CONTENTS - The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel - 3

[CHAPTER I]

[CHAPTER II]

[CHAPTER III]

[CHAPTER IV]

[CHAPTER I]

“I never knew such a fellow as you are for ferreting out these low, foreign eating-houses,” said Godfrey Henderson to his friend, Victor Fensden, as they turned from Oxford Street into one of the narrow thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of Soho. “Why you should take such trouble, and at the same time do your digestion such irreparable injury, I can not imagine. There are any number of places where you can get a chop or steak, free of garlic, in a decent quarter of the Town, to say nothing of being waited upon by a man who does look as if he had been brave enough to face the dangers of washing once or twice within five years.”

His companion only laughed.

“Go on, my friend, go on,” he said, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You pretend to be a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, but you will remain insular to the day of your death. To you, a man who does not happen to be an Englishman must of necessity be dirty, and be possessed of a willingness to sever your jugular within the first few minutes of your acquaintance. With regard to the accusation you bring against me, I am willing to declare, in self-defence, that I like burrowing about among the small restaurants in this quarter, for the simple reason that I meet men who are useful to me in my work, besides affording me food for reflection.”

The taller man grunted scornfully.

“Conspirators to a man,” he answered. “Nihilists, Anarchists, members of the Mafia, the Camorristi, and the Carbonari. Some day you will enter into an argument with one of them and a knife thrust between your ribs will be the result.”

“It may be so,” returned Victor Fensden, with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “Better that, however, than a life of stolid British priggishness. How you manage to paint as you do when you have so little of the romantic in your temperament, is a thing I can not for the life of me understand. That a man who rows, plays football and cricket, and who will walk ten miles to see a wrestling match or a prize fight, should be gifted with such a sense of colour and touch, is as great a mystery to me as the habits of the ichthyosaurus.”

And indeed, what Fensden said was certainly true. Godfrey Henderson, one of the most promising of our younger painters, was as unlike the popular notion of an artist as could well be found. He had rowed stroke in his ’Varsity boat, had won for himself a fair amount of fame as a good all-round athlete, and at the same time had painted at least three of the most beautiful pictures—pictures with a subtle touch of poetry in them—that the public had seen for many years. His height was fully six feet one and a half, his shoulders were broad and muscular; he boasted a pleasant and open countenance, such a one in fact as makes one feel instinctively that its owner is to be trusted. Taken altogether, a casual observer would have declared him to be a young country Squire, and few would have guessed that the greater portion of his life was spent standing before an easel, palette and brush in hand.

Victor Fensden, his companion, was of an altogether different stamp. He was at least three inches shorter, was slimly built, and at first glance would appear to possess a highly nervous and delicate constitution. In his dress he also differed from his friend. His taste betrayed a partiality for velvet coats; his ties were usually startling, so far as colour went; he wore his hair longer than is customary, and further adorned his face with a neat little Vandyke beard and mustache. Like Henderson he was also a votary of the brush. His pictures, however, were of the impressionist order—pretty enough in their way, but lacking in form, and a trifle vague as to colouring. On occasions he wrote poetry. There were some who said he was not sincere, that his pictures were milk-and-water affairs, suggestive of the works of greater men, and only intended to advertise himself. If that were so, the success they achieved was comparative. Sad to relate, there were people in London who had not heard the name of Victor Fensden; while the walls of the Academy, which he affected so much to despise, had not so far been honoured by his patronage. “The whole thing,” he would say, adopting the language of our American cousins, “is controlled by a Business Ring; the Hanging Committee and the dealers stand in with each other. If you prefer to do bad work deliberately, or at any rate are content to be commonplace, then you’re safe for admission. But if you prefer to do something which may, or may not, please the multitude, but which will last longer than Burlington House, or the National Gallery itself, then you must be content to remain outside.” After this tirade, regardless of the implied sneer at his work, Godfrey would laugh and turn the matter off by proposing dinner, luncheon, or some other distraction. He knew the value of his own work, and was content to estimate it accordingly.

Having reached the end of the street down which they had been walking, when the conversation already described occurred, they found themselves before the entrance to a small eating-house. One glance was sufficient to show that it was of the foreign order, so derided by Henderson a few moments ago before. They entered and looked about them. The room was long and narrow, and contained some ten or a dozen small tables, three or four of which were already occupied. Pictures of the German school, apparently painted by the yard, and interspersed with gaudy portraits of King Humbert with his mustache, Victor Emmanuel with his wealth of orders, the latter cheek by jowl with Mr. Garibaldi in his felt hat, decorated the walls. The proprietor, a small, tubby individual, with the blackest of black hair and eyes, and an olive skin that glistened like the marble tops of the tables, came forward to welcome them. At his request they seated themselves and gave their orders.

“What enjoyment you can find in this sort of thing I can not imagine,” repeated Henderson, almost irritably, as he looked about him. “If you take a pleasure in macaroni and tomato, and find poetry in garlic and sauer-kraut, the divine instinct must be even more highly developed in you than your warmest admirers believe. We might have gone to the club and have had a decent meal there.”

“And have had to listen to a lot of supercilious young idiots chattering about what they are pleased to call 'their work,’” the other replied. “No, no, we are better off here. Set your imagination to work, my dear fellow, and try to believe yourself in Florence, with the moonlight streaming down on the Ponte Vecchio; or in Naples, and that you can hear the waves breaking up on the rock under the Castello del Ovo. You might even be listening to Funiculi-Finicula for the first time.”

“Confound you! I never know whether you are serious or not,” replied Godfrey. “Is it a joke you’re bringing me here to-night, or have you some definite object in view?”

He looked across the table at his companion as if he were anxious to assure himself upon this point before he said anything further.

“What if I had an object?” the other answered. “What if I wanted to do you a good turn, and by asking you to come here to-night were able to help you in your work?”

“In that case,” Henderson replied, “I should say that it was very kind of you, but that you have chosen a curious way of showing it. How a low Italian restaurant in Soho can help me in the work I have on hand I can not for the life of me understand. Is it possible for you to be more explicit?”

“If the critics are to be believed you ask too much of me,” Fensden returned, with one of his quiet laughs. “Are they not always declaring that my principal fault lies in my being too vague? Seriously, however, I will confess that I had an object in bringing you here. Have I not heard you grumbling morning, noon, and night, that the model for your new picture is about as difficult to find as, well, shall we say, an honest dealer? Now, I believe that the humble mouse was once able to assist the lion—forgive the implied compliment—in other words, I think I have achieved the impossible. It will take too long to tell you how I managed it, but the fact remains that I have discovered the girl you want, and what is more, she will be here to-night. If, when you have seen her, you come to the conclusion that she will not answer your purpose, then I shall be quite willing to confess that my knowledge of a beautiful woman is only equal to your appreciation of an Italian dinner in a cheap Soho restaurant. I have spoken!”

“And so you have really brought me here to eat this villainous concoction,” Henderson answered, contemptuously regarding the mess before him, “in order to show me a face that you think may be useful to me in my work? My dear fellow, you know as well as I do that we think differently upon such matters. What you have repeatedly declared to be the loveliest face you have ever seen, I would not sketch upon a canvas; while another, that haunts me by day and night, does not raise a shadow of enthusiasm in you. I am afraid you have had your trouble in vain. But what abominable stuff this is to be sure! Order some wine, for pity’s sake.”

A flask of chianti was brought them, and later some goat’s milk cheese. Upon the latter, bad as it was, Henderson elected to dine. He had barely finished what was placed before him when an exclamation from his companion caused him to turn his head in the direction of the door. Two women were entering the restaurant at the moment, and were approaching the table at which the young men sat. The elder was a stout and matronly party, dark of eye, swarthy of skin, and gorgeous in her colouring, so much so, indeed, that not the slightest doubt could have existed as to her nationality. She was a daughter of Italy from the top of her head to the soles of her ample feet. Her companion, however, was modelled on altogether different lines. She was tall, graceful, and so beautiful, in a statuesque way, that Henderson felt his heart thrill with pleasure at the sight of her. Here was the very woman he had been so anxious to discover. If he had hunted the Continent of Europe through, he could not have found any one better suited to the requirements of the work he had in hand. Since it was plain that it was she for whom Fensden was waiting, it looked as if their tastes, for once, were likely to be the same.

“What a perfect face!” exclaimed Godfrey, more to himself than to his companion. “At any hazard, I must induce her to sit to me.”

Fensden looked at his friend’s face, made a note of the admiration he saw there, and smiled to himself.

“What did I tell you?” he inquired with a note of triumph in his voice. “You pooh-poohed the notion that I should ever be able to find you a model. What do you say now?”

“She is perfect,” Henderson replied. “Just look at the eyes, the beautiful contour of the face, the shapely neck and the hands! Great Scott! what is a woman of her class doing with such hands? Where did you meet her?”

“In another of my contemptible restaurants,” Fensden answered. “Directly I saw her, I said to myself: 'This is the model for Godfrey!’ I made inquiries about her, and, finding that she was willing to sit, made an appointment to meet her here this evening.”

By this time Godfrey’s antagonism had entirely left him. His only desire now was to secure this woman, and, with her assistance, to complete his masterpiece. As soon as the doors of Burlington House were thrown open, that face should look down upon the picture-lovers of England, or he’d never touch a brush again.

The two women, by this time, had seated themselves at another table; and it was almost with a sense of disappointment that Godfrey observed his ideal commence her meal. To watch her filling her pretty mouth to overflowing with steaming macaroni was not a pleasing sight. It was too human and too suggestive of a healthy appetite to harmonize with the poetic framework in which his imagination had already placed her.

When the ladies had finished their meal, the two young men left their own table and crossed the room to that at which they were seated. Fensden said something in Italian, which elicited a beaming smile from the elder lady, and a gesture of approval from her companion. It was not the first time in his life that Godfrey Henderson had had occasion to wish he had taken advantage of the opportunities he had had of acquiring a knowledge of that melodious language.

“The signora declares that there is no occasion for us to speak Italian, since she is an accomplished English scholar,” said Fensden, with a sarcastic touch that was not lost upon Henderson.

“The signorina also speaks our villainous tongue as well as if she had been born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells.”

At this supposed compliment, the elder lady smiled effusively, while her daughter looked gravely from one man to the other as if she were not quite sure of the value to be placed upon what Fensden had said. Having received permission, the two men seated themselves at the table, and Henderson ordered another flask of wine. Under its influence their acquaintance ripened rapidly. It was not, however, until they had been talking some little time, that the all-important subject was broached.

“And it is Teresina’s portrait that your friend would paint, signor?” said the elder lady, turning to Fensden. “And why not? ’Tis a beautiful face, though I, her mother, say it. If the signor will make the—what you call it—’rangements, it shall be as he wishes.”

Less than a minute was sufficient to place the matter on a satisfactory basis, and it was thereupon settled that the Signorina Cardi should attend at the studio at a certain hour every week-day until the picture was finished. Matters having been arranged in this eminently friendly fashion, the meeting broke up, and with many bows and compliments on Fensden’s and the signora’s parts, they bade each other adieu. A few minutes later, the two young men found themselves once more in the street.

“My dear fellow, I don’t know how to thank you,” said Henderson. “I’ve been worrying myself more than I can say at not being able to find the face I wanted. I owe you ten thousand apologies.”

But Fensden would not hear of such a thing as an apology. His only desire was that the picture should be successful, he said.

“I had no idea that he was so fond of me,” Henderson remarked to himself that night when he was alone in his bedroom. “Fancy his hunting through London for a model for me. He is the last man I should have thought would have taken the trouble.”

Next morning Teresina entered upon her duties, and Godfrey set to work with more than his usual enthusiasm. The picture was to be his magnum opus, the greatest effort he had yet given to the world. The beautiful Italian proved to be a good sitter, and her delight as the picture grew upon the canvas was not to be concealed. Meanwhile Fensden smoked innumerable cigarettes, composed fin-de-siècle poems in her honour, and made a number of impressionist studies of her head that his friends declared would eventually astonish artistic London. At last the picture was finished and sent in. Then followed that interval of anxious waiting, so well known to those who have striven for such honours as the Academy has to bestow. When it was announced that it had passed the first and second rejections great was the rejoicing in the studio.

“It is your face that has done it, Teresina,” cried Godfrey. “I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist that.”

“Nay, nay,” said the signora, who was present, “such compliments will turn the child’s head. Her face would not be there but for the signor’s cleverness. Well do I remember that when Luigi Maffoni painted the portrait of Monsignore——”

No one heeded her, so she continued the narrative in an undertone to the cat on her lap. The day, however, was not destined to end as happily as it had begun. That evening, when they were alone together in the studio, Fensden took Godfrey to task.

“Dear boy,” he said, as he helped himself to a cigarette from a box on the table beside him, “I have come to the conclusion that you must go warily. There are rocks ahead, and, from what I see, you are running straight for them.”

“What on earth is the matter now?” Godfrey asked, stretching himself out in an easy chair as he spoke. “I know the poise of that head is not quite what it might be, but haven’t I promised you that I’ll alter it to-morrow? Teresina is the very best model in the world, and as patient as she’s beautiful.”

“That’s exactly what I am complaining of,” Victor answered, quietly. “If she were not, I should not bother my head about her. I feel, in a measure, responsible, don’t you see? If it hadn’t been for me, she would not be here.”

The happiness vanished from Godfrey’s face as a breath first blurs and then leaves the surface of a razor.

“I am afraid I don’t quite grasp the situation,” he said. “You surely don’t suppose that I am falling in love with Teresina—with my model?”

“I am quite aware that you’re not,” the other answered. “There is my trouble. If you were in love with her, there might be some hope for her. But as it is there is none.”

Henderson stared at him in complete surprise.

“Have you gone mad?” he asked.

“No one was ever saner,” Fensden replied. “Look here, Godfrey, can’t you see the position for yourself? Here is this beautiful Italian girl, whom you engaged through my agency. You take her from beggary, and put her in a position of comparative luxury. She has sat to you day after day, smiled at your compliments, and—well, to put it bluntly, has had every opportunity and encouragement given her to fall head over ears in love with you. Is it quite fair, do you think, to let it go on?”

Godfrey was completely taken aback.

“Great Scott! You don’t mean to say you think I’m such a beast as to encourage her?” he cried. “You know as well as I do that I have behaved toward her only as I have done to all the other models before her. Surely you would wish me to be civil to the girl, and try to make her work as pleasant as possible for her? If you think I’ve been a blackguard, say so outright!”

“My dear Godfrey, nothing could be further from my thoughts,” answered Fensden in his usual quiet voice, that one of his friends once compared to the purring of a cat. “I should be a poor friend, however, if I were to allow you to go on as you are going without an expostulation. Can not you look at it in the same light as I do? Are you so blind that you can not see that this girl is falling every day more deeply in love with you? The love-light gleams in her eyes whenever she looks at you; she sees an implied caress even in the gentle pats you give her drapery, when you arrange it on the stage there; a tender solicitude for her welfare when you tell her to hurry home before it rains. What is the end of it all to be? I suppose you do not intend making her your wife?”

“My wife?” said Godfrey, blankly, as if the idea were too preposterous to have ever occurred to him. “Surely you must be jesting to talk like this?”

“I am not jesting with you, if you are not jesting with her,” the other replied. “You must see for yourself that the girl worships the very ground you walk upon. However, there is still time for matters to be put right. She has so far only looked at the affair from her own standpoint; what is more, I do not want her to lose her employment with you, since it means so much to her. What I do want is, that you should take hold of yourself in time and prevent her from being made unhappy while you have the opportunity.”

“You may be quite sure that I will do so,” Henderson replied, more stiffly than he had yet spoken. “I am more sorry than I can say that this should have occurred. Teresina is a good girl, and I would no more think of causing her pain than I would of striking my own sister. And now I’m off to bed. Good-night.”

True to his promise, his behaviour next day, so far as Teresina was concerned, was so different that she regarded him with surprise, quite unable to understand the reason of the change. She thought she must have offended him in some way, and endeavoured by all the means in her power to win herself back into his good graces. But the more she tried to conciliate him, the further he withdrew into his shell. Victor Fensden, smoking his inevitable cigarette, waited to see what the result would be. There was a certain amount of pathos in the situation, and a close observer might have noticed that the strain was telling upon both of the actors in it, the girl in particular. For the next fortnight or so, the moral temperature of the studio was not as equable as of old. Godfrey, who was of too honest a nature to make a good conspirator, chafed at the part he was being called upon to play, while Teresina, who only knew that she loved, and that her love was not returned, was divided between her affections for the man and a feeling of wounded dignity for herself.

“I wish to goodness I could raise sufficient money to get out of London for six months,” said Godfrey, one evening, as they sat together in the studio. “I’d be off like a shot.”

Fensden knew why he said this.

“I am sorry I can’t help you,” he replied. “I am about as badly off as yourself. But surely the great picture sold well?”

“Very well; for me, that is to say,” Godfrey replied. “But I had to part with most of it next day.”

He did not add that he had sent most of it to his widowed sister, who was very badly off and wanted help to send her boy to college.

A short silence followed; then Fensden said: “If you had money what would you do?”

“Go abroad,” said Godfrey quickly. “The strain of this business is more than I can stand. If I had a few hundreds to spare we’d go together and not come back for six months. By that time everything would have settled down to its old normal condition.”

How little did he guess that the very thing that seemed so impossible was destined to come to pass!

[CHAPTER II]

One morning a week or so after the conversation described at the end of the previous chapter, Godfrey Henderson found lying on the table in the studio a long, blue envelope, the writing upon which was of a neat and legal character. He did not own a halfpenny in the world, so what this could mean he was not able to imagine. Animated by a feeling of curiosity he opened the envelope and withdrew the contents. He read the letter through the first time without altogether realizing its meaning; then, with a vague feeling of surprise, he read it again. He had just finished his second perusal of it when Fensden entered the room. He glanced at Godfrey’s face, and said, as if in inquiry:

“Anything the matter? You look scared!”

“A most extraordinary thing,” returned Godfrey. “You have heard me talk of old Henderson of Detwich?”

“Your father’s brother? The old chap who sends you a brace of grouse every season, and asks when you are going to give up being a starving painter and turn your attention to business? What of him?”

“He is dead and buried,” answered Godfrey. “This letter is from his lawyer to say that I am his heir, in other words that Detwich passes to me, with fifteen thousand a year on which to keep it up, and that they are awaiting my instructions.”

There was a pause which lasted for upward of a quarter of a minute. Then Fensden held out his hand.

“My dear fellow, I am sure I congratulate you most heartily,” he said. “I wish you luck with all my heart. The struggling days are over now. For the future you will be able to follow your art as you please. You will also be able to patronize those who are not quite so fortunate. Fifteen thousand a year and a big country place! Whatever will you do with yourself?”

“That is for the Future to decide,” Godfrey replied.

That afternoon he paid a visit to the office of the firm of solicitors who had written to him. They corroborated the news contained in their letter, and were both assiduous in their attentions and sincere in their desire to serve him.

Four days later it was arranged that Godfrey and Fensden should start for the Continent. Before doing so, however, the former purchased a neat little gold watch and chain which he presented to Teresina, accompanied by a cheque equivalent to six months’ salary, calculated at the rate she had been receiving.

“Don’t forget me, Teresina,” he said, as he looked round the now dismantled studio. “Let me know how you get on, and remember if ever you want a friend I shall be only too glad to serve you.”

At that moment Fensden hailed him from the cab outside, bidding him hurry, or he feared they would miss their train. Godfrey accordingly held out his hand.

“Good-bye,” he said, and though he would have given worlds to have prevented it, a lump rose in his throat as he said it, and his voice was so shaky that he felt sure she must notice it.

