his own hands and wouldn't listen to it, and after all I never took the money, Mr. Bommaney—I only found it. It was Steinberg kept it. He said I should be a fool to let it go.'

What sentiments of contempt and rage inspired Mr. Steinberg's bosom at this juncture must be imagined. He looked them all, but verbally expressed none of them.

'Get up,' said Phil, addressing him. Steinberg obeyed. 'Take a seat in that corner.' Steinberg obeyed again. 'Now you—' to Barter, 'take a place in that corner, behind the desk.'

'With pleasure, Mr. Bommaney,' said Barter, 'with the very greatest willingness. I desire to make no resistance to the law. I helped to capture the criminal Please remember that, Mr. Bommaney. Pray remember that.'

He took hold of a heavy ruler which happened to be lying on the desk, and deeming that he and the other rascal were about to be left alone together, he showed it shakily to Steinberg, as a hint that he was not without means of protection against a man unarmed and bound.

Phil unlocked the door, inserted the key on the other side, disappeared, and turned the lock anew. The two criminals heard his footstep sounding elate, triumphant, and threatening to their ears as he went along the boarded floor. They listened as the footstep crossed the square boulders of the courtyard, and listened still until their sound melted into the blended noises of the outer street. A minute later the step was heard returning, accompanied by another, solid and terrible. They knew it, and their hearts, low as they were already, sank at it. The door opened and Phil reappeared, followed by a policeman.

'I give these two in charge,' the young man said, 'the one as the thief, the other as the receiver of a bundle of bank-notes of the value of eight thousand pounds, the property of my father, Mr. Philip Bommaney of Coalporter's Alley.'

'I'm quite willing to go without resistance,' said Mr. Barter from behind the table. 'I assisted in the capture, and I am ready to say anything.'

'That's the first true word you've spoken,' Steinberg snarled. 'You can take this thing off,' holding out his hands. 'I'll go quietly. I can get bail in an hour.'

'Don't have it taken off, Mr. Bommaney, not if we're to travel in the same vehicle. He threatened me while you were away. He said if they gave him fifty years he'd kill me when he came out again. He'll do it, because I made a clean breast of it, didn't I, Mr. Bommaney? I made a clean breast of it, officer. I'm ready to—tell everything. He's ruined me, and now he says he'll kill me because I'm ready to make a clean breast of it.'

'I choose to be taken separately, if you please. I myself will pay the fare. I won't travel with that cackling idiot.'

'I will go with Mr. Bommaney with pleasure,' said the penitent. 'I'll go with you with pleasure anywhere. I'd rather go with you a great deal.'

It was hardly to be expected that Philip should feel very warmly towards either of his two companions, but of the two he misliked Steinberg the less. And, since it seemed humane and reasonable to choose, he chose Steinberg as his travelling companion. The officer set Steinberg's hat upon his head, and the quartet set out. The sight of a man with his hands tightly bound with a scarlet muffler gathered a momentary little crowd at the Inn gate; but, a pair of hansoms being summoned, captives and captors were speedily relieved from vulgar observation. The station reached, it turned out that the communicative Mr. Barter, in the exuberance of his heart, had exposed to the officer en route the whereabouts of the lost notes. He declared that to his knowledge they rested in a safe, the position of which he indicated, in Steinberg's Hatton Garden office. The Inspector before whom the charge was made deemed this intelligence worthy of being acted on at once. The two prisoners were searched, and Mr. Barter was so good as to point out, among Steinberg's keys, those which were necessary for the purposes of investigation. He even went so far as to offer his assistance as guide; but this was declined with a chilliness singularly at variance with the solicitous warmth of the proposal.

'I think, sir,' said the Inspector, with an arctic disrespect which was so frozen as to be almost respectful, 'that we can manage this without your assistance.'

The Divisional Superintendent, being communicated with by telephone, arrived upon the scene. The matter in hand having been laid before him with curt official brevity, he asked for the keys, called to himself a constable, and was preparing to set out, when Philip begged permission to accompany him.

