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                              The Master Mummer

                           By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

           Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of Sinners,"
                             "The Betrayal," Etc.


WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

_A. L. BURT COMPANY_
_Publishers New York_

_Copyright_, 1904,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved_




[Illustration: "Let the boy have his chance," said Allan.]




The Master Mummer




Book I




CHAPTER I


Sheets of virgin manuscript paper littered my desk, the smoke of much
uselessly consumed tobacco hung about the room in a little cloud. Many a
time I had dipped my pen in the ink, only to find myself a few minutes
later scrawling ridiculous little figures upon the margin of my
blotting-pad. It was not at all an auspicious start for one who sought
immortality.

There came a growl presently from the other side of the room, where
Mabane, attired in a disreputable smock, with a short black pipe in the
corner of his mouth, was industriously defacing a small canvas. Mabane
was tall and fair and lean, with a mass of refractory hair which was the
despair of his barber; a Scotchman with keen blue eyes, and humorous
mouth amply redeeming his face from the plainness which would otherwise
have been its lot. He also was in search of immortality.

"Make a start for Heaven's sake, Arnold," he implored. "To look at you
is an incitement to laziness. The world's full of things to write about.
Make a choice and have done with it. Write something, even if you have
to tear it up afterwards."

I turned round in my chair and regarded Mabane reproachfully.

"Get on with your pot-boiler, and leave me alone, Allan," I said. "You
do not understand my difficulties in the least. It is simply a matter of
selection. My brain is full of ideas--brimming over. I want to be sure
that I am choosing the best."

There came to me from across the room a grunt of contempt.

"Pot-boiler indeed! What about short stories at ten guineas a time, must
begin in the middle, scented and padded to order, Anthony Hopeish, with
the sugar of Austin Dobson and the pepper of Kipling shaken on _ad
lib._? Man alive, do you know what pot-boilers are? It's a perfect
conservatory you're living in. Got any tobacco, Arnold?"

I jerked my pouch across the room, and it was caught with a deft little
backward swing of the hand. Allan Mabane was an M.C.C. man, and a
favourite point with his captain.

"You've got me on the hip, Allan," I answered, rising suddenly from my
chair and walking restlessly up and down the large bare room. "The devil
himself might have put those words into your mouth. They are
pot-boilers, every one of them, and I am sick of it. I want to do
something altogether different. I am sure that I can, but I have got
into the way of writing those other things, and I can't get out of it.
That is why I am sitting here like an owl."

Mabane refilled his pipe and smoked contentedly.

"I know exactly how you're feeling, old chap," he said sympathetically.
"I get a dash of the same thing sometimes--generally in the springtime.
It begins with a sort of wistfulness, a sense of expansion follows, you
go about all the time with your head in the clouds. You want to collect
all the beautiful things in life and express them. Oh, I know all about
it. It generally means a girl. Where were you last night?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Where I shall be to-night, to-morrow night--where I was a year ago.
That is the trouble of it all. One is always in the same place."

He shook his head.

"It is a very bad attack," he said. "Your generalities may be all right,
but they are not convincing."

"I have not spoken a word to a woman, except to Mrs. Burdett, for a week
or more," I declared.

Mabane resumed his work. Such a discussion, his gesture seemed to
indicate, was not worth continuing. But I continued, following out my
train of thought, though I spoke as much to myself as to my friend.

"You are right about my stories," I admitted. "I have painted
rose-coloured pictures of an imaginary life, and publishers have bought
them, and the public, I suppose, have read them. I have dressed up
puppets of wood and stone, and set them moving like mechanical
dolls--over-gilded, artificial, vulgar. And all the time the real thing
knocks at our doors."

Mabane stepped back from his canvas to examine critically the effect of
an unexpected dash of colour.

"The public, my dear Greatson," he said abstractedly, "do not want the
real thing--from you. Every man to his _metier_. Yours is to sing of
blue skies and west winds, of hay-scented meadows and Watteau-like
revellers in a paradise as artificial as a Dutch garden. Take my advice,
and keep your muse chained. The other worlds are for the other writers."

I was annoyed with Mabane. There was just sufficient truth in his words
to make them sound brutal. I answered him with some heat.

"Not if I starve for it, Allan? The whole cycle of life goes humming
around us, hour by hour. It is here, there, everywhere. I will bring a
little of it into my work, or I will write no more."

Mabane shook his head. He was busy again upon his canvas.

"It is always the humourist," he murmured, "who is ambitious to write a
tragedy--and _vice versa_. The only sane man is he who is conscious of
his limitations."

"On the contrary," I answered quickly, "the man who admits them is a
fool. I have made up my mind. I will dress no more dolls in fine
clothes, and set them strutting across a rose-garlanded stage. I will
create, or I will leave alone. I will write of men and women, or not at
all."

"It will affect your income," Mabane said. "It will cost you money in
postage stamps, and your manuscripts will be declined with thanks."

His gentle cynicism left me unmoved. I had almost forgotten his
presence. I was standing over by the window, looking out across a
wilderness of housetops. My own thoughts for the moment were sufficient.
I spoke, it is true, but I spoke to myself.

"A beginning," I murmured. "That is all one wants. It seems so hard, and
yet--it ought to be so easy. If one could but lift the roofs--could but
see for a moment underneath."

"I can save you the trouble," Mabane remarked cheerfully, strolling over
to my side. "Where are you looking? Chertsey Street, eh? Well, in all
probability mamma is cooking the dinner, Mary is scrubbing the floor,
Miss Flora is dusting the drawing-room, and Miss Louisa is practising
her scales. You have got a maggot in your brain, Greatson. Life such as
you are thinking of is the most commonplace thing in the world. The
middle-classes haven't the capacity for passion--even the tragedy of
existence never troubles them. Don't try to stir up the muddy waters,
Arnold. Write a pretty story about a Princess and her lovers, and draw
your cheque."

"There are times, Allan," I remarked thoughtfully, "when you are an
intolerable nuisance."

Mabane shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work. Apparently he
had reached a point in it which required his undivided attention, for he
relapsed almost at once into silence. Following his example, I too
returned to my desk and took up my pen. As a rule my work came to me
easily. Even now there were shadowy ideas, well within my mental
grasp--ideas, however, which I was in the humour to repel rather than to
invite. For I knew very well whither they would lead me--back to the
creation of those lighter and more fanciful figures flitting always
across the canvas of a painted world. A certain facility for this sort
of thing had brought me a reputation which I was already growing to
hate. More than ever I was determined not to yield. Mabane's words had
come to me with a subtle note of mockery underlying their undoubted
common-sense. I thrust the memory of them on one side. Certain gifts I
knew that I possessed. I had a ready pen and a facile invention.
Something had stirred in me a late-awakened but irresistible desire to
apply them to a different purpose than ever before. As I sat there the
creations of my fancy flitted before me one by one--delicate, perhaps,
and graceful, thoughtfully conceived, adequately completed. Yet I knew
very well that they were like ripples upon the water, creatures without
lasting forms or shape, images passing as easily as they had come into
the mists of oblivion. The human touch, the transforming fire of life
was wholly wanting. These April creations of my brain--carnival figures,
laughing and weeping with equal facility, lacked always and altogether
the blood and muscle of human creatures. The mishaps of their lives
struck never a tragic note; always the thrill and stir of actual
existence were wanting. I would have no more of them. I felt myself
capable of other things. I would wait until other things came.

The door was pushed open, and Arthur smiled in upon us. This third
member of our bachelor household was younger than either Mabane or
myself--a smooth-faced, handsome boy, resplendent to-day in frock-coat
and silk hat.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Hard at work, both of you!"

Mabane laid down his brush and surveyed the newcomer critically.

"Arthur," he declared with slow emphasis, "you do us credit--you do
indeed. I hope that you will show yourself to our worthy landlady, and
that you will linger upon the doorstep as long as possible. This sort of
thing is good for our waning credit. I am no judge, for I never
possessed such a garment, but there is something about the skirts of
your frock-coat which appeals to me. There is indeed, Arthur. And then
your tie--the cunning arrangement of it----"

"Oh, rats!" the boy exclaimed, laughing. "Give me a couple of
cigarettes, there's a good chap, and do we feed at home to-night?"

Mabane produced the cigarettes and turned back to his work.

"We do!" he admitted with a sigh. "Always on Tuesdays, you know.
By-the-bye, are you going to the works in that costume?"

"Not likely! It's my day at the depot, worse luck," Arthur answered,
pausing to strike a match. "What's up with Arnold?"

"Got the blues, because his muse won't work," Mabane said. "He wants to
strike out in a new line--something blood-curdling, you
know--Tolstoi-like, or Hall Caineish--he doesn't care which. He wants to
do what nobody else ever will--take himself seriously. I put it down in
charity to dyspepsia."

"Mabane is an ass!" I grunted. "Be off, Arthur, there's a good chap, and
don't listen to him. He hasn't the least idea what he is talking about."

Arthur, however, happened to be in no hurry. He tilted his hat on the
back of his head, and leaned upon the table.

"I have always noticed," he remarked affably, "that under Allan's most
asinine speeches there usually lurks a substratum of truth. Are you
really going to write a serious novel, Arnold?"

I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair resignedly. Arthur was a
most impenetrable person, and if he meant to stay, I knew very well that
it was hopeless to attempt to hurry him.

"I had some idea of it," I admitted. "By-the-bye, Arthur, you are a
person with a deep insight into life. Can't you give me a few hints? I
haven't even made a start."

Arthur considered the matter in all seriousness.

"It is a bit difficult for you, I daresay," he remarked. "You stop
indoors so much, and when you do go out you mope off into the country by
yourself. You want to knock about the restaurants and places to get
ideas. That's what Gorman always does. You see you get all your
characters from life in them, and they seem so much more natural."

"And who," I asked, "is Mr. Gorman? I do not recognize the name."

"Pal of mine," Arthur answered easily. "I don't bring him here because
he's a bit loud for you chaps. Writes stories for no end of papers.
_Illustrated Bits_ and the _Cigarette Journal_ print anything he cares
to send. I thought perhaps you'd know the name."

Mabane went off into a peal of laughter behind his canvas. The boy
remained imperturbable.

"Of course, I'm not comparing his work with Arnold's," he declared.
"Arnold's stuff is no end better, of course. But, after all, the chap's
got common-sense. If they want me to draw a motor I go and sit down in
front of it. If Arnold wants to write of real things, real men and
women, you know, he ought to go out and look for them. If he sits here
and just imagines them, how can he be sure that they are the real thing?
See what I mean?"

There was a short silence. Arthur was swinging his long legs backwards
and forwards, and whistling softly to himself. I looked at him for a
moment curiously. The words of an ancient proverb flitted through my
brain.

"Arthur," I declared solemnly, laying down my pen, "you are a prophet in
disguise, the prophet sent to lift the curtain which is before my eyes.
Which way shall I go to find these real men and real women, to look upon
these tragic happenings? For Heaven's sake direct me. Where, for
instance, does Mr. Gorman go?"

Arthur swung himself off, laughing.

"Gorman goes everywhere," he answered. "If I were you I should try one
of the big railway stations. So long!"

I rose to my feet, and taking down my hat commenced to brush it. Mabane
looked up from his work.

"Where are you off to, Arnold?" he asked.

Some curious instinct or power of divination might indeed have given me
a passing glimpse of the things which lay beyond, through the portals of
that day, for I answered him seriously enough--even gravely.

"The prophet has spoken," I said. "I must obey! I shall start with
Charing Cross."




CHAPTER II


Why the man should have spoken to me at all I could not tell. Yet it is
certain that I heard his simple and courteous inquiry with a thrill of
pleasure, not unmixed with excitement. From the first moment of my
arrival upon the platform I had singled him out, the only interesting
figure in a crowd of nonentities. Perhaps I had lingered a little too
closely by his side, had manifested more curiosity in him than was
altogether seemly. At any rate, he spoke to me.

"Do you know if the Continental train is punctual?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I answered. "This guard would tell us, perhaps."

"Signalled in, sir," the man declared. "Two minutes late only."

My new acquaintance thanked me and lit a cigarette. He seemed in no
hurry to depart, and I was equally anxious to engage him in
conversation. For although he was dressed with the trim and quiet
precision of the foreigner or man of affairs, there was something about
his beardless face, his broadly humorous mouth, and easy, nonchalant
bearing which suggested the person who juggled always with the ball of
life.

"Marvellous!" he murmured, looking after the guard. "Two minutes late
from Paris--and perhaps beyond. It is a wonderful service. Now, if I had
come to meet any one, and had a pressing appointment immediately
afterwards, this train would have been an hour late. As it is--ah, well,
one is foolish to grumble," he added, with a little shrug of the
shoulders.

"You, like me, then," I remarked, "are a loiterer."

He flashed a keen glance upon me.

"I see that I have met," he said slowly, "with someone of similar tastes
to my own. I will confess at once that you are right. For myself I feel
that there is nothing more interesting in this great city of yours than
to watch the people coming and going from it. All your railway stations
fascinate me, especially those which are the connecting links with other
countries. Perhaps it is because I am an idle man, and must needs find
amusement somewhere."

"Yet," I objected, "for a single face or personality which is
suggestive, one sees a thousand of the type which only irritates--the
great rank and file of the commonplace. I wonder, after all, whether the
game is worth the candle."

"One in a thousand," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yet think what that one
may mean--a walking drama, a tragedy, a comedy, an epitome of life or
death. There is more to be read in the face of that one than in the
three hundred pages of the novel over which we yawn ourselves to sleep.
Here is the train! Now let us watch the people together--that is, if you
really mean that you have no friends to look out for."

"I really mean it," I assured him. "I am here out of the idlest
curiosity. I am by profession a scribbler, and I am in search of an
idea."

Once more he regarded me curiously.

"Your name is Greatson, is it not--Arnold Greatson? You were pointed out
to me once at the Vagabonds' Club, and I never forget a face. Here they
come! Look! Look!"

The train had come to a standstill. People were streaming out upon the
platform. My companion laid his fingers upon my arm. He talked rapidly
but lightly.

"You see them, my young friend," he exclaimed. "Those are returning
tourists from Switzerland; the thin, sharp-featured girl there, with a
plaid skirt and a satchel, is an American. Heavens! how she talks! She
has lost a trunk. The whole system will be turned upside down until she
has found it or been compensated. The two young men with her are silent.
They are wise. Alone she will prevail. You see the man of commerce; he
is off already. He has been to France, perhaps to Belgium also, to buy
silks and laces. And the stout old gentleman? See how happy he looks to
be back again where English is spoken, and he can pay his way in
half-crowns and shillings. You see the milliner's head-woman, dressed
with obtrusive smartness, though everything seems a little awry. She has
been over to Paris for the fashions; in a few days her firm will send
out a little circular, and Hampstead or Balham will be much impressed.
And--what do you make of those two, my young friend?"

It seemed to me that my companion's tone was changed, that his whole
appearance was different. I was suddenly conscious of an irresistible
conviction. I did not believe any longer that he was, like me, an idle
loiterer here. I felt that his presence had a purpose, and that it was
connected in some measure with the two people to whom my attention was
so suddenly drawn. They were, in that somewhat heterogeneous crowd,
sufficiently noticeable. The man, although he assumed the jauntiness of
youth, was past middle-age, and his mottled cheeks, his thin, watery
eyes, and thick red neck were the unmistakeable hall-marks of years of
self-indulgence. He was well dressed and groomed, and his demeanour
towards his companion was one of deferential good humour. She, however,
was a person of a very different order. She was a girl apparently
between fifteen and sixteen, her figure as yet undeveloped, her dresses
a little too short. Her face was small and white, her mouth had a most
pathetic droop, and in her eyes--wonderful, deep blue eyes--there was a
curious look of shrinking fear, beneath which flashed every now and then
a gleam of positive terror. Her dark hair was arranged in a thick
straight fringe upon her forehead, and in a long plait behind, after the
schoolgirl fashion. Notwithstanding the _gaucherie_ of her years and her
apparent unhappiness, she carried herself with a certain dignity and
grace of movement which were wonderfully impressive. I watched her
admiringly.

"They are rather a puzzle," I admitted. "I suppose they might very well
be father and daughter. It is certain that she is fresh from some
convent boarding-school. I don't like the way she looks at the man, do
you? It is as though she were terrified to death. I wonder if he is her
father?"

My companion did not answer me. He was straining forward as though
anxious to hear the instructions which the man was giving to a porter
about the luggage; my presence seemed to be a thing which he had wholly
forgotten. The girl stood for a moment alone. More than ever one seemed
to perceive in her eyes the nameless fear of the hunted animal. She
looked around her furtively, yet with a strange, half-veiled wildness in
her dilated eyes. I should scarcely have been surprised to have seen her
make a sudden dash for freedom. Presently, however, the man, having
identified all his luggage, turned towards her.

"That's all right," he declared cheerfully. "Now I think that I shall
take you straight away for lunch somewhere, and then we must go to the
shops. Are you hungry, Isobel?"

"I--I do not know," she answered, so tremulously that the words scarcely
reached us, though we were standing only a few feet away.

"We will soon find out," he said. "Hansom, there! Cafe Grand!"

The cab drove off, and I realized then how completely for the last few
moments I had forgotten my companion. I turned to look for him, and
found him standing close to my side. He was apparently absorbed in
thought, and seemed to have lost all interest in our surroundings. His
hands were thrust deep in his overcoat pockets, and his eyes were fixed
upon the ground. The stream of people from the train had melted away
now, and we were almost alone upon the platform. I hesitated for a
moment, and then walked slowly off. I did not wish to seem discourteous
to the man with whom I had exchanged a few remarks more intimate than
those which usually pass between strangers, but he had distinctly the
air of one wishing to be alone, and I was unwilling to seem intrusive. I
had barely taken a dozen steps, however, before I was overtaken. My
companion of a few minutes before was again by my side. All traces of
his recent preoccupation seemed to have vanished. He was smoking a fresh
cigarette, and his bright, deep-set eyes were lit with gentle mirth.

"Well, Mr. Novelist," he exclaimed, "have you succeeded? Is your languid
muse stirred? Have you seen a face, a look, a gesture--anything to prick
your imagination?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have seen one thing," I answered, "which it is not easy to forget. I
have seen fear, and very pathetic it was."

"You mean----?"

"In the face of that child, or rather girl, with that coarse-looking
brute of a man."

The light seemed to die out from my companion's face. Once more he
became stern and thoughtful.

"Yes," he agreed; "I too saw that. If one were looking for tragedy, one
might perhaps find it there."

We stood now together on the pavement outside the station. My companion
glanced at his watch.

"Come," he said; "I have a fancy that you and I might exchange a few
ideas. I am a lonely man, and to-day I am not in the humour for
solitude. Do me the favour to lunch with me!"

I did not hesitate for a moment. It was exactly the sort of invitation
which I had coveted.

"I shall be delighted," I answered.

"I myself," my companion continued, "have no gift for writing. My
talents, such as they are, lie in a different direction. But I have been
in many countries, and adventures have come to me of various sorts. I
may be able even to start you on your way--if, indeed, the author of
_The Lost Princess_ is ever short of an idea."

I smiled.

"I can assure you," I said, "that my pilgrimage this morning has no
other object than to find one. I begin to fear that I have written too
much lately. At any rate, the well of my inspiration, if I may use so
grandiloquent a term, has run dry."

He put up his stick and hailed a hansom.

"After all," he said, "it is possible--yes, it is possible that you may
succeed. Adventures wait for us everywhere, if only we go about in a
proper frame of mind. We will lunch, I think, at the Cafe Grand."

I followed my prospective host into the cab. Was it altogether a
coincidence, I wondered, that we were bound for the same restaurant
whither the man and the girl had preceded us a few minutes before?




CHAPTER III


Mr. Grooten, as my new acquaintance called himself, belied neither his
appearance nor his modest reference to himself. He proved at once that
he knew how to order a satisfactory luncheon, going through the _menu_
with the quiet deliberation of a connoisseur, neither seeking nor
accepting any advice from the dark-visaged waiter who stood by his side,
and finally writing out his few carefully chosen dishes with a special
postscript as to the coffee, which, by-the-bye, we were never to taste.
He then leaned over the table and began to talk.

Apparently my host had been in every country of the world, and mixed
with people of note in each. His anecdotes were always pungent, personal
without being egotistical, and savoured always with a certain dry and
perfectly natural humour. I found myself both interested and fascinated
by his constant flow of reminiscences, and yet at times my attention
wandered. For within a few yards of us were seated the man and the
child.

Everything that was noticeable in their demeanour towards one another at
the station was even more apparent here. A bottle of champagne stood
upon the table. The man had ordered such a luncheon that the head-waiter
was seldom far from his side, and the manager in person had come to pay
his respects. He himself was apparently doing full justice to it. His
cheeks were flushed, his eyes moist, and his little bursts of laughter
as he persevered in his attentions to his companion grew louder and more
frequent. But opposite to him, the child's face was unchanged. Her glass
was full of wine, but she seemed never to touch it. Her long white
fingers played with her bread, but she seemed to eat little or nothing.
Her face was pallid and drawn; there was terror--absolute, undiluted
terror--in her unnaturally large eyes. Often when the man spoke to her
she shivered. Her eyes seemed constantly trying to escape his gaze,
wandering round the room, the terror of a hunted animal in their soft,
luminous depths. Once they rested upon mine--I was seated in the corner
facing her--and it seemed to me that there was appeal--desperate,
frenzied appeal--in that long, tense look which thrilled all my pulses
with passionate sympathy. Yet she held herself all the while stiff and
erect. There was a certain sustaining pride in her close, firm-set
mouth. There was never any sign of tears, though more than once her lips
parted for a moment in a pitiful quiver.

The table at which we were sitting was just inside the door, in the
left-hand corner. The man and the girl were upon the opposite side, and
a few yards further in the room. My host, with his face to the door,
could see neither of them, therefore, without turning round, and owing
to our table being pushed far into the corner, only his back was visible
to the people in the restaurant. I, sitting facing him, had an excellent
view of the girl and her companion, and I was all the while a witness of
the silent drama being played out between the two. There came a time
when I felt that I could stand it no longer. I leaned over our small
table, and interrupted my companion in the middle of a story.

"Forgive me," I said, "but I wish you could see that child's face. There
is something wrong, I am sure. She is terrified to death. Look, that
brute is trying to force her to drink her wine. I really can't sit and
watch it any longer."

The man who was my host, and who had called himself Mr. Grooten, nodded
his head slightly. I knew at once, however, that he was in close
sympathy with me.

"I have been watching them," he said. "There is a mirror over your head;
I have seen everything. It is a hideous-looking affair, but what can one
do?"

"I know what I am going to do, at any rate," I said, laying my serviette
deliberately upon the table. "I don't care what happens, but I am going
to speak to the child."

Mr. Grooten raised his eyebrows. Beyond this faint expression of
surprise his face betrayed neither approval nor disapproval.

"What will you gain?" he asked.

"Probably nothing," I answered. "And yet I shall try all the same. I
dare not go away with the memory of that child's face haunting me. I
must make an effort, even though it seems ridiculous. I can't help it."

My companion smiled softly.

"As you will, my impetuous young friend," he said. "This promises to be
interesting. I will await your return."

I did not hesitate any longer. I rose to my feet, and crossed the space
which lay between the two tables. As I drew nearer to her I watched the
child's face. At first a flash of desperate hope seemed suddenly to
illumine it; then a fear more abject even than before took its place as
she glanced at her companion. She watched me come, reading without a
doubt the purpose in my mind with a sort of fascinated wonder. Her eyes
were still fastened upon mine when at last I paused before her. I leaned
over the table, keeping my shoulder turned upon the man.

"You will forgive me," I said to her in a low tone, "but I believe that
you are in trouble. Can I help you? Don't be afraid to tell me if I
can."

"You--you are very kind, sir," she began, breathlessly; "I----"

Her companion intervened. Astonishment and anger combined to render his
voice unsteady.

"Eh? What's this? Who the devil are you, sir, and what do you mean by
speaking to my ward?"

I disregarded his interruption altogether. I still addressed myself only
to the child, and I spoke as encouragingly as I could.

"Don't be afraid to tell me," I said. "Think that I am your brother. I
want to help you if I can."

"Oh, if you only could!" she moaned.

Her companion seized me by the arm and forced me to turn round. His face
was red almost to suffocation, and two thick blue veins stood out upon
his forehead in ugly fashion. His voice was scarcely articulate by
reason of his attempt to keep it low.

"Of all the infernal impertinence! What do you mean by it, sir? Who are
you? How dare you force yourself upon strangers in this fashion?"

"I am quite aware that I am doing an unusual thing," I answered, "and I
perhaps deserve all that you can say to me. At the same time, I am here
to have my question answered. You have a child with you who is
apparently terrified to death. I insist upon hearing from her own lips
whether she is in need of friends."

White and mute, she looked from one to the other. It was the man who
answered.

"If this were not a public place," he said, still struggling with his
anger, "I'd punish you as you deserve, you impudent young cub. This
young lady is my ward, and I have just brought her from a convent, where
she has lived since she was three years old. She is strange and shy, of
course, and I was perhaps wrong to bring her to a public place. I did
it, however, out of kindness. I wanted her to enjoy herself, but I
perhaps did not appreciate her sensitiveness and the fact that only a
few days ago she parted with the friends with whom she has lived all her
life. Now, sir," he added, with a sneer upon his coarse lips, "I have
been compelled to answer your questions to avoid a disturbance in a
public place; but I promise you that if you do not make yourself scarce
in thirty seconds I will send for the manager."

I looked once more at the child, from whose white, set face every gleam
of hope seemed to have fled.

"I can do nothing for you, then?" I asked.

Her eyes met mine helplessly. She shook her head. She did not speak at
all.

"Is it true--what he has told me?" I asked.

She murmured an assent so faint, that though I was bending over her, it
scarcely did more than reach my ears. I could do no more. I turned away
and resumed my seat. Grooten smiled at me.

"Well, Sir Knight Errant," he said lightly; "so you could not free the
maiden?"

"I was made to feel and look like a fool, of course," I answered, "but I
don't mind about that. To tell you the truth, I am not satisfied now.
The man says that he is her guardian, and that he has just brought her
from a convent, where she has lived all her life. He vouchsafed to
explain things to me to avoid a row, but he was desperately angry. She
has never been out of the convent since she was three years old, and she
is very nervous and shy. That was his story, and he told it plausibly
enough. I could not get anything out of her, except an admission that
what he said was the truth."

Mr. Grooten nodded thoughtfully.

"After all," he said, "she is only a child, fourteen or fifteen at the
most, I should suppose. I have paid the bill, and, as you see, I have my
coat on. Are you ready?"

"Directly I have finished my coffee," I answered. "It looks too good to
leave."

"Finish it, by all means," he answered. "I am in no particular hurry.
By-the-bye, I forget whether I showed you this."

He drew a small shining weapon, with rather a long barrel, from his
pocket, but though he invited me to inspect it, he retained it in his
own hand.

"I bought it in New York a few months ago," he remarked; "it is the
latest weapon of destruction invented."

"Is it a revolver?" I asked, a little puzzled by its shape.

"Not exactly," he answered, fingering it carelessly; "it is in reality a
sort of air-gun, with a wonderful compression, and a most ingenious
silencer; quite as deadly, they say, as any firearm ever invented. It
ejects a cylindrically-shaped bullet, tapered down almost to the
fineness of a needle. Now," he added, with a faint smile and a rapid
glance round the room, "if only one dared--" he turned in his chair, and
I saw the thing steal out below his cuff, "one could free the child
quite easily--quite easily."

It was all over in a moment--a wonderful, tense moment, during which I
sat frozen to my chair, stricken dumb and motionless with the tragedy
which it seemed that I alone had witnessed. For there had been a little
puff of sound, so slight that no other ears had noticed it. The seat in
front of me was empty, and the man on my right had fallen forwards, his
hand pressed to his side, his face curiously livid, patchy with streaks
of dark colour, his eyes bulbous. Waiters still hurried to and fro, the
hum of conversation was uninterrupted. And then suddenly it came--a cry
of breathless horror, of mortal unexpected agony--a cry, it seemed, of
death. The waiters stopped in their places to gaze breathlessly at the
spot from which the cry had come, a silver dish fell clattering from the
fingers of one, and its contents rolled unnoticed about the floor. The
murmur of voices, the rise and fall of laughter and speech, ceased as
though an unseen finger had been pressed upon the lips of everyone in
the room. Men rose in their places, women craned their necks. For a
second or two the whole place was like a tableau of arrested motion.
Then there was a rush towards the table across which the man had fallen,
a doubled-up heap. A few feet away, with only that narrow margin of
table-cloth between them, the girl sat and stared at him, still white
and panic-stricken, yet with a curious change in her face from which all
the dumb terror which had first attracted my attention seemed to have
passed away.




CHAPTER IV


The manager, who was very flurried, closed the door of the little room
into which the wounded man had been carried.

"Can you tell me his name, or shall we look for his card-case?" he
asked.

I glanced towards the child. She was by far the most composed of the
three. Only she remained with her back turned steadily upon the sofa.

"His name is Delahaye," she said; "Major Sir William Delahaye, I think
they called him."

"And where does he live--in London? Tell me his address. I will send a
cab there at once!"

"I do not know his address," the child answered. "I do not know where he
lives."

The manager stared at her.

"You were with him, were you not?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then surely you must know something more about him than just his name?"

"He called himself my guardian. I believe that when I was very young he
took me to the convent where I have been ever since. Two days ago he
came to fetch me away."

"What is your name?"

"Isobel de Sorrens!"

"You are not related to him, then?"

She shuddered a little.

"I hope not," she said simply.

"Well, where was he taking you to?" the manager asked impatiently.
"Surely there must be someone I can send to."

"I believe that he has a house in London," the child said. "I really do
not know anything more. You could send to Madame Richard at the Convent
St. Argueil. I suppose she knows all about him. She told me that I was
to consider him my guardian."

The manager turned to me. I was an occasional customer, and he knew who
I was.

"Can you tell me anything about him, Mr. Greatson? The doctor will be
here in a moment, but I feel that I ought to be sending for some of his
friends. I am afraid that he is very ill."

"You were not in the room at the time it happened?" I remarked.

The manager shook his head.

"No, I was in the office."

"Have you sent for the police?" I asked.

"Police, no!" he exclaimed. "What have the police to do with it? It was
an ordinary fit, surely."

I felt that I had held my peace long enough.

"It was not a fit at all," I said gravely. "He was shot with a sort of
air-gun by a man sitting at my table. I think that you ought to send for
the police at once. The man's name was Grooten, but I know nothing else
about him."

The manager was for a moment speechless. The child looked at me eagerly.

"It was the little old gentleman who was sitting with you who did it,"
she exclaimed. "I saw him at Charing Cross."

"Yes, it was he!" I answered.

The child turned away.

"Perhaps after all, then," she murmured to herself, "I may have friends
in the world."

The manager, whose name was Huber, was inclined to be incredulous.

"An air-gun would have made as much noise as a revolver," he said. "Are
you sure of what you say, Mr. Greatson?"

"There is no doubt at all about it," I answered, "and you ought to
inform the police at once. This man--Grooten, he called himself--pulled
the pistol out of his pocket, and was pretending to show it to me when
he fired the shot. He told me that it was a new invention which he had
bought in America, and which was quite noiseless."

The manager hurried from the room. The child and I were alone, except
for the man on the couch. Every now and then he groaned--a sound I could
not hear without a shiver. The child, however, was unmoved. She fixed
her dark eyes on me.

"Do you think that he will get away?" she asked eagerly.

"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?"

"Yes."

"I think that it is very likely. He has a good start, and I expect that
he had made his arrangements."

"I hope he does," she murmured passionately. "I wish that I could help
him."

"You have no idea who he was?" I asked. "I do not believe that Grooten
was his real name."

She shook her head.

"I have never seen him before in my life," she said. "If I did know I
should not tell anyone."

The doctor came at last. In reality it was barely five minutes since he
had been sent for, but time dragged itself along slowly in that little
room. Directly afterwards Huber, the manager, returned, followed by a
sergeant of the police. We all waited for the doctor's examination. I
fetched a chair for the child, and she thanked me with a wan little
smile. Always she sat with her back to the sofa. There was something
terribly suggestive in her utter lack of sympathy with the wounded man.

The doctor finished his examination at last. He came towards us.

"The wound is a very curious one," he said, "and I am afraid that the
bullet will be difficult to extract, but it is not in itself serious. It
is really only a flesh wound, but the man is suffering from severe
shock, and I don't like the action of his heart. He can be removed quite
safely. If you like I will telephone for an ambulance and take him to
the hospital. Do you know anything about this affair, sergeant?"

"Very little as yet, sir," the man answered. "I want this gentleman's
description of the person who showed him the pistol. The commissionaire
saw him leave, I understand, and one of the waiters saw something in his
hand. Was he a friend of yours, sir?"

"I only know his name," I answered. "He called himself Mr. Grooten, and
I judged him to be a foreigner, though he spoke perfect English. He
seemed to be about fifty years old, clean-shaven, and of under medium
height."

"Too vague," the sergeant remarked. "Had he any peculiarity of feature
or expression, anything which would help towards identification?"

"None that I can remember," I answered.

"How was he dressed?"

"Quietly. I could not remember anything that he wore."

"Did he give you any idea of his intention? Did he speak of Major
Delahaye at all as though he knew him?"

I shook my head.

"We simply both remarked," I said slowly, "that this--young lady seemed
to be very frightened of her companion, and I do not think that we
formed a favourable impression of him. He gave me not the slightest
intimation, however, of his intention to interfere."

"It could not have been an accident, I suppose?" Mr. Huber suggested.

"I might have thought so," I answered, "if he had not immediately left
the place. He disappeared so quickly that I did not even see him go."

"You sat by accident at the same table?" the sergeant asked.

"No, we came together," I answered. "We met at Charing Cross, and he
spoke to me. He knew my name, and reminded me that we had once met at
the 'Vagabonds' Club.'"

"Did you remember him?"

"I cannot say that I did," I answered.

"And afterwards?"

"We talked together for some time, and when we left the station he asked
me to lunch here."

"Did he arrive by train, or was he meeting anyone at Charing Cross?" the
sergeant asked.

"Neither, so far as I could see," I answered. "He seemed to be simply
loitering. I ought to tell you, though, that we saw Major Delahaye and
this young lady arrive by the Continental train, and he seemed to be
interested in them."

The sergeant turned to Isobel.

"Did you know him?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I did not notice him at the station at all. I saw
that he was sitting at the same table downstairs as this gentleman, but
I am quite sure that I have never seen him before in my life."

The sergeant put away his pocket-book.

"I am very sorry to trouble you," he said, "but I think it would be
better for you all to come to Bow Street and see the superintendent."

"I am quite willing to do so," I answered, "though I can tell him no
more than I have told you."

The child moved suddenly towards me. Her thin, shabbily gloved fingers
gripped my arm with almost painful force. Her eyes were full of
passionate appeal.

"I may go with you," she murmured. "You will not leave me alone?"

"The young lady will be required also," the sergeant remarked.

"We will go together, of course," I said gently. "Come!"




CHAPTER V


We crossed the road from the police-station, and found ourselves in one
of the narrow streets fringing Covent Garden. The air was fragrant here
with the perfume of white and purple lilac, great baskets full of which
were piled up in the gutter. The girl half closed her eyes.

"Delicious!" she murmured. "This reminds me of St. Argueil! You have
flowers too, then, in London?"

I bought her a handful, which she sniffed and held to her face with
delight.

"Ah!" she said a little sadly. "I had forgotten that there were any
beautiful things left in the world. Thank you so much, Mr. Arnold."

"At your age," I said cheerfully, "you will soon find out that the
world--even London--is a treasure-house of beautiful things."

She looked down the narrow, untidy street, strewn with the refuse from
the market waggons and trucks which blocked the way, making all but
pedestrian traffic an impossibility--at the piles of empty baskets in
the gutter, and the slatternly crowd of loiterers. Then she looked up at
me with a faint smile.

"London--is not all like this, then?" she remarked.

I shook my head.

"This is a back street, almost a slum," I said. "I daresay you have
lived in the country always, and just at first it does not seem possible
that there should be anything beautiful about a great city. When you get
a little older I think that you will see things differently. The beauty
of a great city thronged with men and women is a more subtle thing than
the mere joy of meadows and hills and country lanes--but it exists all
the same. And now," I continued, stopping short upon the pavement, "I
must take you to your friends. Tell me where they live. You have the
address, perhaps."

"What friends?" she asked me, with wide-open eyes.

"You told the superintendent of police that you had friends in London,"
I reminded her.

Then she smiled at me--a very dazzling smile, which showed all her white
teeth, and which seemed somehow to become reflected in her dark blue
eyes.

"But I meant you!" she exclaimed. "I thought that you knew that! There
is no one else. You are my friend, I know very well, for you came and
spoke kindly to me when I was terrified--terrified to death."

The shadow of gravity rested only for a moment upon her face. She
laughed gaily at my consternation.

"Then where am I to take you?" I asked.

"Stupid," she murmured; "I am going with you, of course. Why--why--you
don't mind, do you?" she asked, with a sudden catch in her throat.

I felt like a brute, and I hastened to make what amends I could. I
smiled at her reassuringly.

"Mind! Of course I don't mind," I declared. "Only, you see, there are
three of us--all men--and we live together. I was afraid----"

"I shall not mind that at all," she interrupted cheerfully. "If they are
nice like you, I think that it will be delightful. There were only girls
at the convent, you know, and the sisters, and a few masters who came to
teach us things, but they were not allowed to speak to us except to give
out the lessons, and they were very stupid. I do not think that I shall
be any trouble to you at all. I will try not to be."

I looked at her--a little helplessly. After all, though she was tall for
her years, she was only a child. Her dress was of an awkward length, her
long straight fringe and plaited hair the coiffure of the schoolroom.
The most surprising thing of all in connection with her was that she
showed no signs of the tragedy which had so recently been played out
around her. Her eyes had lost their nameless fear; there was even colour
in her cheeks.

"Come along, then!" I said. "We will turn into the Strand and take a
hansom."

She walked buoyantly along by my side, as tall within an inch or so as
myself, and with a certain elegance in her gait a little hard to
reconcile with her years. All the while she looked eagerly about her,
her eyes shining with curiosity.

"We passed through Paris at night," she said, with a little reminiscent
shudder, as though every thought connected with that journey were a
torture, "and I have never really been in a great city before. I hope
you meant what you said," she added, looking up at me with a quick
smile, "and that there are parts of London more beautiful than this."

"Many," I assured her. "You shall see the parks. The rhododendrons will
be out soon, and I think that you will find them beautiful, though, of
course, the town can never be like the country. Here's a hansom with a
good horse. Jump in!"

       *       *       *       *       *

I think that our arrival at Number 4, Earl's Crescent, created quite as
much sensation as I had anticipated. When I opened the door of the
large, barely-furnished room, which we called our workshop, Arthur
sprang from the table on which he had been lounging, and Mabane, who was
still working, dropped his brush in sheer amazement. I turned towards
the girl.

"These are my friends, Isobel, of whom I have been telling you," I said.
"This is Mr. Arthur Fielding, who is the ornamental member of the
establishment, and that is Mr. Allan Mabane, who paints very bad
pictures, but who contrives to make other people think that they are
worth buying. Allan, this young lady, Miss Isobel de Sorrens, and I have
had a little adventure together. I will explain all about it later on."

They both advanced with extended hands. The girl, as though suddenly
conscious of her position, gave a hand to each, and looked at them
almost piteously.

"You will not mind my coming," she begged, with a tremulous little note
of appeal in her tone. "I do not seem to have any friends, and Mr.
Arnold has been so kind to me. If I may stay here for a little while I
will try--oh, I am sure, that I will not be in anyone's way!"

The pathos of her breathless little speech was almost irresistible. The
child, as she stood there in the centre of the room, looking eagerly
from one to the other, conquered easily. I do not know if either of the
other two were conscious of the new note of life which she seemed to
bring with her into our shabby, smoke-smelling room, but to me it came
home, even in those first few moments, with wonderful poignancy. An
alien note it was, but a wonderfully sweet one. We three men had drifted
away from the whole world of our womenkind. She seemed to bring us back
instantly into touch with some of the few better and rarer memories
round which the selfishness of life is always building a thicker crust.
For one thing, at that moment I was deeply grateful--that I knew my
friends. My task was made a sinecure.

"My dear young lady," Mabane exclaimed, with unmistakeable earnestness,
"you are heartily welcome. We are delighted to see you here!"

"More than welcome," Arthur declared. "We are all one here, you know,
Miss de Sorrens; and if you are Arnold's friend, you must be ours."

For the first time tears stood in her eyes. She brushed them proudly
away.

"You are very, very kind," she said. "I cannot tell you how grateful I
am to you both."

Arthur rushed for our one easy-chair, and insisted upon installing her
in it. Mabane lit a stove and left the room swinging a kettle. I drew a
little sigh of relief, and threw my hat into a corner. Apparently she
had conquered my friends as easily as she had conquered me.

"Arthur," I said, "please entertain Miss de Sorrens for a few moments,
will you. I must go and interview Mrs. Burdett."

"I'll do my best, Arnold," he assured me. "Mrs. Burdett's in the
kitchen, I think. She came in just before you."

Mrs. Burdett was our housekeeper and sole domestic. She was a
hard-featured but kindly old woman, with a caustic tongue and a soft
heart. She heard my story unmoved, betraying neither enthusiasm or
disapproval. When I had finished, she simply set her cap straight and
rubbed her hands upon her apron.

"I'd like to see the child, as you call her, Mr. Arnold," she said. "You
young gentlemen are so easy deceived, and it's an unusual thing that
you're proposing, not to say inconvenient."

So I took Mrs. Burdett back with me to the studio. As we opened the door
the music of the girl's strange little foreign laugh was ringing through
the room. Arthur was mounted upon his hobby, talking of the delights of
motoring, and she was listening with sparkling eyes. They stopped at
once as we entered.

"This is Mrs. Burdett, Isobel," I said, "who looks after us here, and
who is going to take charge of you. She will show you your room. I'm
sorry that you will find it so tiny, but you can see that we are a
little cramped here!"

Isobel rose at once.

"You should have seen our cells at St. Argueil," she exclaimed, smiling.
"Some of us who were tall could scarcely stand upright. May I come with
you, Mrs. Burdett?"

Mrs. Burdett's tone and answer relieved me of one more anxiety. The door
closed upon them. We three men were alone.

"Is this," Mabane asked curiously, "a practical joke, or a part of your
plot? What does it all mean? Where on earth did you come across the
child? Who is she?"

I took a cigarette from my case and lit it.