Then, bidding her give the key to the landlord when she left the studio, he went out into the street, and jumped into a cab, which next moment started off for the station. How was he to know that Teresina was lying in a dead faint upon the studio floor?

When they left England for the Continent Godfrey had only the vaguest notion of what they were going to do after they left Paris. Having spent a fortnight in the French capital they journeyed on to Switzerland, put in a month at Lucerne, three weeks in Rome, and found themselves, in the middle of November, at Luxor, looking upon the rolling waters of the Nile. Their sketch books were surfeited with impressions, and they themselves were filled with a great content. They had both visited the Continent on numerous occasions before, but this was the first time that they had made the acquaintance of the “Land of the Pharaohs.” Godfrey was delighted with everything he saw, and already he had the ideas for a dozen new pictures in his head.

“I had no notion that any sunset could be so gorgeous,” he said one day, when they sat together watching the ball of fire descend to his rest on the western horizon of the desert. “The colours have not yet been discovered that could possibly do it justice. For the future I shall come out here every year.”

“Don’t be too sure, my friend,” said Fensden. “There was a time when such a thing might have been possible, but circumstances have changed with you. You are no longer the erratic Bohemian artist, remember, but a man with a stake in the country, and a county magnate.”

“But what has the county magnate to do with the question at issue?” Godfrey inquired.

“Everything in the world,” retorted his companion. “In virtue of your new position you will have to marry. The future Mrs. Henderson, in all probability, will also have a stake in the country. She will have great ideas, moreover, connected with what she will term the improvement of the land, and, beyond a trip to the Italian lakes at long intervals, will not permit you to leave the country of her forefathers.”

“What a strange fellow you are, to be sure!” replied Godfrey. “To hear you talk one would think that the possession of money—and, by Jove, it’s a very decent thing to have when you come to consider it—must necessarily relegate a man to the region of the commonplace. Why shouldn’t I marry a girl who is fond of travelling?”

“Because, as a rule, Fate ordains otherwise,” Fensden replied. “I think I can describe the sort of girl you will marry.”

“Then do so, by all means,” said Godfrey, “I’ll smoke another cigar while you are arranging it.”

“In the first place she will be tall. Your idea of the ludicrous would not let you marry a small woman. She will have large hands and feet, and the latter will be heavily shod. That is how in London I always pick out the girls who live in the country. She will be handsome rather than pretty, for the reason that your taste lies in that direction. She will not flirt, because she will be in love with you. She will be an admirable housewife of the solid order, and while I should be prepared to trust to her judgment in the matter of dogs and horses, roots, crops, and the dairy farm, finer susceptibilities she will have none. Do you like the picture?”

“Scarcely,” said Henderson; “and yet, when all is said and done a man might do worse.”

There was a pause, during which each man knew what the other was thinking about. Godfrey was recalling Teresina’s beautiful face, and Fensden knew that he was doing so.

“By the way,” said Fensden, very quietly, “I noticed this morning that you received a letter bearing an Italian post-mark. Would it be indiscreet if I inquired your correspondent’s name?”

“I don’t see why there should be any mystery about it,” Henderson replied. “It was from Teresina.”

“From Teresina?” said the other, with a look of surprise.

“Yes, from Teresina,” his friend answered. “I made her promise before we left home that should she leave England she would let me have her address, and, if she were in need of anything, she would communicate with me. You can see the letter if you like. Here it is.”

He took the letter in question from his pocket and handed it to his companion. It consisted of only a few lines and gave the writer’s address with the hope that the time might soon come when she would again be allowed to sit to “her kind patron.”

Victor, having perused it, handed it back to Godfrey, who replaced it in his pocket without a word.

Two days later they returned by steamer to Cairo, where they took up their abode at the Mena House Hotel. Godfrey preferred it, because it was some distance from the dust of the city, and Fensden because he averred that the sneer on the face of the Sphinx soothed him more than all the luxuries of Cairo. As it was, he sat in the veranda of the hotel and made impressionist sketches of dragomen, camels, and the backsheesh-begging Bedouins of the Pyramids. Godfrey found it impossible to work.

“I am absorbing ideas,” he said. “The work will come later on.”

In the meantime he played polo in the Ghezireh, shot jackals in the desert, flirted with the charming tourists in the verandas of the hotel, and enjoyed himself immensely in his own fashion. Then one day he received a telegram from England announcing the fact that his mother was seriously ill, and asking him to return without delay.

“I am sincerely sorry,” said Fensden, politely. Then he added, regretfully: “I suppose our tour must now, like all good things, come to an end. When do you leave?”

“By to-morrow morning’s train,” he answered. “I shall pick up the mail boat at Ismailia and travel in her to Naples. If all goes well I shall be in England to-morrow week. But look here, Victor, when you come to think of it there’s not the least necessity for you to come, too. It would be no end of a shame to rob you of your holiday. Why should you not go on and finish the tour by yourself? Why not come with me as far as Port Said, and catch the steamer for Jaffa there?”

“It’s very good of you, my dear Godfrey,” said Fensden, “but——”

“Let there be no 'buts,’” the other returned. “It’s all arranged. When you come home you shall describe your adventures to me.”

Needless to say, in the end Fensden agreed to the proposal, and next day they accordingly bade each other good-bye on the promenade deck of the mail steamer that was to take Henderson as far as Naples. Fensden was beginning to realize that it was by no means unpleasant to have a rich and generous friend. Poverty was doubtless romantic and artistic, but a well-filled pocket-book meant good hotels and the best of wines and living.

While the boat ploughed her way across the Mediterranean, an idea occurred to Godfrey, and he resolved to act upon it. It was neither more nor less than to utilize what little time was given him in Naples in seeking out Teresina and assuring himself of her comfort in her old home. He had quite convinced himself by this time that any affection he might once have felt for her was now dead and buried. For this reason he saw no possible danger in paying her a visit. “Victor made more of it,” he argued, “than the circumstances had really warranted. Had he not said anything about it, there would have been no trouble, and in that case Teresina would still be in London, and sitting to me.”

As soon as the vessel was in harbour, he collected his luggage and made his way ashore. A cab conveyed him to an hotel he had patronized before; and when he was safely installed there, and realized that he could not proceed on his journey until the next morning, he resolved to set out in search of Teresina. Producing her letter from his pocket-book he made a note of the address, and then started upon his errand, to discover that the signorina Cardi’s home took some little finding. At last, however, he succeeded, only to be informed by an intelligent neighbour that the signora was not at home, while the signorina had gone out some fifteen minutes before. Considerably disappointed, he turned to descend the steps to find himself face to face with Teresina herself as he stepped into the street. She uttered a little exclamation of astonishment and delight at seeing him.

“How is it that you are here, signor?” she inquired, when they had greeted each other. “I did not know that you were in Naples.”

“I only arrived this afternoon,” he answered. “I am on my way to England.”

“To England?” she said, and then uttered a little sigh as if the very name of that country conjured up sad memories. “It is cold and wet in England now; and do you remember how the studio chimney smoked?”

This apparently irrelevant remark caused them both to laugh, but their mirth had not altogether a happy sound.

“I am going to give up the studio,” he answered. “I expect that for the future I shall do my work in the country. But you are not looking well, Teresina!”

“I am quite well,” she answered, hurriedly. How was he to know that for many weeks past she had been eating her heart out for love of him? If the whole world seemed dark to her now it was because he, her sun, no longer shone upon her.

“And your mother, the signora, how wrong of me not to have inquired after her. I trust she is well?”

“Quite well, signor,” she replied. “She often talks of you. She is at Sorrento to-day, but she may be back at any minute. She would have liked to have seen you, signor, to have thanked you for your great goodness to us.”

“Nonsense,” said Henderson, hurriedly. “It is the other way round. My thanks are due to you. Had it not been for your face, Teresina, my picture would never have been such a success. Do you know that several ladies, great ladies in England, said that they would give anything to be so beautiful? I don’t think I shall ever do a better piece of work than that.”

He had just said this when he noticed that a young man, tall, slim, and very dark, had approached them unperceived, and was now glaring angrily at him. Teresina had also become aware of his presence, and was visibly affected by it. Whereas only a moment before she had been all sunshine and delight at seeing Henderson once more, now she was quite the reverse.

“Is this man a friend of yours?” Godfrey asked, in English. “He seems to be put out about something.”

“It is only Tomasso Dardini,” she answered, as if the explanation were sufficient. “He is quick-tempered, but he means no harm.”

“Then I wish to goodness he’d go away; he glares as if he would like to eat me. If I may hazard a guess, Teresina, I should say that he is in love with you.”

“He is very foolish,” she answered, and a flush spread over her face. “Some day, if he is not very careful, he will get into trouble.”

“I should not be at all surprised to hear it,” Godfrey replied.

Then, turning to the man in question, he signed to him to be off about his business. For a moment the youth seemed inclined to refuse, but presently he thought better of it, and marched off down the street, looking back now and again as if to see whether the Englishman and the girl were still conversing together.

“And now, Teresina, I have a little plan to propose to you,” said Godfrey, when the other had turned the corner. “As I told you just now, I am on my way to England, and therefore, shall only be able to spend to-night in Naples. From the announcements I see they are playing 'Faust’ at the Opera-House. Why should not you and your mother dine with me, and go there afterward? It would be a pleasant way of spending the evening, and we could talk of old days.”

Teresina clapped her hands with delight. In her love of the Opera she was a genuine Neapolitan.

“It would be lovely,” she cried. “My mother will come, I feel sure. It is kind of you, signor.”

It was thereupon arranged that they should meet at a certain place, dine, and then go on to the Opera together. Having settled this, Henderson returned to his hotel, whiled away the time as best he could, and when the hour arrived, set off to the rendezvous.

Punctual to the moment he put in an appearance at the place. It was a restaurant not unlike that in which he had first met Teresina and her mother. He could not help recalling that memorable evening as he waited on the pavement outside, and his one wish was that Fensden could have been there to have shared the entertainment with him. When the signora and her daughter arrived, it was plain that they regarded the occasion an important one. They were both attired in their best, and, so far as colour went, the signora herself was not unlike a bird of Paradise. Teresina was more soberly clad, but Henderson noticed that a necklace with which he had once presented her, as a memento of a certain piece of extra work she had done for him, encircled her slender throat. As he looked at it, he thought of the day on which he had given it to her, and as the remembrance occurred to him, he wondered whether it was wise on his part to play with fire for a second time. The signora greeted him with southern volubility, and, as soon as he could get in a word, Henderson suggested that they should enter the restaurant. Having done so, they seated themselves at one of the small tables, and he gave his orders. It was a banquet that was destined to be remembered with pleasure by two of the party, and also by a third, for another and less romantic reason.

“And so you are returning to England, signor?” said the signora, when the first pangs of her hunger had been assuaged. Then, remembering the circumstances connected with the latter portion of their stay in London, she added, pathetically: “I think if it were possible, I should not be sorry to return—even though the winter is so cold and it rains so often.”

“If you feel as if you would like to return, why do you not do so?” asked Godfrey, with a quickness that caused Teresina to look up at him in surprise, and then to look down again with equal celerity. “I am sure Teresina could get plenty of employment. I would do all I could to help her. For my own part, I never could understand why you left so quickly.”

If he had reflected for a moment, he would probably have been able to arrive at an understanding of the reason that had prompted her departure. He was too modest a man, however, to think of such a thing. Nevertheless, he changed the conversation by making inquiries as to their present life in Naples, and then went on to talk of Fensden, who at that moment, could they have seen him, was fast asleep in a railway carriage, on his way from Jaffa to Jerusalem. The signora had never been partial to the impressionist artist and poet, and she had a vague idea that it was to that gentleman’s agency that they owed the flight of the owner, and the consequent cessation of Teresina’s employment at the studio. She was too prudent, however, to say anything on that score to Godfrey. She knew the friendship that existed between the two men; and she was also aware that her daughter, who was the possessor of a quick temper, and a tongue that she could use when she liked, would brook no disparagement of either Mr. Henderson or his friend.

“As to returning to England, we must think it over,” she said, complacently, when Godfrey had filled her glass with champagne for the fourth or fifth time. “It would make another great change in our affairs, but Teresina is young, and there is nothing for us to do in Naples. I could wish that she should marry, signor, but she will not hear of it. I tell her the time may come when it will be too late. But girls do not listen to their elders nowadays.”

Godfrey glanced at Teresina’s face to find that it had suddenly become very pale. He hastened to render her assistance without delay by twitting her mother as to the number of sweethearts she herself had had, much to that lady’s delight. This crisis having been smoothed over, he paid the bill and they left the restaurant.

Darkness had fallen by this time, a fact which may have accounted for the young man’s uncertainty as to whether he did or did not recognise the figure of a man who was watching the doorway from the other side of the street. It certainly looked as if it belonged to Tomasso Dardini; but he said nothing on this point to either of his guests. He would be leaving Naples in the morning, he argued, and no necessity existed for making a fuss about it. If the silly young man were jealous, the morrow would remove the cause; and after that it would not matter very much whether he were aware of their visit to the Opera or not. With Teresina beside him and the signora on the other side, they entered the theatre and took their seats. The house was crowded, and the Opera itself was received with that critical appreciation so characteristic of the Neapolitan theatre-goer. Whether Godfrey enjoyed it as much as his neighbours is a question that admits of some doubt. He certainly found pleasure in studying the expressions that flitted across Teresina’s face as she watched what went on upon the stage; but I scarcely think it went further. When it was over, he escorted them back to their dwelling, and bade them good-bye upon the threshold.

“Good-bye, Teresina,” he said. “It may not be very long before we meet in London. Do you remember the little place where I first saw you? I think, when I get back, I must dine there once more, if only for old association’s sake.”

“Good-bye, signor,” she said, giving him her hand after the English fashion. “It was kind of you to think of us, and to give us such pleasure as you have done to-night.”

“I have enjoyed it,” he replied, and then, bidding her return soon to London, he left her, and made his way down the narrow, evil-smelling street toward the quarter in which his hotel was situated. He was still fifty yards from the corner when a figure emerged from a doorway and hurried quickly after him, keeping on the dark side of the street. Leaving the thoroughfare in which Teresina’s house was located, he employed a short cut with which he had become acquainted that afternoon. He had scarcely entered this, however, before he became aware of a light footstep behind him. Turning quickly, he found a man, whom he immediately recognised, within a few feet of him. Muttering something in Italian, he raised his arm, and Godfrey saw that he held a poniard in his hand. With the quickness of a practised athlete, he seized the uplifted wrist with his left hand, while with his right he delivered a blow that took the would-be assassin beneath the chin and sent him sprawling upon his back in the road. Picking up the dagger that the other had let fall, he placed it in his pocket, saying, as he did so: “I will keep this, my friend, as a memento.” Then, having made sure that the other had no intention of following him, he continued his walk, little dreaming how strangely that incident was to affect his future life.

[CHAPTER III]

If I were given my choice of all the charming residences in the county of Midlandshire, I fancy I should decide in favour of Detwich Hall. To my thinking it is, in every respect, an ideal residence. While sufficiently old to have a history (one of the Charleses spent some days in hiding there), it has proved itself capable of being adapted to modern ideas of comfort. The main portion was built, I believe, toward the close of the reign of the Virgin Queen; a wing was added by the owner who occupied it in the time of the early Georges; while the father of the man who had bequeathed the property to Godfrey, was responsible for the stables, and a somewhat obscure wing on the southern front. It was admirably situated in the centre of a park of some three hundred acres, and was approached by a picturesque drive, about half a mile long, which ran for some distance along the banks of an ornamental lake. On this lake, by the way, some of the finest duck shooting in the county is to be obtained. In his boyhood Godfrey had spent many happy days there, little dreaming that some day it would become his own property. Indeed, it is quite certain it would not have done so had his cousin Wilfred not been killed in India in the performance of a piece of desperate heroism that will be remembered as long as a certain native regiment exists. As for Godfrey, the old man had always liked the boy, but had been bitterly disappointed when he had resolved to embark upon an artistic career instead of playing the part of a country gentleman, as so many of his ancestors had done before him. To have proved himself a capable Master of Hounds would have been in the old bachelor’s eyes a greater distinction than to have painted the finest picture that ever graced the walls of Burlington House. Yet in his heart he knew the power of the young man, and honoured him for the dogged persistence with which he had fought the uphill fight of a painter’s life.

“Well, well, I suppose he’ll come out of it all right in the end,” he was wont to say to himself when he thought of the matter. “He’ll be none the worse for having known a little poverty. I like the boy and he likes me, and, please God, he’ll do his best by the dear old place when he comes into it. I should like to see him in it.”

This, unfortunately, he was not able to do; but could he have heard the universal expression of approbation so lavishly bestowed upon the young master of Detwich when he had been six months in possession he would have felt that his generosity had been rewarded. Indeed, there could be no sort of doubt as to Godfrey’s popularity. He was received by the county with open arms, and by his tenantry with a quiet appreciation that showed they knew how to value the blood that ran in his veins without making a fuss about it. Owing to the short time that had elapsed since his uncle’s death it was necessarily impossible for him to see very much society, but those who partook of his hospitality returned home not only delighted with their host, but also with the quality of their entertainment.

“An acquisition, a decided acquisition,” said old Sir Vivian Devereux, the magnate of the district. “His idea of game preservation is excellent, and he is prepared to support the hunt with the utmost liberality. All he wants to make him perfect is a wife.”

On hearing this Lady Devereux looked at her lord and her lord looked at her. Between them they had a very shrewd idea that they knew where to look for the future mistress of Detwich Hall. Mistress Margaret, their daughter, called by her friends Molly, who had that season made her bow before her Majesty, said nothing, but maybe that was because she did not think there was anything to be said. She had her own ideas on the subject. She had seen the young squire of Detwich, though he had not been aware of the fact, and, being an unaffected, straightforward English girl, without prudery or conceit of any sort, had come to the conclusion that she liked the look of him. Eligible young men were scarce in the neighbourhood, and if she dreamt dreams of her own who shall blame her? Not I, for one.

Three months had passed since Godfrey had escorted Teresina and her mother to the Opera. The summons which had brought him home so hurriedly had, fortunately, proved to be a false alarm. Though his mother had been seriously ill, there had not been so much danger as they had led him to suppose. A month at Torquay had completely restored her to health, and now she was back at Detwich once more, as hale and hearty an old lady as any to be found in the kingdom. Assisted by her youngest daughter, Kitty, she welcomed the wanderer home with every sign of delight.

Godfrey, unlike so many other people, had the good fortune to be as popular in his own family circle as he was out of it, and he and his youngest sister had been on the best of terms from the days when they had gone bird’s-nesting together, until the time when she had assisted him in packing his first picture for the Academy. Since then, however, she had not seen so much of him.

“Kit’s no end of a brick,” he had been heard to say, “and the fellow who marries her may consider himself lucky.”

It was scarcely to be wondered at, therefore, if Miss Devereux and Kitty, living as they did within two miles of each other, should soon have become intimate. They were in the habit of seeing each other several times a week, a fact which Godfrey, from a distance, had felt somewhat inclined to resent.

“When I get home I shall find this girl continually in the house,” he said to himself; and when he did arrive and the many charming qualities of her friend had been explained to him he did not feel any the more disposed to be cordial.

“I can see what it will be,” he said to his sister, “I shall not catch a glimpse of you now.”

“Perhaps you won’t want to when you meet Molly,” was the arch rejoinder. “You have no idea what a pretty girl she is. They say she created a tremendous sensation when she was presented this year. Folks raved about her.”

“The bigger duffers they,” was the uncompromising reply. “You have one fault, my dear girl. Ever since I have known you your swans have invariably turned out to be geese. I fancy I can realize what Miss Devereux will be like.”

