The Definite Object

“S’posin’ I could show ye? S’pose you see him there—waitin’ for her—”

“If—if he means any harm t’ Hermy, I—I’ll kill him!”

“Aw—you wouldn’t have the nerve, Kid!”

“I’d shoot him dead—by God, I would!”

“You ain’t man enough, Kid.”

“You g-give me a gun an’ see. I’d shoot any one t’ save my sister from—th’ river. Oh, my God—I—I’d die for her, an’ she don’t love me no more!” And leaning his head upon his arms, Spike burst into a passion of tears. M’Ginnis watched him awhile, then, filling the boy’s glass, clapped him on the shoulder and held it to his lips.

“Neck this, Kid,” said he, “neck it all—so, that’s good, ain’t it? To-morrow evenin’ I’ll take ye where they meet; maybe you’ll ketch him waitin’ for her—but instead of Hermy an’ kisses there’ll be you an’ me, hey? Will ye come?”

“S-sure I will if—you’ll gimme—your gun.”

“Pshaw, Kid—what’s a kid like you want with a gun?”

“T’shoot him—”

“Eh? What? D’ye mean—?”

“If he’s after my sister, I’ll—kill him! I will, by God, I will!”

“‘S right,” nodded Soapy, staring into the boy’s drawn face, “‘s right, Bud; if ever I see a killer—th’ Kid’s sure it!”

Slowly the glare died out of Spike’s eyes, his body drooped, and sighing, he pillowed his heavy head upon the table and fell into a drunken slumber. For a while the two men sat there hearkening to his stertorous breathing, then Soapy laughed soft and mirthlessly. “You sure got th’ Kid all worked up an’ mad enough t’—kill, eh, Bud? If he does get up against this guy Geoff—this guy Geoff’s sure goin’ t’ cash in—sudden. Consequently, I guess you’ll be wantin’ paper an’ pencil—both here!”

“What th’ hell—” began M’Ginnis.

“Telegram, Bud. You’re goin’ t’ frame up a nice little telegram t’ this guy Geoff—oh, you sure are th’ fly gazebo! A nice little message—’meet me t’morrow in the wood at sunset—Hermy?’ Somethin’ nice ‘n’ romantic like that’ll bring him on th’ run—eh, Bud? Then, ‘stead of Hermy, comes you an’ th’ Kid, eh, Bud? An’ ‘stead of kisses, this guy Geoff gets a lead pill—eh, Bud? Th’ Kid can’t miss if you get him close enough. It sure is some scheme, Bud; I couldn’t have thought it out better myself. Paper ‘n’ pencil, Bud—get busy an’ I’ll sashay over an’ send it off for ye—t’night.”

During Soapy’s unusually long speech, M’Ginnis sat staring at him under frowning brows, but now he turned and scowled down at the sheet of paper, picked up the pencil, laid it by again and sat opening and shutting his big hands, while Soapy, lighting another cigarette, watched him furtively. When at last he spoke, his voice was thick, and he didn’t lift his scowling gaze.

“Send that kid Larry t’ me, an’ say—you don’t have t’ come back.”

“All right, Bud, all right—only you’d best send two telegrams t’ make sure—one t’ Fift’ Av, an’ one t’ his place up th’ river. S’ long, Buddy!”

Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O’Rourke’s, was swung to the wall in Soapy’s grip.

“Aw—say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?”

“‘S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram—quick!”

“Aw, say, what yer mean—’n’ say, Bud told me to hustle, ‘n’ say—”

“Dig it out—quick!” said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing fiercely. “I want it—see?”

“But say—” whimpered Larry, “what’ll Bud say—”

“Nothin’! Bud ain’t goin’ t’ know. You take this instead—take it!” And Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy’s limp hand, who took it whimpering.

“Bud tol’ me t’ bring it back.”

“Well, you tell him you lost it.”

“Not much—I’ll skin right back an’ tell him you pinched it.”

“You won’t, my sport, you won’t!” said Soapy, and speaking, moved suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with the muzzle of Soapy’s deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. “You ain’t goin’ t’ say a word t’ Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are ye?”

“No—no—”

“Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there—right there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an’ see ye get them addresses right. S’long, Larry boy, be good now!” When the boy had scudded away, Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M’Ginnis’s telegram and, being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.

“You got th’ Kid, Bud,” he murmured, “you got th’ Kid—but if th’ Kid gets the guy Geoff, why—I’ve sure got you, Bud—got ye sure as hell, Bud!”

CHAPTER XXXII

OF HARMONY AND DISCORD

Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.’s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins’s banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept “Sammy.” Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master’s champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:

“All dead men, Brim! Six of ‘em between us—not bad going, what?”

“And very good fizz too, on the whole!” added Mr. Stevens. “I always sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I’ve obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, ‘e ‘s played everything ‘e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an’ feelin’—now it’s your turn—somethin’.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, “I used to know a very good song once, called ‘Let’s drownd all our sorrers and cares.’ But good ‘eavens! we can’t drownd ‘em in empty bottles, can we?”

“Oh, very good!” chuckled Mr. Jenkins, “oh, very prime! If I might suggest, there’s nothin’ like port—port’s excellent tipple for drowndin’ sorrer and downing care—what?”

“Port, sir?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “we ‘ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an’ care in Noo York City. I’m proud of our port, sir, and I’m reckoned a bit of a connysoor—”

“Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!” nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, “a eddicated palate—what?”

“Cert’nly!” added Mr. Stevens, “an’ here’s two palates waitin’, waitin’ an’ ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear.”

“There’s nothin’ like port!” sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the empty champagne bottle, “nothin’ like port, and there’s Young Har ‘ardly can tell it from sherry—oh, the Goth! the Vandyle! All this good stuff would be layin’ idle if it wasn’t for me! Young Har ain’t got no right to be a millionaire; ‘is money’s wasted on ‘im—he neglects ‘is opportoonities shameful—eh, shameful! What I say is—what’s the use of bein’ a millionaire if you don’t air your millions?”

Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a polite ecstasy of mirth.

“Oh, by Jove!” he gasped, “if that ain’t infernal clever, I’ll be shot! Oh, doocid clever I call it—what!”

“Er—by the way, Brim,” said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the open window, “where does he happen to be to-night?”

“Where?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker, “where is Young Har, sir? Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I throws up my ‘ands, and I answers you—’eavens knows! Young Har is a unknown quantity, sir—a will o’ the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus fattus. At this precise moment ‘e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho or—a-sittin’ outside on the lawn—which Gawd forbid! But there, don’t let’s talk of it. Come on down into the cellars, and we’ll bring up enough port to drownd sorrer an’ care all night.”

“With all my heart!” said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.

“Ditto, indeed!” nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host’s arm, and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.

Scarcely had their hilarious voices died away when a muscular brown hand parted the hangings of an open window, and Geoffrey Ravenslee climbed into the room. His rough clothes and shabby hat were powdered with dust, and he looked very much out of place amid his luxurious surroundings as he paused to glance swiftly from the bottles that decorated the carved mantel to those on table and piano. Then, light-treading, he crossed the room, and as the hilarious three were heard approaching, vanished in his turn.

“‘Ere we are, Jubilee Port!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, setting down two cobwebbed bottles with elaborate care, “obleege me with the corkscrew, somebody.”

“Won’t forget as you promised us a song, Brim!” said Mr. Jenkins, passing the necessary implement.

“Oh, I won’t disappoint ye,” answered Mr. Brimberly, drawing the cork with a practised hand; “my father were a regular songster, a fair carollin’ bird ‘e were, sir.”

“‘Ow about ‘Knocked ‘em in the Old Kent Road’?” Mr. Stevens suggested.

“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, pausing in the act of filling the glasses, “that’s rather a—a low song, ain’t it? What do you think, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Low?” answered Mr. Jenkins, “it’s as low as—as mud, sir. I might say it’s infernal vulgar—what?”

“Why, I don’t care for it myself,” Mr. Stevens admitted rather humbly, “it was merely a suggestion.”

“With your good favour,” said Mr. Brimberly, after a tentative sip at his glass, “I’ll sing you a old song as was a rare favourite of my father’s.”

“Why, then,” said Mr. Jenkins, taking up his banjo, “oblige us with the key.”

“The key, sir?” answered Mr. Brimberly, pulling down his waistcoat, “what key might you mean?”

“The key of the note dominant, Brim.”

Mr. Brimberly stared and felt for his whisker.

“Note dominant,” he murmured; “I don’t think my song has anything of that sort—”

“Oh, well, just whistle a couple o’ bars.”

“Bars,” said Mr. Brimberly, shaking his head, “bars, sir, is things wherewith I do not ‘old; bars are the ‘aunt of the ‘umble ‘erd, sir—”

“No, no, Brim,” explained Mr. Stevens, “Jenk merely means you to ‘um the air.”

“Ah, to be sure, now I appre’end! I’ll ‘um you the hair with pleasure.”

Mr. Brimberly cleared his throat vigorously and thereafter emitted certain rumbling noises, whereat Mr. Jenkins cocked a knowing head.

“C sharp, I think?” he announced.

“Not much, Jenk!” said Mr. Stevens decidedly, “it was D flat—as flat a D as ever I heard!”

“It was C!” Mr. Jenkins said, “I appeal to Brim.”

“Well,” said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, “I’m reether inclined to think I made it a D—if it wasn’t D it was F nat’ral. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll accompany myself at the piano-forty.”

“What,” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, emptying and refilling his glass, seeing which Mr. Jenkins did the same, “what—do you play, Brim?”

“By hear, sir—only by hear,” said Mr. Brimberly modestly, as, having placed bottle and glass upon the piano within convenient reach, he seated himself upon the stool, struck three or four stumbling chords and then, vamping an accompaniment a trifle monotonous as to bass, burst forth into song:

“It was a rich merchant that in London did dwell, He had but one daughter, a beautiful gell, Which her name it was Dinah, scarce sixteen years old, She’d a very large fortune in silver and gold.”

Chorus:

“Ri tooral ri tooral ri tooral i-day, Ri tooral ri tooral ri tooral i-day.”

It was now that Mr. Ravenslee, his rough clothes replaced by immaculate attire, entered unostentatiously, and, wholly unobserved by the company, seated himself and lounged there while Mr. Brimberly sang blithely on:

“As Dinah was a-walking in her garden one day, Her father came to her and thus he did say: ‘Come wed yourself, Dinah, to your nearest of kin, Or you shan’t have the benefit of one single pin!’”

“Ri tooral ri too—”

Here Mr. Jenkins, chancing to catch sight of that unobtrusive figure, let fall his banjo with a clatter, whereupon Mr. Brimberly glancing around, stopped short in the middle of a note, and sat open-mouthed, staring at his master.

“Enjoying a musical evening, Brimberly?”

Mr. Brimberly blundered to his feet, choked, gasped, groped for his whiskers, and finally spoke:

“Why, sir, I—I’m afraid I—we are—”

“I didn’t know you were such an accomplished musician, Brimberly.”

“Mu-musician, sir?” Brimberly stammered, his eyes goggling; “‘ardly that, sir, oh, ‘ardly that, I—I venture to—to tinkle a bit now an’ then, sir—no offence I ‘ope, sir?”

“Friends musical too, it seems.”

“Y-yes, sir, music do affect ‘em, sir—uncommonly, sir.”

“Yes, makes them thirsty, doesn’t it?”

“Why, Mr. Ravenslee, sir, I—that is, we did so far venture to—er—I mean—oh, Lord!” and mopping perspiring brow, Mr. Brimberly groaned and goggled helplessly from Mr. Jenkins who stood fumbling with his banjo to Mr. Stevens who gaped fishlike.

“And now,” said Young R., having viewed them each in turn, “if these—er—very thirsty musicians have had enough of—er—my wine to—er—drink, perhaps you’ll be so obliging as to see them—off the premises?”

“I—I beg parding, sir?”

“Please escort your friends off the premises.”

“Certingly, sir—at once, sir—”

“Unless you think you ought to give them each a handful of my cigars—”

But Mr. Brimberly had already bundled his dazed guests to the door, out of the door, and out of the house, with very little ceremony.

It was a very deferential and officiously eager Brimberly who presently knocked and, bowing very frequently, begged to know how he might be of further service.

“Might I get you a little supper, sir? We ‘ave ‘am, sir, we ‘ave beef, cold, salmon and cucumber likewise cold, a ditto chicken—”

“That sounds rather a quaint bird,” said Ravenslee.

“Yes, sir, very good, sir, chicken an’ a nice slice of ‘am, sir, say, and—”

“Thank you, Brimberly, I dined late.”

“Why then, sir, a sandwich or so, pray permit me, sir, cut nice an’ thin, sir—”

“Thank you—no.”

“Dear, dear! Why then, sir, whisky? Brandy? A lick-your?”

“Nothing.”

“A cigar, sir?”

“Hum! Have we any of the Garcias left?”

“Y-yes, sir. Ho, certingly, sir. Shall I—”

“Don’t bother, I prefer my pipe; only let me know when we get short, Brimberly, and we’ll order more—or perhaps you have a favourite brand?”

“Brand, sir,” murmured Brimberly, “a—er—certingly, sir.”

“Good night, Brimberly.”

“Good night, sir, but first can’t I do—hanything?”

“Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that I really ought to raise your wages. I’ll think about it.”

Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.

“I—I bid you good night, sir!”

“Oh, by the way, bring me the letters.”

“Certingly, sir!” and crossing the room, Mr. Brimberly returned, bearing a salver piled high with letters, which he set at his master’s elbow; this done, he bowed and went from the room, one hand still at his dazed brow.

Left alone, Ravenslee took up the letters one by one. Some he threw aside, some few he opened and glanced at carelessly; among these last was a telegram, and the words he saw were these:

“Meet me to-morrow sunset in the wood all shall be explained Hermy.”

For a while he sat staring at this, then, laying it by, drew out a letter case from which he took another telegram bearing precisely the same message. Having compared them, he thrust them into his pocket, and filling his pipe, sat awhile smoking and lost in thought. At last, his pipe being out, he rose, stretched, and turned toward the door, but in the act of leaving the room, paused to take out and compare the telegrams again and so stood with puckered brow.

“‘Hermy!’” he said softly. “‘Hermione’ is so much prettier. ‘All shall be explained.’ A little trite, perhaps! Oh, well—” So saying, he folded up the telegrams, switched off the lights and went to bed.

CHAPTER XXXIII

OF TRAGEDY

It was close on the hour of sunset when Ravenslee stopped his car before a quiet hotel in Englewood and sprang out.

“Will you be long, sir?” enquired Joe, seating himself at the wheel and preparing to turn into the garage.

“Probably an hour, Joe.”

“Very good, sir.”

But as the big car turned, Ravenslee spoke over his shoulder.

“By the way, if I shouldn’t be back in an hour, come and meet me.” Then, having given Joe full and particular directions as to the little wood, he turned and went upon his way.

It had been a stifling day, and even now, though a soft air was abroad tempering the humid heat, when this light wind languished there was over all things a brooding stillness, foreboding storm. But Ravenslee strode on, unheeding dust and heat, hastening on to that which awaited him, full of strength and life and the zest of life, glad-hearted, and with pulses that throbbed in expectation. Thus, as the sun sank in fiery splendour, he reached the little wood. Evening was falling, and already, among the trees, shadows were deepening to twilight, but in the west was a flaming glory; and, upon the edge of the wood he turned to glance back at this radiance, splashes of gold and pink flushing to an ominous red. For a long moment he stood to stare around about the solitary countryside, joying in life and the glory of it. Then he turned, with a smile on his lips, and stepped into the gloom of the wood. On he went, forcing his way through the under-brush until, reaching the clearing, he halted suddenly and faced about, fancying he had heard a rustle in the leaves hard by. Spike, cowering behind a bush with M’Ginnis’s fingers gripping his arm, shivered and sweated and held his breath until Ravenslee moved on again, and, coming to a fallen tree, seated himself there and sat chin on fist, expectation in every tense line of him.

“Now!” whispered M’Ginnis hoarsely, “get him now—before Hermy comes t’ him!” Shuddering, Spike levelled the weapon he held, but at that moment Ravenslee was filling his pipe, and something in this homely action checked the lad, paralysed finger on trigger, and shrinking, he cowered down upon the grass despite the fierce hand that gripped him. “Get him now, Kid—get him now! Aim f’r his chest—y’ can’t miss at this distance—”

“I—I can’t, Bud!” gasped the boy, writhing, “I can’t do it—I can’t!” Dropping the revolver, he hid his face in sweating hands and shivered.

From somewhere near by a woodpecker was tapping busily, but save for this no sound broke the pervading stillness, for the gentle wind had died away. But suddenly the quiet was rent and shivered, and Spike, deafened by the report, glanced up to see Ravenslee rise to his feet, stagger forward blindly, then, with arms outflung, pitch forward upon his face and lie there.

“By God, you—you’ve shot him, Bud!” he whimpered, “you—you’ve killed dear old Geoff—oh, my God!”

“Aw, quit—quit all that!” whispered M’Ginnis breathlessly, “that’s what we came for, ain’t it? What you lookin’ at?”

“It lays so—still! so awful still!” Spike gasped.

“Well, what ye got t’ go starin’ at it that ways for? Come on—let’s beat it; it’s us for th’ quick get-away in case any one heard. Come on, Kid!”

“But you’ve—killed Geoff!”

“I guess he don’t need no more—’n’ say, Kid, you’re in on this job too, don’t forget! Come on, it’s little old N’ York for ours!”

Though M’Ginnis dragged at him, Spike huddled limply on his knees, his glaring eyes always staring in the one direction; whereupon M’Ginnis cursed and left him.

But all at once, finding himself alone, to horror came fear, and stumbling to his feet Spike began to draw away from that awful thing that held his gaze; slowly he retreated, always going backwards, and though he stumbled often against tree and sapling, yet so long as it was in sight needs must he walk backwards. When at last a kindly bush hid it from his sight, he turned and ran—ran until, panting and wild-eyed, he burst from the wood and was out upon the open road. Even then he paused to stare back into that leafy gloom but saw and heard nothing. Then, uttering a moan, he turned and ran sobbing along the darkening road.

But, within that place of shadows, from amid the leaves of a certain great tree, dropped one who came beside that motionless form, and knelt there awhile. When at last he rose, a ring lay upon his open palm—a ring in the shape of two hands clasping each other; then, with this clenched in a pallid fist, he also turned and left that still and awful thing with its face hidden in last year’s dead and rotting leaves.