"The responsibility for the whole affair," I declared, "remains with
Arthur."

The boy whistled softly. He looked at me with wide-open eyes.

"Come," he declared, "I like that. Why, I have never seen the girl
before in my life, or anyone like her. Where do I come in, I should like
to know?"

"It was you," I said, "who started me off to Charing Cross."

"You mean to say that you picked her up there?" Mabane exclaimed.

"I will tell you the whole story," I answered. "She comes with the halo
of tragedy about her. Listen!"

Then I told them of the things which had happened to me during the last
few hours.




CHAPTER VI


I certainly could not complain of any lack of interest on the part of my
auditors. They listened to every word of my story with rapt attention.
When I had finished they were both silent for several moments. Mabane
eyed me curiously. I think that at first he scarcely knew whether to
believe me altogether serious.

"The man who was with the girl," Arthur asked at last--"this Major
Delahaye, or whatever his name was--is he dead?"

"He was alive two hours ago," I answered.

"Will he recover?"

"I believe that there is just a bare chance--no more," I answered. "He
had a weak heart, and the shock was almost enough to kill him."

"And your friend--the man who shot him--where is he?" Mabane asked. "Is
he in custody?"

I shook my head.

"He disappeared," I answered, "as though by magic. You see, we were
sitting at the table next the door, and he had every opportunity for
slipping out unnoticed."

"It was at the Cafe Grand, you said, wasn't it?" Arthur asked.

I nodded.

"How about the commissionaire, then?"

"He saw the man come out, but he took no particular notice of him," I
answered. "He crossed the street at an ordinary walking pace, and he was
out of sight before the commotion inside began."

"It seems to me," Mabane remarked, "that you must have found yourself in
rather an awkward position."

"I did," I answered grimly. "Of course my story sounded a bit thin, and
the police made me go to the station with them. As luck would have it,
however, I knew the inspector, and I managed to convince him that I was
telling the truth, or I doubt whether they would have let me go. I
suppose," I added, a little doubtfully, "that you fellows must think me
a perfect idiot for bringing the child here, but upon my word I don't
know what else I could have done. I simply couldn't leave her there, or
in the streets. I'm awfully sorry--"

"Don't be an ass," Arthur interrupted energetically. "Of course you
couldn't do anything but bring her here. You acted like a sensible chap
for once."

"Have you questioned her," Mabane asked, "about her friends? If she has
none in London, she must have some somewhere!"

"I have questioned her," I answered, "but not very successfully. She
appears to know nothing about her relations, or even her parentage. She
has been at the convent ever since she can remember, and she has seen no
one outside it except this man who took her there and came to fetch her
away."

"And what relation is he?" Allan asked.

"None! He called himself simply her guardian."

Arthur walked across the room for his pipe, and commenced to fill it.

"Well," he said, "you are like the man in the Scriptures, who found what
he went out for to see. You've got your adventure, at any rate. All
owing to my advice, too. Hullo!"

We all turned round. The door of the room was suddenly opened and
closed. My host of a few hours ago stood upon the threshold, smiling
suavely upon us. He wore a low black hat, and a coat somewhat thicker
than the season of the year seemed to demand. Every article of attire
was different, but his face seemed to defy disguise. I should have known
Mr. Grooten anywhere.

His unexpected presence seemed to deprive me almost of my wits. I simply
gaped at him like the others.

"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "You here!"

He stood quite still for a moment, listening. Then he glanced sharply
around the room. He looked at Mabane, and he looked at Arthur. Finally
he addressed me.

"I fancy that I am a fairly obvious apparition," he remarked. "Where is
the child?"

"She is here," I answered, "in another room with our housekeeper just
now. But----"

"I have only a few seconds to spare," Mr. Grooten interrupted
ruthlessly. "Listen to me. You have chosen to interfere in this concern,
and you must take your part in it now. You have the child, and you must
keep her for a time. You must not let her go, on any account.
Unfortunately, the man who sold me that pistol was a liar. Delahaye is
not dead. It is possible even that he may recover. Will you swear to
keep the child from him?"

I hesitated. It seemed to me that Grooten was taking a great deal for
granted.

"You must remember," I said, "that I have absolutely no legal hold upon
her. If Delahaye is her guardian it will be quite easy for him to take
her away."

"He is not her legal guardian," Grooten said sharply. "He has no just
claim upon her at all."

"Neither have I," I reminded him.

"You have possession," Grooten exclaimed. "I tell you that neither
Delahaye, if he lives, nor any other person, will appeal to the law to
force you to give the child up. This is the truth. I see you still
hesitate. Listen! This also is truth. The child is in danger from
Delahaye--hideous, unmentionable danger."

I never thought of doubting his word. Truth blazed out from his keen
grey eyes; his words carried conviction with them.

"I will keep the child," I promised him. "But tell me who you are, and
what you have to do with her."

"No matter," he answered swiftly. "I lay this thing upon you, a charge
upon your honour. Guard the child. If Delahaye recovers there will be
trouble. You must brave it out. You are an Englishman; you are one of a
stubborn, honourable race. Do my bidding in this matter, and you shall
learn what gratitude can mean."

Once more he listened for a moment intently. Then he continued.

"I am followed by the police," he said. "They may be here at any moment.
You can tell them of my visit if it is necessary. My escape is provided
for."

"But surely you will tell me something else about the child," I
exclaimed. "Tell me at least----"

He held out his hand.

"You are safer to know nothing," he said quickly. "Be faithful to what
you have promised, and you will never regret it."

With almost incredible swiftness he disappeared. We all three looked at
one another, speechless. Then from outside came the sound of light
footsteps, and a laugh as from the throat of a singing bird. The door
was thrown open, and Isobel entered.

"Such a funny little man has just gone out!" she exclaimed. "He had a
handkerchief tied round his face as though he had been fighting. What
lazy people!" she added, looking around. "I expected to find tea ready.
Will you please tell me some more about motor-cars, Mr. Arthur?"

She sat on a stool in our midst, and chattered while we fed her with
cakes, and screamed with laughter at Mabane's toast. The tragedy of a
few hours ago seemed to have passed already from her mind. She was all
charm and irresponsibility. The gaunt, bare room, which for years had
mocked all our efforts at decoration, seemed suddenly a beautiful place.
Easily, and with the effortless grace of her fifteen years, she laughed
her way into our hearts.




CHAPTER VII


"Arnold!"

I waved my left hand.

"Don't disturb me for a few minutes, Allan, there's a good chap," I
begged. "I'm hard at it."

"Found your plot, then, eh?"

"I've got a start, anyhow! Give me half an hour. I only want to set the
thing going."

Mabane grunted, and took up his brush. For once I was thankful that we
were alone. At last I saw my way. After weeks of ineffective scribbling
a glimpse of the real thing had come to me.

The stiffness had gone from my brain and fingers. My pen flew over the
paper. The joy of creation sang once more in my heart, tingled in all my
pulses. We worked together and in silence for an hour or more. Then,
with a little sigh of satisfaction, I leaned back in my chair.

"The story goes, then?" Mabane remarked.

"Yes, it goes," I assented, my eyes fixed absently upon the loose sheets
of manuscript strewn all over my desk. Already I was finding it hard to
tear my thoughts away from it.

There was a short silence. Then Mabane, who had been filling his pipe,
came over to my side.

"You heard from the convent this morning, Arnold?"

"Yes! The letter is here. Read it!"

Mabane shook his head.

"I can't read French," he said.

"They want her back again," I told him, thoughtfully. "The woman appears
to be honest enough. She admits that they have no absolute claim--they
do not even know her parentage. They have been paid, she says, regularly
and well for the child's education, and if she is now without a home
they would like her to go back to them. She thinks it possible that
Major Delahaye's relatives, or the people for whom he acted, might
continue the payments, but they are willing to take their risk of that.
The long and short of it is, that they want her back again."

"As a pupil still?" Mabane asked.

"They would train her for a teacher. In that case she would have to
serve a sort of novitiate. She would practically become a nun."

Mabane withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and looked thoughtfully into
the bowl of it.

"I never had a sister," he said, "and I really know nothing whatever
about children. But does it occur to you, Arnold, that this--young lady
seems particularly adapted for a convent?"

"I believe," I said firmly, "that it would be misery for her."

Mabane walked over to his canvas and came back again.

"What about Delahaye?" he asked.

"He is still unconscious at the hospital," I answered.

Mabane hesitated.

"I do not wish to seem intrusive, Arnold," he said, "but I can't help
remembering that a certain lady with whom you were very friendly once
married a Delahaye!"

I nodded.

"I should have told you, in any case," I said. "This is the man--Major
Sir William Delahaye, whom Eileen Marigold married."

"Then surely you recognized him in the restaurant?"

"I never met him," I answered. "This marriage was arranged very quickly,
as you know, and I was abroad when it took place. I called on Lady
Delahaye twice, but I did not meet her husband on either occasion."

Mabane fingered the loose sheets of my manuscript idly.

"Your story, Arnold," he said, "is having a tragic birth. Will Delahaye
really die, do you think?"

"The doctors are not very hopeful," I told him. "The wound itself is not
mortal, but the shock seems to have affected him seriously. He is not a
young man, and he has lived hard all his days."

"If he dies," Mabane said thoughtfully, "your friend Grooten, I think
you said he called himself, will have to disappear altogether. In that
case I suppose we--shall be compelled to send the child back to the
convent?"

"Unless----"

"Unless what?"

"Unless we provide for her ourselves," I answered boldly.

Mabane smoked furiously for a few moments. His hands were thrust deep
down in his trousers pockets. He looked fixedly out of the window.

"Arnold," he said abruptly, "do you believe in presentiments?"

"It depends whether they affect me favourably or the reverse," I
answered carelessly. "You Scotchmen are all so superstitious."

"You may call it superstition," Mabane continued. "Everything of the
sort which an ignorant man cannot understand he calls superstition. But
if you like, I will tell you something which is surely going to happen.
I will tell you what I have seen."

I leaned forward in my chair, and looked curiously into Allan's face.
His hard, somewhat commonplace features seemed touched for the moment by
some transfiguring fire. His keen, blue-grey eyes were as soft and
luminous as a girl's. He had actually the appearance of a man who sees a
little way beyond the border. Even then I could not take him seriously.

"Speak, Sir Prophet!" I exclaimed, with a little laugh. "Let my eyes
also be touched with fire. Let me see what you see."

Mabane showed no sign of annoyance. He looked at me composedly.

"Do not be a fool, Arnold," he said. "You may believe or disbelieve, but
some day you will know that the things which I have in my mind are
true."

I think that I was a little bewildered. I realized now what at first I
had been inclined to doubt--that Mabane was wholly in earnest.
Unconsciously my attitude towards him changed. It is hard to mock a man
who believes in himself.

"Go ahead, then, Allan," I said quietly. "Remember that you have told me
nothing yet."

Mabane turned towards me. He spoke slowly. His face was serious--almost
solemn.

"The man Delahaye will never claim the child," he said. "I think that he
will die. The man who shot him has gone--we shall not hear of him again,
not for many years, if at all. He has gone like a stone dropped into a
bottomless tarn. We shall not send the child back to the convent. She
will remain here."

He paused, as though expecting me to speak. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Come," I said, "I shall not quarrel with your prophecy so far, Allan.
The introduction of a feminine element here seems a little incongruous,
but after all she is very young."

Mabane unclasped his arms, and looked thoughtfully around the room.
Already there was a change since a few days ago. The ornaments and
furniture were free from dust. There were two great bowls of flowers
upon the table, some studies which had hung upon the wall were replaced
with others of a more sedate character. The atmosphere of the place was
different. Wild untidiness had given place to some semblance of order.
There was an attempt everywhere at repression. Mabane knocked the ashes
from his pipe.

"For five years," he said abstractedly, "you and I and Arthur have lived
here together. Are you satisfied with those five years? Think!"

I looked from my desk out of the window, over the housetops up into the
sunshine, and I too was grave. Satisfied! Is anyone short of a fool ever
satisfied?

"No! I am not," I admitted, a little bitterly.

"Tell me what you think of these five years, Arnold. Tell me the truth,"
Mabane persisted. "Let me know if your thoughts are the same as mine."

"Drift," I answered. "We have worked a little, and thought a little--but
our feet have been on the earth a great deal oftener than our heads have
touched the clouds."

"Drift," Mabane repeated. "It is a true word. We have gained a little
experience of the wrong sort: we have learnt how to adapt our poor
little gifts to the whim of the moment. Such as our talent has been, we
have made a servant of it to minister to our physical necessities. We
have lived little lives, Arnold--very little lives."

"Go on," I murmured. "This at least is truth!"

Mabane paused. He looked at his pipe, but he did not relight it.

"There is a change coming," he said, slowly. "We are going to drift no
longer. We are going to be drawn into the maelstrom of life. What it may
mean for you and for me and for the boy, I do not know. It will change
us--it must change our work. I shall paint no more guesses at
realism--after someone else; and you will write no more of princesses,
or pull the strings of tinsel-decked puppets, so that they may dance
their way through the pages of your gaily-dressed novels. And an end has
come to these things, Arnold. No, I am not raving, nor is this a jest.
Wait!"

"You speak," I told him, "like a seer. Since when was it given to you to
read the future so glibly, my friend?"

Mabane looked at me with grave eyes. There was no shadow of levity in
his manner.

"I am not a superstitious man, Arnold," he said, "but I come, after all,
of hill-folk, and I believe that there are times when one can feel and
see the shadow of coming things. My grandfather knew the day of his
death, and spoke of it; my father made his will before he set foot on
the steamer which went to the bottom on a calm day between Dover and
Ostend. Nothing of this sort has ever come to me before. You yourself
have called me too hard-headed, too material for an artist. So I have
always thought myself--until to-day. To-day I feel differently."

"Is it this child, then, who is to open the gates of the world to us?" I
asked.

"Remember," Mabane answered, "that before many months have passed she
will be a woman."

I moved in my chair a little uneasily.

"I wonder," I said, half to myself, "whether I did well to bring her
here!"

Mabane laughed shortly.

"It was not you who brought her," he declared. "She was sent."

"Sent?"

"Aye, these things are not of our choosing, Arnold. There is something
behind which drives the great wheels. You can call it Fate or God,
according to your philosophy. It is there all the time, the one eternal
force."

I looked at Mabane steadfastly. He did not flinch.

"Psychologically, my dear Allan," I said, "you appear to be in a very
interesting state just now."

Mabane shrugged his shoulders. He crossed the room for some tobacco, and
began to refill his pipe.

"Well," he said, "I have finished. To-morrow, I suppose, I shall want to
kick myself for having said as much as I have. Listen! Here they come."

Isobel came into the room, followed by Arthur in a leather jacket and
breeches. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes danced with excitement. She
threw off her tam-o'-shanter, and stood deftly re-arranging for a moment
her wind-tossed hair.

"Glorious!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it has been glorious! Mr. Arthur, how
can I thank you? I have never enjoyed myself so much in my life. If the
Sister Superior could only have seen me--and the girls!"

"Motoring, I presume," Mabane remarked, "is amongst the pleasures denied
to the young ladies of the convent?"

She laughed gaily.

"Pleasures! Why, there are no pleasures for those poor girls. One may
not even smile, and as for games, even they are not permitted. I think
that it is shameful to make such a purgatory of a place. One may not,
one could not, be happy there. It is not allowed."

She caught the look which flashed from Mabane to me, and turned
instantly around.

"Oh, Monsieur Arnold," she cried breathlessly, "you do not think--I
shall not have to return there?"

"Not likely!" Arthur interposed with vigour. "By Jove! if anyone shut
you up there again I'd come and fetch you out."

She threw a quick glance of gratitude towards him, but her eyes returned
almost immediately to mine. She waited anxiously for me to speak.

"If we can possibly prevent it," I said slowly, "you shall never return
there. I do not think that it is at all the proper place for you. But
you must remember that we are, after all, people of no authority.
Someone might come forward to-morrow with a legal right to claim you,
and we should be helpless."

[Illustration: "If we can possibly prevent it," I said slowly, "you
shall never return there."]

Slowly the colour died away from her cheeks. Her eyes became
preternaturally bright and anxious.

"There is no one," she faltered, "except that man. He called himself my
guardian."

"Had you seen him before he came to the convent and fetched you away?" I
asked.

"Only once," she answered. "He came to St. Argueil about a year ago. I
hated him then. I have hated him ever since. I think that if all men
were like that I would be content to stay in the convent all my life."

"You don't remember the circumstances under which he took you there, I
suppose?" Mabane asked thoughtfully.

She shook her head.

"I do not remember being taken there at all," she answered. "I think
that I was not more than four or five years old."

"And all the time no one else has been to see you or written to you?" I
asked.

"No one!"

She smothered a little sob as she answered me. It was as though my
questions and Mabane's, although I had asked them gently enough, had
suddenly brought home to her a fuller sense of her complete loneliness.
Her eyes were full of tears. She held herself proudly, and she fought
hard for her self-control. Arthur glanced indignantly at both of us. He
had the wit, however, to remain silent.

"There are just one or two more questions, Isobel," I said, "which I
must ask you some time or other."

"Now, please, then," she begged.

"Did Major Delahaye ever mention his wife to you?"

"Never."

"You did not even know, then, when you arrived in London where he was
taking you?"

"I knew nothing," she admitted. "He behaved very strangely, and I was
miserable every moment of the time I was with him. I understood that I
was to have a companion and live in London."

I felt my blood run cold for a moment. I did not dare to look at Mabane.

"I do not think," I said, "that you need fear anything more from Major
Delahaye, even if he should recover."

"You mean--?" she cried breathlessly.

"We should never give you up to him," I declared firmly.

"Thank God!" she murmured. "Mr. Arnold," she added, looking at me
eagerly, "I can paint and sing and play the piano. Can't people earn
money sometimes by doing these things? I would work--oh, I am not afraid
to work. Couldn't I stay here for a little while?"

"Of course you can," I assured her. "And there is no need at all for you
to think about earning money yet. It is not that which troubles us at
all. It is the fact that we have no legal claim upon you, and people may
come forward at any moment who have."

Arthur glanced towards her triumphantly.

"What did I tell you?" he exclaimed.

She looked timidly across at Mabane.

"The other gentleman won't mind?" she asked timidly.

Mabane smiled at her, and his smile was a revelation even to us who knew
him so well.

"My dear young lady," he said, "you will be more than welcome. I have
just been telling Arnold that your coming will make the world a
different place for us."

The girl's smile was illumining. It seemed to include us all. She held
out both her hands. Mabane seized one and bent over it with the air of a
courtier. The other was offered to me. Arthur was content to beam upon
us all from the background. At that precise moment came a tap at the
door. Mrs. Burdett brought in a telegram.

I tore it open, and hastily reading it, passed it on to Mabane. He
hesitated for a moment, and then turned gravely to Isobel.

"Major Delahaye will not trouble you any more," he said. "He died in the
hospital an hour ago."




CHAPTER VIII


"A shade more to the right, please. There, just as you are now! Don't
move! In five minutes I shall have finished for the day."

Isobel smiled.

"I think that your five minutes," she said, "last sometimes for a very
long time. But I am not tired--no, not at all. I can stay like this if
you wish until the light goes."

"You are splendid," Mabane murmured. "The best sitter--oh, hang it,
who's that?"

"There is certainly some one at the door," Isobel remarked.

Mabane paused in his work to shout fiercely, "Come in!" I too looked up
from my writing. A woman was ushered into the room--a woman dressed in
fashionable mourning, of medium height, and with a wealth of fair,
fluffy hair, which seemed to mock the restraining black bands. Mrs.
Burdett, visibly impressed, lingered in the background.

The woman paused and looked around. She looked at me, and the pen
slipped from my nerveless fingers. I rose to my feet.

"Eil--Lady Delahaye!" I exclaimed.

She inclined her head. Her demeanour was cold, almost belligerent.

"I am glad to find you here, Arnold Greatson," she said. "You are a
friend, I believe, of the man who murdered my husband?"

"You have been misinformed, Lady Delahaye," I answered quietly. "I was
not even an acquaintance of his. We met that day for the first time."

By the faintest possible curl of the lips she expressed her contemptuous
disbelief.

"Ah!" she said. "I remember your story at the inquest. You will forgive
me if, in company, I believe, with the majority who heard it, I find it
a trifle improbable."

I looked at her gravely. This was the woman with whom I had once
believed myself in love, the woman who had jilted me to marry a man of
whom even his friends found it hard to speak well.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "my story may have sounded strangely, but it
was true. I presume that you did not come here solely with the purpose
of expressing your amiable opinion of my veracity?"

"You are quite right," she admitted drily. "I did not."

She was silent for a few moments. Her eyes were fixed upon Isobel, and I
did not like their expression.

"May I offer you a chair, Lady Delahaye?" I asked.

"Thank you, I prefer to stand--here," she answered. "This, I believe, is
the young person who was with my husband?"

She extended a sombrely gloved forefinger towards Isobel, who met her
gaze unflinchingly.

"That is the young lady," I answered. "Have you anything to say to her?"

"My errand here is with her," Lady Delahaye declared. "What is it that
you call yourself, girl?"

Isobel was a little bewildered. She seemed scarcely able to appreciate
Lady Delahaye's attitude.

"My name," she said, "is Isobel de Sorrens."

"You asserted at the inquest," Lady Delahaye continued, "that my husband
was your guardian. What did you mean by such an extraordinary
statement?"

Isobel seemed suddenly to grasp the situation. Her finely arched
eyebrows were raised, her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling. She rose
slowly to her feet, and, child though she was, the dignity of her
demeanour was such that Lady Delahaye with her accusing forefinger
seemed to shrink into insignificance.

"I think," she said, "that you are a very rude person. Major Delahaye
took me to the convent of St. Argueil when I was four years old, and
left me there. He visited me twelve months ago, and brought me to
England you know when. I was with him for less than twenty-four hours,
and I was very unhappy indeed all the time. I did not understand the
things which he said to me, nor did I like him at all. I think that if
he had left me out of his sight for a moment I should have run away."

Lady Delahaye was very pale, and her eyes were full of unpleasant
things. I found myself looking at her, and marvelling at the folly which
I had long since forgotten.

"You perhaps complained of him--to his murderer! It is you, no doubt,
who are responsible for my husband's death!"

Isobel's lips curled contemptuously.

"Major Delahaye," she said, "did not permit me to speak to anyone. As
for the man whom you call his murderer, I never saw him before in my
life, nor should I recognize him again if I saw him now. I do not know
why you come here and say all these unkind things to me. I have done you
no harm. I am very sorry about Major Delahaye, but--but--"

Her lips quivered. I hastily interposed.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "I do not know what the immediate object of
your visit here may be, but----"

"The immediate object of my visit," she interrupted coldly, "is as
repugnant to me, Mr. Greatson, as it may possibly be disappointing to
you. I am here, however, to carry out my husband's last wish. This child
herself has asserted that he was her guardian. By his death that most
unwelcome post devolves upon me."

Isobel turned white, as though stung by a sudden apprehension. She
looked towards me, and I took her hand in mine. Lady Delahaye smiled
unpleasantly upon us both.

"You mean," I said, "that you wish to take her away from us?"

"Wish!" Lady Delahaye repeated coldly. "I can assure you that I am not
consulting my own wishes upon the subject at all. What I am doing is
simply my duty. The child had better get her hat on."

Isobel did not move, but she turned very pale. Her eyes seemed fastened
upon mine. She waited for me to speak. The situation was embarrassing
enough so far as I was concerned, for Lady Delahaye was obviously in
earnest. I tried to gain time.

"May I ask what your intentions are with regard to the child? You intend
to take her to your home--to adopt her, I suppose?"

Lady Delahaye regarded me with cold surprise.

"Certainly not," she answered. "I shall find a fitting position for her
in her own station of life."

"May I assume then," I continued, with some eagerness, "that you know
what that is? You are acquainted, perhaps, with her parentage?"

She returned my gaze steadily.

"I may be," she answered. "That, however, is beside the question. I
intend to do my duty by the child. If you have been put to any expense
with regard to her, you can mention the amount and I will defray it. I
have answered enough questions. What is your name, child--Isobel? Get
ready to come with me."

Isobel answered her steadily, but her eyes were filled with shrinking
fear.

"I do not wish to come with you," she said. "I do not like you at all."

Lady Delahaye raised her eyebrows. It seemed to me that in a quiet way
she was becoming angry.

"Unfortunately," she said, "your liking or disliking me makes very
little difference. I have no choice in the matter at all. The care of
you has devolved upon me, and I must undertake it. You had better come
at once."

Isobel trembled where she stood. I judged it time to intervene.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the duty of looking after this child is
evidently a distasteful one to you. We will relieve you of it. She can
remain with us."

Lady Delahaye looked at me in astonishment. Then she laughed, and it
seemed to all of us that we had never heard a more unpleasant travesty
of mirth.

"Indeed!" she exclaimed. "And may I ask of whom your household
consists?"

"Of myself and my two friends, Mabane and Fielding. We have a most
responsible housekeeper, however, who will be able to look after the
child."

"Until she herself can qualify for the position, I presume," Lady
Delahaye remarked drily. "What a delightful arrangement! A sort of
co-operative household. Quite Arcadian, I am sure, and so truly
philanthropic. You have changed a good deal during the last few years,
Mr. Arnold Greatson, to be able to stand there and make such an
extraordinary proposition to me."

I was determined not to lose my temper, though, as a matter of fact, I
was fiercely angry.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "we are not prepared to give this child up to
you. It will perhaps help to shorten a--a painful interview if you will
accept that from me as final."

The change in Isobel was marvellous. The brilliant colour streamed into
her cheeks. Her long-drawn, quivering sigh of relief seemed in the
momentary silence which followed my pronouncement a very audible thing.
Lady Delahaye looked at me as though she doubted the meaning of my
words.

"You are aware," she said, "that this will mean great unpleasantness for
you. You know the law?"

"I neither know it nor wish to know it," I answered. "We shall not give
up the child."

I glanced at Mabane. His confirmation was swift and decisive.

"I am entirely in accord with my friend, madam," he said, with grim
precision.

"The law will compel you," she declared.

"We will do our best, then," he answered, "to cheat the law."

"I should like to add, Lady Delahaye," I continued, "that our
housekeeper, who has been in the service of my family for over thirty
years, has willingly undertaken the care of the child, and I can assure
you, in case you should have any anxieties concerning her, that she will
be as safe under our charge as in your own."

Lady Delahaye moved towards the door. On the threshold she turned and
laid her hand upon my arm. I was preparing to show her out. There was
meaning in her eyes as she leaned towards me.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "we were once friends, or I should drive
straight from here to my solicitors. I presume you are aware that your
present attitude is capable of very serious misrepresentation?"

"I must take the risk of that, Lady Delahaye," I answered. "I ask you to
remember, however, that the law would also require you to prove your
guardianship. Do you yourself know anything of the child's parentage?"

She did not answer me directly.

"I shall give you," she said, "twenty-four hours for reflection. At the
end of that time, if I do not hear from you, I shall apply to the
courts."

I held the door open and bowed.

"You will doubtless act," I said, "according to your discretion."

The moment seemed propitious for her departure. All that had to be said
had surely passed between us. Yet she seemed for some reason unwilling
to go.

"I am not sure, Mr. Greatson," she said, "that I can find my way out.
Will you be so good as to see me to my carriage?"

I had no alternative but to obey. Our rooms were on the fifth floor of a
block of flats overlooking Chelsea Embankment, and we had no lift. We
descended two flights of the stone stairs in silence. Then she suddenly
laid her fingers upon my arm.

"Arnold," she said softly, "I never thought that we should meet again
like this."

"Nor I, Lady Delahaye," I answered, truthfully enough.

"You have changed."

I looked at her. She had the grace to blush.

"Oh, I know that I behaved badly," she murmured, "but think how poor we
were, and oh, how weary I was of poverty. If I had refused Major
Delahaye I think that my mother would have turned me out of doors. I
wrote and told you all about it."

"Yes," I admitted, "you wrote!"

"And you never answered my letter."

"It seemed to me," I remarked, "that it needed no answer."

"And afterwards," she said, "I wrote and asked you to come and see me."

"Lady Delahaye----" I began.

"Eileen!" she interrupted.

"Very well, then, if you will have it so, Eileen," I said. "You have
alluded to events which I have forgotten. Whether you or I behaved well
or ill does not matter in the least now. It is all over and done with."

"You mean, then, that I am unforgiven?"

"On the contrary," I assured her, "I have nothing to forgive."

She flashed a swift glance of reproach up on me. To my amazement there
were tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "I can find my way to the street alone. I will
not trouble you further."

She swept away with a dignity which became her better than her previous
attitude. There was nothing left for me to do but to turn back.




CHAPTER IX


Isobel was standing quite still in the middle of the room, her hands
tightly clenched, a spot of colour aflame in her cheeks. Arthur, who had
passed Lady Delahaye and me upon the stairs, had apparently just been
told the object of her visit.

"Oh, I hate that woman!" Isobel exclaimed as I entered, "I hate her! I
would rather die than go to her. I would rather go back to the convent.
She looks at me as though I were something to be despised, something
which should not be allowed to go alive upon the earth!"

Arthur would have spoken, but Mabane interrupted him. He laid his hand
gently upon her shoulder.

"Isobel," he said gently, "you need have no fear. I know how Arnold
feels about it, and I can speak for myself also. You shall not go to
her. We will not give you up. I do not believe that she will go to the
courts at all. I doubt if she has any claim."

"Why, we'd hide you, run away with you, anything," Arthur declared
impetuously. "Don't you be scared, Isobel, I don't believe she can do a
thing. The law's like a great fat animal. It takes a plaguey lot to move
it, and then it moves as slowly as a steam-roller. We'll dodge it
somehow."

She gave them a hand each. Her action was almost regal. It some way, it
seemed that in according her our protection we were receiving rather
than conferring a favour.

"My friends," she said, "you are so kind that I have no words with which
to thank you. But you will believe that I am grateful."

It was then for the first time that they saw me upon the threshold.
Isobel looked at me anxiously.

"She has gone?"

I nodded.

"I do not think that she will trouble us again just yet," I said. "At
the same time, we must be prepared. Tell me, whereabouts is this school
from which you came, Isobel?"

"St. Argueil? It is about three hours' journey from Paris. Why do you
ask?"

"Because I think that I must go there," I answered. "We must try and
find out what legal claims Major Delahaye had upon you. What is the name
of the Principal?"

"Madame Richard is the lay principal," Isobel answered, "but Sister
Ursula is really the head of the place. We girls saw her, though, very
seldom--only those who were going to remain," she added, with a little
shudder.

"And this Madame Richard," I asked, "is she a kindly sort of a person?"

Isobel shook her head doubtfully.

"I did not like her," she said. "She is very stern. She is not kind to
anyone."

"Nevertheless, I suppose she will tell me what she knows," I said. "Give
me the Bradshaw, Allan, and that old Continental guide."

I presently became immersed in planning out my route. When at last I
looked up, Mabane was working steadily. The others had gone. I looked
round the room.

"Where are Arthur and Isobel?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Like calling to like," he remarked tersely. "They have gone trailing."

I put the Bradshaw down.

"I shall leave for Paris at midnight, Mabane," I said.

He nodded.

"It seems to be the most sensible thing to do," he remarked. "There is
no other way of getting to the bottom of the affair."

So I went to pack my bag. And within an hour I was on my way to France.

       *       *       *       *       *

I rose to my feet, after a somewhat lengthy wait, and bowed. Between
this newcomer and myself, across the stone floor, lay the sunlight, a
long, yellow stream which seemed to me the only living thing which I had
as yet seen in this strange, grim-looking building. I spoke in
indifferent French. She answered me in perfect English.

"I have the honour to address----"

"Madame Richard. I am the lay principal of the convent. Will you permit
me?"

The blind fell, and there was no more sunlight. I was conscious of a
sudden chill. The bare room, with its stone-flagged floor, its plain
deal furniture, depressed me no less than the cold, forbidding
appearance of the woman who stood now motionless before me. She was
paler than any woman whom I had ever seen in my life. A living person,
she seemed the personification of lifelessness. Her black hair was
streaked with grey; her dress, which suggested a uniform in its
severity, knew no adornment save the plain ivory cross which hung from
an almost invisible chain about her neck. Her expression indicated
neither curiosity nor courtesy. She simply waited. I, although as a rule
I had no great difficulty in finding words, felt myself almost
embarrassed.

"I have come from London to see you," I said. "My name is
Greatson--Arnold Greatson."

There was not a quiver of expression in her cold acknowledgment of my
declaration. Nevertheless, at that moment I received an inspiration. I
was perfectly sure that she knew who I was and what I had come for.

"I have come to know," I continued, "if you can give me any information
as to the friends or parentage of a young lady who was recently, I
believe, a pupil of yours--a Miss Isobel de Sorrens?"

"The young lady is still in your charge, I hear," Madame Richard
remarked quietly.

Notwithstanding my inspiration I was startled.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"We despatched a messenger only yesterday to escort Isobel back here,"
Madame Richard answered. "Your address was the destination given us."

"May I ask who gave it you? At whose instigation you sent?"

"At the instigation of those who have the right to consider themselves
Isobel's guardians," Madame Richard said quietly.

"Isobel's guardians!" I repeated softly. "But surely you know, Madame
Richard--you have heard of the tragedy which happened in London? Major
Delahaye died last week."

"We have been informed of the occurrence," she answered, her tone as
perfectly emotionless as though she had been discussing the veriest
trifle. "We were content to recognize Major Delahaye as representing
those who have the right to dispose of Isobel's future. His death,
however, alters many things. Isobel will be placed in even surer hands."

"Isobel has, I presume, then, relatives living?" I remarked. "May I know
their names?"

Madame Richard was silent for a moment. She was regarding me steadily. I
even fancied that the ghost of a hard smile trembled upon her lips.

"I have no authority to disclose any information whatever," she said.

I bowed.

"I have no desire to seem inquisitive," I said. "On the other hand, I
and my friends are greatly interested in the child. I will be frank with
you, Madame Richard. We have no claim upon her, I know, but we should
certainly require to know something about the people into whose charge
she was to pass before we gave her up."

"She is to come back here," Madame Richard answered calmly. "We are
ready to receive her. She has lived with us for ten years. I presume
under the circumstances, and when I add that it is the desire of those
who are responsible for her that she should immediately return to us,
that you will not hesitate to send her?"

"Madame Richard," I answered gravely, "you who live so far from the
world lose touch sometimes with its worst side. We others, to our
sorrow, know more, though our experience is dearly enough bought. Let me
tell you that I should hesitate at any time to give back the child into
the care of those who sent her out into the world alone with such a man
as Major Delahaye."

Madame Richard touched the cross which hung upon her bosom. Her eyes, it
seemed to me, narrowed a little.

"Major Delahaye," she said, "was the nominee of those who have the right
to dispose of the child."

"Then," I answered, "I shall require their right proven before Isobel
leaves us. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I was present
when Major Delahaye was shot, and I am not sure that the bullet of his
assassin did not prevent a worse crime. The child was terrified to
death. It is my honest conviction that her fear was not uncalled for."

Madame Richard raised her hand slightly.

"Monsieur," she said, "such matters are not our concern. It is because
of the passions and evil doing of the world outside that we cling so
closely here to our own doctrine of isolation. Whatever she may have
suffered, Isobel will learn to forget here. In the blessed years which
lie before her, the memory of her unhappy pilgrimage will grow dim and
faint. It may even be for the best that she has realized for a moment
the shadow of evil things."

"Isobel is intended, then?" I asked.

"For the Church," Madame Richard answered. "That is the present decision
of those who have the right to decide for her. We ourselves do not care
to take pupils who have no idea at all of the novitiate. Occasionally we
are disappointed, and those in whom we have placed faith are tempted
back into the world. But we do our best while they are here to show them
the better way. We feared that we had lost Isobel. We shall be all the
more happy to welcome her back."

I shivered a little. I could not help feeling the cold repression of the
place. A vision of thin, grey-gowned figures, with pallid faces and
weary, discontented eyes, haunted me. I tried to fancy Isobel amongst
them. It was preposterous.

"Madame," I said, "I do not believe that Isobel is adapted by nature or
disposition for such a life."

"The desire for holiness," Madame Richard answered, "is never very
apparent in the young. It is the child's great good fortune that she
will grow into it."

"I am afraid," I answered, "that our views upon this matter are too far
apart to render discussion profitable. You have spoken of those who have
the right to dispose of the child's future. I will go and see them."

"It is not necessary," Madame Richard answered. "We will send to England
for the child."

"Do I understand, Madame Richard," I said, "that you decline to give me
the address of those who stand behind you in the disposal of Isobel?"

"They would not discuss the matter with you," she answered calmly.
"Their decision is already made. Isobel is for the Church."

I took up my hat.

"I will not detain you any further, Madame," I said.

"A messenger is already in London to bring back the child," she
remarked.

"As to that," I answered, "it is perhaps better to be frank with you,
Madame Richard. Your messenger will return alone."

For the first time the woman's face showed some signs of feeling. Her
dark eyebrows contracted a little. Her expression was coldly repellent.

"You have no claim upon the child," she said.

"Neither do I know of any other person who has," I answered.

"We have had the charge of her for ten years. That itself is a claim. It
is unseemly that she should remain with you."

"Madame," I answered, "Isobel is meant for life--not a living death."

The woman crossed herself.

"There is but one life," she said. "We wish to prepare Isobel for it."

"Madame," I said, "as to that, argument between us is impossible. I
shall consult with my friends. Your messenger shall bring back word as
to our decision."

The face of the woman grew darker.

"But surely," she protested, "you will not dare to keep the child?"

"Madame," I answered, "humanity makes sometimes strange claims upon us.
Isobel is as yet a child. She came into my keeping by the strangest of
chances. I did not seek the charge of her. It was, to tell the truth, an
embarrassment to me. Yet she is under my care to-day, and I shall do
what I believe to be the right thing."

"Monsieur," she said, "you are interfering in matters greater than you
have any knowledge of."

"It is in your power," I reminded her, "to enlighten me."

"It is not a power which I am able to use," she answered.

"Then I will not detain you further, Madame," I said.

As I passed out she leaned over towards me. She had already rung a bell,
and outside I could hear the shuffling footsteps of the old servant who
had admitted me.

"Monsieur," she said, "if you keep the child you make enemies--very
powerful enemies. It is long since I lived in the world, but I think
that the times have not changed very much. Of the child's parentage I
may not tell you, but as I hope for salvation I will tell you this. It
will be better for you, and better for the child, that she comes back
here, even to embrace what you have called the living death."

"Madame," I said, "I will consider all these things."

"It will be well for you to do so, Monsieur," she said with meaning. "An
enemy of those in whose name I have spoken must needs be a holy man, for
he lives hand in hand with death."




CHAPTER X


So I was driven back to Argueil, the red-tiled, sleepy old town, with
its great gaunt church, whose windows, as the lumbering cart descended
the hill, were stained blood-red by the dying sunset. Behind, on the
hillside, was the convent, with its avenue of stunted elms, its
close-barred windows, its terrible prison-like silence. As I looked
behind, holding on to the sides of the springless cart to avoid being
jostled into the road, I found myself shivering. The convent
boarding-schools which I had heard of had been very different sort of
places. Even after my brief visit there this return into the fresh
country air, the smell of the fields, the colour and life of the rolling
landscape, were blessed things. I was more than ever satisfied with my
decision. It was not possible to send the child back to such a place.

Across a great vineyard plain, through which the narrow white road ran
like a tightly drawn band of ribbon, I came presently to the village of
Argueil. The street which led to the inn was paved with the most
abominable cobbles, and I was forced to hold my hat with one hand and
the side of the cart with the other. My blue-smocked driver pulled up
with a flourish in front of the ancient gateway of the _Leon d'Or_, and
I was very nearly precipitated on to the top of the broad-backed horse.
As I gathered myself together I was conscious of a soft peal of
laughter--a woman's laughter, which came from the arched entrance to the
inn. I looked up quickly. A too familiar figure was standing there
watching me,--Lady Delahaye, trim, elegant, a trifle supercilious. By
her side stood the innkeeper, white-aproned and obsequious.

I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little
way to meet me. She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.

"You must forgive my laughing, Arnold," she said. "Really, you looked
too funny in that terrible cart. What an odd meeting, isn't it? Have you
a few minutes to spare?"

"I believe," I answered, "that I cannot get away from this place till
the evening. Shall we go in and sit down?"

She shook her head.

"The inn-parlour is too stuffy," she answered. "I was obliged to come
out myself for some fresh air. Let us walk up the street."

I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk. Lady
Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our
conversation upon me.

"I presume," I said, "that we are here with the same object?"

She glanced at me curiously.

"Indeed!" she remarked. "Then tell me why you came."

"To discover that child's parentage, if possible," I answered promptly.
"I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to
take charge of her."

"You perplex me, Arnold," she said thoughtfully. "I do not understand
your position in the matter. I always looked upon you as a somewhat
indolent person. Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a
matter which really does not concern you at all. Whence all this
good-nature?"

"Lady Delahaye----"

"Eileen," she interrupted softly.

"Lady Delahaye," I answered firmly. "You must forgive me if I remind you
that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name. I am not
good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent. Nevertheless, I
am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her
returning to this place."

"I am still in the dark," she said, looking at me curiously. "She is
nothing to you. A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men
I cannot imagine. You seem to want to keep her there. Why? She is a
child to-day, it is true--but in little more than a year's time she will
be a woman. The position then for you will be full of embarrassments."

"I find the position now," I answered, "equally embarrassing. We can
only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her
ourselves. Of the three we prefer to keep her."

"You seem to have a great distaste for the convent," she remarked, "but
that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these
things. She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy."

We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence. I
pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and
desolate on the bare hillside.

"I should consider myself no less a murderer than the man who shot your
husband," I answered, "if I sent her there. I have made all the
enquiries I could in the neighbourhood, and I have added to them my own
impressions. The secular part of the place may be conducted as other
places of its sort, but the great object of Madame Richard's sister is
to pass her pupils from that into the religious portion. Isobel is not
adapted for such a life."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.

"Well," she said, "I am a Catholic, so of course I don't agree with you.
But why do you hesitate to give the child up to me?"

I was silent for a moment. It was not easy to put my feeling into words.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you must forgive my reminding you that on the
occasion of your visit to us you did not attempt to conceal the fact
that your feelings towards her were inimical. Beyond that, I was pledged
not to hand her back into your husband's care, and----"

"Pledged by whom?" she asked quickly.

"I am afraid," I said, "that I cannot answer you that question."

She flashed an angry glance upon me.

"You pretend that the man who called himself Grooten was not your
friend. Yet you have been in communication with him since!"