“In that case pray describe her,” was the saucy rejoinder, and Miss Kitty made a very pretty losing hazard (they were playing billiards at the time), after which she failed to score and chalked her cue.

Now it seems scarcely fair to say so, but Godfrey, being taken at a disadvantage, fell back on what can be only considered by all honest people a mean device. In describing Miss Devereux he used the almost identical terms used by Fensden when he had attempted to draw a picture of his friend’s future wife.

“You are quite at sea,” said Miss Kitty, patting her dainty shoe with the end of her cue as she spoke. “Some day, if you are not very careful, I will tell Miss Devereux what you have said about her. She would never forgive you the large feet and thick boots.”

“As you are strong be merciful,” said Godfrey, potting the red into the right-hand pocket and going into the left himself. “I don’t mind admitting without prejudice that I am getting anxious to see this paragon. When do you think she will next honour you with her society?”

“On Friday,” Kitty replied. “We have taken up wood-carving together, and she is coming to see some patterns I bought in town last week.”

“In that case we will defer consideration of her merits and demerits—for I suppose she has some—until then,” Godfrey replied, and then once more going into the pocket off the red he announced the game as standing at one hundred to ninety-five.

On the following afternoon he had occasion to drive to the market town. It was a bright, clear day, with a promise of frost in the air, and as his dog-cart rolled along the high road, drawn by a tandem team he had purchased the previous week, he felt as well satisfied with himself and his position in the world as it was possible for a young man to be. His business transacted in the town he turned his horses’ heads homeward once more. The handsome animals, knowing that they were on their way to their stables, stepped out bravely, and many an approving glance was thrown at the good-looking young squire of Detwich by folk upon the road. He had completed upward of half his journey when he became aware that a young lady, who had appeared from a by-road, was making her way in the same direction as himself.

“Whoever she is she certainly sits her horse well,” he said to himself, as he watched her swinging along at a slow canter on the soft side of the road. “I wonder who she can be?”

As soon as the turf gave place to hard metal she pulled her hack up and proceeded at a walk. This very soon brought Godfrey alongside, and as he passed he managed to steal a glance at a very pretty face and as neat a figure as he ever remembered to have seen.

“I wonder who she can be?” he repeated. And as he continued his drive he meditated on the subject.

On the Friday following he was unexpectedly called to town. His solicitors desired an interview with him respecting the purchase of a farm, and he had no option but to comply with their request. As luck would have it, however, he was able to return by a somewhat earlier train than he expected, and was just in time to hear from his butler that afternoon tea had been carried into the drawing-room.

“Are there any visitors?” he inquired.

“Miss Devereux, sir,” said the man; “she came to lunch.”

“I had forgotten that she was to be here to-day,” he said to himself as he crossed the hall in the direction of the drawing-room. “I wonder what she will be like?”

As every one who has visited Detwich is aware, the drawing-room is an exceedingly handsome room. It is long and lofty, if possible a little too long for cosiness. This fault, if fault it be, is amply atoned for, however, by a capitally constructed ingle-nook, in which it was the custom for the ladies to take afternoon tea. Godfrey strolled across the floor to this charming contrivance, little guessing what was in store for him. A lady was sitting with her back to him holding a cup of tea in her hand.

“I don’t think you have met Miss Devereux, Godfrey,” said his sister.

“I have not yet had that pleasure,” he replied. Then to himself he added: “Good gracious! It’s the fair equestrienne.” Then aloud: “I’ve heard a good deal of you from Kitty, Miss Devereux.”

“And I of you,” she answered. “You seem to have been everywhere, and to have seen everything. Doubtless you find this part of the world very dull.”

“Not at all,” he answered. “I am extremely fond of the country, and particularly of that about here.”

If the truth were told I fancy he had never thought much about it until that moment. For the future, however, under a certain magic influence, he was to view it with very different eyes.

“In spite of what some people say,” he continued, “I consider English country scenery charming.”

“And yet it must be very beautiful abroad. Kitty read me one or two of your letters, and from the description you gave of the various places you had visited, I gathered that you thought nothing could be so beautiful on earth.”

“No doubt they are very beautiful,” he answered. “But for my part give me the old-world peace of England. There is certainly nothing like that to be found elsewhere. I would rather stand on the hill yonder and look down the valley in summer-time, than gaze upon the Rhine at Heidelberg, or Naples harbour at daybreak, or visit ancient Philæ by moonlight.”

What further heresies this young man would have pledged himself to in his enthusiasm I can not say. Fortunately for him, however, the vicar and his wife were announced at that moment, and a distraction was thus caused. Until that moment Miss Kitty had been regarding him with steadfast eyes. Clever beyond all other men, as she considered her brother, she had never seen him come out of his shell like this before. Hitherto he had been rather given to pooh-poohing the country, and had once been known even to assert that “London and Paris were the only two places in which it was possible for a civilized man to live.” What was the reason of this sudden change?

The vicar was a tall man with a pompous air, who looked forward some day to being a bishop, and had already assumed the appearance and manners of one. His wife, on the other hand, was small, and of a somewhat peevish disposition. It was currently reported that the husband and wife spent the greater portion of their time in squabbling, while it was certain that they contradicted each other in public with an openness and frequency that at times was apt to be a little embarrassing.

“Possibly I may have been wrong,” said the vicar, when he had seated himself and had taken a cup of tea from his hostess’s hands, “but did I not hear you extolling the beauties of a country life as I entered the room, Mr. Henderson?”

He put the question as if it were one of world-wide importance, which, answered carelessly, might involve great international complications. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued: “For my part, while admitting that a country life is possessed of many charms, with which the Metropolis can not compare, I must go on to say that there is a breadth, if I may so express it, in London life that is quite lacking outside.”

His wife saw her opportunity, and, as was her habit, was quick to take advantage of it.

“You have never had any experience of London life, William, so how can you possibly tell?” she said, sharply.

“My dear, I venture to say that it is a generally admitted fact,” her husband replied.

“Generally admitted facts are as often as not rubbish,” retorted the lady with some asperity. “What I say is, let a man do his duty wherever he is, and make the best of what he’s got, without grumbling.”

There was an unmistakable innuendo in this speech, and for a moment an awkward silence ensued.

“I hear you have built a new conservatory, Mr. Henderson?” said Miss Devereux, as if to change the subject.

“It is just completed,” said Godfrey. “Would you care to see it?”

A general desire to inspect this new wonder having been expressed, Godfrey led the way from the room, contriving, when all had passed out, to take up his position beside their youngest visitor.

“Will you take pity upon a stranger in the land?” he said, “and give me some information?”

“What can I tell you?” she asked.

He glanced at the vicar and his wife, who were some little distance in front.

“Do they always squabble like this?” he inquired.

“Yes, invariably,” she replied. “We are used to it, but strangers are apt to find it embarrassing. I really believe the habit of squabbling has grown upon them until they have become so accustomed to it that they do not notice it. By the way, Mr. Henderson, there is one question of vital importance I must decide with you. Are you going to hunt?”

As a matter of fact Godfrey had made up his mind to do so occasionally, but now, remembering that Miss Devereux possessed the reputation of a second Diana, he spoke as if it were the hunting that had mainly induced him to live in Midlandshire. He registered a vow that he would purchase a stud immediately, and that he would look upon missing a run as a sin that could only be expurgated by religiously attending the next.

By this time they had reached the new conservatory, which adjoined the studio Godfrey had built for himself. It was a handsome building, and gave a distinction to that side of the house which it certainly had lacked before.

“Admirable, admirable,” said the vicar, complacently. “It reminds me of the palm-house at Kew.”

“It is twenty years since you were at Kew, William; how can you possibly remember what the palm-house is like?” retorted his wife.

“My dear, I have always been noted for the excellence of my memory,” the vicar replied. “I assure you I have the most vivid recollection of the house in question.”

“You mislaid your spectacles this morning, and if I hadn’t seen you put them in your pocket you would never have thought of looking for them there,” said his wife, to whom this fact appeared to be relative to the matter at issue.

From the conservatory to the studio was a natural transition, and the latest work upon the easel was duly inspected and admired.

“I remember your picture in the Academy last year, Mr. Henderson,” said Miss Devereux. “I can assure you that it brought the tears into my eyes.”

“It is very kind of you to say so,” he said, feeling that no compliment that had ever been paid him was so much worth having.

Then a luminous idea occurred to him.

“I wonder if, some day, you would let me paint you a little picture?” he asked, almost timidly.

“I really could not think of such a thing,” his companion replied. “Your time is too valuable to be wasted in that way.”

“I shall paint one, nevertheless,” he replied. “In return, perhaps, you will instruct me in the ways of the Midlandshire hunt?”

“I shall be delighted,” she answered. “You must make Kitty come too.”

Godfrey promised to do so, but for once in his life he was ungallant enough to think that he could dispense with his sister’s society. Presently Miss Devereux’s cart was announced and Kitty and Godfrey accompanied her to the front door. She kissed Kitty and then held out her hand to Godfrey.

“Good-bye, Mr. Henderson,” she said. “Remember that the hounds meet at Spinkley Grove on Thursday, at eleven o’clock, when you will be permitted an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the Master and the Hunt.”

“I shall be there without fail,” he answered, as he helped her into the cart and arranged her rug for her. She thereupon nodded to the groom, who left the ponies’ heads and jumped on to the step behind as the cart passed him, with an adroitness that was the outcome of long practice. A moment later the vehicle had turned the corner of the drive and was lost to view.

“Well?” said Kitty as they turned to go in.

“Well,” Godfrey replied.

“You like her?”

“Very much indeed,” he answered, and as they passed down the hall together he made an important decision to himself. “Provided she will have me,” he said, “I think I have found my wife.”

[CHAPTER IV]

More than a month had elapsed since Godfrey had made his début as a recognised member of the Midlandshire Hunt. It is also necessary to state that during that period he had seen a good deal of pretty Miss Molly Devereux, who, faithful to the promise she had given him, had shown him a large amount of the country, with the fences, hedges, and ditches thereof. She was also the person who was mainly responsible for the large sum of money he had spent on horseflesh during that time. As a matter of fact, this impressionable young man was head over ears in love, and to prove it, he neglected his work, imperilled his neck, and, as his mother remarked, ran an almost daily risk of coming to an early grave through waiting about on the outskirts of damp coverts, to say nothing of the long, wet rides home on wintry evenings.

“I can not understand why you do it,” said the old lady, who, by the way, was not nearly so obtuse as she pretended to be. “When you first came home from abroad, you declared that the hunting would never possess sufficient attraction to take you out on a damp day. Now you are never happy unless you are in the saddle.”

“It’s a good healthy exercise, mother,” said Kitty, with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eyes. “Besides, Godfrey has taken such a liking to Sir George Penistone, the Master, that he is never happy when he is parted from him.”

Now if there was one person in the country for whom Godfrey entertained a profound distaste, it was for the gentleman in question. Sir George was known to have been desperately in love with Miss Devereux ever since he had left the ’Varsity; but, while he was plucky enough in the saddle, and would ride his horse at anything that an animal could be expected to jump, and at a good many that it could not, he had never been able to screw up his courage sufficiently to broach the subject to her. Finding that he had a rival in the field, however, had given him a fillip, and, in consequence, relations between the two young men were as strained as it was possible for them to be, and yet to allow them to remain on speaking terms. Whether the young lady herself was aware of this is more than I can say; if she were she gave no sign of it, but treated them both with the same impartiality. Certain other ladies of the hunt vowed that she was a heartless flirt, and that she was playing one man off against the other. Such uncharitable sentiments, however, could only be expected from people who would have acted in the same fashion had they been placed in a similar position.

It has been said by a well-known writer, who, for all we know to the contrary, was a crusty old bachelor, and therefore well qualified to speak upon the matter, “that the very uncertainty of love is one of its greatest charms.” I fancy that Godfrey Henderson, at that particular time, would not have agreed with the sage in question. The uncertainty of knowing whether he was loved or not, was making a different man of him. In days that seemed as far removed from the present as if a gulf of centuries lay between, he had been a happy-go-lucky, easy-going fellow, taking the world as he found it, and never allowing himself to be much troubled by anything. Now, however, he had grown preternaturally solemn, was much given to silent communings with himself, and only brightened up when he was in the presence of the person who was the object of his adoration. Naturally this could not continue for long.

“I’ll speak to her the very first opportunity I get,” he said to himself; “and if she won’t have me, I’ll cut the whole show and go abroad. I could pick up Fensden in Dresden, and we’ll go off to Japan together.”

But when he was given a favourable opportunity of speaking, he found he was unable to bring his courage to the sticking-point, and for the next day or two he called himself by a variety of names that, had they been addressed to him by any one else, he would have considered most objectionable. Regarded dispassionately, in the silent watches of the night, it seemed a small thing to do. He had only to get her alone, to take her hand, if he could manage to obtain possession of it, and then to make his passion known, and ask her to be his wife. Any one could do that, and he had the best of reasons, when he looked round the circle of his married acquaintances, for knowing that it had been carried out successfully on numerous occasions before. Yet when it became necessary to put it into practice he discovered that it demanded a heroism to which the charge of the Light Brigade and the storming of the Redan were as nothing.

“I see that the hounds meet at Churley cross roads on Monday,” said his sister, one morning at breakfast. “Molly wants me to go, but I fear it will be impossible. I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you will be there?”

“I suppose I shall,” Godfrey replied, as if he had not thought very much about the matter.

In his heart, however, he knew that it would require an extraordinary force to keep him away. On Friday he did not go, for the reason that he had incidentally learned that a certain lady would be in town at her dressmaker’s. The same day he discovered that his old friend and schoolfellow, James Bradford, to wit, had returned from America, en route to the Continent, and the inference was that if they did not lunch together, they would be scarcely likely to meet again for some considerable time. What, therefore, was more fitting than that he should catch the 10.18 train at Detwich, and set off for the Metropolis? His mother and sister said nothing, except to wish him a pleasant journey. When they were alone together afterward, however, Mrs. Henderson turned to her daughter.

“Poor boy,” she said, “I never thought he would take it as seriously as he is doing. I have never seen a harder case.”

To which her daughter replied somewhat enigmatically:

“I wish I knew what she intends doing.”

Despite the eagerness Godfrey had shown to renew his acquaintance with his friend, Mr. James Bradford, he did not appear to derive such a vast amount of satisfaction from their meeting as the trouble he had taken to bring it about would have implied.

“I never saw such a change in a man in my life,” said Mr. James Bradford afterward, when Godfrey had left the club. “He fidgeted about all the time we were at lunch, and examined his watch at least twice in every five minutes. Coming into money doesn’t appear to agree with him. It’s a pity, for he used to be such a good chap.”

On leaving Pall Mall Godfrey took a cab to Bond Street, and for upward of an hour paced religiously up and down that fashionable thoroughfare. Then, taking another cab, he drove to Euston, where he spent at least three-quarters of an hour inspecting the various trains that passed in and out of the station, pottering about the bookstalls, and glaring at the travellers who approached him. As every one is aware who lives in the neighbourhood, there is only one good train in the afternoon that stops at Detwich, hence his reason for going to the station at that hour. As the time approached for that train to leave, he grew more and more nervous, and when the train itself at length backed into the station to take up its passengers, his anxiety became almost pitiable to watch. Placing himself near the bookstall, he scrutinized every passenger who approached him. At last he became aware of two figures, who were making their way leisurely along the platform in search of an empty carriage. One was Lady Devereux, tall, gray-haired, and eminently dignified; her companion there is no need to describe. It struck Godfrey, as he watched her, that never in his life had he seen so pretty a face or figure. Nerving himself to carry out the operation he had in mind, he strolled down the platform, then turning, walked back along the train, glancing into the various carriages as he passed, until he reached that in which the two ladies were seated. Then, as if he were more than surprised at seeing them, he lifted his hat.

“How do you do, Lady Devereux?” he said. “This is an altogether unexpected meeting!” Then, having saluted the younger lady, he inquired whether they would permit him to travel down with them.

“Do so, by all means,” Lady Devereux replied. “Molly and I have been obliged to put up with each other’s company since the early morning. But how is it that you are not hunting to-day, Mr. Henderson?”

“An old friend has just returned from America,” Godfrey remarked, “and he invited me to lunch with him. Otherwise I should have been out, of course.”

Whether Miss Molly believed this statement or not I can not say, but I do not think it probable. One thing was plain; on this particular occasion she had made up her mind not to be gracious to the poor young man, and when he endeavoured to draw her into conversation, she answered him shortly, and then retired into the seclusion of her newspaper.

Why she should have treated him so it is impossible to say, but there could be no sort of doubt that she was offended at something. In consequence the poor fellow was about as miserable a specimen of the human race as could have been found in England that day. When Detwich was reached, he saw the two ladies to their carriage, and bade them good-bye. Then, mounting to the box of his own dog-cart, he sent the horse flying down the street at a pace that, had he not been well known, would in all probability have secured him an interview with a magistrate.

“And what sort of journey did you have?” inquired his mother, as she gave him a cup of tea on his arrival at the house.

“Very pleasant,” he answered, though his looks belied his assertion.

“And would you care, as you said the other day, to go back to live in London?” asked mischievous Miss Kitty.

“I think London is one of the most detestable places on earth,” he replied, stirring his tea as though he were sweeping the Metropolis into the sea.

“And did you see any one you knew while you were in town?” inquired his mother.

“A lot of people I don’t care a scrap about,” he answered.

Feeling that he was not in a fit humour for society, he took himself off to his studio, where he threw himself into an easy chair, and lit the largest pipe in his possession. This he smoked as savagely as if it were responsible for his troubles. By the time the dressing-bell rang, he was more than ever determined to set off for Japan. So strong, however, was the chain which bound him, that, on second thoughts, he came to the conclusion that he would postpone his departure until after the meet at the Churley cross roads on the following Monday. In consequence he spent a miserable Saturday, and it was not until he came out of church on Sunday morning that he was anything like his old self. All through the service he had been paying a greater amount of attention to a neat little toque, and the back of a very shapely head, a few seats in front of him, than was altogether proper in a place of worship. According to custom, the two families united in the porch.

“Good-morning, Mr. Henderson,” said Molly, as they shook hands, and then, after they had passed outside and the usual commonplaces had been exchanged, she continued: “What do you think of the state of the weather?”

There was more in her speech than met the eye. What she really meant was: “Do you think we shall be able to hunt to-morrow? If so, I am prepared to be kind to you once more.”

Godfrey replied that there had been signs of frost early in the morning, but he rejoiced to see that they were going off.

“We shall see you to-morrow, I suppose?” she said, as they passed through the lych-gate out into the high road.

“Of course,” he answered. “Provided old Benbow doesn’t break his neck in the meantime, I shall be there.”

“I am so glad,” she answered, and then, as though she felt that she had said too much, she devoted her conversation during the rest of the walk to Kitty, leaving Godfrey to discuss parish affairs with her father.

She had said enough, however, in that short time to transport Godfrey into the seventh heaven of delight; and I venture to think that if any one had been foolish enough to suggest a trip to Japan to him at that moment, it would have been at the peril of his or her life.

I must leave you to imagine with what attention he studied the appearance of the sky during the next eighteen hours. The barometer in the hall was tapped with a regularity that was sufficient to disorganize its internal economy forever and a day. Before he retired to rest, he took careful stock of the heavens, and was relieved to find that there was no sign of frost in the air. Next morning he was up betimes, took his tub with the air of a man from whom great things are expected, and made a heartier breakfast than he had done for some weeks past. He looked a handsome figure in pink as his mother was careful to inform him.

