Alice Devine

>

. -, ,' ," ,

v „; _y .,. L

Jlibrarg

THE GIFT OF

L. E. HORNING, B.A., Ph.D.

PROFESSOR OF TEUTONIC

PHILOLOGY

VICTORIA COLLEGE

ALICE DEVINE

ALICE DEVINE

By

EDGAR JEPSON

Author •/ POLLYOOLY, HAPPY POLLYOOLY
THE TERRIBLE TWINS, ETC.

027

INDIANAPOLIS

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1G16
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

,35760

.5 - 3- I 925"

PRESS OF

BRAUNWOPTM & CO.

BOOKBINDERS «ND PRINTERS

BROOKLYN. N. Y.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PACK

I I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT . . 1

II THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 17

III THE ANARCHISTS 41

IV THE HIEROGLYPHICS AT No. 12 70

V HERBERT POLKINGTON'S UNCERTAINTY .... 107

VI THE RESCUE OF HERBERT POLKINGTON .... 130

VII THE GARDEN ANGEL 148

VIII LOST LORD CANTELUNE 165

IX THE EMPTY HOUSE 180

X THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 220

XI THE BECHUT MYSTERY 255

XII WALSH INTERVENES 292

XIII THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 327

ALICE DEVINE

ALICE DEVINE

CHAPTER I

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT

I AM Garthoyle; but the Gardens were not
called after me. My uncle, Algernon Gar-
thoyle, built them, a triangle of twenty-one houses
in the heart of May fair, and called them after
himself. When after the poor old chap's funeral,
his will was read, and I found that he had left them
to me, I was indeed surprised. I had always taken
it for granted that he would leave them to that
strenuous politician, my cousin, Herbert Polking-
ton. So had Herbert; and he did look disgusted.
I should have thought myself deucedly lucky if my
uncle had left me half of the hundred thousand
pounds he had invested outside the Gardens; the
Gardens themselves, twenty-five thousand a year,
sounded too good to be true.

But there is always a fly in the ointment; and
the clause in the will in which the Gardens were

I

2 ALICE DEVINE

left to me, ended with the words: "Certain con-
ditions are attached to this bequest, which will be
communicated to Lord Garthoyle by my solicitors."
All that evening I wondered what those conditions
were, of how many of its joys they robbed that
twenty-five thousand a year; and very soon after
breakfast I motored round to the offices of Messrs.
Brayley and Wills, my uncle's lawyers, to hear
the worst.

Old Brayley, the head of the firm, received me;
and I told him why I had come.

"Yes, yes; I was expecting you, Lord Gar-
thoyle," he said, "I have the papers here. LYou
know that Garthoyle Gardens were, if I may say
so, the apple of Mr. Algernon Garthoyle's eye.
Originally they were an investment. He sank
four hundred thousand pounds in them. Then he
grew interested in them; and they became his
hobby."

"Well, I should have called them his passion —
they were more than a hobby," said I. "He was
even keener on them than he was on his spooks — •
psychical research."

"Yes, I should say that that was so," said
Brayley.

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT 3

"It was. Why, when Number 15 remained
empty for eight months it so worried him that he
began to lose weight. I'm told he broke up a most
important seance when word was brought him that
Number 9 was on fire," I said.

"I see you know all about it, Lord Garthoyle.
.Well, your uncle's idea seems to have been to be-
queath to you not only the Gardens but also his
keen interest in them. The conditions attached to
the bequest are that you should manage the Gar-
dens yourself."

"Manage them ?" I cried.

"Yes; that you should be your own house-agent,
deal with all matters connected with the letting of
the houses, their upkeep and repairs," said Brayley.

"But I've no experience whatever, not only of
the work of a house-agent, but of any kind of
business."

"Oh, you'll soon gain it. The property is in ex-
cellent order at present. Every house is let to a
good tenant. And if you do make a few mistakes
at the beginning, the property can stand it."

"But it must mean work — a lot of work," I said.

"Oh, yes. There are a thousand details con-
nected with a large property like that; and they

4 ALICE DEVINE

would need perpetual attention. But of course
you would have assistance — a clerk — two jclerks."

I considered a while; the matter was beginning
to look more serious than I had feared. I had
never done any work; and it might be dangerous
to begin so late in life — at twenty-eight. Besides,
I did not see how I was going to find time to do
any work; my life was already arranged and full
up.

Then I said: "I suppose if I don't fulfil these
conditions, I lose the Gardens."

"No," said Brayley. "That is the curious thing
about it. I suggested such a clause, of course;
but your uncle would not have it inserted. It rests
entirely with yourself to fulfil the conditions. But
here are the conditions in detail." And he handed
me some sheets of typewritten paper.

I said good morning to him and motored back
to my flat in Mount Street. There I read over the
conditions; and as I expected, I found that it did
mean a lot of work. Well, there was no help for
it. I must buckle to. The first thing to do was to
get help. As I motored down to the Temple and
climbed the stairs to Jack Thurman's rooms in
the King's Bench Walk, Garthoyle Gardens — all

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT 5

the twenty-one houses — weighed heavily on my,
mind.

Jack himself opened his door to me; I greeted
him gloomily; and we went into his sitting-room.

"Jack," I said sadly, "within the last two hours
I've become one of the workers of the world."

"Never!" cried Jack. "Well, I am glad to
hear it! I've always been worrying you to stop
leading your idle, rackety life and use those brains
of yours."

"And you call yourself my friend," I said re-
proachfully.

"Well, you have brains, you know; all verte-
brates have brains. What's happened?"

"I've become the owner of Garthoyle Gardens,"

"Well, but — but that only means you've thirty
thousand a year to spend on racketing about instead
of five," said Jack, with a perplexed air.

"No, it means that I shall have no time to
racket about. You didn't know my Uncle Alger-
non: Garthoyle Gardens were his passion. They
were almost his monomania. I dined with him
once every month, a family dinner, don't you know
— just he and I. And I give you my word he
bored me to death with his talk about those Gar-

6 ALICE DEVINE

dens. I didn't let him see it, of course; for I
was fond of the old chap. He knew everything
about the Gardens — the history of every tenant
in every house, how he made his money, if he
hadn't inherited it, how many sons and daughters
he had, how many servants — -male and female — •
he kept, how many horses, carriages and motor-
cars."

"He must have had a capacious brain," said
Jack.

"Oh, he kept a record of all these things in a
big book, like a ledger. He even entered in it all
the births, deaths and marriages which took place
in the Gardens. At one time when I dined with
him I used to ask him how many babies had been
vaccinated in the Gardens during the month. But
I gave that up. It set him talking about the Gar-
dens at once; and I was the sooner bored. Those
Gardens were the apple of his eye — yes, the apple
of his eye."

"Then I wonder he left them to you," said Jack
frankly.

"So did I. He was always down on me — worse:
than you — for my idle life. He wanted me to take
my duties as a hereditary legislator more seriously,

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT 7

take lessons in elocution, engage a political expert
as my secretary, and deliver such speeches as he
composed for me to the House of Lords. He was
always grumbling at my idleness, and I thought
that he'd leave the Gardens to Herbert P6lkington ;
so did Herbert. I should have thought myself
deucedly lucky if he'd left me fifty thousand
pounds. And now I've got the Gardens. But —
(jrarthoyle Gardens are a gilded pill."

"I should like to have the swallowing of it,"
said Jack; and he smacked his lips. "But what
do you mean?"

"I mean that Garthoyle Gardens mean the
strenuous life. They are left to me on the con-
ditions that I am my own house-agent, that I run
them myself. I've got to interview proposed ten-
ants, examine their standing, their references and
their leases; I've got to see to all matters con-
nected with the upkeep of the Gardens, estimates,
and contracts for repairs. I've got to run those
Gardens ever so much more than my uncle did
himself."

"Good ! Excellent !" cried Jack.

"And I thought you were my friend," I said
again reproachfully.

8 ALICE DEVINE

"Do you all the good in the world," said Jack.
"And if you fail to fulfil the conditions, you lose
the property?"

"No, that's where my uncle had me. [There's
no such provision. If I accept the bequest, it's
left entirely to my honor to fulfil the conditions.
Of course, I accept it. No one refuses twenty-
five thousand a year."

"Hardly," said Jack.

"Besides, I want money. It's been the deuce of
a job to keep up the title on five thousand a year;
and I hate having to let Garth Royal to that Ham-
burg money-lender."

"Yes; that certainly is a nuisance," said
Jack.

"But taking the Gardens on these terms means
chaining a log — a gold log — round my neck for the
rest of my life. I can't go off to the States for
six months, as I did last year. I can't go shooting
in Uganda again — not for long enough to be worth
while. jYou see, my uncle has shown such utter
confidence in me that I can't go back on him. Hard
labor is what it means for me."

"You'll soon get used to work," said Jack.

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT 9

I shook my head. "I'm very doubtful about
that," I said. "Mine is an untrammeled spirit
And there is also a terrible danger attached to the
bequest. My uncle's last words in the document
containing these conditions were that he was sure
I should grow as fond of the Gardens as he was
himself. That would be awful. It's a terrible
danger. I might grow to talk of nothing else, choke
off my friends one by one by boring them about the
Gardens, and bring myself to an old age of lonely
desolation. Think of it!"

"I can't," said Jack.

"Well, you see how things are: I'm one of the
workers of the world — in for the strenuous life of
the house-agent. Now, what I want is a right-
hand man. I want you. I'll give you a thousand
a year, and you'll give me all the time you can spare
from the Bar."

Jack's eyes openecl wide; and they shone. He
did brilliant things at Oxford; but that period had
come to an end, and he was now in his briefless
stage of a barrister's career and hard up. Then
his face fell and he shook his head.

"My good Garth, it's very nice of you to make

;IQ ALICE DEVINE

this offer, but it's absurd. You can get a clerk
for a hundred and fifty a year who will give you
all his time and do everything for you."

"You're wrong," I said. "A clerk can't do
what I want. I want some one to teach me the
work — to explain everything to me from the begin-
ning, patiently. And above all I want some one to
keep me up to my work. That's the important
thing. No clerk would do that. He'd always be
saving me the trouble. You're the only man who
can really help me to carry out my uncle's wishes ;
and I must have you. It's settled. There's
nothing more to be said about it"

Jack seemed to think that there was more to be
said about it ; and he said it for nearly an hour. But
since I was doomed to the strenuous life, I thought
I might as well begin; and I was strenuous with
him. In fact, I wore him down to a compromise.
He agreed to become my right-hand man on a sal-
ary of five hundred a year; and I was very glad to
get him.

The next day I fully realized that I had burned
my boats — for the first time in my life I had an
occupation. I settled down to prepare for it
gloomily. I moved from Mount Street to my uncle's

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT n

house in Garthoyle Gardens, Number 18. As I
have said, the Gardens are a triangle of twenty-
one houses, seven houses on either side, and seven
at the base. They look on a triangular garden
in the middle, of which all the occupants of the
houses have the use. Number 1 8 is in the center of
the base of the triangle; and it affords a good view;
of the whole of it. My uncle had made the library
on the first floor his watch-tower; and I am
sorry to say that he carried his vigilance to the
point of having two pairs of extremely powerful
field-glasses on a little table beside the window at
which he used to sit. I say that I am sorry, be-
cause when I picke^ up the largest pair and turned
them on Number 3, I not only got a perfect view
of the Luddingtons at lunch, but also I got a per-
fect view of their being acrimonious with one an-
other. It is hardly fair that one should know so
much about one's tenants.

It was quite plain to me that to be a real house-
agent I must have an office; and it was also quite
plain that it must be in the house, so that I could
always step into it without having to make a tire-
some journey. I decided that I would not use the
library, as my uncle had done, but that I would fit

12 ALICE DEVINE

up a pleasant room on the ground-floor, looking out
on the garden at the back of the house, as a
complete office with desks, pigeonholes and a safe.
I did not bother Jack about this ; I was paying him
for legal help. I motored up into Oxford Street
and along it till I found a likely looking shop, and
there I ordered everything that seemed right. When
the room had J>een fitted up, I had all the books
and documents connected with the Gardens moved
into it from the offices of Messrs. Siddle and Wod-'
gett, who had acted as my uncle's house-agents.

When they had all been brought in and put tidily
away, and at last I stood in my own complete office,
I had a proud sense of being truly one of the
workers of the world. Then it occurred to me that
I needed some one to work the typewriter; I could
not do it myself — not properly. I tried.

Jack told me the best way to get some one was
to advertise; and I advertised for a lady-typist,
stenographer and bookkeeper, as he suggested.
But he was not at hand when I wrote out that
advertisement, and we had not discussed the ques-
tion of salary. Therefore I offered three guineas
a week, which seemed to me fair to begin with. I

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT 13

got my first experience of what a hard life a house-
agent's is.

I invited applicants for the post to call at ten. At
nine, when I got up, I heard a good deal of noise out
in the Gardens, and I observed that Mowart, my
man, was pale and scared. Mowart is not allowed
to speak to me before breakfast.

But I saw that he was dying to speak, and I said :
"What's the matter with you, Mowart? Has there
been an earthquake in the night ?"

"No, your Lordship. But there's some young per-
sons waiting see your Lordship," said Mowart.

"That's all right. I advertised for them," I said.

"There's a good many young persons, your Lord-
ship," said Mowart in a shaky voice.

I went to the window and my eyes and mouth
opened wide as I gazed down on a surging, seething
sea of wide-spreading hats. Among them rose
scores of policemen's helmets, and a column of
police was marching into the triangle through its
apex. For a moment I thought I had assembled
round my door half England's womanhood, and all
the Metropolitan police.

"Ain't it awful, your Lordship?" said Mowart

14 ALICE DEVINE

over my shoulder. And I could scarcely hear him
for the volume of shrill sound which rose from
that female sea.

His voice recalled me to myself. I remembered
that in great emergencies England looks to her
peers, and with an effort I got my mouth shut.

"I shall have a wide choice," I said calmly; and
I went to my bath. I did not trust my chin to
Mowart's hands that morning ; they were too shaky.

When I came down-stairs, I found an inspector
of police, three policemen and four newspaper
reporters, all wild-eyed, in the hall. They seemed to
be in about the state of men leading a forlorn hope.
They could not keep still; they shuffled about and
danced.

The inspector wrung his hands and said: "Oh,
my Lord, this is worse than suffragettes; and it's
nothing to what it'll be when the trains come in
from the Midlands and the North. Three guineas
a week ! What is your Lordship going to do ?"

"I suppose I must interview them — after break-
fast," I said calmly.

"All them thousands?" asked the inspector.

"If I have to do it to get what I want," I said
calmly. And I went in to breakfast.

I BECOME A HOUSE-AGENT 15

At breakfast, Richards, my uncle's old butler, was
in such an emotional condition, clattering dishes and
dropping plates, that I had to pause to assure him —
in a shout (the volume of shrill chattering was
deafening) — that women did not bite — often.

After breakfast I began to interview the appli-
cants. Ten policemen admitted them, one at a time,
through the front door. I sat down at my desk in
the office, and asked them questions and wrote down
their answers and qualifications in a most business-
like way. At the end of the interview each one was
let out by the back door.

Of the first hundred applicants, forty-three were
actual typists ; the other fifty-seven, as far as I could
make out, had come just for the pleasure of a little
conversation with a peer. Some of them took it
blushing, others did not. I was much touched by
their devotion to the Upper House ; but they rather
wasted my time; and you can not be strenuous and
have your time wasted too. I grew rather short
and quite monotonous with that kind before the end
of the morning. The hundred and eleventh girl,
Miss Delicia Wishart, was the girl I wanted. She
was fully qualified; she spoke and looked as if she
were capable, and she was undoubtedly attractive,

16 ALICE DEVINE

with a soft pleasant voice. I thought that I should
work better with an attractive assistant — Jack
Thurman is not; he has a nose like the beak of a
full-sized eagle. I engaged her.

Then I went out into the hall. It was very full
of policemen and journalists now, and the inspector
looked as if he had the whole of the British
Empire on his mind ; and it was compressing it.

"Inspector," I said gently, "I have engaged a
typist. You may clear the triangle."

He looked at me as if he were rather hard of
hearing.

"Clear — clear the triangle?" he said in a faint
whispering voice ; and he sat down on the knee and
note-book of a journalist who sat, writing, on one
of the hall chairs.

"Yes; I have finished with these ladies," I said,
and I went up to the library and looked out of the
window.

The triangle was now full. The trains from the
Midlands had come in. I took my hat and a stick,
and went quietly out by the back door. I had done
my duty as, a house-agent; the police must do the
rest.

CHAPTER II

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT

TATER in the day I learned from an evening
• ^ paper that the police had done the rest, and
Garthoyle Gardens were again peaceful. Also Rich-
ards telephoned to me at the Palladium to say that
nine papers wanted my photograph. I told him
that I had not had my photograph taken since I was
at Eton, and that if he put them in the way of snap-
shotting me, I would sack him. However, they
learned somehow or other that I was at the Pal-
ladium, and members who came into the card-room,
where I settled down for a quiet day's bridge, kept
wondering whom those journalist Johnnies with
cameras were after, because none of the members
was in the Divorce Court at the moment. When
the evening papers got into full swing about my
advertisement, they knew, and they did not forget
to talk about advertising for the rest of the day and
all the evening. I did not mind, of course, but it
grew rather monotonous.

17

i8 ALICE DEVINE

The evening papers had a good deal to say about
my advertisement — men read bits of it out between
the rubbers and the hands. But the morning papers
had even more to say. All of them were agreed
that three simple guineas a week had brought to-
gether the largest crowd of women known in his-
tory; and they drew moral lessons from it, different
ones. Some papers said that it afforded a striking
tribute to the resources of our civilization; others
seemed very angry about it because it threw a sinis-
ter light on the economic subjection, whatever that
may be, of women. All of them agreed that I must
be rather a fool (they did not say it outright, they
suggested it) to offer three guineas a week, when
thirty shillings would have been enough. I do not
care much for the papers as a rule, but that morning
I found them quite interesting. I seemed to have
become all of a sudden one of the most important
people in England. Fourteen papers sent inter-
viewers round to ask my opinion of the Budget. I
did not know what it was or anything about it ; but
the first interviewer explained it to me; and after
that I got on very well. It seemed to me a matter
of one-and-twopence in the pound; and I simply
said that I did not mind, that I had plenty to spare.

19

It seemed that I said the wrong thing, for next
morning my cousin, Herbert Polkington, came
round in the middle of breakfast, and begged me
to be more discreet in my utterances to the Press.
In fact he hinted that it would be a good thing if
I did not do any uttering at all. In the middle of
his visit a note came from my tenant, Sir Marma-
duke Ponderbury, begging me "in the interests of
my order to be less frank." I argued the matter
with Herbert — I never take anything from Herbert
without arguing — pointing out that what I had said
was just common sense, that with thirty thousand
a year, one-and-twopence in the pound was neither
here nor there. I got Herbert quite heated. He
went away saying something nasty about taking
steps to have the House of Lords educated. I did
not mind; I never do anything Herbert says; and
this time I was quite sure I was right. Some of the
papers did not print my views; but those that did,
praised them.

The papers kept on making a fuss about my adver-
tisement for some days. I grew rather tired of it.
I had other things to attend to ; for three days after
it I really began work.

Jack and Miss Wishart came to the office at nine.

20 ALICE DEVINE

\

I came at ten. This had to be because I keep later
hours than they do. They had spent the hour plan-
ning an honest day's work for me. There was
plenty of it; they had not stinted me. It began
with answering letters, forty-nine of them, fifteen
from tenants. It seemed that whenever a tenant
had five minutes to spare, he, or she, sat down and
dashed off an unpleasant letter to the house-agent
Also they were at a loss to understand something.
Sir Marmaduke Ponderbury was at a loss to under-
stand why, in a well-appointed house, there were
only three gas-brackets in the wine-cellars? Lady
Pedders was at a loss to understand why, in a well-
appointed house, there was no gate to the stairs at
the third landing to prevent her children falling
down them? Sir Hector Kilsluthery was at a loss
to understand why a well-appointed house was not
fitted with double windows from top to bottom,
back and front.

I was soon grinding my teeth; then I perceived
that, if they were at a loss to understand, I had bet-
ter be unable to see my way. I replied that I could
not see my way to make these structural alterations
(a good filling phrase of Miss Wishart's, that), but
I gave them permission to make them themselves.

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 21

On Jack's suggestion, I signed all the letters
"Garth and Thurman." He said it would be safer;
that, if I did not, I might have my tenants bothering
me about things out of business hours, whenever
they; chanced to meet me. I was quite sure that
they would, and I jumped at his suggestion. Now,
when they tackled me, I could always refer them to
Garth and Thurman. It turned out very useful.

The letters done, I wrestled with leases, assess-
ments and repairing contracts, trying to get the
hang of things. Jack assured me that my uncle had
paid too much for everything; that I should need
fresh contracts; and probably fresh contractors;
and it would mean studying dozens of price lists to
check them. It was cheerful news.

Then he said: "I've come across one curious
thing — Number 9 pays no rent."

"The deuce it doesn't !" said I. "Well, I suppose
it wouldn't. My uncle always told me that it was
an unlucky house. It has been on fire; the water-
pipes burst every winter; the roof will suddenly
leak without just cause ; and poor little Mrs. Bulke-
ley committed suicide there by jumping out of a
second-floor window. I'm not really surprised that
it doesn't pay rent."

22 ALICE DEVINE

"Yes ; here's a letter from the tenant — J. Quintus
Scruton, to Siddle and Wodgett, saying that he has
arranged with your uncle to have the house rent-
free, and your uncle has endorsed the letter."

"I must look into this," I said. And I reached
for my uncle's record, which I had handy on my
desk, and turned up Number 9.

It had indeed a black record — eleven tenants in
fifteen years.

The last entries ran :

"Tenant: J. Quintus Scruton. Gum millionaire
from New Zealand. Age about forty-seven. Wid-
ower. No family — Theosophist.

Servants. Butler, chef, two footmen, house-
keeper, and eight other females.

"Vehicles. Nine.

"Lease. Seven, fourteen or twenty-one years, at
two thousand pounds a year.

"February 20. Painful discovery — the house is
haunted."

That was all; no dossier of the ghost, no reason
why the gum millionaire paid no rent. We dis-
cussed the matter and came to the conclusion that

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 23

the best thing to do was to write to him demanding
prompt payment of the last quarter's rent. Then he
would inform us of the reason. Miss Wishart wrote
the letter, and when I had signed it, I struck work
for the day. I had a strong feeling at the moment
that mine was a delicately-poised brain, and that
it needed to be accustomed to the strain of work
quietly and by slow degrees. I told Jack and Miss
Wishart this; Miss Wishart smiled; but Jack said
in a grumbling tone :

"I wanted you to put in a little work at some
price lists of house-fittings. You ought to go care-
fully into the matter of house-fittings."

"I will to-morrow," I said. "And I see that the
sooner I acquire a defensive habit of proscrastina-
tion, the safer I shall be."

With that I left them.

The next morning, after I had answered thirty-
nine letters, I did betake myself to the study of the
prices of house-fittings, and it was a tedious job.
Jack suggested that I should get a more profound
understanding of house-fittings if I went myself
and bought those I had not been able to refuse my
correspondents, and so come to know the house-
fitting in its lair. After lunch, having answered

24 ALICE DEVINE

eleven more letters, four from tenants, which came
by the two-o'clock post, I went. After three hours
among the house-fittings, I came home a broken
man. It seemed to me that house-fittings were the
study of a lifetime; and that I ought to have begun
it the moment I went to Eton.

Parkhurst met me with the information that Mr.
J. Quintus Scruton had called to see me on business,
and was awaiting me in the library. I was feeling
very strongly that I had been house-agent enough
for one day; but business was business, and I had
to see him. As I went up the stairs it occurred to
me that the affair seemed queer. That J. Quintus
Scruton might be out after the gullible peer. It
seemed a pity he should not find one. I stuck my
eye-glass in my eye, opened my mouth and went
into the library, looking as gullible a young peer as
any one could wish to see. I had found the look
useful before.

Mr. J. Quintus Scruton rose as I entered. He
was a broad, thin, active-looking man, torpedo-
bearded, with a deeply-lined brown face, out of
which stuck a big hooked nose. He looked as if
he had spent most of his life out-of-doors in very

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 25

bad weather. I took rather a dislike to him at the
very first sight. The checks of the trousers he was
wearing with his gray morning coat were quite
impossible.

"How do you do?" I drawled.

"How do you do, Lord Garthoyle? I am pleased
to make the acquaintance of my new landlord," he
said in a rough hoarse voice. "I came to see you
about a letter I have received from your house-
agents — a new firm, apparently — demanding the
payment of my rent for the last quarter. I gather
that you are not aware that I arranged with your
uncle to occupy Number 9 rent-free."

"Ya-as, I know that, don't you know?" I bleated.
"But it's a funny arrangement, your living in my
house rent-free. I dare say it suited my uncle, but
it doesn't suit me. Why did he let you have it rent-
free?"

He looked at me very hard; he raised one hand,
and he said in a very solemn voice : "Number 9 is
haunted; and your uncle thought it better that I,
who don't mind ghosts, should live in it rent-free
than that it should be empty."

My eye-glass nearly fell out of my eye. I had

26 ALICE DEVINE

expected to find something in the way of black-
mailing at the bottom of the matter — but spooks!
.This gum millionaire had pulled my uncle's leg.

"Well, of all the reasons for making any one a
present of a house!" I cried, forgetting to drawl.

"I knew it would surprise you, Lord Garthoyle;
but haunted it is. And that's a very good reason —
a very good business reason indeed, for not charging
any rent for it," he said earnestly, wagging a finger
at me. "It would never do for the newspapers to
have columns about a haunted house in Garthoyle
Gardens. Your uncle felt that strongly."

I wanted to hear some more, and I said : "Yes ;
haunted houses in London are a bit off color."

"Just so. It would reduce the property to the
level of Bloomsbury. I'm glad you see it," he said
eagerly.

"I see that. But I don't see why I should let you
have the house for nothing, and wear it out, don't
you know? If I shut it up for a year or two the
ghost might get tired of an empty house, and go."

"No; ghosts don't care whether there's any one
in a house or not. They haunt it just the same,"
he said more solemnly than ever. "As an earnest

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT. 27

theosophist, I have studied these psychic phenom-
ena; and you may take it from me that it is so."

"All the same, I may as well give this one a chance
to get tired and go, don't you know?"

"But an empty house in Garthoyle Gardens — a
house empty for months, perhaps years. It injures
the rest of the property. It empties other houses.
Your uncle saw that very clearly. Why, he asked
me — I may say, he begged me — to remain on in
Number 9 rent-free. He preferred a tenant who
paid no rent to no tenant at all."

"I don't, don't you know? And I can get over
that emptiness all right," I said. "I'll keep the
blinds and curtains and leave it looking inhabited.
Either you'll have to pay rent, or you'll have to go."

He lost his look of persuading me for my own
good and frowned: "Well, in that case," he said,
"I need not keep my mouth shut about it any longer.
I undertook to keep it quiet, of course, and put up
with the discomfort. But if I have to pay rent, I
do not see why I should not have a thorough inves-
tigation of the most interesting phenomenon I have
ever come across — an investigation by a committee
of experts under the supervision of the Daily Mail."

28 ALICE DEVINE

It was so near a blackmailing threat that my first
thought was to kick him down-stairs. My second
thought was that, judging from his build and look,
it would be an hour's steady work; and I had al-
ready done my work for the day. My third thought
was that boots were not business. He was certainly
playing with his cards upon the table. He had
shown me how he had worked upon my uncle's
belief in spooks and his fondness for the Gardens.
A newspaper ghost-story would harm the property ;
and what was worse I should have to answer scores
and scores of letters from my leisured tenants about
it. I thought of those letters, and I quailed.

But then the rent was two thousand pounds a
year; and any one who has had to live on five
thousand pounds a year for seven years knows what
two thousand pounds a year is. I was not going
to give it up without an effort.

I had been sitting, looking at Scruton, with my
mouth open, while I thought it out. Now I tried
another tack, and said: "Well, I'm not going to
pay for this absurd fancy. A ghost in the twentieth
century ! It's nonsense, don't you know ?"

"Fancy? Nonsense? Why, out of my twelve

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 29

servants only two will sleep in the house. Some
sleep in the rooms over the stables ; some in lodgings
in Green Street. Your uncle did not find it non-
sense, Lord Garthoyle. He slept in the haunted
room and saw the ghost."

"Yes, my uncle would ; he had leanings that way,
don't you know ? But, of course, there's no chance
of my seeing it. It wouldn't come if I were there,
don't you know?" I drawled.

"But you shall see it. It will come, any night
you like. It's always there at night!" he cried in a
quite excited way.

I pretended to hesitate; then I said: "Well,
I don't believe I shall see any ghost — but if I do,
and it is a ghost, I'll let you have the house rent-
free for another year. If I don't you pay your
rent."

He hesitated a moment; then he said: "It's a
bargain. What night will you come and sleep in
the haunted room? How will Saturday night suit
you?"

"Saturday night at eleven-thirty. What kind of
a ghost is it?" I said.

"It's a woman, who walks, sighing, up and down

30 ALICE DEVINE

the room from which Mrs. Bulkeley threw herself.
But she's sometimes seen on the stairs. That's what
has driven the servants out of the house."

"A woman that sighs doesn't sound very terrify-
ing," I said.

"She is, though. She made me sweat with
fright," he said. And he said it so sincerely that
either he was telling the truth, or he was a first-
class actor.

"Well, I'll come and see if she'll frighten me,"
I said.

"She will — you'll see," he said solemnly; and he
rose and said good-by solemnly. He had the sol-
emnest manner I have ever seen.

I walked down to the front door with him; and
I fancied that he was looking pleased with himself,
rather as if he had done a good day's work.

"Till Saturday night," he said solemnly, as he
went down the steps.

I went into the office and told Jack, Scruton's tale.
He howled at it. But when he had grown quiet
again, he agreed with me that Scruton could make
trouble. The people who can afford a house in
Garthoyle Gardens are just the very people who
believe in all those psychical phenomena. They

support the palmists, the mediums, the crystal-gazers
and the clairvoyants. They have nothing else to do.
My tenants would fuss like fury; many of them
would see ghosts in their own houses. It was much
better to jog along quietly with Scruton for a while,
and see what did happen, before putting the pressure
on him and getting a first-class fuss.

Jack could not understand why a millionaire
should stand the inconvenience — why he did not
clear out of a house in which the servants would not
sleep. I had to explain to him that millionaires love
to get things cheap; that's how they become million-
aires; and a house in Garthoyle Gardens for noth-
ing would tempt any one. Of course, we discussed
the question whether Scruton was a millionaire at
all. I thought that he was. An ordinary swindler
would be more of a gentleman; he would never wear
those trousers with a gray morning-coat. Jack,
too, thought that a swindler would have found a
better reason for paying no rent — that a ghost in
the twentieth century was too thin. But it seemed
to me that the tale and the ghost had worked very
well with my uncle.