"I saw Mr. Grooten for the first time in my life on the morning of that
day," I answered.

"You know where he is now?" she asked, watching me keenly.

"I have not the slightest idea. I wish that I did know," I declared
truthfully. "There is no man whom I am more anxious to see."

"You would, of course, inform the police?" she asked.

"I am afraid not," I answered.

Again she was angry. This time scarcely without reason.

"Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his
victim--the man who was shot without warning in the back? It accords, I
presume, with your idea of fair play?"

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the subject is unpleasant and futile. Let us
return to the inn."

She turned abruptly around. She made a little motion as of dismissal,
but I remained by her side.

"By-the-bye," I said, "we were to exchange confidences. You are here, of
course, to visit the convent? Why?"

She smiled enigmatically.

"I am not sure, my very simple conspirator," she said, "whether I will
imitate your frankness. You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more
important matter than you have any idea of. But I will tell you this, if
you like. You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you
please--yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is
her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not
think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by
any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible
thing which could happen to Isobel."

I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and
tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger,
which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame
Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a
great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know
more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."

"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."

"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.

"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on
opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"

We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for
some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right
angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the
pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both--a
waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and
half closed her eyes.

"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn--Mr. Greatson, do get me
just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."

I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her
dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue
and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few
yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.

"Look!"

An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the
drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside.
Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework
of soft green foliage and blossoms.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear
to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the
sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for
yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"

She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.

"There is all the difference in the world," she declared. "I am a woman;
although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to
give it up. But the child--she knows nothing. She is too young to know
what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she
would be content there."

I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.

"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her
heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already
stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She
shall not go there!"

Lady Delahaye smiled--mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden
knowledge which she may not share.

"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her
enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"

We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked
at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown
more and more belligerent.

"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a
child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that
you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few
years older one could perhaps understand."

I disregarded her innuendo.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "if you were as much her friend as I believe
that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know. I have
no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will
give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy."

"Arnold," she answered gravely, "I can only repeat what I have told you
before. You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of. Even
if I would, I dare not give you any information. The fate of this child,
insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important
issues."

Our eyes met for a moment. The expression in hers puzzled me--puzzled me
to such an extent that I made her no answer. Slowly she extended her
hand.

"At least," she said, "let us part friends--unless you choose to be
gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow. It is a dreary journey
home alone."

I took her hand readily enough.

"Friends, by all means," I answered, "but I must get back to Paris
to-night. A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in
London."

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.

"It must be as you will, of course," she said coldly. "I do not wish to
detain you."

Nevertheless, her farewell look haunted me as I sped across the great
fertile plain on my way to Paris.




CHAPTER XI


Mabane laid down his brush, Arthur sprang from his seat upon the table
and greeted me with a shout. Isobel said nothing, but her dark blue eyes
were fastened upon my face as though seeking to read her fate there.
They had evidently been waiting for my coming. I remember thinking it
strange, even then, that these other two men should apparently share to
the fullest degree my own interest in the child's fate.

"I have failed," I announced shortly.

I took Isobel's hand. It was cold as ice, and I could feel that she was
trembling violently.

"Madame Richard would tell me nothing, Isobel," I said. "I believe that
she knows all about you, and I believe that Lady Delahaye does too. But
they will tell me nothing."

"And?" she demanded, with quivering lips. "And?"

"It is for you to decide," I said gravely. "Lady Delahaye wants you, so
does Madame Richard. On the other hand, if you like to stay with us
until someone proves their right to take you away, you will be very
welcome, Isobel! Stop one moment," I added hastily, for I saw the quick
colour stream into her cheeks, and the impetuous words already trembling
upon her lips, "I want you to remember this: Madame Richard makes no
secret of her own wishes as regards your future. She desires you to take
the veil. You have lived at the convent, so I presume you are able to
judge for yourself as regards that. Lady Delahaye, on the other hand, is
a rich woman, and she professes to be your friend. Your life with her,
if she chose to make it so, would be an easy and a pleasant one. We, as
you know, are poor. We have very little indeed to offer you. We live
what most people call a shiftless life. We have money one day, and none
the next. Our surroundings and our associations are not in the least
like what a child of your age should become accustomed to. Nine people
out of ten would probably pronounce us utterly unsuitable guardians for
you. It is only right that you should understand these things."

She looked at me with tear-bedimmed eyes.

"I want to stay with you," she pleaded. "Don't send me away--oh, don't!
I hate the convent, and I am afraid of Lady Delahaye. I will do
everything I can not to be a nuisance to you. I am not afraid to work,
or to help Mrs. Burdett. Only let me stay."

I smiled, and looked around at the others.

"It is settled," I declared. "We appoint ourselves your guardians. You
agree, Mabane?"

"Most heartily," he answered.

"And you, Arthur?"

"Great heavens, yes!" he answered vehemently.

"You are very good," she murmured, "very good to me. All my life I shall
remember this."

She held out both her hands. Her eyes were fixed still upon mine. Mabane
laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Dear child," he said, "do not forget that there are three of us. I too
am very happy to be one of your guardians."

She gave him the hand which Arthur had seized upon. I think that we had
none of us before seen a smile so dazzling as hers.

"Dear friends," she murmured, "I only hope that you will never regret
this great, great kindness."

Then suddenly she flitted away and went to her room. We three men were
left alone.

I think that for the first few moments there was some slight
awkwardness, for we were men, and we spoke seldom of the things which
touched us most. Arthur, however, broke almost immediately into speech,
and relieved the tension.

"And to think that it was I," he exclaimed, "who sent you out plot
hunting to the station! Arnold, what a sensible chap you are!"

We all laughed.

"A good many people," Mabane remarked quietly, "would call us three
fools. Tell us, Arnold, did you really discover nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," I declared. "Stop, though. I did find out this.
There is some secret about the child's parentage. I have spoken with two
people who know it, and one of them warned me that in keeping the child
we were interfering in a greater matter than we had any idea of. Of
course it might have been a bluff, but I fancy that Lady Delahaye was in
earnest."

"You do not think," Mabane asked, "that she was Major Delahaye's
daughter?"

"I do not," I answered, with a little shudder. "I am sure that she was
not."

"Whoever she is," Arthur declared, "there's one thing jolly certain, and
that is she's thoroughbred. She has the most marvellous nerve I ever
knew. We got in a tight corner this morning. I took her down to
Guildford in a trailer, and I had to jump the pavement to avoid a
runaway. She never flinched for a moment. Half the girls I know would
have squealed like mad. She only laughed, and asked whether she should
get out. She's as thoroughbred as they make them."

"Perhaps," I answered, "but I'm not going to have you risk her life with
your beastly motoring, Arthur. Take her out in a car, if you want to.
Who's this?"

We turned towards the door. Was it the ghost of Madame Richard who stood
there pale, cold, and in the sombre garb of her sisterhood?

"This lady has been before," Mabane said, placing a chair for her. "She
has come from the convent, and she brought a letter from Madame
Richard."

"You are Mr. Greatson?" she asked.

I bowed, and took the letter which she handed to me. I tore it open. It
contained a few lines only.

     "SIR,--

     "I have been informed of the unfortunate event which has placed
     under your protection one of my late pupils, Isobel de Sorrens. We
     are willing and anxious to receive her back here, and I have sent
     the bearer to accompany her upon the journey. She will also defray
     what expenses her sojourn with you may have occasioned.

     "I am, sir, yours respectfully,

     "EMILY RICHARD."

I put the letter back in the envelope and laid it upon the table.

"I have seen Madame Richard," I said. "The child will remain with us for
the present."

The cold, dark eyes met mine searchingly.

"But, monsieur," the woman said, "how can that be? You are not a
relative, you surely have no claim----"

"It will save time, perhaps," I interrupted, "if I explain that I have
discussed all these matters with Madame Richard, and the decision which
I have come to is final. The child remains here."

The woman looked at me steadfastly.

"Madame Richard will not be satisfied with that decision," she said.
"You will be forced to give her up."

"And why," I asked, "should a penniless orphan, as I understand Isobel
is, be of so much interest to Madame Richard?"

The woman watched me still, and listened to my words as though seeking
to discover in them some hidden meaning. Then she leaned a little
towards me.

"Can I speak with you alone, monsieur?" she said.

"These are my friends," I answered, "from whom I have no secrets."

"None?"

"None," I repeated.

She hesitated. Then, although the door was fast closed, she dropped her
voice.

"You know--who the child is," she said softly.

"Upon my word, I do not," I answered. "I saw the man, under whose care
she was, shot, and I brought her here because she was friendless. I know
no more about her."

"That," she said quietly, "is hard to believe."

"I have no interest in your belief or disbelief," I answered. "Pardon me
if I add, madame, that I have no interest in the continuation of this
conversation."

She rose at once.

"You are either a very brave man," she said, "or a very simple one. I
shall await further instructions from Madame Richard."

She departed silently and without any leave-taking. We all three looked
at one another.

"Now what in thunder did she mean by that!" Arthur exclaimed blankly.

"It appears to me," Mabane said, "that you went plot hunting with a
vengeance, Arnold."

Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room, his hands in his
pockets, a discontented frown upon his smooth young face. He stopped
suddenly in front of us.

"I don't know much about the law, you fellows," he said, "but it seems
to me that any of these people who seem to want to take Isobel away from
us have only to go before the court and establish some sort of a legal
claim, and we should have to give her up."

"That is true enough," I admitted. "The strange part of it is, though,
that no one seems inclined to take this course."

Arthur threw down a letter upon the table.

"This came for you yesterday, Arnold," he said. "I haven't opened it, of
course, but you can see from the name at the back of the envelope that
it is from a firm of solicitors."

I took it up and opened it at once. I knew quite well what Arthur
feared. This is what I read--

     "17, LINCOLN'S INN, LONDON.

     "DEAR SIR,--

     "We beg to inform you that we have been instructed by a client, who
     desires to remain anonymous, to open for you at the London and
     Westminster Bank an account on your behalf as guardian of Miss
     Isobel de Sorrens, a young lady who, we understand, is at present
     in your care.

     "The amount placed at our disposal is three hundred a year. We
     shall be happy to furnish you with cheque book and full authority
     to make use of this sum if you will favour us with a call,
     accompanied by the young lady, but we are not in a position to
     afford you any information whatever as to our client's identity.

     "Trusting to have the pleasure of seeing you shortly,

     "We are, yours truly,

     "HAMILTON & PLACE."

I laid the letter on the table without a word. Mabane and Arthur in turn
read it. Then there was an ominous silence. I think that we all had the
same thought. It was Arthur, however, who expressed it.

"What beastly rot!" he exclaimed.

I turned to Mabane.

"I imagine," he said, "that we should not be justified in refusing this
offer. At the same time, if anyone has the right to provide for the
child, why do they not come forward and claim her?"

At that moment Isobel came in. I took up the letter and placed it in her
hand.

"Isobel," I said, "we want you to read this."

She read it, and handed it back to me without a word. We were all
watching her eagerly. She looked at me appealingly.

"Is it necessary," she asked, "for me to accept this money?"

"Tell us," I said, "exactly how you feel."

"I think," she said, "that if there is anyone from whom I have the right
to accept all this money, I ought to know who they are. I do not want to
be a burden upon anyone," she added hesitatingly, "but I would rather
work every moment of the day--oh, I think that I would rather starve
than touch this money, unless I know who it is that offers it."

I laughed as I tore the letter in half.

"Dear child," I said, resting my hand upon her shoulder, "that is what
we all hoped that you would say!"




CHAPTER XII


Lady Delahaye sank down upon the couch against which I had been
standing.

"Poor, bored man!" she exclaimed, with mock sympathy. "I ought to have
asked some entertaining people, oughtn't I? There isn't a soul here for
you to talk to!"

"On the contrary," I answered, "there are a good many more people here
than I expected to see. I understood that you were to be alone."

"And you probably think that I ought to be," she remarked. "Well, I
never was conventional. You know that. I shut myself up for a month. Now
I expect my friends to come and console me."

"It is not likely," I said, "that you will be disappointed."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Perhaps not. Those whom I do not want will come, of course. As for the
others--well!"

She looked up at me. I sat down by her side.

"Ah! That is nice of you," she said softly. "I wanted to have a quiet
talk. Tell me why you are looking so glum."

"I was not conscious of it," I answered. "To tell you the truth, I was
wondering whether Isobel were not a little young to bring to a gathering
of this description."

"My dear Arnold," she murmured, "there are only one or two of my
particular friends here. The rest dropped in by accident. Isobel does
not seem to me to be particularly out of place, and she is certainly
enjoying herself."

The echoes of her light laugh reached us just then. Several men were
standing over her chair. She was the centre of what seemed to be a very
amusing conversation. Arthur was standing on the outskirts of the group,
apparently a little dull.

"She enjoys herself always," I answered. "She is of that disposition.
Still----"

She put her hands up to her ears.

"Come, I won't be lectured," she exclaimed. "Seriously, I wanted you
here. I had something to say to you--something particular."

"Waiving the other matter, then," I said, "I am wholly at your service."

"I may be prolix," she said quietly. "Forgive me if I am, but I want you
to understand me. I am beginning to see that I have adopted a wrong
position with regard to a certain matter which we have discussed at your
rooms and at Argueil. I want to reopen the subject from an entirely
different point of view."

"You mean," I said, "the subject of Isobel?"

"Of course! The first time I came to see you," Lady Delahaye said,
looking up at me with penitence in her blue eyes, "I was horrid. I am
very, very sorry. I did not know then who Isobel was, and I was angry
with everyone--with poor Will, with the child herself, and with you. You
must forgive me! I was very much upset."

"I will never think of it again," I promised her.

"Then, again, at Argueil," she continued, "I adopted a wrong tone
altogether. Yours was the more natural, the more human point of view.
There are certain very grave reasons why the child would be very much
better out of the world. A life of seclusion would, I believe, in the
end, when she is able to understand, be the happiest for her. And
yet--she ought to have her chance!"

"I am glad that you admit that," I murmured.

"Now I am going to ask you something," she went on. "You will not be
angry with me, I am sure. Do you think that a girl of Isobel's age and
appearance is in her proper place in bachelor quarters, living with
three young men?"

"I do not," I admitted. "I look upon it as a most regrettable necessity.
Still, you must not make it sound worse than it is. We have a
housekeeper who is the very essence of respectability, and Isobel is
under her care."

"I want to make it no longer a necessity," Lady Delahaye said, smiling.
"I want to relieve you and your conscience at the same time of a very
awkward incubus. Listen! This is what I propose. Let Isobel come to me
for a year! I shall treat her as my own daughter. She will have plenty
of amusement. There are the theatres, and no end of scratch
entertainments where one can take a girl of her age who is too young for
society. She will mix with young people of her own age, she will have
every advantage which, to speak frankly, must be denied to her in her
present position. At the end of that year I shall tell her her history.
It is a sad and a miserable one. You may as well know that now. She can
then take her choice of the convent, or any other mode of life which
between us we can make possible for her. And I am very much inclined to
believe, Arnold, that she will choose the convent."

"Is there any real reason, Lady Delahaye?" I asked, "why you should not
tell me now what you propose to tell Isobel in a year's time? There have
been so many mysterious circumstances in connection with this affair
that it is hard to come to any decision when one is ignorant of so
much."

"There are reasons--grave reasons--why I can tell you nothing," she
answered. "Indeed, I would like to, Arnold," she continued earnestly,
"but my position is a very difficult one. I think that you might trust
me a little."

"I am sure that you wish to do what is best," I said, a little
awkwardly, "but you must see that my position also is a little
difficult. I, too, am under a promise!"

Her eyes flashed indignantly.

"To the man who killed my husband! The man whom you are shielding!" she
exclaimed indignantly. "I think that you might at least have the grace
to leave him out of the conversation."

"I have never introduced him," I answered. "I do not wish to do so. As
to shielding him, I have not the slightest idea as to his whereabouts.
Be reasonable, Lady Delahaye. I----"

"Reasonable," she interrupted. "That is what I want you to be! Ask
yourself a plain question. Which is the more fitting place for her--my
house, or your chambers?"

She pointed to Isobel, who was leaning back in her chair laughing
heartily into the face of a young man who was bending over her. By
chance she looked just then older even than her years, and Arthur's glum
figure, too, in the background was suggestive.

"Your house, without a doubt," I answered gravely, "if it is the house
of a friend."

Her satin slipper beat the ground impatiently. She looked at me with a
frown upon her face.

"Do you believe, then," she asked, "that I am her enemy? Does my offer
sound like it?"

"Indeed, no," I answered, rising. "I am going to give Isobel herself a
chance of accepting or declining it."

I crossed the room. Isobel, seeing me come, rose at once.

"Is it time for us to go?" she asked.

"Not quite!" I answered. "Go and talk to Lady Delahaye for a few
minutes. She has something to say to you."

Isobel made a little grimace, so slight that only I could notice it, and
took my place upon the sofa. I talked for a few minutes with some of the
men whom I knew, and then Arthur touched me on the arm.

"Can't we go, Arnold?" he exclaimed, a little peevishly. "I've never
been so bored in all my life."

"We must wait for a few minutes," I answered. "Isobel is talking to Lady
Delahaye."

"I don't know a soul here, and I'm dying for a cigarette."

I pointed through the curtain to the anteroom adjoining.

"You can smoke in there," I remarked. "I'll introduce you to Miss
Ernston if you like, the girl who drives the big Panhard in the park. I
heard her say that she was going in there to get one of Lady Delahaye's
Russian cigarettes!"

Arthur shook his head. He was covertly watching Isobel, sitting on the
sofa.

"I'll go in and have the cigarette," he said, "but, Arnold, there's no
fresh move on, is there? You're looking pretty glum!"

I shook my head.

"No, there is nothing exactly fresh," I answered. "Come along and smoke,
will you! I want Lady Delahaye and Isobel to have their talk out."

He followed me reluctantly into the smaller of Lady Delahaye's
reception-rooms, where we smoked for a few minutes in silence. Then
Mabel Ernston stopped to speak to me for a moment, and I introduced
Arthur. I left them talking motors, and stepped back into the other
room. Isobel had already risen to her feet, and Lady Delahaye was
looking at her curiously as though uncertain how far she had been
successful. She saw me enter, and beckoned me to approach.

"I think that Isobel is tired," she said, in a tone which was meant to
be kind. "She has promised to come and see me again."

Isobel looked at me. Her mouth, which a few minutes before had been
curved with smiles, was straight now, and resolutely set. She was
distinctly paler, and her manner seemed to have acquired a new gravity.
I must confess that my first impulse was one of relief. Isobel had not
found Lady Delahaye's offer, then, so wonderfully attractive.

"Do you mind coming home now, Arnold?" she asked. "I did not know that
it was so late."

I saw Lady Delahaye's face darken at her simple use of my Christian
name, and the touch of her fingers upon my arm. Arthur heard our voices,
and came to us at once. So we took leave of our hostess, and turned
homewards.

For a long time we walked almost in silence. Then Isobel turned towards
me with a new gravity in her face, and an unusual hesitation in her
tone.

"Arnold," she said, "Lady Delahaye has been pointing out to me one or
two things which I had not thought of before. I suppose she meant to be
kind. I suppose it is right that I should know. But----" her voice
trembled--"I wish she had not told me."

"Lady Delahaye is an interfering old cat!" Arthur exclaimed viciously.
"Don't take any notice of her, Isobel."

"But I must know," she answered, "whether the things which she said were
true."

"They were probably exaggerations," I said cheerfully; "but let us hear
them, at any rate."

"She said," Isobel continued, looking steadily in front of her, "that
you were all three very poor indeed, and that I had no right to come and
live with you, and make you poorer still, when I had a home offered me
elsewhere. She said that I should disturb your whole life, that you
would have to give up many things which were a pleasure to you, and you
would not be able to succeed so well with your work, as you would have
to write altogether for money. And she said that I should be grown up
soon, and ought to live where there are women; and when I told her about
Mrs. Burdett she laughed unpleasantly, and said that she did not count
at all. And that is why--she wants me--to go there!"

Again the shadow of tragedy gleamed in the child's white face. Her face
was strained, her eyes had lost the deep softness of their colouring,
and there lurked once more in their depths the terror of nameless
things. To me the sight of her like this was so piteous that I wasted
not a moment in endeavouring to reassure her.

"Rubbish!" I exclaimed cheerfully. "Sheer and unadulterated rubbish! We
are not rich, Isobel, but the trifle the care of you will cost us
amounts to nothing at all. We are willing and able to take charge of you
as well as we can. You know that!"

Ah! She drew a long sigh of relief. It was wonderful how her face
changed.

"But why is Lady Delahaye so cruel--why is she so anxious that I should
not stay with you?" she said.

I laughed.

"Lady Delahaye is mysterious," I answered. "I have come to the
conclusion, Isobel, that you must be a princess in disguise, and that
Lady Delahaye wants to claim all the rewards for having taken charge of
you!"

"Don't be silly!" she laughed. "Princesses are not brought up at Madame
Richard's, without relations or friends to visit them, and no pocket
money."

"Nevertheless," I answered, "when I consider the number of people who
are interested in you, and Lady Delahaye's extraordinary persistence, I
am inclined to stick to my theory. We shall look upon you, Isobel, as an
investment, and some day you shall reward us all."

Her hand slipped into mine. Her eyes were soft enough now.

"Dear friend," she murmured, "I think that it is my heart only which
will reward you--my great, great gratitude. I am afraid of Lady
Delahaye, Arnold. There are things in her eyes when she looks at me
which make me shiver. Do not let us go there again, please!"

Arthur broke in impetuously.

"You shall go nowhere you don't want to, Isobel. Arnold and I will see
to that."

"And--about the other thing--she mentioned," Isobel began.

"She was right and wrong," I answered. "Of course, it would be better
for you if one of us had a sister or a mother living with us, but Mrs.
Burdett has always seemed to us like a mother, and I think--that it will
be all right," I concluded a little lamely. "We need not worry about
that, at present at any rate. Come, we've had a dull afternoon, and I
sold a story yesterday. Let's go to Fasolas, and have a half-crown
dinner."

"I'm on," Arthur declared. "We'll go and fetch Allan."

"You dear!" Isobel exclaimed. "I shall wear my new hat!"




Book II




CHAPTER I


"I have no doubt," Mabane said gloomily, "that Arthur is right. He ought
to know more about it than old fogies like you and me, Arnold. We had
the money, and we ought to have insisted upon it. You gave way far too
easily."

"That's all very well," I protested, "but I don't take in a woman's
fashion paper, and Isobel assured us that the hat was all right. She
looks well enough in it, surely!"

"Isobel looks ripping!" Arthur declared, "but then, she looks ripping in
anything. All the same, the hat's old-fashioned. You look at the hats
those girls are wearing, who've just come in--flat, bunchy things, with
flowers under the brim. That's the style just now."

"Isobel shall have one, then," I declared. "We will take her West
to-morrow. We can afford it very well."

She came up to us beaming. She was a year older, and her skirts were a
foot longer. Her figure was, perhaps, a shade more developed, and her
manner a little more assured. In other respects she was unchanged.

"What are you two old dears worrying about?" she exclaimed lightly. "You
have the air of conspirators. No secrets from me, please. What is it all
about?"

"We are lamenting the antiquity of your hat," Mabane answered gravely.
"Arthur assures us that it is out of date. It ought to be flat and
bunchy, and it isn't!"

"Geese!" she exclaimed lightly, "both of you! Arthur, I'm ashamed of
you. You may know something about motors, but you are very ignorant
indeed about hats. Come along, all of you, and gaze at my miniatures. I
am longing to see how they look framed."

"As regards the hat----" I began.

"I will not hear anything more about it," she interrupted, laughing. "Of
course, if you don't like to be seen with me--oh! Why, look! look!"

We had stopped before a case of miniatures. In the front row were two
somewhat larger than the others, and Isobel's first serious attempts.
Behind each was stuck a little ivory board bearing the magic word
"Sold."

"Sold!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

"It may be a mistake," I said slowly.

Mabane and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that, though the
miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect,
and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all
proportion to their merit. It must surely be a mistake! We followed
Isobel across the room. A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a
desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger.
Isobel had halted in front of him. There was a delicate flush of pink on
her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.

"Are my miniatures sold, please?" she exclaimed. "My name is Miss de
Sorrens. They have a small ivory board just behind them which says
'Sold.'"

The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of
his spectacles.

"What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your
miniatures?" he enquired.

"Miss Isobel de Sorrens," she answered breathlessly, "and my miniatures
are number two hundred and seven and eight--a portrait of an elderly
lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine--a child."

The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very
leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.

"Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens," he said, "for the reserve
price placed upon them--twenty guineas each. The money will be paid to
you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom."

"Please tell me who bought them," she begged. "I want to be quite sure
that there is no mistake."

"There is certainly no mistake," he answered, smiling. "The first one
was bought by--let me see--a nobleman in the suite of the Archduchess of
Bristlaw, the Baron von Leibingen. I believe that her Highness is
proposing to visit the Exhibition this afternoon. The other purchaser
paid cash, but refused his name. Ah! Excuse me!"

He rose hastily, and moved towards the door. A little group of people
were entering, before whom the bystanders gave way with all that respect
which the British public invariably displays for Royalty. Isobel watched
them with frank and eager interest. Mabane and I moved over to her side.

"Is it true?" I asked her.

"He says so," she answered, still a little bewildered. "Arnold, can you
imagine it? Forty guineas! I--I----"

There followed an amazing interlude. The little party of newcomers,
before whom everyone was obsequiously giving way, came face to face with
us. Mabane and I stepped back at once, but Isobel remained motionless.
An extraordinary change had come over her. Her eyes seemed fastened upon
the woman who was the central figure of the little procession, and the
girl who walked by her side. Someone whispered to her to move back. She
took no notice. She seemed as though she had not heard. Royalty raised
its lorgnettes, and dropped them with a crash upon the polished wood
floor. Then those who were quick to understand knew that something lay
beneath this unusual awkwardness.

The manager of the Gallery, who, catalogue in hand, had been prepared
personally to conduct the Royal party round, looked about him, wondering
as to the cause of the _contretemps_. His eyes fell upon Isobel.

"Please step back," he whispered to her, angrily. "Don't you see that
the Princess is here, and the Archduchess of Bristlaw? Clear the way,
please!"

The manager was a small man, and Isobel's eyes travelled over his head.
She did not seem to hear him speak. The Archduchess recovered herself.
She took the shattered lorgnettes from the hand of her lady-in-waiting.
She pointed to Isobel.

"Who is this young person?" she asked calmly. "Does she wish to speak to
me?"

A wave of colour swept into Isobel's cheeks. She drew back at once.

"I beg your pardon, Madame," she said. But even when she had rejoined my
side her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the Archduchess and her
companion.

There was a general movement forward. One of the ladies in the suite,
however, lingered behind. Our eyes met, and Lady Delahaye held out her
hand.

"Your ward is growing," she murmured, "in inches, if not in manners.
When are you going to engage a chaperon for her?"

"When I think it necessary, Lady Delahaye," I answered, with a bow.

"You artists have--such strange ideas," she remarked, smiling up at me.
"You wish Isobel to remain a child of nature, perhaps. Yet you must
admit that a few lessons in deportment would be of advantage."

"To the Archduchess, apparently," I answered. "One does not often see a
great lady so embarrassed."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders. She dropped her voice a little.

"Are we never to meet without quarrelling, Arnold?" she whispered,
looking up into my eyes. "It used not to be like this."

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "it is not my fault. We seem to have taken
opposite sides in a game which I for one do not understand. Twice during
the last six months you have made attempts which can scarcely be called
honourable to take Isobel from us. Our rooms are continually watched. We
dare not let the child go out alone. Now this woman from Madame
Richard's has come to live in the same building. She, too, watches."

"It is only the beginning, Arnold," she said quietly. "I told you more
than a year ago that you were interfering in graver concerns than you
imagined. Why don't you be wise, and let the child go? The care of her
will bring nothing but trouble upon you!"

Her words struck home more surely than she imagined, for in my heart had
lain dormant for months the fear of what was to come, the shadow which
was already creeping over our lives. Nevertheless, I answered her
lightly.

"You know my obstinacy of old, Lady Delahaye," I said. "We are wasting
words, I think."

She shrugged her shoulders and passed on. Mabane touched me on the
shoulder.

"Isobel would like to go," he said. "Arthur and she are at the door
already."

I turned to leave the place. We were already in the passage which led
into Bond Street, when I felt myself touched upon the shoulder. A tall,
fair young man, with his hair brushed back, and very blue eyes, who had
been in the suite of the Archduchess, addressed me.

"Pardon me," he said, "but you are Mr. Arnold Greatson, I believe?"

I acknowledged the fact.

"The Archduchess of Bristlaw begs that you will spare her a moment. She
will not detain you longer."

I turned to Mabane.

"Take Isobel home," I said. "I will follow presently."

We re-entered the Gallery. The majority of the Royal party were busy
examining the miniatures. The Archduchess was talking earnestly to Lady
Delahaye in a remote corner. My guide led me directly to her.

"Her Highness permits me to present you," he said to me. "This is Mr.
Arnold Greatson, your Highness."

The Archduchess acknowledged my bow graciously.

"You are the Mr. Arnold Greatson who writes such charming stories," she
said. "Yes, it is so, is it not?"

"Your Highness is very kind," I answered.

"I learn," she continued, "that you are also the guardian of the young
lady who gave us all such a start. Pardon me, but you surely seem a
little young for such a post."

"The circumstances, your Highness," I answered, "were a little
exceptional."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes, so I have heard. Lady Delahaye has been telling me the story.
I understand that you have never been able to discover the child's
parentage. That is very strange!"

"There are other things in connection with my ward, your Highness," I
said, "which seem to me equally inexplicable."

"Yes? I am very interested. Will you tell me what they are?"

"By all means," I answered. "I refer to the fact that though no one has
come forward openly to claim the child, indirect efforts to induce her
to leave us are continually being made by persons who seem to desire
anonymity. Whenever she has been alone in the streets she has been
accosted under various pretexts."

The Archduchess was politely surprised.

"But surely you are aware," she remarked, "of the source of some at
least of these attempts?"

"Madame Richard," I said, "the principal of the convent where Isobel was
educated, seems particularly anxious to have her return there."

The Archduchess nodded her head slowly.

"Well," she said, "is that so much to be wondered at? Even we who are of
the world might consider--you must pardon me, Mr. Greatson, if I speak
frankly--the girl's present position an undesirable one. How do you
suppose, then, that the principal of a convent boarding-school, whose
sister, I believe, is a nun, would be likely to regard the same thing?"

"Your Highness knows, then, of the convent?" I remarked.

The Archduchess lifted her eyebrows lightly. Her gesture seemed intended
to convey to me the fact that she had not sent for me to answer my
questions. I remained unabashed, however, and waited for her reply.
Several curious facts were beginning to group themselves together in my
mind.

"I have heard of the place," she said coldly. "I believe it to be an
excellent institution. I sent for you, Mr. Greatson, not, however, to
discuss such matters, but solely to ask for information as to the
child's parentage. It seems that you are unable to give me this."

"Lady Delahaye knows as much--probably more--than I," I answered.

It seemed to me that the Archduchess and Lady Delahaye exchanged quick
glances. I affected, however, to have noticed nothing.

"I will be quite candid with you, Mr. Greatson," the Archduchess
continued. "My interest in the girl arises, of course, from the
wonderful likeness to my own daughter, and to other members of my
family. Your ward herself was obviously struck with it. I must confess
that I, too, received something of a shock."

"I think," I answered, "that it was apparent to all of us."

The Archduchess coughed. For a Royal personage, she seemed to find some
little difficulty in proceeding.

"The history of our family is naturally a matter of common knowledge,"
she said slowly. "Any connection with it, therefore, which this child
might be able to claim would be of that order which you, as a man of the
world, would doubtless understand. Nevertheless, I am sufficiently
interested in her to be inclined to take any steps which might be
necessary for her welfare. I propose to set some enquiries on foot.
Providing that the result of them be as I suspect, I presume you would
have no objection to relinquish the child to my protection?"

"Your Highness," I answered, "I could not answer such a question as that
without consideration, or without consulting Isobel herself."

The Archduchess frowned upon me, and I was at once made conscious that I
had fallen under her displeasure. I fancy, however, that I appeared as I
felt, quite unimpressed.

"I cannot understand any hesitation whatsoever upon your part, Mr.
Greatson," she said. "Under my care the child's future would be
fittingly provided for. Her position with you must be, at the best, an
equivocal one."

"Your Highness," I answered steadily, "my friends and I are handicapped
perhaps by our sex, but we have a housekeeper who is an old family
servant, and a model of respectability. In all ways and at all times we
have treated Isobel as a very dear sister. The position may seem an
equivocal one--to a certain order of minds. Those who know us, I may
venture to say, see nothing harmful to the child in our guardianship."

The Archduchess stared at me, and I gathered that she was not used to
anything save implicit obedience from those to whom she made
suggestions. She stared, and then she laughed softly. There was more
than a spice of malice in her mirth.

"Which of you three young men are going to fall in love with her?" she
asked bluntly. "You call her a child, but she is almost a woman, and she
is beautiful. She will be very beautiful."

"Your Highness," I answered coldly, "it is a matter which we have not as
yet permitted ourselves to consider."

The Archduchess was displeased with me, and she took no further pains to
hide her displeasure.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, with a little wave of dismissal, "for the
present I have no more to say."

She turned her back upon me, and I at once left the Gallery.




CHAPTER II


I walked home with but one thought in my mind. The Archduchess had put
into words--very plain, blunt words--what as yet I had scarcely dared
harbour in my mind as a fugitive idea. She had done me in that respect
good service. She had brought to a sudden crisis an issue which it was
folly any longer to evade. I meant to speak now, and have done with it.
I walked through the busy streets a dreaming man. It was for the last
time. Henceforth, even the dream must pass.

I found Mabane and Arthur alone, for which I was sufficiently thankful.
There was no longer any excuse for delay. Mabane had taken possession of
the easy-chair, and was smoking his largest pipe. Arthur was walking
restlessly up and down the room. Evidently they had been discussing
between them the events of the afternoon, for there was a sudden silence
when I entered, and they both waited eagerly for me to speak. I closed
the door carefully behind me, and took a cigarette from the box on my
desk.

"What did the Archduchess want?" Arthur asked bluntly.

"I will tell you all that she said presently," I answered. "In effect,
it was the same as the others. She, too, wanted Isobel!"

"Shall we have to give her up?" Arthur demanded.

"We will discuss that another time," I said. "I am glad to find that you
are both here. There is another matter, concerning which I think that we
ought to come to an understanding as soon as possible. It has been in my
mind for a long while."

"About Isobel?" Arthur interrupted.

"About Isobel!" I assented.

They were both attentive. Mabane's expression was purely negative.
Arthur, on the other hand, was distinctly nervous. I think that from the
first he had some idea what it was that I wanted to say.

"Isobel, when she came to us little more than a year ago," I continued,
"was a child. We have always treated her, and I believe thought of her,
as a child. It was perhaps a daring experiment to have brought her here
at all, and yet I am inclined to think that, under the circumstances, it
was the best thing for her, and, from another point of view, an
excellent thing for us!"

"Excellent! Why, it has made all the difference in the world," Arthur
declared vigorously.

"I see that you follow me," I agreed. "Her coming seems to have steadied
us up all round. The changes which we were obliged to make in our manner
of living have all been for the better. I am afraid that we were
drifting, Allan and I, at any rate into a somewhat objectless sort of
existence, and our work was beginning to show the signs of it. The
coming of Isobel seems to have changed all that. You, Allan, know that
you have never done better work in your life than during the last year.
Your portrait of her was an inspiration. Some of those smaller studies
show signs of a talent which I think has surprised everyone, except
Arthur and myself, who knew what you could do when you settled down to
it. I, too, have been more successful, as you know. I have done better
work, and more of it. You agree with me so far, Allan?"

"There is no doubt at all about it," Mabane said slowly. "There has been
a different atmosphere about the place since the child came, and we have
thrived in it. We are all better, much the better, for her coming!"

"I am glad that you appreciate this, Allan," I said. "This sort of thing
is rather hard to put into words, but I believe that you fellows
understand exactly what I mean. We have had to amuse her, and in doing
so we have developed simpler and better tastes for ourselves. We've had
to give up a lot of things, and a lot of friends we've been much better
without."

"It's true, every word of it, Arnold," Mabane admitted, knocking out the
ashes from his pipe. "We've chucked the music-halls for the theatres,
and our lazy slacking Sundays, with a night at the club afterwards, for
long wholesome days in the country--very jolly days, too. We're better
men in our small way for the child's coming, Arnold. You can take that
for granted. Now, go on with what you have to say. I suppose this is all
a prelude to something or other."

Even then I hesitated, for my task was not an easy one, and all the
while Arthur, who maintained an uneasy silence, was watching me
furtively. It was as though he knew from the first what it was that I
was leading up to, and I seemed to be conscious already of his
passionate though unspoken resistance.

"It was a child," I said at last, "whom we took into our lives. To-day
she is a woman!"

Then Arthur could keep silence no longer. There was a pink flush in his
cheeks, which were still as smooth as a girl's, but the passion in his
tone was the passion of a man.

"You are not thinking, Arnold--you would not be so mad as to think of
giving her up to any of these people?" he exclaimed. "They are her
enemies, all of them. I am sure of it!"

"I am coming to that presently," I went on. "You know what happened this
afternoon? You saw the likeness, the amazing likeness, between Isobel
and that other girl, the daughter of the Archduchess. The Archduchess
was herself very much impressed with it. Without a doubt she knows
Isobel's history. She went so far as to tell me that she believed Isobel
to be morganatically connected with her own family, the House of
Waldenburg! She offered to take her under her own protection!"

"You did not consent!" Arthur exclaimed.

"I neither consented nor absolutely refused," I answered. "It was not a
matter to be decided on the spur of the moment. But the more I think of
it, the more I am puzzled. Madame Richard wants Isobel. She was not
satisfied with our refusal to give her up. She sent that messenger of
hers back with fresh offers, and when again we refused, the woman takes
up her quarters here, always spying upon us, always accosting Isobel on
any excuse. Madame Richard may be a very good woman, but I have seen and
spoken with her, and I do not for one moment believe that her
extraordinary persistence is for Isobel's sake alone. Then Lady Delahaye
has never ceased from worrying us. She has tried threats, persuasions
and entreaties. She has tried by every means in her power to induce us
to give up the child to her. And now we have the Archduchess to deal
with, and it seems to me that we are getting very near the heart of the
matter. The Archduchess is a daughter of one of the Royal Houses of
Europe, and Major Delahaye was once _attache_ at her father's Court.
Then there is Grooten, the man who shot Delahaye. His interest in her is
so strong that he risks his life and commits a crime to save her from a
man whom he believes to be a source of danger to her. He sends her money
every quarter, which, as you know, we have never touched--it stands in
her name if ever she should require it. Grooten is a man into whose
charge we could not possibly give her, and yet of all these people he is
the only one whom I would trust--the only one whom I feel instinctively
means well by her. Madame Richard wants her, Lady Delahaye wants her,
and behind them both there is the Archduchess, who also wants her. I
have thought this matter over, and, so far as I am concerned, I have
decided----"

"Not to give her up to any of them!" Arthur exclaimed sharply.

"To give her up to no one who is not prepared to go into court and
establish a legal claim," I continued. "It is very simple, and I think
very reasonable. When she leaves us, it shall be to take up an
accredited and definite station in life. The time may come at any
moment. We must always be prepared for it. But until it does, we will
not even parley any longer with these people who come to us and hint at
mysterious things."

Arthur wrung my hand. He was apparently much relieved, and he did not
know what was coming.

"Arnold, you are a brick!" he exclaimed. "That's sound
common-sense--every word you've uttered. Let them prove their claim to
her."

"I agree with every word you have spoken," Allan said quietly, in
response to a look from me. "The child is at least safe with us, and she
is not wasting her time. She has talent, and she has application. I, for
my part, shall be very sorry indeed when the time comes, as I suppose it
will come some day, for her to go."

Then I mustered up my courage, and said that which I had known from the
first would be difficult.

"There is one thing more," I said, "and I want to say it to you now. It
may seem to you both unnecessary. Perhaps it is. Still, it is better
that we should come to an understanding about it. A year has passed
since Isobel, the child, came to us. To-day she is a woman. If we still
keep her with us there must be a bond, a covenant between us, and our
honour must stand pledged to keep it. I think that you both know very
well what I mean. I hope that you will both agree with me."

I paused for a moment, but I received no encouragement from either of
them. They were both silent, and Arthur's eyes were questioning mine
fiercely. I addressed myself more particularly to him.

"Allan and I are elderly persons compared with you, Arthur," I said,
"but we might still be described at a stretch as young men. If we decide
to remain Isobel's guardians, there is a further and a deeper duty
devolving upon us than the obvious one of treating her with all respect.
It is possible that she might come to feel a preference for one of us--a
sense of gratitude, the natural sentiment of her coming womanhood, even
the fact of continual propinquity might encourage it. Isobel is
charming; she will be beautiful. The position, if any one of us relaxed
in the slightest degree, might become critical. You must understand what
I mean, I am sure, even if I am not expressing it very clearly. Isobel
sees few, if any, other men. It is possible, it is almost certain, that
she belongs to a class whose position and ideas are far removed from
ours. There must be no sentimental relations established between her and
any one of us. We are her brothers, she is our sister. So it must remain
while she is under our charge. This must be agreed upon between us."

There was a dead, almost an ominous, silence. Mabane was standing with
his arms folded, and his face turned a little away. I appealed first to
him.

"Allan," I said, "you agree with me?"

"Absolutely!" he answered. "I agree with every word you have said."

I turned to Arthur.

"And you, Arthur?"

He did not at once reply. The colour was coming and going in his cheeks,
and he was playing nervously with his watchchain. When he raised his
eyes to mine, the slight belligerency of his earlier manner was more
clearly defined.

"I think," he said, "that there is another side to the question. Isobel
is the sort of girl whom fellows are bound to notice. Besides, being so
jolly good-looking, she is such ripping good form, and that sort of
thing. What you are proposing, Arnold, is simply that we should stand on
one side altogether and leave Isobel for any other fellow who happens to
come along."

"It scarcely amounts to that," I answered. "No other man is likely to
see much of her while she is under our care. Afterwards, of course, the
conditions are different. Our covenant, the covenant to which I am
asking you to agree, comes to an end when she leaves us."