The distance to Churley cross roads from the Hall is little more than a mile, so that the half-hour he had allowed himself to get there, enabled him to jog along without hurrying his horse. It was what might be described as a perfect hunting morning. A slight mist hung in places upon the fields; it was, however, being quickly dispersed by the sunshine. A pleasant breeze was driving the clouds across the sky, throwing delightful shadows upon the meadows, and crisping the surface of the river as he passed over the old stone bridge. When he reached the cross roads he had still some ten minutes in hand; but as there were several others as early as himself, this fact did not weigh heavily upon his mind. Meanwhile he kept a sharp eye on the road down which he had come, and when he espied the stout figure of the old baronet on his famous hunter, with his daughter beside him, mounted on a somewhat vicious-looking chestnut, he rode forward to receive them.

“A capital day,” said the old gentleman, when they had exchanged the usual salutations. “We could scarcely have a better. Strangely enough, as I was saying to Molly just now, in fifty years I’ve never known a wet Churley Cross Meet.”

“What do you think of my new horse, Mr. Henderson?” inquired his daughter, when the latter had remarked upon the strangeness of the coincidence. “Papa bought him for me on Saturday.”

“He must be very nearly thoroughbred,” Godfrey replied, not caring to add that he did not altogether like the look of the animal in question. There was a nasty flicker in the horse’s eyes, of which, to Godfrey’s thinking, he showed a great deal too much white. There could be no denying his make and shape, however. “You’ll be showing us a clean pair of heels to-day.”

“I’ll be bound she will,” said the old baronet, upon whom the horse had evidently made a favourable impression. “They tell me he won a decent steeplechase last season; and Seth Warton, of whom I got him, says he is the best he has had in his stable for many a long day. That says something.”

“I sincerely hope he may prove to be all you could wish,” said Godfrey; and at that moment the Master came forward to bid them good-morning.

“I think we’ll try the Spinney first, Sir Vivian,” he said. “I hear good reports in that direction. A new horse, Miss Devereux, and I should say a fast one. Have pity on us all!”

As if to prove that his manners were not so good as his looks, the animal in question made as if he would rear, and for a moment Godfrey’s heart seemed to stand still.

“I don’t like the look of him,” he said to himself. “Heaven send he does her no mischief.”

But he was not permitted much time to think of such a thing, for the Master had given the signal, and already a general move was being made in the direction of the Spinney. Godfrey settled himself down by Miss Devereux’s side, leaving the old gentleman free to discuss the prospects of the day with the local doctor, a sportsman of some celebrity in the neighbourhood.

“Miss Devereux,” said Godfrey, as they approached the wood, “at the risk of offending you, I must say that I don’t altogether care about the look of that horse. I should say, from his appearance, handsome as it is, that he possesses more than a touch of temper. I do hope you will be careful what you do with him to-day.”

“You needn’t be afraid,” she answered, as she flashed a sharp glance at him. “I think we understand each other perfectly. He hasn’t been with hounds for some time, and he’s naturally a little excited. It will wear off, however, before the day is done.”

“I sincerely hope it may,” Godfrey continued. “In the meantime I can not help wishing that we could exchange mounts.”

“You think that you could manage him better than I?” she said. “If that is a challenge we will see. Now, let us watch what goes on, for I want to be well away.”

At that moment three blasts of the horn were heard from the right, and, before Godfrey could have counted twenty, the hounds were out of cover and streaming away in the direction of the village—only to change their course after the first quarter of a mile.

“It looks as if we were in for a fast thing,” said Miss Devereux; and the words had scarcely left her lips when the chestnut gave a violent plunge in the air and was off at a racing pace.

“If he goes on like that, the brute will pull her arms out, if he doesn’t do anything worse,” Godfrey muttered to himself.

But so far the girl had got him well in hand. Sitting back in the saddle, she let him have his head, taking a gradual pull at him as they neared the first hedge. Whatever his other faults may have been, he was certainly a jumper, for he cleared the obstacle in unmistakable style. As she had said a few moments before, there could be no doubt that they were in for a fast thing. The hounds were racing as if their one desire was to run Master Reynard to earth before he could get into the next field. Godfrey’s own horse, to use a phrase that his mother could never understand, “was going strong,” but he could not live in the same county with the chestnut. In spite of Miss Devereux’s undoubted skill in the saddle, the horse was gradually becoming the master. At the third fence, an ugly-looking post and rail, with a bad approach, he took off too soon, giving his rider the chance of an extremely nasty fall. She saved the situation, however, by a miracle. They had reached the top of the hill, and were descending into the valley on the other side, when Godfrey, whose horse was doing its best, realized that something very serious was the matter ahead. The chestnut had undeniably got out of hand, and, scared by some sheep, was edging toward the left.

“It is just what I expected,” he said to himself as he rode along some half-a-dozen lengths behind the other. “She is losing control over him. I must follow at all costs.”

Digging his spurs into the horse’s side, he endeavoured to race up to the animal in front of him. He was too late, however. The chestnut had got the bit in his teeth, and, swerving to the left, was galloping in the direction of a small wood. Observing this, Godfrey turned his horse’s head and made after him. Fortunately, the paddock over which they were galloping was a large one; but the chestnut was going at such a pace that he very soon crossed it. Skirting the wood, he began to descend the hill on the other side. Then he disappeared altogether from view. When Godfrey reached the top of the rise, he scarcely dared to look about him; but when he did so, he saw that the horse had altered his original course, and was making his way again across the angle, as if he desired to reach the line the hounds were still following. In a flash Godfrey realized the situation and took in the fact that the animal was unconsciously making direct for a large chalk pit, and that unless something were done at once to prevent him, nothing could save both horse and rider from a terrible death.

“God help me to save her!” he cried. “God help me to save her!”

[CHAPTER V]

For a moment after he realized the true state of affairs Godfrey was spellbound with terror. Was it just possible that he would be able to head the horse off from the pit? If he could not, then it would be the end of all things as far as Miss Devereux was concerned. With the cold sweat of terror on his brow he watched the girl he loved racing down the slope on the maddened horse. He saw that she was making a brave fight to bring him to a standstill; but even at that distance he could tell that her effort was in vain. A moment later the animal had once more changed his course and had dashed toward a hedge. He scarcely rose at it; as a natural consequence he struck it, toppled over, and then both horse and rider disappeared together. Fearful at what he might find, Godfrey galloped toward the spot, jumped the gate that separated it from the neighbouring field, and looked about him for what he should see. The horse was lying stretched out upon the ground, and one glance was sufficient to show him that its neck was broken. In the dry ditch below the hedge he could catch a glimpse of a black figure. He sprang from his horse and approached it. Lifting her head he supported her in his arms, and as he did so a little sigh escaped from her lips.

“God be thanked, she is still alive!” he muttered to himself, and then he replaced her head upon the bank.

Taking off his coat he made it into a ball. He placed it beneath her head, and then set off in search of water. When he had procured a little in his hat he returned and bathed her forehead and temples with it. After a while she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“I feel better now,” she answered, in reply to his inquiries. “Where is the horse?”

“Close beside you,” he said, and then going to his own animal he took his flask from the holster and filled the little cup with sherry.

“Drink this,” he said. “It will do you good.”

The wine revived her, and in a few minutes she was so far recovered as to be able to sit up and discuss matters with him.

“I am quite well now,” she said. “But how am I to get home? Poor papa! What a state he will be in when he hears! Since my horse is dead I suppose I must try to walk.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Godfrey replied, firmly. “I will lift you into the saddle and you must try and ride my horse. If we can find a village near here, you can remain there until a carriage is sent from the Court to fetch you.”

“As I have proved myself incompetent I suppose I must obey you,” she answered, with a touch of her old spirit. “But what is to be done with my own poor beast?”

“I will arrange about him when I have attended to your comfort,” he said, and then assisted her to rise and lifted her into the saddle. For the first hundred yards or so they walked almost in silence. She was the first to speak.

“Mr. Henderson,” she said, looking down at him, “I owe you an apology. I was rude to you the other day, and I laughed at you when you told me this morning that you did not like my new horse. Events have proved that you were right. Will you forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive,” he answered; “but you can have no idea how nervous I was this morning when I saw how that brute behaved.”

“Why should you have bothered yourself about me?” she asked, not, however, with quite her usual confidence.

Here was the very opportunity he had been looking for so long. He felt that he must take possession of it at once.

“Because I love you,” he answered. “You must have known that I have been in love with you ever since I first saw you, Molly. Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I know it,” she replied, looking at him with the love-light shining in her own eyes.

“And your answer, Molly? What can you say to me?”

“Only that I love you too,” she murmured.

I do not know what my spinster readers will think, but the fact remains that the paddock they were crossing was a large one, some twenty acres in extent. It was almost in the centre of this open space that he proposed to her, and she, brazen creature, at his suggestion, I will admit, stooped from her saddle and permitted him to kiss her where all the world might see.

It was between three and four o’clock that afternoon when Godfrey reached home. He had waited at the little village inn until the carriage, which he had sent for to convey her home, arrived from the Court. Then, when he had promised to ride over in the morning in order to interview her father, he watched her drive off and had afterward departed himself to his own abode.

“Well, Godfrey, and what sort of a day have you had?” asked Miss Kitty, as they stood in the drawing-room before the fire.

“Splendid,” he answered. “I was awfully cut up at one time, but on the whole it has been one of the best days in my life.”

“You seem to have enjoyed it. Where did you find?”

“At Churley Spinney,” he answered.

“And you killed at——?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” was the reply.

“How long did you run?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“You don’t seem to have been very observant. What do you know?”

“I only know that I am engaged to Molly Devereux. For the present that seems to me to be quite sufficient.”

In a moment her arms were round his neck.

“You dear boy, I can not tell you how thankful I am.”

Nor was Mrs. Henderson’s pleasure the less sincere.

To say that Godfrey Henderson was a happy man after his acceptance by Miss Molly would be too mild an expression altogether. It is my opinion that for the next few days he could not have been said to be properly responsible for his actions. He behaved like an amiable lunatic, spent the greater part of his time, when he was not with his fiancée, planning alterations to a house which was already perfect, and vowed many times a day that he was not nearly good enough for one so angelic. Every one, with the exception of Sir George Penistone, perhaps, was delighted with the match. The worthy old baronet gave his consent immediately almost before it was asked in point of fact, and vowed that the two properties would run splendidly together. A county dinner was given to celebrate the engagement. There were folks who prophesied that the wedding festivities would be on a scale seldom witnessed even by Midlandshire, which as all the world knows, or should know, is the most hospitable county in the three kingdoms. The engagement was to be a very short one, and the happy couple were to leave directly after the marriage ceremony for the South of France.

“You are quite sure that you are not anxious to change your mind?” said Molly to her lover one evening, when they were riding home from hunting. “Remember, there is still time.”

“If it were not so light, and I had not the best of reasons for knowing that old Farmer Giles is behind us, and has his eyes glued upon our backs, I would find a means of making you repent of that speech.” Then he added more seriously: “Darling, whatever may happen in the future, whatever troubles may be in store for us, you will always believe that I love you, will you not?”

“Always,” she answered. “Happen what may, I shall never doubt that. But what makes you suddenly so solemn?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Somebody walking over my grave, I suppose.”

She gave a little cry of pain.

“For pity’s sake don’t talk like that!” she cried. “You have no idea how it hurts me.”

“In that case I will never do so again,” he said. “Forgive me and forget that I said it, dear.” Then to change the conversation, he added: “I expect this will be our last day’s hunting together before we are married. We shall both be too busy to be able to spare the time.”

“I have no idea how I am going to get through all I have to do,” she said. “I shall practically live in shops for the next month, and I do detest shopping. Mamma, on the other hand, seems to revel in it. I fancy she would like to have a wedding to arrange every month in the year. By the way, Godfrey, have you decided who is going to be your best man?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Victor Fensden. He is my oldest friend, and I heard from him only this morning that he will be delighted to officiate in that capacity. He is in Paris just now, but returns to England at the end of the week, when I have invited him to come down here for a few days. I hope you will like him.”

“I am certain to like any friend of yours,” she replied. “I shall be very interested in Mr. Fensden. I came across a volume of his poems the other day. It was very strangely bound and illustrated in an extraordinary manner by himself.”

“That’s his own idea. And did you like the poetry?”

“Well, if I must be candid, and I’m sure you won’t mind, I must confess that I did not understand much of it. It seems so confused. Not a bit like Tennyson, or Keats, or Shelley.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Godfrey. “Fensden is very clever, too clever for me, I’m afraid. One or two literary people rave about his work, I know, but for my part I like less words and a little more human nature. Give me 'Gunga Din,’ or the 'Charge of the Light Brigade,’ for my money, and anybody else can have all the nymphs and satyrs, and odes to Bacchus and Pan that were ever crammed into the realms of poetry.”

Loath as I am to say it, such was the infatuation of this girl that she positively agreed with him. Fate, with that characteristic kindness for which it is celebrated, had been good enough to endow them with minds of similar calibre, which, of course, was very desirable, and just as it should be.

On the Wednesday morning following the conversation I have just described Molly and her mother departed for London, where the former was to be handed over to the tender care of Madame Delamaine and her assistants. They were to be away for three days, returning home on the Friday evening, and, as a little compensation for their absence, it was agreed that Godfrey should meet them in town on the Thursday and take them to a theatre.

Accordingly the morning train conveyed him to the Metropolis. He had the pleasure of the vicar’s society on the way up, and the latter, not being restrained by his wife, was able to give him his opinion on matters in general and the immediate stress on politics in particular. In consequence, as Godfrey admitted afterward, he spent two such hours of boredom as he hopes never to experience again. On his arrival in London he drove to his tailors and ordered his wedding garments, going on afterward to a well-known firm of jewellers in Regent Street, from whom he bought a wedding-ring with as much care as he would have given to the purchase of Crown jewels, and a diamond necklace with little more concern than if it had been a pair of gloves. From Regent Street he drove to his club for luncheon. He was late, but that did not matter, for he felt that the morning had been well spent. On entering the dining-room he looked about him for a vacant table. He had chosen one, and was proceeding toward it when a well-known voice behind him said:

“Come and sit here, Godfrey.”

He turned round to find himself face to face with no less a person than Victor Fensden.

“My dear old fellow, this is indeed a surprise,” he said as he shook hands. “I thought you were still in Paris. How long have you been in London?”

“I crossed this morning,” Victor replied. “I am tired of travelling and want to settle down.”

“And you have enjoyed yourself?”

“Fairly well,” Victor replied. “I have met a lot of people whom I hope never to see again, and have tasted, I should say, every example of villainous cookery in Europe. I am thinking of bringing out a new guide book, which I shall name 'The Tourist’s Vade Mecum’; or, 'Where not to go in Europe.’”

Considering that it was to Godfrey’s generosity that he owed the long holiday he had been able to take, this was scarcely a grateful speech, but the latter did not comment on it. He was too happy himself and too glad to see his friend once more to take offence. He noticed that in his dress Victor was even more artistic than before. His hair was a shade longer, his tie a trifle larger (he wore it tied in a bow with ends flying loose), and the general tone of his costume a little more pronounced.

“And the future Mrs. Henderson?” he said, airily. “How is she? As you may suppose, I am all anxiety to make her acquaintance.”

“You will do so on Saturday,” Godfrey replied, “for I presume you are coming down to me then?”

“I shall be delighted,” said Fensden. “An English country house will be soothing after the caravansaries I have been domiciled in lately. I never knew how much I detested my brother Briton until I met him in a foreign hotel.”

The sneer on his face as he said this was not pretty to watch.

“And now that you are at home once more, I presume you will resume your old habit of searching the slums for foreign eating houses?” said Godfrey, with a laugh. “Do you remember how and where we met Teresina?”

“Perfectly,” Victor replied shortly, and then changed the conversation by inquiring how long Godfrey intended remaining in town.

“I go back to-morrow morning,” was the other’s reply. “And now that I come to think of it, why shouldn’t you come down with me? It would be just the thing for you. We shall be very pleased to see you if you care to come.”

“Impossible,” the other answered. “I have such a lot to do. I could not possibly manage it before Saturday.”

“Let it be Saturday then,” said Godfrey, with an imperturbable good humour that contrasted very strongly with the other’s peevishness. “There’s a first-rate train which gets you down in time for afternoon tea. I’ll meet you at the station.”

When Godfrey had finished his lunch he paid a visit to his saddler and his bootmaker, and then to fill in the time, inspected the stables of a well-known horse-dealer. He would have liked to go round to Eaton Square where Molly and her mother were staying with an old maiden aunt, but he thought better of it, and contented himself by strolling down Bond Street on the off-chance that he might meet them. He was not successful, however, so he returned to his hotel to dress and dine.

At ten minutes to eight he was to be seen standing in the vestibule of the Lyceum, waiting for the ladies to put in an appearance. When their carriage drove up he hastened forward to greet them, and conducted them forthwith to the box he had engaged. Nothing that could tend to their comfort had been omitted by this extravagant young man, and he found his reward in the tender little squeeze Molly gave his hand when he removed her cloak. During the evening he did not concern himself very much with the play; he watched his future wife’s pretty face and the expressions that played upon it. As soon as they were married he was determined to paint a life-size portrait of her, which he prophesied to himself would be the best piece of work he had ever accomplished. But even the happiest evenings must come to an end, and this particular one was no exception to the rule. When the curtain fell on the last act, he re-cloaked his two charges, and escorted them downstairs once more. Then, bidding them wait in the vestibule, he himself went out in search of their carriage. When he had placed them in it, he bade them good-night, and came very near being knocked over by a hansom as he watched them disappear in the traffic.

The night was bitterly cold, and snow was falling. Reflecting that it would be wiser not to stand still, he turned up the collar of his coat, and wondered what he should do next. Should he go back to his hotel and to bed, or should he stroll on to his club and see who was there? He eventually decided in favour of the hotel, and accordingly set off along the Strand in the hope that he might presently be able to pick up a cab.

He had reached Exeter Hall, when, with a cry of astonishment, he found himself standing face to face with the one person of all others he had least expected to see in England. It was Teresina!

“Teresina!” he ejaculated, in surprise. “What on earth does this mean? How long have you been in England?”

“Nearly a month,” she answered, looking away as if she desired to avoid his eyes.

“And why did you not let me know that you were coming?” he asked, reproachfully. “You must surely remember that you promised to do so?”

“I did not like to trouble you,” she replied, still in the same curiously hard voice. “You were not in London, and I thought you would be too busy to have time to spare for me.”

“You know that is not true,” he answered. “I should be a mean brute if I did not find time to look after my friends. Where are you living? In the old house?”

She paused for a moment before she replied. He noticed her embarrassment, but did not put the right construction upon it.

“Near the Tottenham Court Road,” she said at last. “I don’t think you would know the street if I told you.”

“And your mother, how is she?”

He saw the look of pain which spread over her face, and noticed that her eyes filled with tears.

“My mother is dead!” she answered, very quietly. “She died in Naples two months ago.”

“And you are alone in the world? My poor child! This will never do. You must let me help you if I can.”

“No, no!” she cried, this time almost fiercely. “I do not require any help. I can support myself quite well.”

“I shall have to be convinced of that before I let you go,” he answered. “London is not the sort of place for a young girl to be alone in, particularly when one is a foreigner and poor.”

“You were always kind to me,” she replied, “but I can not let you do more. Besides you are going to be married. Is that not so?”

“It is quite true,” he answered; “but how did you hear of it?”

She looked confused for a moment.

“I can not tell you,” she replied. “Perhaps I saw it in the newspapers. You are famous, and they write about you. Now I must be getting home.”

An empty cab happened to pass at that moment, and Godfrey hailed it.

“Get in,” he said, when the vehicle had drawn up beside the pavement. “I am going to see you home. This is not the hour for you to be alone in the streets.”