"And after all," I said, "one night when I was a
child I saw the White Lady come down the stairs

32 ALICE DEVINE

at Garth Royal, or I fancied I did; and it came to
exactly the same thing."

I did not get much time to think about the ghost
during the next few days; letters, price lists and
house-fittings kept me too busy. On the Wednesday
I played polo at Hurlingham. A: piercing June
breeze was' blowing from the east, and there were
squalls of driving drizzle, colder than sleet. I
caught a bad cold; and on Saturday night I went
to Number 9 as hoarse as a crow. I did not know
my own voice.

A disagreeable butler, looking like a mute, took
me to Scruton. Scruton received me as if I had
come to a funeral ; and I returned his greeting with
hearty sneezes.

"I suppose you've quite made up your mind to
go through with it?" said Scruton in a gloomy
voice.

"Rather!" I said. "Ah-tish-u! Ah-tish-u!
Ah-tish-u!"

"Come along, then/' he said; and he led the way
up-stairs.

He took me up to a front room on the second
floor, a large room, rather barely furnished, with
two windows. We had each a candle, and he said

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 33

that the electric light had not been installed on this
floor, and he never used gas. He paused and looked
at me seriously ; then he said :

"It doesn't really matter. You won't want much
light to see her. I didn't."

He paused again, then with a sudden start he
looked over his shoulder.

I started, too, and looked over his shoulder. I
saw nothing. Scruton gave a little shiver, and said
quickly: "I think I'll be going. I don't like this
room. Good night."

He slipped quickly out of the door; and I heard
him hurry along the corridor and down the stairs.
I felt rather uncomfortable. The candle did not
light much of the room, but I set myself to examine
it. The walls were not papered, but painted. There
was no paneling; and there was not a crack in the
surface of the paint. There was no trap-door in
the ceiling. There was a thick Turkey carpet on
the floor, and I turned it up for five feet round the
edges and made sure that there were no cracks,
traps, or loose boards in the floor. I looked out of
the windows for anything in the way of a ladder
from the story below, and left up the blinds to let
in the moonlight. I locked the door leading to the

34 ALICE DEVINE

corridor, and shot the bolt that was just above the
lock. There was another door in the corner, at the
other end of the room, opposite the bed. It opened
into an unfurnished dressing-room. The door from
the corridor into the dressing-room was open; and
there was no key in it to lock it. The other rooms
on the floor were unoccupied. Some of their doors
were open, some shut, none was locked. I locked the
door between the dressing-room and my bedroom,
and shot the bolt over the keyhole.

Well, I was in quite an ordinary room; and no
human being could get into it without forcing the
door. There was no doubt about that. I should
get a genuine ghost — a real psychic phenomenon —
or I should get nothing at all. Of course, I should
get nothing at all.

But I was going to do the thing properly; and I
pulled off my coat and waistcoat and collar; took a
warm dressing-gown from my bag, and put it on.
I lay down on the bed, pulled a blanket over me,
and waited. Everything was very quiet, except
when I sneezed. I began to think about poor Mrs.
Bnlkeley, and her throwing herself out of the win-
dow. I wondered which of the two windows it
was. It was an uncomfortable thing to think of;

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 35

and I tried to think of something else. Then I began
to hear noises : boards creaked and made me start ;
there were footsteps in the corridor — two — and then
silence. I heard a sob, far away, and then another
and another, and was some time making out that
it was a cistern gurgling. I had firmly made up
my mind that it was a jolly uncomfortable room to
be in when I fell asleep.

When I awoke the room was much dimmer, as
if the moon were setting on the other side of the
house. I did not want to look around, and was
turning over to go to sleep again, when I heard a
sigh, distinctly.

I jerked myself on to my elbow; and my eyes
fell on a figure crossing the room to the farther
window. As it came near the window I saw that it
was a woman. I could not see her face, for her
long hair fell about it. At the window she turned
and sighed. A cold chill ran down my back, and
my mouth went dry. She crossed the room nearly
to the wall, and turned and sighed, came to the
window, turned and sighed again. The cold chills
raced down my back, my heart hammered at my
ribs, my scalp prickled with the rising hair, and a
cold sweat broke out on me. / was seeing what

36 ALICE DEVINE

Mrs. Bulkeley had done before she threw herself
out of the window.

Paralyzed, I watched her cross and recross the
room a dozen times, noiseless but for sighs. A
rustle, ever so faint a rustle, would have made her
less uncanny somehow.

Presently my heart was not hammering so hard
against my ribs. I began to pull myself together;
and at last with a great effort, I said in a croaking
whisper : "What is it ? What do you want ?"

The dead woman never turned her head; she
crossed and recrossed the room and sighed.

Suddenly I let off a terrific sneeze.

At the sudden burst of sound, the figure started —
just the slightest start.

Slight as it was, it was enough for me. The
blood rushed through my veins again, and rage
drove it. I gathered myself together noiselessly,
flung off the blanket, and sprang clean over the foot
of the bed, and across the room. With a shriek
the ghost threw up her arms to ward me off; and
I clasped an armful of flesh and blood in a soft,
soundless woolen robe.

"You little wretch!" I cried, shaking her till her
teeth chattered, for I was furious.

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 37

"Don't! Don't! You're hurting me! Let me
go!" she cried, struggling.

"Not a bit of it! You want a good whipping!"
I cried. "Hanged — hanged if I don't kiss you!"
And I did.

"You brute !" she cried, and slapped my face with
a most unwraith-like vigor.

The slap sent me sneezing and sneezing, and she
took advantage of it to twist out of my grip. When
I had done sneezing my righteous anger had cooled
a little. I laughed ; rubbed my stinging cheek, and
said: "And now, my young friend, I'm going to
have a look at you."

I walked to the mantelpiece, struck a match,
lighted the candle and gazed round an empty room.

Not a creak of door or click of lock had marked
her going. I gasped and rubbed my eyes. Then I
examined the doors; both were locked and bolted.
I opened them, and looked out into the corridor and
dressing-room. They were empty, dark and silent.
I ran to the head of the stairs, and looked down
into silent blackness.

I came back into my room and trod on something
soft. It was a slipper of knitted wool. No wonder
she had been noiseless. My unsophisticated gum

38 ALICE DEVINE

millionaire had provided against everything but my
sudden leap.

I locked and bolted the doors again, and went to
bed. I thought for a while about the ghost — she
had a really charming voice — then I went to sleep.
When I was awakened by a knocking at my door,
the room was bright with sunshine. The disagree-
able butler conducted me to the bathroom. I took
the slipper with me. There might be a hunt for it
while I was in my bath.

When I had dressed I made another examination
of the walls. There was not a crack in them. I
went into the corridor and examined the outside of
them, and came into the dressing-room. I was just
turning back, for I had not unlocked it, when an
odd thing about the lock caught my eye. It had two
handles, a big one and a little one. I turned the
little handle, and the woodwork of the door swung
open, leaving the lock held in its place by its catch
and the shot bolt. I turned the little handle back,
and two little bolts shot up out of the top of it. They
held the lock in the woodwork of the door. It
was a most ingenious device; and it was any odds
that no one would think to look at the lock when
the door was opened, for it stood back against the

THE HOUSE THAT PAID NO RENT 39

wall. I should never have noticed it myself, had
I not left the door locked. No wonder my poor
uncle had been tricked — what a night he must have
had!

I had got all I wanted, and a trifle more, by look-
ing like an idiot. I did not trouble to put my eye-
glass in my eye and open my mouth. I came down-
stairs looking like a peer of ordinary intelligence.

Scruton came hurrying out of the library into the
hall; and he looked as if he were ready to sympa-
thize deeply.

I said cheerfully : "Ah, Scruton, good morning.
The young woman you employ as ghost is quite
kissable, but she has rather large feet." And I
waved the woolen slipper at him.

"Young woman! What young woman? What
do you mean ?" cried Scruton, and his surprise was
very well done.

I laughed and went on down the hall toward the
door.

"There was only one young woman in the house
last night, the under-housemaid . . . Jennings.
Where is Jennings, Wheatley?" he said, turning
to the butler.

"I've not seen her this morning, sir. She had

40 ALICE DEVINE

gone out when I got up, and she hasn't come back,"
said Wheatley; and when I came to look at him,
I saw that he had the same New Zealand kind of
look as his master. They were both in it.

"Has this wretched girl been playing this ghost
trick ; on us all? It's monstrous! I'll prosecute
her!" cried Scruton.

He was a good actor.

"She's an awfully good locksmith, too," I said
gently. "That trick lock on the dressing-room door
is a marvel. Send round that rent, please."

Scruton and his butler gaped at each other. I
opened the door and went down the steps.

Later in the morning came a note from Number
9. It contained a check for the rent with just
Scruton's compliments.

CHAPTER III

THE ANARCHISTS

I THOUGHT about the ghost-girl for several
days. She was no more a housemaid than I
was; housemaids don't have voices like that, and it
was her voice that chiefly stuck in my mind. I kept
an eye, or rather both eyes, through my uncle's
field-glasses, on Number 9, on the chance of seeing
her come out of it. I wanted to see whether her
face matched her voice.

All the while I was hard at work; and I did not
find work such a bore as I had expected. For one
thing, it was a change to have things to do that
had to be done, and its being a change softened it.
Besides, it was pleasant to find that I could do
things. Mugging up price lists of house-fittings
sounds an awful grind, but when I found that I did
get prices into my head, it did not bore me. I found
that knowkdge of price lists useful in interviewing
contractors.

41

42 ALICE DEVINE

Jack Thurman and I, but chiefly Jack, of course,
were not very long in discovering that, thanks to
the broad and generous ideas of Siddle and Wod-
gett, his house-agents, my uncle had paid through
the nose for the upkeep and repairs of the Gardens.
I felt that I could spend my money just as well as
my contractors could spend it for me. Therefore
I set about getting fresh estimates, and making
fresh contracts for all the work. Every contractor
came to his interview with an iron resolve to pull
my leg. Most of them seemed to want to lick my
boots, too, because I was a peer. But it was quite
clear that they were not going to let that fact, which
seemed to make the leg-pulling process so very easy,
interfere with it. The idea seemed to be to pull my
leg while they were licking my boots.

I just humored them. I stuck my eye-glass in my
eye, left my mouth open and drawled at them like
a perfect ass. After a dozen drawls the prices
soared and soared. Then I dropped my eye-glass,
shut my mouth and explained to them that I was
not going to pay fifty per cent, too much for things.
In the jar of the surprise I got better terms than I
should have done if I had not started with the eye-
glass.

THE ANARCHISTS 43

I was getting on nicely with the new contracts,
when there came the trouble with the kitchen-
ranges. Complaints about their kitchen-ranges had
come from seven out of the twenty-one houses in
the Gardens. An expert examined them for me,
and reported that they were nearly worn out. Jack
and I discussed the matter, and we decided that it
would save a good deal of money to buy twenty-
one kitchen-ranges, and have one contract for the
fixing of the lot. It would be far better than buy-
ing the seven needed at the moment and then two
or three at a time as others wore out. I mugged
up some price lists, and went forth to examine the
kitchen-range in its lair. They will not send kitchen-
ranges for your inspection.

I had had no idea that there were so many tricks
to a kitchen-range, or that to the inexperienced they
are such a tiresome business. The Rockies are not
in it with them ; I have tried both. All the morning
I looked at kitchen-ranges, and explored their tricks
till my head hummed with them. After Innch I
started out to see more at some works at Fulham.
I was bent on finding the best kitchen-range in
England before I interviewed a contractor about
putting them in.

44 ALICE DEVINE

At Hyde Park Corner we were held up by the
traffic going into the Park. When we started again,
Gaston, my chauffeur, asked me to stop. His acute
ear had paught something wrong with the sound of
the engine. I pulled up just in front of Saint
George's Hospital; he got out and raised the bonnet
of the car.

My mind was full of kitchen-ranges, and I was
paying no particular attention to anything outside
me. Then I saw the pretty girl and the children.
She was such a pretty girl that she cleared the
kitchen-ranges out of my mind. Her eyes were big,
and they shone like the stars . . . wonderful eyes
in the prettiest face ... a face like a flower.

The children were standing round her; a slip of
a girl about fourteen, pale-faced and thin, holding
a thin baby; a boy of eleven; and a thin little girl
of seven or eight. They were very poor children,
and, judging from their patched clothes, they did
not belong to the pretty girl. She was dressed very
simply but prettily in a light summer frock, and she
was wearing it as if she knew how to wear clothes.
The children were watching her anxiously.

I just glanced at them, but stared at her. I could
not help it. She did not notice it — she did not

THE ANARCHISTS 45

see me. She was in trouble of some kind, and was
frowning anxiously as she grappled with one of
those out-of-the-way pockets women love.

She stopped grappling with it, and her eyes shone
brighter than ever because there were tears in them,
and the corners of her mouth drooped.

"I'm so sorry, children, dear," she said. "But
I've lost my purse, and I shan't be able to take you
after all. It's no good my going home for more
money; it was my last half-sovereign."

Her voice matched her eyes — it was charming.
But the odd thing was, I seemed to know it, yet I
could not think where I had heard it.

The elder girl looked at her in a way that made
me feel uncomfortable, it was so despairing. Then
she lifted the baby so that he was against her face,
hiding it, and her shoulders shook. The little girl
burst into a howl, and the boy stamped on the pave-
ment once, hard. The pretty girl blinked her eyes,
and I saw her teeth catch on her quivering lips. It
was like the end of a sad play, only it made me ever
so much more uncomfortable, and I stepped out of
the car.

The boy pulled himself together, and said in a
husky voice to the elder girl: "Buck up, Cherlie!

46 ALICE DEVINE

Don't tyke on. We'll go inter the Park, an' Miss
Alice'll plye wiv us."

"The Park ain't Kew Gardings! It ain't Kew
(Gardings !" wailed the little girl.

"What's the matter?" I said.

The boy looked me up and down distrustfully;
and I fancied he liked my face better than my
clothes. Then he said:

"Miss Alice's lost 'er purse with 'alf-a-suvrin'
in it. She was tyking hus to Kew Gardings for a
treat — an' now she can't."

The elder girl took her face, wet with tears, out
of the baby's frock, and said in a heart-broken voice :
"It's Steppie! Steppie's never bin furder out of
London than Kensington Gardings ; an' 'e was look-
ing forward to it so." I gathered that Steppie was
the baby. "And Verie was lookin' forward to it,
too. But she's bin to Kew Gardings once . . .
when she was older nor Steppie. She remembers
them, though." And the tears ran down her cheeks.

"I wants to go agyne — now," wailed Verie.
"There was a squir'l in a tree."

The boy turned to her and said gruffly : "It ain't
no use you tykin' on, Verie — it ain't really. The
morn's gorn."

THE ANARCHISTS 47

Verie broke into a louder howl; Cherlie sobbed
twice; and I feared that the baby would join in.

I turned to the pretty girl, raised my hat and
said : "This is a regular tragedy, don't you know ?
And it's got to be stopped. Suppose we take them
out into the country in my car?"

She drew back, frowning a little ; and I went on :
"I can't handle them myself, don't you know. I
couldn't give them a good time."

She looked from me to the children, and from the
children to me; she wrung her hands, and said
softly: "Oh, dear— oh, dear!"

It was hard for her, of course, to make up her
mind what to do . . . Whether she ought to go
motoring with a perfect stranger, or let the children
slide?

I did not say anything; it was the kind of thing
she must settle for herself. She looked at them
again, and the children won.

Her face cleared, she smiled at me, and she said :
"Oh, it would be good of you! It is such a cruel
disappointment for them."

I turned to the children, and said : "It's all right.
I'm going to take you into the country — the real
county — in my motor-car."

48 ALICE DEVINE

Verie stopped howling. Charlie's eyes opened
wide, and so did her mouth, and I never saw such
thankfulness in any one's face before.

"Oh, Steppie, the real country . . . Steppie in
the real country . . . where the cows are!" she
said, in a whispering voice.

"In you get," I said cheerfully. And the two
girls stepped quickly toward the car.

" 'Ere, 'old on ! Wyte a bit !" said the boy. "She
don't mind, Miss Alice don't, but this gov'ner won't
want to tyke the likes of us." Then turning* to me,
he added sternly: "We're anarchists, we are — and
don't you myke any mistyke abart it!"

Cherlie stopped with the thankfulness dying out
of her face, and she looked at the boy as if he had
to be obeyed. Verie looked at him, scowled at him
defiantly, and climbed into the tonneau.

"Come .out of it, Verie!" he said sternly.

"Oh, Robbie, don't you think we might . . .
just fer once? Think of Steppie in the country,"
said Cherlie, in such a pleading voice that it gave me
a lump in my throat.

"Oh, that's all right! I don't mind!" I said
quickly. "Anarchists ... I rather like 'em. In

THE ANARCHISTS 49

fact, I'm a bit of an anarchist myself. I never could
stick the House of Lords — never — give you my
word. I tell you what — I'll be a full-blown anarchist
myself all the afternoon."

I said it straight off without a break, for the chil-
dren had got to go.

"Strite?" said the boy.

"Straight," said I.

"If it's like that, thank yer, gov'ner," said the boy
with a grunt of thankfulness. And he grinned all
over his face as he held Cherlie's arm while she got
into the car.

I held open the door for Miss Alice.

"It is good of you," she said, as she stepped into
it. And she looked at me in a way I couldn't have
deserved if I had given the children a house in
Garthoyle Gardens and an income to keep it up.

"Harrod's!" I said to Gaston, and got in after
her.

The tonneau is big; but it was only when I saw
how much room the children left on the broad seat
that I realized what thin little things they were.
As we settled down I took stock of them. I saw
that there were a great many patches in their clothes.

50 ALICE DEVINE

But their faces were clean, and all the more recent
dirt had been scrubbed off their discolored little
claws. They were claws.

It struck me that there had been a lot of careful
preparation for their jaunt to Kew.

They were sitting rather stiffly, looking very seri-
ous, as if they were a bit overcome by the grandeur
of their position. They were still busy getting used
to it when we came to Harrod's.

Gaston stopped the car; I stepped out and went
to the provision department, said that I wanted a
picnic hamper for a dozen children, and that it must
have lots of nourishing food in it, chickens and
tongues. Also I wanted a kettle and tea-things;
and I wanted it now — right away — my car was
waiting. They know me in that department, and
they bustled. In about five minutes I followed
the hamper out, saw it set in front, beside Gaston,
and got into the car.

"Chipperfield Common," I said to Gaston.

Verie's words about a squirrel in a tree had sug-
gested it to me ; and he set the car going.

The children had been chattering in an excited
way when I came out of Harrod's; but when I got
into the car, they turned stiff again.

THE ANARCHISTS 51

Then Robbie broke the ice by saying: "My!
Ain't it fine ? A real motor-car !"

Cherlie bent down to the baby in her lap, and said :
"In a motor-car, Steppie . . . ridin' in a
motor-car!"

"So you're anarchists, are you?" I said, to set
them going.

All their faces turned to me; and Robbie said
promptly : "Yes, we're anarchists, and so's father.
My name's Robespierre Briggs . . . after 'm
what myde the French Revolution. And Cherlie's
name is Charlotte Corday Briggs ; and Verie is Vera
Sassiliwitch Briggs . . . after 'er wot threw
bombs at the Czar. And Steppie. . . . He's
Stepniak Briggs. He threw bombs, too."

"I'm going to throw bombs when I grow up,"
said Verie.

"And so am I when Steppie's grown up enough
not to want me lookin' after 'im any more," said
Cherlie in a cheerful voice.

"An' I'm goin' to myke bombs for 'em to tKrow.
I've got a book on chemistry, and father 'elps me
to learn it in the evenin's," said Robbie.

"Well, they are a desperate band !" I said to Miss
Alice.

52 ALICE DEVINE

She was looking at them with pitiful eyes; and
she said : "I think it's rather dreadful."

"But if you throw bombs, you'll go to prison!"
I said to the children.

"Yes, but then we'll be martyrs of the Revolu-
tion, an' that's a glorious thing to be," said Robbie.

"P'raps we'll be 'anged," said Verie cheerfully.

"An' if you're 'anged, you're hever so much more
a martyr of the Revolution," argued Robbie.

"I'm goin' ter throw bombs at ministers," said
Verie. "I told Carrie Evans I was goin' ter throw
a bomb at 'er minister, an' she pulled my 'air."

"There you go agyne, Verie. You do mix things
up so," said Robbie in a vexed tone. "I keep telling
yer that it's Cabinet Ministers, and not chapel min-
isters as you throw bombs at."

"Carrie Evans said she'd got a minister, an' I
said I'd throw a bomb at 'im, an' she pulled my 'air;
an' I will throw a bomb at 'im," said Verie firmly.

"She won't understand; an' I've told her agyne
and agyne," said Robbie in a tone of aggravation.

"I'm goin' ter throw a bomb at Carrie Evans's
minister when I grow up," said Verie in a sing-song.

Cherlie had been holding Stepniak up and pointing
things out to him. Now she cried: "Look!

THE ANARCHISTS 53

There's a cow! Look, Steppie! Look! There's
a cow in a field."

The sight diverted the minds and talk of the other
anarchists from bombs, and little by little, as it slid
deeper into the country, the car became a perfect
babel. They were all calling to one another at once
to look at this and look at that; and all at the same
time asking us questions about what they saw. Al-
ways there was something fresh; and the eyes of
the anarchists grew bigger and bigger.

Miss Alice was charming with them. She an-
swered their questions, her pretty eyes hunted the
countryside for things to point out to them. Her
face was glowing with pleasure at their pleasure. I
did enjoy looking at it, and helping her find fresh
things for the anarchists to admire.

But all the while her voice bothered me. I could
have sworn that I had heard it before; but 'for the
life of me, I could not remember when or where.
It was odd, too, that I did not believe that I had
ever seen her face before. I could not have forgot-
ten it if I had : for I never forget a pretty face; and
I can very soon recall when and where I have seen
it before. It was certainly strange that I should
know her voice and not her face.

54 ALICE

Bushey and Watford gave the children a rest
from their excitement. Once in the streets again,
they did not trouble even to look about them. They
gave their eyes a rest; and they sat back, telling one
another again and again of things they had seen.

In the middle of it, Robbie said: "What's yer
nyme, gov'ner? We can call Miss Alice by her'n;
but we don't know your'n to call yer by."

I hesitated a moment; then I said: "My name's
Garth."

Somehow I couldn't say Lord Garthoyle. . . .
It did not seem to go at all with these children.
Besides, all my friends call me Garth; and it is my
business name. After all I had come out to buy
kitchen-ranges for Garth and Thurman.

When we came out of Watford into the country
again, the anarchists again grew excited ; and I grew
yet more friendly with Miss Alice, helping her to
tell them things. We reached Chipperfield Common,
all rather hot and out of breath, though we had
been sitting still for nearly an hour. But when
once the anarchists were out of the car, on the
Common itself, among the flowers and the pine-
trees, they just went mad. Robbie and Verie ran
round us in rings, screaming; and Cherlie jumped

THE ANARCHISTS 55

up and down, with her eyes starting out of her head,
as she tried to point put to the staring Stepniak
everything at once.

"Look "here, they're going mad ! What are we
going to do with these mad anarchists?" I said to
Miss Alice.

'They won't go mad, they're too nappy," she saidz
smiling at me.

"Well, it's your show, not mine. You'll take the
responsibility," I said.

"Oh, no, no! It's your show. They owe it to
you. I could never have given them anything like
this," she cried.

"Not a bit of it. It's your idea altogether. I
should never have dreamt of it. Therefore it's your
show. And it's awfully fine of you to do this kind
of thing."

"Fine ? Why, I love it !" she cried.

"I expect you do love fine things," I said.

She turned away from my eyes with a little blush.
I fancy I was looking what I thought of her.

"Cherlie, give Steppie to me. You must want to
run about with the others," she said.

She gave Steppie a finger, and I gave him another ;
and he toddled along between us like a kind of link.

56 ALICE DEVINE

"How did you meet these anarchists?" I said.

"I found them in the Park one afternoon, and
then they came several times to see me, and by de-
grees I've got to know them quite well. They are
such nice children."

"And I suppose you have spent all your pocket
money on them ever since?"

"I haven't enough to do anything really for
them," she said with a sigh. "I can only give them
a treat now and then — tea and cakes. The expedi-
tion to Kew was quite out of the common — a great
affair. At least it would have been, if it had come
off. But this is much better — absolutely splen-
did. . . ."

"Have you many of these proteges, or are these
all?" I said.

"There are two other lots of small children I have
found in the Park; but they're not so poor as the
Briggses and not nearly so interesting."

"That anarchist talk is rather strong, though."

"Oh, do you think so? Don't you think it's very
natural ... for them? Why, even I ...
sometimes . . . when I think of the wretched,
poisonous life these children lead ... I feel I
cpuld be an anarchist myself."

THE ANARCHISTS 67

"And throw bombs ?" I said.

"Yes; I feel that I could," she said quite seriously.
"There are thousands and thousands of children
like them. But, of course, you don't understand.
. . . You haven't seen them faint with hunger."

"Things do seem wrong. I wonder that the Gov-
ernment doesn't do something to stop it," said I.

"Things are so stupid . . . so utterly stupid,"
she said, frowning.

We were silent a while. I was thinking that I
might look into this matter of the children a little.
I was finding my work as house-agent not half bad.
I might put in a little work in the House of Lords,
and try to get this matter of the children looked
into. In the meantime I might arrange a series of
anarchist outings ; and she might help me with them,
as she was helping me this afternoon. And I wanted
her to help me very much. I did like the way she
carried herself; and she walked so lightly.

We went on among the pines slowly, to suit Stej>-
niak's toddles, and the other anarchists kept rushing
up to show us the wonderful things they had found,
or to shout at us the wonderful things they had
seen. She kept smiling at them, and encouraging
them, and congratulating them on their finds.

58 ALICE DEVINE

Then we came to the pool of the Twelve Apostles ;
and she said : "|You have brought us to a beautiful
place."

"I never saw it look so beautiful," I said; and I
never had. I had never seen it with her in it before.

I think she understood, for she flushed a little.

"Fancy being able to motor here any day you
like, and to be able to bring children — children
like these — with you! Oh, if only I could do
things like that for the children!" she said.

I nearly offered then and there to put myself and
my cars at her disposal as often as she wanted us.
But I am not impatient ; and I thought it wise to go
slow. If I tried to hurry things, it was very likely
that I should spoil it all.

Then Verie came rushing up, purple with joy,
screaming: "There's a squir'l in a tree! There's
a squir'l in a tree ! Bring Steppie to see the squir'l !"

I picked up Stepniak, and we hurried off to see
the squirrel, Miss Alice as excited and delighted as
the anarchists. We all tried in an excited way to
(get Stepniak to see the squirrel; I grew as keen on
making him see it as Cherlie and Miss Alice. They
were sure he saw it ; I was not ; and we argued about
it almost in a heated way. Stepniak seemed awfully

THE ANARCHISTS 59

solemn for his age, and I did not believe that he
was really keen on seeing a squirrel. Miss Alice
said I underrated his intelligence.

The squirrel took us to a tree where he found two
other squirrels, and they played about in it. The
anarchists were a long time getting tired of watching
them, and I found it was nearly four o'clock.

"Hadn't they better have tea now ?" I said to Miss
Alice. "Then they will be ready for supper before
we start back. They may as well have two meals
while they are about it. They look as though they
could do with them."

"Oh, you do have good ideas ! That will be splen-
did!" she said; and her eyes shone brighter than
ever.

"It's just common sense," I said. "By the way,
is Alice your Christian name or your surname?"

"It's my Christian name ; my surname's Devine,"
she said, with a shade of hesitation.

"I suppose you spell it with an V? You ought
to," I said firmly.

"No; it's spelt with an V ; and that's how it ought
to be spelt," she said, smiling.

"With an 'i,f " I said.

"With an 'e/ " said she.

60 ALICE DEVINE

"Well, I know best, but we won't argue about it,"
said I.

We went back in a body to. the car. Gaston had
got hot water for the tea, and a big jug of milk for
the anarchists. I thought that a fire would be better
fun for them than a spirit stove, and they grew im-
mensely excited about it There seemed to be no
limit to their power of getting excited.

When it had burned up a little we began to un-
pack the hamper.

We laid the table-cloth between two pine-trees,
and set the knives and forks and teacups on it.
Then Alice took a cake out of the hamper. At the
sight of it the children, who had been crying out
to one another how pretty the cups were, and how
the spoons and forks shone, suddenly were quite
silent. We paused in our unpacking and looked at
them. They were staring at the cake in a painful
kind of way, with a horrible craving in their eyes.
They made me think of hungry little wolves. Verie's
mouth was working as if she were already eating.
Then Stepniak wailed, and held out his hands.

"Why . . . Why . . . They must have been
hungry all the white ... All the time they have
been laughing and screaming and enjoying them-

THE ANARCHISTS 6t

selves. . . . Hungrier than ever I was in my life
... all the way from town," I said, more than a
bit shocked.

"Yes . . . they forgot it. How dreadful!"
said Alice in a hushed voice.

She had turned rather pale.

It took me about five seconds to cut up that cake
and hand it round. To see the look of thankfulness
on those children's faces as their mouths filled made
me feel positively beastly.

"Steady, now, children! Don't wolf it," I said.

I might just as well have spoken to real wolves.

Alice had already mixed a cup of cake and milk
for Stepniak, and was feeding him slowly. I got
out a dish of chicken and tongue, and a pile of
bread and butter, and sat the children down to it.
They seemed to find cutting up the slices of meat too
slow for their appetites. When they got a leg or
wing-bone, they just took it in their fingers and
gnawed it happily.

Alice kept saying: "Gently, children.
Gently ! Don't eat so fast, please."

They looked at her in a helpless sort of way, as if
they would have liked to do as she wanted, but could
not. I did not get out any more food, and when

62 ALICE DEVINE

they had come to the end of that, I said : "Nothing
more to eat for five minutes. Come along and let's
boil the kettle."

They came, and were interested in the boiling of
the kettle and the making of the tea; but all the
while they kept looking at the hamper as if they
couldn't keep their eyes off it. When the five min-
utes were up, their eyes still glistened at the food,
but they ate it slower. They did enjoy it. But it
was only toward the end of the meal that Cherlie
remembered their manners and reminded them
sternly. When Stepniak was full he went to sleep,
and when the other anarchists were full, they lay
on their sides, looking drowsy and very happy, talk-
ing in jerks about the chicken and cakes.