"You see," Arthur protested, "it is a little different, isn't it, for
you fellows? Not that I'm comparing myself with you, of course, in any
sort of way. You're both heaps cleverer than I am, and all that, but
Isobel and I are nearer the same age, and we've been about together such
a lot, motoring and all that, and had such good times. You understand
what I mean, don't you? Of course, that sort of thing, that sort of
thing--you know, brings a fellow and a girl together so, liking the same
things, and being about the same age. It isn't quite like that with you
two, is it now?"

Again there was silence. Mabane had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth,
and was looking steadfastly into the bowl. As for me, I found it wholly
impossible to analyse my sensations. All the time Arthur was looking
eagerly from one to the other of us. I recovered myself with an effort,
and answered him.

"We will not dispute the position with you, Arthur," I said quietly. "We
will admit all that you say. We will admit, therefore, that by all
natural laws you are the one on whom the burden of keeping this covenant
must fall most heavily. That fact may make it a little harder for you
than for us, but it does not alter the position in any way. There must
be no attempt at sentiment between Isobel and any one of us. If by any
chance the opening should come from her, it must be ignored and
discouraged."

"I can't for the life of me see why," Arthur declared. "And I--well,
it's no use beating about the bush. Isobel is the only girl in the world
I could ever look at. I am fond of her! I can't help it! I love her!
There!"

Mabane mercifully took up the burden of speech.

"Have you said anything to her?" he asked.

"No."

"Not a word?"

"Not a word," Arthur declared. "She is too young. She has not begun to
think about those things yet. But she is wonderful, and I love her. It
is all very well for you two," he continued earnestly. "You are both
over thirty, and confirmed bachelors. I'm only just twenty-four, and
I've never cared for a girl a snap of the fingers yet. I don't care any
more about knocking about. Of course, I've done a bit at it like
everyone else, but Isobel has knocked all that out of me. I should be
quite content to settle down to-morrow!"

I tried to put myself in his place, to enter for a moment into his point
of view. Yet I am afraid that I must have seemed very unsympathetic.

"Arthur," I said, "I am sorry for you, but it won't do. I fancy that
before long she will be removed from us altogether. For her sake, and
the sake of our own honour, no word of what you have told us must pass
your lips. Unless you can promise that----"

I hesitated. Arthur had risen to his feet. The colour had mounted to his
temples, his eyes were bright with anger.

"I will not promise it," he declared. "I love Isobel, and very soon I
mean to tell her so."

"Then it must be under another roof," I answered. "If you will not
promise to keep absolutely silent until we at least know exactly what
her parentage is, you must leave us."

Arthur took up his hat.

"Very well," he said shortly. "I will send for my things to-morrow."

He left the room without another word to either of us.




CHAPTER III


"In diplomacy," the Baron remarked blandly, "as also, I believe, in
affairs of commerce, the dinner-table is frequently chosen as a fitting
place for the commencement of delicate negotiations. For a bargain--no!
But when three men--take ourselves, for instance--have a matter of some
importance to discuss, I can conceive no better opportunity for the
preliminary--skirmishing, shall I say?--than the present."

I raised my glass, and looked thoughtfully at the pale amber wine
bubbling up from the stem.

"From a certain point of view," I answered, "I entirely agree with you.
Yet you must remember that the host has always the advantage."

"In the present case," the Baron said with a smile, "that amounts to
nothing, for you practically gave me my answer before we sat down to
dinner. If I am able to induce you to change your mind--well, so much
the better. If not--well, I can have nothing to complain of."

"I am glad," I answered, "that you appreciate our position. With regard
to the present custody of the child, which I take it is what you want to
discuss with us, our minds are practically made up. My friend and I have
both agreed that we will continue the charge of her until she is claimed
by someone who is in a position to do so openly--someone, in short, who
has a legal right."

The Baron nodded gravely.

"An excellent decision," he said. "No one could possibly quarrel with
it. Yet it is a privilege to be able to tell you some facts which may
perhaps affect your point of view. I can explain to you _why_ this open
claim is not made."

"We are here," I answered, "to listen to whatever you may have to say."

We--Allan and I--were dining with the Baron at Claridge's. An
appointment, which he had begged us to make, had been changed into a
dinner invitation at his earnest request. There was a likelihood, he
told us, of his being summoned abroad at any moment, and he was
particularly anxious not to leave the hotel pending the arrival of a
cablegram. So far his demeanour had been courtesy and consideration
itself, but under the man's geniality and almost excessive _bonhomie_
both Allan and myself were conscious of a certain nervous impatience,
only partially concealed. Whatever proposal he might have to make to us,
our acceptance of it was without doubt a matter of great importance to
him. The more we realized this, the more we wondered.

"I only wish," he said with emphasis, "that it was within my power to
lay the cards upon the table before you, to tell you the whole truth. I
do not think then that you would hesitate for a single second. But that
I cannot do. The honour of a great house, Mr. Greatson, is involved in
this matter, into which you have been so strangely drawn. I must leave
blanks in my story which you must fill in for yourselves, you and Mr.
Mabane. There are things which I may not--dare not--tell you. If I
could, you would wonder no longer that those who desire to take over the
charge of the child wish to do so without publicity, and without any
appeal to the courts."

"The Archduchess," I remarked, "gave me some hint as to the nature of
these difficulties."

The Baron emptied his glass and called for another bottle of wine. Then
he looked carefully around him, a quite unnecessary precaution, for our
table was in a remote corner of the room, and there were very few
dining.

"It is no longer," he said, "a matter of surmise with us as to who the
child you call Isobel de Sorrens really is. She is of the House of
Waldenburg. She carries her descent written in her face, a hall-mark no
one could deny. Upon the Archduchess and others of her great family must
rest always the shadow of a grave stigma so long as the child remains in
the hands of strangers, an alien from her own country. The Archduchess
wishes at once, and quietly, to assume the charge of her. She is
conscious of your services; she feels that you have probably saved the
child from a fate which it is not easy to contemplate calmly. She
authorizes me, therefore, to treat with you in the most generous
fashion."

"That is a phrase," I remarked, "which I do not altogether understand."

"Later," the Baron said, with a meaning look, "I will make myself clear.
In the meantime, let me recommend this souffle. Mr. Mabane, you are
drinking nothing. Would you prefer your wine a shade colder?"

"Not for me," Allan declared. "I prefer champagne at its natural
temperature; the wine is far too good to have its flavour frozen out of
it. Apropos of what you were saying, Baron, there is one question which
I should like to ask you. Why was Major Delahaye sent to St. Argueil for
Isobel, and what was he supposed to do with her?"

I do not think that the Baron liked the question. He hesitated for
several moments before he answered it.

"Major Delahaye was not sent," he said. "He went on his own account. He
was the only person who knew the child's whereabouts."

"And what do you suppose his object was in bringing her away from the
convent?" Allan persisted.

"I do not know," the Baron answered. "All I can say is that it pleases
me vastly more to find the child in your keeping than in his."

"Was the man who shot him," I asked, "concerned in the child's earlier
history?"

"I cannot place him at all," the Baron answered. "I should imagine that
his quarrel with Major Delahaye was a personal one, and had no bearing
upon the child. Few men had more enemies than Delahaye. One does not
wish to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bully and a brute all his
days."

A servant in plain black livery brought a sealed note to our host, and
stood respectfully by his side while he read it. It obviously consisted
of but a few words, yet the Baron continued to hold it in front of him
for nearly a minute. Finally, he crushed it in his hand, and dismissed
the servant.

"There is no answer," he said. "I shall wait upon her Highness in an
hour."

Our dinner was over. Both Mabane and myself had declined dessert. Our
host rose.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have ordered coffee in the smoking-room. The
head-waiter has told me of some wonderful brandy, and I have some cigars
which I am anxious for you to try. Will you come this way?"

We were the only occupants of the smoking-room. The Baron appropriated a
corner, and left us to fetch the cigars. Mabane lit a cigarette and
leaned back in an easy-chair.

"It seems to me, Arnold," he said, "that you are like the man who found
what he went out for to see. You wanted tragedy--and you came very near
it. I do not quite see what the end of all these things will be. Our
host----"

"There is a disappointment in store for him, I fancy," I interrupted.
"He is a very faithful servant of the Archduchess, and he has worked
hard for her. From his point of view his arguments are reasonable
enough. All that he says is plausible--and yet--one feels that there is
something behind it all. Allan, I don't trust one of these people! I
can't!"

"Nor I," Allan answered softly, for the Baron had already entered the
room.

He brought with him some wonderful cabanas, and immediately afterwards
coffee and liqueurs were served. The moment the waiter had disappeared,
he threw off all reserve.

"Come," he said, "I am no longer your host. We meet here on equal terms.
I have an offer to make to you which I think you will find astonishing.
The fact is, her Highness is anxious to run no risk of any resurrection
of a certain scandal. She has commissioned me to beg your
acceptance--you and your friend--of these," he laid down two separate
pieces of paper upon the table. "She wishes to relieve you as soon as
possible to-night, if you can arrange it--of the care of a certain young
lady. There need be no hesitation about your acceptance. Royalty, as you
know, has special privileges so far as regards bounty, and her Highness
appreciates most heartily the care and kindness which the child has
received at your hands."

I stared at my piece of paper. It was a cheque for five thousand pounds.
I looked at Mabane's. It was a cheque for a like amount. Then I looked
up at the Baron. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead. He
was watching us as a man might watch one in whose hands lay the power of
life or death. I resisted my first impulse, which was simply to tear the
cheque in two. I simply pushed it back across the table.

"Baron," I said, "if this is meant as a recompense for any kindness
which we have shown to a friendless child, it is unnecessary and
unacceptable. If it is meant," I added more slowly, "for a bribe, it is
not enough."

"Call it what you will," he answered quickly. "Name your own price for
the child--brought here--to-night."

"No price that you or your mistress could pay, Baron," I answered
quietly. "I told you my ultimatum two hours ago. The child remains with
us until she is claimed by one who has a legal right, and is not afraid
to invoke the law."

"But I have explained the position," the Baron protested. "You must
understand why we cannot bring such a matter as this into the courts."

"Your story is ingenious, and, pardon me, it may be true," I answered.
"We require proof!"

The Baron's face was not pleasant to look upon.

"You doubt my word, sir--my word, and the word of the Archduchess?"

I rose to my feet. Mabane followed my example. I felt that a storm was
pending.

"Baron," I said, "there are some causes which make strange demands upon
the best of us. A man may lie to save a woman's honour, or, if he be a
politician, for the good of his country. I cannot discuss this matter
any further with you. My sole regret is that we ever discussed it at
all. My friend and I must wish you good-night."

"By heavens, you shall not go!" the Baron exclaimed. "What right have
you to the child? None at all! Her Highness wishes to be generous. It
pleases you to flout her generosity. Mr. Arnold Greatson, you are a
fool! Don't you see that you are a pigmy, who has stolen through the
back door into the world where great things are dealt with? You have no
place there. You cannot keep the child away from us. You have no
influence, no money. You are nobody. If you think----"

Mabane interposed.

"Baron," he said, "if you were not still, in a sense, our host, I should
knock you down. As it is, permit me to tell you that you are talking
nonsense."

The Baron drew a sharp, quick breath.

"You are right," he said shortly. "I am a fool to discuss this with you
at all. It is not worth while. The Archduchess, out of kindness, would
have treated you as friends. You decline! Good! You shall be treated--as
you deserve."

The Baron threw open the door and bowed us out. The commissionaire
helped us on with our coats and summoned a hansom. We were just driving
off, when a man in a long travelling coat, who had been standing outside
the swing-door of the hotel, calmly swung himself up into the cab and
motioned to us to make room. I stared at him in blank amazement.

"Hullo!" I exclaimed. "What----"

"It is I, my friend," Mr. Grooten answered calmly. "Tell the man to
drive to your rooms."




CHAPTER IV


"I am staying at Claridge's, or rather I was," Mr. Grooten remarked, as
we turned into Brook Street. "I saw you with Leibingen, and I have been
waiting for you. We will talk, I think, at your rooms."

Whereupon he lit a fresh cigarette, and did not speak a word until we
had reached our destination. Isobel had gone to bed, and our
sitting-room was empty. I turned up the lamp, and pushed a chair towards
him. In various small ways he seemed to have succeeded in effecting a
wonderful change in his appearance. His hair was differently arranged,
and much greyer. His face was pale and drawn as though with illness. But
for his voice and his broad, humorous mouth I doubt whether I should
immediately have recognized him.

"I perceive," he said, "that I am not forgotten. It is very flattering!
My friends abroad tell me that I have altered a good deal during the
last twelve months."

"You have altered, without a doubt," I admitted. "But the circumstances
connected with our first meeting were scarcely such as tend towards
forgetfulness. You remember my friend, Mr. Allan Mabane?"

"Perfectly," he assented, with a courteous little wave of the hand. "I
am very glad to have come across you both again so opportunely. I only
arrived in England a few days ago, but I did not hope to have this
pleasure until the morning at the earliest. You expected to have heard
from me, perhaps, before."

"I don't know about that," I answered, "but I can assure you that we are
both very glad to see you, for more reasons than one. There are a good
many things which we are anxious to discuss with you."

"The pleasure, then, is mutual," Mr. Grooten remarked affably. "Isobel
is, I trust, well?"

"She is quite well," I answered.

"You are helping her to spend her time profitably, I am glad to find,"
he continued. "I saw two miniatures of hers yesterday at the Mordaunt
Rooms."

"Isobel has gifts," I said. "We are doing our best to assist her in
their development."

Mr. Grooten raised his eyes to mine. He looked at me steadily.

"Why have you refused to use the money which I placed to your credit at
the National Bank for her?" he asked.

"Because," I answered, "we are not aware what right you have to provide
for her."

Mr. Grooten smiled upon us--much as a sphynx might have smiled. It had
the effect of making us both feel very young.

"My claim," he murmured, "must surely be as good as yours."

"Perhaps," I admitted. "At any rate, the money remains there in her
name. She may find herself in greater need of it later on in life."

Mr. Grooten seemed to find some amusement in the idea.

"No," he said, "I do not think that that is likely. You could safely
have used the money, but as you have not--well, it is of small
consequence. I presume that attempts have been made to withdraw the
child from your care?"

"Several," I told him. "Madame Richard and Lady Delahaye were equally
importunate."

Grooten nodded.

"You have shown," he said, "an admirable discretion in refusing to give
her up to either of them."

"And to-day," I continued, "a third claimant to the care of her has
intervened. The Archduchess of Bristlaw herself has offered to relieve
us of our guardianship."

Mr. Grooten dropped the cigarette which he had only just lit, and seemed
for the moment unconscious of the fact. He made no effort to pick it up.
He quivered as though someone had struck him a blow. For a man whose
impassivity was almost a part of himself he was evidently deeply
agitated.

"The Archduchess--has seen Isobel!" he muttered.

"They met by chance at the Mordaunt Rooms a few afternoons ago," I told
him. "The Archduchess was accompanied by a girl of about Isobel's age.
We came upon them suddenly, and the likeness was so marvellous that we
were all startled. There was something in the nature of a scene. We left
the Gallery at once, but the Archduchess sent one of her suite for me. I
had some conversation with her concerning Isobel."

"Can you repeat it?" Grooten asked.

"In substance--yes," I told him. "The Archduchess plainly hinted that
she believed Isobel to be connected morganatically with her family. She
wished to take her under her own charge and provide for her."

"And you?"

"I thought it best to take some time for reflection. I had some idea of
looking up the history of the Archduchess's family."

"You made no promise?"

"Certainly not. To tell you the truth, I was influenced by the presence
of Lady Delahaye amongst the royal party. I have no faith in Lady
Delahaye's good intentions with regard to Isobel."

Mr. Grooten flashed a quick glance upon me.

"Yet," he said softly, "report says that you and Lady Delahaye have been
very good friends."

"That," I answered, "is beside the mark. I knew her before her marriage,
but I have seen very little of her since. As a matter of fact, our
relations at the present time are scarcely amicable. We have had a
difference of opinion concerning our guardianship of Isobel. Lady
Delahaye does not approve of her presence here with us."

Mr. Grooten smiled.

"That," he said, "is probable. May I proceed to ask a somewhat
impertinent question? You were the guests to-night, I believe, of the
Baron von Leibingen, who is, I understand, a _persona grata_ with the
Archduchess. I presume that your meeting in some way concerned Isobel?"

"Isobel was the sole cause of it," I answered. "The Archduchess is a
woman who perseveres. She declined to consider that my reply to her
first tentative offer was in any way final. She passed the matter on to
the Baron, and certainly until he lost his temper towards the end of our
interview, he was a very efficient ambassador. He proved to us quite
clearly that it was our duty to give Isobel up to those who had a better
right to assume the charge of her, and he wound up by handing us cheques
for--I think it was five thousand pounds each, wasn't it, Allan?"

Mr. Grooten leaned back in his chair and laughed silently, yet with
obvious enjoyment.

"That poor von Leibingen," he murmured, "how he blunders his way through
life! Yet, my friend, I am afraid that this charge which I so
thoughtlessly laid upon you is proving very troublesome. And you
perceive that I do not even offer you a cheque."

Allan suddenly rose up and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the
fire.

"You do not offer us a cheque, Mr. Grooten," he said quietly, "because
you have perceptions. But there is another way in which you can
recompense us for the trifling inconveniences to which we have been put.
You can make our task easier--and more dignified; you can answer a
question which I think I may say that we have an absolute right to ask
you."

Mr. Grooten inclined his head slightly. He made no remark. Allan turned
to me.

"Arnold," he said, "this is more your affair than mine, for it is you
who have borne the brunt of it from the first. I do not wish to
interfere in it unduly. But from every point of view, I think that the
time has come when all this mystery concerning Isobel's antecedents
should be, so far as we are concerned at any rate, cleared up. Our hands
would be immensely strengthened by the knowledge of the truth. Your
friend here, Mr. Grooten, can tell us if he will. Ask him to do so. I
will go further. I will even say that we have a right to insist upon
it."

Mr. Grooten sat immovable. One could scarcely gather from his face that
he had heard a word of Allan's speech.

"You are quite right, Allan," I answered. "Mr. Grooten," I continued,
turning towards him, "you are the best judge as to whether your presence
in this country is altogether wise, but I can assure you that for the
last six months we have looked for you every day, and for this same
reason. We want that question answered. The time has come when, in
common justice to us and the child, the whole thing should be cleared
up. Whatever knowledge rests with you is safe also with us. I think that
we have proved that. I think that we have earned our right to your
complete confidence. Mabane and I you can consider as one in this
matter. You can speak before him as though we were alone. Now tell us
the whole truth."

"I cannot," Mr. Grooten answered simply.

There was a certain crisp definiteness about those two words which
carried conviction with them. Mabane and I were a little staggered. Our
position was such a strong one, our request so reasonable, that I think
that we had never realized the possibility of a refusal.

"May I ask you this?" Mabane said. "Do you expect that we shall continue
our--I suppose we may call it guardianship--of Isobel in the face of
your present attitude?"

"I hope so, for the present," our visitor admitted softly.

"Notwithstanding," Mabane continued, "our absolute ignorance of
everything connected with her, our lack of any sort of claim or title to
the charge of her, and the increasing number of people who still persist
in trying to take her from us?"

Mr. Grooten shrugged his shoulders.

"You omit to mention the factors in the situation which may be said to
be on your side," he murmured.

"I should be interested to know what those are," I remarked.

"Certainly. The first and most powerful of all is, of course,
possession."

Mabane nodded.

"And after that?"

"The fact that not one of the three people who have appealed to you for
the charge of the child is in a position to use the only real force
which exists in this land. I mean the law," Grooten continued.

This kept us silent again for a moment. Mabane, I could see, was getting
a little ruffled.

"You pelt us with enigmas, sir," he said. "You answer our questions only
by propounding fresh conundrums. One thing, at least, you may feel
disposed to tell us. What is your own relationship to Isobel?"

"None," Mr. Grooten answered.

"Your interest, then?"

Mr. Grooten remained silent. He sat in his chair, very still and very
quiet. Yet in his eyes there shone for a moment something which seemed
to bring into the little room the shadow of great things. Mabane and I
both felt it. We had the sense of having been left behind. The little
man in his chair seemed to have been lifted out of our reach into the
mightier world of passion and suffering and self-conquest.

"I loved her mother," he said softly. "I was the man whom her mother
loved."

There was a silence between us then. We had no more to say. We were at
that moment his bounden slaves. But by some evil chance, after a
lengthened pause, he continued--

"I, alas, could do little for the child. Yet when I heard that harm was
threatened to her through that scamp Delahaye, I crossed the ocean at an
hour's notice. I saved her from him. He deserved his fate, but I am no
murderer by profession, and the shock unnerved me for a time. Then----"

"Hush!" Mabane cried.

I sprang to the door. It had been thrust about a foot open. From outside
came the sound of angry voices, followed by a moment's silence. Then a
quick, shrill cry of triumph.

"Let me in. Oh, you shall not stop me now. I am going to see the man who
boasts of being my husband's murderer!"

It was the voice of Lady Delahaye. She was already upon the threshold. I
sprang to the table and saw her coming. Already she was behind the
screen, stealing into the room, her head thrust forward, her lips
parted, a peculiar glitter in her eyes. For a moment I stood rigid. The
sight of her fascinated me--there was something so wholly animal-like in
the stealthy triumph of her tiptoe approach. I recovered myself just in
time. One more step, a turn of her head, and she would have seen
Grooten. My finger pressed down the catch of the lamp, and a sudden
darkness filled the room.

She stopped short. Her fierce little cry of anger told me exactly where
she was. I stepped forward and caught her wrists firmly. Then I faced
where I knew Grooten was still sitting. I could see the red end of his
cigarette still in his mouth.

"Leave the room at once," I said. "You can push the screen on one side,
and you are within a yard of the door then. Please do exactly as I say,
and don't reply."

"Let go my hands, sir! Arnold, how dare you! Let me go, or I'll scream
the place down. Mr. Mabane, you will not permit this?" she cried, in a
fury.

Mabane closed the door through which Grooten had already issued, and I
heard the key turn in the lock. I released Lady Delahaye's hands, and
she sprang away from me. As the flame from the lamp which Allan had just
rekindled gained in power we saw her, still shaking the handle, but with
her back now against the wall turned to face us. She was calmer than I
had expected, but it was a terrible look which she flashed upon us.

[Illustration: She was calmer than I had expected, but it was a terrible
look which she flashed upon us.]

"In how many minutes," she asked, "may I be released?"

Allan whispered in my ear.

"In five minutes, Lady Delahaye," I said. "I regret very much the
necessity for keeping you at all. May I offer you a chair?"

"You may offer me nothing, sir, except your silence," she answered
swiftly.

She meant it too. I know the signs of anger in a woman's face as well as
most men, and they were written there plainly enough. So for a most
uncomfortable period of time we waited there until Allan, after a glance
at his watch, went and opened the door. She passed out without remark,
but from the threshold outside she turned and looked at me.

"I warned you once before, Arnold Greatson," she said, "that you were
meddling with greater concerns than you knew of, and that harm would
come to you for it. Now you have chosen to shield a murderer, and to use
your strength upon a woman. These things will not go unforgotten!"

Mabane closed the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.

"For two easy-going sort of fellows, Arnold," he said to me, "we seem to
be making a lot of enemies. Don't you think it would be a good idea if
we drew stumps for a bit?"

"Meaning?" I asked.

"Roseleys!"

"We'll go to-morrow," I declared.




CHAPTER V


"I have never seen anything like this," Isobel said softly. I looked up
from the writing-pad on my knee, and she met my glance with a smile of
contrition.

"Ah," she said. "I forgot that I must not talk. Indeed, I did not mean
to, but--look!"

I followed her eyes.

"Well," I said, "tell me what you see."

"There are so many beautiful things," she murmured. "Do you see how
thick and green the grass is in the meadows there? How the quaker
grasses glimmer?--you call them so, do you not?--and how those yellow
cowslips shine like gold? What a world of colour it all seems. London is
so grey and cold, and here--look at the sea, and the sky, with all those
dear little fleecy white clouds, and the pink and white of all those
wild roses wound in and out of the hedges. Oh, Arnold, it is all
beautiful!"

"Even without a motor-car!" I remarked.

She looked at me a little resentfully.

"Motoring is very delightful," she said, "although you do not like it.
Of course, it would be nice if Arthur were here!"

She looked away from me seawards, and I found myself studying her
expression with an interest which had something more in it than mere
curiosity. At odd times lately I had fancied that I could see it coming.
To-day, for the first time, I was sure. The smooth transparency of
childhood, the unrestrained but almost animal play of features and eyes,
reproducing with photographic accuracy every small emotion and
joy--these things were passing away. Even before her time the child was
seeking knowledge. As she sat there, with her steadfast eyes fixed upon
the smooth blue line where sea and sky met, who could tell what thoughts
were passing in her mind? Not I, not Mabane, nor any of us into whose
care she had come. Only I knew that she saw new things, that the rush of
a more complex and stronger life was already troubling her, the sweet
pangs of its birth were already tugging at her heartstrings. My pencil
rested idly in my fingers, my eyes, like hers, sought that distant line,
beyond which lies ever the world of one's own creation. What did she see
there, I wondered? Never again should I be able to ask with the full
certainty of knowing all that was in her mind. The time had come for
delicate reserves, the time when the child of yesterday, with the first
faint notes of a new and wonderful song stealing into her heart, must
fence her new modesty around with many sweet elusions and barriers,
fairy creations to be swept aside later on in one glad moment--by the
one chosen person. There was a coldness in my heart when I realized that
the time had come even for the child who had tripped so lightly into our
lives so short a time ago, to pass away from us into that other and more
complex world. It was the decree of sex, nature's immutable law,
sundering playfellows, severing friendships, driving its unwilling
victims into opposite corners of the world, with all the pitilessness of
natural law. Nevertheless, the thought of these things as I looked at
Isobel made me sad. She was young indeed for these days to come, for the
shadows to steal into her eyes, and the song of trouble to grow in her
heart.

"Tell me," I asked softly, "what you see beyond that blue line."

"I can tell you more easily," she said, glancing down with a faint smile
at my empty pages, "what I see by my side--a very lazy man. And," she
continued, crumpling a little ball of heather in her fingers and
throwing it with unerring aim at Allan, "another one over there!"

"My picture," Allan protested, "is finished."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, preparing to rise, but he waved her back.

"In my mind," he added. "Don't misunderstand me. The casual and ignorant
observer glancing just now at my canvas might come to the same
conclusion as you--a conclusion, by-the-bye, entirely erroneous. I will
admit that my canvas is unspoilt. Nevertheless, my picture is painted."

She looked across at him reproachfully.

"Allan, how dare you!" she exclaimed. "Only Arnold has the right to be
subtle. I have always regarded you as a straightforward and honest
person. Don't disappoint me."

"St. Andrew forbid it!" Allan declared. "My meaning is painfully simple.
I build up my picture first in my mind. Its transmission to canvas is
purely mechanical. Here goes!"

He took up his palette, and in a few moments was hard at work. Isobel
pointed downwards to my writing-pad.

"Can you too match Allan's excuse?" she asked. "Is your story already
written?"

I shook my head.

"I have been watching you," I answered. "Besides, for a perfectly lazy
person, are you not rather a hard task-mistress? Consider that this is
our first day of summer--the first time we have seen the sun make
diamonds on the sea, the first west wind which has come to us with the
scent of cowslips and wild roses. I claim the right to be lazy if I want
to be."

She smiled.

"The poet," she murmured, "finds these things inspiring."

"The poet," I answered, "is an ordinary creature. Nowadays he eats
mutton-chops, plays golf, and has a banking account. The real man of
feeling, Isobel, is the man who knows how to be idle. Believe me, there
is a certain vulgarity in seeking to make a stock-in-trade of these
delicious moments."

"That is not fair," she protested. "How should we all live if none of
you did any work?"

"For your age, Isobel," I declared seriously, "you are very nearly a
practical person. You make me more than ever anxious for an answer to my
last question. What were you thinking of just now?"

Her eyes seemed to drift away from mine. A touch of her new seriousness
returned. She pointed to that thin blue line.

"Beyond there," she said, "is to-morrow, and all the to-morrows to come.
One sees a very little way."

"Our limitations," I answered, "are life's lesson to us. If to-morrow is
hidden, so much the more reason that we should live to-day."

"Without thought for the morrow?"

"Without care for it," I answered. "Are we not Bohemians, and is it not
our text?"

She shook her head.

"It is not yours," she answered slowly. "I am sure of that."

I looked at her quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say," she answered gravely. "Men and women to whom the
present is sufficient surely cannot achieve very much in life. All the
time they must concentrate powers which need expansion. I think that it
must be those who try to climb the walls, those even who tear their
fingers and their hearts in the great struggle for freedom, who can make
themselves capable of great things, even if escape is impossible. But I
do not think that escape is so impossible after all, is it? There have
been men, and women too, who have lived in all times, to whom there have
been no to-morrows or any yesterdays. Only it seems rather hard that
life for those who seek it must always be a battle!"

I did not answer her for several minutes. It was true, then, that the
old days had passed away. Isobel, the child whom we had known and loved
so well, had disappeared. It was Isobel the incomprehensible who was
taking her place. What might the change not mean for us?...

Later we walked back over an open heath yellow with gorse, and faintly
pink with the promise of the heather to come. Isobel carried her hat in
her hand. She walked with her head thrown back, and a smile playing
every now and then upon her lips. She was so completely absorbed that I
found myself every now and then watching her, half expecting, I believe,
to find some physical change to accord with that other more mysterious
evolution. She walked with all the grace of long limbs and unfettered
clothing. Her figure, though perfectly graceful, and with that same
peculiar distinction which had first attracted me, was as yet wholly
immature. But in the face itself there were signs of a coming change.
Wherein it might lie I could not tell, but it was there, an intangible
and wholly elusive thing. I think that a certain fear of it and what it
might mean oppressed me with the sense of coming trouble. I was more
fully conscious then than ever before of the moral responsibility of our
peculiar charge.

We crossed a straight dusty road, cleaving the rolling moor like a belt
of ribbon. Isobel looked thoughtfully along it.

"I wonder," she said, "when Arthur will come down!"

The folly of a man is a thing sometimes outside his own power of
control. A second before I had been wondering of whom and what she had
been thinking.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid," Allan answered, stopping to light his pipe.
"It is not easy for him to get backwards and forwards, and I believe
that he is by way of being rather busy just now."

"What a nuisance!" Isobel declared, looking behind her regretfully. "The
roads about here seem so good."

"The roads are good, but the heath is better," Allan answered. "I will
race you for half a pound of chocolates to that clump of pines!"

"You are such a slow starter," she laughed, bounding away before he had
time to drop his easel. "Make it a pound!"

I picked up Allan's easel and strolled away after them. Was it the
motoring, I wondered, which had prompted her half-wistful question, or
had I been wise too late? Arthur had been very confident. So much that
he had said had carried with it a certain ring of truth. Youth and the
temperament of youth were surely irresistible. Like calls to like across
the garden of spring flowers with a cry which no interloper can still,
no wanderer of later years can stifle. Somehow it seemed to me just then
that the sun had ceased to shine, and a touch of winter after all was
lingering in the western breeze....

They disappeared round the pine plantation, Isobel leading by a few
yards, her skirts blowing in the wind, running still with superb and
untired grace. I climbed a bank to gain a better view of the finish, and
became suddenly aware that I was not the only interested spectator of
their struggle. About a hundred yards to my left a man was standing on
the top of the same bank, a pair of field-glasses glued to his eyes,
watching intently the spot where they might be expected to reappear. The
sight of him took me by surprise. A few moments ago I could have sworn
that there was not a human being within a mile of us. There was only one
explanation of his appearance. He must have been concealed in the dry
mossy ditch at the foot of the bank. It was possible, of course, that he
might have been like us, a casual way-farer, and yet the suddenness of
his appearance, the intentness of his watch, both had their effect upon
me. I moved a few yards towards him, with what object I perhaps scarcely
knew. A dry twig snapped beneath my feet. He became suddenly aware of my
approach. Then, indeed, my suspicions took definite shape, for without a
moment's hesitation the man turned and strode away in the opposite
direction.

I shouted to him. He took no notice. I shouted again, and he only
increased his pace. I watched him disappear, and I no longer had any
doubts at all. He was not in the least like a tramp, and his flight
could bear but one interpretation. Isobel was not safe even here. We had
been followed from London--we were being watched every hour. For the
first time I began seriously to doubt what the end of these things might
be.




CHAPTER VI


"Silence and perfume and moon-flooded meadows," Allan murmured. "Arnold,
we shall all become corrupted. You will take to writing pastorals, and
I--I--"

Isobel, from her seat between us, smiled up at him. Touched by the
yellow moonlight, her face seemed almost ethereal.

"You," she said, "should paint a vision of the 'enchanted land.' You see
those blurred woods, and the fields sloping up to the mists? Isn't that
a perfect impression of the world unseen, half understood? Oh, how can
you talk of such a place corrupting anybody, Allan!"

"I withdraw the term," he answered. "Yet Arnold knows what I meant very
well. This place soothes while the city frets. Which state of mind do
you think, Miss Isobel, draws from a man his best work?"

"Don't ask me enigmas, Allan," she murmured. "I am too happy to think,
too happy to want to do anything more than exist. I wish we lived here
always! Why didn't we come here long ago?"

"You forget the wonders of our climate," I remarked. "A month ago you
might have stood where you are now, and seen nothing. You would have
shivered with the cold. The field scents, the birds, the very insects
were unborn. It is all a matter of seasons. What to-day is beautiful was
yesterday a desert."

She shook her head slowly. Bareheaded, she was leaning now over the
little gate, and her eyes sought the stars.

"I will not believe it," she declared. "I will not believe that it is
not always beautiful here. Arnold, Allan, can you smell the
honeysuckle?"

"And the hay," Allan answered, smoking vigorously. "To-morrow we shall
be sneezing every few minutes. Have you ever had hay fever, Isobel?"

She laughed at him scornfully.

"You poor old thing!" she exclaimed. "You should wear a hat."

"A hat," Allan protested, "is of no avail against hay fever. It's the
most insidious thing in the world, and is no respecter of youth. You, my
dear Isobel, might be its first victim."

"Pooh! I catch nothing!" she declared, "and you mustn't either. I'm sure
you ought to be able to paint some beautiful pictures down here, Allan.
And, Arnold, you shall have your writing-table out under the chestnut
tree there. You will be so comfortable, and I'm sure you'll be able to
finish your story splendidly."

"You are very anxious to dispose of us all here, Isobel," I remarked.
"What do you propose to do yourself?"

"Oh, paint a little, I suppose," she answered, "and--think! There is so
much to think about here."

I shook my head.

"I am beginning to wonder," I said, "whether we did wisely to bring
you."

"And why?"

"This thinking you are speaking of. It is bad!"

"You are foolish! Why should I not want to think?"

"If you begin to think you will begin to doubt," I answered, "and if you
begin to doubt you will begin to understand. The person who once
understands, you know, is never again really happy."

Isobel came and stood in front of me.

"Arnold!" she said.

"Well?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk to me always as though I were a baby," she
said thoughtfully.

I took her hand and made her sit down by my side.

"Come," I protested, "that is not at all fair. I can assure you that I
was taking you most seriously. The people who get most out of life are
the people who avoid the analytical attitude, who enjoy but who do not
seek to understand, who worship form and external beauty without the
desire to penetrate below to understand the inner meaning of what they
find so beautiful."

"That," she said, "sounds a little difficult. But I do not see how
people can enjoy meaningless things."

"The source of all beauty is disillusioning."

"Seriously," Mabane interrupted, "if this conversation develops I am
going indoors. Does Arnold want to penetrate into the hidden meaning of
that cricket's chirp--or is he going to give us the chemical formula for
the smell of the honeysuckle?"

Isobel laughed.

"He is rather trying to-night, isn't he?" she declared. "Listen! Is that
someone going by?"

The footsteps of a man were clearly audible passing along the dusty
little strip of road which fronted our cottage. Leaning forward I saw a
tall, dark figure pass slowly by. From his height and upright carriage I
thought that it must be the village policeman, and I called out
good-night. My greeting met with no response. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Some of these village people are not particularly civil!" I remarked.

Mabane rose to his feet and strolled to the hedge.

"Those were not the footsteps of a villager," he remarked. "Listen!"

We stood quite still. The footsteps had ceased, although there was no
other habitation for more than half a mile along the road. We could see
nothing, but I noticed that Mabane was leaning a little forward and
gazing with a curious intentness at the open common on the other side of
the road. He stood up presently and knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"What do you say to a drink, Arnold?" he suggested.

"Come along!" I answered. "There's some whisky and soda on the
sideboard."

Isobel laughed at us. She would have lingered where she was, but Allan
passed his arm through hers.

"Sentiment must not make you lazy, Isobel," he declared. "I decline to
mix my own whisky and soda. Arnold," he whispered, drawing me back as
she stepped past us through the wide-open window, "I wonder if it has
occurred to you that if any of our friends who are so anxious to obtain
possession of Isobel were to attempt a coup down here, we should be
rather in a mess. We're a mile from the village, and Lord knows how many
from a police-station, and there isn't a door in the cottage a man
couldn't break open with his fist."

"What made you think of it--just now?" I asked.

"Three men passed by, following that last fellow--on the edge of the
common. I've got eyes like a cat in the dark, you know, and I could see
that they were trying to get by unnoticed. Of course, there may be
nothing in it, but--thanks, Isobel! By Jove, that's good!"

I slipped upstairs to my room, and on my return handed Allan something
which he thrust quietly into his pocket. Then we went out again into the
garden. I drew Mabane on one side for a moment.

"I don't think there's anything in it, Allan," I whispered. "It would be
too clumsy for any of our friends--and too risky."

"It needn't be either," Allan answered, "but I daresay you're right."

Then we hastened once more to the front gate, summoned there by Isobel's
cry.

"Listen!" she exclaimed, holding up her hand.

We stood by her side. From somewhere out of the night there came to our
ears the faint distant throbbing of an engine. Neither Allan nor I
realized what it was, but Isobel, who had stepped out on to the road,
knew at once.

"Look!" she cried suddenly.

We followed her outstretched finger. Far away on the top of a distant
hill, but moving towards us all the time with marvellous swiftness, we
saw a small but brilliant light.

"A motor bicycle!" she cried. "I believe it is Arthur. It sounds just
like his machine."

Arthur it was, white with dust and breathless. His first greeting was
for Isobel, who welcomed him with both hands outstretched and a delight
which she made no effort to conceal, overwhelming him with questions,
frankly joyful at his coming. Mabane and I stood silent in the
background, and we avoided each other's eyes. It was at that moment,
perhaps, that I for the first time realized the tragedy into which we
were slowly drifting. Isobel had forgotten us. She was wholly absorbed
in her joy at Arthur's unexpected appearance. The thing which in my
quieter moments had begun already vaguely to trouble me--a thing of slow
and painful growth--assumed for the first time a certain definiteness. I
looked a little way into the future, and it seemed to me that there were
evil times coming.

Arthur approached us presently with outstretched hand. His manner was
half apologetic, half triumphant. He seemed to be saying to himself that
Isobel's reception of him must surely have opened our eyes.

"Your coming, I suppose, Arthur," Mabane said quietly, "signifies----"

"That I accept your terms for the present," Arthur answered, in a low
tone. "I had to see you. There are strangers continually watching our
diggings, and making inquiries about Isobel. There are things happening
which I cannot understand at all."

I glanced towards Isobel.

"We will talk about it after she has gone to bed," I said. "Come in and
have some supper now."

He drew me a little on one side.

"You remember the chap who was with the Archduchess at the Mordaunt
Rooms?"

"Yes!"

"He was at the hotel in Guildford when I stopped for tea, with two other
men. They're in a great Daimter car, and they're coming this way. I
heard them ask about the roads."

"How far were they behind you?" I asked.

"They must be close up," he answered. "Listen!"

"Another motor!" Isobel cried suddenly. "Can you not hear it?"

There was no mistaking the sound, the deep, low throbbing of a powerful
engine as yet some distance away. I was conscious of a curious sense of
uneasiness.

"Isobel," I said, "would you mind going indoors!"

"Indoors indeed!" she laughed. "But no. I must see this motor-car."

I stepped quickly up to her, and laid my hand upon her arm.

"Isobel," I said earnestly, "you do not understand. I do not wish to
frighten you, but I am afraid that the men in this car are coming here,
and it is better that you should be out of the way. They want to take
you from us. Go inside and lock yourself in your room."

She looked at me half puzzled, half resentful. The car was close at hand
now. We ourselves were almost in the path of its flaring searchlights.

"Arnold, you are joking, of course!" she exclaimed. "They cannot take me
away. I would not go."

The car had stopped. It contained four men, one of whom at once alighted
and advanced towards us. I knew him by his voice and figure. It was the
Baron von Leibingen!




CHAPTER VII


I made no movement towards opening the gate. The newcomer advanced to
within a few feet of me, and then paused. He leaned a little forward. He
was doubtful, as I could see, of my identity.

"Can you tell me," he asked, raising his hat, "if this is Roseleys
Cottage, the residence of Mr. Arnold Greatson?"

"Do you forget all your acquaintances so quickly, Baron?" I answered.
"This is Roseleys, and I am Arnold Greatson!"

"Your voice," he declared, "is sufficient. I can assure you that it is a
matter of eyesight, not of memory. In the dark I am always as blind as a
bat."

"It is," I remarked, "a very common happening. You are motoring, I see.
You have chosen a very delightful night, but are you not--pardon me--a
little off the track? You are on your way to the South Coast, I
presume?"

"On the contrary," the Baron answered, "our destination is here. Will
you permit me to apologise for the lateness of my visit? We were
unfortunately delayed for several hours by a mishap to our automobile,
or I should have had the honour of presenting myself during the
afternoon."

I did not offer to move.

"Perhaps," I said, "as it is certainly very late, and we were on the
point of retiring, you will permit me to inquire at once into the nature
of the business which procures for me the honour of this visit."

My visitor paused. His hand was upon the gate. So was mine, keeping it
all the time fast closed.

"You will permit me?" he said, making an attempt to enter.

"I regret," I answered, "that at this late hour I am not prepared to
offer you any hospitality. If you will come and see me to-morrow morning
I shall be happy to hear what you have to say."

My visitor did not remove his hand from the gate. It seemed to me that
his tone became more belligerent.

"You are discomposed to see us, Mr. Greatson," he said, "me and my
friends. As you see," he added, with a little wave of his hand, "I am
not alone. I have only to regret that you have made this visit
necessary. We have come to induce you, if possible, to change your mind,
and to give up the young lady in whom the Archduchess has been
graciously pleased to interest herself to those who have a better claim
upon her."

"It is not a matter," I answered, "which I am prepared to discuss at
this hour--or with you!"

