Israel Rank

by Roy Horniman

Chapter XIV

If I was to have access to Sibella at all, it was necessary to make friends with her husband, and the only way to make friends with him was to be useful to him. I knew quite well that my continued success—and success in his eyes was a question of moving in a higher grade of society—had annoyed him beyond measure. He believed that money ought to be able to buy anything. Money is a thing the power of which the vulgar are always overrating and the cultured are always underrating. He and Sibella had a large income, with the prospect of a very much larger one, therefore the doors of good society should fly open. They knew people who had been her friends before marriage, and who moved in what a celebrated English lady novelist would have called “genteel circles,” but her husband, having neither the atmosphere of good breeding nor the tact which might have taken its place, was ambitious of forcing the most select assemblies.

If I could be of use to him in this way I was sure that he would be content to waive his dislike for the present, especially as he imagined himself to be in sole possession of the prize we had contended for.

It was, of course, just possible that Sibella herself might now object to my coming to the house. She might have fallen passionately in love with her husband, as wives often do after marriage. Lady Pebworth was still ready to do anything for me, and if Sibella was still ready to receive me, I must persuade her ladyship to call.

I met Lionel on his way home from the City one evening, and somewhat to his surprise stopped to speak to him. He was a little cool at first, but I was careful to start a conversation about himself, and he warmed to the subject at once.

He talked of being sick of the City. His father was very ill, and he expressed his intention of selling out and giving up the business should anything happen to the old gentleman.

“I shall go and live in the country, and get as much hunting and shooting as I can manage.”

“Still, a man ought to do something,” I suggested.

“Oh, cut that; don’t preach.”

“I wasn’t thinking of it from a moral point of view. You’re a rich man. You ought to furnish the powers that be with sufficient excuse for giving you something later on.”

“What do you mean?”

“A man with twenty thousand a year may aspire to anything.”

“What am I to do?”

“Go in for politics. The losing side, of course. They’ll be having their spell of office in a few years.”

“I don’t know anything about politics.”

“No, but you’ve got intelligence; you’ll soon learn.”

He looked flattered. Inwardly I smiled at the idea of his being in the House of Commons.

“How does one begin?”

It was strange that Lionel, who was heir to a couple of newspapers, should know so little.

“Oh, you get to know all the right people. Let them know that you are ready to drop a certain amount of money. Lady Pebworth was saying only the other day that their people want money. She’s rather a power in the political world, you know.”

He looked vacant, and had the frankness to ask:

“Who’s Lady Pebworth?”

“Well, her husband was in the last Cabinet. Your wife ought to know her. Lady Pebworth admired her immensely the only time she saw her.”

“Have they met?”

“No, but do you remember one evening when you and Sibella were in the stalls at the Gaiety, and I was in a box with some people?”

“Yes.”

“That was Lady Pebworth. She has been very civil to me. I don’t suppose I should have had such a good time if it had not been for her.”

This admission of my own indebtedness to someone else for the entrée to certain houses that he had envied me made him quite genial, and broke down the barrier between us, while a little more flattery judiciously laid on accomplished what I desired.

“You haven’t been to see us yet,” he said, quite graciously.

“I haven’t been asked,” I laughed.

“I’ll get Sibella to write and ask you to one of our Sunday lunches.”

We parted quite amicably, and I think I left him under the impression that I was most anxious to be friendly with him.

Sir Anthony Cross delayed coming to see me, as I thought he would, but evidently he could think of no other way of making Sibella’s acquaintance, and one evening when I was drinking tea—a habit to which I am addicted—he was shown in.

“No thanks, I never drink tea. I don’t know what people see in it.”

There was a perceptible patronage in his manner. He assumed the usual attitude of an Englishman of birth when brought into familiar intercourse with a man of whose caste he is not sure. There was no superficial fault to be found with his manner, but it was obvious to a keen perception that he presumed a gulf.

“Not tea as they make it in this country,” I answered languidly. “Tea drinking is an art. It is one of the most extraordinary facts of the latter part of the nineteenth century how readily the country exchanged China for Indian tea, and yet it is like preferring cider to champagne.” I pushed the cigars towards him. “Most men cannot appreciate tea because their palates are ruined by alcohol.”

The cigar put him in a good temper; I knew that it was something exceptional.

He was not interested in the subject of tea, but at the same time, being a gentleman, he hardly liked to make it too patent that he had come about an introduction to a woman, and that further than obtaining that introduction he was not prepared to consider our acquaintance.

