THE DUST OF CONFLICT

“I AM, YOU WILL REMEMBER, AN ADVENTURER.”

THE DUST OF CONFLICT

By HAROLD BINDLOSS

AUTHOR OF “ALTON OF SOMASCO,”

“THE CATTLE-BARON’S DAUGHTER,” ETC.

With illustrations in color by

W. HERBERT DUNTON

NEW YORK · FREDERICK A.

STOKES COMPANY · PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1907,

BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

Published in January, 1907

All rights reserved

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

THE DUST OF CONFLICT

[I — VIOLET WAYNE’S CONFIDENCE]

THE November afternoon was drawing towards its close when Bernard Appleby stood with a gun on his shoulder in an English country lane. It was a costly hammerless gun, but it had been lent to him, and the fact that his right shoulder was sore and there was a raw place on one of his fingers was not without its significance. Appleby, indeed, seldom enjoyed an opportunity of shooting pheasants, and had been stationed at what proved to be a particularly warm corner of the big beech wood. Here he had, however, acquitted himself considerably better than might have been expected, for he had a steady eye and the faculty of making a quick and usually accurate decision, as well as a curious coolness in action, which was otherwise somewhat at variance with an impulsive disposition. These qualities are useful in more serious affairs than game shooting, and it was fortunate for Appleby, who was a poor man, that he possessed them, because they comprised his whole worldly advantages.

A little farther up the lane his kinsman, Anthony Palliser, was talking to a keeper, and though Appleby could not hear what they said, there was something in the man’s manner which puzzled him. It was certainly not respectful, and Appleby could almost have fancied that he was threatening his companion. This, however, appeared improbable, for Anthony Palliser was a man of some little importance in that part of the country, and endowed with an indolent good humor which had gained him the good will of everybody. Still, Appleby had seen that complaisance can be carried too far, and knowing rather better than most people how little stiffness there was in Palliser’s character, watched him somewhat curiously until the keeper moved away.

Then Palliser came up and joined him, and they turned homewards down the lane. They were not unlike in appearance, and of much the same age—Appleby twenty-six, Palliser a year younger. Both were healthy young Englishmen, but there was an indefinite something in the poise of Appleby’s head, and the very way he put his feet down, which suggested who possessed the most character. He had clear blue eyes which met one fearlessly, and into which there crept at times a little reckless twinkle, crisp brown hair, and lips which could set firmly together, while he held himself well, considering that he labored for the most part at a desk.

“What do you think of keeper Davidson?” asked Palliser.

“A surly brute!” said Appleby. “Ill-conditioned, but tenacious. Have you any reason for asking?”

He fancied for a moment that Palliser had something to tell him, but the younger man smiled somewhat mirthlessly. “I don’t like the fellow, and wonder why my respected uncle tolerates him,” he said. “He is certainly tenacious. You have a trick of weighing up folks correctly, Bernard.”

“It is fortunate I have some qualification for my profession, and it’s about the only one,” said Appleby dryly. “Still, it did not need much penetration to see that you and he held different opinions.”

Palliser appeared irresolute. “The fact is, he would have the netting put up in the wrong place, and spoiled what should have been our best drive,” he said. “It was by his bad management they had to put two of the game hampers in the dog-cart, which sent us home on foot. I hope you don’t mind that. It’s a pleasant evening for walking, and you know you don’t get much exercise.”

“Not in the least!” said Appleby. “Don’t make excuses, Tony. It isn’t everybody who would have walked home with me, and it was very good of you to persuade Godfrey Palliser to have me down at all. It is the only taste I get of this kind of thing—one fortnight in the year, you see—and I’m considerably fonder of it than is good for me.”

Palliser flushed a trifle, for he was sympathetic and somewhat sensitive, though his comrade had intended to express no bitterness. By and by he stopped where the lane wound over the crest of a hill, and it was possible that each guessed the other’s thoughts as they looked down into the valley.

A beech wood with silver firs in it rolled down the face of the hill, and the maze of leafless twigs and dusky spires cut sharp against the soft blueness of the evening sky, though warm hues of russet and crimson still chequered the dusky green below. Beyond it, belts of thin white mist streaked the brown plough land in the hollow where Appleby could see the pale shining of a winding river. Across that in turn, meadow and coppice rolled away past the white walls of a village bowered in orchards, and faded into the creeping night beyond a dim church tower and the dusky outline of Northrop Hall. As they watched, its long row of windows twinkled into brilliancy, and the sound of running water came up with the faint astringent smell of withered leaves out of the hollow. Appleby drew in a deep breath, and his face grew a trifle grim.

“And all that will be yours some day, Tony!” he said. “You ought to feel yourself a lucky man.”

Palliser did not appear enthusiastic. “There are,” he said, “always drawbacks, and when there are none one generally makes them. The place is over head and heels in debt, and setting anything straight, especially if it entailed retrenchment, was never a favorite occupation of mine. Besides, a good deal depends upon my pleasing Godfrey Palliser, and there are times when it’s a trifle difficult to get on with him.”

“Still, your wife will have plenty of money.”

Appleby almost fancied that Palliser winced as they turned away. “Yes,” he said. “Violet and I are, however, not married yet, and we’ll talk of something else. Are you liking the business any better?”

Appleby laughed. “I never liked it in the least, but Godfrey Palliser gave me my education, which was rather more than anybody could have expected of him, and I had the sense to see that if I was ever able to practise for myself the business he could influence would be a good thing for me. My worthy employer, however, evidently intends holding on forever, and the sordid, monotonous drudgery has been getting insupportable lately. You may be able to understand that, though you haven’t spent six years in a country solicitor’s office.”

“No,” said Palliser sympathetically. “I never go into such places except when I want money, as I frequently do. Still, is there anything else open to you?”

Appleby straightened his shoulders with a little resolute gesture, and—for they were heading west—pointed vaguely towards the pale evening star.

“There are still lands out there where they want men who can ride and shoot, and take their chances as they come; while if I was born to be anything in particular it was either a jockey or a soldier.”

Palliser nodded. “Yes,” he said, “you got it from both sides, and it was rather a grim joke to make you a solicitor. Still, it’s a risky thing to throw one’s living over, and I have a fancy that my uncle likes you. You are a connection, anyway, and one never knows what may happen.”

“Godfrey Palliser has done all he means to do for me, and even if there were nobody else, your children would have a prior claim, Tony.”

Palliser looked up sharply, and though the light was very dim there was something in his face that once more puzzled his companion. “I think that is a little personal—and I wouldn’t make too sure,” he said.

They said nothing further, but tramped on in the growing darkness, past farm steadings where the sleek cattle flocked about the byres, into the little village where the smell of wood smoke was in the frosty air, through the silent churchyard where generations of the Pallisers lay, and up the beech avenue that led to Northrop Hall. It would, as Appleby had said, all be his comrade’s some day. They parted at the head of the great stairway where the long corridors branched off, and Appleby looked at Palliser steadily as he said—

“One could fancy there was something on your mind tonight, Tony.”

Palliser did not answer, and Appleby went to his room to dress for dinner, which was a somewhat unusual proceeding for him. Nothing of moment occurred during the meal, and it was nobody’s fault that he felt not quite at home, as he had done at other functions of the kind. The gayeties of the Metropolis were unknown, except by hearsay, to him, and it was but once a year he met Tony’s friends at Northrop Hall. It was, however, not quite by coincidence, as he at first fancied, that he afterwards found Miss Violet Wayne, Tony’s fiancée, sitting a little apart from the rest in the drawing-room. He did not think that either of them suggested it, but presently she was walking by his side in the conservatory, and when they passed a seat almost hidden under the fronds of a tree fern she sat down in it. The place was dimly lighted, but they could see each other, and Appleby had realized already that Violet Wayne was distinctly good to look upon.

Her face was almost severely regular in outline and feature, with but the faintest warmth in its creamy tinting; but this was atoned for by the rich coloring of her hair, which gleamed with the hues of gold and burnished copper. There was also a curious reposefulness about her, and Appleby had wondered why a young woman of her distinction had displayed the kindliness she had more than once done to him. He was grateful for it, but what he had seen of men and women during his legal training had made him shrewd.

“This place is pleasantly cool and green, but I am not sure that is why we are here,” he said. “In any case, I am glad, because I am going away to-morrow, and wished to thank you for your graciousness to me. I am, as, of course, you know, an outsider here, and you have in several tactful ways made my stay pleasant to me.”

Violet Wayne looked at him with big calm eyes, but made no disclaimer. “You are a relative of Godfrey Palliser!”

“A distant one; but my mother married a penniless army captain, and a ranker. He had won his commission by worth and valor, but that was no reason why the Pallisers should hold out a hand to him.”

Violet Wayne nodded gravely. “Still, Godfrey Palliser sent you to school with Tony. You were always good friends, though I think he told me you were born abroad?”

“Yes,” said Appleby, “he was my first English friend. My father died at Gibraltar, and my mother stayed on there until she followed him. She did not want to forget him, and living is cheap in Spain. Tony and I fought our way through three schools together.”

“I think it was you who fought for him,” said Miss Wayne, with a little smile. “He has, I may mention, told me a good deal about you, and that is one reason why I feel that I could trust you. You would, I believe, respect any confidence a woman reposed in you.”

Appleby flushed a trifle. “I fancy I told you I was grateful,” he said. “The little kindnesses you have shown me mean so much to a man whose life is what mine has been. One gets very few of them, you see.”

“Still,” the girl said quietly, “when we first met you were not quite sure of me.”

The color showed a trifle plainer in Appleby’s forehead, for he had not had the advantages of his companion’s training, but he looked at her with steady eyes. “You can set that down as due to the pride of the class I sprang from on one side—I feared a rebuff which would have hurt me. I was, you will remember, Tony’s friend long before he met you!”

“And now?”

Appleby made her a little inclination. “Tony,” he said, “is a very good fellow, as men go, but I do not know that he is good enough for you.”

Violet Wayne smiled and then sat still, looking at him with a curious softness in her eyes. “He is in trouble,” she said simply, “and I am fond of him. That is why I have led you on.”

Appleby rose, and there was a suggestion of resolute alertness in his attitude, though his head was bent. “Don’t ask me for any help that I can give. Let me offer it,” he said. “I don’t know that I am expressing myself fittingly, but it is not only because you will be Tony’s wife that you can command whatever little I can do.”

The girl saw his lips set and the glint in his eyes, and knew he meant what he said. She also saw his chivalrous respect for herself, and, being a young woman of keen perceptions, also surmised that the son of the ranker possessed certain qualities which were lacking in the man she was to marry. She was, as she had admitted, fond of Tony, but most of those who knew and liked him guessed that he was unstable and weak as water. Violet Wayne had, however, in spite of occasional misgivings, not quite realized that fact yet.

“I want you to help him because you are his friend—and mine, but it would hurt him if you told him that I had asked you to; and I do not even know what the trouble is,” she said.

“I have pledged myself; but if you have failed to discover it how can I expect to succeed?”

Violet Wayne did not look at him this time. “There are some difficulties a man would rather tell his comrade than the woman who is to be his wife.”

“I think, if I understand you aright, that you are completely and wholly mistaken. If Tony is in any difficulty, it will be his usual one, the want of money.”

A tinge of color crept into the girl’s face. “Then you will lend it him and come to me. I have plenty.”

She rose as she spoke, and Appleby long afterwards remembered the picture she made as she stood amidst the tall ferns with the faint warmth in her face and the vague anxiety in her eyes. She was tall, and held herself well, and once more he bent his head a trifle.

“I will do what I can,” he said simply.

Violet Wayne left him, but she had seen his face, and felt that whatever it cost him the man would redeem his pledge; while Appleby, who went outside to smoke, paced thoughtfully up and down the terrace.

“If Tony has gone off the line in the usual direction he deserves to be shot,” he said.

He went in by and by, and watched his comrade in the billiard room. Tony was good at most games, but that night he bungled over some of the simplest cannons, though Appleby remembered that he had shot remarkably well during the afternoon. Still, he expected no opportunity of speaking to him alone until the morning, and when the rest took up their candles retired to his room. He lay in a big chair thinking, when Tony came in and flung himself into another. Appleby noticed that his face was almost haggard.

“Can you lend me ten pounds?” he said.

“No,” said Appleby dryly. “I had to venture an odd stake now and then, and do not play billiards well, while I am now in possession of about three sovereigns over my railway fare home to-morrow. What do you want the money for?”

“I only want it until the bank at Darsley opens to-morrow. This is my uncle’s house, of course, but I am, so to speak, running it for him, and I couldn’t well go round borrowing from the men I asked to stay with me.”

“It seems to me that you have not answered my question.”

Tony showed more than a trace of embarrassment. He was, though a personable man, somewhat youthful in appearance and manner, and a little color crept into his forehead. Appleby, who remembered his promise, saw his discomposure, and decided that as the bank would be open at ten on the morrow Tony wanted the money urgently that night.

“Is there any reason why I should?” said the latter.

Appleby nodded. “I think there is,” he said. “We have been friends a long while, and it seems to me quite reasonable that I should want to help you. You are in a hole, Tony.”

Palliser had not meant to make a confession, but he was afraid and weak, and Appleby was strong. “I am. It’s a devilishly deep one, and I can’t get out,” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you. I’m in that condemned Davidson the keeper’s hands, and he is squeezing the life out of me. You will remember his daughter Lucy, who lived at the lodge?”

“Blackmail!” said Appleby dryly. “Go on.”

Tony took out and played with a cigar. “She was pretty, and you know I was always a trifle soft. Now and then I stopped as I passed, and talked to her. I don’t think she disliked it. Well, I don’t remember exactly how it came about, but I made her a trifling wager, and, of course, I lost it; while some fiend put it into my head to send her a little brooch, with a note, instead of the forfeit agreed on—I think it was a box of chocolate. I was away for a week or two, and when I came back she told me she didn’t think she ought to take anything of that kind from me. There was nobody about the lodge—at least so I fancied—and I insisted upon putting the condemned thing on. I think I told you she was pretty.”

“I have seen it for myself,” said Appleby, whose face was a picture of disgust. “Go on!”

“Well,” said Tony, “why the devil are you looking like that at me? I wasn’t engaged to Violet then, and I kissed her—and went away immediately. It is necessary that you should know this, you see.”

Perhaps it was relief, for his comrade was more truthful than weak men usually are, but Appleby lapsed into a great burst of laughter. Tony, however, looked at him lugubriously.

“It really isn’t in the least amusing—to me,” he said. “It’s an especially risky business kissing that kind of young woman, especially when anybody sees you. Still, I’d seen something in the girl’s face that warned me, and on my word of honor the affair ended there; but in a week or two, when I didn’t answer the note she sent, Davidson came and worried me. Talked about his feelings and a motherless girl’s reputation, showed me the note I’d written her, and said a good deal about witnesses. Well—you know I’m careless—I gave him five pounds, a note, and then saw he had one of his men hanging about. ‘Go down to the “Black Bull,” and get this fiver Mr. Palliser has given me changed,’ he said.”

“Clever!” said Appleby. “I begin to understand the thing.”

“Well,” said Tony, “I never went near his place since then, and the girl went away, but soon after I was engaged to Violet, Davidson turned up again. This time it was a more serious tale—the usual one—but you have got to believe what I told you.”

“Yes,” said Appleby, “I think I can. You were often a fool, Tony, but that contented you.”

“I gave him twenty pounds. If I’d had any sense I would have knocked him down instead; but it was an unpleasant story, and I was engaged to Violet. Godfrey Palliser was bent on the match too, though it wasn’t that which influenced me. Then Davidson commenced to come for money regularly, and I can’t get out of the fact that I’ve been subsidizing him without perjury; while it’s evident that if I told the truth now nobody would believe me. I tell you, Bernard, the thing has been worrying the life out of me.”

This was apparent from his strained voice and the dejection in his face, but Appleby smiled reassuringly. “You should have gone to a lawyer long ago, Tony; but you can leave it to me,” he said. “Davidson expects you to give him money to-night?”

“Yes. He makes me come out at midnight and meet him to show he holds the whip over me. Thirty pounds—and I can only raise twenty—at half-past eleven by the fir spinny! Have you the slightest hope of doing anything with him?”

Appleby nodded as he took out his watch. “I shouldn’t wonder if I bring you good news to-morrow. Remember, you are to say nothing to anybody. Give me what money you have and then go to sleep. You look as if you needed it.”

He took the notes Palliser handed him, and when he went away hung about the head of the stairway until Violet Wayne came up with a white-haired lady. He contrived to catch her eye, and though she passed on with her companion within five minutes she came back again.

“Well?” she said expectantly.

Appleby smiled. “If you can let me have ten pounds and ask no questions I think it will be an excellent investment, though it is quite possible that I shall be able to hand you them back to-morrow,” he said. “If I were a richer man I would not ask you.”

The girl made a little gesture of impatience and flitted away, but in a few minutes she once more stood beside him, a trifle breathless, and there was a crisp rustle, as she slipped something into his hand.

“Thank you ever so much! When you can you will tell me,” she said.

Appleby only nodded, and went down the stairway. He took a riding crop from the rack in the hall, and then passed through the drawing-room into the conservatory, the outer door of which was not fastened yet. He opened it noiselessly and slipped out into the night, taking the key with him; but, though he did not know this, a man who afterwards remembered it saw him and noticed that he carried the riding crop.

[II — DAVIDSON MEETS HIS MATCH]

IT was with confused feelings that Appleby, treading softly as he crossed the gravelled terrace, slipped into the gloom of a shrubbery. There was a trace of frost in the air, and the stars shone brightly, but here and there a thin white mist hung in filmy wisps. He was, however, conscious of an elation which had a curious bracing effect. Violet Wayne had trusted him with her confidence, and it was the first time a woman of her station had cast more than a passing glance on him. Her reposeful serenity, with its faint suggestion of imperiousness, had impressed him more than her beauty, and he was sensible of an unbounded respect and admiration for Tony’s fiancée. Tony had also, in his indolent fashion, and perhaps because the favors he dispensed cost him nothing, been a good friend to him, which was, however, not astonishing, since Appleby had fought most of his battles for him and stood between him and the results of his easy-going carelessness at school. Tony Palliser was one of the men who need the guidance of a stronger hand, and usually obtain it.

Appleby had, however, affairs of his own to think of that night, and as he swung across a misty meadow the half-formed resolution which had been long in his mind took definite shape, and he decided he would not go back to the drudgery his soul detested. His father had risen by valor from the ranks, and the instincts he had stubbornly held in check at last asserted themselves dominantly. He remembered the sordid poverty, the struggle to maintain appearances, and the strain of forced attention to an uncongenial task, and asked himself half contemptuously why he had borne them so long. He had spent his early years in Spain, where he had been taught out of charity by an army chaplain, and had reckless brown-faced muleteers and smugglers and grave artillery officers, the gatekeepers of the Mediterranean, for his friends, while the fortnight spent at Northrop had brought back old associations overwhelmingly.

It was, however, not the leisure and wealth and luxury which appealed to him—and indeed there was little of the latter at Northrop Hall—but the smell of the brown woods and the ringing of the guns. There were also the horses, for Appleby had learned to ride in Spain, the wide spaces he could gallop through with tingling blood, and the hours he had spent pitting every faculty against the wariness of the grayling in the stream. He felt he could never go back to the old colorless life again, and as he looked out into the dusky blueness under the stars and across the dim landscape which rolled away before him, silent, and wide, and shadowy, his courage rose. There was room, he felt, beyond the confines of English cities for men with thews and sinews who were willing to hew their own way to fortune out in the wind and sun.

He stopped for a few moments on a hillside and looked about him, while his heart throbbed faster. There was still a light or two in the hall behind him, but none in the village, and the earth lay asleep wrapped in fleecy draperies of drifting mist, while the low murmur of the river came out of the great stillness. He could see its pale blink where it slid out from the gloom of a wood, and above, across the stubble where the footpath led, a clump of rigid spires that rose black and solid against the faintly luminous night. That, he knew, was the fir spinny where he was to meet the blackmailer, and shaking all thought of his own affairs from him he went on quietly resolute to do battle for his friend. Appleby was an impulsive man, quick to decide; but there was also an obdurate persistency in him, and the decision once made was usually adhered to. Keeper Davidson was not to find an easy victim that night.

He stopped outside the spinny with the riding crop held, where it would not be seen, behind him, and a man who had been listening for his footsteps came out of it. It was unfortunate for him that he had spent most of the evening in the hostelry at the village, or he might have recognized the difference between them and Tony Palliser’s reluctant tread. Appleby had come up with swift, resolute stride, as one who had a purpose, and meant to accomplish it.

“Davidson?” he said, with a little ring in his voice, which was very unlike Tony’s then.

The man stared at him. “It was Mr. Palliser I expected to see,” he said.

“I have come in place of him, and don’t think it likely that he will meet you here again,” Appleby said dryly. “In fact, unless we can come to some arrangement, it is very probable that you will get a month’s notice from Mr. Godfrey Palliser to-morrow.”

Davidson laughed unpleasantly. “Mr. Tony tried that game before, and found it wouldn’t pay. Now, you listen to me, though I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Mr. Tony has to marry money, and Miss Wayne is a particular young lady. They say he’s fond of her, too; but if I thought it my duty to tell her the kind of man he is there’d be no more talk of that match.”

“The trouble is that Miss Wayne would not believe you,” said Appleby.

Now, though Appleby was not aware of this, Davidson had consumed a good deal of liquid refreshment that evening, or he might not have shown his hand so plainly. Nor did he know that Appleby had any connection with the legal profession.

“It would be easy convincing her when she saw his letter. I’ve got witnesses—and a certificate,” he said.

The sullen anger in the last words would probably have caught Appleby’s attention had he been an older man, and shown him that it was not avarice alone which prompted Davidson. As it happened, however, he did not notice it.

“That proves nothing,” he said. “We do not dispute the fact it relates to, but maintain that Mr. Palliser had no connection with it.”

“Do you think you could convince anybody who heard my story?”

“We can try. Isn’t it clear to you that Mr. Palliser can’t go on subsidizing you forever?”

“He’ll go on until there’s enough put by to bring his daughter up a lady.”

Again Appleby failed to discern the sincerity of conviction in Davidson’s tone, which would have been evident to him had he possessed any of the qualities which go to make a successful lawyer.

“I think you are mistaken,” he said. “It is quite clear to us that you will tell your story sooner or later, and because it is Mr. Palliser will tell it before you in his own way. That cuts the ground from under your feet, you see. Then he will indict you and your daughter for conspiracy. It is a somewhat serious thing to blackmail anybody, but you shall have one more chance. I will pay you twenty pounds for Mr. Palliser’s letter, on condition that you sign a statement confessing there is no truth in the slander you have brought against him, and leave his uncle’s service within a month from to-morrow.”

The man stood silent a moment or two, his gun on his arm; and it was unfortunate that Appleby could not see the passion in his face. A sullen hatred of the class he served had smouldered within him since the day a gunshot accident, for which he had obtained no adequate compensation, left him with a limp, and now when he saw the game was up it blazed into unreasoning anger. He may also have been as fond of his daughter as he was of gold, and deceived by her, for the veins were swollen on his forehead when he made a step forward.

“Who are you to thrust yourself into what doesn’t concern you?” he said.

“I am a lawyer,” said Appleby quietly. “Don’t come any nearer!”

Davidson dropped the gun into the palm of his left hand with a rattle. “I might have known it by your tricks,” he said. “Well, I’ll make you fight, and we’ll see who Miss Wayne will believe to-morrow. Now take yourself and your money to —— out of this!”

He raised the gun, and Appleby’s calmness deserted him. With a sweep of the riding crop he struck the barrel aside, and, perhaps without Davidson intending it, there was a flash and an explosion. Then the riding crop came down upon a dim white face. The man reeled, recovered, and lurched forward, while next moment he and his adversary were panting and straining in a breathless grapple. Davidson was a strong man, but the blow had dazed him, and the refreshment consumed at the “Black Bull” had endued him with an unreasoning passion, which was not an advantage in a conflict with a man who kept his head. Appleby was also wiry, and tolerably proficient in a certain useful art. Thus when he got his fist home in a place where it would hurt Davidson slackened his grasp, and Appleby struck again as he flung him off. He staggered backwards and went down heavily. Appleby stood still until he rose shakily to his feet again.

“Go home,” he said. “You will be sorry for this tomorrow. It will probably cost you twenty pounds.”

Davidson turned without a word, and Appleby waited a minute or two watching him cross the meadow towards the narrow, one-railed footbridge that spanned the river. He was walking unevenly, but Appleby was too shaken himself to trouble about his condition. Perhaps keeper Davidson was still dazed by the blows dealt him, or his brain was clouded by impotent anger, for he passed on, a dim, shadowy figure, into the gloom of a coppice, and no man saw him alive again. Then Appleby went back to the hall and let himself in through the conservatory. He found Tony waiting him in a state of feverish anxiety, told him briefly what had passed, and, assuring him that Davidson would in all probability listen to reason next day, went to sleep. He also slept soundly, and awakened later than usual when Tony’s man, who had found knocking useless, entered the room with some of his garments on his arm.

“Mr. Palliser was asking if you were up, sir, and they’re getting breakfast now,” he said, and then glanced at the clothes. “I’ve been giving them a brush. There was some mud on the trousers, and I notice a seam split in the coat. I could ask one of the maids to put a stitch in it before it gets worse.”

“No,” said Appleby, a trifle too hastily. “You can put them in my bag. I am leaving by the night train.”

He got into his tweeds, and went down to find the rest of the men who had finished breakfast lounging about the hall, while Tony and his uncle stood on the terrace outside. A dog-cart was also waiting, and another vehicle coming up the avenue. Appleby commenced his breakfast, wondering—because he surmised that Miss Wayne would be anxious to hear what he had accomplished—whether any of the ladies would come down before the shooters started. By and by he saw a light dress flit across the gallery at the head of the stairway, and immediately got up with the ostensible purpose of going back to his room. He, however, stopped in the corridor which led out of the gallery, where, as he had expected, Violet Wayne was waiting him. She usually appeared to as much advantage in the morning as she did under the glitter of the lamps at night, but Appleby fancied that she had not slept very well. There was, so far as he could see, nobody else about.

“You have something to tell me?” she said quietly.

“No,” said Appleby. “I fancied I should have had, but instead I have ten pounds to give you back.”

“Then some plan you had has failed?”

“Not exactly! I am going to try a bolder course.”

The girl looked at him steadily. “I have trusted you, Mr. Appleby. Would it be too much if I asked you to take me into your confidence?”

Appleby shook his head. “I am afraid I can’t very well do that just now,” he said. “In the meanwhile you can be kind to Tony. He has been foolish—and a trifle weak—but he has done nothing that you could not readily forgive him.”

There was a faint sparkle in Violet Wayne’s eyes, and a suspicion of color in her cheek. “How do you know that my code is as lenient as your own—and are you wise in asking me to take so much on trust?”

Appleby smiled gravely. “I think I grasp your meaning, but if you try to follow up any clue I may have given you it can only lead you into a pitfall. Please wait, and I think I can engage that Tony will tell you the whole story. It would come best from himself, but he must substantiate it, and that is what I expect I can enable him to do.”

The color grew a trifle plainer in Violet Wayne’s cheek, and Appleby, who guessed her thoughts, shook his head.

“There is a question you are too proud to ask, but I will venture to answer it,” he said. “I have known Tony a long while, and he has never wavered in his allegiance to you. To doubt that would be an injustice you have too much sense to do yourself. Now you have the simple truth, and if it is a trangression to tell it you, you must remember that I have had no training in conventional niceties.”

The girl looked at him with a curious little glow in her eyes. “Tony has the gift of making good friends,” she said. “One could have faith in you.”

She turned and left him, while Appleby, who went down, found Godfrey Palliser talking to the under-keeper on the terrace. He was a spare, gray-haired gentleman, formal and fastidious, and betrayed his impatience only by a faint incisiveness of speech.

“Davidson has kept us waiting half an hour, it has never happened before, and it shall not occur again,” he said. “You have been round to the lodge, Evans?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man. “They had not seen him since last night. He told them he was going to the fir spinny. Some of the Darsley men had been laying snares for hares.”

“It shall be looked into, but we will make a start now as you have sent the beaters on,” said Palliser, who turned to his guests. “I am sorry we have kept you waiting, gentlemen.”

They started, and, as it happened, Tony and Appleby sat at the back of the dog-cart which followed the larger vehicle, while the rattle of gravel beneath the wheels rendered their conversation inaudible to those who sat in front.

“You heard what Evans said?” asked Tony anxiously.

“Of course!” said Appleby. “I am almost afraid Davidson has made a bolt. If he hadn’t he would have come for the twenty pounds.”

“I hope so,” and Tony drew in a deep breath. “It would be a merciful relief to feel I had seen the last of him. Why in the name of all that’s wonderful are you afraid he has gone?”

“Because I wanted a statement and your letter from him,” said Appleby. “You see, you will have to tell Miss Wayne that story sooner or later.”

“Tell her!” said Tony blankly. “I’ll be shot if I do!”

“Then she’ll find out, and it will be considerably the worse for you.”

Now, Tony Palliser was a good-natured man, and had as yet never done anything actually dishonorable, but whenever it was possible he avoided a difficulty, which, because difficulties must now and then be grappled with, not infrequently involved him in a worse one. He lived for the present only, and was thereby sowing a crop of trouble which he would surely have to reap in the future.

“I don’t think it’s likely, and there is no reason why I should make unpleasantness—it wouldn’t be kind,” he said.

“You don’t know Violet yet. She is almost unmercifully particular, and now and then makes one feel very small and mean. It would hurt her horribly to know I’d been mixed up in the affair at all—and, the fact is, I don’t feel equal to telling her anything of that kind. Besides, I did kiss the girl, you see—and I don’t think Violet would understand what prompted me.”

“Still,” said Appleby dryly, “that story will have to be told.”

Just then one of the other men touched his shoulder and asked a question, while there are topics which when once left off are difficult to commence again; but Appleby fancied that Tony had made one incorrect statement. He felt, strange as it seemed, that he knew Violet Wayne better than her prospective husband did.

They drove on, and nothing of moment happened during the shooting, or at the lunch they were invited to at one of Palliser’s neighbor’s houses, though Tony, who seemed to have recovered his spirits, shot unusually well. He also bantered the beaters and keepers, and, though he was as generous as such men usually are, the largesses he distributed somewhat astonished the recipients. It was a bright day of early winter, with clear sunlight that took the edge off the faint frost; and most men with healthy tastes would have found the hours spent in the brown woods, where the beech leaves still hung in festoons about the lower boughs, invigorating, even if they had not just had a weight lifted off their minds. Tony made the most of them, and it was, perhaps, as well he did, for it was long before he passed another day as free from care again.

Still, the troubles he could not see were trooping about him, and it was doubtless as part of the scheme that was to test him, and bring about his retribution when he was found wanting, that a nut on the bush of the dog-cart’s wheel slackened during the homeward journey. As a result, four men and several guns were flung without serious injury into the road; and when the horse had been taken to a neighboring farm, Tony and three of his friends found themselves under the necessity of walking home. He took them the shortest way by lane and stile, and they came to the footbridge across the river as dusk was closing down. Both he and Appleby long remembered that evening.

The sun had sunk behind a bank of smoky cloud, and a cold wind wailed dolefully through the larches in the wood, under which the black water came sliding down. There was no mist in the meadows now, and straggling hedgerow and coppice rose shadowy and dim against the failing light. The river, however, still shone faintly as it swirled round the pool beneath the bridge, and the men stopped a moment and leaned upon the single rail. It was seldom any one but a keeper took that path to the hall.

Appleby noticed how the dead leaves came sailing down, and little clusters of them swung round and round in the eddies. It was a trifle, but it fixed his attention, and often afterwards he could see them drift and swing at the mercy of the current. Then it seemed to him that their aimless wandering had been curiously portentous. He, however, looked up when Tony struck a match to light a cigarette with, and saw his face by the pale flame of it. Tony shook off his troubles readily, and there was a twinkle in his eyes, while his laugh rang lightly at a jest one of the others made. Then a man standing further along the bridge stretched out his hand.

“There’s a stone among the boulders at the tail of the pool that seems different from the rest. One could almost fancy it was somebody’s head,” he said.

“Good Lord!” said one of the others. “One could do more than fancy it. Can’t you see his shoulder just above the water?”

Tony dropped his cigarette, and stared at Appleby with a curious horror in his face, but the latter gripped his arm.

“Keep your head!” he said sternly.

Nobody else heard him, for the rest were hastening across the bridge, and in a moment or two one of them sprang down among the boulders at the edge of the pool. He called out sharply as the others followed him, and standing very still when they came up with him, they saw a white face that moved as the stream swirled about it looking up at them. A wet shoulder also bumped softly against a stone.

“I think it’s your keeper, Palliser,” said one of them a trifle hoarsely. “It would have been more pleasant if somebody else had found him, but we can’t leave him in the water.”

Tony seemed to shiver, and glanced at Appleby. “Yes,” he said, and his voice was very strained, “it’s Davidson.”

It was Appleby who, as one of the rest remembered, stooped down and grasped the dead man’s arm. “Give me a lift,” he said.

The men had evidently little liking for the task, but they accomplished it, and stood still again when the rigid object lay with the water draining from it at their feet.

“He must have fallen over the bridge and struck his head. There are stones yonder, and you can see the bruise,” said one. “Still, it might not have happened that way, and it seems to me we had better push on to the hall, and send somebody for the police.”

They went on in haste, and twenty minutes later Tony stood, a little white in face, in Appleby’s room.

“I don’t ask you whether it was the truth you told me last night,” he said.

“No,” said Appleby, who was flinging articles of clothing into his bag. “I could not have taken that from you, but I told you what happened precisely. Perhaps I should have seen him across the bridge, but I never thought of it. Still, there will be an inquest, and when they find out a little more it will be difficult to convince an average jury that one of us didn’t kill him.”

“It could be managed,” said Tony, a trifle hoarsely.

“Yes,” said Appleby, “I think it could, though I couldn’t be certain; but, if there was a defendant, not before everything came out. That would spoil my two best friends’ lives. You see, he did not sign the statement, and folks are very quick to believe the kind of story that would certainly get about.”

“That would ruin me,” said Tony. “Godfrey Palliser would turn me out for bringing it on him. It’s a trifle horrible. You have got to help me!”

“Yes,” said Appleby, closing the bag with a snap. “I fancy it would. Still, there will be no defendant, because I’m going out of the country. If you sent to the bank you might lend me fifty pounds, and tell somebody to get the dog-cart out. There’s a train I can get through to Liverpool starts in an hour. If I am ever able, I’ll send you back the money.”

Palliser stared at him. “But they may bring it in homicide against you! I can’t let you do this for me.”

Appleby smiled curiously. “I had decided to go, anyway, and I haven’t a friend who would worry about me except yourself, and perhaps Miss Wayne. It would be very different with you. Now, don’t waste a minute, Tony. I have made my mind up.”

Tony Palliser had usually yielded to the domination of his friend, and was not in a condition to think very concisely then, so he did what he was bidden, and ten minutes later grasped Appleby’s hand as the dog-cart came up to the door. He did not remember if he said anything, but Appleby, perhaps for the groom’s benefit, laughed as he drew the rug about him.

“You will remember to send on the cigars you promised me,” he said.

Then the groom flicked the horse, the dog-cart rattled away, and Tony Palliser was left standing, flushed in face, on the steps, with his heart beating painfully.

[III — TONY CANNOT DECIDE]

THE beat of hoofs died away, and Tony shivered as he strove to collect his scattered wits. He wanted to think, but mental effort had always been distasteful to his easy-going nature, and now the faculty of concentration had deserted him. It was also very cold out on the terrace, for the raw wind was driving a thin drizzle before it, and Tony was fond of warmth and light, so with a little shake of his shoulders he went back into the house, and sought inspiration in a stiff brandy-and-soda. After that he felt a little more cheerful, and decided that in the meanwhile there was nothing to be done but refrain from unnecessary worry and wait events, which was the usual course with him. There was, it seemed, nothing to be gained by involving himself before suspicion was cast upon his friend.

He, however, spent an unpleasant five minutes with his uncle, who asked a few general questions respecting the affair, in the library, and then went down to dinner, where Violet Wayne did not find him a very entertaining companion. She, however, noticed that he allowed his glass to be filled more frequently than usual, for Tony was an abstemious man, and during a lull in the conversation turned to him.

“I have spoken to you at least three times without getting an answer, Tony,” she said. “One could almost fancy that you had something on your mind to-night.”

Tony did not meet the questioning gaze of the big grave eyes, though there was a sympathetic gleam in them. “I have a headache. Gun headache, you know,” he said. “I got a warm corner, and fired every cartridge I had. I had them specially loaded with an extra quarter-ounce, too.”

Violet Wayne appeared thoughtful, for she had heard the other men grumbling at the scarcity of pheasants that afternoon; but she was a wise young woman, and did not tell Tony so.