"As to that," the young man answered, "I am the envoy of her Royal
Highness, as I can speedily convince you if you will."

"It is unnecessary," I answered. "The Archduchess has already had my
answer. Will you allow me to wish you good-night?"

"I wish, Mr. Greatson," the young man said, "that you would discuss this
matter with me in a reasonable spirit."

"At a reasonable hour," I answered, "I might be prepared to do so. But
certainly not now."

It seemed to me that his hand upon the gate tightened. He certainly
showed no signs of accepting the dismissal which I was trying to force
upon him.

"I have endeavoured to explain my late arrival," he said. "You must not
believe me guilty of wilful discourtesy. As for the rest, Mr. Greatson,
what does it matter whether the hour is late or early? The matter is an
important one. Between ourselves, her Highness has made up her mind to
undertake the charge of the young lady, and I may tell you that when her
Highness has made up her mind to anything she is not one to be
disappointed."

"In her own country," I said, "the will of the Archduchess is doubtless
paramount. Out here, however, she must take her chance amongst the
others."

"But you have no claim--no shadow of a claim upon the child," the Baron
declared.

"If the Archduchess thinks she has a better," I answered, "the law
courts are open to her."

My visitor was apparently becoming annoyed. There were traces of
irritation in his tone.

"Do you imagine, my dear Mr. Greatson," he said, "that her Highness can
possibly desire to bring before the notice of the world the peccadiloes
of her illustrious relative? No, the law courts are not to be thought
of. We rely upon your good sense!"

"And failing that?"

The Baron hesitated. It seemed to me that he was peering into the
shadows beyond the hedge.

"The position," he murmured, "is a singular one. Where neither side for
different reasons is disposed to submit its case to the courts, then it
must be admitted that possession becomes a very important feature in the
case."

"That," I remarked, "is entirely my view. May I take the liberty, Baron
von Leibingen, of wishing you good-night? I see no advantage in
continuing this discussion."

"Possession for the moment," he said slowly, "is with you. Have you
reflected, Mr. Greatson, that it may not always be so?"

"Will you favour me," I said, "by becoming a little more explicit?"

"With pleasure," the Baron answered quickly. "I have three friends here
with me, and we are all armed. Your cottage is surrounded by half a
dozen more--friends--who are also armed. We are here to take Isobel de
Sorrens back with us, and we mean to do it. On my honour, Mr. Greatson,
no harm is intended to her. She will be as safe with the Archduchess as
with her own mother."

"If you don't take your hand off my gate in two seconds," I said, "you
will regret it all your life."

He sprang forward, but I fired over his shoulder, and with an oath he
backed into the road. Isobel meanwhile, now thoroughly alarmed, turned
and ran towards the house, only to find the path already blocked by two
men, who had stepped silently out from the low hedge which separated the
garden from the fields beyond. Allan promptly knocked one of them down,
only to find himself struggling with the other. Isobel, whose skirts
were caught by the fallen man, tried in vain to release herself. I dared
scarcely turn my head, for my levelled revolver was keeping in check the
Baron and his three friends.

"Baron," I said, "your methods savour a little too much of comic opera.
You have mistaken your country and--us. There are three of us, and if
you force us to fight--well, we shall fight. The advantage of numbers is
with you, I admit. For the rest, if you succeed to-night you will be in
the police court to-morrow."

The Baron made no answer. I felt that he was watching the struggle which
was going on behind my back. I heard Isobel shriek, and the sound
maddened me. I left it to the Baron to do his worst. I sprang backwards,
and brought the butt end of my revolver down upon the skull of the man
who was dragging her across the lawn. Then I passed my arm round her
waist, and called out once more to the Baron who had passed through the
gate, and was coming rapidly towards us.

"You fool!" I cried. "Unless you call off your hired gang and leave this
place at once, every newspaper in London shall advertise Isobel's name
and presence here to-morrow."

It was a chance shot, but it went home. I saw him stop short, and I
heard his little broken exclamation.

"But you do not know who she is?" he cried.

"I know very well indeed," I answered.

Just then Mabane broke loose from the man with whom he had been
struggling, and rushed to Arthur's assistance. The Baron raised his hand
and shouted something in German. Instantly our assailants seemed to melt
away. The Baron stepped on to the strip of lawn and raised his hand.

"I call a truce, Mr. Greatson," he said. "I desire to speak with you."

I released my hold upon Isobel and turned to Mabane. Arthur too,
breathless but unhurt, had struggled to his feet.

"Take her into the house," I said quickly. But her grasp only tightened
upon my arm.

"I will not leave you, Arnold," she said. "I shall stay here. They will
not dare to touch me."

I tried to disengage her arm, but she was persistent. She took no notice
of Allan, who tried to lead her away. I stole a glance at her through
the darkness. Her face was white, but there were no signs of fear there,
nor were there any signs of childishness in her manner or bearing. She
carried herself like an angry young princess, and her eyes seemed lit
with smouldering fire, as clinging to my arm she leaned a little
forwards toward the Baron.

"Why am I spoken of," she cried passionately, "as though I were a baby,
a thing of no account, to be carried away to your mistress or disposed
of according to your liking? Do you think that I would come, Baron von
Leibingen----"

She broke off suddenly. She leaned a little further forward. Her lips
were parted. The fire in her eyes had given way to a great wonder, and
the breathlessness of her silence was like a thing to be felt. It held
us all dumb. We waited--we scarcely knew for what. Only we knew that she
had something more to say, and we were impelled to wait for her words.

"I have seen you before," she cried, with a strange note of wonder in
her tone. "Your face comes back to me--only it was a long time ago--a
long, long time! Where was it, Baron von Leibingen?"

I heard his smothered exclamation. He drew quickly a step backwards as
though he sought to evade her searching gaze.

"You are mistaken, young lady," he said. "I know nothing of you beyond
the fact that the lady whom I have the honour to serve desires to be
your friend."

"It is not true," she answered. "I remember you--a long way back--and
the memory comes to me like an evil thought. I will not come to you. You
may kill me, but I will not come alive."

"Indeed you are mistaken," he persisted, though he sought still the
shadow of a rhododendron bush, and his voice quivered with nervous
anxiety. "You have never seen me before. Surely the Archduchess, the
daughter of a King, is not one whose proffered kindness it is well to
slight? Think again, young lady. Her Highness will make your future her
special charge!"

"If your visit to-night, sir," she answered, "is a mark of the
Archduchess's good-will to me, I can well dispense with it. I have given
you my answer."

"You will remember, Baron," I said, speaking at random, but gravely, and
as though some special meaning lurked in my words, "that this young lady
comes of a race who do not readily change. She has made her choice, and
her answer to you is my answer. She will remain with us!"

The Baron stepped out again into the rich-scented twilight.

"You hold strong cards, Mr. Arnold Greatson," he said, "but I see their
backs only. How do I know that you speak the truth? From whom have you
learnt the story of this young lady's antecedents?"

"From Mr. Grooten," I answered boldly.

"I do not know the name," the Baron protested.

"He is the man," I said, "who set Isobel free!"

The Baron said something to himself in German, which I did not
understand.

"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?" he asked.

"I do!"

"Then I would to Heaven I knew whose identity that name conceals," he
cried fiercely.

"You would not dare to publish it," I answered, "for to do so would be
to give Isobel's story to the world."

"And why should I shrink from that?" he asked.

I laughed.

"Ask your august mistress," I declared. "It seems to me that we know
more than you think."

The Baron looked over his shoulder and spoke to his companions. From
that moment I knew that we had conquered. One of them left and went
outside to where the motor-car, with its great flaring lights, still
stood. Then the Baron faced me once more.

"Mr. Greatson," he said, "you are playing a game of your own, and for
the moment I must admit that you hold the tricks against me. But it is
well that I should give you once more this warning. If you should decide
upon taking one false step--you perhaps know very well what I
mean--things will go ill with you--very ill indeed."

Then he turned away, and our little garden was freed from the presence
of all of them. We heard the starting of the car. Presently it glided
away. We listened to its throbbing growing fainter and fainter in the
distance. Then there was silence. A faint breeze had sprung up, and was
rustling in the shrubs. From somewhere across the moor we heard the
melancholy cry of the corncrakes. A great sob of relief broke from
Isobel's throat--then suddenly her arm grew heavy upon mine. We hurried
her into the house.




CHAPTER VIII


The perfume from a drooping lilac-bush a few feet away from the open
casement was mingled with the fainter odour of jessamine and homely
stocks. In the soft morning sunshine the terrors of last night seemed a
thing far removed from us. We sat at breakfast in our little
sitting-room, and as though by common though unspoken consent we treated
the whole affair as a gigantic joke. We ignored its darker aspect. We
spoke of it as an "opera-bouffe" attempt never likely to be
repeated--the hare-brained scheme of a mad foreigner, over anxious to
earn the favour of his mistress. But beneath all our light talk was an
undernote of seriousness. I think that Mabane and I, at any rate,
realized perhaps for the first time that the situation, so far as Isobel
was concerned, was fast becoming an impossible one.

After breakfast we all strolled out into the garden. Isobel, with her
hands full of flowers, flitted in and out amongst the rose-bushes,
laughing and talking with all the invincible gaiety of light-hearted
youth, and Arthur hung all the while about her, his eyes following her
every movement, telling her all the while by every action and look--if
indeed the time had come for her to discern such things--all that our
compact forbade him to utter. Presently I slipped away, and shutting
myself up in the tiny room where I worked, drew out my papers. In a few
minutes I had made a start. I passed with a little unconscious sigh of
relief into the detachment which was fast becoming the one luxury of my
life.

An hour may have passed, perhaps more, when I was interrupted. I heard
the door softly opened, and light footsteps crossed the room to my side.
Isobel's hand rested on my shoulder, and she looked down at my work.

"Arnold," she exclaimed, "how dare you! You promised to read your story
when you had finished six chapters, and you are working on chapter
twenty now!"

Her long white forefinger pointed accusingly to the heading of my last
page. Then I realized with a sudden flash of apprehension why I had not
kept my promise--why I could never keep it. The story which flowed so
smoothly from my pen was a record of my own emotions, my own sufferings.
Even her name had usurped the name of my heroine, and stared up at me
from the half-finished page. It was my own story which was written
there, my own unhappiness which throbbed through every word and
sentence. With a little nervous gesture I covered over the open sheets.
I rose hastily to my feet, and I drew her away from the table.

"Another time, Isobel," I said. "It is too glorious a day to spend
indoors, and Arthur has taken holiday too. Tell me, what shall we do?"

She looked at me a little doubtfully. I had grown into the habit of
consulting her about my work, of reading most of it to her. Sometimes,
too, she acted as my secretary. Perhaps she saw something of the trouble
in my face, for she answered me very softly.

"I should like," she said, "to sit there before the open window on a
cushion, and to have you sit down in that easy-chair and read to me.
That is how I choose to spend the morning!"

I shook my head.

"How about the others?" I asked.

"Oh, Arthur and Allan can go for a walk!" she declared.

"What selfishness," I answered, as lightly as I could. "Arthur must go
back to town to-night, he says. I think that we ought all to spend the
day together, don't you? I rather thought that you young people would
have been off somewhere directly after breakfast."

She looked at me earnestly.

"Of course," she said, "if you want to be left alone----"

"But I don't," I interrupted, reaching for my hat. "I want to come too."

"You nice old thing!" she exclaimed, passing her arm through mine.
"We'll walk to Heather Hill. Arthur says that we can see the sea from
there. Come along!"

So we started away, the four of us together. Presently, however, Arthur
and Isobel drew away in front. Allan, with a little grunt, stopped to
light his pipe.

"Arthur may keep his compact in the letter," he said, "but in the spirit
he breaks it every time their eyes meet. You can't blame him. It's human
nature, after all--the gravitation of youth. Arnold, I'm afraid you
awoke to your responsibilities too late."

"You think--that she understands?" I asked quietly.

"Why not? She is almost a woman, and she is older than her years. Look
at them now. He wants to talk seriously, and she is teasing him all the
time. She has the instinct of her sex. She will conceal what she feels
until the--psychological moment. But she does feel--she begins to
understand. I am sure of it. Watch them!"

We kept silence for a while, I myself struggling with a sickening sense
of despair against this newborn and most colossal folly. I think that I
was always possessed of an average amount of self-control, but my great
fear now was lest my secret should in any way escape me. Mabane's words
had carried conviction with them. Life itself for these few deadly
minutes seemed changed. The birds had ceased to sing, and the warmth of
the sunshine had faded out of the fluttering east wind. I saw no longer
the heath starred with yellow and purple blooms, the distant line of
blue hills. The turf was no longer springy beneath my feet, a grey mist
hung over the joyous summer morning. I was back again on my way from Bow
Street, threading a difficult passage through the market baskets of
Covent Garden, the child stepping blithely by my side, graceful even
then, notwithstanding her immatureness, and quaintly attractive, though
her deep blue eyes were full of tears, and the white terror had not
passed wholly from her face. It was those few moments of her complete
and trustful helplessness which had transformed my life for me, those
few moments in which the huge folly of these later days had been born.
For her very coming seemed to have been at a chosen time--at one of
those periods of weariness which a man must feel whose sympathy with and
desire for life leads him into many and devious forms of distraction,
only to find in time the same dregs at the bottom of the cup. The joy of
her fresh childish beauty, her pure sweet trustfulness, at all times a
delicate flattery to any man, just the more so to me, a little inclined
towards self-distrust, was like a fragrant, a heart-stirring memory even
now. I looked back upon these years which lay between her youth and my
fast approaching middle-age--grey, weary years, whose follies seemed now
to rise up and stalk by my side, the ghosts of misspent days, ghosts of
the sickly reasonings of a sham philosophy which lead into the broad way
because its thoroughfares are easy and pleasant, and pressed by the
feet of the great majority. I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground and
I felt that strange thrill of despair pulling at my heartstrings,
dragging me downwards--the despair which is almost akin to physical
suffering.... And then a voice came floating back to me down the west
wind. Its call at such a moment seemed almost symbolical.

"Come along, you very lazy people! Arnold, may I walk with you for a
little way? Arthur is not at all brilliant this morning, and he does not
amuse me."

"I am afraid," I began, "that as an entertainer----"

"Oh, you want to smoke your pipe in peace, of course," she interrupted,
laughing, and passing her arm through mine. "Well, I am not going to
allow it. I want you--to tell me things."

So our little procession was re-formed. Mabane, and Arthur with his
hands deep in his pockets and an angry frown upon his forehead, walked
on ahead. Behind came Isobel and I--Isobel with her hands clasped behind
her, her head a little thrown back, a faint, wistful smile lightening
the unusual gravity of her face. I looked at her in wonder.

"Come," I said, "what are the things you want me to talk to you about,
and why are you tired of talking nonsense with Arthur?"

She did not look at me, but the smile faded from her lips. Her eyes were
still fixed steadily ahead.

"I believe you think, Arnold," she said quietly, "that I am still a
baby!"

I saw her lips quiver for a moment, and my selfishness melted away. I
thought only of her.

"No, I do not think that, Isobel," I said gently. "Only if I were you I
would not be in too great a hurry to grow up. It is when one is young,
after all, that one walks in the gardens of life. Afterwards--when one
has passed through the portals--outside the roads are dusty, and the way
a little wearisome. Stay in the gardens, Isobel, as long as you can.
Believe me, that life outside has many disappointments and many sorrows.
Your time will come soon enough."

She smiled at me a little enigmatically.

"And you?" she asked, "have you closed the gates of the garden behind
you?"

"I am nearer forty than thirty," I answered. "I have grey hairs, and I
am getting a little bald. I may still be of some use in the world, and
there are very beautiful places where I may rest, and even find
happiness. But they are not like the gardens of youth. There is no other
place like them. All of us who have hurried so eagerly away, Isobel,
look back sometimes--and long!"

She shook her head. Perhaps a little of the sadness of my mood had after
all found its way into my tone, for she looked at me with the shadow of
a reproach in her deep blue eyes, a faint tenderness which seemed to me
more beautiful than anything I had ever seen.

"I do not think that I like your allegory, Arnold," she said. "After
all, the gardens are the nursery of life, are they not? The great things
of the world are all outside."

I held my breath for a moment in amazement. Since when had thoughts like
this come to her? I knew then that the days of her childhood were
numbered indeed, that, underneath the fresh joyous grace of her
delightful youth, the woman's instincts were stirring. And I was afraid!

"The great things, Isobel," I said slowly, "look very fine from a
distance, but the power of accomplishment is not given to all of us.
Every triumph and every success has its reverse side, its sorrowful
side. For instance, the whole judgment of the world is by comparison. A
great picture which brings fame to a man eclipses the work and lessens
the reputation of another. A successful book takes not a place of its
own, but the place of another man's work who must needs suffer for your
success. Life is a battle truly enough, but it is always civil war, the
striving of humanity against itself. That is why what looks so great to
you from behind the hedge may seem a very hollow thing when you have won
the power to call it your own."

She looked at me as though wondering how far I were in earnest.

"I think," she said, smiling, "that you are trying to confuse me. Of
course, I have not thought much about such things, but when I am a
little older, if there was anything I could do I should simply try to do
it in the best possible way, and I should feel that I was doing what was
right. There is room for a great many people in the world, Arnold--a
great many novelists and a great many artists and a great many thinkers!
Some of us must be content with lesser places. I for one!..."

I walked home with Allan, and I spoke to him seriously.

"There is a duty before us," I said, "which up to now we have shirked.
The time has come when we must undertake it in earnest."

"You mean?"

"We must abandon our negative attitude. Isobel comes, I am very sure,
from no ordinary people. We must find out her place in life and restore
her to it. She is a child no longer. It is not fitting that she should
stay with us."

Mabane, too, was for a moment sad and silent. His face fell into stern
lines, but when he answered me his tone was steady and resolute enough.

"You are right, Arnold," he answered. "We had better go back to London
and begin at once."

It was perhaps a little ominous that I should find waiting for me on our
return a telegram from Grooten:

"I must see you to-night. Shall call at your rooms twelve o'clock."




CHAPTER IX


Isobel interrupted the discussion with an imperative little tap upon the
table.

"Please listen, all of you!" she exclaimed. "I have something to say,
and an invitation for you all."

We had been dining at a little Italian restaurant on our way home, and
over our coffee had been considering how to spend the rest of the
evening. Arthur had declared for a music hall; Mabane and I were
indifferent. Isobel up to now had said nothing.

"All my life," she said slowly, "I have been wanting to see Feurgeres.
He is in London for one week with Rejani, and if we can get seats I am
going to take you all. I have twenty pounds in my pocket from that nice
man Mr. Grooten, who bought my other miniature, and I want to spend some
of it."

Arthur, who understood no French, shook his head.

"Not the slightest chance of seats," he declared. "They've all been
booked for weeks."

"They often have some returned at the theatre," Isobel answered. "At
least, if you others do not mind, we will go and see."

"Your proposal, Isobel," Allan said gravely, "indicates a certain amount
of recklessness which reflects little credit upon us, your guardians. I
propose----"

"Please do not be tiresome!" she interrupted. "Arnold, you will come
with me, will you not?"

"I shall be delighted," I answered. "I am sure that we all shall. Only I
am afraid that we shall not get in."

We paid the bill and walked to the theatre. The man at the ticket-office
shook his head at our request for seats. People had been waiting in the
streets since morning for the unreserved places, and the others had been
booked weeks ago. But as we were turning away the telephone in his
office rang, and he called us back.

"I have just had four stalls returned," he said. "You can have them, if
you like."

"We are in morning dress," I remarked doubtfully.

"They are in the back row, so you can have them if you care to," he
answered.

"What luck!" Isobel exclaimed, delighted. "Arnold, how glorious! Here is
my purse. Will you pay for me, please?"

So we went in just as the curtain rose upon the first act of Rostand's
great play. The house was packed with an immense audience. One box
alone, the stage box on the left, was empty. I leaned over to Isobel,
and would have told her the story which all the world knew.

"You see that box?" I whispered. "Wherever he plays it is always empty."

"I know," she answered. "His wife used to sit there--always in the same
place; and after her death, whatever theatre he played at, he always
insisted upon having it kept empty. They say that on great nights, when
the people go almost wild with enthusiasm, he looks into the shadows
there almost as though he really saw her still sitting in her old place.
It is a beautiful story."

"Done for effect!" Arthur muttered, and was promptly snubbed, as he
deserved. They were friends again immediately afterwards, however, and I
saw him attempt to hold her hand for a moment. Decidedly it was time
that we carried out our new resolution.

I think that from the moment I took my seat I was conscious in some
mysterious way of the coming of great things. There was a thrill of
excitement in the air, a sort of stifled electricity which one realizes
often amongst a highly cultured audience awaiting the production of a
great work. But apart from this sensation of which I was fully
conscious, I felt a curious sense of nervousness stealing in upon me for
which I could in no way account. I knew what it meant only when, amidst
a storm of cheers, Feurgeres entered. Then indeed I knew.

I kept silent, for which I was thankful, but the programme in my hand
was crumpled into a little ball, and the figures upon the stage moved as
though in a mist before my eyes. Isobel noticed nothing, for her whole
breathless attention was riveted upon the play. I came to myself with
the rich sweet voice of the man, so tender, so infinitely pathetic,
ringing with a curious familiarity in my ears. From that moment I
followed the movement of the play.

The curtain went down upon the first act amidst a silence so intense
that it seemed as though people might be listening still for the echoes
of that sad, sweet voice which had been playing so effectively upon
their heartstrings. Then came the storm of applause, which lasted for
several minutes. I turned towards Isobel. She was sitting very still,
and she did not join in the enthusiasm which seemed to find its way
straight from the hearts of the men and women who sat about us. But her
eyes were wet with tears, her lips a little parted. She gazed at the man
whom incessant calls had brought at last a little wearily before the
curtain, as one might look at a god. And their eyes met. He did not
start or betray himself in any way--perhaps his training befriended him
there, but as he left the stage he staggered, and I saw his hand go to
clutch the curtain for support. I knew then that, before the night was
over, Isobel's history would no longer be a secret to us.

She turned to me with a little smile of apology. There was a new look in
her face too. She spoke gravely.

"Was I very stupid? I am sorry, but I could not help it. I have never
seen anything like this before. It is wonderful!"

We talked quietly of the play, and I was astonished at the keenness of
her perceptions, the unerring ease with which she had realized and
appreciated the self-abnegation which was the great underlying _motif_
of the whole drama. And in the midst of our conversation, what I had
expected happened. A note was brought to me by an attendant.

"Come to me after the next act, and bring her. An attendant will be
waiting for you at your left-hand door of egress."

Mabane and Arthur had gone out to have a smoke. I had still a moment
before the curtain went up. I leaned over towards Isobel.

"Isobel," I said, "I am going to tell you something which will surprise
you very much. It is necessary that I tell you at once. If you answer me
at all do not speak above a whisper."

She only slightly moved her head. I had not any fear of her betraying
herself.

"You have seen Feurgeres before. It was in the _cafe_. He was my
companion when I saw you first."

"Mr. Grooten!" she murmured, so softly that her lips seemed scarcely to
move.

I nodded assent.

"You knew?"

"Not until to-night."

She was very pale, but her self-control was complete.

"He wishes us--you and I--to go round to his room after this act. You
will be prepared?"

"Of course," she answered simply.

Mabane and Arthur came back, and the latter whispered several times in
her ear. I doubt, however, whether she heard anything. She sat through
the whole of the next act like one in a dream, only her eyes never left
the stage--never left, indeed, the figure of the man from whom all the
greatness of the play seemed to flow. As the curtain fell I leaned over
to Arthur.

"Isobel and I are going to pay a visit," I said. "We shall be back in
time for the next act."

"A visit!" he repeated doubtfully. "Is there anyone we know here, then?"

"Allan will explain," I answered. "You had better tell him," I whispered
to Mabane.

Allan was looking very serious. I think that he questioned the wisdom of
what I was doing.

"You are going to see him?" he asked, in a low tone.

"He has sent for us," I answered.

We found the attendant waiting, and by a devious route along many
passages and through many doors we reached our destination at last. Our
guide knocked at a door on which was hanging a little board with the
name of "Monsieur Feurgeres" painted across it. Almost immediately we
were bidden to enter. Monsieur Feurgeres was sitting with his back to us
before a long dressing-table. He turned at once to the servant who stood
by his side.

"Come back five minutes before my call," he ordered. "That will be in
about twenty minutes from now."

The man bowed and silently withdrew. Not until he had left the room did
Feurgeres move from his place. Then he arose to his feet and held out
his hands to Isobel.

"I knew your mother, Isobel!" he said simply.




CHAPTER X


Isobel never hesitated. I think that instinctively she accepted him
without demur. Her eyes flashed back to him all those nameless things
which his own greeting had left unspoken. She took his hands, and looked
him frankly in the face.

"All my life," she said softly, "I have wanted to meet someone who could
say that to me."

He was dressed in a suit of mediaeval court clothes, black from head to
foot, and fashioned according to the period of the play in which he was
acting. But if he had worn the garments of a pierrot or a clown, one
would never have noticed it. The man's individuality, magnetic and
irresistible, triumphed easily. Mr. Grooten had passed away. It was the
great Feurgeres, whose sad shining eyes lingered so wistfully upon
Isobel's face.

"I can say more than that," he went on. "And now that I see you, Isobel,
I wonder that I have not said it long ago. You are like her, child--very
like her!"

"I am glad," Isobel murmured. "Please tell me--everything!"

"Everything--for me--is soon told," he answered, his voice dropping
almost to a whisper, his eyes still fixed upon Isobel's, yet looking her
through as though she were a shadow. "I loved your mother. I was the
man--whom your mother loved! The years of my life began and ended
there."

Their hands had fallen apart a little while before, but Isobel, with an
impulsive gesture, stooped down and raised the fingers of his left hand
to her lips. I turned away. It seemed like sacrilege to watch a man's
soul shining in his eyes. I walked to the other end of the long narrow
room, and examined the swords which lay ready for use against the wall.
It was not many minutes, however, before Feurgeres recalled me.

"To-night," he said, "I was coming to see Mr. Greatson."

"It is better," she murmured, "to have met you like this."

He smiled very slightly, yet it seemed to me that the curve of his lips
was almost a caress. There was certainly nothing left now of Mr.
Grooten.

"I think that I, too, am glad," he said. "Your mother suffered all her
life because she permitted herself to care for me. We mummers, you see,
Isobel, though the world loves to be amused, are always a little outside
the pale. I think," he added, with a curious little note of bitterness
in his tone, "that we are not reckoned worthy or capable of the domestic
affections."

"You do not believe--you cannot believe," she murmured, "that there are
many people who are so foolish! It is the dwellers in the world who are
mummers--those who live their foolish, orderly lives with their eyes
closed, and oppressed all the while with a nervous fear of what their
neighbours are thinking of them. Those are the mummers--but you--you,
Monsieur, are Feurgeres--the artist! You make music on the heartstrings
of the world!"

For myself I was astonished. I had not often seen Isobel so deeply
moved. I had never known her so ready, so earnest of speech. But
Feurgeres was almost agitated. For the first time I saw him without the
mask of his perfect self-control. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were
soft as a woman's. He raised Isobel's hand to his lips, and his voice,
when he spoke, shook with real emotion.

"You are the daughter of your mother, dear Isobel," he said. "Beyond
that, what is there that I can say--I, who loved her!"

"You can tell me about her," Isobel said gently. "That is what I have
been hoping for!"

"A little, a very little," he answered, "and more to-night, if you will.
I have already written to Mr. Greatson, and I meant in a few hours to
tell him everything. But I would have you know this, Isobel, and
remember it always. Your mother was a holy woman. For my sake, for the
sake of the love she bore me, she abandoned a great position. She broke
down all the barriers of race, and all the conventions of a lifetime.
She lost every friend she had in the world; she even, perhaps, in some
measure, neglected her duty to you. Yet you were seldom out of her
thoughts, and her last words committed you to my distant care. I have,
perhaps, ill-fulfilled her charge, Isobel. Yet I have been watching over
you sometimes when you have not known it."

"You were my saviour once," she said, "you and Arnold here, when I
sorely needed help."

"I came from America at a moment's notice," he said, "when it seemed to
me that you might need my help. I broke the greatest contract I had ever
signed, and I placed my liberty, if not my life, at the mercy of your
wonderful police system. But those things count for little. I have been
forced, Isobel, to leave you very much to yourself. You come of a race
who would regard any association with me as defilement. And there is
always the chance that you may be able to take your proper position in
the world. That is why it has been my duty to keep away from you, why I
have been forced to leave to others what I would gladly have done
myself. To-night you will understand everything."

"Nothing that you can tell me of my family or myself," she answered,
"will ever make me forget that, whereas of them I know nothing, you have
been my guardian angel. It was you who rescued me from the one person in
this world of whom I have been miserably, hatefully afraid. It was not
my family who saved me. It was you!"

A shrill bell was ringing outside. We heard the commotion of hurrying
footsteps, the call-boy's summons, the creaking of moving scenery.
Feurgeres glanced at the watch which stood upon his table. His manner
seemed to undergo a sudden change. The man no longer revealed himself.

"The curtain is going up," he said. "I can stay with you but two minutes
longer. I am coming to see Mr. Greatson to-night, Isobel, after the
performance, and I wish to see him alone. This is at once our meeting
and our farewell."

"Our farewell!" she repeated doubtfully. "Surely you are not going to
leave us--so soon! You cannot mean that?"

"To-morrow," he said, "I leave for St. Petersburg. My engagement there
has been made many months ago. But even if it were not so, dear child,
our ways through life must always lie far apart. If the necessity for it
had not existed, I should not have left you to the care of--of even Mr.
Greatson. To be your guardian, Isobel, would not be seemly. That you
will better understand--to-morrow."

"Indeed!" she protested, "I would sooner hear it now from your own
lips--if, indeed, it must be so!"

He shook his head very slowly, but with a decision more finite than the
most emphatic negation which words could have framed.

"I must go away, Isobel," he said, "and you and I must remain apart. I
will only ask you to remember me by this. I am the man your mother
loved. Nothing else in my life is worth considering--but that. I am one
of those with whom fate has dealt a little hardly. I am as weary of my
work as I am of life itself. I go on because it was her wish. But I
cannot forget. The past remains--a blazing page of light. The present is
a very empty and a very cold place. My days here are a sort of
aftermath. My life ended with hers. To-night, for one moment--I want you
to take her place."

Isobel looked at him eagerly.

"Tell me how," she begged. "Tell me what to do!"

"It may sound very foolish," he said, with a faint smile, "but I have a
fancy, and I am sure that you will do as I ask. I want you to sit where
she sat night after night. You will find some flowers in her chair. Keep
them. They were the ones she preferred."

There was an imperative knocking at the door. Feurgeres caught up his
plumed hat and sword.

"I am ready," he said quietly. "Mr. Greatson, my servant will take you
to the box, which I beg that you and Isobel will occupy for the rest of
the evening. It is a harmless whim of mine, and I trust that it will not
inconvenience you."

With scarcely another word he left us, and a moment later we heard the
roar of applause which greeted his appearance on the stage. Isobel's
eyes kindled, and she moved restlessly towards the door.

"I do hope," she said, "that someone will come for us soon. I want to
hear every word. I hate to miss any of it."

The dark-visaged servant stood upon the threshold.

"I have orders from Monsieur Feurgeres," he announced respectfully, "to
conduct you to his box. If Mademoiselle will permit!"

We followed him on tiptoe to the front of the house. He unlocked the
door of the left-hand stage box with a key which he took from his
pocket.

"Monsieur will permit me to remark," he whispered, "that this is the
first time since I have been in the service of Monsieur Feurgeres that
anyone has occupied his private box. I trust that Mademoiselle will be
comfortable."

Then the door closed behind him, and we were left to ourselves.




CHAPTER XI


Isobel, her chair drawn a little behind the curtain, was almost
invisible from the house. With both hands she held the cluster of pink
roses which she had found upon the seat. Gravely, but with wonderful
self-composure, she followed the action of the play with an intentness
which never faltered. Occasionally she leaned a little forward, and at
such moments her profile passed the droop of the curtain, and was
visible to the greater part of the audience. It was immediately after
one of such movements that I noticed some commotion amongst the
occupants of the box opposite to us. Their attention seemed suddenly
drawn towards Isobel--two sets of opera-glasses were steadily levelled
at her. A woman, whose neck and arms were ablaze with diamonds, raised
her lorgnettes, and, regardless of the progress of the play, kept them
fixed in our direction. I changed my position to obtain a better view of
these people, and immediately I understood.

I saw the house now for the first time, and I saw something which
pleased me very little. We were immediately opposite the Royal box,
which, with the one adjoining, was occupied by a very brilliant little
party. The Archduchess was there. It was she whose lorgnettes were still
unfalteringly directed towards Isobel. Lady Delahaye sat in the
background, and a greater personage than either occupied the chair next
to the Archduchess. Soon I saw that they were all whispering together,
all still looking from Isobel towards the stage, and from the stage to
Isobel; and in the background was a man whose coat was covered with
orders, and who held himself like a soldier. He looked at Isobel as one
might look at a ghost. I stood back almost hidden in the shadows, and I
wondered more than ever what the end of all these things might be.

Towards the close of the act that wonderful voice, with its low burden
of sorrow so marvellously controlled, drew me against my will to the
front of the box. He stood there with outstretched arms, the prototype
of all pathos, and the low words, drawn as it were against his will from
his tremulous lips, kept the whole house breathless. His arms dropped to
his side, the curtain commenced to fall. In that moment his eyes,
suddenly uplifted, met mine. It seemed to me that they were charged with
meaning, and I read their message rightly. After all, though, I am not
sure that I needed any warning.

The curtain fell. There was twenty minutes' interval. Isobel sat back in
her chair, and her hand lingered lovingly about the roses which lay upon
her lap. I did not speak to her. I knew that she was living in a little
world of her own, into which any ordinary intrusion was almost
sacrilege. Arthur and Allan had left their places. I judged rightly that
they had gone home. So I sat by myself, and waited for what I knew was
sure to happen.

And presently it came--the knock at the box door for which I had been
listening. I rose and opened it. A tall young Englishman, with smooth
parted hair, whose evening attire was so immaculate as to become almost
an offence, stood and stared at me through his eyeglass.

"Mr. Greatson!" he suggested. "Mr. Arnold Greatson?"

I acknowledged the fact with becoming meekness.

"My name is Milton," he said--"Captain Angus Milton. I am in the suite
of the Archduchess for this evening. Her Highness occupies the box
opposite to yours."

I bowed.

"I have noticed the fact," I answered. "The Archduchess has been good
enough to favour us with some attention."

The young man stared at me for some moments. I found myself able to
endure his scrutiny.

"Her Highness desires that you and the young lady"--for the first time
he bowed towards Isobel--"will be so good as to come to the anteroom of
the Royal box. She is anxious for a few minutes' conversation with you."

"The Archduchess," I answered, "does us too much honour! I shall be
glad, however, if you will inform her that we will take another
opportunity of waiting upon her. Miss de Sorrens is much interested in
the play."

The young man dropped his eyeglass. I was proud of the fact that I had
succeeded in surprising him.

"You mean," he exclaimed softly, "that you won't--that you don't want to
come?"

"Precisely," I answered. "I have already had the honour of one interview
with the Archduchess, and I imagine that no useful purpose would be
served by re-opening the subject of our discussion!"

"The young lady, then?" he remarked, turning again to Isobel.

"The young lady remains under my charge," I answered. "You will be so
good as to express my regrets to the Archduchess."

He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a slight bow to Isobel, left
us. She spoke to me, and we had been so long silent that our voices
sounded strange.

"Thank you, Arnold," she said quietly. "This is all so wonderful that I
could not bear to have it disturbed."

"I pray that it may not be," I answered. "The Archduchess's interest is
flattering, but mysterious. I for one do not trust her. I wish----"

I broke off in my speech, for I saw that the principal seat in the
opposite box was vacant. As for Isobel, I doubt whether she noticed my
sudden pause. Her hands were still caressing the soft pink blossoms in
her lap, her eyes were fixed upon vacancy. She was in a sort of dream,
from which I did not care to rouse her. I knew very well that the
awakening would come fast enough.

Another imperative tap upon the door. I opened it, and the Archduchess
swept past me. In the darkness of our box her diamonds glittered like
fire, the perfume from her draperies was stronger by far than the
delicate fragrance of the roses which Isobel still held. Me she ignored
altogether. She went straight up to Isobel, and, stooping down, rested
her gloved hand upon the girl's shoulder.

"I sent for you just now," she said. "Did you not understand?"

Isobel raised her eyebrows. The Archduchess was angry, and her voice
betrayed her.

"I do not know any reason," Isobel answered, "why I should do your
bidding."

[Illustration: "I do not know any reason" Isobel answered, "why I should
do your bidding."]

The Archduchess was silent for a moment. I think that she was waiting
until she could control her voice.

"Isobel," she said, "I will tell you a very good reason. I cannot keep
silence any longer. They will not give you up to me any other way, so I
have come to claim you openly. You shall know the truth. I am your
mother's sister!"

Isobel rose slowly to her feet. She was as tall as the Archduchess, and
the likeness which had always haunted me was unmistakable. Only Isobel
was of the finer mould, and her eyes were different.

"Why did you not tell me this before--at the Mordaunt Rooms, for
instance?" she asked.

"You came upon me like a thunderclap," the Archduchess answered quickly.
"For years we had lost all trace of you. Besides, there were
reasons--you know that there were reasons why I might surely have been
forgiven for hesitating. But let that go. We had better have your story
blazoned out once more to the world than that you should live your life
in this hole-and-corner fashion. I shall take you back to Waldenburg. I
presume, sir!" she added, turning suddenly towards me, "that even you
will not question my right to assume the guardianship of my own niece?"

The memory of Feurgeres' look came to my aid, or I scarcely know how I
should have answered her.

"Your Highness," I said, "it is for Isobel to decide. She is no longer a
child. Only I would remind you that you have on more than one occasion
endeavoured to assume that guardianship without mentioning any such
relationship."

"You know Isobel's history," the Archduchess answered. "Can you wonder
that I was anxious to avoid all publicity?"

"Your Highness," I said, "we do not know Isobel's history--yet. We shall
hear it to-night."

"He has not told you--yet?" she asked incredulously.

"He is coming to my rooms to-night," I answered.

"You shall hear it before then," she exclaimed, with a little laugh.
"Put on your hat, child. We will drive to my house, you and I and Mr.
Greatson, and I will tell you everything. You will know then how greatly
that man insulted you by daring to allow you to occupy this box, to
approach you at all."

"Madame," Isobel said, "I thank you, but I wish to hear the end of the
play. And as for my history, Monsieur Feurgeres has promised to tell it
to Mr. Greatson to-night."

I saw the Archduchess's teeth meet, and a spot of colour that burned in
her cheeks.

"You talk like a fool, child," she said fiercely. "You are being
deceived on every side. It is not fit that that man should come into
your presence. It is a disgrace that you should mention his name."

"Mr.--Monsieur Feurgeres has proved himself my friend," Isobel answered
quietly.

The Archduchess's eyes were burning. She was a woman of violent temper,
and it was fast becoming beyond her control.

"Child," she said, "I am your aunt, the daughter of the King of
Waldenburg. You, too, are of the same race. You know well that I speak
the truth. How dare you talk to me of a creature like Feurgeres? You
have our blood in your veins. I command you to come with me, and break
off at once and for ever these remarkable associations. You shall make
what return you will later on to those whom you may think"--she darted a
contemptuous glance at me--"have been your friends. But from this moment
I claim you. Come!"

Isobel looked her aunt in the face. She spoke courteously, but without
faltering.

"Madame," she said, "it is not possible for me to do as you ask.
Whatever plans are made for my future, it is to my dear friend here,"
she said, looking across at me with shining eyes, "that I owe
everything. And as for Monsieur Feurgeres, I have promised him to occupy
this box for this evening, and I shall do so."

The Archduchess was very white.

"You force me to tell you, child," she said. "This creature Feurgeres
was your mother's----"

"Your Highness!" I cried.

She stopped short and bit her lip. Isobel was very pale, but she pointed
to the door. The orchestra had commenced to play.

"Madame," she said, "Monsieur Feurgeres loved my mother. I shall keep my
word to him."

There was a soft knock at the door. Captain Milton stood on the
threshold.

"Your Highness," he said, bowing low, "the curtain will rise in thirty
seconds."

The Archduchess left us without a word.




CHAPTER XII


It was not often we permitted ourselves such luxuries, but as we left
the theatre I caught a glimpse of Isobel's white face, more clearly
visible now than in the dimly lit box, and I knew that, bravely though
she had carried herself through the whole of that trying evening, she
was not far from breaking down. So I called a hansom, and she sank back
in a corner with a little sigh of relief. I lit a cigarette, and
suddenly I felt a cold little hand steal into mine. I set my teeth and
held it firmly.

"Arnold," she whispered, and her voice was none too steady, "I hate that
woman. I do not care if she is my aunt; and--Arnold----"

"Yes."

"I believe that she hates me too. She looks at me as though I were
something unpleasant, as though she wished me dead. I will not go to
her, Arnold. Say that I shall not."

For a moment I was silent. Her little womanish airs of the last few
months, the quaint effort of dignity with which it seemed to have
pleased her to add all that was possible to her years, had wholly
departed. She was a child again, with frightened eyes and quivering
lips, the child who had walked so easily into our hearts in those first
days of her terror. To think of her as such again was almost a relief.

"Dear Isobel," I said, "the Archduchess has told me now two different
stories concerning you. She appears to be very anxious to have you in
her care, but her methods up to the present have been very strange. We
shall not give you up to her unless we are obliged. But----"

"Please what, Arnold?" she interrupted anxiously.

"If the Archduchess is indeed your aunt, as she says she is, you must
have hundreds of other relations, many of whom you would without doubt
find very different people. Besides, in that case, you see, Isobel, you
ought to be living altogether differently. It is absurd for you to be
grubbing along with us in an attic when you ought to be living in a
palace, with plenty of money and servants and beautiful frocks, and all
that sort of thing. You understand me, don't you?" I concluded a little
lamely, for the steady gaze of those deep blue frightened eyes was a
little disconcerting.

"No, I do not," she answered. "If I am a Waldenburg and the niece of the
Archduchess, why was I left alone at that convent for all those years,
and who was responsible for sending that man to fetch me away--that
terrible man? How are they going to explain that, these wonderful
relations of mine? Oh, Arnold, Arnold!" she cried, suddenly swaying over
towards me in the cab, "I don't want to leave you--all. Do not send me
away. Promise that you will not!"