“You’ve got a jolly little place here,” he said, looking round. I knew that in his heart he considered it somewhat overdone.

“I am a Jew, and as an Oriental I defy the canons of Western good taste in order to get the amount of colour necessary to my appetite.”

He did not quite follow, and I did not intend that he should. It was of no account. There were limits even to my adaptability, and I am afraid I never could have adapted myself to the idiosyncrasies of Sir Anthony Cross. I don’t think he had a single delicate sentiment in him.

After a time, and when I considered he had listened to me long enough to be sufficiently subdued, I said: “Oh, by the way, I met Holland, Mrs. Holland’s husband, you know, a few days ago.”

“Yes?” He made a valiant effort to conceal his interest.

“They are only just married, and of course very much in love.”

“What is he?”

“Well, as far as I know, he is something in his father’s business. His father is enormously wealthy—owns a couple of newspapers. I don’t think he’ll hold out much longer though, and then the young people will come into everything.”

Riches did not mean much to Sir Anthony Cross. He had eighty thousand a year, so report said.

He was evidently too obsessed with the idea of Sibella to be turned aside by a husband.

“Of course,” I continued, “her brother is my greatest friend; we were at school together. She and I used to be sweethearts when we were children, but when Lionel Holland came on the scene he cut me out.”

“She looks a charming woman, and I should very much like to know her.”

“I can introduce you to Holland if you like. I’ll ask them both to dine and meet you.”

Sir Anthony hardly disguised his joy.

“I shall be delighted,” he said.

“Then I’ll let you know when I’ve fixed things up.”

I gave him the opportunity of departing, but he stayed on, talking incessantly of Sibella. He was so infatuated as to be unable to appreciate how obvious he was making it that he was seeking an introduction to a married woman because he was in love with her.

I knew that Sir Anthony was a friend of Ughtred Gascoyne’s, and it might so happen that he would be useful to me in that direction.

“Have you known Mrs. Goodsall long?” he asked.

“A few weeks.”

“Don’t know Gascoyne, do you?”

“Who is he?”

“Ughtred Gascoyne; I thought everybody knew him. He’s a great pal of hers. People do say things, but I don’t believe it myself. I mention him because I’ve heard a rumour that her husband is dead, and that she and Gascoyne are going to be married.”

“Indeed?”

“Of course they’ve always been thick, but it isn’t often the man does the right thing.”

I laughed.

“No, there’s all the difference in being able to go and see a woman when you want to and being obliged to see her when you don’t want to. Such a prospect immediately subjects her to a new test. I know a great many women who are delightful companions, but I should not care to live with them.”

He went away at last, after making me promise again that I would arrange the dinner and let him know.

I was determined, if possible, to persuade Lady Pebworth to be of the party, and called on her a day or two after. She had just returned to town, and received me rather coldly. She had been away for three months, and she protested that I had written to her but twice during her absence. I pointed out that she was blaming me for a too zealous care of her reputation, and that it was one thing for her to write to me when the chance of her letters being seen by anyone else was practically non-existent, and quite another thing for me to write to her, and that I had only done so when I was certain that Lord Pebworth was out of the way. It took me some time to soothe her, inasmuch as she informed me that she thought our friendship had better cease, and I really believe she was in the mood to take a great resolution. This roused me to an effort. It was not convenient to quarrel with her at the moment. I regret to say that in the course of our interview her ladyship so far forgot what was due to good taste as to throw my obscurity in my face, and to make a scarcely veiled insinuation that had it not been for her I should not have been acquainted with anyone of consequence. At this I dignifiedly rose, and, telling her that I had no wish to intrude where I was considered an adventurer, moved towards the door. Then she begged my pardon, said she could not understand how she came to be so rude, and professed her undying readiness to do anything for me. A weaker diplomatist might have seized the opportunity to mention the dinner-party, but I cautiously paid court to her for some days before I asked her if she would come and meet Sibella and her husband. I explained that Lionel was quite ready to be of financial use to her political organisation, putting it in such a way that it was impossible for her to take offence. Finally, she said she would be very glad, so I made up my dinner-party, which was quite a little social triumph.

I fancy Sir Anthony Cross was surprised when he heard whom he was asked to meet.

I entertained them at the best restaurant in town. Sibella’s manners were perfect—they always were when she chose—and Lady Pebworth took an immediate liking to her, I of course being very careful not to show the least partiality for her.