They were not quiet long; they were soon on
their feet again, and running about, leaving us to
talk to each other. I had made up my mind that
after all I had never heard Miss Devine's voice
before, but I did not find it any the less pretty.
We talked about the children. She told me that
they were motherless; that their 'father worked
'for a sweating tailor, and that his earnings were
wretched. We talked over the whole state of things
in the slums; but of course we did not know how

THE ANARCHISTS 63

it was to be stopped. Only it was plain that that
was what the Government was there for; we were
both sure of that; and I began to think seriously
about going down to the House of Lords and look-
ing into the matter. I might put the fat m the
fire, and get a little quiet fun out of doing it

Then Robbie came running up, very eager, and
said: "Will you come and plye anarchists wiv
us, Miss Alice? [There ain't no one to throw
bombs at!"

.We rose; and I said, "This is a new game. How
do you play it?"

"She knows. She's plyed it wiv us in the Park,"
said Robbie, and he ran off.

"It's very simple," she said, smiling. "They
throw bombs at us, and we fall down dead."

"It sounds a cheerful game," said I.

We walked along the pines, and, suddenly, with
loud cries of "Bang!" the hidden anarchists threw
bombs of bracken at us. We fell down dead, and
the anarchists fled, yelling joyfully, to their lairs.
Then we rose, and they stalked us again, and threw
more bombs at us.

When they threw the fifth lot of bombs, to make
it a little more realistic, Alice gave a little scream.

64 ALICE DEVINE

I fell down all right, but I got up very slowly,
almost as upset as if the bombs had been real. I
knew now where I had heard her voice; the scream
had brought it back to me. She was the ghost-girl
— the girl whom Scruton had employed as ghost to
frighten me into letting him live there rent-free
at Number 9. So she had screamed when I sprang
across the bedroom and caught her.

I was sick. When I got up, I found that a kind
of dulness had come over the Common, though I
suppose the sun was shining as bright as ever.
This girl had taken a hand in Scruton's shady
game; she actually had helped him trick my uncle
out of a quarter's rent.

It seemed just incredible, but it wasn't. I could
swear to the ghost-girl's voice among a million
voices; and it was the voice of Alice Devine. I
looked at her, and sure as I was, it was hard to
believe it She looked too pretty; far too pretty,
with her flushed face and shining eyes, to have been
mixed up in a shady game like that. She was so
happy because the children! were happy. And then
the way she had treated those children — spending
her last half-sovereign to take them to Kew; trying
all she knew to give them a good time. It was past

THE ANARCHISTS 65

understanding; it did not go with that ghost trick
at all. I must be wrong. But I wasn't.

We went on playing at anarchists, but I had lost
interest in the game. Then the children tired of
it. We sat down on the bank of the pool, and she
told them stories. For anarchists they seemed to
me uncommonly fond of fairies. I did not listen
much to the stories, though she told them very
well. The ghost trick was worrying me. . . . The
stories did not fit in with it ... and I was glum.
She seemed to see that something had gone wrong
with me, fof two or three times she looked at me
in a questioning way.

I was glad when we set about giving the an-
archists their supper. It took my mind off the
ghost trick. They were very hungry again; and
she was hungry, too, and enjoyed her supper thor-
oughly. I wished I had thought to bring some
champagne for her.

Supper refreshed the anarchists, and we played
hide-and-seek in the twilight. It ought to have
been delightful playing hide-and-seek with Alice
Devine among the pines, but the ghost trick stuck
in my mind. It had spoilt everything.

It was dusk when we started back to town. I

66 ALICE DEVINE

carried the sleeping Stepniak to the car, for the
ghost-girl and Cherlie had about run their legs
off. At the car the anarchists lingered a little as
though they could not drag themselves away from
the Common. In the car they chattered for a
little about the things they had seen, and done, and
eaten.

Cherlie said: "Oh, it was a beautiful day!
Such a beautiful day for Steppie!"

Then they all fell asleep in a lump.

The ghost-girl took the sleeping Stepniak from
the sleeping Cherlie. I covered the sleeping chil-
dren with a rug, and drew another round ourselves.
We sat quiet for a while, and I could see her eyes
shining. Then she began to talk about the an-
archists again, and the children like them. . . .
How she wished she could take a hundred of them
into the country every day, and feed them. Her
voice grew angry and thrilling as she talked of what
a shame it was that they should live half-fed and
half-clothed in the pigsties they did. But somehow
or other I had lost my keenness, and I did not think
any more about the House of Lords.

She was sincere enough in her talk, and that
again did not go with the ghost trick. All the time

THE ANARCHISTS 67

she talked I kept thinking of it; and two or three
times it was on the tip of my tongue to ask her
why she had played it. But I pulled myself up.
She said she had had a beautiful time; why should
I spoil the end of it?

We ran into London, and the children slept on.
I could see her face again now in the light of the
lamps. She told me that the anarchists lived in
Lambeth, in one room with their father; and on
the way she helped me slip the gold out of my
sovereign-case, wrapped in a tenner, into the pocket
of the sleeping Cherlie.

Then we awoke Robbie to guide us; and he
piloted the car through very dirty streets to the
very dirtiest. As we pulled up, a man came rush-
ing out of the house, and cried in a frightened shaky
voice: "My Gord! Which of 'em's bin run over?"

"We're all right, father. We've bin for a
moter-ride in the country," said Robbie in an im-
portant voice.

"Lor'! what a turn the car did give me! I
thought for cert'in as 'ow one of yer 'ad bin run
over," said Mr. Briggs, and he panted.

We helped the sleepy children out, and their
father took Stepniak. He stood looking rather

68 ALICE DEVINE

dazed from the fright the car had given him, and
they huddled round him, telling him of their after-
noon. I pulled the hamper out of the car — there
were a couple of meals left in it — and set it down
beside them.

Cherlie was saying: "Think of it, father!
Steppie in the country. . . . The real country . . .
all the afternoon. An' ridin' in a moter-car!"

I told Gaston to start the car, to get off before
the thanks began. As it slid away we called back,
"Good night, children!" And they called good
night to us, shrilly, again and again.

I was glad, very glad, that I had been able to
give them a good time; but I did wish that I had
not found out that Alice Devine was the ghost-
girl.

When we came out of the slums, I said: "And
now, where shall I drive you home ?"

"Garthoyle Gardens, please," she said.

"Oh, you live in Garthoyle Gardens? Do you
know Lord Garthoyle himself?" I said.

"No. Is there a Lord Garthoyle? I didn't
know," she said.

She was certainly speaking the. truth; and it
made things more puzzling than ever. She ha<?

THE ANARCHISTS 69

evidently played the trick on me without knowing
who I was. It was a good thing I had been as
hoarse as a crow that night, and therefore she had
not recognized my voice as I had recognized hers.
That would certainly have robbed the anarchists
of their afternoon. Besides, there was that kiss.

At the end of the Gardens she asked me to stop,
and I helped her out of the car. The light fell
full on her face and shining eyes as she thanked me
for having given the children such a happy after-
noon. Then she paused. I felt that she was wait-
ing for me to suggest taking them out again, but
I would not arrange anything of the kind.

I could keep an eye on the anarchists — I knew
their address. I could send them money at times
or I might find a job for their father down at Gar-
thoyle. But at the moment I did not want to see
Miss Devine again. At least I did want to; but
I thought I had much better not.

"Good night, and again thank you a thousand
times," she said, and held out her hand.

I shook it and said good night. She turned and
walked away. A few steps off I heard her sigh.

I got into the car feeling very gloomy. If only
I had not recognized her as the ghost-girl!

CHAPTER IV

THE HIEROGLYPHICS AT NO. 12

IT is curious how I went on feeling annoyed that
Alice Devine was the girl who had played the
ghost trick on me. I had only spent an afternoon
and part of an evening with her, and during most
of that time I had been occupied with the anar-
chists; yet the fact that she was the ghost-girl
stuck in my mind and became a rankling grievance.
It began to spoil my temper; and I was getting
quite morose.

Jack Thurman, too, was in a gloomy state about
something or other, and when, one day, I cursed
things generally, he surprised me by agreeing with
everything I said.

My grievance about the ghost-girl seemed to af-
fect everything. It made me less keen on running
the Gardens, and even my polo bored me. How-
ever, I got my twenty-one kitchen-ranges, and
made a very fair contract for the fixing up of them

70

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 71

in the twenty-one houses, not all at once, but one
at a time. Also I sold the twenty-one old kitchen-
ranges at a very fair price to a Yorkshireman of
an unusually speculative turn of mind. At least it
seemed to me that he must be. What on earth
can there be in the way of openings for a worn-out
kitchen-range? However, it was not for me to
balk his fancy.

I had already found that being a house-agent
means continual work. Just as you think you have
:got everything cleared up for a week ahead, some-
thing fresh crops up, and it crops up every day of
that week. If there was not actually anything to
be done, there were always letters from fussy ten-
ants to answer.

Of all the tenants who ever rented a house, Sir
Marmaduke Ponderbury is the fussiest I sup-
pose that I get eight fussy letters a week from him;
and the only consolation is that they are typewrit-
ten and easy to read — not like Lady Pedders' — be-
cause he ambles about in public affairs, and keeps
a secretary to write his correspondence. One morn-
ing there came from him a letter addressed to me
personally, and not to Garth and Thurman. It
ran:

72 ALICE DEVINE

"DEAR LORD GARTHOYLE,

"I am addressing myself to you personally
and not to Messrs. Garth and Thurman, because
you are one of my own order. I am sorry to have
to inform you that circumstances have arisen which
will compel me to abandon the rest of the lease
of this house. Hieroglyphics are written nearly
every day on the inside wall of my porch; and I
have the gravest suspicion of their purport. I will
do myself the honor of calling on you at twelve
o'clock to acquaint you with the matter. Under
these circumstances, you will not be surprised by
my requesting you to release me from the rest of
my tenancy; and I am sure that, making the re-
quest to one of my own order, it will not be re-
fused.

"Yours sincerely,

"MARMADUKE PONDERBURY."

"What does the preposterous old idiot mean?"
I said; and I read the letter aloud.

Miss Wishart, my stenographer and bookkeeper,
smiled; Jack Thurman laughed.

"He can't suppose that I'm going to let him off
his rent because somebody scrawls on the wall of
his porch?" I said.

"Can't he, though?" said Jack. "You don't know
old Ponderbury. He's the largest spoilt child in
England, and the most spoilt. His mother spoilt

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 73

him, his tutors spoilt him, he never went to a
school or a university; his wife spoilt him; he has
always lived surrounded by the oiliest gang of
sycophants the world holds; and they spoil him
worse. He believes that the world was made for
him, and that he's the most important man in it,
or, at any rate, will be, when he's got the peerage
he's after. I've heard him say the most incredible
things — quite incredible. The only person who
doesn't spoil him is Mur ... his daughter; and
he hates her."

I was a little surprised. Jack does not often let
himself go; and his eyes were sparkling, and he
was scowling.

"Oh, you know them?" I said.

"Yes, I know them," said Jack, scowling worse
than ever.

"What does he mean by calling me one of his
own order ? His father got the baronetcy for mak-
ing crockery," I said.

"The old snob thinks himself the born aristocrat
of the bluest blood. He's trying to get a peerage
to make it bluer."

"These new rich ones make me feel tired «vcry
time," I said.

74 ALICE DEVINE

"Then old Ponderbury should make you collapse.
He's the most tedious old swollen-headed rotter that
breathes!" said Jack savagely.

"tYou seem to have made up your mind about
him fairly distinctly," I said.

"I have," said Jack.

"I suppose he has played the spoilt child with
you?"

"All over me," said Jack.

"And you say he has a daughter?" I said.

"Yes, he has," said Jack. And he hunched him-
self over the ledger he was working at, as if he did
not wish to talk about it.

When at five minutes past twelve I went to the
library to interview Sir Marmaduke, I thought it
well to stick my eye-glass in my eye, leave my mouth
open and look like an idiot. I though it probable
that Sir Marmaduke would be quite open with me;
but it was just as well to give him every encourage-
ment. We should get on quicker. We would start
the leg-pulling process without delay; and I should
know what he was up to without wasting time.

When I came into the room a large, round, gray
man bounced up out of a chair, and bounced across
the room at me; just bounced.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 75

"My dear Lord Garthoyle, I am charmed to make
your acquaintance," he squeaked in a high voice
which did not go with his round largeness. "But
I regret — I regret that it should be under these
painful circumstances — these extremely painful cir-
cumstances."

He seized my hand and waggled it flabbily in a
hand uncommonly like a big uncooked sole.

"How are you?" I drawled. "What — er — er —
are they ?"

He sat down slowly and solemnly; and I sized
up his large oblong, flabby face, and green eyes
under thin eyebrows at the bottom of a forehead
which ran well on to the top of his head, owing to
the retiring hair.

"These hieroglyphics — these menacing hiero-
glyphics," he squeaked.

"Ah, er — yes; the scrawls on your porch," I
drawled.

"Scrawls! No, no, Lord Garthoyle. I wish I
could think it. I tried to think of it as a freak of
some idle boy — even a hoax. They are hiero-
glyphics drawn with a deliberate intent."

"Does it matter?" I drawled.

"Matter? Matter? It is a most serious affair.

;6 ALICE DEVINE

But I see that you don't appreciate its seriousness
— its public importance. But perhaps you do not
follow public affairs — the affairs of the great world
• — with close interest?"

"They're not much in my line, don't you know,"
I drawled; and I opened my mouth a little wider.

"No, no. I quite understand. It is a weakness
of our order. I have always deplored that so large
a percentage of it should devote itself to other vo-
cations. Why, if the whole of our order devoted
itself to public affairs, we could absorb them. We
should have a monopoly. There would be no room
for those wretched middle classes and the rest of
the lower orders. Still, there are a few of us who
devote ourselves to public affairs. I myself have
figured largely in public life for many years, not
only as President of the Landlords' Defense
League, but in many other ways as the stanch op-
ponent of the forces which threaten our order with
destruction. I have made enemies — many danger-
ous enemies, by stemming the flood of Anarchy and
Socialism which is striving to sweep us away. I am
a barrier, Lord Garthoyle — a barrier." And he
paused to look tremendously impressive.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 77

"A barrier? Where they take tickets?" I
drawled, looking as puzzled as I could.

"No, no, no!" he squeaked, frowning. "I am a
barrier to the advance of that flood; I am the lion
in the path." He looked more like a codfish in the
path. "It can not move on to its task of fell de-
struction till it has overwhelmed me! It has recog-
nized this; and it is gathering its energies to sweep
me away."

"That's deucedly interesting," I said. "Are you
backing yourself not to be swept? I'm backing
the flood. What odds will you take?" And I pulled
out my betting-book and looked quite lively.

Sir Marmaduke was pulled up short ; he stuttered :

"This is not a matter for an idle w-w-wager. I've
n-n-never made a b-b-bet in all my life."

"It's never too late to begin," I said cheerfully;
and I drew out my pencil and opened the betting-
book.

"No, no, no! I'm not going to bet — I won't
bet!" he spluttered, pouting exactly like a spoilt
child which is not getting its own way. "I've come
about these heiroglyphics. You don't understand."

"But this is such a good bet for you, don't you

78 ALICE DEVINE

know," I said, looking quite lively. "Why, it's
the chance of a lifetime. If you lose, you don't
pay. Your executors pay."

"No, no, no!" he spluttered.

"Come, I'll lay you even money, and we'll fix a
time limit — say a year," I said.

"No . . . no!" he squeaked.

"Well, I'll make it nine months. I lay you even
money that they out you in nine months."

I pretended to be tremendously excited about it.

"No . . .no!" he almost squealed.

"But think what a comfort it will be to you when
the bomb bursts, or the knife jabs in your back, to
think that your executors will have to pay," I said
as persuasively as I could.

"I will not bet!" he squealed. "I came to talk
about these hieroglyphics, and you won't listen!"

"Oh, all right . . . fire away!" I said in a dis-
gusted tone.

He panted a little, and then he began: "These
hieroglyphics, are a warning and a threat. I am
sure, of it. When I first saw them I took no notice
of them beyond telling my butler to wipe them
away. He did so; they . . . were . . . renewed.
My suspicions were awakened ; they have been con-

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 79

firmed. The hieroglyphics are not only renewed,
when they are wiped away; they change. Every
three or four days, Lord Garthoyle, they change.
They grow more threatening. To-day there is a
distinct coffin and a bomb."

"That's — er — pretty thick, don't you know/' I
said.

"Thick? [Thick? It would appal the stoutest
heart And we can't find out who draws them.
One of the most astute firms of private detectives in
London has been watching the house night and
day for a fortnight. The hieroglyphics are drawn
under their very eyes. They must be. The affair
has grown so sinister that the time has come for
me to decide whether I should retire from the fight
or continue the conflict. There is a great meeting
of the Landowners' League shortly; if I speak out,
the forces of anarchy will dash themselves upon me.
But it has been suggested that I might speak out,
and then retire into a prudent seclusion for a few
months. That is why I have come to you. You
are a large owner of property; I am its chief de-
fender. Are you willing to stand by me if I pur-
sue this desperate course, by releasing me from the
rest of my tenancy? Then, when these miscreants

8o ALICE DEVINE

come along to accomplish their fell purpose, they
will be balked by an empty house."

"I think I'd rather not," I drawled. "Two thou-
sand a year is two thousand a year."

"But what is a paltry two thousand a year com-
pared with the enormous interests at stake — the
dearest interests of our order ? Consider that, Lord
Garthoyle. We owners of property stand or fall
together."

"I don't fall; the flood isn't put after me," I
said.

"But your order — you will surely stand by your
order?"

"You're doing the standing by, and I'm doing the
looking on — admiring, and all that sort of thing,
don't you know. Why, I shouldn't wonder if I
didn't manage to back the flood to out you for as
much as a monkey."

"But this is callousness," he said.

"Not a bit of it," I drawled. "But rent's so
uninteresting. It's the sort of thing that's bound
to happen. At least it always happened to me till
I came to live in my own house. There's no point
5n interfering with rent. But a bet's quite another
thing — more sporting — and I'll lay you . . ."

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 81

"I'm not going to bet! I'm not going to bet!
I keep telling you so!" he squealed. "And you
idon't realize that I'm making this proposal in your
own interest. You don't want to see Number 12
shattered with a bomb?"

"I don't mind. It's insured. In fact, I should
like to touch the Insurance Company for a bit. I'm
always shelling out to it," I said calmly.

"But the loss of life — surely you are not indif-
ferent to that?" he cried.

"No! Oh, no! I shall be very sorry, don't you
know. But it's your game. I don't put up the
stakes," I said.

He jumped up and began bouncing. He did
look uncommonly like a large gray, india-rubber
ball. And as he bounced he spluttered; and I
caught sentences about "Astonishing insensibility,"
"Blind to the clarion call of duty," and something
about Imperial Rome being wrecked by callousness.
There seemed to be a lot of the orator about him.

At last I said in a hopeful voice: "It's quite
likely they won't throw any bomb at all. They'll
just knife you on the quiet, or plug you from behind
with a revolver. I don't think you need worry about
Number 12. I shan't."

82 ALICE DEVINE

He stopped bouncing and stared at me with his
eyes wide open; and his face turned green in places.

"And is this the gratitude one gets from one's
order?" he said in a kind of squeaky whisper.

"Oh, I'm quite grateful," I said, smiling at him
pleasantly. "I should send — a what-d'ye-call-it ? —
a wreath to your funeral. I couldn't do less, don't
you know."

He went a, little greener; but he did not seem
to be able to find anything to say. I fancied I
was getting square with him for bothering me with
his fussy letters. Then I had a happy idea; I said
I would come and take a look at the hieroglyphics
myself, and I bustled him out of the house and
across to his own. He did not say much, he seemed
to be thinking hard; and he did not bounce. He
walked rather feebly. Two or three times he looked
back over his shoulder; I fancied he was looking
for that knife.

We came to Number 12, and went up into the
porch of it. On the left-hand, inside wall were
these figures, drawn in chalk:

JHE HIEROGLYPHICS 83

I looked at them and said: "I suppose this
thing on the right is what you call the coffin? I
don't call it a coffin; it might be anything, don't
you know. Is the round thing with the cross in
the middle the bomb?"

"^es; that is undoubtedly the rough drawing of
a bomb," he said in a fainting kind of voice.

"I don't see it a bit," I said. "What's the thing
next it?"

"An infernal machine," he said. .

The door opened, and a very pretty, dark-eyed,
dark-haired girl came out. As she came out she
looked quickly from us to the hieroglyphics, and
back again. I dropped my eye-glass and shut my
mouth. There was no point in looking like a per-
fect ass before her.

Sir Marmaduke introduced her to me as his
daughter Muriel, and I said: "I was just looking
at the hieroglyphics. I don't see that they're
coffins and bombs and infernal machines."

"I say they are, and Mr. Manders agrees with
me," said Sir Marmaduke solemnly, in a disagree-
able tone.

"Mr. Manders always agrees with you. They're
just scrawls," she said sharply.

84 ALICE DEVINE

"I never expect any sympathy or understanding
from you, Muriel. I do not look for it. We are
agreed that the figures are a coffin, a bomb, an in-
fernal machine, a bomb of a different pattern and
the figure four."

"I'm not agreed," I said. "I think they might be
anything."

"I'm sure that they're a chocolate-box, a hot-
cross-bun, a cake, a plum-pudding and the figure
four," said Miss Ponderbury.

"Of course I might have known it. I stand on
the verge of a tremendous peril; and all I get from
my daughter — my only daughter — is mockery!" he
snapped; and he was no longer greenish, but a nice
bright red.

"You're so silly, father. You let the Manders
humbug you about anything," she said.

"It is like you to sneer at my faithful friends!"
he snapped.

It did not seem to me that it was part of the duty
of the complete house-agent to assist at the family
scraps of his tenants; and I said in a loud voice, "I
think I'll just take these figures."

They stopped scrapping to watch me draw the

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 8$

figures in my betting-book. In the middle of it I
looked up and found Miss Ponderbury smiling at
me in an odd sort of way, as if she thought me silly
to bother with them.

With a little bow she said: "Good-by, Lord
Garthoyle. It is silly of you, father, to let the Man-
ders worry you about these scrawls." And she
went down the steps and along the pavement to-
ward Mount Street.

I was just finishing the drawings when a small
sharp-looking woman bustled out of the house and
went off down the pavement after her.

"That's got them," I said, putting my betting-
book into my pocket.

"It only remains to discover what the hiero-
glyphics mean as a whole," said Sir Marmaduke.

•

"They do look pretty bad," I said.

Sir Marmaduke looked very gloomy. He seemed
to be thinking about the funeral wreath.

"Perhaps you had better chuck it and go abroad,"
I said.

"Never! I will never desert my order!" he
squeaked; but he did not seem very full of en-
thusiasm.

B6 ALICE DEVINE

"Well, I'll bet fifty to forty that these anarchists,
if they are anarchists — will out you all right. Your
executors to pay," I said.

"I won't bet about such a thing! I consider the
suggestion monstrous," he squeaked furiously.

"Well, if you won't, you won't. But anyhow
I'll leave the bet open. You may change your
mind, you know," I said theer fully. "Good-by."

He said good-by peevishly.

I went home and into my office. I showed Jack
my drawings of the hieroglyphics, and he did not
take much interest in them. But he was interested
in Miss Ponderbury's scrap with her gutta-percha
papa, and said that she was treating him as he
wanted treating.

"Well, I hope I helped to frighten the silly old
india-rubber ball into some out-of-the-way corner
where he can't bother me with his infernal fussy
letters," I said.

"It's possible. Let's hope for the best," said
Jack.

We discussed the question (at least I did; Jack
did not seem interested in it) of who was playing
the trick on Sir Marmaduke.

At last Jack said: "It might be anybody. If

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 87

any one were introduced to the preposterous old
idiot, the first thing he would g<3 and do would be
to go and scrawl hieroglyphics on his porch wall."

"He is a bouncing temptation to the average
sportsman," I said.

It was plain that Sir Marmaduke's theory about
anarchists was rubbish, but to make quite sure, I
went round to see that rising young politician, my
cousin, Herbert Polkington, and asked him if Sir
Marmaduke Ponderbury were sufficiently impor-
tant for anarchists to throw bombs at.

Herbert is an austere fish, and meek; but at my
question his eyes flashed, his pasty face turned pink,
he thumped his table and cried: "Important!
Ponderbury important? If being the most pes-
tiferous old busybody in London, and badgering
everybody to be made a peer for it, is being im-
portant, then he is important. He pesters my
life out, since I'm one of the people who look after
the party rewards. I get hundreds of letters from
him, and he's always forcing himself on me here
and everywhere. I wish to heavens the anarchists
would blow him up !"

I had not seen Herbert so excited for years;
and I spent a good half-hour trying1 to persuade him

88 ALICE DEVINE

that it was a very serious matter and he ought to
come round to the Gardens and look at the hiero-
glyphics himself. He grew even more excited, re-
fusing to waste his time on doing anything of the
kind; and I left him ruffled.

He had cleared my mind of the last bit of un-
easiness about the hieroglyphics; but I decided to
back Ponderbury to get his peerage every time I
got the chance. A man who could so infuriate
Herbert that he turned rose-pink at just the men-
tion of his name, was dead certain of it He must
be a perfectly pertinacious beggar.

I soon had proof of it. I had five letters in the
next three days, begging me to stand by my order
and release him from his tenancy. Then he ad-
vertised in the Daily Mail, offering a hundred
pounds reward for information about the person
who scrawled the figures on the wall of his porch.

I laughed when Jack showed me the advertise-
ment; but I did not laugh when the Ponderbury
mystery, with pictures ajndi explanations of jthie
hieroglyphics, filled columns in the papers, and1 the
swarm of amateur detectives settled in the Gardens.
There were scores of them. There must have been

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 89

forty clean-shaven young men who looked like the
pictures of Sherlock Holmes-; there were dozens
of retired Army and Naval men, all trying to look
like born detectives, and there were about twenty
women, young, middle-aged and old — English and
foreign. I could not go out of the house without
getting nine piercing glances from eagle eyes, and
being dogged by half a dozen men and women to
my club. There was always a group in the porch
of Number 12, examining the scrawls, and twice
I saw Muriel Ponderbury in the window, watching
them with great enjoyment. I learned that Sir
Marmaduke was having a glorious time; his corre-
spondence was delivered in big sacks; and all the
papers called him "The man who stands by his
Order." It really looked as if the Government
would have to give him a peerage at once.

I went round and saw Herbert again, and asked
him if this was not so. He only turned rose-pink,
like a blushing debutante, as I told him — and cursed
me.

Then I met Ponderbury coming out of one of
my clubs — the Palladium; he bounced once and
squeaked: "England has responded nobly to my

90 ALICE DEVINE

peril, Lord Garthoyle. I have had letters from all
over the country, bidding me fight on against the
flood of anarchy."

"I'm still laying five to four on the flood. All
this will make them keener than ever to out you,"
I said.

"Never a word of sympathy or congratulation
from my own order," he squeaked. And he
bounced, pouting, down the steps.

There were no new hieroglyphics, for there were
always four or five amateur detectives in the porch
of Number 12. They were a nuisance. They were
all over the place; they were always being turned
out of the Numbers 10 and n. One had to be re-
moved by the police with a fire-escape from the roof
of Number 10. They positively nested in the trees
in the garden of the triangle which overlooked the
porch, and they fought one another for places in
the shrubbery opposite it. But since they were al-
ways there, on the watch, they prevented any new
hieroglyphics being written, and began to lose their
keenness. They grew fewer and fewer quickly; and
in a few days the last one had gone.

The very next morning, on the same wall of Sir
Marmaduke's porch, there wjas a freshly-scrawled

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 91

figure, the figure which he had called a bomb. This
one:

He must have wired the news to the evening
papers, for before noon the amateur detectives were
swarming again. And for the rest of the day they
were all over the place.

After dinner that night, I was strolling across
to the garden to smoke a cigar in the moonlight,
when I saw Muriel Ponderbury go through the gate
of it just in front of me. I strolled after her to
ask her the latest news of the hieroglyphics. She
passed out of sight round the corner of a shrubbery.
As I came round it I heard voices, and the sound
of a kiss; and I came right on to her and Jack
Thurman standing very close together. I was
naturally shocked to find that people kissed each
other in this exclusive garden; but I managed
to say a few kind words about the moonlight and
strolled on trying to look as if I hadn't been
shocked.

I had never guessed that Jack had a love affair.
But I was pleased to see that he was not letting

92 ALICE DEVINE

his barrister's brieflessness prevent him kissing a
pretty girl because she was the daughter of a very
rich man. It set me wishing that I had a love affair
myself; and somehow or other I found myself
staring at Number 9 where Alice Devine lived. The
house was lighted up: Scruton was evidently
giving a party. Then I caught myself wishing
that I went to his parties and met her. I pulled
myself up very short. It would never do to get
into the way of thinking about the ghost-girl. I
did not want to get into the mess of a lifetime.
I cleared out of the garden and the moonlight, off
to one of my clubs, and played an honest game of
auction bridge.

Next morning Jack said to me: "I say, I'd
rather you didn't tell any one you saw me with Miss
Ponderbury last night."

"I shouldn't dream of it," I said.

"We're going to be married as soon as she's of
age — in seven months. Her silly old dunderhead
of a father is dead against it. He's made her
promise not to write to me; and he employs the wife
of that sponger Manders to see that she never
speaks to me. We don't often get a chance of
meeting."

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 93

"I hope you make up for it when you do," I
said.

"Oh, we try. But it's hard work waiting," he
said.

"It must be," said I.

He said nothing- for a minute or two; then he
said: "It's time you were getting married your-
self."

"I know it is. But I stave it off — I stave it
off," I said; and I don't know why on earth I
should have seen a sudden picture of Alice Devine's
flushed face and shining eyes, just as I had seen
them on Chipperfield Common.

Parkhurst interrupted us to say that Sir Marma-
duke Ponderbury wanted to see me particularly, and
was waiting in the library. When I went into it
with my eye-glass in my eye, and my mouth well
open, he was standing before a window, bouncing
gently.

He turned and squeaked very shrilly: "Lord
Garthoyle, I've come to make a last appeal to you,
as one of my own order, to release me from my
tenancy."

"What's happened now? I thought you were
going so strong," I drawled.

94 ALICE DEVINE

He was a pertinacious beggar.

"The result of my defying these miscreants by
my advertisement is that yesterday there was a
single hieroglyphic — the figure of a bomb," he
squeaked. "It's the last warning. They will act
at once! Any minute! After a sleepless night I
have resolved to balk them by flight."

"Well, / don't object. I haven't got a bet with
you about it, or I might call on you to stick it out,"
I said.

"But my; rent — are you going to let me off the
rest of my lease ?" he squeaked.

"No; I'm not going to interfere with your pay-
ing your rent. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll
lay you seven to four now that, whether you bolt
or whether you don't, the flood of Anarchy outs

you."

i

He was looking rather green — he turned greener.
Then he bounced from side to side, two or three
times, and cried: "It's incredible! Absolutely in-
credible! If the ordinary landlord had refused, I
could have understood it. But that one of my own
order should refuse, when I'm fighting for that
order — it's incredible !"