A child, I told myself fiercely, a mere child this! Nevertheless I was
thankful for the darkness of the silent street into which we had turned,
the darkness which hid my face from her. Her soft breath was upon my
cheek, her beautiful head very near my shoulder. Oh, I had need of all
my strength, of all my common-sense.

"Dear Isobel," I said, looking straight ahead of me out of the cab, "I
cannot make you any promise. All must depend upon what Monsieur
Feurgeres tells us to-night. Nothing would make me--all of us--happier
than to keep you with us always. But it may not be our duty to keep you,
or yours to stay. Until we have heard Feurgeres' story we are in the
dark."

She shrank, as it seemed, into herself. Her eyes followed mine
hauntingly.

"Arnold," she said, with a little tremor in her tone, "you are not very
kind to me to-night, and I feel--that I want--people to be kind to me
just now."

I bent down, and I raised her hands to my lips and kissed them.

"My dear child," I said, "don't forget that I am your guardian, and I
have to think for you--a long way ahead. As for the rest, I have not a
single thought or hope in life which is not concerned for your
happiness."

"I like that better," she murmured; "but--you are very fond of my
hands."

Fortunately the cab pulled up with a jerk. I paid the man, and we
commenced to climb up the stone steps towards our rooms. Isobel, who was
generally a couple of flights ahead, slipped her hand through my arm and
leaned heavily upon me.

"Arnold," she whispered, "why would you not read your story to me. Tell
me, please!"

"My dear child!" I exclaimed, "what made you think of that just now?"

She leaned forward. I think that she was trying to look into my face.

"Never mind! Please tell me," she begged.

"I will read it some day," I answered. "It is so incomplete. I think I
shall have to rewrite it."

She shook her head.

"You have always read to me before just as you have written it. I think
that you are not quite so nice to me, Arnold, as you were. I haven't
done anything that you do not like, have I? Because I am sure that you
are different!"

"You absurd child," I answered, smiling at her as cheerfully as I could.
"You are in an imaginative frame of mind to-night."

"It is not that! You look at me differently, you do not seem to want to
have me with you so much, and----"

I stopped her. We had reached the fourth floor, where our apartments
were. With the key in the lock I turned and faced her for a moment. She
was as tall as I, and a certain grace of carriage which she had always
possessed, and which had grown with her years, redeemed her completely
from the _gaucherie_ of her uncomfortable age. Her features had gained
in strength, and lost nothing in delicacy. She wore even her simple
clothes with the nameless grace which must surely have come to her from
inheritance. I spoke to her then seriously. Yet if I had tried I could
not have kept the kindness from my tone.

"Dear Isobel," I said, "if there is any difference--think! A year ago
you were a child. To-day you are a woman. You must understand that, side
by side with the pleasure of having you with us--the greatest pleasure
that has ever come into our lives, Isobel--has come a certain amount of
responsibility."

"I am becoming a trouble to you, then!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"A trouble, Isobel!"

I suppose I weakened for a moment. Some trick of tone or expression must
have let in the daylight, for she suddenly held out her hands with a
soft little cry. And then as she stood there, her eyes shining, the old
delightful smile curving her lips, the door before which she stood was
thrown open, and Arthur stood there. He had on his hat and coat, and I
saw at once that he was not himself. His cheeks were flushed with anger,
and he looked at us with a black frown.

"So you've come back, then!" he exclaimed. "Allan and I got tired of
waiting. Just in time to say good-bye, Isobel. I'm off!"

"Off? But where?" she asked, looking at him in surprise.

I left them, and passed on into our studio sitting-room, where Mabane
was filling his pipe.

"What's the matter with Arthur?" I asked.

"Off his chump," Allan answered gravely. "Don't take any notice of him."

Isobel and he were still talking together. Arthur's voice was a little
raised--then it suddenly dropped.

"I think," Allan said, "that you had better interfere. Arthur has lost
his temper. I am afraid----"

"He will break the compact?" I exclaimed.

"I am afraid so!"

I stepped back into the little hall. They were talking together
earnestly. Arthur looked up and glared at me.

"Arthur," I said, "Allan and I want a few words with you before you
go--if you are going out to-night."

"In a moment," he answered. "I have something to say to Isobel."

But Isobel had gone. He looked for a moment at the door of her room
through which she had vanished, and then he turned on his heel and
followed me. He threw his hat upon the table and faced us both
defiantly.

"It is I," he said, "who have something to say to you, and I'd like to
get it over quick. D--n your hypocritical compact, Arnold Greatson!
There! You're in love with Isobel! Any fool can see it, and you want to
keep the child all to yourself."

Allan took a quick step forward, but I held out my hand.

"Don't interfere, Allan," I said. "Let him say all that he has to say."

"I mean to!" Arthur continued, "and I hope you'll like it. The compact
was a fraud from beginning to end, and I'll have no more to do with it.
Isobel's too old to live here with you fellows, and I'm going to ask her
to marry me. I'm going to advise her to go and stay with Lady Delahaye,
who wants her, and I'm going to marry her from there if she'll have me."

"Lady Delahaye," I repeated thoughtfully. "You have been in
communication with her, have you?"

"Yes, I have! And I think she's right. Isobel ought to have some women
friends. She may have enemies, but I'm not so sure about that. Lady
Delahaye isn't one of them, at any rate. The people who want to get her
away from here may be her best friends, after all."

"Is that all, Arthur?"

"It's enough, isn't it?" he answered doggedly.

"Quite! Now listen," I said. "To-night we are going to hear Isobel's
history. We are going to know who she is, and all about her. Stay with
us, and you shall share the knowledge. As for the rest, you have been
talking like a fool. We do not wish to take you seriously. We took up
the charge of Isobel jointly. If the time has come now for us to give
her up, I should like us all to be in agreement. It is very likely that
the time has come. I, too, think that in many ways it would be for her
benefit. We are prepared to give her up when we know the proper people
to undertake the care of her--but never, Arthur, to Lady Delahaye."

Arthur smiled slowly, but it was not a pleasant smile.

"Ah!" he said, "I forgot. Lady Delahaye is an old friend of yours, isn't
she?"

"Your insinuations are childish, Arthur," I answered. "Lady Delahaye is
an old friend of the Archduchess's, and their interest in Isobel is
identical. For many reasons I am going to know Isobel's history before I
give her up to either of them."

"And who is going to tell it to you?" he asked.

"Feurgeres," I answered. "He sent for us at the theatre to-night. He is
coming on here."

There was a sharp tapping at the door. I moved across the room to open
it. Arthur threw his hat upon the table.

"I will wait!" he declared.




CHAPTER XIII


We all knew Isobel's history. It had taken barely twenty minutes to tell
it, but they had been twenty minutes of tragedy. We were all, I think,
in different ways affected. Monsieur Feurgeres alone sat back in his
seat like a carved image, his face white and haggard, his deep-set eyes
fixed upon vacancy. We felt that he had passed wholly away from the
world of present things. He himself was lingering amongst the shadows of
that wonderful past, upon which he had only a moment before dropped the
curtain. He had told us to ask him questions, but I for my part felt
that questions just then were a sacrilege. Arthur, however, seemed to
feel nothing of this. It was he who took the lead.

"Isobel, then," he said, "is the granddaughter of the King of
Waldenburg, the only child of his eldest daughter! Her mother was
divorced from her husband, Prince of Herrshoff, and afterwards married
to you. What about her father?"

"He died two years after the divorce was granted," Feurgeres said
without turning his head. "Isobel was hurried away from the Court
through the influence of her aunt, the Archduchess of Bristlaw, and sent
to a convent in France. It was not intended that she should ever
reappear at the Court of Waldenburg."

"Why not?"

"The King is very old, and he is the richest man in Europe. Isobel is
the daughter of his eldest and favourite child. The Archduchess also has
a daughter, and, failing Isobel, she will inherit."

"Has the King," I asked, "taken any steps to discover Isobel?"

"He has been told that she is dead," Feurgeres answered.

We were all silent then for several minutes. The things which we had
heard were strange enough, but they let in a flood of light upon all the
events of the last few months. It was Feurgeres himself who broke in
upon our thoughts.

"Gentlemen," he said, "there is another thing which I must tell you."

His voice was very low but firm. He had turned in his chair, and was
facing us all. His eyes were no longer vacant. He spoke as one speaks of
sacred things.

"All Europe," he said, "was pleased to discuss what was called the
elopement of the Princess Isobel with Feurgeres the player. The
gutter-press of the world filled their columns with sensational and
scandalous lies. We at no time made any reply. There was no need. If now
I break the silence of years it is that Isobel shall know the truth. It
is you, Mr. Greatson, who will tell her this, and many other things.
Listen carefully to what I say. The husband of the Princess Isobel was a
blackguard, a man unfit for the society of any self-respecting woman.
She was living in misery when I was bidden to the Court of Waldenburg. I
was made the more welcome there, perhaps, because I myself am a
descendant of an ancient and honourable French family. I met the
Princess Isobel often, and we grew to love each other. Of the struggle
which ensued between her sense of duty and my persuasions I say nothing.
She was a highly sensitive and very intellectual woman, and she had a
profound conviction of the unalienable right of a woman to live out her
life to its fullest capacity, to gather into it to the full all that is
best and greatest. Her position at Waldenburg was impossible. I proved
it to her. I prevailed. But----"

He paused, and held up his hand.

"The whole story of our elopement was a lie. There was no elopement. The
Princess Isobel left her husband accompanied only by a maid and a
lady-in-waiting. They lived quietly in Paris until her husband procured
his divorce. Then we were married, but until then we had not met since
our parting at Waldenburg. Isobel's mother was ever a pure and holy
woman. Let Isobel know that. Let her know that the greatest and most
wonderful sacrifice a woman ever made was surely hers--when she denied
herself her own daughter lest the merest shadow of shame should rest
upon her in later years. It is for that same reason that I myself have
kept away from Isobel. I have watched over her always, but at a
distance. That is why I am content to stand aside even now and yield up
my place to strangers."

It was Arthur again who questioned him.

"Mr. Feurgeres," he said, "you have told us wonderful things about
Isobel. You have told us wonderful things about the past, but you have
not spoken at all about the future. Is it your wish that she returns to
Waldenburg, or is she to remain Isobel de Sorrens?"

Feurgeres turned his head and looked searchingly at Arthur. The boy's
face was flushed with excitement. He made no effort to conceal his great
interest. Feurgeres looked at him steadfastly, and it was long before he
spoke.

"You are asking me," he said slowly, "the very question which I have
been asking myself for a long time. Isobel's proper place is at
Waldenburg, and yet there are many and grave reasons why I dread her
going there. The King is an old man, the Court is ruled by the
Archduchess, a hard, unscrupulous woman. Already she has schemed to get
the child into her power. I dread the thought of her there, alone and
friendless. Her mother spoke of this to me upon her deathbed. She shrank
always from the idea that even the shadow of those hideous calumnies
which oppressed her own life should darken a single moment of Isobel's.
I believe that if she were here at this moment she would place the two
issues before her and bid her take her choice. I think that it is what
we must do."

Arthur stood up. He looked very eager and handsome, though a little
boyish.

"Monsieur Feurgeres," he said, "I love Isobel. Give her to me, and I
will look after her future. I am not rich, but I will make a home for
her. She is too old to stay here with us any longer. I will make her
happy! Indeed I will!"

Monsieur Feurgeres looked back at that vacant spot upon the wall, and
was silent for some time. It was impossible to gather anything from his
face, though Arthur watched him fixedly all the time.

"And Isobel?" he asked at length.

"I have not spoken to her," Arthur said. "There was a compact between us
that we should not whilst she was under our care."

Monsieur Feurgeres turned to me.

"That sounds like a compact of your making, Arnold Greatson," he said.
"What am I to say to your friend?"

"It is surely," I said, "for Isobel to decide. It is only another issue
to be placed before her with those others of which you have spoken. You
say that you must leave for St. Petersburg to-morrow. Will you see her
now?"

He shook his head. I might almost have imagined him indifferent but for
the sudden twitching of his lips, the almost pitiful craving which
flashed out for a moment from his deep-set eyes. These were signs which
came and went so quickly that I doubt if either of the others observed
them. But I at least understood.

"I will not see her at all," he said. "It is better that I should not.
If she should decide upon Waldenburg, the less she has seen of me the
better. I leave it to you, Arnold Greatson, to put these matters
faithfully before Isobel. I claim no guardianship over her. Her mother's
sole desire was that when she had reached her present age the whole
truth should be placed before her, and she should decide exactly as she
thought best. That is my charge upon you," he continued, looking me
steadfastly in the face, "and I know that you will fulfil it. I shall
send you my address in case it is necessary to communicate with me."

He rose to his feet, prepared for departure. Arthur intercepted him.

"If Isobel will have me, then," he said, "you will not object?"

"Isobel shall make her own choice of these various issues," he answered.
"I claim no guardianship over her at all. If any further decision has to
be given, you must look to Mr. Greatson."

Arthur did look at me, but his eyes fell quickly. He turned once more to
Monsieur Feurgeres.

"Whether you claim it or not," he said, "you are really her guardian,
not Arnold. I shall tell her that you left her free to choose."

"I have said all that I have to say," Monsieur Feurgeres replied.
"Except this to you, Mr. Greatson," he added, turning to me. "You can
have no longer any hesitation in using the money which stands in
Isobel's name at the National Bank. You will find that it has
accumulated, and I have also added to it. Isobel will always be
reasonably well off, for I have left all that I myself possess to her,
with the exception of one legacy."

Without any further form of farewell he passed away from us. It was so
obviously his wish to be allowed to depart that we none of us cared to
stop him. Then we all three looked at one another.

"To-morrow," Mabane said, "you must tell Isobel."

"Why not to-night?" Arthur interposed.

"Why not to-night, indeed?" Isobel's soft voice asked. "If, indeed,
there is anything more to tell."

We were all thunderstruck as she glided out from behind the screen which
shielded the inner door, the door which led to her room. It needed only
a single glance into her face to assure us that she knew everything. Her
eyes were still soft with tears, shining like stars as she stood and
looked at me across the floor; her cheeks were pale, and her lips were
still quivering.

"I heard my name," she said. "The door was unfastened, so I stole out.
And I think that I am glad I did. I had a right to know all that I have
heard. It is very wonderful. I keep thinking and thinking, and even now
I cannot realize."

"You heard everything, Isobel?" Arthur exclaimed meaningly.

"Everything!" she answered, her eyes suddenly seeking the carpet. "I
thank you all for what you have said and done for me. To-morrow, I
think, I shall know better how I feel about these things."

"Quite right, Isobel," Allan said quietly. "There are great issues
before you, and you should live with them for a little while. Do not
decide anything hastily!"

Arthur pressed forward to her side.

"You will give me your hand, Isobel?" he pleaded. "You will say
good-night?"

She gave it to him passively. He raised it to his lips. It was his
active pronouncement of himself as her suitor. I watched her closely,
and so did Allan. But she gave no sign. She held out her hand to us,
too--a cold, sad little hand it felt--and turned away. There was
something curiously subdued about her movements as well as her silence
as she passed out of sight.

Arthur took up his hat. He was nervous and uneasy. His tone was almost
threatening.

"I shall be here early in the morning," he said. "I suppose you will
allow me to see Isobel?"

"By all means," I answered. "As things are now you need not go away
unless you like. Your room is still empty. Our compact is at an end.
Stay if you will."

He hesitated for a moment, and then threw down his hat. He sank into an
easy chair, and covered his face with his hands.

"I've been a beast, I know!" he half sobbed. "I can't help it. Isobel is
everything in the world to me. You fellows can't imagine how I care for
her."

I laid my hand upon his shoulder--a little wearily, perhaps, though I
tried to infuse some sympathy into my tone.

"Cheer up, Arthur!" I said. "You have your chance. Don't make a trouble
of it yet."

Arthur shook his head despondently.

"I think," he said, "that she will go to Waldenburg!"




Book III




CHAPTER I


Arthur flung himself into the room pale, hollow-eyed, the picture of
despair.

"Any news?" he cried, hopelessly enough, for he had seen my face.

"None," I answered.

"Anything from Feurgeres?"

"Not yet."

"Tell me again--where did you telegraph him?"

"Dover, Calais, Paris, Ostend, Brussels, Cologne!"

"And no reply?"

"As yet none."

"Let us look again at the note you found."

I smoothed it out upon the table. We had read it many times.

     "There is something else which I must tell you before I leave
     England. Come to me at once. The bearer will bring you. Come alone.

     "HENRI FEURGERES.

     "P.S.--You will be back in an hour. Disturb no one. It is possible
     that I may ask you to keep secret what I have to say."

"This note," I remarked, tapping it with my forefinger, "was taken in to
Isobel by Mrs. Burdett at a quarter to eight. It was brought, she said,
by a respectable middle-aged woman, with whom Isobel left the place soon
after eight. We heard of this an hour later. At eleven o'clock we began
the search for Monsieur Feurgeres. At three, Allan discovered that he
had left the _Savoy Hotel_ at ten for St. Petersburg. Since then we have
sent seven telegrams, the delivery of which is very problematical--and
we have heard--nothing!"

Allan laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.

"We may get a reply from Feurgeres at any moment," he said, "but there
will be no news of Isobel. That note is a forgery, Arnold."

"I am afraid it is," I admitted. "Feurgeres was a man of his word. He
would never have sent for Isobel."

"Then she is lost to us," Arthur groaned.

I caught up my hat and coat.

"Not yet," I said. "I will go and see what Lady Delahaye has to say
about this. It can do no harm, at any rate."

"Shall I come?" Arthur asked, half rising from his chair.

"I would rather go alone," I answered.

       *       *       *       *       *

The butler, who knew me by sight, was courteous but doubtful.

"Her ladyship has been receiving all the afternoon," he told me, "but I
believe that she has gone to her rooms now. Her ladyship dines early
to-night because of the opera. I will send your name up if you like,
sir."

I walked restlessly up and down the hall for ten minutes. Then a lady's
maid suddenly appeared through a green baize door and beckoned me to
follow her.

"Her ladyship will see you upstairs, sir, if you will come this way,"
she announced.

I followed her into a little boudoir. Lady Delahaye, in a blue
dressing-gown, was lying upon a sofa. She eyed me as I entered with a
curious smile.

"This is indeed an unexpected pleasure," she murmured. "Do sit down
somewhere. It is long past my hour of receiving, and I am just getting
ready for dinner, but I positively could not send you away. Now, please,
tell me all about it."

"You know why I have come, then?" I remarked.

"My dear man, I haven't the least idea," she protested. "It is sheer
unadulterated curiosity which made me send Perkins for you up here.
We're not at all upon the sort of terms, you know," she added, looking
up at me with her big blue eyes, "for this sort of thing."

"Isobel left us this morning!" I said bluntly. "She received a note
signed Feurgeres, which I am sure was a forgery. She left us at eight
o'clock, and she has not returned."

Lady Delahaye looked at me with a faint smile. Her expression puzzled
me. I was not even able to guess at the thoughts which lay underneath
her words.

"How anxious you must be," she murmured. "Do you know, I always wondered
whether Isobel would not some day weary of your milk-and-water
Bohemianism. Your Scotch friend is worthy, no doubt, but dull, and the
boy was too hopelessly in love to be amusing. And as for you--well--you
would do very nicely, no doubt, my dear Arnold, but you are too stuffed
up with principles for a girl of Isobel's antecedents. So she has cut
the Gordian knot herself! Well, I am sorry!"

"You are sorry!" I repeated. "Why?"

She smiled sweetly at me.

"Because my dear friend has promised me that wonderful emerald necklace
if I could get the child away from you, and I think that very soon, with
the help of that stupid boy, I should have succeeded," she said
regretfully. "Such emeralds, Arnold! and you know how anything green
suits me."

"You do not doubt, then, but that it is the Archduchess who has done
this?" I said.

Lady Delahaye lifted her eyebrows.

"Either the Archduchess, or Isobel has walked off of her own sweet
will," she remarked calmly. "In any case you have lost the child, and I
have lost my necklace. I positively cannot risk losing my dinner too,"
she added, with a glance at the clock, "so I am afraid--I am so sorry,
but I must ask you to go away. Come and see me again, won't you? Perhaps
we can be friends again now that this bone of contention is removed."

"I have never desired anything else, Lady Delahaye," I said. "But if my
friendship is really of any value to you, if you would care to earn my
deepest gratitude, you could easily do so."

"Really! In what manner?"

"By helping me to regain possession of the child."

She laughed at me, softly at first, and then without restraint. Finally
she rang the bell.

"My dear Arnold," she exclaimed, wiping her eyes, "you are really too
naive! You amuse me more than I can tell you. My maid will show you the
way downstairs. Do come and see me again soon. Good-bye!"

So that was the end of any hope we may have had of help from Lady
Delahaye. I called a hansom outside and drove at once to Blenheim House,
the temporary residence of the Archduchess and her suite. A footman
passed me on to a more important person who was sitting at a round table
in the hall with a visitor's book open before him. I explained to him my
desire to obtain a few moments' audience with the Archduchess, but he
only smiled and shook his head.

"It is quite impossible for her Highness to see anyone now before her
departure, sir," he said. "If you are connected with the Press, I can
only tell you what I have told all the others. We have received a
telegram from Illghera with grave news concerning the health of his
Majesty the King of Waldenburg, and notwithstanding the indisposition of
the Princess Adelaide, the Archduchess has arranged to leave for
Illghera at once. A fuller explanation will appear in the _Court
Circular_, and the Archduchess is particularly anxious to express her
great regret to all those whom the cancellation of her engagements may
inconvenience. Good-day, sir!"

The man recommenced his task, which was apparently the copying out of a
list of names from the visitor's book, and signed to the footman with
his penholder to show me out. But I stood my ground.

"You are leaving to-day, then?" I said.

"We are leaving to-day," the man assented, without glancing up from his
task. "We are naturally very busy."

"Can I see the Baron von Leibingen?" I asked.

"It is quite impossible, sir," the man answered shortly. "He is engaged
with her Highness."

"I will wait!" I declared.

"Then I must trouble you, sir, to wait outside," he said, with a little
gesture of impatience. "I do not wish to seem uncivil, but my orders
to-day are peremptory."

At that moment a door opened and a man came across the hall, slowly
drawing on his gloves. I looked up and saw the Baron von Leibingen. He
recognized me at once, and bowed courteously. At the same time there was
something in his manner which gave me the impression that he was not
altogether pleased to see me.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Greatson?" he asked, pausing
for a moment by my side.

"I am anxious to obtain five minutes' interview with the Archduchess," I
answered. "If you could manage that for me I should be exceedingly
obliged."

He shook his head.

"It is quite impossible!" he said decisively. "You have heard of the
serious news from Illghera, without doubt. We shall be on our way there
in a few hours."

I drew him a little on one side.

"Is Isobel here, Baron?" I asked bluntly.

"I beg your pardon--is who here?" he inquired, with the air of one who
is puzzled by an incomprehensible question.

"Isobel--the Princess Isobel, if you like--has been lured from our care
by a forged message. We know her history now, and we are able to
understand the nature of the interest which your mistress has shown in
her. Therefore, when I find her missing I come to you. I want to know if
she is in this house."

"If she were," the Baron remarked, "I, and everyone else who knows
anything about it, would say at once that she was in her proper place.
If she were, I should most earnestly advise the Archduchess to keep her
here. But I regret to say that she is not. To tell you the truth, the
Archduchess is so annoyed at the young lady's refusal to accept her
protection, that she has lost all interest in her. I doubt whether she
would receive her now if she came."

"Perhaps," I remarked slowly, "she has gone to Illghera."

"It is, of course," the Baron agreed, "not an impossibility."

"If I do not succeed in my search," I said, "it is to Illghera that I
shall come."

"You will find it," the Baron assured me, with a smile, "a most charming
place. I shall be delighted to renew our acquaintance there."

"His Majesty," I continued, "is, I have heard, very accessible. I shall
be able to tell him Isobel's story. You may keep the child away from
him, Baron, but you cannot prevent his learning the fact of her
existence and her history."

"My young friend," the Baron answered, edging his way towards the door,
"your enigmas at another time would be most interesting. But at present
I have affairs on hand, and I am pressed for time. I will permit myself
to say, however, that you are altogether deceiving yourself. It was the
one wish of the Archduchess to have taken Isobel to her grandfather and
begged him to recognize her."

"You decline to meet me fairly, then--to tell me the truth? Mind, I
firmly believe that Isobel is now under your control. I shall not rest
until I have discovered her."

"Then you may discover, my young friend," the Baron said, putting on his
hat, and turning resolutely away, "the true meaning of the word
weariness. You are a fool to ask me any questions at all. We are on
opposite sides. If I knew where the child was you are the last person
whom I should tell. Her place is anywhere--save with you!"

He bowed and turned away, whispering as he passed to a footman, who at
once approached me. I allowed myself to be shown out. As a matter of
fact, I had no alternative. But on the steps was an English servant in
the Blenheim livery. I slipped half a sovereign into his hand.

"Can you tell me what time the Archduchess leaves, and from what
station?" I asked.

"I am not quite sure about the time, sir," the man answered, "but the
'buses are ordered from Charing Cross, and they are to be here at eight
to-night."

It was already past seven. I lit a cigarette and strolled on towards the
station.




CHAPTER II


At Charing Cross station a strange thing happened. The Continental train
arrived whilst I was sauntering about the platform, and out of it,
within a few feet of me, stepped Feurgeres. He was pale and haggard, and
he leaned heavily upon the arm of his servant as he stepped out of his
carriage. When he saw me, however, he held out his hand and smiled.

"You expected me, then?" he exclaimed.

"Not I," I answered. "You have taken my breath away."

"I had your telegram at Brussels," he explained. "I wired St. Petersburg
at once, and turned back. Any news?"

"None," I answered.

"What are you doing here?"

I told him in a few rapid words. He listened intently, nodding his head
every now and then.

"The Archduchess has her," he said, "and if only one of us had the ghost
of a legal claim upon the child our difficulties would end. She is an
unscrupulous woman, but there are things which even she dare not do.
What are they doing over there?"

He pointed to the next platform. I took him by the arm and dragged him
along.

"It is the special!" I exclaimed. "We must see them start."

Red drugget was being stretched across the platform, and to my dismay
the barricades were rolled across. The luggage was already in the van,
and the guard was looking at his watch. Then a small brougham drove
rapidly up and stopped opposite to the saloon. Baron von Leibingen
descended, and was immediately followed by the Archduchess. Together
they helped from the carriage and across the platform a dark, tall girl,
at the first sight of whom my heart began to beat wildly. Then I
remembered the likeness between the cousins and what I had heard of the
Princess Adelaide's indisposition. She was almost carried into the
saloon, and at the last moment she looked swiftly, almost fearfully,
around her. I could scarcely contain myself. The likeness was
marvellous! As the train steamed out of the station Feurgeres pushed
aside the barricade and walked straight up to the station-master.

"I want a special," he said, "to catch the boat. I am Feurgeres, and I
am due at Petersburg Wednesday."

The station-master shook his head.

"You can have a special, sir, in twenty minutes, but you cannot catch
the boat. The one I have just sent off would never do it, but the boat
has a Royal command to wait for her."

"Can't you give me an engine which will make up the twenty minutes?"
Feurgeres asked.

"It is impossible, sir," the station-master answered. "We have not an
engine built which would come within ten miles an hour of that one."

"Very good," Feurgeres said. "I will have the special, at any rate. Be
so good as to give your orders at once."

"You will gain nothing if you want to get on, sir," the station-master
remarked. "An ordinary train will leave here in two hours, which will
catch the next boat."

"The special in twenty minutes," Feurgeres answered sharply. "Forty
pounds, is it not? It is here!"

The station-master hurried away. I scarcely understood Feurgeres' haste
to reach Dover. When I told him so he only laughed and led me away
towards the refreshment-room. He ordered luncheon baskets to be sent out
to the train, and he made me drink a brandy-and-soda. Then he took me by
the arm.

"You are not much of a conspirator, my friend, Arnold Greatson," he
said. "You have been within a dozen yards of Isobel within the last few
minutes, and you have not recognized her."

I stopped short. That wonderful likeness flashed once more back upon my
mind. Certainly in the Mordaunt Rooms it had not been so noticeable. And
her eyes! I looked at Feurgeres, and he nodded.

"The Princess Adelaide either remains in England or has gone on quietly
ahead," he said. "They have dressed Isobel in her clothes, and the
general public could never tell the difference. You see how difficult
they have made it for us to approach her. They will be hedged around
like this all across the Continent. Oh, it was a very clever move!"

I scarcely answered him. My eyes were fixed upon the tangled wilderness
of red and green lights, amongst which that train had disappeared. What
had they done to her, these people, that she should scarcely have been
able to crawl across the platform? What had they done to make her accept
their bidding, and leave England without a word or message to any of us?
It had not been of her own choice, I was sure enough of that.

"Come!" Feurgeres said quietly.

I followed him to the platform, where the saloon carriage and engine
were already drawn up. Feurgeres brought with him his servant and all
his luggage. A few curious porters and bystanders saw us start. No one,
however, manifested any particular interest in us. There was no one
whose business it seemed to be to watch us.

I sat back in my corner and looked out into the darkness. Feurgeres,
opposite to me, was leaning back with half-closed eyes. From his soft,
regular breathing it seemed almost as though he slept. For me there was
no thought of rest or sleep. I made plans only to discard them,
rehearsed speeches, appeals, threats, only to realize their hopeless
ineffectiveness. And underneath it all was a dull constant pain, the
pain which stays.

Our journey was about three-parts over when Feurgeres suddenly sat up in
his seat, and opening his dressing-case, drew out a Continental
timetable.

"In a sense that station-master was right," he remarked, turning over
the leaves. "We shall not reach Paris any the sooner for taking this
special train. On the other hand, we shall have time to ascertain in
Dover whether our friends really have gone on to Calais, or whether they
by any chance changed their minds and took the Ostend boat. I sincerely
trust that that course will not have presented itself to them."

"Why?" I asked.

"Somewhere on the journey," he remarked, "they must pause. They will
have to exchange Isobel for the Princess Adelaide, and make their plans
for the disposal of Isobel. If they should do this, say, in Brussels, we
shall be at a great disadvantage. If, however, they should stay in
Paris, we should be in a different position altogether. The chief of the
police is my friend. I am known there, and can command as good service
as the Archduchess herself. We must hope that it will be Paris. If so,
we shall arrive--let me see, six hours behind them; but supposing they
do break their connection, we shall have still five hours in Paris with
them before they can get on. If they are cautious they will go to
Illghera _via_ Brussels and their own country. If, however, they do not
seriously regard the matter of pursuit they will go direct."

A few moments later we came to a standstill in the town station.
Feurgeres let down the window, and talked for a few minutes with the
station-master. Then he resumed his seat.

"We will go on to the quay," he said. "It is almost certain that our
friends left by the Paris boat. We shall have four hours to wait, but we
can secure our cabins, and perhaps sleep."

We moved slowly on to the quay. A few enquiries there completely assured
us. Midway across the Channel, plainly visible still, was a disappearing
green light.

"That's the _Marie Louise_, sir," a seaman told me. "Left here five and
twenty minutes ago. The parties you were enquiring about boarded her
right enough. The young lady had almost to be carried. She's the new
turbine boat, and she ought to be across in about half an hour from
now."

Monsieur Feurgeres engaged the best cabin on the steamer, and his
servant fitted me up a dressing-case with necessaries for the journey
from his master's ample store. Then we went into the saloon, and had
some supper. Afterwards we stood upon deck watching the passengers come
on board from the train which had just arrived. Suddenly I seized
Feurgeres by the arm and dragged him inside the cabin.

"The Princess Adelaide!" I exclaimed. "Look!"

We saw her distinctly from the window. She was dressed very plainly, and
wore a heavy veil which she had just raised. She stood within a few feet
of us, talking to the maid, who seemed to be her sole companion.

"Find my cabin, Mason," she ordered. "I shall lie down directly we
start. I am always ill upon these wretched night boats. It is a most
unpleasant arrangement, this."

Feurgeres looked at me and smiled.

"Isobel's features," he remarked, "but not her voice. You see, we are on
the right track. We must contrive to keep out of that young lady's way."

       *       *       *       *       *

To keep out of the way of the Princess Adelaide was easy enough,
presuming that she kept her word and remained in her cabin. I watched
her enter it and close the door. Afterwards I wrapped myself in an
ulster of Feurgeres' and went out on deck. It was a fine night, but
windy, and a little dark. I lit a pipe and leaned over the side. I had
scarcely been there two minutes when I heard a light footstep coming
along the deck and pause a few feet away. A girl's voice addressed me.

"Can you tell me what that light is?"

I knew who it was at once. It was the most hideous ill-fortune. I
answered gruffly, and without turning my head.

"Folkestone Harbour!"

I thought that after that she must surely go away. But she did nothing
of the sort. She came and leaned over the rail by my side.

"You are Mr. Arnold Greatson, are you not?"

My heart sank, and I could have cursed my folly for leaving my cabin.
However, since I was discovered there was nothing to do but to make the
best of it.

"Yes, I am Arnold Greatson," I admitted.

"I wonder if you know who I am?" she asked.

"You are the Princess Adelaide of----"

She held up her hand.

"Stop, please! I see that you know. For some mysterious reason I am
travelling almost alone, and under another name which I do not like at
all. You are very fond of my cousin, Isobel, are you not, Mr. Greatson?"

I tried to see her face, but it was half turned away from me. Her voice,
however, reminded me a little of Isobel's.

"Yes," I admitted slowly. "You see, she was under our care for some
time, and we all grew very fond of her."

"But you--you especially, I mean," she went on. "Do not be afraid of me,
Mr. Greatson. I know that my mother is very angry with you, and has
tried to take Isobel away, but if I were she I would not come. I think
that she must be very much happier as she is."

"I--I am too old," I said slowly, "to dare to be fond of anyone--in that
way."

"How foolish!" she murmured. "Do you know, Mr. Greatson, that I am only
eighteen, and that I am betrothed to the King of Saxonia. He is over
forty, very short, and he has horrid turned-up black moustaches. He is
willing to marry me because I am to have a great fortune, and my mother
is willing for me to marry him because I shall be a Queen. But that is
not happiness, is it?"

"I am afraid not," I answered.

"Mr. Greatson," she continued, "I feel that I can talk to you like this
because I have read your books. I like the heroes so much, and of course
I like the stories too. I think that Isobel is very wise not to want to
come back to Waldenburg. I wish that I were free as she is, and had not
to do things because I am a Princess. And I am sure that she is very
fond of you."

"Princess----" I began.

She stopped me.

"If you knew how I hated that word!" she murmured. "I may never see you
again, you know, after this evening, so it really does not matter--but
would you mind calling me Adelaide?"

"Adelaide, then," I said, "may I ask you a question?"

"As many as you like."

"Do you know where Isobel is now?"

Her surprise was obviously genuine.

"Why, of course not! Is she not at your house in London?"

I shook my head.

"She is a few hours in front of us on her way to Paris," I said, "with
your mother and the Baron von Leibingen and the rest of your people. She
is travelling in your clothes and in your name. That is why you were
left to follow as quietly as possible."

She laid her hand upon my arm. Her eyes were full of tears, and her
voice shook.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she cried softly, "so very sorry. Why cannot my
mother leave her alone with you? I am sure she would be happier."

"I think so too," I answered. "That is why I am going to try and fetch
her back."

She looked at me very anxiously.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "you do not know my mother. If she makes up
her mind to anything she is terribly hard to change. I do hope that you
succeed, though. Why ever did Isobel leave you?"

"She received a forged letter, written in somebody else's name," I said.
"How your mother has induced her to stay since, though, I do not know.
She looked very ill at Charing Cross, and she had to be helped into the
train."

The Princess Adelaide went very white.

"It was she I heard this morning--cry out," she murmured. "They told me
it was one of the servants who had had an accident. Mr. Greatson, this
is terrible!"

She turned her head away, and I could see that she was crying.

"You must not distress yourself," I said kindly. "I daresay that it will
all come right. You will see Isobel, I think, in Paris. If you do, will
you give her a message?"

"Of course, I will," she answered.

"Tell her that we are close at hand, and that we have powerful friends,"
I whispered. "We shall get to see her somehow or other, and if she
chooses to return she shall!"

"Yes. Anything else?"

"I think not," I answered.

"Do you not want to send her your love?" she asked, with a faint smile.

"Of course," I said slowly.

She leaned a little over towards me.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "do you know what I should want you to do if I
were Isobel--what I am quite sure that she must want you to do now?"

"Tell me!"

"Why, marry her! She would be quite safe then, wouldn't she?"

I tried to smile in a non-committal sort of way, but I am afraid there
were things in my face beyond my power to control.

"You forget," I answered. "I am thirty-four, and Isobel is only
eighteen. Besides, there is someone else who wants to marry Isobel. He
is young, and they have been great friends always. I think that she is
fond of him."

She shook her head doubtfully.

"I do not think that thirty-four is old at all, and if you care for
Isobel, I would not let anyone else marry her," she declared. "Is that
Calais?"

"Yes."

"I think that I will go now in case my maid should see us together," she
said. "Oh, I can tell you where we are going in Paris. Will that help
you?"

"Of course it will," I answered.

"Number 17, Rue Henriette," she whispered. "Please come a little further
this way a moment."

I obeyed her at once. We were quite out of sight now, in the quietest
corner of the ship.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "you will think that I am a very strange girl.
I am going to be married in a few months to a man I do not care for one
little bit, and it seems to me that that will be the end of my life. I
want you to marry Isobel, and I hope you will both be very
happy--and--will you please kiss me once? I am Isobel's cousin, you
know."

I leaned forward and touched her lips. Then I grasped her hands warmly.

"You are very, very kind," I said gratefully, "and you can't think how
much happier you have made me feel. If only--you were not a Princess!"

She flitted away into the darkness with a little broken laugh. She
passed me half an hour later in the Customs' house with a languid
impassive stare which even her mother could not have excelled.




CHAPTER III


Feurgeres looked at me in surprise.

"What have you been doing to yourself?" he exclaimed. "Is the fresh air
so wonderful a tonic, or have you been asleep and dreaming of Paradise?"

I laughed.

"The sea air was well enough," I answered, "but I have been having a
most interesting conversation."

"With whom?" he asked.

"The Princess Adelaide!"

He drew a little closer to me.

"You are serious?"

"Undoubtedly. Listen!"

Then I told him of my conversation with Isobel's cousin, excepting the
last episode. His gratification was scarcely equal to mine. He was a
little thoughtful for some time afterwards. I am sure he felt that I had
been indiscreet.

"The Princess Adelaide," I said, "will not betray us. I am sure of that.
She will tell her mother nothing."

"These Waldenburgs," he answered gravely, "are a crafty race. It is in
their blood. They cannot help it."

"Isobel is a Waldenburg," I reminded him.

"She is her mother's daughter," he said. "There is always one alien
temperament in a family."

"In this case," I declared, "two!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"We shall soon know," he said, "whether this young lady is honest or
not. A man will meet us at Paris with an exact record of the doings of
the Archduchess and her party. We shall know then where Isobel is. If
the address is the same as that given you by the Princess Adelaide, I
will believe in her."

"But not till then?" I remarked, smiling.

"Not till then!" he assented.

Before we left Calais, Feurgeres sent more telegrams, and for an hour
afterwards he sat opposite to me with wide-open eyes, seeing nothing, as
was very evident, save the images created by his own thoughts. As we
reached Amiens, however, he spoke to me.

"You had better try and get some sleep," he said. "You may have little
time for rest in Paris."

"And you?" I asked.

"It is another matter," he answered. "I am accustomed to sleeping very
little; and besides, it is probable that this affair may become one
which it will be necessary for you to follow up alone. The sight of me,
or the mention of my name, is like poison to all the Waldenburgs. They
would only be the more bitter and hard to deal with if they knew that I,
too, had joined in the chase. I hope to be able to do my share
secretly."

I followed his suggestion, and slept more or less fitfully all the way
to Paris. I was awakened to find that the train had come to a
standstill. We were already in the station, and as I hastily collected
my belongings I saw that Feurgeres had left me, and was standing on the
platform talking earnestly to a pale, dark young Frenchman, sombrely
dressed and of insignificant appearance. I joined him just as his
companion departed. He turned towards me with a peculiar smile.

"My apologies to the Princess," he said. "The address is correct. They
have gone to a suite of rooms belonging to the Baron von Leibingen."

"They are there still, then?" I exclaimed.

"They are there still," Feurgeres assented, "and they show no immediate
signs of moving on. They are apparently waiting for someone--perhaps for
the Princess Adelaide. Inside the house and out they are being closely
watched, and directly their plans are made I shall know of them."

I looked, as I felt, a little surprised. Feurgeres smiled.

"I am at home here," he said, "and I have friends. Come! My own
apartments are scarcely a stone's-throw away from the Rue Henriette.
Estere will see our things safely through the Customs."

We drove through the cold grey twilight to the Rue de St. Antoine, where
Feurgeres' apartments were. To my surprise servants were at hand
expecting us, and I was shown at once into a suite of rooms, in one of
which was a great marble bath all ready for use. Some coffee and a
change of clothes were brought me. All my wants seemed to have been
anticipated and provided for. I had always imagined Feurgeres to be a
man of very simple and homely tastes, but there were no traces of it in
his home. He showed me some of the rooms while we waited for breakfast,
rooms handsomely furnished and decorated, full of art treasures and
curios of many sorts collected from many countries.

But, in a sense, it was like a dead house. One felt that it might be a
dwelling of ghosts. There were nowhere any signs of the rooms being
used, the habitable air was absent. Everything was in perfect order.
There was no dust, none of the chilliness of disuse. Yet one seemed to
feel everywhere the sadness of places which exist only for their
history. One door only remained closed, and that Feurgeres unlocked with
a little key which hung from his chain. But he did not invite me to
enter.

"You will excuse me for a few moments," he said. "My housekeeper will
show you into the breakfast-room. Please do not wait for me."

An old lady, very primly dressed in black, and wearing a curious cap
with long white strings, bustled me away. As Feurgeres opened the door
of the room, in front of which we had been standing, the air seemed
instantly sweet with the perfume of flowers. The old lady sighed as she
poured me out some coffee. I am ashamed to say that I felt, and
doubtless I looked, curious.

"Would it not be as well for me to wait for Monsieur Feurgeres?" I
asked. "He will not be very long, I suppose?"

The old lady shook her head sadly.

"Ah! but one cannot say!" she answered. "Monsieur had better begin his
breakfast."

"Your master has perhaps someone waiting to see him?" I remarked.

Madame Tobain--she told me her name--shook her head once more. She spoke
softly, almost as though she were speaking of something sacred.