The Hollands thus found themselves taken up by a woman who could probably launch them better than they could, in their wildest dreams, have expected. To do her justice, I do not think Sibella would have run after anybody for the purpose of getting into better society. She had enough of the Hallward pride and egotism to save her from vulgarity. At the same time she was quite prepared to swim with the tide and hold her own.

Sir Anthony managed to keep his admiration within bounds, and the evening was a great success. We finished up by spending an hour at a famous theatre of varieties. Lionel Holland from this time attached himself to me much more than I cared about. He was amazingly proud of Sir Anthony’s friendship, and I fancy that exclusive gentleman had to pay somewhat dearly for the privilege of being near Sibella so much. He became quite the friend of the house, however.

Sibella’s dazzling beauty was not long in making its way. She was noticed at a brilliant social function by exalted folk, and as a consequence was presented by Lady Pebworth. Lionel was selected as a forlorn hope for the next General Election, and Mr. Holland was so pleased that he appreciably increased their allowance.

It may be asked what good this was all doing me. As a matter of fact, it is an instance of how impossible it is to generalise about character. I was perfectly sure of my power over Sibella, and enjoyed seeing her admired and sweeping everything before her.

They could not get away from the fact—and I don’t think Sibella had any wish to—that it was I who had launched them. Of course, people tried to shatter Sibella’s reputation by way of putting a speedy stop to her upward climb, but nothing could be said which was in any way susceptible of proof.

I had not since her marriage treated her with anything except the most ordinary friendliness. I was certainly not going to risk a snub. I was convinced of one thing, that had I made a more strenuous effort to win her from Lionel Holland I might have done so. Perhaps some intuitive feeling warned me to suffer, and not to risk my own ultimate profit.

Whilst engaged in trifles I was not neglecting the main business of my life. I had not been able to avoid an introduction to Ughtred Gascoyne, who somewhat inopportunely took a fancy to me. It was rather awkward, as it would have been far more convenient to have remained unknown.

By degrees it leaked out that Catherine Goodsall’s husband was dead, and that she and Ughtred Gascoyne were going to be married. She told me the news herself, with tears in her eyes. I am sure I should have been glad if the words of congratulation I spoke could have been sincere, and I really hoped that things could at least be so arranged that they might have some time of married happiness before Ughtred Gascoyne was removed. But this was not my business; and, further, it might result in another human obstacle being placed in my path.

Their wedding was fixed for a day in Christmas week. It was now October. I had therefore not much time to lose. Of course, neither of them was young, and it was improbable that they would have any children, but it was possible. I had so managed to make everything in my mind subservient to my main object that the prospect of Catherine Goodsall’s disappointment only raised a momentary pang.

I racked my brains by day and night, trying to devise some new and entirely original way of starting Ughtred Gascoyne on his way to a happier world.

Being known as a friend of his, it would not do to use poison. Pistols and daggers, although they have their uses, both in melodrama and out of it, did not commend themselves. They suggested danger, blood, and noise. I had early grasped the cardinal principles of my undertaking; firstly, that I must be absolutely relentless; and, secondly, that the word horror must be eliminated from my vocabulary.

As I lay awake one night in my room in St. James’s thinking the matter over, I heard the cry of fire, the galloping of horses, and the jingle of the engine as it swayed along Piccadilly. I have always been fond of fires: even as a small boy they possessed a weird fascination for me.

I lay debating whether I should not get up and see the fun. It was evidently not far off, for I could hear the hiss of the water as it shot through the air, and the shouts of men. Suddenly an idea came into my head. Fire was apparently used as a rule in the clumsiest way by murderers. How often may it not have been used successfully and with complete secrecy?

It was important to keep in mind that successful crimes do not as a rule come to light.

Arson to the average mind always conveys a sensation of horror that is perhaps wanting in all other crimes. Suffocation or burning were neither of them pleasant methods, but I was not to be deterred by a sentiment.

The idea, once in my brain, became fixed. I found it impossible to dislodge it. I should have liked to go to the British Museum and read up all the details I could obtain of crime by arson, but this would have been a risky proceeding, and might in the never-to-be-forgotten contingency of my falling under suspicion be exceedingly damning.