"I'm not going to spoil sport, don't you know*

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 95

Here are you and these anarchists having a little
set-to, and I want to see the best man win. Come,
will you take seven to four that they out you?"
I said cheerfully.

"The sporting spirit is the curse of our order!"
he howled. And out of the room and down the
stairs he bounced.

Next morning I got a letter from him marked
"Urgent." It ran:

"The bomb has been drawn on the porch wall
again. In spite of the fact that the police are
watching the house. I fly this afternoon. Will you
release me from my tenancy?

"M. P."

I expected he had bounced all over his house, and
I wrote in the name of Garth and Thurman saying
that we could not see our way to let him off his
rent.

Later in the morning I strolled out into the gar-
den of the triangle to see what the amateur de-
tectives were doing. They were buzzing in a swarm
in front of Sir Marmaduke's house, in the porch,
on the pavement, in the roadway, and in the shrub-
bery of the central garden. About fourteen alter-

96 ALICE DEVINE

cations were going on in a lively way, and I waited
for a while in the hope of seeing a general scrap.
But there was nothing but altercations, and making
up my mind that amateur detectives are noisy, but
peaceful, I strolled on round the garden, to see how
the gardeners were doing their work.

In the middle of the garden I suddenly came on
the ghost-girl, and my heart gave quite a jump.
She was walking toward me, looking at the ground,
her pretty forehead wrinkled with a frown, think-
ing hard. I thought for half a second that I would
bolt before she saw me, then I thought that I would
do nothing of the kind. Then she looked up and
saw me and flushed.

We shook hands, and she said: "Have you too
come into the garden to find out about the hiero-
glyphics?"

"I'm af rain my brains wouldn't run to it," I said.

It was plainly on the tip of her tongue to ask me
what I was doing there, since only residents are
allowed in the garden, and of course she no more
knew that I lived in the Gardens than she knew
my name, or that I was the man on whom she had
played the ghost trick.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 97

She did not ask, she looked at me earnestly, and

I

said :

"Oh, Mr. Garth, you helped me to take those
poor children into the country when I had lost my
purse. I wonder if you'd help me now?"

"Of course I will," I said.

"I've found out the secret of the hieroglyphics,
but I don't quite know what to do."

"The dickens you have I" I cried.

"Yes. I want that hundred pounds reward
awfully — for some more poor children I've made
friends with. My stepfather said that it was quite
plain that the hieroglyphics were drawn by some
one who lived in Number 12. So I've been watch-
ing and watching the house with glasses. Yester-
day I found out that it is the pretty girl — Miss Pon-
derbury, I think it is — who writes them; and she
writes them for a dark young man with a big
hooked nose, who lives at Number 18."

Jack Thurman! That was his beak. It could
be no one else's. And as I thought of Sir Marma-
duke's terrors, and all the fuss in the papers, I
burst out laughing — all that fuss about a lovers'
signal code!

98 ALICE DEVINE

Miss Devine stared at me, and then she said:
"Yes, it is funny — all that fuss. But she did do it.
There was nothing on the wall of the porch at six
yesterday morning. At half past six she came out
of the house, stopped just a few seconds in the
porch and walked across into the garden. I slipped
out at the far gate, came down past the house, ran
up the steps, and saw the hieroglyphic on the wall."

"Excellent!" I said.

"I came back to the garden and went on watching.
I saw a housemaid find the hieroglyphic, and I saw
all the fuss that the servants and Sir Marmaduke
Ponderbury and the police made when the hiero-
glyphic was found. Sir Marmaduke was highly
excited, talked very shrilly, and jumped up and
down."

"He does bounce," I said.

"And I saw Miss Ponderbury go back into the
house soon after eight. Then at ten minutes to
nine the young man with the big nose came by, ran
up the steps, took one look at the hieroglyphic, and
came down the steps, looking ever so pleased. I
saw quite plainly from his face that he knew all
about it, that it was drawn for him. I'm quite sure
of it."

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 99

"So am I," I said. "You must claim the reward
at once."

"That's just the difficulty. It's why I want your
help, or rather your advice. Last night I saw Miss
Ponderbury and the young man in the garden here,
and they — and they — oh, well, they seemed very
fond of each other. It would be a shame to get
them into trouble. Yet I should like to get that
hundred pounds reward. What am I to do?"

"I see. You want that money, but you don't
want the path of true love to run rough. Let's
think," I said. But I did not find it easy to think
with her standing before me looking so charming
with her frowning, puzzled face.

"I think I see a way," I said presently. "But old
Ponderbury will be as mad as a hatter. He'll be
the laughing-stock of England. It will knock his
precious peerage on the head for good and all."

"His being angry is just what I'm afraid of,"
she said. "It is quite plain that he's already angry
with them, or they wouldn't have to meet secretly.
This will make him worse than ever."

"If you like to leave it with me, I think I can
work it without harming them; and I'll send Sir
Marmaduke's check along to you, if I get it."

ioo ALICE DEVINE

"It would be splendid if you could — a hundred
pounds! But you mustn't make trouble for those
two," she said.

"Oh, I won't do that. I wouldn't roughen the
path of true love on any account. I might be there
myself one of these days," I said.

"One never knows," she said, smiling.

*'And what have you been doing since the expe-
dition? And how are your young anarchists?" I
inquired.

She told me she had given some teas in Hyde
Park to two or three other lots of poor children,
and that the anarchist family of Briggs was going
very strong. She had been invited .to join Charlotte
Corday Briggs on a great shopping expedition ; and
from Robespierre to Stepniak the family was re-
splendent.

It was past one before we had finished our talk;
and she hurried away to lunch. I walked across to
Number 12, and was taken straight to Sir Manna-
duke, in a small room at the back of the house — out
of reach of the bombs. He was sitting in an arm-
chair, and looking as if he were out on a rough
sea, and it was not agreeing with him.

"Ah, at the last moment you have decided to

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 101

stand by your order, and release me from my
tenancy?" he said.

"No, I've come for the hundred pounds reward,"
I said.

"You've found the miscreants? Then I can
bring them to justice at once! I must act swiftly
and terribly! The country will expect it of me!
Their names?" And he was up and bouncing.

"Well, there's only one, and it's Miss Ponder-
bury," I said.

"Miss Ponderbury? My daughter?" he gasped.

"It seems you made her promise not to write to
my friend, Jack Thurman, and these hieroglyphics
are their signals."

"But this is monstrous !" he squeaked.

"It's very natural, don't you know?" I drawled.

"Incredible! Monstrous!" he squealed, bounc-
ing. "My own daughter! I'll have no more to
do with her ! I'll send her away ! She shall never
enter this house again!"

He went on for a long time about the ungrateful-
ness of tricking one's father; and I let him bounce
and squeal.

Then I said : "I should have thought you would
have been glad to be rid of your fear of anarchists."

102 ALICE DEVINE

"When I think of what I have suffered, I could
curse my daughter — curse her, Lord Garthoyle!"
he squeaked.

"Yes. That's all right; it's relieving," I said.
"But the worst thing is, your public work is spoiled
for good and all."

"Why, how?" he squeaked.

"When it comes to be known that you've made
all this fuss about some lovers' signals, you'll be
the laughing-stock of the country; and no one will
ever take you seriously again."

"I never thought of that," he gasped. And he
collapsed into his armchair.

I lighted a cigarette, and let him think of it;
then I said : "You won't be able to do any public
work at all, and you'll never get that peerage, un-
less you can hush it up."

"Yes, yes; you're right! I'll send my daughter
away at once — to-night," he cried.

"What good would that do? That wouldn't
shut Jack Thurman's mouth. It would open it.
You've got to shut it," I said.

"Curse that young man! Curse him!" he
squeaked.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 103

"Oh, yes. By all means. But he's got you in a
cleft stick. You've got to let them get married."

"Never! Never! They shall never marry!" he
squealed. And he was bouncing up and down
again.

I let him bounce till he was tired, then I said:
"It seems rather silly to become the laughing-stock
of the country and lose a peerage for a fad like
this. Really Jack Thurman has done you a real
service. He's brought your name before the pub-
lic as no work of your own ever did. He's really
got you a peerage, if you sit tight and take it. But
you know best. I'll let the papers know about this
discovery at once, myself."

I rose, and was opening the door, when he cried :
"Wait! Wait! I must think about it! Don't
be so hasty!"

He flung himself back in the armchair, pouting,
with his eyes full of tears; and I expected him to
start blubbering.

At last he said very sulkily: "I yield. They
shall marry. I do not yield out of fear of ridicule.
I do not abandon my just resentment. The good of
my country demands my surrender, the surrender

104 ALICE DEVINE

of my private feelings; I can not let myself be
paralyzed in my work for its best interest. They
shall marry!" he squeaked solemnly.

"That's all right," I said. "And now we'll draw
up the contract."

He kicked at this; but what I felt was that it
was no use my being a house-agent if I did not
draw up contracts. Besides, he seemed to me too
peevish to trust. I just bullied him into it.

I drew up the contract myself. He gave his
consent to Miss Ponderbury's marrying Jack in
three months' time. He settled seven hundred a
year on her (I tried to make it a thousand, but I
found that that was trying him too high, and might
upset the whole business). When he had signed
the contract he wrote a check for the hundred
pounds reward for Alice Devine.

After it he was better. He bounced beside me
to the front door, and as I went down the steps, he
said : "It is a relief once more to take up the work
of strengthening our order with an unharassed
mind." And he bounced once.

When I got home I sent the check round to Alice
Devine and went into my office. Jack had just come
back after his lunch.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS 10$

"I've just drawn up a contract, and I should like
you to look through it," I said. "I think it's all
right." And I gave it to him.

He could not believe his eyes. "What ? Where ?
How? How on earth did you get this out of the
old dunderhead ?" he stammered.

"Gently with your future father-in-law," I said;
and I told him the line I had taken.

When I had stopped his thanks, I pulled out
my drawing of the hieroglyphics, and asked him
what they meant exactly.

"They showed me where Muriel would be on the
fourth day after it was drawn," he said. "The
four shows the fourth day, the circle with the line
drawn through it at the bottom of it is the after-
noon sun; if the line were drawn through the top
it would be the morning sun. The ducal coronet.

N

• • •

"You call that a coronet?" I interrupted with
surprise. "Ponderbury called it an infernal ma-
chine," I said.

"It's a coronet — a ducal coronet. It meant that
Muriel would be at the Duchess of Huddersfield's
in the afternoon. The circle with the cross means
the night — the crossed out sun. The square with

io6 ALICE DEVINE

the three in it is 3, Berkeley Square. That's where
she'd be that night."

"I see," I said. "And what does the bomb —
the crossed-out sun — the last hieroglyphic you
drew, mean when it's by itself?"

"Oh, that meant that her duenna, Mrs. Manders,
would be out, and she'd come to the garden that
night. It's quite simple."

It was.

CHAPTER V

HERBERT POLKINGTON's UNCERTAINTY

THE discovery that he had made such a (com-
plete fool of himself seemed to have a
chastening effect on Sir Marmaduke. Jack told
me that now, when he went to the house to see
Muriel, the Gutta-percha One was quite civil to
him. Also he seemed to have grown rather shy of
me since I had drawn up that marriage Contract,
for he ceased pestering Garth and Thurman with
his fussy letters.

The Gardens, indeed, were going very nicely and
quietly. It is a great advantage that the rents of
the houses are two thousand pounds a year, not
only from the point of view of my income, but also
because it means that my tenants are desirable.
Bad hats and swindlers do not run to such high
rents.

Indeed, the only tenant about whom I was doubt-
ful was Scruton ; ever since the good gum million-
aire had tried to get his house rent-free by that in-

107

io8 ALICE DEVINE

genious ghost trick, I had been expecting some
more games from him. He really was a millionaire,
or thereabouts. I had had inquiries made about
him, from some of my tenants; and my lawyer
and Jack had thought it well to have the share
register at Somerset House looked up, and found
that he was a large shareholder in Australian and
New Zealand securities. Still, I knew he was a
crooked millionaire; and I could not help expect-
ing that he would turn out to be an undesirable
tenant I myself much prefer the millionaire who
has inherited his millions to the millionaire who has
made them. He is straighter.

Oddly enough, it was that rising young politician,
my cousin, Herbert Polkington, who brought to my
knowledge the unpleasant fact that Scruton was on
the way to get Number 9 the reputation of a
gambling-hell. Herbert is one of those earnest and
serious politicians who get up on their hind-legs and
paw the air when I tell them that politics is only
a game, and not so cheery a game as racing. I
have often had to tell Herbert this to check his
pouring out home-truths on me about my useless
life, though lately, since I have been acting as my
own house-agent, he has had to stop that.

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 109

Before I was a house-agent I used to think that
Herbert's was a hard life. He has made up his
mind to be Prime Minister; and he must not think
of anything else. He has even to dress the part.
He has to sit through all those dreary debates in
the House of Commons, mug up blue-books by the
furlong, make speeches all over the country, and
write long dismal articles, or let Freddy Gage, his
secretary, write them, in the monthly reviews. But
now that I am a house-agent and have work to do,
I do not think Herbert's life so hard after all. Be-
sides, he is one of those morbid people who like
work, especially the dull kind. If he did not, he
wouldn't do it; for he has seven thousand a year,
and no big place to keep up.

When he turned up one day, and said he had
come to lunch with me, I was rather surprised.
Herbert is always very lofty with me, and this
was condescending indeed. I wondered what he
wanted.

It was a stifling hot day, but Herbert was the
correct politician in black top-hat, black morning
coat, dark trousers, dark tie and dark gloves. It
made me feel hot to look at him.

I thought that he would bear unloosening, so I

no ALICE DEVINE

told Richards to give us a bottle of 1908 Heidsieck;
and we lunched in the summer dining-room, which
faces north and is cool.

As usual Herbert was looking as serious as a
gate-post. He always tried to look as though he
was carrying the Empire about with him — it is part
of the game. He said nothing, and I had nothing
to say; and we had finished our melon and our
caviare before the conversation began; then I said:

"Do you never wear summer clothes — something
gray?"

"Never in London. Gray clothes give a man an
air of frivolity; they do not go with serious aims
in life. In the country I wear tweeds of course,
but always dark shades. My reputation demands it,"
he said solemnly.

"I shouldn't like to have a reputation like that,"
I said.

"I fear you never will. It is, unfortunately, too
late," he said very loftily.

"Saved! Saved!" I said softly.

He looked pained, but did not rebuke me; so I
knew for certain that he did want something.

I seemed to have set him going, for he talked
earnestly about the dress, and the habits, and the

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY in

customs of the correct young politician. Herbert
talking always makes me fidgety. He is so infer-
nally long-winded. He can say more about noth-
ing at all than any one I know. Also, he has a
way of fixing his pale eyes on some point on the
wall opposite, and speaking as if he had learned
what he is saying by heart, painfully. I have
never heard him make a speech — it must be awful !
Besides, with his pasty, yellowish face he is not a
pretty sight; and he does not only look as if he
had oiled his hair but sounds as if he had oiled his
voice.

I let him drone on. It is never any use trying
to quicken him; he will take the most roundabout
way to come to what he wants. I dare say he
thinks it diplomatic. I went on with my lunch,
sparing the champagne, which I did not like so
young, and not paying any particular attention to
what he was saying about the respect due to a man
of unswerving political sincerity from his fellow-
creatures.

Then he did give me a jolt. He got away from
the perfect young politician, began to talk about
the perfect young politician's wife, and said the
important thing was that she should have brains.

H2 ALICE DEVINE

I looked at the bottle of champagne. It was
not that: he had not drunk enough. Then I said:
"Rot, old chap! The important thing is, that she
should be related to the right kind of people and
know how to entertain them in the right kind of
way—- or else she must be a woman with a lot of
money."

"No," he said solemnly. "What a man— a man
dealing with Imperial affairs — needs in a wife, is
a stimulating (companion, some one to foster the
efforts of his genius."

I looked again at the bottle of champagne. It
was not the quantity — he had only had a couple
of glasses of it. It must be stronger than I thought
Then I said:

"This is what they call poppycock in the States.
If we were out-of-doors, I should say that you were
talking through your hat." And I felt a little tired.

"I am quite serious. These are the conclusions^ I
have come to after giving the matter my most care-
ful consideration," said Herbert solemnly; and he
raised his glass and looked at it as if he were per-
fectly satisfied with it, himself and everything else
in the nice round world.

I was not going to bother with rot like this.

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY] 113

"All right; it doesn't matter," I said. "At any
rate, you're fixed up properly. You're going to
marry Anne Dressington, and she is related to the
whole gang of the right people, knows exactly what
they want, and has five thousand a year."

It has been understood in the family for a long
while that Herbert is going to marry our cousin,
Lady Dressington; and it is one of those comfort-
able arrangements which are good for every one.

Herbert emptied his wine-glass quickly; and his
round yellow face turned a little pink.

"Not at all — not at all," he said quickly.
"Neither Anne nor I have considered that seriously.
But it was about a matter of that kind I came to
consult you. In spite of the frivolous life you lead,
you have a certain amount of common sense."

"Flatterer!" said I.

"Besides, in matters of this kind you have had a
good deal of experience."

"What kind of matters?" said I.

"Women. You know all about them."

"You don't know anything about them, or you
wouldn't say anything so silly," I said firmly.

"Oh, yes; you do!" he said obstinately. "Look
at all the messes you've been in !"

ii4 ALICE DEVINE

"Messes? .What a way to speak of grand
passions! But never mind. What is it you want
to know?"

"Well, I'm very much interested in a lady — a
very pretty girl," he said, in a hesitating way. "I
met her at the house of one of your tenants — at
Scruton's, the millionaire at Number 9 — a very able
man."

"Very able," I said, as I thought of how the old
sweep had tricked my uncle out of a quarter's rent
by his ghost, and very nearly tricked me. Then
my heart gave a little jump; and I felt annoyed.
Herbert had been making love to the ghost-girl
herself. I had no reason to feel annoyed, of course.
It had nothing to do with me. Whatever a girl
who had lent herself to such a shady trick as that
might do, it could not possibly matter to me. Still,
Herbert . . . Herbert is such a rotter.

"But I'm rather uneasy about the circumstances
— the — environment," went on he. "Two or three
times a week Scruton has a party after the theater
— a man's party. They play baccarat, and they
play very high. I was taken to one of these parties,
and I met her there. And I have been again — sev-
eral times. And the play is always very high. I —

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 115

I have found the atmosphere of the house sus-
picious."

Here it was as large as life. I had been expect-
ing some little game from Scruton ; and here it was.

"Look here, do you mean to tell me that the in-
fernal New Zealander is running a gambling-hell
in Garthoyle Gardens?" I said.

"No, no. I don't say that. I've no right to. My
suspicions are quite vague — hardly suspicions. Be-
sides, a millionaire wouldn't run a gambling-hell,
would he?" he said quickly.

"You know very well a millionaire would. It's
just the profitable amusement a millionaire would
love. You know the sweeps," I said. "How much
have you lost ?"

"About three hundred. But of jcourse I don't
mind that."

"Of course you don't! You go to see the girl,
and that is the price you pay for it. I should never
have accused you of being young, but you're a "deal
younger than I ever dreamt."

"You've no right to jump to conclusions in such
a hurry, I tell you. It may be all my fancy."

"Fancy or not, I can give you the advice you
want at once," I said. "You keep away from

n6 ALICE DEVINE

Number 9, or you'll get into a most unholy mess,
and England will lose a choice Prime Minister."

"No, no. That isn't it at all. It isn't your advice
I want. I want the benefit of your experience. I
Want you to come to one of Scruton's parties so
that you may see for yourself and tell me if there
is anything wrong. There's no need for any invita-
tion, I can take you without."

"No, thank you," I said. "Outside is good enough
for me."

I did not want to see any more of the ghost-girl.
I had a feeling that that way lay the mess of a life-
time. Besides, it would be rather awkward: she
knew me under the name of Garth, and she might
be annoyed to find that I had not told her my right
name when we talked about the Ponderbury hiero-
glyphics.

But Herbert would not take the refusal. He
went on pestering and pestering me to give him the
benefit of my experience, and declaring and declar-
ing that I could not do it properly till I had looked
into the matter for myself. Also, I felt that I ought
to prevent him getting into a hole if I could — after
all, though it is not my fault, he is my cousin — and
in the end I gave way. But I would not dine with

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 117

him on Thursday. It was bad enough to be let in
for a business I did not fancy without being bored
to death by Herbert He arranged to call for me at
eleven the next Thursday night.

After he had gone, I grew even more annoyed
about the business ; and yet it really did not matter to
me whether the ghost-girl married Herbert or not.

When he called for me I was ready for him, with
two hundred in fivers in my pocket. I did not mean
to plunge. We strolled round to Number 9, and
were taken up to a room on the first floor. A long
table [covered with a green cloth was set under two
of the windows in the cool, and a dozen men were
playing at it. Scruton, as black- faced and hard-
bitten as ever, stood on the hearth-rug talking to a
man I did not know. Three or four men were clus-
tered round two girls who were sitting on a couch
on the left-hand side of the room; and all of them
were talking cheerfully. One of the girls was Alice
Devine; and at the sight of me her eyes opened
wide and she flushed.

Scruton did not show the slightest embarrassment
at the sight of me. He greeted me easily, and said
he was very glad I had come round for a game. It
was clear that to him his littfe attempt to trick me

n8 ALICE DEVINE

out of his rent was neither here nor there — just a
sort of diversion.

The panting Herbert drew me across the room
to the couch on which the two girls were sitting.
I shook hands with Alice quickly, before he could
introduce me as Garthoyle. Then I greeted three
of the men in the group round the girls, heartily
stretching the greetings out, for I knew that all of
them would call me Garth.

It was no use; Herbert would not have it. He
seized me by the arm, turned me round and bawled :
"Let me introduce you to Miss Maynard. Lord
Garthoyle — Miss Maynard."

I did not miss the ghost-girl's little start when she
heard my real name; and out of the corner of my
eye I saw a little frown on her forehead as she
stared at me.

I looked as innocent as I could and began to talk
to Miss Maynard quickly. In two minutes I found
that she was all right to talk to, very bright and
quick, and ready to laugh. She was a pretty girl,
too, with very fine dark eyes, and dark hair, and a
very clear skin with plenty of color in it. I fancied,
too, that she had one of those quick hot tempers;

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 119

that she could flare up quickly on occasion, but that
she would not sulk.

In five minutes we were quite friendly; and when
the other men moved to the baccarat-table, I stayed
on talking to her, letting Herbert talk to the ghost-
girl.

.They did not seem to be getting on very fast, and
then he said in a disagreeable tone : "Wouldn't you
like to go and play baccarat, Garthoyle?"

I tumbled to it at once. It was not the ghost-girl
who had captured Herbert's wayward heart : it was
Miss Maynard. I felt ridiculously pleased. But
what on earth did it matter to me?

"Conversation before cards for me, Herbert," I
said coldly; and I went on talking to Miss Maynard.

She seemed all ri^ht, she looked a nice girl, and
she talked like a nice girl. But you never can tell ;
and the Directoire frocks of the two girls were about
as direct as they make them. I was really annoyed
by the one the ghost-girl was wearing.

I went on talking till I felt that Herbert was
champing the bit badly. When I grew afraid that
at any moment he might snort, I said :

"Well, I'll go and flutter for a while."

I sat down on the farther side of the table so that

120 ALICE DEVINE

I could watch Herbert and Miss Maynard, and as I
played I began to size up the gathering. It seemed
harmless enough. Morrisdale was banker — a fifty-
pound bank — men were staking fivers and tenners.
I knew most of the men playing; half a dozen of
them were serious gamblers, the others were young
ones on the racket. I did not think that the game
would stay so gentle as this all the evening. As I
played I watched the ghost-girl and Miss Maynard.
I did wish those Directoire frocks were not so con-
foundedly direct.

Miss Maynard was talking away to the solemn
Herbert, and he was talking to her. But presently
I grasped the fact that she kept looking toward the
door. Three more men came in, one of them that
hulking brute, Sir Theobald Walsh. They came to
the table. Miss Maynard still kept looking at the
door. Then in came Freddy Gage, Herbert's pri-
vate secretary. I saw* the look he and Miss May-
nard exchanged, and I knew whom she had been
looking for.

Freddy had been one of my fags at Eton, and I
had always liked him. I have always believed that
he wrote Herbert's speeches and articles for him.
To speak roughly, he has four times as many brains

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 121

in his little finger as Herbert has in his capacious
bullet head. He went to Herbert and the two girls
and began to talk. I went on with my game, con-
sidering things. It was all very well, but however
much she might look for his coming, I did not think
that when it came to serious business, Freddy, with
his brains and five hundred a year, besides his sal-
ary, stood much chance against Herbert with his
seven thousand. Several times I caught the ghost-
girl's eye; she was looking at me in a puzzled kind
of way. Evidently she had not yet grown used to
my not being a simple commoner; she was rear-
ranging things.

Then Otto Steiner and the piebald duke went to
the couch and began to talk to the ghost-girl. Freddy
Gage seemed to do a little readjusting, for in about
two minutes he carried off Miss Maynard through
the window on to the balcony; and Herbert came
across to the table, looking rather puzzled, and began
to play.

The piebald duke went on talking to the ghost-
girl; but his eyes kept straying to the table. Then
he came to it. At once Walsh rose and went to the
ghost-girl, pulled a chair up to the couch, and, lean-
ing over her in a proprietary sort of way, began to

122 ALICE DEVINE

talk in her ear. I was annoyed. Walsh is not the
kind of man whom one likes to see within a quarter
of a mile of a decent girl.

Steiner took the bank and made it a three-hundred
bank. Miss Maynard and Freddy Gage came back
into the room looking very pleased with themselves,
and, coming to the table, watched the play. It was
higher, men were betting twenties and fifties. Then
I saw the ghost-girl was sittng up very stiffly and
frowning, and her eyes were sparkling angrily.
Walsh was smiling in an ugly way.

I got up and went across to them.

"You look as if you found the heat of the room
rather trying, Miss Devine. Won't you come out on
the balcony and get a breath of fresh air?" I said.

Walsh scowled at me and said something about
her being very well where she was.

She roses quickly and said: "Oh, yes; I should
like to."

"Disagreeable brute, Walsh," I said, when we
had settled down into two easy chairs among the
plants.

"I — I don't like him. I'm very glad you took me
away from him," she said in a hesitating way.

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 123

"Go on disliking him — hard," I said. "You know
what these baronets are. They shouldn't be encour-
aged. Whenever you come across a baronet, sit on
him."

She laughed softly; then she said:

"It's all very well; but what if they won't be sat
on?"

"Walsh is a pertinacious beggar," I said. "But
keep on sitting on him, and in time he'll understand
what's happening."

"I do what I can," she said. "But he doesn't
seem to understand yet."

"Never mind; keep on. It's the only way," I
said.

She leaned back in her chair and looked across
the gardens. Then she looked at me and said rather
quickly :

"Why did you give me a false name? It wasn't
fair."

"Oh, all my friends call me Garth, don't you
know. And it might have made those children un-
comfortable to know that they were with a lord.
I've known it work that way with people ; goodness
knows why. Besides, peers have such a bad name.

124 ALICE DEVINE

You might have got straight out of the car and run
for your life, if you had known that I was a peer."

"Are you ever at a loss for an excuse?" she said,
smiling.

"No — now you come to speak of it, I don't think
I ever am. But these aren't excuses, they're good
solid reasons."

"Still, you might have told me when we were
talking about those hieroglyphics."

"Yes; of course I might. But why should I?
Besides, it was a bit difficult. I couldn't say: 'By
the way, my real name is Lord Garthoyle/
could I?"

"Perhaps not. But I like things above board."

I could not see exactly how that liking went with
the ghost trick. But there, women are like that;
they must humbug.

"I haven't thanked you for getting that check for
me," she said. "I'm awfully obliged to you."

"There's no need to be. You could have got it
yourself. I was very glad to save you a little
trouble."

"Oh, I should have made a dreadful mesa of
things," she said quickly.

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 125

"Roughened the path of true love? I don't think
you would. Have you spent it all ?"

"Indeed no, it will last ever such a long time.
Why, there are more than a hundred treats — expe-
ditions to Kew or to the country — in that money.
I'm keeping it for it. It's splendid to have a lot of
money like that."

It was an odd way for the niece of a millionaire
to talk, especially since she was living with him.
But I was not surprised by it. Except when they
are showing off, millionaires are stingy sweeps; and
I did not suppose that Scruton was any exception
to the rule.

I bethought myself that I was there on Herbert's
business ; and I set her talking about Miss Maynard.
She did not want any encouragement.

"Oh, Kitty's a darling," she said. "I don't know
what I should do without Kitty." And she plunged
into praises of her.

I learned that Miss Maynard's mother was a
widow, and they were very hard up ; that Miss May-
nard was very keen on amusing herself, and always
came to Scruton's parties. He had told Alice that
she should invite her to help her entertain his guests.

126 ALICE DEVINE

Of course, there was no need to have a hostess at
such parties; and it was clearer than ever that the
two girls were used as decoys. It was no business
of mine; but it vexed me. I said nothing about it;
I let the ghost-girl go on talking. And I gathered
that though Miss Maynard was a nice enough girl,
and uncommonly clever, she was a bit on the wild
side, and dead set on having a good time. I could
not see her the wife of a serious, not to say dull,
politician like Herbert. It would work well enough
perhaps if Herbert were merely a fool; but he is
such an obstinate fool. A mild brand of wife who
liked being bullied, like Anne Dressington, was what
he wanted. He was just the kind of man to come
badly to grief with a clever wild one like Miss
Maynard. Herbert was in a hole.

The ghost-girl presently stopped talking about
Kitty Maynard, and I said: "You say Miss May-
nard is hard up, but that dress she's wearing doesn't
look like hard-upness."

Alice looked at me rather hard, and she flushed.

"Oh, these dresses," she said slowly, in a dis-
tressed voice: "It's my uncle. He arranges about
our dresses — not only mine, but Kitty's, too. He
says it's only fair that since she helps me act as

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY, 127

Hostess, he should provide the proprieties. And — •
and he will have them like this. I — I hate them."

"They're very nice dresses," I said cheerfully.
"What's the matter with them?"

"Oh, you know quite well what's the matter with
them !" she flashed out with a sudden brust of tem-
per. Then she gave a little gasp and said : "But —
but why am I talking to you like this ? I — I scarcely
know you."

"Oh, yes, you do. You know all there is to know.
And why shouldn't you talk freely to me? I'm
quite safe. And I like it. It's a great compliment,"
I said quickly.

"I dare say it is. But . . ."

She stopped short, rose, and we went back into
the room.