"Monsieur did not know, perhaps--it was the chamber of Madame. Always
Monsieur spends several hours a day there when he is in Paris, and
always after he has performed at the theatre he returns immediately to
sit there. No one else is allowed to enter; only I, when Monsieur is
away, am permitted once a day to fill it with fresh flowers--flowers
always the most expensive and rare. Ah, such devotion, and for the dead,
too! One finds it seldom, indeed! It is the great artists only who can
feel like that!"

She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, dropped me a curtsey,
and withdrew. Feurgeres came in presently, and I avoided looking at him
for the first few minutes. To tell the truth, there was a lump in my own
throat. When he spoke, however, his tone was as usual.

"I shall ask you," he said, "to stay indoors, but to be prepared to
start away at a moment's notice. I am going to make a few enquiries
myself."

His voice drew my eyes to his face, and I was astonished at his
appearance. The skin seemed tightly drawn about his cheeks, and he was
very white. As though in contradiction to his ill-looks, however, his
eyes were unusually brilliant and clear, and his manner almost buoyant.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Feurgeres," I said, "but it seems to me that you
had better rest for a while. You have been travelling longer than I
have, and you are tired."

He smiled at me almost gaily.

"On the contrary," he declared, "I never felt more vigorous. I----"

He stopped short, and walked the length of the room. When he returned he
was very grave, but the smile was still upon his lips. He laid his hand
almost affectionately upon my shoulder.

"My dear friend," he said softly, "I think that you are the only one to
whom I have felt it possible to speak of the things which lie so near my
heart. For I think that you, too, are one of those who know, and who
must know, what it is to suffer. We who carry the iron in our hearts,
you know, are sometimes drawn together. The things which we may hide
from the world we cannot hide from one another. Only for you there is
hope, for me there has been the wonderful past. People have pitied me
often, my friend, for what they have called my lonely life. They little
know! I am not a sentimentalist. I speak of real things. Isobel, my
wife, died to the world and was buried. To me she lives always. Just
now--I have been with her. She sat in her old chair, and her eyes smiled
again their marvellous welcome to me. Only--and this is why I speak to
you of these things--there was a difference."

He was silent for a few minutes. When he continued, his voice was a
little softer but no less firm.

"Dear friend," he said, "I will be honest. When Isobel was taken from me
I had days and hours of hideous agony. But it was the craving for her
body only, the touch of her lips, the caress of her hands, the sound of
her voice. Her spirit has been with me always. At first, perhaps, her
coming was faint and indefinable, but with every day I realized her more
fully. I called her, and she sat in her box and watched me play, and
kissed her roses to me. I close the door upon the world and call her
back to her room, call her into my arms, whisper the old words, call her
those names which she loves best--and she is there, and all my burden of
sorrow falls away. My friend, a great love can do this! A great, pure
love can mock even at the grave."

I clasped his hand in mine.

"I think," I said, "that I will never pity you again. You have triumphed
even over Fate--even over those terrible, relentless laws which
sometimes make a ghastly nightmare of life even to the happiest of us.
You have turned sorrow into joy. It is a great deed. You have made my
own suffering seem almost a vulgar thing."

"Ah, no!" he said, "for you, too, there is hope. You, too, know that we
need never be the idle, resistless slaves of Fate--like those others.
Will and faith and purity can kindle a magic flame to lighten the
darkness of the greatest sorrow. I speak to you of these
things--now--because I think that the end is near."

He suddenly sank into a chair. I looked at him in alarm, but his face
was radiant. There was no sign of any illness there.

"You are young, Arnold Greatson," he said. "They tell me that you will
be famous. Yet you are not one of those to turn your face to the wall
because the greatest gift of life is withheld from you. That is why I
have lifted the curtain of my own days. I know you, and I know that you
will triumph. It is a world of compensations after all for those who
have the wit to understand."

I think that he had more to say to me, but we were interrupted. There
was a knock at the door, and the man entered whom I had seen talking
with Feurgeres upon the platform of the railway station. Feurgeres rose
at once, calm and prepared. They talked for a while so rapidly that I
could not follow them. Then he turned to me.

"They are preparing for a move," he announced. "They are going south as
though for Marseilles and Illghera, but they insist upon a special
train. They have declined a saloon attached to the train de luxe, and
Monsieur Estere here has doubts as to their real destination. Wait here
until I return. Be prepared for a journey."

       *       *       *       *       *

They left me alone. I lit a cigarette and settled down to read. In less
than half an hour, however, I was disturbed. There was a knock at the
door, and Madame Tobain entered.

"There is a lady here, sir, who desires to see Monsieur!" she announced.

A fair, slight woman in a long travelling cloak brushed past her. She
raised her veil, and I started at once to my feet. It was Lady Delahaye.




CHAPTER IV


It did not need a word from Lady Delahaye to acquaint me fully with what
had happened. Indeed, my only wonder had been that this knowledge had
not come to her before. She greeted me with a smile, but her face was
full of purpose.

"Where is he?" she asked simply.

"Not here," I answered.

She seated herself, and began to unpin the travelling veil from her hat.

"So I perceive," she remarked. "He will return?"

"Yes," I admitted, "he will return."

She folded the veil upon her knee and looked across at me thoughtfully.

"What an idiot I have been!" she murmured. "After all, that emerald
necklace might easily have been mine."

"I am not so sure about that," I answered. "I think I know what is in
your mind, but I might remind you that suspicion is one thing and proof
another."

"The motive," she answered, "is the difficult thing, and that is found.
I suppose the police are good for something. They should be able to work
backwards from a certainty."

"Are you," I asked, "going to employ the police? Don't you think that,
for the good of everyone, and even for your husband's own sake, the
thing had better remain where it is?"

She laughed scornfully.

"You would have me let the man go free who shot another in the back
treacherously and without warning?" she exclaimed. "Thank you for your
advice, Arnold Greatson. I have a different purpose in my mind."

I moved my chair and drew a little nearer to her.

"Lady Delahaye--" I began.

"The use of my Christian name," she murmured, "would perhaps make your
persuasions more effective. At any rate, you might try. I have never
forbidden you to use it."

"If you have any regard for me at all, then, Eileen," I said, "you will
think seriously before you take any steps against Monsieur Feurgeres.
Remember that he had, or thought he had, very strong reasons for acting
as he did. Looking at it charitably, your husband's proceedings were
open to very grave misconstruction. There will be a great deal of
unpleasant scandal if the story is raked up again, and Isobel's whole
history will be told in court. How will that suit the Archduchess?"

"Not at all," Lady Delahaye admitted frankly; "but the Archduchess is
not the only person to be considered. You seem to forget that this is no
trifling matter. It is a murderer whom you are shielding, the man who
killed my husband whom you would have me let go free."

"Technically," I admitted, "not actually. Your husband did not die of
his wound. He was in a very bad state of health."

"I cannot recognize the distinction," Lady Delahaye declared coldly. "He
died from shock following it."

"Consider for a moment the position of Monsieur Feurgeres," I pleaded.
"Isobel was the only child of the woman whom he had dearly loved. The
care of her was a charge upon his conscience and upon his honour. Any
open association with him he felt might be to her detriment later on in
life. All that he could do was to watch over her from a distance. He saw
her, as he imagined, in danger. What course was open to him? Forget for
the moment that Major Delahaye was your husband. Put yourself in the
place of Feurgeres. What could he do but strike?"

"He broke the law," she said coldly, "the law of men and of God. He must
take the consequences. I am not a vindictive woman. I would have
forgiven him for making a scene, for striking my husband, or taking away
the child by force. But he went too far."

"Have you," I asked, "been to the police?"

"Not yet."

I caught at this faint hope.

"You came here to see him first? You have something to propose--some
compromise?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Between Monsieur Feurgeres and myself," she said, "there can be no
question of anything of the sort. There is nothing which he could offer
me, nothing within his power to offer, which could influence me in the
slightest."

"Then why," I asked, "are you here?"

"To see you," she answered. "I want to ask you this, Arnold. You wish
Monsieur Feurgeres to go free. You wish to stay my hand. What price are
you willing to pay?"

I looked at her blankly. As yet her meaning was hidden from me.

"Any price!" I declared.

Then she leaned over towards me.

"What is he to you, Arnold--this man?" she asked softly. "You are
wonderfully loyal to some of your friends."

"I know the story of his life," I answered, "and it is enough. Besides,
he is an old man, and I fancy that his health is failing. Let him end
his days in peace. You will never regret it, Eileen. If my gratitude is
worth anything to you----"

"I want," she interrupted, "more than your gratitude."

We sat looking at each other for a moment in a silence which I for my
part could not have broken. I read in her face, in her altered
expression, and the softened gleam of her eyes, all that I was expected
to read. I said nothing.

"It is not so very many years, Arnold," she went on, "since you cared
for me, or said that you did. I have not changed so much, have I? Give
up this senseless pursuit of a child. Oh, you guard your secret very
bravely, but you cannot hide the truth from me. It is not all
philanthropy which has made you such a squire of dames. You believe that
you care for her--that child! Arnold, it is a foolish fancy. You belong
to different hemispheres; you are twice her age. It will be years before
she can even realize what life and love may be. Give it all up. She is
in safe hands now. Come back to London with me, and Monsieur Feurgeres
shall go free."

"Monsieur Feurgeres, Madame, thanks you!"

He had entered the room softly, and stood at the end of the screen. Lady
Delahaye's face darkened.

"May I ask, sir, how long you have been playing the eavesdropper?" she
demanded.

"Not so long, Madame, as I should have desired," he answered, "yet long
enough to understand this. My young friend here seems to be trying to
bargain with you for my safety. Madame, I cannot allow it. If your
silence is indeed to be bought, the terms must be arranged between you
and me."

She looked at him a trifle insolently.

"I have already explained to Mr. Greatson," she remarked, "that
bargaining between you and me is impossible because you have nothing to
offer which could tempt me."

"And Mr. Greatson has?"

"That, Monsieur," she answered, "is between Mr. Greatson and myself."

Monsieur Feurgeres stood his ground.

"Lady Delahaye," he said, "I want you to listen to me for a moment. It
is not a justification which I am attempting. It is just a word or two
of explanation, to which I trust you will not refuse to listen."

"If you think it worth while," she answered coldly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can tell! I have the fancy, however, to assure you that what took
place that day at the Cafe Grand was not the impulsive act of a man
inspired with a homicidal mania, but was the necessary outcome of a long
sequence of events. You know the peculiar relations existing between
Isobel and myself. I had not the right to approach her, or to assume any
overt act of guardianship. Any association with me would at once have
imperilled any chance she may have possessed of being restored to her
rightful position at Waldenburg. I accordingly could only watch over her
by means of spies. This I have always done."

"With what object, Monsieur Feurgeres?" Lady Delahaye asked. "You could
never have interfered."

"The care of Isobel--the distant care of her--was a charge laid upon me
by her mother," Feurgeres answered. "It was therefore sacred. I trusted
to Fate to find those who might intervene where I dared not, and Fate
sent me at a very critical moment Mr. Arnold Greatson. Lady Delahaye, to
speak ill of a woman is no pleasant task--to speak ill of the dead is
more painful still. Yet these are facts. The Archduchess was willing to
go to any lengths to prevent Isobel's creditable and honourable
appearance in Waldenburg. It was the Archduchess who, after what she has
termed her sister's disgrace, sent Isobel secretly to the convent, and
your husband, Lady Delahaye, who took her there. It was your husband who
brought her away, and it was the announcement of his visit to the
convent, and an ill-advised confidence to a friend at his club in Paris,
which brought me home from America. I will only say that I had reason to
suspect Major Delahaye as the guardian of Isobel--even the Archduchess
was ignorant of the position which he had assumed. Since I became a
player there are many who forget that my family is noble. Major Delahaye
was one of these. He returned a letter which I wrote to him with a
contemptuous remark only. My friend the Duc d'Autrien saw him on my
behalf. From him your husband received a second and a very plain
warning. He disregarded it. Once more I wrote. I warned him that if he
took Isobel from the convent he went to his death. That is all!"

There was a silence. Lady Delahaye was very pale. She looked imploringly
at me.

"Monsieur Feurgeres," she said, "I am not your judge. I do not wish to
seem vindictive. Will you leave me with Mr. Greatson for a few minutes?"

"Madame, I cannot," he answered gravely. "Apart from the fact that I
decline to have my safety purchased for me, especially by one to whom I
already owe too much, it is necessary that Mr. Greatson leaves this
house within the next quarter of an hour."

I sprang to my feet. I forgot Lady Delahaye. I forgot that this man's
life and freedom rested at her disposal. The great selfishness was upon
me.

"I am ready!" I exclaimed.

Lady Delahaye looked, and she understood. Slowly she rose to her feet
and crossed the room towards the door. I was tongue-tied. I made no
protest--asked no questions. Feurgeres opened the door for her and
summoned his servant, but no word of any sort passed between them. Then
he turned suddenly to me. His tone was changed. He was quick and alert.

"Arnold," he said, "the rest is with you. They are taking her to the
convent. Madame Richard is here, and the Cardinal de Vaux. They have a
plot--but never mind that. If she passes the threshold of the convent
she is lost. It is for you to prevent it."

"I am ready!" I cried.

He opened a desk and tossed me a small revolver.

"Estere waits below in the carriage. He will drive with you to the
station. You take the ordinary express to Marcon. There an automobile
waits for you, and you must start for the convent. The driver has the
route. Remember this. You must go alone. You must overtake them. Use
force if necessary. If you fail--Isobel is lost!"

"I shall not fail!" I answered grimly.

"Bring her back, Arnold," he said, with a sudden change in his tone. "I
want to see her once more."

I left him there, and glancing upwards from the street as the carriage
drove off, I waved my hand to the slim black figure at the window, whose
wan, weary eyes watched our departure with an expression which at the
time I could not fathom. It was not until I was actually in the train
that I remembered what Lady Delahaye's silent departure might mean for
him.




CHAPTER V


Our plans were skilfully enough laid, but the Archduchess also had
missed nothing. We rushed through the village of Argueil without having
seen any sign of the carriage, and it was not until we had reached the
vineyard-bordered road beyond that we saw it at last climbing the last
hill to the convent.

"Shall we catch it?" I gasped.

The _chauffeur_ only smiled.

"Monsieur may rest assured," he answered, changing into his fourth
speed, notwithstanding the slight ascent.

Half-way up the hill we were barely one hundred yards behind. The man
glanced at me for instructions.

"Blow your horn," I said.

He obeyed. The carriage drew to the side of the road. We rushed by, and
I caught a glimpse of three faces. My spirits rose. There was only the
Baron to deal with. Madame Richard and Isobel were the other occupants
of the carriage.

"Stop, and draw the car across the road!" I ordered.

The man obeyed. I sprang to the ground. The Baron had his head out of
the window, and the driver was flogging his horses.

"If you do not stop," I called out, "I shall shoot your horses."

The driver took no notice. He had flogged his horses into a gallop, and
was coming straight at me. I fired, and one of the horses, after a wild
plunge came down, dragging the other with him, and breaking the pole.
The driver was thrown on to the top of them and rolled off into the
hedge, cursing volubly. The Baron leaned out of the window, and he had
something in his hand which gleamed like silver in the sunlight.

"I have had enough of you, my young friend," he said fiercely, and
instantly fired.

An unseen hand struck his arm as he pulled the trigger. I felt my hat
quiver upon my head as I sprung forward. The Baron had no time to fire
again. I caught him by the throat and dragged him into the road.

"I have had more than enough of you, you blackguard," I muttered, and I
shook him till he groaned, and threw him across the road.

Isobel stretched out her arms to me--Isobel herself, but how pale and
changed!

"Arnold, Arnold, take me away!" she moaned.

I would have lifted her out, but Madame Richard had seized her.

"The child is vowed," she said. "You shall not touch her. She belongs to
God."

"Then give her to me," I cried, "for I swear she is nearer to Heaven in
my arms than yours."

The woman's black eyes flashed terrible things at me, and she wound
herself round Isobel with a marvellous strength. For a moment I was
helpless.

"Madame," I said, "I have never yet raised my hand against a woman, but
if you do not release that girl this moment I shall have to forget your
sex."

"Never!" she shrieked. "Help! Baron! Cocher!"

Some blue-bloused men looked up from their work in the vineyards a long
way off. It was no time for hesitation. I set my teeth, and I caught
hold of the woman's arms. Her bones cracked in my hands before she let
go. Isobel at last was free!

"Jump up and get in the automobile, Isobel!" I said. "Bear up, dear! It
is only for a moment now."

Half fainting she staggered out and groped her way across the road. Once
she nearly fell, but my _chauffeur_ leaped down and caught her. Then
Madame Richard looked in my eyes and cursed me with slow, solemn words.

I sprang away from her. She followed. I jumped into the automobile. She
stood in front of it and dared us to start. The driver backed a little,
suddenly shot forward, and with a wonderful curve avoided her. She ran
to meet the peasants who were streaming now across the fields. We could
hear for a few minutes her shrill cries to them. Then the vineyards
became patchwork, and the still air a rushing wind. Our _chauffeur_ sat
grim and motionless, like a figure of fate, and we did our forty miles
an hour.

"You have orders?" I asked him once.

"But yes, Monsieur," he answered. "We go to Paris--and avoid the
telegraph offices."

All the while Isobel was only partially conscious. Gradually, however,
her colour became more natural, and at last she opened her eyes and
smiled at me. Her fingers faintly pressed mine. She said nothing then,
but in about half an hour she made an effort to sit up.

"Dear Arnold," she murmured, "you are indeed my guardian. Oh----"

She broke off, and shuddered violently.

"Please don't try to talk yet," I said. "I shouldn't have been much of a
guardian, should I, if I hadn't fetched you out of this scrape? Besides,
it was Monsieur Feurgeres who planned everything."

"Arnold," she murmured, "I--haven't eaten anything for some time. They
put things in my food to make me drowsy, so I dared not."

Under my breath I made large demands upon my stock of profanity. Then I
leaned over and spoke to the _chauffeur_. We were passing through a
small town, and he at once slackened pace and pulled up at a small
restaurant. With the first mouthful of soup Isobel's youth and strength
seemed to reassert themselves. After a cutlet and a glass of wine she
had colour, and began to talk. She even grumbled when I denied her
coffee, and hurried her off again. In the automobile she came close to
my side, and with a shyness quite new to her linked her arm in mine. So
we sped once more on our way to Paris.

Conversation, had Isobel been fit for it, was scarcely possible. But in
a disjointed sort of way she tried to tell me things.

"I was inside the house," she said, "and the door of the room was locked
before I knew that Monsieur Feurgeres was not there--that the letter was
not a true one. My aunt came and talked to me. She tried to be kind at
first. Afterwards she was very angry. She said that my grandfather was
an old man, that he wished to see me before he died. I must go with her
at once. I said that I would go if I might see you first, but that only
made her more angry still. She said that my life had been a disgrace to
our family, that I must not mention your name, that I must speak as
though I had just left the convent. Then I, too, lost my temper. I said
that I would not go to Illghera. I did not want to see my grandfather,
or any of my relations. They had left me alone so many years that now I
could do without them altogether. She never interrupted me. She looked
at me all the time with a still, cold smile. When I had finished she
said only, 'We shall see,' and she left me alone. They brought me food,
and after I had taken some of it I was ill. After that everything seemed
like a dream. I simply moved about as they told me, and I did not seem
to care much what happened. Then in Paris Adelaide came into my room.
She brought me some chocolate, and she told me that you were near. I
think that I should have died but for her. I began to listen to what
they said. I found out that they never meant to take me to Illghera. It
was the convent all the time. Adelaide brought me more chocolate, and
kissed me. Then I made up my mind to fight. I would not take their food.
I told myself all the time that I was not ill--I would not be ill. That
is why I was able to look out for you, to strike at the Baron when he
tried to shoot you, and to walk by myself. Arnold, why does my aunt hate
me so?"

I did not answer her, for even as she talked her voice grew fainter and
fainter, and in a moment or two she was in a dead sleep. Her head fell
upon my shoulder, her hand rested in mine. So she remained until we
reached the outskirts of Paris. Then the noise of passing vehicles, and
the altered motion of the car over the large cobble-stones woke her. She
pressed my arm.

"I am safe, Arnold?" she murmured, with a shade of anxiety still in her
tone.

"Quite," I assured her.

In a few moments we turned into the Rue de St. Antoine and drew up
before Monsieur Feurgeres' house. In the hall we met Tobain. I could see
that she had been weeping, and her tone, as she took me a little on one
side, was full of anxiety.

"Monsieur," she murmured, "I am afraid----"

I stopped her.

"The young lady first," I said. "She has been ill. Where shall I take
her?"

She threw open the door of the dining-room. A small round table,
elegantly appointed, was spread with such a supper as Feurgeres knew
well how to order. There was a gold foiled bottle, flowers, salads and
fruits. Tobain nodded vigorously as she drew up a chair for Isobel.

"It was Monsieur himself who ordered everything," she exclaimed. "He was
so particular that everything should be of the best, and the wine he
fetched himself."

"Where is Monsieur Feurgeres?" I asked, struck by some note of hidden
feeling in her tone.

"I will take you to him," she answered, "if Mademoiselle will wait
here."

In the hall she no longer concealed her fears.

"Monsieur," she said, "I am afraid. Soon after you had left, and the
master had given his orders for the supper, he called me to him. He was
standing before the door of Madame's chamber, the room which it is not
permitted to enter, and his hands and arms were full of flowers. He had
been to the florists himself, I knew, for there were more than usual.
'Tobain,' he said, 'always, as you know, I lock the door of this room
when I enter. To-day I shall not do so. But you must understand that no
one is permitted to enter but my friend, Mr. Arnold Greatson, who will
return this evening. Those are my orders, Tobain.' 'But, Monsieur,
dejeuner?' 'Remember, Tobain--Mr. Arnold Greatson only.' Then I caught a
glimpse of his face, Monsieur, and I was afraid. I have been afraid ever
since. It was the face of a young man, so brilliant, so eager. I was at
my master's marriage, and the look was there then. He went in and he
closed the door, and since then, Monsieur, I have heard no sound, and
many hours have passed. Monsieur will please enter quickly."

For myself, I shared, too, Tobain's nameless apprehensions. I left her,
and knocked softly at the door. There was no answer. So I entered.

The room was in darkness, but the opening of the door touched a spring
under the carpet, and several heavily-shaded electric lamps filled the
apartment with a soft dim light. Monsieur Feurgeres was sitting opposite
to me, his eyes closed, a faint smile upon his lips. He had the air of a
man who slept with a good conscience, and whose dreams were of the
pleasantest. Close drawn to his was another chair, against which he
leaned somewhat, and over the arm of which one hand was stretched,
resting gently upon the soft mass of deep pink roses, whose perfume made
fragrant the whole room. I spoke to him.

"Monsieur Feurgeres," I cried, "it is done. I have brought Isobel. She
is here."

There was no answer. Had I, indeed, expected any, I could almost have
believed that the smile, so light and delicate a thing, which quivered
upon his pale lips, deepened a little as I spoke. But that, of course,
was fancy, for Monsieur Feurgeres had won his heart's desire. Softly,
and with fingers which felt almost sacrilegious, I broke off one of the
blossoms with which the empty chair was laden, and with it in my hands I
went back to Isobel.




CHAPTER VI


Isobel knew the whole truth. I told her one evening--the only one on
which we two had dined out together alone. I think that the weather had
tempted me to this indulgence, which I had up to now so carefully
avoided. An early summer, with its long still evenings, had driven us
out of doors. The leaves which rustled over our heads, stirred by the
faintest of evening breezes, made sweeter music for us than the violins
of the more fashionable restaurants, and no carved ceiling could be so
beautiful as the star-strewn sky above. I omitted nothing. I laid the
whole situation before her. When I had finished, she was very white and
very quiet.

"And now that you have told me all this," she asked, after a long
silence, "does it remain for me to make my choice? Even now I do not see
my way at all clearly. My relations do not want me. Monsieur Feurgeres
has left me some money. Cannot I choose for myself how I shall spend my
life?"

"I am afraid," I answered, "that you may not. For my part I am bound to
say, Isobel, that I think Monsieur Feurgeres was right. The letter of
which I have told you, and which I found in my room, was written only a
few hours before his death. At such a time a man sees clearly. You are
not only yourself the Princess Isobel of Waldenburg, but you have a
grandfather who has never recovered the loss of your mother and of you.
It was not his fault or by his wish that you were sent away from
Waldenburg. He has been deceived all the time by your aunt the
Archduchess. I think that it is your duty to go to him."

"You will come with me?" she murmured anxiously.

"I shall not leave you," I answered slowly, "until you are in his
charge. But afterwards----"

"Well?" she interrupted anxiously.

"Afterwards," I said, firmly keeping my eyes away from her and bracing
myself for the effort, "our ways must lie apart, Isobel. You are the
daughter of one of Europe's great families, you have a future which is
almost a destiny. You must fulfil your obligations."

I saw the look in her face, and my heart ached for her. I leaned forward
in my chair.

"Dear child," I said, "remember that this is what your mother would have
wished. Monsieur Feurgeres believed this before he died, and I think
that no one else could tell so well what she would have desired for you.
Just now it may seem a little hard to go amongst strangers, to begin
life all over again at your age. But, after all, we must believe that it
is the right thing."

Her face was turned away from me, but I could see that her cheeks were
pale and her lips trembling. She said nothing, I fancied because she
dared not trust her voice. Above the tops of the trees the yellow moon
was slowly rising; from a few yards away came all the varied clatter of
the Boulevard. And around us little groups and couples of people were
gay--gay with the invincible, imperishable gaiety of the Frenchman who
dines. The white-aproned waiters smiled as with deft hands they served a
different course, or with a few wonderful touches removed all traces of
the repast, and served coffee and liqueurs upon a spotless cloth. And
amidst it all I watched with aching heart Isobel, the child of to-day,
the woman of to-morrow, as she fought her battle.

Her face seemed marble-white in the strange light, half natural, half
artificial. When she spoke at last she still kept her face turned away
from me.

"The right thing!" she murmured. "That is what I want to do. I want to
do what she would have wished. But just now it seems a little hard. I do
not want to be a princess. I do not want to be rich. Monsieur Feurgeres
has made me independent, and that is all I desire. I would like to be
free to live always my own life--free like you and Allan, who paint and
write and think, for I, too, would love so much to be an artist. But it
seems that all these things have been decided for me--by you and
Monsieur Feurgeres. No," she added quickly, "I know very well that you
are right. I am willing to do what Monsieur Feurgeres thinks that my
mother would have wished. I will go to my grandfather, and if he wishes
it I will stay with him. But there will be a condition!"

She turned at last and looked at me. The lines of her mouth had altered,
the carriage of her head, a subtle change in her tone, told their own
story. It was the Princess Isobel who spoke.

"I will not have my mother ignored or spoken of as one who forgot her
rank and station. These are all very well, but they are trifles compared
with the great things of life. I am proud of my mother's courage, I am
proud of the love which made his life, after she had gone, so beautiful.
I know that you understand me, Arnold, but I do not think that those
others will. They must bear with me, or I shall not stay."

I looked at her wonderingly. It seemed to me so strange that, under our
very eyes, the child whom I had led by the hand through Covent Garden on
that bright Spring morning should have developed in thought and mind
under our own roof, and with so little conscious instruction, into a
woman of perceptions and character. Somewhere the seed of these things
must have lain hidden. One knows so little, after all, of those whom one
knows best.

"It is a fair condition, Isobel," I said. "You are going into a world
which is hedged about with conventions and prejudices. The things which
are so clear to you and to me, they may look at differently. You must be
received as your mother's daughter, and not as the King's
granddaughter."

She nodded gravely. Then she leaned across the table and looked into my
eyes. Notwithstanding her pallor and her black dress, I was forced to
realize what I ever forbade my thoughts to dwell upon--her great and
increasing beauty. She looked into my eyes, and my heart stood still.

"Arnold," she murmured, "shall you miss me?"

My heel dug into the turf beneath my foot. My eyes fell from hers. I
dared not look at her.

"We shall all miss you so much," I said gravely, "that life will never
be the same again to us. You made it beautiful for a little time, and
your absence will be hard to bear. I suppose we shall all turn to hard
work," I added, with an attempt at lightness. "Allan will paint his
great picture, Arthur will invent a new motor and make his fortune, and
I shall write my immortal story."

"The story," she said, "which you would not show me?"

Show her! How could I, when I knew that for one who read between the
lines the story of my own suffering was there? My secret had been hard
enough to keep faithfully, even from her to whom the truth, had she ever
divined it, must have seemed so incredible.

"That one, perhaps," I answered lightly, "or the next! Who can tell? One
is never a judge of one's own work, you know."

"Why would you not show me that story, Arnold?" she asked softly.

I met her eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar intentness. I tried to
escape them, but I could not. It was impossible for me to lie to her. My
voice shook as I answered her.

"Don't ask me, Isobel!" I said. "We all make mistakes sometime, you
know. Not to show you that story when you asked me was one of mine."

"If you had it here----?"

"If I had it here I would show it you," I declared.

She sighed. She did not seem altogether satisfied.

"Sometimes, Arnold," she said thoughtfully, "you puzzle me very much.
You treat me always as though I were a child; you keep me at arm's
length always, as though there were between us some impassable barrier,
as though it could never be possible for you to come into my world or
for me to pass into yours. I know that you are wiser and cleverer than I
am, but I can learn. I have been learning all the time. Are we always to
remain at this great distance?"

"Dear Isobel," I answered, "you forget that I am more than twice your
age. You are eighteen, and I am thirty-four. I cannot make myself young
like you. I cannot call back the years, however much I might wish to do
so. And for the rest, I have been your guardian. I, a poor writer of no
particular family and very meagre fortune, and you my ward, a princess
standing at the opposite pole of life. I have had to remember these
things, Isobel."

She leaned a little further across the table. Again her eyes held mine,
and I felt my heart beat like a boy's at the touch of her soft white
fingers as she laid her hand on mine.

"I wish," she murmured, "oh, I wish----"

"So we've found you at last, have we?"

Isobel's speech was never ended. Mabane and Arthur stood within a few
feet of us, the former grave, the latter white and angry. I rose slowly
to my feet and held out my hand to Allan.

"I am glad to see you, Allan!" I said.

He looked first at my hand, and afterwards at me. Then, with a sigh of
relief, he took it and nearly wrung it off.

"And I can't tell you how glad I am to see you both again!" he
exclaimed. "We've heard strange stories--or rather Arthur has--from his
friend Lady Delahaye, and at last we decided to come over and find out
all about it for ourselves. Don't take any notice of Arthur," he added
under his breath, "he's not quite himself."

Arthur was standing with his back to me, talking to Isobel. Certainly
her welcome was flattering enough. I realized with a sudden gravity that
I had not heard her laugh like this since she had been in England.
Arthur continued talking in a low, earnest tone.

"How did you find us?" I asked Allan.

"We called at the Rue de St. Antoine," he answered. "The housekeeper
said that she had heard you talk about dining at one of these places.
Arnold?"

"Well?"

"Why are you and Isobel staying on in Paris?"

"First of all," I answered promptly, "we had to stay for the funeral,
and now there are some legal formalities which cannot be finished until
to-morrow. I am Monsieur Feurgeres' executor, Allan, and he has left me
twenty thousand pounds. Isobel has the rest."

"I am delighted, old chap," Mabane declared heartily. "In fact, I'll
drink your health."

I called a waiter and ordered liqueurs. Arthur took his with an ill
grace, and he still avoided any direct speech with me. Isobel was
evidently uneasy, and looked at me once or twice as though anxious that
I should break up their _tete-a-tete_. But when I had paid the bill and
we rose to go, Allan passed his arm through mine, and I was forced to
let the two go on.

"Let the boy have his chance," Allan said, pausing a little as we turned
into the Boulevard. "He's in such a state that he won't listen to reason
only from her."

"But," I protested, "it is absurd for him to speak to her. Does he know
who she is? The Princess Isobel of Waldenburg! Their little kingdom is
small enough, but they play at royalty there."

Allan nodded.

"He knows. But he's a good-looking boy, and the girls have spoilt him a
little. He has an idea that she cares for him."

"Impossible!" I declared, sharply.

"No! Not impossible!" Allan answered, shaking his head. "They have been
together a great deal, you must remember, and Arthur can be a very
delightful companion when he chooses. No, it isn't impossible, Arnold."

I shook my head.

"Isobel's future is already arranged," I said. "In three days' time I am
taking her to her grandfather. If he receives her, as I believe that he
will receive her, she will pass out of our lives as easily as she came
into them. She will marry a grand duke, perhaps even a petty king. She
will be plunged into all manner of excitements and gaiety. Her years
with us will never be mentioned at Court. She herself will soon learn to
look back on them as a quaint episode."

"You do not believe it, Arnold?" Mabane declared scornfully.

"Heaven only knows what I believe," I answered, with a little burst of
bitterness. "Look at that!"

We had reached the Rue de St. Antoine. Isobel stood in the doorway at
the apartments waiting for us. But Arthur had already disappeared.




CHAPTER VII


I examined the tickets carefully and placed them in my pocket-book. Then
I paused to light a cigarette on my way out of the office, and almost
immediately felt a hand upon my arm. I looked at first at the hand. It
was feminine and delicately gloved. Then I looked upwards into the blue
eyes of Lady Delahaye.

"Abominable!" she murmured. "You are not glad to see me!"

I raised my hat.

"The Boulevard des Italiennes," I said, "has never seemed to me to be a
place peculiarly suitable for the display of emotion."

"Come and try the Rue Strelitz," she answered, smiling.

I glanced down at her. She was gowned even more perfectly than
usual--Parisienne to the finger-tips. She had too all the delightful
confidence of a woman who knows that she is looking her best.

I smiled back at her. It was impossible to take her seriously.

"Your invitation," I said, "sounds most attractive. But I am curious to
know what would happen to me in the Rue Strelitz. Should I be offered
poison in a jewelled cup, or disposed of in a cruder fashion? Let me
make my will first, and I will come. I am really curious!"

"Arnold," she said, looking up at me with very bright eyes, "you are
brutal."

"Not quite that, I hope," I protested.

"Let me tell you something," she continued.

We were in rather a conspicuous position. Lady Delahaye seemed suddenly
to realize it.

"May I beg for your escort a little way?" she said. "I am not
comfortable upon the Boulevard alone."

"You could scarcely fail," I remarked, throwing away my cigarette, "to
be an object of attention from the Frenchman, who is above all things a
judge of your sex. I will accompany you a little way with pleasure.
Shall we take a fiacre?"

"I would rather walk," she answered. "Do you mind coming this way? I
will not take you far."

"I have two whole unoccupied hours," I assured her, "which are very much
at your service."

"Where, then," she asked, "is Isobel?"

"Shopping with Tobain," I answered.

"Are you not afraid," she asked with a smile, "to send her out alone
with Tobain?"

"Not in the least," I answered. "Monsieur Feurgeres' only friend in
Paris was the chief commissioner of police, and he has been good enough
to take great interest in us. Isobel is well watched."

"I wonder," she said, after a moment's pause, "whether you have still
any faith in me!"

"My dear lady!"

"I wish I could make you believe me. The--her Highness--she prefers us
here to call her Madame--has relinquished altogether her designs against
you. She desires an alliance."

"Is this," I asked, "an invitation to me to join in the spoils? Am I to
become murderer, or poisoner, or abductor, or what?"

Lady Delahaye bit her lip.

"You are altogether too severe," she said. "Madame simply realizes that
she has been mistaken. She is willing for Isobel to be restored to her
grandfather. It will mean a million or so less dowry for Adelaide, but
that must be faced. Madame desires to make peace with you."

"I am charmed," I answered. "May I ask exactly what this means?"

Lady Delahaye smiled up at me.

"The Archduchess will explain to you herself," she said. "I am taking
you to her."

I slackened my pace.

"I think not," I said. "To tell you the truth, the Archduchess terrifies
me. I see myself inveigled into a room with a trap-door, or knocked on
the head by hired bullies, and all manner of disagreeable things. No,
Lady Delahaye, I think that I will not run the risk."

She laughed softly.

"I know that you will come," she said softly.

"And why?" I asked.

"Because you are a man, and you do not know fear!"

I raised my hat and proceeded.

"My head is turned," I said. "Nothing flatters a coward so much as the
imputation of bravery. I think that I shall go with you anywhere."

"Even--to the Rue Strelitz?"

"My courage may fail me at the last moment," I answered. "At present it
feels equal even to the Rue Strelitz."

Again she laughed.

"You are a fraud, Arnold," she declared. "As if we did not know--I and
Madame and all of us, that in Paris, even throughout France, you could
walk safely into any den of thieves you choose. Your courage isn't worth
a snap of the fingers. Any man can be brave who has the archangels of
Dotant at his elbows."

"What an easily pricked reputation," I answered regretfully. "Well, it
is true. Dotant was Feurgeres' greatest friend, and even Isobel might
walk the streets of Paris alone and in safety. Hence, I presume, the
amiable desire of the Archduchess for an alliance."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her lace-clad shoulders.

"My dear Arnold," she said, "for myself I adore candour, and why should
I try and deceive you? Madame has played a losing game, and knows it.
She has the courage to admit defeat. She can still offer enough to make
an alliance desirable. For instance, those tickets in your pocket for
Illghera will take you there, it is true, but they will not take you
into the presence of the King."

"The King," I remarked pensively, "leads a retired life."

"He does," Lady Delahaye answered. "He has the greatest objection to
visitors, and for a stranger to obtain an audience is almost an
impossibility. He never leaves the grounds of the villa, and his
secretary, who opens all his letters, is--a friend of Madame's."

"You have put your case admirably," I remarked. "If Madame is sincere, I
should at least like to hear what she has to say."

Lady Delahaye drew a little sigh of content.

"At last," she exclaimed, "I do believe that you are going to behave
like a reasonable person."

I could not refrain from the natural retort.

"I have an idea," I said, "that up to now my actions have been fairly
well justified."

We were mounting the steps of her house. She looked round and raised her
eyebrows.

"We must let bygones be bygones!" she said. "Madame has declared that
henceforth she adjures all intrigue."

A footman took my hat and stick in the hall. Lady Delahaye led me into a
small boudoir leading out of a larger room. She herself only opened the
door and closed it, remaining outside. I was alone with the Archduchess.

She rose slowly to her feet, a very graceful and majestic-looking
person, with a suggestion of Isobel in her thin neck and the pose of her
head. She did not hold out her hand, and she surveyed me very
critically. I ventured to bestow something of the same attention upon
her. She was certainly a very beautiful woman, and her expression by no
means displeasing. She had Isobel's dark blue eyes, and there was a
humorous line about her mouth which astonished me.

"I am not offering you my hand, Mr. Greatson," she said, "because I
presume that until we understand each other better it would be a mere
matter of form. Still, I am glad that you have come to see me."

"I am very glad too, Madame," I answered, "especially if my visit leads
to a cessation of the somewhat remarkable proceedings of the last few
weeks."

The Archduchess smiled.

"Well," she said, "I am forced to admit myself beaten. I have been
ill-served, it is true, but I suppose my methods are antiquated."

"They belong properly," I admitted, "to a few centuries ago."

Madame smiled a little queerly.

"A few centuries ago," she said, "I fancy that if our family history is
true, the affair would have been more simple."

"I can well believe it," I answered.

Madame relapsed into her chair, from which I judged that the preliminary
skirmishing was over.

"You will please to be seated, Mr. Greatson!"

I obeyed.

"I am not going to play the hypocrite with you, sir," she said quietly.
"It is not worth while, is it? The object of the struggle between us has
been, on my part, to keep Isobel and her grandfather apart. You have
doubtless correctly gauged my motive. Isobel's mother was my father's
favourite child. If he had an idea that her child was alive, he would
receive her without a word. She would completely usurp the place of
Adelaide, my own daughter, in his affection--and in his will."

"In his will!" I repeated quietly. "Yes, I understand."

Madame nodded.

"It is quite simple," she said. "For myself I am willing to admit that I
am an ambitious woman. Money for its own sake I take no heed of, but it
remains always one of the great levers of the world, and it is the only
lever by means of which I can gain what I desire. I never forget that
the country over which my father rules was once an absolute kingdom, and
semi-Royalty does not appeal to me. The betrothal of my daughter
Adelaide to Ferdinand of Saxonia was of my planning entirely. The dowry
required by the Council of Saxonia is so large that it could not
possibly be paid if any portion of my father's fortune, great though it
is, is diverted towards Isobel. Hence my desire to keep Isobel and her
grandfather apart."

"Madame," I said, "you are candour itself. I can only regret that it is
my hard fate to oppose such admirable plans."

"I have been given to understand," the Archduchess said, "that it is now
your intention to take Isobel yourself to Illghera!"

"The tickets," I murmured, "are in my pocket."

Madame bowed.

"Well," she said, "I have seen and heard enough of you to make no
further effort to thwart or even to influence you. Yet I have a
proposition to make. First of all, consider these things. If we come to
no arrangement with each other I shall use every means I can to prevent
your obtaining an interview with my father. Everything is in my favour.
He is very old, he has a hatred of strangers, he grants audiences to no
one. He never passes outside the grounds of the villa, and all the gates
are guarded by sentries, who admit no one save those who have the
entree. Then, if you attempt to approach him by correspondence, his
private secretary, who opens every letter, is one of my own appointing.
I have exaggerated none of these things. It will be difficult for you to
approach the King. You may succeed--you seem to have the knack of
success--but it will take time. Isobel's re-appearance will be without
dignity, and open to many remarks for various reasons. You may even fail
to convince my father, and if you failed the first time there would be
no second opportunity."

"What you say, Madame," I admitted, "is reasonable. I have never assumed
that as yet my task is completed. I recognize fully the difficulties
that are still before me."

"You have common-sense, Mr. Greatson, I am glad to see," she continued.
"I am the more inclined to hope that you will accede to my proposition.
Briefly, it is this! Let me have the credit of bringing Isobel to her
grandfather. Her year in London would at all times, in these days of
scandal, be a somewhat delicate matter to publish. What you have done,
you have done, as I very well know, from no hope of or desire for
reward. Efface yourself. It will be for Isobel's good. I myself shall
stand sponsor for her to the world. I shall have discovered her in the
convent here, and I shall take her back to her rightful place with
triumph. All your difficulties then will vanish, your end will have been
creditably and adequately attained. For myself the advantage is obvious.
A difference to Adelaide it must make, but it will inevitably be less if
the credit of her discovery remains with me. Have I made myself clear,
Mr. Greatson?"

"Perfectly," I answered. "But you forget there is Isobel herself to be
considered. She is no longer a child. She has opinions and a will of her
own."