“No, no,” she protested, even more vehemently than before. “I can not let you do this. I can walk quite well. It is not far, and I have often done it.”

“Teresina, you must do as I tell you,” said Godfrey, firmly. “I insist that you get in and that you give me your address.”

She hesitated for a moment before she replied. Then she said:

“No. 16, Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road.”

Having given the address to the driver, Godfrey took his place beside the girl. He was thankful, indeed, that he had met her, but the circumstances under which he had found her distressed him more than he was able to say. As they drove along he endeavoured to elicit some information from her concerning her present life. She was not communicative, however. That there was some mystery at the back of it all, he could see, and the more he thought of it, the more unhappy he became. Poor little Teresina! He remembered her as she was when she had first sat to him for the picture which had made his name; and as he looked out upon the falling snow and the miserable streets with the dark figures scurrying along the pavement on either hand, and thought of her future, his heart sank within him. He wondered whether he could persuade her to accept a sufficient sum of money from him to enable her to return to her own country and to live in comfort there? He was rich, and after all it was not only his duty but his pleasure to help an old friend. As she seemed so distressed at meeting him, he resolved to say nothing on the subject then, however; nevertheless, he was determined in his own mind that he would write to her on the morrow and make the offer, whether she accepted it or not. At last they came to a part of the Strand which was more brilliantly illuminated than elsewhere. As they came within the circle of the light, Teresina put up her hand to push back her hair, and Godfrey noticed that she wore a wedding-ring upon her third finger. This gave him food for reflection.

“Teresina,” he said, “why did you not tell me that you were married? I thought you said you were alone in the world.”

“My husband is dead,” she answered, with what was almost a note of despair in her voice.

“Your husband dead, and your mother dead too?” he repeated, almost incredulously. “Teresina, my dear child, are you telling me the truth?”

“Why should you doubt me?” she cried. “You have no reason for doing so.”

“Because I feel that you are hiding something from me,” he said. “Is it any use my imploring you to confide in me? You know that I am your friend, and that I would help you to the best of my ability.”

“I know you would,” she answered. “You were always a good and kind friend to me. All I ask of you now, however, is to leave me alone. I am unhappy enough as it is. Do not seek to add to my misery.”

“Heaven knows I have no desire to do that,” said Godfrey. “But if you think I am going to leave you, as you are now, you are much mistaken. If you would only be brave and tell me everything, it might simplify matters.”

“Impossible,” she cried. “Have I not told you there is nothing to tell? Oh, why did I not go another way home!”

“Because it was to be,” he answered. “You were in trouble, Providence sent me to help you. Believe me, that is the explanation.”

A few moments later the cab turned from the Tottenham Court Road into a narrower and darker street. Half-way down this dingy thoroughfare it came to a standstill—before a house on the right-hand side. It was by no means a cheerful dwelling, and at that hour it was wrapped in complete darkness. They descended from the cab, and Godfrey, who had no desire that the cabman should overhear his conversation with Teresina, paid him off with a liberal largesse, and allowed him to go on his way rejoicing.

“Is it any use my again asking you to tell me your trouble?” he said to the girl beside him, when the vehicle had disappeared and a policeman had passed, after taking a long survey of them.

“Not in the least,” she answered. “Please do not ask me.”

“In that case, will you make me a promise, Teresina? If you will do so, I will ask no further questions for the present.”

“What is it I am to promise?”

“That you will not leave this house without first letting me know whither you are going?”

“I will do that,” she answered. “I will let you know when I leave this house.”

“Here is my card then. You had better take care of it. A letter or telegram will always find me. And now good-night, my poor girl. Remember, I am your friend.”

“Good-night, and may God bless you.”

So saying, she disappeared into the house, while he, in his turn, after taking the bearing of the house, in case he should want to find it again, set off in the opposite direction to that by which he had entered the street.

Meanwhile Teresina, choking down her sobs, climbed the stairs to the room she occupied in that ramshackle tenement. Unlocking the door, she entered and started to cross the floor in search of a box of matches she remembered having left upon the chimney-piece. She had not advanced more than three steps, however, before she was seized by the throat from behind, while at the same time a keen-bladed knife was driven, as far as the handle, between her shoulders, only to be withdrawn and thrust in again and again, until she fell with a little gasp upon the floor.

When her assassin had made sure that she was dead, he lit the gas and knelt beside her for a few minutes. Then he rose, placed something in a box upon the table, turned off the gas once more, picked up the box, and went out, relocking the door behind him.

[CHAPTER VI]

After leaving Teresina, Godfrey made his way back to his hotel. As he strode along he meditated as to what he should do to help her. That the girl was in serious trouble, he had not the least doubt; but since she would not allow him to assist her in any form, what could he do?

He had been through a good deal that day, and by the time he reached his hotel he was quite worn out. The night porter who admitted him noticed his haggard appearance.

“You don’t look very well, sir,” he said, sympathetically; “is there anything I can do for you?”

“If you could manage to get me a brandy and soda, I should be very much obliged,” Godfrey said, as he dropped into one of the seats in the hall.

“I will do so with pleasure, sir,” the man replied, and disappeared at once in search of the refreshment, which he very soon brought back. Godfrey drank it off, and then announced his intention of proceeding at once to bed.

“Poor little Teresina!” he said to himself as he wound up his watch; “poor little girl, it seems a shame that she should suffer so!”

Little did he guess that at that moment Teresina’s troubles were over, that she would never know sorrow or poverty again.

Next morning he returned to Detwich by an early train. Though he had only been absent from it a little more than twenty-four hours, it seemed to him that he had been away for years.

“You look tired out, Godfrey,” said his mother, as they stood together in the hall.

“I did not have a very good night last night,” he said, “and I had a hard day’s running about yesterday. That is all. You needn’t worry about me, mother; I’m as strong as a horse.”

He went on to tell his mother of his meeting with Fensden, and informed her that the latter intended coming to stay with them next day.

“That will be very nice,” she said. “You will enjoy having him. I shall put him up in the south wing in order that he may be near you. The wall-papers are more subdued there. I know, of old, how he notices these things.”

“I don’t think he will bother himself very much about wall-papers,” said Godfrey, with a laugh. “He declares that he is so tired of travelling that the quiet of an English country house will brace him up again.”

“I have no doubt it will,” said the old lady: “I remember when your father took me to Paris for our honeymoon, the mere sound of the French language gave me a headache. I never hear it now without thinking of that time. And now tell me about Molly. Did she enjoy the play you took her to see?”

“Immensely,” he replied. “She sent her love to you, and bade me tell you that she would be very pleased to come over to meet Fensden on Saturday. I only hope that she won’t be knocked up by all this shopping.”

His mother shook her head.

“I don’t think you need have any fear on that score,” she said. “When a girl is about to be married to the man of her heart, the collection of her trousseau becomes a labour of love. She will make a beautiful bride, worthy of my boy. I can’t say more than that.”

“You shouldn’t say so much,” said Godfrey. “If your boy were to believe all the compliments you pay him, he would become insufferably conceited. And now I must go round and see how things have been progressing in my absence.”

The following morning witnessed Molly’s arrival at the Hall. It was the first time she had stayed there since her engagement, and in consequence she was received with rapturous delight by her lover. Though they had only been parted for a day, they seemed to have a hundred things to tell each other. There were, moreover, certain important matters to be discussed connected with the internal arrangements of the house of which she was so soon to be mistress. I believe, so infatuated was the young man that, had she expressed a desire to have the whole fabric pulled down, and rebuilt in another fashion, he would have set about the work at once.

“You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like to have done?” he asked, when they had made the tour of inspection, and were approaching to the drawing-room once more.

“You have done too much already,” she replied, looking affectionately at her lover. “I very much doubt if ever there was a girl so spoilt as I. You will have to make up for it by ruling me with a rod of iron afterward.”

“God forbid that I should ever do that,” he said seriously. “I hope I shall always be an indulgent husband to you.”

“Not too indulgent,” she said. “For my own sake, you must not be. I don’t want to be like a spoilt child.”

“You will never be that,” he said. “To me you will always be the most——”

“Hush!” she said, holding up her finger in warning. “I think we must make it a rule to avoid every sort of compliment. I have had more than is good for me already.”

“I shall find it difficult to obey you, but I will try,” he returned. “And now come with me to the studio; I have one thing left to show you.”

“What is that?”

“You must wait and see for yourself,” he replied, and led the way through the conservatory to the room of which he had spoken. They found the easel covered with a cloth. This he drew aside.

“It is my present to you,” he said, referring to the picture he had revealed, “to be hung in your own room.”

“Oh, Godfrey, how good of you! What a splendid likeness!”

It was, in fact, a portrait of himself upon which he had been working hard ever since his engagement had been announced. He had intended it as a surprise, and in the pleasure he gave her, he felt that he had been amply repaid for the labour it had cost him.

“I shall treasure it all my life long,” she said, and rewarded him in a manner that would have turned many folks green with envy.

“And now,” she said, when she had gazed her full upon it, “I want you to show me a photograph of your friend, Mr. Fensden, if you have one. Remember I have no idea what he is like.”

“That can very easily be remedied,” he said. “I have a photo which was taken in Rome, and a small portrait that I painted myself.”

So saying, he crossed the room to his writing-table, and, having opened a drawer, took from it a packet of cabinet photographs. They were, for the most part, likenesses of old friends, and when he had selected one of Victor from the number, he placed it before her.

“So that is Mr. Fensden?” she said, seating herself in what he called his business chair.

For some moments she studied it attentively. Then she replaced it on the writing-table.

“Well, now that you have seen the portrait, what do you think of him?” Godfrey asked, as he turned over some canvases on the other side of the room.

“I scarcely know what to say,” she replied, slowly. “It is a refined face, a clever one, if you like; but, if I may be allowed to say what I think, there is something in it, I can not tell what, that I do not care about. I fancy the eyes are set a little too close together.” Then she added more quickly: “I hope I have not offended you, dear. I should not have spoken so candidly.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” he inquired. “Perhaps, now you speak of it, the eyes are a little too close together. But you must wait until you have seen the man himself before you judge him. I assure you he can be a charming companion.”

“I gathered as much from his photograph,” she answered, taking it up and looking at it again, “At what time does he arrive to-day?”

“In time for afternoon tea,” said Godfrey. “I am going to drive in to meet him.”

Molly made a little moue; with the selfishness of love, she did not approve of Godfrey leaving her, if only for so short a time. And, if the truth be confessed, I fear she was a little jealous of the man who was to be responsible for his absence. It is not always that a sweetheart is any too well disposed toward her lover’s bachelor friends. For some reason, Fensden’s photograph had prejudiced her against him. She was resolved to be just; but she felt convinced in her own mind that she would never be able to say that she really liked or trusted the man. She did not tell Godfrey this.

In accordance with the arrangements he had made, that afternoon, at about three o’clock, Godfrey drove off to the station to meet his friend. He was looking forward to seeing him, if only that he might show him how great was the difference between the sketch the other had drawn of his future wife that night in the desert, and the reality. I fancy if England had been searched through that day, a happier young man than the master of Detwich would have been difficult to find. Yet, though he could not guess it, the climax of his life was only a few hours’ distant.

As he drove along, he thought of Molly and the happiness that was to be his portion in the future. Then his thoughts turned to Teresina. While he had prospered in the world, she had lost what little happiness she had ever possessed. He determined to discuss her affairs with Fensden on the first available opportunity, when doubtless the latter would be able to suggest a way in which he might assist her. By the time he had arrived at this reflection, he had reached the station, and the groom was standing at the horse’s head. Having placed the reins under the patent clip, he descended from the cart and went on to the platform. The station-master saluted him respectfully, and informed him that the train had already been signalled. Indeed, the words had scarcely left that functionary’s lips before a whistle was heard in the cutting, and a moment later it came into view. As the train swept past him Godfrey caught a glimpse of the man he had come to meet, gathering together his travelling things, in a first-class carriage.

“How are you, my dear old fellow?” he cried, as he turned the handle of the door. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you! I am afraid you have had a cold journey. Let me take some of your things.”

Victor graciously permitted the other to assist him with his luggage, and then he himself descended from the carriage. They shook hands and afterward strolled in the direction of the gate. Victor was attired in a magnificent travelling ulster, and a neat deer-stalker’s hat. An orange-coloured tie peeped from the opening under his beard, and his hands were as daintily gloved as a lady’s. Altogether, as he walked down the platform, he presented as artistic a figure as Detwich had seen for a very long time.

“What have you been doing since I saw you?” Godfrey inquired as they took their places in the dog-cart.

“Repairing the ravages of time and Continental travel,” Victor replied, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added politely: “I hope Miss Devereux is well?”

“Very well, indeed,” said Godfrey, “and most anxious to see you. She has read your poems and has seen your portrait; all she requires now is to be introduced to the original.”

“In that case I fear she will be disappointed,” said Victor, with what was almost a sneer in his voice. “Since she is with you, I presume your mother and sister are at the Hall. Do they look forward to the idea of turning out?”

“They are a pair of foolish women who would do anything, or give up anything in order to make me happy,” the other replied. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know that they altogether mind. They both prefer London, and when they return from their travels, I believe it is their intention to take a flat and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of Kensington.”

“While you are assimilating the bucolic virtues. Well, it’s a pretty picture, and if I had fifteen thousand a year and a fine estate I might be tempted to do the same. As I haven’t the money or the property I remain what I am.”

“And that is?”

“A trifler,” Victor replied, with unusual bitterness. “One who might have done and who did not—who dropped the substance in an attempt to grasp the shadow.”

“Nonsense,” said Godfrey, who did not like to hear his friend abuse himself in this fashion. “If you are going to talk like that I shall have to prescribe a long dose of country air.”

Then, in an attempt to change the other’s thoughts, he talked of their travels together, and of the curious characters they had met, which lasted until they had passed through the lodge gates and were well on their way across the park. Even in the sombreness of winter the place looked very beautiful, and Victor expressed himself delighted with it.

“I had no idea it was so fine,” he said, as they swept round the drive and came into view of the house. “I can very well understand your liking for a country life when you possess an estate like this. Your uncle did you a kind action when he made you his heir.”

“Nobody is more sensible of that fact than I am,” Godfrey replied. “I only wish I could let the old fellow know how grateful I am. I often think that during his lifetime he was disappointed in me because I took to painting instead of becoming a country gentleman. I wonder what he would say if he could see me now? I don’t know what you may think, but to my mind there are times when one likes to imagine that the dead are near us.”

Victor gave a violent start, followed by a shiver.

“Good Heavens! What an idea!” he cried. Then, dropping back into his old cynical tone, he continued: “I am afraid that if your idea were possible our human affairs would become somewhat complicated. For my own part I am quite content that the matter should stand as it is.”

As he finished speaking they drew up before the steps and the two men descended from the cart. The ladies were waiting in the hall to receive them.

“How do you do, Mr. Fensden?” said Mrs. Henderson, coming forward to meet him. “It is a long time since we have met, and you have been a great traveller in the meantime.”

“Thanks to your son,” said Victor as he took her hand. “How do you do, Miss Kitty? Events advance too quickly with all of us, but they seem to have taken giant strides with you.”

“You mean that when last we met I was still on the other side of that line which is only crossed by a girl when she performs the mysterious operation called 'putting her hair up,’” answered that sharp-tongued young lady.

“Now, Victor,” said Godfrey, when Kitty had been annihilated, “let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Devereux.”

The couple bowed to each other, and Victor offered her his congratulations.

“And now you must come and have your tea,” said Mrs. Henderson, hospitably. “You must need it, I am sure, after your long journey.”

“Or perhaps you would prefer something more substantial,” put in Godfrey. “I noticed that you shivered as we came up the drive.”

“I really think I should,” said Victor. “After the warmth of the East our English winters are not to be trifled with.”

Godfrey led the way to the dining-room and placed the spirit-stand before his friend.

“I don’t think I have ever been so cold in my life before,” said Victor, as he poured out an amount of brandy for himself that made Godfrey open his eyes in astonishment, for he had always looked upon the other as an exceedingly temperate man.

“Now, tell me, would you prefer to see your room first?” Godfrey inquired, when the other had tossed off his refreshment, “or shall we join the ladies?”

“Perhaps I had better make myself presentable first,” Victor answered, glancing complacently at himself in the mirror above the chimney-piece.

Godfrey accordingly led the way to the room which had been set apart for his friend’s use, and to which the latter’s luggage had been conveyed. It was a pleasant apartment, looking out on what was called the Ladies’ Garden, and thence across the park to a high and wooded hill. Victor went to the window and studied the prospect.

“You have a charming home,” he said, with what was almost a sigh; “you are about to marry a beautiful girl; you have wealth, success, and everything else that can make life worth living, Godfrey. You should be a happy man.”

“I am happy,” Godfrey replied, “and, please God, I’ll do my best to make others so. And that reminds me, Victor, I want to have a talk with you. Do you know that on Thursday night I met Teresina in the Strand?”

Victor had turned from the window, and was brushing his hair at the time. As he heard what Godfrey said, the brush fell from his hand upon the floor. As he picked it up and continued his toilet, he said in surprise:

“Teresina in London? Surely you must have been mistaken. I thought she was still in Naples?”

“She is in London,” Godfrey repeated. “I could not have been mistaken, for I spoke to her.”

“At what time did you see her?”

“Just about midnight,” his friend replied.

“Are you aware that the signora is dead and that Teresina is married?”

“How should I be likely to?” said Victor. “You know that I have not seen her since I bade her good-bye in your studio before we went abroad. And so the pretty model is married? Well, I suppose the proper thing to say is that one hopes that she will be happy.”

“But she is not happy, far from it. Her husband as well as her mother is dead.”

“I believe there are some wives who would consider that fact to be not altogether a matter for sorrow. But what makes you think that Teresina is unhappy?”

“Because she told me so, though she would not tell me anything further. The poor girl seemed in terrible distress.”

“And you gave her money, I suppose?” said Victor. “That is usually the way one soothes trouble of her kind. I hope she was grateful.”

“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so cynical,” said Godfrey, almost losing his temper. “I wanted to help her, but she would not let me. Every time I offered my assistance she implored me to leave her. She broke down altogether when we reached her house.”

“Then you took her home?” said the other. “Do you think that was wise?”

“Why should I not have done so?”

“Well, you see,” said Victor, putting his brushes back into their case, “circumstances have somewhat changed with you. Miss Devereux might not altogether approve.”

“Miss Devereux is too good and kind a girl to object to my doing what I could to comfort an old friend in trouble.”

“But when that old friend in trouble happens to be an extremely beautiful girl the situation becomes slightly changed. However, don’t think that I am endeavouring to interfere. And now shall we go downstairs?”

“But, confound it, Victor, you don’t mean to say that you take no more interest in Teresina’s fate than this? I thought you liked her as much as I did.”

“Mon cher ami,” said Victor, rearranging his tie before the glass, “that is scarcely fair, either to yourself or to me. Have you forgotten a little discussion we had together, and which eventually resulted in our leaving England for a time? Had you not taken such an interest in Teresina then, I doubt very much whether I should have seen Cairo or Jerusalem, or a lot of other places. But still, my dear fellow, if there is anything I can do to help your old model you may be sure I shall be only too glad to do it.”

“I knew you would,” said Godfrey, placing his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder. “We must talk it over some time and see what can be done. It will never do to let her go on as she is now.”

“You have no idea, I suppose, of the origin of the trouble?”

“Not the least. She would tell me nothing. She tried to make me believe that she had plenty of work, and that she did not stand in need of any assistance. I knew better, however.”

“And where is she living?”

“In Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road. It is a miserable place, mainly occupied by foreigners. The house is on the right-hand side.”

