Rogues and Vagabonds

by George R. Sims

SONNET TO MY SUSAN.=

The stars are in the sky, Susan,

And I am sitting here;

But you are in my eye, Susan,

Among the moonbeams clear.

My heart your image holds, Susan,

And will the while it beats,

All through the winter colds, Susan,

As well as summer heats.

I think of you by morn, Susan,

I think of you by night,

My love, oh, do not scorn, Susan,

My hopes, oh, do not blight!

The bullseye of my soul, Susan,

Thy dart of love has struck,

And while the ages roll, Susan,

I’ll be your Jabez Duck.

This was only one of the ‘rigmar’oles’ in writing which Jabez had begirded the time of Grigg and Limpet, which hung heavily on his hands—too heavily to be relieved by anything but verse. Now all of these ‘rigmaroles,’ full of poetical declarations, Mrs. Turvey, being a wise woman, had treasured, and Mr. Duck was painfully aware of the fact.

Things had altered considerably with the reappearance of Mr. Egerton. Susan still remained—but where was her legacy? Jabez was a poet, but there was quite enough prose in his composition to appreciate the difference between Mrs. Turvey plus five hundred pounds and Mrs. Turvey pure and simple.

Pure Mrs. Turvey was, but perhaps simple is hardly the word to apply to her. Jabez declared that she was anything but simple when she gave him a bit of her mind that morning as he came down from his interview with the master. She put the case very neatly indeed; Grigg and Limpet couldn’t have put it better. Jabez had proposed and been accepted. Mrs. Turvey was anxious to give up housekeeping for some one else and take to it on her own account; and, having been led to believe that she would be Mrs. Duck, she was not inclined to be disappointed.

As a business woman, Mrs. Turvey put it very plainly to Mr. Duck as a business man. If within a specified time he was not prepared to carry out his contract, Mrs. Turvey would consult Messrs. Grigg and Limpet, and appeal to a jury of her fellow-countrymen.

‘And if them rigmaroles of yours as I’ve got upstairs, every one on’em a-breathin love and nightingales, and stars and things, ain’t evidence enough to convict a man of horse-stealing, my name ain’t Susan Turvey.’

Why Mrs. Turvey should imagine that stealing her heart was horse-stealing I can’t say. She was given to a confusion of metaphors. But Jabez had no difficulty in apprehending her meaning. The situation which the indignant Susan conjured up to his mind, of Grigg and Limpet being instructed to commence an action for breach against their own clerk, and, worst of all, the idea of his letters being read in court, so thoroughly overcame him, that he could only give two short gasps for breath and stagger down the steps.

When he got out of sight of Mrs. Turvey standing like Nemesis at the front door, he paused and wiped the perspiration from his face.

‘My poems,’ he murmured, ‘and in full court. Published in all the papers. Here’s a pretty mess I’m in!’

Once Mr. Jabez had had dreams of publishing his poems; now there was a chance of his dream being gratified, but it was Dead Sea fruit.

He walked on, a prey to a variety of emotions. Gradually he Worked himself into a rage.

‘It’s all that cursed Egerton!’ he exclaimed, giving the firm’s client an imaginary kick. ‘Why didn’t he stop at the bottom of the sea, instead of turning up in this Coburg melodrama style? He robbed me of £500 and let me in for a breach.’

The more Mr. Duck thought of the grievous injury which Gurth Egerton had inflicted on him, the more annoyed he became. Susan’s £500 was just the little capital Jabez wanted to make a start in life on his own account, in a line for which he had alwy’s had a fancy, Now, not only was that rudely dashed from his grasp, but Susan remained on his hands.

All day long Mrs. Turvey’s threat rang in his ears. He got trying to remember what the poems were about. He regretted now that he had let the divine afflatus run him into so many extravagances of diction. He felt that as a poet he had said more than he meant as a man.

It would never do to let those poems come out. Never. There was but one alternative. He must marry the lady to whom they were addressed, and thus make them his property again, unless—well, unless he could get possession of the poems without taking possession of the owner.

Could he?

That was the question.

Mr. Jabez had been brought up to the law, and he knew what he might do and what he might not do. He would do a good deal to get those letters back again. He sat down in the office with a deed in front of him, which he was expected to read, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They were on a deed of daring in which he was the hero. Idea after idea floated through his brain. Wills and valuable documents he had seen abstracted by the score in dramas and comedies, but then the purloiner only had to walk from the wings and enter R. U. E. or L. U. E., as the case might be’. There was no front-door to be got through without ringing the bell; no owner of the property handy to call the police. Dramatic authors always keep the coast so beautifully dear for their evil-doers.

If, however, Mr. Jabez was constrained, after consideration, to abandon all idea of imitating the heroes of melodrama in their wilder flights of daring, his thoughts had not wandered in that direction quite in vain. From the villain of the domestic drama he determined at least to take a hint. That interesting personage does not generally go about his nefarious deeps openly. He dissembles.

That was exactly what Jabez determined to do. Instead of rushing headlong into the imminent deadly breach—breach of promise—he would bide his time and dissemble.

He commenced dissembling that very evening, by calling on his way home and assuring Mrs. Turvey that her accusations were quite unjust, and that he should be happy to eat the pipelet of peace and drink the tea of tranquillity with her whenever she would condescend to invite him.

Mrs. Turvey was partially appeased, and exerted herself to win the wanderer back again. Jabez had no reason to complain of the result of his first essay in the art of dissembling.

He learned where Susan kept his letters.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE ADRIANS AT HOME.

The home of Ruth Adrian was not altogether a happy one, and yet her father and mother idolized her, and were both very worthy and lovable people.

Mr. Adrian was a kind-hearted old gentleman, who had made enough in trade to enable him to retire, and live modestly in a sixty pound a year house, keep two servants, and go out of town for a month once a year. He had been out of business some years, and was prepared to pass the rest of his life quietly with the Times newspaper, half-price after four o’clock, and the books of a non-fictional character which he borrowed from the local circulating library.

Perhaps ‘non-fictional’ is hardly the word to apply, for Mr. Adrian’s favourite literature was travel and exploration, and travellers and explorers of all ages and all times, more especially of modern times, have found fiction a by no means to be despised element in their veracious and soul-stirring narratives.

Mr. Adrian had had but one romance in his life. He had fallen in love with a beautiful girl, and fancied once that his passion was returned. He woke from his dream to find his lady-love the affianced wife of a successful rival, a country gentleman named Heritage. He had got over the blow and found another wife. Having devoted his youth and manhood to commerce, he had never wandered during his short holidays further than the coasts of his native isle. In his old age, when he had the leisure, he had not the inclination. He had become wedded to a certain routine of life; he liked English food and English habits, and was content to read all about foreign countries in the letters of ‘Our own Correspondent.’

Europe, even in literature, however, had no great attraction for John Adrian. He loved to lose himself in virgin forests and jungles, to sup with savages, and dance war-dances with the warriors of the Far West. He was at home in the South Sea Islands, and familiar with Central Africa. He could tell you more about the manners and customs of the Aztecs and the Bosjesmans than he could about the peculiarities of his next-door neighbour; and he had the most sublime faith in the perfect veracity of the thousand-and-one books of travel which he passed his leisure in devouring.

Mrs. Adrian, on the contrary, was eminently practical. A good-hearted, loving wife, and a fond and devoted mother, she was yet, at times, a sore trial both to her husband and daughter.

Mrs. Adrian was eccentric, and prided herself upon her outspokenness; further, Mrs. Adrian, in spite of much real nobility of nature, was mean in small things. Once a busy housewife, seeing to everything herself, and trotting about her house from morning to night, she had of late years grown rapidly stout, and at last arrived at a state of corpulence which, in conjunction with shortness of breath, compelled her to sit still and let Ruth superintend the domestic arrangements. It was her infirmity of body, doubtless, which gradually developed an infirmity of temper. Mrs. Adrian in her young days had been inclined to speak her mind and find fault. Now that she had nothing else to do, the practice had grown on her, and she was, at times, what Mr. Adrian, putting it very mildly, called ‘exceedingly trying.’

She would have gone through any discomfort, she would have sacrificed any pleasure, really to promote the happiness of those she loved; and yet she found her principal occupation in grumbling at what they did, and rendering them occasionally as uncomfortable as she could.

Mrs. Adrian looked with anything but an approving eye on Ruth’s missionary work. In her plain-spoken way she shot many little arrows at her daughter which went home.

One evening after tea the Adrians were seated round the table. Mr. Adrian was deep in the marvellous adventures of a gentleman who had spent a year in Patagonia, and Mrs. Adrian was knitting.

Ruth sat gazing in the fire. For a wonder, she was doing nothing. Both her mother and father had noticed a change in her for some time past.

Mrs. Adrian, looking up from her knitting, and noticing the far-away look on her daughter’s face, spoke her mind on the subject.

‘What’s the matter with you, Ruth? Why don’t you do something instead of sitting mumchancing there, staring at the fire as if you expected to see somebody walk out of it? I hope you’re not going to sit like that long. It gives me the creeps.’

Ruth coloured, and picked up the work which had fallen into her lap.

‘I beg your pardon, mother dear,’ she said softly; ‘I was thinking.’

‘Well, my dear, I could see that; but you can think without looking like a death’s head at an evening party. It’s my idea you’ve something on your mind. What do you think, John?’

‘Eh, my dear? What do you say?’ asked Mr. Adrian, looking up from his book.

‘I said, if you’d leave those blessed Paddygonians you’re always talking about——’

Patagonians, my dear.’

‘Oh, bother!—Pat and Paddy, it’s the same thing. If you’d leave them and look at your own flesh and blood, you’d be doing your duty as a father better——’

‘What’s the matter now, my dear?’

‘Matter? Why, you oughtn’t to ask. Look at your daughter—she’s thin, she’s pale, she’s listless. It’s my opinion she’s killing herself over this mission work, as she calls it—worrying herself about a pack of ungrateful varmints that would take a track from her with one hand and pick her pocket with the other.’

Ruth could never convince her mother that her missionary labours did not consist in giving tracts. The old lady would recognize no other process of visiting the poor.

‘Mother,’ she said gently, ‘you wrong my poor friends very much.’

‘That’s right, Ruth, prefer ragged ragamuffins to your mother. If that’s your religion, I’m sorry for you. If you’ve got a tract on honouring your father and mother, I’d recommend you to read it. Wrong your friends, indeed! What are they? A grateful lot, I dare say. Give you all they’ve got, my dear, wouldn’t they? Well, as all they’ve got generally is a fever and a few specimens of natural history, I dare say they would.’

Ruth coloured, and looked pained.

‘Don’t tease the girl so, Mary,’ said Mr. Adrian, looking up from his book. ‘She isn’t well, and you worry her.’

Ruth cast a grateful look at her father, and then crossed the room, and, stooping down over her mother, stopped the sharp retort that was rising to her lips with a kiss.

Mr. Adrian took advantage of the pause.

‘Just listen to this. It’s really very wonderful. Fancy, the Patagonians always sleep with their mouths open. The Rev. Mr. Jones ascertained it for a fact, and he gives the following interesting description of it.’

‘Don’t, John, for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, freeing herself from Ruth’s embrace. ‘Have your Patagonians, and welcome, but don’t bother me with them. All I can say is, if the Rev. Mr. Jones went all the way to Patagonia to see the natives keep their mouths open, he’d have done more good by stopping in Whitechapel and teaching the natives there to keep their mouths shut.’

‘My dear,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘if you are so very caustic, I shall have to collect your observations and publish them.’

‘Oh, I know what I say is ridiculous in your eyes, John. If I was a Patagonian woman, with a ring through my nose, you’d listen fast enough, I dare say, though I did talk in an outlandish language.’

‘The Patagonian women, my dear Mary, do not wear rings through their noses, Mr. Jones, who lived among them——’

‘More shame for him! I dare say he left his wife and children to the parish.’

Mr. Adrian was fairly roused on his favourite subject. He rushed with ardour to the defence of the Rev. Mr. Jones and the ladies of Patagonia.

Mrs. Adrian replied with all the homely sarcasm of which she was mistress.

Ruth, who knew of old that the duel would probably rage till supper-time, or till Mr. Adrian, exhausted, resigned the Patagonians to their fate, and sought refuge in the Times’ City article—a neutral ground, which Mrs. Adrian allowed him to enjoy in peace—was about to creep out and have a quiet half-hour in her little room by herself, when the servant entered with an announcement that a ‘young person and a dawg’ were at the door, asking for Miss Ruth.

Ruth started up, and her cheeks went a burning crimson. It was Gertie come to warn her that Marston was in danger. What should she do?

She stammered something, and was about to leave the room and go out to Gertie, when Mrs. Adrian stopped her.

‘Ruth!’

‘Yes, mother.’

‘If it’s one of those horrid people you visit, don’t let her come in. We don’t want fevers here.’

‘Oh, mother, there’s no fear of that. It’s little Gertie Heckett.’

‘What, the model child of Seven Dials? Take your father’s overcoat out of the hall at once.’

‘Mother!’ exclaimed Ruth, reddening, ‘how cruel you are! I shall bring her in, and you shall see her.’

‘I shall have to sprinkle the room with camphor if you do. I expect we shall all be murdered in our beds; that’ll be the end of your encouraging all these bad characters.’

Ruth was out of the room and in the hall before her mother could finish the sentence.

Gertie, shamefaced, trembling, and red-eyed, stood in the hall; Lion was close by her side, motionless as a statue. He wagged his tail as Ruth came towards him, but he never barked. He was a well-bred dog, and knew how to behave in a lady’s house.

Ruth stooped down and kissed the poor trembling little one, and tried to put her at her ease. All was so new and strange to her, and the excitement of the last two hours had been so great, that Gertie was quite unnerved. She attempted to speak, and then the pent-up emotion found an outlet. Sobbing hysterically, she fell on her knees and asked Ruth to protect her.

Ruth was deeply moved herself; the genuine grief of the child and her quick sobs told her that Gertie had gone through much that evening.

‘There, there, don’t be afraid, Gertie,’ she said, wiping away the little one’s tears and patting Lion’s head gently. ‘Lion and I will take care of you, won’t we, Lion?’ For the moment, in her sympathy with the child, she had forgotten herself; but it was only for a moment.

Looking round nervously at the half-open sitting-room door, she whispered to the child, ‘Have you heard anything about him?

‘Yes, miss, I have.’

Between her sobs, and in a low voice, Gertie told her little story, never stopping till she had explained how her grandfather had threatened her life, and how she would never dare to go back again.

The child felt, even as she spoke, that she was playing the traitor—that she was revealing a secret which might bring harm to him who had brought her up and fed her, and who was the only relative she had in the world.

She was shrewd enough to see all this, and when her tale was done she looked up beseechingly in the face of her protectress.

‘I’ve done this for your sake, miss,’ she said; ‘but you won’t let any harm come to grandfather through what I’ve told you, will you?’

‘No, Gertie, I won’t; I promise you. And now you must come in and speak to my father and mother, and we must see what ean be done with you. Come along; don’t be frightened.’

Ruth took her by the hand.

‘Please may Lion come too?’ asked Gertie, laying her hand on the dog’s head, as though loth to leave him for a minute.

‘Certainly, my dear! Come along, Lion.’

When Ruth entered the sitting-room, leading Gertie, and followed by the huge mastiff, Mrs. Adrian gave a little scream.

‘Good gracious, Ruth!’ she cried, ‘what will you bring into the house next?’

‘Don’t be frightened, mother. Lion’s very gentle. Lie down, Lion!

Gertie nodded to Lion, as much as to say he might obey Miss Adrian. At his little mistress’s signal he sank down on his haunches, and, with his ears up and his eyes open, waited for further orders. What he thought of the proceedings it is impossible to say; but he had evidently made up his mind that Gertie was among friends, for he didn’t even growl when Mrs. Adrian called him a ferocious-looking beast, and horrified Gertie by asking how many people he usually ate at a meal.

With sundry reservations, Ruth told Gertie’s story for her, and then she begged that for the present, at least, she might be allowed to offer the child the shelter of their roof.

Mr. Adrian’s kind heart went out to the poor little child who had remained so simple and so gentle amid such surroundings, and he was as interested in her as though she had been a young Patagonian or a small South Sea Islander. He gave his consent directly.

Mrs. Adrian was not so easily mollified. She was sure that it was a plot, that robbers would come in the night, and that Gertie was to get up and let them in. Then she insisted that the child had various infectious complaints. But at last, having exhausted her objections, and made out fully to her own satisfaction that she was being turned out of house and home by a juvenile malefactor and a bloodthirsty mastiff, she gave her consent, and, having given it, was condescending enough to acknowledge privately to her daughter later on that Gertie was an interesting little thing, and much to be pitied.

That night Gertie slept with Ruth, and Lion, with much coaxing, was persuaded to accept the hospitable offer of the mat outside the door.

To Gertie all was new and strange, and the momentous events of the evening had not been without a disturbing influence on her mind; but Gertie was a child, and soon fell asleep.

Happy childhood, when nothing that happens can banish sweet sleep from our eyelids! How many of us, grown to man’s estate, would give all that such an estate confers upon us for the privilege of closing our eyes and forgetting as easily and as quickly as Gertie Heckett forgot all that happened to her during the most eventful day in her little life!

CHAPTER XXIV.
OLD SWEETHEARTS.

Ruth Adrian had only gathered from what Gertie had told her that Marston was in danger of being betrayed by his companions. The child had heard but a portion of the conversation, and even all of that she could not remember.

Ruth concluded that Marston had been mixed up in something that was, she feared, discreditable, and that he was to be made a scapegoat.

If this was so, the sooner he was warned the better. But how was she to warn him? She did not even know where he lived, and before she could find out it might be too late.

He might be living under an assumed name; a hundred reasons might prompt him to conceal his identity. What was she to do?

At breakfast she was pale and absent-minded. Her mother noticed it, and taxed her with wilfully destroying her health by worrying about a pack of vagabonds.

Poor Gertie was the ‘pack of vagabonds.’ Fortunately the child had been relegated to the kitchen by Mrs. Adrian’s express command, and did not hear the good lady’s opinion of her. This did not decrease Ruth’s perplexities. She foresaw a constant source of dispute in poor Gertie’s presence. Her mother’s heart was large, but her tongue was bitter; and although doubtless she really heartily sympathised with the child’s friendless and forlorn condition, she would none the less make her a constant target for her arrows.

She determined, therefore, to find, if possible, some nice respectable person with whom Gertie could be placed for a while, and taught to make herself useful. Ruth would pay what she could out of her pocket-money, and she was sure her papa would help her, though Gertie was not a Patagonian nor a South Sea Islander, but only a poor little English outcast.

‘What do you intend to do with this white elephant of yours, Ruth?’ said her mother presently.

Ruth looked up vacantly.

‘White elephant, mother? What white elephant?’

‘This child.’

Mr. Adrian laughed.

‘Rather a baby white elephant, Ruth, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘And she comes without her trunk.’

‘John, don’t make foolish remarks. It’s no laughing matter,’ exclaimed the mistress of the house. ‘I’m not going to have this turned into a Reformatory or a Home for Lost Dogs for anybody. It isn’t respectable.’

‘I’m sure the child’s respectable enough, or Ruth wouldn’t have anything to do with her.’

‘Well, she has more clothes on than your favourite people wear, I confess, and I dare say she won’t want to eat the housemaid or to worship the kitchen fire,’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian; ‘but, according to the way I was brought up, she belongs to a class of people with which all conversation is best avoided. Her friends, I dare say, are burglars and murderers of the worst description.’

‘But mother——’ began Ruth.

‘Don’t argue, my dear. It’s no use. I dare say Miss—Miss what’s her name—Miss Heckett is a little angel of purity and virtue—a paragon reared in the Dials; but as your mother I respectfully decline to have her under my roof. You must send her away.’

‘I will, mother,’ answered Ruth, a shade of annoyance in her tone. ‘I’ll find a home for the poor child to-day.’

‘There are plenty of refuges and reformatories, I’m sure, where they’d be glad to take her. There are places advertised in the paper every day.’

‘You shan’t be troubled with her long, mother.’

Ruth took up the paper as she spoke, and began to read the advertisement-sheet.

She had a dim idea that she might find some place advertised which would afford her little protégée a temporary asylum.

Glancing listlessly over the advertisements, she suddenly gave, a little cry, and her face flushed crimson.

‘Whatever’s the matter now, Ruth?’ asked Mrs. Adrian, pouring tea into the slop-basin instead of her cup in her astonishment.

‘Nothing!’ stammered Ruth; ‘nothing at all!’

She endeavoured to hide her confusion, and kept her face behind the paper, reading one paragraph over and over again:

‘Lost, a pocket-book containing a cheque. Anyone bringing the same to Mr. Edward Marston, Eden Villa, Camden Road, will be handsomely rewarded.’

Could it be the same Edward Marston?

Ruth firmly believed that it was. It seemed as though Providence had shaped events so that she might read the paper, and thus find at once a means of communication with the man she wished to save.

Perhaps, after all, the conversation Gertie had heard was connected with this very chcque. It might have been stolen from him by Heckett and his companions.

She went downstairs and questioned Gertie, who with Lion at her feet, sat in a Windsor chair, timidly regarding the two servants, who eyed her in return with ill-concealed suspicion. Gertie assured Ruth that she had heard a plan for getting the gentleman out of the way discussed, and that one of the men had said, ‘We must make London too hot to hold him.’

Ruth easily allowed herself to be convinced that Marston was in real danger.

She determined to put her scruples on one side, and act at once.

She could trust no one with her secret. She would go herself. What harm could come of it? None. And the good that might result was incalculable.

Between ten and eleven Ruth, deeply veiled, rang the visitors’ bell at Eden Villa.

When the servant came to the door and asked her her business, she trembled, and felt inclined to run away.

Mustering all her courage, and speaking quickly, lest the girl should detect her agitation, she asked if Mr. Marston was within.

‘I’ll see, ma’am,’ answered the girl cautiously. ‘What name?’

‘Say Miss Adrian, on important business.’

The girl asked Ruth inside the hall, closed the door, and went in search of her master.

Ruth went hot and cold, and trembled violently. A sudden revulsion of feeling came on her, and she seized the handle of the door to open it and fly.

At that moment the girl returned and requested Ruth to follow her.

Hardly knowing how she walked across the hall, Ruth obeyed, and was shown into an empty room.

A minute afterwards Marston entered.

‘Miss Adrian,’ he said, bowing, ‘to what fortunate circumstance am I indebted for this visit?’

He spoke in an easy tone of every-day politeness. His expressive features belied the indifference he endeavoured to assume.

‘I beg your pardon,’ gasped Ruth, ‘but——’ Then her brave spirit gave way. Distressed, terrified at the position in which she found herself, a thousand old memories of the times past rushed upon her, and, bursting into tears, she buried her face in her hands.

In a moment Marston was by her side.

‘Ruth! dear Ruth!’ he exclaimed, ‘for Heaven’s sake what does this mean? Dare I hope that——’

Ruth drew away the hand he had seized.

‘Mr. Marston,’ she exclaimed passionately, ‘it means that I was wrong to come here. I came to warn you of a deadly peril; hear me, and let me go.’

‘Ruth, if you have come to tell me of the deadliest peril I shall ever be in on this side of the grave, I will welcome it since it has brought us face to face once more.’

Was he acting, this man, or were the impassioned accents in which he spoke the honest reflex of his feelings?

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Ruth; ‘you must not speak to me like that. We are strangers.’

‘We have been; but need we be any longer? I am not the man I was, Ruth. Ten years ago I left England, an adventurer, a schemer, a villain, if you will. I return to it to-day with a fortune acquired by honest industry, with a home which I can offer without a blush to the woman I would make my wife, with a heart cleansed from the old corruption. Oh, Ruth, with God’s help and yours I could do so much!’

Ruth stopped him ere he could say another word.

‘Listen to what I have to say, and let me go,’ she said, her voice trembling and her face deadly pale. ‘I have come here to tell you that there is a plot against you. A man named Heckett——’

Marston started. He remembered that it was at Heckett’s he had first seen Ruth after his return.

‘What do you know of Heckett?’ he said, assuming a careless tone.

‘Nothing,’ answered Ruth; ‘except that he and some associates of his wish you no good. There is some scheme afloat with regard to a cheque and your going to a bank. Mr. Marston, if you are linked with these men in any scheme, they will betray you. For your own sake, beware of them!’

‘Good gracious, Ruth! what do you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ exclaimed Ruth, feeling hot and confused. ‘I’m sorry I came. It was wicked and foolish of me. But’—her voice faltered—‘for the sake of old times, believing you were in danger, I tried to save you. You know best, perhaps, what you have to fear.’

Ruth turned to go. Marston put out his hand.

‘Ruth, from the bottom of my heart I thank you. But I am in no danger. It is most probable these rascals have obtained possession of a cheque which was in a pocket-book I lost, and your informant, whoever it may be, has overheard their conversation about that.’

Ruth flushed scarlet, and a sense of shame camc suddenly upon her. She saw it all now. Marston was right, and Gertie had mistaken what she had heard. Ruth had placed herself in a false position.

She walked towards the door, and would have gone out at once, but Marston detained her.

Ruth, is there no hope for me? I have never ceased to love you, and I have bitterly atoned for the past. If I prove to you and to the world that I am free from reproach, that I am worthy your love, may I not see you again?’

Ruth shook her head.

‘That dream is over,’ she said softly. ‘Our paths in life are henceforward separate as the poles.

Marston seized her hand and held it, in spite of her struggle to free herself.

‘Listen, Ruth Adrian,’ he exclaimed with well-assumed earnestness. ‘Once before, when my fate trembled in the balance, you cast me off. You might have been my salvation ten years ago. Now listen to me. Once again I am in the old country, free, independent, and ambitious. On you, and you alone, depends my future. Cast me off now, and I shall have no hope, no anchor. I am in your hands to make or mar. Think well of it, Ruth Adrian, and give me your answer when we meet again. Till then, God bless you!’

He stooped down and pressed his lips to hers almost fiercely. She tore herself free, and her bosom heaving with indignation, her cheeks crimson with shame, she rushed from the room and from the house.

When the door was closed behind her, Marston’s manner altered instantly. A smile passed across his face—a smile of extreme self-congratulation.

‘I think I shall win her over yet,’ he said softly. ‘Poor Ruth! There are a few sparks of the old love left, even in my cold heart. I want a wife, too, and she must be a lady. A bachelor can’t get the right set of people round him. Poor Ruth! how capitally she wears.’

He paced the room for a minute or two, and then he looked at his watch.

‘I must go and warn Heckett,’ he said, ‘that there’s a traitor in the camp somewhere. That girl has heard him say something, and has told Ruth. That link must be broken, at any rate.’

Marston did not attach any serious importance to what Ruth had told him. He gave a shrewd guess at the source of her information and what it was worth.

Still, as he had further need of Heckett’s services, and as that worthy’s house was, for the present, the centre of some rather important operations, he thought it just as well to investigate the matter at once. If Miss Gertie was in the habit of listening to conversations and reporting them to customers, the sooner Miss Gertie had a little change of air and scene the better.

CHAPTER XXV.
GEORGE HAS ‘THE STRAIGHT TIP.’

George had got on capitally in his situation. He found the Work remarkably easy, the salary was paid regularly, and he was earning the sweet bread of independence—the first he had ever tasted in his life.

He had some vague idea that he wouldn’t always be a city clerk. He didn’t believe that his father’s temper would last. Eventually, of course, he would be forgiven, the prodigal would return by special invitation, plus a Mrs. Prodigal, the fatted calf would be killed, and George, having proved that he was of some use in the world, and could earn money as well as spend it, would settle down to a country life. Bess’s father would have a nice little cottage somewhere, and everything would come right.

But George was not going to make the first advance. His father had cast him off, and cast off he would remain till he was sent for. He didn’t even let his father know his whereabouts or that he was married. Bess wrote once to her father to say she was in London and well and happy, and she hoped he would have faith in her and believe all she had done was for the best. But she gave no address, for George was determined to cut himself completely adrift from old associations. For the present he was Mr. George Smith, and nothing that concerned Mr. George Heritage concerned him.

Bess was very happy; she would have been happier still if she might have told her father all, looked up with unblushing cheeks in his dear old face and asked his blessing.

That was the one thing denied her. But George did his best to console her, and Bess believed the world did not hold his equal. It seemed sometimes that she was dreaming when her face was pressed close to his, and he kissed her and called her little wife. She dreaded to wake up and find it all unreal.

George was sure that had he chosen from the Belgravian conservatories of rare English girlhood he could not have improved upon his sweet wildflower of the Surrey hills. Bess was not only beautiful and amiable; she was the cleverest little woman in the world. It was a treat to watch her sew a button on. She no sooner took it between her rosy fingers and tickled it gently with the needle than, hey, presto! there it was as firm as a rock. And then her cooking. I should like to know what beautiful young lady of society could have come near Bess in the matter of pie-crust. No duchess in the land could ever hope to equal her haricot mutton; and I’m quite sure that the united efforts of the whole of the upper ten thousand would have failed to make a shilling go as far as Bess could make sixpence go.

One proof of her skill absolutely astonished her husband, he saw a very beautiful bonnet in a shop in Regent’s Street, and he told Bess he should like to buy it for her.

‘You dear old goose,’ said his wife; ‘why, you’d have to pay three guineas for it!’

George whistled. He thought that was a great deal of money for a small feather, a bunch of roses, and a plain straw.

Next morning Bess said to him at breakfast, ‘George, you-wanted to make me a present of a three-guinea bonnet yesterday; give me ten shillings to spend instead.’

There was half a sovereign in Bess’s plump little hand directly. That evening they arranged to go for a stroll to look at the shops. Bess went to put on her bonnet, and when she camc into-the parlour George backed into the fireplace with astonishment.

Bess had on the beautiful three-guinea bonnet!

‘Why, how ever did you get it, my dear?’ he said. ‘It’s-awfully extravagant!’

Bess gave a merry little laugh.

‘How much do you think it cost?’ she said.

‘Why, three guineas, of course,’ said George.

‘Nonsense, you dear old stupid! It cost ten shillings!’

‘Did they let you have it for that after all?’

‘They let me have it? No. I made it myself, and the ten shillings you gave me paid for all the materials.’

‘Wonderful!’ said George. And all that evening as they walked about he felt inclined to stop the Ladies and gentlemen in the street and exclaim, ‘I say, look at this bonnet. Did you ever see anything like it? My wife made it, and it only cost ten shillings. Isn’t she clever?’

George’s respect for his wife increased every day as he saw the marvels her tiny fingers accomplished. He wished Smith & Co. could see her. Once he did go so far as to take Smith & Co. an apple turnover which his wife had made; but it looked so nice that, Smith & Co. (per Mr. Brooks, the manager) not arriving till late, George ate it himself.

On the day following the momentous interview between the partners in the firm of Smith & Co., George presented himself at the office in Gutter Lane.

Mr. Brooks arrived a little later than usual, and busied himself with some papers at his desk for a while.

Just before eleven be took a cheque from his poeket-book, exclaiming, ‘By Jove! Smith, I’d nearly forgotten it!’

‘Forgotten what, sir?’ said George.

‘Why, I received a cheque from Grigg and Limpet yesterday afternoon to buy tallow with for their client on the open market to-day.’

‘It isn’t too late to buy tallow, is it?’ asked George, innocently.

‘No, but they only take gold or notes on the market. You must run and cash this at once and bring the money back here. It’s most important we should operate early.’

George had heard of surgical operations, but operations on the tallow market were mysteries of city life which he had not at present penetrated.

Anxious to acquire information in order to qualify himself for commercial eminence, he was about to question Mr. Brooks when that gentleman cut him short.

‘Take the chcque at once, Smith; be back quickly,’ he said. ‘Hulloa, it’s payable to order! What a nuisance!’

‘It must be endorsed, mustn’t it?’ said George, anxious to show what a lot he knew. In the course of his career he had had many cheques payable to his order, and he knew where to write his name. He wasn’t like that innocent major who, having lived all his life on discount, assured the financial agent who offered to do a three months’ bill for him that he didn’t know how to accept one.

Mr. Brooks recognized George’s business knowledge with a pleasant smile. Yes, it did require the name of Smith and Co. on the back; but, a most unfortunate thing, he had sprained his thumb, and couldn’t write.

‘Here, Smith,’ he said, tossing the cheque across to him, ‘just write Smith and Co. on the back for me, will you?’

George hesitated.

‘Is that correct, sir?’ he asked.

‘Of course it is! Why, what office have you been brought up in? Any clerk can endorse a firm’s signature; it’s quite usual in large firms.’

George coloured to think how he had betrayed his ignorance. He hastened to atone for it by endorsing the cheque ‘Smith and Co.’ at once.

‘That’s it,’ said Mr. Brooks. ‘Now off you go, and make haste back.’

George took the cheque and, buttoning it securely in his breast-pocket, went off to the bank with it.

As he went along he fancied that he was followed. He couldn’t get rid of the idea that a tall dark man with a hook nose was watching him. He put his hand on the pocket containing the cheque and hurried on.

At the bank where he presented the cheque, to his astonishment he saw the tall dark man at another desk, and heard him inquire about opening an account.

The cashier took the cheque, cancelled the signature, and handed George five hundred-pound notes.

The dark man concluded his inquiry, and walked hurriedly out.

A little way from the bank George had another surprise. He ran up against Mr. Brooks.

‘By Jove! Smith,’ exclaimed the manager, ‘we shall be late! I must go straight on to the tallow market. Give me the notes, and go back to the office.’

George handed the notes to the manager, glad to be released of the responsibility of carrying them through the crowded city, and walked leisurely on to the office.

Mr. Brooks was evidently in a hurry. The moment he had the notes in his possession he walked as fast as he could to the Bank of England, and there obtained gold for them.

Two minutes afterwards he was in a hansom cab, being driven rapidly to the other end of London.

George walked on towards the office, and just as he got to Gutter Lane some one tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned, and beheld to his astonishment the same dark face and hook nose that had attracted his attention at the bank.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the stranger; ‘but have you just presented a cheque at the bank?’

‘Yes,’ said George; ‘why do you ask?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied the stranger. ‘I’m a detective.’

George started and coloured.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘but I really can’t see what that has to do with it.’

‘I’ll tell you. Don’t make a fuss; just listen to me, for what I’m going to say is for your good. I want to save you from a jolly mess.’

What on earth did the man mean? George had plenty of courage, but he really felt alarmed at being talked to like this by a detective.