Two or three men were talking to Kitty Maynard ;
and Alice went back to the couch and sat down on
it. I saw that for the moment she had had enough
of me, and I went back to the table and played. As
I played I wondered about her — baccarat is a nice
easy game to play; it gives you plenty of time to
think. She did seem contradictory; somehow that
ghost trick did not fit in with the rest of her. Once
or twice I caught her glowering at me as if she were

'128 ALICE DEVINE

still angry with me for telling me her feelings about
that Directoire frock. It was awfully like a woman
to blame me for what she had said.

The play was serious now — a thousand-pound
bank. As I punted I watched very carefully; but I
saw nothing wrong. Indeed, with such seasoned
gamblers as Tony Le Quesne, Steiner and two or
three of the other men who were playing at the
table, it would have been very difficult for there to
be anything wrong. I watched Scruton with par-
ticular care when he took the bank. He seemed far
too clumsy a dealer to play any tricks with the cards.
Besides, he lost about seven hundred over his bank.

Men kept dropping out and talking to the girls
for a while and coming back again. They talked to
them with too easy an air to please me. But it
was no business of mine. Scruton undoubtedly used
the two girls to attract men to his parties.

I dropped out myself and had another talk witH
Miss Maynard ; and it made me surer than ever that
she would never do for Herbert. Soon after two,
the two girls slipped away ; and then Herbert went,
and then Gage, and Walsh, and two or three others.
I took it that these came chiefly on account of the
two girls; and I was annoyed to see that Walsh

HERBERT'S UNCERTAINTY 129

was one of them. The rest of us broke up at about
a quarter past four.

I walked home rather slowly; one way and an-
other I had plenty to think of. Well, I had had a
pleasant evening.

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT POLKINGTON

1WAS finishing my breakfast rather late next
morning, when Richards ushered in Herbert.
He said "Good morning"; and I told Richards to
pour him out a cup of coffee. He poured it out and
went out of the room.

"Well, what do you think about Miss Maynard?"
said Herbert.

"I think, my good chap, that outside is good
enough for you," said I.

"Nonsense! Why?" said Herbert. "She's a
thoroughly nice girl, and very clever."

"She's clever and pretty and nice. But all the
same it won't do. You can't marry a girl who is
acting as decoy at the gambling parties of a nonde-
script millionaire."

"She isn't!" said Herbert.

"I don't think she knows she is, any more than
Miss Devine does. But that's what they are doing
all the time."

130

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 131

"But it's absurd!" cried Herbert. "Scruton's is
not a gambling-hell ; the play's perfectly fair there.
I asked Le Quesne, and I asked the duke. They
were both sure that it was."

"Were they?" I said. "What does that matter?
The play is quite fair at Monte Carlo. Every one
will be saying that Miss Maynard was a decoy at a
gambling-hell, if you bring her into prominence by
marrying her. And you will bring her into promi-
nence. You're so eligible."

"Well — well — they'll say something just as bad
about any one I marry."

"Not about Anne,"

"I wish you'd get that silly idea out of your head.
I'm not going to marry Anne," said Herbert pet-
tishly.

I was sure that he was; but it was no use telling
him so.

"It isn't only that, but Miss Maynard wouldn't
make the kind of wife you want. She's had a poor
time; and if she marries a rich man, she'll make up
for it — hard. She'll set up the backs of all your
political crowd ; and she'll never take the trouble to
learn the political game — the drawng-room part of
it. She won't be bothered with it," I said.

132 ALICE DEVINE

"You're wrong — quite wrong. I know that Kitty
is fond of pleasure. She admits it — frankly. But
she has a plastic nature; I should mold her."

I looked at Herbert hard. The idiot who could
say that about Miss Maynard was worth looking at.

"You couldn't mold her in a hundred years — not
with a club," I said slowly. "If there's any molding
done, she'll do it. Within six months of your mar-
riage she'll have you a regular attendant at every
big race-meeting in England."

"Preposterous!" said Herbert.

"I'll bet you a tenner," I said.

"You know I never bet," said Herbert.

"No, you don't; and yet you propose to marry
Miss Maynard."

"I don't see the connection," said Herbert stiffly.

"Which shows you have no business to be marry-
ing Miss Maynard."

"But I do see that I was foolish to consult you.
The fact is, Rupert, you are so incorrigibly frivolous
yourself that you are incredulous of the possibility
of seriousness in any one else," he said pompously.

"It isn't that at all," I said. "But there are some
brands of seriousness that won't mix. Yours is
one of them."

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 133

Herbert rose solemnly and said: "I see that I
was foolish to consult you. I had my doubts, grave
doubts, of the wisdom of it. Good morning." And
he stalked toward the door.

"Good morning," I said. "But don't forget that
I've told you."

He went out solemnly.

I had done no good ; but that did not trouble me.
I had not expected to do any good. The important
thing was that I had told Herbert the facts, and my
mind was quite at ease.

I went round to Scruton's next party — he gave
them twice a week — for I felt that as the head of the
family I ought to keep an eye on Herbert's love-
affair, and besides I wanted to know if the ghost-
girl had forgiven me for having been so open with
me.

I talked to her two or three times in the intervals
of playing; but she would not come on the balcony
again. Perhaps she felt that it led to confidences.
I talked to her about Kitty Maynard, of course, for
I wanted to know as much as possible about her;
and once more she said what a pity it was that the
Maynards were so hard up.

I34 ALICE DEVINE

"Well, Miss Maynard must marry a rich man,"
I said.

"She says she means to. But I do hope she won't
It isn't right to marry a man — you don't love," she
said in a very genuine tone.

"It's often done," I said. "And Freddy Gage
would be awfully cut up."

"You've noticed that ? You are quick !"

"It's pretty obvious," I said.

"It would be so much the best thing to do. He's
very nice. But I'm afraid he hasn't enough money,"
she said with a sigh.

Some one joined us ; and I got no more talk with
her that evening.

After that I fell into the way of going to Scru-
ton's parties regularly. I had to keep an eye on
Herbert. His love-affair was going on in a very
satisfactory way, for him; and he was wearing his
most important air. Freddy Gage was the only man
who gave him any trouble. It lay between them
plainly enough. The more I saw of Miss Maynard
the less reason I found to change my belief that
Herbert would come the complete cropper.

One night he and I came away together.

"I have quite satisfied myself that you were en-

[THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 135

tirely wrong about Miss Maynard," he said pom-
pously. "She has a thoroughly adaptable nature.
At heart she is a very serious girl."

"We'll talk about that later," I said. "When you
have been married six months."

"But I must get rid of Gage," he went on, without
taking any notice of my kind words. "He encour-
ages her in her frivolity. The worst of it is, if I do,
he'll go to Ambledon. Ambledon has been trying to
get him from me for the last six months."

"Very good man, Freddy Gage," I said. And
we went our different ways.

Three days later I received a note from Herbert
telling me that he was engaged to Miss Maynard,
and that their engagement would be publicly an-
nounced in about a fortnight, when he had broken
in his people to the idea.

I did not write to congratulate him. I was silent,
as a disapproving head of the family ought to be.
He should never say he had had any encouragement
from me.

At Scruton's next party I again found Kitty
Maynard, and I was a good deal surprised. I had
taken it for granted that that would be the first
thing Herbert would stop. It looked as if she had

136 ALICE DEVINE

already begun refusing to be molded. She was
rather nervous and she looked worried. Freddy
Gage looked worried, too; and Herbert was not
beaming. I talked to Kitty Maynard a while; I
played baccarat, and then I got Alice to come out
on the balcony to get away from Sir Theobald
Walsh.

For a while we talked about nothing at all, pleas-
antly, then I said : "My cousin and Miss Maynard
don't look as if they were enjoying being engaged.
What's the matter?"

"You do ask straightforward questions."

"Well, I must do my best to smooth the path of
true love."

"True love," said the ghost-girl softly. "Yes,
one would have to do that. But — but — oh, well,
Kitty isn't happy. I think your cousin wearies her
a little."

"Herbert would weary a turbine if he got a fair
chance at it," I said.

"And he's rather exacting. He forbade her to
come here, but she would. She said slie wasn't
going to desert me ; and he was angry."

"Herbert is a fool ; but she must know that Shefa
really worried about Freddy Gage> I suppose?"

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 137

"I've no right to talk about it," she said quickly.

"No more have I, but we mustn't let that prevent
us," I said. "It's a case of three in a hole. Now,
if I were to haul Herbert out by the scruff of the
neck, the other two would be happy enough. I
should like to do a little rescue work."

"If you only could ! But you can't ! Your cousin
is very obstinate. It — it distresses me to think of
their marriage. I can only see unhappiness for
Kitty— for both of them — in it."

"That's all there is to see."

"Oh, why doesn't he carry her off by force and
marry her?" she cried.

"Herbert's other name is not Lochinvar. Besides,
she wouldn't let him," I said rather densely.

"I mean Mr. Gage, not Mr. Polkington."

"Oh! She'd let him, would she?" I said.

"I oughtn't to have let you know," she said
quickly.

But she had let me know, and it set me thinking,
in fact, gave me an idea.

At Scruton's next two parties, things did not
seem to be getting any better. I saw from Herbert's
sulky face that the molding process was not working
well, but he was very snappish when I told him how

138 ALICE DEVINE

it struck me. On the fourth evening before the
announcement of the engagement, I came on Freddy
and Miss Maynard in the central garden. Neither
of them had any right to be in it, since they did not
belong to the families of any of my tenants. They
seemed to be quarreling, and not enjoying the quar-
rel. She went off to see the ghost-girl, and I in-
sisted that Freddy should-dine with me.

He was very like a funeral, and the champagne
was some time ironing the frown out of his boyish
brow.

Then I said: "I think it's a jolly shame your
letting that poor girl come to grief by marrying
that prig Herbert."

His face went crimson, and I thought he would
throw his plate at me.

"Damn it all, Garthoyle! I've enough to worry
me without you starting to nag at me !" he said.

"Well, why don't you stop it?" I said.

"Stop it ! How can I stop it ? Haven't I tried to
stop it? Haven't I told her forty times what an
aggravating rotter Polkington is ? Haven't I argued
with her, and begged and begged her not to ruin her
life by marrying him ? Don't I know him ? Haven't
I had two years of him?"

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 139

"You have," said I.

"She couldn't stand him; she's not the kind of

girl."

"She isn't," said I.

"But she's made up her mind to marry a rich man,
and nothing will stop her. She's sick to death of
being hard up. It's hopeless."

"It may be. But you've got to stop it. You must
be firm," I said.

If I had been within reach, t think he would have
bitten a piece out of me.

"Firm!" he howled. "Firm!"

"Firm," said I.

He choked a little and called me a damned inter-
fering idot.

He seemed nicely wound up, and I said : "Look
here, did you ever happen to hear of young Loch-
invar? And have you ever thought what motor-
cars are really for? And what about special mar-
riage licenses?"

He cooled uncommonly quickly, drank off his
glass of champagne, and said softly: "By jove!"

"Now, we know that motor-cars are always ap-
pearing in the Divorce Court, but no one ever uses
them pour le bon motif — when their intentions are

140 ALICE DEVINE

honorable. Is it fair on the motor-car, I ask you ?"
said I.

"Fire away," said Freddy.

I told him of my plan for rescuing Herbert, and
he was quick tumbling to it.

When I had told him all the details, he said:
"The awkward thing is, I can't drive a car."

"You politicians!" said I. "But I'm not going
to do the thing by half. Herbert must be rescued.
I'll drive the car myself."

"By jove, if you would!" he said. "But are you
sure you can stick it out? There'll be an awful fuss.
You won't soften?"

"Not a soften," said I.

He had grown quite cheerful by the time .we had
worked out all the arrangements ; and when he went
away I had almost to throw him out of the house
to stop his thanks.

Two days later I picked up Miss Maynard and
Freddy at her mother's flat in West Kensington.
She was looking delightfully pretty; there was not
a shadow of a cloud on her face ; and I saw that she
had made up her mind to enjoy the afternoon. I
rather envied Freddy.

She proposed politely to sit by me, but I put them

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 141

into the tonneau. It was a glorious day, and once
out of London, I enjoyed the drive. I felt that I
was performing a noble action. Most of the time
I drove slowly; but once when a road-hog came
scorching along, I gave him my dust for eight miles.
All the while I heard a gentle murmur of talk from
the tonneau, and sometimes a soft laugh. They
were not talking about Herbert.

We had tea at the "White Hart" at Lewes. We
talked for some time after it. I left them to get the
car, and I was some time over that. It was past
six when I brought it round to the front door of
the hotel.

As she got into the car, Kitty Maynard said
anxiously: "I'm afraid we shall have to hurry
back, Lord Garthoyle. Mr. Polkington is calling for
me at half past nine to take me to a dance at the
Cheshams. Do you think we shall do it?"

"The car can do it," I said.

It could.

I ran up to Three Bridges and. down to Horsham.
It is at the top of the triangle of which a line drawn
between Guildford and Dorking would be the base.
Garth Royal, my country house, lies in the middle
of it. I set out to drive round that triangle.

142 ALICE DEVINE

Jhe talk in the tonneau was rather fitful. There
were long silences. Once I heard Kitty Maynard
say:

"No, no, no, Freddy. It's too late."

By eight o'clock I had driven round the triangle
and was back at Horsham. Freddy seemed to see
the danger, for I heard the talk brisk up.

I thought I was going to get safely through the
town, when Kitty Maynard gave a little cry and
said:

"Why — why — we were here hours ago! We
must have lost our way ! We shall be ever so late
getting to London. Herbert will be perfectly hor-
rible."

"But we're not going back to London," answered
Freddy.

I let the car go. The middle of a town of nine
thousand inhabitants is not the place for delicate
explanation. Besides, I did not want to overhear
the discussion; I thought that they would prefer it
private. As it was, I caught scraps of it, of Kitty
Maynard's side of it. She was plainly enough in a
royal rage.

I had got about eight miles beyond Horsham when
Freddy called to me to stop. We were in a nice

JHE RESCUE OF HERBERT 143

empty part of the country, a long way from any-
where— as far as walking went. So I stopped.

Kitty leaned over the front of the tonneau and
said:

"Please drive me back to London at once, Lord
Garthoyle."

She was still in a rage; her cheeks were white and
her eyes were just flaming.

"It can't be done. I'm a brutal bad brigand at
five stone seven to-night. It's my first attempt at
a kidnaping job, and I'm going through with it
like a man," I said cheerfully.

"It's hateful. . . . It's disgraceful . . . it's
incredible! You can't really suppose that you tan
force me to do this ridiculous thing!'' she cried.

"I don't see anything ridiculous in it. I should
think you'd find it rather nice," I said.

"You won't?" she cried, and turned to Freddy.
"Make him, Freddy! Make him at once! . . .
Oh, I'll never — never — forgive you!"

"I can't make him . . . hulking brute ; and I
wouldn't if I could," said Freddy cheerfully. And
I gathered that he was hopeful.

"But — but what will people say? I shall be com-
promised— hopelessly compromised!" she cried.

144 ALICE DEVINE

"Not if you marry me," said Freddy.

"I won't marry you!"

"We're keeping that parson waiting," said
Freddy.

"I'll never marry you!" she jcried, an4 jumped
out of the car.

She set out walking quickly to Horsham.

"It's all right," said Freddy calmly. "She'll be
better presently — like a lamb. There's always a
reaction after these rages. It's only a matter of
keeping one's temper with her."

He set out after her, caught her up and walked
beside her. I could see that he was talking hard.
I let them get a couple of hundred yards down the
road before I set the car crawling after them. I
wondered how far she would walk before she gave
in. Two or three times Freddy put his arm round
her, and she shook herself out of it. Then at the
end of a mile they stopped. I stopped, too, for I
thought that they were at the final row that would
clear things up.

Then Freddy beckoned to me, and I ran up to
them.

"Now, on your honor, Lord Garthoyle, what time

JHE RESCUE OF HERBERT 145

does the last train leave Horsham ?" she said. And
I saw that she looked pale and uncertain.

"On my honor it leaves at nine-eighteen," I said.

"Then it is hopeless; and I'll never forgive Freddy
— never."

"That's all right. I've treated you shamefully,
and we'll let it go at that," said Freddy cheerfully.
"Now we'll go and be married."

He half lifted her into the car; and I let it rip. I
did not hear any talk from the tonneau. I took it
that they were whispering.

It was ten minutes past nine when I stopped at the
door of Garth Royal Rectory. I had fixed the time
within ten minutes. The rector stood on the steps
looking out for us.

Kitty and Freddy got out of the car, looking as
if they did not know whether they were standing
on their heads or their heels. She was not at all
pale, she was blushing; and her eyes were shining
in quite a different way.

I had made all the arrangements with the rector.
He had only to look at the special license and see
that it was all right. Then he married them in his
own drawing-room, his wife and daughters stand-

146 ALICE DEVINE

ing by Kitty and making the required fuss. Kitty
looked quite resigned.

Then Kitty wrote a short letter for me to take
to her mother. Then I gave her my peace-offering
in the shape of a rope of pearls.

They thanked the rector and came back to the
car ; and I drove them to the Dower House. I could
not lend them Garth Royal itself, for I had let it to
a Hamburg money-lender. But the Dower House
was lighted up and looked very nice and comfort-
able; and "I knew that their wedding supper was all
right, for I had arranged it with Harrod's myself,
and sent down Richards to see to it.

They got out of the car, and the door opened and
Richards came out to receive them. In the blaze of
light I saw that Kitty was looking very pretty.

They turned, but I did not give them time to start
thanking me. I called out good night and good
luck and bucketed off. I did bucket. It was only
half past eleven when I sneaked softly up the stairs,
slipped Kitty's note into the letter-box of her
mother's flat and bolted down to the car.

I was in the middle of my supper when Herbert
rushed into my dining-room. I have never seen
him such a rich purple since.

THE RESCUE OF HERBERT 147

"The little jade has jilted me! She's married
Freddy Gage!" he roared.

I jumped up and caught his hand, gave it the
heartiest grip I could get out of my muscles, and
shouted, "Saved! Saved!"

"You silly idiot," howled Herbert, And he
danced out of the room, waggling his Crushed
fingers.

From Herbert's point of view I dare say that
there was something in what he said. &11 the same
I had rescued him.

CHAPTER VII

THE GARDEN ANGEL

THERE was no doubt that since I was running
them, it was my duty to keep an eye on the
Gardens all the time. That is what a complete
house-agent has to do. There was no doubt, too,
that the central garden was the best place to keep
an eye on them from; and I took to spending a good
deal of my time in it I could not help the fact that
Alice Devine spent a good deal of her time in it,
too; so that I was always meeting her there. And
when I met her, I had to talk to her. It would not
have been polite not to.

I soon began to enjoy that garden. I found it
quite a little world — a world of children and nurse-
maids, with cliques and jealousies and dislikes and
squabbles, just like the world we live in. I learned
about them quicker than I should have done, for
Alice knew the ropes and told me. She enjoyed

148

THE GARDEN ANGEL 149

that little world thoroughly; and she made me see
how amusing it was, while I kept pointing out to
her how very like its squabbles were to the squab-
bles going on between the parents of the children.
She was very popular in it, not only with the chil-
dren, which was only natural, but also with the
nursemaids, which was much more difficult. She
had the sympathetic nature. Certainly I found her
as sympathetic as could be; and I fell into the way
of telling her my difficulties with my tenants. Often
she made the most useful suggestions; and some-
times they were quite brilliant.

I was a good deal interested in a friend of hers
whom I often saw in the garden : Miss Mary Eglan-
tine Pontifex D'Eresby. And I was chiefly inter-
ested in her because she looked exactly like a small
but wingless angel. She had the golden hair and
deep blue eyes that angels always have at the Acad-
emy and on Christmas-cards. She had the angel full-
face, the angel side- face, the angel mouth, the angel
nose ; and she was about twelve years old.

When I first noticed her angelic appearance, she
seemed to be having a lonely and desolate time of it.

I asked Alice who she was, and when she told
me, I said : "Why isn't she playing with the others?

150 ALICE DEVINE

•*

I've been watching her; and she doesn't go near
them. Is she sulking?"

"The angel-child kicked little Lord Pomeroy's
shins; and the other children have sent her to Cov-
entry," said Alice, smiling.

Little Lord Pomeroy is a pink boy with tow-
colored curls. I never see him without wanting to
crop him on the spot.

"Do him good," I said.

"Oh, he's such a sweet little boy!" cried Alice.

"Yes, sticky," I said. "Why did the angel-child
kick him?"

"I'm afraid he pulled Molly Boisragon's hair,"
said Alice.

"I expected it was something of that kind — little
sweep! And I suppose all the other little girls love
him dearly; and so they sent this angel-child to
Coventry ?"

"Yes," said Alice.

"Well, do you think you could introduce me to
her?" I said.

Alice called to her, but Miss D'Eresby only gave
her a cool nod and went down the path with a great
deal of dignity.

THE GARDEN ANGEL

"Never mind; some other day, when she isn't
feeling so haughty," I said.

"She isn't often haughty. I expect she's feeling
the injustice," said Alice.

As it chanced Alice did not present me to the lady.
The very next day I presented myself to her. After
lunch I was sitting on a bench in the garden, smok-
ing a cigar, when that angel-child came in view
tearing down the path as hard as she could lick ; and
after her came lumbering heavily one of the under-
gardeners, a young man of the name of Frederick.
The chase was certainly no business of mine; the
gardeners are in charge of the garden; and it is silly
to do your own barking when you keep a dog. It
was just the sporting instinct that made me jump
for it, and snatch her up as she reached me.

"You pig!" shrieked the angel-child; and she
kicked my shins with uncommon vigor.

I sat down with her on my knee, and it was like
holding a little wildcat. She seemed to have a good
deal more muscle than an Academy angel. In her
hand was a bunch of yellow carnations.

Frederick came lumbering up and said rather
breathlessly : "I've bin tryin' and tryin' to find out

152 ALICE DEVINE

who was a-stealing of them carnations; an' to-day
I thought I'd just take my dinner in the shrubbery
ag'in' the big bed; an' I caught 'er in the act!"

"You never caught me," said the angel-child
scornfully. "If you'd caught me, I should just have
bitten you, and got away easily, old pig Frederick."

" 'Ark at 'er, your Lordship ! 'ark at 'er ; She's a
terror that child — a fair terror," said Frederick.

"It's a depraved taste — biting under-gardeners,"
I said.

"I will bite the pig, if he touches me," said the
angel-child firmly.

"But why did you steal the carnations, Miss
D'Eresby?" I said.

"I didn't steal them. I just took them to give to
the little boy who's been ill, to punish Frederick for
not letting him come into the garden," said the angel-
child.

"As if I should let the likes of them into the
garden, your Lordship! An' the sick one not even
in a proper pram — just in a box — a box on wheels —
'ome-made," cried Frederick with great indignation.

I do not like Frederick, a slack-jawed, loose-lipped
loafer, always gossiping with nursemaids instead of

THE GARDEN ANGEL 153

doing his work. This jack-in-office turning a sick
child out of the garden was exactly the kind of
thing he would do with all his heart.

"I don't suppose they would have done any harm,"
I said.

"That's what I said. They won't eat your beastly
old flowers," said Miss D'Eresby.

"It warn't the flowers, your Lordship. But this
'ere is a garden for gentlefolk ; and we don't want
none of them paupers in it. I did me dooty, your
Lordship," said Frederick with a virtuous air.

"Well, you can go back to your work," I said.

"And I'll pay you out for interfering, old pig
Frederick," said the angel-child.

" 'Ark at 'er langwidge! rAn' she belonging to
one of the best families in Englan," said Frederick;
and he slouched off down the path.

"I'll teach him," said Miss D'Eresby firmly.

She was now looking perfectly unruffled and com-
posed, in spite of her flight from Frederick and her
struggle with me.

"He only did his duty," I said.

"If he did his work ever, it wouldn't matter so
much," said Miss D'Eresby coldly. "But he does

154 ALICE DEVINE

nothing but idle and interfere. I'll teach him and
Gwendolen Binns, too," she added with even greater
firmness.

"Who is Gwendolen Binns?" I said.

"She's the Cantelune baby's nurse," said the
angel-child.

"And what has she been doing to you ?"

"She nasn't been doing anything to me; but she's
always neglecting that baby shamefully. Three
times I've found him screaming, and she's been ever
so far off, talking to Frederick. I'll teach both of
them."

From her tone I believed she would; and I
thought that Frederick and his Gwendolen had bet-
ter look out.

"You seem a general redresser of wrongs," I
said.

"I don't know what that means; but they'd better
look out," she said.

"About those carnations?" I said.

"Oh, I was forgetting," she said, slipping off my
knee. "Henry and George are resting on the pave-
ment in the shade just outside the gate. I'll take
Henry the carnations. You don't mind my giving
them to him, do you ?" she said a little anxiously.

THE GARDEN ANGEL 155

"I'll come with you and take a look at Henry and
George," I said; and I got up, and we went out of
the garden.

We found Henry and George in the shade of the
trees on the edge of the garden. Henry, very white-
faced, a boy of about nine, was lying in the shallow
wooden box on wheels which was his invalid's chair.
George was sitting on the pavement by the side of
it, waiting for the angel-child. At the sight of me
he jumped up and pretended to be pushing Henry
along. I could quite understand that he was used
to being chivied along about May fair. It is not the
place for a sick child in a wooden box. The angel-
child stopped them and gave Henry the carnations.
He seemed to like them a good deal, and grinned at
her feebly.

I asked George what was the matter with Henry,
and he told me that he had been knocked down by
a motor-car and had lately come out of the hospital.
The accident was a severe family trouble; for the
gentleman who was driving the car had dashed on,
leaving the smashed Henry lying where he had
knocked him, and so escaped paying the money
which would have brought him better 'food during
his convalescence.

156 ALICE DEVINE

It seemed to me that Henry might as well have
any good he could get out of the garden; and I
wheeled him into it and found a nice shady corner
for him. .Then I went to my house and told Rich-
ards to get from the cook a basket of invalid's food,
pate de foies gras and jelly, and chicken and cake,
and a jug of milk. I carried it to the boys ; and they
were pleased, and so was the angel-child. She quite
mothered Henry as he ate. When I came away
from them, I told George that he was to call at my
house every day for more invalid food.

Miss D'Eresby followed me.

"I say — I — I'm so sorry I kicked you. I didn't
know that you were such a brick," she said. "I hope
I didn't hurt you very badly."

"Oh, no; but I would rather you didn't kick me
when you have thick boots On," I said.

"Oh, I shall never kick you again — never," she
said; and she went dancing back to her proteges.
She seemed to have forgotten about being in Cov-
entry.

I happened to go into the garden after dinner that
evening, and I was sorry to learn from Alice that
the angel-child had got into more trouble later in
the afternoon. Little Lord Pomeroy had come and

THE GARDEN ANGEL' 157

thrown stones at her and the invalid Henry, and
she came away from the contest that followed
with a nice sample of his tow-colored curls.

After this introduction she and I grew very
friendly, and I learned more about the garden-world
from her. I gathered that she acted as a kind of
guardian of it. She looked after Henry and George,
who came to their shady corner every fine afternoon ;
she kept an eye on the smaller children, and saw
that the big ones did not tease them ; she was always
checking the interfering Frederick, and she did her
best to keep Gwendolen Binns, a high-colored noisy
wench, up to her work of looking after Lord Can-
telune. He did not seem to me to look neglected;
he was a chubby baby. She gave me a good deal of
her society, in spite of her numerous occupations,
declaring that she preferred being with grown-ups
to being with children.

Several times I asked her when she was going to
make a man — a working man of Frederick. She
always shook her head, and said darkly that Fred-
erick had better look out, that she would catch him
one of these days.

I saw her catch him.

I came into the garden about three o'clock one

158 ALICE DEVINE

afternoon, and was walking toward Henry's shady
porner to see how he was getting on, when the angel-
child came tearing round a bend in the side path
that led to it; and after her lumbered the inevi-
table Frederick. In the middle of her course she
jumped something — I could not see what — Freder-
ick did not jump, but he came a thundering cropper
over a piece of string, about a foot from the ground,
tied to a shrub on either side of the path.

The angel-child pulled up short at my side and
turned. At the sight of Frederick's cropper she
shrieked with joy and held on to my arm that she
might indulge in violent merriment without falling
to the ground.

Frederick picked himself up slowly and stood
staring about in a dazed way, as if he were trying
to think what he had been doing and could not quite
remember.

"Whenever I come into the garden, I find you
playing with little girls, Frederick. Haven't you
any work to do ?" I said severely.

Frederick seemed to remember what had hap-
pened.

"Playin' !" he howled. "Playin' !"

"Playing," I said. "Playing catch as catch can."

THE GARDEN ANGEL 159

"That young limb took my trowel! 'Ow can I
work without a trowel?1' howled Frederick.

"I took it to make him go on with his work and
not keep Binns from minding the Cantelune baby,"
said the angel-child with a most virtuous air.

To take away a man's tools seemed an odd way
of making him go on with his work; but I took it
that Miss D'Eresby knew Frederick better than I
did.

"I'll compline to yer ma !" he roared. "I'll have
damages. That's what I'll do; and damages I'll
get ! I'm not goin' to be knocked about for nothink
— not me! I'll have the lor of yer! S'welp me I
will!"

"Sneaking pig!" said the angel-child contemptu-
ously.

"I'm off to yer ma — now — this very minute,"
cried Frederick. "His Lordship'll bear witness 'ow
you've bin knockin' me about He seed yer do it"

He turned and went.

"You've forgotten your trowel," cried the angel-
child, and she threw it after him.

The point of it struck Frederick's elbow and he
jumped and squealed.

"Oh, wasn't that a lucky shot! It must hav«

160 ALICE DEVINE

caught him on the funny-bone," cried the angel-
child; and she danced lightly in a rapturous joy.

Frederick picked up the trowel and bounded round
the bend in the path as if he were anxious to get
out of range.

"I'm afraid you are going to get into trouble this
time," I said. "He'll certainly tell your mother."

"Oh, it's all right if he only tells mother. She
won't mind. She knows all about Frederick. I've
told her lots of times. There would be trouble if he
told father, though. Father never does understand
things."

"Then let's hope he doesn't get at your father."

"If he does, I will teach him to complain!" said
the angel-child ; and she set about untying the string
across the path.

I strolled on and met Frederick pulling on his
coat with an air of resolution as he strode toward
the gate.

"Here, where are you going to ?" I said sharply.

"I'm horf to the Honorable Mrs. D'Eresby to
compline strite, your Lordship," said Frederick.

"You can get to your work, and be sharp about it.
I don't pay you wages to spend all your time gossip-
ing and gadding about to make frivolous com-

THE GARDEN ANGEL 161

plaints. You can do that in your own time — when
you've done your work," I said with some ferocity.

"B-b-but, your Lordship — you — you seed 'ow that
young limb treated me," Frederick stuttered.