“Very well,” said Victor. “When I go back to town I will look her up. It will be hard if we can’t arrange something.”

Then they descended the stairs together and entered the drawing-room.

“My dear Godfrey, are you aware that you will have one wife in a hundred?” said Kitty, pointing to a table on which some twenty packages of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions were arranged.

“How so?” said Godfrey. “What new virtue have you discovered in her?”

“I have found that she can subordinate curiosity to a sense of duty,” said the young lady. “These presents arrived for you just after you left for the station, and yet she would not open them herself or allow me to do so until you returned. I have been consumed with a mad desire to explore them, particularly that foreign-looking box at the end.”

“Well, your curiosity shall very soon be satisfied,” he said. “But we must begin with the most important-looking packages.”

“Let us pray that there are no more Apostle spoons, serviette-rings, or silver sweet-dishes,” said Molly. “We have already some two dozen of each.”

Package after package was opened in its turn and the contents displayed. As they were for the most part presents to the bridegroom individually, they were mainly of a nature suited to his tastes: hunting flasks, silver sandwich cases, cigar and cigarette holders, and articles of a similar description. At last they came to the curious-looking box to which Kitty had referred. It was oblong in shape, and bore the name of a Vienna firm stamped on the end. It was tied with cord, and the label was addressed in an uneducated handwriting to “Mr. Godfrey Henderson, Detwich Hall, Detwich, Midlandshire.”

In his own mind he had no doubt that it emanated from Teresina, who, as he was aware, had been informed as to his approaching marriage. Having untied the cord, he prized the lid, which was nailed down, with a dagger paper-knife, which he took from a table close at hand. An unpleasant odour immediately permeated the room. A folded sheet of newspaper covered the contents, whatever they were, and this Godfrey removed, only to spring back with a cry of horror. In the box, the fingers tightly interlaced, were two tiny hands, which had been severed from the body, to which they had once belonged, at the wrist.

[CHAPTER VII]

It would be impossible to picture, with any hope of success, the horror which accompanied the ghastly discovery described at the end of the previous chapter. Save for the cries of the ladies, who shrank from the box and covered their faces with their hands, and a muttered ejaculation from Godfrey, some seconds elapsed before any one spoke. Fensden was the first to recover his presence of mind. Picking up the sheet of paper which had fallen to the ground, he covered the box with it, thus shutting out all sight of the dreadful things it contained.

“Perhaps it would be as well, ladies, if you were to leave the room,” he said. “Godfrey and I must talk this matter over, and consider how we are to act.”

“Come, mother,” said Kitty, and she led the old lady in a semi-fainting condition from the room, closely followed by Molly.

When the door had closed behind them, Godfrey spoke for the first time.

“Good Heavens, Victor!” he said. “What does this mean? Am I mad or dreaming?”

“I fear it is no dream,” replied the other. “Who could have done it? Is it a case of murder, or what? Did you recognise the—the hands?”

Godfrey crossed to the chimney-piece and covered his face. A suspicion, so terrible that he dared not put it into words, was fast taking possession of him.

“Come, come,” said Victor, crossing to him, and placing his hands upon his shoulder, “we must look this matter squarely in the face. Be a man, and help me. The upshot may be even more serious than we suppose. Once more I ask you, did you recognise what you saw?”

“I fear so,” said Godfrey, very slowly, as if he were trying to force himself to speak. “There was a little scar, the result of a burn, half-an-inch or so above the knuckle of the second finger of the right hand.”

He had painted those beautiful hands too often not to remember that scar. Without a word, he crossed to the table in the middle of the room upon which the box stood, surrounded by the cases containing the other wedding presents, and once more removing the lid and the paper, carefully examined what he saw there. No, God help him! there could be no sort of doubt about it; the hands were those of Teresina Cardi, his model and friend. When he had satisfied himself as to their identity, he closed the box and turned to Fensden once more.

“It is too horrible,” he said; “but what does it mean? Why should the murderer have sent the hands to me in this dreadful way?”

“That is what I have been asking myself,” Fensden replied. “The man, whoever he was, must have borne you a fiendish grudge to have done such a thing. Is there anything about the box that will afford a clew as to the identity of the sender? Let us look.”

He examined the box carefully, but, beyond the printed name of the firm who had originally used it, there was nothing that could serve as a clew. It had come by train from Euston, and had been sent off on the previous evening. That for the present was all there was to know about it.

“Once more, what are we to do?” inquired Fensden.

“Communicate with the police,” said Godfrey. “In the meantime, I think I will send a note to my future father-in-law, asking him to come over. I should like to have his help and support in the matter.”

“A very proper course,” said his companion. “I don’t think you could do better. I should send a man away at once.”

Accordingly Godfrey went to a writing-table in the corner of the room, and wrote the letter, then rang the bell, and bade the servant who answered it see that the note was despatched without delay. When the man had disappeared, he turned to Fensden once more. “And now,” he said, “I think it would be better if we removed the box to the studio.”

They did so, by way of the new conservatory, of which mention has been made elsewhere. Then, in something less than an hour, Godfrey’s future father-in-law arrived. Godfrey received him in his studio, and introduced Fensden to him as an old friend.

“It is very good of you to come so quickly, Sir Vivian,” he said, motioning him to a chair. “I took the liberty of sending for you because I want your advice in a very serious matter. How serious it is you will understand when you have heard what we have to tell you. We have had a terrible experience, and I am not quite sure that I am capable of looking at the matter in a temperate light at present.”

“You alarm me, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman. “What can have happened? Tell me everything, and let me see if I can help you.”

“If I am to do that, I must tell you a story. It will simplify matters, and it won’t take very long. As you are aware, before my uncle’s death, I might have been described as a struggling artist. I was painting my biggest work at that time, and was most anxious to find a model for the central figure. I had hunted London over, but without success, when Mr. Fensden here happened to discover an Italian model whom he thought might be of use to me. I saw her, and immediately secured her services. In company with her mother, she had been in England for some little time, and was glad to accept my offer of employment. When the picture was finished and hung, I still retained her services, because I liked the girl and found her useful to me in some other work I had on hand. Then my uncle died, and I came into the estate. Mr. Fensden and I immediately agreed to travel, and we accordingly set off together for Egypt and the East, intending to be away about a year. At the same time, it must be borne in mind, the girl and her mother had returned to Italy. While we were at Luxor, I received a letter from her, forwarding me her address in Naples, in case I might desire to communicate with her concerning future work. Some three weeks later my mother was taken ill, and I was telegraphed for to come home at once. I left Port Said in a mail steamer, intending to take the overland express from Naples to England. Having some hours to spend in the latter city, I thought there could be no harm in my discovering the mother and daughter. I did so, we dined together at a small restaurant, and went on to the Opera afterward.”

“You did not tell me that,” said Fensden, quickly.

“I did not deem it necessary,” said Godfrey. “I should have done so when we came to discuss the matter at greater length. But to continue my story. After the Opera I escorted them back to their dwelling, but I did not enter. On my way to my hotel afterward, I was nearly stabbed by a lover of my former model, a man, so she had informed me, who was extremely jealous of any one who spoke to her. Fortunately for me, he did not succeed in his attempt. I knocked him down, and took his dagger from him.”

As he said this, he took the small poniard, with which the Italian had attempted his life, from a drawer, and handed it to the old gentleman.

“Next morning I left Naples, to find, on reaching England, that my mother was decidedly better, and I need not have abandoned my tour. Then I met your daughter, fell in love with her, and in due course our engagement was announced. From the moment I said good-bye to her in Naples, until last Thursday night, I had neither seen nor heard anything of or from my former model.”

“You saw her on Thursday night?” repeated the old gentleman. “In that case she must have returned to England?”

“Yes,” Godfrey replied. “It was after the theatre, and when I had seen Lady Devereux and Molly to their carriage. I was walking down the Strand in search of a cab to take me back to my hotel, when I met her. She recognised me at once, and informed me that her mother was dead, that she had married, she did not say whom, and that her husband was also dead. Though she seemed in great distress, for reasons of her own she would not let me help her. Feeling that she ought not to be in the streets at such an hour, I took a cab and drove her to her home, which was a house in a narrow street leading out of the Tottenham Court Road. I bade her good-bye on the pavement, and having once more vainly endeavoured to induce her to let me help her, walked back to my hotel.”

As he said this, he crossed to the table on which the box had been placed, and once more removed the lid and paper.

“A number of wedding presents have arrived to-day,” he continued, “and this box came with them. We opened it, and you may see for yourself what it contained.”

Sir Vivian approached the table and looked into the box, only to start back with an exclamation of horror. His usually rubicund face turned ashen gray.

“My dear boy, this is more terrible than I supposed!” he gasped. “What does it mean?”

“I am afraid that it means murder,” said Godfrey, very quietly. “My poor little Italian friend has been brutally murdered, by whom we have yet to discover. But why these hands of hers should have been sent to me, I can not for the life of me understand.”

“Are you sure they are her hands?”

“Quite sure. There can be no doubt about it. Both Fensden and I recognised them at once.”

“One thing is certain: the man who committed this dreadful deed must have been jealous of you, and have heard of your kindness to the girl. Is there any one you suspect?”

“I have it,” said Fensden, suddenly, before Godfrey could answer. “The man in Naples, the lover who tried to assassinate you. He is the man, or I am much mistaken. We have the best of reasons for knowing that he was in love with her, and that he would not be likely to stop at murder. If he would have killed you, why should he not have killed her? You told me upstairs, when we were speaking of her distress, that the street was occupied by foreigners; what is more likely, therefore, than that he should have lived there too? Possibly, and very probably, he was her husband.”

“But she told me her husband was dead,” Godfrey asserted.

“She may have had some reason for saying so,” Fensden replied. “There are a hundred theories to account for her words. It is as likely as not that she did not want you to see him. He is a Neapolitan. For all we know to the contrary he may be an Anarchist, and in hiding. She might have been afraid that if you saw him it would lead to his arrest.”

“There certainly seems a good deal of probability in Mr. Fensden’s theory,” said Sir Vivian; “but the best course for you to adopt appears clear to me. You must at once communicate with the police and cause inquiries to be made. I have seen no mention in the papers of a woman’s body having been found under such circumstances. The discovery of a body so mutilated would have been certain to have attracted a considerable amount of public attention.”

“I think you are right,” said Godfrey, after a moment’s hesitation. “In the meantime what are we to do with these poor relics?”

“They must be handed over to the police,” said Sir Vivian. “It is only through them that we can hope to unravel the mystery. If I were you I should send for the head constable at once and give them into his charge.” Then he added kindly: “I can not tell you how sorry I am, Godfrey, for your trouble. It must be a terrible blow to you.”

“No one can tell what a blow it is, Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey in a husky voice. “A more cruel murder has never stained the annals of crime. The girl was an honest, kindly creature, and that she should have met her death in this manner shocks me inexpressibly. If any reward can secure the arrest of the murderer I will gladly pay it. No effort on my part shall be wanting to bring him to justice.”

“You may be sure that he is a cunning fellow,” said Fensden, “and that his plans were deeply laid. For my own part, if I were you I should place it in the hands of Scotland Yard and patiently await the result. You may be quite sure that they will do all in their power, and if they can not bring about his arrest, nobody else will be able to do so.”

“Even if they do not succeed in capturing him I should not abandon the search,” said Godfrey. “Poor little Teresina shall not go unavenged. There must be several private detectives in London who know their business almost as well as the officials of Scotland Yard. I will find the cleverest of them and put them on the trail without delay. If a promise of a thousand pounds can stimulate him to greater exertions it shall be paid.”

“You will be only throwing your money away,” said Fensden. “He will be paid by the hour, with expenses, and he will fool you with bogus clews from first to last.”

“I must risk that,” Godfrey replied.

A message was thereupon despatched to the head of the local constabulary, who very soon put in an appearance at the Hall. He was a little man, with a pompous manner and a great idea of his own importance. It appeared to be his opinion that Detwich was the centre of civilization, and he the custodian of its peace and safety. On his arrival he was shown into the studio, where he found the three gentlemen waiting for him. He saluted Sir Vivian with the deepest servility, Godfrey respectfully, and Victor Fensden good-naturedly, as if the latter, not being a landowner in the district, was not entitled to anything more than a nod.

“We have sent for you, Griffin,” said Sir Vivian, “in order to inform you that a serious crime has been committed, not in this neighbourhood, but in London.”

“A good many serious crimes happen there every day, Sir Vivian,” remarked the official. “May I ask the nature of this particular one?”

“Nothing short of murder!” Sir Vivian replied; “and as Mr. Henderson here has been brought into it we have adopted the course of sending for you at once in order that you may acquaint the proper authorities.”

“A very proper proceeding, sir, I have no doubt,” said the officer, diving his hand into his pocket and producing a pencil and an enormous pocket-book. “I shall be glad, sir, if you will give me the particulars.”

For the third time that afternoon Godfrey told his story, while the officer made notes. By the time the contents of the box were shown to him the man’s interest was thoroughly aroused. It had always been his ambition to be mixed up in some big affair, and now his chance had come. That being so, he was resolved to make the most of it.

“There can be no doubt, sir,” he said, addressing Sir Vivian, “that it is likely to be a very serious matter. So far as I can understand, the disappearance of the woman has not been noticed, nor has her body been discovered. I will report the facts of the case to Scotland Yard at once, and in the meantime I will take possession of this box and its contents. So far as I can see at present it doesn’t look as if it should be very difficult to lay our hands upon the murderer.”

“In that case, I suppose your opinion tallies with ours,” said Fensden, who had just started another cigarette. “You suspect the Neapolitan lover.”

“I do, sir,” the man replied with dignity, as if his suspicions were not things to be treated lightly. “I only wish I had the conducting of this case throughout. But, there, I suppose it will go elsewhere and others will get the credit of the job. There is nothing else you wish to see me about, I suppose, gentlemen?”

“I think not,” said Godfrey. “But I should be glad if you would let us know all that goes on. As I have told you, the poor girl was an old friend, and her cruel death is naturally a great blow to me.”

“I will let you know as soon as I hear anything,” the man replied. “I shall telegraph to Scotland Yard as soon as I get back to the station, and I expect they will be on the move within the hour. Let me see that I have got the name and address right, sir. Teresina Cardi, No. 16, Burford Street, Tottenham Court Road. That is correct, I suppose?”

“Quite correct,” said Godfrey. “It is a tall house and there is a lamp-post exactly opposite the door.”

These additional facts having been duly noted, the officer was about to withdraw, when the butler entered with the evening papers. He handed them to his master, who made as though he would place them on one side, as being irrelevant to the matter at issue, when Sir Vivian stopped him.

“One moment,” he said. “Before you go, Griffin, let us make sure that there is no reference in the evening papers to the crime. Will you look, or shall I?”

In answer Godfrey opened the first paper. It was as well that he did so, for on the middle page was this announcement in large type:

TERRIBLE MURDER OF A GIRL!

REVOLTING DETAILS!

“I thought as much,” said the police officer in a tone of bitter disappointment. “Just my luck again. I was in hopes of being able to put them on the scent, but it seems that they have found it out without me. Might I be so bold, sir, as to ask what it says?”

“I will read the account,” said Godfrey.

“At an early hour this morning it was reported to the authorities at Scotland Yard that a murder of an unusual nature had been committed in the vicinity of the Tottenham Court Road. The victim is an Italian woman, known as Teresina Cardi, an artist’s model, who, it is stated, has been living in the house in Burford Street, in which her body was discovered, for upward of a fortnight. It might be mentioned that the house is let out in flats, the occupants being in the main of foreign nationality. The girl herself was of a reserved disposition, and did not associate with the other tenants of the building. She was last seen alive at seven o’clock on the evening of Thursday, when she was observed descending the stairs dressed for going out. The hour of her return is not known, nor was her absence remarked on Friday. Early on Saturday morning, however, the occupant of a neighbouring room, a German cabinet-maker, named Otto Grunther, noticed a small stream of dark-red fluid under the door. His suspicions being aroused, he informed the owner of the house of what he had seen, who called in the assistance of the policeman on the beat. Together they ascended to the room in question to find that the door was securely locked. Their knocks having elicited no response, a key was obtained and the door opened. On entering the room it was discovered that the woman was lying dead upon the floor between the table and the door. Her throat was cut and she had been stabbed in several places. More horrible still, her hands had been severed at the wrists and were missing. Though the police are naturally reticent as to the matter, we are led to believe that they have not succeeded in finding a clew. Needless to say the revolting crime has caused a great sensation in the neighbourhood.”

“Later News.—Up to the moment of going to press, the most diligent inquiries have been made by our own representatives as to the identity of the murdered woman. Teresina Cardi, it would appear, sat as a model for the central figure in Mr. Godfrey Henderson’s famous picture 'A Woman of the People,’ which attracted so much attention in the Royal Academy Exhibition of last year. She was a Neapolitan by birth, but has spent a considerable time in this country. It has also come to light that on the evening in question she returned home shortly after midnight and was seen talking to a gentleman in evening dress on the pavement in front of the house.

“The police hope very shortly to be able to discover the identity of this mysterious individual, when doubtless further light will be thrown upon the tragedy.”

“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey. “They surely don’t think that I know anything more about it than I have said?”

“You must set the matter right without delay,” said Sir Vivian. “Does it say when the inquest will be held?”

“On Monday,” Godfrey replied, after he had once more consulted the paper.

“Then you had better communicate with the coroner at once, telling him that you are the person referred to, and offering him all the information it is in your power to give. You owe it to yourself, as well as the community at large, to do this at once.”

“I will do so to-night,” Godfrey replied. “In the meantime, Griffin, you will communicate with Scotland Yard yourself and tell them what we have discovered. The man who murdered her must have seen us together that night, and in the madness of his jealousy have sent the evidence of his crime on to me.”

When he had wrapped up the horrible box the police officer took his departure, leaving the others to discuss the matter and to endeavour to come to some understanding about it. At last, when there was nothing further to be said, Godfrey proposed that they should go in search of the ladies. He had scarcely opened the door of the studio, however, when there was the sound of a heavy fall. Turning round, he discovered that Victor Fensden had fallen in a dead faint upon the floor.

[CHAPTER VIII]

In the previous chapter I described to you how Victor Fensden had fallen in a dead faint just at the moment when the gentlemen were about to go in search of the ladies, in order to reassure them after the terrible shock they had received. Immediately on hearing his friend fall, Godfrey hurried to his assistance, asking Sir Vivian meanwhile to go in search of brandy. The latter had scarcely left the room, however, before Victor opened his eyes.

“My dear old fellow,” said Godfrey, “I am indeed thankful to see that you are better. I knew very well that this terrible business had upset you more than you were willing to admit. Never mind, it will all be put right in the end. How do you feel now?”

“Much better,” Victor replied. “I can not think what it was that caused me to make such an idiot of myself.”

At this moment Sir Vivian returned with a glass of brandy and water. Victor sipped a little.

He had not been feeling well of late, he explained, and this shock, coming on the top of certain other worries, had unmanned him altogether.

“This has been a terrible day,” said Godfrey, “and a poor welcome for you to Detwich. Now, perhaps, you would rather rest a little before joining the others.”

“I think I should prefer to do so,” said Victor, and he accordingly retired to his room, while Sir Vivian and Godfrey went on to explain matters as best they could to the ladies, who were in the dining-room, awaiting their return with such patience as they could command.

“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, hastening forward to greet Godfrey as he entered the room, “you must know how we all feel for you. This has been a terrible experience. Have you been able to arrive at any understanding of it?”