CHAPTER XXXIV

OF REMORSE

For three miserable days Spike had remained indoors, eating little, sleeping less, venturing abroad only at dusk to hurry back with the latest paper and, locked within his bedroom, to scan every scare head and column with eyes dilating in dreadful expectation of beholding the awful word—MURDER.

For three interminable days Hermione, going about her many duties slow of foot and listless, had scarcely heeded him, conscious only of her own pain, the agony of longing, the yearning ache that filled her, throbbing in every heart-beat—an ache that would not be satisfied. Thus, lost in her own new sorrow, she spoke seldom, sighed often, and sang not at all; often sitting at her sewing machine with hands strangely idle and gaze abstracted. Spike, watching furtively, had seen her eyes brim over with great, slow-falling tears; more than once he had heard her bitter weeping in the dawn. At such times he had yearned to comfort her, but between them was memory, dividing them like a wall—the memory of a still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves. And at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, passionate prayers, and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated over and over again, was the dread word MURDER. By day it haunted him also; it stared up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in bloody characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his haggard gaze there he needs must read it.

And then—there were the footsteps. All day long they tramped up and down the stairs outside—everyday sounds that he had never heeded before, but now they were warnings to hearken to and shudder at, and he would sit pretending to read but with ears straining for the sound of feet upon the landing or on the stair. Now they were feet that crept—the stealthy steps of one that lurked to catch him unaware; or again, they were the loud tramp of those who came with authority to drag him to doom, and he would watch the door, staring wide-eyed, waiting for the thundering knock he expected yet which never came. All day long they haunted him, and at night, locked within his bedroom, he must needs lift heavy head from the pillow to hearken with ears straining even yet, until, haggard and worn, he had shivered and groaned and wept himself to sleep, only to awake and start up in sweating terror, thinking he heard a fierce hand knocking, knocking upon the outer door.

Thus, for three long days Spike had lived in torment, and to-night, as he leaned throbbing head between clutching hands, his haggard eyes sought vainly for that fell word which he could read everywhere except in the newspaper before him; his sufferings had grown almost beyond his strength, for to his old torments was added harrowing suspense.

“Why?” “Why?” “Why” was the word that stared at him from ceiling and walls and blue expanse of heaven; why was it there and not in the papers? Could it be that it was lying there yet, that awful, still thing, lying as he remembered it, as he could see it now, its ghastly features hidden among the leaves that rotted, its long arms outflung and strong hands griped among the grass with clutching fingers—could it be?—

“Arthur—boy—what’s the matter?”

Spike started and looked up to find Hermione beside him, and instinctively he shrank away.

“Arthur—oh, what is it? Are you sick?”

“N-no, why?”

“You were moaning.”

“Oh, well, I—I’m all right, I guess. Got a headache, that’s all.”

“Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur? I’m not angry any more, I’m only—disappointed.”

“Y’ mean because I lost me job? They don’t want my kind; I—oh, I’m too mean—too rotten, I guess.”

“I heard you cry out in the night, Arthur. What was it?”

“Nothin’—I didn’t cry out las’ night, I tell ye.”

“I heard you!”

“Oh, well, I—I was only dreamin’, I guess.”

“Why have you acted so strangely lately? You don’t eat, you don’t go out; you sit around staring and seem to be listening—almost as if you were afraid—”

“I ain’t—I ain’t afraid. Who says I’m afraid? An’ I don’t want you to go worryin’ y’self sick over me—I ain’t a kid no more.”

“No, I’m afraid you’re not.” And sighing, she turned away. But as she crossed the room, her step slow and listless, he spoke, his head down-bent and face hidden between clenched hands, voicing, almost despite himself, the questions that had tortured him so long.

“Say, Hermy, where’s—Geoff? How is he—I mean you—you ain’t—heard anything—have you?”

“No,” she answered softly, without turning, “what should I hear? I only know he’s—gone. How should I hope to hear anything any more?”

“I—I thought he was—goin’ t’ marry you.”

“So he was, but I—couldn’t let him—marry—a thief’s sister,” she said in the same low, even voice.

“Ah!” cried Spike, writhing, “why did he go an’ tell ye about me after he told me he never would—why did he tell ye?”

“He didn’t tell me!” cried Hermione, with curling lip.

“Didn’t he—oh—didn’t he?” said Spike, his voice high and quivering, “didn’t Geoff tell ye? Then—say, Hermy, who—who did?”

“It was Bud M’Ginnis, and for once it seems he told the truth!”

“Bud!” cried Spike, stumbling to his feet. “Oh, my God!” At sound of his voice she turned, and seeing his face, cried out in sudden fear: “Arthur—oh, Arthur, what is it?”

“Bud told ye?” he gasped. “Wasn’t it Geoff—oh, wasn’t it Geoff?”

“No!”

Spike was down on his knees. “Oh, God! Oh, Geoff—dear old Geoff, forgive me!” He was huddled upon the floor, his face pressed to the worn rug, his clenched fingers buried in his curls, while from his lips issued gasping sobs harshly dry and awful to hear.

“Forgive me, Geoff, forgive me! I thought you told her! I thought you meant t’ steal her from me! Oh, forgive me, Geoff—I wish I was dead like you.”

“Arthur!”

She was down beside him on her knees, shaking him with desperate hands.

“Arthur! Arthur! What—are you saying?”

“Nothin’—nothin’!” he stammered, staring up into her face, suddenly afraid of her. “Nothin’, I—I was only—thinkin’—I—”

“What did you mean?” she cried, her grasp tightening. “Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!”

“Nothin’,” he mumbled, trying to break her hold. “Lemme go, I—I didn’t mean anything—”

“Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!”

“No—I can’t—I—”

His voice failed suddenly, his whole frame grew tense and rigid, and lifting a stiff arm he pointed a trembling finger toward the open doorway.

“Hush—hush!” he panted, “oh, for God’s sake, hush! There—don’t you hear—there’s some one outside on th’ landing—footsteps—hark! They’re coming to our door! They’re stoppin’ outside—oh, my God, it’s come at—”

The word ended in a scream, drowned all at once in a thunderous knocking on the outer door, and Spike, crouching upon his knees, clutched at her as she rose.

“Don’t,—don’t open—the door!” he gasped, while Hermione gazed at him, terrified by his terror, as again the thunderous summons was heard. Then, despite the boy’s passionate prayers and desperate, clutching hands, she broke from him, and hastening into the little passage, opened the door.

Upon the threshold stood a little old man, very smartly dressed, who saluted her with a gallant flourish of his dapper straw hat and bowed with his two small and glittering patent leather shoes posed at position number one in waltzing.

“Ma’am,” said he, “miss, respectful greetin’s. Your name’s Hermione, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered, wondering.

“Knowed it was. And a partic’ler fine gal too! Though not ‘oldin’ wi’ marridge, I don’t blame the Guv—’e always ‘ad a quick eye for beauty—like me.”

“But who are you? What do you want—”

“Miss, I want you—leastways—’e does. Been callin’ for you the last three days ‘e has, ever since ‘e ketched one as fair doubled ‘im up—”

“I—I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“A admirer of the Guv, ma’am. A trusted friend of ‘is, miss—come t’ take ye to ‘is poor, yearnin’ arms, lady—”

“But who—oh, what do you mean?”

“Mr. Ravenslee, ma’am.”

“Mr. Ravenslee!” she echoed, her colour changing.

“Yes. Y’ see—he’s dyin’, miss!”

Hermione gasped and leaned against the wall as if suddenly faint and sick, perceiving which, the Old Un promptly set his arm about her waist and led her unresisting into the parlour. There, having aided her tenderly into a chair and nodded to pale-faced Spike, he sighed, shook his ancient head, and continued:

“Ho, Lor lumme, lady, it fair wrung my old ‘eart to ‘ave to tell ye, but, ‘aving to tell ye (Joe couldn’t) I told ye almighty quick to get it over—sharp an’ quick’s my motter. Fate’s crool ‘ard when Fate takes the gloves off, miss, an’ I know as Fate’s been an’ took ye one in the wind wot’s fair doubled you up—but take time, miss, take time—throw back your pretty ‘ead, breathe deep an’ reg’lar, an’ you’ll soon be strong enough to go another round. If I’d got a towel handy I’d fan ye a bit—not ‘avin’ none, no matter. Fate’s ‘ard on you, so fair an’ young, miss, but Fate’s been ‘arder on the Guv—ketched the pore young Guv a fair spiflicator—”

“Oh, please—please,” cried Hermione, reaching out appealing hands, “oh, tell me, is he hurt—sick—dying? Oh, quick, quick—tell me!”

“Lady, ma’am—my pretty dear,” said the Old Un, taking those pleading hands to pat them tenderly, “that’s what I’m tryin’ to do. The Guv ain’t dead yet—no, not—yet—”

“You mean he’s dying?”

“My dear,” said the old man, blinking at her through sudden tears, “that’s what the doctors say.” Here he loosed one hand to rub at each bright eye with a bony knuckle. “An’ ‘im so young—so game an’ strong—three days ago.”

“How—did it—happen?” she questioned, her voice low and steady.

“It was Fate!” said the old man, taking her hand again. “Three days ago Fate (the perisher) sends him a telegram—two on ‘em—tellin’ ‘im to meet you in a wood an’ signed with—with your name, both on ‘em—”

At this she cried out and would have risen, but his kindly clasp checked her.

“I—sent no telegram!” she whispered.

“Me an’ Joe an’ the Spider know that now, miss. But anyway, to this ‘ere wood the Guv do ‘aste away, an’ in this wood Fate’s a-layin’ for ‘im wir a gun, an’ down goes the pore Guv wi’ a perishin’ bullet in ‘is gizzard. An’ there Joe finds ‘im, an’ ‘ome Joe brings ‘im in the car, an’ Joe an’ me an’ the Spider ‘ushes things up. An’ now in bed lays the Guv with nurses an’ doctors ‘anging over ‘im—a-callin’ for you—I mean the Guv, d’ ye see? So now for you I’ve come. I’ve brought Joe an’ the car for you—Joe’s across wi’ Mrs. Trapes, an’ the car’s below—both waitin’. So you’ll come t’ th’ pore young Guv, miss, won’t ye, lady?”

“Have you—any idea—who—did it?” she questioned, speaking as with an effort.

“We got our suspicions, ho, yus!” the Old Un nodded. “Joe’s got a wonnerful gift o’ suspicion—oh, a rare ‘ead ‘as my lad Joe. Joe an’ the Spider’s on the track, an’ they’re goin’ to track Fate to doom, ma’am—to perishin’ doom! Y’ see,” here the old man leaned suddenly nearer, “y’ see, Joe’s found a cloo!”

“A clew! Yes—yes!” she whispered breathlessly, moistening lips suddenly dry, and conscious that Spike’s lax form had stiffened to painful alertness.

“Well, ma’am, Joe an’ the Spider’s been a-seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ of that there wood, an’ they found,” here the Old Un leaned nearer yet and whispered harshly, “they found—a coat button! Lorgorramighty!” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing a trembling bony finger, “what’s took th’ lad—look!”

Spike had risen and now stood, breathing loudly, one hand clenched upon his breast, and turning swiftly, took a stumbling pace toward the open window, tripped, and fell prone upon his face.

“Oh, poor lad, poor lad!” cried the Old Un, rising hastily. “Fate’s been an’ ketched him one too—a fair knock-out! Leave him to me, miss, I’ll bring ‘im round—bitin’ ‘is years is good, or vinegar on a sponge—leave ‘im to a old fightin’ man—”

“No!” cried Hermione passionately, “no, I say. Leave him to me!” Quelled by something in her tone and manner, the old man sank back in his chair, while she, kneeling beside Spike, lifted him in her strong young arms so that he was hidden from the Old Un’s bright, piercing eyes. Holding him thus, she loosed Spike’s rigid fingers and drew away that clutching hand; then, seeing what that hand had striven to hide, she shrank suddenly away, letting the boy’s inanimate form slip from her clasp; and, as she knelt there above him, her shapely body was seized with fierce tremors.

So she knelt for a long moment until Spike sighed, shivered, and sat up, but beholding the look in her wide eyes, uttered a hoarse sound that was like a cry of fear and, starting from her nearness, crouched down, huddled upon his knees.

Then Hermione rose and, turning to the old man, smiled with pallid lips.

“You see—he’s all right—now!” she said. “If you’ll please go and tell Mrs. Trapes I’m leaving, I’ll get ready.” Obediently the Old Un rose.

“Mrs. Trapes is a-gettin’ into her bonnet to come along wi’ us!” said he, and putting on his hat with a flourish, took his departure. When he was gone, Hermione turned and looked down at Spike, who, meeting her eyes, flinched as from a blow and made no effort to rise from his knees. So she packed her grip and dressed for the journey, while he watched her with eyes of mute appeal. Twice he would have spoken, but her look smote him to silence. At last, as she took up her suit case and turned to go, he implored her in a hoarse whisper, reaching out his arms to her: “Hermy!”

But she shrank from his contact and, hastening from the room and along the little passage, closed the door and left him to his hopeless misery. As one in a dream she followed the old man down the stairs, was aware of his ushering her through the crowd of women and children who thronged about the big car. As one in a dream she found herself seated beside Mrs. Trapes, whose motherly solicitude she heeded no more than the bustle and traffic of the streets through which the swift car whirled her on and on until, turning, it swung in between massive gates and pulled up before a great, gloomy house.

As one in a dream she ascended the broad steps, crossed a stately hall, was ushered up a noble stairway and along thick-carpeted corridors until at last she found herself in a darkened chamber where, his dark head conspicuous upon the white pillow, he lay. A nurse rose from beside the bed as Hermione entered and softly withdrew. Left alone, she stood for a long moment utterly still, her hands tightly clasped, her breath in check, gazing at that dark head upon the pillow, at that outstretched form lying so silent and so very still.

“Hermione!”

A feeble whisper, a sigh faintly breathed, but at the sound she had crossed the wide chamber on feet swift and noiseless, had sunk upon her knees beside the low bed to lean above him all murmurous love and sighing tenderness, while she stole a timid hand to touch the hair that curled upon his pallid brow; then, for all his helplessness, she flushed beneath his look.

“How beautiful—you are!” he said faintly, “and I—weak as—confounded rat! Hermione—love, they tell me I—must die. But first I want you for—my very own if only for—a little while!”

“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, soft mouth against his pale cheek, “I always was yours—yours from the very first; I always shall be.”

“Then you’ll—marry me?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Now?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I—hoped you would, so—I arranged—minister’s waiting now. Will you—ring?” And he motioned feebly toward an electric bell-push that stood upon a small table beside the bed.

And now once again as one in a dream she obeyed, and was presently aware of soft-treading figures about her in the dim chamber—among them the Old Un whose shoes for once creaked not at all. As one in a dream she made the responses, felt the feeble clasp of that hand whose strength and masterful power had thrilled her, heard the faint echo of that loved voice that had wooed her so passionately once, yet wooed in vain, while now—

She was alone again, alone with him who lay so very still and pale with eyes closed wearily; from him she glanced to that which gleamed so bright and new upon her finger and bending her head she pressed the wedding ring to her lips.

“Wife!” he whispered; the weary eyes were open, and his look drew her. So she knelt beside the bed again, stooping above him low and lower until her head lay beside his upon the pillow. Slowly, slowly his feeble hand crept up to her glowing cheek, to the soft waves of her hair, and to the little curl that wantoned above her eyebrow.

“Hermione—wife—kiss me!”

Tenderly her arms enfolded him, and with a soft little cry that was half a sob she kissed him, his brow, his hair, his lips, kissed him even while she wetted him with her falling tears.

“Beloved,” he murmured, “my glorious—scrubwoman—if I must—leave you—these dear hands need never—never slave again. Never—any—more, my Hermione.”

Long after he had fallen to sleep she knelt there, cradling his weakness in her arms, looking down on him with eyes bright with love.

After this were days and nights when the soul of him wandered in dark places filled with chaotic dreams and wild fancies; but there was ever one beside him whose gentle voice reached him in the darkness, and whose tender hand hushed his delirium and soothed his woes and troubles.

CHAPTER XXXV

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE CAME OUT OF THE DARK

She was knitting; and opening sleepy eyes he watched drowsily and wondered what it might be and was minded to enquire, but sighed instead and fell asleep again.

She was knitting; knitting something in red wool, and opening his eyes again, he lay watching awhile and pondered dreamily as to what it could be she wrought at so busily, for the wool was so very red and so extremely woolly.

Her chin was set at an angle somewhat grim, she was sitting very upright in her chair and, though scrupulously hidden from sight, her elbows—truly how portentous were the undisguisable points of those elbows! And she was knitting fiercely in wool that was remarkably red and woolly.

“Pray what is it, Mrs. Trapes?” A feeble whisper, but, at the sound, faint though it was, Mrs. Trapes started, half rose from her chair, sank down again heavily and letting fall her knitting, stared at the invalid.

“Land sakes, alive!” she gasped.

“Now you’ve dropped it!” said Ravenslee, his voice a little stronger.

“Oh, dear beloved land o’ my fathers—it’s come!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “the Lord be praised for evermore, it’s come!”

“What has?”

“The turn! And you’ve took it! Doctor Dennison says last night as you’d take it soon one way or t’ other. But all night long while they waited and watched here, you’ve laid so pale an’ still as a corp’. An’ now, while I’m a-settin’ here, you go an’ take th’ turn so sudden as fair takes my breath away, Lord be praised! I mean—I mean—oh, I guess I’ll go wake the doctor.”

“But you haven’t told me what it is,” said Ravenslee drowsily.

“What what is?”

“That very peculiar—woolly thing.”

“This?” said Mrs. Trapes, picking up the object in question, “this is my knittin’. Doctor said t’ call him th’ moment th’ turn came—” Her voice seemed to sink to a slumberous murmur as, having smoothed his pillow, she crossed the room and very softly closed the door behind her; wherefore Ravenslee blinked sleepily at the door until its panels seemed slowly to become confused and merge one into another, changing gradually to a cloud, soft, billowy, and ever growing until it had engulfed him altogether, and he sank down and down into unknown deeps of forgetfulness and blessed quietude.