"You get back to your work, and be smart about
it!" I snapped.

I thought Frederick would burst into tears, but
he turned and went.

It seemed as well that Miss D'Eresby should have
the opportunity of telling her version of the story
first. As for Frederick, I had no pity for him; I
wondered, indeed, why the head gardener had not
discharged him long ago.

I had not learned whether he had made his com-
plaint to the angel-child's mother, or her father, or
whether he had made it at all; but as I strolled
through the garden the next afternoon, she rushed
out of a shrubbery and said in an excited whisper:
"You're just in time!"

With that she caught hold of my hand and led
me into a shrubbery, whispering to me to be very
quiet. Her eyes were sparkling and her face was
flushed. She was radiant. As I came through the
shrubbery I heard the sound of tremendous snoring;
and on the retired lawn on the other side of the

162 ALICE DEVINE

shrubbery I saw Frederick. He was lying sprawled
on his back, his head pillowed on his coat, and from
his gaping mouth came tremendous snore after tre-
mendous snore. As an employer of labor — his labor
— my blood boiled at the sight of this sloth. Then
I saw that a garden-hose ran across the lawn, and
the nozzle of it rested on Frederick's bosom.

"Wasn't I lucky to find him like this ?" whispered
the angel-child. "You watch !"

Three feet from us was the stand-pipe with which
the hose was connected. She turned the tap on full.

A bubbling gush of water deluged the front of
Frederick and inflated his shirt ; a long-drawn snore
ended abruptly in a terrific snort, and I have never
seen anything so funny as his face when he woke
and tried to think what was happening to him. Then
he let out an astonished howl and jumped up, stream-
ing like a walking waterfall. He dashed out of the
lawn, and it was well for us that we had a clear
field. I should have choked if I had had to restrain
my laughter; and the angel-child was fairly shriek-
ing with joy. She had a wonderful sense of farce
for one so young. We found it better to hold on
to each other; that way we could laugh more com-
fortably.

THE GARDEN ANGEL 163

When we had got over the worst of our laughing
we came out of the shrubbery, and we heard the
flump, clump of Frederick's boots coming our way.
At the sound we looked as solemn as two judges;
and Frederick came round the corner bounding like
an infuriated tiger, dripping as he ran. At the sight
of us he pulled up and glared at the angel-child.

I stopped, too, and said in a severe tone :

"Whenever I see you, Frederick, you're running.
I'm not going to have you train for Marathon races
in this garden. It won't make the flowers grow."

"I warn't training for no Marathon ryce, your
Lordship," panted Frederick indignantly; and he
glowered at the angel-child with suspicious fury.

"Oh, he's been in the fountain with his clothes
on ! Look how wet he is," said the angel-child.

"Really you have extraordinary habits, Freder-
ick," I said, even more severely.

"It's not a nabit, it's a trick," said Frederick
thickly.

"Well, don't play it again," I said.

"Plye it ! Plye it ! I never did ! It was a trick
as was played on me!" said Frederick in a louder
tone.

"You've been drinking," I said. "No one could

164 ALICE DEVINE

put a big lump like you into the fountain, if you
were sober."

"It warn't the fountain, it were the 'ose. Some
one wetted me with the 'ose," shouted Frederick.

"The garden isn't the place for shower-baths.
You have no right to get people to wash you in the
garden," I said.

Frederick opened his mouth, then he shut it. He
looked round the garden rather wildly; then he
looked at the sky. His eyes rolled.

I saw his difficulty; he did not wish to explain
that advantage had been taken of him in his sleep.

"It were a naccident, your Lordship," he whined.

"Then don't let it 'happen again," I said.

Frederick shuffled away hastily, muttering that he
must get his wet clothes off, or he would catch his
death of cold.

"He won't go to sleep when he ought to be work-
ing again, in a hurry," said Miss D'Eresby in a vir-
tuous tone.

"I don't think he will ; and I'm very much obliged
to you for keeping him up to his work," I said.

"Oh, I like doing it — like that," she said quickly.
"Wasn't his face funny when the water woke him
up?" And she laughed again heartily.

CHAPTER VIII

LOST LORD CANTELUNE

FOR some days after that the chastened Fred-
erick seemed to be doing his work better
and gossiping less. That, at least, was the report of
Miss D'Eresby. Then he had a relapse; for one
afternoon I happened to be strolling in the garden
with Alice, when she came to us with a very anxious
face.

"Frederick's really dreadful/* she said. "7 don't
know what to do with him. He's been talking and
talking to that Gwendolen Binns, and she's neglect-
ing the Cantelune baby worse than ever."

"Things are getting serious," I said.

"They are," said the angel-child.

"Well, I leave it in your hands. I think you'll
find a way of stopping it before you've done," I
said.

"I expect I shall," she said; and she went off with
a more hopeful face.

165

i66 ALICE DEVINE

"She's a wonder, tHat child," I said. "She'll soon
relieve me of all responsibility about this garden."

"She does look after things," said Alice.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that we
found her looking after things again. We heard
howls and outcries in a corner of the garden, and
hurried up to find out what was happening. In the
middle of a ring of shrieking (children I saw the
angel-child. She had one hand clenched in the tow-
colored curls of little Lord Pomeroy and was smack-
ing his face with the other. His were the howls we
had heard.

I dashed for them and got hold of them. They
came apart more easily than I had expected; and
little Lord Pomeroy ran off howling.

"That'll teach him to stick pins into babies,"
said the angel-child triumphantly.

I did not think that it would.

Little Lord Pomeroy's nurse came up and began to
scold her; Alice scolded her, too. I think it was
those tow-colored curls that made little Lord Pom-
eroy such a pet. Miss D'Eresby defended herself
with a firm gallantry. It seemed that Gwendolen
Binns had slipped away to gossip with Frederick,
leaving Lord Cantelune sleeping in his perambulator.

LOST LORD CANTELUNE

Little Lord Pomeroy had thought the chance too
good to be missed and prodded Lord Cantelune with
a pin. It had not been so good a chance as little
Lord Pomeroy had supposed; for the angel-child
had come upon him unawares in the very act and
secured the requisite grip on his curls before he
knew that she was there.

I defended the angel-child and praised her han-
dling of the situation; and Alice scolded me for
encouraging her in her violent administration of
justice. It took us the rest of the afternoon to
argue it out.

The angel-child went away early in the afternoon,
saying that she expected that the little beast's (she
was referring to little Lord Pomeroy) mother would
'come out and make a fuss.

When I saw her the next day she was frowning as
if she were trying to think hard and found it a
strain.

I asked her what was the matter, and she said :
"It's Frederick and Gwendolen Binns. I don't
know what to do with them. I want to give them
a real lesson."

"But you're always giving Frederick real lessons,"
I said.

168 ALICE DEVINE

"I want to give him one he'll really remember,
and Gwendolen Binns, too."

"I expect you'll think of one, if you go on try-
ing," I said in a cheering tone.

"I thought perhaps you could help me," she said.

I sat down on a bench and gave my mind to it;
but I could not hit on a lesson. At last I told her
that it was more in her line than in mine, and left it
at that.

Three days later I came back home about four
o'clock after motoring to Wembley and back for a
little polo practise. As I stopped before my house,
I saw a crowd in the garden near one of the gates,
and went to see what was the matter.

The crowd was composed of nursemaids and chil-
~dren, and in the middle of it were Police-Constable
Brookes and another policeman. I pushed through
it and asked Brookes what was the matter.

"There's a baby missin', m'Lord," said Brookes.
"Lord Cantelune's 'is name."

He went on questioning Gwendolen Binns.

She declared again and again that she had only
just turned her back on the child; and when she
looked round he had gone. One of the older nurses
volunteered the information that Gwendolen had

LOST LORD CANTELUNE 169

been talking to Frederick for at least ten minutes;
and Gwendolen said with some heat that she would
not demean herself to answer no such lies.

There was something of an altercation; and I
gathered that she had left Lord Cantelune sleeping
in his perambulator, and when she returned to it,
the perambulator was empty.

Now Lord Cantelune could not have got out of his
perambulator by himself. He was not old enough.
Moreover, Gwendolen Binns asserted that he had
been strapped into it securely. If he had got out of
it he could not have crawled any distance from it,
for he had only just reached the crawling stage, and
would be seriously hampered by his outdoor clothes.
It was quite plain somebody had taken him.

Here Alice intervened with the information that
she had seen two tramps loafing along outside the
garden; and little Daisy Sartorius had seen them,
too.

This put a serious complexion on the business;
and I took charge of it. I divided up the children
and the nursemaids into gangs and set them to search
the shrubberies thoroughly. I sent off one of the
policemen to the station to inform the inspector in
charge, and have the news telephoned to the neigh-

-i;o ALICE DEVINE

boring police-stations. Before the children and
nursemaids were half-way through their search, the
inspector himself, accompanied by three more police-
men, came in haste from the station. I suggested
that each policeman should take with him a nurse-
maid who knew Lord Cantelune (there are plenty
of spare nursemaids in the garden, since there are at
least two to each family), and make inquiries in the
neighboring streets to find which way the men had
gone. The inspector fell in with the suggestion;
neither the nursemaids nor the policemen made any
objection; and after we had mapped out the area to
be searched by each couple, off they went
cheerfully. Then I suggested to Alice that she and
I should go hunting eastward. She agreed ; and we
started. Just as we were leaving the garden the first
newspaper reporter arrived and fell eagerly on
Gwendolen Binns.

Alice was distressed, and disposed to think that
Lord Cantelune would never be found. I was not
We had been too quick discovering his loss and set-
ting out to hunt down the kidnapers. Long before
they could reach their lair the newspapers would
have set half London on their track, unless they
chanced to be living close by in one of the Mayfair

LOST LORD CANTELUNE r 171

slums. And then those slums are not so large as
they are dirty; and the police could ransack them
thoroughly without any great difficulty. It is not
easy for a tramp to get any distance with a clean
baby without attracting notice.

I had chosen the most likely direction for our own
search ; and we went quickly along, making inquiries
as we went. We asked every likely person, police-
men, commissionaires, postmen, and all persons who
looked to have been standing about idling at street
corners, or against the walls of public-houses, if they
had seen a tramp or tramps with the lost Lord Can-
telune. No one had. It was somewhat embarrass-
ing that so many of them leapt to the conclusion
that it was our own lost baby we were looking for ;
they were very sympathetic, begging Alice not "to
take on." Many of them, too, had stories of lost
children to tell, stories they had heard from friends
or acquaintances, mostly of children who had been
lost and never found. They were not cheering; but
they went along with us to tell them.

By the time we reached Bond Street we had gath-
ered round us an enthusiastic little band of rather
more than a hundred helpers, who took part in all
our inquiries in a thoroughly confusing way. Sev-

172 ALICE DEVINE

eral of the women who had joined us kept proffer-
ing scriptural consolation to Alice; but I fancied
that they always quoted wrong.

We plunged into the region beyond Bond Street ;
but there again we found no traces of lost Lord
Cantelune. Our search party was now two hundred
strong; and I found it so much more embarrassing
than useful that I suggested to Alice that we should
allow it to go on searching by itself. Alice said
that it would be best; and suddenly we slipped into
a tea-shop. Only eleven of them saw our move and
followed us in. Five of these, not persons of the
kind who generally use tea-shops, at once proposed
that I should pay for their tea. When I refused,
they went outside, leaving only six. These six
seemed bent on having a substantial meal ; Alice and
I drank our tea and left them at it. When we came
out we found the five waiting patiently to take up
the search with us again ; but a taxicab was passing,
we jumped into it and drove back to Garthoyle Gar-
dens. Alice was disposed to be dispirited and
gloomy; but I cheered her up by assuring her that,
though we had failed, some one else would be sure
to have succeeded, and that by now Lord Cantelune
had been restored to Gwendolen.

LOST LORD CANTELUNE 173

As we drove along there stared at us from the
posters the words:

LORD CANTELUNE STOLEN.

When we came to the garden, we found it fuller
than ever. Most of my tenants and many of their
servants had come into it to discuss the kidnaping,
and get the earliest news of what was happening.
So far the police had no news of the missing baby;
none of the nursemaids had returned with her ac-
companying policeman ; they were hunting still ; and
in view of the hour, I fancied that each nursemaid
and her policeman were at the moment hunting in
a tea-shop at the nursemaid's expense.

Gwendolen Binns was in great form, holding
forth to a dozen panting newspaper reporters about
how she had been dogged by suspicious-looking peo-
ple for several days, and having her portrait taken
in the part of lost Lord Cantelune's devoted and sor-
row-stricken nurse for all the illustrated weeklies.
Frederick clung to her side, sharing her glory. In
the middle of it the Marquis of Alperton, Lord
Cantelune's father, arrived on the scene, promptly
discharged her from his service, and bade her at

174 ALICE DEVINE

once pack her boxes and clear out of his house. She
went, protesting in shrill howls.

Then came the news that the Evening Herald had
offered one hundred pounds reward to any one giv-
ing information that should lead to the capture of
the kidnapers; and one of its chief editors rushed
up to me and asked permission to establish a tem-
porary office of inquiry in the garden.

I had just refused to allow anything of the kind
when the Honorable Byngo D'Eresby, the father of
the angel-child, came up to me. We always call
him the Honorable Byngo because he looks so like
it. The angel-child must have got her beauty from
her mother.

"I say, Garthoyle; have you seen that little devil
of mine anywhere?" he said in his drawling way.

"No; what is it — a fox-terrier — dachshund —
collie? Dogs aren't admitted in this garden, don't
you know," I said.

"Dogs! It's not a dog! It's my little girl, I
mean — Polly. No one's seen her for hours; and
I've come out to look for her. Her nurse has gone
off with a policeman to hunt for that Cantelune
baby."

"Perhaps she went with them," I said, though I

LOST LORD CANTELUNE 175

conld not remember having seen her go, or indeed
having seen her at all.

"No, she didn't. I've found that out," said the
Honorable Byngo.

"I hope to goodness she hasn't been stolen, too,"
I cried.

"No fear! I should be sorry for any one who
stole Polly. But don't let out that she's missing,
or she'll get into the papers, too. She'll turn up all
right — I know Polly. It's only that her mother's
nervous."

The Honorable Byngo spoke as if he did not real-
ize his privilege in having such a daughter; and
Polly did seem to me to be a poor name for an angel-
child.

"I tell you what. She's gone off hunting for this
lost baby on her own," I said.

"That's it. I'll go and tell her mother," said the
Honorable Byngo ; and off he went

About six pairs of nurses and policemen trickled
slowly in. Not one of them had found any trace
of the missing baby. No news had come from any
of the outlying police-stations. The affair was be-
ginning to look very serious indeed. By a quarter
to seven all the nurses and policemen had come in.

176 ALICE DEVINE

There was nothing that I could do; and there was
nothing to be gained by staying in the garden. I
asked the inspector to let me know the moment any-
thing fresh turned up and went to my house.

Richards met me in the hall and said: "If you
please, m'Lord, little Miss D'Eresby has brought a
baby for you to see; and they've been waiting for
you most of the afternoon."

"The — the deuce she has !" I said ; and I sat down
on a chair.

"Yes, m'Lord; and I gave them some tea; and
Martha helped Miss D'Eresby feed the baby. He's
a sturdy little chap, m'Lord."

"Sturdy little Why you All London

is hunting for that baby! Where is it?" I howled.

"It is up-stairs in the library, m'Lord. M-M-Miss
D'Eresby preferred the library, b-b-because of the
view over the garden, m'Lord," stammered Richards.

I rushed up-stairs and dashed into the library.
The angel-child had her elbows on the window-sill
and was watching the crowd in the garden.

"Hang it all. . . ."

"Hush, you'll wake the baby/' she interrupted,
and I saw the lost Lord Cantelune reposing peace-
fully in an armchair by her side.

LOST LORD CANTELUNE 177

"WHAT on earth . . ."

"I thought you were never coming," she inter-
rupted. "Binns won't neglect this child again in a
hurry. It has been fun watching all the excitement
in the garden."

It was no use, I had to laugh — to think of all the
police and press of London in a whirl of furious
energy, and the lost Lord Cantelune crawling peace-
fully about my library all the while.

"I thought you'd enjoy it," said Miss D'Eresby ;
and she laughed pleasantly herself.

Then I put on a serious face, and reproached her
for all the trouble she had given us. She was quite
unmoved ; she only said : "Well, something had to
be done, you know."

It was no use trying to make her see the other
side of the matter; and I began to consider what
I had better do. Here was the lost Lord Cantelune
in my house; and I did not want a disappointed
public to break the windows, and every paper in
London to make poor jokes about my being a re-
ceiver of stolen babies. I thought it best to re-
store it to its home quietly.

I rang for Richards and told him to tell Martha
to put on her hat. As soon as she came I sent the

1 78 ALICE DEVINE

angel-child home, telling her to say nothing about
her exploit.

"As if I should!" she cried. "Papa never does
understand things!"

When she had gone I sallied out of the back door
with Martha carrying Lord Cantelune about ten
yards behind me. Fortunately he was still asleep;
and she could keep his face covered. We got to
the Alpertons' undetected. The door opened at
once to my knock; and she slipped up the steps
and into the house in a jiffy. I slammed the door.

At first there were great rejoicings over the re-
covery of Lord Cantelune. Then the Alpertons
began to ask questions; and when they heard what
had happened, they were furious with the angel-
child. But I put forward the other side of the
matter firmly and several times, that it was their
business to know that their baby was being neg-
lected; and that they ought to be deucedly obliged
to the angel-child for bringing it to their notice.
I got them calm at last; and then I came away.

I went into the garden and told the inspector
that the lost baby had been recovered. There was a
wild dash of reporters to the Alpertons' house, but
the door did not open. They came dashing back

LOST LORD CANTELUNE 179

to me; and I told them that a young lady had seen
Lord Cantelune trying to escape from his perambu-
lator, and thinking it dangerous, had carried him
to the house of a friend where he had spent the
afternoon. I did not disclose the name of the young
lady; and I did not tell them that I was the friend.

CHAPTER IX

THE EMPTY HOUSE

THE angel-child kept her own counsel about
the loss of Lord Cantelune in the noblest
way; and I met all the questions of the interested
mothers among my tenants with a point-blank re-
fusal to tell them anything about his recovery. I
did not feel that people would think that either the
police or I had displayed any great intelligence in
the matter; and so the less said about it the better.
There was a good deal of talk about it for a day or
two in the Gardens; and then people found some-
thing else to occupy their attention.

I was beginning to make an odd discovery; my
Uncle Algernon had been right in expecting me to
grow keen about the Gardens. The more I worked
at running them the keener I grew about them. I
,was now particularly keen on their being spicker
and spanner than any other square or street, or
crescent or place, in Mayfair. Jack Thurman said

1 80

THE EMPTY HOUSE 181

that I was growing quite touchy about them; and
sometimes when I had finished saying what I
thought about somebody's untidy window-boxes or
balcony awning, I caught Miss Wishart smiling as
if I were really amusing her. Then I had the happy
idea of offering a prize of fifty pounds to the butler
whose house was kept the spickest and spannest
throughout the year. If the butlers made up their
minds to have the house spick and span the tenants
would be made to find the money.

I soon found that it was working all right, be-
cause Tubby Delamare came up to me at the Pal-
ladium one afternoon and said :

"I say, Garthoyle, it's a bit thick you offering
this prize for the best-looking house in the Gar-
dens. I never get a bit of peace now for my butler's
worrying me to do something or other to the front
of the house. As soon as I had it painted, he was
at me for new window-boxes, and now it's fresh
blinds all over the front of the house."

"And very nice they'll look," I said.

"But I put in fresh blinds two years ago; and
they'd have gone another two years quite well,"
he grumbled.

"You can't have too much of a good thing; and

182 ALICE DEVINE

you can't have it too often," I said; and it sounded
to me like a philosopher.

"That's all very well, but I'm spending money
to improve your property, and then you'll raise the
rent on me," he said.

"I can't raise the rent on you till your lease ex-
pires," I said.

"I knew that was the game. You're growing a
regular Shylock," growled Tubby, and he rolled
away.

It was no wonder that Number 16 was beginning
to get on my nerves. Its tenant seemed to have
shut it up and gone away for a long holiday at the
very moment at which it wanted painting badly.
Some of the flowers, too, in the window-boxes had
died, and the rest were straggling all over the plac^
in a disgustingly untidy way. With its grimy win-
dows and blistering paint, and little primeval for-
ests under each window on the ground floor and
the first floor, it was a perfect eyesore, spoiling the
look of the whole of the side of the triangle in
which it stood.

Perhaps I should not have minded it much if
it had not been next door but one to my own house.
As it was I could not go out or in without being

THE EMPTY HOUSE 183

annoyed, or, to be exact, infuriated by the sight
of it.

I found that three years before my uncle had let
it to Senor Pedro Vicenti, a South American mer-
chant, on a lease of seven, fourteen, or twenty-one
years. Plainly I had this infernal foreigner, with
his dirty house, spoiling the look of the Gardens,
for at any rate the next four years. Then I'd
clear him out, if money or law could do it. Till
then I had to stick it out. I could not conceive
what had induced my uncle to let the house to a
foreigner.

I wrote letter after letter to Vicenti, some to his
bankers, some to Number 16, on the chance of their
being forwarded to him by the post-office, asking
him to clean and paint his house and have the
window-boxes refilled. The first letters were firm,
the later ones were firmer. I got no answer to
any of them. It looked as if Vicenti had buried
himself for the time being in some out-of-the-way
part of South America where there were no post-
offices and nothing could be done till he came out
of it and struck civilization again. Number 16
would remain an eyesore until his return. It would
have aggravated the ordinary house-agent beyond

184 ALICE DEVINE

endurance, but I was landlord as well. It was in-
furiating.

One afternoon I came out into the central garden
to smoke a cigar and talk to the children. There
I found Alice Devine and the angel-child. The
angel-child was in great feather because she was
finding Lord Cantelune's new nurse quite satis-
factory. I did not join her in her satisfaction, for
as I came into the garden I had unfortunately
looked back, and had had a full view of the dis-
gusting appearance of Number 16.

Presently Alice said: "What's the matter? You
seem quite depressed."

"I think he's very disagreeable — quite piggish,"
said the angel-child frankly.

"It's that beastly house — Number 16 — it makes
me positively sick. I'm expecting to see a rich crop
of thistles in those window-boxes before long," I
said grumpily.

"Why don't you have them cut?" said Alice.

"I've no right to interfere with my tenants*
window-boxes," I said.

"If I only did the things I had a right to do, I
shoidd find it dull," said the angel-child.

"I don't suppose your tenant would ever know;

THE EMPTY HOUSE 185

and if he did, he would probably be much obliged
to you," said Alice. "After all he's in South
iA'merica."

"By jove! That's an idea," I said.

It was an idea that did not want any thinking
about. The thing to do was to act.

"Come along, let's find a gardener and have it
done at once," I said.

They came along briskly; the mere fact that I
was going to do a forbidden thing seemed to make
it quite attractive to the angel-child.

Of course the first gardener we found was Fred-
erick. I told him to get a ladder and come and
trim the window-boxes at Number 16. I was im-
patient to see it done and I went with him. He
seemed to think he had got three days' quiet work
before him. I did not see it in that way, and I
bustled him along hard — in fact I got a hustle on
him, as they used to say in the States when I was
there. In ten minutes I had him clipping away at
the boxes on the first floor. I stood on the steps
of the house, directing his labors; and Alice and
the angel-child stood by my side. The angel-Child
made suggestions. Frederick 'did not seem to be
able to do anything quite to her liking.

i86 ALICE DEVINE

Frederick had clipped the boxes in the two side
windows of the drawing-room, when of a sudden
he gave an awful yell, came tumbling down the
ladder and hit his head a thundering crack on the
pavement.

The angel-child laughed, and Alice and I ran to
him. He seemed stunned. I propped him up
against the steps, ran to my own house and fetched
Richards. We carried Frederick into my office and
set him very gently on a sofa. Alice and Miss
Wishart bustled about and wrapped wet cloths
round his head, and a footman ran for a doctor.
Frederick began to groan; and there was a bump
as big as a hen's egg on the top of his head. We
waited anxiously for the doctor, and I saw that
the angel-child was beginning to look really fright-
ened.

Then Frederick came to himself and said:
"Workman's Compensation Act."

I was relieved, though Frederick groaned louder
than ever. Jhen the doctor came and examined
him.

When he had done the doctor said : "You're all
right, my man — only a bump on the head."

Frederick only uttered a deep groan. The doc-

THE EMPTY HOUSE 187

tor ordered the wet cloth to be kept round his head,
and to be changed again when it got warm.

I went with him to the door, and he said : "Your
gardener's got a good thick skull, Lord Garthoyle.
It's a good job he fell on it. He might have broken
something."

I went back to Frederick and found him groaning
loudly.

"What the poor fellow wants is a stiff brandy-
and-soda," I said to Richards.

There was a break in Frederick's groaning, then
he went on again louder than ever.

Richards brought the brandy-and-soda, mixed it,
propped Frederick against the back of the sofa and
held the glass to his lips.

Frederick emptied it and said feebly : "More." ,

"Give the poor fejlow another," I said; and
Richards gave him another.

Frederick swallowed it firmly, then he moaned:
"I shan't be able to work fer weeks an' weeks."

"How came you to fall off the ladder?" I said.

"It was the fyce — the 'orrible fyce wiv eyes like
a devil. It give me a start," said Frederick.

"Well, that was a silly fancy to bump your head
for," I said.

i88 ALICE DEVINE

"It warn't no fancy; I seed it plyne. It 'ad
pulled the blind on one side an' was a-starin' at me,"
said Frederick in a firm voice.

"Rubbish. The house is empty," I said.

With two brandies-and-sodas in him, Frederick
proved of a very argumentative disposition. He
sat up to discuss the matter. He would have it that
it was no fancy. He had looked up from his work
to see a horrible face staring at him round the cor-
ner of the blind. It was such a devilish face that
the sight of it had given him such a start that he
had lost his balance and fallen off the ladder. He
grew more and more excited about it the more
firmly I expressed my disbelief in it. He forgot
all about the Workman's Compensation Act and
his weeks and weeks of holiday; and at last,
arguing furiously, he walked to Number 16 with
me. I climbed the ladder myself; there was no face
there. I rapped the window ; no face peered at me
round the Corner of the blind. The blind never
stirred.

I gave Frederick half-a-sovereign to soothe the
pain of the bump on his head, and fetched another
gardener, had the rest of the window-boxes

THE EMPTY HOUSE 189

trimmed and thought very little more of Frederick's
silly fancy.

But a night or two later, coming back from
playing baccarat and talking to Alice at Scruton's,
I came upon Brookes, the most intelligent of the
policemen who protect the Gardens, in front of
Number 16. I remembered Frederick's story and
stopped and told him about it.

Brookes knows Frederick, and he said: "Lor',
m'Lord, there's nothin' in what 'e sees or don't see.
If 'e seed a purply-green fyce, it wouldn't have sur-
prised me, seein' the amount of booze 'e gets out-
side of in a day."

"That's what I thought," I said.

"All the syme, as it 'appens, I'm keepin' my eye
on this 'ere 'ouse myself. Though it is empty,
there's people 'angs about it, m'Lord."

"I wish they'd clean these filthy windows, then.
They're a disgrace to the Gardens," I said.

"You may well say so, m'Lord," said Brookes
in a very sympathetic way.

. He went on to tell me that he had seen men —
several men — foreigners — hanging about the house
at night, for the last fortnight, two or three of them

'190 ALICE DEVINE

at a time. They were not the foreign refuse with
which London is getting choked, but well-dressed
men, sometimes even in evening dress. One night
he had seen two of them come out of the porch
and asked them what they were doing in it. They
said that they were friends of Sefior Vicenti and
had knocked to see if he were at home. I agreed
with Brookes that it was idiotic to leave a house
like that without a caretaker in it.

But these men seemed to me suspicious; and I
wondered if there were anything wrong with the
house. But I thought it would be safe enough if
Brookes were keeping an eye on it; for he is an
uncommonly intelligent policeman, and well on his
way to be promoted to the rank of sergeant. I
made a point of looking at the house myself when
I came home at night and of trying the door of it
as I passed.

About a week later I came Home about half past
eleven, and before going to bed I went out on
the balcony. There was 9, bright moon; and I saw
a policeman, probably Brookes — going up the left
side of the triangle. Then a woman in black
passed quickly along the pavement beneath me and
slipped up the steps into the porch of Number 16.

THE EMPTY HOUSE 191

I lost no time. I ran down-stairs, let myself out
of the house and walked past Number 16. I saw
a dark figure against its door and caught a glimpse
of a white cheek and a glimmering eye as the wo-
man turned her face to see who passed. I walked
on to the corner, keeping my head over my shoul-
der to see if she came out of the porch. She did
not. I waited three minutes, walked quietly back,
and saw the dark figure still in the porch, close to
the door. I walked up the steps and said sharply:
"What are you doing here?"

She gave a startled little cry. Then she said
in a spirited tone : "Eet ees no business of yours.'*

It was a pleasant voice — the voice of a lady.

"Pardon me," I said. "It is very much my busi-
ness. This house is mine; my tenant is away and
in his absence I keep an eye on it"

"Oh, ees eet zo?" she said coolly; and I fancied
that she slipped something into her pocket.

"Yes, it is; and I should like an explanation,"
I said.

"Eet ees veree simple," she said slowly. "Sefior
Vicenti ees my oncle. I am zeeing if he ees at ze
house. I am coom to London lately; and I find
heem gone from eet."

I92 ALICE DEVINE

It was a simple, natural explanation ; and it
came straight off her tongue, but I did not believe
it.

"It's very late," I said.

"Not to zeek an oncle," she said with a soft
laugh. "I weesh to zee heem veree mooch. I do
not know when he cooms back to his house."

"Well, if there were any one in the house, they
would have come to the door long before now,"
I said.

"Zat ees true," she said with a little sigh. "But
once more I weel try."

And with that she beat a thundering tattoo on
the door with the knocker. As the knocks went
ringing out on the quiet Gardens, I realized that
she had not knocked before. Of course she might
have been ringing.

"If there ees any one in ze house, zey weel hear
that," she said; and she laughed a queer soft
laugh, with a kind of threat in it, uncomfortable
to hear.

And then she came down the steps without wait-
ing a moment to hear if her knocking had roused
any one. It was an odd thing to do.

In the full light of the moon I saw that she was

THE EMPTY HOUSE 193

a very pretty girl, with very red lips in a pale face,
and large velvety eyes. I fancied that they looked
at me in a rather mocking way.

We walked along to the corner and I turned
down Carisbrooke Street with her.

Then she stopped and said: "Zere ees no need
for you to coom with me."

"I don't think that your uncle would like you to
be walking about alone at this hour; and since he
is my tenant, he would think it only proper that I
should see you home, or at any rate put you into
a cab," I said.

I meant to hear the address she gave the cabman.

She looked at my face and she saw that I meant
to come. Perhaps I was looking obstinate. I was
certainly feeling obstinate.

"Veree well," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
"But zere ees no need. My motor-car ees waiting
for me at ze end of ze street."

We went on; and half-way down the street I
said: "You're expecting your uncle to return
soon?"

"I do not know," she said.

"Well, I hope he'll wash his windows when he
does come," I said.

194 ALICE DEVINE

"Wash — hees — windows?" she said; and she
stared at me with her eyes wide open.

"Yes; the windows of his house. They're a
disgrace to the. Gardens. Do you think that you
could have them washed?"

"Deesgracef ul ? — Me? — Oh, but you Eengleesh
— you are fonny," she. said, and laughed.

It was a charming* laugh; but I could not see
anything fimny about the windows of the eyesore.
They were disgusting.

Sure enough, at the bottom of the street, a big
motor-car was standing against the curb. I opened
the door of it for her and she stepped into- it.

"Good night," she said.

"Good night," said I; and the car started off
at a smart pace.

Of course there was no taxi in sight. If there
had been, I should certainly have taken the liberty
of seeing where the car went.

The car went round the corner and I turned back.
I wished I had asked her to inform me immediately
of her uncle's return, that I might have started on
him at once about the disgraceful appearance of
the outside of his house.

I came home wondering about her. Certainly

THE EMPTY HOUSE 195

she did not seem the kind of person to feel anxious
about She was not one of the criminal class, of
that I was quite sure. I looked about for her for
a day or two; but I saw nothing of her. She did
not come again to seek her uncle at any time when I
was in the Gardens. Neither did Senor Vicenti
return, nor were any preparations made for his
return, nor were the windows washed.

It was four or five days later that coming home
one night I met Brookes at the corner of Caris-
brooke Street. I stopped and asked him if he had
seen any more suspicious characters lingering about
Number 16.

"Well, not lingering, m'Lord. But last night I
seed, or anyways I thought I seed, two men and a
woman come down the steps of it. But I couldn't
be sure. I was right the other side of the Gardens ;
and they hooked it off down Carisbrooke Street
an* was out of sight long before I could get round."

"It's all very odd," I said. "And then again,
it mayn't be anything at all. Just friends or busi-
ness people anxious to see Senor Vicenti."

I wished him good night and went on home. I
just had time to mix myself a lemon-squash, and
was drinking it, up in the library, where drinks

196 ALICE DEVINE

and biscuits are always set for me, in case I come
home late and am hungry or thirsty, when I heard
a loud knocking at one of the front doors near. I
went out on the balcony and found that it came
from Number 16. I ran down-stairs and along to
it, expecting to find the pretty niece of Senor
Vicenti again seeking her uncle. Instead of her I
found Brookes in its porch. .The door was ajar,
and as I ran up the steps, he rang and knocked
again.

"This is a rum start, m'Lord," he said. "I comes
up the steps to take a look at this door; I gives it
a shove and open it goes. I don't like the looks
of it at all. The lock 'as bin tampered with an'
not to-night. I've 'ad me eyes on this 'ere 'ouse
all the evening. I think I'd better find Barnett an'
take a look round it."

"There's no need to fetch Barnett, I'll go round
it with you," said I.

Brookes hesitated a moment; then he said:
"Very well, m'Lord," and he opened the door wider
and went in.

I followed him. The light of his lantern cut
but a small wedge in the darkness of the big empty
hall. He drew the door to behind us. I noticed

THE EMPTY HOUSE 197

an odd unpleasant smell — not exactly musty —
but rather like it I could not place it, though I
was sure that I had smelt it before. Then I stum-
bled over a basket standing a yard or so inside
the hall.

Brookes turned the light of his lantern on it;
and we saw that it was about two feet square and
the lid was shut. In the lid was an odd little trap-
door about four inches square, and that was open.

"It's a rummy-lookin' basket. I've never seed
one with an extra lid like that," said Brookes; and
then he added: "It do smell — like as if it 'ad
'ad an hanimal in it"

"Yes : but what animal ?" I said.

"I can't rightly call it to mind," said Brookes.
As he spoke I took a step forward and tripped
over a wire stretched across the hall, about six
inches from the floor; and on the instant a shrill
bell started ringing quickly, high up in the house.

"Electric burglar alarm," said Brookes.

He stepped forward to take a look at the wire my
foot had struck, his own foot struck another wire
running parallel to it and set another shrill bell
ringing.

We stood quite still. I was waiting, for some one

198 ALICE DEVINE

to call to us from the top of the house. I was sure
that some one would call. But no one did, nor
was there any stir. Only the shrill bells rang.

Brookes swept the light of his lantern over the
floor of the hall. It was mapped out into squares
by a network of wires.

"If there ain't a few," he said.

"Rather silly to have the house full of burglar
alarms and nobody in it to hear them," I said.

"That's just it," said Brookes; and I noticed
that we were both talking in whispers.

Then he shouted: "Is there any one up-stairs?
It's thepleece!"

There was no answer. One of the bells stopped
ringing; the other rang on.

"Well, we'd better look into it," I said.

Stepping over the wires, we went round the hall
trying the doors. All of them were locked and
there were no keys in them. Then Brookes' foot
struck another wire and set another bell ringing.

Then we came to the stairs. At the foot of them
we were brought up short by a barricade of barbed
wire.

"Why, hang it all! The house is fortified
against an assault! This isn't burglars!" I cried.

THE EMPTY HOUSE 199

"It's a rum start," said Brookes.

"And nobody would fortify an empty house," I
exclaimed.

"Hush, I thought I 'card somebody movin',"
said Brookes; and then he shouted: "Hi! LYou
there up-stairs! It's the pleece. .Your front door
wants locking."

His voice went echoing away up the stairs, about
the landings and died away at the top of the
house. There was no answer. Then the last
alarm stopped ringing; and all was very still. It
was oddly creepy too. The shaft of light from
the lantern left a lot of darkness about us; and
there was the odd smell.

"We must try up-stairs," I said.

Brookes turned his light on the barricade;
and I saw that it was a set of barbed wire screens,
about five feet high, half of them hinged to the
banisters, half to the wall. They were overlapping
one another. By drawing the nearest toward one
and pushing back to the next to it, a passage was
opened through the barricade. It was not very
difficult to make one's way along. But it was slow
going, and it only let one man through at a time.
It was practically impassable for a woman, if she

200 ALICE DEVINE

were wearing a skirt. Moreover, one was helpless
inside it, since one had to keep one's arms to one's
sides, or up above one's head. A man on the flight
of stairs above could have shot down any number
of men, through the banisters, before the barricade
could be forced. He would have been out of sight
to any one standing in the hall. It was plainly
enough meant to stop an assault in force; and it
was an odd find in Garthoyle Gardens.

I started to get past it and worked my way
gingerly through the screens; it was not very diffi-
cult and I did not tear my coat. Then I held
the lantern to light Brookes through it. He caught
his thicker coat once in one of the barbs; but he
disentangled it without tearing the cloth.

We had just come through, when I heard a
faint rustle higher up the stairs. I turned the light
of the lantern on them, and ten steps up it fell on
a snake — a snake with a big head reared above its
coils. It was so unexpected, and everything was
so odd, that it looked to me as big as a ship's
hawser.

J gasped, and I heard Brookes gasp.

"Over the banisters," I cried.

Brookes was over them in a jiffy. I threw the

THE EMPTY HOUSE 201

lantern at the snake, slipped over them myself, and
landed on top of Brookes.

We did not say anything. We started for the
front door, tripping and stumbling over the wire,
setting off alarum after alarum, till the whole of
the top of the house was one shrill jangling
ringing.

Out in the porch we drew the door to and looked
at each other, and wiped our faces with our hand-
kerchiefs.

"Well, that was nice. Snakes in the dark are a
trifle thick/' I said.

"They are, m'Lord. It's a daylight job, this is,"
said Brookes.

"So that was what the hall and the basket smelt
of — that snake," I said.

"That's what it was. It must live in that basket
— like as if it were a kennel. It's the queerest
watch-dog I ever see — likewise the nastiest to
tackle," said Brookes.

I thought for a minute or two, then I said: "I
don't believe it is a watch-dog. It would be too
difficult to handle. No. It doesn't belong to the
house. It's been brought here. I believe it was
brought last night — in that basket."

202 ALICE DEVINE

"But who'd bring a snake in a basket?" said
Brookes.

"Probably the people you saw come away from
the house last night."

"But what would they bring it for, m'Lord? It
ain't a thing to joke with. It looked to me. a regular
boar-constrictor, like you sees at the Zoo," said
Brookes.

"Burglar alarums and barbed wire are no good
against a snake. It can crawl anywhere. It's not
a watch-dog. It's just the other thing — a what-
d'you-call-it ? — an instrument of destruction," I
said.

"That's a rummy idea," said Brookes.

"I've seen it in a story called — what was it called ?
The Black Man's Servant. A snake was used to
commit a murder in it. Somebody else has been
reading that story," I said.

"I always says as them detective stories does a
lot of 'arm — especially to growing boys," said
Brookes. "You think as 'ow it's meant for Mr.
Vicenti when 'e comes 'ome — a kirid of unpleasant
welcome like?"

"I don't see any reason to suppose that he has
gone away. You don't fortify a house like that and

THE EMPTY HOUSE 203

then clear out of it. He may be kept a prisoner in
some room by the fear of that snake," I said.

"Then he'd 'ave called out to us when I called
to 'im," said Brookes.

"It does look bad," I said.

"This job's too big for you an' me to 'andle,
m'Lord," said Brookes. "An' the sooner I lets the
inspector know about it the better."

"All right," I said. "I'll go round to the police-
station and tell him about it, while you keep watch
on the house."

"Thank you, m'Lord; that will save time," said
Brookes.

I went briskly round to the police-station and
told the inspector what we had found at Number
1 6. He did not seem greatly astonished, though
he said that it was a rum start. Of course, since
his work lies in Mayfair, he is used to queer things.

He put a sergeant in charge of the station and
came back with me at once. Brookes had heard
no sound in the house while I had been gone. The
inspector opened the door a little way and swept
the light of his lantern round the hall. We could
not see the snake; it had not come down the stairs.
Perhaps my throwing the lantern at it had fright-

204 ALICE DEVINE

ened it up them. After a short conference with
Brookes, the inspector also decided that to explore
the house in the face of a snake behind the wire
entanglements was not a night job. He would wait
for the daylight. I offered to help, to bring a gun
and shoot the snake for them; and the inspector
accepted my offer at once. He decided that four
o'clock would be soon enough to start the exami-
nation of the house.

I went back to my house, awoke Mowart, and
told him to wake me at half past three and have
some coffee ready for me. Then I went to bed.
Mowart called me at half past three; and while I
had my bath and dressed, took some coffee and
biscuits out to the inspector and his men. Then I
had some coffee and biscuits myself. I put on a
pair of shooting-boots and thick leather gaiters,
took a gun, and went round to Number 16.

I found the inspector, Brookes and two other
men ready at the door. I led the way in, with my
gun ready. The hall was very dim, but Brookes
drew up the blinds; and the light streamed in. It
looked in the daylight a very ordinary hall indeed,
but for the network of wires that covered the
floor. All the creepiness had gone with the dark-

THE EMPTY HOUSE 205

ness, but not the smell. There was no snake in it.
The inspector examined the basket; and we found
that it was not a special make, but just an ordinary
basket with a piece cut, rather roughly, out of its
lid, and fastened to it with hinges of string to make
a little trap-door.

"I don't think we're going to get anything out
of this — amatoor work," said the inspector; and
he set the basket down.

The doors of the rooms opening into the hall
were locked, and there were no keys in them. The
door leading into the back of the house was also
locked ; and there was no key in it.

We went to the staircase, which was in a good
light from the hall window. The snake was not on
the bottom flight of stairs. I wormed my way
through the barricade; and I was a bit uncom-
fortable while I was doing it and glad to get to the
other side. If the snake had come at me while I
was in the middle of it, I should have been help-
less. I could not possibly have used my gun. I
walked up to the landing and drew up the blind.
There was no snake on the second flight.

The inspector and the policemen came through
the barricade; and we went up to the second floor.

206 ALICE DEVINE

I stood on the top of the stairs, looking about
me, when Brookes, who stood just behind me, cried :
"There he goes, m'Lord! At the end of the
passage!"

In the dimly-lighted corridor facing me some-
thing was moving along the wainscoting. I threw
up my gun and put a charge of shot into it. The
report of the gun fairly bellowed about the house;
and we all stood still for a minute, listening. There
wasn't a sound ; yet that bang had been loud enough
to wake the dead.

"There ain't nobody in this 'ouse — except us,"
said one of the policemen.

"Nobody alive," said I.

We went along the corridor; and Brookes pulled
up the blind of the window at the end of it. The
snake was quite dead, fairly riddled with shot. I
picked it up and looked at it.

"I say, this isn't the snake that bolted us last
night. It's much smaller, and it hasn't such a big
head," I said.

"It's a lot smaller, m'Lord," said Brookes.

"Ah, you saw it in a bad light; and you were
startled," said the inspector.

"No; it is smaller. I'm sure of it," I said; and

THE EMPTY HOUSE 207

I thought for a minute. "And after all, why should
there be only one snake? .That basket would hold
a dozen," I added.

It was not a pleasant thought, and we looked
at one another uncomfortably. I slipped another
Cartridge into my gun. Fortunately, I had, with-
out thinking, put a handful into my pocket.

We moved cautiously on, and I led the way.
The doors of some of the rooms on the first floor
were open, and I went into each of them first, with
my gun ready. The first two rooms — a library and
a smoking-room — were empty. The third room
was a drawing-room, and as I went into it I heard
a rustle. The blinds were down and the room was
dim.

"Keep out!" I cried, went to one of the windows
and jerked up the blind.

Ten feet from me, in an easy chair, a big-headed
snake was rearing itself up. I blew its head off.
At the bang of the gun two smaller snakes came
darting out of hiding.

I shouted, "Shut the door!" and jumped on a
chair.

The door banged to and the snakes darted
quickly backward and forward along and across

208 ALICE DEVINE

the room. I cut one clean m two with the other
barrel. Then I reloaded, and when the smoke had
cleared a little, I shot the other. Then I waited a
while to see if any more came out, but none did.
I called out that it was all right and the police-
men came in. I had made a mess of the room;
I had cut the back of the easy chair to ribbons
and spoiled the carpet

We examined the dead snakes, and Brookes and
I both agreed that the big-headed snake, which
I had shot in the easy chair, was the one we had
seen on the stairs. Then I went to the middle
window, in which was the window-box Frederick
had been clipping when he fell, and examined the
blind. It was very dusty, and on one side near its
fige were finger-prints. Frederick had been right:
some one had drawn the blind on one side and
looked at him round the edge of it. The house had
not been empty.

There were no more snakes in any of the other
rooms on the first floor. When we had made sure
of it we went to the staircase of the second floor.
There was a barricade at the bottom of it — a large
mass of barbed wire — but it was drawn up close
to the ceiling, and could be let down with a rope

THE EMPTY HOUSE 209

to fill the whole width of the staircase to a height
of six feet. It was a very clever idea. I led the
way up the stairs, and was a few steps up the
second flight when a big snake came quickly over
the top stair right down at me. I fired from the
hip; it gave a jump, pitched down the stairs,
hitting my leg as it passed, and fell a squirming,
hissing heap on the landing. I fired the other bar-
rel into it as the policemen fell tumbling over one
another down the lower flight.

I was beginning to enjoy it; but then I had a
gun. The policemen looked uncommonly nervous
and shaky. The snake was the biggest one we had
come across yet.

I gave the policemen a little time to pull them-
selves together and then we went up to the second
floor. The doors of all the rooms were [closed,
and it did not seem likely that there were any snakes
in them. However, we looked through them all —
they were bedrooms — and made sure that there
were no snakes in them. Then I led the way, un-
der another barbed wire barricade, hung to the
ceiling, up the narrow staircase to the third floor.
In all the houses in the Gardens the third floor is
arranged as servants' quarters, and the rooms are

210 ALICE DEVINE

small. The doors of all but one of them were
open.

"Here's the end of the search," I said, tapping
the closed door; and the inspector opened it.

The blind was down, but the room was brightly
lighted by the burning gas. On the bed lay the
body of a swarthy, hook-nosed, black-haired man
of about fifty-five. He was dressed in pajamas
and a dressing-gown. I saw at the first glance that
he was dead. The inspector pointed to his swollen
left ankle, in which there were two deep wounds.
Plainly he had cut away the flesh round the
punctures from the snake's fangs; but it had been
no use. A half-smoked cigar had fallen from the
fingers of his right hand and burned a hole in the
blanket. On the table by the bed was an empty
champagne-bottle, and a glass half-full of the wine
stood beside it.

"A cool hand, and tough," said the inspector.
"Found that it was all up with him, and died en-
joying himself — not been dead long, either."

"Well, if the snakes were brought here the night
before last by the people Brookes saw, they've
only been in the house thirty hours," I said. "I

THE EMPTY HOUSE 211

expect he was going about in the dark in his
pajamas and trod on one of them."

"That's it," said the inspector. "But I wonder
that he didn't bolt out to a doctor."

"He was probably afraid that the people who had
brought the snakes were waiting for him, or per-
haps he knew the snake, and that it was no use
bothering about a doctor. He looks as if he had
been well baked in the tropics."

"Perhaps that's it, m'Lord," said the inspector.

Hanging on the wall were a magazine rifle and
two shotguns with their barrels cut short to spread
buck-shot. All along one side of the room were
the burglar alarums which the wires in the hall set
ringing.

We came out and explored the other rooms.
One was a kitchen with a gas-stove in it, kept very
clean; another was a library with shelves and
shelves full of French and Spanish novels; another
was a bathroom. The room beyond the bathroom
was a storeroom full of tinned meats, soups, vege-
tables and milks enough to have fed an expedition
to the South Pole. The next room was a larder
full of hams, sides of bacon, cheeses, dried tongues

212 ALICE DEVINE

and salt butter. The last room was a cellar full
of champagne, burgundy, port and old brandy.

On the floor of the cellar lay a smashed bottle
of burgundy with a little wine still in the bottom
of it. It looked to me as if my tenant might have
dropped that bottle when the snake bit him. I
took one of the long laths on which the rows of
bottles lay, from one of the bins, and poked under
the bottles, and rapped here and there. Presently
I heard a rustle. I stepped back and dropped on
one knee. That was no use, and I lay down flat
on the floor. The bottom row of bottles was not
above six inches from the floor, and it was dark
under it I peered about; presently I fancied
I saw something move, and fired at a venture and
sprang to my feet. There was a noise of thrash-
ing and a snake came squirming out. I fired the
other barrel into it and cut it into strips. I have
no doubt that it was the snake which had bitten
Vicenti.

There was nothing more I could do and I went
home to bed, leaving Number 16 in the hands of the
police. I was some time getting to sleep, for I
'could not help trying to puzzle out the explanation
of Vicenti's barricading himself in his house.

THE EMPTY HOUSE 213

There was no doubt that with all these provisions
he could have stood a two or three years' siege.
With those barricades the house could not be car-
ried by assault — not by fifty men. He could prob-
ably have shot as many as that before they got
through the first barricade. I wondered and won-
dered who his enemies were. I wondered how they
had found out that the house was not empty; I
wondered what part the pretty girl with the brown
velvety eyes had played in the business. I did not
think that it was a small one.

The papers were quiet till the inquest; then they
were noisy enough. They found plenty of answers
to the questions the case raised. They found too
many. Some said that Vicenti had fallen a victim
to the vengeance of the Camorra; others of the
Mafia; others of the Black Hand; others of the
Russian Revolutionaries. Others again suggested
that he had had some valuable jewels in the house,
and that as soon as his enemies were sure that the
snakes had done their work, they would have come
in the daytime, killed the snakes, searched the house
at their leisure and carried off the jewels. They
could not all be right; though they could all be
wrong; and all of them were quite sure that a

2i4 ALICE DEVINE

mystery that must be known to so many people
would soon be solved. It was not.

The inquest was adjourned, and presently the
newspapers let the matter drop and I was no longer
pestered by reporters wanting to interview me about
how I felt during what the placards called
"PEER'S HEROIC SNAKE-HUNT." For weeks
my friends called me "Heroic Snake-Hunter."
• The police, however, did not let the matter drop ;
they were hunting among the snake-dealers, Jam-
rach and the rest, for the man who had bought the
snakes. They got on his track easily enough. He
was plainly the young Spanish collector who had
bought them for his collection, as he put it. But
the police did not find the young Spanish collector.
The other chance of getting to the bottom of the
business was to find the pretty girl who had told
me that she was Vicenti's niece. I grew very tired
of detectives calling to see me with photographs
of all the female scum of Europe and the Americas,
on the chance that I might recognize one of them
as her.

It was not the slightest use my telling them
that she was quite all right — a lady, and not an
adventuress at all. The other odd thing was, that

THE EMPTY HOUSE 215

though Vicenti was worth nearly a million, no heirs
turned up to claim the money. The police could
not discover anything about him, neither who he
was nor what his business had been.

Then I met the pretty girl — on the Lawn at
Ascot

She was wearing a charming frock — what they
call a confection — evidently from Paris; and there
wasn't a doubt that she was one of the prettiest
women at the meeting. She was talking to a tall,
sallow, black-bearded man when my eyes fell on
her. I stared at her, very naturally, trying to make
up my mind what to do; then she saw me. She
looked at me quietly enough and said something
to the tall man; he turned and looked at me too.
Then she left him, came across the Lawn to me, and
held out her hand.

"How do you do, Lord Garthoyle?" she said,
with a charming smile. "I knew that we should
meet zooner or later."

"How do you do?" I said, shaking her hand.
"I have been hoping we should meet ever since the
evening you called on your uncle in Garthoyle
Gardens."

"Zo have the poleece, I t>elieve," she said, with

216 ALICE DEVINE

another charming smile, and she led the way out
of the growd to a couple of chairs beside a little
table.

We looked at each other, and she said: "I
moost introduce myself. I am the Senora Car-
valho. My husband ees ze Colombian Ambas-
sador. Was eet not strange about my oncle — your
tenant of Number 16? He was not my oncle truly.
Oh, no. He was El Caballo."

"Was he?" said I, though I had never heard of
El Caballo in my life.

"Yes; sometime een Colombia zey call heem ze
'Black President'; sometime ze 'Red President.'
He was president for four monz. And what a
horror! He was a murderer and brigand at first;
and when he was president he was vorse — oh, mooch
vorse. He robbed and murdered and tortured not
only hees enemies, but also hees own party." She
paused; she was not smiling now; then she added
slowly: "He shot my fazer and my brozer — a
leetle boy of twelve."

"The hound!" I said.

"My mozer was zere and I. I was nine years
old. My mozer died veree soon. At the end of

THE EMPTY HOUSE 217

four monz, he disappeared, ze president — suddenly.
We zought zat he had been killed quietly and
buried, zough eet was strange zat nobody could
find ze money he had stolen. People talked about
heem for years when I was a child. Zen zey forgot
heem. Eight monz ago I recognized heem in
Piccadilly. He was veree different — oh, yes, veree
different. But I knew heem — right zere. He did
not know me; and I followed heem to hees house
een Garthoyle Gardens."

"I see," I said.

"Zome of my friends came from Colombia —
zons of murdered fazers. Zey coom quickly. But
zomehow he learned zat zey had coom. We do not
know how he learnt eet, but he knew why zey had
coom. He shut up hees house; and we zought zat
he had gone away. We could not find out where
he had gone; but we waited. Always one or ze
ozer watch ze house. But he nevaire came. Zen
one of my coosins een ze beeg garden een ze meedle,
on a hot -day, saw a — what would you call eet ? —
he saw ze heat twinkle above a chimney. Zo we
know zat he was zere. Zen another coosin got into
ze house from ze back, and found ze barricade. He

2i8 ALICE DEVINE

tooched a wire een ze hall; and ze bell rang. El
Caballo fired at heem, and heet heem in ze shoulder,
but my coosin got out of ze house. We did not
know what to do. Zen I planned ze snakes. I saw
zem een a book, an Eengleesh book called Ze Skip-
'per's Wooing, but only one snake was een ze book.
iWe got more snakes, to make sure. My coosin
bought zem and went quickly out of England. Zen
we poot zem in ze house."

"I'm jolly glad you got him — the hound wanted
killing off/' I said.

"Ah, you onderstand," she said, with a little
sigh of relief. "And my friends have gone back
to Colombia, and my husband he does not know.
An Ambassador should not know zese zings."

I nodded.

"But eet ees strange zat ze police know nozing
- — nozing at all?" she said anxiously.

"They will never know anything about it, or
about any one connected with it. I'm quite sure
of that. The brute wanted killing off," I said
firmly.

"Zank you," she said, and she smiled. "I knew
zat a gentleman would onderstand."

I thought for a moment and then I said : "He

THi: KMPTY HOUSE 219

must have turned pretty cold when you hammered
at the door that night."

"I zought of zat/' she said. And she laughed
— the soft, queer, uncomfortable little laugh. "But
coom, let me introduce you to my husband."

CHAPTER X

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL ,

WE soon found Sefior Carvalho; and she
introduced me to him. He seemed rather
grave and solemn — I thought too grave and solemn
for her. We had tea together and talked about
the racing and the theaters. I came away from
the meeting very pleased to have learned the
solution of the snake mystery. But I could not
expect to let Number 16 for some time, not while
the murder was fresh in people's minds. They
would always be expecting that if they took it,
Vicenti's ghost would walk. However, I had the
house painted and the windows cleaned, so that it
teased to be an eyesore; and that was very satis-
factory.

But things always come in battalions, as I believe
Shakespeare pointed out ; and presently I had Clipp
on my hands. I do not know whether it is part

220

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 221

of the duty of the ordinary house-agent to look
after the respectability of the houses he lets; but
every one seems to expect me to look after the re-
spectability of the Gardens. Indeed, the way my
tenants worry me with fussy letters generally, makes
me inclined to agree with those Socialist beggars
who say that everybody ought to work. I wish
my tenants worked — I should like to give some of
them hard labor, and their wives too. Then they
would have something ejse to do but worry me.

After the way I had dealt with the hieroglyphics
in his porch, Sir Marmaduke Ponderbury had
stopped his everlasting letters. I think he had
grown a bit timid of me. But with tenants it
seems to me that when one is down, another comes
tip. And Sir Nugent Clipp began to make a bigger
nuisance of himself than old Ponderbury had ever
done. We call him Nugget Clipp, because he is the
meanest man in London.

Most of my tenants kick at spending money on
their houses, though they rent them on repairing
leases; but it seemed to be Nugget's idea not to
spend a single penny on his, but to get me to do
all the spending for him. I was always getting
letters from him — his butler brought them round to

222 ALICE DEVINE

save the postage — calling on me to make some re-
pair that was entirely his business. When I re-
fused, he would write again and again, repeating
the demand. That was annoying enough; but he
did not stop at letters. When he saw that it was
no use writing he would get the work done and tell
the man who did it to send the bill in to me. Then
there was a correspondence with the tradesman. I
said again and again (Jack Thurman and Miss
Wishart must have grown tired of hearing me say
it) that what Nugget wanted was his neck wring-
ing. Accounts are nuisance enough in all conscience
without their being muddled up by tricks like Clipp's.

Besides, thanks to his stinginess, his house was
the worst kept and the dingiest in the Gardens.
After I had painted Number 16 I took good care to
point this out to him in letter after letter, request-
ing him to have it painted, or to have the paint
washed, or to have his window-boxes trimmed, or
his awnings cleaned.

One way and another I was not on good terms
with him, though I carried on all my correspondence
with him through Garth and Thurman; for, in
spite of this, he never saw me without trying to get
some repair or other out of me. I have seen his

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 223

whiskers positively bristle with eagerness to touch
me for three-and-sixpence. I was always very
short and frequently nasty with him — not that that
stopped him having another try next time he came
across me. It was a blessing I could spot him a
long way off. He is a short, dapper, whiskered
little man, with pale blue eyes, which in some lights
are yellow like a cat's; and he has a habit of wearing
tweed suits, very badly cut, of a large black-and-
white check. No one has ever seen him in any-
thing else ; and they have a theory at the Palladium
that many years ago he bought a thousand yards of
that tweed, cheap, off a bankrupt, and has it made
up into suits by a village tailor, when once a year
he has braced himself up to spending half-a-sov-
ereign on clothes. I have no doubt that that is the
fact of the matter; and I am glad of it; often and
often, as I bolted round a corner or into a cab, have
I blessed his taste in dress, which enabled me to
recognize him so far off.

When I heard that he was going abroad for two
months to escape his annual attack of hay-fever,
I was pleased. I was in the office when Jack told
me; and I shouted with joy and danced something
like the Highland fling, much to the surprise of

224 ALICE DEVINE

Miss Wishart, who, I fancy, still believes that peers
go in for calm repose.

I had the good luck to be present at Nugget's
departure. He stood on the pavement, having an
altercation with the driver of a four-wheeler about
the fare to Liverpool Street. It had become an
altercation when I came up; and Nugget, who was
purple in the face, appealed to me. He said the
fare was eighteenpence; the cabman said it was two
shillings.

I said it was half-a-crown.

Nugget nearly burst all over the pavement. He
called me an extravagant waster, told the cabman
he would give him two shillings and jumped into
the cab.

I put my head in at the • window and said :
"Another time you ask me to do you a service,
Clipp, I shall simply refuse."

Nugget stuck his purple face into mine and
howled: "Service! Service! A fine service! Six-
pence is what asking your opinion has cost me. I
don't believe you know anything about it !"

He was quite right I did not know anything
about it; but I was hardly going to lose the chance
of brightening Nugget's last hours in England for

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 225

want of a little expert knowledge. I was pleased
to have done it ; but I was a great deal more pleased
to have seen the last of him for the next two
months.

I met Brookes on his beat three nights later;
and I was not at all surprised to learn frorn him that
Nugget had simply shut up his house and left no
caretaker in charge of it. I could have betted that
he had economized in that way. Then, only a
week later I was disgusted to see the well-known
check which covered him in the porch of Number 3.
I hoped that it had been a hallucination; but
next morning some of the blinds were drawn, and
there was no doubt that he had returned to his
house and his hay-fever.

That evening I was strolling past his house when
he came down the steps with a kit-bag in his hand.

"Evening, Nugget — sorry to see that your travels
have come to an end so soon," I said.

Nugget sneezed three times and said in a splut-
tering croak: "Who said they had come to an
end? Ah-tish-oo! Ah-tish-oo! Ah-tish-oo!"

"Well, it's a pity that they have been interrupted
• — for I can see that the hay-fever has got hold of
you," said I.