I should have to trust to my own invention. Ughtred Gascoyne had asked me to call on him, and early one Sunday morning I did so. He occupied an upper part in Albemarle Street. There was a side door and a flight of stairs leading to his rooms. I immediately grasped the importance of the fact that there was no porter or lift. He had a manservant who slept on the floor above his own, and a woman who came in in the daytime. The establishment was thus conveniently miniature. On the first floor he had a sitting-room that led into his bedroom, with a bathroom beyond. Above this was his dining-room, which was seldom used; also a kitchen and a very small bedroom for his servant. The place was old, curiously so for such a smart quarter of the town, and, I imagined, highly combustible.

The rooms were too solidly furnished for my purpose, but they had muslin curtains and a fair number of knick-knacks. I quite realised that it was an off chance, but at the same time I believed it could be carried out with little or no personal risk. What I particularly wished to do was to enter his rooms with him at night without anybody being aware of it, and to leave them unnoticed.

The Sunday morning I called on him he was, I fancy, a little surprised to see me, but evidently quite pleased.

“I am very fond of young people, and I like to have them about me. Mrs. Goodsall and I agree on that. I cannot understand old people who are content to vegetate with their faded contemporaries.”

“It isn’t everybody who gets on with young people.”

“It is merely a question of mood. You must feel young, and you will get on with them well enough.”

“To feel young. Therein lies the difficulty for most people.”

“Yes, most people eat and drink and sedenterate themselves—if I may coin a verb—into premature old age.”

Whilst he talked I was wondering how long it would take to suffocate a human being, and what density of smoke was necessary, and whether he was a heavy sleeper, a fact he was good enough to enlighten me on.

“Youth is merely a question of spirits, and spirits are largely if not entirely a question of sleep. No, I have never missed a night’s sleep in my life that I can remember, not even”—he lowered his voice—“when my mother died.”

“You are lucky. I wish I could say as much.”

“Directly my head touches the pillow I am asleep, and I don’t wake till I am called.”

This was indeed good news, that is, if it could be relied upon. It is amazing how people will lie about their own habits. They are a matter of personal delusion to a great extent, and people talking about themselves will, in good faith, deny idiosyncrasies of which their intimates are fully aware.

For aught I could be sure of, Ughtred Gascoyne was a martyr to insomnia, although he certainly did not suggest it.

His bedroom was a light, airy room with very little furniture, and a severe, narrow bed such as is affected by the average English gentleman, and is to me an abomination.

At any rate, this was the room it was my business to set on fire with such completeness as might ensure the passing of Ughtred Gascoyne.

It is the usual habit for those with a weakness for arson to empty paraffin oil over a quantity of furniture, and then set a light to it, a method of procedure that nearly always leads to detection. I remembered when thinking over my plans that Ughtred Gascoyne’s rooms were lighted by lamps and not by electric light. Would this help me in any way? It might. I already foresaw that my nerve and courage would be called into play in this enterprise far more than had hitherto been the case.

October passed and some part of November, and nothing had been done, except that I had grown more and more friendly with Ughtred Gascoyne. He was very musical, and liked to hear me sing and play.

Sometimes I made a point of meeting him late at night on his way home from the club, and went in and smoked a cigar with him. I could not help reflecting how very much those whom it was my unfortunate duty to remove seemed to like me. Perhaps it was a premonition that I was about to do them a good turn or what might prove to be so.

His servant was usually in bed when I returned to his rooms with him at night.

Both Catherine Goodsall and he were always talking of the time they would have me to stay with them at the little place they were taking in the country.

“Quite small,” said Ughtred Gascoyne, “but altogether delightful, isn’t it, Catherine?”

“You know, dear, I’m in love with it. I am looking forward to having a little vault in that dear old church with a stained glass window, to the memory of Ughtred and Catherine Gascoyne of this parish.”

“I can’t say that that is a very cheerful way of looking forward.”

“Well, it’s only when that happens that a woman can be said to have her husband to herself.”

We laughed. It was really quite delightful to see how happy they meant to be, and after all if “man never is but always to be blest,” and the pleasure of all things is a question of the imagination and lies almost entirely in anticipation, they had had as much pleasure out of it as could be expected.

I knew the time Ughtred Gascoyne usually went home, and my meetings with him, looked upon by him as accidental, were by no means so.

November went by, and it was the first week in December, and, strangely enough in this perverse climate of ours, the weather was bitterly cold. It was the sort of weather for my purpose, for Ughtred Gascoyne was a great stickler for fresh air, and it was only in such weather as this that he was likely to shut his windows. He was turning into Bond Street one night when I passed him. I laughed as we met.

“You won’t be allowed to stay out as late as this soon.”

“No, penal servitude is upon me. Coming in?”

We went up to his room, where there was a bright fire burning.

“Now, this is comfortable. By the way, I met a cousin of mine to-day. He says you are in his office.”

“I told you I was in a stockbroker’s office.”

“Yes, but you never told me he was my cousin, and that you are also a cousin.”

“I always leave the Gascoynes to find me out themselves. You see, my mother was a Gascoyne, and she was left to keep lodgings in Clapham.”

He looked at me kindly.

“You don’t feel bitter?”

“Oh dear no, only it isn’t a great encouragement to push myself forward, is it?”

“He tells me that there is another cousin of mine staying with him and his wife. He describes her as beautiful. What do you think?”

“I agree. I knew her brother.”

“Poor Harry Gascoyne. Killed by a fall from his horse, wasn’t he?”

“Horse kicked him.”

“Strange, must have been a brute.”

I talked to him as he undressed. He was inquisitive about the South Kensington household.

“Hardly know Gascoyne Gascoyne myself. Always heard he married badly.”

“He married very well, only her father happened to be a linen-draper.”

“Good heavens, that’s nothing in our days. Lord Southwick’s father-in-law was a grocer, and a very distinguished old gentleman, too. A damned sight better bred than ever the Southwicks were. They all look like stable-boys. Sort of family in which you’d think the women had been going wrong with the grooms for generations. Southwick married groceries and manners at the same time.”

“Mrs. Gascoyne is a very charming woman.”

“My dear fellow, I can quite believe it. A man like Gascoyne Gascoyne does not retain his polish undimmed if he has been living for years with a woman who isn’t a lady at heart.”

“I don’t think Miss Gascoyne would be devoted to anyone who was capable of offending the canons of good taste.”

“They are great friends?”

“I should think so.”

“Well, when I am married we must have a nice family party. Don’t mind my getting into bed. You can let yourself out, can’t you?”

“Easily.”

I stood and talked to him while I put on my coat, and then I said good-night.

“Oh, do you mind shutting my bedroom door, the woman makes such a beastly row doing it if it’s left till the morning.”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night. Mind you come to my wedding.”

I shut the bedroom door. I was in the outer room alone. I went to the door, and going outside shut it. Then I ran downstairs, opened the front door and banged it, leaving myself inside. I sat down on the stairs and waited. After a while I stole upstairs again. The darkened room with the firelight playing over it looked very comfortable. I gently took the glass off the reading-lamp, and, unscrewing the burner, poured the contents over the foot of the curtains near which was the only wicker chair in the room.

I had to close the old-fashioned shutters so as to screen the room from any policeman on his beat as long as possible. One of my original ideas had been to put a large piece of coal on the fire and lower the register, leaving the room to fill with smoke.

The lowering of the register, however, would make noise. Things were better as they were. While I was completing all these arrangements I was on the alert for the least sound from the other room. Again and again I paused, ready to make for the door and be out of the house before he could reach me. I had placed a chair in such a position in front of his door that he would be bound to trip over it if he came out in a hurry.

Lastly came the most difficult part of my task. I had to remove the chair and open his bedroom door slightly. I listened long and carefully till a snore assured me that it was safe. I leant across the chair and opened the door a little way. The heavy breathing in the bed stopped. For one moment I felt terror; the next moment he had snored again. I removed the chair.

The striking of a match might have betrayed me. I lit a piece of paper at the fire and held it to the soaked curtains. Then I was out of the room like a shot and downstairs. As I glanced back the room was already full of flame.

When I emerged into the streets I looked carefully up and down. There was not a policeman to be seen. I reached my rooms and went to bed. I wish I could boast of such a nerve as would have allowed me to sleep through the night.

The next morning I started for the City at the usual time. I scanned the morning paper, but there was nothing about a fire in Albemarle Street. At lunch-time the first thing that met my gaze as I left the office was a placard issued by one of the earlier and cheaper evening papers:—‘Gentleman suffocated in Albemarle Street.’

With an extraordinary calm I read that about three a.m. a fire occurred at the chambers of the Hon. Ughtred Gascoyne, resulting in the death of that gentleman, who was well known in social and sporting circles. His servant, who slept on the floor above, was awakened by the smell of smoke, and getting out of bed and hurrying to the top of the stairs to arouse his master was driven back by the flames and smoke. He was subsequently rescued by a fire escape from the top storey.

On the fire being extinguished the unfortunate gentleman was discovered in his bed. He must have been suffocated in his sleep.

I put down the paper with satisfaction and ate a good lunch. I had at any rate not inflicted any great physical suffering.

Mr. Gascoyne came back from his lunch looking very white.

“It’s a most awful thing, Israel. There seems to be a curse on our family.”

“Why, sir, what is the matter now?”

“You know my cousin Ughtred?”

“Yes.”

“The poor fellow has been suffocated in his bed.”

I appeared horrified. “You don’t mean to say at his rooms in Albemarle Street?”

“Yes.”

I looked terribly concerned.

“He was to have been married quite soon.”

“So I understood. Mrs. Goodsall, the actress, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Curiously enough, I met him yesterday at the club of a friend of mine. I hadn’t seen him for years.”

I called a hansom directly I left the office and drove to Albemarle Street. A small group was watching the house from the other side of the road. The windows were boarded up and the stonework round them blackened with smoke. I knocked at the door, and it was opened by Ughtred Gascoyne’s servant. He had reason to remember me with gratitude, for I knew that servants are the adventurer’s staunchest allies or greatest enemies.

“Will you step inside, sir? Lord Gascoyne has been here most of the day. He’s just gone.”

I did not wish to meet his lordship.

“When do you expect him to return?”

“Not till to-morrow, sir.”

I went in. There was a gruesome smell of charred wood and stuffs. I followed Mason upstairs.

“This it where it must have begun, sir.” He pointed to where the wicker work chair had stood.

“What I can’t understand, sir, is how the shutters came to be closed. I never knew Mr. Gascoyne to shut them, and he gave me particular instructions to the contrary. There was no need for them, you see.”

I looked towards the bedroom.

“They took him away to the mortuary, sir, to await the inquest. No man could have been a better master.”

“He was a splendid chap, Mason. You know how I looked up to him.” I spoke in my most ingenuous tones.

“And very fond he was of you, sir. He was always at home to you.”

I pressed half a sovereign into his hand.

“Did he come home alone, Mason?”

“No, sir—at least, I fancy I heard voices. Oh yes, and I heard the door bang. I don’t know who it was, sir, I’m sure.”

The front room was quite burnt out, and there could be absolutely no trace of the oil with which I had started the conflagration.

I had apparently succeeded in a very risky undertaking.

I left a card at Mrs. Goodsall’s with my deepest sympathy. The servant informed me she was quite prostrated, and I was made somewhat uncomfortable by hearing sounds of sobbing from the second storey of the tiny house.

At the Gascoynes’, where I was to dine, I found the household in the deepest gloom. The tragedy seemed to have brought back something of the bitterness of their own grief. It was too similar in its horror to the death of the two young Gascoynes to be much discussed. We avoided gloomy topics with an almost hysterical earnestness, but it is extraordinary how matters of that kind will obtrude themselves when they are desired not to do so. Left alone with Mr. Gascoyne, however, the constraint passed and we talked freely.

“Just one of those things that are quite inexplicable. The fire brigade authorities do not agree with the theory that a live coal must have dropped out of the grate. They think the fire originated at the other end of the room, and that it must have been a cigarette or something of the kind.”

“It doesn’t matter much what it was, does it?”

“Of course not; only one cannot help travelling round a case like that and looking at it from every point of view. I called there this afternoon.”

“And I was there this evening.”

“Did you see Lord Gascoyne?”

“No.”

“He was there when I called, and seemed terribly upset. He kept on saying, ‘Poor Uncle Ughtred!’ and ‘He was the life and soul of everything.’ ”

I could not see that these remarks of Lord Gascoyne’s were very illuminating or helpful, but it is curious how little people trouble to be sensible when they are talking of the dead.

Miss Gascoyne pressed my hand as I said good-night.

“What a friend you are! You are always cheering us. You knew him, too, which makes it all the nicer of you to be so cheerful.”

“Good-night,” I said, and then threw into my glance a confession of admiration for which I had been months preparing the way. I was sure that had I ventured on such a thing a year before she would have felt anger, born of injured pride, but now her eyes fell, and I knew that I was on the road to success. She had taken me at my own valuation, as I had intended she should.