She was knitting; knitting a shapeless something in red wool, and Ravenslee thought he had never known her elbows more threatening of aspect nor seen wool quite so red and woolly; wherefore he presently spoke, and his voice was no longer a feeble croak.

“Pray what is it, Mrs. Trapes?”

Mrs. Trapes jumped.

“Well, for th’ love o’ heaven!” she exclaimed, and down fell her knitting.

“Now you’ve dropped it!” said Ravenslee a little petulantly.

“Your very—identical—words!” said Mrs. Trapes in awed tones. “Nacher sure ‘moves in a mysterious way her wonders to perform’!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean as them was the identical words as you addressed to me when you took th’ turn two days ago!”

“Two days!” exclaimed Ravenslee, staring.

“Ever since you did take the turn two days ago, you’ve laid there so quiet an’ peaceful—no more dreams an’ ravin’—you’ve jest laid there ‘wrapped in infant slumbers pure an’ light’, Mr. Geoffrey—Ravenslee, I mean.”

“Why then, it’s about time I got up. If you’ll kindly—er—retire and send Patterson, I’ll get dressed.”

“Dressed?” echoed Mrs. Trapes, hollow-voiced and grim. “Get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey!”

“Certainly. Why not?”

“What, you—you as is only jest out o’ the valley o’ th’ shadder! You as we’ve all give up for dead over an’ over! You get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee!”

“Oh,” said Ravenslee, knitting his dark brows thoughtfully, “have I been sick long?”

“Four weeks.”

“Weeks!” he exclaimed, staring incredulously.

“Four weeks an’ a bit! For four weary, woeful weeks you’ve been layin’ here with death hoverin’ over you, Mr. Geoffrey. For four long weeks we’ve been waitin’ for ye t’ draw your las’ breath, Mr. Ravenslee. For four ‘eart-rendin’ weeks your servants has been carryin’ on below stairs an’ robbin’ you somethin’ shameful.”

“My servants? Oh, yes, they generally do. But tell me—”

“The amount o’ food as they consoom constant! The waste! The extravagance! Th’ beer an’ wine an’ sperrits they swaller! Them is sure the thirstiest menials ever I heard tell of! An’ the butler—such airs, such a appetite! An’ sherry an’ bitters t’ make it worse! Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, your servants sure is a ravenin’ horde!”

“Don’t be too hard on ‘em, Mrs. Trapes,” he answered gravely, “I’m afraid I’ve neglected them quite a good deal. But it’s a woman’s hand they need over them.”

“It’s a pleeceman’s club they need on ‘em—frequent! I’d learn ‘em different, I guess—”

“So you shall, Mrs. Trapes, if you will. You are precisely the kind of housekeeper I need.”

“What—me?”

“You, Mrs. Trapes. A lonely bachelor needs some one to—er take care of his servants for him, to see they don’t overeat themselves too often; or—er—strain themselves spring-cleaning out of season—or—”

“But you got a wife t’ do all that for you. I guess Hermy’ll know how to manage.”

“Hermione!” said Ravenslee, starting, “wife? Am I really—married?”

“Sure! Didn’t she go an’ let you wed her when we all thought you was dyin’?”

“Oh, did she?” said he very gently. “Why then, it—it wasn’t all a dream?”

“Mr. Geoffrey, Hermy’s been Mrs. Ravenslee, your lawful wedded wife, just exactly four weeks.”

Ravenslee stared up at the ceiling, dreamy-eyed.

“Good heavens!” he murmured. “I thought I’d only dreamed it.”

“Hermy’s watched over you night an’ day a’most—like th’ guardian angel she is—prayin’ f’ you, workin’ f’ you, fightin’ death away from you. Oh, I guess it’s her fault as you’re alive this day! Anyway, her an’ you’s man an’ wife till death do you part.”

“But death—hasn’t, you see.”

“An’ death sure ain’t goin’ to—yet.”

“No, I’m—I’m very much alive still, it seems.”

“You sure are, glory be t’ th’ Lord of Hosts to who I have also petitioned frequent on your behoof. An’ now I’ll call th’ doctor.”

“No, no—not Dennison; let me see her first. Can’t I speak to Hermione first, Mrs. Trapes?”

“She was up with you all las’ night, sweet lamb! It’d be a shame to wake her—”

“So it would—don’t disturb her.”

“But I guess she’d never forgive me if I didn’t wake her. So if you’ll promise t’ be good—”

“I will!”

“An’ not go gettin’ all worked up an’ excited?”

“I will not!”

“Why then, perhaps ten minutes wouldn’t hurt.”

“God bless you, Mrs. Trapes!”

Left alone, he tried to sit up, and finding this strangely difficult, examined his hands and arms, scowling to find himself so weak. Then he clapped hand to bony jaw and was shocked to feel thereon a growth of ragged beard, and then—she was before him. Fresh from her slumbers she came, wrapped in a scanty kimono whose thin, clinging folds revealed more of her shapely beauty than he had ever seen as she hurried across the wide chamber.

“Hermione,” he said, and reached out his hands to her. And his voice was no longer the feeble echo it had been; the hand that clasped hers, though still thin and weak, thrilled her anew with its masterful touch. Because of all this, her words of tender greeting remained unspoken, the arms which had been eager to cradle his helplessness crossed themselves on her bosom; she became aware of naked ankles and of bare feet thrust into bedroom slippers and needs must hide them, and the better to do so, sank upon the bed, her feet tucked under her. So she sat, just beyond his reach, and, conscious of scanty draperies, shook her shining hair about her, veiling herself in its glory.

“Hermione,” he said unsteadily, “I—I never knew quite how beautiful you were—and we—we are married, it seems!”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“And now I’m—I’m afraid I’m going to—live!”

“Afraid?”

“It—it almost seems as though I had married you under false pretences, doesn’t it? But the doctors and everybody were so certain I was to die that I thought so too. And now—I’m going to live, it seems.”

She was silent, and slowly his hand went out to her again, and slowly hers went to meet it, but though her fingers clasped and twined, thrilling in mute passion to his touch, she came no nearer, but watched him from the shadow of her hair with great troubled eyes.

“Dear,” he said, very humbly, “you do—love me still, don’t you?”

“More than ever.”

“Then you’re not—sorry to be my wife?”

“No—ah, no, no!” she whispered, “never that!”

“Then, dear, won’t you—will you kiss me?” Seeing she hesitated, he sank back on his pillow and laughed a little ruefully. “I forgot these confounded whiskers—I must look an unholy object. Patterson shall shave me, and then perhaps—”

But sudden and warm and soft her arms were about him, and her eyes, troubled no longer, gazed into his, brimful of yearning tenderness.

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she murmured, quick and passionate, “as if I should ever care how you looked as long as you were—just you. My dear, my dear, you have come back to me from the very gates of death because I—I—”

“Because you nursed me so tenderly!”

“Ah, no, there were others to do that—no, God gave you back to me because He is merciful, and because I love you—want you—need you so much!”

“Oh, my Hermione—Kiss me!”

A knock at the door, and, quick-breathing, she drew from him as the voice of Mrs. Trapes reached them.

“Ten minutes is up!” she announced as she entered, “and Hermy, if you don’t want th’ doctor t’ see you in your nightdress an’ that—”

“Ann!” gasped Hermione, drawing the folds of her kimono about her.

“Anyway, he’s coming.”

Up sprang Hermione, in doing which she lost a slipper.

“Give it me!” she pleaded, for Ravenslee had caught it up.

“Dear, you have one—be content,” he answered. “And surely I may kiss my wife’s slipper without you having to blush so—so deliciously, Hermione?”

“It’s so—old and shabby!” said she faintly.

“That’s why I kiss it.”

“An’ here comes th’ doctor!” said Mrs. Trapes. Whereat Hermione incontinent fled away, white foot agleam. Then Ravenslee, having kissed the little slipper quite brazenly under Mrs. Trapes’s staring eyes, tucked it beneath his pillow.

“Why, Mr. Geoffrey!” said Mrs. Trapes.

CHAPTER XXXVI

CONCERNING A CLEW

“Mrs. Trapes,” said Ravenslee, laying aside the book he had been reading and letting his glance wander across smooth lawns and clipped yew hedges, “Mrs. Trapes, what about that stewed shin of beef with carrots and onions you prepared for—our wedding supper?”

“Which,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her everlasting knitting, “which you never stopped to eat.”

“Which omission I will now haste to rectify. Mrs. Trapes, pray go and get it ready—I’m ravenous!”

“Good f’r you!” said Mrs. Trapes; “in about half an hour you shall have a nice cup of beef tea to raven at—”

“Confounded slops!” growled Ravenslee.

“Doctor’s orders!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, clicking her knitting needles.

“Can’t I have something to chew at?”

“Sure. How’ll a cracker soaked in milk soot?”

“Cracker!” snarled Ravenslee.

“Doctor’s orders!”

Ravenslee muttered and took up his book.

“Helen who, did you say?” enquired Mrs. Trapes, glancing up. “Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee, I’m surprised at you—swearin’ ain’t good for a invalid; your temperature’ll be rose if you swear.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Trapes, I’m hungry, very hungry—darned hungry!”

“Which is a sign as you’re improvin’ rapid. Beef tea’ll be here soon.”

“I won’t drink the stuff!”

“Oh, but you will, when Hermy brings it.”

“Hermione!” said Ravenslee, his voice grown gentle, and laying down his book again. “Mrs. Trapes, have you noticed any change in her lately?”

“A bit handsomer, p’r’aps—”

“Yes, but I don’t mean that; it’s something that puzzles me. She seems to have grown more—more reserved and shy—”

“Well, she was married to you before she knew it kind of, almost.”

“Do you suppose that’s it?”

“Sure! What you got t’ do, Mr. Geoffrey, is—woo her! Woo her all you know how. The best woman can’t be wooed too hard nor too frequent—so you start in an’ woo.”

“But sometimes it has almost seemed that she—avoided me.”

“Well, don’t let her.”

“Do you suppose she’s grieving for Spike?”

“Well, he ain’t exactly a j’y t’ her. There he is going straight to the devil along o’ that Bud M’Ginnis!”

“I must go and fetch him as soon as I can get about again.”

“If he’ll come.”

“Oh, he’ll come,” said Ravenslee grimly. “I’ve decided to send him to college—”

“If he’ll go!”

“Oh, he’ll go—there’s quite a lot of good in him, Mrs. Trapes.”

“Only it’s mighty hard to find, Mr. Geoffrey! If that b’y wants t’ go t’ th’ devil, to th’ devil he’ll go. What you got t’ do is t’ make her forget him—if you can. Oh, drat him, anyway!” and squaring her elbows, Mrs. Trapes knitted so angrily that her knitting needles clashed like weapons fiercely opposed.

“Yes, but suppose she is grieving for him, Mrs. Trapes?”

“Why then,” said Mrs. Trapes, “why then—oh, shucks—I guess I’ll go an’ see after that beef tea.”

When she had gone, Ravenslee sat plunged in gloomy thought until roused by the sound of approaching feet with a creak of shoes, a loud, arrogant creak there was no mistaking, and the Old Un appeared followed by Joe and the Spider, the latter looking very smart in his new livery.

“Guv,” said the Old Un, “best respex! ‘Ere we be, come to say ‘ow glad we are t’ see you come up smilin’ an’ ready for more after Fate ketchin’ ye a perishin’ wallop as we all thought ‘ad doubled ye up till the day o’ doom. ‘Ere you are, on your pins again, an’ ‘ere ‘s us come t’ give ye greetin’s doo an’ j’y o’ your marriage—shut up, Joe!”

“Why, I wasn’t speakin’!” growled Joe.

“No, but you meant to—you’re always meanin’ to, you are. Guv,” continued the Old Un, “folks is allus a-givin’ an’ takin’ in marriage in this ‘ere world, such bein’ their natur’—they can’t ‘elp it! But never in this world nor no other was there ever sich a weddin’ as yours. There was ‘er so young an’ fair an’ full o’ life, an’ there was you so pale an’ nigh to death—one leg in the grave—an’ there was me s’ full o’ years an’ wisdom an’ sorrer for ye both—oh, my pore old bowels was fair yearnin’ over ye-“

“Lord, Old Un,” expostulated Joe, “you keep them bowels o’ yours out of it—”

“Shut up, Joe, in your ignorance; bowels is in the Bible, an’ bowels I abide by now and forever, amen! Well, there we all were, Guv, bendin’ o’er your couch o’ care very silent an’ solemn,

“‘Not a drum was ‘eard, not a funereal note’

“an’ there was you s’ pale an’ nigh t’ death—”

“You said all that afore, Old Un!” growled Joe.

“You leave me alone, Joe,” said the Old Un, scowling and flourishing a trembling fist, “you lemme be, or you’ll be pale an’ nigh t’ death next. Well, there was you, Guv, an’ all s’ pale an’ still when: ”Oo giveth this woman?’ says the parson-cove very solemn. ‘That’s me!’ says I, quick an’ ready. An’ so, me ‘avin’ ‘elped t’ marry you, I’ve brought Joe an’ Spider t’ wish you ‘ealth an’ ‘appiness an’ a j’y continual. Now, Joe, it’s your round—speak up!”

“Sir,” said Joe heavily, “I—we—I mean—Lord, sir, I am that glad—ah, glad as—as never was—”

“That’ll do for you, Joe!” snapped the Old Un. “Spider’s round.”

Hereupon the Spider lurched forward, hunched his wide shoulders, took off his smart cap, and stared at it very hard.

“Bo,” said he, chewing vigorously, “I mean boss—er—no, that ain’t right either—this is sure a bum start I’m makin’—”

“Bo’ will do, Spider,” said Ravenslee, “let it go at that.”

“Why then, bo, I ain’t one as is ever goin’ t’ win any gold-mounted testimonials at any talk-fest or heart-throbbin’ spiel-act, but what I wanter tell you is this—an’ I guess you know I ain’t only breathin’ out puffs o’ hot air—I want yer t’ know as I feel about you like—like Joe an’ the Old Un does—an’ then some more. Y’ see, bo, though I ain’t never held a straight flush agin four aces an’ don’t expect to, though I shan’t ever be a world’s champion like Joe here—I guess I know to-day what it feels like, because you ain’t goin’ t’ snuff it, after all—an’ now I guess you’re on.” Saying which, the Spider dexterously shifted his wad to the other cheek and chewed faster than ever.

“I am, Spider, and I want you to know I’m grateful to you, all three. Also I want to thank you all for keeping this affair out of the papers, though how you managed it beats me.”

“Guv,” cried the Old Un, tremulous and eager, “oh, Guv, we’re fair sleuth-hounds, we are—specially me. There ain’t a ‘tective nor secret-service cove nor bloomin’ bobby fit to black our shoes—specially mine! Y’ see, Guv, I know who done it; Joe thinks he knows; an’ Spider don’t think at all!”

“Oh?” said Ravenslee, and looking around, caught the Spider watching him wide-eyed, his jaws grimly tense and immobile; but meeting his glance, the Spider lowered his eyes, shifted his smartly-gaitered legs, and chewed viciously.

“So, Guv,” piped the Old Un cheerily, “we’re out for the criminal’s gore—specially me. We’re goin’ to track the perisher to ‘is ‘orrible doom—

“‘Where’er he be To th’ gallers tree Oh, Guv, we mean t’ bring him; An’ laugh with j’y When nice an’ ‘igh The blinkin’ bobbies swing ‘im.’”

“And you think you know who it was?”

“I do, Guv, I do!” nodded the Old Un. “I knows as ‘twas a enemy as done it; Joe thinks it was one o’ them gang fellers, an’ Spider don’t say who he thinks done it.”

Once again Ravenslee caught the Spider’s eye watching him furtively, and once again he noticed that the Spider’s jaws were clamped hard, while he was twisting his natty chauffeur’s cap in fingers strangely agitated.

“Sir,” said Joe, “me an’ the Spider searched that wood, an’ we found a coat—”

“Shut up, Joe,” snarled the Old Un, “you’re tellin’ it all wrong. Guv, Joe an’ the Spider went a-seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ that wood, an’ they found a—cloo—”

“Oh?” said Ravenslee.

“A cloo as is a-goin’ t’ ‘ang somebody yet—a cloo, Guv, as ain’t t’ be ekalled for blood-guilt an’ mystery. Joe,” said the Old Un, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, “the hour is come—perjooce the cloo!”

Hereupon Joe produced a pocketbook and took thence a highly ornate coat button whereto a shred of cloth was attached.

“I found this, sir,” said he, “close by where you was a-lyin’.” So Ravenslee took the button upon his palm, and, as he eyed it, the Spider saw his black brows twitch suddenly together, then—he yawned.

“And you found this in the wood, Joe?” he enquired sleepily.

“I did, sir. With that to help ‘em, the perlice would have the murdering cove in no time, and more than once I’ve been going to hand it over to ‘em. But then I thought I’d better wait a bit; if you died was time enough, an’ if you didn’t I’d keep it for you—so, sir, there it is.”

“You did quite right, Joe. Yes, you did very right indeed!”

For a long moment Ravenslee sat languidly twisting the button in thin white fingers, then flicked it far out over the balustrade down among the dense evergreens in the garden below. The Old Un gasped, Joe gaped, and the Spider sighed audibly.

“Lorgorramighty! Oh, Guv, Guv—” quavered the old man, “you’ve throwed away our cloo—our blood-cloo—th’ p’lice—you’ve lost our evidence—”

“Old Un, of course I have! You see, I don’t like clews, or blood, or the police. You have all been clever enough, wise enough to keep this confounded business quiet, and so will I—”

“But, oh, Guv, arter somebody tryin’ t’ kill ye like a dog—ain’t there goin’ t’ be no vengeance, no gallers-tree, no ‘lectric chair nor nothin’—”

“Nothing!” answered Ravenslee gently. “Somebody tried to kill me, but somebody didn’t kill me; here I am, getting stronger every day, so we’ll let it go at that.”

“Why then—I’m done!” said the Old Un, rising.

“Guv, you’re crool an’ stony-‘carted! ‘Ere ‘s me, a pore old cove as has been dreamin’ an’ dreamin’ o’ gallers-trees an’ ‘lectric chairs, and ‘ere ‘s you been an’ took ‘em off me! Guv, I’m disapp’inted wi’ ye. Oh, ingratitood, thou art the Guv!” So saying, the Old Un clapped on his hat and creaked indignantly away.