“I think I can,” said Godfrey, who dreaded another explanation. “It will be time enough, however, for me to explain later on. It is sufficient at present to say that a terrible murder has been committed in London, and that the assassin, knowing that I had endeavoured to be a good friend to his victim, has played a ghastly practical joke upon me. As you may suppose, the circumstance has upset me terribly; and when I tell you that you will make me happier if you will spare me further conversation upon the subject for the present, I am sure you will do so.”

“I think it would be better,” said Sir Vivian. “We have placed the matter in the hands of the police, and I am sure that Griffin will do all that lies in his power to prevent Godfrey from being unduly worried by the affair.”

Godfrey felt a small hand steal into his.

“I am so sorry for you,” whispered Molly.

The touch of her soft warm hand was infinitely soothing to him. It did him more good than any amount of verbal sympathy.

“But where is Mr. Fensden?” inquired Mrs. Henderson.

“The shock has proved too much for him,” Sir Vivian explained. “He informed Godfrey that he would prefer to go to his room to rest for a while. I have never met your friend before, Godfrey, but I should say that he is not very strong.”

“I am afraid he is not,” the other replied, and the subject dropped.

A quarter of an hour later Sir Vivian announced his intention of returning home, and when his carriage had come round, took Godfrey on one side.

“Keep up a stout heart, my boy,” he said. “The man who committed the crime will certainly be captured before very long, and then the poor girl will be avenged.”

Then the kindly old gentleman drove away. When he had seen him depart, Godfrey went into the house and made his way upstairs to inquire after Fensden’s welfare. Somewhat to his surprise, he found him apparently quite himself once more.

“I can not think what made me behave in that foolish fashion,” said Victor, as he rose from the sofa on which he had been lying. “I am not given to fainting fits. Forgive me, old fellow, won’t you?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Godfrey.

As he spoke the dressing gong sounded, and after having asked Fensden whether he would prefer to come down, or to have his meal sent to him, and having received an answer to the first in the affirmative, Godfrey left him, and proceeded along the passage to his own room. When he reached it he passed to the further end and stood before the original sketch of his famous picture, “A Woman of the People.” It was only a mere study, roughly worked out; but whatever else it may have been, it was at least a good likeness of the hapless Teresina.

“And to think that that beautiful face is now cold in death,” he said to himself, “and that the brute who murdered her is still at large. God grant that it may be in my power to bring him to justice!”

Before he dressed, he sat down at his writing-table and composed a letter to the coroner, informing him of all he knew of the case, and promising him that he would be present at the inquest in order to give any evidence that might be in his power to supply. It was only when he had finished the letter and sealed it that he felt that he had done a small portion of his duty toward the dead. He also wrote to his solicitor giving him an account of the affair, and telling him that he would call upon him on Monday, prior to the inquest, in order to discuss the matter with him.

Then he rang for his valet and gave instructions that the letters should be posted without fail that evening. Then he began to dress with a heart as heavy as lead. He remembered how much he had been looking forward to this dinner ever since the idea had first occurred to him. In his own mind he had endeavoured to picture the first meal that Victor and his betrothed should take together. He had imagined his friend doing his best to amuse Molly with his half-cynical, half-burlesque conversation, with Kitty chiming in at intervals with her sharp rejoinders, while he and his mother listened in quiet enjoyment of their raillery. How different the meal was likely to prove!

His dressing completed, he descended to the drawing-room, where he had the good fortune to find Molly alone. It was plain that she had been there long enough to read the evening paper, for there was a look of horror upon her face as she came forward to meet her lover.

“Godfrey, darling,” she said, “I see by this paper that a terrible murder has been committed in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road, and that the victim was once your model. I can now understand why it has affected you so much. Those hands were hers, were they not? I see also that it says that some one, a gentleman in evening dress, was seen talking to her about midnight on the pavement outside her house. Do you think that that man had anything to do with the crime?”

“I am quite sure he had not,” Godfrey answered. “For the simple reason that that man happened to be myself.”

“Yourself? You, Godfrey?” she inquired, looking up at him with startled eyes. “But that was the night on which we were at the theatre together?”

“Yes, dear, the same night,” he answered. “Perhaps it would be better if I were to tell you the whole story.”

“Tell me nothing more than you wish,” she said. “I am content to trust you in everything. If I did not, my love would scarcely be worth having, would it?”

And then he told her of his association with the unhappy woman; told her of Teresina’s sorrow, and of his own desire to assist her. Molly’s heart was touched as she listened.

“You were right,” she said, “to try and help her, poor girl! If I had known, I would have endeavoured to have done something for her for your sake. Now, unhappily, it is too late. But you must not think too much of it, Godfrey dear. Try to put it away from you, if only for a time.”

At this moment Victor Fensden entered the room. It was plain that he had recovered his former spirits. He apologized in an easy fashion for his weakness of the afternoon, and ascribed it to his recent travels, which, he said, had proved too much for his enfeebled constitution.

“I am not like Godfrey, Miss Devereux,” he said. “He seems capable of bearing any amount of fatigue, plays cricket and football, tennis and golf, while on a summer’s day I sometimes find it impossible even to lift my head.”

It was a sad little party that sat down to dinner that evening. Godfrey was in the lowest spirits, and Molly was quiet in consequence. Fensden was accepted, on his own showing, for an invalid, Mrs. Henderson was naturally of a silent disposition, while Kitty, finding that her efforts were unappreciated, lapsed into silence after a time, and thus added to the general gloom. After dinner there were music and polite conversation in the drawing-room until ten o’clock, followed by a retirement to the billiard-room for a game at pool. It did not prove a success, however. No one had any heart for the game, and before the first three lives had been lost it was voted failure, and the cues were accordingly replaced in the rack. The memory of two white hands, tightly clinched in despair, rose continually before every eye, and when, at half-past ten, Mrs. Henderson proposed that they should retire for the night, every one accepted the situation with a feeling that was very near akin to relief.

The next day was scarcely better. For the first time since he had been master of the house Godfrey rose early on a Sunday morning, and, having ordered his dog-cart, drove into the village. It was scarcely seven o’clock when he reached the police-station to discover that the head constable had not yet risen from his bed. He waited in the small office while the other dressed, finding what consolation he could in a case above the chimney-piece in which several sets of manacles were displayed. The constable in charge was plainly overwhelmed by the squire’s presence, and to cover his confusion poked the fire almost continuously. At last, after what seemed like an hour, Griffin put in an appearance, and with many apologies invited Godfrey to accompany him to his own private sanctum where breakfast was being laid.

“It’s the first time for many a long day that I have overslept myself, sir,” he hastened to remark; “but I have been so thinking of this ’ere case that I did not get to sleep until this morning, and I am mortal sorry, sir, that I should have kept you waiting.”

“You have communicated with Scotland Yard, of course?” said Godfrey, after the other had finished his apology.

“I telegraphed to them last night, sir, and forwarded my written report at the same time. The post isn’t in yet, sir, but I expect I shall get some instructions when it comes.”

He visibly swelled with importance as he made this remark. He felt that in having the Squire of Detwich for his ally he could scarcely fail to be noticed, particularly when the most valuable evidence in the case would be given by the gentleman in question.

Finding that the man had no further news to give him, Godfrey drove sorrowfully home again, feeling that both his early rising and his visit to the village were alike of no avail. All through the service in the little church afterward, despite the fact that Molly worshipped beside him for the first time, he was ill at ease. Victor had excused himself from attending the service on the plea of a bad headache, saying he would go for a walk instead. When they emerged from the sacred edifice afterward Sir Vivian took his place by Godfrey’s side.

“You have heard nothing more, I suppose?” he asked. “Griffin promised to communicate with you at once on receipt of any intelligence, did he not?”

“He did,” said Godfrey. “But when I saw him at the station this morning there was nothing to tell. In any case I go up to town to-morrow morning, when I shall first call upon my own solicitor, to whom I have already written, and afterward attend the inquest as I have promised. Fensden says he’s coming up, too, in order that any evidence he may have to give may be accepted.”

“One moment, Godfrey,” said the old gentleman, stopping him and allowing the others to go on ahead. “I am going to put a question to you which may probably offend you. But whether it does or does not, it must be asked.”

“Anything you ask me, sir, you may be sure will not offend me,” said Godfrey. “What is this particular question?”

“I want to know how long you have known your friend?” the old man inquired. “You see I am going to be perfectly candid with you. You may think me absurd when I say so, but I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Fensden does not like you.”

“In that case, sir, I am sure you are mistaken,” said Godfrey. “Victor and I were at school together, and we have been companions ever since. He may be a little cynical in his humour, and inclined to be affected in his dress and speech, but, believe me, in his inmost heart he is a thoroughly good fellow.”

Sir Vivian was silent for a moment.

“If that is so,” he went on, “then I am wrong in my conclusions. I must confess, however, that I was not favourably impressed with Mr. Fensden yesterday. I noticed that when he was looking at you and you were not watching him, there was a curious expression upon his face that was either one of malice or something very like it. If I were asked my opinion about this affair I should say that he knew more about it than you and I put together, and more than he either cares, or is going, to tell.”

“I can not help disagreeing with you, sir,” said Godfrey, warming in defence of his friend. “I happen to know that Victor has not seen Teresina since the day we left England. It was he who induced me to get rid of her because he was afraid that she, being a pretty woman, might possibly induce me to fall in love with her. You see, I am quite candid with you.”

“I am glad that you are,” the other rejoined. “Nevertheless obstinacy is proverbially an old man’s failing, and I still adhere to my opinion concerning the gentleman in question. Whether I am right or wrong time will prove. In the meantime you say that you go up to town to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, to-morrow morning, first thing,” said Godfrey. “We shall leave Detwich by the 10.18.”

“In that case I am going to ask a favour of you,” said the other. “Will you allow me to accompany you? Remember that, as you are going to marry my daughter, your interests are, and must be, as my own.”

“I shall be only too glad if you will come, sir,” said Godfrey, gratefully. “It is a kindness I did not like to ask of you. I am sure it will make Molly happier to know that you are with me, while it will prove to the world, if such a proof is needed, that you believe my interest in this miserable affair to be only what I have stated it to be.”

“We all believe that, Godfrey, of course,” Sir Vivian replied. “The man who thinks otherwise would be insane. And now we turn off here. It is agreed, therefore, that we meet at the railway station to-morrow morning and go up to town together?”

“With all my heart, sir,” Godfrey replied, and then the kindly old gentleman turned off with his wife at the path that led across the fields to the court. When they were out of sight Godfrey informed Molly of her father’s decision.

“With father and Mr. Fensden beside you, the newspapers will not dare to hint at anything more.”

Then for the first time in his life Godfrey felt a vague distrust of Victor Fensden.

He put the suspicion from him, however, as being not only dishonourable to his friend, but also to himself.

“I have known Victor for a good many years,” he muttered, “and I should surely be familiar with his character by this time.”

Yet, despite his resolve to think no ill of the man, he felt that the idea was gaining ground with him.

When they reached the house they found Fensden in the drawing-room, comfortably ensconced in a large chair before a roaring fire. He had changed his mind, he asserted, and had not gone for a walk after all. He certainly did not look well. His face was paler than usual, while he was hollow-eyed, as if from want of sleep. As the party, radiant after their walk through the sharp air, entered the room, he looked up at them.

“How nice it must be to be so energetic,” he said, languidly. “Godfrey looks disgustingly fit, and more like the ideal country squire than ever. You should paint your own portrait in that capacity.”

This time there was no mistaking the sneer. It may have been the thoughts that had occupied his brain as he walked home, but even he could not help coming to the conclusion that the man he had known for so long, whom he had trusted so implicitly, and for whom he had done so much, was no longer well disposed toward himself. He said nothing, however, for Victor was not only his guest, but he had troubles enough of his own just then to look after, without adding to the number. Molly had noticed it also, and commented on it when she and her lover were alone together.

“Never mind, dear,” said Godfrey. “It doesn’t matter very much if he has taken a dislike to me. I think the truth of the matter is he is not quite himself. Though he will not show it, I have an idea he is as much cut up by this terrible business as I am myself. He is very highly strung, and the shock has doubtless proved too much for his nerves. You won’t see very much more of him, for he will bring his visit to a close to-morrow morning, as he has decided to go abroad again immediately after the inquest.”

“But I thought he was tired of travelling, and that he had stated his desire never to see a foreign hotel again?”

“I thought so too, but it appears we were mistaken. However, do not let us talk about him just now. Can you realize, dearest, that in ten days’ time we are to be married?”

“I am beginning to realize it,” she answered. “But this terrible affair has thrown such a shadow over our happiness for the last twenty-four hours that I have thought of little else.”

“The shadow will soon pass,” he answered. “Then we will go to the sunny South and try to forget all about it.”

In his own heart he knew that this was likely to be easier said than done. Ever since he had seen it on that memorable Thursday night, Teresina’s piteous face had been before him, and now with the recollection of what had followed so close upon their interview to deepen the impression, it was more than likely that some time would elapse before he would be able to forget it.

That night, when he went to bed, he found it difficult to get to sleep. It was as if the events of the morrow were casting their shadows before, and when he did sleep he was assailed with the most villainous dreams. He saw himself in a garret room with Teresina kneeling before him holding up her hands in piteous entreaty; then he saw her lying dead upon the floor, her glassy eyes looking up at him as if in mute reproach. A moment later he was sitting up in bed staring at Victor Fensden, who was standing beside him, holding a candle in his hand, and with a look upon his face that showed he was almost beside himself with terror.

“Good Heavens, man, what is the matter?” cried Godfrey, for the other’s face frightened him. It was as white as paper, while in his eyes there shone a light that was scarcely that of reason.

“Let me stay with you, let me stay with you!” he cried. “If I am left alone I don’t know what I shall do. I have had such dreams to-night that I dare not even close my eyes. For God’s sake give me brandy! I must have something to bring back my courage. Look, look! Can’t you see, man, how badly I need it?”

Needless to say, Godfrey saw this. Accordingly bidding him remain where he was, he went off to procure some. When he returned he found Victor seated on the settee at the foot of the bed. Apparently he had recovered his self-command.

“I am afraid you must think me an awful fool, Godfrey,” he said. “But I have really had a deuce of a fright. You don’t know what awful dreams I had. I could not have stayed alone in that room another minute.”

It must indeed have been a fright, for Godfrey noticed that, though he pretended to have recovered, he was still trembling.

“Well, I am glad to see that you are feeling better,” he said. “Drink some of this, it will make a new man of you.”

“If it could do that I’d drink a hogshead,” he said bitterly. “If there’s one man in this world of whose society I am heartily sick, it is Victor Fensden. Now I’ll go back to my own room. Forgive me for disturbing you, won’t you, but I could not help myself.”

So saying, he took up his candle once more and returned to his own room, leaving Godfrey to put what construction he thought best upon the incident.

“I am beginning to think that poor Victor is not quite right in his head,” said the latter to himself as he blew out his candle and composed himself for slumber once more.

[CHAPTER IX]

The first train that left Detwich for London next morning had for its passengers Sir Vivian Devereux, Godfrey Henderson, and Victor Fensden. Inspector Griffin was also travelling by it, not a little elated by the importance of his errand. On reaching Euston, after promising to meet them at the inquest, Fensden drove off to his club, while Sir Vivian and Godfrey made their way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where they were to have an interview with Mr. Cornelius Bensleigh, of the firm of Bensleigh and Bensleigh, solicitors. That gentleman had already received a letter from Godfrey, written on the Saturday night, giving him an outline of the affair, and acquainting him of the part the latter had played in the mystery.

“I am afraid this will be calculated to put you to a considerable amount of inconvenience, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, after they had discussed the matter for a few moments. “From what I can gather, you were the last person to see the poor woman alive, and as Sir Vivian Devereux says, for that reason we must be particularly careful that no breath of scandal attaches itself to your name. Now, as cases like this are somewhat foreign to our experience, I have made up my mind, always, of course, with your permission, that I will introduce you to a gentleman who makes them his particular study. Of course, should you desire it, I will put precedent on one side, and do all I can for you; but, if you will be guided by me, you will place your case in the hands of Mr. Codey, the gentleman to whom I refer, and whose name is doubtless familiar to you. His office is not far from here, and if you will accompany me, I shall be only too pleased to escort you to it, and to introduce you to him.”

This course having been agreed upon, they accompanied him to the office of the lawyer in question, and, after a few moments’ delay, were conducted to his presence. He looked more like a trainer of racehorses than a criminal lawyer. He was the possessor of a sharp, keen face, a pair of restless eyes, a clean-shaven mouth and chin, while the whiskers on his cheeks were clipped to a nicety. The elderly lawyer introduced Sir Vivian and Godfrey to him, and explained the nature of their visit.

“Ah, the Burford Street murder,” said Mr. Codey, as soon as he heard the name of the case. “I was wondering how long it would be before I was drawn into it. And so, Mr. Henderson, you have the misfortune to be connected with it? As a matter of fact, I suppose you are the gentleman in evening dress who was seen speaking to the girl on the pavement outside the house.”

“I am; but how do you know it?” Godfrey asked, in considerable surprise.

“I merely guessed it,” said the lawyer. “I see from the papers that the deceased was once your model. Now you come to me for help. I simply put two and two together, with the result aforesaid. Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me all you know about it. Be very sure you keep nothing back; after that I shall know how to act.”

Thus encouraged, Godfrey set to work, and told the tale with which by this time my readers are so familiar. The lawyer listened patiently, made a few notes on a sheet of paper as the story progressed, and when he had finished asked one or two more or less pertinent questions.

“You say that you returned to your hotel immediately after your interview with the deceased?”

“Immediately,” Godfrey answered.

“Did you take a cab?”

“No,” said Godfrey; “it was a cold night, and I thought the walk would do me good.”

“But you drove to the house in a cab?”

“I did, and dismissed it at once.”

“That was unfortunate. Do you think the driver would know you again?”

“I should think it very probable,” said Godfrey.

“You were standing under the lamp-post, of course, when you paid him, with the light shining full upon your face?”

“I suppose so, as the lamp is exactly opposite the door; but I did not think of that.”

“No; but, you see, I must think of these things,” said the lawyer. “And when you returned to your hotel?”

“I called for a brandy and soda, and, having drunk it, went to bed.”

When he had learned all he desired to know, it was arranged that Mr. Codey should attend the coroner’s court, and watch the case on Godfrey’s behalf; after which they left the office. On reaching the club where Sir Vivian and Godfrey had elected to lunch, they found that the murder was the one absorbing topic of the day. This was more than Godfrey had bargained for; for, when it was remembered that the deceased woman had been his model, he was cross-questioned concerning her on every hand. So unbearable did this at last become, that he proposed to Sir Vivian that they should take a stroll in the park until it should be time for them to set off to the business of the afternoon.

When they reached the building in which the inquest was to be held, they discovered that a large crowd had collected; indeed, it was only with difficulty, and after they had explained their errand, that they could gain admittance to the building. Fensden was awaiting them there, still looking pale and worried; also Mr. Codey, the lawyer, appearing even keener than he had done at his office.

“Public curiosity is a strange thing,” said the latter, as he looked round the packed court. “Probably not more than five persons now in this room ever saw the dead girl, and yet they crowd here as though their lives depended upon their not losing a word of what is said about her.”

At this moment an official came forward, and said something to Godfrey in a low voice. The latter immediately followed him from the room. When he returned he was very white, and he seemed visibly upset.

Then the coroner entered, a portly, dignified gentleman, and took his seat, after which the proceedings were opened in due form.

The landlord of the house, in which the deceased had resided, was the first witness called. He deposed as to the name she was known by in the house, stated that she was supposed to be an artist’s model, and that, to the best of his belief, she had been a quiet and respectable girl. At any rate, her rent had invariably been paid on the day on which it had become due. He had identified the body as being that of his lodger. During the time she had been with him he had never known her to receive a visitor; as a matter of fact, she had kept to herself; scarcely speaking to any one save when she returned their salutations on the stairs. He was not aware that she had received a letter, and, as far as he knew, she had not a friend in London.

