The Amethyst Cross

Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http:// arrow.latrobe.edu.au/store/3/4/6/3/1/public/B14644101.pdf (La Trobe University, Australia)

[Illustration: Front cover]

The Amethyst Cross

------------------------------------- _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ -------------------------------------

THE MYSTERY OF A SHADOW ------------------------------------- CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD.

LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE -------------------------------------

[Frontispiece: "'Father!' she shrieked!" (_see page 194_.)]

The Amethyst Cross

By Fergus Hume

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "FLIES IN THE WEB," "THE PURPLE FERN," "THE MYSTERY OF A SHADOW," ETC.

With Coloured Frontispiece By C. Dudley Tennant

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE 1908

All Rights Reserved

Contents

Chapter

I. THE BEGINNING OF A MYSTERY II. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS III. ANOTHER MYSTERY IV. A FAMILY HISTORY V. MRS. WALKER'S OPINION VI. PURPLE AND FINE LINEN VII. AFTER MIDNIGHT VIII. UNDER A CLOUD IX. TWO GIRLS X. THE _DEUS EX MACHINA_ XI. THE SEAMY SIDE XII. A COUNTERPLOT XIII. MRS. WALKER'S VISIT XIV. THE FAMILY LAWYER XV. A STARTLING LETTER XVI. RECOGNITION XVII. DISGRACE XVIII. LADY CHARVINGTON'S ACCUSATIONS XIX. MR. HALE EXPLAINS XX. JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETING XXI. TWO INTERVIEWS XXII. THE PLOT XXIII. ONE PART OF THE TRUTH XXIV. ANOTHER PART OF THE TRUTH XXV. REVENGE XXVI. THE END OF IT ALL

The Amethyst Cross

Chapter I The Beginning Of A Mystery

THE blackbird knew. He had paired for the fifth time in as many years, and esteemed himself wise in the matters, of love. Therefore, from the budding chestnut wherein his nest was built, did he sympathetically watch the bachelor and maid who sat below. They were lovers as he knew very well, for only lovers could have gazed so persistently into one another's eyes, and therein did they behold each other as each wished to be. Which sentence is cryptic to those who are not lovers as these were.

They might have looked at the smoothly-flowing river, singing quietly to itself not a stone-cast away, or round a tangled garden, delicately beautiful with the young greenery of May, or up into the azure depths of a sky, flecked with silvery clouds. But they preferred--wisely it may be--to look into each other's eyes, to clasp hands and to remain silent with that eloquent muteness, which is the speech of true love. Oh! the blackbird knew the meaning of these things very thoroughly, and chuckled with such glee that he finally broke into glorious song concerning the new love, the true love, the old love, the bold love, which comes evermore with the blossoms of spring. But these inhabitants of Paradise did not require the bird to reveal the obvious. Their hearts were also singing the song of the early year.

"It can't last for ever," murmured the maid dreamily, "it is too beautiful to last, since we are but mortal."

"It shall last for ever; it must," corrected the bachelor, wise in that wisdom of the gods, which comes to wooers, "for we love with our souls, dearest, and these cannot die."

She knew that he was right, for her heart told her so. Therefore did they again look into one another's eyes and again become silent, while the fluting blackbird explained more than mere human speech could render. And he, perched on a swaying bough, was only too willing to interpret. He knew: he was wise. And listening Nature heard complacently. To such ends had she shaped her children; for such a reason had she provided their Arcadia.

As Arcadia, like Marlowe's hell, is not circumscribed, it chanced that this especial one was by Thames-side, and those who dwelt therein were up-to-date in looks and dress and manners. Only their feelings were those of classic times, and as he told her the old, old story, which is ever new, she listened with the instinctive knowledge that the tale was wonderfully familiar. She had read it in his eyes, after the manner of maids, long before he dared to speak.

And this river Paradise was not wholly unworthy at so comely an Adam and Eve, although limited in extent and untrimmed in looks. Lord Beaconsfield declared that the most perfect garden is that cultivated to excess by man and then handed over to the caprice of Nature. The owner of this demesne apparently subscribed to this dictum, for the garden, well-filled with expensive flowers and shrubs, had long since relapsed into wildness. On either side of the narrow strip of land, sloping gradually to the stream, extended low walls of mellow red brick overgrown with dark-green ivy. The flowerbeds were luxuriant with docks and nettles and charlock and divers weeds: the pathways were untidy with lush grass, and the tiny lawn at the water's edge was shaggy and untrimmed. A wooden landing-stage floated near shore at the garden's foot, and to this was attached the young man's boat. At the far end of this neglected domain could be seen a thatched cottage with whitewashed walls and oblong lattices quaintly diamond-paned. So rustic and pretty and old-world did it look that it might well have been the fairy-dwelling of a nursery tale. And the lovers themselves were young and handsome enough to deserve the care of the fairies.

He was tall, slim, well-formed, and Saxon in his fairness. His curly hair--so much of it as the barber's shears had spared--was golden in the sunlight, as was his small moustache, and his eyes were bravely blue, as a hero's should be. The white boating-flannels accentuated the bronze of his skin, and revealed the easy strength of an athlete. He looked what the girl took him to be--a splendid young lover of romance. Yet he was but a City clerk of prosaic environment, and his youth alone improved him into Don Juan o' Dreams.

The girl resembled Hebe, maidenly, dainty, and infinitely charming; or it might be Titania, since her appearance was almost too fragile for the work-a-day world. With a milky skin; brown-haired and brown-eyed; with a tempting mouth and a well-rounded chin, she looked worthy of any man's wooing. She was sweet and twenty; he but five years older, so both were ripe for love. And then the spring, joyous and fresh, had much to do with the proposal just made. Her answer to his question had been tunefully commented upon by the irrepressible blackbird, who expressed no surprise when the echo of a kiss interrupted his song.

"But my father will never agree, George," sighed the girl, after this outward and visible sound of acceptance.

"Dearest Lesbia"--he folded her manfully in his arms--"I don't see why your father should object. I am not rich certainly, as a stockbroker's clerk doesn't earn large wages. But for your dear sake I shall work and work and work until I become a millionaire."

Lesbia smiled at this large promise. "We may have to wait for years."

"What does it matter so long as our hearts are true?"

"They may grow sick with waiting," said Lesbia, sighing. Then she proceeded to look on the practical side of their idyll, as the most romantic of women will do at the most romantic of moments. "You earn only two hundred a year, darling, and my father--so far as I know--can give me nothing. He has his pension from Lord Charvington, and makes a small income by his work in the City, but"--here came a depressing pause.

"What does Mr. Hale do in the City?" asked George abruptly.

Lesbia opened her brown eyes. "I don't know, dear. He goes there two or three times a week, and always seems to be busy. I have asked him what his occupation is, but he only laughs, and declares that dry business details would not interest me. I am sure no girl ever knew so little of her father as I do. It's not fair."

"Strange!" murmured the young man meditatively. "I never see Mr. Hale in the City, and although I have asked several people, no one appears to know the name. Of course, darling, the City is a big place, and your father may do business in a quiet way. Still it is odd that no one should know. I wish I did. I might help him."

"In what way?"

"Well, Lesbia, the wages I receive at Tait's office are small, and--and--and"--here George flushed for no apparent reason--"and there are other things to be considered. If I could only get something else to do I should leave Tait's. Your father might be willing to let me enter his office, you know, and then I could work up his business, whatever it might be."

The girl nodded. She was a matter-of-fact young woman. Since Hale's income was limited she was compelled, as housekeeper, very often to consider ways and means. "You might speak to my father."

"And may I mention our engagement?" he supplemented.

"No-o!" Lesbia looked doubtful. "I had better announce that. Father has a temper, and if he grew angry, you might grow angry also."

"Oh no." George was entirely in earnest when he said this. "I should always remember that he was your father and that you love him."

Lesbia again looked doubtful. "Do I love him?" she mused.

"One is supposed to love one's father," suggested George.

She stared at the river. "Yes! I suppose so. Honour your parents, and so forth. I don't honour my father, though--his temper is too bad. I am not quite sure if I love him."

"Oh, my dear." George looked nervous.

"Don't make any mistake, dear boy. I like my father, since we are good friends, and usually he is kind--that is, when he is not in a rage. But then, you see, sweetest," she sighed, "he is nearly always in a rage about some trifle. Look at the garden," she waved her hand vaguely, "I wanted to hire a gardener to make it look more respectable, and father was furious. He declared that he did not want people to come spying round the cottage. Spying! Such an odd word to use."

"Your father is an odd man," said George ruefully, "and he certainly has not been over-hospitable to me. Perhaps he guesses that I have come to steal his jewel, and one can't be hospitable to a robber."

Lesbia pinched his chin. "You silly boy, my father doesn't think so much of me as you do. I sometimes wonder," she went on sadly, "if he loves me at all. I am very much alone."

"He doesn't treat you badly?" demanded George with sudden heat.

"No, dear, no. I shouldn't allow anyone to treat me badly, not even my father. But I fancy he regards me as a necessary trouble, for sometimes he looks at me in a disagreeable way as though he fancied I was spying."

"Why do you use so disagreeable a word?" asked the straightforward clerk.

"My father used it himself in the first instance," she rejoined promptly; "perhaps because he doesn't want anyone else to meet the queer people who come to see him,--generally after dark. Men who smell of drink, who use slang and dress like grooms,--certainly not gentlemen. Of course I never talk to them, for when they appear, my father always sends me to my room. I'm sure," sighed the girl dolefully, "that if it wasn't for old Tim, the servant, I should be quite alone."

George hugged her. "You shall never be alone again!" he whispered, and Lesbia threw her arms round his neck with great contentment.

"Oh, darling, you don't know how good that sounds to me. If it were only true. You see, my father may object."

"He can object until he is tired," cried the ardent lover. "If he does not make you happy I must. And when he sees this----"

"Oh!" Lesbia clasped her hand in delight at the sight of a cheap turquoise ring, "how lovely!"

George frowned at the mean gift. "It was all I could afford," said he.

"It is all I want," she said, as he slipped it on her engagement finger, "it's not the cost, or even the thing. It's what it means. Love and joy to you and me, dearest boy."

But George, having a generous heart, still lamented. "If I hadn't to keep my mother," he said ruefully. "I would save up and give you diamonds. But two hundred a year goes a very little way with my mother, even when her own small income is added. You see, dear, she never forgets that my father was the Honourable Aylmer Walker, and she will insist upon having everything of the best. This is a beastly cheap ring, but--but----"

"But you denied yourself all manner of nice things to buy it for ME," finished Lesbia, pressing a kiss on his willing cheek.

"No, dear, no," he said valiantly, "only a few pipes of tobacco."

"You dearest donkey," cooed the girl, more touched than she chose to confess, "doesn't that show me how you love me. As to the ring," she surveyed the cheap trinket critically, "it is exactly what I wanted. The stones are the colour of your dear eyes."

George, man-like, was delighted. "You know the colour of my eyes?"

Lesbia boxed his ears delicately. "I knew the colour exactly one minute after our very first meeting."

"Did you love me then?"

"No. Certainly not: how conceited you are."

"Then why did you notice my----"

"Oh, a woman always notices these things, when a man is nice."

"And you thought me nice?"

Lesbia fenced. "Good-looking, at all events. You wore a dark flannel suit striped with pale green."

"So I did," cried George, delighted, "it was at Mrs. Riordan's picnic near Bisham Abbey a year ago. And you were there."

Lesbia laughed and nursed her knees. "I must have been, since I can describe you so exactly. What did I wear, dear?"

"I don't know," said George promptly.

"Oh!" she was quite disappointed, "and you call yourself a lover?"

"I do," he rejoined stoutly, "for, as I fell in love with you the moment we met, I saw only your eyes and your angel face. How could you expect me to remember a mere dress when----"

"Oh, what nonsense--very nice nonsense; still nonsense."

"I like talking nonsense to you."

"And I like to hear it from you. But it isn't bread and butter."

"You're thinking of afternoon tea," said George Walker audaciously.

"No. I'm thinking of how we are to live when we marry."

The mere mention of that delicious word made George forget the warning conveyed by the sentence. "Marry! Marry you! Oh, heaven!"

"A pauper heaven, I fear," said Lesbia; then fished in her pocket, "see, the only valuable thing I possess, besides your love. It is for you."

"Oh, my dear, it's not a man's ornament."

"As if that matters, since I give it to you," she said, laughing. "I must give you something, and this is all I have to give."

She held out her hand, on the palm of which rested an amethyst cross formed of four deeply purple stones, set lightly in gold filigree, with a loop at the top for the necessary chain to pass through. Not a very uncommon ornament at the first glance, George decided, although very beautiful. But on looking more closely he became aware that there was something bizarre about the thing. In the centre where the four stones met was a tiny cube of malachite, graven with a golden crown and inscribed with minute letters. The pansy-blossom hue of the stones contrasting with the vivid green of the cube gave the ornament rather an uncanny look.

"What a queer thing," said George, transferring the cross to his broad palm.

"Yes! isn't it?" said Lesbia eagerly, and then brought out a magnifying glass. "And the inscription is still queerer."

George poised the powerful glass over the slab of malachite, and with some difficulty deciphered the golden Gothic letters. "'Refuse and Lose,'" he read slowly. "Now what does that mean?"

"You stupid darling," cried Lesbia, pinching his ear, "can't you see? If you refuse the cross--which is married life; you lose the crown--which is me."

Walker thrust the cross into his pocket, handed back the magnifying glass and solemnly embraced the girl, "I'll take the cross and the crown and you, and everything I can get," he whispered in her ear. "I don't exactly see the meaning, of course, but----"

"Was there ever such a dense man?" Lesbia demanded of the blackbird in despair. "It's a religious symbol, of course. If you refuse to bear life's cross in the way you should, you lose the crown which ought to be yours in heaven."

George took out the ornament again and looked at it seriously. He had a considerable strain of the Puritan in his nature, to which the idea appealed strongly. "I shall certainly not refuse life's cross," he declared soberly, "and may we both some day wear a crown in a better world."

"My darling, my dearest, my best," she murmured, embracing him fondly. The touch of seriousness in George's gay disposition enhanced his value in her eyes. She approved of so sterling a character.

"Where did you get the cross?" asked Walker, while the jewels winked in the sunshine. "From your father?"

"No!" she replied unexpectedly. "He doesn't know that I possess such a thing. But my nurse, old Bridget Burke--Tim's mother, you know--who died last summer, gave it to me on her death-bed and warned me not to tell my father about it. She said that it came from my dead mother, and was to be given by me to the man I loved. So you see, my darling, that even though it is a woman's ornament, you must take it."

"I'll wear it round my neck," declared George. "It will bring me good luck, I am sure."

"So Bridget said," observed the girl promptly. "She had the 'sight,' you know, George, and declared that the cross would bring me luck and money and love and position. I don't know how, unless it is by marrying you."

"Ah, my love," said George somewhat sadly. "I can only give you my heart. Money and position must come later. But if we both obey the inscription and bear the cross we shall win the crown of success in the end. Look how the gems flash, Lesbia--an earnest of the future."

While they were both admiring the cross, a tall, lean man, perfectly dressed in a Bond Street kit, came softly down the grassy path. He looked like a gentleman, and also like a hawk, and his pale eyes wandered from one bent head to the other until they dropped to the flash of the jewelled cross, which glittered on Walker's palm. Then the newcomer started nervously, and took a step nearer to observe. Lesbia and her lover looked up as the shadow of the man fell across them, and in the movement they made, the cross fell on the grass.

"Oh, father, how you startled us," cried the girl, springing to her feet.

Mr. Walter Hale did not reply. His eyes were still on the purple stones of the cross, and when his daughter stooped to pick it up, he twitched his fingers as though anxious to take it from her. "Where did you get that?" he demanded abruptly and harshly.

"Bridget gave it to me, and I have given it to George," she said, handing the ornament to her lover. "It belonged to my mother."

"It did," said Hale sharply, "and therefore must not pass out of the family."

"It won't," said Lesbia cheerfully; "George is to be my husband."

Mr. Hale frowned. "You have yet to gain my permission," he said in dry tones. "Meanwhile, Mr. Walker, give me back the cross."

"No!" said George, who did not like the tone of his future father-in-law and could be obstinate when necessary. "Lesbia gave it to me, and I intend to keep it."

"Lesbia had no right to give it to you," cried Hale, his voice rising, and he extended his hand to take his desire. But Walker was too quick for him and dexterously swerving, shot the cross into his pocket.

"It is Lesbia's first present to me," said he, excusing his obstinacy.

"She has no right to make you presents," foamed the other, who had now entirely lost his temper.

"She has the right of a lover," retorted George coolly.

"There can be no question of love between you and my daughter."

The girl moved to her lover's side, very pale and very defiant. "That is for me to decide," she said coldly, but with determination.

"You go against your father, Lesbia?"

"For the first time in my life. And why not, when the matter is so important?"

Hale bit his lips and tried to stare her down: but as her eyes did not drop before his own he was the first to give way, and did so with inward rage. With an impatient shrug he wheeled to face young Walker. The two presented the striking contrast of untainted youth and artificial age too much versed in the evils of life. And youth had the advantage, for--as in the case of Lesbia--the older man tried to dominate without success. He was forced to take refuge in idle threats.

"If you do not give me back that cross, it will be the worse for you," remarked Hale, very distinctly and with menace.

George clenched his fists, then, with a glance towards Lesbia, ended the argument by stepping into his boat. As he rowed off, Hale, who had not attempted to stop him, turned bitterly to his daughter.

"You have ruined me," he said between his teeth, and returned hastily to the cottage.

Chapter II The Unexpected Happens

To say that Lesbia was amazed conveys imperfectly her state of mind. The sudden arrival of her father, the hasty departure of her lover, the mysterious incident connected with the amethyst cross, and the still more mysterious remark which Mr. Hale had made--these things perplexed and, very naturally, alarmed her. At once, with the swiftness of an imaginative brain, she conjured up visions of disgrace and shame and criminal publicity, going too far in her surmises, after the fashion of such a brain. For after all, as a calmer reflection suggested, there was nothing in what had taken place that should induce such happenings, although there were several disquieting hints.

For a few moments the girl remained where she was, too agitated to move; but when Hale disappeared into the cottage, and George's boat vanished round a bend of the shining river, she woke to the fact that for her own peace of mind it was necessary to ask questions. At once she ran up the grass-grown path, and speedily found herself in the narrow passage, which led right through the house from back to front. But she only entered to hear the street door bang, and flew to open it again in the hope of catching Mr. Hale before he could go far away. But the man must have made good use of his legs, for when she peered out into the quiet side street she noticed that it was empty. This vanishing of her father without an explanation dismayed her more than ever, and in the hope of gaining some sort of information she sought Tim in the tiny kitchen, calling on him loudly. A soft voice like a well-tuned lute answered her from the scullery.

"Ah, Miss Lesbia, and what wud ye be after spoilin' yer pretty voice for now? Don't ye, me darlin', don't ye!"

"Why has my father gone out, Tim?" asked Lesbia sharply.

An odd little man emerged from the scullery and stood coolly rubbing his nose-tip with the toe of the boot he was polishing. "An' how should I know, miss? Didn't he come tearing through the passage, as if the divil wor after him, an' lape like a trout int' the street? Sure ye must have seen the masther rampagin' yersilf."

"I know that father came and found me with George and----"

"Ah, thin, 'tis Garge, is it?" muttered Tim, beginning to brush mechanically.

"And rushed away in a temper because George would not give him my amethyst cross."

Crash went the boot on the floor, and the blacking-brush followed, while Tim stared out of his melancholy grey eyes as though he saw a ghost. Decidedly the ornament was causing a considerable sensation, although Lesbia could not understand why her father should rage, any more than why Tim should stare. "Like a stuck pig," as she said, inelegantly. And the annoying thing was that he did more than stare.

"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" groaned the Irishman, crossing himself.

"What on earth do you mean?" asked the girl, tartly, for she was beginning to weary of these mysteries.

"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" Tim moaned again, and, picking up the boot and the brush with the expression of a martyr, went into the scullery to peel potatoes.

Lesbia, who was a determined young woman, followed, quite bent upon getting at the root of the disturbance.

"Come and talk, Tim."

"Sure an' I must git the dinner ready anyhow, Miss."

"Come out, or I'll come in," cried Lesbia, standing at the door.

"Sure ye wudn't dirthy th' clothes av ye," coaxed Tim, and very unwillingly scrambled back into the cleaner, drier kitchen with the tin basin of potatoes in his huge fist.

He was certainly an ugly, under-sized man, and looked like the wicked dwarf of a fairy tale. But the similarity was all on the surface, for Tim Burke was as good and devoted a little Paddy as ever dipped his fingers into holy water. But his appearance was not prepossessing, for he was broader than he was long, and on a pair of hunched shoulders was set askew a gigantic head much too large for his squat body. His short legs were crooked, and he usually walked in a crab-like fashion in unexpected directions--that is, whither his brain did not direct his legs to go. He was barely five feet high, and his shaggy beard was as red as the untidy hair covering his poll. He was quite a monstrosity.

Nevertheless, Tim had his good points, for Nature had given him beautiful grey eyes, pathetic as those of a dog, and a sweet sympathetic voice, which sounded like a mellow bell. To hear Tim sing Irish ditties of the heart-breaking sort was a treat not to be met with every day, but he rarely sang them, save to Lesbia, whom he adored. And small wonder, for she alone was kind to the odd, uncouth, little man. Mr. Hale, whose selfishness was phenomenal, treated Tim like a white slave and, indeed, he might be called one, seeing that he worked like a horse and received no wages. Yet he was an admirable housekeeper and a magnificent cook. With such qualifications he could have procured a well-paid situation. Yet, for Lesbia's sake, he remained at Rose Cottage, watching her like a cat a mouse, but with more amiable intentions. She was the legacy which his mother Bridget, the girl's nurse, had left him on her death-bed, when she died some twelve months before.

Lesbia, looking like a fairy princess attended by her dwarf, perched herself on the kitchen table with a severe face. To lose no time while being questioned, Tim set to work peeling the potatoes, for Mr. Hale growled like a bear when his meals were not placed punctually on the table. As he peeled each potato, he dropped it with a splash into a bucket of clean water and rarely raised his sad eyes to the face of his young mistress during the conversation which ensued. Also--and this Lesbia noticed--he conversed very reluctantly, and every admission was wrung from unwilling lips.

"Tim," said his mistress severely, and beginning at the beginning, "you are the only son of my nurse, Bridget Burke."

"I am that, Miss, her only boy, Miss, and a good mother she was to me."

"A good nurse also, Tim. She loved me."

"An' who wudn't, ye pretty creature? Ain't I devoted to ye likewise, me darlin'? Answer me that now?"

"I shall do so," said Miss Hale significantly, "when our conversation comes to an end."

Tim groaned and winced. "Bad luck to the crass," he breathed, "an' may the Vargin forgive me for sayin that same."

"Why, bad luck to the cross?" demanded Lesbia, coming to the point.

"An' how shud I know, me dear?"

"But you do know," she insisted. "Tim, your mother gave me that cross."

"Did she now?--the owd fool."

"How dare you, Tim, and Bridget dead? She was your mother."

"Deed an' well she might be, Miss, for an uglier owd woman nivir could be found in County Clare, forby she left it for this blissid country whin I wor a gossoon."

"Did my father bring her over from Ireland, Tim?"

"Not he," Tim shook his Judas-coloured head. "Divil an eye did the pair av us clap on the gintleman for many a long day. Wasn't I a bare-futted brat runnin' wild about Whitechapel till my father--rest his sowl--wos tuck by the police for shop-liftin'--bad luck to thim? An' he died in gaol, poor man--ah, that he did, laving me mother an' me widout bread in the mouths av us."

"What did Bridget do then, Tim?"

"Sure she come to Wimbleton or a place hard by," admitted Tim reluctantly, "sellin' apples an' nuts, an' a mighty bad thing she made by the sale."

"I want to know exactly how she came to be my nurse?" said Lesbia.

Tim bent over the potatoes deeply interested in the peeling. "Why, Miss, your father--" here he swallowed something--"the masther, Miss, and a kind, good gintleman, tuck pity on her and give her the situation as your nurse, me dear."

"But my mother?"

"Oh, howly saints, an' how cud she say anything whin she wos dyin' an' you but a year old? But my mother nursed you like her own choild, Miss, till ye went to that school at Hampstead. But ye came back here just whin she was dyin', poor sowl."

"I did, a year ago," said Lesbia significantly, "and in time to receive the cross, Tim."

"May the father av lies fly away wid it!" groaned the dwarf. "An' may the saints forgive me for the wicked wish."

"Whatever do you mean, Tim?"

"Mane, ah, nivir ask me what I mane. But the crass isn't with ye now, an' ye'll be the betther widout it."

"Oh!" Lesbia slipped off the table with a heightened colour, "does that mean it is unlucky? I gave it to George, you see, and----"

"Ah, divil doubt but what you'd give the head av ye to Garge," grumbled Tim, taking up the tin of peeled potatoes. "Ah, well, 'tis betther he shud have it nor you, me dear."

"But why, but why?" asked Lesbia, frantic with curiosity.

"Ah, nivir ask me, Miss," replied Tim enigmatically, and departed to continue his culinary work; also--as she could see--to avoid further questioning.

Failing Tim, the girl resolved to learn what her father would say, when at dinner. This was a meal which Mr. Hale never missed, as he was devoted to the pleasures of the table and appreciated Tim's excellent cooking. He always arrayed himself in purple and fine linen to do justice to the viands set before him, and it was the rule of the cottage that Lesbia should also dress appropriately. Her father prided himself upon being ultra-civilised, and would have eaten a red herring with sartorial ceremony. The table was admirably laid with crystal and silver and valuable china, and--decorated with flowers in graceful vases--looked extremely pretty. Tim, in a livery of his master's devising, acted as butler, and the wines were as good as the food, which is saying a lot. Mr. Hale might live in a humble cottage and might mix with queer people, but he was a sybarite, who enjoyed the good things of this life artistically prepared. The room was beautifully furnished, and Lesbia was more beautiful than the room. Therefore, on this especial night, Mr. Walter Hale had both his palate and his eye gratified. His ear was not ministered to quite so pleasantly, as, after dinner, and when Tim had left the room to prepare the coffee, he renewed the subject of the cross with his daughter.

"Lesbia," said he, fixing his eyes on her somewhat flushed face, and looking extremely high-bred, "why did you give away that cross?"

"Bridget, who presented it to me on her death-bed, said that I was to bestow it on the man I meant to marry. I have done so."

This was a very defiant speech, and Hale frowned. "I shall not allow you to marry young Walker," he said distinctly.

Lesbia shrugged her shoulders with indifference. This was not the way to manage her. "I am sorry, father, as I have decided to become his wife."

"He has no money, you silly girl. I know for a fact that he is paid only a small salary by Michael Tait, who is a screw and a skinflint where his own pleasures are not concerned. Moreover, Walker has to support his widowed mother, and she is not likely to welcome a daughter-in-law who will curtail her comforts, such as they are. A hard woman, Lesbia, a very hard woman, my dear. I ought to know, as we have been acquainted for years."

The prospect did not seem alluring, but love sustained the girl. "George might get a better situation," she ventured to remark, a trifle anxiously. "Why," she added, this as though the thought had just struck her, "he might help you, father."

Hale spilt the port wine he was pouring into his glass. "What's that?"

"You need not speak crossly, father," replied Lesbia, puzzled by the sharpness of his tone. "I merely suggested that George might enter your office, and then he----"

The man rose suddenly and began to pace the room with the glass of wine in his hand. But the look he cast upon his daring child was so grim that the unfinished sentence died on her lips. "'George--might--enter--your--office!'" he repeated slowly, and ended with a cynical laugh. "Humph! I wonder now----" he laughed again and checked his speech. Then he finished his glass of wine and returned to the table. "When does Walker come to see you again?" he asked abruptly.

"To-morrow night at six o'clock," said Lesbia, promptly. "He rows down the river from Medmenham, or walks along the towing-path, every evening."

"A devoted lover truly," said Hale drily, "and how long has this pretty wooing been going on?"

"For a few months," said Lesbia, rather alarmed by the stern expression of her father's face. "Don't be angry. After all, it was you who introduced me to George."

"The more fool I, seeing his age and looks and poverty. Lesbia!" he placed his knuckles on the table and leaned across it. "You must marry my friend, Captain Sargent."

"Ex-Captain Sargent," cried Lesbia scornfully, and rising unexpectedly. "I shall do nothing of the sort. I don't even like him."

"Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! He is a gentleman----"

"So is George."

Hale rapped the table sharply. "Do not interrupt, you minx. Sargent has retired from the army, it is true. But he has a good income and a pretty bungalow at Cookham. We were in the same regiment until I left the service some fifteen years ago; so I know him well. He will make an excellent husband--a very excellent husband indeed."

"But, father, he is nearly as old as you are."

"What of that? Sargent is a handsome man and looks young."

Lesbia bit her lip, and tapped her foot on the ground. "I shan't marry him."

Hale scowled. "You shall. I am your father and you shall do as you are told, my dear. And if you don't marry Sargent you shall certainly not marry Walker, unless----" he stopped suddenly.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you get that cross back from him," stormed Hale angrily.

Lesbia was nothing if not direct, and the mystery of the cross piqued her exceedingly. She ventured on a leading question. "Why do you want that cross so much, father?"

"It belonged to your poor mother," said Mr. Hale sentimentally, "and means more to me than you can ever guess. I missed it from your mother's jewel-case when she died; but I never expected that Bridget Burke, who was supposed to be the soul of honesty, had stolen it."

"No! no. I don't believe Bridget would have stolen anything."

"Bridget would have done anything that suited her," retorted Hale grimly, "and if she came by the cross honestly--say by your mother giving it to her--why did she not let you show it to me?"

"I can't guess: perhaps she thought you would take it from me."

"I might and I might not," replied Hale hesitatingly, "but at all events I should not have allowed you to give it to young Walker. You must ask him to return it at once."

"I shall not," said Lesbia determinedly.

"You shall," cried Hale, and their eyes met like those of two duelists crossing swords. But the father's eyes fell first. "You dare to defy me."

"Not exactly, but----"

"I want no explanations, thank you; but I'll make a bargain with you. If Walker returns that cross he can have you as his wife. If not, I shall refuse to allow him to haunt the cottage or pay attentions to you. And remember, Lesbia, that I hold the purse-strings."

"George can keep me," panted Lesbia, her colour rising.

"George has to keep his mother. Marry him without a dowry and see what the Honourable Mrs. Aylmer Walker will say."

"You cannot give me a fortune, father."

"I can give you two thousand a year if you are obedient," said her father coolly, and walked towards the door. "Think it over, Lesbia," and he left her to meditate on the astounding news.

Lesbia was naturally astonished, since she never dreamed that her father was so wealthy. Everything in the cottage was good of its kind, and even luxurious, and the living was excellent. But at times Hale appeared to lack ready money, and frequently impressed upon Tim that it was necessary to be economical. Why then should he act in this way when he appeared to be rich, and why should he offer so large an income on condition that the cross was returned? So far as Lesbia understood her father's hard nature, he was not a man to pay generously for a merely sentimental idea.

However, the fact remained that if she could get the amethyst cross returned, she could marry George and bring him a substantial dowry. After much reflection, she determined to ask George for the ornament. After all, she could easily give him something else, and it was worth satisfying her father when so much was at stake.

For half a moment Lesbia thought that she would put on her cloak and hat, and walk along the towing-path to Medmenham in the hope of meeting her lover. It was now half-past eight, as dinner had taken place at seven.

Mr. Hale had gone out, and Tim, as was his custom on fine evenings, was paddling about in a boat on the river, sometimes rowing and sometimes fishing. She was alone and the solitude was becoming irksome. A great wave of desire for love and sympathy came over the girl, and she longed to see George Walker immediately, not only to tell him of her father's offer, but to be petted and kissed and comforted. But a few minutes' reflection showed her that it was not advisable that she should walk alone to Medmenham, especially as the chances were that she might not meet her lover. It was true that he would certainly be at home, but Lesbia did not know Mrs. Walker and, from the description given by her father, hesitated to meet that formidable lady. On the whole, then, she decided, it was better to wait until George came as usual on the ensuing evening.

Being alone, it was difficult to find entertainment. Lesbia played the piano for a few minutes: then she read and afterwards enjoyed a game or two of Patience. Finally, feeling bored in the lonely house, she retired to bed about ten o'clock. There she speedily fell asleep, and dreamed that all obstacles were removed, and she was George Walker's wife. When she put out her light, neither Mr. Hale nor Tim had returned.

Lesbia's sleep lasted for some considerable time. Then she suddenly sat up with her senses keenly alive to every sensation. It seemed to her that George had called her, and that she had awakened in answer to his cry. And it was a cry for help, too! With a sensation of alarm, she sprang from her bed, and opened the lattice to look down the garden and across the river. There it flowed silvery in the calm moonlight: but she heard no cry and saw nothing. Yet the call for help had been very distinct. Lesbia was not superstitious, and had it been broad daylight she would have laughed, at such midnight fancies. But in the mysterious moonlight--alone in the house so far as she knew--and at the hour of twelve o'clock, her heart beat rapidly, and a cold perspiration broke out on her forehead. George was in danger: she was sure of that. And George had called to her in a dream. What was she to do? In which direction was she to look?

The first idea that came into her head was to see Tim, and explain. He would not laugh at her fancies, as he had many of his own. Lesbia threw on her dressing-gown, slipped her feet into shoes, and went down the narrow staircase, taking a lighted candle with her. In the hall all was quiet, and she paused here for a single moment, wondering if it was worth while to awaken Tim with such a fantastical story of midnight terrors. Just as she was deciding that it would be wiser to return to bed, she heard a groan, and in her fright nearly dropped the candle. But being a brave girl, she plucked up courage and listened. There came a second groan--from the parlour. Lesbia immediately opened the door and entered. There on the floor she saw a man bound and gagged and stiff, with nothing alive about him but his eyes. And those were the eyes of George Walker.

Chapter III Another Mystery

Lesbia Hale was small, fragile and, in a degree, romantic; but in sufficiently strange contrast, her frame was strong and her nature practical. An ordinary girl would have screamed and fainted, or perhaps would have run away. Lesbia did none of these things. She turned pale, it is true, and she trembled violently as she stared with dilated eyes at the bound form of her lover. Then it came upon her with a rush that immediate aid was required, and without even calling for Tim, she set down her candlestick on a convenient chair, and knelt beside the unfortunate young man. He was certainly in a very bad way; but how he came to be in such a plight, Lesbia, with characteristic commonsense, did not wait to inquire. The first thing was to loosen him, and revive him with wine: then she could ask questions. The answers promised to be interesting.

First she dexterously removed the handkerchief from across his mouth, with which George had been gagged in a clumsy manner. This she threw aside with a passing thought that later she would learn to whom it belonged, and then proceeded to unloosen the knot of the rope with which her lover was bound. There was only one rope and only one knot, and when she had disentangled the somewhat complicated fastening, she unwound the cord which curled round him from his broad shoulders to his ankles. With his arms glued to his sides and his feet pressed closely together, George Walker had been tied up with yards of brand-new manila rope, so that he could not move, and was trussed as stiffly as any fowl prepared for the market. And the person or persons who had bound him thus, to make assurance doubly sure, had struck him a heavy blow on the back of his head. Lesbia discovered this by the half-dry blood which clotted his curly hair.

"What does it all mean?" asked Lesbia, when George was free from his bonds, and lying almost as stiffly without them as he had when bound. But the young man did not reply, for the very good reason that he had fainted. At once Lesbia kissed him, and then went to the parlour door to summon Tim.

She called loudly, quite heedless of the fact that she might waken her father, who did not approve of young Walker. And even if he did not, it was necessary that he should come to aid the unfortunate man. So while the French clock on the mantelpiece struck a silvery twelve, Lesbia shouted at the full pitch of her healthy young lungs. In a few minutes the alarmed voice of Tim was heard, and by the time she was again kneeling beside George, the dwarf shuffled hurriedly into the dimly-lighted room, half-dressed, a candle in one hand and the kitchen poker in the other.

"The saints be betwixt us and harm, Miss Lesbia," cried Tim, who looked scared out of his senses, "what's come to you?"

"What's come to George, you mean," said Lesbia, looking up. "See, Tim, I heard him call me and came downstairs a few minutes ago to find him bound and wounded. Don't stand there shaking, and don't chatter. Get the brandy and heat some water. He has fainted, and we must bring him to his senses."

"But how the divil did Masther Garge come here?" demanded Tim, aghast.

"How should I know?" retorted Lesbia impatiently. "We can ask him when he is able to speak. Go and do what I tell you while I waken my father."

"Sure the masther isn't in, Miss," expostulated Tim, backing towards the door. "He wint out afther dinner to spind the night wid Captain Sargent at Cookham. An' that we shud have the bad luck av this, while he's away. Oh, Miss Lesbia, wasn't it burglars I was thinking av? But nivir murder, save the mark, an' sudden death at that."

"It will be sudden death if you don't get that brandy. Stop!" Lesbia started to her feet. "I'll get it myself. Go and heat the water to bathe his wound."

She ran into the dining-room and procured the spirit, while Tim went to stoke up the kitchen fire. Lesbia forced George's teeth apart and poured the brandy wholesale down his throat. The ardent liquor revived him, and he opened his eyes with a faint sigh. "Don't speak, darling," she whispered, with a second kiss, and then set to work chafing his limbs. By the time Tim appeared with a jug of boiling water, the young man had quite recovered his senses, and attempted to explain.

"No," said Lesbia sharply, "you are too weak as yet. Bring a basin, Tim, and a sponge. We must bathe his head."

Considering she had no practice Lesbia performed her Good Samaritan task very dexterously and, having sponged the wound--a nasty, jagged blow from some blunt instrument,--bound up her lover's head with that cleverness and tenderness which come from love. When he had quite recovered--save for a trifling weakness--she made him lie down on the sofa, and fed him with weak brandy and water. Tim meanwhile lighted the lamp, and exhausted himself in guessing the reason for the condition of young Walker. "It's that blissed crass," moaned Tim, moving round like an unquiet ghost, "bad luck to the same! Didn't I say it wud bring throuble?"

"You did, Tim, you did," assented Lesbia, who was seated by the now recovered man, and looking somewhat weary after her exertions, "but as George is comparatively well, he can explain."

"The cross is quite safe," said Walker faintly. "I left it at home. Oh, my head, how it aches. No wonder, when such a heavy blow was struck."

"Who struck it, dear?" inquired Lesbia.

"I don't know," George's voice was weary. "It's a long story."

"Drink some more of this," said Lesbia, holding the glass to his pale lips, "and wait until you feel stronger."

"Oh, I'm much better now," he replied, pushing the brandy and water away, "but I shan't be able to go to the office to-morrow morning."

"Beg-ad, it's to-morrow morning already!" said Tim, glancing at the clock. "Half-past twilve as I'm a sinner, an' here's Miss Lesbia an' mesilf sittin' up like the quality. Oh, the sowl av me, what will the masther say?"

"What can he say?" demanded Miss Hale tartly. "Father can't hold you and me accountable for the unexpected."

"Unexpected, indeed," breathed George. "Who would have thought that I would have been struck down on the towing-path. I can't guess the reason, Lesbia, it's beyond me."

"The crass! the crass!" muttered Tim, shaking his shaggy head.

"What do you know about it?" demanded Lesbia.

"Divil a thing, but that it brings bad luck," answered Tim sturdily.

"It is not altogether bad luck that George has been brought here for me to attend to him," she retorted.

"No, dear," Walker patted her hand, "this accident shows me what an angel you are. But how did I come here?"

"Don't you know who brought you?"

"I know nothing from the time I was struck down on the towing-path near Medmenham, until the moment I saw you standing in yonder doorway with a candle in your hand."

Lesbia knitted her pretty brows. "I can't understand. Some enemy----"

"I have no enemies," murmured George positively.

"Then it's a mystery," declared the girl, still more perplexed. "Tell me exactly what took place."

Walker passed his hand wearily across his forehead, for his head ached considerably. "After leaving you with your father, darling, I rowed back to Medmenham, and went home to the cottage. My mother was not within, as she had gone up to town early in the day and did not intend to return until to-morrow----"

"That's to-day, begob!" interpolated Tim, again looking at the clock.

"Then it is to-day she returns," said Walker, in a stronger voice, "about three in the afternoon. But to continue, Lesbia, I had my dinner and smoked a pipe. Then I grew restless, wondering if you were having a bad time with your father on my account. I thought he would make things unpleasant for you, and determined to come down and see what had happened. That was about ten o'clock."

Lesbia patted his hand. "You need not have troubled, dear. My father and I got on very well together."

"I did not know that, and so was anxious. I ferried over the river to the towing-path, and walked down towards Marlow, intending to cross the bridge and come here."

"I was in bed at ten."

"So soon. I thought you might be sitting up."

"Well, I did not expect you, dear," explained the girl. "As Tim was out on the river, and my father had gone away, I found it dull. I went to bed because I could think of nothing else to do. Then I fancied I heard you calling for help, and came down to find you gagged and bound."

"I did not call for help because I was gagged," said George, "and almost insensible. I expect you were dreaming."

"A very serviceable dream," said Lesbia drily. "Go on, George, darling."

"About half way between Medmenham and Marlow, while I was walking along in the moonlight, I heard a soft step behind me, and turned to see a man almost on top of me. I had not even time to see what he was like, so quickly did he attack me. Aiming a blow at my head with a bludgeon, he struck me hard, and I fell insensible on the path."

"And then?"

"Then I woke to find you looking at me in this room. That's all."

Lesbia examined her lover searchingly. He wore white flannel trousers, a silk shirt, a white flannel coat, and brown shoes. His panama hat was missing.

Then Lesbia uttered an exclamation, and pointed to his pockets. All these, both in coat and trousers, were turned inside out, and the buttons of his shirt were undone, as though he had been searched to the skin. "It's robbery," said Lesbia firmly.

"Robbery! Impossible! Why should anyone rob a pauper like me? I have nothing."

"You have the crass!" murmured Tim, who was squatting on the floor, and who looked like a goblin.

"Tim." It was Lesbia who spoke. "Do you think that Mr. Walker was attacked to get the amethyst cross?"

"Faith, an' I can't say, Miss. But me mother--rest her sowl--towld me that the crass brought bad luck, and it's come to Masther Garge here. Maybe it's only talk, but there you are," and he pointed to the young man.

Walker reflected for a moment or so, while Lesbia turned over Tim's explanation in her mind. "I daresay he is right," said George pensively, "and you also, Lesbia. I was rendered insensible so that I might be robbed, as is proved by my pockets being turned inside out. As the only article of value I possessed was the cross, and I only acquired that yesterday evening, I expect it was the cross this man was after. If so, he must be very much disappointed, for I left your gift in the drawer of my dressing-table, before I came to see you at ten o'clock."

"What was the man like?"

"I told you that I only caught a glimpse of him," said Walker fretfully, for the conversation wearied him. "He seemed to be a tall man, and was roughly dressed. His soft hat was pulled over his eyes, and--and I know, nothing more about him."

Seeing that he was still weak, Lesbia stood up. "You can lie here on the sofa and go to sleep," she said softly. "To-morrow morning we can talk."

"But I have to get to London by the eight o'clock train--the office!"

"Bother the office!" said Lesbia inelegantly. "You are not fit to go to the office. Try to sleep. Tim, give me that rug you brought. There, dear," she tucked him in. "I have left a glass of water beside you. Tim can come in every now and then to see how you are."

"Augh," groaned Tim, yawning, "it's just as well, Miss. I cudn't slape forty winks, wid blue murther about. But the masther will come back after breakfast, an' what will we say at all, at all?"

"Say," snapped Lesbia, who was at the door, looking extremely weary. "Tell the truth, of course. My father will quite approve of what we have done. George, don't talk to Tim, who is a chatterbox, but go to sleep. You need all you can get, poor boy."

George, already nearly asleep, murmured an incoherent reply and, leaving Tim to watch over him, Lesbia returned to her room, but not to sleep for at least an hour. Lying on her bed, she tried to fathom the mystery of this assault upon her unoffending lover. Apparently the cross had to do with the matter, as George had never been attacked before. And then in a flash the girl remembered that her father was desirous of regaining the ornament, and apparently, from the way in which he had talked, was prepared to go to great lengths to get it. Could it be that he had struck down her lover? He had been absent all the evening, and would be absent all the night, at Sargent's Cookham cottage, according to the message he had left with Tim. He did not like Walker, and moreover was tall, as the assailant had been. It really seemed as though Mr. Walter Hale had taken the law into his own hands and, to get back his property, as he averred the cross to be, had committed something uncommonly like highway robbery. Lesbia worried over the problem half the night, as she could not believe that her father would act so basely. Finally, towards dawn she fell into an uneasy sleep.

It was ten o'clock when she woke, and at once her thoughts reverted to the late exciting event. No such sensational happening had ever before disturbed the quietness of the riverside cottage, and the mystery which environed it was an added fascination. As Lesbia slowly dressed--and in her prettiest frock for the sake of George,--she again wondered if her father was connected with the assault and the attempted robbery.

George could only have been attacked for the sake of the amethyst cross, and her father alone--so far as she knew--desired that cross. Yet if Mr. Hale was guilty, why had he brought his victim into his own house? No one else could have brought George, for no one else could have entered. Lesbia had no great love for her father, since he invariably repelled all her proffers of affection; but she now felt that she could actively hate him for his wickedness in so dealing with the man she loved. And yet, as she reflected when she descended the stairs, she could not be sure that her father was guilty, even in the face of such evidence.

When Lesbia entered the dining-room she found George quite his old self. The night's rest had done him good, and a cold bath had refreshed him greatly. With Tim's willing assistance he had made himself presentable and, save for a linen bandage round his head, looked much the same as he had done on the previous day. He came forward swiftly with sparkling eyes, and took Lesbia in his arms, murmuring soft and foolish words, after the way of lovers, even less romantic.

"Darling! Darling! Darling! How good you have been to me."

"I could have done no less for anyone," replied Lesbia, leading him to a chair. "Sit down, dearest, you are still weak."

"On the contrary I am quite strong, although my head still aches a trifle from that cowardly blow. Besides, I am hungry, and there is Tim bringing in a magnificent breakfast. Sweetest and best," he went on, leading her to the well-spread table, "this is just as if we were married. You at the top of the table and I at the bottom. Give me a cup of coffee, Lesbia, and I'll serve out the eggs and ham. Tim, you needn't wait."

Tim grumbled a trifle, as he loved to wait on Lesbia, But he was an Irishman and appreciated a love affair. It did not need much cleverness to see that young Walker wished to be alone with his beloved, if only to enjoy the unique situation. Tim therefore departed and the couple had their breakfast in heavenly solitude. Lesbia wished to talk about the adventure on the towing-path, and to ask questions, but George positively refused to speak of anything save the most frivolous matters.

"Your father will return soon," he explained, passing his cup for more coffee, "and then I shall have to tell my story all over again. Let us talk about ourselves and of our future."

Lesbia, after a faint resistance, was only too pleased to obey, so they had an extremely pleasant meal. The room was cheerful with the summer sun, which poured in floods of light and warmth through the windows, and the feeling of spring was still in the air. Most prosaically they enjoyed their food and unromantically ate a large breakfast, but all the time they kept looking at one another and relishing the novel situation. It was brought to an end only too speedily by the sudden entrance of Mr. Hale. Tall, lean, cold and stern, he appeared on the threshold, and stared in surprise at the way in which young Walker was taking possession, not only of his house but of his daughter.

"What the devil does this mean?" asked Hale, politely indignant.

"Look at George's head," cried Lesbia with a shiver, for her doubts returned fortyfold at the sight of her aristocratic father.

"That explains nothing," said Hale drily, "perhaps, Mr. Walker, you will undertake to tell me how it comes that I find you making yourself at home in my poor abode?"

George, who was perfectly cool and collected, told his story. Hale listened, much more discomposed than he chose to appear, and at the conclusion of the narrative asked one question, which showed where his thoughts were.

"The cross," he said eagerly, "have you been robbed of the cross?"

"No," answered Walker positively, "although I believe that I was attacked for the sake of it. But luckily I left it in the drawer of my dressing-table. Can you guess who attacked me?"

"No," said Hale coolly, "I cannot."

"Still, if you know about the cross----"

"I only know that it belonged to my wife and that I want to get it back as soon as possible. Lesbia should never have given it to you. As to your being attacked so that you might be robbed of it, I can't believe that story. The cross, as a jewel, is not so very valuable. Besides, no one but myself and Lesbia and Tim knew that you had it. I presume," ended Hale, in his most sarcastic manner, "that you do not suspect any one of us three."

"Oh no," rejoined Walker promptly, and spoke as he believed in spite of the troubled look which Lesbia cast on him. "Still----"

Hale threw up his hand to interrupt. "We can talk of your adventure later, Mr. Walker. After all, the cross may have something to do with the way in which you were assaulted, although--as I said--it appears unlikely. I want to recover it immediately, and am the more eager, now that I have heard of your adventure. Give me a note to your mother saying that the cross is to be given to me, and I shall consent to your marriage with Lesbia."

George looked at the girl, who nodded. "Let my father have back the cross, since he so greatly desires it," she said. "I can give you something else, dear. I am willing to pay that price for my father's consent."

George shrugged his shoulders. "It is immaterial to me," he said calmly, "so long as you are pleased, dear. I only wished to keep the ornament as your first love-gift to me. Have you a pencil, Mr. Hale. Thank you."

He scribbled a note. "To Jenny, our maid-servant," he explained, when handing it to the tall, silent man, "she will admit you into my bedroom and you will find the cross in the right-hand drawer of my dressing-table."

"But your mother----"

"My mother went to London yesterday and will not be back until three o'clock to-day. If you like to wait I can go over with you later."

"No," said Hale brusquely, "your mother might make objections. I know how difficult she is to deal with. I'll go myself: you stay here with Lesbia."

George was nothing loth, and when Mr. Hale departed he walked with his beloved in the garden. They should have talked of the adventure, and Lesbia should have told George the thought that was uppermost in her mind--namely, that her father was cognisant of the assault. But she did not care to make such an accusation upon insufficient grounds, and moreover hesitated to accuse her father of such a crime. She therefore willingly agreed to postpone all talk of the adventure until Mr. Hale's return, and surrendered herself to the pleasure of the moment. The lovers spent a long morning in the garden of love, gathering the rosebuds which Herrick recommends should be culled in youth. Time flew by on golden wings, and Hale was no sooner gone all the way to Medmenham, than he seemed to come back. He could not have been away for more than five minutes, as it appeared to these two enthralled by Love. For them time had no existence.

But their dream of love fled, when Hale came swiftly down the path looking both angry and alarmed, and, indeed, perplexed. "The cross has gone," he said.

"Impossible," cried George, starting to his feet, astonished. "I left it----"

"The cross has gone," repeated Hale decisively, "your cottage has been robbed, burgled. I repeat, the cross has gone."

Chapter IV A Family History

After delivering his message of woe, Mr. Hale sat down on the garden seat under the chestnut tree, and mechanically flicked the dust from his neat brown shoes with a silk handkerchief. He was perfectly arrayed as usual, and on account of the heat of the day wore a suit of spotless drill, cool and clean-looking. But if his clothes were cool he certainly was not, for his usually colourless face was flushed a deep red and his eyes sparkled with anger. Lesbia, who had risen with George, looked at him with compunction in her heart. After all--so her thoughts ran--she had suspected her father wrongly. If he had attacked George to regain this unlucky cross, he assuredly would not now be lamenting its loss. And yet if he were innocent, who was guilty, considering the few people who knew that the ornament was in existence? Tim might--but it was impossible to suspect Tim Burke, who was the soul of honesty.

"Well," said Hale crossly, "what is to be done?"

He looked directly at George, who faced him standing, with a look of perplexity on his handsome face. "Are you sure that the house has been robbed?" he asked doubtfully.

Mr. Hale shrugged his shoulders. "I usually say what I mean," he remarked acridly. "I took your note to Medmenham, and found the local policeman conversing with your mother's servant. From her I learned what had taken place, and, indeed, she was telling the constable when I came up."

"Well?"

"It seems," pursued Hale, producing a cigar, "that Jenny--as she is called----"

"Yes, yes!" broke in Walker impatiently, "go on."

"Well, then, Jenny rose this morning to find the window of the drawing-room wide open. Nothing was touched in that room. But your bedroom was ransacked thoroughly. Your clothes were strewn about, and apparently every pocket had been examined. The drawers were opened, and even the bed had been overhauled. There was no sign of the burglar, and Jenny swears that--sleeping at the back of the house--she heard nothing."

"And what has been stolen?" asked Lesbia, hesitatingly.

"Only the cross."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! I gave Jenny the note and together with the policeman who, by the way, is a bucolic idiot, she took me to the bedroom. I examined the right-hand drawer which was open, as were all the other drawers, and found that the cross was missing. Jenny declared that nothing else had been taken. Of course the girl was in a great state of alarm, as she was the sole person in the house, and she feared lest she should be accused. Also, and very naturally, she was surprised at your being away, Walker."

George nodded. "I daresay. It is rarely that I sleep away from home, and when I do I give notice. Humph!" he sat down on the grass opposite Mr. Hale and gripped his ankles. "What do you think, sir?"

Hale made a vague motion of despair. "What can I think? I know as much as you do, and nothing more. Would you mind my putting you in the witness-box, Walker?"

"By no means. Ask what questions you desire."

"And I shall be counsel for the defence," said Lesbia, sitting down beside her lover with rather a wry smile. It appeared to her that Mr. Hale wished to recall his offer to let the marriage take place: also that he wished to get George into trouble if he could. But how he proposed to do so the girl could not tell. However she was anxious and listened with all her ears. Mr. Hale raised his eyebrows at her odd speech, but took no further notice of it. He was too much interested in his examination.

"Lesbia," said Mr. Hale quietly, "gave you the cross yesterday evening in my presence, so to speak. What did you do with it?"

"I slipped it into my breast-pocket," said Walker promptly, "and rowed back to Medmenham, as you saw. On arriving, I placed it for safety in the drawer of my dressing-table. Then, later, as I explained at breakfast, I came down to see Lesbia and was assaulted by an unknown man."

"Did you show the cross to anyone, say to Jenny?"

"No. And if I had shown it to Jenny, it would not have mattered. You do not suspect an honest girl like her, I presume."

"Honest girls may yield to the temptation of stealing such a fine ornament as the cross," said Hale drily. "However, it may set your mind at rest if I say that I don't suspect Jenny. Had she stolen the cross, she would not have had the imagination to upset the room and leave the window open, so as to suggest burglary. But think again, Walker; did you show the cross to anyone after leaving this garden?"

"No," said George positively, "I certainly did not, that is, not voluntarily."

"Ah! then some one else did see it," said Hale, with satisfaction and with marked eagerness. "Come, man, speak up."

"I had almost forgotten," said Walker slowly. "Perhaps the blow on my head made me forget; but I remember now."

"Remember what?" asked Lesbia, as eager as her father.

"That those gipsies saw the cross."

"Gipsies?" Hale and his daughter glanced at one another.

"Yes. I was walking up the lane to my home when I passed a gipsy encampment. While doing so I pulled out my handkerchief, and the cross--which I had placed in my breast-pocket--fell out. The handkerchief twitched it, I suppose. It flashed down on the grass, and the glitter caught the eye of a man lounging near the caravan. He came forward and pointed out where it had fallen, as I had not noticed its whereabouts for the moment. By the time I picked it up two or three of the gipsies had gathered round, and saw me restore it to my pocket. Then I thanked the man and went home."

Lesbia clapped her hands. "Why it is perfectly plain," she cried, delighted. "That man must have assaulted you on the towing-path to steal the cross. Not finding it on you, he robbed the house. What do you think, father?"

Hale nodded. "I think as you do. So the best thing to be done will be to come and see the constable, or the inspector here in Marlow. We must have those gipsies searched before they go away. The encampment was still there this morning; but I saw signs of removal."

George leaped to his feet. "Yes, it must be so" he cried eagerly. "I daresay the man robbed me--the cross being flamboyant is just the thing which would attract him."

"Then we must see the inspector. I must get the cross back. It is a pity I remained at Cookham last night with Sargent. Had I been here, I should have gone at once to Medmenham."

"But it was midnight, father."

"I don't care. The mere fact that Walker here was assaulted would have proved to me that the cross was wanted. Since he left it at home the thief would probably have burgled the house. I might have caught him red-handed. Oh, why didn't I come home last night?"

Mr. Hale was genuinely moved over the loss of the ornament. And yet Lesbia could not think that it was mere sentimental attachment thereto, as having belonged to his dead wife, that made him so downcast. Also in itself the cross was of comparatively little value. Lesbia's suspicions returned, and again she dismissed them as unworthy. Moreover, if Hale had assaulted George and had committed a burglary he would not be so eager to set the police on the track. Whosoever was guilty he at least must be innocent. Cold as her father was to her, and little affection as she bore him, it was agreeable to find that he was honest--though, to be sure, every child expects to find its parents above reproach. Perhaps a sixth sense told Lesbia that her father was not all he should be. In no other way could she guess how she came to be so ready to think ill of him. But up to the present, she had suspected him wrongly, and so was pleased.

Hale and young Walker went to the Marlow police-office and explained in concert what had occurred. The officer in charge of the station heard their tale unmoved, as it was nothing more exciting than a robbery by a vagabond. He went with them personally to Medmenham, and there met the village constable, who presented his report. This did not include any reference to gipsies. His superior--whose name was Parson--questioned him, and learned that the thief or thieves had left no trace behind, and--on the evidence of Jenny the maid--had stolen nothing save the cross. Parson then went to Mrs. Walker's house and questioned the girl.

Jenny was naturally much agitated, but was reassured by George, who declared that no one suspected her. "I should think not, sir," she cried, firing up and growing red. "I didn't even know that the cross you speak of was in the house. You never showed it to me, sir."

"No," acknowledged Walker truthfully, "I certainly did not."

"Did you see any of those gipsies lurking about the house?" asked Parson.

"No," said Jenny positively, "I did not. Mr. George went out for a walk at ten o'clock, and I lay down at half-past. I never knew anything, or heard anything, or guessed anything. When I got up at seven, as usual, and went to dust the drawing-room, I found the window open. And that didn't scare me, as I thought Mr. George might have opened it when he got up."

"But you knew that he was not in the house?" said Hale alertly.

"I never did, sir. I went to wake him after I found the drawing-room window open, and found that he hadn't been to bed. The room was upset too, just as you saw it. If I'd known that I was alone in the cottage I should have been scared out of my life; but I thought Mr. George came in late, and had gone to bed as usual. I nearly fainted, I can tell you," cried Jenny tearfully. "Fancy a weak girl like me being left alone with them horrid gipsies down the lane! But I slept through it all, and I never saw no gipsies about. When I saw the bedroom upset and that Mr. George wasn't there, I called in Quain the policeman. That's all I know, and if missus does give me notice when she comes back I'd have her know that I'm a respectable girl as doesn't rob anyone."

Jenny had much more to say on the subject, but all to no purpose; so the three men went to the camp. They found the vagrants making preparations to leave, and shortly were in the middle of what promised to be a free fight. The gipsies were most indignant at being accused, and but for a certain awe of the police would certainly have come to blows with those who doubted their honesty. The man who had seen the cross accounted for his movements on the previous night. He was in the village public-house until eleven, so could not have assaulted Walker on the towing-path, and afterwards was in bed in one of the caravans, as was deposed to by his wife. In fact, every member of this particular tribe--they were mostly Lovels from the New Forest--proved that he or she had nothing to do with either the assault or burglary. Finally, Parson, entirely beaten, departed with the other two men, and the gipsies proceeded to move away in a high state of indignation.

"Do you really think that they are innocent?" asked Hale, who surveyed the procession of outgoing caravans with a frown.

"Yes, I do," said Parson, who was not going to be taught his business by any civilian.

"So do I," struck in Walker. "All the men who saw the cross have accounted for their whereabouts last night. They were not near my mother's house, nor across the river on the towing-path."

Hale smiled drily. He had no opinion of Walker's intelligence, or of that which Mr. Parson possessed. "Rogues and vagabonds--as these people are--stand by one another, and will swear to anything to keep one of their number out of gaol. I don't put much faith in the various alibis. You should have searched the caravans, officer."

"And the men and women also, I suppose, sir," said Parson quietly. "I had no warrant to do so, let me remind you. Even gipsies have their privileges under the English law. Also, if anyone of these men were guilty, he could easily have passed the cross to one of the women, or buried it. I might have searched and found nothing, only to lay myself open to a lecture from my superiors."

"Still," began Hale, unwilling to surrender his point of view, "let me remind you, Mr. Parson, that----"

"And let me remind you, sir," broke in the officer stiffly, "that only this ornament you speak of was stolen. If a gipsy had broken into the house he would certainly have taken other things. And again, no gipsy could have carried Mr. Walker into your parlour, seeing that not one member of the tribe is aware of your existence, much less where your cottage is situated. I am ignorant on that score myself."

Having thus delivered himself with some anger, for the supercilious demeanour of Hale irritated him, Parson strode away. He intimated curtly to the two men, as he turned on his heel, that if he heard of anything likely to elucidate the mystery he would communicate with them: also he advised them if they found a clue to see him.

Hale laughed at this last request. "I fancy I see myself placing the case in the hands of such a numskull."

George shook his head. "If you do not employ the police, who is to look into the matter?" he asked gravely.

The answer was unexpected.

"You are," said Hale, coldly and decisively.

George stopped--they were walking back to Marlow when this conversation took place--and stared in amazement at his companion. "Why, I am the very worst person in the world to help you," he said, aghast.

"To help yourself, you mean. Remember I promised to consent to your marriage to Lesbia only on condition that I got back the cross."

"It is not my fault that the cross is lost."

"I never said that it was," retorted Hale, tartly. "All the same you will have to find it and return it to me before I will agree to your marriage with my daughter. It would have been much better had you handed it over to me last night."

"I daresay," said George, somewhat sulkily, "but I'm not the man to give up anything when the demand is made in such a tone as you used. Besides, I don't see how I can find the cross."

"Please yourself, my boy. But unless you do, Lesbia marries Sargent."

"Sargent!" The blood rushed to Walker's cheeks and his voice shook with indignation. "Do you mean to say that you would give your daughter to that broken rake, to that worn-out----

"Ta! Ta! Ta!" said Hale, in an airy French fashion, and glad to see the young man lose his temper. "Sargent is my very good friend and was my brother officer when I was in the army. He would make Lesbia an excellent husband, as he is handsome and well-off and amiable, and----"

"And an idiot, a gambler, and a----"

"You'd better not let him hear you talk like that."

Walker laughed. "I fear no one, let me tell you, Mr. Hale. Mr. Sargent or Captain Sargent as he calls himself----"

"He has every right to call himself so. He was a captain."

"It is not usually thought good manners to continue the title after a man has left the army," said George drily, and recovering his temper, which he saw he should never have lost with a hardened man like Hale. "You, for instance, do not call yourself----"

"There! There! that's enough, Walker," cried the elder man impatiently. "You know my terms. That cross and my consent: otherwise Lesbia marries Sargent."

"She loves me: she will never obey you," cried the lover desperately.

"I shall find means to compel her consent," said Hale coldly. "Surely, Mr. Walker, you have common sense at your age. Sargent has money and a certain position you have neither."

"I can make a position."

"Then go and do so. When you are rich and highly-placed we can talk."

Hale was as hard as iron and as cold. There seemed to be no chance of getting what was wanted by appealing to his tender feelings, since he had none whatsoever. But after swift reflection Walker thought of something which might make the man change his mind.

"Listen, Mr. Hale," he said, when Lesbia's father was on the point of moving away from a conversation which he found unprofitable and disagreeable. "I did not intend to tell you, but as my engagement with Lesbia is at stake I will make a clean breast of it."

Hale wheeled round with a cold light in his eyes. "Are you going to confess that you stole the cross and got up a comedy to hide the theft?"

George laughed. "I am not clever enough for that. But it is about a possible fortune that I wish to speak--one that may come to me through my mother."

"A fortune." Hale flushed, for only the mention of money could touch his hard nature. "I never knew that your mother had money."

"She has not now, but she may have."

"Go on," said Hale, seeing that the young man hesitated, and watching him with glittering eyes. "I have known your mother for years, but she never told me either that she had money or expected any."

"I should not tell you either," said Walker bluntly, "and so I hesitated. I have no business to interfere with my mother's affairs. However, I must speak since I want to marry Lesbia."

"I am all attention."

"My grandfather left his large fortune equally divided between his two daughters. One was my mother; and her husband, my father, ran through the lot, leaving her only a trifle to live on. I help to keep her."

"This," said Hale coldly, "I already know."

"But what you don't know is that my aunt--my mother's sister, that is, ran away with some unknown person during her father's lifetime. He was angry, but forgave her on his death-bed and left her a fair share of the money--that is half. As my mother inherited fifty thousand, there is an equal amount in the hands of Mr. Simon Jabez, a lawyer in Lincoln's Inn Fields, waiting for my aunt should she ever come back."

"And if she does not?" asked Hale anxiously.

"Then, if her death can be proved, the money comes to my mother."

"Humph! But you say your aunt ran away with someone--to marry the man, I suppose. What if there is a child?"

Walker's face fell. "The child inherits," he said softly.

Hale laughed harshly. "You have found a mare's nest," he said coolly, "and I see no reason to change my decision with regard to your possible marriage with Lesbia. Your aunt may be alive and may appear to claim the money. If she is dead, her child or children may come forward. On the other hand, if your mother does come in for the fifty thousand pounds you speak of she is, as I know, a hard woman."

"I agree with you," said the young man, moodily and sadly. "She is as hard as you are, Mr. Hale. But if she inherits my grandfather's money--that is, my aunt's share--she has no one to leave it to but me. I am an only child."

"Your mother," said Hale deliberately, "is hard as you say; that is, she is as sensible as I am. If you marry against her will, she will not leave you one farthing of this money, which, after all, may never come into her possession."

"But why should she object to Lesbia?" asked George, "when she meets her and sees how lovely she is----"

"Bah!" Hale looked scornful, "you talk like a fool. As if any woman was ever moved by the beauty of another woman. Besides, your mother hates me; we are old enemies, and rather than see you marry my daughter she would go to your funeral with joy. If you married against her will--as you assuredly would in making Lesbia your wife--she would leave you nothing. And I also dislike the match on account of your mother."

"But why are you her enemy, and she yours?" asked George, bewildered.

"That is a long story and one which I do not intend to relate unless driven to speak. If Lesbia marries you she will lose two thousand a year which I can give her when I die. If you want to drag the girl you love down to poverty, Mr. Walker, then marry her secretly. I tell you that if you make Lesbia your wife neither I nor your mother will help you."

"And yet you said----"

"That you could make Lesbia your wife, if you found the cross. Yes, I did say that, and I still say it. If you get me the cross, you shall marry her and have the two thousand a year when I die. But it would be wiser for you to leave Lesbia alone and marry----"

"Marry whom?" asked George, his cheeks flaming.

"Maud Ellis," retorted Hale with a sneering laugh, and turned away.

Chapter V Mrs. Walker'S Opinion

After that one extraordinary adventure which broke so remarkably the monotony of George Walker's life, things went very smoothly for a time. That is, they progressed in their usual humdrum way, which was trying to the young man's ambitious spirits. He wanted to marry Lesbia, to make a home for her, to attain a position, which her beauty would adorn; and he saw no means of doing so. He went regularly to the office, earned his small salary, and dreamed dreams which could never be realised, at least, there appeared to be no chance of realisation. What could a man of moderate attainments, with no money and no friends, hope to do in the way of cutting a figure in the world?

Mrs. Walker duly returned home, and Jenny gave her a highly-coloured account of the burglary, which she heard in stern silence. She was a tall, grim woman with a hard face and a stiff manner, and was invariably arrayed in plain black gowns devoid of any trimming whatever. Her hair, still dark in spite of her age, was smoothed over her temples in the plain early Victorian manner, and her pale countenance was as smooth as that of a young girl. That she was a gentlewoman could easily be seen, but her manner was repellent and suspicious. Also, her thin lips and hard grey eyes did not invite sympathy. How such a Puritanical person ever came to have a handsome, gracious son such as George, perplexed more than one person. The general opinion was that he inherited his looks and his charm of manner from his late father. Report credited the Honourable Aylmer Walker with more fascination than principle. And truth to tell, his posthumous reputation was better than that which he had enjoyed when living.

Having ascertained the facts of the burglary and the loss of the amethyst cross, Mrs. Walker held her peace, and did not discuss the subject with her son. George, indeed, ventured upon a lame explanation, which she received in dead silence. After the hint given by Mr. Hale, the young man was not desirous of disclosing his engagement to Lesbia, and a discussion about the stolen cross would inevitably lead to the truth becoming known to Mrs. Walker. Sooner or later he knew that he would have to speak, but he postponed doing so until he could see his future more clearly. If he could only procure a better post in the City, he could then afford to keep Lesbia in comparative comfort, and pass a love-in-a-cottage existence. But until he was in a position to do so, he avoided confiding in his mother. Also, Mrs. Walker was not a sympathetic mother, and would certainly not have encouraged the young man's love-dream.

But one evening Mrs. Walker unexpectedly broached the subject at dinner. This was seven days after the adventure of the cross, and during that time George had never set eyes on Lesbia. Several times he had rowed as usual to the garden's foot, but had waited in vain for the girl's appearance. An inquiry at the house provoked no response, as neither Tim nor Lesbia came to the fast-closed door. George in despair had written, but to his anxious letter had received no reply. Lesbia remained silent and the cottage barred and bolted, so George began to believe that Hale had smuggled away his daughter, lest she should elope with the lover of whom he so strongly disapproved. This state of uncertainty wore Walker's nerves thin, and he lost his appetite and his night's rest. Mechanically he went to Tait's office, did his daily work, and returned home again, fretting all the time after the girl who was beyond his reach. He even tried to see Mr. Hale, but that gentleman was conspicuous by his absence. Never was a lover in so dismal a situation.

On this especial evening George, in evening dress, faced his silent mother at the dinner-table. Mrs. Walker wore a plain black silk gown, perfectly cut, but wholly unadorned. Like Mr. Hale, she always insisted upon a certain style being observed and dined, so to speak, in state. The tiny room was well furnished with the remnants of her former prosperity, and looked like the abode of a gentlewoman. Nothing could have been more perfect than the table appointments and, if the food was plain, the way in which it was served left nothing to be desired. Jenny, neatly dressed, waited deftly and, at the conclusion of the dinner, placed a decanter of port before George, along with a silver box of cigarettes and a dainty silver spirit lamp.

As a rule, Mrs. Walker withdrew at this moment to enjoy her coffee in the drawing-room, while George sipped his wine and trifled with a cigarette, but on this occasion she remained. "You can bring my coffee here," she said to Jenny, in her unemotional voice.

George wondered at this departure from the usual routine, for his mother had never broken the domestic rule she had instituted as far back as he could remember. However, he did not feel called upon to say anything but poured out a glass of port, and lighted a cigarette. When Mrs. Walker obtained her coffee, and Jenny had departed, she spoke to her son through the gathering twilight.

"I have received a letter from Mr. Hale," said Mrs. Walker in her coldest voice, and sat bolt upright with her eyes on the comely blonde face of her son.

"What!" George flushed and started, and laughed nervously. "That is very strange," he said after a pause, "Mr. Hale has never written to you before."

"There are reasons why he should not have written to me before, as there are reasons why he writes to me now."

"May I know those reasons?" asked George quietly, but inwardly anxious.

"Certainly!" Mrs. Walker was disagreeable but excessively polite, as she never forgot her manners, whatever the provocation. "In fact, I have waited to explain them. But I think you had better tell me your story first."

"What story?"

"That of your engagement to Lesbia Hale, and of the cross which was stolen from this cottage."

"What!" George rose restlessly and grew redder than ever. "You know----"

"I know everything," said his mother imperiously. "Mr. Hale is annoyed by the way in which you are haunting his Marlow cottage, and has asked me to use my influence with you to stop the annoyance."

"That is quite likely," rejoined George, fuming, "but I decline to give up Lesbia. Mr. Hale knows that."

"He knows, apparently, that you are obstinate and foolish," said Mrs. Walker in a chilly manner. "And as your infatuation--for it is nothing else--can lead to nothing, I must ask you to stop these hopeless visits."

"Mother, if you knew Lesbia----"

"I know that Lesbia is the daughter of a man whom I despise and hate," said Mrs. Walker, moved to cold anger, "and my son shall never marry her."

"You have not the power to stop the marriage," said George quietly.

"That is quite true. I have no money to threaten disinheritance, and no legal power over a man who is of age. I might indeed appeal to your affection, but I fear that it would be useless."

George flung his cigarette out of the window, and thrust his hands moodily into his pockets. "Affection is a strange word to use between us, mother," he remarked bitterly. "You have always been strict and straightforward, and painfully polite. You have given me a good education, and you have instructed me in good manners. My home," he looked round, "or rather your home, you permit me to share."

"Pardon me, George, you forget that you contribute to the domestic economy of this home, such as it is. Go on."

"I mean," cried George desperately, for her manner chilled him, "that you have never been a mother to me in the accepted sense of the word."

"I have done my duty," said Mrs. Walker without flinching.

"Duty! duty! what is duty when I wanted love? I have lived in a freezing atmosphere which has nearly changed me into a statue. Can you wonder that I sought out someone to love?"

"Perhaps not, since you are young and foolish, but I regret that the someone should be a girl that I cannot possibly receive as my daughter-in-law."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded George sharply.

"Nothing detrimental to the girl," replied Mrs. Walker calmly. "She may have all the beauty in the world, and all the virtues, and probably has, in your eyes, but she is Walter Hale's daughter and so cannot be mine."

"Why do you hate Mr. Hale, mother?"

"That," said Mrs. Walker, sitting very upright, "is my private business."

"But when it interferes with my happiness----"

"I cannot help that," she said rigorously. "What is past is past, and what is dead is dead."

"I don't understand you."

"I do not mean that you should. But I would point out that your association with this girl, has already led you into danger. You have been assaulted and robbed, and have come into contact with the police, which is always undesirable. Renounce Lesbia, George, lest worse befall."

"The robbery and the assault are mysteries."

"None the less they are dangerous. I can explain no more than you can; but Mr. Hale is a dangerous person, to my knowledge, and----"

"Tell me what you know," interpolated her son.

"No," said Mrs. Walker, with iron determination. "It would do no good to break the silence of years. All I can say is that you shall never marry the girl with my consent."

"And if I do without it," chafed George, irritably. "Then you will never set eyes on me again," returned Mrs. Walker quietly.

"Mother!"

The woman calmly finished her coffee and rose noiselessly. "The time may come when I can explain," she said in her precise voice. "Meanwhile I can only command you, or implore you--whichever you please--to leave this girl alone and go no more to the Marlow cottage."

"I don't see why I should obey you blindly," cried George angrily. "At least give me a reason for your objection to Lesbia."

"I have given it: she is the daughter of Walter Hale."

"And are the sins of the father--whatever they may be--to be visited upon the child, mother?"

"Quoting the Bible will not alter my determination," said Mrs. Walker, absolutely cold and impassive. "You must do as I request or be prepared to see me no more."

"Mother, can you not explain about this mysterious cross----"

"No."

"You refuse to."

"I mean that I cannot. I know nothing about the cross, or about the assault made on you, or indeed about the burglary. All I do know is that Mr. Hale is a dangerous man, and is connected with dangerous people--what has occurred proves it."

"But surely you don't think that Mr. Hale is connected with these mysteries?"

"I think nothing because I know nothing!" She moved swiftly forward and placed a slim hand on her son's broad shoulder. "Be wise and give up this girl. The wife who is waiting for you will suit you better."

George grew crimson. "The wife!" he stammered.

"Maud Ellis! Mr. Tait's niece. She loves you, and she has told me so. If you marry her she will bring you money, and her uncle will forward your interests. To-morrow you are stopping for the week-end at Mr. Tait's house. Before you return here on Monday ask Maud to be your wife."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," said George fiercely. "How can I propose to one girl, when I love another?"

"Maud Ellis adores you, George."

"I know she does: it seems conceited to say so, but I am quite aware of her adoration. And I don't like it. She is rich and handsome and all the rest of it, and a marriage with her, means my getting on in the office. All the same, I--I--I--" he hesitated, then finished his sentence with a rush, "I love Lesbia, so there is no more to be said."

Mrs. Walker removed her hand and glided to the door again, her cold self. "I quite agree with you," she said, exasperatingly cool. "However, you know my determination. Act as you please."

"And affection?" called out George as she opened the door.

"Must give way to commonsense."

When alone, the young man dropped into a chair and looked moodily at the disordered dinner-table. He was very much to be pitied for having such a mother. Of a warm affectionate nature, George hungered for some object upon which to expend his love. Mrs. Walker had always been a granite image, unapproachable and chill. No doubt she was fond of her handsome son in her own cold way, but she had never given him the maternal love he craved for. It was small wonder that the boy had gone afield to find some satisfaction for his craving. Lesbia supplied the want, and on her side found the same joy as her lover in their mutual affection. Mr. Hale in his way was as cold and repellent to her as Mrs. Walker was to her son. Yet these two people, not giving the longed-for love themselves to their children, were trying to rob hungry hearts of spiritual sustenance--a dog-in-a-manger attitude which did not commend itself to George.

He felt that he and Lesbia were severely alone, conscious only of each other and environed by mysteries, which neither could understand. Mr. Hale could explain, and so could Mrs. Walker, but no explanation was volunteered, and George did not know where to look for an elucidation of their several attitudes. Mrs. Walker certainly professed herself ignorant of the amethyst cross mystery, and apparently spoke truly, as her dislike to the match with Lesbia appeared to be wholly based upon her hatred of Walter Hale. And that hatred had to do with Hale's past, of which George knew as little as he did of the past of his mother. But Hale knew something about the cross, which accounted for his extraordinary behaviour, although he declared that he did not know who had stolen it. George was also greatly perplexed to know who had taken him to the Marlow cottage while he was insensible. Sitting in the chair with his eyes on the ground, he frowningly perplexed himself with these problems. It was all of no use, so he brushed aside the troubles and, after changing his evening dress for boating flannels, went to the river. He hoped by exercise to rid himself of these phantoms, so indistinct and yet so real.

Having launched his boat and settled to work, George spun down the stream, the current and his own efforts carrying him along with what appeared to be lightning speed. The attention required in looking after the slight craft prevented his thinking of his mysterious troubles, and his spirits began to rise. At Henley lock his course was stayed, for as he swung into the gates he became aware that another boat was in the lock, and that Tim occupied that same strange shallop.

The two men recognised one another at once, and a very natural question leaped to Walker's lips.

"Lesbia?" he gasped.

"Thrue for ye," grumbled Tim, who looked more misshapen that ever in the dim light. "It's from the young mistress I come. Whist now, sor, an' let me clear out av this divil of a place."

George backed his boat out of the lock and Tim muttering under his breath, followed closely. Then the little man paddled his clumsy craft into the near bank, and beckoned George to come also. In a few minutes the two boats were amongst the rustling sedges side by side, and Walker waited breathlessly for Tim to speak.

The sky was filling with shadows, but there was sufficient light for George to see that Tim looked both sorrowful and worried. The sight of the dwarfs sad face revived his terrors.

"Lesbia," cried George again, and gripped Tim's arm fiercely. "She is well?"

"Well in body but sick of heart," said Tim dismally. "Augh, the poor mistress, and how can she be well wid the divil's divarsions bein' played round her?"

"I have tried to see her----"

"Divil a doubt of it, sor. And ye've sint letthers likewise."

"She never answered," breathed George sadly.

"An' how cud she whin she nivir recaved thim same. Answer me that now, sor."

George sat bolt upright in his boat. "Never got my letters! Then how----"

"Ah, be aisy now, me dear young masther," pleaded Tim, and took a tiny note from his pocket. "This was all the mistress cud write, being watched like a mouse, an' by a cat too, divil take the slut."

George scarcely heard what Tim was saying. He was devouring two or three lines of Lesbia's dear writing, which stated that she would always be true to him, and that Tim would reveal all.

"Reveal what," cried the young man, kissing the letter before transferring it to his pocket.

"The divil's divarsions," grumbled Tim. "Write an answer, sor."

"I have no pencil, no paper," said George in dismay. "But tell me exactly what has occurred, Tim, and then I'll see what can be done."

Tim nodded. "Sure, it's dying for you she is, me dear sor. The masther wants her to marry the Captain, bad luck to his sowl!"

"I know that, but----"

"Howld yer whist, sor," growled the little man, flinging up his long arm. "I have mighty little time to spake. The masther doesn't trust me, forby he knows I wish to see me dear mistress happy wid you, sor, so he's got a she-divil in the house, Mrs. Petty by name, who kapes a watch inside. Thin there's Captain Sargent's man. The Shadow they call him for his thin looks, though Canning is his name, bad luck to it. He watches outside, an' whin your boat comes in sight he passes the worrd to Mrs. Petty an' she--may the father av lies fly away wid her--shuts Miss Lesbia in her room."

"But this is tyranny!" cried George, exasperated. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Hale has his daughter watched in this manner?"

"Ay an' I do, and he'll have her watched till she goes to church wid Captain Sargent, or until ye git back that crass. But nivir fear, sor, Miss Lesbia has a fine spirit of her own, and she'll stick to ye through thick an' thin, like the brave young lady she is."

"What's to be done?" asked George, in dismay.

Tim leaned forward. "Write a bit av a letther and sind it to me, Mister Timothy Burke, Rose Cottage, Marlow. Thim two divils, Mrs. Petty an' The Shadow, to say nothin' av the masther, won't stop that. Thin I'll find means to pass it to the mistress."

"Yes! Yes, Tim. I'll do that. But the tyranny----"

"Whist now, for time passes, me dear sor. I heard the masther sayin' that Captain Sargent was goin' to stay wid Mr. Tait at Hinley. Spake to him, sor, to that same Captain."

"But what can I say?" demanded George, more and more perplexed.

"Sor," cried Tim gruffly, "as ye're a man ye can break the head of the divil." And with this advice Tim pushed his boat again into midstream.

Chapter VI Purple And Fine Linen

Mr. Michael Tait dealt principally in stocks and shares, but was not above any scheme, however wild or however shady, which promised to result in large profits. His motto was: "Make money honestly if you can, but make money!" and he consistently acted up to this advice throughout a long career of speculation. He was not so much a spider sitting in a web to lure unwary flies, as an octopus who stretched out tentacles in every direction to draw victims into his maw. He indulged in dozens of enterprises, both openly and secretly, but all with the aim of making as much cash as possible. That many of these schemes led to much misery, that is, the misery of other people, he never stopped to inquire. And even if he had done so he would have taken no note of the answer. The race was to the swift and the battle to the strong, in Mr. Tait's humble opinion, and those who failed either in fighting or running had to make the best of their plight.

In appearance Michael Tait was a squat, burly, sturdy man, with sandy hair and whiskers, and a pair of cold blue eyes devoid of all sympathy. He dressed expensively, wore a profusion of jewellery, and was rarely without an excellent cigar sticking out of his mouth. For the sake of luring his victims he cultivated a jolly, free and easy manner, and exhibited an external good nature which deceived many. To quote Tennyson's cutting line, he "snake-like slimed his victim e'er he gorged," and acted the Pharisee by largely advertising his charities. He was looked upon generally as a good fellow, rough, but really kind-hearted, and possessed of a true Christian spirit. As a matter of fact, Mr. Tait knew very little of Christ and His teaching, and would not have subscribed to it, save by word of mouth, had he been aware of its spirit. But he passed as a good man, because he went to church and talked largely of helping the poor.

This prop of British commerce, as he was wrongly described by a too ardent reporter, possessed a regal country house at Henley, where he entertained largely. Also he had chambers in town, but these he only used on rare occasions when business or pleasure prevented him seeking his true home. Mrs. Tait had mercifully passed away many years previously, under the delusion that Michael was a good man, and the Henley mansion was managed by Maud Ellis, who was the stockbroker's niece.

Miss Ellis was a young lady of five-and-twenty, certainly not bad-looking, although she could not be described as beautiful. Like her respectable uncle, she was of the sandy type, but, unlike him, she possessed a tall, full figure, finely-shaped. As she always dressed in exquisite taste, and had a personality of the semi-hypnotic kind, she was regarded as a desirable woman. The fact that she was her uncle's heiress also may have had something to do with this opinion. Maud was extremely cunning, and as selfish in her way as Michael was in his. He sought money, she admiration, and they did very well in their efforts to attract both. And it was this clever young woman who had chosen to fall in love with George Walker.

Of course she knew that he was a bad match, that he did not love her, and that as his wife she would hold no very exalted position. But the fact was that the girl, after playing with various suitors, like the princess of a fairy tale, with no serious intentions, had been snared herself. Whether it was Walker's good looks, or his kind heart, or his charm of manner, it is impossible to say; perhaps one of the three, perhaps the three together: but Miss Ellis assuredly was violently in love with the young man. Having arrived at the conclusion that life would be miserable without him, she set to work to make him propose, thinking that she would have small difficulty.

To her surprise, however, George proved to be quite impervious to her sparkling conversation and clever display of her somewhat limited charms. He was polite to her and nothing more, although she made her uncle ask him again and again to the palace at Henley. This conduct piqued Miss Ellis, but did not altogether displease her, as it gave her an opportunity of exercising her talent for intrigue.

From a mere fancy, her passion deepened to ardent love, and she swore mentally that by hook or by crook she would force the young fellow to make her Mrs. Walker. Rarely a week passed without George being asked to Henley, and Maud did her best to subjugate him. But George being in love with Lesbia had a very strong shield to oppose to her love darts, and managed to avoid the amorous pitfalls she spread for him. For six months the chase of this unwilling victim had been going on, and as the quarry always dodged just as the huntress was on the verge of capture, this middle-class Diana concluded that there was another woman in the case. With a view to learning the truth, she watched and made stealthy inquiries, so that she speedily learned of George's infatuation--so she called it--for Lesbia Hale. To detach him from Lesbia became the object of her life, and it was she who suggested to Mr. Hale that Lesbia might profitably marry Captain Alfred Sargent.

As Hale approved of Maud's cleverness, and was frequently indebted to her for getting what he wanted from Tait, he did his best to fall in with her plans, the more so, as he did not care whom his daughter married, provided it was to his interest.

Maud promised, if the marriage was brought about, to interest her uncle in a wild-cat scheme of Hale's contrivance. So the loving father did his best--as has been seen--to force his child into the arms of a man she loathed. George knew nothing of all this intrigue, and kept away from the Henley mansion as much as he could without openly offending his employer. But when he heard from Tim that Captain Sargent was to be a member of the Saturday to Monday house-party, he determined to accept this latest invitation. An interview with Sargent might clear the air of all these mysteries, and George--hating the ex-captain--was not averse from breaking his head as Tim had advised, if there was no other way of releasing Lesbia. Also George fancied that Mr. Hale--a frequent visitor--might be enjoying Mr. Tait's hospitality, in which case he could speak to him and remonstrate about this tyranny to which Lesbia was subjected.

When George arrived in time for afternoon tea on Saturday, he found that his own hopes and those of Tim were realised--that is, both Walter Hale and Captain Sargent were present. Hale looked as lean and grim and smart as ever, while greeting the flushed young man with the air of a perfect stranger. Maud, who presided at a dainty tea-table, saw that flush, and from the juxtaposition of Hale guessed its reason. She was therefore none too pleased, but veiling her annoyance with a sweet smile, she called the new arrival over to her side, and poured him out a cup of tea.

"You are quite a stranger, Mr. Walker," she said graciously, devouring him with her cold, grey eyes, which only lighted up when they rested on his face.

"I was here three weeks ago," said George politely, and accepting cake. "It would rather bore Mr. Tait if I came here oftener."

"It would never bore me," breathed Miss Ellis, "and my uncle is always very glad to see you. He looks upon you almost as his son."

George flushed again and looked awkward. "It is very kind of Mr. Tait," he remarked coldly, "seeing that I am only a clerk in his office."

"Uncle was only a clerk once," said Maud, smiling. "And look what he is now, Mr. Walker. Some day you will be like him."

"I don't think so," said George, looking across to the stout, ungraceful form of the successful stockbroker, who was being waited upon hand and foot by two society ladies of the smart set, anxious to secure tips.

Maud took his remark in its wrong sense. "Oh, you must hope," she declared playfully. "With influence," she spoke meaningly, "you will do much."

"I have no influence," returned the young man coldly.

"That is your own fault," retorted Miss Ellis. "The tide of fortune is flowing past your door, and you will not launch your boat."

"I am waiting for a passenger," said Walker, thinking of Lesbia.

Jealous and cunning as she was, Maud was quite taken in for the moment, and smiled graciously. She fancied that he referred to her. "You need not wait long," she hinted.

George found the situation intolerable, and on the spur of the moment, although it was neither the time nor the place to be confidential, he spoke out. There should be no further misunderstandings if he could help it. "My waiting depends upon Mr. Hale," he said bluntly.

Maud bit her thin lip, and leaned back, with an artificial laugh. Inwardly she was furious, as she now knew that his remark had referred to "that girl," as she contemptuously called Lesbia. But she was too much the woman of the world to reveal her feelings and, moreover, utilised his observation to learn as much of the truth as possible.

"Ah," she said archly, "a little bird told me that Mr. Hale has a beautiful daughter. But I understood that she was engaged to Captain Sargent."

"She is engaged to me," flashed out George, quite forgetting that he was speaking to a jealous woman.

"Ah!" said Miss Ellis again, controlling her countenance with difficulty; "the course of true love is not running smoothly. Poor Mr. Walker, I must help you to gain your wife."

"You!" blurted out George like a fool.

Maud sat up and erected her crest like a snake. "Yes, I," she said haughtily, anxious only for the moment to save her womanly pride. "Why should I not help a friend? I look on you almost as a brother."

Still like a fool, George believed her, and indeed her indignant manner would have deceived a much cleverer man. He was very young and very green, and in Maud's designing hands could be moulded like wax.

She could have struck him in the face for the insult he had offered her, but hiding her rage under a friendly smile, she laid her plans to entrap him beyond hope of escape. "I shall get Mr. Hale to bring his daughter here," she said quietly, "and then you can talk to her at your leisure."

"Oh, how good you are," cried George delightedly. "I am sure you will love Lesbia: she is so beautiful and charming--as you are," he added with an afterthought.

Again the impulse came to Maud to strike him, and again her worldly training came to her aid. "Hush!" she said softly, "you will make Captain Sargent jealous. I believe he overheard."

"I don't care if he did," said Walker defiantly.

"Then I do," retorted Miss Ellis, who could not resist paying him out a trifle, much as she loved him. "I don't want you to quarrel here. Now go and talk to Captain Sargent while I receive these new people."

Several ladies and two gentlemen entered at the moment, and she went forward to greet them, followed by her uncle. George left the chair he had occupied near the tea-table, and strolled across the room--not to Sargent, but to interview Mr. Hale.

That gentleman saw him coming, and moved away from the person to whom he was speaking, in order to find a secluded corner. He saw that his would-be son-in-law was coming to converse with him, and guessing the subject of his conversation, wished to settle the matter without scandal. George, as he surmised, was too frank to be diplomatic, and if within the hearing of others, might say too much. But he need not have been afraid. George, having been schooled in social usages, by his mother, was perfectly capable of acting as a well-bred man.

"I have called twice or thrice to see Lesbia," said George, sinking his voice to a judicious whisper, "but I have not been successful."

"That is as it should be," rejoined Mr. Hale coldly. "I do not wish her to see you, and I have taken steps to prevent her from seeing you."

It was on the point of George's tongue to say that he knew what precautions had been taken, but to speak openly would lead to the betrayal of Tim, which was not to be thought of. However, he was as blunt as he dared to be. "It is tyranny to keep a young girl shut up," he snapped angrily.

"You are the cause of her seclusion," retorted the elder man, "and as her father I have a right to act as I please."

"There are law and order in this country," said Walker heatedly, and would have continued to speak with vehemence, but that Hale prevented him.

"You are right, and I take advantage of such law and order to prevent my daughter from marrying a man I disapprove of."

"Why do you object to me?"