“Crumbs!” exclaimed Joe, “what a bloodthirsty old cove he is, with his gallers-trees! This means jam, this does.”

“Jam?” repeated Ravenslee wonderingly.

“Sir, whenever the Old Un’s put out, ‘e flies to jam same as some chaps do to drink; makes a fair old beast of hisself, he do. If you’ll excuse us, sir, Spider an’ me’ll just keep a eye on him to see as he don’t go upsettin’ his old innards again.”

Ravenslee nodded, and smiling, watched them hurry after the little old man; but gradually his amusement waned, and he became lost in frowning thought. So deeply abstracted was he that he started to find Mrs. Trapes regarding him with her sharp, bright eyes.

“Mr. Geoffrey, here’s a cup o’ beef tea as I’ve prepared with my own hand—”

“But where’s—”

“She’s gone t’ bed. Here’s a cup o’ beef tea as is stiff with nourishment, so get it into your system good an’ quick.”

“Gone to bed—”

“She says it’s a headache, o’ course—drink it down while it’s hot—but I reckon it’s more ‘n a headache—yes, sir. A while back I says t’ you—’woo her,’ I says, Mr. Geoffrey. I now says—let her alone awhile. The poor child’s all wore out—it’s nerves as is the matter with her, I reckon. So, Mr. Ravenslee, be patient, this ain’t no wooin’ time; it’s rest she needs an’ change of air—”

“Why, then, Mrs. Trapes, she shall have them!”

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE WOES OF MR. BRIMBERLY

Mr. Brimberly, having dined well as was his custom, lay at his ease in a luxurious lounge chair in the shade of the piazza; the day was hot, wherefore on a table at his elbow was a syphon, a bottle, and a long glass in which ice tinkled alluringly; between his plump fingers was a large cigar and across his plump knees was an open paper over which he yawned and puffed and sipped in turn. Nevertheless Mr. Brimberly was bored and dropping the paper, languidly cherished a languorous whisker, staring dull-eyed across stately terraces and wide, neat lawns to where, beyond winding yew walks and noble trees, the distant river flowed.

Presently as he sat he was aware of a small girl in a white pinafore approaching along one of these walks—a small being who hopped along by means of a little crutch and sang to herself in a soft, happy voice.

Mr. Brimberly blinked.

Heedless of the eyes that watched her, the child turned into the rose garden, pausing now and then to inhale the scent of some great bloom that filled the air with its sweetness.

Mr. Brimberly sat up, for he permitted few to enter the rose garden.

All at once the child, singing still, reached up and broke off a great scarlet bloom.

Mr. Brimberly arose.

“Little girl!” he called, in voice round and sonorous, “little girl, come you ‘ere and come immediate!”

The child started, turned, and after a moment’s hesitation hobbled forward, her little face as white as her pinafore. At the foot of the broad steps leading up to the piazza she paused, looking up at him with great, pleading eyes.

Mr. Brimberly beckoned with portentous finger.

“Little girl, come ‘ere!” he repeated. “Come up ‘ere and come immediate!”

The small crutch tapped laboriously up the steps, and she stood before Mr. Brimberly’s imposing figure mute, breathless, and trembling a little.

“Little girl,” he demanded, threatening of whisker, “‘oo are you and—what?”

“Please, I’m Hazel.”

“Oh, indeed,” nodded Mr. Brimberly, pulling at his waistcoat. “‘Azel ‘oo, ‘Azel what—and say ‘sir’ next time, if you please.”

“Hazel Bowker, sir,” and she dropped him a little curtsey, spoiled somewhat by agitation and her crutch.

“Bowker—Bowker?” mused Mr. Brimberly. “I’ve ‘eard the name—I don’t like the name, but I’ve ‘eard it.”

“My daddy works here, sir,” said Hazel timidly.

“Bowker—Bowker!” repeated Mr. Brimberly. “Ah, to be sure—one of the hunder gardeners as I put on three or four weeks ago.”

“Yes, please, sir.”

“Little girl, what are you a-doin’ in that garden? Why are you wandering in the vicinity of this mansion?”

“Please, I’m looking for Hermy.”

“‘Ermy?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “‘Ermy? Wot kind of creater may that be? Is it a dog? Is it a cat? Wot is it?”

“It’s only my Princess Nobody, sir!”

“Oh, a friend of yours—ha! Persons of that class do not pervade these regions! And wot do I be’old grasped in your ‘and?”

Hazel looked down at the rose she held and trembled anew.

“Little girl—wot is it?” demanded the inexorable voice.

“A rose, sir.”

“Was it—your rose?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Don’t you know as it’s a wicked hact to take what ain’t yours? Don’t you know as it’s thieving and robbery, and that thieving and robbery leads to prison bars and shackle-chains?”

“Oh, sir, I—I didn’t mean—” the little voice was choked with sobs.

“Well, let this be a warning to you to thieve no more, or next time I shall ‘ave to become angry. Now—go ‘ence!”

Dropping the rose the child turned and hobbled away as fast as her crutch would allow, and Mr. Brimberly, having watched her out of sight, emptied his glass and took up his cigar, but, finding it had gone out, flung it away. Then he sighed and, sinking back among his cushions, closed his eyes, and was soon snoring blissfully.

But by and by Mr. Brimberly began to dream, a very evil dream wherein it seemed that for many desperate deeds and crime abominable he was chained and shackled in a dock, and the judge, donning the black cap, sentenced him to be shorn of those adornments, his whiskers. In his dream it seemed that there and then the executioner advanced to his fell work—a bony hand grasped his right whisker, the deadly razor flashed, and Mr. Brimberly awoke gurgling—awoke to catch a glimpse of a hand so hastily withdrawn that it seemed to vanish into thin air.

“‘Eavens and earth!” he gasped, and clapping hand to cheek was relieved to find his whisker yet intact, but for a long moment sat clutching that handful of soft and fleecy hair, staring before him in puzzled wonder, for the hand had seemed so very real he could almost feel it there yet. Presently, bethinking him to glance over his shoulder, Mr. Brimberly gasped and goggled, for leaning over the back of his chair was a little, old man, very slender, very upright, and very smart as to attire, who fanned himself with a jaunty straw hat banded in vivid crimson; an old man whose bright, youthful eyes looked out from a face wizened with age, while up from his bald crown rose a few wisps of white and straggling hair.

“‘Oly ‘eavens!” murmured Mr. Brimberly in a faint voice.

The visitor, settling his bony elbows more comfortably, fanned himself until his sparse locks waved gently to and fro, and, nodding, spoke these words:

“Oh, wake thee, oh, wake thee, my bonny bird, Oh, wake and sleep no more; Thy pretty pipe I ‘ave n’t ‘eard, But, lumme, how you snore!”

Mr. Brimberly stared; Mr. Brimberly’s mouth opened, and eventually Mr. Brimberly rose and surveyed the intruder slowly, up from glittering shoes to the dome of his head and down again; and Mr. Brimberly’s ample bosom surged, his eye kindled, and his whiskers—!

“Cheer-o!” nodded the Old Un.

Mr. Brimberly blinked and pulled down his waistcoat.

“Me good man,” said he, “you’ll find the tradesmen’s entrance round the corner. Go away, if you please, and go immediate—I’m prehoccupied.”

“No, you ain’t; you’re the butler, you are, I lay my oath—

“‘Spoons an’ forks An’ drawin’ corks’

“that’s your job, ain’t it, chum?”

“Chum!” said Mr. Brimberly in tones of horror. “Chum!” he repeated, grasping a handful of indignant whisker. “Oh, outragious! Oh, very hobscene! ‘Ow dare you, sir? ‘Oo are you, sir, eh, sir—answer me, an’ answer—prompt!”

“Leave them cobwebs alone, an’ I’ll tell you, matey.”

“Matey!” groaned Mr. Brimberly, turning up his eyes.

“I’m the Guv’s familiar friend and personal pal, I am. I’m ‘is adviser, confeedential, matreemonial, circumstantial, an’ architect’ral. I’m ‘is trainer, advance agent, manager, an’ sparrin’ partner—that’s who I am. An’ now, mate, ‘avin’ ‘elped to marry ‘im, I’ve jest took a run down ‘ere to see as all things is fit an’ proper for ‘is ‘oneymoon!”

“My word, this is a mad feller, this is!” murmured Mr. Brimberly, “or else ‘e ‘s drunk!”

“Drunk?” exclaimed the Old Un, clapping on his hat very much over one eye and glaring, “wot—me?”

“I repeat,” said Mr. Brimberly, addressing the universe in general, “I repeats as ‘e is a narsty, drunken little person!”

“Person?” cried the Old Un, scowling, “why, you perishin’—”

“Old!” said Mr. Brimberly, “‘old, I beg! Enough ‘as been said—go ‘ence! ‘Oo you are I do not know, wot you are I do not care, but in these regions you do not remain; your langwidge forbids and—”

“Langwidge?” snorted the Old Un. “Why, I ain’t begun yet, you blinkin’, fat-faced, owl-eyed piece o’ sooet—”

“Your speech, sir,” continued Mr. Brimberly with calm austerity and making the most of whiskers and waistcoat, “your speech is redolent of slums and back halleys. I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you! You are a feller! Go away, feller!”

“Feller?” snarled the Old Un, “why you—”

“I repeat,” said Mr. Brimberly with dignified deliberation, “I repeat as you are a very low, vulgar little feller!”

The Old Un clenched his fists.

“Right-o!” he nodded cheerily. “That’s done it! F’ that I’m a-goin’ t’ punch ye in th’ perishin’ eye-‘ole!” And he advanced upon the points of his toes, shoulders hunched, and head viciously outthrust.

“My word!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, retreating rather precipitately, “this is very discomposing, this is! I shall have to call the perlice.”

“Perlice!” snarled the Old Un, fiercer than ever, “you won’t have nothing t’ call with when I’ve done wi’ ye. I’m goin’ t’ jab ye on th’ beak t’ begin with, then I’ll ‘ook my left t’ your kidneys an’ swing my right to your p’int an’ crumple ye up with a jolt on your perishin’ solar plexus as ‘ll stiffen you till th’ day o’ doom!”

“‘Oly angels!” murmured Mr. Brimberly, glancing hastily about.

“Then while you lay bathed in ‘orrible gore, I’m goin’ t’ twist them whiskers into a ‘angman’s knot!”

“This is most distressing!” sighed Mr. Brimberly.

“Then,” continued the Old Un, grinding his remaining teeth, “I’m a-goin’ t’ tread your face in an’ dance on y’r blighted stummick. Arter that—”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, retreating before the oncoming peril and mopping perspiring brow. But suddenly his wandering eye was arrested by velvet and gold braid, and lifting up his voice he called:

“William! James! Come ‘ere—and come sharp!”

Two vast and splendid shapes loomed upon the scene, supermen whose silken calves quivered with unaccustomed haste; at a sign from Mr. Brimberly they seized upon the Old Un and, despite ghoulish threats, solemnly bore him off.

Down the broad sweep of drive they went, the Old Un pouring forth fluent curses with every step, until they came to a powerful automobile from beneath which a pair of neatly gaitered legs protruded.

“Joe!” cried the Old Un, apostrophising these legs, “Joe, stop bein’ a crawlin’ worm—come out an’ bash these perishers for me, like a good lad!” But even while he spoke, the footmen hauled him along, so that when Joe eventually wriggled from under the car the three were close against the great gates.

The Old Un was earnestly explaining to his captors exactly what he thought of them, of their fathers and mothers, their kith and kin, and the supermen were heeding him not the least, when a thunderbolt seemed to smite them asunder, and Joe was glancing mild-eyed from one splendid, supine form to the other.

“Hullo, Old Un!” said he, “what’s the matter now, you old book o’ bad language, you?”

But Mr. Brimberly, somewhat shaken with his late interview and feeling the need of a stimulant, had just refilled the long glass when, hearing a rustle behind him, he turned and beheld a tall woman, elderly and angular, especially as to chin and elbows, which last obtruded themselves quite unpleasantly; at least, as he eyed them there was manifest disapprobation in every hair of his whiskers.

“Now I wonder,” he sighed plaintively, “I wonder what under the blue expandment of ‘oly ‘eaven you might be, because if you ‘appen to be the washing—”

“I—am—not!”

“Or the cannybal missions—”

“No—sech—thing!”

“Oh!” said Mr. Brimberly, and his gaze wandered to the elbows. “Why, then, let me hinform you—”

“Ann Angelina Trapes is me name.”

“Why then, ma’am, you’ve took the wrong turning. ‘Owbeit an’ notwithstanding, ‘ooever you are and nevertheless, you will find the tradespeople’s entra—”

“You’re the gentleman as is so obligin’ as to be Mr. Ravenslee’s butler, ain’t you?”

“Sich is my perfession,” Mr. Brimberly admitted. “I am in sole charge of these premises and so being will ask you to withdraw ‘ence immediate. I will ask—”

“An’ I’ll ask you, very p’inted, what you reckon you’re doin’ in that chair?”

“Doing?”

“I’ll ask you, very p’inted, why you’re loafin’ around wastin’ your master’s time?”

“Loafing?” cried Mr. Brimberly, very red in the face. “Loaf—”

“I also ask you, very p’inted, wherefore an’ why you loaf, guzzlin’ an’ swillin’ your master’s good liquor?”

“Guzzling!” gasped Mr. Brimberly. “Oh, ‘eavens, this is a outrage, this is! I’ll—”

“It sure is! An’ so are you, winebibber!”

“Winebib—” Mr. Brimberly choked, his round face grew purple, and he flourished pudgy fists while Mrs. Trapes folded her cotton-gloved hands and watched him.

“Winebibber!” she nodded. “An’ the wine as you now bib is your master’s, consequently it was stole, an’ bein’ stole you’re a thief, an’ bein’ a thief—”

“Thief!” gurgled Mr. Brimberly. “Ha, thief’s a hepithet, thief is, and a hepithet ‘s hactionable! I’ll ‘ave you indented for perjoorious expressions—”

“Winebibber!” she sighed. “Snake an’ plunderer!”

“Never,” cried Mr. Brimberly, “never in all my days did I ever ‘earken to such contoomacious contoomacity! ‘Oo are you an’ wot—”

“Hand over that bottle and what you’ve left o’ them cigars!”

“Woman, begone!” he cried hoarsely. “Woman, if you don’t go ‘ence this very moment, I’ll have you persecuted with the hutmost vigour o’ the law for a incorrigible—female!”

“Female!” repeated Mrs. Trapes; and clasping herself in her long, bony arms she shuddered and smiled, though her eyes glared more stonily, and her elbows suggested rapier points, daggers, and other deadly weapons of offence.

“Female it were, I think?” she enquired with another grim and smiling shudder. “Now, sir, to you I sez, debased creecher, I sez, vulgar an’ dishonest loafer, I sez, sly an’ subtle serpent, I sez, return to the back scullery wherefrom you sprang lest I seize you by the hair of your cheeks an’ bounce your silly head against the wall—frequent, I sez!” and very slowly, Mrs. Trapes moved toward him.

Mr. Brimberly hesitated, but before those deadly elbows he blenched, his whiskers wilted all at once, and he retreated backwards; across the spacious drawing room, along the hall and down the stairs he went, his pace ever accelerating, until, in full flight, he reached the sanctuary of his pantry, where, having locked himself securely in, he sank panting into a chair to mop beaded brow.

“My word!” said Mr. Brimberly.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES UPON HIMSELF A NEW ROLE

Soapy was alone, which in itself was no new thing, for Soapy was a solitary soul at all times; but just now he sat close against the rotting fence which skirted that desolation behind O’Rourke’s saloon. Moreover, it was night, and solitude profound was his. He sat on a battered and disused pail that chanced to be handy, a smouldering cigarette dangling from his thin-lipped mouth, his long hands pendulous between his knees, his pallid eyelids sleepily a-droop; but his eyes, quick and watchful, scanned the deeper gloom of fence and dismal outbuilding, and he sat there very patient and very still. At last he stirred slightly, the cigarette quivered and was motionless again, for, amid the shadows, he had seen a dim shape that flitted swiftly toward him; on it came, creeping swift and silent beside the fence, nearer and nearer until it resolved itself into a slender form. Then Soapy spoke.

“Hello, Kid!”

Ensued a moment of tense silence, then Spike answered, his voice unnaturally thin and high-pitched.

“That—that you, Soapy?”

“‘S right, Kid!”

“What you—doin’ around—here?”

“Who, me? Y’ see, I’m kind o’ yearnin’ for that gun you got there—”

“Gun? I—I ain’t got—no gun—”

“Well, Kid, I know Heine’s all kinds of a liar, but he tells me he’s loaned you one of his, an’ so—” Soapy’s long arm shot out in the gloom and seizing Spike’s right arm he drew it near. “Why, Kid,” said he, “it kind o’ looks like Heine told the truth for once by accident, don’t it?”

“You leggo my wrist!”

“Right-o, Kid, right-o! Don’t get peeved—”

“Well, leggo then!”

“Sure! Only this artillery ain’t goin’ t’ be no good t’ you t’night—ye see, Bud—ain’t here! ‘S rough on ye, Kid, ‘s rough, but he ain’t!”

“W—what—d’ ye mean?” stammered the boy.

“I mean as you comin’ here t’ plug holes in Bud’s carcase it’s kind o’ rough on you as there ain’t goin’ t’ be no carcase here to plug. Y’ see, Bud’s took his carcase up-town with him t’night—”

“You’re a liar, Soapy, a liar! Bud’s inside, I know he is. Leggo my arm, you can’t con me!”

“‘S right, Kid, I ain’t tryin’. Only I’m tellin’ you Bud’s left me an’ Lefty t’ run things here t’night. Bud’s up-town at his old man’s place. I know because—I sent him, see?”

“You sent him—you? Ah, come off! You couldn’t!”

“‘S right, Kid; I got him away by a fake telegram.”

The boy ventured a long, quivering sigh, his whole frame relaxed, and in that instant Soapy wrenched the weapon from his loosened hold and rose. Choking with passion, Spike sprang at him, but Soapy fended him off with a long arm.

“Gimme that gun!”

“Behave, Kid, behave, else I’ll have t’ dot ye one! Be good an’ chase off home; this ain’t no place for you t’night—nor no other time.”

“Gimme that gun!”

“No!”

Spike ceased the useless struggle and leaned against the fence, panting, while Soapy reseated himself upon the battered pail.

“What you got t’ come buttin’ in for?” demanded the boy, “this ain’t your show, an’ I guess you ain’t so mighty fond o’ Bud either—”

“‘S right, too,” nodded Soapy, “no, I ain’t exactly fond of him, Kid; leastways I don’t run t’ help him if he falls nor kiss th’ place t’ make it well—no, Kid! But I kind o’ feel that Bud’s too good t’ snuff it this way, or snuff it—yet!”

“Good?” said the lad bitterly, “good—hell! He’s ruined me, Soapy, he’s done me in! He’s come between me an’—an’ Hermy. He tried t’ make me think dirt of her, an’ now—now I—I’m all alone; I ain’t got nobody left—oh, my God!” and huddling to the fence, Spike broke out into a fierce and anguished sobbing, while Soapy, spinning the revolver dexterously on his finger, watched him under drooping lids.

“She was mighty good t’ ye, Hermy was!” said he thoughtfully.

“Don’t—ah, don’t!” gasped Spike.

“An’ when he spoke dirt of her, you—believed him, Kid!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did, else you’d have been with her now. She was always good t’ you, Hermy was, but you—well, you preferred Bud!”

“I didn’t, Soapy; God knows I didn’t—only—I thought Bud would make me a champion—”

“By gettin’ ye soused, Kid!”

“Oh, I know—I know now he’s only been stringin’ me all along—I know now it’s too late—that’s why I’m goin’ t’ kill him.”

“Kill him!” mused Soapy. “Kid, there’s good killings an’ bad killin’s, an’ I reckon this ‘ud be a good killin’, maybe. But this ain’t your job.”

“Why—why ain’t it?”

“Well, you got a sister f’r one thing, an’ besides, you ain’t a killer.”

“You gimme that gun an’ see!” cried the lad, reaching out a hand tremulous and eager.

“When the time came, Kid, ‘stead o’ shootin’, you’d drop your gun like that time in th’ wood.”

“Th’ wood!” Spike’s voice dropped to a strangled whisper and he shrank back against the fence. “You—my God, you—saw—!”

“‘S right, Kid, I was there! An’ I’m kind o’ glad y’ couldn’t do it, glad for your sister’s sake. But what I’m thinkin’ is that maybe she thinks it was you—eh, Kid?”

Spike writhed and groaned.

“Eh, Kid?”

“Yes!”

“Why, then, if I was you, I’d skin off right now an’ put her wise; it may mean a whole lot t’ her. Y’ know where she is—go an’ tell her, Kid.”

“I can’t! I can’t—she don’t want me no more, she’s done wi’ me, I guess. I’m—oh, I’m too low-down an’ rotten!”

“Sure!” nodded Soapy. “But she’s good, an’ she’s a woman; an’ good women are only made t’ forgive, I reckon.”

“But there’s Geoff! I—I couldn’t face Geoff.”

“That’s because you think a heap too much about a low-down rotten guy called Spike. I guess it’s about time you began t’ think about your sister f’ a change. Well, s’ long, Kid, I guess I’ll be movin’; this pail comes a bit sharp after an hour of it.”

So saying, Soapy rose, nodded, and strolled away, still twirling the revolver upon that long and dexterous finger. For a moment Spike stood looking after him, then, chin on breast, turned and went his solitary way across the desolate waste. But now it was Soapy who, pausing, turned to watch him safe out of sight. Scarcely had the sound of Spike’s departure died away than a door opened and closed hard by, and heavy steps approached, halted suddenly, and a hoarse voice demanded:

“Who’s there?”

“Why, this is me, Bud.”

“What th’ hell are ye hangin’ around out here for?” questioned M’Ginnis suspiciously.

“Countin’ th’ stars, Bud, an’ doin’ th’ Providence act—midst of life we are in death’ gag—”

“Aw, cut out that slush an’ hike along t’ Rayner’s wi’ me; I got a job for you an’ Heine—”

Side by side they crossed the gloomy, open lot until they were come beneath a lamp at a certain bleak street corner. Here Soapy paused and held out his hand, open to the light.

“This don’t happen t’ be your ring, Bud?” he enquired lazily.

M’Ginnis glanced at the ring upon that narrow palm, a ring wrought into the semblance of two hands that clasped each other, looked closer, drew in his breath suddenly, then straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.

“No!” he answered, frowning into Soapy’s imperturbable face, “what th’ hell made you think it was?”

“Why, ye see, Bud, it happens t’ have your name scratched inside it, that’s all. But if it ain’t yours, it ain’t!” And speaking, Soapy tossed the ring back over his shoulder far out into the open lot.

For a long moment M’Ginnis stood motionless, staring back at that desolate plot of ground; when at last he glanced toward his companion, Soapy was lighting a fresh cigarette.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE OLD UN ADVISES AND RAVENSLEE ACTS

In the rose garden was an arbour smothered in riotous bloom, and in the arbour was a divan, wide and low and voluptuously soft, meet for the repose of an invalid on a languorous afternoon, or indeed any other time. But just now the invalid reposed not at all but sat, elbow on knee and square chin on fist, very lonely and therefore very grim.

All about him roses bloomed, filling the air with their sweetness, but he had no eyes for their beauty; upon the table within reach of his hand were books and magazines, but he was in no mood for reading; clasped between strong white teeth he held his favourite pipe unlighted and cold, for tobacco had for him no savour. So he sat and scowled at the universe in general, and in particular at a robin that had boldly ventured near and was regarding him with a very round, bright eye.

“She’s avoiding me!” said Ravenslee bitterly, teeth clenched upon his pipestem, “there’s no doubt about it, damn it; she’s avoiding me! And she’s not happy here either!”

The robin turned his head to regard the speaker with his other eye, then fluttered his wings and flew away as the lazy quiet of the afternoon was broken by the squeak of shoe leather, and glancing up, Ravenslee beheld the Old Un.

“What cheer, Guv,” said he, “greetin’s doo and how’s the invalid?”

“Invalid!” repeated Ravenslee, scowling again, “I’m no invalid!”

“Spoke like a true-bred gamecock, s’ help me!”

“I’m as right as rain physically, Old Un, but—”

“Talkin’ o’ physic, Guv,” said the old man, seating himself and nodding brightly, “talkin’ o’ physic, the physic as set you on your pins again was love, Guv, love!”

“But it so happens—”

“Wait a bit, I ain’t done, Guv! ‘Ere ‘s me, a old cove as ‘as lived ‘ears an’ ‘ears an’ ‘ears an’ ‘ears longer ‘n you, so nacherally I’m a powerful lot fuller o’ th’ wisdom o’ life than you, specially in matters o’ th’ ‘eart, Guv. Now me, ‘avin’ ‘elped you into th’ matrimonial ring, as you might say, ‘ave took your ‘appiness under my wing, an’, Guv, I don’t like the way you’re shapin’—”

“But you see—”

“‘Old ‘ard, Guv, let a pore old cove get a word in for a change. Now there’s you an’ ‘er, your fair young spouse, both up to each other’s weight, sound in wind an’ limb an’ meant for j’y—what I want is t’ see you come to a clinch! This ain’t no time for sparrin’ an’ out-fightin’—yet ‘ere you are a-feintin’ at each other from opposite corners—”

“But—”

“‘Arf a mo’, Guv, ‘arf a mo’—gimme a chance for a occasional word! An’ don’t frown, Guv, don’t frown at a pore old cove; y’ see, there’s jest three blokes in this ‘ard world as my old ‘eart warms to, an’ one on ‘em ‘s Joe, an’ t’ other un ‘s you, an’ t’ other un ‘s ‘er—which ain’t a bloke. Lord, Guv, what a soft armful o’ beauty! ‘Ow warm an’ cuddlesome! Oh, Guv, what a waist! What lips! What—”

“Old Un, for heaven’s sake, shut up! D’ you think I’m blind? D’ you think—”

“Guv, I dunno wot t’ think! ‘Ere ‘s you with your ‘ead in your ‘ands, an’ there’s ‘er sighin’ an’ sighin’—”

“Sighing? Where? When? Why—”

“Sighin’ an’ sighin’, Guv, so soft an’ pretty—I ‘eard ‘er! Also she wep’—I seen ‘er.”

“Where?”

“An’ ‘er tears, Guv, them pearly tears went t’ my ‘eart—an’ nobody t’ put a arm round that waist, nor kiss them sweet lips, nor soothe them tears away—

“‘Oh, alone she sat sighin’ by a green willer tree, With ‘er ‘and on ‘er bosom, ‘er ‘ead on ‘er knee, Weepin’ willer” willer, willer my garlan’ shall be.’

“So, Guv, I ax you, man to man, why, oh, why are ye neglectin’ your fair young spouse? An’, Guv, I only ax because your ‘appiness an’ ‘ers is mine—s’ ‘elp me!”

“How if it’s the other way about, Old Un? Suppose she avoids me?”

“Why lumme, Guv! ‘T is a sure sign she needs persoot. Remember this:

“‘Im as would lovely woman woo ‘E lovely woman must persoo, For if ‘e don’t, ‘t is plain as plain That feller ‘e will woo in vain.’

“An’, Guv, I’ve only took th’ liberty o’ sayin’ this because my pore old bowels yearns to ye—both on ye. Persoot’s the word, Guv, persoot!”

The Old Un nodded, rose, and creaked away, and Ravenslee, looking after him, scowled no longer, but rising, sauntered across the trim garden to where there was a lily pool and, leaning over the marble rim, stared down into the placid water.

Now as the Old Un went his way, there met him a little girl, very neat and tidy, who sang to herself in a small happy voice and tapped along on a crutch; but beholding the Old Un, his dazzling shoes, his rakish hat, she stood silent all at once, glancing up wistfully into that fierce, battered old face.

“Lumme—crutches!” he exclaimed.

“No, please—only one, sir!” she answered, dropping him a little, old-fashioned curtsey.

“Crikey!” said he, staring, “so young, so tender, an’—a game leg! A little angel wi’ a broke wing—lumme!”

So Age and Youth stared at each other and she, being a child, was quick to heed that the eyes so bright beneath their hoary brows were kindly eyes, and the smile upon the grim old mouth was very reassuring, wherefore she smiled also.

“Only one crutch, sir,” she repeated. “An’ the doctor says as I won’t want it much longer, sir.” Here, dropping another curtsey, she held up for his acceptance a bunch of wild flowers.

“What—f’ me, little maid?” he enquired.

“Yes, please, sir.”

“Why bless—bless your lovin’ little ‘eart!” quavered the old man, and stooped to touch her rosy cheek with a hand gnarled and scarred with much hard punching, yet a very gentle hand indeed. “God bless that little game leg, but pretty flowers ‘ud be wasted on a old bloke like me. You take ‘em to th’ Guv, see—over there—that tall chap leanin’ over th’ pool. But first gimme a—a kiss instead, will ye, little lass?”

“I’d like to, sir.”

And when the Old Un had kissed and been kissed right heartily, he pointed to Ravenslee’s distant, lounging figure, winked, nodded, and squeaked away.

Thus it was that Ravenslee, absorbed in thought, was presently roused by the quick light tapping of the little crutch and glanced up.

“Oh!” she cried softly; the flowers fell and lay neglected as, clasping her hands, she stared up at him in radiant-eyed wonder.

“Welcome, Highness!” said he and bowed.

“Oh, it’s the Prince—my dear Prince! Oh, Goody!” and she hastened toward him, then stopped all at once, puzzled and abashed because of his elegant attire. Perceiving which he reached out and drew her down by him on the marble seat beside the pool.

“Why this sudden change of demeanour, Princess?” he enquired. “What’s the matter?”

“You’re—you’re so different, sir—so different an’ grand in all them cute clo’es, sir.”

“Am I, dear? But I’m just the same inside, you know. And, for heaven’s sake, Princess, do not call me ‘sir.’”

“But the big gentleman that belongs here an’ has all these lovely flowers an’ everything—he says as I must always say ‘sir.’”

“Big gentleman?”

“Yes, the big, soft gentleman with the cute little curls on his cheeks.”

“Oh—him!” said Ravenslee, laughing suddenly. “Indeed a very just description, Princess. But you don’t have to worry about him any more; he’s gone.”

“Gone? For good?”

“For very good indeed!”

“Doesn’t all this beautiful, beautiful place belong t’ him any more?”

“Never any more.”

“Have you come here ‘stead of him? Come t’ stay?”

“Yes.”

“An’ can I pick a rose t’ kiss sometimes?”

“As many as you like.”

“Oh!” sighed the child rapturously, nestling within his arm, “isn’t that just—fine! I guess this sure is the Beautiful City of Perhaps, after all!”

“I wonder?”

“Oh, but I’m sure it is—now th’ gentleman’s gone I just know it is!”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Everything! ‘Cause you see, Prince, my daddy don’t have t’ be away all day any more. An’ mumsey don’t have t’ sew late, nights, any more. An’ when we came into the cute little house where we live—there was the doll that says ‘mamma’ jest waitin’ f’ me. An’ there was a big box o’ candies, an’ a doll carriage with real rubber on th’ wheels—jest like we used to talk about. So you see this must be Perhaps at last, an’ I’m so—so happy—only—” Hazel sighed.

“Only what?”

“I do wish Hermy could find her way here too; she used t’ be so tired sometimes.”

“You mean that you would like to find Princess Nobody, I guess.”

“Oh, but I can’t! I used to look an’ look for her every day ‘til th’ gentleman said she wasn’t here, an’ told me never t’ come near th’ big house any more.”

“But he’s gone, and you never had me to help you.”

“Oh, will you—will you help me right now?” she pleaded.

“Surest thing you know!” he nodded, “your hand, Princess.”

So hand in hand he led her, suiting his long legs to hers, along shady walks, up terrace steps, across smooth lawns, and so to the great house. Hazel paused to question him further concerning “the gentleman”, but Ravenslee laughed and, seating her upon his shoulder, bore her into the house.

In her housekeeper’s room, surrounded by many dusty bill files and stacks of account books, they presently found Mrs. Trapes, whose hawk’s-eye viewed bills and tradesmen’s books while she frowned and muttered such comments as “Rogues!” “Thieves!” “Scand’lous!” “Wicked!” Until glancing up, her sharp features softened, and she smiled up into the child’s happy face.

“So Hazel’s found ye, has she, Mr. Geoffrey. An’ talkin’ o’ her, you’ve sure made the Bowkers a happy fam’ly. But, my land, Mr. Ravenslee, the scand’lous prices as th’ tradespeople has been allowed t’ charge you these last six months! Here’s th’ butcher—listen t’ this—”

“Heaven forbid, Mrs. Trapes! Rather let that butcher listen to you, miserable wretch!”

“An’ there’s the milkman—that milkman’s cows ought t’ blush at th’ sound o’ your name! Here’s his accounts for the last six months, an’ I’ve found—”

“Have you, Mrs. Trapes? We’re trying to find Hermione—where is she?”

“Oh, she’s in her room—laying down, I guess.”

“Not,” enquired Ravenslee, “not—er—in bed, is she?”

“Mr. Geoffrey, I don’t know; I’m busy. Go an’ see for yourself—she’s your wife, ain’t she?”

“Why, since you ask, I—er—hardly know,” he answered a little ruefully, “anyway, found she shall be.”

With the child perched upon his shoulder he strode up-stairs and along wide corridors whose deep carpets gave forth no sound, and so reached a certain door. Here he hesitated a moment, then knocked with imperious hand.

“Come in!” called that voice whose soft inflection had always thrilled him, but never as it did now as, turning the handle, he entered his wife’s chamber.

Hermione was standing before a long mirror, and she neither turned nor looked from the radiant vision it reflected; her eyes, her attention, all the feminine soul of her being just then fixed and centered upon the tea gown she was trying on; such a garment as she had gloated over in the store windows, yearned for, but never thought to possess.

“Ann,” she sighed, “oh, Ann, isn’t it exquisite! Isn’t it a perfect dream! Of course it needs a wee bit of alteration here and there, but I can do that. Isn’t it good of him to have bought it without saying a word! And there are heaps of dresses and robes and—and everything! A complete trousseau, Ann, dear—think of it! I wonder how he knew my size—”

“Oh, I just guessed it, my dear,” answered Ravenslee in the voice of a much experienced husband.

Hermione gasped, and turning, stared at him wide-eyed, seeing only him, conscious only of him. Lifting Hazel to the floor, he seated himself upon her bed and, crossing his legs, eyed her flushed loveliness with a matter-of-fact air. “Really,” he continued, “I don’t see that it needs any alteration; perhaps the sleeves might be a trifle shorter—show a little more arm. But those flounces and things are perfect! I hope all the other things fit as well?”

Hermione flushed deeper still and caught her breath.

“Oh, Hermy,” said a soft, pleading little voice, “won’t you see me, please?”

Hermione started, her long lashes drooped suddenly, and then—then, forgetful of costly lace, of dainty ruffles and ribbons, she was on her knees and had the child close in her arms. And beholding the clasp of those round, white arms, the lovely, down-bent head, and all the tender, craving, inborn motherhood of her, Ravenslee held his breath, and into his eyes came a light of reverent adoration.

Presently he rose and left them together, but as he went, the light was in his eyes still.

CHAPTER XL

CONCERNING A HANDFUL OF PEBBLES

“And so,” said Hermione, as she waved good-by to Hazel, who stood in the cottage doorway with Mrs. Bowker—a Mrs. Bowker no longer faded, “you didn’t forget even the doll that says ‘Mamma’?”

“It was such a little thing!” he answered.

“What a—man you are!” she said softly.

“Just that, Hermione,” he answered, “and—frightfully human!” She was silent. “Do you know what I mean?” he demanded, glancing at her averted face.

“Yes!” she answered, without looking around. So they walked for awhile in silence. Suddenly he seized her hand and drew it through his arm.

“Hermione,” he said gently, “I want my wife.”

She still kept her head averted, but he could feel how she was trembling.

“And you think—” she began softly.

“That I have been patient long enough. I have waited and hoped because—”

“Because you are so generous, so kind—such a man!” she said softly and with head still averted.

“And yet since I have been well again, you have kept me at arm’s length. Dear, you—love me still, don’t you?”

“Love you?” she repeated, “love you?” For a moment she turned and looked up at him then drew her arm from his and walked on with head averted once more. So they entered the rose garden and coming to the lily pool leaned there side by side.

“Hermione,” said he, staring down into the water, “if you really love me, why do you hate to kiss me? Why do you hardly suffer me to touch you? And you’ve never even called me by my name, that I remember!”

“Geoffrey!” she breathed; “and I—love you to touch me! And I don’t hate to kiss you, Geoffrey dear.”

“Then why do you keep me at arm’s length?”

“Do I?” she questioned softly, gazing down at the lily pads.

“You know you do. Why?”

“Well—because.”

“Because what?”

“Oh, well, just—because.”

“Hermione—tell me.”

“Well, everything is so strange—so unreal! This great house, the servants, all the beautiful clothes you bought me! To have so very much of everything after having to do with so very little—it’s all so wonderful and—dreadful!”

“Dreadful?”

“You are so—dreadfully rich!”

“Is that the reason you keep me at such a distance? Is that why you avoid me?”

“Avoid you?”

“Yes, dear. You’ve done it very sweetly and delicately, but you have avoided me lately. Why?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

“And you haven’t touched any of the monthly allowance I make you,” he went on, frowning a little, “not one cent. Why, Hermione?”

Hermione was silent.

“Tell me!”

Still she was silent, only she bent lower above the pool and drew further from him, whereat his pale cheek flushed, and his frown grew blacker.

And presently, as he scowled down into the water, she stole a look at him, and when she spoke, though the words were light, the quiver in her voice belied them.

“Invalid, dear, if you want to be angry with me, wait—till you’re a little stronger.”

Ravenslee stooped and picked up a handful of small pebbles that chanced to lie loose.

“Wife, dear,” said he, “I’m as well and strong as ever I was. But I’ve asked you several questions which I mean you to answer, so I am going to give you until I have pitched all these pebbles into the water, and then—” Hermione glanced up swiftly.

“Then?” she questioned.

“Why then, if you haven’t answered, I shall—take matters into my own hands. One!” and a pebble splashed into the pool.

“What do you want to know?”

“Two! Why haven’t you condescended to take your allowance?”

“Dear, I—I didn’t need it, and even if I had, I—oh, I couldn’t take it—yet!”

“Three! Why not?”

“Because you have given me so much already, and I—have given you—nothing.”

“Four! Why—haven’t you?”

“Oh—well—because!”

“Five! What does ‘because’ mean, this time?”

“It means—just—because!”

“Six! Seven! Eight! Why have you avoided me lately?”

Hermione was silent, watching him with troubled eyes while he slowly pitched the pebbles into the pool, counting as they fell.

“Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Why do you keep me at arm’s length?”

“I don’t—I—I—you won’t let me—” she said a little breathlessly, while one by one he let the pebbles fall into the pool, counting inexorably as they fell.

“Thirteen! Fourteen, fifteen—and that’s the last!” As he spoke he turned toward her, and she, reading something of his purpose in his eyes, turned to flee, felt his long arms about her, felt herself swung up and up and so lay crushed and submissive in his fierce embrace as he turned and began to bear her across the garden. Then, being helpless, she began to plead with him.

“Ah, don’t, don’t—dear! Geoffrey! Put me down! Where are you taking me? If any one sees us—”

“Let them!” he muttered grimly; “you’re my wife!”

So he bore her across the garden into the arbour and laying her upon the divan, sank beside it on his knees, panting a little.

“A little weak—still!” said he, “but not so bad—you’re no scraggy sylph, thank heaven! Hermione—look at me!” But she turned and hid her face against him, for his clasp was close about her still. So he stooped and kissed her hair, her glowing cheek, her soft white neck, and, in that instant—wonder of wonders—her arms were around him, strong, passionate arms that clung and drew him close—then strove wildly to hold him away.

“Loose me!” she cried, “let me go! Geoffrey—husband, be generous and let me go!” But he lifted her head, back and back across his arm until beneath her long lashes her eyes looked into his.

“Hermione, when will you—be my wife?”

Against him he could feel the sweet hurry of her breathing, and stooping he spoke again, lip to lip:

“Hermione, when will you be my wife?”

But, even while he kissed her, between those quivering, parted lips came a murmur of passionate prayer and pleading.

“Oh, my love, wait—wait! Let me tell you—ah, loose me and let me tell you.”

Slowly his hold relaxed, and, twisting in his arms, she slipped upon her knees beside him, and, crouching close, hid her face against him.

“Beloved,” she whispered quickly, breathlessly, “oh, dear man that I love so—there is something between us, a shadow of shame and horror that is with me day and night and always must be. While you lay sick it was there, torturing me with every moan and sigh you uttered. It is with me wherever I go—it is between us now—yes, now—even while I strain you in my arms like this. I have watched you grow strong and well again, I’ve seen the love in your eyes, and I’ve yearned to be to you—all you would have me, but because of this shadow I—dare not. Ah, God, how can I be wife to you when—let this answer for me.” And she placed in Ravenslee’s hand a coat button whereto a piece of cloth adhered. “Dear love, I saw you throw it away,” she explained, “and I searched and searched until I found it.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you would soon ask me—this question, and I have kept it for my answer. Ah, God! how can I be wife to you when my brother would have killed you—murdered you!”

Ravenslee hurled the button far away, then lifting Hermione’s bowed head, spoke very tenderly.

“How does all this affect our love, Hermione, except to show me you are even sweeter and nobler than I had thought. And as for the shadow, it is—only a shadow after all.”

“But it is my shame!” she answered. “You might have had for wife the sister of a thief, but not—oh, God! not the sister of a would-be murderer. If—if I came to you now, I should come in shame—Ah, Geoffrey, don’t—shame me!”

“God forbid!” he muttered.

Close, close she clasped him, hiding her face against him, kissing and kissing the rough cloth of his coat.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” she murmured, “how we do love each other!”

“So much, Hermione, that I will never—claim you until you are ready to come to me of your own will. But, dear, I am only a man—how long must I wait?”

“Give me time,” she pleaded, “with time the horror may grow less. Let me go away for awhile—a little while. Let me find Arthur—”

“No,” he answered, frowning, “you shan’t do that; there will be no need—to-morrow I go to fetch him.”

“To bring him—here?”

“Why, of course. You see, I intend him to go to college.”

Hermione rose and coming to the entrance of the arbour leaned there.

“Why, Hermione—dear love—you’re crying! What is it?”

“Nothing,” she answered, bowing her face upon her arm, “only—I think—if you ask me again—I can’t—keep you—waiting—very long!”

CHAPTER XLI

OF A PACKET OF LETTERS

M’Ginnis jerked aside the roll-top desk and falling on his knees before a small but massive safe built into the wall behind, set the combination and swung open the heavy door, talking to his companion as he did so and quite unconscious of the pale face that watched him through the dingy window.

“That dam’ Soapy’s gettin’ ugly,” he was saying, “an’ it don’t do t’ get ugly with me, Heine, boy! Soapy thinks he’s smart Alec all right, but I guess I’m some smarter. Why, I got evidence enough in here t’ ‘lectrocute a dozen Soapys.”

“So?” said Heine, chewing on his cigar and peering into the safe. “Say, what’s all them tied up in sassy blue ribbon, Bud?”

“These?” said M’Ginnis, and he took out a bundle of letters, turning them over in his big hands.

“Skirt—hey, Bud?”

“Sure thing!” he nodded, and as he stared down at this packet, how should he know how tense and rigid had become the lounging form in the darkness beyond the window, or guess of the wide glare of watchful eyes or of the sudden quiver of a smouldering cigarette?

“Yes, a girl’s letters, Heine! An’ a hell of a lot of ‘em. I dunno why I keep ‘em, but—oh, hell!” So saying he tossed the letters back again and turned to his companion. “Hand over that dope!” he commanded, and Heine passed over a bundle of papers which M’Ginnis carefully slipped into a certain compartment. As he did so, Heine spun around upon his heel.

“Gee whiz!” he exclaimed, “you shook me that time, Soapy! Where’ve you blown in from—”

“An’ what th’ hell are you nosin’ around here for, anyway?” snarled M’Ginnis, shutting the heavy safe with a fierce slam; “since you’ve come in you can get out again—right now!”

Soapy seated himself upon a corner of the desk and placidly breathed out two spirals of cigarette smoke.

“Heard about Hermy bein’ married, Bud?” he enquired.

“Married? You’re a liar! Hermy married? It’s not so!”

“‘S right!” nodded Soapy. “She’s married th’ millionaire guy as got shot—you know—got shot in that wood—you’ll remember, Bud!”

M’Ginnis sank into a chair and fell to biting his nails, staring blindly before him.

“Is—this—straight goods?” he enquired thickly, without altering his gaze.

“Sure! Y’ see, she nursed him through his sickness, Bud—kind of did the piller-smoothin’ an’ brow-strokin’ act. Oh, I guess she comforted him quite some.”

M’Ginnis stared before him, worrying his nails with sharp white teeth.

“Ravenslee’s a well man again, I hear, an’ they’re honeymoonin’ at his place on the Hudson—devotion ain’t the word, Bud! ‘S funny,” said Soapy, “but th’ bullet as downed this guy drove Hermy into his arms. ‘S funny, ain’t it, Bud?”

With a hoarse, inarticulate cry that was scarcely human, M’Ginnis sprang from his chair, his quivering fists up-flung. For a moment he stood thus, striving vainly for utterance, then wrenched loose his neckerchief, while Soapy methodically lighted a new cigarette from the butt of its predecessor.

“Easy, Bud, easy!” he remonstrated gently, when M’Ginnis’s torrent of frenzied threats and curses had died down somewhat. “If you go on that way, you’ll go off—in a fit or something an’ I shouldn’t like t’ see ye die—that way!”

“Up the river, is he?” panted M’Ginnis.

“‘S right, Bud, up the river in his big house—with her. I—”

“Is he, by—”

“A dandy place f’ honeymoonin’, Bud!”

“Loan me your gun, Soapy. I’ll get him, by God! if I have t’ shoot him in her arms—loan me y’r gun!”

“I guess not, Bud, no, I guess not. I’d feel kind o’ lonesome without th’ feel of it. Ask Heine; he’ll loan you his; it’s gettin’ t’ be quite a habit with him, ain’t it, Heine?”

M’Ginnis sat awhile glaring down at his clutching right hand, then he rose, opened his desk, and took thence a heavy revolver, and slipped it inside his coat.

“You’re comin’ with me, Heine,” said he, “I’ll want you.”

“Sure thing, Bud,” nodded Heine, chewing his cigar. “But what about lettin’ Soapy tag along too.”

“Soapy,” said M’Ginnis, striding to the door, “Soapy can go t’ hell right now.”

“Why then, Bud,” drawled Soapy, “I’ll sure meet you—later. S’long.”

Left alone, Soapy’s languor gave place to swift action. In two strides, it seemed, he was in the saloon, had beckoned the quick-eyed bartender aside and put the question: “Where’s the Kid, Jake?”

The bartender lifted an eyebrow and jerked a thumb upward.

“Shut-eye,” he nodded, and turned back to his multifarious duties.

Up a narrow stair sped Soapy and, opening one of the numerous doors, crossed to a truckle bed wherefrom a tousled head upreared itself.

“Who th’—”

“Say, Kid, are ye drunk or only asleep?”

“What yer want, Soapy? You lemme be—what yer want?” began Spike drowsily.

“Nothin’ much, Kid, only Bud an’ Heine’s gone t’ shoot up y’r sister’s husband.”

“Husband!” cried Spike, drowsy no longer. “Husband—say, d’ ye mean Geoff?”

“That’s who, Kid. You was crackin’ on t’ me about wantin’ t’ make good; well, here’s y’r chance. Bud aims t’ get there ‘bout midnight—up th’ river, you know—so you got two hours. You’ll have t’ go some t’ get in first, but I guess you can do it.”

“I will if it kills me!” cried Spike, springing toward the door.

“Hold on, Kid, you’ll need some mazuma, maybe. Here’s a ten-spot. It’ll be more useful t’ you than me after t’night, I reckon. So get your hooks on to it, an’ now—beat it!”

Without more words Spike snatched the money, crammed it into his pocket and, running down the stairs, was gone.

Then, after having lighted another cigarette, Soapy descended to M’Ginnis’s dingy office, where having dragged away the desk, he brought a chair and sat with his ear against the safe, turning the combination lock with long, delicate fingers. To and fro he turned it, very patiently hearkening to the soft clicks the mechanism gave forth while the cigarette smouldered between his pallid lips. Soapy, among other accomplishments, was a yeggman renowned in the profession, and very soon the heavy door swung softly back, and Soapy became lost in study. Money there was and valuables of many kinds, and these he didn’t trouble with, but to the papers he gave a scrupulous attention; sometimes as he read his white eyelids fluttered somewhat, and sometimes the dangling cigarette quivered. Presently he arose and bore these many papers to the sheet iron upon which stood the rusty stove; here he piled them and set them alight and stood watching until they were reduced to a heap of charred ash. Then, returning to the safe, he took out a bundle of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon, and seating himself at M’Ginnis’s desk, he slipped off the ribbon and very methodically began to read these letters one after the other.

But as he read the humble entreaties, the passionate pleading of those written words, blotted and smeared with the bitter tears of a woman’s poignant shame and anguish, Soapy’s pendent cigarette fell to the floor and lay there smouldering and forgotten, and his lips were drawn back from sharp, white teeth—pallid lips contorted in a grin the more awful because of the great drops that welled from the fierce, half-closed eyes. Every letter he read and every word, then very methodically set them back within the faded blue ribbon and sat staring down at them with eyes wider open than usual—eyes that saw back into the past. And as he sat thus, staring at what had been, he repeated a sentence to himself over and over again at regular intervals, speaking with a soft inflection none had ever heard from him before:

“Poor little Maggie—poor little kid!”

CHAPTER XLII

TELLS HOW RAVENSLEE BROKE HIS WORD AND WHY

“Past eleven o’clock, dear,” said Hermione.

“Still so early?” sighed Ravenslee.

They were sitting alone in the fire glow, so near that by moving his hand he could touch her where she sat curled up in the great armchair; but he did not reach out his hand because they were alone and in the fire glow, and Hermione had never seemed quite so alluring.

“How cosy a fire is—and how unnecessary!” she sighed contentedly.

“I’m English enough to love a fire, especially when it is unnecessary,” he answered.

“English, dear?”

“My mother was English; that’s why I was educated in England.”

“Your mother! How she must have loved you!”

“I suppose she did; but, you see, she died when I was a baby.”

“Poor lonely mite!” Here her hand came out impulsively to caress his coat sleeve and to be prisoned there by two other hands, to be lifted and pressed to burning lips, whereat she grew all rosy in the fire glow.

“I suppose,” said he, the words coming a little unevenly, “it would be too much to ask my wife to—come a little—nearer?”

“Nearer? Why, Geoffrey, dear, our chairs are touching now.”

“Our chairs? Why, yes—so they are! I suppose,” sighed he, “I suppose it would be breaking my word to my wife if I happened to—kiss my wife?”

“Why, Geoffrey—of course it would!”

“Yes, I feared so!” he nodded and kissed her hand instead, and there fell a silence.

“How heavenly it is!” she whispered softly, leaning a little nearer to him.

“Heavenly!” he answered, leaning a little nearer to her and watching the droop of her lashes.

“So—so quiet and—peaceful!” she added, drawing away again, conscious of his look.

“Horribly!” he sighed.

“Geoffrey!”

“Quiet and peace,” he explained, “may hold such an infinitude of possibilities impossible of realisation to a husband who is bound by promises, that it is apt to be a little—trying.”

Hermione didn’t speak but drew his hand to be caressed by the soft oval of a cheek and touched by the velvet of shy lips.

“And yet,” he went on, staring resolutely at the fire, “I wouldn’t change—this, for anything else the world could offer me!”

“Bear with me—a little longer, dear!” she murmured.

“As long as you will, Hermione—providing—”

“Well, my Geoffrey, dear?”

“That it is only—a little longer.”

“You don’t think I’m very—silly, do you, dear?” she enquired, staring into the fire.

“No, not very!”

“Oh!” she said softly, glancing at him reproachfully. “You don’t think me—cruel?”

“Not very,” he answered, kissing her hand again.

“Dear Geoffrey, you don’t think I’m very selfish, do you?” she questioned wistfully.

“No—never that!” he answered, keeping his gaze averted.

“Because if—”

“If?” said he.

“If it is hard for you—” the soft voice faltered.

“Yes, Hermione?”

“If you really think I’m—cruel and—silly, you—needn’t wait—any longer—if you wish—”

His arms were about her, drawing her near, clasping her ever closer, and she held him away no more, but—beholding her wistful eyes, the plaintive droop of her vivid mouth, and all the voiceless pleading of her, he loosed her and turned away.

“I love you so much—Hermione, so much, that your will shall be my will.”

She rose, and leaning against the carved mantel stared down into the fire; when at last she spoke, there was a note in her voice he had never heard before,

“Geoffrey, dear, this world is a very bad world for a lonely girl, and sometimes a very hateful world, and I have been lonely nearly all my life—and I didn’t think there were such men as you; I didn’t think any man could love so unselfishly. All my life I shall—treasure the recollection of this hour—yes, always! always!”

Then she turned and, ere he knew, was on her knees before him, had twined soft arms about his neck, and was looking up at him through shining tears.

“Yes, I’m—crying a little! I don’t do it often, dear—tears don’t easily come with me. But now I’m crying because—oh, because I’m so proud—so proud to have won such a wonderful love. Good night—good night! Oh, break your word for once—kiss me, my husband!”

So while she knelt to him thus, he kissed her until she sighed and stirred in his embrace. Then she rose and hand in hand they crossed the room and he opened the door; for a blissful moment they stood there silent in the shadows, but when he would have kissed her again she laughed at him through her tears and fled from him up the wide stairway.

CHAPTER XLIII

HOW SPIKE GOT EVEN

A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Ravenslee sat on long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk on broad chest, his eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound but joyful meditation; once he turned to look where she had stood beside the mantel, and once he reached out to touch the thrice-blessed chair that had held her.

The curtains stirred and rustled at the open window behind him, but he sat looking into the flickering fire, seeing there pictures of the future, and the future was full of a happiness beyond words, for in every picture Hermione moved.

All at once he started and glanced swiftly around, his lounging attitude changing to one of watchful alertness, for he had heard a sound that drew rapidly nearer—the hiss and pant of breath drawn in quick gasps. Silently he arose and turned to see the curtains swing apart and a shapeless something stagger forward and fall heavily. Then he reached out to the switch beside the hearth, and the room was flooded with brilliant light; the figure kneeling just inside the swaying curtains uttered a strangled cry and threw up a hand before his face, a hand dark with spattering blood.

“Oh, Geoff—oh, Geoff!” panted Spike, “I ain’t—come thievin’ this time—honest t’ God, I ain’t!”

“Why, you’re hurt—what’s the matter?”

“They see me down th’ road as I came an’ shot me, but this ain’t nothin’. Out th’ lights, Geoff—out ‘em—quick!”

But Ravenslee had crossed the room, had seized the lad’s arm, and was examining the ugly graze that bled so freely.

“That ain’t nothin’—douse th’ lights, Geoff—out ‘em quick. Bud’s coming here close behind—Bud an’ Heine—they mean t’ plug you—oh, put out th’ lights—”

Instinctively Ravenslee turned, but even as he did so Spike uttered a hoarse cry.

“No, ye don’t, Bud—not this time, by God!” and sprang upon the form that towered between the curtains; came the sound of fierce scuffling, a deafening report, and running forward, Ravenslee caught Spike as he staggered back; heard a rush and trample of feet along the terrace, the sound of blows and fierce curses behind the swaying curtains, heard the Spider’s fierce shout and Joe’s deep roar, two more shots in rapid succession, and the swift patter of feet in flight and pursuit.

“How is it, Spike? Are you hurt, old chap?”

But Spike just then was beyond words, so Ravenslee bore the swooning boy to a settee, and laying him there, began to search hastily for the wound.

But now the door was flung wide and Hermione was beside him.

“Geoffrey—oh, my love! Have they hurt you?”

“No, dear—thanks to Spike, here!”

“Arthur! Oh, thank God—did he—?”

“Took the bullet meant for me, Hermione. I owe your brother my life!”

She was down on her knees and very soon her skilful fingers had laid bare the ugly wound in the lad’s white arm. But now came Mrs. Trapes, looking taller and bonier than ever in a long, very woolly garment, and while she aided Hermione to bandage the wound, Ravenslee brought water and brandy, and very soon Spike sighed and opened his eyes.

“Hello, Hermy!” he said faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m all O. K. Bud shot me an’ I’m glad, because now I can ask you t’ forgive me. Y’ see, he’d have got old Geoff sure if it hadn’t been for me, so you—you will forgive me, won’t you?”

For answer Hermione bent and kissed his pallid cheek.

“I’ll go and ‘phone for the doctor,” said Ravenslee.

“Which,” said Mrs. Trapes, “I done ten minutes ago, Mr. Geoffrey. Doctor’ll be right along.”

Ravenslee turned to Spike.

“How are you now, old fellow?”

“Only a bit sick, like. But say, Geoff—I know I played it low down on you, but—will you—shake an’ try t’ forget?”

Ravenslee took and held the boy’s outstretched hand.

“I think we’re going to be better friends than ever, Spike!”

“Good!” said Spike, smiling wearily, “but say, Geoff—dear old Geoff—if I got t’ die I don’t mind—because I guess this makes us quits at last—don’t it, Geoff?”

CHAPTER XLIV

RETRIBUTION

Half-stunned by a blow from Joe’s mighty fist, M’Ginnis saw Heine felled by Spider, who, having promptly and scientifically kicked him unconscious, snatched the revolver from his lax fingers and turned to pursue. As he came M’Ginnis fired rapidly but, dazed by the blow, his aim was wild, so he turned and ran, with the Spider in hot pursuit. The moon was down, and it was very dark, and soon M’Ginnis found himself in the denser gloom of trees. On he ran, twisting and doubling, on and on, until spent and breathless, he paused to hearken. Far away, voices shouted to each other, voices that gradually grew more distant; so, finally having caught his breath, M’Ginnis went on again. But the wood was full of noises—strange rustling and sudden, soft night sounds—and at every sound the fugitive paused to listen, finger on trigger. And ever as he went the wild blood throbbed and pulsed within his brain, sounding now like the pad-pad of pursuing feet that would not be shaken off, and again like a voice that mumbled and muttered querulous words in the air about him, and at such times he glanced around upon the dark, but the words would not be stilled:

“She’s married—married—married! You drove her into his arms—you did—you did—you did! And he’s alive still and with her, alive—alive—alive!”

And sometimes as he stumbled along through that place of gloom, he cursed bitterly beneath his breath, and sometimes he ground sweating jaws since needs must he hearken to that taunting devil-voice:

“Alive and with his wife beside him—alive! And yours the fault—yours—yours! Your shot at Spike so near the house lost you the game—lost—lost! Your shot at Spike was a call for help—saved the life of the man you came to kill! Your shot at Spike lost you the game—lost—lost!”

So, followed by the pad-pad of running feet, haunted by the querulous demon-voice, M’Ginnis stumbled out upon the road—a lonely road at most times but quite desolate at this hour. The fugitive hastened along, dogged by sounds that none but he might hear, yet to him these sounds were dreadfully real, so real that once, goaded to a paroxysm of blind fury, he whirled about and fired wildly—a shot that seemed to split asunder the deep night silence, filling it with a thousand echoes. Once more he turned and ran, ran until his breath laboured painfully and the sweat ran from him, but ever the sounds were close about him.

At last he beheld lights that moved, and reaching a way-side halt, clambered aboard a late trolley and crouched as far from the light as possible. But even so, his disordered dress, his pallor, and the wild glare of his eyes drew the idle glances of the few passengers.

“Looks like you’d been through th’ mill, bo!” said one, a great, rough fellow; but meeting M’Ginnis’s answering glare, he quailed and shrank away.

Dawn was at hand when at last he reached O’Rourke’s saloon and, letting himself in, strode into the bar. The place was deserted at this hour, but from a room hard by came the sound of voices, hoarse laughter, and the rattle of chips that told a poker game was still in progress.

Scowling, M’Ginnis stood awhile to listen. Then, lifting the flap of the bar, he passed through the narrow door beyond, along the passage and so to that dingy office, from the open door of which a light streamed.

Scowling still, M’Ginnis strode in, then stood suddenly still, lifted his right hand toward his breast, then paused as Soapy, turning about in the swing chair, took a heavy, ivory-handled revolver from where it had lain on the desk beside a packet of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon.

“Lock th’ door, Bud, lock th’ door!” said he softly. “So!” he nodded, as M’Ginnis obeyed. “‘N’ say, Bud, take that hand away from y’r gun an’—keep it away—see?” And the lamplight glittered on the long barrel that rested on Soapy’s knee.

“So—this is th’ game—hey?” demanded M’Ginnis hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Soapy unwinkingly.

“‘S right, Bud. Y’ see, I been takin’ a peek int’ that little tin safe o’ yours—say, it looks like you’d had a bit of a rough house, Bud!”

Soapy’s cigarette quivered and was still again, while M’Ginnis watched him, breathing thickly but speaking no word, and Soapy went on again:

“I been takin’ a peek into that little tin safe o’ yours, an’ I found some papers you’d been kind o’ treasurin’ up about me, so I burnt ‘em, Bud—not as they mattered very much, there ain’t nobody t’ worry when I snuff it—but I found as you’d got other papers about other guys as would matter some t’ them, I guess—so I burnt ‘em too, Bud.”

“Burnt ‘em!” cried M’Ginnis in a strangled voice, “burnt ‘em—you—”

“It ain’t no use t’ get riled, Bud; I burnt ‘em—there’s th’ ashes!”

M’Ginnis glanced at the heap of ash by the stove and burst into a frenzy of curses and fierce invective, while Soapy, lounging back in the chair, watched him unmoved until he had done, then he spoke again:

“Also I found—letters, Bud, a packet tied up in blue ribbon—an’, Bud, they matter a whole lot. Here they are—look at ‘em!”

For a moment Soapy’s baleful eye turned aside to the desk as he reached for the letters, and in that moment M’Ginnis’s pistol spoke, and Soapy, lurching sideways, sagged to his knees, his back against the desk. Again and again M’Ginnis’s weapon clicked, but no report followed, and Soapy slowly dragged himself to his feet. His cigarette fell and lay smouldering, and for a moment he stared at it; then he laughed softly and glanced at M’Ginnis.

“You fool, Bud, you dog-gone fool! Forgot t’ load up y’r gun, eh? But I guess you got me all right, anyway—you’re shootin’ better t’night than you did in the wood that time—eh, Bud? Now I want t’ tell you—” He was choked suddenly with a ghastly coughing, and when he spoke again, his voice was fainter, and he held a smartly-bordered handkerchief to his mouth.

“They say God made this world, Bud—if He did, I guess He was asleep when you was made, Bud—anyway, remembering little Maggie, you ain’t got no right to breathe any longer—so that’s for me—an’ that’s for her!”

Lounging still, he fired twice from the hip and M’Ginnis, twisting upon his heels, fell and lay with his face at his slayer’s feet. Then, spying the packet of letters that lay upon the grimy floor, Soapy stooped painfully and fired rapidly four times; when the smoke cleared, of those tear-blotted pages with their secret of a woman’s anguish, there remained nothing but a charred piece of ribbon and a few smouldering fragments of paper. And now Soapy was seized with another fit of coughing, above which he heard hoarse shouts and hands that thundered at the door. Lazily he stood upon his feet, turned to glance from that scorched ribbon to the still form upon the floor and, lifting a lazy foot, ground his heel into that still face, then, crossing unsteadily to the door, unlocked it. Beyond was a crowd, very silent now, who drew back to give him way, but Soapy paused in the doorway and leaned there a moment.

“What’s doin’?” cried a voice.

“Say, run f’r a doctor, somebody—quick—Soapy’s hurt bad, I reckon—”

“Hurt?” said Soapy, in soft, lazy tones. “‘S right! But—say—fellers, there’s a son of a dog in there—waitin’ f’r a spade—t’ bury him!” Then Soapy laughed, choked, and groping before him blindly, staggered forward, and pitching sideways, fell with his head beneath a table and died there.

CHAPTER XLV

OF THE OLD UN AND FATE

Spike leaned back among his cushions and, glancing away across close-cropped lawns and shady walks, sighed luxuriously.

“Say, Ann,” he remarked. “Gee whiz, Trapesy, there sure ain’t no flies on this place of old Geoff’s!”

“Flies,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her household accounts, “you go into the kitchen an’ look around.”

“I mean it’s aces up.”

“Up where?” queried Mrs. Trapes.

“Well, it’s a regular Jim-dandy cracker-jack—some swell clump, eh?”

“Arthur, that low, tough talk don’t go with me,” said Mrs. Trapes, and resumed her intricate calculations again.

“Say, when’ll Geoff an’ Hermy be back?”

“Well, considerin’ she’s gone to N’ York t’ buy more clo’es as she don’t need, an’ considerin’ Mr. Ravenslee’s gone with her, I don’t know.”

“An’ what you do know don’t cut no ice. Anyway, I’m gettin’ lonesome.”

“What, ain’t I here?” demanded Mrs. Trapes sharply.

“Sure. I can’t lose you!”

“Oh! Now I’ll tell you what it is, my good b’y—”

“Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that’s what.”

“If you sass me, I’ll box your young ears—an’ that’s what!”

“I don’t think!” added Spike. “Nobody ain’t goin’ t’ box me. I’m a sure enough invalid, and don’t you forget it.”

“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “a bit of a hole in his arm, that’s all.”

“Well, I wish you got it, ‘stead o’ me—it smarts like sixty!”

“Shows it’s healin’. Doctor said as it’ll be well in a week.”

“Doctor!” sniffed Spike, “he don’t know what I suffer. I may be dyin’ for all he knows.”

“You are!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.

“Eh—what?” exclaimed Spike, sitting up.

“So am I—we all are—by the minute. Every night we’re a day’s march nearer home! So now jest set right there an’ go on dyin’, my b’y!”

“Say, now, cut it out,” said Spike, wriggling. “That ain’t no kind o’ way t’ cheer an invalid.”

“It’s th’ truth.”

“Well, it don’t cheer me more, so let’s have a lie for a change.”

Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.

“Say, Ann,” said he after awhile, “if you got any more o’ that punkin pie I could do some right now. I’m hungry.”

“It ain’t eatin’ time yet.”

“But—Gee! ain’t I a invalid?”

“Sure! Consequently you must be fed slow an’ cautious.”

“Oh, fudge! What’s th’ good of a guy bein’ a invalid if a guy can’t feed when he wants to?”

“What’s a hundred an’ ninety-one from twenty-three?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.

“Skidoo!” murmured Spike sulkily. But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.

“You ain’t such a bad old gink—sometimes,” he conceded.

“Gink?” said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.

“I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to.”

“Can I?”

“Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”

“Is that so?”

“You bet it is—honest Injun.”

“Arthur, if it’s that pie you want—”

“It ain’t!”

“Well, what is it?”

“How d’ ye know I want anything?”

“Oh, I just guess, maybe.”

“Well, say—if you could cop me one o’ Geoff’s cigarettes—one o’ them with gold letterin’ onto ‘em—”

“You mean—thieve you one!”

“Why, no, a cigarette ain’t thievin’. Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I’m jest dyin’ for a gasper!”

“Well, you go on dyin’, an’ I’ll set right here an’ watch how you do it.”

“If I was t’ die you’d be sorry for this, I reckon.”

“Anyway, I’d plant some flowers on you, my lad, an’ keep your lonely grave nice—”

“Huh!” sniffed Spike, “a lot o’ good that ‘ud do me when I was busy pushin’ up th’ daisies. It’s what I want now that matters.”

“An’ what you want now, Arthur, is a rod of iron—good ‘n’ heavy. Discipline’s your cryin’ need, an’ you’re sure goin’ t’ get it.”

“Oh? Where?”

“At college! My land, think of you at Yale or Harvard or C’lumbia—”

“Sure you can think; thinkin’ can’t cut no ice.”

“Anyway, you’re goin’ soon as you’re fit; Mr. Geoffrey says so.”

“Oh, Geoff’s batty—he’s talkin’ in his sleep. I ain’t goin’ t’ no college—Geoff’s got sappy in th’ bean—”

“Well, you tell him so.”

“Sure thing—you watch me!”

“No, I’ll get you somethin’ t’ eat—some milk an’—”

“Say, what about that punkin pie?”

“You sit right there an’ wait.”

“Chin-Chin!” nodded Spike, and watched her into the house.

No sooner was he alone than he was out of his chair and, descending the steps into the garden, sped gleefully away across lawns and along winding paths, following a haphazard course. But, as he wandered thus, he came to the stables and so to a large building beyond, where were many automobiles of various patterns and make; and here, very busy with brushes, sponge, and water, washing a certain car and making a prodigious splashing, was a figure there was no mistaking, and one whom Spike hailed in joyous surprise.

“Well, well, if it ain’t th’ old Spider! Gee, but I’m glad t’ see you! Say, old sport, I’m a invalid—pipe my bandages, will ye?”

“Huh!” grunted the Spider, without glancing up from the wheel he was washing.

“Say, old lad,” continued Spike, “I guess they told you how I put it all over Bud, eh?”

“Mph!” said the Spider, slopping the water about.

“Heard how I saved old Geoff from gettin’ snuffed out, didn’t yer?”

“Huh-umph!” growled the Spider.

“That’s sure some car, eh? Gee, but it’s good t’ see you again, anyway. How’d you come here, Spider?”

“U-huh!” said the Spider.

“Say,” exclaimed Spike, “quit makin’ them noises an’ say somethin’, can’t yer? If you can’t talk t’ a pal, I’m goin’.”

“Right-o, Kid!” said the Spider; “only see as you don’t go sheddin’ no more buttons around.”

“B-buttons!” stammered Spike. “What yer mean? What buttons?”

The Old Un, who happened to have been dozing in the limousine that stood in a shady corner, sat up suddenly and blinked.

“Why, I mean,” answered the Spider, wringing water from the sponge he held and speaking very deliberately, “I mean the button as you—left behind you—in th’ wood!”

Spike gasped and sat down weakly upon the running-board of a car, and the Old Un stole a furtive peep at him.

“So you—know—?”

“Sure I know—more ‘n I want t’ know about you, so—chase yourself out o’ here—beat it!”

Spike stared in mute amazement, then flushed painfully.

“You mean—you an’ me—ain’t goin’ t’ be pals no longer?” he asked wistfully.

“That’s what!” nodded the Spider, without lifting his scowling gaze from the sponge. “Kid, I ain’t no Gold-medal Sunday-school scholar nor I ain’t never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there’s some guys too rotten even f’r me!”

“But I—I—saved his life, didn’t I?”

“That ain’t nothin’ t’ blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an’ see just how dirty an’ rotten you are!”

Spike rose and stood, his hands tight-clenched, and though he tried to frown, he couldn’t hide the pitiful twitching of his lips nor the quaver in his voice.

“I guess you mean you’re goin’ t’ give me th’ throw-down?”

“Well,” answered the Spider, scowling at the sponge in his hand, “there’s jest two or three things as I ain’t got no use for, an’ one of ‘em’s—murder!”

Hereupon Spike shrank away, and the Old Un, reaching out stealthily, opened the door of the limousine while the Spider fell to work again, splashing more than ever. Thus as Spike crept away with head a-droop, the Old Un, all unnoticed, stole after him, his old eyes very bright and birdlike, and, as he followed, keeping in the shade of hedge and tree as much as possible, he whispered a word to himself over and over again:

“Lorgorramighty!”

But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.

When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.

“Hello!” said Spike wearily. “Who are you?”

“I’m Fate, I am!” nodded the Old Un. “Persooin’ Fate, that’s me.”

“What yer here for, anyway?” enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.

“I’m here to persoo!”

“Say, now, what’s your game; what yer want?”

“I want you, me lad.”

“Well, say—beat it, please—I want t’ be alone.”

“Not much, me lad. I’m Fate, I am, an’ when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain’t t’ be shook off.”

“Murder!” gasped Spike. “Oh, my God! I—I ain’t—”

The lad sprang to his feet and was running on the instant, but turning to glance back, tripped over some obstacle and fell. Swaying he rose and stumbled on, but slower now by reason of the pain in his wounded arm. Thus, when at last he came out upon the road, the Old Un was still close behind him.

CHAPTER XLVI

IN WHICH GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE OBTAINS HIS OBJECT

Mrs. Trapes glanced sadly around her cosy housekeeper’s room and sighed regretfully; she was alone, and upon the table ready to hand lay her neat bonnet, her umbrella, and a pair of white cotton gloves, beholding which articles her lips set more resolutely, her bony arms folded themselves more tightly, and she nodded in grim determination.

“The labourer is worthy of his hire!” she sighed, apparently addressing the bonnet, “but, if so be the labourer ain’t worthy, why then, the sooner he quits—”

A sound of quick, light feet upon the stair and a voice that laughed gaily, a laugh so full of happiness that even Mrs. Trapes’s iron features relaxed, and her grim mouth curved in her rare smile. At that moment the door opened and Hermione appeared, a radiant Hermione who clasped Mrs. Trapes in her arms and tangled her up in her long motor veil and laughed again.

“Oh, Ann, such a day!” she exclaimed, laying aside her long dust-coat. “New York is a paradise—when you’re rich! No more bargain days and clawing matches over the remnant counter, Ann! Oh, it’s wonderful to be able to buy anything I want—anything! Think of it, Ann, isn’t it just a dream of joy? And I’ve shopped and shopped, and he was so dear and patient! I bought Arthur a complete outfit—”

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Trapes, and groaned.

“And you, Ann, you dear thing, I bought you—guess what? But you never could! I bought you a gold watch, the very best I could find, and he bought you a chain for it, a long one to go around your dear neck, set with diamonds and rubies, I mean the chain is—it’s the cutest thing, Ann! You remember you used to dream of a gold chain set with real diamonds, some day? Well, ‘some day’s‘ to-day, Ann.”

“But—oh, Hermy, I—I—”

“He wants to give it you himself, because he says you’re the best friend he ever had and—oh, here he is! You did say so, didn’t you, Geoffrey?”

“And I surely mean it!” answered Ravenslee, tossing his driving gauntlets into a chair, “though you certainly threw cold water upon my peanut barrow, didn’t you, Mrs. Trapes?”

“Oh, Geoffrey, dear, do give her that precious package; I’m dying to see her open it!”

So Ravenslee drew the jeweller’s neat parcel from his pocket and put it into Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand. For a moment her bony fingers clutched it, then she sighed tremulously and, placing it on the table, rose and stood staring down at it. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsher than usual.

“Hermy, dear—I mean Mrs. Ravenslee, ma’am, I—can’t—take ‘em!”

“But, dear—why not?”

“Because they’re coals o’ fire.”

“But you must take them, dear; we bought them for you and—”

“Which jools, ma’am, I can in no wise accept.”

“Why, Ann, dear, whatever—”

“Which jools, ma’am, having been a dream, must for me so remain, me not bein’ faithful in my dooties to you an’ Mr. Geoffrey. Consequently I begs to tender you now my resignation, yieldin’ up my post in your service to one better worthy, and returnin’ t’ th’ place wherefrom I come.”

Here Mrs. Trapes put on her bonnet, setting it a little askew in her agitation.

“Th’ labourer is worthy of his hire, but if he ain’t—so be it!”

Here Mrs. Trapes tied her bonnet strings so tightly and with such resolute hands that she choked.

“Why, Ann dear,” cried Hermione, “whatever do you mean? As if I could bear to part with you!” Here she untied the bonnet strings. “As if I could ever let you go back to Mulligan’s!” Here she took off the bonnet. “As if I could ever forget all your tender love and care for me in the days when things were so hard and so very dark!” Here she tossed the bonnet into a corner.

“My land!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, “me best bonnet—”

“I know, Ann. I made it for you over a year ago, and it’s time you had another, anyway! Now, open that parcel—this minute!”

But instead of doing so, Mrs. Trapes sank down in the chair beside the table and bowed her head in her hands.

“Hermy,” said she, “oh, my lamb, he’s gone! You left Arthur in my care an’—he’s gone, an’ it’s my fault. Went away at five o’clock, an’ here it is nigh on to ten—an’ him sick! God knows I’ve searched for him—tramped to th’ ferry an’ back, an’ th’ footmen they’ve looked for him an’ so have th’ maids—but Arthur’s gone—an’ it’s my fault! So, Hermy—my dear—blame me an’ let me go—”

The harsh voice broke and, bowing her head, she sat silent, touching the unopened packet of jewellery with one long, bony finger.

“Why, Ann—dear Ann—you’re crying!” Hermione was down on her knees, had clasped that long bony figure in her arms. “You mustn’t, Ann, you mustn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, so don’t grieve, dear—there!” And she had drawn the disconsolate grey head down upon her shoulder and pillowed it there.

“But—oh, Hermy, he’s gone! An’ you told me to—look after him.”

“Ann, if Arthur meant to go, I’m sure you couldn’t have prevented him; he isn’t a child any longer, dear. There, be comforted—we’ll hunt for him in the car—won’t we, Geoffrey?”

“Of course,” nodded Ravenslee, “I’ll ‘phone the garage right away.”

But as he opened the door he came face to face with Joe, who touched an eyebrow and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“S’cuse me, sir,” said he, “but it’s that Old Un, covered wi’ dust ‘e is, sir, an’ wants a word wi’ you. And, sir, ‘e ‘s that mysterious as never was. Shall I let him come in, sir?”

“You try an’ keep me out, my lad, that’s all!” panted the Old Un, ducking under Joe’s great arm, “I’m better man nor ever you’ll be!”

So saying, the Old Un hobbled forward and, sinking into the nearest armchair, fanned himself with his hat, which, like the rest of his garments, bore the dust of travel.

“Greetin’s, Guv!” said he, when he had caught his breath. “‘Ere I be—a old man as ‘as done more for ye than all th’ young ‘uns put t’gether. Mrs. Ravenslee, ma’am, best respex!”

“And what have you been doing now?” enquired Ravenslee, smiling.

“Well, Guv, I been an’ got th’ murderer for ye, that’s all!”

Hermione caught her breath suddenly and gazed at the fierce, dusty old man with eyes full of growing terror; beholding which Ravenslee frowned, then laughed lightly and, seating himself on a corner of the table, swung his leg to and fro.

“So you’ve found him out, have you, Old Un?”

“Ah, that I have!”

“Are you sure?”

“Ah, quite sure, Guv.”

“Well, where is he—trot him out.”

“‘E’s comin’ along—th’ Spider’s bringin’ un. Ye see, he’s a bit wore out same as I am—we been trampin’ all th’ arternoon. Look at me shoes, that’s th’ worst o’ patent leather—they shows th’ dust. Joe, my lad, jest give ‘em a flick over with ye wipe.”

But at this moment steps were heard slowly approaching, and Hermione uttered an inarticulate cry, then spoke in an agonised whisper: “Arthur!”

Pallid of cheek and drooping of head Spike stood in the doorway, his shabby, threadbare clothes dusty and travel-stained, his slender shape encircled by the Spider’s long arm. At Hermione’s cry he lifted his head and looked up yearningly, his sensitive mouth quivered, his long-lashed eyes swam in sudden tears, he strove to speak but choked instead; then Ravenslee’s calm, pleasant voice broke the painful silence.

“Old Un,” said he, rising, “I understand you are fond of jam—well, from now on you shall bathe in it if you wish.”

“Spoke like a true sport, Guv!”

“Why, you see, you have surely done me a very great service.”

“Meanin’ because I found ye th’ murderer.”

“Murderer?” exclaimed Ravenslee, staring.

“Why, yes—there ‘e is!” and the old man pointed a long finger at the shrinking Spike.

“Old Un,” said Ravenslee, shaking his head, “don’t joke with me—”

“I—I ain’t jokin’, Guv,” cried the Old Un, rising. “Why—oh, Lorgorramighty, you don’t mean t’ say as this ain’t ‘im? Why, ‘e ‘s confessed, Guv; I ‘eard ‘im!”

Ravenslee smiled gently and shook his head again.

“But he has been sick, Old Un; he was hurt, you know, when he saved my life.”

“But, Lord, Guv, if ‘e ‘s confessed—”

“He has been sick, Old Un, and when we are sick the wisest of us are apt to say silly things—even I did, so they tell me.”

“What?” quavered the old man, “ain’t I—ain’t I found no murderer for ye, arter all, Guv?”

“You’ve done something much, very much better, Old Un—you’ve found me my brother!”

“Brother!” echoed Spike, “brother? Oh, Geoff—” he sighed deeply, and as Ravenslee crossed toward him he smiled wanly and sank swooning into the supporting arms of the Spider, who at a word from Hermione bore the boy up-stairs; but scarcely was he laid upon his bed than he opened his heavy eyes.

“Say, Spider,” said he wearily, “old Geoff sure does play square—even to a worm like me—well, I guess! No, don’t go yet, I want yer to hear me try to explain the kind o’ dirty dog I been—I guess he won’t want t’ call me ‘brother’ after that; no, siree, he’ll cut me out same as you have an’ serve me right too.” Then turning toward where Ravenslee and Hermione stood he continued: “Geoff—Hermy, dear—ah, no, don’t touch me, I ain’t worth it. I’m too dirty—Spider says so—an’ I guess he’s right. Listen—I meant t’ go away t’day an’ leave you because I felt so mean, but th’ old man followed me, an’ I couldn’t run because my arm pained some—y’ see, I fell on it. So I let him bring me back because I guess it’s up t’ me t’ let you know as I ain’t fit t’ be your brother, Geoff—or Hermy’s.” For a moment Spike paused, then with an effort he continued but kept his face averted. “Geoff, it was me—in the wood that time! Yes, it was me, an’ I had a gun. I—I meant—t’ do you in, Geoff—”

Spike’s voice failed and he was silent again, plucking nervously at the sheet, while Hermione’s proud head drooped and her hands clasped and wrung each other in an agony of shame; but to these painfully rigid hands came another hand, big and strong yet very gentle, at whose soothing touch those agonised fingers grew lax and soft, then clung to that strong hand in sudden, eager passion.

“Poor old Spike!” said Ravenslee, and his tone was as gentle as his touch.

“But—but, Geoff,” stammered the boy. “I—oh, don’t you see? I meant to—kill you?”

“Yes, I understand; you thought I deserved it—why?”

“Oh, I was crazy, I guess! Bud told me lies—an’ I believed him—lies about you an’ Hermy—he said—you’d make Hermy go—the same road—little Maggie Finlay went—so I came t’ kill you—”

“Spike, if you believed that, if you really believed that, I don’t blame you for trying a shot—”

“But I didn’t—I couldn’t! When I saw you sittin’ there so unsuspectin’, I just couldn’t do it—I tried to, but I couldn’t. An’ somehow I dropped th’ gun, an’ then I heard a shot, an’ when I looked up I saw you throw out your arms an’ fall—my God, I’ll never forget that! Then I saw Bud starin’ down at you an’ th’ pistol smokin’ in his hand. I meant t’ do it but I couldn’t, so Bud did it himself. I’m as bad as him, I reckon, but it was Bud shot you—Soapy saw him an’ knows it was Bud—ask Soapy. An’ now I’ve told you all; I guess I ain’t fit t’ stay here any longer.”

Spike’s voice choked upon a sob, he buried his face in the pillow, and so there fell a silence—a strange, tense hush, a pause so unexpected that he looked up and saw that Hermione’s head was bowed no longer, but she stood, very proud and tall, gazing upon her husband, and in her eyes was a great and wondrous light; and as she looked on him so he gazed on her. They had no thought, no eyes for Spike just then, wherefore he hid his face again.

“I guess this about puts the kybosh on th’ brother business!” he sighed miserably, “an’ I sure ain’t fit t’ be th’ Spider’s pal, I reckon!”

But now the Spider spoke, rather quick and jerkily:

“Say, Kid—get onto this! I’m takin’ back—everything I says t’ you t’day, see? Because, oh, well—I guess you’ve sure woke up at last! So, Kid—give us your mitt!”

Eagerly Spike grasped the Spider’s big fist, and they shook hands gravely and very deliberately, looking into each other’s eyes the while. Then, still quick and jerkily, the Spider turned and hurried out of the room. Then Spike turned to Ravenslee.

“Geoff,” he sighed, “I’m not goin’ to ask you to forgive me yet, I can’t—I’m goin’ t’ wait an’ show you—”

But as he paused Ravenslee’s hand was upon the lad’s drooping shoulder.

“Arthur,” said he, “from now on—from to-night—you are going to be my brother more than ever—a brother we shall both be proud of—what do you say?”

But Spike’s eyes were wet, his mouth quivered, and instead of answering he buried his face in the pillow again.

“Say, Hermy,” he mumbled, “take him away before I do th’ tear-gushin’ act! Take him down-stairs—give him a drink—light him a cigarette—kiss him! Only take him away before I get mushy. But, say—when I’m in bed, you’ll—you’ll come an’—say good night like—like you used to, Hermy dear?”

Swiftly she stooped and kissed that curly head.

“I’ll come—oh, I’ll come, boy, dear!” she murmured, land left him with Mrs. Trapes.

Down-stairs the fire glowed, filling the room with shadows, and side by side they stood looking down into the heart of the fire and were silent awhile, and, though she was so near, he didn’t touch her.

“So it wasn’t Arthur, after all!” he said at last.

“No,” she answered softly, “it wasn’t Arthur—thank God!”

“Amen!” said he, so fervently that she glanced up at him swiftly, then looked into the fire again. Seeing how the colour deepened in her cheek, he came a little nearer; but still he didn’t touch her; instead, he took out tobacco pouch and pipe and began to fill it with strangely clumsy fingers, and Hermione saw that his hands were trembling.

“Let me!” she said gently. So he surrendered pipe and pouch and, watching, saw that her hands trembled also; when at last she had filled the pipe, he took it and laid it on the table.

“Aren’t you going to smoke, dear?”

“No, not now. You’ll remember that Arthur also suggested you should—”

“Give you something to drink!” she added a little breathlessly and crossed to the cellaret in the corner. “Will you have brandy and soda?”

“Thanks—yes—that will do,” he answered absently, and when she dutifully brought the filled glass he took it and set it down untasted beside the pipe.

“Why, Geoffrey!” she said in murmurous surprise, “aren’t you thirsty?”

“No, not now. You will probably remember that Arthur also suggested you should—”

“I know!” she breathed, “but, oh, Geoffrey, dear—wait—just a little longer.”

“Why?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Because!” she answered, staring down at her clasped hands.

“Why?”

“Because, my Geoffrey, if—if I let myself—kiss you now, I—shall never be able to—tear myself away, and I must say good night to Arthur and—”

She paused as a knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Trapes appeared.

“Why, dear land o’ my fathers!” she exclaimed. “Ain’t you had time t’ take off your bonnet yet, Hermy?”

“Goodness me!” exclaimed Hermione, “I forgot it!” So saying, off it came, and there was the curl above her eyebrow more wantonly alluring than ever.

“An’ there’s that blessed b’y,” continued Mrs. Trapes, “a-layin’ up-stairs yearnin’ for you, Hermy, an’ him s’ pale an’ gentle—God bless him! An’ it now bein’ exackly twenty-two an’ a half minutes past ‘leven by my beautiful new watch as ticks most musical! Time as you was in bed—both of you! an’ that reminds me, Hermy, I sent your maid t’ bed like you told me, an’ with my own two hands I laid out one o’ them lovely noo nightdresses—the one with the short sleeves an’ lace as you showed me last night an’—Land sakes, she’s gone! Think o’ that now—my, my! Mrs. Ravenslee’s wonderful quick an’ light on her feet, Mr. Geoffrey!”

Here Mrs. Trapes raised the watch to her ear and hearkened to its tick again, smiling at Ravenslee’s broad back as he turned to reach his glass.

“Them nightdresses,” she sighed, “as is all fluffs an’ frills an’ openwork, may be all right when you’re young, but for true comfort give me—flannel, every time.”

Here Ravenslee, in the act of sipping his brandy and soda, choked; when at last he glanced around, Mrs. Trapes was gone.

Then he drew a chair to the fire and, sitting down, took up his pipe and tried to light it, but Hermione’s nervous white fingers had packed it too tightly for mortal suction, whereat he sighed and, yielding to the impossible, sat with it in his hand, lost in happy thought and waiting for the swift light footsteps he yearned to hear.

The clock in the hall without struck midnight, but long after the mellow chime had died away he sat there waiting; but the great house lay very still about him, and no sound broke the pervading quiet. Wherefore at last he grew restless, frowned at the dying fire, and his strong fingers clenched themselves fiercely about the pipe they still held.

All at once he started, rose to his feet, and turned toward the door eager-eyed, as a hand knocked softly; before he could speak it opened, and Mrs. Trapes reappeared; she was clad in a long flannel dressing gown, and as she paused in the shadows by the door he could vaguely define that she still held the precious watch to her ear.

“It do tick that musical,” she said, “an’ I can’t sleep this night till I’ve tried t’ thank ye both for—for all your goodness to a lonely woman. Ah, Mr. Geoffrey, I guess th’ day as you came seekin’ lodgin’s at my little flat was a good day for Ann Angelina Trapes—why, my land, Mr. Geoffrey—ain’t Hermy here?”

“No,” answered Ravenslee a little bitterly. “Oh, no, I’m quite alone—as usual, Mrs. Trapes.”

“Why, now, that’s queer!”

“How queer?”

“Because I’ve jest been into her bedroom, an’ there’s her things—except that nightdress—but she—ain’t!”

“Not there? She must be! Did you look in—her bed?”

“Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—her bed ain’t been tetched!”

“Then where in the world is she?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Trapes, consulting her watch again, “it is now exactly fifteen and three-quarter minutes after midnight, so I guess she’s in bed somewhere. But this is a big house, an’ there’s lots of bedrooms, so if I was you, I’d go an’ look—till I found her—”

Ravenslee was at the door so swiftly that Mrs. Trapes started, and she saw his eyes were very bright, and the hands he laid on her bony shoulders were quivering.

“Mrs. Trapes,” said he, “I will!”

Then he stooped, very suddenly, and kissed the thin, grey hair above her grim eyebrow, and so—was gone.

“Find her?” mused Mrs. Trapes, glancing after him up the wide stairs. “Why, yes, I guess he will sure find her—where she should have been weeks ago. Lord, what a silly, beautiful, lovely thing love is!” and she stood awhile smiling down into the fire, and her smile was very tender.

Then she sighed, switched off the lights, and went softly away.

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