The next witness was the German cabinet-maker, who had been the first to discover the murder. He gave evidence through the medium of an interpreter, and described how he had seen the congealed blood under the door and the suspicions it had given rise to. In answer to a question put by a superintendent of police, who represented the commissioner, he stated that he had never spoken to the deceased, for the reason that he knew no English or Italian, and she was not acquainted with German. He had heard her go out on the night in question, and return shortly after midnight, but whether she was accompanied by any one he could not say. He also deposed to the position of the body when they opened the door, and to the mysterious fact that the hands were missing.

The next witness was the police-constable on the beat, who had been called in by the landlord. He gave evidence as to the opening of the door, and the discovery then made. He was followed by the doctor, who had made the post-mortem examination, and who described the nature and situation of the various wounds, and the conclusions he had drawn therefrom. Then came the first sensation of the afternoon, when the well-known artist, Godfrey Henderson, was called. In answer to the various questions put to him, he deposed that he had known the deceased for upward of a year; that he had employed her for the model of his picture, “A Woman of the People,” and had always found her a quiet and eminently respectable girl. He had been compelled to dismiss her, not because he had any fault to find with her, but because he was going abroad. This was not the last he had heard of her, for, while on the Nile at Luxor, he had received a letter from her, informing him of her address, in view of any future work he might have for her. At Naples he had again met her, when he was on his way back to England, and had taken her to the Opera in her mother’s company. On the night of the murder, he had again met her in the Strand, quite by accident, when, finding that she was in serious trouble, he had offered to help her. She would not accept his assistance, however. Noticing that she was in a most unhappy state, and not liking to leave her alone in the streets, he had called a cab and escorted her to her abode in Burford Street. He did not enter the building, however, but bade her good-bye in the street, after which he returned to his hotel. He was unable to assign any motive for the crime, and added that the only person he could have believed would have committed it, was a man named Dardini, an Italian, who was in love with the girl, and who had attempted his (the witness’s) life in Naples, on the night of the visit to the Opera. Whether the man was in England he was unable to say. Whether she had been in want of money at the time of his last seeing her, he also was unable to say. She had declared that she was in work, that was all he knew of the matter.

“On hearing that she was married, did you not inquire the name of her husband?” asked the coroner.

“I did,” Godfrey replied, “but she refused to tell me.”

“Did not that strike you as being singular?”

“No,” Godfrey replied. “When she informed me that he was dead, I did not press the matter.”

“You are quite sure, I suppose, that she was not married when you met her at Naples?”

“I feel convinced that she was not; but I could not say so on my oath.”

“And when you opened the box, which you say was sent you at your country residence, were you not shocked at the discovery you made?”

“Naturally I was!”

“And what conclusions did you come to?”

“I gathered from it that my old friend had been murdered.”

“What caused you to recognise her hands?”

“A certain mark above the knuckle of the second finger, the result, I should say, of a burn.”

At this point, Mr. Codey, who had already informed the coroner that he was appearing on behalf of the witness then being examined, asked an important question.

“On making this terrible discovery, what was your immediate action?”

“I sent for my prospective father-in-law, Sir Vivian Devereux, and for the police officer in charge of Detwich. It was at once agreed that we should communicate with the authorities and that I should render them all the assistance in my power.”

“Pardon my touching upon such a matter, but I believe you are about to be married, Mr. Henderson?” said the coroner.

“I hope to be married on Thursday next,” said Godfrey.

“I do not think I need trouble you any further,” the coroner then remarked.

The next witness was a police officer, who informed the Court that inquiries had been made in Naples concerning the man Dardini, with the result that it was discovered that he had been arrested for assault upon a foreigner a fortnight before the deceased’s return to England, and that he was still in prison. This effectually disposed of his association with the crime, and added an even greater air of mystery to it than before.

When this witness had stepped down, Mr. Victor Fensden was called. He stated that he was also an artist, and a friend of Mr. Godfrey Henderson. It was he who had first discovered the deceased, and he had recommended her to his friend for the picture of which she was afterward the principal figure. She had always struck him as being a quiet and respectable girl. When asked why she had received her notice of dismissal, Victor answered that it was because his friend, Mr. Henderson, had suddenly made up his mind to travel.

“I understand you to say suddenly,” said the superintendent in charge of the case. “Why was it Mr. Henderson suddenly made up his mind to go abroad?”

“I do not know that this question is at all relevant to the case,” said Victor, appealing to the coroner. “It was purely a private matter on Mr. Henderson’s part.”

“But anything that bears on the question at issue can scarcely be irrelevant,” said the coroner. “I think it would be better if you would answer the question.”

Fensden paused for a moment while the Court waited in suspense.

“I repeat my question,” said the superintendent. “Why did the deceased so suddenly lose her employment?”

Once more Victor hesitated. Godfrey looked at him in surprise. Why did he not go on?

“We decided to travel on account of a conversation Mr. Henderson and I had concerning the girl.”

“What was that conversation?” inquired the coroner.

Once more Fensden seemed to hesitate.

“Did the conversation refer to the deceased?”

“It did!”

“I gather from your reluctance to answer that you were afraid Mr. Henderson might become attached to her, so you used your friendly influence in order to hurry him away as quickly as possible? Am I right in so supposing?”

Another pause, during which Victor’s face was seen to express great emotion.

“That was so.”

“You are sure that Mr. Henderson was attached to the deceased?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Did you know that Mr. Henderson was aware of the deceased’s return to Naples?”

“I was aware that he was in correspondence with her,” said Victor; “but he said nothing to me of his intention to visit her in Naples.”

“Had you known this, would you have endeavoured to dissuade him from such a course?”

“I do not know what I should have done; but I should think it very probable that I should have endeavoured to prevent their meeting.”

“When did you become aware of the deceased’s return to England?”

“When Mr. Henderson informed me of it on my arrival at his house at Detwich Hall.”

“You were naturally very much surprised to hear that he had met her, I suppose?”

“Very much,” Victor replied.

“Did you say anything to him upon the subject?”

“I warned him against the folly of being drawn into another entanglement with her, particularly when he was to be married in ten days’ time.”

“You say another entanglement with her? Are we, therefore, to understand that there had been an entanglement before?”

Again Victor paused before he replied.

“I withdraw the word 'another,’” he said, hurriedly. “I did not mean it in that sense. I merely suggested to Mr. Henderson that his fiancée might not care to know that he had been seen driving through the streets of London after midnight with an Italian girl, who had once been his model.”

“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey to himself. “And this is the man whom I have trusted and who has called himself my friend for so many years!”

At this point the coroner, addressing the jury, stated his intention of adjourning the inquiry until the following Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock. He had excellent reasons for keeping it open until then, he said, and these reasons he had communicated to the foreman of the jury, who was completely satisfied. The Court thereupon adjourned, and Godfrey presently found himself in the street with Mr. Codey on one side and Sir Vivian Devereux on the other. Victor Fensden was waiting for them on the pavement, and, as soon as they emerged, he approached them with a face that still bore the traces of violent emotion.

“Godfrey,” he began, in a faltering voice, “after what they dragged out of me, I scarcely know what to say to you.”

“In any case, I beg that you will not say it,” said Godfrey, coldly. “You have said quite enough already.” Then, turning to the others, he continued: “Come, gentlemen, let us find a cab. I suppose we had better go back to your office, Mr. Codey?”

“I think it would be better,” said that gentleman. “I must have a talk with you upon this matter.”

Then, hailing a cab, they entered it, leaving Fensden on the pavement looking after them. Godfrey’s face was still very pale. It was impossible for him to be blind to the fact that his kindness to Teresina had been the means of bringing down grave suspicion upon himself. Yet, even with that knowledge before him, he knew that he would not, or could not, have acted otherwise than he had done.

When they reached the lawyer’s private office, the door was shut and they sat down to business.

“Well, Mr. Henderson,” said Mr. Codey, “what is your opinion now?”

“I think that the public mind is already jumping to the conclusion that I am responsible for the murder,” Godfrey answered, without fear or hesitation.

“I am very much afraid that you must accustom yourself to look upon it in that light,” the other replied. “The man Fensden’s evidence, given in such a manner as he gave it, was unnecessarily damaging.”

“He is a black-hearted scoundrel,” said the old baronet, wrathfully. “I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I didn’t trust him, and that I felt sure he bore you some ill-will. And yet, do you know, Mr. Codey,” he added, turning to the lawyer, “Mr. Henderson has done everything for that man. He has practically kept him for years past, he took him on a tour round Europe only a few months ago, and this is the result. It makes one sick with humanity.”

“When you have seen as much of humanity as I have, you will not be surprised at anything,” said the lawyer. “The greater the obligation in many cases, the deeper the ingratitude. We are wandering from the point, however. Now I am going to be plain-spoken. Tell me, Mr. Henderson, did you ever, under any sort of circumstance, make love, or suggest love, to the woman who is now deceased?”

“Never,” said Godfrey, firmly. “The man who declares that I did, lies.”

“Very probable, but that won’t prevent his saying it. When you left her in Burford Street, did you meet any one near the house?”

“Not a soul. The street, so far as I could see, was empty.”

“I think you said this morning that the night porter let you in at your hotel? Did you make any remark to him respecting the time?”

“Yes, I said to him when he had opened the door, 'I’m afraid I’m rather late,’ then, looking at my watch, I added, 'Why, it’s half-past twelve!’”

“If he’s blessed with a good memory, he will recollect that,” said Codey. Then with his usual abruptness, he continued, “Which way did you walk from Burford Street?”

“Through the Tottenham Court Road, along Oxford Street, and down Bond Street.”

“A man shall walk it quickly to-morrow morning in order to see how long it will take. If only that hall porter has a good memory, and can be relied upon, this should prove an important point.”

“But surely, my good sir,” put in Sir Vivian, “you do not for a moment suppose that Mr. Henderson will be accused of having killed this woman?”

“I should not be at all surprised,” said the lawyer, quietly. “Let us regard the facts of the case. Some months back, Mr. Henderson employed this girl as his model, and retained her services when he really had no need for them. He was on such familiar terms with her that his friend felt compelled to remonstrate with him. As a result they left England hurriedly, the girl following them to Naples. No, no, Mr. Henderson, I beg that you will be silent. Remember, I am telling the story as I should tell it if I were against you instead of for you. As I have said, the girl left for Naples, and I insinuate that she followed you. It can be proved that she corresponded with you, and that you sent your friend on his way to travel alone; always bearing in mind that he was the man who had persuaded you to give the girl up. You, in the meantime, returned to Naples, in order to visit her again. You may dispute the motive, but you can not deny that you took her out to dinner and to a theatre afterward.”

“But her mother was with her,” said Godfrey hurriedly, his face flushing angrily at the imputation put upon his action by the other.

“That point is immaterial,” the lawyer replied calmly. “It is sufficient for the purposes of the prosecution that you met her there. Then you proceeded to England, and, after a little while in the country, became engaged to the daughter of Sir Vivian, now present. The Italian girl had also gone to England. Why? To be with you, of course. You, however, see nothing of her. Therefore, she is unhappy. Why? Because you are about to be married.”

“But that is only supposition,” said Godfrey. “As a matter of fact, she herself was already married.”

“To whom? Why not to yourself?”

“Good Heavens, man,” said Godfrey, starting from his seat, “you don’t surely mean to say that you believe I had married her?”

“I believe nothing,” he replied, still with the same coolness. “But you will find that the counsel for the prosecution will consider it more than likely. Let me continue my story. I was saying that she was unhappy because you were about to be married. It is only natural. Then you came up to town, visited the theatre, and afterward, quite by chance, met her in the Strand, at midnight. At midnight, and by chance, mark that! Does that meeting look like an accidental one? Could you convince a jury that it was? I doubt it. However, let us proceed. The girl is in trouble, and you take her home in a hansom. The policeman and the cabman will certainly identify you, and, for the reason that you say the street was empty when you bade her good-bye, no one will be able to swear that you did not go into the house with her. Now, Mr. Henderson, I ask you to look these facts in the face, and tell me, as a thinking man, whether you consider the public is to be blamed if it regards you with suspicion?”

“As you put it, no,” said Godfrey. “But it can surely be proved that I had nothing whatsoever to do with it, beyond what I have said.”

“Exactly; and that is what we have got to do. But I don’t mind telling you candidly that I fancy we shall have our work cut out to do it. You see, we have to remember that, beyond your own evidence, there is absolutely nothing for us to argue upon. The two strongest points in your favour are the facts that you were at Detwich when the box containing the dead woman’s hands was sent off at Euston, and that there would not be sufficient time between the moment when the policeman saw you in Burford Street and the time when you arrived at your hotel, for you to have committed the crime. What we have to do is to find the person who despatched the box from London, and to make sure of the hall porter. In the meantime go back to Detwich, and be sure that you don’t stir from home until you hear from me.”

“One more question, Mr. Codey. I should like you, before we go any further, to tell me honestly whether, in your own heart, you believe me to be innocent or guilty?”

“I believe you to be innocent,” said the lawyer; “and you may be sure I shall try to prove it.”

[CHAPTER X]

A more miserable home-coming than Godfrey’s, after the events described in the previous chapter, could scarcely be imagined. They had taken a cab from the lawyer’s office to Euston Station, and during the drive, neither of them referred in any way to the interview they had just had with Codey. It was not until they were seated in the railway carriage, and the train had started upon its journey, that they broke their silence.

“Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey, “I can not express to you my thanks for the kindness which you showed me in standing by me to-day. Believe me, I am very sensible of it.”

“You must not speak of it;” said the worthy old gentleman; “and as for the affair itself, it is a piece of ill-luck that might have happened to the best of us. At the same time, I should very much like to have an opportunity of telling that wretched Fensden what I think of him.”

“Do not let us talk of him,” said Godfrey. “His own feelings must be sufficient punishment for him. There is one thing, however, that I must say to you before we go any further.”

“And what is that?”

“It concerns my wedding,” Godfrey replied. “I am afraid it will be a terrible blow to poor Molly; but until this charge, which I have no doubt will be brought against me, is disproved, she must not think any more of me.”

Sir Vivian stared at him in astonishment.

“Nonsense, my dear lad,” said he. “I know that you love my girl, and that she loves you. It is her duty, therefore, to stand by you and to comfort you when you are in trouble. Believe me, she will have no doubt as to your innocence.”

“I know that,” said Godfrey; “but I do not think it would be fair for me to allow her name to be linked with mine under such painful circumstances.”

“It will be linked with it whether you like it or not,” was the reply. “If I am prepared to stake my honour on your innocence, you may be very sure that she will stake hers. Molly isn’t a fair-weather friend.”

“She is the truest and best girl in the world,” said Godfrey. “No one knows that better than I.”

“Then wait until you have seen her and talked it over with her alone. Put the question to her, and see what she will say. I know her well enough to guess what her answer will be.”

“God bless you for your trust in me!” said Godfrey, in a shaky voice. “I fear I have done very little to deserve it.”

“It is sufficient that I know you for what you are,” the other answered. “I knew your uncle and grandfather before him, and I am as certain that you would not do anything dishonourable as I am of my own name. What we have to do is to put our wits to work and to endeavour to find out, as Codey says, the sender of the box. Then I believe we shall be on the track of the real criminal. It was a very good suggestion on Mr. Bensleigh’s part that we should employ that man; we could not have had a better. I never saw such eyes in my life. He seems to look one through and through. I pity Mr. Fensden when he comes to be cross-examined by him.”

The old gentleman chuckled over the thought and then lapsed into silence.

When they reached Detwich, they became aware that Griffin had travelled from London by the same train. Godfrey beckoned to him.

“Of course you heard the evidence to-day, Griffin,” Godfrey began when the other approached.

“Yes, sir, I did,” said the police official, gravely.

“And you must have drawn your own conclusions from it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Griffin, what I wanted to say to you is that, if I am wanted for anything, I shall not leave the Hall until Wednesday morning; then I shall go up to the inquiry again.”

“I will bear the fact in mind, sir,” said the man. “But there’s one thing I should like to say, if you don’t mind.”

“What is it? Say it by all means.”

“It’s this, sir. Whether it’s going against my duty or not—and there’s nobody here to hear it if it is—whatever verdict they may bring in, I don’t believe for a moment that you had any more to do with that poor girl’s death than I had. You will excuse my saying so, I hope, sir?”

“On the contrary, I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion,” Godfrey replied, holding out his hand which the other took. “I am afraid that it’s going to be a very unpleasant business for me. That can’t be helped, however. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir,” the man answered.

Then Godfrey joined Sir Vivian and, as had been arranged, they drove off to the Hall together. The moon was rising above the hill as they went through the park, and as Godfrey looked on the peaceful scene around him and thought of the terrible suspicion that was growing in people’s minds concerning himself his heart sank within him. If only little Teresina could speak, how easily she could clear up all the dark charges against him! She was dead, however, brutally murdered, and he, the only man who had ever befriended her, was suspected of having caused her death.

“Keep up a stout heart, my lad,” said Sir Vivian, as they alighted from the carriage and ascended the steps. “Think of the ladies, and don’t make them any more unhappy than you can help.”

The door was opened by the ancient butler who had served his uncle before him, and Godfrey entered his home, but how different a man from the young fellow who had left it that morning!

“The ladies are in the drawing-room, sir,” said the servant, when he had relieved them of their hats and coats.

They accordingly proceeded thither, one of them at least with a sinking heart.

“We have just been wondering when we should see you,” said Kitty.

There was a look of anxiety on Molly’s face as she came forward to meet her lover. She placed her hand in his, and they sat down together.

“Well, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, “what have you to tell us? What was the result?”

There was no need for her to say to what she referred. Their minds had been too much occupied with it that day to leave room for any uncertainty upon the point.

“Nothing is decided yet,” said Sir Vivian, who took upon himself the part of spokesman. “The inquiry is adjourned until Wednesday.”

“That means that you will have to go up again,” said Molly. “Why couldn’t they settle it at once?”

Godfrey knew, but he dared not tell her the reason.

“They are searching for more evidence, I fancy,” said Sir Vivian. “You must remember that the matter is, at present, shrouded in the greatest mystery. Until that can be cleared up, nothing can be done.”

“And Mr. Fensden, where did you leave him?” asked Mrs. Henderson.

“We parted outside the Court,” said Godfrey. “I have no idea where he is staying to-night.”

Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, Molly felt certain in her own mind that there had been trouble between the two men. She said nothing to him about it, however. She knew that he would tell her in good time.

That night, when Sir Vivian’s carriage was announced, Godfrey accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.

“Keep up your spirits, my dear lad,” he said, as he had done so many times before. “Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm the ladies more than you can help.”

“You may rely upon my not doing so,” said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian entered his carriage and drove away.

Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.

“I feel sure,” she said, “that there is something you are keeping back from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you. Will you not confide in me and tell me everything?”

“When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell you, dear,” he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that night. “In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good night’s rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night.”

“I did not,” she answered. “I was thinking of you all night, for I knew how you were dreading going up to-day.”

He did not tell her that he dreaded going up on Wednesday a great deal more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his good angel, swearing that he would love her all his life long, and that even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room, prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless night, and he was not destined to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his bed, going over the day’s proceedings again and again, and speculating with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no comment. He watched the sleek, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon their day’s work, had a quarter of an hour’s conversation with his head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the plantations to breakfast. It was his mother’s habit to read prayers to the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly’s side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when he thought of the misery that any moment might bring upon them.

As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one, and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large type: