The Dangerfield Talisman

by

J. J. Connington

Boston

Little, Brown, and Company

1927

Contents

Note

The characters, places, and events described in this book are entirely imaginary and have no connection, either direct or indirect, with any real persons, places, or events.

Chapter I

“Lucky again, partner,” commented Westenhanger, breaking into Eileen Cressage’s thoughts as he took up the scoring-block. “That’s game and rubber, Douglas. Your mind must be wandering.”

Douglas Fairmile had glanced down the room to where a fair-haired girl was sitting with a rather red-faced man. Douglas’s brows contracted slightly. That fellow Morchard had attempted to monopolise Cynthia this evening; but surely anyone could see that the girl was bored. A persistent creature, Morchard—rather too persistent at times, Douglas felt. Then at the sound of Westenhanger’s voice, his attention came back to the bridge-table.

“Game and rubber?” he repeated. “Sorry, partner. My fault entirely. You see, I’m getting rusty in auction nowadays. It’s nearly gone out at my club; nobody plays it any more. We’re all on to this new game that’s just come in.”

“New game? What new game?” demanded Westenhanger, arranging the cards for his shuffle. “Have the Cardsharpers rediscovered Old Maid or the simple joys of Happy Families? Out with it, Douglas.”

Douglas Fairmile made a gesture as though apologising for Westenhanger.

“Tut! Tut! He’s jealous, poor fellow. My fault for mentioning the Romarin Club. A sore subject with Conway, and no wonder. You know, we have an entrance examination for candidates: test ’em in following suit and remembering what’s trump. And somehow Conway didn’t get in. Or else he was afraid to enter. A sad business, anyhow; don’t let’s dwell on it. So he calls us the Cardsharpers out of spite.”

Mrs. Caistor Scorton began to deal. Douglas passed the box of cigarettes to Eileen; and, when she refused, took one himself. Westenhanger looked at him with feigned anxiety.

“I notice a certain tendency to wander in your talk, of late. This inconsecutiveness of mind is growing on you, Douglas. Do you ever find yourself, in the morning, putting on your jacket first and your waistcoat afterwards? Pull yourself together. Squails Up-to-Date, or something like that, was what you were trying to tell us about before you began to ramble.”

“Oh! Suspension Bridge, that’s it. Suspension Bridge. Never heard of it? Well, well. These soulless mechanics! You take the two of spades out of the pack, put in a joker instead; and then play according to auction rules. You’ve no notion of the superior feeling it gives you when you go No Trump with five aces in your hand. Confidence, that’s the word! A splendid game.”

“Splendid!” Westenhanger conceded, sarcastically. “Invite me to take a hand in the inaugural game, will you? It’ll be an historic occasion, no doubt; and I might get my name into the newspapers.”

Douglas looked hurt.

“He doesn’t believe me, Eileen; he thinks I’m . . . Oh, sorry!”

He picked up his cards, and the game continued. For the third time in succession, Eileen Cressage laid down her hand with an inaudible sigh of relief. Being dummy, she could think about other things than the table before her. She had never been a keen bridge-player; her card-memory was too weak for anything beyond the most obvious tactics. And on this evening especially, her interest in the game was of the slightest. She played mechanically; and she had quite failed to note how, time and again, a skilful intervention by her partner had extricated her from a risky declaration.

As Westenhanger gathered up their first trick, her mind went back to her ever-present money difficulties. Some bills had reached her by the last post. Somehow, bills always dropped in at that time; and she had begun to dread the very sight of an unsealed envelope among her correspondence. If these wretched things had come in the morning, the affairs of the day might have helped to put them out of her mind; but when they arrived after dinner, they seemed to rivet her attention through the whole night.

The problems of a girl trying to keep up a decent appearance on a tiny income seemed to be approaching an insoluble state. Her quarter’s income was nearly exhausted; and yet something would have to be done. It was no use approaching her trustees in the hope of anticipating her income for the next three months. She had tried that before; and all she had got was a lecture on the folly of over-spending. It appeared that the thing was impossible under the will. Besides, the trustees were simply lawyers, without a spark of personal interest in her affairs or herself. So far as they were concerned, Eileen Cressage was a name on a deed-box or a docket. No help there, obviously.

And yet something would have to be done. She could pay some of her creditors and leave the rest of the affairs standing; but which people ought she to attend to first? Her mind was busy with a sort of jig-saw puzzle with the bills as a picture and the available money as the pieces; but with half the fragments missing, it was a hopeless business. One fact was evident: some of these bills would have to be settled, and settled soon.

With an effort she put the whole affair at the back of her mind and tried to divert her attention. But her first glance across the room brought the thing back to her from a different angle. There was her host, old Rollo Dangerfield, sitting in a despondent attitude beside the window. What had he to be low-spirited about? If she herself owned the Dangerfield Talisman, her troubles would be conjured away. The thing was worth £50,000 on the last occasion when it had been valued; and the price of diamonds had gone up a good deal since then.

Her eyes passed to where Mrs. Brent and the American collector sat. Neither of them had money worries. At sixty, Mrs. Brent seemed to get a good deal out of life; and the steam yacht in the bay at the foot of the garden was a fair proof that a few hundred pounds one way or the other was not likely to trouble her.

A rustle of the cards brought Eileen’s attention to the bridge table. She leaned back a little in her chair and glanced, with an envy which was quite devoid of malice, at the three players intent on their game.

Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s husband had been one of those hard-faced men who had made fortunes in the War. When he died she had got the money; and her enemies said that the hard face had been bequeathed also, in a codicil to his will. She certainly had a very keen appreciation of the value of a Treasury note.

Then there was Douglas Fairmile, with a big private income. His only worry at present was whether Cynthia Pennard would marry him or not. No great need for anxiety there, Eileen reflected. Cynthia wasn’t throwing herself at his head, certainly; but it was one of those affairs which are bound to come right in the end. If only her own affairs would look as bright!

Finally, her partner, Conway Westenhanger, very obviously hadn’t a care in the world. Those mechanical inventions of his were known to be small gold mines; he wasn’t in love with anyone; and he got on well with people. What more could a man want?

Half unconsciously she compared the two men. Douglas was once described to her as “one of those delightful people who can always be cheery without getting on your nerves with it.” He had the gift of playing the fool in season without looking like a fool while he was doing it. One laughed with him, always, and never at him. Conway Westenhanger was a more complex person, but just as attractive in his own way. She liked his mouth; its clean-cut lines seemed to have something sympathetic in their curves; and the thinker’s sharply-marked vertical lines between the eyebrows rather added to the attractiveness of his face.

Mrs. Brent broke the silence, addressing her host. “Rollo! would you mind if we have that window opened further? The heat’s almost unbearable to-night.”

Old Dangerfield came out of his brown study with a start, made a gesture of acquiescence, and threw open the window to its full extent. Through the embrasure a faint breath of air wandered in from the outer twilight, laden with the smell of parched soil and the heavy perfume of flowers; but it brought no coolness with it.

“I suppose this doesn’t affect you, Mr. Wraxall?” Mrs. Brent turned to the American beside her. “You’re a New Yorker, aren’t you? Heat waves won’t trouble you as much as they do me. You’re acclimatised, no doubt.”

“It’s warm to-night. It’s certainly not what one calls cool. But I’ll admit that I’ve known it hotter over there. And this air of yours hasn’t got that used-up feeling about it that city air has. It’s fresh, even if it’s hot. You’d know it was garden air and not street air, even if the flowers weren’t there. But you’re wrong about my being acclimatised. I don’t use New York much in the summer.”

“Of course, you’ve got a country big enough to let you choose your climate for almost any day in the year, haven’t you? Well, there’s something to be said for an island. If this heat gets worse I shall simply take the Kestrel away for a night or two until the hot spell is over. Another couple of days of this would be unbearable. Luckily the Dangerfields understand me; they won’t be offended if I disappear without warning. One would think twice about doing that with most people, but Friocksheim is a real Liberty Hall.”

“They’ve been very kind in asking me down,” the American explained. “I didn’t know them; but I got an introduction; and when I explained I was interested in some of their things, they invited me to stay for a few days.”

He glanced through the window and across the moonlit bay which stretched beyond the lawns.

“The Kestrel? Little white yacht with copper funnels, lying in the bay? Is that the one? I saw her as I drove up here this evening.”

“Yes, that’s the Kestrel. You liked her looks?”

“Very pretty. Graceful lines, she has. My own yacht’s rather larger; but she’s not so neat, not so neat. I wanted lots of room on board.”

“The very thing I didn’t want on the Kestrel. I use her as a kind of retreat, Mr. Wraxall, the place for a rest-cure. I’ve never had a guest on board; there isn’t even a spare cabin. Sometimes I want to get clean away from everybody; and that was the best way I could think of for managing it. Callers don’t drop in when one’s fifty miles from port.”

The American looked at her with interest kindling in his eyes.

“You feel that way, too? That’s interesting. That’s very interesting. I take it you’re not a philanthropist, then?”

Mrs. Brent shifted her position slightly and looked up at her neighbour’s clean-shaven face. It was of the long rather than the square American type, the face of a man with a certain imagination.

“If you mean contributing to charitable funds and that sort of thing, I’m certainly not philanthropic,” she answered. “I don’t think I’ve spent a penny in that way during the last ten years. People come bothering me with tales of sad cases; at least they used to do that. But once you get the name of being kind-hearted, you’re simply pestered to death by demands, mostly from frauds. I’ve shed that reputation long ago. I don’t say I don’t give something here and there. Everybody does. But unless I see a thing with my own eyes I refuse to part with a farthing. My eyesight is still fairly good for my age; and I’m quite able to see a thing for myself without needing some fussy creature to point it out to me.”

She broke off suddenly and showed her fine teeth in a faint smile.

“You’ve touched there on a thing that always irritates me. I’ve got rather a bad reputation over it. They call me a skinflint. There’s an American phrase for that, isn’t there?”

“You mean a tight-wad, perhaps. Yes, that would be it, a tight-wad.”

He dismissed the subject, seeming to think of something else.

“A minute or two back you were saying you wanted to get away from humanity now and again. I sympathise with you there. I can understand the feeling. I open the newspaper in the morning and it says a new fibre has made finer lingerie possible. I don’t use lingerie. Further on, there’s something else about floor stains. That lacks the personal appeal. So does the one about candies. My digestion’s too poor for candies. Then I come across ‘Buy Jones’s Razors.’ I don’t buy Jones’s razors. Perhaps my man buys them. I don’t know. But you see how it is. Everywhere one goes these things hit the retina. There’s no escape from this modern way of pushing things. My own company does it. I get tired of it. I want to forget Jones’s razors, and Smith’s Confected Candies, and . . . and . . . dollars, and cents, and the whole twentieth century. I want to blot it all out of my mind. I want to get among old things, things that were made long before dollars were thought of. That’s restful. That’s the kind of thing I like. Something that looks as if your Queen Elizabeth might have used it, or one of your Henries. If it’s got a history attached to it, I like it all the more.”

Mrs. Brent’s face showed a blend of sympathy and amusement.

“So that’s how you became a collector?”

Wraxall smiled also.

“Well, Mrs. Brent, that’s part of the truth. That certainly is a factor. But there’s more to it than that. You may laugh at me if you like. You may certainly laugh. But I love these old things for themselves. It gives me a real pleasure to handle them, just to turn them over and over and look at them. And to wonder about the people who wore them. These things mean more to me than all the history-books. Much more.”

Mrs. Brent’s white-framed face became more sympathetic. She recognised a kindred spirit in the American, although his line of escape from the modern world was not the same as her own.

“Don’t forget to see the Dangerfield Talisman before you go, Mr. Wraxall. They’ll be glad to show it to you and tell you the legend. There are some photographs of it, too. You might be able to take one of them back for your collection.”

Mr. Wraxall brushed the suggestion aside.

“Photographs would be no use to me. They haven’t the appeal. No.”

He paused for a moment; then, studying her face, he continued:

“I thought of taking the thing itself back with me in the fall, if it could be arranged.”

“The Dangerfield Talisman?” Mrs. Brent almost lost her manners in her astonishment. “You thought of taking that back with you! Why, the thing’s absurd. They’d sooner part with Friocksheim than with the Talisman; and they’ve held Friocksheim since before the Conquest.”

“I wouldn’t stick at a few thousand pounds one way or the other. I’d set my heart on getting that Talisman. I’ve come four thousand miles for it, specially. That shows I’m interested. I’m keenly interested. I’m not a bargainer. They’ve only to name their price and I’ll pay it.”

“But, my dear man, this isn’t a case where money comes in at all, don’t you see? The thing’s unbuyable, you may take my word for it.”

The American scanned her face carefully.

“I see you mean it,” he commented, “but I came here specially to procure that Talisman. I couldn’t be content to take your word for it. Maybe you’re right. Perhaps you know best. But I’ll have to go to headquarters with my offer and make sure. I’m not doubting what you say. Not at all. I hadn’t a notion there was any difficulty in the road. None at all. But you’ll understand that, without doubting what you say in the very least, I’ve got to make sure?”

Mrs. Brent had recovered from her astonishment.

“Oh, certainly, go ahead. I shan’t feel offended, if that’s what you mean. But I warn you that it’s quite useless—out of the question.”

The American made a non-committal gesture. Mrs. Brent thought it best to change the subject.

“This heat seems to be getting worse, if anything. I must really get a fan. I’m old-fashioned enough to have one.”

She rose and left the room. Wraxall transferred his interest to his host who was still gazing absently out over the gardens. Mrs. Brent’s evident amazement at his suggestion had given the American something to think about. Things were not going to be so simple as he had imagined. He glanced across at Rollo Dangerfield’s profile, trying to estimate the chances of overcoming his objections if he really proved obdurate.

“Why, he might be an old Norseman come to life,” Wraxall said to himself. “Put one of those winged helmets on his head, and with that profile and that big white moustache he could sit to any painter for the portrait of a Viking. He’s not likely to be anybody’s money when it comes to bargaining. Stubborn. Obstinate. It’s going to be none so easy after all.”

He studied his host covertly until he was interrupted by Mrs. Brent’s return. She slipped into her chair and began to fan herself with an air of relief.

“This is the kind of night when one appreciates the Dangerfield methods,” she said, after a time. “They know how I hate climbing stairs; and they gave me a room on the ground floor. It’s the only one; all the rest are above. I blessed them just now as I passed the staircase and remembered that I might have had to climb it. I’ve got to the age when one economises on the unnecessary as far as possible; and I count stair climbing as a luxury on that standard.”

A great moth swept suddenly in through the open window, veered and swerved blindly over Rollo Dangerfield’s head, and then blundered out once more into the darkness. Mrs. Brent followed its flight; and her eyes caught the sky beyond the embrasure.

“Rollo!” she raised her voice to attract his attention. “Is there any sign of that thunderstorm breaking? I wish it would come, and perhaps the air would clear a little after it.”

Old Dangerfield leaned forward a little and scanned the visible horizon.

“I’m afraid it’s no good. The clouds are lighter than they were an hour ago; and I shouldn’t expect it to break to-night now.”

Mrs. Brent fanned herself resignedly.

“I’m not altogether sorry. That cure is almost as bad as the disease for me, Mr. Wraxall. A thunderstorm shakes my nerves to pieces always—I don’t know why. I’m not afraid of being struck, or anything of that kind; but the noise of thunder seems to get down somewhere into my subconsciousness and set me all on edge. After a real bad storm I’m hardly normal. I feel I might do anything wild; try to fly downstairs, steal my best friend’s spoons, or something equally idiotic.”

The American looked at her with a faint twinkle in his eye.

“Now that’s curious, Mrs. Brent, that’s very curious indeed. For, you see, thunderstorms take me quite the other way. I like them. I’d sit up all night to watch a good thunderstorm. Give me a chair, and a good wide window, with not too much iron near it, and I’d be content to watch the flashes so long as they like to come.”

He turned to the nearest window as he spoke, and then seemed to study it for a moment or two.

“That kind of window wouldn’t be much use as a stall for the performance. It’s too deep-set. Are the walls of this house really a couple of yards thick, the way they seem to be at the window-sill there?”

“Several feet thick in this part of Friocksheim. This is the old part of the house, you know—some of it dates from the time when the place was a castle, and they had to make walls thick and windows small. And of course that’s quite a recent thing. Here and there about the building you’ll find remnants of a much older Friocksheim. There’s a gateway you must get the Dangerfields to show you. It’s old enough to satisfy you, I should think.”

“I’d like to see it. It would be very interesting to me. And there must be some things worth visiting in the neighbourhood too. Perhaps you could tell me what I ought to go and see.”

“There’s a battered sort of monument on the road to Frogsholme village, about a mile and a half from here. I believe I remember hearing that it had something to do with Runic, whatever that is. And there are one or two other things you might care to look at.”

For a time she gave him the benefit of her rather scrappy knowledge of the local antiquities, while he jotted down notes in his pocket-book. At last, when he had exhausted her store, he looked at his watch and made a gesture of apology.

“It’s late, Mrs. Brent. I really hadn’t meant to keep you so long. But what you’ve been telling me is interesting, and I’ve got a thirst for knowledge about that kind of thing. You’ve helped me considerably. That information will be of great assistance to me.”

“Why not begin with the nearest? Mr. Dangerfield will be delighted to show you the Talisman to-night, I’m sure, if you wish it. And be sure to get him to tell you the legend of the pool. It may save you trouble, you know. You’ll see that your idea about the Talisman is quite hopeless.”

“That’s an idea. That’s a good idea, Mrs. Brent. I always like to know, right away, what sort of proposition I’m up against. I’ve not given up hope yet, you understand? I’m quite set on taking that Talisman home with me somehow, if it can be managed. And I think it can, one way or another.”

Conway Westenhanger’s voice came across the room. The bridge-table was breaking up.

“I make it twenty-seven pounds twelve. You might check the figures, Douglas. I’m more at home in the calculus than in simple arithmetic; and it’s quite likely I’ve made a slip.”

“Right,” said Douglas. “It isn’t your honesty I’m in doubt about, merely your capacity. The great brains are always a bit one-sided—top-heavy, if you take my meaning. Let’s see. Eight and six . . .”

He rapidly checked the addition.

“Correct! Well, you scrape through with a caution this time; but don’t do it again.”

Mrs. Caistor Scorton produced a roll of notes and counted out twenty-seven pounds ten on the table between Eileen and herself.

“One moment. I have a florin somewhere.”

“Don’t trouble about it,” Eileen hastened to reassure her. “You needn’t hunt for it. Let it stand.”

Mrs. Caistor Scorton continued her search and at last discovered the missing coin.

“I don’t like letting things stand over. Settle for cash, that’s always been my principle in bridge. I can’t be worried with remembering odd shillings from day to day.”

Eileen Cressage picked up her winnings gratefully. She was not disturbed by Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s manner. She was too overwhelmed by relief. Here was an absolute windfall which would go some distance towards solving the problem of her debts. Twenty-seven pounds! And she had given only half her attention to the game. If she had put her mind to it they might have won a good deal more. She had not even asked what stakes they were playing for; she had been too worried to think about that. A couple more nights like this and she would be able to pay off all her creditors.

“Sorry I shan’t be able to give you your revenge to-morrow, Douglas,” she heard Conway Westenhanger say, as he rose from the table. “I’ve got to run up to town for a couple of days. My patent-agent seems to have got on the track of an infringement of one of my affairs, and he wants to go into the business. That means Chancery Lane, Patent Office Library, and all the rest of it. Whew! It will be hot!”

Douglas’s good-natured face corrugated in a grin of commiseration; but already he was moving across the room to where Cynthia Pennard was sitting. Morchard watched his coming with a discontented eye.

Mrs. Brent, glad to be relieved from the American’s inquisition on local monuments, went across to Rollo Dangerfield’s chair and gazed out of the window.

“No, that storm won’t break to-night, I’m afraid. It’s moved further on. But it’s got on my nerves already. I wish it would break and get the thing over. This heat wave might pass, then.”

She drew back from the embrasure and bent over old Dangerfield.

“Rollo! I think Mr. Wraxall would like to have a look at the Talisman to-night, if you aren’t too tired.”

Rollo Dangerfield heaved himself up out of his chair, his six-foot height overtopping Mrs. Brent’s slight figure as he rose.

“Certainly, if Mr. Wraxall wishes it. We can go along now, if he cares about it.”

Eileen Cressage had caught the rapid interchange of talk.

“Oh! Are you going to tell him the Legend? May I come? I’d like to hear it.”

“What legend? About the Talisman? I haven’t heard it either,” said Westenhanger. “Do you mind my coming with you along with the rest?”

Rollo Dangerfield’s smile had a touch of wistfulness, in which it seemed curiously alien from the general cast of his features.

“Anyone who is interested will be welcome,” he said, with a touch of an old-fashioned courtesy which seemed to be so much in character in his case. And, crossing the room, he opened the door for the party to pass out under his guidance.

Chapter II

The group of Rollo Dangerfield’s followers diminished as it passed along the corridor. At the main entrance, Douglas and Cynthia slipped aside and went off by themselves down the broad steps into the gardens. Further on, beyond the great staircase, Mrs. Brent bade her companions good-night and turned into her room. Only five of his guests were left to follow the old man to the end of the corridor, where he threw open an unlocked door.

“This is what we call the Corinthian’s Room,” he explained as he ushered them into it. “It was my grandfather’s favourite spot in the house, and it got its name from him. He was one of the Regency bucks—no worse than the rest of them, perhaps, but a hard liver and a hard gambler in his day. An eccentric, too, like most of them. I can show you one of his eccentricities in a moment, if you care to see it.”

The room was about forty feet square, with a huge stone fireplace. A great cupboard of oak occupied part of one wall. Another wall was hung with an aged tapestry representing Diana pursuing a stag. The floor was of marble slabs, mainly white; but in the centre, black squares of marble had been introduced so as to make a gigantic chess-board pattern. Opposite the fireplace was a narrow and shallow niche filled with a glass case.

Rollo Dangerfield switched on the electric lights and led the visitors towards the recess. As they came near it, they saw within the case a bell of faintly tinted glass, under which lay, on a velvet bed, an ancient ornament.

“That is the Dangerfield Talisman,” said old Rollo, pointing to the case. “You can see what it is: one of those golden armlets which were worn in the olden times. It’s too heavy for our modern tastes, I’m afraid. You would hardly care to carry that, Miss Cressage.”

He turned to Eileen with a faint smile.

“It’s very heavy for an ornament—something over a pound, I believe,” he went on, as his guests drew nearer to look closely at the jewel. “Of course, the value of the gold is nothing to speak of, perhaps under a hundred pounds. The stones are of more interest in some people’s eyes. There are eight of them in all—you can see the others reflected in the mirror at the back, if you look closely.”

Mrs. Caistor Scorton examined the Talisman with an appraising eye.

“I agree with you. It’s too heavy in the design.”

Eileen Cressage bent forward and seemed to compare the size of the ornament with her own white arm.

“If a girl wore that,” she said, “she must have been splendid. It’s not a bit clumsy. She must have been slim, if anything, with small hands, or she couldn’t have got it over them.”

“Let’s try it on Miss Cressage,” said Morchard, suddenly, and he moved forward as he spoke. The case had a plain sheet of glass immediately in front of the jewel, through which it could be examined, whilst at either side was a glass door kept secured by a tiny handle. As Morchard put out his hand, Rollo Dangerfield stopped him with a gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s one of our family customs never to take the Talisman out of its case—never even to lift the shade from it.”

He smiled, faintly apologetic, but evidently unbending in defence of his traditions.

“These ideas grow up somehow, in ways that are difficult to trace back to their births; but as time goes on, they gain a sort of sanctity from tradition, and speaking for myself, I should be sorry if I were the first of us to break this particular custom. There are so few of the old things left in this twentieth century world, and perhaps you young people won’t grudge me this one, if I keep it.”

The touch of wistfulness had come back into his voice, robbing his refusal of the faintest trace of offence. Eileen, afraid that some of the others might embarrass the old man by pressing him to let them handle the jewel, hastened to put in a word before Morchard could open his mouth.

“I’d love to try it on; but what Mr. Dangerfield says is quite right. And now, I’d like to hear its story—the legend, I mean.”

Rollo Dangerfield silently invited them to seat themselves. Then, leaning against the case containing the Talisman, he turned to face his audience and began to speak. At first he seemed nervous of his effect; but as the tale went on, his voice changed into a monotone, as though he were reciting some well-remembered ritual.

“You must bear in mind that this is a very old tale, far older than any written document that we have. True enough, it fits the geography of Friocksheim; but for all we know, the legend may be far older than Friocksheim and may deal with some Pool which none of us has ever seen. You know that we Dangerfields came into England from the North, away back in the troubled days before the Conquest. Friocksheim, I’m told, is a corruption of Fricca’s Heim, Frea’s Heim, the dwelling of Frea, the wife of Odin. There is no doubt about us as a race.”

He lifted his old head proudly, and the Viking resemblance stood out undeniably in his features. Then, with a smile that showed the strong white teeth, he added:

“I needn’t emphasise the final stage in the corruption of the name as you find it in the village: our Friocksheim has changed to Frogsholme, on the lips of these godless aborigines.”

He paused for a moment and shifted his position slightly, so that he could see the Talisman as it lay under his arm.

“You must understand, then,” he went on, “that this legend comes down to us from days when Valhalla still opened its gates to the heroes; and the spirits of winds, and woods, and streams, moved among men in their visible forms. It may be mere allegory; possibly it is the transmutation of some quite normal happening, a love tale magnified and distorted in the telling.

“One summer’s night, the legend runs, Ulric, the Lord of Friocksheim, went out into the moonlight, seeking coolness after the heat of his castle walls. And, so wandering, he came by the Pool and sat beside the water, watching the rising of the mist from the surface of the mere. As he sat thus, lost in thought, the moonlight sparkled upon something before him, and, bending forward, he grasped the Talisman. So he sat, with the armlet in his hand; and as he watched, the mists of the lake grew denser and drew closer; and there stepped at last from among their folds a maiden.”

Old Rollo bent towards the Talisman, so that his face was partly hidden from his audience.

“Very little has come down to us—only a few words in a tale. Yet even these halting words conjure up for me a wonder; a being, young, and proud, and fair, a form and grace surpassing all the beauty of women; a flash of divinity passing across the screen of the flesh.”

He let his voice drop into silence for a moment before he continued:

“The legend tells that she was betrothed to the Spirit of the Pool, the Frog King. But Ulric won her. She gave him the Talisman which she had come back to seek; and, when he desired her, he had but to dip it in the Pool and she came to him—for so long as that moon still shone. And she charged him, when she was with him, to keep the Talisman and to hand it down; for it would be the Luck of Friocksheim. And so, night after night, the Lord of Friocksheim went down to the Pool and washed the Talisman in its waters and wandered with his love in the wood beside the mere—until the moon came no more over the trees. But the next night, when he dipped the Talisman in the waters, there came swimming to him a loathsome little shape which laughed and jeered at him, saying: ‘The Frog King has her for his bride.’ ”

Old Rollo turned back towards his audience again.