‘You’re a green un, I can see,’ said the man; ‘and you’ve been made a mug of. You’re mixed up with the awfullest set of swindlers in London. They’ll all be in quod in half an hour; and it’s because I see you’ve been made a mug of I want to give you a chance of getting clear.’

George went hot and cold. Smith and Co. swindlers! A hundred little things, many that he had thought nothing of, now rushed back to his memory. A sudden revelation came, and in a moment the fabric of commercial eminence he had reared for himself fell to the ground.

‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, as the situation dawned upon him, ‘I must clear myself, and at once. What can I do?’

‘Take my advice and do nothing. Hook it. I believe you’re innocent, or I shouldn’t have given you this warning. But you wouldn’t be able to prove your innocence to a jury. The gang you’re in is the artfullest in London; they’d lay it all on you, and bring twenty witnesses to prove it. What witnesses to character have you got?’

‘Why, plenty!’ began George. Then suddenly he checked himself. He had been living under a false name. He had left his home in debt and difficulties after quarrelling with his father. How could he allow all this to be known to the world? How could he let his father and the people at home come to a police court, to find him in the dock with a gang of swindlers?

All these considerations flashed through the young man’s brain with lightning rapidity. Then he thought of Bess, and became almost speechless with horror. His position was terrible.

‘I don’t know why you tell me this,’ he gasped, seizing the dark man’s arm; ‘but for God’s sake tell me what to do? I have a wife and an old father; for their sakes I would do anything rather than have my name dragged before the world in a case like this.’

‘That’s reasonable,’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry for you, and I believe in you. I ought to arrest you, but I shan’t. I’m going to let you get clear away, and I’ll give the missus the tip too, and she can follow at once. Where do you live?’

George never stopped to ask himself if this sudden interest in his affairs on the part of a stranger could be genuine. He saw the facts in their ghastly reality, and he clutched at this small offer of help as a drowning man clutches at the first thing he sees.

George pulled out a letter from his pocket, and scribbled his address on it in pencil. Underneath he wrote:

‘Dear Bess, do what this gentleman tells you. Bring enough for a day or two’s journey and come to me at once. Don’t be frightened. It’s only a matter of business.’

‘Take this,’ he said, giving it to his unknown friend; ‘and tell me where to go.’

‘Go to some railway station.’

‘Waterloo?’ said George. ‘Will that do?’

‘Capitally! Your wife shall be at Waterloo in a couple of hours. Say the booking-office. Main line. If you’ll take my advice you’ll leave the country till this affair is over. Mind, whatever happens, you must not blab about me giving you the tip. It would ruin me. Swear!’

‘I give you my word of honour as a gentleman,’ stammered the agonized man. ‘I owe you more than I can ever repay.’

‘I’m satisfied,’ said the dark man. ‘I can see you are a gentleman, and your word is enough.’

With a parting admonition to George to ‘keep his pecker up and show a clean pair of heels,’ the mysterious friend turned on his heel and walked rapidly away, leaving the young man in a state of mind almost impossible to describe.

Mortification, rage, shame, all struggled for mastery in his breast, and all gave way before the horror with which he contemplated the consequences to the girl he had brought from her happy home and wedded in secret, should he be arrested and charged with being one of a gang of swindlers. He was innocent, he knew; but to prove it he would have to drag his honoured name through the mire; he would have to proclaim to the world the whole story of his debts and difficulties, his quarrels with his father, and his runaway marriage with a lodge-keeper’s daughter.

No, he couldn’t face that. It might be cowardly, but once he had Bess safe in his keeping again, he would take the detective’s advice and avoid scandal by timely flight.

The hue and cry for the missing George Smith might be raised, but what of that? Who would connect George Smith, the humble clerk who lodged at Duck’s, with George Heritage, Squire Heritage’s son and heir?

CHAPTER XXVI.
PECULIAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR. SETH PREENE.

Mr. Seth Preene, the amateur detective, hurrying along on his mission of love and mercy, chuckled to himself at the ease with which he had accomplished his purpose.

‘He is a green un,’ he said to himself; ‘grass ain’t in it with him. I wonder where old Brooks picked him up. He’s a gentleman, though—genuine goods—hall marked. Nothing o’ the Brummagem nine-carat there.’

Mr. Seth Preene had had a good deal of experience among ‘swells,’ both of the nine-carat Brummagem and of the eighteen-carat hall-marked, in the course of his adventurous career, and it hadn’t taken him long to sum up George Heritage’s character. ‘Swell out o’ luck, I should fancy,’ he said, as he walked along.

Bess was sitting in the window, sewing, when a hansom cab rattled up to the door, and a tall dark gentleman, with a hook nose, ran up the steps and knocked.

‘How awkward!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here’s a visitor and Miss Duck’s out. I shall have to open the door.’

Bess had all a country girl’s fear of opening the door to London strangers. She had heard such tales and read such things in the newspapers about robberies and murders, that she saw a possible petty-larcenist in every tax-collector and a would-be assassin in every well-dressed person who came to inquire if Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown was an inmate of the house.

But not having heard or read of robbers and murderers dashing up in hansom cabs, with a ready-made witness in the driver, Bess summoned up courage to answer the door to this visitor.

Is Mrs. Smith within?’ asked the gentleman politely.

Bess turned pale. Something had happened to George at the office, perhaps. Had he overworked himself and brought on a paralytic stroke?

‘I am Mrs. Smith,’ she stammered. ‘Is it anything about my husband?’

‘Don’t alarm yourself, my dear madam,’ answered the gentleman politely; ‘I’ve only brought a message from him.’

Mr. Preene handed Mrs. Smith her husband’s hastily scribbled note.

She read it with a vague feeling of alarm.

‘What does it mean?’ she stammered. ‘Oh, you are not keeping anything from me? He is not ill?’

‘You alarm yourself needlessly, I assure you. It is only a matter of business. If you will put on your things at once and keep the appointment, you will find it is all right.’

‘Are you in his office, sir?’ asked Bess, wondering what she should do with no one in the house.

Here was the opportunity Preene was waiting for.

‘No,’ he answered; ‘I come from Grigg and Limpet’s—Mr. Duck’s employers. Smith and Co. have business with our firm, and that is where I met your husband. I was coming on to see Miss Duck, and he asked me to bring this note at the same time.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Bess, with a sigh of relief. ‘Then perhaps you’ll wait till Miss Duck comes home? I don’t like to leave the house with no one in it,’ she added apologetically.

‘I must wait,’ said Mr. Preene, ‘so you are not putting me to any inconvenience.’

Bess was glad to hear it.

As the gentleman had come to see Miss Duck, and knew all about Grigg and Limpet, of course she could ask him in.

Mr. Preene stepped in, leaving his hansom waiting. He urged Mrs. Smith not to think about him, but to keep the appointment at once.

Bess needed no encouragement. She ran upstairs, put on her mantle and bonnet, gathered a few things together, just what George’s travelling-bag would hold, and, reading her husband’s letter over again, she hurried out. On the doorstep she turned, and once again begged the stranger to assure her that her husband was not ill, and that his hasty summons was not worded so as to conceal the worst from her.

Mr. Preene gave the required assurance, bowed her out, and closed the door behind her.

At another time Bess might have hesitated at leaving a stranger alone in the house, even though he professed such intimacy with the family. But, do what she would, she could not banish the idea that the message from George implied something unpleasant—something which might prove the first trouble of their short and hitherto unclouded married life.

This thought was uppermost in her mind, and banished all other considerations. So she hurried away to Waterloo Station, thinking only of George, and not troubling herself to consider how the unknown visitor might amuse himself in Mr. Duck’s deserted residence.

If she could have witnessed Mr. Preene’s behaviour it would have surprised her.

That estimable gentleman had no sooner closed the door carefully than he rushed upstairs and into all the rooms, in order to discover which were the apartments lately occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

A cursory inspection of the first floor satisfied him that he need go no further.

He had little time to lose, for Miss Duck might be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Smith had informed him, and Mr. Preene particularly wished to conclude his business, and retire without any tiresome explanations.

He looked about the room, then pulled a small parcel from his pocket, undid it, and proceeded to secrete the contents about the room.

Under the squab of the sofa he placed three of the blank cheques from the book so mysteriously lost by Limpet, junior. In a box in the bed-room, under some clothes, he hid a roll of sham bank-notes. In an old waistcoat of George’s, hanging behind the door, he placed a rouleau of spurious sovereigns; and in the cupboard, hidden away behind some boots, he left a small brown-paper parcel containing a portion of the stock-in-trade of a professional forger.

Having paid the absent tenants these delicate attentions, he left a few more souvenirs of his visit and then hurried downstairs, and, pulling the front door gently to, walked rapidly away.

A quarter of an hour later, when Miss Duck returned and let herself in with the latchkey, the house was empty.

Miss Georgina had purchased a bargain at the linendraper’s, and, Mrs. Smith being an authority on bargains, Georgina ran upstairs to display her purchase and ask Mrs. Smith’s opinion.

She knocked at the door, and, receiving no answer, opened it, and stepped in.

The rooms were empty.

‘Dear me!’ said Miss Georgina; ‘how strange! She never said anything about going out.’

The afternoon wore away, and Mrs. Smith did not return. Evening came and brought Jabez home to his tea, but it brought no Mrs. Smith, and, stranger still, it brought no Mr. Smith either.

‘Whatever can have become of the Smiths, Jabez?’ said Miss Georgina, when tea was cleared away, and the first floor was still empty.

‘I don’t know, my dear,’ answered Mr. Dick. ‘Perhaps they’ve bolted with the lead off the roof, or the washing out of the back garden.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Jabez. Can’t you talk seriously for a moment?’

‘What a fidget you are, Georgina! Let the Smiths alone, and they’ll come home, and bring their tails behind them.’

‘Keep your poetry for those who appreciate it,’ exclaimed Miss Georgina, tossing her head. ‘All I know is, if the Smiths don’t come home soon I shall think something’s wrong.’

There was something wrong indeed—how wrong, Miss Duck discovered later on, when a detective arrived from Scotland Yard ‘in consequence of information received, ’and in Miss Dick’s presence searched the rooms and found quite enough to prove that the late occupants were professional forgers and in league with a gang of robbers.

Miss Duck rushed off there and then and brought in Miss Jackson to stay with her till Jabez returned, declaring that she wasn’t going to be murdered in her bed for anyone, and picturing in vivid colours what might have happened to a poor unprotected female left alone as she often had been with these monsters of iniquity.

At the idea of her friend being murdered in her bed, Miss Jackson raised a dismal howl, and wept on Georgina’s bosom to such an extent that the latter must have been in imminent danger of rheumatics in the chest.

‘I always said they were no good,’ hissed Miss Dick, as she counted the cheap electro spoons and forks. ‘If Jabez had been a man he wouldn’t have allowed me to be mixed up with a pack of thieves. Why didn’t he let his apartments himself? I’ll never take another lodger as long as I live.’

‘I wouldn’t, dear,’ said Miss Jackson; ‘it isn’t genteel.’

‘What!’ shrieked Georgina, turning on Miss Jackson, ‘not genteel! Hoity-toity! I wonder you demean yourself by honouring us with your presence! Genteel, indeed! My brother is a professional man, madam, if he is a fool. Your family made their money in dust-carts and refuse-heaps. Genteel, indeed!’

Miss Jackson shrieked and gasped for mercy. She held her arms out and struck attitudes of despair. She would have torn her hair but that she knew it would come off directly.

‘Oh, Georgina!’ she cried, ‘don’t, don’t! If you spurn me I shall die! I didn’t mean it; indeed I didn’t!’

Here Miss Jackson went off into strong hysterics and shrieked so loudly that Georgina, fearing a crowd outside and further scandal, slapped her hands viciously and promised to forgive her. Whereupon Miss Jackson left off her hysterics, wiped away her tears, and, clasping Georgina to her heart, declared she was the best of women and the dearest of friends.

Then, locking up the house, and taking Miss Jackson with her, Miss Duck marched off at once to Grigg and Limpet’s, to inform Jabez of the affair and to give him a bit of her mind.

Mr. Jabez being engaged with the governors, they were shown into a little waiting-room, in which there was already an elderly-looking female deeply veiled.

Presently Jabez came in, and all three ladies rose to meet him.

He gave a sharp cry of mingled astonishment and horror, then turned deadly pale, and seemed as though he would fly.

The elderly female had thrown her veil up. Georgina and Miss Jackson had advanced towards him.

The unhappy Jabez was alone with Georgina, Miss Jackson, and Mrs. Turvey.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN.

With the limited means at their command, George and Bess were not able to wander far away.

George did not tell his young wife the nature of the trouble that had come upon him. He shrank from letting her knew the worst, that innocently even he had been mixed up with a gang of swindlers.

The blow was so cruel it almost stunned him; but by the time Bess, wondering and trembling, came to him at the railway station, he had recovered himself sufficiently to invent a fairly plausible tale.

He told her that he believed his father was in London looking for him, and he did not care to run the risk of being discovered living under an assumed name.

Bess wondered why such a discovery, which, after all, was nothing very terrible, should make her husband so white and ill and nervous; but she did not question him. She was in that sweet and comfortable stage of hero-worship when a young wife believes all her husband tells her and does exactly as she is told—a delightful condition of things, which, alas! rubs off as quickly as the gilt on the gingerbread sold at country fairs.

So she followed her husband in blind faith, and accepted his story as gospel.

They went a little way out first and put up at a small inn, living frugally, for their capital was small.

George was restless and could not stop in one place. In every footstep behind him he heard the tread of the law; in every stranger who looked at him he saw a possible detective.

Over and over again he thought the situation out to himself, and wondered whether it would not be better to make a clean breast of it to justice, say who he was, prove his innocence, and so know the worst.

But this could not be done secretly. He knew that he would be charged, under any circumstances, with uttering the forged cheque, and he remembered with horror that he had endorsed the name of Smith and Co. upon it. Then he had been living under a false name, and he had left home in debt and difficulties.

No, he would rather wander about and endure a hundred miseries as George Smith than stand forth as George Heritage, and let his private life be read by the hundred eyes of the vulgar, with sneers and jeers and contemptuous laughter.

He was terribly sensitive of ridicule, and he saw at once the ridiculous figure he should cut as the clerk, at £3 a week, to a gang of swindlers.

Once or twice he was inclined to take Bess into his confidence; but here again his sensitiveness stepped in.

He could not bear even for his wife to know that he had been fooled. Their short dream of happiness, their humble little home life, had been so real and earnest, it was with something like a shudder he contemplated shattering the past.

No, for the present he would leave her in blissful ignorance of his stupidity and failure. But as the funds grew shorter and a pinch came, he grew terribly uneasy, and his face began to wear a worn, worried look, which frightened his young wife.

They moved on now from place to place, never stopping more than a night in any one. George scarcely slept. All night in the little bed-room in the village inn where they stayed he would lie and turn from side to side, thinking and conjuring up a thousand fancied catastrophes.

When the original funds were quite gone, and the worst stared him in the face, George, still carefully concealing the real aspect of affairs from Bess, surreptitiously pawned his watch and chain and his ring.

As the future began to look blacker and blacker, he instinctively turned his footsteps towards home.

That must be the last resource.

The means of staving off the day of reckoning were diminishing rapidly, and a bold move was necessary, unless his poor Bess was to know the real horrors of poverty.

‘Anything rather than that,’ he thought to himself. ‘I will go towards home, and then, if the worst comes, I must swallow my pride, throw myself on the old man’s generosity, and get enough to leave the country till this affair blows over, or I can devise some means of setting myself right without a public exposure.’

So it came about that after wandering up and down the country, and living as frugally as possible, George found himself, at the end of a fortnight, without money and without shelter, but within a few miles of his father’s estate.

The fierce winter had melted into the genial brightness of the early Spring, once the pleasantest part of the year, but now, alas! as uncommon in these islands as the dodo or the great auk. The first tender green leaves were peeping out shyly among the branches of the trees, as though they were half afraid that winter might not be quite gone, and the air was full of the sweet invigorating essence which lends elasticity to the step of the aged wayfarer, and tempts the young to pitch decorum to the winds and to scamper about and shout and laugh.

I pity the lad or the lass whose pulse does not beat quicker on a bright spring day, whose heart does not fill to overflowing with love for Nature as he gazes on the young earth quickening into life and beauty beneath the bright smile of the early spring sun.

It was on one of those spring days that Bess and George trod the old road towards the park for the first time since their marriage.

But George was nervous and ill, and Bess, oppressed with the idea that her husband had some secret trouble which he would not allow her to share, was profoundly miserable.

One idea alone consoled her. He had told her that morning, when further subterfuge was useless, and when he was bound to confess they were penniless, that he was going to see his father. Bess was delighted to hear it. She had not dared to say so, or to urge such a step, but she felt that anything was better than the wandering, miserable life they had led lately.

Besides, should she not see her own father?

Twice since she had left home she had written a short letter, giving no address and no clue to her whereabouts, saying she was well and happy, and that her father was to have faith in her and think the best he could.

And now she was going to see him and tell him all, for George was taking her back as his wife, and there would be no need for further concealment.

At any other time the idea of seeing her father would have made her supremely happy. She had looked forward to the day when she might put her arms round his neck and tell him all so eagerly; and now that the time had come she was miserable. Alas! it was the old story. How often the cherished dream of our life is accomplished amid surroundings which make it a hollow mockery, and only serve to intensify the bitter disappointment! We can look back upon yesterday with regret, and we can look forward to to-morrow with pleasure; but, alas! to-day is ever present, and to-day is generally a very dull affair.

George and Bess sauntered along the road, dusty, tired, and travel-stained. George’s face was white and haggard, and he had let his beard grow during the fortnight, which did not add to the picturesqueness of his appearance. Bess, too, in the hurried journeyings and constant moving from pillar to post, had neglected her toilette somewhat, and had had to make shift as best she could; so that as they tramped along they might easily have been mistaken for something much lower in the social scale than the heir to the Heritage estates and his young wife.

‘We must not get to the house till dusk, Bess,’ said George, as they strolled along. ‘I couldn’t go in this sight in broad daylight.’

‘No,’ answered Bess; ‘it will be best to wait till it’s dusk, George dear; there’ll be nobody about then. Old Dick will have gone home, and there’ll only be father.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed George eagerly, ‘I’d forgotten that. You can go first and see your father, and I can come and slip into the lodge and wait about till the coast is clear, and then go up to the house.’ Now that he was nearing his home his heart was beginning to fail him, and the old pride, which trouble had broken down for a while, was beginning to reassert itself.

Just outside the village in which Heritage Park stands there is a small wood. The high road skirts it, and it forms a tempting place for the dusty wayfarer to seek shelter in for a while.

Many a tramp on his road from workhouse to workhouse wanders into this wood, and, flinging himself down, enjoys a siesta, forgetting his troubles and dreaming such dreams as it pleases Nature to send him in the place of realities.

When George and Bess came to the wood, they determined to make it their halting-place for a while. It was only afternoon, and there were a couple of good hours before it would be dark enough for them to enter the village safely.

They crept into the wood to a spot which had been a favourite one with them in their sweethearting days, and sat down.

The fresh air and the long walk had tired them, and after a while they fell asleep.

While the tired pilgrims rested, a pair of very different travellers passed leisurely along the high road.

They were an elderly clergyman and a young gentleman.

The clergyman was tall and burly, and wore his garb with a curious awkwardness, that would have impressed the critical observer with an idea that his living was a rural one.

The young gentleman, though dressed in the height of fashion, was a little gaudy about the necktie, and had a sharp, cunning look upon his face, and a decided squint in the deeply-set, eager, restless eyes, that seemed to take in the four points of the compass at once.

The clergyman and his son were staying at a local hostelry hard by for a day or two, and were enjoying the delightful walks in which the neighbourhood abounds.

They were remarkably quiet and uncommunicative at the old Lamb Inn, which had the honour of harbouring them; but evidently the fresh air had loosened their tongues.

For a clergyman and his son their style of conversation was, to say the least of it, peculiar.

‘We must do it to-night, Boss,’ said the elder; ‘soon after dusk. The swag’s all in jewels, and a grab’ll collar the lot.’

‘Right ye are, Josh,’ answered the young gentleman. ‘But I hope Jim’s give us the right tip.’

‘Trust Jim,’ said the Rev. gentleman; ‘he’s put up three jobs for me in cribs where he’s been, and I’ve always been able to put my hand on the swag jes’ as if I’d put it out for myself. There’s only the old man to tackle.’

‘No wierlence, I’ope, Josh, eh?—nothink as’ud disgrace the cloth?’

The Rev. gentleman laughed.

‘Wierlence? No. Don’t you be afeard, young un. This is only kid’s play, or I shouldn’t have brought you. The old cove ain’t likely to show fight—we shan’t give him the chance; and the servants’ll all be out of the way.’

‘Right,’ answered the young gentleman, glancing admiringly at his elegant suit. ‘I likes to do the thing like a gent, and wierlance is so doosid low nowadays.’

Perhaps if the landlord of the Lamb Inn had overheard this strange conversation between his highly respectable guests he would not have welcomed them back from their stroll with quite such a pleasant smile.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
SQUIRE HERITAGE MAKES A WILL.

Old Squire Heritage had aged very rapidly after the abrupt departure of his son from the hall.

Of a naturally gloomy and austere disposition, and strongly biased towards the cold and uncompromising religious views which a large section of the English people have had transmitted to them through many generations from the old Puritans, the squire believed the blow which had fallen upon him was dealt by a Divine hand.

He had, in his unsympathetic way, been very proud of his son George. The harshness that the young man so bitterly resented was only the result of a mistaken idea of parental duty.

When his son showed a taste not only for the frivolities but also for what the squire considered the vices of the age, he felt that stern repression was necessary. In the old days of parental despotism he would have flung his son into prison; in the enlightened times which forbade the head of a family to declare his domestic circle in a state of siege and proclaim military law, he contented himself by reprimanding the prodigal, treating him with icy displeasure, and eventually renouncing all ties of kinship with him.

By an ordinarily constituted father George’s misdeeds would have been treated as youthful follies, and though the parental anger might have been fierce when the parental pocket was touched, it is probable far less drastic remedies would have been considered necessary.

When George, trembling with passion, left his father’s presence vowing to see his face no more, Squire Heritage did not reproach himself for having goaded the young man to such a frame of mind.

When that night the old lodge-keeper came to him and told him that the young squire had ordered his things to be sent after him to London, his master simply said, ‘Send them,’ in a tone which prohibited any further discussion.

But when, a fortnight later, Bess Marks disappeared, leaving a note for her father which pointed to only one conclusion, and the squire heard of it, he went to the grief-stricken man and took him kindly by the hand and comforted him.

Never was there a greater contrast than between the two fathers—the plebeian and the patrician.

The lodge-keeper, a prey to violent grief and heartbroken at his child’s conduct, never breathed a word of reproach against her. He only prayed that, however guilty she might be, no suffering might come near her, but that God would give her back again to his loving and protecting arms.

Squire Heritage spoke of his absent son coldly, almost cruelly. It was no secret among the people on the estate that Bess Marks had ‘run away’ with the young squire, and this added to the intensity of his father’s indignation and shame.

He felt humiliated, as he stood in the presence of his faithful old retainer, to think that this foul wrong should have been done him by one who bore his name, and his anger against the absent scapegrace was fed by the discovery, as flame is fed with oil.

For the mental torture which he endured he sought refuge in the consolations of religion—of a religion which was founded on the fierce moral code of the Old Testament, and ignored the gentler teaching of the New.

He became almost a recluse, and passed his days in the old library, building up around the natural instincts of his heart a wall of bigotry, against which the erring son might throw himself in vain.

With nothing else to occupy his mind or divert his attention, with no society now but that of the fierce old theologians, his favourite authors, he became a prey to religious monomania, and an intellect long threatened was submerged by a flood of fanaticism.

He believed that God called upon him to show his faith as Abraham showed his. His conscience told him that he must cast the erring son off for ever, and that if he shrank from the utmost extremity of punishment he was a weak vessel, who preferred his human affection to his duty to God and man.

When once a lonely, narrow-minded man yields to this morbid view, there is no limit to the sway it has over him. Every natural instinct, every human feeling, becomes subservient to it, and the cruellest and most heartless deeds, surrounded by a false religious glamour, seem to him but so many noble actions performed in the service of the Master.

It was not enough for Squire Heritage that he and his son had parted, and that he was in utter ignorance of the young man’s whereabouts. Such conduct called for the severest punishment it was in his power to inflict. In the first days of their separation, though he had renounced him, he had hesitated at disinheriting him.

That was a vengeance that would survive when the grave had closed over him. While he lived he would never call him son again, but when he was dead—no, he would not make up his mind to carry his just indignation to such a point as that.

But when Bess Marks disappeared, and it was known that George had been seen frequently with her ‘sweethearting,’ as the gossips called it, and when inquiry left no doubt that the girl had gone, and at her young master’s instigation, the old squire shattered his last scruple at a blow.

On the very day that he felt certain the old lodge-keeper’s daughter had been lured from home by his son, he sent to his solicitor in hot haste, and prepared and executed a new will.

His first impulse had been to leave the whole of his estate to charity, but the pride of race was strong upon him.

Since the days when Cromwell rewarded his bravest followers with the lands of the Royalists, the Heritages had been lords of the old hall and the land about it. If he left all to charity the estates would have to be sold. After a long and anxious consideration the squire determined on leaving his property to preserve the name, and yet to leave his fortune where it would be well used.

He had never renewed his old friendship with John Adrian, which had been interrupted when they both fell in love with the gentle lady Heritage afterwards married.

John had not broken his heart when pretty Ruth Patmore gave the preference to the wealthy young country squire. He had taken the defeat like a sensible fellow, and later on had himself married and been comparatively happy. But that a remembrance of the old romance survived was evident when he named his little daughter Ruth.

Though the Heritages and the Adrians never met, they heard of each other from mutual friends, and after his wife’s death the squire had once or twice inquired especially after Ruth.

He had heard that she had met with a disappointment in love, and also of her pure end noble life, her labours among the poor, and the extent to which she tried to do good with the means at her command.

There was something of sentiment in it, perhaps, but he could not help thinking how fortunate Adrian had been in his daughter and how unfortunate he had been in his son.

Brooding over the past, and comparing it with the present, it was not wonderful that the image of Ruth Adrian rose before him often as he thought of his ungrateful son.

When he was brooding over the scheme of the new will which he had determined to make, and had abandoned the idea of leaving his fortune to charitable institutions, again his mind reverted to Ruth Adrian.

Gradually a vague idea formed itself, which by degrees assumed a definite shape. There would be something of poetic justice in benefiting the daughter of his old rival, the girl who bore his dead wife’s name. Had God granted him a daughter he would have named her Ruth too—Ruth Heritage. The name lingered in his mind, and the sweet memories flowed ones more over the grave ox the buried years.

Ruth Heritage!

Why was this gentle girl not his daughter? How fortunate Adrian had been. His wife lived still, and his daughter was the comfort of his age. He, the successful rival, had no wife and no child.

Ruth Heritage!

He sat in the window-seat of the library, looking across the quiet park to the lodge-gates, watching for his solicitor to come, and thinking over the will he was to make.

And when, an hour later, his man of business was with him in close conference, his scheme was complete. There was an element of romance in it. The harshness to his own son was toned down by the halo of tenderness which it cast over an old love-story.

The solicitor took his client’s instructions with professional lack of emotion. Family solicitors assist in the disinheritance of sons, the revelation of delicate domestic secrets, and carefully calculated schemes of a revenge which is to survive after death, with no more concern than the prompter feels as he watches the progress of a sensation drama.

To him the scheme which may bring happiness or misery to hundreds represents so many folios of writing at so much a folio, and so many hours of professional work at so much an hour.

Mr. Baggs, of the firm of Baggs & Carter, expressed no surprise at the fact that young George Heritage was to be disinherited, and did not even venture on a suggestion. He listened to his client’s instructions, and took them away to put them in a legal form.

When the will was ready Squire Heritage signed it, sealed it, delivered it as his act and deed, and locked it up among his papers.

It was a very simple will. It gave and bequeathed to Ruth Adrian, the daughter of his old rival John Adrian, the whole of his property, subject to a few legacies to old servants. But it made this proviso: that the said Ruth Adrian should assume the name of Heritage; and that in the event of her being married when the will came into operation, her husband should assume the name of Heritage. By this means the old name would continue to be identified with the place.

Directly he had settled his worldly affairs, the squire relapsed once more into the gloomy inactivity from which he had only been aroused by the necessity of devising a scheme for the disposal of his property.

But in spite of himself he kept thinking of the will and then of his absent son. He found himself picturing the days that should be after he had passed away and had no power to revoke his decision.

When in his lonely walks round the estate he passed some wretched tramp on his way to the workhouse, he would fancy his son, reduced to such a position after a career of dissipation, perishing friendless and without hope.

Then he would shudder and ask himself if he were justified in thus ruining the worldly prospects of his only son for life, and giving his inheritance to a stranger.

But at night, with the Bible open before him, and the passionate Hebrew invective against the evildoer appealing to his narrowed vision, he cast these forebodings to the wind. Such thoughts were thoughts sent by the devil to weaken his determination. Were not all the servants of God tempted in like manner to swerve from the path of duty, and was it not always the natural impulses of the heart that were sought to be turned to their undoing? So the gloomy train of thought led him away, till he was prepared to listen to each chord of human sympathy which memory awoke in him as one struck by the tempter’s fingers.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE BURGLARY AT THE HALL.

Night had come upon the old hall, and the fresh spring wind, trying to whistle a tune for the young leaves to dance to, was the only thing that disturbed the perfect calm which had fallen upon the spot.

Up in his library at the hall the squire sat among his books and papers.

Beside him lay a packet of faded yellow letters—the letters his wife had written him during their happy married life There were not many of them, for they were seldom apart, and the opportunity for correspondence had rarely arisen.

He had found them to-night in a box to which he had gone for something else, and he had read them over.

All of them mentioned George. They had been written mostly when George was a little lad, one year that the squire had gone abroad for six weeks by himself. As the old man read the words of tender love and devotion, he thanked God that this fond heart, at least, had ceased to beat ere its idol could grow up to break it.

Then he wondered if things would have been different had she lived. Perhaps he had been too severe and expected too much.

He read the lines traced by the hand long cold in the grave, and a strange sense of uneasiness came over him.

It seemed as though the spirit of the dead woman was pleading with him for her boy.

The hereafter was a mystery. If the eyes of the saints look down upon earth, what would the mother in heaven think of the father who robbed his son of his inheritance and left him a beggar?

The old man was low and desponding, and his mind was none too vigorous now. Strange fancies came to him at times. He wrestled with the devil in spirit, and endeavoured to ascribe every trifling incident to the direct interposition of Providence.

He had been proud of his son, he said to himself, and made an earthly idol of him The worship had certainly been as cold and formal as some other worships which look down with considerable contempt on enthusiasm in religion, but he persuaded himself it had been there. So he was punished for his idolatry by the shattering of his idol. In olden times he would have worn a shirt of hair and washed the feet of beggars for his sins; now he strove to put himself right by mortifying not the flesh but the spirit—by trampling out his natural affections, and misinterpreting the will of heaven.

He read the letters of his dead wife, which spoke of George again and again. Once he cast them aside with a shudder. It was another wile of the Evil One to lure him into leniency for the transgressor. But gradually his heart softened as memory carried him back to the happiest days of his life, when his sweet Ruth tossed the laughing child upon her knee and held him up for his father’s kiss.

It was not long ago—it was to-day. He could see them. The gloomy room faded away, and it was the pleasant summer time. There with fresh-plucked roses in her hand, sat his wife, and George—little George—was clapping his baby hands with delight as ‘pretty mamma’ twined the beautiful buds in her hair.

He started up, and held his hands towards the vision, but it faded in an instant, and he was once more alone—a miserable, weak old man, wifeless and childless.

‘No, no!’ he cried, burying his facc in his hands. ‘My heart relents; I cannot do it. She would rise from her grave. Ruth—my poor Ruth—for your dear sake I will forgive him all!’

For a few minutes the old man, a prey to violent emotion, the tears streaming down his face, struggled with himself. The old love he had trampled beneath the heel of supposed duty was beating at his heart and striving to enter. The wall of faith was weak to-night—it gave way, and love marched in a conqueror.

With feverish hands he seized the pen, and, taking a sheet of paper, began to write.

His pen moved on rapidly—he wrote as though he feared a hand would seize his wrist and stop him.

Love had conquered. Squire Heritage wrote that night how, being of sound mind, he did revoke the will made in favour of Ruth Adrian, and give and bequeath all his property to his beloved son George.

Then he rang the bell. He would have his signature witnessed at once, lock it up and put it away, lest he might repent at the last moment. He summoned the old butler and one of the servants, who came up wondering at their presence being required.

If the master had asked them to stand on their heads they could not have been more surprised than when the squire bade them watch him write his name on a piece of paper, and then write theirs underneath it. The butler felt as if he was committing a midnight crime; but he obeyed, so did the other servant.

Then the squire dismissed them wondering, and, folding up the paper, placed it among the letters of his dead wife. It seemed to him that it was an answer to them, and should be with them.

He put them back into the box he had taken them from. It was a small deed-box, and contained all Mrs. Heritage’s jewellery.

Her wedding-ring he wore himself; but her diamonds, all her bracelets and trinkets, he had refused to part with. He had gathered them together, and put them in this box with her letters, and a few of the little treasures that had been dear to her in life. There was a small locket with a curl from baby George’s head; there was the hair he cut with trembling fingers as he stooped to kiss the marble brow of his lost one for the last time.

When he had placed the letters and the paper in the box, he drew out the jewel-cases and opened them. He had not looked at them for years. To-night he was living in the past. He opened case after case, and gazed lovingly at the gleaming jewels within. But as the diamonds sparkled in the gaslight, and the rubies and the emeralds shot forth their coloured rays, as though eager to escape from the long darkness in which they had been imprisoned, the old squire thought not of their value and beauty, but of the loving bosom the necklace once lay upon, of the gentle wrists the bracelets once clasped.

As he laid them back in the box and closed it with a sigh, he fancied he heard a sound in the passage outside.

He hurried to see what it was.

The library door was slightly ajar and the gas was lit.

As he turned he heard, or fancied he heard, a rustle, as though some one who had been peering into the room had moved away.

There was no one about belonging to the house, he knew. The servants had gone to the servants’ hall, and they never came near him except when he rang.

It was about nine o’clock, and they would be all at supper down below. Who was watching him?—who was spying on his movements?

He walked rapidly towards the door.

At the same moment he heard a noise behind him, and felt the wind blowing in from an open window.

He turned at the sound, and would have shouted for help, but a hand was thrust over his mouth and a cloth was thrown over his head.

A tall, burly man, with a crape mask on, had him in his grasp.

‘It can’t be helped; he’d have raised a hullabaloo in a minute,’ cried the man. ‘Quick with the stuff, while I hold him!’

Some one, who never spoke, and whom the squire could not see, was moving about the room.

‘Now out with the gas and bolt!’ cried the man who held the squire.

At the same time he gave the squire a violent push, that sent him full-length on the floor.

There was a noise at the window, a thud on the lawn below, and then all was still.

The force with which the squire had been hurled to the ground had only partially stunned him. In a few minutes he came round and dragged himself up. He was trembling and exhausted, and the place was quite dark.

He rushed to the door and called for help. Presently the terrified servants came running up.

When the lights were procured, the squire gasped out his story.

A glance round the room showed that the burglars had left by the window.

They had not left empty-handed.

When the squire looked towards the place where he had left the deed-box, with his late wife’s letters, jewels, and valuables, it was gone.

CHAPTER XXX.
HOW FATHER AND SON MET AGAIN.

As the dusk set in, George Heritage and his young wife drew nearer and nearer to the home they had both quitted under such different circumstances.

For the last half hour of their walk George had been almost silent; but Bess, who was picturing in her mind the meeting with her father, hardly noticed it.

The determination he had made to throw himself upon his father’s generosity, to return like the prodigal and crave forgiveness, was becoming weaker and weaker as the time came for it to be carried into effect.

But for Bess, he would have turned back now at the eleventh hour; yet the thought of the misery which his penniless condition would entail upon her forced him to go on.

He waited a little way off while Bess went on first and saw her father. He fancied there might be a scene, and he didn’t like scenes. He was no longer George Smith, the unknown clerk. Here he was George Heritage, Marks’s young master; and he felt that the position, till explained, would be awkward.

Had Bess risen from the dead, her father would not have been more astonished than he was when she crept into the little lodge and fell at his feet.

‘Father!’ she cried, ‘don’t you know me?’

For a moment the old lodge-keeper struggled for breath. Then his voice came, and with a big sob, he cried, ‘Bess—my own darling! Thank God! Thank God!’

He flung his arms about her, raised her, and clasped her to his breast, the hot tears pouring down his wrinkled cheeks into the flushed, upturned face of his daughter.

Bess cried a little, laughed a little, and then cried again, and at last, when she could speak without doing either, she told her story in a few words.

The old lodge-keeper listened in silence.

‘Ay, I knew it, my darling,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘I got your letters, and I trusted you. I guessed it was for the young master’s sake you were silent.’

‘Yes, father; I would never have kept it secret from you but for George.’

‘No, my lass, I know that. I said to myself many a night, when I sat here alone, looking up at the bright stars, and thinking that might be up in the great city you were looking at them too—I said, “My little lass is an honest lass; she wouldn’t shame her old father for the best gentleman in the land.” I knew you were married to the young master, Bess, my darling. If I hadn’t believed that, I don’t think you would have found me here now.’

Little by little, Bess told her father how they had been living in London, and how good George had been; but how now, for some reason, it was necessary he should see his father and make his peace with him. ‘Would her father let him come to the lodge and wait awhile, till he could go up to the hall and see the squire alone?’

Of course Marks would. ‘Wasn’t he the young master, and wasn’t he Bess’s husband? God bless him!’

Then Bess went out, and George came quietly in and sat down in the little room where no one could see him, and they closed the door and drew down the blind, and talked matters over.

Marks could not imagine himself the father-in-law of the young squire. He touched his hat to him and said, ‘No, Master George,’ and ‘Yes, Master George,’ and wouldn’t sit down in the room where he was; and George began to feel very uncomfortable, and to wish he could see some way of escape even now without speaking to his father.

He must tell him of Mrs. George Heritage—that was a matter of course. Some day he had intended to do so under any circumstances; but some day had always been a very convenient day. This day was a most inconvenient one.

Still matters were desperate. At any time there might be a hue-and-cry after him. He must leave the country at once, unless he wished to run the risk of taking a public trial and having the whole of his past life published in the papers. No; it was better to tell his father all, humiliating as it was, than to have the whole world knowing it.

Again, what was he to do with Bess? He couldn’t drag her about from pillar to post. He could rough it himself, but she was a woman. Besides, he didn’t want her to know everything. He had supposed he was really doing something very good and noble in making her his wife. As long as he could retain that idea, there was still some romance about the affair. But if he had to drag her about with him and let her see that he was a pauper and in terror of the law, she would owe him nothing. She might then be making a sacrifice for him. He didn’t want a lodge-keeper’s daughter to be a sort of benefactress to him.

He was a strange mixture of good and evil, this young Heritage. He was generous and mean, brave and cowardly, large-minded and small-minded, all at the same time. And his besetting sin was vacillation.

Even now, with the road smoothed for him, with everything to gain and nothing to lose, he hesitated at sacrificing his dignity by an ad misericordiam appeal to his father.

He had pictured something so very different. He had hoped for a time when his father, finding he was independent of him, would hold out his arms and beg his son to honour him again with his friendship.

Bess, supremely happy, once more in her father’s presence, sat and chatted pleasantly. Never an idea crossed her mind that it was any serious trouble which had driven them from London. She believed that George, at first fearing his father had found out his address, had determined to leave the Ducks for awhile. Afterwards, when he determined to go to the hall, she thought he had made up his mind, after all, that it would be better to make a clean breast of it and trust to his father’s generosity.

She believed, poor little woman, that George had taken the best course he could, and that happy days were in store for them.

As to the squire refusing to be reconciled to his son, or to receive the wanderer, such an idea never entered her head.

Who could refuse George anything?

Besides, if he had married her, she couldn’t see that was such a very great crime. She looked in the glass and saw every excuse for a young man doing such a thing.

Her father was not a menial; he was an old and valued retainer, and had been the old squire’s companion in many a long walk and in many an evening chat under the great wide-spreading trees of the park. She had been born on the estate, and the squire had always been kind to her and treated her like a lady. She had had quite as good an education as many of the gentry’s children round about, for it had been a whim of the squire’s lady to send her to school, and some day she had thought of going out for a governess. But her mother died, and, instead of going out into the great world, she stayed at home with her father and fell in love with Master George.

And now they were married. Well, perhaps the squire would have chosen some one higher in rank for his son, but his son might have done much worse. Bess had a spirit of her own and a fair amount of pride. She was quite sure the squire need not be very angry with George for marrying her.

George sat and listened to Bess’s busy tongue, but he hardly heard a word she said. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, and they were not nearly so pleasant as Bess’s.

Towards nine he drew Marks on one side.

‘He’s alone in the library about this time, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ answered the old lodge-keeper; ‘he sits there all the evening after dinner now, writing and reading and talking to himself.’

‘How can I get in without the servants seeing me?’

‘The outer hall-door is not closed; the inner door opens if you turn the handle. But, lor’, Master George, as if you didn’t know the ways of the house as well as me!’

‘What about the dog? If he recognises me he’ll bark and bring the servants up.’

‘I’ll go up and let him out, and take him for a run while you go in,’ said Marks. ‘But what can it matter if the servants do see you, Master George?’

‘I don’t want them to, Marks. You’d understand why if you were in my position.’

George and Marks had walked to the door talking. Before they went out George turned back suddenly into the inner room, where Bess was instinctively doing a little tidying up.

He went across to where she stood and took her hands in his.

‘Bess,’ he said, almost solemnly, ‘I love you very dearly, and you know it. What I am going to do to-night I am doing for your sake. If I fail, your love may have a rude shock. Wish me God speed.’

She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

‘God speed you, my darling,’ she murmured. ‘But happy days are coming now.’

‘Pray God you may be right!’ he cried. Then he clasped her to his breast for a moment and was gone.

Outside he took Marks by the arm.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I am going on a desperate errand to-night, I can’t tell you everything, and Bess has no idea how much depends on this interview. If I fail, it will be necessary for me to get away for awhile. I can’t drag her through the perils I shall have to encounter.’

The young man’s manner was so solemn, that old Marks was alarmed.

‘Oh, Master George, what do you mean?’ he exclaimed nervously.

‘I can’t tell you. I only want you to promise me this. If I fail, I shall leave the place at once, for a time. I want you to guard my poor girl for a time, till I can make a home for her elsewhere. Promise me!’

‘I promise. But you are exaggerating, Master George. The squire won’t be cruel. I am sure he will forgive you.’

‘I don’t know; he may not. If he doesn’t, I am a penniless beggar. I can starve, but she can’t. You won’t turn her out?’

‘Turn her out? I’m her father, Master George.’

The young man pointed to the hall.

‘The man who lives there is mine, but he drove me out of my home.’

‘You went of your own accord.’

‘No, he drove me out, I tell you; and now I am coming back to him like a whipped cur to plead for mercy.’

The struggle between pride and necessity was raging in the young man’s breast.

‘Go and get the dog away, Marks,’ he exclaimed passionately, ‘and let me go, or I shall turn tail even now.’

Marks walked up to the hall, loosed the dog, and, holding him by the collar, led him away across the grounds some distance from the house. At the same moment there was a movement in the shrubbery on the other side of the house, and a big, burly man came creeping round in the shadow and stole noiselessly up the stairs.

At the same time another man, much thinner and shorter, came from the same place, and, keeping along by the walls of the house, went round to where a short garden ladder stood against the side of the house where & creeper was being trained.

It was immediately under the library window.

When Marks had been gone some little time, and George knew that the dog would be beyond hearing distance, he came up through the trees towards the house.

Marks was to lead the dog round and take him back to the lodge, and wait there with Bess till George returned.

The moment had arrived.

The young man’s idea in entering the house like a thief, and at night, was to avoid recognition by the servants. He wanted to see his father alone and unperceived—to go like the prodigal, and cast himself at his feet, and say, ‘Father, forgive me!’

He didn’t want a servant to go rushing up with, ‘Here’s Master George come back!’ and all that nonsense. He hated a fuss, and he had an idea that he was in a very humiliating position.

Besides, even if his father gave him what he wanted, it was better he should come and go unseen, except by Marks.

The fact remained that he had been connected with a gang of swindlers, and there was no knowing where or how he might be traced when once inquiry was set on foot.

The past, the present, and the future all flashed through his mind, as, with hesitating steps, he walked up towards the hall.

‘But for Bess,’ he thought, ‘I’d have had a desperate try to do without him. But for Bess——’

He stopped suddenly.

His great difficulty all along had been what to do with Bess. But for the present was not that fear removed? Was she not safe beneath her father’s roof? Where better could she be than that?

Swiftly he reviewed the whole situation. Bess being at home might stay there a little while. That would give him time. He need not creep into his father’s house like a thief. Might he not write to him first? He could say what he wanted to say so much better in a letter, and there would be less humiliation.

At that moment his fate trembled in the balance.

If he had gone on boldly and seen his father, all might have been well.

But he hesitated. He put off the doing that which he disliked, and he reaped the penalty.

Instead of going up to the hall, he turned back towards the lodge.

He walked rapidly away from the house.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him as of heavy footsteps running.

Instantly the thought flashed upon him that he had been trapped; that the police had found out who he was, and, expecting he would come home, had lain in wait for him.

He did not stop to reason, or to think that if this was so he would have been captured at the lodge.

He only heard the rapidly advancing footsteps behind him, and made certain that he was the object of pursuit.

He must not be taken, at any rate, not there, where twenty people would recognize him. The scandal would be magnified tenfold. He ran rapidly in the direction of the lodge, fear lending swiftness to his limbs, weary with his wanderings.

As he darted past the lodge, Marks was at the door.

George shouted to him, ‘Remember your promise!’ and flew on like a madman.

The lodge-gates were closed, but he knew a weak spot in the hedge; he ran up the side, scrambled through, and he was in the roadway.

He paused for a second and listened.

He could hear no footsteps now. His pursuers had not come towards the lodge.

He had gained on them a little.

He ran on still, all along the roadway, as fast as he could, and then walked.

Presently he came to a quiet spot where the trees grew by the roadside.

He crept behind the trunk of one, and stood there to rest awhile, wondering whither he could turn his footsteps to escape the hue-and-cry which he felt sure was now raised.

As George Heritage rushed past him, Marks was so astonished that for the moment he did not move.

He was about to follow him, when suddenly a cry rang across the stillness of the night:

‘Help! help! help!’

There were lights in the lower rooms up at the hall, and the servants were now hurrying about.

With a cry of terror, Marks ran, as well as his aged limbs would let him, up to the house.

A fearful suspicion flashed across his mind.

George had seen his father. There had been a quarrel, and——

He dared not shape his thoughts into words.

Terrified and trembling, he arrived at the hall.

‘What is it?’ he gasped to the old housekeeper, who was on the landing wringing her hands.

‘Thieves and murder’s the matter!’ she screamed. ‘Some villain’s half murdered the master, and carried off all the jewellery and goodness knows what.’

The whole village was gradually aroused by the news of the burglary and the attack on the squire, and every part of the estate was searched for traces of the culprits.

Presently there was a great noise heard as of a crowd coming nearer and nearer.

The servants ran out to the gates, and returned with the news that one of the burglars was caught.

Followed by a crowd came two constables, dragging a man with them. His clothes had been torn to shreds in the struggle, the dirt and dust of the roads were upon him, and the blood from a blow on his head had trickled down his face.

None of the crowd knew him. They thought he was a tramp, and in the dark night his face, disfigured as it was, was almost unrecognisable.

The crowd stopped outside while the constables led their charge into the hall to confront him with the squire.

The prisoner shuddered as he passed the lodge-gates, and looked fearfully at the doorway.

There was no one there.

Up the broad walk he went, preserving the same dogged silence which had been unbroken since his capture.

The officers led him into the library, where the squire sat, still trembling and exhausted from his recent encounter, Marks standing near him. They pushed him into the middle of the room, and then the man raised his eyes.

For a moment the squire looked at him wonderingly. Marks, who had turned white and trembled violently as the group entered, gave one agonized glance at the figure before him, and then, throwing up his hands, exclaimed in a tone of horror, ‘Master George!’

The squire’s eyes were fixed upon his son. He recognized him now through the dirt and the blood and the tatters. His lips shaped themselves to speak, he rose trembling from his chair, then, gasping out, ‘My son! It was my son!’ fell forward a huddled-up mass upon the floor.

In his terror Marks spoke at random; the officers heard him upbraid the young man for what he had done, for making him an accomplice, as it were.

Every word that the old servant gasped out over the senseless body of his master was a link in the chain of evidence against the son.

George made no answer.

He stood like a man in a dream, dazed, almost unconscious of what was going on around him.

They raised the squire and put him in his chair again, but his eyes wandered vacantly round the room, and he kept mumbling to himself, ‘My son! It was my son!’

The shock had unhinged his reason.

CHAPTER XXXI.
IS SLIGHTLY RETROSPECTIVE.

We left Mr. Jabez Duck, a few chapters back, in anything but a comfortable situation.

When he had recovered from his astonishment at the sight of his sister, Miss Jackson, and Mrs. Turvey, he endeavoured to stammer out that he’d be back in a moment, and made for the door.

But Georgina was too quick for him.

‘I must speak to you at once,’ she said, imperiously, ‘on private business.’ The accent on the word private was marked and intentional.

Mrs. Turvey took the hint.

‘Which if I am in the way, Jabez, let me go into another room while this person tells you her business.’

Now Mrs. Turvey knew very well that Georgina was Jabez’s sister, and Georgina was quite aware of Mrs. Turvey’s identity, but it pleased them both to affect the most supreme ignorance.

‘Jabez,’ exclaimed Miss Duck indignantly, ‘who is this female who addresses you so familiarly, and calls me a “person”?’

‘Who am I?’ gasped Mrs. Turvey, fairly roused by Georgina’s manner, and coming bustling up close to her. ‘I’ll let you know who I am, madam. I’m not a female. I’m a respectable hard-working woman, as isn’t going to be humbugged about any longer by your precious oily snake of a brother.’

‘Ladies, ladies!’ stammered Jabez, polishing his brow furiously, and bursting out into quite a watery shine with perspiration; ‘Pray, pray compose yourselves! The firm will hear you. Pray remember where you are!’

Jabez might as well have asked the north wind not to blow as Georgina and Mrs. Turvey to be quiet. They were fairly started on a race for the last word. Besides, weeks of pent-up scorn and indignation had to be worked off. In vain Jabez implored them to be silent. In vain Miss Jackson shed tears and urged Georgina, for her sake, to be calm.

At last, when it was within an inch of a single-stick duel between Georgina’s parasol and Mrs. Turvey’s umbrella, Jabez fairly lost his temper, and, rushing between them in time to receive both umbrella and parasol on his own unprotected and shiny bald head, seized the first combatant he could catch hold of, and dragged her away.

It was Mrs. Turvey.

That estimable lady, flushed, excited, and prepared for desperate deeds, no sooner saw Jabez, as she presumed, espouse his sister’s side, than with a terrific effort she became suddenly calm.

Smoothing her ruffled finery and assuming a delicately sarcastic tone, she thus delivered herself:

‘I’ll go, Mr. Duck—I don’t want to be pushed out; but I shall call again—not to see you, sir. I shall instruct Messrs. Grigg and Limpet to commence two actions at once, one for breach of promise against you, Mr. Duck, and one for deformation of character against you, Miss Duck; which you, ma’am,’ she added, turning to Miss Jackson, ‘will be a witness as this person have said vile and ojus things about me.’

‘Oh,’ moaned Miss Jackson, ‘don’t make me a witness! Oh, I would rather cut my right hand off than let it go into a court of justice against my dearest friend!’

‘Don’t be a fool, Carry!’ said Miss Duck curtly. ‘Jabez, show that old woman out, or I’ll go to the firm. I won’t be insulted by a servant any longer.’

Jabez had adroitly got Mrs. Turvey out of earshot, so that Georgina’s last arrow missed its mark.

He was some minutes before he returned. In the interests of peace he apologized to Mrs. Turvey, said his sister was to blame, and vowed on his honour to behave like a gentleman if Mrs. Turvey would only give him time.

Mrs. Turvey allowed herself to be mollified so far as Jabez was concerned, but departed vowing the fiercest vengeance against his ‘stuck-up minx of a sister.’

Georgina, when she had given her brother a thorough setting down over the Turvey incident, informed him of the visit of the police and the discovery of the Smiths’ real character.

Jabez for a time refused to believe it, but the evidence which his sister produced was circumstantial. Already his employers had discovered the forgery of which they had been the victims, and Jabez connected the two events.

When he got home that evening the same detective who had searched the rooms called to see him, and requested him to say nothing about the affair to any one for the present.

The reason he gave was that there was no knowing who belonged to the gang, and if it once got about that the police were on the track the others would keep out of the way.

In the hope of making a complete haul, the police for the present would take no steps to arrest the fugitive. If he was left alone, and not allowed to know that he was suspected, he would probably join some other members of the gang.

Jabez listened to this explanation and promised to hold his peace, and also to allow the things found in the room occupied by George to be taken to Scotland Yard.

The officer who had charge of the case was Sergeant Iveson, a well-favoured, middle-aged man, who looked like a country gentleman, and Jabez had every confidence in him. The officer also went to Grigg and Limpet, and received from them the forged cheque. They also agreed to take no steps which would clash with those arranged by Sergeant Iveson, who had sole charge of the case.

Late that evening Sergeant Iveson and Mr. Seth Preene met by accident, and what more natural than that they should have a little conversation?

‘Found out who he is yet?’ asked the sergeant.

‘No,’ said Preene; ‘but I’m sure he’s a swell, and he’s making quietly for his home, wherever it is. I suppose it’s sure to be pretty straight against him?’

‘I’ll take care of that,’ answered the sergeant. ‘But this case won’t pay, you know. There’s no reward. Won’t it be worth your governor’s while to pay a good one? You see if this chap’s convicted there’s an end to all inquiries about the forged cheques. You get him out of the way for a year or two and wipe the slate clean. I suppose the principal in the affair’s right, ain’t he?’

‘Right? I should think so,’ answered Mr. Preene. ‘Look here, governor, you nab this fellow, and make him safe for a year or two, and I’ll promise you a hundred on my own hook. Never mind about the woman; she’s never seen any of us, and can do no harm. She might complicate the case. I’ll say a hundred and fifty—there!’

With which magnificent offer Mr. Preene held out his hand to the sergeant, and shortly afterwards they parted.

Sergeant Iveson bided his time before he looked for the runaway, In the interests of the firm of Smith and Co., Mr. Preene desired him not to act too precipitately. Smith and Co. wished to remove all trace of their connection with certain city offices and financial transactions before that accomplished forger, Mr. George Smith, was put upon his trial.

Practically, for the present, the firm’s City business was dissolved. Brooks had gone down to Dover on an important matter, and Marston had followed him. Preene was in town, busy at his private residence over some mechanical operation in which he seemed to take a deep interest, and Josh Heckett had gone to a quiet little place in Surrey, for the benefit of his health.

It is singular that when he arrived with his travelling bag at a little inn some short distance from Heritage Park he wore the clerical garb. He was dressed in a suit of black, had on a white choker, and wore a clerical felt hat. He was accompanied by his son, a young gentleman, who treated his ‘governor’ in a most respectful manner. They didn’t talk much before the landlady, who waited on them, and they were very particular about their behaviour.

But when they went out for little strolls in the neighbourhood, the clergyman called his son ‘Boss,’ and garnished his conversation with strange, unclerical oaths. And Master Boss called his revered parent ‘Josh, ’and pattered to him in Mint slang, as though his education at the university had consisted of this very living language to the utter neglect of all the dead ones.

CHAPTER XXXII.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Bess was saved from witnessing the terrible scene of her husband’s degradation.

Old Marks, beside himself with grief and horror, yet had the presence of mind to keep her in the lodge.

He persuaded her that her husband’s safety depended upon her not being seen, and she stopped indoors throughout all the riot and hubbub.

George had glanced anxiously among the crowd, fearing to see his wife’s pale face and tears, but he was spared that blow.

When he was gone, old Marks went back to the lodge like a man in a dream, and broke the terrible news to his daughter.

Bess refused to believe it. She would have rushed out and gone to her husband there and then. She would have proclaimed herself his wife gladly, now trouble had come upon him, but her father reasoned with her and showed her how futile such a course would be.

‘George does not want it known,’ he told her, and Bess, remembering how secret George had kept their marriage, believed that her father was right.

‘What can I do?’ she moaned. ‘I am his wife, and my place is by his side. He has got into all this trouble for my sake. But for me he could have gone away, and this horrible mistake would never have occurred.’

‘Mistake!’ said old Marks; ‘don’t you believe, then, that George is guilty?’

‘Guilty! Listen, father. I know my George to be one of the bravest, noblest-hearted men in the world. How dare you insult him by suggesting that he is guilty?’

Gradually, as Bess now realised the position of affairs, she worked herself up into a state of excitement, and talked at random. She would do this, she would do that. She paced the little room, now weeping, now crying out that there was a plot against them, and that her father was in it.

The old man endeavoured to calm her, promising that he would go up to the hall again, and get all the information he could.

Marks himself fully believed the young squire guilty. A hundred little things recurred to his mind to strengthen his belief. George’s mysterious arrival, travel-stained and penniless, his waiting till nightfall, and his desire to enter the hall unobserved when his father was alone, his hurried flight, and his mysterious instructions with regard to Bess—all these things pointed to the fact that the young man had attempted to rob his father, and in the struggle had injured him.

Old Squire Heritage himself said as much. It was true he seemed bewildered, but to all the questions put to him about the strange and terrible business he simply murmured, ‘My son! my only son!’ Marks felt as if he had been a traitor to his old master in the part he had played in the affair.

‘How could he ha’ done it? how could he ha’ done it?’ he muttered to himself as, pale and agitated, he listened to the little group of servants talking near the house.

No one doubted for a moment that the young squire was the guilty person. Had he not been caught red-handed? Who his companion in the crime was they could only conjecture. He had got clear away.

When Marks joined the group they turned on to him with a hundred questions. Had he let Master George in? Had he heard anything about his daughter?

No one knew that Bess was even then at the lodge. George had been so cautious that, except to Marks, their arrival was a secret.

The servants hazarded a hundred conjectures as to what could have led the young squire to commit such an awful deed. They had noticed his dusty clothing and his haggard look, and they had almost pitied him until they saw their old master’s terrible condition, and remembered who was the cause of it.

Marks, nervous lest he should, in his agitation, betray how much he kuew, barely answered the questions addressed to him. He asked anxiously how the squire was, and learned that he was worse. Then he went back, heavy-hearted and red-eyed, to tell his poor girl as hopeful a tale as he might.

On the way he met a constable who had been searching the grounds.

The man stopped him.

‘You are the gate-keeper?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ stammered Marks, for the man was eyeing him keenly.

‘Did you let young Heritage in through the gates or see him pass?’

‘I let him in.’

‘Was he alone?’

Marks went hot and cold. Was Bess to be dragged into this dreadful business? He had heard of the London lawyers and trials, and how all your life came out in court, and how they cross-examined you till your heart was laid bare. Was he going to be treated like this? He remembered that he had enticed the dog away, and his heart almost stood still. Why, in a court of justice he would seem to be in league with the accused! And Bess! They would make out, ten to one, that it was through her it all came about!

He stammered out something to the constable about not being quite himself.

‘You’re agitated now,’ said the constable, ‘and no wonder. It’s a nasty affair for the family. You’re an old servant, I believe? Well, I’ll come and see you to-morrow, and take a note of your evidence. Did you have any conversation with the young man when he came in?’

‘A little.’

‘All right. Well, think it over to-night, and let me know tomorrow what it was. You’ll be an important witness. Goodnight.’

Marks hardly knew how he got back to the lodge.

Once inside, he bolted the door, and fell into his old armchair a prey to the greatest agitation.

Bess came from the inner room, her eyes swollen with weeping.

‘Bess, my lass,’ said the old man, in a hollow voice, ‘there’s bad news. The old squire’s worse, and everybody thinks as Master George is guilty. The police are working up evidence a ready, and they want me.’

‘You will tell them, father, that it could not be George, won’t you? You will tell them he came down here to ask his father’s forgiveness, not to rob and injure him.’

‘I’m afraid, my lass, that nothing I could say would do Master George much good. I fear it ‘ud only do him a power o’ harm. There’s one thing we can do for him as I’m sure he’d be glad on.’

‘What’s that, father?’ said Bess eagerly.

‘Get away from here, both on us. He don’t want you mixed up in it, I know, and I’d sooner cut my right hand off than go and speak agen him in court.’

At first Bess would not hear of flight, but gradually her father persuaded her that for George’s sake it was the best thing possible.

Besides, what could she do if she remained?

She would be a marked woman; something for the curious to gaze at, and for the neighbours to talk about. When the trial was over, and George’s innocence was proved, then she could show herself among her old companions without a blush. She had not her husband’s permission even to call herself by his name.

She was still Mrs. Smith. She could not take advantage of his position to proclaim herself Mrs. Heritage. Her father was right.

It was best for all that they should get away from Heritage Hall at once. It was no home for her now, and her father declared he could never look the old squire in the face again.

‘I shall feel like a thief, stealing away in the night,’ he said; ‘but, for Master George’s sake, I must do it. If they got me before the lawyers, and made me speak what I know, it ud hang him.’

‘Father!’

Bess had seized the old lodge-keeper by the arm, and her face was ashy-white.

‘No! no! I don’t mean that, my lass,’ he said, trying to soothe lier. ‘That’s only a manner of speaking, like. Of course there ain’t no murder in it. Squire’ll be all right in a day or two.’

‘And George will be free?’

‘Ay, ay, my lass, o’ course he will; and till then you and I will go up to London, and keep out o’ the way o’ curious folk, as wants to know more o’ their neighbours’ business than is good for ‘em. We’ll go up to London, and bide till we hear news o’ the young master.’

In the silence of the night an old man and a young woman stole out of the gates of Heritage Park.

The old man looked back with lingering glances at the old place which had been home to him for forty years.

He had his little store of money with him, and something that he prized beyond gold—his greatest earthly treasure—his Bess.

Miserable as were the circumstances that had reunited them, he yet felt his load of trouble lightened when he remembered that she was by to cheer him.

‘Cheer up, my girl!’ he said, as they passed into the darkness. ‘It was an evil day when the squire cast his son off, and it’s brought nothing but trouble; but, please God, all will come right yet.’

Bess made no reply.

She was thinking of how hopefully, a few short hours since, she had come back to the old place, and wondering how anybody could possibly believe her dear, kind, gentle husband guilty of the terrible crime of which he was accused.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
HUNTED DOWN.

The trial of George Heritage for breaking into his own father’s house and, in conjunction with some person not in custody, carrying off jewellery and other articles of value, made an enormous sensation, and the accounts were eagerly perused by all classes of readers. They penetrated even to the society honoured by the presence of Mr. Boss Knivett, and that young gentleman took the liveliest interest in the proceedings, communicating all the facts with the greatest gusto to Mr. Josh Heckett who unfortunately was not able to read them for himself, having in early life been denied the inestimable blessings of education. Every romantic element that could heighten the interest of the story was present, even to the mysterious disappearance of witnesses.

Directly after the event the old lodge-keeper had disappeared, and it was supposed he had gone to join his daughter, a young woman who was reported to know a good deal about the accused.

It was suspected that Marks was keeping out of the way rather than give evidence against his young master, and every effort to trace his whereabouts was unsuccessful.

The old squire could not be called as a witness, for his brain was still affected. He recognized no one, and would sit all day staring into vacancy, and moaning, ‘My son! my son!’

Young Heritage had been found near the scene of the crime, hiding and breathless, but none of the property had been found on him. That, of course, the confederate might have got away with, for there were evidently two persons concerned in the outrage.

The prisoner, who was described by the special reporters as a prepossessing young man, told a fairly plausible tale about his having returned to ask his father’s forgiveness, but his whole conduct in running away and in hiding was opposed to such a solution. Why should he run away?

In the absence of all evidence that could lead to a conviction, the magistrates, after a few remands, decided that the prisoner must be discharged, and he was set at liberty.

Hardly had he left the dock, however, when he was arrested and conveyed to London, there to take his trial on a more serious charge. He had been recognized and sworn to in court as one who, under the alias of George Smith, had been engaged in extensive frauds.

In due course poor George found himself undergoing a preliminary examination in a London police court. The bolt had fallen; the warning of his mysterious friend had been justified; and he was charged with committing the forgeries which he had now no doubt had been the principal business of his respected employers. Messrs. Smith and Co. Mr. Jabez Duck’s shiny head no sooner appeared in the box than George knew how tightly the meshes were being drawn around him.

During the interval preceding the trial Marks managed to obtain an interview with him in London. It was short and bitter, for the old lodge-keeper firmly believed that his young master had made him an innocent accomplice in a deed of violence. George, however, was glad to see him, for he made him understand how necessary it was that Bess should in no way be mixed up with this new charge, and that he was to keep her out of the way until the trial was over.

‘Whatever happens, Marks,’ he said gently, ‘don’t let me drag her down with me. My only consolation now is that I know she is safe with you.’

‘Come what may, Master George,’ answered the old man, his voice husky with emotion, ‘my gal shall never know a moment’s misery as I can help.’

Then they parted almost coldly, for George somewhat resented his father-in-law’s implied doubts as to his innocence of the outrage at the hall. But George felt that he was acting lightly in extorting a promise from Bess’s father to keep her out of the way, though he would have given the world to clasp her to his arms and cheer her up.

‘I did not acknowledge her when I could hold my head high,’ he said to himself; ‘she shall not acknowledge me now I am a suspected felon.’

Amid all his misery, broken in spirit and broken in heart, the old pride struggled for mastery and won. He had an odd idea that he was doing the correct thing by the lodge-keeper’s daughter he had married in not allowing her to see him or to acknowledge the tie that bound them now he was in such an unfortunate and degraded position.

At the trial Mr. Jabez Duck told, with many embellishments and at least two poetical quotations, how this dreadful young man had been admitted to the bosom of his family under the name of Smith. Then the detective bobbed up in the box to produce the implements of forgery and the records of crime found at Mr. Smith’s lodging. The clerks from the bank swore to him as the person who had presented the forged cheque of Grigg and Limpet’s. Then an expert in handwriting proved that the endorsement, ‘Smith and Co.,’ tallied with certain writings admitted to be George’s, found at his rooms and on his person. Link by link the chain of evidence was completed. Defence there was practically none, but a firm denial on the prisoner’s part, and a cock-and-bull story of having been the victim of some vile plot, which had not even the merit of originality. It was just the sort of story clever rascals do invent as a last resource. Doubtless there were other people concerned in the matter, but they were his confederates, not his employers.

George stood and listened as the evidence grew blacker and blacker, and at last began to wonder if it could be true—if he had lived two lives and didn’t know it.

When he saw that against such damning facts he could make no defence, he gave himself up to his fate. Bess, thank God, was with her father. The old man had saved money, and would provide for her. She, at least, need not share his shame. His marriage with her was a secret, and there was no one to prove she was the girl who had been known as Mrs. Smith at the little house at Dalston.

All he could do in support of his plea of ‘Not guilty’ would be to tell an explanatory story, which he knew his Bess, when she read it, would believe, whatever her father and the world did.

He put the whole plot against him down to Smith and Co. He believed in his own heart that he had been made a scapegoat purposely by them; that they had known who he was all along, and had had a hand in the burglary. It was a clever plot, and it had succeeded. He was ruined for life, but he had not anything on his conscience. He was deeply grieved at his father’s condition, and felt partly responsible for it, but of the hideous guilt attributed to him in that respect he knew he was innocent.

His stoical calmness deserted him as the time grew near for the verdict. The trial had been a long one. The element of doubt in the case had at one time been strong, but the police evidence had turned everything against him.

He was found guilty by twelve intelligent fellow-countrymen, and a long sentence of penal servitude was pronounced against him by the judge, who went out of his way to point a moral on the evils of young men being extravagant, getting into debt, and keeping bad company.

When George heard the sentence and was removed, it seemed as though a high wall were suddenly built up about his life. The sense of injustice faded before the sudden feeling of intense loneliness which fell upon him like a chill. He hardly realized all it meant at first. He had only that strange sense of desolation which comes upon anyone left alone in a strange place as his friends and companions vanish from his view.

When the warder touched him on the arm to lead him below, and the eyes of the thronged court were fixed upon his face, he made a sudden effort to rouse himself from the lethargy into which he seemed to have fallen. He stepped to the front of the dock, and exclaimed in a loud, clear voice:

‘As God is my witness, I am an innocent man!’

The famous trial was over, and the verdict was published in special editions. The public quite agreed with the judge’s moral.

Messrs. Marston and Brooks read it and chuckled. The link was broken. The stories about Smith and Co. told by George were disbelieved, and, as George Heritage had been proved to be the author of the series of forgeries on the banks, there was an end to inquiry. The slate of Smith and Co. was wiped clean by the arrest and condemnation of their clerk, and they might begin again. Never was there such a stroke of luck as the burglary business. Without it George’s story might have led to serious inquiries. As it was it would be unwise to start in business again on the same lines, thought Marston, and luckily there was no necessity, for a far more brilliant scheme was on the tapis, the success of which would enable Smith and Co. to dissolve, and trade with their capital in a less dangerous manner.

Josh Heckett heard the result through young Mr. Knivett, and the worthy pair drank George’s health in a bumper.

‘Reg’ler bad un he must be, Josh, for to break into his own father’s ‘ouse, mustn’t he?’ said Mr. Boss.

‘Orful,’ answered Josh. ‘But there, it’s what them preaching coves sez about the sarpent and the ungrateful child. There’s my young un as is gone away and left her poor old grandfather, the jade! and I dunno where she is no more than the man in the moon.’

‘Is that why you’ve moved, and given up the animals, Josh?’

‘Yes, it is,’ answered Josh. ‘I couldn’t attend to that business myself, and, the starf of my old age bein’ broke, I had to retire into private life.’

‘Werry private, eh, Josh?’ said Mr. Boss, with a grin.

‘Wanted a breath o’ fresh air, didn’t ye, old man, and went into the country for to git it, and got it?’

Josh Heckett laughed, and told his young friend to ‘cheese his patter and sling his hook.’

Which Mr. Boss, translating as instructions to hold his tongue and go, proceeded to obey with alacrity.

Heckett didn’t allow any nonsense from his juniors, and he considered Boss much too flighty and flippant ever to make a sound man of business.

After Boss was gone, Heckett, who now occupied two rooms in a little house over the water, went out and walked down to his old place in Little Queer Street.

He still kept it on, locking the rooms and going there occasionally to look after it.

He had only taken enough of his furniture away to fill his rooms. There were still several old boxes and bundles and odds and ends left. And all these were piled in one room—the back one.

Pushing a box and a heap of rubbish away, Josh had brought a lantern from the inner room and lit it, stooped down, and lifted the trap in the flooring.

It was so well contrived, and the dust and dirt lay over it so thickly and well, that no one would suspect its presence unless accident, as in Gertie’s case, revealed it.

To lift the board Heckett had to insert the blade of his knife and force it up.

When it was open he stooped over, carefully holding the light, and lifted up something near the top.

It was only a small bundle of letters and some papers.

‘I wonder if they’re worth anything,’ he said to himself. ‘I wish I’d learned to read. Eddication ain’t a bad thing, even in our profession.’

The papers which he drew from their hiding-place were those which Squire Heritage had placed in his deed box the night of the robbery.

The rings and bracelets and the other valuables were not here. They had long ago been unset and disposed of in a market which has always been safe and still continues so. In fact, it is so safe that valuable jewels are almost as readily sold nowadays as they are easily stolen, and that is saying a great deal.

Josh Heckett looked over his store, lifting up now this and now that, examining everything carefully and putting it back again.

Taking up odds and ends haphazard, he drew out a little bundle carefully tied up, which had evidently not been disturbed for years.

The wrapper was yellow with age.

‘My poor girl’s things,’ he murmured. ‘Poor lass! it’s tea year since I gathered’em together and put’em here to be safe, and I ain’t set eyes on’em since.’

He opened the bundle and looked through it. He rubbed his great coarse hands carefully on his jacket before he touched the contents, then tenderly and reverently he lifted the dead girl’s treasures from the bundle.

There was the little locket she always wore when he took her out on Sundays; there was the bit of blue ribbon, the last that ever decked her hair; there were her thimble and her scissors; there was the faded old daguerreotype of Josh and his wife and Gertie when she was a baby. He looked at the faint, blurred picture now, and he remembered the day it had been taken, when he’d driven the missus down to some cockney haunt, and the travelling photographer had persuaded him to have his likeness taken. There was a queer watery look about the old reprobate’s eyes as he gazed at the coarsely framed and faded picture, and he gave a grunt that bore the nearest possible resemblance to a sigh which a man of his build and nature could accomplish.

He put down the picture, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, cleared his throat, and then drew out a big leather-bound book.

‘My poor gal’s Bible,’ he said. ‘She was mighty fond o’ readin’ it at times.’

Josh eyed the outside of the Bible curiously.

‘They say it’s a hinvallyable book,’ he muttered; ‘but it don’t look up to much. I should’a thought a hinvallyable book’ud a been bound in red or green and had a lot o’ gold about it. This here’s worth about fourpence, I should say. But she thought a lot on it, poor gal; and I ain’t going never to part with it for her sake.’

Josh put the took back again without opening it. He couldn’t have read what was in it if he had. And yet there Was that in his dead daughter’s Bible which, had he known it, Would have made his greedy eyes glisten and his evil heart beat quicker.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.

Dr. Oliver Birnie, as the medical adviser of Mr. Gurth Egerton, called upon him now and then at his residence, and sometimes kept his brougham waiting outside while doctor and patient had a friendly chat.

It was on one of these now frequent occasions that Mr. Egerton revealed to his old friend an idea which, vague at first, had at last begun to assume definite proportions.

‘Birnie,’ said Mr. Egerton, one morning, flinging away his cigarette and looking straight in the doctor’s face, ‘I want something to do.’

‘Do you? Well, I can’t give you anything, I’m afraid. My present coachman suits me admirably, and my boy delivers the medicines without a mistake.’

‘I’m serious, Birnie,’ said Gurth, thrusting his hands deeply into his pockets and walking up and down the room. ‘I’m sick of this humdrum existence. I’ve travelled and got tired of it, and now I want a change—I want something to do.’

‘My dear fellow, of course you do,’ answered the doctor, ‘and with your energy you might do anything. Collect postage-stamps, coins, fossils, write stories for the magazines, join an amateur dramatic club, go in for athletics, learn the banjo. Why, my dear fellow, with your leisure and your money, there is no end of things you might find to do!’

Gurth turned almost savagely on his companion. The bantering tone displeased him.

‘Drop it, Birnie!’ he said. ‘Don’t you know when a man’s in earnest? I’m sick of the useless life I lead, I tell you. I want something to engage my thoughts—something to call out the latent energy there is in me. I’ve got money, and I believe I’ve got brains, and yet I’m nobody. I don’t mean to be nobody any longer.’

‘Good gracious me, Gurth, you astonish me!’ said the doctor, assuming a serious tone. ‘I thought you shrank from publicity of any kind! I always fancied that you hated society, and that being nobody was your favourite rôle.’

‘That’s done with for ever! I’m a new man, Oliver Birnie! The Gurth Egerton you know was drowned in the Bon Espoir.’

Birnie went up to Gurth, and took his hand professionally to feel his pulse.

Gurth snatched his hand away. ‘Don’t be a fool, old man!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know what I’m saying. I’m going in for a new life, and I want you to help me. Sit down.’

Birnie sat down wondering what Gurth’s new craze could be. He saw that banter was out of place, and that, whatever Gurth had got on his mind, it was evidently something which had been there a long time.

For a moment the two men sat opposite each other in silence. Then Gurth, with a slight tremor in his voice, began:

‘I’m going to talk about a time, Birnie, which we had both rather forget; but I can’t avoid it. Once in my life you did me a great service.’

Birnie said nothing. He nodded his head, as much as to say,

‘I quite understand what you mean.’

‘For that service I have shown my gratitude in every way I can. I don’t want to refer to it more than I can help; but I think you have had no cause to charge me with a lack of appreciation.’

Birnie’s head implied, ‘Certainly not!’

‘You not only rendered me that great service, but you have always guarded my interests during my long absences, and you have kept me from being annoyed by those who might have been very troublesome.’

Dr. Birnie spoke for the first time.

‘My dear Gurth, don’t give me too much credit. If I have kept Heckett from worrying you, I have done so by giving him what he asked for. When Marston turned up, I thought it best to accede to his request, and lend him five hundred pounds for you. I have paid your money away judiciously, my dear fellow, that is all—that is all.’

Birnie shook his head deprecatingly, as though to shake from it the praise which was being undeservedly bestowed upon him.

‘I don’t care what you say, Birnie; you’ve always been a good old chum to me, and that’s why I don’t want to take an important step without asking your advice.’

‘My advice, Gurth, is always at your service.’

‘Well, then, shortly and simply, I’ve made up my mind to two things—to marry, and to get into Parliament.’

Birnie received the intelligence without a movement; only the look of his eyes altered slightly, and they seemed to study Egerton’s face more keenly.

‘I congratulate you on both determinations, old fellow. Splendid things, both of them—matrimony and the legislature. Which do you woo first—the lady or the constituency?’

Gurth laughed.

‘I haven’t begun to look out the lady yet,’ he said, ‘or the constituency either. But don’t you really see any reason why I should marry and become a public man?’

‘None.’

Gurth gave a little sigh of relief.

Birnie rose to go. He shook hands with Gurth heartily.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that neither of your new ambitions will interrupt our old friendship, Gurth. We shall be always the same to each other as we have been, I trust?’

‘Always,’ answered Gurth with emphasis.

Dr. Birnie sat back in his carriage, as he was being whirled through the London streets, and thought.

He wasn’t quite sure what this new idea of Gurth’s meant, or what move on the board he ought to make in consequence of it. He was a man who never took any active steps if he saw a chance of events shaping themselves to suit his ends without his interference. Once or twice events had played into his hands so well that he was always inclined to give them a fair field.

At present Gurth Egerton was only a gold mine, in which he had dug now and then for an odd nugget or two, but he had always considered that the mine was there, and that no one could very well dig in it without his permission. With Birnie the knowledge of power was almost as great a pleasure as the enjoyment of it, and he was, moreover, endowed with that great gift of patience which enables a man to bide a lifetime waiting to strike home, rather than risk giving a weak blow by striking in a hurry.

Gurth Egerton believed that Birnie had given a false certificate of death in Ralph’s case out of friendship for him, and in his impulsive way he had there and then flung himself completely into Birnie’s hands, leaving him to live rent free, to manage his property, to pay all claims made upon him. Birnie was appointed executor to his will, and was in every way his confidential adviser.

But one thing Gurth had not told Birnie, or anyone else, and that was that Ralph was married to old Heckett’s daughter, and that consequently the child that cost Gertie her life, after the father’s death had cost her her reason, was really the legitimate owner of the wealth which he, Gurth, was now enjoying—that is, provided Ralph’s story was true, and not the brag of a vindictive drunkard.

Gurth consoled himself with the fact that, beyond Ralph’s statement to him, there was no proof of anything of the sort. The marriage certificate which Ralph had boasted of having in his possession had never been found, and Gurth was not likely to go searching registries and making inquiries in order to discover that which at present it was perfectly allowable for him to know nothing about.

From time to time he had heard of Heckett, generally by finding that gentleman’s name figuring against a sum of money which Birnie had paid on his account. He had never seen him since his return, for the same reason that he had never seen any of his old companions. He had shunned them one and all. He had heard, too, from Birnie the story of Gertie’s death and of the little Gertie who had grown up in Little Queer Street among the animals. He was pleased to hear she was a clean, tidy child, and that she seemed happy. Perhaps if he had heard of her being in rags and starving, it might have annoyed his conscience. As it was, he felt that Gertie was very well off; he knew that old Heckett’s dog-fancying and wretched surroundings were only covers for a very different occupation, and that there was no real poverty in the ease at all.

He supposed some day old Heckett would get into trouble or die, and then he would befriend Gertie, getting at her in a roundabout way, through Birnie, to avoid any suspicion of his having any interest in her but a philanthropic one.

Gurth Egerton always kept a mental box of salve handy for a smarting conscience, and, when any of his misdeeds troubled him, he had always a scheme ready which would put everything right without doing himself any harm.

But for his indecision of character, he might long ago have made his position far better than it was, but at the last moment he had generally abandoned his well thought-out scheme and ‘gone away.’

Now, however, he was really determined to do something definite—to lead a new life and put his wealth to some use. So he made up his mind to marry and to go into Parliament.

The parliamentary career was a question of time. There was much to be done before he essayed that. He must get his name before the public a little first, make up his mind what his polities were going to be, and get about into society.

With regard to matrimony, he felt that the sooner he thought seriously about that the better. There is a certain formula to be gone through, even in the prosaic courtship which he intended his to be. He wanted a certain amount of beauty, a knowledge of the world, and an agreeable manner. He wanted to marry a head to his dinner-table, a hostess, a something to be agreeable to his guests, and to get him invited out. Wealth or rank he wasn’t particular about; that would be harder to get, and he might have a lot of rivalry.

He stood in front of the glass and ran his fingers through his hair.

Yes, he was fairly good-looking, still young, wealthy, and a pleasant talker.

There was no reason why he should not secure just what he wanted if he kept his eyes open. He didn’t want to fall in love; he had no idea of anything of that sort.

And yet he did.

His fate came to him as it comes to the most unromantic men. It came to him about a fortnight after his interview with Birnie.

In his first desire to get his name well connected with philanthropy for future benefit to himself, he gave twenty pounds to a bazaar in connection with some hospital for children, or something of the sort. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he saw that the appeals were going all over the parish, and so he sent his twenty pounds, to beat his neighbours and get his first advertisement.

His donation brought him a letter of thanks from the vicar and a special request to be present.

He went to the bazaar, to see the vicar and to show himself—to make a start on his new war-path. He flung away a pound’s worth of silver on shapeless pincushions and impossible penwipers, and walked through the place, jostled and bored. He had shaken hands with the vicar, and been introduced to a canon and to a rich old lady patroness, and was elbowing his way through a crowd of giggling girls and cane-sucking young men, when a little girl stopped him with a timid request for his patronage.

He looked down and saw a child whom he guessed to be about ten years old—pretty, pale-faced, with soft brown hair and big blue eyes. She held up to him a bunch of violets.

‘Please to buy a bunch of sweet violets, sir.’

He put his hand in his pocket.

‘I’ve got no silver,’ he said.

He looked into the child’s face as he spoke, expecting to hear her say that gold would do.

But the little one had not been trained to the brazen effrontery that leers and grimaces under the coquettishly worn mantilla of charity.

‘Oh, please, if you come to our stall we’ll give you change. Come this way.’

Gurth involuntarily followed the child to a stall in the corner, where a lady was selling flowers.

The lady smiled as the child brought her prize up to be dealt with.

Gurth thought it was the sweetest smile he had ever seen in his life. He forgot the child, forgot the flowers, and gazed in rapt admiration at the beautiful face before him.

A strange thrill went through him as he looked—a feeling of ecstasy, such as that which comes over some natures when, in world-famed galleries, they stand for the first time in the presence of some matchless work of art.

The young lady was too busy with her flowers and her change to notice Gurth’s undisguised admiration. He almost started as she dropped the shillings into his hand, counting them one by one.

He took the violets which the child had given him, and held them in his hand.

Then he glanced at some which the lady had on her stall in front of her.

‘I think I must buy one of you, after giving you so much trouble,’ he said gently.

The lady picked up a bunch of violets and handed them to him with a smile.

He dropped the nineteen shillings change into the hands of the beautiful flower-girl, and, raising his hat, walked away.

As he did so, he heard the little girl cry out:

‘Oh, Miss Adrian, the gentleman’s left my violets behind him!’

‘Run after him, quick, and give them to him,’ answered the lady; and in a minute the child had caught Gurth up, and was holding the violets towards him.

‘Thank you, little one,’ he said, smiling; ‘you are very honest at your stall. What is the name, that I may recommend it to my friends?’

‘The lady is Miss Ruth Adrian,’ answered the child, taking the question seriously, ‘and I am Gertie Heckett.’

The violets dropped from Gurth Eggerton’s hand, and the colour left his face.

For a moment his lips moved, as though he would have spoken to the child, then suddenly he turned on his heel, and, forcing his way through the crowd, struggled out of the building and into the air.

CHAPTER XXXV.
MRS. ADRIAN’S CONVERSION.

Ruth had no necessity to find a home for Gertie, after all. Her mother, after having thoroughly aired her objections, and proved beyond a doubt that Gertie was endeavouring to turn her out of house and home, and that Ruth was endeavouring to bring her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, had suddenly veered round, taken the child under her immediate protection, and insisted upon Ruth keeping her as long as ever she liked.

Ruth, who had grown sincerely attached to Gertie, was only too delighted to take advantage of this change of attitude, and from that moment Josh Heckett’s grand-daughter was treated as one of the family.

Mrs. Adrian’s conversion had been brought about in a very singular manner.

Ruth’s great friend in all her troubles was her father. He would come from Patagonia or the South Sea Islands in a second if she asked him a question, and he had always the heartiest sympathy with all her little schemes.

Ruth asked her father’s advice about Gertie. What was she to do? She couldn’t send the child back. Of course, she intended that Heckett should know Gertie was safe, but she was determined, if possible, to keep her out of his clutches. She had hoped to be able to keep her for a little while until she could decide what to do, but her mother was so much against Gertie remaining.

Mr. Adrian laid down his book.

‘Then you really wish to keep the child near you for a while?’ he said.

‘I do, indeed, father. I am in some measure responsible for her leaving home.’

Ruth blushed as she spoke, for she remembered it was her anxiety to hear about Marston which had brought Gertie’s trouble upon her.

Mr. Adrian thought for a moment, then he rubbed his hands in evident glee. ‘I have it, my dear,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s objection to the child is the only thing we have to get over. Leave it to me to remove that.’

That evening, after Gertie had gone to bed, the usual little group sat in the dining-room.

Ruth was busy making nicknacks for a charity bazaar in which she was interested, Mrs. Adrian was knitting, and Mr. Adrian was deep in the adventures of a missionary who had gone out to Africa, and who for the first few hundred pages used his gun a good deal oftener than his Bible.

Mr. Adrian read a few choice passages aloud, and speedily aroused the indignation of his better half.

‘Missionary!’ exclaimed that good lady. ‘Well, if he’s a fair specimen of missionaries, I’m sorry for the heathen. Its a queer way of converting a black man to put a bullet through him.

‘But, my dear,’ urged Mr. Adrian, ‘it was in self-defence.’

‘Self-fiddlesticks! What business had the man there, poking his nose into their wigwams and interfering? How would you like a black man to walk in here and begin lecturing you? You’d try to turn him out, wouldn’t you? And then because you did that he’d turn round and shoot you, and say it was self-defence. Bah! I haven’t patience with all this mischief-making in outlandish parts.’

‘But, my dear, much good is done. This missionary was a very famous man, and he converted them at last. Before he left, the natives used knives and forks instead of their fingers, and the king of one very ferocious tribe, of cannibal habits, had all his prisoners of war roasted on Saturday afternoon to avoid Sunday cooking. How would civilization be spread, my dear but for these explorers?’

‘Civilization!’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, dropping half-a-dozen stitches in her excitement. ‘Don’t you think there’s room for a little more civilization at home before we begin to give it away to the blackamoors? Civilization ought to begin at home.’

‘You are wrong, my dear,’ said Mr. Adrian, closing his book and preparing for battle. ‘What do you say, Ruth?’

‘I think we ought to do a good deal more at home than we do,’ said Ruth gently. ‘I think sometimes the black heathen get a great deal more sympathy than the white.’

Mrs. Adrian declared Ruth was a sensible girl, and fired another volley at the enemy. The discussion had grown slightly heated when Mr. Adrian introduced the subject of Gertie, suggesting that the sooner Ruth found a home for her the better.

Then Mrs. Adrian fired up. Of course he objected to Gertie because she was an English child; if she’d been a black or a brown child he would have given her the best room in the house; as she was white and English she was to be turned out at once.

The more Mr. Adrian opposed Gertie, the more Mrs. Adrian championed her, until at last, for the sake of peace and quietness, the master of the house gave way, and consented, ‘to please his wife’s fad,’ that the child should stay as long as Ruth liked.

Thus were the heathen pressed into the service, and thus did Mr. Adrian win the battle by pretending to be beaten. It was not the first time he had won over his wife to his way of thinking by pretending to take an opposite view.

From that moment Gertie, in the eyes of Mrs. Adrian, was the outward and visible sign of a triumph gained over her betes noires, the foreign ladies and gentlemen of missionary books of travel. The child by her presence represented a great moral victory, and Mrs. Adrian was her devoted champion from that hour.

By her gentle nature and loving ways she rapidly endeared herself to all. Ruth was delighted, and her mind was relieved of a great burden. When Gertie had been with them a fortnight there was no one beneath the roof that would not have grieved sincerely and felt it a personal loss to be deprived of her sunshiny presence.

Her early days with the Adrians were uneventful. At her earnest request Ruth had not apprised Heckett of her whereabouts. The child pleaded so hard, and seemed so terrified, that Ruth contented herself with sending a message by a trustworthy person to the old dog-fancier that his grand-daughter was in a good home.

But the old man’s attempt to find out where the home was situated, or who was at the bottom of the child’s mysterious conduct, failed altogether. The message only reached him in roundabout way, being left with the person who kept the shop below his rooms, which Heckett only visited occasionally now.

The first great event in Gertie’s new life was the charity bazaar, at which, to her intense delight, she was allowed to assist at Ruth’s stall.

She came back full of it, and told Mr. and Mrs. Adrian at teatime all about the gentleman who had bought her violets, been so curious about Ruth’s name, and had seemed so much astonished when she (Gertie) told him her own.

Mr. Adrian was much amused by Gertie’s description of Egerton’s admiration of Ruth and his eagerness to know her name.

He looked across the table, and said with a smile:

‘Many a good match made through a charity bazaar, Ruth, my dear. Perhaps Gertie brought you a suitor.’

It was only a joke, but Ruth’s cheeks went scarlet.

The words had touched a tender chord. She had been thinking of Edward Marston. Since Gertie had come to her, she never looked at the child without thinking of him, and how strangely her little protégée had brought them together again.

And now her father, speaking at random, suggested that Gertie had brought her a suitor.

The words fitted in so perfectly with the thought that was passing through her mind at the time, that the crimson blood rushed to her cheeks and suffused them.

Had Edward Marston seen that blush, he would have known that his forgiveness was nearer its accomplishment than Ruth had given him any reason to hope.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
RIVALS.

Mr. Gurth Egerton, as soon as he had recovered from the astonishment in which his strange meeting with Ralph’s little daughter had flung him, became aware of the fact that the beautiful face of Ruth Adrian had made a considerable impression upon him.

By what strange coincidence, he wondered, did this child cross his path at the very moment that he was dreaming of a new life—a life from which all remembrance of the past and all fear of the future were to be banished?

This little Gertie Heckett, whom he had always avoided seeing, lest such conscience as he was burdened with might be troubled, had come upon him not in the den of Josh, not leading the miserable life which he had imagined she might one day be reduced to, but well dressed, hearty, and evidently well cared for.

His first thought was one of self-congratulation. He felt inclined to pat himself on the back and say, ‘See, you have done no harm to the orphan. If you are enjoying that which may by chance belong to her, she does not suffer through your act.’

Having at last, by a process of reasoning, worked himself up into the actual benefactor of his cousin’s child, he began to wonder what the connection between her and Ruth Adrian might be.

He had two motives for following up the adventure of the charity bazzar,—first, to find out something about Gertie, and secondly, if possible, to cultivate the acquaintance of Ruth Adrian. Where Miss Adrian lived, or who she was, he had not the slightest idea; but he imagined he could very soon get a link through the child.

The first idea was to look up Heckett and question him about Gertie; but he had a repugnance to renewing the acquaintance. He had studiously kept clear of Heckett, and he did not care to mix himself up again with that portion of the past. He determined to rely upon his usual diplomatist, and lay the case before Oliver Birnie.

But when he came to tell Birnie where he had met the child, the doctor was utterly astonished.

‘I haven’t seen Heckett since he was ill,’ he said, ‘and then Gertie was at Little Queer Street. If she’s left him, he’s either given up the crib and gone away, or Gertie has taken French leave. But I can soon find out, if you particularly wish to know.’

Birnie made his inquiries in his own way, and then all he had to tell Gurth was that Gertie had ‘run away,’ and that the old man had shut up the Little Queer Street establishment, and had not been seen for some little time in the neighbourhood.

This information brought Gurth no nearer to an introduction to Miss Adrian, so he had to set his wits to work again.

But before he could think of a plan, chance did away with the necessity.

Marston, who now studiously cultivated his acquaintance, was walking with him one day, when a big dog came round the corner.

Marston looked hard at it, and exclaimed, ‘Hullo! Ruth isn’t far off; here’s Gertie Heckett’s dog.’

Gurth clutched his arm.

‘Ruth—Gertie Heckett!’ he cried. ‘Good gracious me, how could I have been so stupid? Why, of course you can tell me all about it. How comes the child away from Josh?’

Marston looked under his eyes at his companion.

‘How should I know anything about Josh Heckett’s domestic; affairs?’ he said coldly.

‘Why you see him, I suppose, now and then?’

‘My dear fellow, I thought you knew that I had cut all that crew long ago. I know no more of him than you do.’

‘Well, at any rate you know Gertie Heckett, for you mentioned her name.’

‘Of course I know her,’ answered Marston, speaking slowly and deliberately, ‘but only through her protectress, Miss Adrian. Gertie has been “rescued”—I believe that is the correct expression—and the Adrians have adopted her. The Adrians are old friends of mine.’

Gurth said ‘Oh,’ and was silent.

He couldn’t understand that beautiful creature being an old friend of dare-devil Ned Marston.

Lion had come on well ahead, and it was fully two minutes before Gertie and Ruth came out of a shop and found themselves face to face with Marston and Gurth.

Ruth coloured slightly as the two gentlemen lifted their hats, and Gertie, recognizing Gurth, exclaimed, ‘Oh, it’s the gentleman that bought the violets.’

Gertie did not seem at all astonished when Marston held out his hand to Ruth.

It was evident that this was not the first meeting between the old sweethearts at which she had assisted.

‘Will you allow me to introduce my old friend, Mr. Gurth Egerton?’ said Marston.

Gurth bowed again, and Ruth honoured him with a sweet smile. And presently the three were strolling along the street talking together, Gertie walking on a little way ahead with Lion.

But Ruth cut short the interview by saying that Gertie and she had some calls to make, and Marston, taking the hint, said ‘Good-day,’ and, taking Gurth’s arm, left the ladies to finish their business by themselves.

‘What do you think of her?’ asked Marston, when they were out of ear-shot.

‘Think of her?’ said Gurth; ‘why, that she’s one of the most charming women I ever met in my life. I was awfully struck with her at the bazaar the other day.’

‘Yes, my boy,’ answered Marston; ‘and she’s as good as she is beautiful.’

‘You know her very well, then?’

Marston looked at Gurth for a moment, and then said quietly, ‘My dear fellow, I thought I told you we were old friends. I’m glad you like Ruth, for when we’re married you can come and be our guest.’

Gurth started back as though Marston had struck him a blow.

‘That lady—your wife?’ he stammered.

‘Yes, some day; why not?’ said Marston. ‘I’m doing well, I’m wealthy, and I shall soon command a good position. Why shouldn’t I marry Ruth Adrian?’

‘I don’t know,’ stammered Gurth, hardly knowing what he was saying. ‘Why, I always looked upon you as a—as a——’

‘Say it,’ cried Marston fiercely; ‘say it, Gurth Egerton. You always looked upon me as a scamp, as a penniless adventurer. Bah! Times have changed for both of us. You are a rich man now; you are ambitious, so am I. I have wiped out my old past as cleanly as you have yours. Let it be a race between us now if you like, Gurth Egerton—a race for wealth, a race for fame, for what you will. I shall beat you though you’ve had a ten years start of me.’

Gurth Egerton looked at his companion in wonder. His tone was one half of triumph, half of defiance.

‘As you will, Marston,’ he said quietly; ‘but let us start fair. Is there any absolute engagement between you and this lady?’

‘No,’ said Marston; ‘but she is perfectly aware of my feelings towards her. We were engaged before—well, before I went abroad.’

‘Oh, I see; then you merely hope for a renewal of old ties?’

‘That is what I have set my heart on, and I generally accomplish my ends.’

‘Good, answered Gurth, lighting a cigarette, and offering one to his companion. ‘We are both men of the world. Now listen. You say, let it be a race between us for wealth and fame. Well, wealth I have, and fame I can buy. Wealth you say you have, and Ï have no doubt if you haven’t it at present you mean to have it. Let us make this race more exciting.’

What do you mean?’

‘Merely this,’ said Gurth, watching Marston keenly through the smoke, ‘make Ruth Adrian’s hand part of the stakes.’ Marston’s face flushed angrily.

‘A bad joke, Egerton,’ he said, ‘and one you may be sorry for.

‘No joke, Marston; I mean it. In my quiet way I have fallen in love with the lady, and I am in want of a wife. All’s fair in love and war, and I don’t think you have a chance. Therefore why spoil mine?’

Marston was on the point of giving a fierce reply but he suddenly checked himself. He could fence better if he kept his temper.

‘You were always a laboured joker, Gurth,’ he said, ‘but it won’t do. You have found it easy enough to get a fortune from Ralph, but I don’t think you’ll find it so easy to get a sweetheart from me, not even with Birnie’s assistance.’

Marston laughed an irritating little laugh, nodded his head and walked away, leaving Gurth with a flushed face and clenched hand.

It was half a threat, and Gurth felt it. In his own mind he believed that Marston was still an adventurer, and that his house of cards would soon come to grief. He had an idea that money could do anything, and he was quite prepared to find Marston throwing ont a hint that he would leave the field clear for a consideration.

The conversation of the morning had invested Ruth with new charms, and the sudden opposition which he had encountered in Marston had concentrated his designs.

Ruth Adrian now became the central figure in his future.

The idea of Marston daring to stop between him and the accomplishment of his project was too absurd. He would soon put that right.

‘Threaten me, do you!’ he muttered to himself, as he turned towards home. ‘Mr. Edward Marston, you must be looked after. Birds that want to fly over their neighbours’ walls must have their wings clipped.’

Pending an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with Ruth Adrian, Gurth occupied himself by developing his bump of curiosity. He was particularly anxious to discover the history of Mr. Edward Marston from the time he went to America, a broken-down adventurer, to the period of his recognition of Dr. Birnie, and his sudden blooming into the possessor of a suburban villa, a boundless ambition, and a remarkably handsome and agreeable sweetheart.

Was she his sweetheart? On mature consideration, Gurth Egerton decided that he had been taken in by Marston’s brag. The idea of his really being a man of wealth and engaged to a lady like Ruth was too absurd.

‘Marston’s a clever fellow,’ he said to himself, ‘and as unscrupulous as any man I ever knew; but I don’t think I need trouble myself much about his opposition. He always was a braggart, and I dare say he’s only trying to impose on me for some purpose of his own.’

A week later Gurth Egerton had managed to render Ruth a service, and to become a welcome guest at the house.

He had heard a portion of Gertie’s story from Ruth, and had undertaken to see Heckett and secure from him an undertaking to leave the child unmolested in the care of her new friends.

Ruth was very grateful for this service; she had hesitated to ask Marston, and she had not dared herself to open negotiations, as that would have at once revealed the child’s whereabouts.

Gurth had gone himself to Heckett, to the only address he knew, the Little Queer Street one, and had found the place shut up. He inquired of Birnie, but that gentleman could tell him nothing. For some reason or other Mr. Heckett had cut all his old acquaintances.

Gurth was determined to know if possible, so he ascertained Marston’s address and went round to him.

He was struck with the comfort and taste of Eden Villa, and he began to think that perhaps, after all, Marston had had a windfall.

He was received with easy courtesy, and Marston rather enjoyed the astonishment under which his visitor was evidently labouring.

‘By Jove, Ned, I’d no idea you were such a swell as this!’ said Gurth, looking about him.

‘It isn’t a bad crib,’ answered Marston quietly; ‘but I’m looking about for an estate in the country; I’m tired of town life. I want to get among the county families, you know, and run for the House as a Tory squire.’

Gurth stared first, and then he burst out laughing.

‘What a chap you are, Ned,’ he exclaimed; ‘why you talk as if you were a millionaire.’

‘All right, my boy,’ answered Marston, rising, and standing with his back to the fireplace; ‘chaff away. You’ve seen me at the bottom of the tree, I know, but if you live long enough you’ll see me at the top.’

Something in Marston’s manner checked the smile that came to Gurth’s lip.

‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I shall be very glad, for the sake of old times. But while you are climbing up your tree, perhaps you wouldn’t mind doing me a service.’

‘Name it.’

‘Well, I particularly want Josh Heckett’s present address.’

‘How should I know? I saw him once after I returned, that’s all.’

‘He’s left Little Queer Street.’

‘Has he, indeed?’ said Marston quite unconcernedly. ‘Why are you so anxious to find him? Do you want to make him a present, or to chat over old times?’

‘Neither; I want to see him about the child.’

‘Ah,’ said Marston, ‘pricking of conscience, eh? I always thought, considering all things, you might have done something for Gertie’s young un.’

‘What do you mean by “considering all things “?’

‘As if you didn’t know that Gertie is Ralph’s child!’

Gurth’s face went suddenly pale, and his lips trembled as he stammered out some unintelligible words.

Marston was utterly astonished at the effect his remark had produced, and he instantly suspected there was some secret connected with Gertie the discovery of which Gurth had reason to dread. Perhaps Ralph had left her something in his will But whatever Marston thought, he was too good a diplomatist to say anything. He waited till Gurth had recovered his composure and pretended not to notice his confusion.

‘That’s all nonsense,’ said Gurth, with an effort. ‘I’m quite sure you’re wrong.’

‘Very likely,’ answered Marston. ‘It was only an idea of mine—a passing fancy. What is it you want to know about the child, now?’

Gurth hesitated. He was inclined to believe that Marston’s story about Ruth was a pure fabrication. Still he hardly liked to say that he wanted to see Heckett on behalf of Gertie’s new friend.

‘What do I want to know about the child?’ he said, after a pause. ‘Oh, nothing much. I only wanted to see if I could do anything for her. She struck me as being a very intelligent little thing.’

‘Very,’ answered Marston; ‘but she in very good hands now. Ruth is as good as a mother to her.’

The familiar use of the Christian name grated on Gurth’s ears.

‘Yes; but I presume Miss Adrian does not propose to keep her always, and I thought——’

‘You need not trouble yourself about Gertie Heckett, my dear fellow,’ answered Marston, lighting a cigar. ‘I shall look after her. Her story’s a very sad one, and I like to do good when I can. I’m going in for being a friend to the orphan, and I shall begin with Gertie Heckett.’

‘You don’t mean it?’

‘I do, my boy, seriously. If you want a field for your benevolence you must look elsewhere. I object to your adopting Gertie—or Ruth. You’ll excuse me now, won’t you? I’m going out of town by the afternoon train.’

Gurth Egerton took the hint and his departure, more than ever unable to make his old comrade out.

Marston went down, by the afternoon train to Dover, where he had an important appointment; and on the journey he began to think about Gurth.

‘He’s sweet on Ruth, evidently,’ he thought. ‘If this job comes off right, I must go in and win at once. With a wife like that it will be my own fault if I don’t go ahead. Fancy Gurth trying to cut me out there! How strangely things come about!’

From Gurth and Ruth, Marston’s thoughts wandered to Gertie. He was morally certain she was Ralph’s child. But of course Gurth was not responsible for that, and there was no proof. Why was Garth so upset by what he said? He had at any rate found out a weak point in his rival’s armour, and he was not the man to lose sight of the fact if it ever came to fighting.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
SMITH AND CO. START IN A NEW LINE.

Mr. Edward Marston was taking the air at Dover. He had left town for the benefit of his health. One morning, walking upon the pier, whom should he meet but Mr. Brooks, formerly the manager of Smith and Co.

‘Ah, how do you do?’ said Mr. Marston. ‘Staying here?’

‘Yes, for a little while,’ answered Mr. Brooks.

It was quite an accidental meeting, you see; but, having met, what more natural than that they should take a stroll together.

They strolled down towards the harbour and hired a rowing boat.

‘Want a man?’ asked the boatman.

‘No, thanks,’ answered Mr. Marston. ‘I’ll row myself.’

Mr. Brooks sat in the stern of the boat. Mr. Marston took the sculls and rowed a little way out.

The sea was calm, and when they were some little distance from the shore, and the small craft moving about, Marston ceased rowing, let the boat float, and commenced to converse with his companion.

‘The box was sent off yesterday,’ he said; ‘so that it will be at the parcels office this afternoon. You had better apply for it at once.’

‘All right; let me thoroughly understand what I have to do.’

‘It’s as simple as A B C,’ answered Marston. ‘Preene has bought for me five hundred pounds worth of bar gold and sent it down here by rail to be kept till called for. All bullion comes in special safes, and this must come that way. When you apply for the box it will be locked up in the safe and the clerk must get the key. Watch where he gets the key from.’

‘Yes, that’s all easy enough. What else?’

‘What else? Well, I’m a key-collector, I am, and I’ve a great faney to have a key the exact pattern of those that open the safes in which the bullion travels.’

‘You want an impression?’

‘Exactly.’

Mr. Brooks nodded; he quite understood his instructions so far. But he wanted to know a little more still.

‘And suppose we get an impression and file a key, where are we then?’ he asked, leaning over the boat and paddling with his hand in the water. ‘There are always people about at the office, and the safes are always well watched at the stations.’

‘Brooks, you are delightfully innocent. How I envy you that romantic freshness which becomes you so well!’

‘Stow it, guv’nor,’ said Mr. Brooks, a little nettled. ‘We can’t all be such swells at the game as you are. I don’t see anything particularly innocent in what I’ve said.’

‘Don’t be cross, old man; it’s only my chaff. Of course I can’t expect you to know everything. This is my idea. I’ve invested five hundred in it, so you may be sure I think it’s a good one. We don’t want to open the safes at the station. We shall open them in transit.’

Mr. Brooks opened his eyes.

‘How on earth will you do that? Why the safes are carried in the guard’s van, and they’re locked with patent keys, and they’re weighed at start and finish.’

‘Oh, you know all about it then?’

‘Of course I do! Lots of us have had an idea of getting at the bullion; but when we found out the precautions taken, we saw it was impossible.’

‘Impossible to you, said Marston, quietly, ‘but not to me. You do as I tell you, and leave the rest in my hands. I want your help—that’s why I told you to meet me here. We did the cheque business well enough together, and we’ve come out of it safe and sound, with a fair balance, and the George Smith business was managed A 1.’

‘Wasn’t it prime?’ said Mr. Brooks, with a chuckle. ‘Upon my word, when I read the evidence, I feel convinced myself that he must be guilty. Preene did it first class. Is he on this job?’

‘I think he must be,’ answered Marston. ‘His connection with the police is invaluable. He can always put them on a wrong scent till all’s safe. Who else will be in it?’

‘Only Heckett and Turvey the guard.’

‘Oh, you’ve got the guard, then?’

‘Yes, he was indispensable. The chance of a cool thousand settled him. Heckett we can’t do without. None but a professional could do the job with the safes and the boxes clean enough. Barker, one of the clerks in the traffic office, is a little bit in the swim. He knows nothing, but Preene knows something about him, and he’s got orders to do certain things this afternoon.’

Mr. Brooks was very much interested, and wanted more information, but Marston told him it would be time enough for further details when the first stage had been accomplished.

‘It’s no good telling you any more,’ he said, ‘until we’ve got the keys. Then you shall have the whole plan.’

‘Just one thing more,’ urged Mr. Brooks. ‘What will the job be worth’

‘Unless I can make it a big figure I shan’t touch it,’ answered Marston. ‘Its my last business transaction previous to retiring into private life; so I want it to be a profitable one. I shan’t think of making the attempt till I know that at least £20,000 is going down the line. That’s a sum that often goes from London to the Continent, and it is by the Continental mail we shall have to travel whenever the coup comes off.’

Brooks looked at Marston with such an admiring glance that the latter couldn’t help laughing.

‘We’d better get ashore,’ he said, presently. ‘You must take plenty of time, and have everything ready when you apply this afternoon for a box of bullion as Mr. John Dawson.’

Marston rowed towards the shore, giving his companion a few parting instructions, and, having landed, they separated. Marston went to the Lord Warden, where he was staying in first-class style, and Mr. Brooks walked quietly to his less pretentious but equally comfortable hotel, the Dover Castle.

All that afternoon Mr. Barker, a clerk in the traffic superintendent’s office at Dover, rather neglected his business. He had too sharp an eye on the parcels office to be thinking of anything else.

About three o’clock a train was due in. Just before it arrived an elderly gentleman stepped into the parcels office and asked if a box of bullion, forwarded from London to John Dawson, Dover, had arrived.

‘Yes, it has,’ said the clerk.

‘I am Mr. Dawson,’ said the gentleman, handing in a letter from the sender, advising its despatch to him. ‘I’ll take it, please.’

The clerk went to where the safe stood securely locked. The box of bullion was inside it.

Keys of these safes are kept at each end. They are locked in London and unlocked at their destination. The keys themselves are always kept locked up. Mr. Dawson’s eyes followed the parcels clerk closely as he went to get the keys.

He opened a small cupboard in the corner of the room and took down the keys that hung inside it. There were two separate locks to the safe, for increased security.

He put the two keys into the safe, unlocked it, and withdrew the box of bullion, and handed Mr. Dawson a receipt to sign.

At that moment, Mr. Barker, the clerk from the traffic superintendent’s office, called across the station to the parcels clerk, the train came in, and for a few minutes there was considerable confusion.

Barker had called the clerk out to show him something in the station. The excuse was prearranged and plausible. In two minutes he was back again.

Mr. Dawson had signed the receipt. He handed it to the clerk and took away his box of bullion. He also took away an impression in wax of the two keys that unlocked the safes which travelled up and down the line with thousands of pounds worth of gold in them.

Late that evening he had a moonlight stroll along the cliffs and met Mr. Edward Marston.

‘They were double keys, guv’nor,’ said Mr. Brooks, ‘and it was jolly sharp work, I can tell you!’

‘And good work,’ answered Marston, approvingly, offering his companion a cigar. ‘We will go up to town to-morrow and set to work on the keys. If this comes off right, I think Smith and Co. can divide the profits and dissolve partnership—eh, Brooks?’

‘You won’t turn the game up for a few thousand, guv’nor—not you!’

‘My dear fellow,’ answered Marston, ‘you forget I am only an amateur. I simply do this to acquire a modest competency in return for the expenditure of a little time and considerable talent. If I can put ten thousand pounds at my banker’s over this affair, I shall marry and settle down into a quiet, church-going, turnip-growing country gentleman.’

Brooks laughed at the idea, but Mr. Marston was never more serious in his life.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
RUTH ANSWERS A LETTER.

Mr. Gurth Egerton’s interest in Gertie Heckett was something wonderful. It took him often to the residence of the Adrians. There he was now a welcome guest, for he had soon found out Mr. Adrian’s weak side and opened fire upon it.

In his travels he had been among some of the interesting people Mr. Adrian delighted to honour, and his conversation was almost as interesting as the books. Marvellous stories had Gurth to tell of foreign lands, and especially of those lands where the natives were of the barbarous type dear to Ruth’s father.

Either Egerton had seen a great deal, or he was a good romancer. But, whether he dealt in fact or in fiction, his wares were attractive enough to command old Adrian’s custom, and Gurth never called and stayed ‘just to have a cup of tea’ without being invited again and pressed to come early.

Gurth’s account of his bachelor loneliness had not been lost upon Mrs. Adrian, and as he never contradicted her, but set himself studiously to please her, he gradually won his way into the old lady’s good graces.

Ruth was grateful to Gurth for the interest he took in Gertie. She knew he was rich, and she had heard he was a charitable gentleman. He entered into all her philanthropic schemes, begged that she would be his almoner and let him know of any deserving cases she came upon in her visits to the sick and poor. Altogether Gurth Egerton proved himself a most desirable acquisition to the Adrian family circle, and was highly approved of by everyone but Lion.

Lion always growled at him, and nothing would induce him to be friendly.

Gertie apologized for her favourite’s behaviour, and Gurth turned off the unpleasant effect of the dog’s determined hostility with a joke.

Mrs. Adrian, when Lion had, on the second or third occasion of his rudeness to her visitor, been turned out of the room, suggested that the dog had been brought up among low people, and had low people’s natural antipathy to gentlefolks.

Ruth did not take up the challenge on Gertie’s behalf. She knew that her mother had really grown fond of the child, and that she could no more help saying spiteful things occasionally than Lion could help growling. In both cases ‘it was their nature to.’

Gurth played his cards so well and grew so rapidly in favour with the Adrians that he soon felt emboldened to allow his feelings for Ruth to become gradually apparent.

Ruth was the last person to perceive the impression she had made, and it was forced upon her by a little conversation which is worth repeating.

One evening, when the Adrians were alone, and after Gertie had gone to bed, something brought up Gurth’s name, and then Marston’s.

‘They’re not to be named in the same breath,’ said Mrs. Adrian, looking Ruth full in the face. ‘Mr. Egerton’s a man that any girl might be glad to marry. I wonder he hasn’t been snapped up long ago.’

‘Lion would have snapped him up once or twice if we had let him,’ said Mr. Adrian with a smile.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, John; you know what I mean. Look how he sits on his chair. Like a gentleman. As to Mr. Marston, I never see him tilting the dining-room chairs back but I expect to see the legs come off. He’d ruin the furniture in a decent house in a month.’

Ruth laughed, Marston had offended her mother mortally by his habit of sitting with his chair tilted.

‘You may laugh, Ruth,’ continued the old lady; ‘but if ever you have a house of your own you’ll know what it is to see your dining-room suite going to pieces before your very eyes. People that can’t sit in chairs like a Christian oughtn’t to come into respectable houses. I’m sure I expect to see him sit on the table and put his legs up the chimney some day.’

‘You’re very hard on Mr. Marston, mother,’ said Ruth; ‘he’s lived in America many years, and you know they do very curious things there.’

‘Very, my dear. Oh, I know that. And I dare say Mr. Marston’s done a good many curious things there. Of course, my dear, I haven’t forgotten what was between you once, but I hope that’ll never happen again.’

Ruth coloured and bit her lip.

Mr. Adrian noticed it, and tried to turn the conversation by talking about the weather, but Mrs. Adrian was not be so easily turned from her course.

‘It’s no good looking at me like that, John,’ she exclaimed. ‘I know what you mean. Isn’t Ruth my daughter as much as she is yours? I say I should like to see her well married; and if I was a young girl Mr. Gurth Egerton shouldn’t ask me twice—there now!’

‘But, my dear Mary,’ urged Mr. Adrian, ‘Egerton hasn’t asked Ruth once yet.’

‘Of course not. But, if I know anything, he will before very long. What do you think he comes here for?—to chatter to you about the Ojibbeways, or to hold my worsted for me? Nonsense! He comes here after Ruth—and you must all be blind if you can’t see it.’

Ruth let her mother finish. It was not quite a revelation to her, this view of Egerton’s continual visits, but it had never come home to her so thoroughly before. Her mother was quite right. She saw it all now. She must act decisively and at once.

‘Mother,’ she said, after a pause, ‘I hope you are not right. Mr. Egerton has been a very kind friend to me, and I like him as a friend and acquaintance very much. I could never look upon him in any other light.’

Ruth gathered up her work and went up to her own room. It was a habit of hers to do so when any little thing put her out.

‘There, John,’ said Mrs. Adrian, as the door closed behind her; ‘you see—I’m sure I’m right. There goes her head, turned by that fellow again. I was afraid what it would be when you let him come dangling about here again.’

‘How could I refuse him, my dear? He is an old friend of the family. He and Ruth knew each other as children. He has lived down the first rashness of his neglected youth, and is now a gentleman of means, honoured and respected. Surely I could not close my doors against a man who, heavily handicapped as young Marston has been, has yet won his way to a respectable position.’

‘Ah, well,’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, ‘I never did believe in him, and I never shall; and if I thought Ruth was going to fling herself away on him after all, I’d have swept him off the front door-step with a besom before ever he should have darkened these doors again.’

‘You are prejudiced, Mary. I like Mr. Egerton, and he would give Ruth a splendid establishment; but if she still loves Edward Marston, I should be the last person in the world to attempt to turn her against him.’

While Mr. and Mrs. Adrian were arranging Ruth’s future, the heroine of their conversation sat upstairs in her own little room reading a letter which she had taken from her pocket.

It had come some time ago, and she had read it again and again, but had hesitated to answer it.

It was dated from Dover, and was in the bold, dashing hand of Edward Marston:

‘Dear Ruth,

‘Do you know that to-day is the anniversary of the fatal day on which we parted long years ago? I cannot resist the temptation of writing to you; of asking you to think of the past and of all I have gone through. To-day I can offer you once more the heart you rejected then. You cannot deceive me. Your love for me has survived, as mine for you. Why should you condemn yourself and me to a lifelong mistake? Bid me hope. Only say that I may strive with some chance of winning you, and I care not to what ordeal you put my love. Send me one little line, to tell me I am not, now that fortune has smiled upon me and a brilliant future lies before me, to lose the one hope which has nerved me to the struggle, which has been the bright star at the end of the dark, rough road I have trodden for years. Ruth, my future is in your hands. Say “Hope” or “Despair.” With a fervent prayer that Heaven will guide your heart aright in a choice with which our future lives are bound up, believe me, my dear Ruth, your old, unchanged, and unchangeable sweetheart,

‘Edward Marston.’

Again and again Ruth read this letter, which woke old memories and touched many a tender chord. She honestly believed all that her lover said—that he had abandoned his old reckless life and attained the position he held by hard, honest work and the legitimate exercise of his talents. He had explained to her his early visit to Heckett’s, and he had offered to satisfy her father of his circumstances if she would only give him the right to broach the subject.

Ruth had steadily resisted every effort to break down the barrier she had erected between the past and the present, but at each assault the defence became weaker.

Her mother’s words to-night, and the full revelation to her of the object of Gurth Egerton’s constant visits, brought her face to face with the fact that her answer would have to be given some day to this new wooer.

The very appearance of another suitor seemed to warm her heart towards Marston. She almost resented the idea that any one should dare to think of her while he was still unmarried.

Gurth Egerton, in this instance, proved Marston’s best ally instead of his rival. The idea that he was in love with her so worked upon Ruth that that night she recognized more fully than ever how just were Marston’s claims. A rival disputed the field with him, and, like a true woman, she resented it.

That night she wrote a letter and addressed it to Edward Marston.

It contained only two words.

And those two words were—‘Hope. Ruth’

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE GOLD ROBBERY.

Day after day, at four o’clock in the afternoon, three gentlemen came separately into London Bridge Station and strolled about.

They never spoke to each other in the station; they looked at the advertisements, perused the time-tables, and made themselves as little in the way as possible.

One evening, about five, Mr. Turvey, the guard of the Continental mail, came out of one of the offices and went across the road to a public-house.

One of the gentlemen had preceded him. He was a dark gentleman with a hook nose. He found himself accidentally standing by Turvey at the bar.

‘Fine afternoon, sir,’ said the guard.

‘Very,’ answered the gentleman.

They looked about them cautiously, to see that no one was listening to them or observing them, and then the guard whispered hurriedly:

‘We carry twenty thousand to-night.’

The dark man nodded his head. Two glasses of ale on the counter were rapidly emptied, the guard went back to the station, and the gentleman strolled across the bridge.

Singularly enough, the other two gentlemen had previously crossed the water.

The dark gentleman passed right between them, and muttered, ‘Twenty thousand pounds to-night.’

The ways of the three gentlemen evidently lay in opposite directions. They separated without remark. Their plans had long since been complete, and they had waited patiently until the stake was worth the hazard.

Their patience had been rewarded.

To-night the Continental mail would carry £20,000 worth of bullion, addressed to bankers in Paris.

Rushing along through the night, the swift train would bear a fortune down to the sea—a sum for which many a man would gladly slave and toil all his days.

This vast sum would travel safely, guarded by vigilant eyes, enclosed in massive safes, and secured by every precaution. Twice on the journey the safes would be weighed—at Folkestone and at Boulogne—so that the slightest difference in the weight of the precious packages would be detected.

Yet, if Messrs. Smith and Co., financial agents of London, could get their way, the gold would never reach its destination.

The three gentlemen who separated on London Bridge were, for the time, members of the firm in question.

The gentleman with the hook nose went off in the direction of the west; the other two were a pleasant-looking elderly gentleman, who hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Camden Road, and a big, burly, grey-haired fellow, who went back to his lodgings in Southwark, and was greeted with some very bad language by a depraved parrot.

Messrs. Seth Preene, Brooks, and Josh Heckett had only a few hours to prepare for a railway journey which they proposed to take that evening.

---

It wants a few minutes to the departure of the Continental mail.

The station is a scene of bustle. Porters are rushing hither and thither with piles of heavy travelling trunks. Little groups of travellers dot the platform, affectionate farewells are being taken, and many an anxious eye is looking down the line where the lights gleam, and wondering what sort of weather it is out at sea.

The stolid English traveller, who, having bought half-a-dozen newspapers, and taken his seat in an empty carriage, considers he has done an act which entitles him to the whole of the compartment; the English lady, arrayed for travel in garments which are calculated to amaze the foreigner; the Frenchman, who raises his hat every time he passes a fellow-traveller, and spits on the floor of the carriage without apology; the Belgian, with his hideous black travelling-cap and funereal suit; the German, the Italian, and the Russian, speaking now in English now in their native language, all are here.

The train is a light one, and there is plenty of room for travellers who wish to be exclusive.

A few shillings to the guard on a slack night will generally reserve a compartment as far as Dover.

Two gentlemen evidently think privacy worth purchasing, for the guard has closed the door of a first-class compartment on them and is slipping a bright half-crown into his pocket.

They have handed their carpet-bags to a porter to put in the guard’s van.

The bell is ringing and the train is about to start.

There are a few people still bidding adieu to their friends.

Just at the last moment two gentlemen, who have not taken their seats, step into the guard’s van and crouch down behind the luggage.

A sharp whistle, a volume of steam, and the train glides out into the night.

Turvey, the guard, breathes freely. He has fulfilled his portion of the contract, and is entitled to his share.

Brooks and Heckett are alone with the massive safes of bullion, and everything now depends upon the use they make of the opportunity.

They are the workmen who are to carry out the scheme devised by the talented head of the firm of Smith and Co.

Slowly at first, but increasing in speed at every moment, the long train rushes like a fiery serpent through London out into the open country.

Directly the train is clear of the station Brooks and Heckett commence operations. The rehearsal has been perfect, the performance seems likely to go off without a hitch.

Brooks has the keys prepared with so much skill and labour, and the safe opens in a moment. Then Heckett with a hammer and chisel wrenches off the iron clasps from the first box, and, forcing the lid up carefully, reveals the treasure that lies within.

Never did a miner’s eyes gleam more brightly as he came upon the priceless nugget than did Heckett’s as he saw the bars of gold at his mercy. Quick as thought the box was emptied and filled with shot from the carpet bags in the van.

This shot had all been carefully weighed and prepared in parcels, so that it would represent the exact weight of the abstracted gold.

To light some wax with a taper, reseal the box with a seal brought for the purpose, refasten the iron clasps and drive the nails in again was the work of a very short time, and when the train stopped at Redhill half the stupendous task was completed.

Here Preene, who was travelling with Marston, managed to alight and take a full bag of gold from Brooks, then he slipped it into the carriage where Marston was, and got back again in time to jump into the guard’s van as the train started.

Directly the train was in motion again the other boxes were attacked, and now Brooks, Preene, and Heckett filled their carpet bags with gold, and also large courier bags which they wore across their shoulders, and which were quite concealed by their heavy travelling cloaks.

When the train stopped at Folkestone the work was done. The boxes had been reclosed and filled with shot of the exact weight of the abstracted gold, the safes were relocked, and there was nothing to tell that the guard’s van had been the scene of a daring and gigantic robbery. At Folkestone the three accomplices slipped out of the van and entered the nearest carriages, carrying their spoil with them, its great weight, however, rendering it anything but an easy task.

Here the safes were carefully taken out and handed to the authorities for shipment to Boulogne, and the train sped on its way to Dover.

It was with intense relief that Marston put his head out of window as the train rattled out of Folkestone station, and saw the safes on the platform, zealously guarded by the porters, who little imagined that they were keeping watch over a quantity of shot while the gold was divided among four first-class passengers comfortably seated in the fast-vanishing train.

At Dover the conspirators alighted, each carrying his own bag, and politely declining the offers of the porters, who were anxious to assist them.

Making their way to one of the hotels in the neighbourhood they succeeded in getting refreshments served in a private room, and here, putting their heavy bags under the table, they discussed the return journey.

To avoid the suspicion which such a short stay might have aroused, they had provided themselves with return tickets from Ostend, and it was by the Ostend mail, which leaves Dover shortly after two, that they proposed to return to town with their precious burden.

Paying their bill they got outside. There was an uneasy feeling on them all the time they were within four walls. Even the fact that the waiter remained out of the room some time before he returned with the change filled them with alarm.

They had every hope that the weight had been so accurately replaced that the exchange of shot for precious metal would not be discovered until the safes were opened in Paris, but there was the chance that something might have happened at Folkestone before they were shipped.

Once outside they separated, but all made for the pier. Marston stood and looked out over the sea, watching for the lights of the Ostend packet.

The night was not very dark, and the water was comparatively still. As he looked out over the wide expanse of waters, dotted here and there with the light of a fishing vessel at anchor his thoughts wandered away over the past.

As he stood there, clutching his bag of gold, he thought of each succeeding step he had taken in crime, until he had come to look upon a robbery such as he had just been the prime mover in in much the same light as a merchant looks upon a successful speculation on ‘Change.’

Thinking of his wild life, and glancing almost unconcernedly at the panorama of his evil deeds which unfolded itself at the bidding of the great showman Memory, something seemed to come suddenly between him and the canvas. The gentle face of a beautiful girl rose up before him; her eyes looked pleadingly into his. Suddenly it vanished, and the panorama was unrolled swiftly. Scene alter scene he saw, where all was wickedness and he was the central figure.

‘Bah!’ he exclaimed, as he caught himself sighing. ‘What the deuce is the matter with me to-night?’

He lit a cigar and moved away from the pier side, strolling up towards the head. He looked around for his companions. A feeling of loneliness had come upon him, and he wanted some one to speak to.

But it bad been agreed that they should not rejoin each other until the packet was in sight, so Marston buttoned his overcoat up found his throat, and whistled a tune to relieve his feelings.

He could not shake them off. In a few minutes he found himself musing again. What should he do now if this coup came off with complete success?

Once safe back in town he could snap his fingers at detection. He would have ample opportunity of destroying the scent if the hounds of the law ever got on it. He knew that he would have an early intimation if there was any necessity for him to take precautions. His companions might peach, but it was almost impossible. It wouldn’t pay them. They were as deep in the mud as he was in the mire, and he had the whip hand of them all.

Still he felt uncomfortable, almost for the first time in his life, he kept thinking of Ruth Adrian, and that upset him. The old love, fanned into a flame, was burning brightly in his breast once more, and it seemed to unnerve him. The wealth which was his now would open the gates of fortune to him. He knew it. He knew that, with the capital soon to be at his command, he could make money legitimately and without risk. That was his intention. He had no vulgar ambition to be a criminal. His desire was, having secured the foundation of a fortune, to live cleanly and respectably for the future. But in all the dreams in which he indulged, Ruth Adrian was always his wife.

Apart from his really sincere regard for her, he had the gambler’s idea that she would bring him luck. She was to be one means to an end, as the precious metal in his bag was to be another.

But the more he thought of her, the more he pictured a happy home in which she reigned as a sort of good fairy and guardian angel, the more he felt a strange, undefined sense of fear in connexion with this evening’s adventure.

It was such a daring and gigantic deed that it was bound to cause a sensation. It would be in every man’s mouth by-and-by. He would hear of it everywhere. The efforts made to discover the perpetrators would be superhuman. Would he not, as the days went on, and he settled down into the happy life he pictured for himself with Ruth, be constantly reminded of the perils which he ran? He flung his half-smoked cigar away pettishly. He was annoyed with himself for worrying about the future at all.

‘Only let me get safe out of this,’ he thought to himself, and I’ll make a fresh start. This is the last little business Smith and Co. will transact so far as I am concerned. Preene and Brooks and Heckett can take their share and do as they like; Turvey is squared, and daren’t speak for his own sake; and the old Ned Marston will disappear for ever. The phoenix that will rise from his ashes will be a very different person indeed.’

Standing at the pier-head, Edward Marston looked far away over the waves into his future life.

His dreams were interrupted by a voice at his elbow.

‘Stand aside there!’

Marston looked up with a start.

The harbour officials were busy with ropes and landing-stages. The Ostend packet had crept up and he had not even seen it.

In a moment it was alongside. A stream of passengers flowed up the gangways on to the pier, and trickled gently towards the station.

Four gentlemen, carrying heavy bags, dropped into the crowd at different points and went up with it, as though they had just come from the boat.

In the early morning the Belgian mail from Dover steamed into London and discharged her sleepy freight at the terminus.

There the four fellow-travellers separated, each going his own way.

Marston was not afraid to trust his companions with the share of the plunder they carried. Without him they would not be able to dispose of it. In its present shape it could only be put on to the market by a capitalist with machinery for its distribution at his command.

The distribution and realization of £20,000 of stolen bullion was to be the last official act of the eminent firm of Smith and Co., of which Mr. Edward Marston was the directing genius.

---

In the grey light of the morning Marston let himself into Eden Villa with his latch-key. He went upstairs quietly into his room and disposed of his precious burden, and then crept down again to the dining-room to get some brandy from the chiffonier, for he was tired and faint. In the room on the table he found the letters which had arrived during his absence.

He sat down in the easy-chair, opened them and read them.

About half-past seven Cherry Ribbons, the housemaid came banging about with brooms, blacklead-brushes, and dust-pans.

She came bustling into the dining room and then stopped suddenly as though she had seen a ghost.

Her master had fallen off to sleep in the easy-chair. He was smiling in his sleep, and in his hand he held an open letter.

Cherry Ribbons, who was not behind the door when the bump of curiosity was served out, crept gently up behind him and read its contents over his shoulder.

Two words only were written on the fair white sheet, and they were in a lady’s hand:

“Hope. Ruth.”

CHAPTER XL.
THE ADRIANS GO OUT TO TEA.

Mr. Gurth Egerton was a pretty constant visitor at the Adrians’, and he stood high in favour with both the master and the mistress of the house. ‘A most agreeable genileman,’ said Mrs. Adrian. ‘A great traveller, and full of aneedote,’ said Mr. Adrian. Ruth said nothing in particular. She quite agreed that Mr. Egerton was all her parents proclaimed him, and she confessed that he had made himself particularly agreeable to her. But she was not blind, and she soon began to perceive that Gurth was taking great pains to please her, and that when he spoke to her he threw a certain tone into his voice which no woman, from the days of Eve, has been able to misinterpret, unless she did so wilfully.

Ruth was shrewd enough to know that Mr. Gurth Egerton was not so domesticated as to come over to the house three or four times a week for the purpose of holding Mrs. Adrians wool and discussing the relative merits of homoeopathy and allopathy with her, and she was equally certain that, much as he might have travelled, he was not so smitten with the savages as to desire constantly to discuss their habits and customs with her father.

But, whatever Gurth’s motive might be, he had certainly won the friendship of the Adrians. He had even induced them to accept his hospitality, and come and take tea with him.

He had so artfully worked up a description of a Patagonia; dinner-service and a North American Indian war-costume, that he had forced Mr. Adrian to exclaim, ‘Ah, I should like to see that!’

‘Nothing easier,’ was Gurth’s quick reply. ‘Bring the ladies, and come over one afternoon to my house, and you can see the whole collection.’

Mrs. Adrian at once gave John a look which informed him he might accept. Mrs. Adrian had not been blind any more than Ruth, and recognized in the wealthy bachelor a most eligible parti for her daughter.

So it was arranged that Mr. and Mrs. Adrian and Ruth and Gertie should all go over to Gurth’s house one evening and take tea.

They came on the appointed day, and Gurth conducted them over the house, showing them all the curiosities he had brought from foreign parts. Mr. Adrian was delighted with the scalps, and the spears, and the various relics of barbarism, Mrs. Adrian tried the easy-chairs, and having found a particularly comfortable one, entered into conversation with Mrs. Turvey, who had been sent for to keep her company while Ruth and Gertie and Mr. Adrian wandered over the great house. Mrs. Turvey was very agreeable, and allowed herself to be pumped just as much as she chose and no more until the exploring party returned.

Then tea was served. It was a good old-fashioned tea, which reflected the greatest credit on Mrs. Turvey and drew forth the warmest encomiums of Mrs. Adrian. There were potato cakes and dripping cakes, and all the substantial and appetizing delicacies which have disappeared from the table, slain by the dyspeptic and unsociable monster known as ‘late dinner.’

Of course Ruth was voted to the chair, and very pretty she looked at the head of Gurth’s table, blushing just a little as she lifted the bright silver teapot and asked the host if he took sugar and milk.

Gurth was so lost in admiration of the unusual spectacle that he hardly heard the question, and it had to be repeated by Mrs. Adrian. Gurth stammered out ‘Both, please,’ and apologized for his inattention.

Mrs. Adrian watched his admiring glance with satisfaction, but Ruth, keeping her eyes carefully fixed on her teacups, avoided meeting it. Mrs. Adrian built up a little romance directly. She was quite sure that, having once seen Ruth at the head of his table, the wealthy proprietor of this eligible mansion could not fail to desire a repetition of the scene.

Gurth was surprised himself at the transformation which the gloomy room had undergone, and he was more than ever persuaded that the future mistress of Mrs. Turvey’s domain must be the young lady now presiding at his tea-table.

Gertie was very quiet. Child as she was, she recognized the position of dependence in which she was placed, and though the Adrians treated her with the greatest kindness, she could not forget that she was dependent on their charity for all the happiness and comfort she now enjoyed.

Gurth did not feel quite comfortable, once or twice as Gertie moved about the place, asking now and then a childish question about something that attracted her attention. He had a vague feeling that it was a daring thing to have let her come; he had a strange, undefined sense of uneasiness, as they went from room to room, that the child might suddenly happen upon a discovery—upon some trifle which would establish the link he had been all these years endeavouring to hide.

But gradually he got over the feeling, and grew more at his ease. He consoled himself by thinking that when he had won and married Ruth he would let her always have Gertie with her, and then the child would be really enjoying her father’s property, just as much as though it had come to her in the first instance.

It was an odd kind of morality; but Gurth Egerton’s ideas of right and wrong had always been of a peculiar sort.

While the tea-party was being held above, Mrs. Turvey had a small entertainment of her own going on in the room below. Now that Mr. Egerton remained permanently at home another servant had been engaged, and she waited on the company, so that Mrs. Turvey only had to see that the things went up nice and hot and generally to superintend.

This gave her time to attend to her own guest, who was no other than Mr. Jabez. The good lady knew that he had a weakness for her hot cakes, and she had taken this opportunity of inviting him to tea. By making an extra quantity, both Jabez and the ladies and gentlemen upstairs could be baked for in the same oven.

Jabez required a good deal of keeping up to the mark. He had never plucked up courage to defy his beloved Susan to do her worst; but the wooing had not advanced. He still kept up an outward appearance of devotion, but he required considerable temptation, in the shape of substantial teas, to lure him iuto Susan’s little parlour after he left business.

He was always making excuses. Now he was kept late at the office; now he was obliged to go straight home because Georgina was ill. The trial of his lodger for forgery was for a long time a plea for the fact of his visits being like those of the oft-quoted angels—few and far between. Every now and then, however, in the interests of diplomacy, he felt compelled to put a good face on the matter and ‘come up smiling’ in response to Susan’s pressing invitations. The letters were still in her possession; his poems were still held in terrorem over him.

On the occasion of the Adrians’ visit he had consented to take tea in Mrs. Turvey’s little parlour and try her famous hot cakes.

Love had not injured his appetite, and he was far more assiduous in his attention to the cakes than he was in his attentions to the lady whose light hand had turned them out so successfully.

‘Jabez,’ said Mrs. Turvey, ‘I don’t think it will be long before I leave here.’

‘Leave here—why?’ exclaimed Jabez.

‘Well, there’s a young lady upstairs pouring out the master’s tea.’

‘So you told me before,’ said Jahez, taking a bite.

‘Where shall I go when I leave here, Jabez?’

Jahez swallowed a mouthful hurriedly.

‘I’m sure I don’t know, Susan.’

‘Then you ought to, that’s all I’ve got to say. How much longer do you think I’m going to stand your indifference? I tell you what it is, Jahez, I shall give you till I get notice to leave here, and I shan’t give you a moment longer.’

Jahez, whose eyes had been cast down, looked up hurriedly.

‘That’s a bargain!’ he said. ‘I’ll agree to it. Let’s draw it up in writing. I agree to marry you directly you get notice to leave.’

Mrs. Turvey tossed her head.

‘Dror it up in writing? Oh dear no, Mr. Jabez. It’s droved up in quite enough writing already for me. I suppose you fancy as there’s nothing in it upstairs. Perhaps you’ve been a-pryin’ into the master’s private affairs, and know something. Dror it up, indeed! Not with them there poems o’ yours in my workbox upstairs. You must think me a cake!’

Whether Mr. Jabez did think his Susan a cake, I can’t say, but he certainly seized one and munched it viciously.

The little tiff, however, soon blew over. Jabez had not studied the art of dissembling in vain. So long as he could drive off the evil day until the letters, which were the only legal proofs of ‘promise,’ came into his possession, or until something turned up to give him a loophole of escape, he was satisfied.

He made it up, shone on Mrs. Turvey as brightly as he could, and presently, having finished the cakes and emptied the teapot, took his departure.

While this scene was transacting itself below, the little tea-party upstairs was progressing under far more favourable circumstances.

Gurth, absorbed in his desire to make himself agreeable to the Adrians, succeeded in making them spend a really pleasant evening. Mr. Adrian was so delighted with his conversation, and Mrs. Adrian felt so comfortable in his easy-chair, that both were loth to leave, and had to be reminded twice by Ruth of the lateness of the hour before they prepared to go.

A few days after the tea-party at Egerton’s house, Mr. John Adrian sat alone in his dining-room.

The latest book of travels lay on the table before him, but he took no notice of it. He was evidently lost in thought.

A few minutes before a visitor had departed—a visitor who had requested a private interview, and, having obtained it had told Mr. Adrian something which had completely put the Patagonians’ noses out of joint and driven the Central Africans from the field.

The visitor was no other than Mr. Gurth Egerton, who, in a few plain words, had requested Mr. Adrian’s permission to pay his addresses to his daughter.

Mr. Adrian had listened to his visitor politely, and had gone so far as to confess that such a match would be by no means disagreeable to himself, but with regard to his daughter’s feelings he was not in a position to speak.

‘My dear sir,’ answered Gurth gaily, ‘if I have your consent, that is all I ask at present. I by no means wish you to advocate my cause with the young lady, or to say anything to her about this interview. I merely wish to know, before I urge my suit with her, that I have your free consent to do so. I don’t want to come here sailing under false colours.’

Mr. Adrian was charmed with his visitor’s frankness, and let him go away assured that, though he would in no way attempt to influence Ruth in her choice of a husband, he should only be too glad if it fell upon so prosperous and agreeable a gentleman as Gurth Egerton.

For some little time after Gurth’s departure, Mr. Adrian sat wrapt in thought. It would be a splendid match for Ruth, and he felt it was time she was settled in life. Mrs. Adrian, he knew, would offer no opposition—in fact, over and over again she had urged him to do all in his power to foster such a match. There was nothing in the way of its accomplishment but Rath herself.

I wonder,’ said Mr. Adrian, ‘if she has quite got over that old business with Ned Marston! Sometimes I fancy there is a soft spot in her heart for him still.’

Could Mr. Adrian have seen Ruth, as she sat in in her own room that afternoon, he would have had grave doubts as to the success of Gurth Egerton’s wooing.

Ruth was amusing herself for a moment or two at her writing-desk, and scribbling, as young ladies will sometimes when their thoughts are wandering, on a piece of blotting-paper.

She was writing her name over and over again:

‘Ruth Adrian

‘Ruth Adrian.’

She scribbled it half-a-dozen times, and then her pen, perhaps obedient to her thought, paused at the ‘Ruth’ and wrote a fresh name after it.

Ruth blushed a vivid scarlet when she saw what she had done. There, on the blotting-paper in bold relief she had written, in place of her usual signature:

‘Ruth Marston.’

CHAPTER XLI.
AN AFTERNOON CALL.

Gurth Egerton was delighted at the cordial reception he had received at the hands of Mr. Adrian. He had, at any rate, in that interview ascertained that, so far as Ruth’s parents were concerned, nothing was known of Marston’s pretensions.

He was more than ever convinced that it was only braggadocio on that gentleman’s part, and that he had nothing to fear from his old companion. The more he thought of it, the more absurd it seemed to him that he should ever have attached any importance to Marston’s assertion. Ruth certainly was polite to him, and when he had seen them meet they met as old friends. He quite understood that. Years ago, before Marston went wrong, he had been acquainted with the family, and Ruth and he had been sweethearts as boy and girl. But things were very different now. Marston, in spite of his assumption of independence, was only an adventurer. He felt convinced that his respectability was a whited sepulchre, and that there was something very rotten underneath it.

But the undoubted fact remained that Marston was now on visiting terms with the Adrians, and that Ruth was not particularly cold to him.

It would be safer, at any rate, to clinch the matter at once, and bowl Mr. Edward Marston out before he had a chance of scoring.

Gurth followed up his declaration to Mr. Adrian at once. He managed to find himself pretty constantly in Ruth’s society, and he flattered himself that he was on the straight road to conquest.

But he was determined not to be too precipitate, and by overhaste court an answer which might render his position a difficult one.

One day when he called he was annoyed to find Marston at the house, but he shook hands with him cordially, and barely allowed his annoyance to be perceptible.

It was Marston’s first visit to the Adrians for some time. He had been engaged on ‘important business,’ but he had not allowed Ruth’s little note to remain unanswered.

He had written, telling her that he had been successful in a great undertaking, and that now he was in a position to offer her a home and devote himself solely to making her happy.

He had met Ruth, too, and the old romance of their lives had been reopened at a second volume.

It is in the third volume that everybody is generally made happy, and it was to the third volume which Marston was now anxious to turn.

He had conquered the fortress once more. It had been but weakly defended. One by one, the barriers had gone down before the weapons which Marston brought to bear upon it. The old love had never died out—it had but languished awhile; and now that Ruth believed Marston to be leading a new life, and to be the brave, honest-hearted, good fellow she once prayed that he might become, she was thankful he had never met that good woman she had once prayed might be flung in his path.

Who can explain the workings of a woman’s heart? Who can dissect it, and show the complex machinery which governs its marvellous performances? To attempt such a task would be to court ignominious failure. I only know that Ruth Adrian, pure, good, and noble as she was, loved Edward Marston, and trusted him as blindly and devotedly as ever, in spite of the rude shock her faith had once received, in spite of the many doubts with which her heart had been beset since his reappearance on the horizon that bounded her little world. Her love was strengthened and confirmed by the very fact that once he had led an evil life, that once she had been compelled to snap the link, and bid him go his way and leave her to go hers.

She found herself now hungering for a word from him, waiting about where he was to pass, meeting him under all the romantic circumstances of a first courtship. At twenty-eight her heart beat as quickly when he came as it had done when she was eighteen. It seemed to her that their separation and the long ordeal through which they had both passed had but purified and intensified their love.

Even the element of secrecy which, as much for her own sake as for his, Marston imported into the romance was not without its harm. Ruth knew now that both her mother and father would be opposed to her match. She saw that Gurth Egerton was in high favour, and, so far as they were concerned, would be a formidable rival to her poor Ned. But she was her own mistress now, and could decide for herself. Gurth Egerton was a very pleasant gentleman, but he came too late. She had no heart left to give. Marston had won it long ago, and now he had the right to claim it.

When Marston called, he did so by Ruth’s advice. She didn’t want Gurth Egerton to have the field entirely to himself. She was sure Marston was quite as agreeable as he was.

Of course she had told Marston about Gurth—about the tea-party and his constant visits. Of the interview with her father she herself knew nothing. Marston was seriously alarmed. He remembered his interview with Gurth, and he felt that it would not do to despise such a foe too much.

Acting on Ruth’s hint he determined to ingratiate himself with the Adrians as much as he could, and, if possible, cut Gurth out on his own ground.

He knew that so far as Ruth was concerned he had nothing to fear, but for her sake he was anxious that she should marry him with the full and free approbation of her parents.

He felt that she would never really be happy under any other circumstances, and, strange as it may seem, Ruth’s happiness was with him now a primary consideration. He had gradually come to love his old sweetheart again with an affection as pure and disinterested as that she felt for him.

She seemed to him, like an angel of light, to banish the darkness of the past. He never really knew how vile and wicked he had been till he looked into Ruth’s sweet eyes, and thought that one day she would bear his name.

He shuddered sometimes now as he thought of what an awful past was linked with that name. Now that Ruth had assured him of her love, now that the bright pages were open once more in his book of life, he recognized, for the first time, the depth to which he had fallen. There was much in the past about which he hesitated to think; there were secrets buried away in the bygone years of poverty and scheming which once he could remember with a smile, but which now made him tremble to think that some day they might be dragged into the glaring light of day.

‘What a different man I might have been had such a woman’s love been mine years ago!’ he thought; but never for a moment did he blame Ruth for the part she had played when his future hung in the balance.

He was innocence itself then in comparison with what he had been when he plunged, reckless and despairing, into the black abyss of crime.

Even the deed which had given him fortune, the well-planned and cleverly executed robbery which had astonished the world and left him independent of crime for the future, terrified him now.

Without it he would still have been an adventurer—he dared not have offered Ruth his hand. It was this vilely won wealth which he believed would give him all the happiness he was ever to know in the future; it was this which was to enable him to break with all his old associates and live cleanly; it was this which was to be the foundation of a genuine business career in which he might win wealth and honour legitimately; and yet he never parted with Ruth after one of those frequent interviews without wishing he had gone penniless to the grave rather than have launched out into such a crime with her image in his heart, and her sweet self the beacon that shone at the end of the long dark path and lured him on.

It seemed a treachery to her now to have linked her with such villany.

The transition state of Mr. Edward Marston’s conscience was a condition of things which would form a splendid study for the moralist and the philosopher. The novelist must not pause by the way to dilate upon it, tempting though the opportunity may be. He has already left the Adrians and their visitors much longer than courtesy and the rules of fiction allow.

Marston and Egerton left together. The conversation had been confined to platitudes. Mr. Adrian was ill at ease, for he feared danger from the Marston quarter now more than ever. When he did bring his eyes from Patagonia to things nearer home, they generally saw pretty clearly. Mrs. Adrian was so rude to Marston that Ruth was really distressed. The good lady begged that he would not kick the chair legs, as they had just been repolished; she requested him kindly to move his chair a little way from the wall, as it was nibbing the paper; and when he drew up to the table at last, in a tone of icy politeness she called his attention to the fact that he was drumming with his fingers on the said piece of furniture, a practice which, in her delicate state of health, always gave her the headache.

Marston laughed good-humouredly, but the laugh was forced. Gurth was ill at ease, for he saw that a storm was brewing, and when Marston rose to leave he went with him.

He knew that, sooner or later, he and Marston would have to have a few words, and he felt that it might as well be now.

He was hardly prepared, however, for the coolness which his rival displayed.

‘Which way are you going, Gurth?’ said Marston, as they closed the Adrians’ gate.

‘Home,’ answered Gurth. ‘Come with me and have a cigar.’

‘That’s just what will suit me best. I want to talk with you about one or two things.’

The two men exchanged very few words on their way to Gurth’s house. Both were busy with their thoughts. Both were bracing themselves up for the conflict to come.

As they passed through one of the main thoroughfares the afternoon papers were being sold, and there was a crowd round the placards.

Gurth went up and peered over to read the contents bill that was exciting so much attention.

‘What is it?’ asked Marston. ‘A murder or a robbery?’

‘It will turn out both, I dare say,’ said Egerton. ‘The Great Blankshire Bank has stopped payment.’

‘Oh!’ said Marston; ‘I don’t know much about commercial matters. Is there anything special about the circumstances?’

‘No! only it is unlimited, and the shareholders will be beggars. The liabilities are immense.’

‘Poor devils!’ exclaimed Marston. ‘I’m sorry for ‘em; but, as I’m not a shareholder, it doesn’t interest me.’

Edward Marston spoke as he believed. He little knew that the failure of the Great Blankshire Bank was to interest him very much indeed.

CHAPTER XLII.
A DUEL OF WORDS.

Gurth Egerton and Edward Marston sat opposite each other in the same room where a few days previously, Gurth had entertained the Adrians.

Ruth had told Marston of the visit, and as he glanced round the cosily furnished apartment he fancied he could see her at the head of the table, and Gurth smiling complacently to himself at the victory he imagined he was gaining over an absent rival.

The thought irritated him, and when Egerton handed him his cigar-case, he pushed it away from him with a contemptuous gesture.

‘A truce to this tomfoolery, Egerton!’ he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair and striding across the room in his excitement. ‘You can guess what I’ve come here to talk about.’

‘Well, suppose I can?’ answered Gurth, quietly helping himself from the rejected case.

‘You will spare me the trouble of any introductory remarks. I may as well be plain, Gurth. In the old days we didn’t choose our phrases, and we needn’t now. You are paying a good deal too much attention to Ruth Adrian, and I strongly object to it.’

‘I have no doubt you do,’ answered Gurth; ‘but the young lady may not.’

‘Tush, man! we are not rehearsing a comedy. Drop your repartee. Ruth does object to your visits very much.’

‘I am sorry to hear it; but I visit her parents’ house at her parents’ invitation.’

‘Good. Then you’ll remain away in future at my invitation.’

‘What the deuce do you mean, Mr. Marston?’

‘What I say. If it isn’t clear to you, I’ll put it plainer. I request you to keep away from the Adrians’ while Ruth remains with them.’

‘Hoity-toity! You request me?’

‘Yes; or rather I command you. Come, Mr. Gurth Egerton, you are not the only beggar who can sit a horse. I can be up in the stirrups too.’

Gurth Egerton looked at Marston for a moment, but the face of the latter betrayed nothing.

‘Look here, Ned Marston,’ he said, after a pause; ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you, but you are adopting a tone which doesn’t suit you at all. It’s out of place, my dear fellow. Who are you!’

‘You know well enough.’

‘Perhaps I do. As you evidently forget yourself, let me remind you. Some time ago a ragged, half-starved fellow turned up in London, after a long absence from the scenes of his youth, and came cadging to a friend of mine. My friend, acting on my behalf, gave him five hundred pounds for old acquaintance sake.’

Marston interrupted.

‘So Birnie let you in for that five hundred, did he?’ he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘What a chap he is!’

‘I paid the five hundred you drew of Birnie. Certainly I did!’ continued Gurth. ‘I was very glad to do it for a poor devil out of luck whom I had known in former times. I could afford it, you know——-’

‘Of course you could, having Ralph’s money to spend.’

‘Ralph’s money was left to me legally, Mr. Marston, and no one can dispute my right to it! You got that five hundred, and you seem to have made a good use of it. You have managed to worm your way into respectable society, established a certain amount of credit, and now you have the confounded impudence to interfere in my private affairs—to aspire to the hand of a lady I intend to make my wife. Take my advice, Mr. Marston; be satisfied with your present success, and leave well alone.’

‘If I don’t?’

‘If you don’t I shall take care that your true character is known. I have no doubt if the police are once put on the right track they could furnish me with some interesting details of your past career.’

Marston laughed.

‘What a rum chap you are, Egerton!’ he said. ‘Do you think if I had anything to fear I should have acted in the way I have? You are on the wrong line this time, old fellow.’

‘You interfere between Ruth Adrian and me, and it will be bad for you!’ exclaimed Gurth, angrily.

Marston, who had been standing by the window, came across the room to the mantel-shelf, and stood with his back to the fireplace.

‘Listen to me, Gurth Egerton,’ he said. ‘I told you once before that it was no use your crossing my path in this quarter, and you despised my warning. It is necessary now that I should let you know the consequences to you if you persist in your folly.’

‘You threaten?’

‘Certainly. Haven’t you threatened me? But I shall not be so foolish as you. You have shown your hand to no purpose. I fancy when you see my cards you will fling the game up.’

Marston’s manner was cold, and his voice stern. He spoke with such an air of conscious power that Gurth’s anxiety betrayed itself in the expression of his face.

Marston noticed the effect, and hastened to follow it up.

‘I love Ruth Adrian honestly and devotedly!’ he continued. ‘With her for my wife, I am about to lead a new life—a life which you will not be able to understand, perhaps. If you, by word or deed, attempt to thwart my purpose, woe betide you, Gurth Egerton. You had better try to rob a lion of its whelp than step between me and the fulfilment of my dream.’

Gurth roused himself with an effort. ‘Talk, my dear fellow!’ he exclaimed, banteringly. ‘Mere talk! What could you—an adventurer, a runaway from America, a penniless schemer—say or do that would injure a man of my wealth and position? Come, what do you want? A thousand—two thousand? Name your figure, take a cheque, and disappear. You are good at disappearing, you know.’

Marston had controlled himself with difficulty for some time, but when, in stinging tones of contempt, Gurth offered him money—offered to buy Ruth of him, as it were—his calmness forsook him. With a flushed face and flashing eyes he sprang forward and seized Gurth by the shoulders.

‘You cur!’ he exclaimed, passionately. ‘Do you think to buy me with your dirty money?—your money!—bah, with the money that you have got by fraud—for all I know, by murder!’

It was a shot at random, but it went home.

Gurth, white as a ghost, shook himself free from Marston’s clutch.

‘What do you mean?’ he exclaimed. ‘How dare you say such things?’

‘Look at your white face in the glass,’ cried Marston, with an exulting cry. ‘I’ve unmasked you at last, then. Ah, my fine fellow, I fancy I know the weak spot now. You’ll sweep me out of your path, will you? We’ll see. Now, listen to this, Mr. Gurth Egerton. The first time you cross the Adrians’ threshold you seal your own fate. I’ll risk what will happen, and I’ll risk proving my words, but I’ll publicly denounce you as the murderer of Ralph Egerton!’

‘You fool!’ gasped Egerton, in a husky voice. ‘You know it isn’t true. You know he was killed in a drunken row. You were there. Besides, his death was duly certified——’

‘By Birnie!’ answered Marston. ‘A pretty certificate!’

‘Good enough, at any rate, to silence such an accusation as you make,’ answered Gurth, more calmly.

He was beginning to recover his composure. He was shrewd enough to see that there was nothing in Marston’s threat after all, and that he dare hardly use such a weapon lest he should injure himself.

A moment’s reflection showed Marston that the threat was an empty one. He would try another arrow in the dark.

‘You are prepared to meet that accusation, are you?’ he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, and watching the effect of his words. ‘Very well, then, to make sure I’ll back it with another. Let me find you at Adrians’—let me hear that you have shown your false face there again, or spoken to Ruth one single word wherever you may chance to meet her—and I’ll sweep the fortune you have done so much to gain from your clutch at a blow.’

This time Gurth laughed bravely. He began to have an idea that Marston was merely shooting at random in the hope of hitting once.

‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘Charge me with attempted regicide, or with plotting the destruction of the British Museum?’

‘I shall charge you with nothing,’ answered Marston, quietly. ‘I shall set up another claimant to the property.’

Without stopping to explain—without waiting to watch the effect on Gurth—Marston turned on his heel, and went out of the door.

He had played a card at hazard. He had no real idea that he could do what he said, but he knew that Gurth was concealing something—that there was something in the background which Gurth feared being known.

He had no real idea that Ralph had left any heir but Gurth, but he fancied there was a screw loose—that if all had been fair, square, and above-board, Gurth would not be so mysterious in his movements, nor so much in the power of Birnie as he evidently was. He had always had his suspicions of foul play with regard to Gurth and Ralph, and had a vague idea that some scheme had been concocted which had given Gurth the dead man’s property. The will might be a forgery, or a codicil might have been suppressed. The idea was a vague one merely, and it was suggested more by Gurth’s manner than by anything else.

He had shot his arrow in the dark, but it had hit the mark.

As the door closed behind Marston, Gurth sprang up and shook his fist at the place where his rival had been.

‘I’ll be even with you yet, Ned Marston!’ he exclaimed. ‘You know more than you ought to. You’ve been prying and ferreting about, and you’ve found out something, and now you think you’ve got me in your power. Wait a while, my fine fellow, and I’ll turn the tables on you, and shut your mouth tight enough, or my name’s not Gurth Egerton!’

What did Marston mean? Egerton wondered. A hundred things suggested themselves. Had he learned the secret of Gertie Heckett’s parentage? He could not say. He might even have found out where the marriage had taken place. Gurth had no doubt in his own mind there had been a marriage. There was just the chance that Ralph’s boast was that of a drunkard, but it was a very faint one. Still it was singular the certificate had never turned up. It wasn’t among Ralph s papers—of that he was sure. It couldn’t have been among the dead girl’s, or old Heckett would have been down on the property at once.

It was all a mystery; but, do what he would, he could not separate Marston’s threat from Gertie Heckett. He felt sure that Marston knew something about her birth, and that she was the claimant he referred to.

Why had he never said anything before?

Pacing the room, and thinking, he found himself presently at the window. It was an old habit of his to pause when he was deep in thought, and look out into the street at nothing.

As he looked out who should pass by on the other side but Ruth Adrian and Gertie.

Close behind them came Lion, trotting along with his tail in the air, and his nose in close contact with the pavement.

Something in the appearance of Gertie and the dog struck Egerton, and suddenly he remembered he had seen them pass his house once before, when he had no idea how closely they were connected with his career.

The last time he saw them go by was when he was planning out his brilliant future.

It was more than a coincidence that on the very day when the first part of his scheme had been frustrated by a despised rival, Gertie Heckett and her dog should once more come between him and the shadow-land that he was gazing into.

Marston’s threat had done its work. Mr. Gurth Egerton decided that for the present he would not intrude on the domestic circle of the Adrians. The next day his house was once more masterless.

But this time he was bound on no purposeless journey. He had a goal in view—a goal to reach which men and women have ere now sacrificed the best years of their life—a goal whose attainment is to some natures a glorious reward for superhuman effort and unexampled endurance.

That goal was revenge! Mr. Gurth Egerton had gone to America.

CHAPTER XLIII.
THE GREAT BLANKSHIRE BANK.

The news of the failure of the Great Blankshire Bank spread rapidly, and the terrible line on the contents bill of the evening papers had a dread significance for hundreds. To many a home it was the herald of ruin and despair.

The Great Blankshire Bank had been established for years, and was looked upon as a model of stability and sound finance.

It was one of those old-fashioned banks, in which the liability is unlimited, but its shares were reckoned as good as Bank of England notes. People would as soon have expected to hear of Rothschild pawning his watch to get a dinner as that the Great Blankshire Bank had come to grief.

The liabilities were enormous; but the first thought was for the unhappy shareholders. The depositors were safe. They would be paid to the uttermost farthing. The loss would strip the shareholders to the skin, and their garments would be divided among the creditors.

No wonder the unhappy people on whom the blow fell reeled beneath the force of it. It was so sudden, so crushing, that it wrung something like a cry of agony from the victims.

Men, who in the morning were prosperous citizens, sought their couches that night with bankruptcy staring them in the face.

Well-to-do tradesmen, whose business gave them no uneasiness, and who believed themselves safe from all commercial disasters, found themselves suddenly called upon to part with the whole of their capital and trade as best they could on an empty exchequer.

On all classes of the community the blow fell heavily, but most cruelly, perhaps, on men who had, after a long and laborious career, retired with the fruits of their honest industry, hoping to spend the remainder of their days in ease and comfort.

It was after tea on the fatal evening, and Mr. Adrian was deep in his favourite volumes, his wife and daughter and little Gertie sitting in their accustomed places.

A man passed along the quiet street shouting something.

All they heard at first was:

‘Speshul’dition.’

‘What are they crying the papers for to-night, I wonder?’ said Mrs. Adrian, lifting her head from her work and listening.

‘Some catchpenny, I suppose,’ answered her husband. ‘A fearful murder in America, I expect, or a great earthquake in Van Diemen’s Land. Listen!’

The man was coming nearer and nearer. Presently he seemed to be opposite their door. They could almost hear the words shouted in the harsh broken voice of the London street hawker:

‘Speshul’dition! Bank city! Failer Great Blankshur Bank!’

John Adrian doubted his ears. He had not caught the slurred words aright.

He started up from his chair, his face pale and his limbs trembling, and almost ran to the front door.

The man was passing. He hailed him and took a paper. He handed him the first coin in his pocket. It was a shilling. In his excitement he clutched the paper and closed the door, never waiting for his change.

With trembling hands he unfolded the paper, and scanned the contents in the flickering light of the hall lamp.

There was no need to look far.

There it was in huge letters—letters of flame that seared his heart:

‘TERRIBLE COMMERCIAL DISASTER.

FAILURE OF THE GREAT BLANKSHIRE BANK.

ENORMOUS LIABILITIES.’

John Adrian read the fatal words. The heading was enough. He had no need to read the details that followed.

The letters swam before his eyes; a faint, sick feeling seized him, and with a groan he reeled forward.

‘Father!’

Ruth had noticed her father’s strange look as he left the sitting-room, and had followed him.

She ran forward and caught him in her arms, or he would have fallen.

‘Father, you are ill? she eried. ‘What is it? Let me send for a doctor!’

John Adrian had recovered the first shook, and had steadied himself.

‘A doctor’s no good. My poor Ruth!’ he groaned. He held the paper towards his daughter, and she knew the worst.

Her father was a shareholder in the ruined bank!

‘It’s ruin, child!’ he groaned. ‘Ruin! The saving of a lifetime swept away! We are beggars!’

‘Oh, father, don’t despair!’ whispered Ruth, trembling. ‘It may not be so bad as you think.’

‘It’s ruin, I tell you!’ he cried, almost savagely. ‘We shall be houseless beggars! Oh, my God! my God!’

‘Poor mother!’ sighed Ruth. ‘It will break her heart!’

John Adrian started.

‘Hush!’ he said, seizing Ruth’s arm. ‘Keep it from her as long as we can.’

The room door was closed.

While they spoke it opened and Mrs. Adrian came out.

‘What ever are you two doing in the hall?’ she asked, snappishly. ‘What’s in the paper, after all?’

‘Didn’t you hear what the man said, mother?’ asked Ruth, eagerly.

‘No; I can’t hear anything for my cold. What was it?—a murder?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ answered John Adrian, keeping his white face turned away. ‘A murder—an awful murder!’

‘Where?’

‘In Patagonia.’

John Adrian tried to give a little laugh, but it was a ghastly failure, and ended in a groan.

‘I thought it was a catchpenny. And the idea of your going rushing out catching your death to buy that rubbish! Murder in Patagonia, indeed! The Patagonians’ll be the death of you before you’re done.’

Mrs. Adrian went back to her chair. Mr. Adrian made some excuse and went upstairs to his room, bidding Ruth go in and talk to her mother.

When he came down he was still pale, and his face had a look of agony upon it which he could not well banish. But he complained of sudden toothache, and Mrs. Adrian went to sleep that night in happy ignorance of the awful misfortune which had fallen upon them.

Ere she went to rest Ruth wrote a note to Marston, and sent the servant with it to the post.

‘Let me see you at once. A great trouble has come upon us.’ That was all she wrote. Her heart was too full, her mind too disturbed, to write down in black and white the ghastly truth that her father was ruined, and that they were beggared by the failure of the Great Blankshire Bank.

CHAPTER XLIV.
A JOURNEY’S END.

In the back parlour of a little house at Camberwell a young woman lies, wan and white-faced, upon an antiquated and uncomfortable sofa of the lodging-house pattern. In a chair by the side of her, holding her hand in a professional manner, sits a pale, smooth-faced gentleman, dressed in black. Standing near, his eyes fixed eagerly upon the pale gentleman’s face, is an old man, whose garb and manner speak eloquently of the country.

The invalid is Bess, the old man is her father, and the professional gentleman is Mr. Goff, the surgeon, who, having a large family and a small practice, and living in a neighbourhood where half-crown fees are commoner than guinea ones, is fain to unite the business of a chemist with the profession of a surgeon. But though Mr. Goff is not above retailing tooth-brushes, acid drops, scented soap, and lemonade, as well as leeches, rhubarb, magnesia, and drugs of all descriptions, he has the reputation of being a very clever man, and of having effected some marvellous cures; and when Marks, terrified at his daughter’s appearance, asked Mrs. Ketley, the landlady, if she knew of a good medical man, Mrs. Ketley immediately suggested Mr. Goff, round the corner.

Mr. Goff was plain-spoken and curt. The half-guinea-a-minute small talk and the fashionable-physician smirk were not part and parcel of his business. ‘Visit, medicine included, two-and-six,’ left but small margin for those little courtesies which are so necessary to the success of a West-End doctor.

Mr. Goff would feel a pulse, look at a tongue, prescribe, and be down the front door-steps before the smiling creature, all shirt-front and white teeth, who basks in the favour of fashionable indisposition, would have arranged his hat and cane in the hall, and put on his sympathetic smirk preparatory to being shown into the presence of his patient.

But Mr. Goff, in spite of his tremendous hurry, his bluff speech, his rough hair, and his ill-fitting black clothes, loved his work and took real interest in his patients. He was particularly interested in the white-faced trembling girl, by whose side he sat while her old father watched his face so eagerly.

‘Shock to system, eh? Something upset her?’

This with an inquiring glance at Marks.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the old man; ‘she’s seen a sight o’ trouble lately.’

Where’s her husband?’

A flush of shame spread itself over the old gamekeeper’s withered old face.

‘Ah, I see—family trouble. Guessed so. Been fretting.’

He bent down kindly over Bess.

‘Come, you must cheer up, Mrs. Smith,’ he said. ‘Get to the window—look out—read—work—do something.’

He rose to go.

Marks went with him to the door.

‘Can’t you give her anything, sir?’ he said. ‘She’s changing dreadful. She’s breaking her heart.’

‘My good sir,’ answered the doctor, ‘I don’t keep any plaister that can heal that. She doesn’t want medicine. She wants change and fresh air. Get her away from London—seaside—bracing air. Talk to her—keep her from thinking.’

That was Mr. Goff’s advice on the first day, but, just to please old Marks and to make a show for his fee, he sent a tonic for Bess to take.

He called again and again, and each time he was more desirous that Bess should be got away.

He told her father plainly what was the matter. Her great trouble, whatever it was, had completely shattered her strength, and there was a danger that if she brooded on it much more her mind might suffer.

There was a look in her eyes that frightened him.

One day Marks told the doctor their history. It was necessary he should know it, for Bess’s condition was becoming alarming.

The terrible sentence pronounced on her husband, the thought of his awful fate, and the long, weary years of separation, had crushed her gentle, loving heart. It seemed as though the thread of her life had been suddenly snapped. She was like the sweet meadowland flower, which, crushed in its beauty by the heel of some passing hind, never lifts its head to the sun again, but slowly withers and dies.

It was after one of his short visits that Mr. Goff put the case plainly to Marks.

‘Look here, my good fellow,’ he said; ‘I’m not coming here to rob you any more. Take her away from London at once. Get to the sea, and let her have the air as much as you can. If you can’t afford it, or won’t do it, the end isn’t far off.’

‘You don’t think she will die?’ asked Marks, in an agonized tone, clutching the doctor’s arm.

‘If she’s got a good constitution she will not die. The mind will go before the body. It’s seaside or lunatic asylum—which you like.’

The doctor was quite right. A hundred little things bore out his opinion. Bess would sit for hours staring into vacancy and talking to herself. She did not cry. She sat with tearless, lacklustre eyes, repeating to herself the sad story of her later life. There was no emotion, no passionate outbreak, only the monotonous misery. Marks made up his mind to obey the doctor’s instructions at once.

Bess offered no opposition. She seemed to have lost all power of will, all care or thought for herself. She expressed no surprise when her father told her they were going on a journey. She was still feeble and weak, but she could get about, and she obeyed him as the tired child obeys its nurse—mechanically.

Somehow or other, his daughter’s illness seemed to have obliterated all other thoughts from the old man’s mind. In that great trouble he lost sight of the disgrace of the young squire and the sufferings of the old one. He seldom thought of either.

It seemed to him that something very dreadful had happened a long time ago, but that was all over now, and he had nothing to do with it.

He had but one thing left to him now—his daughter. He knew that the prison-gates had closed upon her husband for years—that he was walled up in a living tomb, and might as well be dead. He knew that the old master he had served so faithfully, and whose service he had quitted stealthily and like a thief in the night, was lying paralyzed in his lonely mansion, body and mind alike wrecked by the blow which, as he thought, his own son had dealt him.

He had read in the papers the whole terrible history, for they had not been loth to comment on it, and his own name had been seized upon by the sensation-mongers and artfully interwoven With a narrative more fiction than fact.

To shun publicity and avoid inquiry, he had hidden his real name when he took the little London lodgings. All his desire was to forget the horrible past and devote himself to the poor girl cast back to his loving arms once more by the cruel waves of misfortune.

He accepted the doctor’s warning, and acted upon it at once. He had still enough money left to last them some months with care, and when Bess’s health was re-established he supposed they must set to and work, and, if Bess was too weak, why, he must work for the two.

He went down to the seaside with his invalid daughter and nursed her day and night. He painted the future to her brightly, talked of setting the lawyers to work to prove George’s innocence yet, and so bouyed her with hope that at last he saw a faint color coaxed into the white cheeks again and the dull eyes grow bright with tears.

As tenderly as he had watched and cherished her when she was a babe did the old father watch and cherish her now.

And just as he was rejoicing over the cure which time and the fresh sea-breezes had effected, a new trouble presented itself.

The expenses of the trip and the long period of idleness had absorbed all his savings, and he saw the time approaching when the luxuries he had indulged his sick daughter in would be unobtainable, and the bare necessities of life would have to be earned with the sweat of his wrinkled brow and the labours of his old arms.

He thought about it night and day. What could he do?

The mystery was solved for him. It was destined that after the long labour of his years he should toil no more.

One morning he did not come to his daughter’s room as was his wont. He had waited on her hand and foot. He had risen first and done the menial work of the little rooms they rented in a side street. He had pottered about in his old-fashioned Country way, and put things ship-shape, and then gone up to the invalid’s room with a gentle step, carrying her a cup of tea made with his own hand.

One morning Bess woke and heard the clock strike.

It was an hour later than her father’s usual time to stand by her bedside.

Alarmed, she rose and dressed herself hurriedly, taxing her new-found strength.

She went across to his room, knocked, and received no answer.

She pushed the door open and ran to the bedside.

‘Father,’ she cried, ‘are you ill? Speak, father, speak!’

The face—the dear old face that had never frowned on her—lay on the pillow still, though the sun was high. There was a sweet smile on it, sueh as she had often seen there in the days before their troubles came. It was a calm, happy face that Bess gazed upon that morning, and well it might be, for all the old lodge-keeper’s troubles were over at last. The poverty he had dreaded would never come upon him now. The labour he had nerved himself for he would never be called upon to do. God had willed it otherwise, and had called him home to rest.

Who shall say that that night in his dreams fancy had not touched his eyelids with her fairy fingers and bidden him see the old happy home-life once again?

He had died in his sleep with a smile upon his honest face.

And the woman who clasped the cold hand, and knelt by the little bed and sobbed, was henceforth alone in the world.

CHAPTER XLV.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

Mrs. Adrian never read the newspaper herself. Her eyes ‘were not what they used to be,’ and she declined to avail herself of the artificial aid of glasses. She had tried spectacles at first, but she had always been laying them down and losing them, or treading on them and breaking them.

Mrs. Adrian’s spectacles had been a fearful source of trouble to the whole family. If she lost them, Ruth was started all over the house on a tour of exploration, and Mrs. Adrian was always quite sure that she had put them in sueh and such a place, and somebody must have moved them. As a rule, they were found in close proximity to the owner. She usually hid them in her lap under her work, or shut in the book she had been reading. One night the entire household were kept up till two in the morning. Mrs. Adrian without her spectacles and her temper at the same time vowed she would not go to bed till the glasses were found. Under the circumstances, Ruth and Mr. Adrian felt bound to share her vigil, and they joined the servants in a room-to-room and corner-to-corner visitation. Mrs. Adrian sat in her easy-chair, and resolutely refused to budge till her spectacles were found. She wouldn’t lose them for the world. It was fortunate that she did move at last, for she had been sitting on the spectacles all the time.

When they were broken and sent to be repaired, they always came back with glasses that didn’t suit—at least Mrs. Adrian always declared so. At last, one day, after breaking a pair, which had been lost for nearly a week and had eventually turned up in the flour-barrel, where Mrs. Adrian had dropped them while on a tour of inspection through the larder, the good lady vowed and declared that she’d never wear another pair as long as she lived, and she did there and then incontinently fling the damaged pair out of the window in a temper, much to the astonishment of the vicar of the parish, who was passing at the time, and who, bowing politely to the mistress of the house, received the ejected spectacles in the hollow of his hat.

Mrs. Adrian kept her word, and without much sacrifice on her part, for her eyesight was still fairly good, and she could do her knitting and her darning without glasses.

But she declared she couldn’t read, and so, for her edification, Ruth was requested to read the morning paper aloud—that is, such portions of it as she thought would be interesting to her mother.

Under these circumstances the concealment of the failure of the Great Blankshire Bank for a time was not so difficult a task as it would otherwise have been.

Mr. Adrian was loth to let the blow fall upon his wife. He knew that eventually she would have to know it, but he could not summon up courage to break it yet.

With all her peculiarities, she had been a loyal and a devoted partner to him, and, looking back upon their long years of happiness and comfort, it broke his heart to think that now, in her old age—now, when infirmity had come upon her—the remaining years of her life might have to be passed in discomfort and poverty.

He hoped that there might be better news, that the report was exaggerated, and that the affairs of the bank might not be so hopelessly involved.

Ruth read the morning paper to her mother, but it was a terrible task. Over and over again her mind wandered, and her thoughts got mixed up with the matter she was reading aloud.

Her mother noticed her peculiar manner, and Ruth explained that she had a bad headache and wasn’t well, and Mr. Adrian also put his haggard looks down to a sleepless night with the toothache.

It was not a happy little party that sat round the breakfast-table that morning, for father and daughter had the burden of a terrible secret to bear, and were denied that greatest of all reliefs in trouble, open lamentation.

Ruth, like her father, had great hopes that the worst had been made of the affair. She was anxious to see Marston, and get him to ascertain for her all particulars.

She was also terribly troubled about Gertie. What could she do with the child now? If this sudden and complete poverty were coming on them, how could she burden their straitened resources with another mouth to feed?

A week passed away—a week of terrible anxiety. Every paper teemed with details of the great bank failure, and harrowing stories of the force with which the blow would fall upon the unhappy shareholders.

During the week Marston called once or twice, but Gurth never came near.

Marston heard from Ruth what had happened, but refrained from mentioning it in the presence of Mrs. Adrian, and he had no opportunity of seeing the old gentleman alone.

Mr. Adrian noticed the fact that Gurth, who had once been a constant visitor, now never came near the place.

He imagined that his connection with the collapsed bank was known, and that the wealthy Mr. Egerton, whose attentions to Ruth had been once so marked, was afraid to continue the acquaintance, lest he might be asked for assistance.

It stung the old man’s pride to think that perhaps some such idea was in the mind of Ruth’s admirer.

He felt really grateful to Marston, whose conduct was in striking contrast to that of his rival.

From looking forward to his visits, and finding relief in his company, he began to regard him as a friend in need. He longed for some one to whom he could unburden himself about the terrible calamity which had come upon him, some one whose advice he could ask, and whose assistance he could claim.

One evening Marston and he were left alone. Mrs. Adrian was not very well, and Ruth had gone upstairs to see if she wanted for anything.

Mrs. Adrian, out of sorts generally, wanted a great many things, but most of all she needed some one to grumble at, and when she got Ruth upstairs she was loth to let her go while there was a fault to be found or a lament to be uttered.

Left alone with Marston, half hesitatingly at first, he introduced the subject, but, gathering courage as he went on from the sympathetic attitude of his listener, he gradually poured out the whole story of his misfortunes, and asked Marston, as a man of business and a man of the world, what he ought to do under the circumstances.

Marston was delighted at the confidence reposed in him. It showed conclusively that he had won the esteem of Ruth’s father—that the object for which he had so patiently toiled was not far distant now.

In anticipation of some such confession, Marston had studied the subject, and armed himself to the teeth with figures. He was enabled to present the most hopeful view possible to the old gentleman, and almost to persuade him that if the worst came to the worst there would still be something left from the wreck of his estate.

Gradually, beneath his cheery influence John Adrian gathered heart.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it does me good to hear you talk like that. If I were young I believe I could struggle through; but I am old, and my energy is gone. I have no one to look to for counsel or help. I have no son, no one but two weak women who look to me for protection.’

Marston shaped his lips for a reply and hesitated.

For the first time in his life his self-possession deserted him.

On the way in which the words he was about to utter were received depended his whole future destiny.

He recovered himself with an effort, and then, with a slight tremor in his voice at first, he commenced to plead the cause he had nearest at heart.

With powerful eloquence and genuine feeling he besought the old man’s attention while he, too, made a confession. Rapidly he told the narrative of his adventurous life, painting it in soft colours to attract the sympathy of his listener. He had led a wild youth, but that was past. A sober and laborious manhood had atoned for the errors of those old times. He had struggled on, with one object in view. In the midst of a thousand temptations he had stood firm, sustained by the thought of the reward which might be his, and he came to the end of the narrow path with unstained honour.

He confessed his long love for Ruth. He told how he had determined after his first repulse to win her yet, for her sake to undo the past and return to fling himself at her feet, worthy of her at last.

He pleaded so eloquently—he painted his hopes and fears with such genuine pathos—that the tears came into John Adrian’s eyes more than once; but he held his peace and let Marston continue his appeal.

Gradually Marston came from the past to the present. With delicacy and tact he alluded to the present position of Ruth’s father. He would do his best to extricate him from it. He a friend in need, would not Mr. Adrian give him the right to act on his behalf as one of the family?

He, Marston, was wealthy; he had a home to offer not only to Ruth, but, if the worst came, to Ruth’s father and mother. He might not have spoken so soon had not this calamity occurred. Now it was the duty of those who loved them to rally round them. Let the first friend to stretch out a helping hand to Ruth’s father and mother be the man who loved their daughter as his own life.

Mr. Adrian held out his hand to Marston as he uttered the last words of his impassioned appeal.

‘Ned,’ he said—‘let me call you by the old name—if the answer to your prayer rested with me you should have it at once. But there is Ruth to be consulted. Whatever suitor comes for her—be he rich or be he poor—he must ask her for her heart ere he comes to me for her hand.’

Marston, his generally emotionless face bright with a new expression of hope, took John Adrian’s hand and clasped it.

‘Let me go now,’ he said, ‘and leave you to think of what I have said. Ask Ruth if I have her heart. If her answer be “No,” let me be still your friend. If her answer be “Yes,” then let me be your son-in-law.’

He smiled a pleasant smile, shook bands with his host, and went out hurriedly.

He wanted air.

A sensation most terrible had come upon him. In the midst of his joy at winning the consent of Ruth’s father so easily—just when his heart was beating quicker at the thought of Ruth’s love, which was to hallow his manhood after all—the whole tissue of lies he wrapped about his life was torn away. Hideous, monstrous, and appalling, the story seared itself in letters of flame upon his brain. What had he done? He had asked honest old John Adrian for his daughter’s hand. And when this hand was his, and they stood at God’s altar, the name of Adrian would be hers no more.

Whose would she bear in its place?

That of Edward Marston—liar, hypocrite, swindler, forger, thief.

‘Great heavens!’ he cried aloud, as he paced the street at a rapid rate in his excitement; ‘why have I never known this before? Why have I never seen how vile and loathsome sin was till now—now, when the greatest stake I ever played for in my life is all but won?’

Answer him, ye moralists—ye who have pried into man’s little life below with the microscope of your philosophy—ye mental dissectors, who have laid bare man’s heart and traced each separate agony to its great first cause. Tell him that the way of transgressors is hard; that it is in the prize we try most fiercely for, in the treasure we plot and plan to gain, sacrificing in the mad race for it all that is best and noblest in life, that we often find our bitterest punishment.

Marston had won Ruth Adrian’s love; it was in the knowledge of possessing that which he looked upon as the crowning glory of his life that his chastisement commenced.

And even while he strode through the quiet streets, his brain aflame with remorse and fear, Ruth lay, happy and blushing, with her sweet face upon her old father’s shoulder, and confessed her love in a few artless, womanly words.

‘God bless you, Ruth, my darling!’ said the old man tenderly, as he raised her face, and bent his lips to hers. ‘God bless you both!’

Can you hear it, Edward Marston? Up to the throne of the Most High, from the lips of Ruth’s father, there has gone a prayer that God will bless you both.

Is it not blasphemy to link those names together in a prayer?

Edward Marston and Ruth Adrian!

You have won her. She is yours for better for worse; she is yours, and will bear your name; her fate is linked with yours, her life bound up in you, until one of you shall kiss the cold lips of the other for the last time.

And between you for ever there must hang a veil—a veil that must hide from the sight of all men, and from her, the ghastly skeletons that lie in the grave of your sinful past.

Pray God now, as you never prayed before, then, that this grave may not give up its dead—that no spectre may arise to cry, ‘Thou art the man!’ and drag you down to shame and degradation in the sunniest hours of your first pure happiness.

From the moment Ruth Adrian links her life with yours you cannot fall alone.

CHAPTER XLVI.
SMITH AND CO. DISSOLVE PARTNERSHIP.

Edward Marston was engaged to Ruth Adrian, and was received by her parents as her accepted suitor. Mrs. Adrian, when the news of Marston’s offer was communicated to her, was first indignant and then tearful. She prophesied the most terrible disasters; she charged Ruth with wishing to disgrace the family, and vowed that she would never be civil to him—never! She declared that the day Ruth married him she would cast her off for ever, and finally relieved her feelings by turning upon her husband and denouncing him as a monster in human shape, for ever giving his sanction to such an arrangement. She declared that Mr. Adrian would have given Ruth to a Red Indian, if that noble savage had only asked him; and she indulged in a half-sarcastic sketch of her poor daughter being united with Red Indian ceremonies to a bridegroom dressed principally in a necklace of scalps, and suggested that if the marriage feast had consisted of cold boiled missionaries, no doubt Mr. Adrian would have accepted an invitation, and expected her to do the same.

‘My dear Mary,’ exclaimed Mr. Adrian, half amused and half annoyed, ‘what on earth has Ned Marston to do with Red Indians and their marriage ceremonies? He isn’t a Red Indian.’

‘No!’ groaned the lady; ‘I’d sooner he was. He’s worse. I always disliked him, and I always shall. What do you know about him? What is he but an adventurer? And what are you going to say to Mr. Egerton, I should like to know?’

‘You needn’t trouble yourself about Mr. Egerton, my dear; he has left the country.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. I have ascertained at his house that he has gone on a voyage to America, and no one knows when he will be back.’

‘Well, I’m sure!’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian; ‘and never so much as to call on us to say “Good-bye “!’

‘It was not polite, was it?’

‘Polite! But there, I never liked the man. He couldn’t look at you straight in the face.’

Mr. Adrian was too good a diplomatist, having once got his wife into a spirit antagonistic to the deposed favourite, to let the matter rest. He declared he could see no rudeness in it; that a gentleman in Egerton’s position couldn’t be expected to take them into his confidence, etc.; and so skilfully did he play his cards, that at last Mrs. Adrian declared, with genuine indignation, that she believed he would lay himself down and let people trample on him.

‘But I won’t, I can assure you,’ she exclaimed. ‘We’re as good as Mr. Gurth Egerton, every bit, and Ruth’s a wife any prince of the land might be proud of. And to think she should want to throw herself away on this Marston! There, I haven’t patience to talk about it!’

Gradually, however, Mrs. Adrian moderated the rancour of her tongue. Marston was not the man, when he had set his heart on anything, to fail for lack of courage or ability. He was determined to conquer Mrs. Adrian’s apathy, and he succeeded to a limited extent. He was so pleasant, so polite, he yielded so readily in argument, and was so unobtrusive in his visits and so considerate in his attentions to the old lady, that at last she was good enough to acknowledge that really he had changed for the better, and that after all Ruth might have chosen a less presentable and less agreeable sweetheart.

But while Marston was winning his way into the good graces of Ruth’s mother, he was not neglecting the serious aspect of her father’s affairs. He went into the business with a thoroughness which quite astonished Mr. Adrian, and arrived at the result in a very short space of time.

It was not an agreeable result.

No amount of skill and no amount of juggling could solve the arithmetical problem in any way but one.

Taking the estimated amount of the call to be made on each shareholder in the unfortunate Blankshire Bank as correct, nearly the whole of the capital on the interest of which the Adrians lived would be swept away.

It was not a large fortune that Mr. Adrian had retired on, but it was one which he had always considered would be ample for himself and his wife with their inexpensive tastes, and for his daughter when they were gone.

Marston did not attempt to hide the result for a moment. He put it plainly before his future father-in-law. Mr. Adrian must make up his mind to live for the remainder of his days upon the wreck of his little fortune, and that, calculated generously, would yield him about £150 to £200 a year.

‘We must give up this house at once,’ said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh. ‘I feel as if every penny I spend now I am defrauding the creditors of.’

‘Yes, you must give the house up. You cannot keep it on,’ said Marston. He didn’t feign the slightest sorrow. Why should he? He was only too delighted to think that at last he was going to get some pleasure out of the money he had risked so much to get. Roughly estimated, he had cleared by his share in the transactions of Smith and Co. some £25,000. Some of the ‘hauls,’ as they are technically called, had been enormous. He could employ his £25,000 legitimately now; and he was certain that with this capital and his talents he could speculate as successfully in honesty as he had formerly done in crime.

‘Yes, you must give up your house,’ he repeated; ‘and the sooner the better.’

‘It is a terrible blow,’ exclaimed the old man, the tears coming into his eyes, ‘to break up the home where we’ve been so happy all these years. Poor mother—how ever shall I break it to her!’

‘I have a plan,’ said Marston, eagerly, taking the old gentleman’s hand, and watching his face anxiously. ‘Let this marriage take place as soon as possible. Ruth does not wish to be separated from you. Come and live with us. That can be your excuse to Mrs. Adrian for selling off.’

For a moment the old man doubted if he heard aright. Then, smiling through the big drops that trickled down his cheek, he pressed the young man’s hand exclaiming:

‘God bless you, Ned Marston; you are a good fellow!’

So in due time it was all arranged. The marriage was to take place in a short time; there was no need for a long engagement now, for had not the sweethearts been as good as engaged over ten years ago? Mrs. Adrian, of course, protested against the idea that she should give up her home and go to Ruth’s; but she yielded at last—yielded suddenly and decisively when Mr. Adrian began to oppose the idea, pretending that he had thought better of it.

At the Adrians’ Marston passed now the happiest hours he had ever known. He had grown to both admire and reverence his future father-in-law. The nobility of the old man’s character was brought iuto full relief by the blow which had fallen on him so unexpectedly; and often Marston would watch him as he sat with Ruth’s hind in his, and wondered what his own old age would be like. He shuddered even as he thought of it.

Yet when he could keep his thoughts from the past and lose his dread of the future, he was supremely happy. Ruth’s love seemed to have flung a cloak of purity about him that shielded and protected him. It seemed to him that he had passed from purgatory to paradise; that loving Ruth, and being beloved by her, he was lifted to a purer atmosphere, where nothing that was evil could follow him.

This was the bright side of his life during the days of courtship—during the time that must pass before he could call Ruth his wife.

The gold-robbery, in which he had been the leading spirit, had created an enormous sensation. Not only England but the Continent rang with the story of the daring and mysterious theft.

It was impossible for the authorities to say where it had taken place. The English company repudiated all liability, declaring that it had been committed on the French line; and the French company were equally confident that the gold had been abstracted in England. Then both parties met on mutual ground, and argued that it might have been done on the steamer. The loss was not discovered until the safes were opened in Paris, so that in the lawsuits which followed there really was no proof to offer as to where the responsibility really lay. The matter was eventually compromised, but no clue was obtained to the thieves, though the detective departments of both countries went into the matter con amore, in hope of elucidating the international mystery.

In the meantime the thieves had had to proceed with the utmost caution in realizing their booty, and many an anxious moment had Marston to pass before he could consider himself the master of the little fortune his railway journey had resulted in.

Some of the bullion was disposed of through trustworthy channels, where no trace would be left, but a large quantity of it had to be melted down before it could be conveniently got rid of.

During all this time Marston had to meet and consult with his companions in crime. These meetings distressed and annoyed him. He shrank almost with horror from the familiar salutations of Heckett, Brooks, and Preene. He felt degraded and contaminated by them. It seemed to him that he was outraging Ruth by going into her presence after he had quitted the society of his accomplices.

They began to notice his altered manner and they became suspicious of him. Was it possible he was going to turn traitor? His face sometimes wore the nervous, anxious look which the professional Judas cannot always banish. But, consulting together, Heckett, Brooks, and Preene dismissed the notion as absurd. How could he play them false? It was to his interest not to. Besides, he had the reputation of being a chief among swindlers—a master-mind. It is not from such men there is danger to be feared. It is generally some outsider, who hasn’t the talent to make a rogue, who proves a traitor, and, lacking pluck, turns his cowardice to some account.

Marston saw that his manner was attracting notice, and he controlled himself directly. He hurried on the settlement, however, and even agreed to accept less than his original share in order to get out of the business.

When, in due course, everything had been safely done and the traces removed, the four men met for the last time in a lonely house which they had taken near Kilburn, and where the melting operations had been conducted.

It had been agreed between them that, once their joint property realized and the division fairly made, they should separate for good. Marston had long ago announced his intention to ‘turn the game up;’ Brooks had determined to get out of the country for a bit in case of accidents; Preene had not said what he was going to do, and Heckett had been equally silent. He had never been very communicative, and as he was only an extra hand, laid on for this special job, none of them troubled much about him.

When the night came, however, for them to separate, and they left the house, Heckett, who had walked on by himself, found that Marston was coming quickly after him.

‘Well, Josh,’ he said, in his cheeriest tones, ‘I don’t think you’ve done badly, have you?’

‘I ain’t done as well as you,’ answered Mr. Heckett, surlily; ‘but then I ain’t a swell.’

‘What are you going to do now Josh? Going into the animal line again?’

‘No, I ain’t got no animals now, savin’ that there parrot, as cusses wus nor ever. I carn’t have no business now the gal’s gorn. She was my right hand like, and I ain’t been the same since she went.’

‘Oh,’ said Marston, looking at Heckett quite innocently, ‘then she’s never come back?’

‘Come back? no. I’ve heerd on her twice as she’s safe and ‘appy, but I ain’t been able to find out where she is. In a re-formeratury or something, I s’pose.’

‘Very likely,’ answered Marston.

‘I thought oncet as somebody had got ‘old on her for to get her to blab about the crib; but I don’t think that, cus they’d a sent her back directly they found out as she know’d nothink. Still it’s a rum go, her hookin’ it like that. I shall come across her some day, I guess,’ added the old dog-fancier, shaking his fist at an imaginary Gertie, ‘and then I’ll make it warm for her, the jade.’

They had reached the end of the Kilburn Road, and were getting to Maida Vale.

‘I’m going off here, Josh,’ said Marston. ‘If we don’t meet again, good-night.’

‘If we don’t meet again!’ exclaimed Heckett, with surprise. ‘What, are you a-goin’ to furren parts?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘That’s ockard,’ growled Heckett. ‘Suppose I might want to see you on business?’

‘I’ve finished with business.’

Heckett contracted his features into something that was meant for a smile.

‘Going to retire, eh? Made your fortin. Well, you have had a good haul out of this affair, and no mistake. Come, gov’nor, don’t you think you ought to stand me another thou.?’

‘No, I don’t,’ answered Marston decidedly. ‘A bargain’s a bargain, and you’ve had your share.’

‘All right, gov’nor; only, of course, the more I get now the less likely I should be to get hard up and ‘ave pr’aps to come a ferretin’ out old friends and a borrerin’ of ‘em.’

Marston looked at his companion sharply. He understood the implied threat.

‘When that misfortune happens, Josh, it will be time enough to talk about it. Good night.’

Without stopping to bear Heckett’s reply, Marston turned away from him, crossed the road, and turned down a side street. He was anxious to cut the conversation short, for it annoyed him.

Heckett’s half-veiled threat had seriously alarmed him. He had so much need now to bury the past, and he didn’t at all relish the idea of Josh Heckett pursuing him into the happy future which he hoped and believed awaited him.

CHAPTER XLVII.
MR. JABEZ MAKES A DISCOVERY.

Her master having once again departed on his travels, Mrs. Turvey had plenty of leisure to attend to her own business, and the most important business she had on hand was Jabez.

If the elderly clerk of Messrs. Grigg and Limpet had some reason to complain of Mr. Gurth Egerton coming home in the unexpected manner which has been fully related in the earlier chapters of this veracious narrative, he had also cause to complain of his equally abrupt departure, for it left him completely at the housekeeper’s mercy.

She gave him no peace. She pursued him, to use one of his own poetic images, like the hunter pursues the deer; and really, in the way Jabez endeavoured to evade the Nimrod in petticoats, he was uncommonly like that timid quadruped.

If he saw her at the top of the street he dodged round a corner and ran. If she called at the office, he hid and sent word he was out. Perhaps this latter practice is hardly in keeping with the habits of the deer, and therefore the simile breaks down. Jabez broke down at last. He gave in, as a weak-minded man always does if he is only resolutely hunted by a plucky sportswoman.

He found it better to hark back to his old tactics and dissemble; and thus it came about that during Mr. Egerton’s absence he was a frequent patron of Mr. Egerton’s tea and Mr. Egerton’s toast.

Now, upon several occasions there was a third party to these little festive gatherings, and Jabez was by no means sorry for it, though when he was introduced to the party aforesaid, and found him a railway guard and brother to his lady-love, he had a strong opinion that his presence was part of a deep-laid plot.

‘He’s to be a witness, ’thought Jabez to himself. ‘Susan’s to draw me out, and he is to hear what I say. Jabez, my boy, be on your guard—your railway guard.’

Jabez giggled at his own little joke, and he would doubtless have shone, but Mrs. Turvey had taken the shine out of him. His friends had long remarked the disappearance of his shininess. They declared him to have become remarkably dull.

One evening, when Jabez arrived by appointment, he found Mr. and Mrs. Turvey in earnest conversation. After tea Mrs. Turvey asked him, with a pleasant smile, if he would do her a favour. She particularly wanted to go out with her brother for half an lour, and she did not wish to leave the house empty.

The servant had gone out for her monthly holiday. Would Jabez kindly remain and smoke his pipe and make himself comfortable by the fire until Mrs. Turvey returned?

Mr. Turvey joined his requests to those of his sister. It was his last night in London. He had left his old employment as a railway guard, and was going into business in the north of England. His sister was just going to help him pack up his traps, etc., for he’d lost his right hand, Miss Topsey having gone out to service as a nursemaid.

Jabez was quite willing to oblige without such a long explanation.

In fact, an idea had suddenly occurred to Mr. Duck which rendered him personally anxious to be left alone in Gurth Egerton’s house.

When the brother and sister were gone, not without sundry injunctions from the lady to Jabez to be careful and not to be frightened of noises and ghosts, etc., that gentleman, instead of lighting his pipe and sitting down to a comfortable smoke, hunted about, found a candle, lit it, and stood still, in an attitude of deep consideration.

‘I’ll search the house from top to bottom but I’ll find’em, if they ain’t locked up,’ he said. ‘At any rate I can read’em, and see how far I have committed myself.’

Having first carefully examined the sitting-room, looked in all the cupboards, boxes, and chimney ornaments, Jabez proceeded, candle in hand, to find out where Mrs. Turvey’s other apartments were situated.

It was a very improper proceeding on his part—a mean and despicable trick, which should have caused him to blush, and which will, I am sure, gentle reader, cause you to blush for him. I will not attempt to palliate his offence. It was shocking, but he did it; and we are compelled, in our position of faithful chronicler and attentive reader, to look on. But we have recorded our protest, and done our duty so far. Jabez soon found the room dedicated to the slumbers of his Susan.

It was full of little boxes and baskets, all of which Jabez deliberately rummaged in his search for something which he had set his heart on finding.

But his diligence was not rewarded.

The time passed on, and his search grew hurried. He did not know how much longer he would be undisturbed. Susan had a latch-key, and could let herself in at any minute.

He would put up the chain at the front door. He could easily say he was nervous.

The idea was no sooner conceived than it was carried out. Now, he was secure from surprise. Now, he could continue his investigations without alarm.

Routing about, Jabez dragged some boxes out of a corner. One was a trunk—one of those old-fashioned mottled-paper covered trunks, which servants used when their dresses were made without flounces and could be folded small.

Holding the candle, and peering down, he was astonished to find a key in the lock. It was one of a bunch: there were a dozen on the ring.

‘Hum!’ exclaimed Jabez; ‘here’s a bit of luck. Now if I only knew where those precious letters are, I could get them as easy as anything.’

Inside the trunk there was something which excited Jabez’s curiosity directly. It was a cash-box, and it was locked.

‘There!’ he muttered; ‘that’s where she keeps her savings. I wonder what she’s got. Perhaps the letters are there.’ He rattled the box, but there was no responding chink.

He took the keys and tried them one after the other.

The last one fitted.

He turned it, and the secrets of Mrs. Turvey’s cash-box were at his mercy.

He lifted the lid and examined the contents. At first a look of astonishment overspread his features, and then the long-absent shine came back to his face once more. It broadened and spread over his bald head—it deepened and wrapped him in one vast smile of joy.

He drew a long breath, closed the box, put it carefully away, and then executed a small war-dance all to himself, knocking over two chairs and causing the toilet-table to rock in response to his elephantine gambols.

‘Hang the letters!’ he exclaimed; ‘I don’t want’em now. Who’d a thought it? Who’d a thought it?’

Who, indeed, Mr. Jabez?

Who could have imagined that hidden away in her cash-box Mrs. Turvey had the savings of a lifetime, all invested in substantial securities, with interest-bearing coupons payable to bearer, and amounting to the good round sum of one thousand pounds?

‘Oh, she’s a deep un!’ exclaimed Jabez, mopping his shiny brow; ‘she isn’t artful at all! Oh no; certainly not. Ah, Susan, my dear, if you’d only have told me this, what a lot of trouble you would have saved yourself and me. A thousand pounds! It’s yours, Jabez, my boy. It’s in your pocket. I can feel it there.’

Jabez gave his pocket an anticipatory pat of approval. Then he put everything tidy, blew out the candle, took the chain down from the front-door, and seated himself by the parlour fire, the prettiest picture of innocence and contentment imaginable.

In about an hour Susan returned. She was loud in her apologies, but Jabez silenced her at once. In his most winning manner he assisted her off with her shawl. He was so agreeable Mrs. Turvey looked round to see if he’d found the whisky bottle.

‘Sit down, Susan, my love; I have something to say to you,’ he whispered, leading Mrs. Turvey to a seat.

Then he poured out his affections. Then, with all the poetry he was capable of without referring to his Complete Edition of the Poets at home, he told the astonished spinster how his cold and cruel conduct had been a cloak under which he disguised his real sentiments! How he had deceived her in order to test the reality of her affection for him!

Mrs. Turvey was completely nonplussed. It was so unexpected. But she was too wise a woman to play the prude now. She had angled too long for her fish to hesitate about bringing it to the bank when it had bitten.

There and then Jabez received the assurance of complete forgiveness, there and then all differences were cleared up, the happy day more than hinted at, and the contract sealed with a solid and substantial kiss, that sounded through the great house and echoed along the untrodden corridors.

Singing to himself and shining on everyone, Jabez trotted home that evening in the seventh heaven of delight. A great trouble—the fear of an action for breach and publicity for his poetic effusions—had vanished, and he had found his hitherto repugnant lady-love an heiress blessed with a thousand golden charms.

Jabez was so polite and agreeable that evening at home that Georgina was quite astonished. She also noticed the sudden reappearance of his long-lost shininess.

She teased him; but it was no good—he shone. She contra-dieted him—he shone. She gave him a piece of dry cheese and some flat beer left from dinner for his supper—he shone. She turned the gas off at the meter and went to bed early, leaving him alone with the candle in the parlour, but still he shone. And after Georgina had retired, he pulled the guttering scrap of candle allowed him nearer to his elbow, produced a lead-pencil and a piece of paper, and commenced to compose an advertisement:

MR. JABEZ DUCK, for many years CONFIDENTIAL CLERK with Messrs. GRIGG & LIMPET, begs to inform the Nobility and Gentry he has OPENED a PRIVATE INQUIRY OFFICE. Investigations conducted with the Greatest Secrecy and Dispatch.’

To start a private inquiry office, have secrets poured into his ear, and to revel in an atmosphere of mystery, was the dream of his life.

Susan and her thousand would enable him to turn his dream into an absolute reality.

CHAPTER XLVIII.
MR. SETH PREENE EXECUTES A LITTLE COMMISSION.

Marston was supremely happy when he was with Ruth, but when he was alone he was perpetually haunted by fears and misgivings. Twenty times over he would have cast his share of the gold robbery away, if with it he could have got rid of Heckett. He had no fear of the others. Preene and Brooks were honourable men in the sense in which the word is understood by fine-art criminals. They were no more likely, even if their self-interest did not protect them, to round upon an accomplice, than the merchants and city magnates who meet together and float schemes for swindling the public are likely to denounce their co-conspirators. With these two worthies fraud was as much a business as account-cooking, secret promotion money, and lying prospectuses were to certain speculators whose dinners were once eaten by bankers and merchant-princes, and whose society was courted by the aristocracy. They had their code of morality. They swindled, but the nature of their business led them to swindle those who could generally afford to lose. Mr. Brooks was loud in his denunciation of the respectable gentlemen who preyed upon the poor, and who held out alluring baits for the small incomes of widows, curates, and retired officers.

Marston knew that so far as Brooks was concerned there was no fear, and Preene was too friendly to him ever to do him an injury. Besides, Preene could not betray him without injuring himself. His position was delicate in the extreme. He was secretly connected with the detective department, and it was his business always to be hand-and-glove with rogues. Marston had secured him long ago, struck his bargain, paid his price, and made him safe. Marston held the man’s fate in his hands. He alone of all the band knew Preene’s real position. A word from him would have cleared up the mystery of many a sudden arrest, of many a well-laid scheme which had been nipped in the bud.

Preene was a modern Jonathan Wild, but his double game was never suspected. The authorities had no idea that he ran with the hare, and the hare had not the slightest suspicion that he hunted with the hounds.

But though Marston was sure of Preene and Brooks, he felt supremely uncomfortable. Josh Heckett had been necessary to him, and he had used him at a time when he had no idea of a career in which Josh Heckett would be a thorn in his side.

He had always held the old dog-fancier safe; but now that he was about to marry and settle down into respectability, he foresaw occasions when Josh Heckett might be very objectionable.

He would no longer be at liberty to adopt aliases and disguises, to keep up connections with friends at Scotland Yard, to rush about the country and lead the life of a vagabond.

He was about to take a position in society—to be a fixture, as it were—to create ties which would bind him to a life of respectability. He would have to stand boldly before the world. There could be no hide-and-seek, no mystery. He was a rogue and a vagabond no longer. He was to be Edward Marston, Esquire, with a wife, a town house, servants, friends, and followers. He must be ‘get-at-able’ by visitors, tradespeople, postmen, and all sorts and conditions of men. How could he hold his head high and let all men see him, and yet avoid Josh Heckett?

He regretted now that he had ever had anything to do with Heckett. The idea that some day, just when he least expected him, this man would come prowling about, would discover his fear and prey upon it, and perhaps embitter his life for years, preyed upon him. At last he thought of nothing else. Ruth’s image at times was banished by the figure of the burly old ruffian in whose company he had committed his first folly, and that which he fully intended should be his last crime.

He worked himself up into a nervous state, and Ruth noticed it.

What was worrying him? Could he have any secrets from her now?

Mr. Adrian noticed it, and so did Mrs. Adrian. Marston grew alarmed. Was he already beginning to carry his heart on his sleeve? Was he so thoroughly afraid of Josh Heckett—an ignorant ruffian, a mere tool—he, Edward Marston, whose daring and skill had carried him safely through ten years of open defiance of all laws, human and divine?

He attempted to laugh the idea away, and failed. Then he grow furious. He paced his room, and cursed this man who came between him and his happiness at the very threshold of his new life. He brooded over it, and grew desperate. Slowly and deliberately he set himself to conquer the difficulty. It was no time for hesitation.

‘I will wed Ruth a free man,’ he cried fiercely. ‘I will sweep this trouble from my path now, when I can—while it is in my power to do it!’

The resolve once taken, Marston determined to lose no time, lest he should repent.

But he, who in the old time had entered on many a scheme of villainy with a light heart, actually hesitated and grew nervous about such a trifle as putting a dangerous foe out of the Way.

‘Is my punishment already beginning?’ he cried, later on, as he looked at his pale face in the glass.. ‘Am I never to be free from the hideous nightmare of the past?’

He paced the room, not with his old bold, firm stride, but with rapid, uncertain steps. He kept glancing at the clock nervously, and listening, as though he expected a visitor.

It was just on eight o’clock, and the gas was alight in the dining-room of Eden Villa. A mass of papers was on the table before him. He had been going into his future plans, making calculations and directing letters. But the papers were all confusion. He had been unable to settle down; an hour ago he had pushed his work aside and begun to pace the room. That was seven o’clock, and he did not anticipate a visitor till eight, yet he was in a fever of expectation.

As the clock struck there was a knock at the door. Marston hurried out into the hall and opened it himself. He returned with a gentleman whose complexion was dark, and whose nose was of the kind known as ‘hook.’

For an hour Mr. Preene sat and conversed with the master of Eden Villa. They talked in a low tone. Marston’s voice trembled and his face was stern and white.

‘For both our sakes you must do it, Preene. I assure you my information’s right.’

‘I can’t think it,’ answered Preene. ‘How the deuce could he blow on us without letting himself in?’

‘The reward is big, and it’s payable to any person not being the actual perpetrator.’

‘But that’s just what he was. He broke the safes open. Why, he was the principal. You’re wrong, Marston; I’m sure there’s no fear from any one. Turvey’s resigned and gone north out of the way, Brooks is as safe as a house, and Heckett daren’t open his mouth. Why, he could be lagged for half a dozen burglaries if I only held up my finger. You’re wrong, I’m sure.’

‘Perhaps I am. Let us put it another way. Suppose you were offered a thousand pounds to get Heckett out of the way, could you do it?’

‘Get him lagged, do you mean?’

‘No; once in custody he might round, with an idea of turning Queen’s evidence and getting off.’

‘Of course. What do you want me to do, then? You don’t want me to have him——’

Preene hesitated for a word.

Marston held up his hand deprecatingly.

‘No, not that. God forbid that I should have any man’s blood upon my head! But surely you can get him away—force him out of the country? A thousand if you do. Come!’ Preene sat for a moment or two in deep thought.

‘I’ll try it,’ he said presently; ‘but it will be bad for us if I fail. If he gets an idea we’re playing him false he’ll never leave us.’

‘But you must not fail!’ cried Marston hoarsely. ‘Come to me and say, “Josh Heckett’s gone, he’ll trouble us no more,” and I’ll give you a thousand pounds.’

Preene rose to go.

‘I accept the terms,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do my best. There’s only one way to do it.’

‘When shall I know the result?’

‘By this time to-morrow.’

‘So soon?’

‘Yes. I must strike at once; and when I strike, the blow will either settle Josh or us.’

More than that Preene would not say. He declined to enter into any explanation of his plans.

All that night Marston never closed his eyes; Preene’s words rang in his ears. If he failed! Bah! he wouldn’t fail! He would get rid of Heckett. He would start a false hue and cry after him. He guessed his plan to frighten him out of the country under the idea that the truth was known and he must escape.

He passed the day in an agony of suspense.

He had an appointment with Ruth; he sent the servant round with a note to say important business detained him.

He dared not see her. He could not have concealed his anxiety and his trouble from her.

As the hours wore on and the time drew near when he would know the result of Preene’s attempt, he was like a madman. A feeling such as he had never known before came upon him. The room was too small for him. He flung the windows open, and still the big drops of perspiration came upon his face.

Gradually the excitement wore itself out and he became calmer. He passed from one extreme to the other. He sat in the arm-chair near the window, pale, calm, and motionless. It was the calmness of despair. He felt sure now that Preene would fail, and fail in such a way that Heckett would be converted into a deadly enemy. He wondered what he should do if Heckett grew reckless and turned informer. Should he run away, or should he shoot himself? Oh, the gold! the cursed gold! What was the weight of all those precious bars to the weight lying on his heart now?

He remembered strange things as he sat there thinking. He remembered that when he was a lad his mother read bits out of the Bible to him and sang him children’s hymns. He remembered something about conscience and the evil-doer, and he remembered there was a passage in the Bible about the way of transgressors being hard.

He was not repenting his evil deeds yet; they were only revenging themselves on him. He was only just beginning to find out that a man can’t put his sins behind his back, be good and live happy ever after, just when he takes it into his head. He had thought in winning Ruth’s love once more he was winning happiness, and the greatest misery he had ever known in his life had come upon him now he was her affianced husband.

The striking of the clock upon his mantelpiece broke in upon his reverie, One! two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight!

The hour had come!

He rose to his feet and listened for the sounds in the street.

The clock ticked away the seconds and still no Preene.

Five minutes past! ten minutes past! a quarter! At the quarter a sound. Footsteps coming hurriedly along the front path. He rushed into the hall and opened the door.

A figure, big and burly, brushed past him, and dashed through the open door of the dining-room.

Terrified he followed, and the figure faced round.

It was not Preene.

It was Heckett!

His face was red and swollen with passion. The great veins gorged with blood stood out like ridges, the blood-shot eyes were set like those of a tiger that bounds upon its prey.

Marston would have started back, but Heckett seized him by the arm, and, swinging him round into the centre of the room, Blood with his back against the door.

‘So, Mr. Ned Marston,’ he cried, with a fierce volley of oaths, ‘this is your game, is it? You want to get rid of me cus I knows too much, and you must set that sneaking hound of a Preene on to me, to funk me out of the blooming country. But I’m not to be caught so easy, you thundering varmint!’

‘What do you mean?’ gasped Marston.

‘Mean, you sweep? Why, I mean what I say. Preene came to me a-telling me there was a warrant out, and you was wanted, and Turvey had split; and he gave me a hundred, and told me to get over the pond as quick as lighterin’. But I was fly, guv’nor—too fly for you. I waitched Preene come in here larst night, and I guessed you wasn’t up to no good. So you’re going to retire, are you? And you wanted to get me out o’ the way, for fear I should disturb you? Oh, you’re a artful cove, you are, Ned Marston.’

Marston made no answer. His white face betrayed him; he saw himself in the power of a master-ruffian. He knew that Heckett would never forgive the attempted treachery.

‘Now, look here, mate,’ roared Heckett. ‘I’m going to take Preene’s advice.’

Marston looked at him wonderingly.

‘Yes, I’m goin’ to obleege you; but as you sets such a vally on my room hinsted o’ my cumpeny, you must pay a fair price.

Marston hesitated.

‘And if I give you what you ask,’ he said, ‘what guarantee have I that you won’t molest me again.’

‘None,’ answered Heckett. ‘None, you double-faced cheat!

You’ve started the rounding game, and it’s one as I can play at too. If you don’t pay me handsome, I’ll split on the whole d——d lot of you. Come!’

He had raised his voice, and was shouting so loud that neither of them heard a ring at the front door. The servant opened it, and the next moment Seth Preene walked into the room.

He closed the door and faced Heckett defiantly.

‘You’ve come then?’ he said.

‘Yes. I told you I would.’

‘You fool!’ answered Preene; ‘you’ve only fallen into a trap. We’re tracked, every one of us. Hark!’

At that moment there came a loud rap at the door.

Marston turned ghastly white, and looked for some means of escape. Heckett drew a revolver from his pocket and turned like a beast at bay.

‘Tell the girl not to open the door!’ cried Preene; and Marston went to the top of the stairs and shouted down to the terrified girl to stay where she was.

The knocking was repeated louder and louder. Heckett gave a glance at the hall window. It was high, and looked on to the garden.

‘I’m d.-d if I’m going to be taken like a rat in a hole,’ he shouted; and he leapt out into the darkness.

There was a cry, a fierce oath, and then the sound of a shot, and footsteps hurrying across the garden.

Seth Preene ran to the window.

Marston, pale as death, followed him. ‘What shall we do?’ he whispered; ‘the place is surrounded.’

‘Bosh!’ said Preene, ‘it’s all right; but I’m afraid the poor devil outside’s been hit.’

He leant out and called, ‘Dickson! Dickson!’

A faint voice answered him.

‘Help! help! I’m hit! He’s shot me!’

‘What, in Heaven’s name, does this mean?’ gasped Marston, grasping Preene’s arm.

‘What does it mean? Why, that I’ve earned my thousand pounds, and that one of my men’s been shot by that scoundrel Heckett.’

‘One of your men?’

‘Yes. One back and one front did the trick. You didn’t want to bring a dozen.’

‘Then it’s all a——’

‘Exactly; that’s just what it is. I knew Heckett watched me here last night, and I didn’t tell you, because I saw you were nervous already. I formed my scheme on that, and played my cards so as to force him up here to-night. It was the best place for a sham arrest I could think of. But bring a light and some water, and show us the way into the garden. I don’t want the poor devil outside to bleed to death.’

Marston led the way below like a man in a dream.

He could hardly realize that he was free of Heckett, and that the terrible scene he had just gone through was mere pretence.

He had endured the agony of discovery—he had passed in those few minutes through the supremest torture. Now he could foresee what awaited him if ever he should be run to earth in stern reality.

The man outside was only slightly wounded, and was able to go with the one who had been stationed in front to the hospital. It was a flesh wound, and nothing serious.

When they were alone Preene explained fully to the astonished Marston what he had done. ‘I wouldn’t tell you before because I relied upon your terror to do the trick. If you hadn’t been frightened, Heckett would have smelt a rat. By Jove! you were in a state, Marston. I don’t think you’ll die game, you know.’

‘Don’t, for Heaven’s sake,’ cried Marston, with a shudder. ‘But these men, what will they think?’

‘That I came up here to arrest a suspected swindler, and that he’s got clear away. They know me. Heckett will clear off now double quick, and you won’t see him in a hurry. He’s bound to believe it was a genuine arrest, and he’s shot a policeman, and, for all he knows, killed him.’

Marston drew a long breath, and poured himself out half a tumblerful of brandy.

‘It would almost have been a good job if he had killed him quite,’ he said, with a ghastly smile. ‘I fancy even Josh Heckett would hesitate about running his head into a noose.’

Preene elevated his eyebrows.

‘My dear Marston,’ he exclaimed, ‘in these matters you are evidently not at home. You don’t suppose I shall miss such an opportunity of completing my contract with artistic skill? For the sequel of this adventure read to-morrow’s papers. I am going to the Telegraph office now. Ta-ta. I hope I shall see you looking better when I call to settle.’

The next day Marston turned to the Daily Telegraph, and was astonished to read the following paragraph:

‘Last evening a policeman, while endeavouring to arrest a well-known burglar and bad character in the north of London, was shot by the ruffian and dangerously wounded, he is not expected to live many hours, the hospital authorities having no hope of his recovery.’

The paragraph was deliciously vague. It was sent in through an official channel and inserted. No hospital was mentioned, and nothing more was heard of the event. It was nobody’s business to contradict or explain it.

But Marston read it, and he acknowledged that Seth Preene had indeed carried out his undertaking like a true artist.

And hurrying down that morning in a fast train to the coast, shaved and disguised, a big burly fellow, dressed like a seafaring man, bought a paper and asked a young gentleman who accompanied him to look it through and see if there were any murders or anything in the professional way.

And the young gentleman’s quick eye caught that paragraph and he read it aloud, and the old seafaring fellow seemed to feel for the policeman very much, for his mouth twitched and he looked as if riding with his back to the engine didn’t agree with him.

At the terminus, a point of embarkation for emigrants, the young gentleman and the seafaring man parted company.

‘Good-bye Josh. God bless yer. Sorry yer-r got to go, but I ‘spose yer must. Come back soon.’

‘Good-bye, Boss,’ answered the sailor; ‘and don’t forgit what I’ve told yer, and yer can keep the parrut.’

‘Thank yer, Josh. It’ll remind me o’ you often. I shall fancy it’s you a torking sometimes when it’s extra strong in its languidge. Come back soon, old pal.’

‘All right—now you hook it. I don’t want to be seen along of nobody.’

‘All right, Josh! but, bless you, nobody knows me here—I arn’t distinguished enough in the perfesshun yet to be a universal sileberity.’

The friends parted, the young sinner and the old. The young sinner went back to London, and the sinner went over the seas, with the suspicion that he was a murderer added to the many things which should have been on his conscience if he had such an article in his kit.

CHAPTER XLIX.
MR. MARSTON GOES TO CHURCH.

The affairs of Mr. John Adrian having been thoroughly investigated, it was found that the tremendous call already made by the liquidators of the Great Blankshire Bank would sweep away so much of his capital that, after clearing off other outstanding liabilities, he would have an income of about £200 a year from all sources wherewith to enjoy himself for the remainder of his days, support his wife, maintain his daughter, and keep a little girl and a dog, that daughter’s protégés. Since the crash, however, one item in this catalogue had been removed. Mr. Edward Marston had very generously offered to take Ruth off her father’s hands.

Marston and Ruth were discussing the future together one morning, and naturally Gertie’s unfortunate position had to be considered.

‘Whatever shall I do about Gertie, Ned?’ said Ruth. ‘I can’t leave her a burden upon poor papa now, and I can’t turn her out and desert her, for it was really my fault that she lost her home.’

‘A pretty home!’ answered Marston. ‘But I have no cause to speak against it, for it was there I met you, Ruth. I often wonder if things would have turned out as they have but for that chance meeting.’

‘I wonder,’ said Ruth, with a far-away look in her beautiful eyes. ‘Oh, Ned, do you know I often think how strange it was that poor Gertie should be the means of bringing us together again! I never thought, when I took pity on a poor neglected little girl in the Dials, that my reward was to be so great. We owe a good deal to Gertie.’

‘Of course we do, my darling, and so we won’t be ungrateful. I tell you what, Ruth, if you wish it, Gertie and Lion shall come and live with us.’

‘Oh, you dear, good boy, do you really mean it?’

‘Of course I do. Do you think I couldn’t see that you were worried about the child?’

Ruth was delighted at Marston’s plan, for she really had been troubled about Josh Heckett’s grand-daughter. She knew that her mother and father were to make their home with them, but she had not dared to broach the subject of Girtie. It seemed like trespassing on Marston’s generosity.

John Adrian had accepted Marston’s offer very gratefully, but it had been somewhat difficult to explain matters to Mrs. Adrian, or to persuade her to consent to the arrangement.

Ruth had put it in a very nice filial way. She had pleaded that she could not bear to be separated from her parents or to leave them in their old age, and that, as Ned was agreeable, it would be so nice for them all to live together.

‘And besides, mamma,’ she added, ‘look what a saving it will be to us all to have a nice large house between us.’

‘Ah, yes, that’s all very well,’ answered Mrs. Adrian; ‘but who’s to be mistress? You know, my dear, I have my little fancies, and so have you. It won’t do for me to tell the servants one thing and you to tell them another. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and perhaps cause words between you and your husband.’

‘Oh, nonsense, mamma!’ said Ruth, with a little laugh. ‘You shall have your own apartments, and one day I’ll be mistress and the next day you shall. There—won’t it be fun!’

‘I don’t know, my dear. I’m too old to play at keeping house.’

Ruth persisted in her attempts to make the old lady enter into her plans, and at last she succeeded.

Mrs. Adrian was secretly gratified by her daughter’s unwillingness to be separated from her, and she was flattered by Marston’s plea that she would be so useful to two young housekeepers.

A new house was to be taken, and she was asked to fix the locality. She was to help choose the furniture, and her voice was to be paramount in everything.

Their plan succeeded admirably. In about a fortnight the old lady was heard to talk about ‘my new house,’ and in three weeks it was Ruth and Marston who were to be specially favoured by being allowed to live in it.

Marston was delighted. He was positively enthusiastic over curtains and carpets, and he ran about with long lists of domestic requirements in his pockets with the glee of a child who is buying ornaments for a Christmas-tree.

He was in the first glow of a new happiness—the happiness of doing something to benefit his fellow-creatures. He was secretly delighted that the Adrians were ruined. It would be a pleasure to him to support them, to make their later days happy.

As to Ruth, he worshipped her. Never had damsel more devoted swain; and she, thinking of his many deeds of kindness to her and hers, would often lift up her eyes with thankfulness to heaven and thank God for giving her the love of so loyal and devoted a man. And to think she had once doubted him, believed him a bad, wicked man at the very time when he was nobly atoning for the follies of his neglected, over-tempted youth!

Marston saw a good deal of Gertie now, and he took a new interest in the child. Now and then she would talk of the old life in Little Queer Street, and of her grandfather, and the animals, and of the strange gentlemen who used to come there.

Seeing the child so constantly, Marston’s thoughts often reverted to her strange career and the life histories bound up in it.

What he knew of Gertie he had never breathed to Ruth. His shot at Gurth Egerton had been a chance one, but it had evidently hit home.

When he found that Gurth had gone away and left the coast clear, he felt sure that something he had said had seriously alarmed him.

As Gertie grew more and more into the young lady, Marston recognised more than ever the likeness to the man who had come to a violent end in Josh Heckett’s gambling den.

Intuitively he felt that Gertie was a thorn in Gurth’s side. For her to be living in his (Marston’s) house, his ward, as it were, would be a strange revolution of the wheel of fate. He felt, moreover, that it would be galling to Gurth. He did not forget that Gurth had once expressed a desire to do something for Gertie himself.

He determined as soon as he was married and had settled down that he would try and find out a little more than he knew at present of the child’s antecedents and of the circumstances of Ralph’s death.

Birnie undoubtedly knew a good deal more than he pretended to and Birnie was not so thick with Gurth for nothing.

Marston remembered that Gurth had confessed it was he who had paid the five hundred pounds Birnie had given him on his return from America.

‘Birnie knows something,’ he said to himself, and I’m not at all sure that Gertie s name wouldn’t figure in his secret if it were revealed. I’m not only doing the right thing in taking care of the child, but ‘believe I’m doing a very judicious thing. She may be a capital buffer one of these days if Mr. Gurth Egerton should come running on to my line in defiance of the danger signals.’

So it was finally settled that Gertie, and Lion should be figures in Ruth’ s new home.

Apart from all other selfish consideration, Marston comforted himself with the idea that if he had driven the child’s natural guardian out of the country, he was with poetic justice providing for her himself.

The more he thought of Gertie, the more it seemed to him that she was to be a central figure in his future.

Heckett, Gurth, Ruth—the new life and the old, both were bound up with this pretty blue-eyed girl of eleven, who had come to gentle Ruth Adrian to save Edward Marston from peril, and who was to find her future home beneath Edward Marston’s roof.

The arrangements for the wedding progressed rapidly, the new house was taken and furnished, and gradually the day approached when Ruth’s old home would be broken up and a new life would commence for them all.

Marston was happy when he was with Ruth, but at home by himself he had occasional fits of despondency. The gold robbery kept cropping up in various shapes and forms. Now and again there was a paragraph in the papers stating that the detectives were on the track, and that the deed was ascribed to a gang of accomplished swindlers who had long defied detection.

Marston never read these rumours without experiencing a feeling of terror which it took him some time to banish. It was not for his own fate he trembled—it was the idea of Ruth finding herself mated to a felon.

He banished the thought with a supreme effort. He flung the vision of the future from him with an oath.

‘I will be happy!’ he cried. ‘I can’t think what’s come to me. I never knew what fear was till now.’

Ruth wished to be married quietly, and Marston was quite agreeable. They had no friends they wished to invite. Gertie was to be the only bridesmaid. Marston was asked whom he should have for best man. That puzzled him. He hadn’t a friend in the world he would care to stand by his side when he took sweet Ruth Adrian to be his partner in the journey that lay before him.

No link should be there to connect the old life with the new.

He said he would think about it, and he did. After much cogitation he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t have one at all.

The idea worried him. He knew then that all his life long he had never made a friend whom he dare introduce into the little family circle from which he was taking the chief ornament.

‘We’ll have the wedding very quiet, my darling,’ he said. ‘I won’t have a best man. Gertie can be your bridesmaid, and with your father to give you away, and your mother to say the responses loud, that’s all the company we shall want. We shall be happy enough by ourselves.’

Ruth was quite willing. But there was one point which Marston didn’t care about, but on which Mrs. Adrian was firm. He wanted to be married by license, but Mrs. Adrian insisted that they should be asked in church, and Marston could not offer any determined opposition.

On the first Sunday that the banns were published, Ruth made Marston promise to go to church with her.

He went.

As he passed into the sacred edifice a strange chill came to his heart—a sensation of dread stole over him.

He could not account for it. Something in the quiet of the place, in the reverent attitude of the worshippers, in the sonorous and musical voice of the officiating priest, pleading to an unseen power in the poetic and soul-stirring language of the Prayer-book; indeed, the whole service impressed and pained him.

He had been a scoffer all his life. He had lived in an atmosphere not so much of unbelief as of indifference. Sitting by the side of Ruth Adrian, bowing his head mechanically with the rest, he found himself repeating the cry for mercy of the Litany, ‘Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners,’ and he felt awe-stricken as he thought of the ghastly reality of such a prayer upon his lips.

He sat dreamily and moodily through the after part of the service. He heard his name given out coupled with Ruth’s, and he almost expected some one to leap up from among the congregation and cry aloud that there was indeed just cause and impediment why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony.

He would have rushed out of the building had he dared, for he felt that he was challenging Heaven.

When the clergyman ascended the pulpit and gave out the text for the sermon, he singled out Marston by the merest accident in the world, and preached straight at him. The text was from Proverbs, ‘The way of transgressors is hard.’

The preacher was earnest and eloquent. He drew a powerful picture of the life of the evildoer here below. He showed how amid a show of outward happiness the canker-worm was always present to prey upon the heart of the evildoer. He painted in vivid colours the fate of men who transgressed in their desire for wealth and pleasure; and he concluded a powerful sermon by declaring that often, in attaining the prize for which he had steeped his soul in sin, the transgressor did but grasp the instrument of his own undoing, and find his bitterest punishment where he had looked for his greatest happiness.

Every word fell upon Edward Marston’s heart with cruel force. His eyes were riveted on the preacher, and it seemed to him as though he had been singled out and denounced—as though in this sacred edifice, on the very threshold of his new life, the voice of offended Heaven had uttered his condemnation.

He gave a deep sigh of regret when he found himself once more in the open air. Ruth took his arm, and they walked home together, for Marston was to dine with them.

He shook off the feeling of despondency and dread that had come upon him, and managed, with a great effort, to hide his low spirits from the company.

But when Ruth sat with him by the window that evening as the shadows deepened, and the holy calmness of a Sabbath eve crept over the quiet streets, and talked to him lovingly and hopefully of the future, his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of the preachers words, and wondering what punishment fate held for him in the days to come.

CHAPTER L.
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.

Happy is the bride that the sun shines upon,’ says the old proverb; and the sun shone bravely for Ruth Adrian’s wedding-day.

It poured in chastened splendour through the stained-glass windows of the quiet church, and fell upon Ruth Adrian as she knelt at the altar, her head bowed, and her sweet eyes filled with tears of happiness and love.

There were no omen-readers there to croak and prophesy, or they would have noticed how strangely this strange stream of sunshine divided bride and bridegroom. It caught the window at an angle which threw it on half the church only, leaving the other half untouched. While Ruth was bathed in its bright warm beams, Marston stood always wrapped in the shadow.

As the solemn words of the service fell from the lips of the clergyman, the voice woke in the bridegroom’s heart the memory of the sermon that had seemed like a warning and a threat to him on the day the banns were first published.

The solemn charge, ‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,’ caused him to wince as the eyes of the clergyman met his.

Was he always to be haunted like this? Could he never shake off this strange new consciousness that had come upon him?

He looked at Ruth almost sorrowfully once as the thought flashed upon him that perhaps in the far-off future she might look back and curse the day that made her his.

But she answered his glance with a sweet smile, and it seemed as though a new heaven opened for him—a heaven in which he might forget the past and be at rest.

Oh, how fervently he hoped that here he had reached the outskirts of a new world! He would not abuse the trust confided to him. From this moment no evil thought should sully his mind.

If only the dead past would bury its dead—if only those pale ghosts that haunted him would fade in the bright sunlight of this new life—he would work as man had never worked yet to prove that he had bitterly and sincerely repented of the evil he had done.

‘I, Ruth, take thee, Edward, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.’

The prize was won, the golden badge of ownership glistened on the trembling hand of the beautiful bride, and the voice of the Church called down God’s blessing on the union.

Ruth shed just one tear; but it was a tear of happiness—a tear coming from a heart overflowing with love and gratitude. And as it fell upon the hand that lay trembling in Marston’s, he stooped and kissed it away. Ah, me! if every tear that those sweet eyes are to shed could only be as lightly banished!

Of course Mrs. Adrian cried; and Gertie, who was brave in her beautiful new dress for the occasion, and who was very much overawed by the proceedings, cried a little, too. She didn’t know why. She saw Mrs. Adrian weep, and she saw Ruth’s lips tremble, and, being of a sympathetic nature and easily moved, she cried just to keep them company, though all the time she was thinking how beautiful and how good Ruth was, and wishing Lion could have been there to see what had come of the Little Queer Street lessons after all.

Lion was not forgotten in the general joy. He was the first to meet the bridal party on their return. He came to the door with a huge white satin bow on, and he wagged his tail in a congratulatory and highly complimentary manner. But he made a sad mess of it after all, for he leaped upon Gertie and put his great paws on her beautiful dress, whereupon he was severely lectured, and afterwards kissed and hugged, and promised a piece of wedding-cake if he was good.

Mr. and Mrs. Marston were going to Paris to spend their honeymoon, and they were going down to Dover by an afternoon train. Ruth had named Paris as the place she would like to see, and of course she had chosen the short sea route.

All had been arranged for the new housekeeping. Mr. Adrian’s effects would be sold off during their absence, and then the old couple would move into the new house, and greet the young couple there on their return.

Marston would have given anything rather than have been compelled to travel that route on his wedding-day. But he had left the choice to Ruth, and he would not oppose her first wish. He would not allow his past to step in and create difficulties already.

As the train rushed down to the sea with them, the scene of the gold robbery came back vividly to his mind.

Something on the journey brought it to Ruth’s mind, and she spoke of it to Marston. Little did she dream how every word stabbed her husband like a knife.

She spoke first of the marvellous way in which the crime had been effected, for she had read the graphic newspaper accounts. She wondered what the thieves would do with so large a sum, and how they had managed to escape detection.

‘But it will bring them no good!’ she said. ‘I always pity the men who commit these terrible crimes. What peace can they know—what happiness have they ever known?’

Marston’s face flushed, and he complained of the heat, and lowered the window.

As he did so the train was stopping at a station.

The afternoon papers were out, and the contents sheets were posted against the bookstalls.

One of the lines caught Marston’s eye, and he closed the window as though he had been shot, and sat back in the carriage trembling violently.

This was the line:—‘The great Gold Robbery—A Clue to the Thieves,’

CHAPTER LI.
EXIT EDWARD MARSTON.

Marston and Ruth were back from their honeymoon. They had enjoyed a month of almost unclouded happiness. The only trouble Ruth had was the discovery she had made that her husband was subject to occasional fits of despondency and abstraction.

Sometimes she would speak to him and he would not answer her. His thoughts were far away. She asked him, half-banteringly, once if he had anything very dreadful on his mind, that he looked so solemn.

He flushed scarlet, and then laughed.

‘No, little woman,’ he said; ‘I’ve got nothing on my mind, except the responsibility of being a married man.’

He stopped all further questioning with a kiss, and exercised more control over himself in the future. He took care not to drop the mask again in his wife’s presence.

The line on the news paper contents bills which had alarmed him so seriously on his wedding-day had been nothing after all. One of those rumours which are industriously circulated from time to time had been magnified into importance, and when he had the courage to read the paragraph he found that it was merely some drunken fellow who had gone to the police-station and pretended to be concerned in the affair.

But although he had argued himself almost into a sense of security with regard to this special event, he was continually haunted by the idea that many of his old companions in guilt were still about, and that he might always be liable to awkward visits and rencontres. He had not gone under any alias. He was known as Edward Marston in the old days, and he was Edward Marston now. The name was tainted, but he must bear it still. If he were ever to become famous or take a position in society it must be as Edward Marston, and then—— He hardly liked to think what a constant temptation he would offer to his unscrupulous acquaintances, if once he became a prominent person. It wasn’t pleasant to think that they would always be able to find him out and trade upon their knowledge of the past.

Mr. and Mrs. Adrian had welcomed the newly wedded pair to the new home, and a very pretty, comfortable home it was. The old couple had their own suite of apartments and their own servants, but Mrs. Adrian was not inclined to remain in her own territory.

She still considered that she had conferred an immense favour on Marston in allowing him to live with them, and she took care that he should understand it.

Ruth feared sometimes lest her mother’s brusquerie should annoy him, but it didn’t in the least; and when Mr. Adrian, painfully alive to Marston’s generosity in the matter, suggested that perhaps, after all, the good lady ought to learn the secret of their misfortunes, Marston wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Nonsense!’ he said; ‘it would break her heart. Let her enjoy herself here, and be mistress of everything if she likes. I don’t think she would stop a moment if she knew the real reason of the change: it would wound her to the quick.’

Mr. Adrian and Ruth were very grateful to Marston for his forbearance, and the old gentleman was never tired of singing his praises.

Lion and Gertie were as happy as the day was long in their new home, for there was a large garden where Gertie could watch the beautiful flowers, and a nice lawn on which the dog would roll over and over in the sun like a young donkey at play.

In fact everyone in the house was happy except the owner. He began to dread his own thoughts now. The new ties and the home life only served the more vividly to remind him of what his loss would be if the prophecy of the clergyman came true, and his sin found him out.

He had always intended to invest his capital in some business and employ his leisure and his talents in developing it. He wanted something to do more than ever now, and he set about to find a good opening. He perused the papers daily for partners wanted and businesses to be sold, and he put an advertisement in himself.

His advertisement: ‘A gentleman with capital would be glad to hear of a partnership in a going concern, or a business for sale,’ brought him hosts of answers. Several of them were of the usual description, and not worth troubling about. One, however, attracted his attention on account of its absurdity. The writer was anxious to meet with a gentleman of capital, as he had an idea which only needed capital to develop. This idea was to start an office and have a trained staff for the recovery of all offered rewards. The writer pointed out that in every day’s paper there were several hundreds of pounds offered for the recovery of lost or stolen property, for the detection of criminals, and for the addresses of missing friends. His letter concluded by pointing out an instance of a large reward still to be had, which, he was sure, with a little trouble and some outlay, might be gained. He alluded to the thousand-pound reward offered by the railway company for the discovery of the gold-robbers. No confederate dare come forward, he explained, but a couple of hundred pounds might induce a confederate to give a clue to private individuals which he dare not impart to the authorities.

Marston flung the letter from him with an expression of rage. Was this wretched business, which he would give the world to forget, always to be flaunted before his eyes in some form or other?

He had just risen from perusing his answers when the servant informed him that a gentleman wished to see him on most particular business.

‘What is the gentleman like?’ he asked, half fearing that his persecution had commenced.

The servant described him.

It was no one that Marston knew.

‘Show him into the library,’ he said. ‘I’ll come directly.’

It was not without some slight misgiving that Marston went to see his visitor.

He had always an undefined dread of something unpleasant.

The gentleman in the library was an ordinary individual with a professional cut about his clothes.

He rose as Mr. Marston entered, and bowed politely.

‘Mr. Edward Marston, I presume?’

Marston nodded, and motioned his visitor to resume his seat.

‘I come on professional business, sir. I am one of the firm of Doddle and Co., solicitors. The senior partner is from town, or he would have called upon you himself. We ascertained that Miss Ruth Adrian was no longer Miss Ruth Adrian (a professional smile), and—ah—we thought, perhaps, under the peculiar circumstances we had better call ourselves and see you.’

What did the man mean? What could solicitors have to do with Ruth and himself?’

‘You see,’ continued the gentleman, ‘a very large sum of money is concerned.’

‘Pray explain, sir,’ faltered Marston. ‘I really don’t understand you yet.’

‘Well, do you remember a daring burglary some time ago at the residence of Squire Heritage?’

‘Burglary—burglary!’ gasped Marston. ‘No; what should I know about burglaries?’

‘Of course not, my dear sir—of course not; but you might have read about it in the papers. Great sensation!—son suspected!—dreadful affair—dreadful!’

Marston remembered his own share in the subsequent fate of George Heritage. Was this coming home to him too?

‘Well,’ continued the solicitor, the father didn’t recover from the shock. He got worse and worse, and at last he was quite childish. Poor old gentleman!—poor old gentleman!’

‘I am very sorry, of course!’ exclaimed Marston; ‘but, upon my word, I can’t see what it all has to do with me.’

‘It has everything to do with you, sir. You are very closely concerned in the old gentleman’s death.’

‘What!’

Marston leapt from his chair as though he had been shot. The professional gentleman was astonished, but he didn’t show it. Professional gentlemen never do.

‘Yes, my dear sir, you are indeed concerned in his death, but pleasantly’ (rubbing his hands)—‘very pleasantly indeed. By a will dated some time previous to the painful affair the whole of his property is left to a lady, the daughter of Mr. John Adrian.’

Marston could hardly believe his ears. ‘Ruth an heiress!’ he exclaimed. ‘I really don’t understand. I never knew that she was even acquainted with Squire Heritage.’

‘That, sir, I know nothing about. My visit this morning is simply to make your acquaintance and ask you to make an appointment with us, when we can have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Marston and yourself at our office, where all the papers are, and where the whole matter can be laid properly before you.’

On the following day, at the office of Messrs. Doddle and Co., Ruth learned how she had inherited a fortune, and how there was an extraordinary proviso in the will that she and her husband would have to adopt the name of Heritage.

When the first surprise was over, and Ruth recognised the fact that she was an heiress, she whispered to her husband:

‘Oh. Ned! You see I shan’t be Ruth Marston for long, after all.’

And he, without answering her, clasped her hand in his. His heart was too full for him to speak. Here, at last, was an escape from that he dreaded most. He need he Edward Marston no longer.

Lord of a splendid estate, and taking his place as a prosperous country gentleman, he would be completely isolated from the bitter past.

Who would recognize in Edward Heritage, Esq., of Heritage Hall, the penniless adventurer who met Dr. Birnie in Little Queer Street, started the eminent firm of Smith and Co., and was once the lending spirit in a desperate gang of rogues and vagabonds?

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