"We discussed that before and I gave you my answer. Also, if you will remember, I gave you a chance of having things your own way. It is my desire that Lesbia should marry my friend Sargent, but if you will recover that lost cross for me, I will permit her marriage with you."

"I can't find the cross," growled George sullenly.

"Then you can't marry Lesbia," replied Hale, very distinctly, "and as you are forcing me to curtail Lesbia's liberty by haunting the house, I must ask you, in her interests if not in mine, to discontinue your persecution."

George looked at the cold grim face before him, very straightly. "I love Lesbia, and I intend to marry Lesbia," he said quietly. "Therefore I shall do all in my power to see Lesbia. As to Captain Sargent----"

"Hullo!" remarked that gentleman, who was strolling--perhaps purposely--within ear-shot. "What about Captain Sargent?"

He was a slim, thin, delicate-looking man of the mutton-dressed-as-lamb type, that is, he did not look his age, and affected a pronouncedly juvenile fashion, a trifle over-done. His collars were too high, his ties were too brilliant, and his clothes were aggressively new. To look at his array he might have just left an army-crammer's, and had apparently stopped short at "the young lieutenant" epoch, which is the era of the male peacock. As to his looks, these were of the colourless faded type; his face was pale, his eyes were pale, and his hair--what there was of it--was also pale. In fact, Sargent looked like a sheet of paper prepared for sketching, and could have painted upon the background of himself any character he wished to represent, provided it was not a strong one. The contrast between his washed out personality and young Walker's vivid virility was most marked.

"What about Captain Sargent?" repeated this product of civilisation, a trifle more aggressively since George hesitated to speak. "Finish what you have to say, Mr. Walker."

"Certainly," replied the younger man coolly. "I am the more willing, as Mr. Hale is present. In a word, Captain Sargent, I love Miss Lesbia Hale, and I intend to marry her. You wish to make her your wife, and I do not intend to let you have your way."

"All that in a word," sneered the captain, with a disagreeable look in his pale grey eyes.

"Yes. In a word to the wise."

"And suppose I am not wise?"

"It matters very little to me if you are wise or not," retorted George, who was not to be put down by sneers. "Lesbia is to marry me, so that is all about it."

Sargent glanced at Mr. Hale, who was quite unruffled. "I presume her father's wish counts for something?"

"Not when it conflicts with her happiness."

"What do you say, Hale?"

"I have said all that I intend to say. Walker knows my views."

"He does," broke in George, "and he does not subscribe to them. I give you warning that I intend to marry Lesbia. As to you, sir," he turned so fiercely on Sargent that the man gave back a step. "If you make Lesbia unhappy, or bother her in any way, I shall make myself very unpleasant."

"Dear me!" sneered the captain in feigned alarm. "What a terrible Turk!"

George stared coldly at his rival, and deliberately turned on his heel without speaking further. He had declared open war, and he was pleased that he had done so. Now--with a clear conscience--he could haunt the Marlow cottage and see Lesbia and woo Lesbia and carry off Lesbia, without feeling that he was acting otherwise than as a gentleman and an ardent lover. "Damn the fellow!" breathed Sargent, who had reddened under Walker's contemptuous gaze. "What's to be done, Hale?"

"Nothing," rejoined that gentleman sternly. "If you find that cross, you can marry Lesbia; if Walker finds it, he can make her his wife."

It was a pity that George did not overhear this speech. He would have been interested to hear that Sargent also was seeking for the mysterious ornament to which Hale appeared to attach such value. The captain looked at his friend curiously. "Why do you want this cross so much?" he asked.

"That's my business. What you have to do is to find it;" and in his turn Mr. Hale went away, leaving Sargent caressing his moustache in some perplexity.

Presently, everyone went to dinner, which was a banquet delicately cooked and splendidly served. Tait was quite devoted to the pleasures of the table, and paid his chef a large salary. The food was perfect and the wines flowed freely, so that by the time the guests repaired to the drawing-room, everyone was in the best of spirits. The house-party was a large one, as there were about twenty people present, and not one of these would have been acceptable in a Sunday school. There were ladies belonging to the smart set, perfectly respectable from a worldly point of view, but who cared for nothing save bridge and dress, flirtation and pleasure. There were also men, some with titles, and many with brains of the speculative money-making order.

Tait was not entirely in society, but by reason of his wealth and public position as a philanthropist hovered on the fringe of it. He helped social butterflies to make money on the Stock Exchange, lent sums large and small to ladies who could advance him in Mayfair and Belgravian circles, and was always open to consider any scheme which promised to bring in cash. Thus his house-parties were composed of a heterogeneous mass of people, good or bad, titled and untitled, gay and grave. But a general air of restlessness prevailed, and in that splendid mansion one and all appeared to dance along a golden road, which doubtless led to the Pit, and were personally conducted by the cunning, self-indulgent, worldly old stockbroker, who might have passed as Mammon in the flesh.

After dinner, the party split up into sections. Some ardent gamblers sat down to bridge; a few restless spirits went to dance, and a group gathered round a young man at the piano who sang the latest comic songs.

There was plenty of champagne, together with cigars and cigarettes of the best, so the fun waxed fast and furious, and as the hours drew on to midnight everyone grew more or less excited. Within bounds, of course, as Maud Ellis was too clever to permit the Henley palace to earn a name for Neronian extravagance. The entertainment just paused on the verge of an orgy; but under Maud's skilful management did not over-step the mark.

That young lady had been watching George all the night although she did not speak to him again. Towards twelve o'clock, she found herself near him, and rallied him on his pensive air. "Don Quixote in love," she said in an airy manner.

Then she lowered her voice impressively. "Meet me in the picture-gallery at three o'clock," she said, "for Lesbia's sake."

Chapter VII After Midnight

Had George been more of a man of the world he would have wholly mistrusted Maud, and would have declined her invitation to meet him in the picture-gallery in the small hours of Sunday morning. It would not have been credited by a judge of human nature that one woman would make such an appointment with the man she loved to plead the cause of her rival, or to give a helping hand to bring about a marriage which was dead against the feelings of her heart. But George, in spite of his years and virile looks, was an unsophisticated man, who could not guess what was below the surface. He was a kind of society tender-foot, and perhaps this in some measure constituted his charm in the eyes of Miss Ellis, who had experience enough to fit out a dozen men and at least two women. At all events, although he wondered that her liking for him--as he termed it--had lapsed so suddenly, yet he determined to keep the appointment and to listen to any scheme which she might propose, likely to accomplish the marriage with Lesbia. In this way are strong men twisted to feminine purposes by women, and from Samson downwards no man has been sufficiently cunning to get the better of his Delilah. There was therefore some excuse for George.

His attention was drawn from his own thoughts by a lively discussion going on between Mr. Tait and three or four ladies, with a sprinkling of men. As it was now long after midnight some people had retired to bed, and others were preparing to follow. But Tait was a night bird who liked to stay up as long as possible--probably because, as a robber of widows and orphans, his pillow must have had its thorns. To entertain those guests who remained wakeful, and especially the feminine portion thereof, he mentioned that he had lately come into possession of some wonderful jewels which a famous, or rather infamous, _demi-mondaine_ of Paris had sold. Of course, the ladies were more than anxious to see these gems, both on account of their beauty and value and because of the celebrity of their former owner. They one and all clamoured for a sight of them, and as Mr. Tait had purposely stimulated their curiosity to keep them from retiring, he was not unwilling to gratify their wish. He therefore led the way to the picture-gallery, and pointed out a small narrow door at the end of it.

"There is my safe," he said proudly, "or rather my strong-room."

"Queer place for a safe," drawled Sargent, with a shrug.

"And for that reason the safer. We are all friends here," Tait glanced round graciously, and looked more like a Silenus than ever, "so I do not mind revealing the whereabouts of twenty thousand pounds' worth of jewels. But no thief would dream that my safe was here. And even if he did," added the stockbroker, drawing out his watch-chain, "the safe cannot be opened save by this key."

"But it might be broken open," George ventured to remark.

Tait laughed in a jolly manner. "It would take the cleverest thief in London to break into my safe, and there are only two keys to open it. I have one on my watch-chain, and Maud, my niece, has the other."

The guests looked at one another. Had not Tait been flushed with wine and excitement he would not have been thus free in his speech, and he was not a man who talked at large as a rule. But the lateness of the hour, the presence of many people, the lights, the music, the gambling, the wine, and the chatter had unloosened his usually cautious tongue. Maud frowned when her uncle spoke so rashly, as she thought that he was a fool to do so. Certainly there was no one present who would have broken open the safe, since everyone was respectable, even if--as the word goes--rackety! All the same the revelation of the whereabouts of the safe and the information so guilelessly supplied was risky, to say the least of it. Miss Ellis shook her head at her venturesome uncle.

"Don't say too much," she remarked in a low voice, "even this safe may not be strong enough to withstand a burglar of the new school."

"Well, I don't care," cried the stockbroker recklessly, inserting his key into the lock, "my jewels are insured. Come, ladies, you can all feast your eyes, and--as I have bought the gems to sell them again--I am open to an offer."

He said this jokingly, yet meant to sell if he could. Some of the guests drew back rather annoyed, as they thought that Mr. Tait was going too far in importing City manners into his house-party. Maud, ever watchful, again whispered to her uncle, but he shook her off, and entered the strong-room--now open--to bring out the jewels. When the box which contained them was placed on a near table, and the contents were displayed, all thought of Tait's bad manners disappeared in amazement and delight at the sight of the precious stones.

These were truly beautiful. Many were set in tiaras, bracelets, rings, chains, lockets and in various ornaments for the hair and corsage. But other stones lay loose and glittering, to be arranged and used as required. There were diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds and many inferior gems, the whole forming a dazzling heap, which made every mouth water with avarice. But for Tait's estimate, those present--and some were good judges of jewels--would have deemed the radiant pile worth twice the amount mentioned.

"Try them on, ladies," said the genial stockbroker. "Try them on. We are all friends here!" and he placed a tiara on the head of his niece, who stood near with a frown on her face. She began to think that her uncle was crazy to display his wealth in this reckless manner.

In a few moments some of the female guests were glittering with jewels, and surveying themselves delightedly in hand-mirrors which had been brought by Tait's order. The stockbroker himself, with a cynical smile, looked at their avaricious faces, and listened with sneering pleasure to the delighted little screams which they gave at intervals.

Jewels have a much greater effect on women than on men, and there was not a woman present but would have gone great lengths for the sake of possessing even one of the ornaments. Gretchen was not the only woman who could be lured by the glitter of gems, which is so much superior to the mere gleam of gold. And Tait, amidst this splendour, looked more like Mammon than ever.

But this early-hours-of-the-morning pleasure came to an end in fifteen minutes, and the ladies, taking off the jewels, restored them to their owner. Tait was really glad to get them back, and counted them carefully, for the look in the eyes of some of the ladies actually frightened him, and he half thought that they would run away with the treasures. However, he made sure that every one of the ornaments had been given back, and replaced them in the box, which he deposited in the safe. After that, the guests went to bed, and the gallery, with the strong-room carefully locked, was left in silence and darkness. But the sleep of many was disturbed by the thought of that Nibelung's treasure, so near at hand, and yet so impossible to obtain.

George was indifferent to the gems, as he thought that Lesbia's eyes were brighter and much more beautiful. He left the gallery while Tait was displaying his hoard, and retired to the very comfortable bedroom which Maud's care had provided. As a mere clerk he should not have had such luxurious surroundings, or, indeed, have been in the splendid house at all; but she loved him, and could not do enough for him. Therefore, George was housed like a king, and, after the manner of youth, took his comforts easily. It never occurred to him that in his humble position he had no right to be pampered and petted. By right of good looks and delightful manners, he had hitherto gone through the world very much spoiled by the fair sex. He therefore took everything as his right.

While waiting for three to strike from the stable clock--it was now two--he seated himself before the fire and, lighting a pipe, gave himself up to dreams of Lesbia. In one way or another he was determined to make her his wife, but it was difficult to see how he proposed to keep her on his small salary, particularly when much of that same salary was required to support his mother.

But that George indulged in the rosy dreams of youth and had such a profound belief in the kindness of fortune, he would have dismissed his proposed marriage as an impossibility. Hale was against it, and so was Sargent: his mother did not approve of the marriage, and there was Maud Ellis to be considered. A more hopeful man may well have been despondent: but not George. He felt sure that everything would come right, and that life was a fairy-tale in which the fated prince--who was himself--carried off the lovely princess--who, of course, was Lesbia. And she was in an enchanted castle--so he glorified Rose Cottage--watched by two dragons, Canning and Mrs. Petty--but helped also by a faithful dwarf, by name Tim Burke. Finally, there was Mr. Hale as the wicked magician to be reckoned with, and perhaps Maud might act as the malignant fairy; but somehow the marriage would be brought about, and in some way sufficient money would be provided, so that the prince and princess could live happily ever afterwards.

Lesbia would not have thought in this comfortable fashion in the face of such obstacles as barred the way to the altar: but then she was much more practical than her lover, in spite of the fact that she dwelt in seclusion, while he battled in the work-a-day world.

And then, as George fondly imagined he had discovered a few hours previously, Maud Ellis was not the wicked fairy after all. Rather was she about to play the agreeable part of the fairy-godmother, and bring together two lovers parted by adverse circumstances.

When Maud afterwards thought of the trust George placed in her she wondered at his folly, and had a contempt for his upright character that could estimate human nature so highly. But George never doubted for one moment but that the appointment was made in all good faith and for the express purpose of helping his suit with Lesbia. He therefore waited impatiently for the striking of the clock. Only once did it cross his mind as odd that Maud should choose that hour and that meeting-place to forward his interests, since she could easily have spoken to him in a convenient place and at a becoming hour in the morning. But he brushed this thought aside as unworthy of her kind heart, and when the hour of three chimed out, he opened his door softly and slipped out to keep his appointment.

George had stayed so frequently at the Henley mansion that he knew his way to the picture-gallery exceedingly well. Also, it was Mr. Tait's hobby to have the corridors and many of the rooms lighted in a subdued manner all night. It prevented burglary, he declared, and certainly the sight of an illuminated house would daunt those who prefer to work in darkness or only by the light of a bull's-eye.

George, therefore, found himself in a soft glow when he emerged from the bedroom and stole on tip-toe towards the head of the stairs. Here he descended and took his way towards the back of the house to the picture-gallery. This portion of the great mansion was not lighted, which seemed odd, remembering what Mr. Tait said about light scaring burglars, and seeing also that the safe was placed here. But whatever was the stockbroker's whim, George found the long gallery in darkness, and as he had entered by a door placed directly in the middle of it, he halted there doubtfully. He could see no light, save what filtered through the sky-lights, and did not know where Maud waited for him. At the far end of the gallery were double glass doors, leading down steps into the gardens. These were usually shuttered at night, but George noted with some surprise by the gleam of starlight which came through them that on this special night the shutters had not been put up. This was strange, considering the valuables which were concealed in the safe; but then, as the young man reflected, it was also strange that Tait should place his treasure-house at the other end of the gimcrack gallery, which could be so easily broken into. But, after all, on the authority of Poe's tale of the Purloined Letter, the more unlikely a place in which valuables are hidden the safer they are. Not one of the London fraternity of thieves would believe that the wary stockbroker would be so foolish as to place his safe or strong-room, or treasure-house, or whatever he liked to call it, in such a locality. Therefore, no creature of the night would come to rob. There was considerable method in Tait's apparent madness after all.

But George had scanty time for such reflections, as the hours were swiftly moving towards dawn, and he yet had to converse with Maud. His eyes grew more accustomed to the semi-darkness of the gallery, and he glanced up and down to see if he could espy the darker form of the girl.