“So the Dangerfield Talisman is only a reminder of an old lie. Even at the best, it’s a memorial of lying and deceit—and punishment.”

His voice sounded bitter for a moment, but he went back at once to his ordinary tone:

“There it is: the Dangerfield Luck. I don’t say I believe the legend; I won’t say I doubt it. However the thing came to us, it’s our oldest possession and experts tell me that the workmanship is extraordinarily old. And now, I think I can show you something less romantic, though it’s not without its interest.”

He moved forward and pushed aside some rugs with his foot, so that the black and white marble squares in the centre of the floor were cleared.

“I told you, I think, that this was the room mainly used by my grandfather, the Corinthian. It was, in fact, the very last room he ever entered. Possibly some of you remember something about the Regency times, the gambling, the prize-fighting, the duelling that went on. Eccentricity was often the pass-key to notoriety in those days; some of the bucks cultivated it wilfully. I believe that my grandfather was genuinely eccentric in this particular affair. He was a fanatic for chess playing and this was his chess board. You see the marble squares on the floor.”

He stooped down and lifted a metal plug from the centre of a square.

“Each of these squares has a plug like this at its centre. They’re really put in to keep dirt out of the holes when no game is being played. When they wanted to set the pieces, all the plugs were taken out; and then the board was ready.”

He stepped across the room and threw open the oaken cupboard on the wall.

“These are the chess-men. You see they are on a scale to match the board, each of them about a foot and a half high. Mr. Westenhanger, would you mind lifting one of them out—a pawn will do. They’re too heavy for me, nowadays.”

Westenhanger came forward and gripped one of the iron pieces.

“Lift it up off the shelf before you pull it forward,” said old Dangerfield. “There’s a spike on the foot of each piece, fitting into a hole in the shelf—the spike that goes into the hole in the chess-board, so that the piece can’t be accidentally knocked over. They’re top-heavy things. The Staunton pattern wasn’t invented in those days.”

It took more effort than Westenhanger had expected to lift the thing from its place and carry it over to the chess-board. He dropped it into position on one of the squares, the iron rod slipping easily into the hole and fixing the piece firmly.

“Rather like a railway chess-board, isn’t it?” he said, as he went back to his seat, “but a good deal of trouble to play a game with pieces of that weight, I should think.”

Old Rollo’s eyes twinkled.

“I doubt if they’d have played much if they’d been left to their own exertions. As a matter of fact, each player had a lackey to shift his pieces for him while he sat comfortably in his chair.”

He came forward and sat down as he spoke.

“This chess-board looks innocent enough; but it brought the death of my grandfather. You know what it was like in those days: men would quarrel about the tint of a snuff-box and fight a fatal duel over the fit of a cravat. My grandfather was as much of a fire-eater as his friends. Some miserable squabble took place in this room while they were actually playing on that board; probably a mere drunken difference of opinion about some absurd trifle or other. They went out with pistols in the dawn; and the other man was the luckier of the two. Perhaps he deserved to be. No one knows now what they fought about. My grandfather was shot in the head—killed instantly.”

Rollo Dangerfield rose, and drawing from his pocket a bunch of keys, he opened a small safe buried in the wall of the room beside the fireplace. From one of the divisions of the safe he extracted a worn-looking paper and a peculiar disc-like object.

“Here are two other relics. We preserve most things; and as this was the last document my grandfather put on paper, we’ve kept it in safety. You may as well see it.”

He handed the paper to Wraxall, who studied it intently before passing it to his neighbour. At the top of the sheet were two lines of handwriting:

Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam.

Matt VI. 21; Luke XII. 34.

Below this was a rough diagram of a chess-board with certain pieces placed as in an end-game or a problem.

Wraxall turned the paper over in search of something further; but the back of the sheet was blank.

The American passed the manuscript to Mrs. Caistor Scorton and held out his hand for the second object which Rollo Dangerfield had taken from the safe. It was a circular disc cut from a sheet of leather. Originally the sheet may have been the same thickness as a boot-sole, or rather thinner; but a century of atmospheric changes had warped and contorted its form. Evidently when new it had been about two and a half inches in diameter. Through the centre of the leather there passed a piece of twine secured on one side of the disc by a knot and looped on the other side into a fixed ringlet of a size which would just admit a hand. Wraxall turned the object over and over, but it suggested nothing to him. After a final inspection, he passed it also to his neighbour, and then turned inquiringly to Rollo Dangerfield.

“It suggests nothing to you?” old Dangerfield demanded perfunctorily. He took back both objects after they had been examined by everyone, and held up the paper so that they could see it. “This first line, in Latin, is simply part of the second verse of the Nineteenth Psalm: Night unto night sheweth knowledge. The two references to the Gospels give you the verse: Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. I am afraid we can’t discover anything from that part of the document. The rest of it seems easier to account for, if I tell you a little more about the paper.”

He put the sheet on his knee and leaned back in his chair as though tired.

“You see the rough sketch of the chess-board,” he went on after a moment or two. “That gives the position in which the pieces were found on this board here after his death. Possibly it represents the end-position in that game during which the quarrel arose between him and his opponent. He must have attached some importance to it himself, for he came into this room just before going off to his duel, jotted the thing down, and left orders that it was to be given to his son if anything happened. That, I must admit, seems to suggest that he was not quite in a normal frame of mind when he put the thing on paper; for at that date my father was a boy of four or five years old. We Dangerfields are a very late-marrying family, for some reason or other. Obviously a child of that age could have no interest in chess-endings. Put that together with the three texts; and I believe the normal mind would say that my grandfather’s brain was still bemused with his night’s wine—he drank an enormous quantity of port, they say—and that in a muddled-headed way he scribbled down this end-game, added one or two of his favourite texts, and then, with some idea that the texts might be of service to his son, he left directions for the paper to be handed on.”

He glanced amusedly round the circle to see if they shared this view.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “that explanation falls short of completeness on one matter. This little leather disc was also to be handed to my father. Was it a toy that he had made for the boy? Perhaps he had promised it to the child, and even at that dangerous moment he remembered his promise? I like to think that there was something of the kind in his mind. But if there had been any promise of the sort, my father had forgotten it. When they questioned him he knew nothing about it. Quite possibly it was a promised toy. You know what the memory of a four-year-old is like and how difficult it is to catch hold of something which he has once allowed to slip. Nothing came of it.”

His fingers played almost affectionately with the wrinkled scrap of leather.

“My grandfather’s death left my father an orphan; for his mother had died a year or two earlier. The paper was preserved and handed to my father, when he came of age, by the lawyer of our family who had impounded it shortly after its discovery. It meant nothing to anyone. Whatever meaning it carried had been lost. All that it meant to my father was the last link with his Corinthian ancestor; and I believed that he preserved it on that account. At any rate, it found its way into the Dangerfield archives, and there it is likely to remain.”

“And you, yourself, haven’t any idea about it, Mr. Dangerfield?” asked Eileen. “Surely he must have had something in his mind when he wrote it. Tell us what you think of it, if you can.”

“I can give you a guess,” said old Dangerfield, “but it’s a guess and nothing more. My own view is that the quarrel had arisen over some question of their play; and my grandfather wanted a permanent record left, so as to be able to prove his point in cold blood later on. In addition to being a gambler and one of the most remarkable spendthrifts of his day, he was an obstinate man. We know that to our cost. The Dangerfield jewels used to be a very fine collection; but after his death it was found that most of the good things had vanished—converted into cash and gambled away in backing that obstinate opinion of his. After a couple of generations we’re still suffering from the inroads he made into the estate.”

“Is anything more known about him?” asked Westenhanger.

“Not very much that’s creditable, I’m afraid. Oh, yes! I believe that he made himself rather ridiculous by an improvement of the hobby-horse.”

“He must have been a rum bird!” commented Westenhanger.

Rollo Dangerfield hastened to explain.

“Not a rocking-horse. I mean that two-wheeled thing like a safety bicycle that some of the Corinthians used to amuse themselves with. One sat in the saddle and pushed the thing along with one’s feet on the ground—like running in a chair, rather. It had a vogue at one time. I’m told that he brought out a new pattern with treadles—something like the present child’s scooter in principle. At any rate, it was rather frowned on, and he was glad to let it drop. But you see that he was evidently akin to you on one side at least.”

“Now there’s just one other thing I’d like to hear about, if you can tell us, Mr. Dangerfield.” Eileen Cressage looked rather doubtfully at the old man as she spoke. “Perhaps I’m indiscreet; and if I am, please say so at once. People talk about the Dangerfield Secret. They say it’s something like the one in that Scots family up in the north—you know, the thing the heir is told when he’s twenty-one. Is there really a Dangerfield secret?”

Old Rollo Dangerfield’s face hardened perceptibly for a moment; and he looked at the girl with an inscrutable expression. Then, evidently reading in her face a fear that she had offended him, he relaxed his attitude slightly and tried to put her at her ease again. Nevertheless, the tone of his voice was sufficient to show that he disliked the subject.

“There is something which people call the Dangerfield Secret. Helga doesn’t know it. She’ll be told when she’s twenty-five. My nephew Eric knows it, since he’s the next male heir. I can say no more about it.”

Westenhanger relieved the slight strain that followed by getting up and stepping across to the Talisman’s case.

“I suppose you put this in the safe each night, Mr. Dangerfield? It would hardly do to leave it exposed like this for anyone to pick up. It must be worth a small fortune.”

Old Dangerfield looked across the room.

“It was valued last in my grandfather’s time, and they put it down as being worth some £50,000 then. The diamonds were said to be very fine; and you can see the size of the stones for yourself.”

“I don’t think I’d trust it in a small safe like that, if it were mine,” said Westenhanger, glancing at the little iron door from which Rollo Dangerfield had taken the document. “Any man with a pocket crowbar could open that thing and get away with the Talisman.”

The old man laughed shortly.

“Don’t trouble about the safe. The Talisman is never put into that. The fact is, you have come up against another of the Dangerfield superstitions. The Talisman is never moved from its place by day or night. It stands where you see it, always.”

The American sat up suddenly.

“You leave it there, sir? You take no precautions against crooks? You don’t mean to tell me anyone could step in here, lift that bell, and clear off with the goods?”

He paused, as if struck by a thought. Then he continued in another tone.

“I take it that you’re fully covered by insurance?”

Rollo Dangerfield’s face took on a faintly sardonic expression. He seemed to enjoy surprising the American.

“Not at all. The Talisman has never been insured. Why should we insure it? It always comes back. We have electric alarms on all the outer doors and the windows, of course; but they are merely put on because my wife is nervous. The Talisman can look after itself, I assure you.”

Wraxall looked at his host in amazement.

“Do you really mean that?”

He thought for a moment, and then a fresh idea seemed to strike him.

“Now I see! You’ve got some medieval mantrap or spring-gun attached to the thing, something that grips your burglar if he comes after your property?”

Rollo Dangerfield’s laugh was quite free from sarcasm; he evidently enjoyed the jest which he alone could see.

“No, Mr. Wraxall, nary a spring-gun, as I believe some of your compatriots might say. Not so much as a mantrap. You could lift the thing from its bed at any hour of the day or night without the slightest risk. My nephew Eric has rooms in the tower above us; but even if he heard you, I doubt if he would trouble to interrupt you. We know our Talisman. It always comes home.”

The American was plainly astounded.

“It seems to me, Mr. Dangerfield, that you’re presuming a good deal on your safety in the past. Crooks nowadays aren’t likely to be frightened off by talk. No, it would take more than a Castle Spectre to keep some of our smashers out of here if they only knew what you’ve told us.”

Rollo Dangerfield’s white eyebrows contracted slightly. It was evident to them all that he was displeased at being doubted. He leaned forward and spoke directly to the American.

“Now this is authentic, Mr. Wraxall. You can look up the accounts in the local papers of the time, if you care to go to the trouble. I shall be very pleased to give you the dates, if necessary. At least twice within the last half century an attempt has been made to rob us of the Talisman. Once a drunken tramp made his way in here during the night and took the armlet. He was afraid to get rid of it anywhere near here; and three days later he was arrested for some other crime; the Talisman was found on him and returned to us. The second case was a genuine burglary. One of the keepers saw the man leave the house and gave chase. The fellow dropped dead—heart failure, it was said to be—and the Talisman was found in his hand.”

The American said nothing; but quite obviously he was not convinced. Old Dangerfield seemed to be nettled.

“I am not trying to convince you, Mr. Wraxall. I suppose that would be quite impossible. But I tell you this frankly: If the Talisman disappeared to-night, the last thing I should think of doing would be to call in the police. The Talisman guards itself. Within seven days at the outside, it would be back there under the bell.”

Eileen Cressage had been listening eagerly to the old man’s words; but at this last statement, her surprise broke out.

“You wouldn’t call in the police, Mr. Dangerfield? You’d really trust to the Talisman finding its way home? It seems amazing.”

“You may take me at my word, Miss Cressage. I mean exactly what I say in this matter. If the Talisman disappeared, either by day or by night, I should not trouble to call in police assistance. Why should I, when I know what I do know? Of course I mean what I say. Did you ever see anything like the Talisman guarded with so little care? If I did not believe implicitly that it would come back, wouldn’t I have it trenched round with all manner of protections? Of course! Let it go! What does that matter, since it is certain to be over there again before long.”

Conway Westenhanger turned from the Talisman’s niche, but as he crossed the tessellated floor his eye was caught by something which he had not noticed before. He stooped for an instant and glanced keenly at the corners of one or two squares.

“Something there that’s got plugged with dirt,” he reflected. “Holes a bit bigger than a large pin’s head, they seem to be. Nothing important, evidently, since they’re choked up in that fashion.”

Chapter III

Freddie Stickney owed his presence in the Friocksheim house-party to qualities other than those which make a welcome guest. He was a mean little man, with a skin which invariably proved itself impenetrable to ordinary social pin-pricks; and this thickness of hide enabled him to thrust himself into positions wherein an average individual would have felt too keenly that he was an intruder. He had invited himself, knowing Rollo Dangerfield’s dislike for hurting people’s feelings and counting on that quality to avoid a refusal; and, having arrived, he proposed to stay for just as long as it suited him to do so. Not that he had any special interest in the Dangerfields. He had angled for three other invitations before turning to Friocksheim as a last resource. However, he was quite prepared to make the most of it, now that he had fixed the thing up. “Even the best of us,” he reflected philosophically, “even the best of us have to put up with the second-best at times.” And in this kindly spirit he had come down from town.

Freddie’s lack of popularity was due to certain peculiarities in his mind. An acquaintance of his, hard put to it to account for the matter, had explained it thus: “Freddie’s got a certain acuteness. Give him a fact, and he’ll worry at it and draw inferences from it. And the funny thing is that every inference he draws tends to discredit somebody or something. And yet he doesn’t do it out of malice. It’s just Freddie’s way. He’s got that kind of mind—can’t help making people uncomfortable.”

On the afternoon of the day after Rollo Dangerfield had shown the Talisman to his guests, Freddie was lounging on a seat in the garden when one of these inference-bearing facts crossed his mind.

“Why,” he said to himself, “now that Westenhanger’s gone to town, we shall be thirteen at table to-night. That’s very thoughtless of the Dangerfields. Out of thirteen people there’s certain to be at least one person who’s superstitious. That’ll be most uncomfortable for everybody. I think I’d better mention it before we sit down.”

As it chanced he had not to wait so long before announcing his discovery. Before he had finished a mental analysis of the probable distribution of superstition among his fellow-guests, Mrs. Dangerfield came into view, armed with gloves and scissors. Freddie rose and joined her.

“Going to cut some flowers?” he inquired. “May I help?”

Mrs. Dangerfield refused his assistance; but Freddie was not to be shaken off.

“Friend of mine once suffered badly. Tore his finger with a thorn, then let some dirt into it. Careless fellow he was, poor chap. It suppurated, swelled up, they had to take the finger off at last.”

Mrs. Dangerfield deliberately put on her gardening gloves.

“I don’t think I shall run much risk in these, Mr. Stickney.”

“No? Perhaps not. Still, one never can tell, you know. A single prick from a rose-thorn would be enough.”

Mrs. Dangerfield laughed.

“You must be a terribly thoughtful person to live with.”

Freddie considered this for a moment.

“No. Just a knack I have of seeing a thing and knowing how it happens. That reminds me—we shall be thirteen at table to-night. Don’t mind myself, of course—and I’m sure you don’t mind either—but some of the people might, you know. It’s awkward.”

“I shouldn’t trouble about it, Mr. Stickney. As a matter of fact, I remembered it yesterday and rang up Mrs. Tuxford. She and the doctor will dine with us to-night. So no one’s feelings will be ruffled. And of course we never have a full party at lunch. Is your mind relieved?”

Mrs. Dangerfield did not like Freddie Stickney.

“But what about breakfast to-morrow?” pursued the indefatigable inquirer. “They might happen to turn up all at the same time.”

“Mrs. Brent always breakfasts in her own room,” said Mrs. Dangerfield, who was tired of the subject. “I’m sorry. I have some orders to give to this gardener.”

Dismissed in this summary fashion Freddie Stickney wandered about the grounds until it was time to go into the house and dress. He was feeling rather bored. Friocksheim might be cheaper than the Continent, but undeniably it was slow. Nothing happened at Friocksheim. These people seemed to have no interest in scandal. He began to wish that something would turn up to liven things a little. He had had hopes of Morchard at first. The mottle-faced fellow seemed to be keen on the girls; and anything might turn up. But none of the girls seemed interested in Morchard. Nor did they seem fascinated by Freddie himself. A slow place, decidedly slow. He was thoughtful while he dressed. If the Dangerfield circle was going to turn out so boring he might be forced to leave earlier than he had intended; but that would mean paying hotel bills somewhere, and Freddie’s frugal mind could hardly bring itself to consider that prospect except as a last resort.

After dinner the party split up. Douglas Fairmile, complaining bitterly of the heat and clamouring for fresh air, easily persuaded Cynthia to follow him out into the gardens. Old Dangerfield impressed Freddie Stickney to make up a bridge four with Nina Lindale and the doctor’s wife. As they sat down Mrs. Tuxford put in a plea for small stakes.

“What do you call ‘small stakes?’ ” demanded Freddie. “As low as ten bob a hundred? They’re playing their usual points at the other table, I think.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and noted that Mrs. Caistor Scorton and Morchard were playing against Eric Dangerfield and Eileen.

The doctor’s wife, a shy-looking girl, seemed taken aback by Freddie’s ideas.

“I simply can’t afford to play for anything higher than a shilling a hundred,” she said, ignoring Freddie’s ill-suppressed astonishment at the figure. “I’m sorry, but there it is.”

Rollo Dangerfield winced under Freddie’s tactlessness. He knew that the doctor’s practice was a very small one; and he admired the girl for having the grit to keep the stakes down.

“Quite right,” he interjected, swiftly, before Freddie could say anything further, “I agree with you, Mrs. Tuxford. A shilling a hundred suits well enough if one’s keen on the game for its own sake. I’d much rather play with people who want to win a rubber than with other people who only want to win a sovereign.”

“I’m quite pleased to play for a shilling a hundred,” said Nina Lindale.

Freddie could take a hint as well as most people. His eyes opened a little wider, but nothing else showed whether he was pleased or displeased. As the game began, the doctor came across the room and glanced at his wife’s hand.

Mrs. Brent, feeling the thunderous closeness of the night, had made her way to a chair beside one of the deep windows; and leaning back in it she tried to persuade herself that she felt a breath of cooler air. Wraxall and Mrs. Dangerfield followed her, and they were joined almost immediately by the doctor. Helga Dangerfield circled round the two tables, halting for a moment or two to scan the cards. Then, saying she had some letters to write, she left the room.

“The storm must be coming to-night,” Mrs. Brent asserted, as a faint puff of sultry air momentarily stirred the curtain beside her. “It’s been banking up all day; and I’m sure it can’t keep off much longer. I can feel all my nerves atwitch.”

Wraxall bent forward in his chair and scanned the heavy clouds.

“I’m not up in your weather-signs,” he said, “but it does seem to me that there’s a shake-up coming. I should certainly judge we’d have rain soon. I should say we’re in for a regular water-spout if those clouds burst overhead. It will be wet.”