“What has become of Mr. Appleby?” she asked.

“Gone away,” said Tony. “He left just after we came in.”

Again Violet Wayne glanced at him with grave quietness, but Tony was looking at his plate just then.

“His train does not leave for an hour yet,” she said.

Violet Wayne did not often speak without reflection, but she blundered then. Tony Palliser was not the man to boldly choose his path, but rather addicted to follow the one events seemed to force him into, and she who might have proved his good angel helped to start him down hill.

“He was going to Liverpool,” he said, and a moment later regretted it.

“To Liverpool! What has taken him there? He told me he was going back to his office.”

Tony looked round in search of inspiration, and did not find it. It was also a somewhat fateful moment for him, because he had as yet been guilty of nothing more than a passing indiscretion, which the woman would have forgiven him. Had he decided to take her into his confidence she would have believed his story, and she had sufficient strength of character to carry him with clean hands through the difficulty. As it happened, however, he was not looking at her, and saw only the glitter of light on glass and silver and the faces of his friends. Tony was as fond of pleasant company as he was of luxury, and what he saw reminded him that he had a good deal to lose. That put him on his guard, and he took the first fateful step in haste, without realizing where it would lead him.

“I don’t quite know,” he said; “Bernard isn’t communicative. He asked me for the dog-cart, and I didn’t worry him.”

Violet Wayne deferred her questions, though she was not satisfied. She had her duty to her hostess, and because news of what had happened had got about felt it incumbent on her to do what she could to lessen the vague constraint, especially as Tony, who wanted to think and could not, did nothing whatever. He was glad when the meal was over, but afterwards appeared to even less advantage in the billiard room, where one of the men commented on his play.

“You are showing remarkably bad form, Tony,” he said. “What is the matter with you? In your case it can’t be worry, because there is nothing a man could wish for you apparently haven’t got.”

Tony did worse at the next stroke, and put down his cue. “It’s a fact that I can’t play to-night,” he said. “You were not with us at the bridge, and it wasn’t a nice thing we had to do. As to the other remark, I suppose I’ve got my worries like the rest of you; but since you will get on just as well without me I think I’ll go to bed.”

He went out, and the man who had spoken laughed. “That is just the one thing that is wrong with Tony—he gives up too easily and doesn’t play the game out when it seems to be going against him,” he said. “He had Bernard Appleby to help him through at school, but I have a notion that Miss Wayne would do as much for him now if he would let her, and if he’s wise he will. Men like Tony generally find somebody to stand behind them, but that slackness is the only fault anybody could find in him. Tony never did a crooked thing.”

“No,” said another man dryly. “Still, it is comparatively easy to go straight when you are never called upon to stand up under a deflecting pressure.”

“If Tony hasn’t had to do that yet, he will most certainly have to sooner or later, and Miss Wayne is the woman to help him,” said his companion. “Will you take his cue and finish the fifty for him, Lonsdale? It is, you see, quite the usual thing.”

Tony in the meanwhile sat staring at the grate in his room. No definite course had yet occurred to him, but he was conscious of a vague relief. Davidson, at least, could not come back to trouble him, and Tony knew that his daughter, whom he had done no wrong, did not possess her father’s pertinacity. He fancied she could be easily dealt with, and rising with a little shake of his shoulders he went to bed, and, as it happened, slept almost as well as usual. Next day, however, events commenced to happen, for during the morning Godfrey Palliser received a visit from a sergeant of police. Soon afterwards he sent for Tony, and it was with distinct uneasiness the latter entered the library.

Godfrey Palliser sat, gray-haired and somewhat grim of face, beside the fire; and he was a punctilious English gentleman with a respect for conventional traditions and no great penetration, to whom Tony owed his present status and all he hoped for in the future. He had led a simple, wholesome life, and though it was perhaps not unwarranted, placed an undue value upon the respect his tenants and neighbors accorded him.

“This is an especially unfortunate affair,” he said. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tony, wondering what was coming.

Godfrey Palliser drummed on the chair arm with his fingers. “There will be an inquest, and as I am, most unfortunately in this case, a magistrate, Sergeant Stitt thought it fit to consult with me. He has suspicions that there has been foul play.”

“Stitt is a meddlesome idiot,” said Tony. “It seemed quite evident to me that Davidson struck his head when he fell off the bridge.”

The elder man made a gesture of negation. “Unfortunately he left his gun behind him. There was a dent on one barrel, and Stitt fancied that the grass round the spot where he found it had been trampled. That, and the condition of Davidson’s clothing, points to a scuffle.”

Tony gasped, for he had not expected this. “There is not a man in the neighborhood who would have injured Davidson,” he said.

Godfrey Palliser flashed a quick glance at him. “Do you know when Bernard left the hall the night before it happened?”

Tony braced himself with an effort. “I don’t quite remember, sir.”

“Then I can tell you. It was a few minutes after eleven, and he took the path to the footbridge. When he came back his clothes were muddy.”

Tony sat still a moment, horribly conscious that Godfrey Palliser was watching him. Then he broke out: “It’s wholly impossible, sir, unutterably absurd! Nobody would kill a man without the least motive.”

Godfrey Palliser’s face grew a trifle grimmer. “There may have been a motive. Lucy Davidson was pretty, and, I understand, vain and flighty, while she disappeared, I think, a little too suddenly. You will remember when Bernard was last here.”

Tony stood up, with a dampness on his face and his hands trembling. “Good Lord, sir, you can’t believe that!” he said. “Bernard never had any failings of the kind. It must”—and Tony gasped and stared round the room—“have been poachers. You will remember Evans said Davidson had gone out to look for somebody who had been laying snares.”

To his vast relief he saw that Palliser clutched at the suggestion. It would perhaps not have appeared very conclusive to another man, but Palliser was anxious as well as willing to be convinced, which makes a difference.

“Yes,” he said. “That is the most sensible thing you have said for a long while, and I sincerely hope events will prove you right. I am getting an old man, and if a connection of the family and a guest in my house had been guilty of such an intrigue and crime, I think I could scarcely have held up my head again. No breath of scandal has touched our name, and I could not forgive the man who brought a shadow of ill-repute upon it.”

The speech had its effect, for Tony was aware that he had nothing to expect if he forfeited Godfrey Palliser’s good opinion. He also quite realized the fact that he was singularly devoid of the qualities essential to the man who finds it necessary to make his own way in the world, and very much in love with Violet Wayne. These considerations made for silence. Tony, however, did not discover until later that the next person Palliser sent for was the girl. It was with reluctance he did so, and he stood up leaning against the mantel when he had drawn her out a chair.

“I understand that you saw Bernard Appleby immediately before he left the house the night before last,” he said.

The girl appeared perplexed. “I do not know how you came to hear of it, but as a matter of fact I did,” she said.

“Then “—and Palliser made a little deprecatory gesture—“I feel sure, when I tell you that they are necessary, you will excuse me asking you a question or two. You met him in the corridor, I think with intent. What had he to say to you?”

A little flush crept into the girl’s face. “He asked me to give him ten pounds. This will no doubt astonish you!”

It certainly did, and had Godfrey Palliser been a little less punctilious he might have betrayed it. As it was, he said in a perfectly level voice, “May I ask you for what purpose?”

There was no hesitation about the answer, and as he met Violet Wayne’s eyes the unpleasant thoughts which momentarily obtruded themselves upon the man vanished again, and left him with a faint sense of shame.

“I had asked him to do me a favor which would entail some little expenditure,” she said. “It was, in fact, to do a kindness to somebody I wanted to benefit, and could not have any bearing on your object in making this inquiry. I know you will take my word for that.”

