Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER XXIV

It was the sudden stamping of feet and the sound of blows outside that abruptly terminated our embrace. Releasing Mercia, and snatching up the siphon from the table, I darted to the door, where I found the faithful Wilton, armed with heavy boat-spanner, vigorously opposing the attempted advance of two of Sangatte's crew.

At the sight of me—I must have been a horrible-looking object—their courage seemed to falter.

"Come on, Wilton," I yelled, and, swinging back my siphon, I leaped forward to the attack.

It was too much for the enemy. However strong their affection for Sangatte may have been, they evidently had no stomach for further fighting, and with a simultaneous motion, they turned and bolted. As they disappeared down the corridor from which they had apparently emerged, I heard Billy's voice shouting my name from the deck.

I stepped back into the cabin.

"Time to go, Mercia," I said, holding out my hand.

She slipped her soft little fingers into mine, and as she did so, Sangatte, who had not moved since he had fallen, suddenly raised himself with an effort on to his elbow.

"Damn you!" he whispered thickly. "I'll be even with you for this—damn you both!" Then, with a groan, he sank back again on to the floor.

If it gave him any small pleasure to swear at us, I did not grudge it him—under the circumstances.

Our departure from the Seagull was distinctly more ceremonious than our arrival. By aid of his persuasive revolver, Billy had apparently induced the crew of the vessel to strike sail; for when we reached the deck, it was to find ourselves rocking idly on the bosom of the tide, with Cumming's smart little motor bobbing alongside. The three defeated hands, one of whom was the skipper, were clustered in the bows, watching Billy with anything but an affectionate expression.

"Not hurried you, Jack, I hope?" he called out, as we emerged from the companion, with Wilton guarding the rear.

"No, thank you, Billy," I said. "I'd quite finished."

He stepped forward to shake hands with Mercia. "And how's our host?" he inquired.

"Our host," I replied, "when he's patched up, will probably be mistaken for Señor Guarez."

Billy nodded his head. "You were always a good hand at scattering keepsakes," he observed contentedly.

It was at this point that Cumming's face, appearing over the side of the yacht, inquired with some pathos what time we should want the cab.

"I suppose we must tear ourselves away," said Billy reluctantly. "It's a pity, though. I was just beginning to enjoy myself. Devilish smart crew Sangatte's got—when they're properly handled."

Despite this handsome compliment, the crew betrayed no particular signs of regret at our departure. They watched with sullen hostility while I lowered Mercia into the hands of Cumming and then jumped down myself after her. Then, pushing away the launch with the boat-hook, we backed slowly astern, until there was sufficient room to swing her round towards the shore. A moment later we were racing back against the wind and tide, while behind us the Seagull still drifted idly down the centre of the stream.

A few hastily-exchanged explanations showed us that Billy had been quite right in his surmises as to Mercia's adventure. By a cleverly-worded letter, hinting that he was prepared to give evidence on my behalf, Sangatte had induced her to come and visit him at his house. Here, after expressing himself as being convinced of my innocence, he had offered to drive her down to the court; and Mercia, suspecting nothing of his purpose, had readily assented. Once inside the big, swiftly-moving limousine, it had been hopeless to try and escape until Burnham was reached, and then, just before the car drew up, Sangatte had thrust a handkerchief soaked in chloroform over her face, which had rendered her practically unconscious until she was safely in the ship's boat.

That was the only actual violence she had suffered from. Once on board, Sangatte, who possessed an abnormal opinion as to his own fascinations, had adopted the role of the impassioned, half-repentant lover, whose emotions had run away with him. I suppose he had thought that his own charms, combined with the hopelessly compromising position in which Mercia was placed, would be a sufficiently strong combination to effect his purpose. Anyhow, he had been giving this ingenious system a fair trial when Fate and my right fist had so unexpectedly intervened.

Such was Mercia's story, whispered out hurriedly as we throbbed our way back up the grey waters of the Crouch.

In return, Billy and I told her as briefly as possible of the amazing sequence of events which had led up to our arrival on board. The astonished Cumming, who now for the first time realised our identity, listened with such spellbound attention that on two occasions he as nearly as possible ran us on to the shallows.

"Well, I'm blessed!" he gasped when I'd finished. "Do you mean to say you're Burton—the Burton! Why, I was only reading your case while I was at lunch, and thinking how much I'd like to meet you."

"Well, you've done it all right," laughed Billy; "and devilish lucky for us, too."

"But, good Lord, what a yarn!" went on Cumming, looking with a kind of curious admiration first at me, and then back at Billy and Mercia. "It knocks spots off my woolliest efforts, and that's saying something. And to think of my being in at the death, too! It's enough to make Oppenheim blue with envy."

"Come up to town with us and see it through," I suggested. "They've turned me down as a murderer, it's true, but there are all sorts of pleasant possibilities still kicking about. I shall probably be arrested for stealing Northcote's ten thousand as soon as I get back."

"Anyhow," said Billy, smiling at Mercia, "he can at least promise you a wedding."

"And probably a funeral as well," I added, "if I happen to run across Maurice."

"I'd love to," said Cumming, steering us deftly in towards the quay through the crowd of anchored boats. "All the same, I think I'll run this little jigger round to Maldon first. It would be just as well to get her out of Burnham in case your pal, Lord Sangatte, puts back here for plaster. I ought to go up to town to-morrow in any case, so if you'll give me your address, I'll roll round and 'pay my respects.'"

"Do!" I said heartily. "If I'm not in Bow Street, you'll find me at Lammersfield House, Park Lane."

"You forget, my son," interrupted Billy. "It doesn't belong to you now."

"Yes, it does," I said firmly. "I gave my promise to Northcote, and I'm not going to shift out of it until the three weeks are up."

"Good," said Billy. "We ought to have some fun with the heir, whoever he is."

Cumming tied up his boat to the steps, and climbing up on to the quay saw us safely into the car. I don't know whether any of our operations on board the Seagull had been visible from Burnham, but, at all events, our old longshore friend did not seem particularly interested in us. He just pocketed the five shillings I gave him for looking after the car, and then promptly shuffled off for the hotel tap without waiting to watch us depart.

"So long, then," said Cumming, as soon as we had packed ourselves in and the driver was ready to start. "I'll give your love to Sangatte as I pass him."

"Thanks," I said; "and don't worry if he makes any fuss. George Gordon says we were legally justified in anything short of manslaughter."

"Skunk slaughter," said Cumming, "is what you want an indemnity against."

We turned off round the corner of the quay, stopping at the Post Office to send a wire to Gordon.

"Expedition successful," I wrote, "Will you meet us Westminster Palace Hotel five-thirty."

"It's just opposite to the House of Commons," I pointed out to Billy, "so he'll be able to run across even if he's busy. I'm dying to know what happened after we left."

"What I'm dying for is some food," remarked Billy, as we came out again to the car. "I expect Miss Solano agrees with me."

Mercia shook her head. "I am not very hungry," she said. "Let us wait till we get back to London."

"Just as you like," said Billy sadly. "I could do a chop, though—by Jove, I could!"

"Jump in, William," I said. "We'll all have the best dinner in London to-night—unless we're in gaol."

Mile after mile, the big car carried us back swiftly through the flat lanes and roads which we had so lately traversed. I was too happy to talk: most of the time I just lay back in my seat holding Mercia's hand; while Billy, in the intervals of bemoaning his hunger, filled up the gaps which we had necessarily left in our somewhat hurried explanations in the boat. Any doubt that he may have originally felt about Mercia had plainly vanished. She was part of the firm now—"one of us," so to speak; and Billy's manner clearly signified that he approved of the change.

It was just a quarter-past five by Big Ben as we swung round the corner of Parliament Square and drew up outside the Westminster Palace Hotel.

We were all of us badly in need of a little tidying-up, so the extra fifteen minutes before our appointment with Gordon was a welcome interval. I know in my own case that, what with the dust from the road, and the still surviving traces of my argument with Sangatte, I found such a rare-looking ruffian gazing back at me from the bedroom mirror that I felt surprised the hotel people had consented to receive us.

However, a bath, a comb, and other toilet accessories soon restored me to respectability, and sitting on the bed I waited for Billy, who was taking his turn at the looking-glass. It was then that, putting my hand in my pocket, I came across Lady Baradell's note. Although, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all about it in my somewhat strenuous employment since its arrival, I opened it now not without a certain pleasant curiosity as to what it might contain.

"I suppose I ought to be grateful to you, but I don't think I am. Now and always you have my good wishes. A. B."

I read it through slowly, and the picture of a beautiful woman, her bronze hair streaming loose over her shoulders, her wonderful amber eyes fixed on mine, rose with extraordinary clearness before my mind. With a little sigh over Nature's well-intentioned, if ill-adjusted, efforts, I took out a match, and striking it on the end of the bed, set fire to the bottom corner of the note.

"What are you burning?" asked Billy, looking up from the depths of his towel.

"Only a little bit of the past," I said sadly.

He threw down the towel with his old mischievous chuckle. "If you're going to start that game, Jack," he said, "you'd better spend your honeymoon at Vesuvius. It'll save you ruining yourself in matches."

We went downstairs to the sitting-room I had engaged, where tea was already laid. A minute later Mercia joined us. Despite all she had been through, she looked radiantly lovely as she came half shyly into the room. Indeed, Billy was so overcome that he jumped from his chair with a little gasp of open admiration.

"By Jove, Mercia!" he said. "You ought to be abducted twice a day. It makes you better-looking than ever."

She laughed sweetly, and came across to where I was standing. "I am afraid I shall never be more beautiful, then," she said, "unless there are some very reckless men in the world."

I drew her arm tenderly through mine. "I don't want you to be any more beautiful, Mercia," I said; "it would frighten me if you were."

There was a knock at the door, and a waiter entering announced "Mistaire Gordon."

Sleek and debonair as ever, my gallant defender followed hard upon his heels.

"Don't trouble to explain anything," he said, shaking hands all round. "I've got only ten minutes, and I've already heard full details about the piracy, of which, by the way, I thoroughly approve. I met Wilton in the hall."

"I wondered what had happened to him," I remarked. "We were expecting him up here to tea."

Gordon shook his head. "You won't get him," he said. "Wilton has some intelligence as a private detective, but outside his business he's a miracle of shyness and stupidity." Then he smiled in his quiet fatigued way. "He asked me to congratulate you, however."

"Congratulate me!" I echoed. "What about?"

Gordon accepted the cup of tea which Mercia offered him. "About fifty thousand, I believe," he drawled. "No doubt there's a good deal more somewhere, if we can find it."

We all stared at him in frank astonishment.

He looked round at us, smiling again from under his curious, heavily-lidded eyes.

"You remember the excellent advice given to us in the Gospels, Mr. Burton—to 'make friends out of the mammon of unrighteousness'? Well, you appear to have been doing it unawares—that's all. Those papers which the amazing Mr. Milford sprang on us in court—the ones addressed to Horsfall, I mean—were Northcote's confession, and incidentally his will. He has left you everything."

I jumped up from my chair. "Good Lord!" I cried. "Are you joking?"

Gordon shook his head. "I never joke outside the House of Commons."

"But why on earth—?" I began.

"As far as I can make out," he interrupted, "our deceased friend's mind worked in this way. It was rather more than possible, of course, that you would be killed before the three weeks were up, in which case all Prado's land property, which he had been unable to sell would have gone to Maurice Furnivall, as the next of kin. This he was determined to prevent, for by then he seems to have quite made up his mind that it was Furnivall who'd given him away. He wrote out a full statement of how affairs really stood, and sent it to Horsfall with a note that it was only to be opened in the event of his death. As this statement claimed that he was still alive, and afforded pretty good proof of the fact, it would have been quite sufficient to hang up the settlement until he found it safe to reappear, or, at all events, to communicate with the court."

"But the will," I broke in, "the will?"

"Ah!" said Gordon. "Like many robust scoundrels, I think that Mr. Prado was a bit of a fatalist. Although apparently he'd got off so neatly, I believe he had some sort of feeling that his days were numbered. He practically hints as much in his will, which he tells Horsfall he had drawn up in case 'all his excellent precautions should prove useless.' It's quite a simple document. He leaves you everything, 'in the improbable event,' as he puts it, 'of your surviving him,' Failing that, the property goes to charity."

"And Maurice gets nothing?"

"Not a bean," answered Gordon cheerfully. "If he finds himself hard up, the testator advises him to communicate with San Luca. I should think it was the only joke Prado ever made."

"But will it hold good in law?" I asked.

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "I think so," he said. "It's a little irregular, of course, but there's no one to fight it except Furnivall, and unless he's a fool, he'll lie devilish quiet. I've quite enough evidence to ask for his arrest for conspiring to murder you at Woodford. That reminds me, by the way. You're not likely to be troubled with your South American friends again for a little while—they got away on the New York City this morning. I can have them collared the other side, if we want them, of course; but, on the whole, I thought it best to let them go."

I nodded my approval. "We shall miss them," I said, "shan't we, Billy? Still, the best of friends must part."

"They must," agreed Gordon, pulling out his watch. "I'm due to speak in the House at five forty-five, and it's ten to six now."

He hastily picked up his hat and gloves. "Good-bye," he added, shaking hands all round. "Come and see me at my chambers at ten-thirty to-morrow, and we'll straighten things out a little. Till then,"—his eyes twinkled,—"well, try and keep out of mischief as much as possible."

"Fifty thousand pounds!" exclaimed Billy, as the door closed behind him. "Good Lord! Give me some more tea; I feel quite giddy."

Mercia poured him out another cup, which he gulped down in silence.

"Fifty thousand pounds," I repeated. "It's a sobering sum, isn't it?"

"Sobering!" gasped Billy. "It's—it's—" Words failed him completely.

"Well, come along," I said, jumping up from my chair. "Let's get back to Park Lane and see what's happening there. We've all sorts of things to do before dinner."

"All sorts of things to do?" echoed Billy reprovingly. "My dear Jack, you forget yourself: you are now one of the idle rich."

"Not quite, Billy," I said; "there's a lot of dust to sweep up yet. We'll start by paying for tea."

I rang the bell and settled my bill, giving the waiter a tip that made his hair curl. It pleased me to be able to pass on something of my own emotions.

We then went down into the hall, where a porter hurried off to inform our faithful driver, who by my instructions was refreshing himself somewhere in the hotel. A minute later, the Rolls-Royce drew up outside the door.

"Lammersfield House, Park Lane," I said.

Billy settled himself back luxuriously, facing me. "And to think," he murmured, "that ten days ago we were dining at Parelli's."

"To-night," I said, "we'll all three dine at Park Lane. What do you say, Mercia?"

Mercia nodded her head gravely. Ever since Gordon's revelations she had been curiously silent.

"That's to say, if there's anyone in the house," I went on, "It's more than likely that both the women have cleared out by now, and Heaven knows what's happened to Milford."

"Well, we shall soon see," remarked Billy consolingly. "In any case, you can ring up Harrod's and tell them to send some food along. That's the best of being a millionaire."

Mercia laid her hand on my sleeve. "I must let the Tregattocks know I am safe," she said. "They will be anxious about me. You see, I have been away ever since breakfast."

"Better send them a wire," I suggested, "saying that you'll be back by ten. We could ring them up, of course, only it's rather an impossible situation to explain over the telephone."

Gliding round the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, the big car swept forward for a hundred yards, and then drew up noiselessly outside Lammersfield House. By now, the fact that I was for the moment the most notorious person in England had gone clean out of my head. This lapse of memory nearly led to a regrettable incident, for as I jumped out to hold the door open for Mercia, a young man in a blue suit, who was standing on the pavement, made a sudden dash towards us. With a warning cry to Billy, I whipped back my fist ready to strike, and the stranger checked himself abruptly just out of distance.

"I say, I'm—I'm awfully sorry," he stammered. "I bey your pardon, Mr. Burton. The fact is"—here he began to feel in his pocket—"I am representing the Daily Wire. 'Fraid I gave you a bit of a surprise."

"It was nothing," I said, "to the surprise I nearly gave you."

"If you could spare me a few minutes—" he began eagerly.

"Look here," I said, "I'm busy now—I've got some friends with me. Come back in half an hour, and we'll have a chat."

He looked at me sharply as though to see whether I were telling him the truth, and then, apparently satisfied with the truthfulness of my countenance, began to express his thanks.

"It's no business of mine," he added tentatively, "but I suppose you know Mr. Furnivall is in the house?"

"What!" I almost shouted.

"Yes," he said. "I was really sent to interview him, but he declines to see any pressmen."

"Does he!" I said. "Well, if you wait here a minute or so, perhaps I might persuade him to change his mind."

"This," broke in Billy, softly rubbing his hands together, "just completes our day."

I turned to Mercia. "Don't be afraid, dear," I said. "There's not going to be any more bloodshed."

She smiled faintly. "I am not afraid," she answered. "One does not fight with men of his sort. He is a coward and a traitor. He sold Prado to the League, and he would have killed you when you were at Ashton."

I nodded my head. "I know, Mercia," I said sadly. "It's on these very points we are going to remonstrate with him."

I led the way up the steps, and then with my hands on the bell I paused.

"By Jove, Billy!" I said. "I suppose Maurice still thinks he's come into all Prado's money."

"You bet he does," chuckled Billy.

I gave a joyous peal at the bell, and in a few moments the door opened, and I found myself face to face with the pretty housemaid.

She uttered a low exclamation of surprise and delight. "Oh, sir!" she cried, "you've come back, you've come back!"

"Of course I have," I said. "I told you I should, and I often speak the truth."

She stepped back to make room for us, and we passed through into the farther hall.

"Where's Mr. Furnivall?" I asked.

She opened the inner door. "Mr. Furnivall—" she began, and then she stopped short; for there, at the foot of the staircase, stood Maurice himself, staring at me with an expression in which amazement, hatred, and fear were very evenly blended.

Some idea of bolting must have passed through his mind, for I saw him make a quick half-turn towards the banisters. Then I suppose the futility of the proceeding struck him, for with a big effort he regained his self-control, and advanced towards us with an ill-assumed air of dignity.

"I should have imagined," he said, "that this was the last place you would have had the impertinence to come to!"

I looked at him for a minute, with a slightly thoughtful smile.

"My dear Maurice," I said at last, "if you only had a little more courage, you'd be a really remarkable rascal. As it is—" I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk towards him.

He turned pale and stepped back.

"If you attempt to make any disturbance here—" he began.

"Oh, shut up!" I said good-humouredly, and reaching forward I caught him by the collar.

He squirmed furiously. "Send for the police," he bellowed, "send for the police!"

"You can send for the whole British Army, if you like," I observed, shaking him into something like silence. "Now listen to me, Maurice. Your cousin may have been a scoundrel, but, at all events, he trusted you, and you sold him—sold him like the dirty little Judas Iscariot you are. Besides that, you did your best to get me murdered."

"It's not true," he gurgled.

"Yes, it is," I replied. "Don't contradict me, or I shall get annoyed. Not only did you try to have me murdered at Ashton, but you told the most unblushing lies about me to the police." Here I lifted him up and shook him again till his teeth rattled. "Now, Maurice," I added, "people who behave to me like that are asking for trouble. Guarez has got it, Rojas has got it, and I've just been squaring matters with our mutual friend Sangatte."

"Look here," he gasped, "you're mistaken; on my honour you are. It's no good being violent. If you want money—"

He paused.

"Well?" I said grimly.

"I'll—I'll give you a cheque; and you can clear out and start fresh."

"Billy," I said, "just open that hall door, will you?"

Then I jerked my prisoner round, so that I could see his face.

"You appear to be under a slight misapprehension, Maurice," I said. "In the first place, you are not Prado's heir; and in the second, I don't happen to be in need of money."

Tightening my grip on his collar, I moved him slowly backwards across the hall towards the front door.

"What are you going to do?" he wailed.

"If I did my duty," I said pleasantly, "I should wring your neck. As I don't want to hurt your Aunt Mary's feelings, however, I'm merely going to throw you out of the house."

He writhed and twisted like a freshly landed eel, but step by step I shoved him inexorably backwards towards the door which Billy was holding open. In moments of great bodily stress the most carefully assumed refinement is apt to be dissipated, and I regret to say that Maurice's language would have disgraced a cow-puncher. I don't think Mercia minded in the least,—fortunately, she is not that sort,—but his confounded cheek at using it in front of her lent an additional stimulus to my efforts.

On the threshold we paused for a strenuous second or so, while I swung him round so that he could obtain a full view of his destination. Then with a mighty thrust, and one swift, accurately-planted kick, I sent him hurtling down the steps and out into the gutter.

"So perish all traitors," observed Billy's voice.

Maurice, who had fallen full length in the mud, slowly scrambled to his feet. The mixture of pain and fury in his face would have been funny if it had not been so repulsive. He was choking with emotion, but before he could recover himself sufficiently to get any of it out, he was suddenly accosted by the intensely interested representative of the Daily Wire, who had been watching his exit with a kind of paralysed fascination.

I suppose it is annoying to be asked for an interview under such circumstances; still, no irritation could excuse the stream of blasphemy with which Maurice turned upon his interrogator. For a moment, the latter was too astounded to reply; then, getting his chance, as Maurice paused for breath, he began to keep his end up with a vigour and resource that only the literary temperament can command.

Feeling that this dialogue was unsuitable both for Mercia and for my pretty housemaid, I was just stepping back to close the door when a voice that I had good reason for remembering suddenly cut into the uproar.

"If you don't stop using that language and clear out of here immediately, I shall call the police. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, gentlemen, brawling like this in Park Lane!"

It was Milford—the redoubtable Milford! Even if I had not recognised the tone, I should have guessed who it was speaking from the sentiments.

At the sound of his rebuke, the exchange of compliments stopped abruptly. Maurice, who apparently realised that he had been making an ass of himself, looked round wildly to find some way of escape from the rapidly increasing fringe of spectators. There was a taxi on the farther side of the road, the driver of which had drawn up to watch the fun. Walking across, Maurice gave the man some directions, and then, without so much as a glance back at the house, jumped inside and slammed the door. The next moment he was bowling off up the street.

I looked round for Milford, but he was already disappearing down the area steps. Closing the front door, I turned to the pretty housemaid, who had taken refuge behind the umbrella-stand.

"Ellen," I said, "Milford's coming in down below. You might send him straight up."

"Yes, sir," she gasped, and abandoning her hiding-place, she hurried off across the hall.

Billy took a deep breath. "I call this living," he remarked contentedly. "Fancy Milford turning up like that!"

"If ever a man had the dramatic instinct," I said, "Milford has."

The words had hardly passed when the door at the back of the hall opened and my incomparable retainer stood before us.

He looked all round, and then bowed gravely. "May I be permitted to welcome you back, sir? I regret I was not here to receive you."

I stepped forward, and held out my hand. "Milford," I said, "I'm not much good at thanking people, but"—then I paused—"well, I'm very grateful," I finished heartily.

He accepted my hand with a kind of apologetic movement. "Not at all, sir. Only too glad to have been of any assistance. May I say how pleased I am to learn that Mr. Northcote has made you his heir? I presume, sir, that explains Mr. Furnivall's—" He waved a significant hand towards the street.

"That," I said, "and a kick behind."

Milford nodded gravely.

"A bad lot, sir—a very bad lot. I always warned Mr. Northcote against him."

"Milford," I said, "I don't know how things are here, but do you think, if we rung up Harrod's or Gunter's or someone, that you could manage a little dinner for three at, say, eight o'clock? Miss Solano and Mr. Logan have been through the whole business with me, and we want to celebrate its success."

A smile of professional pride stole across Milford's face. "Certainly, sir," he replied, with a bow. "Everything shall be ready at eight o'clock; you may rely on that, sir."

"You're staying here, of course, Billy," I said, as Milford disappeared.

"Rather," said Billy. "You don't suppose I'm going to leave you now you've got fifty thousand? I'll just run down in a cab to my old digs, and fetch my traps before dinner."

"Right you are, Billy," I laughed. "And you might send the wire to Lady Tregattock at the same time."

* * * * * * * * *

We are standing in the very room where, ten days before, that midnight bullet had so nearly ended my adventures.

"Mercia," I said, "my own sweet Mercia," and taking her hands, I drew them up on to my shoulders, and gazed down into her dear, upturned face.

I think she guessed what was in my mind, for she looked round at the curtain with a little shudder.

"Ah!" she whispered, "if I had killed you—"

"At least," I said, with a twinkle in my eyes, "it would have saved Sangatte's good looks." Then I bent forward and gently kissed those soft, sorrowful lips that I loved so well.

"Mercia," I said, "I know what you are thinking about this money of Prado's. I know that it was wrung and tortured out of your father's friends and followers, and that you would starve rather than benefit in any way by their sufferings."

"Yes, yes," she whispered; "I knew you would understand."

"Dearest," I said gently, "we will take it as a trust—you and I and Billy. God knows how much misery and suffering Prado caused, but over in Bolivia there's gold enough to undo even his work. It was Manuel Solano who saved San Luca: it shall be Solano's daughter who will save her again."

With a little cry of joy, Mercia seized my hand, and before I could stop her, raised it to her lips.

It took me at least five minutes to satisfy myself that this incorrect procedure had been properly atoned for.

THE END