'The notes, sir,' he said, 'were left in my father's trust by a dear old friend of his. My father himself was supposed to have made use of them—a thing of which he was incapable. If I can take to him the news that they are found, I can lift a load of undeserved disgrace from the mind of an honourable man.'

'I shall be pleased to have your company, Mr. Bommaney,' the Superintendent answered, touched a little by the young man's earnestness. So the three got into a four-wheeler, and bowled away to Hatton Garden, and there made entry into the chambers lately occupied by Mr. Steinberg. There was no gas here, but the constable's dark lantern showed the way. It revealed the safe in the position the communicative criminal had assigned to it. It revealed the notes, snugly spread out in one crisp little heap, and arranged with business-like precision in the order of their numbers.

This golden spectacle once seen, Phil dashed into the street, hailed a hansom, and drove pell-mell, exciting the cabman who conducted him by the promise of a double fare, to the residence of old Brown and old Brown's daughter. There he told the glorious news, a little broken and halting in his speech. Patty threw her arms about him, and cried without concealment or restraint. Old Brown blew his nose with a suspicious frequency, and shook his adopted son-in-law by the hand at frequent intervals.

'Phil,' he cried at last, 'where's your father? By God, sir, he never had any need to run away from me, because he happened to lose a handful of paltry money. What had he got to do but come and say, "Brown, it's gone!" He hadn't trust enough in me to think I'd believe him. Let's get at him. Where is he?'

The old boy tugged furiously at the bell-pull.

'Send Brenner round to the stable,' he said to the servant. 'Tell him to get the horses to, and bring the carriage round at once. Where's your father, Phil?'

'He's down Poplar way,' said Phil. 'Hornett, his old clerk, is living in the same house with him.'

'We'll go down, and rouse him up,' the old boy said, with a moist eye and trembling hand. 'Phil, my lad,' he went on, grasping the young fellow's hand in his own, 'I'm getting to be an old 'un. You wouldn't think it to look at me, because, thank God, I've always known how to take my trouble lightly, but I've seen a lot of it in my time, and you can take my word for this—there isn't any trouble in the world that's hardly so bitter as for an honest man to have to take another for a rogue.'

So it came to pass that Bommaney senior, who after all, perhaps, hardly deserved to be made a hero of, was plenteously bedewed with the tears of three most honourable and high-minded people, and was, set up in their minds as a sort of live statue of undeserved martyrdom. They who learned the tale afterwards mourned his weakness, and supposed him to be the victim of a too sensitive organisation. He lives now with a genuine halo of sanctity about him, and seems in the minds of some to have suffered for the sake of a great principle, quite noble, but not quite definitely defined.

Odd things happen every day in the world, and pass by unregarded. The worship of Bommaney senior's sensibilities seems a trifle dull when all things are considered, though one has to be glad that an honest son can think of him with pity mixed with admiration. But perhaps the oddest thing of all in connection with this story may be looked for in the shorthand reporter's notes of the Recorder's speech at the Old Bailey, when the accusation against Messrs. Barter and Steinberg came to be heard.

'You, Barter,' said the learned Recorder, 'appear to have been drawn into this by the influence of an intelligence stronger and abler than your own. You appear, in a moment of weakness, to have been led away by that stronger intelligence from the paths of rectitude. But you have displayed so clear a sense of the enormity of your conduct, and have, by your complete disclosures of the crime committed by you and your companion, and, by your evidence in Court to-day, shown so complete a repentance for it, that I do not think that it would be politic or just to lay a severe term of imprisonment upon you. Nevertheless, the law of the land must be justified, and I feel a pleasure in believing that in justifying the law I am affording you an opportunity for reflection, for the formation of good resolutions for the future, and for a confirmation of those better desires which I believe—in spite of your association with this criminal enterprise—to animate your mind.'

Now, to my fancy, this has a distinct element of comedy in it; but the learned Recorder resembled some of his unlearned brethren, in respect to the fact that he could not be expected to know everything.

Mr. Barter thrives again, but he is even now awaiting, with the uneasiest sensations, the liberation of the man who betrayed him into crime.

THE END