"She owes too much to you," Madame replied quietly, "to disregard your
wishes."

I believed from the first that the woman was in earnest, and her
proposal an honest one. And yet I hesitated. The past was a little
recent. She showed that she read my thoughts.

"Come," she said, "I will prove to you that I mean what I say. To-night
I will give a dinner-party--informal, it is true, but the Prince of
Cleves, my cousin the Cardinal, and your own ambassador, shall come. I
will introduce Isobel as my niece. The affair will then be established.
Do you consent?"

For one moment I hesitated. I knew very well what my answer meant.
Absolute effacement, the tearing out of my life for ever of what had
become the sweetest part of it. In that single moment it seemed to me
that I realized with something like complete despair the barrenness of
the days to come.

"Madame, if Isobel is to be persuaded," I answered, "I consent."




CHAPTER VIII


"This, then," the Prince remarked, raising his eyeglass, "is the young
lady whose romantic history you have been recounting to me? But, my dear
lady, she is charming!"

Madame held out her hands affectionately and kissed Isobel, who had
entered the room with her cousin, on both cheeks. Then she took her by
the hand and presented her to the Prince of Cleves and several others of
the company. Isobel was a little pale, but her manner was perfectly easy
and self-possessed. She was dressed, somewhat to my surprise, in the
deepest mourning, and she even wore a band of black velvet around her
neck.

"My dear child," her aunt said pleasantly, "I scarcely think that your
toilette is a compliment to us all. White should be your colour for many
years to come."

Isobel raised her eyes. Her tone was no louder than ordinary, but
somehow her voice seemed to be possessed of unusually penetrating
qualities.

"My dear aunt," she said, "you forget I am in mourning for my
stepfather, Monsieur Feurgeres, who was very good to me."

A company of perfectly bred people accepted the remark in sympathetic
silence. There was not even an eyebrow raised, but I fancy that Isobel's
words, calmly spoken and with obvious intent, struck the keynote of her
future relations with her aunt.

Isobel, a few minutes later, brought her cousin over to me.

"Adelaide is very anxious to know you, Arnold!" she said quietly. This
was all the introduction she offered. Immediately afterwards her aunt
called Isobel away to be presented to a new arrival.

"Mr. Greatson," Adelaide said earnestly, "I cannot tell you how
delighted I am that all this trouble is over, and that Isobel is coming
to us. But I think--I think she is paying too great a price. I think my
mother is hatefully, wickedly cruel!"

"My dear young lady," I protested, "I do not think that you must say
that. Your mother's conditions are necessary. In fact, whether she made
them or not, I think that they would be inevitable."

"You are not even to come to Illghera with us? Not to visit us even?"

I shook my head.

"I belong to the great family of Bohemians," I reminded her, "who have
no possessions and but one dress suit. What should I do at Court?"

"What indeed!" she answered, with a little sigh, "for you are a citizen
of the greater world!"

"There is no such thing," I answered. "We carry our own world with us.
We make it small or large with our own hands."

"For some," she murmured, "the task then is very difficult. Where one
lives in a forcing-house of conventions, and the doors are fast locked,
it is very easy to be stifled, but it is hard indeed to breathe."

"Princess," I said gravely, "have you examined the windows?"

"I do not understand you," she answered.

"But it is simple, surely," I declared. "Even if you must remain in the
forcing-house, it is for you to open the windows and breathe what air
you will. For your thoughts at least are free, and it is of our thoughts
that our lives are fashioned."

She sighed.

"Ah, Mr. Greatson," she said, "one does not talk like that at Court."

"You have a great opportunity," I answered. "Character is a flower which
blossoms in all manner of places. Sometimes it comes nearest to
perfection in the most unlikely spots. Prosperity and sunshine are not
the best things in the world for it. Sometimes in the gloomy and
desolate places its growth is the sturdiest and its flowers the
sweetest."

The service of dinner had been announced. The English Ambassador took
Adelaide away from me, but as she accepted his arm she looked me in the
eyes with a grave but wonderfully sweet smile.

"I thank you very much, Mr. Greatson," she said. "Our little
conversation has been most pleasant."

The Archduchess swept up to me. She was looking a little annoyed.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, "Isobel is pleading shyness--an absurd excuse.
She insists that you take her in to dinner. I suppose she must have her
own way to-night, but it is annoying."

Madame looked at me as though it were my fault that her plans were
disarranged, which was a little unfair. And then Isobel, very serene,
but with that weary look about the eyes which seemed only to have
increased during the evening, came quietly up and took my arm.

"If this is to be our last evening, Arnold, we will at least spend as
much of it as possible together," she said gently. "I will be a very
dutiful niece, aunt, to-morrow."

We moved off together, but not before I was struck with something
singular in Madame's expression. She stood looking at us two as though
some wholly new idea had presented itself to her. She did not follow us
into the dining-room for some few moments.

The dinner itself, for an informal one, was a very brilliant function.
There were eighteen of us at a large round table, which would easily
have accommodated twenty-four. The Cardinal, whose scarlet robes in
themselves formed a strange note of colour, sat on the Archduchess's
right, touching scarcely any of the dishes which were continually
presented to him, and sipping occasionally from the glass of water at
his side. The other men and women were all distinguished, and their
conversation, mostly carried on in French, was apt, and at times
brilliant. Isobel and I perhaps, the former particularly, contributed
least to the general fund. Isobel met the advances of her right-hand
neighbour with the barest of monosyllables. Lady Delahaye, who sat on my
left, left me for the most part discreetly alone. Yet we two spoke very
little. I could see that Isobel was disposed to be hysterical, and that
her outward calm was only attained by means of an unnatural effort. Yet
I fancied that my being near soothed her, and every time I spoke to her
or she to me, a certain relief came into her face. All the while I was
conscious of one strange thing. The Archduchess, although she had the
Cardinal on one side and the Prince of Cleves on the other, was
continually watching us. Her interest in their conversation was purely
superficial. Her interest in us, on the contrary, was an absorbing one.
I could not understand it at all.

The conclusion of dinner was marked by an absence of all ceremony. The
cigarettes had already been passed round before the Archduchess rose,
but those who chose to remain at the table did so. Isobel leaned over
and whispered in my ear.

"Come with me into the drawing-room. I want to talk to you."

I obeyed, and the Archduchess seemed to me purposely to leave us alone.
We sat in a quiet corner, and when I saw that there were tears in
Isobel's eyes, I knew that my time of trial was not yet over.

"Arnold," she said quietly, "you care--whether I am happy or not? You
have done so much for me--you must care!"

"You cannot doubt it, Isobel," I answered.

"I do not. This sort of life will not suit me at all. I do not trust my
aunt. I am weary of strangers. Let us give it all up. Take me back to
London with you. I feel as though I were going into prison."

"Dear Isobel," I said, "you must remember why we decided that it was
right for you to rejoin your people."

"Oh, I know," she answered. "But even to the last Monsieur Feurgeres
hesitated. My mother would never have wished me to be miserable."

I shook my head.

"I believe that Feurgeres was right," I answered. "I believe that your
mother would wish to see you in your rightful place. I believe that it
is your duty to claim it."

Then I think that for the first time Isobel was unfair to me, and spoke
words which hurt.

"You do not wish to have me back again," she said slowly. "I have been a
trouble to you, I know, and I have upset your life. You want me to go
away."

I did not answer her. I could not. She leaned forward and looked into my
face, and instantly her tone changed. Her soft fingers clutched mine for
a moment.

"Dear Arnold," she whispered, "I am sorry! Forgive me! I will do what
you think best. I did not mean to hurt you."

"I am quite sure that you did not, Isobel," I answered. "Listen! I am
speaking now for Allan as well as for myself, and for Arthur too. To
tear you out of our lives is the hardest thing we have ever had to do.
Your coming changed everything for us. We were never so happy before. We
shall never know anything like it again. If you were what we thought, a
nameless and friendless child, you would be welcome back again, more
welcome than I can tell you. But you have your own life to live, and it
is not ours. You have your own place to fill in the world, and, forgive
me, your mother's memory to vindicate. Monsieur Feurgeres was right. For
her sake you must claim the things that are yours."

"But shall I never see you again, Arnold?" she asked, with a little
catch in her breath.

I set my teeth. I could see that the Archduchess was watching us.

"Our ways must lie far apart, Isobel," I said. "But who can say? Many
things may happen. The Princess Isobel may visit the studios when she is
in London or at Homburg. She may patronize the poor writer whose books
she knows."

Isobel sat and listened to me with stony face.

"I wonder," she murmured, "why the way to one's duty lies always through
Hell?"

Isobel's lips were quivering, and I dared make no effort to console her.
The Archduchess came suddenly across the room to us, and bent
affectionately over Isobel.

"My dear child," she said, "you are overtired. Go and talk to Adelaide.
She is alone in the music-room. I have something to say to Mr.
Greatson."

Isobel rose and left us at once. The Archduchess took her place. She was
carrying a fan of black ostrich feathers, and she waved it languidly for
some time as though in deep thought.

"Mr. Greatson," she said at length.

I turned and found her eyes fixed curiously upon me. These were moments
which I remembered all my life, and every little detail in connection
with them seemed flashed into my memory. The strange perfume, something
like the burning of wood spice, wafted towards me by her fan, the
glitter of the blue black sequins which covered her magnificent gown,
the faint smile upon her parted lips, and the meaning in her eyes--all
these things made their instantaneous and ineffaceable impression. Then
she leaned a little closer to me.

"Mr. Greatson," she repeated, "I know your secret!"




CHAPTER IX


I am afraid that for the moment I lost my self-possession. I had gone
through so much during the last few hours, and this woman spoke with
such confidence--so quietly, and yet with such absolute conviction--that
I felt the barriers which I had built about myself crumbling away. I
answered her lamely, and without conviction.

"My secret! I do not know what you mean. I have no secret!"

The black feathers fluttered backwards and forwards once more. She
regarded me still with the same quiet smile.

"You love my niece, Mr. Greatson," she said.

"Madame," I answered, "you are jesting!"

"Indeed I am not," she declared. "I have made a statement which is
perfectly true."

"I deny it!" I exclaimed hoarsely.

"You can deny it as much as you like, if you think it worth while to
perjure yourself," she replied coolly. "The truth remains. I have had a
good deal of experience in such matters. You love Isobel, and I am not
at all sure that Isobel does not love you."

"Madame," I protested, "such statements are absurd. I am no longer a
young man. I am thirty-four years old. I have no longer any thought of
marriage. Isobel is no more than a child. I was nearly her present age
when she was born. The whole idea, as I trust you will see, is
ridiculous."

The Archduchess regarded me still with unchanged face.

"Your protestations, Mr. Greatson," she said, "amuse, but utterly fail
to convince me."

"Let us drop the subject, then," I said hastily. "At least, if you
persist in your hallucination, I hope you will believe this. I have
never spoken a word of what could be called love-making to the child in
my life."

"I believe you implicitly," she answered promptly. "I believe that I
know and can appreciate your position. Let me tell you that I honour you
for it."

"Madame," I murmured, "you are very good. Let us now abandon the
subject."

"By no means," she answered. "On the contrary, I should like to discuss
it with you fully."

"Madame!" I exclaimed.

"Let us suppose for a moment," she went on calmly, "that I am correct,
that you really love Isobel, but that your peculiar position has imposed
upon your sense of honour the necessity for silence. Well, your
guardianship of her may now be considered to have ended. From to-night
it has passed into my hands. Still, you would say the difference between
your positions is immeasurable. You are, I doubt not, a gentleman by
birth, but Isobel comes from one of the ancient and noble families of
the world, and might almost expect to share a throne with the man whom
she elects to marry. It is true, in effect, Mr. Greatson, that you are
of different worlds."

"Madame," I answered, "why do you trouble to demonstrate such obvious
facts? They are incontestable. But supposing for a moment that your
surmises concerning myself were true, you will understand that they are
painful for me to listen to."

"You must have patience, Mr. Greatson," she said quietly. "At present I
am feeling my way through my thoughts. There is rash blood in Isobel's
veins, and I should like her life to be happier than her mother's. She
is unconventional and a lover of freedom. The etiquette of our Court at
Illghera will chafe her continually. I wonder, Mr. Greatson, if she
would not be happier--married to some one of humbler birth, perhaps, but
who can give her the sort of life she desires."

I was for a moment dumb with astonishment. Apart from the amazement of
the whole thing, the Archduchess was not in the least the sort of person
to be seriously interested in the abstract question of Isobel's
happiness. At least, I should not have supposed her capable of it. I
imagine that she must have read my thoughts, for after a searching
glance at me she continued:

"You doubt my disinterestedness, Mr. Greatson. Perhaps you are right. I
wish the child well, but there is also this fact to be considered.
Isobel married to an English gentleman such as, say, yourself, would be
no longer a serious rival to my daughter in the affections of her
grandfather."

Then indeed I began to understand. What a woman of resource! She watched
me closely behind the feathers of her fan.

"Come," she said, "this time my plot is an innocent one, and it is for
Isobel's happiness as well as for my daughter's benefit. Speak to her
now. Marry her at once, here in Paris, and I will give her for dowry
twenty thousand pounds!"

I ground my heel into the carpet, and I was grateful for those long
black feathers which waved gracefully in front of my face. For I was
tempted--sorely tempted. The woman's words rang like mad music in my
brain. Speak to her! Why not? It was the great joy of the world which
waited for me to pluck it. Why not? I was not an old man, the child was
fond of me, a single word of compliance, and I might step into my
kingdom. Oh, the rapture of it, the wonderful joy of taking her hands in
mine, of dropping once and for ever the mask from my face, the gag from
my tongue! A rush of wild thoughts turned me dizzy. My secret was no
longer a secret at all. The Archduchess leaned a little closer to me,
and whispered behind those fluttering feathers--

"You are a very wonderful person, Mr. Greatson, that you have kept
silence so long. The necessity for it has passed. The child loves you. I
am sure of it."

But my moment of weakness was over. I had a sudden vision of Feurgeres,
standing on the stage, listening with bowed head to the thunder of
applause, but with his eyes turned always to the darkened box, with its
lonely bouquet of pink roses--lonely to all save him, who alone saw the
hand which held them--of Feurgeres in his sanctuary, bending lovingly
over that chair, empty to all save him, Feurgeres, with that smile of
unearthly happiness upon his lips--calm, debonair and steadfast. This
was the man who had trusted me. I raised my head.

"Madame," I said quietly, "what you suggest is impossible."

She stared at me in incredulous astonishment.

"But I do not understand," she exclaimed weakly. "You agree, surely?"

I shook my head.

"On the contrary, Madame," I said, "I beg that you will not allude
further to the matter."

The Archduchess muttered something in German to herself which I did not
understand. Perhaps it was just as well.

"You will vouchsafe me," she begged, speaking very slowly, and keeping
her eyes fixed on me, "some reason for your refusal?"

"I will give you two," I answered. "First, it is contrary to the spirit
of my promise to Monsieur Feurgeres."

Her lip curled.

"Well?"

"Secondly," I continued, "I should be taking a dishonourable advantage
of my position with regard to Isobel. She is very grateful to me, and
she would very likely mistake her sentiments if I were to speak to her
as you suggest. She is too young to know what love is. She has met no
young men of her own rank, she does not understand in the least what
sort of position is in store for her."

"These are your reasons, then?"

"I venture to think that they are sufficient ones, Madame," I answered.

The Archduchess rose.

"We shall need a new Cervantes," she remarked, "to do justice to the
Englishman of to-day. I shall keep my word, Mr. Greatson, as regards
Isobel, and I can promise you this. If gaiety and eligible suitors, and
the luxury of her new life are not sufficient to stifle any sentimental
follies she may be nursing just now, I will not rest till I find other
means. Adelaide's future is arranged. I will set myself to make Isobel's
equally brilliant. I will make her the beauty of Europe. She shall
forget in a month the squalid days of her life with you and your friends
in an attic."

"So long as Isobel is happy," I answered, "my mission is accomplished,
and I am content."

"You are a fool and a liar!" she answered contemptuously. "You will love
her all your days, and you know it. You will grow to curse the memory of
this hour in which you threw away the only chance you will ever have of
winning her. The only chance, mind, I will answer for that. I wish you
good-evening, Mr. Greatson. You are excused. Isobel, as you are aware,
remains here. You will find her in the music-room with Adelaide. Go and
make your adieux, and make them quickly. You will be interrupted in
three minutes."

She swept away from me with only the slightest inclination of her head.
I made my way to the music-room, where Isobel and her cousin were
sitting together. Directly I entered, the latter, with a little nod of
curious meaning to me, rose and left us alone. I held out my hands.

"Isobel, dear," I said, "this must be--our farewell, then--for a time!"

She placed her hands in mine. They were as cold as ice. Her cheeks were
white, her eyes seemed fastened upon mine. All the while her bosom was
heaving convulsively, but she said nothing.

"I can only wish you what Arthur and Allan have already wished you," I
said, "happiness! You have every chance of it, dear. You surely deserve
it, for you brightened up our dull lives so that we can, no one of us,
ever forget you. Think of us sometimes. Good-bye!"

I stooped and kissed her lightly on the cheek. But suddenly her arms
were wound around my neck. With a strength which was amazing she held me
to her.

"Arnold!" she sobbed. "Oh, Arnold!"

Her lips were upon mine, and in another second I should have been lost,
for my arms would have been around her. The door opened and closed. We
heard the jingling of sequins, the sweep of a silken train. The
Archduchess had entered. Isobel's arms fell from my neck, but her cheeks
were scarlet, and her eyes like stars.

"You--are going?" she pleaded.

"I am going," I answered huskily.

The Archduchess came down the room, humming a light tune.

"So the dread farewell is over, then!" she exclaimed, with light good
humour. "Come, child, no red eyes. Remember, a Waldenburg weeps only
twice in her life. Once more, good-night, Mr. Greatson."

I had reached the door. Isobel was standing still with outstretched
arms. The Archduchess glided between us--and I went.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning I travelled unseen by the Riviera express, to which the
saloon of the Archduchess had been attached, all the way to Illghera. I
saw her driven with the others to the villa.

Two days afterwards, from a hill overlooking the grounds, I saw an old
gentleman in a pony chaise preceded by two footmen in dark green livery.
Adelaide walked on one side, and Isobel on the other. That night I left
Illghera for England.




CHAPTER X


I knew the moment I opened the door that changes were on foot. Our
studio sitting-room was dismantled of many of its treasures. Allan, with
his coat off and a pipe in his mouth, was throwing odds and ends in a
promiscuous sort of way into a huge trunk which stood open upon the
floor. Arthur, a few yards off, was rolling a cigarette.

Our meeting was not wholly free from embarrassment. I think that for the
first time in our lives there was a cloud between Allan and myself. He
stood up and faced me squarely.

"Arnold," he said, "where is Isobel?"

"In Illghera with her grandfather," I answered. "Where else should she
be?"

"Are you sure?"

"I have seen her there with my own eyes," I affirmed.

There was a moment's pause. I saw the two exchange glances. Then Allan
held out his hand.

"That damned woman again!" he exclaimed. "Forgive me, Arnold!"

"Willingly," I answered, "when I know what for."

"Suspecting you. Lady Delahaye wrote Arthur a note, in which she said
that the Archduchess and you had made fresh plans. You can guess what
they were. And Illghera was off. You did hurry us away from Paris a bit,
you know, and I was fool enough to imagine for a moment that there might
be something in it. Forgive me, Arnold!" he added, holding out his hand.

"And me!" Arthur exclaimed, extending his.

I held out a hand to each. There was something grimly humorous in this
reception, after all that I had suffered during the last few days. My
first impulse of anger died away almost as quickly as it had been
conceived.

"My friends," I said, "the Archduchess did propose some such scheme to
me, but you forget that my honour was involved, not only to you, not
only to the child, but to a dead man. I can look you both in the face
and assure you that in word and letter I have been faithful to my
trust."

"I knew it!" Allan declared gruffly. "Dear old chap, forgive me!"

"I am the brute who dangled the letter before his eyes," Arthur
exclaimed bitterly, "and I am the only one of the three who has broken
our covenant."

"My dear friends," I said slowly, "the things which are past, let us
forget. Isobel has gone back to the life which claimed her. No barrier
which human hand could rear could separate her from us so effectually
and irrevocably as the mere fact that she has taken up the position
which belongs to her. She is the Princess Isobel of Waldenburg, a king's
grandchild. And we are--what we are! Let me now make my confession to
you. I, too, loved her."

The two hands which held mine tightened for a moment their grasp. The
old "camaraderie" was established once more.

"It is I who was responsible for her coming," I continued. "It is only
fitting that I, too, should suffer. How she grew into our hearts you all
know. She has gone, and nothing can ever be the same. Yet I for one do
not regret it. I regret nothing! I am content to live with the memory of
these wonderful days she spent with us."

"And I!" Allan declared.

"And I!" Arthur echoed.

I wrung their hands, for it was a joy to me to feel that we had come
once more into complete accord.

"You know what sort of a state we were drifting into when she came," I
continued. "We were like thousands of others. We were rubbing shoulders,
hour by hour and day by day, with the world which takes no account of
beautiful things. She came and laid the magician's hand upon our lives.
We had perforce to alter our ways, to alter our surroundings, our
amusements, our ideals. Joy came with her, and pain may find a secret
place in our hearts now that she has gone, but I do not think that
either of us would willingly blot out from his life these last two
years. Would you, Arthur?"

"Not I!" he declared. "We had to learn ourselves to teach her. To chuck
the things that were rotten, anyhow, just because she was around. Jolly
good for us, too!"

"I agree with Arthur and you," Allan said. "I agree with all that you
have said. The child was dear to me too. So dear, that I do not think
that it would be easy to go back to our old life without her. That is
why----"

He glanced around the room. Our hands fell apart. I lit a cigarette and
looked at the open trunk.

"You are going away, Allan?"

He nodded.

"I'm off to Canada," he said. "I've an old uncle there who's worth
looking after, and he's always bothering me to pay him a visit. Right
time of the year, too--and hang it all, Arnold, I've sat here for a week
in front of an empty canvas, and I'd go to hell sooner than stand it any
longer!"

"And you, Arthur?"

"I have been appointed manager of our Paris Depot," Arthur answered a
little grandiloquently. "I couldn't refuse it. Much better pay and more
fun, and all that sort of thing, and--oh, hang it all, Arnold, is it
likely a fellow could stay here now she's gone?" he wound up, with a
little catch in his throat.

So the old days were over! I looked at my desk, and by the side of it
was the chair in which she used sometimes to sit while I read to her.
Then I think that I, too, was glad that this change was to come.

"There is one thing, Arnold," Mabane said quietly, "about her things. We
locked the door of her room. Mrs. Burdett has packed up most of her
clothes, but there are the ornaments and a few little things of her own.
We should like to go in--Arthur and I. We have waited for you."

"We will go now," I answered. "She will have no need of anything that
she has left behind. We will each choose a keepsake, and lock the rest
up."

We entered the room all together, almost on tiptoe. If we had been
wearing hats I am sure that we should have taken them off. How, with
such trifling means at her command, she could have left behind in that
tiny chamber so potent an impression of daintiness and comfort I cannot
tell. But there it was. Her little bed, with its spotless counterpane,
was hung with pink muslin. There was a lace spread upon her
toilet-table, on which her little oddments of silver made a brave show.
Only one thing seemed out of place, a worn little slipper peeping out
from under a chair. I thrust it into my pocket. The others took some
trifle from the table. Then, as silently as we had entered, we left the
room. As I turned the key I choked down something in my throat, and did
my best to laugh--a little unnaturally, I am afraid.

"Come!" I cried, "it is I who am responsible for this attack of
sentiment. I will show you how to get rid of it. You dine with me at
Hautboy's. I have money--lots of it. Feurgeres left me twenty thousand
pounds. Hautboy's and a magnum of the best. How long will you fellows be
dressing?"

They tried to fall into my mood. Allan mixed cocktails. We drank and
smoked and shouted to one another uproariously from our rooms as we
changed our clothes. We drove to Hautboy's three in a hansom, and Arthur
spent his usual five minutes chaffing the young lady behind the tiny
bar. But when the wine came, and our glasses were filled, a sudden
silence fell upon us. We looked at each other, and we all knew what was
in the minds of all of us. It was Allan who spoke.

"To Isobel!" he said softly.

We drank in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. But afterwards
Arthur raised his glass high above his head.

"To the Princess Isobel!" he cried. "Long life and good luck to her!"

Afterwards there were no more toasts.

       *       *       *       *       *

Arthur and Allan went their several ways within twenty-four hours of our
farewell dinner. I saw them both off, and I forced them with great
difficulty to share to some small extent in Feurgeres' legacy. Then I
took some rooms near my club in the heart of London, and line for line,
word for word, I re-wrote the whole of the story which I had not dared
to show to Isobel, determined that the one thing I still had which was
part of her body and soul should be the best that my brain and skill
could fashion. So the winter and the early spring passed, and then my
story was published.




CHAPTER XI


A miracle of white daintiness, from the spotless muslin of her gown to
the creamy lace which hung from her parasol. So far as toilette went,
Lady Delahaye was always an artist. Yet my pulses were unmoved, and my
heart unstirred, as she stood under my dark cedar-tree and welcomed me
with all the expression which her tone and eyes could command.

"So you see, Sir Hermit," she murmured, "what happens to those who will
not go to the mountain? Seriously, I hope you are glad to see me."

"Why not?" I answered calmly. "Will you come inside, or shall we sit
here in the shade?"

"Here, by all means," she answered, subsiding gracefully into a wicker
chair.

"You will let me order you some tea?"

She checked my movement towards the house.

"For Heaven's sake, no! I have been paying calls all the afternoon with
Mrs. Jerningham, and you know what that means. She has gone to the Hall
now, and I am to pick her up in half an hour."

"You are staying at Eastford House, then?" I remarked.

"For a few days. Can you guess why?"

"The house parties there have the reputation of being amusing," I
suggested.

She shook her head.

"It was not that. Can you make no better guess?"

"I am a dunce at riddles," I admitted.

"You are a dunce at many things," she replied. "The reason I came was
because I knew that you were living in these parts, and I had a fancy to
see you again."

"You are very good," I remarked.

She looked at me critically.

"You have not changed," she said slowly. "One would almost say that the
life of a recluse agrees with you. You have by no means the white and
wasted look which I expected. Is it fame which you have found so potent
a tonic?"

I laughed lightly.

"Don't call it fame," I answered. "Success, if you will. My profession
is so much of a lottery. A whiff of public opinion, a criticism which
hits the popular fancy, and the bubble is floated. I'm not pretending
that I don't appreciate it, but it was a stroke of luck all the same."

She was silent for a few moments. From outside we could hear the
jingling of harness as Mrs. Jerningham's fat bays resented the onslaught
of officious flies. Nearer at hand there was only the lazy humming of
bees to break the stillness of the summer afternoon. Lady Delahaye
sighed.

"You are talking nonsense, and you know it," she said. "I do not want to
flatter you. Any man who has the trick of the pen, and chooses to give
himself wholly and utterly away, can write a powerful story."

"I am afraid that I do not understand you," I protested.

"Yes, you do. You cut open your own heart, and you offered the world a
magnifying glass to study its wounds. You wrote your own story. You told
the tale of your own suffering. Of course it was strong, of course it
rang with all the truth of genius. So you loved that child, Arnold! You,
a man of the world, not a callow schoolboy. You loved her magnificently.
Did she know?"

"She did not know," I answered. "She never will know."

"She may read the book!"

"She may read it, and yet not know," I answered.

"It is true," she murmured. "Unless she loved herself she might not
understand."

Again we were silent for a while. The perfume of the cedars floated upon
the hot breathless air. Lady Delahaye half closed her eyes and leaned
back.

"You read the newspapers, Sir Hermit?"

"Sometimes."

"You have heard the news from Waldenburg?"

"I read of the King's death."

"And of the betrothal of the Princess Isobel?"

"Yes. I have read also of that."

"The cousins will both be the consorts of reigning sovereigns, small
though their kingdoms may be. One reads great things of Adelaide. Her
people call her already 'the well-beloved.'"

A swift rush of thought carried me back to the dark stormy crossing,
when the rain had beaten in our faces, and the wind came booming down
the Channel. Adelaide stood once more by my side. I heard the quiet,
bitter words, the low, passionate cry of her troubled heart. "The
well-beloved" of her people! After all, race tells.

"I spoke but twice alone to the Princess Adelaide," I said. "I learnt
enough of her, however, to be sure that in any position she would do the
thing that was right and gracious."

"And so will Isobel," Lady Delahaye said. "I know the race well. The men
are degenerates, but the women have nerve to rule and courage to hold
their own against the world. Isobel's future may well be the more
brilliant of the two. Can you realize, I wonder, that Isobel of
Waldenburg was once the child who filled your brain with such strange
fancies?"

"I never think," I answered, "of Isobel of Waldenburg."

"You are wise," she answered. "She is as surely separated from us
eternally as though she had made that little journey from which one does
not return. Yet you--you are going to hug your wounds all your life. Is
that wise, my friend?"

I laughed softly.

"You are mistaken," I assured her. "I have no wounds--not even regrets.
I believe that there are few men happier. Look at my home!"

"It is beautiful," she admitted.

"My gardens, my flowers, my cedar-tree and my books," I said. "These are
all a joy to me. What more can a man want? Friends have moods, and they
pass away out of one's life. The friends who smile from my study wall
are patient and always ready. There is one to fit every hour. They do
not change. They are always ready to show me the way into the world
beautiful, to cheer me when I am sad, to laugh with me when I am gay.
You must not waste any sympathy on me, Lady Delahaye. The man who has
learnt to live alone is the man who has learnt the greatest lesson life
has to teach. He is the man for whom the sun shines always, who carries
with him for ever the magic key."

Lady Delahaye disturbed the smoothness of my turf with the point of her
parasol.

"Are there no times," she asked in a low tone, "when these things fail
you? No times when like calls for like, when the human part of you finds
the comfort of ashes a dead thing? You and your books and your flowers!"
she cried scornfully, raising her head and looking at me with heightened
colour. "Bah! You are a man, are you not, like the others? How long will
these content you? How long will you stop your ears and forget that life
has passions and joys which these dead things can never yield to you?"

"Until," I answered, "the magician comes who can make me believe it. And
I am afraid, Lady Delahaye, that he has passed me by."

She rose to her feet.

"I am answered," she said. "I promise you that I will not intrude again
into this Paradise of wood and stone. Give me a cigarette to keep off
these flies, and take me down to the carriage. Thanks! If one might
venture upon a prophecy, my dear Arnold, I think that I can see your
fate very clearly written. I do not even need your hand to read it."

"Would the spell," I asked, "be broken if I shared the knowledge?"

"Not in the least," she answered, with a hard little laugh. "You will
become one of those half-mad sort of creatures whom people call cranks,
or you will marry your housekeeper. In either case you will deserve your
fate."

So Lady Delahaye drove away down the white dusty road, and I walked back
to the study from whence her coming had brought me. As I sat down to my
interrupted work I smiled. How little she understood!

I wrote till seven o'clock. Punctually at that hour there was a discreet
knock at the door, and my servant reminded me that it was time to
change. At a quarter before eight I strolled into the garden and
selected a piece of heliotrope for the buttonhole of my dinner coat. A
few minutes later my dinner was served.

My table was a small round one set in front of the open French windows.
Looking a little to the right I could see the extent of my domain--a low
laurel hedge, a sloping field beyond, in which my two Alderneys were
standing almost knee-deep amongst the buttercups; a ring fence, a
paddock, and, beyond, the road. To the left were my gardens, the
sweetness of which came stealing through the window with the very
faintest breath of the slowly moving air, bordered by that ancient red
brick wall, mellowed and crumbling with the sun and west winds of
generations, and in front of me my lawn and the cedar-tree under which
Lady Delahaye had sat an hour or so ago and prophesied evil things. My
lips parted into a smile as I thought of her words. Did she indeed think
me a creature so weak as to pile gloom on the top of sorrow, to shut my
eyes to all the joys of life, because supreme happiness was denied me,
to play skittles with my self-respect, and--marry a kitchen-maid? I, who
had turned over great pages in the book of life! I, who had known
Feurgeres! Wallace had left the room for a moment, and I raised my glass
full of clear amber wine, and drank silently my evening toast. I drank
to the memory of the greatest love I had ever known, to the man whose
strong and beautiful life had taught me how to fashion my own. Perhaps
my thoughts flashed a little further afield. It was so always when I
thought of Feurgeres, but it was to the joyous and wonderful memory of
those earlier days, to Isobel the child I drank. Isobel of Waldenburg
had passed away into the world of shadows. I courted no heartaches by
vain thoughts of her. I pored over no papers to find mention of her
name. I was content with what had gone before.

I morbid! Lady Delahaye had judged me wrongly indeed. I, before whom two
great worlds stretched themselves continually, full of countless
treasures, always changing, yet always beautiful. Only yesterday I had
seen the sun rise. I had seen the still slumbering world break into
quivering life. I had seen the curtain roll up on a new act of this most
wonderful of all plays to the music of an orchestra hidden indeed in my
grove of chestnuts, but sweeter, more joyous, more full of the promise
of perfect things than ever a violin touched by human fingers. Then the
thrushes had hopped out on to my dew-spangled lawn, where before the hot
sun the grey, gossamer-like mist was vanishing like breath from a
mirror; my roses raised their heads, and the breeze from the west--a
lazy, fluttering breeze--borrowed their sweetness; my peaches cracked
through their full skins upon the wall, and the bees commenced their
eternal lullaby of murmuring sounds. Then at night--such a night as
this, too, promised to be--I had watched the shadows come creeping over
the land when the sun had set and the moon had barely risen; a new order
of things had come. The fire of the day was replaced by the infinite
peace of night. Beyond the confines of my little domain the whole world
lay hushed and hidden. There were few stars as yet to mock with their
passionless serenity the toilers of the earth, worn out with the long
day's struggle. Only a great quiet--a great, peaceful quiet--and the
shadows of dim things!

I morbid, with eyes to see these things, with a whole room full of
waiting friends, ready at a touch of my fingers, the turning of a page,
to take me by the hand and lead into even other worlds as beautiful as
this, to scale with me the mountains, or to wander along the
flower-strewn valleys. Lady Delahaye was a very foolish woman. She had
seen nothing of my well-ordered household, of the ease, the
luxury--simple, yet almost Sybaritic--with which I had surrounded
myself. She did not understand life from my point of view--life as
Feurgeres had lived it. The life sentimental, but not passionate; the
life to be evolved by will from the tangle of bruised hopes and hot
desires. The life----

I set down my glass empty. The last drop had tasted like vinegar. Always
one has to fight, and for a while I sat in silence before my table piled
now with dishes of fruit. My hands gripped the sides of my chair, my
eyes were fixed upon a twinkling light which had shot out from the
distant hillside. Always one has to fight for the things worth
having--and the pain soon passes.

In a few minutes I rose. I lit a cigarette from the box which Wallace
had placed at my elbow, and with a handful more in my pocket I stepped
outside. On the lawn under the cedar-tree something was lying--something
pink and fluffy, and very soft to the fingers. As I held it at arm's
length a faint, familiar perfume stole up from its flouncy depths. The
pain was all gone now. I smiled as I looked at it. It was Lady
Delahaye's parasol!

I turned it over meditatively. The fancy seized me that it had been left
there on purpose--my last chance! Eastford House was barely a mile and a
half away--a very reasonable after-dinner stroll. I smiled to myself as
I summoned Wallace from the dining-room.

"Take this parasol over to Eastford House as soon as you have served my
coffee," I directed. "Lady Delahaye must have left it here this
afternoon."

"Very good, sir," Wallace answered, relieving me of my burden and
carrying it into the house.

Then I departed on my usual evening pilgrimage. I entered the flower
garden by a little iron gate, and walked slowly amongst my roses. Here
the air was full of delicate scents--lavender insistent; mignonette
faint, but penetrating; homely wall-flowers, sweet even as the roses
themselves. Night insects now were buzzing around me; the bushes took to
themselves phantasmal shapes; even the path, very narrow and overgrown,
was hard to find. I filled my hand with flowers and made my way slowly
back to the cedar-tree. The shadows were deeper now. It was the one hour
of darkness before the rising of the late moon. I threw myself into a
low chair, and the flowers on to the seat which encircled the
cedar-tree. Oh, wonderful Feurgeres, who had taught me the sweetness of
such moments as this!

Always she came the same way; yet to-night it seemed to me that a
startling note of reality heralded her coming. The ghostliness of her
movements, that noiseless flitting across the lawn were changed. Almost
I could have sworn that the little iron gate had indeed been opened and
closed, that real footsteps had fallen lightly enough, but, with actual
sound, upon the gravel path, that I could hear the soft swish of a real
dress from the slim white figure which came hesitatingly across the
lawn. Oh, Feurgeres was a great man! It was a great thing which he had
taught me. My pulses were thrilled with expectant joy. Reality itself
could be no more real. But to-night--to-night was a triumph indeed! She
was dressed differently. She wore a long white travelling cloak, a veil
pushed back from her hat. I did not understand. My fancy had never
dressed her like this. That little cry, her pause. Had I indeed done
greater things than Feurgeres, and summoned to my side real flesh and
blood?

"Arnold!"

I gripped the sides of my chair. I felt my breath coming shorter. A cry.
I could not keep it back from my quivering lips.

"Isobel!"

I could not move. I was afraid of what I had done. And then she dropped
on her knees by my side, and real arms were about my neck, real kisses
were upon my lips. Then I no longer had any fear, for from whatever
world she had come the joy of it was like a foretaste of heaven. I drew
her to me, held her passionately, and I knew that this was no creature
of my mind's fashioning, but a live woman, whose heart beat so wildly
against my own....

"It was all Adelaide," she murmured presently. "She brought me your
book, and afterwards we talked. She was alone with my grandfather--and
then he sent for me. I was afraid, for this was in his last days. Shall
I tell you what he said, Arnold?"

"Yes," I answered, tightening my grasp upon her. "Go on talking!" For I
was fighting still for belief.

"He took my hand quite calmly, and I knew at once that I had nothing to
fear. 'Isobel,' he said, 'they tell me that you have your mother's blood
in your veins, that freedom means more to you than ambition, that you
are a woman first and a Waldenburg afterwards. Is this true?' Then I
told him everything, and he kissed me. 'Go your own way, Isobel,' he
said, 'but stay with me while I live. Adelaide has shown me many things
which I did not understand. Poor child!' He sent for his lawyers,
Arnold, and he made me a poor woman. I am much too poor to be a princess
any longer--unless I may be yours."

Then I believed--this, the strangest of all things that may happen to a
man. My garden of fancies, which Feurgeres had shown me so well how to
cultivate, passed away into the mists. Before the moon rose, Paradise
was there.


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NOVELS OF E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM


    A Prince of Sinners
    Anna the Adventuress
    The Master Mummer
    A Maker of History
    Mysterious Mr. Sabin
    The Yellow Crayon
    The Betrayal
    The Traitors
    Enoch Strone
    A Sleeping Memory
    The Malefactor
    A Daughter of the Marionis
    The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown
    A Lost Leader
    The Great Secret
    The Avenger
    As a Man Lives
    The Missioner
    The Governors
    The Man and His Kingdom
    A Millionaire of Yesterday
    The Long Arm of Mannister
    Jeanne of the Marshes
    The Illustrious Prince
    The Lost Ambassador
    Berenice
    The Moving Finger

       *       *       *       *       *

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My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish.

Mystery of June 13th. By Melvin L. Severy.

Mystery Tales. By Edgar Allan Poe.

Nancy Stair. By Elinor Macartney Lane.

Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley.

Pam. By Bettina von Hutten.

Pam Decides. By Bettina von Hutten.

Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln.

Phra the Phoenician. By Edwin Lester Arnold.

President, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.

Princess Passes, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Prisoners. By Mary Cholmondeley.

Private War, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.

Prodigal Son, The. By Hall Caine.

Quickening, The. By Francis Lynde.

Richard the Brazen. By Cyrus T. Brady and Edw. Peple.

Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle.

Running Water. By A. E. W. Mason.

Sarita the Carlist. By Arthur W. Marchmont.

Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker.

Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle.

Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet.

Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.

Purple Parasol, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.

Princess Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott.

Making of Bobby Burnit, The. By George Randolph Chester.

Last Voyage of the Donna Isabel, The. By Randall Parrish.

Bronze Bell, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.

Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben.

Four Million, The. By O. Henry.

Idols. By William J. Locke.

Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting.

Held for Orders. By Frank H. Spearman.

Story of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough.

Mistress of Brae Farm, The. By Rosa N. Carey.

Explorer, The. By William Somerset Maugham.

Abbess of Vlaye, The. By Stanley Weyman.

Alton of Somasco. By Harold Bindloss.

Ancient Law, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

Barrier, The. By Rex Beach.

Bar 20. By Clarence E. Mulford.

Beloved Vagabond, The. By William J. Locke.

Beulah. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Chaperon, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

Colonel Greatheart. By H. C. Bailey.

Dissolving Circle, The. By Will Lillibridge.

Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle.

Fair Moon of Bath, The. By Elizabeth Ellis.

54-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough.

Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey.

Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach.

Squire Phin. By Holman F. Day.

Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett.

Subjection of Isabel Carnaby. By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler.

Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.

Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish.

Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.

That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright.

Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.

Trail of the Sword, The. By Gilbert Parker.

Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli.

Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington.

Up From Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.

Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson.

Viper of Milan, The (original edition). By Marjorie Bowen.

Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

Wheel of Life, The. By Ellen Glasgow.

When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish.

Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge.

Woman in Grey, A. By Mrs. C. N. Williamson.

Woman in the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green.

Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.

The Weavers. By Gilbert Parker.

The Little Brown Jug at Kildare. By Meredith Nicholson.

The Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish.

My Lady of Cleve. By Percy J. Hartley.

Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clark.

Get Rich Quick Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester.

The Orphan. By Clarence Mulford.

A Gentleman of France. By Stanley J. Weyman.

Four Pool's Mystery, The. By Jean Webster.

Ganton and Co. By Arthur J. Eddy.

Heart of Jessy Laurie, The. By Amelia E. Barr.

Inez. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Into the Primitive. By Robert Ames Bennet.

Katrina. By Roy Rolfe Gilson.

King Spruce. By Holman Day.

Macaria. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Meryl. By Wm. Tillinghast Eldredge.

Old, Old Story, The. By Rosa Nouchette Carey.

Quest Eternal, The. By Will Lillibridge.

Silver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk.

St. Elmo. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.

Uncle William. By Jennette Lee.

Under the Red Robe. By Stanley J. Weyman.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Master Mummer, by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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