Godfrey Palliser was not gifted with much penetration, but the girl’s composure had its effect on him, and he made her a little respectful inclination. “It would go a long way with me, my dear, even if the testimony of my eyes were against it; and Tony never did a thing that pleased me more than when he told me he had succeeded in inducing you to marry him,” he said. “It is quite evident that you can throw no light on the affair.”

Violet Wayne left him, a little perplexed, but relieved. As he believed what she had told him implicitly, his thoughts fixed themselves upon Tony’s suggestion, and he commenced to sift what he had heard for anything that would confirm the poacher theory. He meant to do his duty as a magistrate, but he had made a fetish of the family honor, and the man who knows exactly what he is looking for has the better chance of finding it. Accordingly he almost convinced himself, and proceeded to another conference with Sergeant Stitt, who was a little more obtuse than superior.

Violet Wayne was, however, not relieved at all. Only one hypothesis suggested itself to her, and that was that the unfortunate keeper had had some hold upon Appleby, but she promptly dismissed it as wholly untenable. She felt convinced that the man who had been Tony’s loyal friend could have done nothing that he need blush for, and the fact that he had been willing to take ten pounds from her was an additional proof of his innocence rather than evidence against it. She felt absolutely convinced that he would never have abused her confidence by asking her for the money had he desired it for his own purposes. This conclusion naturally led to the supposition that he had involved himself on Tony’s behalf, but she would not harbor that thought for a moment; while Appleby, whom she believed implicitly, had told her that Tony had done nothing wrong.

Still, it was evident that Tony was in trouble, and as he did not go shooting with the rest she found him idling in an empty room when dusk was closing down. He was standing by the hearth looking down into the flickering flame; but the fashion in which he started when she gently touched his shoulder was significant.

“You might have something upon your conscience, Tony,” she said, with a little smile. “Sit down and talk to me. I have scarcely seen you to-day.”

She sank into a low chair, and the uncertain firelight forced up her face and gleaming hair against the shadowy background. The pose, wholly unstudied as it was, also suited her, and she smiled as she saw the appreciation in the eyes of her companion. Tony’s regard for her was respectfully deferential, but he was a man, and she did not disdain at times to profit by the advantages nature had endowed her with.

“I never saw you look better than you do just now,” he said, and laughed as he found a place on the stool he placed at her feet.

“Turn your head a little, Tony; I want to see you,” the girl said softly. “Now, what has made you so quiet today?”

Tony looked at her, and the effect was unfortunate. He saw the calm eyes shining with unusual tenderness, and felt the full influence of her beauty, even while he remembered that Appleby had said she would find out the story sooner or later and then it would be bad for him. He also determined, foolishly, that if the revelation must come at all it should, at least, be delayed as long as possible.

“I have my little worries, but they vanish when you appear,” he said.

Violet Wayne shook her head. “That was pretty, but not quite sincere,” she said. “In some respects I am older than you—and you are in trouble, dear. Perhaps if you told me everything I could help you.”

Tony turned his head away, and checked a groan as he stared at the fire. “I have been a little thoughtless, and one must pay for that kind of thing,” he said. “Still, it would be most unfitting to trouble you with my trifling difficulties.” He felt a little constraining touch on his shoulder, and a low voice said, “Is it money? You must not be proud, dear, for I have plenty, and it could buy me no greater pleasure than to see your cares melt away.”

Tony flushed a little. “That is out of the question, Violet, and you exaggerate,” he said. “I haven’t any real cares, you know.”

The girl smiled at him. “Only very good imitations, Tony; but perhaps you are right. I should dearly like to give you whatever you have need of, but it would not please me to see you willing to take it. Still, why did Appleby go out at eleven o’clock that night?”

It was a chance shot, but it told, and had results Violet Wayne could not have anticipated. Tony started a little.

“Why should you ask me?” he said.

Violet Wayne was not as a rule demonstrative. Indeed, her behavior that evening would have astonished those who thought they knew her best, but the touch of her hand on the man’s shoulder was caressing, and as she leaned forward nearer him there was a curious softness in her eyes.

“I want you to listen, Tony, and I am not going to find fault with you,” she said. “When you showed your preference for me people who I know are wise talked to me of you. They had very little to urge against you except one thing, which I think is true. They said you were a trifle too fond of shirking a difficulty.”

“I hope you thanked them for their kindness,” said Tony dryly.

The girl pressed his shoulder. “Tony,” she said, “shall I tell you why I liked you? Well, it was because I fancied the respect you showed me was genuine, and you were open and generous. That, at least, was one of the reasons, for I detest a cunning man. I am ready to give you everything, but I shall expect a good deal from you; and now you see why I am not pleased with your answer to my question.”

It was an unexpected opportunity, and, though the man aid not know this, the last he would have. The girl, as she had said, was willing to give him all she had to offer, of which her faith in him was not the least, but he had not the courage to put it to the test. Had he done so she would have taken his word, and believed in it against all other testimony; but the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one, and he dreaded her incredulity, in which he wronged her past forgiveness. Meanwhile, looking up at her he saw, not the love and strength which would have saved him from his weaknesses, but the calm, proud face which was tender, too, just then, the gleaming red-gold hair, and the beautifully moulded form. In place of speaking he gazed at her a moment with passion in his eyes.

“I can never understand how you came to think of me at all,” he said. “I am not fit to dust your shoes; but if I lost you now I think it would kill me.”

The girl checked him with a little quiet gesture, and laid the hand she raised from his shoulder on his forehead. “I like to hear you tell me so, but there are times when the man who is willing to lose everything gains the most. I wonder if you understand that, Tony? There are men who do.”

“No,” said Tony in honest bewilderment, “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Still,” said the girl softly, “it is true; but perhaps it isn’t seemly that I should preach to you. Am I to conclude that if any odium follows your friend because he went out that night you could not dispel it?”

This left a loophole, which was unfortunate, because the man reflected that he could offer no convincing testimony as to what had really happened at the fir spinny.

“No,” he said a trifle hoarsely, “I could not.”

Violet Wayne looked at him steadily, and Tony, who saw the gravity in her eyes, felt his heart thumping furiously. Then she said very slowly: “Since you have given me your word we will never mention this again.”

Tony drew in his breath as he turned his head away. The crisis had passed, and he knew that Violet Wayne believed him; but a little shiver ran through him, for he felt that he was committed to a course of deception now, and that if exposure came he could not face her scorn. She was a proud woman, who seldom unbent even to him as she had done that evening, and his one impulse was to lead her thoughts as far from the question she had asked him as he conveniently could.

“You hinted that you had met men who would give up everything for—a fancy,” he said. “Do I know them?”

“You know one. I think Bernard Appleby would sacrifice a good deal for a friend—or a woman he respected.”

“He could not help it in your case. You could compel most men to do almost anything for you.”

The girl shook her head. “Even if that is true it would not gratify me much,” she said. “It is only those nearest and dearest to me I expect the most from, and that I am not worthy of it does not affect the case. Still, I think we have talked sufficiently in this strain.”

Tony rose and stooped over her chair, but the girl made a little restraining gesture, and he straightened himself again.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not now, Tony. We are strange creatures; but I think if you had made me a confession a little while ago I could have forgiven you anything and kissed you afterwards.”

Tony said nothing, and a maid came in with a light; but he spent a very unpleasant half-hour when Violet Wayne left him. Now it had slipped away unprofited by, he saw what that opportunity would have meant for him. Tony was not clever, but he realized that fate does not give men such chances frequently.