The doctor was examining Mrs. Brent’s face with an interest more friendly than professional.

“Nerves?” he asked kindly.

She nodded.

“A dose of bromide? Quieten them, and give you a chance to get to sleep. I can take my car down and make it up for you in ten minutes, if you’d like it.”

Mrs. Brent thanked him with a smile; but she nodded dissent to his suggestion.

“No,” she answered, “I don’t believe in running away from things. I loathe thunder; but I’m not so feeble as all that. I’d much rather take it as it comes.”

The doctor was about to say something when she stopped him with a gesture and bent forward to the window, listening intensely.

“What bird was that?” she asked.

“I heard nothing,” said the doctor.

“Listen!” she motioned for silence, and they sat with ears strained. “There! Didn’t you hear it?”

“No, nothing,” said the American.

“There it is again!” Mrs. Brent held up her hand for a moment. “It’s stopped now. Didn’t you hear it, Anne?”

Mrs. Dangerfield shook her head.

“You always forget that the rest of us aren’t gifted with super-normal hearing, you know.”

“Well, I heard it quite distinctly. It’s down yonder in the trees near the Pool, I think.”

“Nobody else heard it, at any rate,” said the doctor. “You must have remarkably sharp ears, Mrs. Brent. Now I begin to see why you dislike thunder so much. It must be a perfect torture to a person with your acute hearing. I withdraw my suggestion about a sedative. Nothing short of morphia would keep you asleep in a storm, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I haven’t come to that yet,” Mrs. Brent retorted. “And I prefer to keep what nerves I have, rather than wreck them further with drugs. One can always stand a thing if one makes up one’s mind to it.”

“One thing I won’t stand,” said Mrs. Dangerfield, “and that’s the heat in this room. Let’s go outside and see if we can’t find a cooler spot to sit.”

The doctor rose and followed her as she crossed the room; but Mrs. Brent seemed to reject the idea. She remained in her chair and Wraxall, after rising, sat down again. For a time Mrs. Brent remained silent, gazing out at the inky sky; but at last she turned to the American.

“Well, Mr. Wraxall,” she demanded in a low voice which could not reach the bridge players. “Are you still confident of getting what you want?”

The American’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

“I couldn’t say. No, it’s too early yet to say. I’ll admit that it’s a stiffer thing than I expected. It’s certainly stiffer than I supposed. But I haven’t tried to get it yet. I think I’ll wait till I have tried, before I say what I think. But I thank you for what you told me. I take that kindly of you. If you’d said nothing I’d have made a mistake, likely enough. I hadn’t quite a grip of the situation; I’ll say that frankly.”

Mrs. Brent scanned his imperturbable features for a moment and then changed the subject.

“Rather a contrast between those two bridge-tables over there. Mrs. Tuxford plays well; but she kept the stakes down. The play at the other table seems to me little better than gambling. I’ve heard ‘Re-double’ twice in the last round or two; and Miss Cressage isn’t half as good at bridge as Mrs. Tuxford.”

Wraxall looked at her with a faint admiration showing on his face.

“You don’t miss much, Mrs. Brent. That’s a fact. I’ve been watching them play, but it hadn’t struck me. You’re quite right. But I suppose they can stand it.”

“I suppose so. No business of mine,” retorted Mrs. Brent, shortly.

She turned slightly round in her chair, however, and studied the faces of the players at Eileen’s table. Things were going very badly for the girl. She was the worst of the four, and in addition, her nerve was going, and her play was growing more and more reckless. That night she had sat down with the pleasant feeling that in an hour or two she would have won something more towards the payment of these bills which still hung over her. But somehow, this evening, things were different. Instead of Conway Westenhanger, she had Eric Dangerfield as a partner; and without quite realising what the change meant she had found that the games did not run so smoothly as they had done on the night before. Once or twice she had miscalculated, and her partner had left her to fend for herself. A run of bad cards had eaten still further into her nerve.

And then, suddenly, she had realised how much she had already lost; and she had begun to play more wildly in the hope of recouping herself. The gains of the previous evening were gone by now, and she was steadily running up a score against herself. She began to feel the heat of the night; and her play became more erratic.

Mrs. Brent studied her face for a round or two without comment. Then she turned to the American with an expression which might almost have been an ill-concealed sneer.

“If either of us was a philanthropist, Mr. Wraxall, I think we could find a field for our talents by persuading that girl to stop before she makes matters worse. She’s making a fool of herself.”

“I judge so from her looks. I don’t play bridge. It seems to me to lack the complete psychological satisfaction that poker gives. And it hasn’t the swiftness of faro. It’s too slow and not brainy enough. I regard it as a dud game.”

Mrs. Brent turned her back to the bridge-table.

“Well, if we worried ourselves about other people’s troubles we should have a full life of it,” she said. “As I told you the other night, I’m not a professing philanthropist.”

The American made no direct reply.

“You’ve got a headache?” he asked.

“Frightful. It’s the storm, I think.”

“I judged so from your eyes. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go off and leave you. You won’t be anxious to talk when you feel that way.”

Mrs. Brent gloomily acquiesced. Wraxall rose from his chair and left the room. As soon as he had gone she turned again slightly and resumed her study of Eileen Cressage’s face. The girl was evidently slipping into desperation; and her play had degenerated into mere gambling on long chances. Once or twice she won heavily; but the run of luck was persistently against her. Mrs. Brent shifted her attention to Eric Dangerfield’s face; and from it she could learn that he was growing uneasy. Once or twice he endeavoured to take the play out of his partner’s hands; but he had nothing like the skill of Conway Westenhanger. More often than not, his attempts at rescue ended in worse disaster. Occasionally he glanced at the score and knitted his brows; but his play continued steady. He had not lost his nerve, like the girl.

After a final disastrous round, the bridge-party completed the rubber and came to a close. Mrs. Brent saw Eileen Cressage lean over and watch Morchard as he added up the long array of figures; and the girl’s perturbation at the sight of the scoring-block was written plainly in her face. Morchard was slow in arithmetic; and as he laboriously totted up column after column, the distress deepened and the girl went whiter. At last he jotted down the total and worked out the cash equivalent.

“That’s—let’s see—two hundred and six pounds eighteen, isn’t it?” he said, putting down the scoring-block and pencil.

“What did you say? I didn’t quite catch,” said Eileen. Two hundred pounds! She knew they had been losing steadily; but this was far beyond her worst anticipations. She couldn’t possibly pay that, even if she were given a year to do it. What had persuaded her to play at all? She felt her throat dry and mechanically moistened her lips.

“Two hundred and six pounds eighteen, I make it,” repeated Morchard. “Not bad, partner.”

Mrs. Caistor Scorton glanced keenly at the girl’s face.

“Well!” she said, shortly, pushing her chair back slightly as though to show that the time had come to settle.

Eileen pulled herself together with an effort.