At this moment he heard the clink of metal upon metal. The sound came from the direction of the strong-room, and, as he turned his gaze thereto, he suddenly saw a vivid stream of light, proceeding apparently from a bull's-eye. In a flash it struck him that the strong-room was being burgled, and almost without thinking he uttered a loud cry and sprang forward to lay hands on the thieves.

The light disappeared as he raced up, and when within measurable distance of the safe he stumbled over a body, motionless on the floor. It was that of a woman, as Walker could tell by the draperies he mechanically clutched in his fall. Before he could pick himself up, two dark forms dashed past him towards the glass doors. George, anxious only to lay hands on the thieves, ran down the gallery at their heels and left the woman where she was. The intruders easily opened the double doors, which evidently had been left ajar.

George followed, and saw two men race across the lawn and into the belt of trees which girdled Mr. Tait's mansion. As he increased his speed he shouted loudly for assistance.

By and by, lights were seen moving in the upper windows of the great house, and into the corridors poured many guests and servants, all in various stages of undress, and all scared by the midnight alarm. Tait, with a dressing-gown thrown hastily over his burly form, pushed his way through the throng down the stairs, and the guests streamed after him. Everyone knew what was the matter, for a wakeful servant had heard the shout of "Thieves!" and the ominous word had hastily passed from lip to lip.

"I expect my jewels are gone!" panted Tait, waddling towards the gallery at the head of a picturesque mob.

In a second the electric lights were turned on and the gallery blazed with light. Tait uttered a cry of alarm, which was echoed by those behind him, and there was cause for surprise. The door of the strong-room stood wide open, and some distance away lay the insensible body of Maud Ellis, dressed in the attire she had worn during the previous evening. While some of the ladies attended to the girl, Tait with surprising agility plunged into the strong-room, and then they heard him bellow bull-like in mingled rage and astonishment. A moment later he emerged.

"The jewels are gone! the jewels are gone!" he shouted, purple with wrath. "Here, some of you, go to Henley for the police; search the grounds, examine the house, and----"

"The doors are open, sir," cried a footman.

"The thieves must have escaped. After them! after them!" bellowed Tait, in a frenzy of rage.

"Your niece, man, your niece," said a gentleman who was supporting the unconscious Miss Ellis; but Tait only swore the more.

"Confound my niece. I have lost twenty thousand pounds' worth of jewels."

Several people looked disgusted at this callousness. A young doctor, who was stopping in the house, and who was feeling Maud's pulse, looked up. "Miss Ellis has been chloroformed," he remarked quietly.

Tait bent down and lightly touched the gold chain which was round the girl's neck. "The key of the strong-room is gone," he cried furiously.

"No doubt," explained the medical man. "Miss Ellis has been rendered insensible and then was robbed of the key. But who----"

"How did Maud come to be here at this hour?" demanded Tait savagely. "Go for the police, some of you," he shouted, stamping furiously. "I'm not going to lose a fortune in this way."

"It's useless; the thieves have escaped," cried a voice at the end of the gallery, and George bounded in at the open door.

"Walker," cried the stockbroker, recoiling. "What are you doing here? What do you know about this?"

"I came downstairs and heard the thieves at work," explained George quickly. "I tried to lay hands on them, but tumbled over the body of a woman on the floor, and----"

"It is Miss Ellis," said the young doctor, looking up. "Do you know how she came to be here?"

George hesitated. He could not--for the sake of Maud's reputation--say that she had appointed a meeting with him, and did not know how to explain.

Tait noted his momentary hesitation, and turned on him furiously. "How do you come to be here?" he demanded. "What makes you wander about my house when everyone is in bed?"

"Ah," said Mr. Hale, pushing his way through the frightened crowd, "that is very suspicious. Speak out, Walker!"

"I heard a noise and came down," cried George, making the first excuse which entered his head.

"No one else heard a noise," remarked Sargent, who was at Tait's elbow.

"I was wakeful," retorted Walker sharply; but on every hand he saw incredulous looks, and realised with a chill that he was suspected.

Tait grunted, and looked at the young man with a lowering brow. "Who are the thieves?" he demanded. "How many of them are there?"

"I saw two men, but could not catch a glimpse of their faces. I think they were masked," said George readily, and again saw disbelief written on the faces around him. "But may I suggest, Mr. Tait, that you send for the police at once. The thieves made for the wood round the house and may escape."

"I daresay they have escaped," grunted Tait, savagely. "The servants are searching the gardens. Meanwhile let us revive Maud, and hear what she has to say."

"She is coming round now," said the doctor, and even as he spoke, Maud opened her eyes in a vague, unseeing way.

"Carry her up to bed," said Tait harshly. "I'll have an inquiry made into this as soon as dawn comes and the police arrive. Meanwhile you can all retire. Mr. Walker, remain here and explain."

"I have explained," said George proudly. "I have nothing more to add."

Tait shook his head doubtfully, and whispers went round, which indicated suspicion of the truth of Walker's explanation. By this time Maud, more or less sensible, was on her feet. Her eyes wandered here and there until they alighted on the young man.

"You!" cried Miss Ellis, with a loud wail. "Oh, George, you!"

Chapter VIII Under A Cloud

There was very little sleep for anyone during the remaining hours of darkness, and after breakfast--an unusually dismal meal--the guests one and all showed a desire to get away from their host.

Mr. Tait certainly was not amiable, since he had suffered so great a loss, and growled like a bear with a sore head. Not being a gentleman, he could not control his temper, and made himself so openly disagreeable, that everyone wanted to leave forthwith. But until the police had made inquiries, it was impossible for either man or woman to depart without becoming suspected.

Throughout that wretched Sunday, the men were miserable and the ladies hysterical. Tait, no longer the jolly Silenus, or even the gracious Mammon, moved amongst his friends with looks of suspicion for all.

The police duly arrived, and searched the gardens and the house, but in no way could they trace the thieves. George stuck persistently to his story, which, of course, was true, save for the excuse which he gave for coming down the stairs. And it was this false portion--this weak subterfuge--which made Mr. Tait suspicious. He knew that George was hard up, and said as much to him in a quiet corner.

"What has my being a pauper to do with your loss?" demanded Walker, firing up on the instant.

Tait shook his bullet head and scowled with his little pig eyes. "My jewels are worth twenty thousand pounds," he retorted.

"I don't care if they are worth twenty millions," said George, turning pale, for he realised his employer's meaning. "I know nothing about them."

"You were in the gallery when----"

"I came down to the gallery because I heard a noise," interrupted Walker furiously. "I told the police the story I told you. I did my best to catch the thieves, and now you have the audacity to accuse me."

"I don't exactly accuse you----"

"It looks very like it."

"You must admit that your conduct is suspicious," protested the stockbroker.

"I admit nothing of the sort."

"People don't wander about a house after everyone is in bed, without a reason," snapped Tait, with a searching glance.

George bore the scrutiny without flinching. "I have explained how I came to be wandering about," he declared proudly. "I was sitting by my fire, and on hearing a suspicious noise I came down, with what result you know. How dare you accuse me?"

"I tell you again that I don't accuse you," vociferated Tait crossly. "But you have acted foolishly to say the least of it."

"How else could I have acted?"

"On hearing the noise you should have aroused me."

"Had I done so I should not have been in time to see the thieves."

"What good did you do by seeing them, since they have escaped? That is," added Tait slowly, "if there were two men. Stop!" he threw up his fat hand as the young man was about to speak angrily; "it is no use going round the bush. You may be innocent or you may not be. Your story may be true or it may be the reverse."

"Mr. Tait"--George held his temper under by mere force of will--"why should I rob you?"

The stockbroker opened his pig's eyes. "Why!" he demanded in amazement, "do I not know that you are desperately poor? Didn't Hale tell me only the other day that you wanted to marry his daughter, and could not do so for want of money? Oh, there are plenty of reasons why you should take twenty thousand pounds' worth of jewels. They can be unset and sold, in which case they will be difficult to trace. Had they been bank-notes, I don't believe that this burglary--so-called--would have taken place."

George curled his lip. "You put things very clearly, sir," he said quietly, "and on the face of it, I admit that my conduct looks a trifle suspicious."

"A trifle!" cried Tait scornfully. "Very good indeed. A trifle! Why not admit that you came down to steal the jewels, and went out to bury them in some safe place, returning, when the alarm was given, to tell us this cock-and-bull story of two thieves?"

George winced and grew white at this very plain speaking. But he kept his temper, for to have lost it at the moment would have been dangerous. He saw very well that he was in a tight place.

"I ask you only one question, Mr. Tait," he said calmly. "Who gave the alarm?"

"I do not know," said the stockbroker sullenly. "I heard a cry of thieves, and help, and blue murder, and came down to find everyone else aroused."

"Then I may tell you that I gave the alarm, sir."

"_You_ say so," sneered the other.

"I say so because it is true," rejoined Walker, throwing back his head indignantly. "I shouted in the gallery when I saw the light, and I cried out again when I followed the thieves. I lost them when they bolted into the wood girdling this place. Now, I ask you, sir, would I have given the alarm had I been guilty?"

"No--_if_ you gave the alarm, that is. But I don't believe you did."

"In other words you think that I am guilty?"

"Upon my word, Walker, it looks very much like it."

"Then why not hand me over to the police?"

The stockbroker moved uneasily and wiped his damp, red face. "Your mother is an old friend of mine," he said hesitatingly; "I think of her."

"That is very good of you," said the ungrateful George; "but I would rather you believed in my innocence. I have no wish to hide myself behind any woman's petticoats."

"Not even behind Maud's?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," said George stolidly, determined to hold his peace about the lady even to her uncle. "Miss Ellis and I are very good friends, nothing more."

"You know that she loves you. I should never have asked a mere clerk from my office here, but that she loved you. I disapproved of her infatuation, but I gave in to her since I am your mother's friend."

"You are slightly incoherent, sir, and entirely wrong. Miss Ellis and I are friends; nothing more. And to return to the subject of the burglary, may I remind you that the police have discovered that the safe was not broken into, but that the door was opened with a key? The key, I notice, is still on your watch-chain. How then could I have opened the safe?"

"Perhaps you think that I stole the jewels myself?" sneered Tait coolly. "I may remind you, in my turn, that Maud also has a key."

George sprang to his feet and clenched his hand. "You dare to insinuate that I got it from Miss Ellis, and----"

The door opened as he spoke, and Tait, who was facing it, glanced over the young man's shoulder. "Here is Maud for herself. Perhaps she will explain."

It was indeed Miss Ellis, looking very white and pinched. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her mouth was drooping, and she confessed to a headache, which was not to be wondered at, seeing what she had gone through.

"That chloroform is horrible stuff," complained Maud, sinking into a chair.

"Have you seen the inspector?" said Tait, giving his niece very little sympathy for her wan looks.

"Yes; I have told him all I know."

"Perhaps you will repeat what you have told him to your uncle, Miss Ellis," remarked Walker, still standing very stiff and very proudly. "He has accused me of getting the key from you to rob the strong-room, and swears that I have buried the jewels somewhere in the garden."

"That is absurd," said Maud, looking at her uncle, while a red spot of colour burned on either pale cheek. "I don't believe that you have anything to do with the matter."

"Then what did you mean by addressing Walker as you did, when you revived in the gallery?" demanded Mr. Tait sharply.

"I simply said, 'Oh, George, you!'" said the girl quietly; "and that because I felt glad he was there to help me."

"He didn't help you in the least," remarked Tait grimly.

"He would have had I asked him," she retorted. "Would you not, Mr. Walker?"

"Certainly."

"It's not George this time, then," muttered the stockbroker. "Well, Maud, perhaps you will tell me what you were doing in the gallery."

Maud's eyes sought those of the man she loved, but she replied without hesitation. "I'll tell you what I did not tell the police, uncle. The inspector believes that I came down because I heard a noise."

"Like Walker here."

"He did not come down for that reason."

Tait looked at George with triumph in his eye. "I thought not," he said.

"If he said that he did, he said so to shield me," pursued Miss Ellis, and looked gratefully at the confused young man.

"What do you mean by that, Maud?" asked Tait tartly.

"I made an appointment with George in the picture-gallery at three in the morning, as I wished to help him to marry Lesbia Hale."

"Why, I thought you loved Walker yourself!" cried the astonished stockbroker.

"So I did--so I do," breathed Miss Ellis, drooping her sandy head. "But, to my mind, love means sacrifice. George--for I have the right to call him so now--George would not have been happy with me, as he loved Lesbia Hale, so I arranged to give him up to her, and to make things right with her father. For that reason I waited for him in the gallery. There I was suddenly pounced upon, and a handkerchief soaked in chloroform was clapped over my mouth. I daresay the person who did it, stole the key from the chain round my neck, and opened the strong-room to steal the jewels. But I knew nothing from the moment I became insensible until I revived to find you all standing round me. That is the story I have told the inspector, save that I kept quiet my appointment with George."

"Then you believe him to be innocent," said the stockbroker, confounded by the frankness of this story.

Maud arose indignantly. "The man I love can never be guilty," she cried.

George blushed a rosy red. He saw that he had not behaved over well to this brave girl, who had so cleverly exonerated him, although he really had no reason to accuse himself of duplicity towards her. But in a confused way he felt that she was heaping coals of fire on his head, and was more drawn to her than he had ever been before. Here, indeed, was a friend worth having. With Lesbia as his wife and Maud as his friend, life would indeed be joyous.

In his innocence it never struck the young man that no male can drive, either in double harness or in tandem fashion, two women who both love him. He thought that Maud, having discovered that the true meaning of love was sacrifice, behaved thus because of her newly-acquired knowledge. "Thank you, Miss Ellis," he said simply, but his looks implied volumes more.

Tait was displeased. He had no grudge against George, whom he liked well enough; but he did not like his solution of the mystery to be thus upset.

"You mean well, Maud," he said at length, "and you have shielded Walker very cleverly. All the same, I cannot accept your explanation."

Miss Ellis rose in alarm. "Uncle, do you mean that you will have Mr. Walker arrested when you know that he is innocent?"

"For his mother's sake I shall not do that," said the elder man; "but if Mr. Walker will give back the jewels I will not dismiss him from my office."

"I have no jewels to give," cried George recklessly, and his face flushed a deep red. "As to remaining in your office, do you think that I would continue to serve a man who suspects me of such a wicked crime? I shall never return to your office, Mr. Tait, nor shall I re-enter your house until my innocence is made clear. If the police arrest me----"

"They will not do that," interrupted Maud quickly; "I promise you. There is no evidence against you. I don't know who chloroformed me, but you are innocent, I swear. My uncle will take no steps."

"For Mrs. Walker's sake," interpolated the stockbroker unctuously.

"So you can leave this house when you will," continued Maud, "knowing--" she seized his hand--"that I at least, believe you guiltless."

"Thank you!" said George, and kissed her hand. "Mr. Tait, if you and the police want me you know where to find me." And he stalked out of the room with his head in the air. Maud Ellis looked after him with hungry looks, and heaved a deep sigh when the door closed.

Within the hour George had asked permission of the inspector to leave the house, and obtained it. Whatever the guests believed, the police apparently--thanks to Maud's report--accepted him as a wholly guiltless person. He gave his address to the officer, so that he might be called as a witness in the event of the thieves being brought to book, and then shook the dust of that splendid Henley mansion from his feet.

He was glad to get away, for several people looked at him askance, and evidently there was an uneasy feeling that he knew more than he would confess. But no one hinted openly that he was concerned in the robbery. It was merely thought that his presence in the gallery required a more reasonable explanation than the weak on