[IV — THE VERDICT]

THE inquest on keeper Davidson was duly held, and at the commencement seemed likely to cause Tony Palliser less anxiety than he had expected. There were reasons for this, and among them was the fact that the Pallisers had lived at Northrop for generations, and the fathers of the men who served them had watched their game and groomed their horses. Godfrey Palliser was also a liberal master, who seldom put an embargo on any man’s perquisites; while Tony scattered pleasant words and silver with a tactful kindliness that made either doubly acceptable.

There was accordingly a desire to spare them unpleasantness in the minds of those who attended the informal courts of inquiry held at the “Black Bull,” as the result of which the men who appeared to testify at the one sanctioned by the law of the land came there with convictions already formed, for Northrop village had thrashed out the question. Northrop knew all about Tony’s flirtation with Lucy Davidson, but it also knew a good deal more about that lady than Tony did, and exculpated him. He had, it was true, been seen to give Davidson five pounds, but that was not an astonishing thing when the friends he brought down had been enthusiastic over, the partridge shooting provided them; while there were not many men in his uncle’s service he had not given sovereigns to. The men remembered this, and hoped for more.

It was also known that he had not left his room on the eventful night, and though everybody was aware that Appleby had gone out, the guests at the hall were occasionally addicted to taking nocturnal strolls after an evening in the billiard room. Northrop accordingly knew just how much it meant to admit when it attended the inquest, and when the rustic mind adopts that attitude there is nothing further to be extracted from it.

The coroner did not elucidate a great deal when he commenced his inquiry. Tony, who appeared distressed by the recollection, as indeed he was, deposed to the finding of the body and was corroborated by two of his friends. He was listened to sympathetically. Sergeant Stitt testified that he had found signs which apparently suggested a scuffle, but could not be certain there had been one. Then a hush of attention followed the appearance of the doctor. He alluded to certain bruises.

“The one upon the head was evidently caused by a fall upon a stone, which would, I think, alone have produced insensibility,” he said. “The one upon the cheek was apparently the result of a blow from a stick, but it might have been occasioned by a fall.”

“Would either of the blows alone have occasioned death?” asked a juryman.

“Not directly,” said the doctor. “The cause of death was exhaustion resulting from immersion. A man who fell upon the boulders beneath the bridge and rolled into the water would be very likely to succumb in that fashion.”

Two servants from the hall were called, and then Tony’s man. “I saw Mr. Appleby go out,” he said. “It was about eleven o’clock, but might have been later. He took something from a rack which held sticks and riding-whips. He usually did take a stick. What do I mean by usually? Well, he would walk down the avenue and home by the footpath now and then just before he went to his room at night. I heard him come in about half an hour later. I noticed mud on his shoes and trousers next morning; but he would have to cross a wet place before he reached the lawn.”

Everybody seemed satisfied; but there was a little murmur when Miss Wayne appeared, and somewhat indignant glances were cast upon Sergeant Stitt. She wore a veil, but she removed it when she turned to the jury; and it was in a clear, cold voice, which had a trace of haughtiness in it, she answered the questions asked her.

“I am. I believe, the last person Mr. Appleby spoke to before he went out,” she said. “So far as I noticed he did not appear disturbed or in any way irritated. I met him at the head of the stairway.”

“Was the meeting accidental?”

A faint trace of color crept into the girl’s cheek, but it was in a clear, even voice she said: “He had given me to understand that he wished to see me.”

“Had he anything in particular to say to you?”

One or two of the jury made it evident that they considered the question in bad taste, but there was a curious silence when it was seen that the witness hesitated.

“He asked me for ten pounds,” she said.

Tony gasped when this was told him, and felt his face grow a trifle warm, while a little thrill of indignation ran through him. He had been pleased to see his friend and sweetheart on good terms, but that one should borrow ten pounds from the other suggested a degree of intimacy he had not contemplated.

“Do you know why he wanted the money?” asked the coroner.

The girl looked at him steadily, and nobody saw that her hands were trembling. “No,” she said coldly. “That is, I do not know exactly. I had, however, asked him to do me a favor which might cost a little money, and surmised that he needed some. It was not quite certain that I should see him on the morrow.”

“What was the favor?”

Violet Wayne straightened herself with an almost imperceptible movement, but there was a change in her pose, and she held her shapely head higher. “It had nothing to do with anything that could concern this inquiry,” she said.

“You are on oath, Miss Wayne,” said the coroner. “Remembering that, you are willing to repeat the assurance you have just given me?”

“Yes,” said the girl, standing very still, though every nerve in her was tingling. She long remembered the strain she underwent just then, but it was not until afterwards she was sorry that she had submitted to it. She did nothing by half, and her love for Tony carried an obligation with it. There were only one or two people, and Tony was not among them, who realized all that Violet Wayne was, but they paid her a respectful homage they offered to no other woman.

The coroner had not seen her until that morning, but her bearing, and perhaps her beauty, had an effect, for he signified that he was contented, and Godfrey Palliser was called. He carried himself a trifle stiffly, and was as usual immaculate in dress while it was with a suggestion of carefully suppressed annoyance, which some of those present sympathized with, he gave his evidence.

Davidson had served him four years, he said. He frequently went round the woods at night, and had of late suspected that poachers had been at work about the fir spinny. So far as he knew, and he had made inquiries, nobody but Bernard Appleby, a relation of his own, and a young man of unimpeachable character, had gone out of his house on the night in question. Appleby had spent fourteen days at the hall and it was at least twelve months since he had stayed there before. It appeared unlikely that he should have intended to meet Davidson.

Palliser was followed by a teamster, whose evidence made an impression. “I came out of the ‘Black Bull’ with Davidson at ten minutes to eleven,” he said. “He wasn’t exactly what one would call sober, though a man who didn’t know him wouldn’t have noticed it. He told me he was going round by the fir spinny to see if he could catch somebody who’d been laying snares. I told him to be careful he didn’t pitch over the footbridge.”

Most of those present were sensible of a little relief. Nothing unpleasant could, it seemed, transpire now, and the jury, who waited for Appleby to inform them that he had seen nothing of Davidson during his stroll, began to see what their verdict would be. There was also no great show of interest when the coroner asked for Bernard Appleby.

He asked twice, however, and there was no answer, while the jury exchanged significant glances when five minutes passed and the witness did not appear. Then there was a curious silence as Sergeant Stitt, flushed with haste, came in.

“Mr. Appleby was duly summoned, sir,” he said. “I have just received this telegram from the solicitors he is engaged with.”

Nobody moved while the coroner opened the message, and there was deep stillness as he read aloud: “In reply to inquiry Appleby has not resumed his duties here as expected. Have no clue to his whereabouts. Anxious for information.”

“It will be the duty of the police to discover them as soon as possible,” he said. “Have you any notion, Sergeant Stitt?”

Stitt led in a young man whom everybody recognized as the booking clerk from the station four miles away. “Mr. Appleby bought a ticket for Liverpool just in time to catch the train on the evening Davidson’s body was found,” he said. “He came into the office and sat down about a minute. I noticed he turned up the steamer sailings in the paper he borrowed.”

“A mail-boat left for New York the following afternoon,” said Sergeant Stitt.

The effect was evident. Men looked at one another with suspicion in their eyes, the coroner sent for Palliser and conferred with him and Stitt, while the heavy stillness the murmur of their voices emphasized was curiously significant. Hitherto nobody had seriously thought of connecting Appleby with Davidson’s death, but it now appeared that there could be only one meaning to the fact that he had sought safety in flight. Then the coroner stood up.