226 ALICE DEVINE

"Yes; it has — confound it!" croaked Nugget;
and he sneezed again. "Bud I'b off agaid next
week — ged rid of id in Idaly."

"Well, I hope you'll arrange to have your window-
boxes kept clean while you're away."

"Sha'd spent a penny on them — nod a penny,"
said Nugget.

"Well, I'll have them kept tidy for you, send
you in the bill and sue you for it. Good night,"
I said cheerfully; and I strolled on, leaving him
spluttering and sneezing.

It seemed likely that a man with such a stiff
dose of hay-fever on him would not write any more
letters than he was obliged; and Nugget did not.
I saw him twice during the next three days, in the
evening; and every time he was dragging that kit-
bag with him. I wondered if he kept it with him
in case he might be able to dash off at a moment's
notice to Italy. Hay-fever like that would make
any one be prepared to bucket off instantly, if he
got the chance, without waiting to go home and
pack.

Then to my intense surprise I found him at one
of Scruton's baccarat parties, playing hard. I was

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 227

not the only surprised one there; two men told
me that they had never known Nugget would stake
a penny on a game of any kind; and one of them
suggested that the hay- fever had flown to his brain.
We kept on stopping our play to watch him. He
was playing very cautiously; and he sniffed and
sneezed steadily without a break; and when he lost
he spluttered.

I played for a good while because the piebald
duke, Sir Theobald Walsh, and Le Quesne were
sitting around Alice Devine talking to her; and
general conversation was not what I wanted. But
when they came to the table, I left it and went to
her.

"You seem to have been having a regular con-
ference," I said, as I sat down.

"We've been talking about my uncle's new guest,
Sir Nugent Clipp," she said.

"I'll bet anything they weren't lavishing compli-
ments on him," I said.

"Oh, no; they all said he was the meanest man
in London; and they were telling me mean things
he had done. Some of them were very funny,"
said Alice, smiling.

228 ALICE DEVINE

"We all love Clipp," I said.

"Then I'm sure he doesn't deserve it," she said.
"But why does he make up?"

"Make up?" said I. "Nugget isn't made up."

"Oh, yes, he is," she said firmly.

"Then Nugget must be going in for a beauty-
show; anything to turn an honest penny. Nugget
loves it."

"I don't know about that," said Alice. "But
his face is certainly painted — the wrinkles round
his eyes would be ever so much deeper if he hadn't
partly painted them out."

"Oh, I must look into this," I said. "Nugget's
one of my tenants. I can't have my tenants im-
proving nature, though there is a lot of room for it
in Nugget's case. Come along, let's go and take
a look at him from close to." We rose and went to
the table, and pretending to watch the game, sidled
up behind Nugget. I looked and looked, but I
could not see any make-up. His wrinkles looked
real enough to me. We came back to our chairs
and sat down.

"Well?" said Alice.

"I can't see it," I said. "His wrinkles look
natural enough to me. There's no paint."

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 229

"But there is," said Alice.

"I tell you what, the wrinkles may look painted
because the dear old Nugget has been economizing
in the matter of soap," I said.

"Men do say horrid things about one another,"
said Alice.

"Yes; it's jealousy — Nugget's pretty whiskers,"
I said.

"But it is paint," said Alice obstinately.

We argued the matter for some time, discussing
who had the better eyesight. Then we stopped
talking about Nugget and talked of pleasanter
things. Then she slipped away to bed. I went
back to the card-table and played steadily.

When the party broke up, Nugget was almost
in tears — not hay- fever tears, but the other kind —
tears from the heart. He whined and spluttered,
and spluttered and whined, because he had lost
eighteen pounds. No one seemed the slightest bit
sorry for him.

The next night I was motoring off to a dance at
about ten o'clock, when I passed Nugget in a four-
wheeler with a big portmanteau on the top of it;
and I thought that losing eighteen pounds had been
too much for him and driven him off again on

23o ALICE DEVINE

his travels. But next morning I was again dis-
appointed, for I saw that Number 3 was still in-
habited.

That evening I was strolling round the Gardens,
smoking a cigar after dinner, when I came upon
Brookes and stopped to talk to him. He takes a
great interest in the affairs of the inhabitants of
the Gardens; and since he is a great favorite with
the maids on his beat, he knows a great deal about
them. Of course one should not talk to a police-
man about one's tenants, but then they were
Brookes's only topic of conversation; and I gener-
ally pulled him up when his gossip grew scandalous.

In the middle of our talk he said: "I hear as
Sir Nugent Clipp is goin' orf again. An' las'
night I seed him drive off, with his portmanteau,
in a four-wheeler — a four-wheeler always seems to
be 'is fancy. I thought 'e'd gorn; but 'e was back
there this mornin'."

"He's a long time getting started," said I.

"I do wish, m'Lord, as you'd tell 'im 'e ought ter
leave a caretaker in that 'ouse. These big 'ouses
can't be properly watched from the outside. There's
so many ways of gettin' into 'em," said Brookes
rather anxiously.

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 231

"If I come across him again before he starts, I
will. But I don't think it's much use, because he
hates spending money," I said.

" 'E's an economical gentleman," said Brookes.

I bade him good night and strolled on.

It was two days later that the first Clipp scandal,
not the great one, occurred ; and it was at Scruton's.
Clipp was there again, playing away; and I took
it that he had come after his eighteen pounds. I
hoped he would not recover them.

I did not see anything of his play during the
earlier part of the evening, though I noticed that
his hay-fever made him a perfect nuisance with his
sniffing and sneezing to the people near him. I
was busy talking to Alice after a little trouble with
that hulking brute Sir Theobald Walsh. He tried
to monopolize her; and I tried to too — I did it.
I think she rather enjoyed having us snap at each
other about her; and it was very natural — a
pretty girl does. When she went to bed, I went
to the' card-table, sat down, and punted gently.

Nugget was still sniffing and sneezing away, and
presently he croaked that he would take the bank;
and he took it. The luck had been against it most
of the evening; but now it turned. Nugget began

232 ALICE DEVINE

to win; and he went on winning. Soon, too, most
of the men were betting heavily, more heavily than
usual; all of them were burning to take it out of
Nugget Nugget made them worse ; he had a nasty
sneering chuckle when % he won that would have
aggravated a saint into staking his last farthing.
He did not aggravate me; for I could not see my-
self letting the dear old whiskered chap have my
money. I went on punting gently— just enough
to give me an interest in the game and no more.

The bank had won about six thousand when Le
Quesne, who sat opposite to me, gave me half a
wink and shook his head. What Le Quesne doesn't
know about cards is not worth knowing. I took it
as a notice to stop; and I stopped. Le Quesne
got up, went to the side-table and poured himself
out a brandy-and-soda. I joined him and did the
same.

"I say, Garthoyle, did it ever strike you that Nug-
get wasn't on the square?" he said in a low voice.

"No — I don't know. I never thought about it.
Of course he's desperately mean," I said.

"Yes; that's what I should have said — just
mean," said Le Quesne.

233

"And mean men don't often stay on the square,"
I said. "But why? What's the matter?"

"I swear that I saw his fingers twinkle — twice.
And I'm as quick at seeing fingers twinkle as most
men, for I've played in queer company oftener than
most. Of course, I may be wrong. Perhaps it's
liver."

He walked across the room, looked at the whites
of his eyes in a mirror, and came back to me.

"You must be wrong," I said. "It's nonsense
to suppose that Nugget has suddenly blossomed into
a card-sharper. Why, it takes years of practise."

"It does. But after all, none of us knows how
Nugget spends his time. He doesn't hunt; he
doesn't shoot; he doesn't even play golf; and he
never goes racing. Of course, he collects things
— china and so on — but that doesn't take up much
of a man's time. He may have been spending two
or three hours a day for years, preparing this little
treat for us."

"He must spend a deuce of a lot of his time sav-
ing money," said I.

"He may have been spending it getting ready to
earn a little off us," said Le Quesne. "Come along

234 ALICE DEVINE

and have a look yourself. You may see something,
and you may not. It takes a practised eye. Every
year for a month I hire a» conjurer to do card tricks
before me for an hour every day — just to keep my
eye bright"

"Then you ought to be able to see fingers
twinkle," I said; and we went back to the table.

I confined myself to betting an occasional
sovereign, and I watched with all my eyes. The
bank went on winning; but I saw nothing. When
it had won about nine thousand, the seasoned
punters seemed to make up their minds at about the
same time that they were up against a phenomenal
run, and they dropped out — as far, that is, as serious
betting went. Two or three of the younger men
went on merrily, and, of course, the piebald duke
plunged steadily away. Nugget sniffed and sneezed,
and sniggered and sneered, and won and won. The
duke dropped two thousands running, and then he
seemed to have had enough for the evening. He
stopped and the game petered out. Nugget had won
nearly twelve thousand on one bank.

He was gathering up the last lot of notes, and
everybody was talking — cursing their luck chiefly;
Nugget had a sneezing fit, and I saw Le Quesne slide

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 235

a dozen cards off the table with his left hand and
slip them into his trousers pocket. We broke up,
discussing the bank's run.

Next morning I was just finishing my breakfast
when Richards ushered in Le Quesne. We greeted
each other; he sat down, lighted a cigar and took
a handful of playing-cards out of his pocket.

"I've found out how the good Nugget rooked us
last night," said he.

"It was rooking, was it?" said I.

"Rather! If you come to think of it, a red-eyed
man, with hay-fever on him, couldn't be so lucky as
that. Take a look at the corner of these cards
through this glass — and feel them," he said; and
he handed me the cards and a magnify ing-glass.

It was small, but it was very powerful. I looked
at the corner of the cards through it and saw quite
plainly two little dints — I should think they had
been made with the point of a pin — in the corner of
each eight and nine. I could feel them, too, but not
very distinctly.

"Well, this is thick," I said.

"Isn't it? Nugget must have been getting ready
for us for years — dear old Nugget," said Le
Quesne,

236 ALICE DEVINE

"But Scruton's parties have only been going on
for a few months," I said.

"Nugget would have found his chance somewhere
else, all right," said Le Quesne. "You can see how
it was done; the first time he went to Scruton's, he
sneaked a pack of Scruton's cards; last night he in-
serted his pastiche and scooped up twelve thousand.
And his patter was so good — that sniffing and
sneezing would have put any one off the scent."

"He has a nerve," I said. "I should never have
dreamt that dear old Nugget had a nerve like that.
It was deucedly lucky that you caught him out- first
time. He might have touched us for sixty or sev-
epty thousand before the rest of us tumbled to it."

"Yes; and what's to be done now?" said Le
Quesne.

"Make him disgorge, I suppose," I said.

"I can't see Nugget disgorging sixpence, much
less twelve thousand," said Le Quesne. "And we
can't show him up ; he's related to all of us."

"Not to me, thank goodness !" I said.

"Ah, you were born lucky," said Le Quesne.
"But he's related to the rest of us."

"Poor beggars !" said I.

"It seems to me that the only thing to do is to pass

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 237

the word round quietly, and he won't get another
chance of rooking us, though perhaps you ought to
have it out with him," said Le Quesne.

"Me? Why me?" said I.

"Well, he's living in one of your houses. You
ought not to allow your tenants to cheat at cards,"
said Le Quesne.

"Me look after the morals of my tenants — two
thousand a year tenants? Not much! It's quite
enough to look after their money — their rent. Look
here, Le Quesne, you must be drunk — it's too early
in the morning to be mad."

"Well, you ought. He lives in one of your
houses," Le Quesne said obstinately.

"I'm his landlord — not his pastor. Do I look like
his pastor? I ask you — do I?" I said; and I was
getting rather hot about it.

"No — perhaps you don't," said Le Quesne, as if
he were not so sure about it.

"I'm not, anyway," I said. "No; all we can do Is
to pass the word round quietly — to one man at a
time. We don't want dear old Nugget falling over
us with a libel action. You couldn't make him dis-
gorge sixpence — you said so yourself."

Le Quesne shook his head and looked sad.

238 ALICE DEVINE

We sealed up the cards in an envelope, along with
a short statement signed by both of us, that they had
been taken from the pack with which Nugget had
conducted his bank. Dealing with contracts for
work in the Gardens had made me quite good at
drawing up statements. Then Le Quesne went
away, still sad.

During the next day or two I told several of the
men who played at Scruton's about Le Quesne's
discovery, and they all agreed that we could not
have an open row. Of course, I did not tell Scruton
himself; he was not related to Nugget — he was a
millionaire. He would be sure to make a fuss.
Millionaires are not used to being done in the eye
like we are.

But though I had told Le Quesne that I was not
going to tackle Nugget, it was not quite my idea to
lose the chance of getting at him when I had a
business like this to hit him with. Two or three
days later I met him in the gardens, stopped him,
and said to him : "I say, Clipp, the next time you
take a bank at baccarat, you should try not to leave
your postiche behind you."

"I don't know what you mean !" he spluttered.

"Well, don't," I said, and I went on.

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 239

He did not come to Scruton's next party, and I
took it that he had taken the hint. It was broad
enough.

The very next afternoon after that party the great
Clipp scandal began. I happened to be talking to
Alice Devine in the central garden after lunch, when
there came out of Nugget's porch a very odd-looking
pair. They looked as if they had got sorted wrong.
One of them was a lady in the bluest blue frock I
have ever seen; the other was Nugget in the well-
known tweed suit. Both of them were bare-headed,
and the lady's very golden hair shone in the sun-
light like the best brass. Nugget was smoking a
cigar with a rich-looking gold band round it; and
the lady was smoking a cigarette.

When they came into the garden, I just turned
stiff on the seat. It was a good job I was not stand-
ing up; if I had been I should have fallen down
right there. From some distance I gathered from
her voice that the lady was American, and when
they passed me, I recognized Cora Cray, the leading
lady in The Buffalo Belle. And oh, she did look
out of place in Garthoyle Gardens!

"What a curious-looking person," said Alice.

"Shines nicely," I said faintly; and I gathered

240 ALICE DEVINE

from her tone how truly Nugget had put the fat in
the fire,

"She seems to have a very odd taste in dress,"
said Alice, and though it was a blazing hot day, the
words fell from her lips like icicles.

"And hair," said I.

"Yes; and hair," said Alice.

"She's Cora Cray; and she acts in that American
thing, The Buff do Belle"

"Of course, I know now," cried Alice. "She is
the 'Buffalo Belle'; and she sings in a voice like
breaking coals. But what's she doing here? It's
rather funny."

It might be, but I could not see it.

"Nugget's American cousin," I said.

"That's rather funny, too," said Alice.

I couldn't see the fun of that, either; and as the
afternoon wore on, I saw it less and less. The Colo-
rado beauty seemed to have a thinning effect on the
garden. You can see into it very plainly from the
houses; and that more than sky-blue dress caught
the eye. Nugget had not the sense to plant the lady
in a secluded spot and keep her there. He was
rather displaying his prize. As she went about,
footmen came hurrying into the garden, and each

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 241

of them went out of it conducting a nurse, or two
nurses, and a set of children to the unspotted home.

I knew that there would be trouble, and sure
enough by the first post of next morning came eleven
letters, marked "Private," all of them calling on me
to keep Miss Cora Cray out of the central garden
and save my tenants' children from contamination.
I should say that every single letter was libelous, for
there is nothing against Miss Cora Cray except her
hair. I wrote in reply to the letters that the matter
should receive my attention. I did not think it at
all likely that the lady would be lunching with Nug-
get again for a long time; he would never bring
himself to spend money on another meal for her
for months. But it chanced that after I had finished
my morning's work in connection with the Gardens,
I went out on the balcony, and across the garden
I saw something blue. I dashed for my glasses and
turned them on it. I nearly fell off the balcony —
it was Cora Cray. She must be staying at Number
3. She was sitting on its balcony beside the broad-
checked Nugget, and both of them were smoking.

They sat there all the rest of the morning, shining
and smoking. At intervals drinks were brought out
to them, and once the bright-blue Cora raised her

242 ALICE DEVINE

voice in song and produced the sound of breaking
coals. Two or three times a robust female in black
came out on the balcony, talked to them for a
while and went in again. My glasses showed me
that the robust female was what Cora calls her
"Mommer" in the touching Colorado way. I had
heard her do it at a supper-party with which she
had sat at a table next mine at the Savoy one
night.

For about an hour before lunch footmen brought
notes to me. My tenants wanted to know how long
their delicate eyes were to be offended by the sight
of the Colorado beauty. I told Mo wart to pack me
clothes for a fortnight in Paris, and he was about
half-way through it, when Lady Gargery called.

I was in for it. Not to put too fine a point on it,
Lady Gargery is the terror, the moral terror, of
Garthoyle Gardens. She is the widow of Gargery,
Blossom and Company, the great butter company;
she is on the committee of all the societies and
leagues for minding other people's business that ever
were; and she is very important indeed among the
Anti-Suffragettes. Besides all that, she is said to
have the keenest nose for scandal of any woman
in London. My tenants call her "Mouser." It is

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 243

only natural that she should make it her business
to keep the Gardens straight. I dare say they are
awfully obliged to her.

When Richards told me she had come to see me, I
realized I ought to have run for my life directly I
caught sight of that infernal blue dress, and picked
up Mowart and my clothes at the station. But it
was too late now ; and I went gloomily down to the
drawing-room to hear Lady Gargery pour out her
righteous indignation.

There is a kind of richness about Lady Gargery.
She has a rich ripe figure, broad, square and thick ;
and her broad square face is a rich crimson. I don't
know whether she tries, but she never seems to be
able to find a dress to match it. Also she had a deep
rich voice, which — so Brookes, who has heard her
speak at a demonstration in Hyde Park, told me —
carries very well in the open air. In a room it
rather booms.

"Good morning, Lord Garthoyle," she boomed
when I came into the drawing-room. "This is a
terrible thing — a very terrible thing."

I had my eye-glass in my eye and my mouth well
open defensively, and I drawled: "I suppose you
mean Sir Nugent Clipp's little game?"

244 ALICE DEVINE

"Little game? 'Little* game, Lord Garthoyle?"
she boomed. "If you call flaunting an abandoned
Colorado actress before the eyes of a respectable
neighborhood like Garthoyle Gardens a 'little' game,
your idea of smallness differs very considerably
from mine."

"But Miss Cray isn't abandoned, don't you know ?
She's a most respectable young woman. I've been
told so again and again," I said.

"She is an American. That is quite enough for
me," boomed Lady Gargery.

"Oh, but there are quite decent Americans. I've
met them/' said I.

"With that hair?" she boomed.

"Oh, well, that hair now — it's quite common in
Colorado — hair like that," I said.

"So I am given to understand is peroxide of brass.
There are mines of it there. It is no use your trying
to make excuses for this person. I am not to be
imposed upon, Lord Garthoyle," she boomed

"But what she calls her 'Mommer5 is also staying
at Sir Nugent Clipp's," I said.

r'We know all about that kind of mother — hired,
iLord Garthoyle — hired," Lady Gargery boomed.

"They're as like as two pins, barring their hair

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 245

and their ages. They look exactly like mother and
daughter," I said.

"It's no use your trying to throw dust in my eyes,
Lord Garthoyle. I have had too wide an experience.
I am here to do my duty — to call on you to do
yours," she boomed more richly than ever. "I have
come to call upon you to free Garthoyle Gardens
.from the presence of this person — to remove her at
once."

"But hang it ail "

"There is no need to swear — act ! — act !" she in-
terrupted.

"I'm not swearing, but how am I to act ? It's not
my business to remove her, it's Sir Nugent Clipp's ;
I've no control over her, or him."

"You're his landlord."

"Yes, but a landlord isn't a spiritual director. I
haven't any power over him of any kind," I said.

"It's your house. Turn her out of it/' boomed
Lady Gargery.

"I can't. I haven't the power," I said sharply;
for she was beginning to get on my nerves.

"You can't? You mean you won't, Lord Gar-
thoyle. I see what it is — I suspected it. You sym-
pathize with this libertine. Are you or are you not

246 ALICE DEVINE

going to purge Gartholye Gardens of this abomi-
nable scandal?" she boomed in a perfectly awful
voice.

"I couldn't if I tried, don't you know ?" I drawled.
"And anyhow it isn't the kind of thing for a young
bachelor like me to interfere with. It's a matter for
a woman — a well-grown woman," I said.

"Am I to understand that you definitely refuse?"
she boomed.

"Yes, I do. I'm too shy," I said.

"Very good, Lord Garthoyle — very good. I will
arrange that all your tenants shall leave in a body as
a protest against this disgraceful state of things,"
she boomed, rising.

"Well, I shall bear up," I drawjed. "They'll go
on paying their rent just the same till their leases
are up. And then I shall always get a fresh lot of
tenants. All this fuss about a blue frock and yello\v
hair — it's ridiculous."

"It isn't the hair — it's the principle," she boomed;
and she sailed out of the room, rustling richly.

Of course, I was not at all afraid that my tenants
would really clear out, though Lady Gargery got
furiously to work, and seven of them wrote, threat-
ening me that they would go. People don't chuck

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 247

away two thousand a year for moral reasons. But
the Great Clipp Scandal raged; and the Gardens
sizzled and sizzled. Lady Gargery went about them
in leaps and bounds, exhorting; and I had from
thirteen to twenty-two letters of protest every day.
I could not understand for the life of me what all
the fuss was about. Nugget's Colorado beauty was
thickly chaperoned; her "Mommer" was always
coming out on the balcony and hovering like a
square elephant round the happy pair. If my ten-
ants had objected to the Buffalo Belle's habit of
breaking coals with her voice, whenever she had a
satisfying meal, I could have understood it. But as
far as respectability went Nugget had a perfect
right to have any musical comedian he liked to stay
with him — as long as she was properly chaperoned.

When after a while Lady Gargery and her sup-
porters simmered down a little, and merely asked
me to remonstrate with Nugget, I refused. I said
that if they did not really like the Colorado beauty's
hair, they could go and buy themselves some like it.
I was not popular for quite a while. But there were
at least three of my tenants who adopted my sug-
gestion.

Then Lady Gargery and two unfortunate married

248 ALICE DEVINE

women she had dragged into it went to Nugget in
a lump and remonstrated with him. He more than
remonstrated with them; he accused Lady Gargery
of having been a persistent suitor for his hand, and
of attacking the Colorado beauty — a lady of the
highest character — out of jealousy. The deputation
wrote me, calling on me, as their landlord, to horse-
whip Nugget. I refused ; and the Gardens went on
sizzling.

Then one morning I saw from my balcony that
the fair Coloradan had changed frotn the bright
blue frock into a yellow one; and from the notes
that were rushed round to me, I gathered that the
Gardens were foaming at the mouth. It was quite
dear that if the infatuated Nugget did not marry
his beauty very soon, I should have to get him shut
up in a lunatic asylum.

The relieving point about this business was that it
brightened Scruton's parties enormously; all the men
enjoyed their wives' fury so thoroughly. Algernon
Hawk made a big book about whether the marriage
would come off or not; and the betting was quite
interesting.

Then came the climax; and there were none of
those wedding-bells in it the Gardens expected. I

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 249

was strolling home to dinner one evening, and as I
came to the top of the triangle, Nugget passed me
in a taxicab; he waved his hand at me, and grinned
as he went by. It was like his cheek, for I had been
cutting him ever since his successful evening at
baccarat.

I walked on, confounding his impudence; and at
the bottom of the triangle I stopped before crossing
the road, to let a four-wheeler go by — in the four-
wheeler sat Nugget.

"I low— how the What the devil?" I mut-
tered, quite staggered ; and then in a flash I saw it ;
the Nugget who had passed me in the taxicab could
not be the Nugget in the four-wheeler. There were
tivo Nuggets.

The four-wheeler drew up to the curb and
stopped; then Nugget's head came out of the win-
dow and he bawled: "Garthoyle! Garthoyle!"

I turned back and went to him.

"What's this? What's this I hear about some
one impersonating me, Garthoyle?" he howled.
"Carew met me in Venice and told me that I was
in London, and had been in London. But I was
in Venice; and I have been in Venice nearly a
month."

250 ALICE DEVINE

I stepped close to the cab, thinking of Nugget's
little letter-writing ways; and I said gently but
firmly : "No, Nugget; you have not been in Venice.
You have been here in Garthoyle Gardens, raising
every kind of Cain." »

"But I tell you I haven't," he howled.

"It's no use your telling me you haven't, because
you have. You've been here; and you have been
caught cheating at baccarat," I said more firmly still.

"But there are forty people who can swear I have
been in Venice!" howled Nugget.

"There are five hundred and forty who can swear
that you've been in Garthoyle Gardens, whiskers,
checks and all, outraging our deepest feelings by
flaunting a peroxide Colorado beauty in blue and
yellow before our chaste eyes from your balcony.
We never dreamed you were such a rip."

"Baccarat? Colorado beauty?" gasped Nugget.

"Yes; and then you go and tell me that you've
been in Venice for nearly a month. Rats ! Nugget ;
rats!"

"I have! I swear I have ! I've plenty of evidence
of it — heaps! I've been impersonated! Oh, come
along with me, and help me look into it," he wailed.

JHE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 251

I jumped into the cab; and we rattled up to Num-
ber 3. He paid the cabman what he asked without
a word; he let himself into the house with a latch-
key. It was very still, there seemed to be no one
in it. We went into the dining-room. The lunch
had not been cleared from the table.

"The '92 Pol Roger! Three bottles of it! My
best Cabanas! And the Sevres vases! Where are
the Sevres vases?" howled Nugget; and he dropped
into a chair.

The sham Nugget had had the thought fulness to
leave a bottle of old brandy on the table. I poured
out half a tumberful and pressed it on the real one.
He did not want much pressing; and down it went.

When it had strengthened him we made a tour
of the house. There were gaps on the walls where
pictures had been — his best pictures. There were
gaps in his china-cabinets where china had been —
his best china; his portfolio of Meryon etchings had
gone; so had his old silver — the best of it. The
sham Nugget may have had a weakness for cheating
at cards and for Colorado beauties; he may have
had no taste in music; but in the matter of the arts
he was a connoisseur.

252 ALICE DEVINE

Nugget was in tears before we reached the first
floor. When he saw that his Fragonards had gone
from the drawing-room wall, he collapsed.

I sent for a doctor and the police. The doctor
was useful ; he put Nugget to bed. But what could
the police do? The thief had had more than three
weeks in which to plunder the house. He had
taken his time about it and done it thoroughly.

We found he had sold his loot always as Sir
Nugent Clipp in person ; and he had sold it, not only
to dealers, but also to leading collectors, and at top
prices. But the police only discovered the where-
abouts of about one-sixth of it. The memories of
a good many collectors must have been shocking;
short as the time was since the transactions, their
dealings with the sham Nugget had slipped entirely
put of their minds.

.The police hunted for that great connoisseur high
and low; and they are hunting still. It seems as if
he had worked without an accomplice. The servants
he had employed had all come on a temporary en-
gagement from the same registry-office. The cab-
men who had driven him from Number 3 with his
trunk or kit-bag, loaded with spoil, had always
'driven him to a railway-station and there lost him,

THE GREAT CLIPP SCANDAL 253

so that there was no finding out half the addresses
to which he had carried his spoil. The fair Colo-
radan and her "Mommer," while praising his fasci-
nating manners — so unlike those of the real Nug-
get— and lavish hospitality, could throw no light on
him. They had met him at a supper-party and ac-
cepted his invitation to stay with him. They dis-
played no sympathy with the real Nugget. They
were too much annoyed by the fact that the mar-
riage which the fair Coloradan's "Mommer" had
arranged between her daughter and the sham Nug-
get had fallen through.

I do not think that any of us will recognize the
sham Nugget if we meet him. The real Nugget
looks like a caricature, and so did the sham one;
and the hay- fever made him look more of a carica-
ture than ever. It also let him disguise his voice.
He is probably a simple, ordinary man with a mus-
tache; and we may be seeing him every day. All
that the police have got to go on is, that he must
have known a great deal about the real Nugget. He
must have studied him, but then they discovered
that thirty-three valets, butlers and footmen had
been discharged, or left situations in the Gardens,
during the last three years only. So that is not

254 ALICE DEVINE

much help. He may have been one of these, or he
may not.

Nugget gets very little sympathy in his loss. All
the women insist on reckoning him responsible for
the shock of the visit of the fair Coloradan to the
Gardens. I say that it serves him right ; a man who
wears those whiskers and that broad-checked tweed
suit, is a walking temptation to people to imper-
sonate him. He ought to get his whiskers shaved
and go to a decent tailor.

CHAPTER XI

THE BECHUT MYSTERY

THE Gardens were again at peace. The chil-
dren and the nursemaids filled the central
garden without fear of being suddenly put to flight
by the presence of a fair but bright-blue Coloradan;
and all was well.

Now the central garden, like the Gardens them-
selves, is in the shape of a triangle. There is a
gate in the middle of each of the three sides of it,
and at each gate is a notice-board informing people
that only residents in the Gardens, their families and
friends are allowed in it. The gardeners have strict
orders to turn strangers out.

But my Uncle Algernon, though he was a bachelor
himself, had a soft place in his heart for young
people in love with each other; and he had given
instructions to the gardeners not to interfere with
pairs of lovers who happened to stray into the gar-
den. I let these instructions of his stand, because

255

256 ALICE DEVINE

the garden looks more as if it had been laid out for
the purpose of love-making than any other place of
its kind in London. There are a good many little
lawns enclosed by shrubberies in it; and there are
nooks in the shrubberies \vith benches in them. In-
deed, I think that on a summer's evening it would
look rather incomplete — wasted, as it were — without
some pairs of lovers in it. Pairs of lovers seemed
to think the same; and I am bound to say that I have
never found it looking incomplete.

I have never used it for love-making myself.
About the only girl I ever talked to in the garden
was Alice Devine; and I stuck very firmly to my
intention of not letting myself fall in love with her,
because of the ghost trick. All the same, I went on
finding her prettier and prettier and more and more
delightful to talk to. Indeed, I was never able to
understand how she came to help Scruton in that
little game; for it was quite unlike everything else
in her. But she had; and so even if I wanted to
make love to her, it made it quite out of the ques-
tion.

On the Friday night after the return of Nugget
to his looted house, I had arranged to go to a Covent
Garden ball. I dined at home, rather late, read a

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 257

book for an hour, and then went out into the central
garden to take a little fresh air, for it was a very
hot night. The garden never grows stale, like the
rest Of London, in the summer, because it is always
being watered; in dry weather, all night long there
is a gentle patter of falling water from two or three
revolving standards on most of the lawns; and if
the moon is shining the sprays sparkle very prettily.

As I crossed the road to the gate of the garden,
which is nearly in front of my own house, I saw a
pair of lovers going up the central path of it. At
least, I took them for lovers, though perhaps they
were walking rather too quickly for people engaged
iii that occupation. But perhaps they were walking
quickly to one of those secluded nooks. The girl
was in evening dress, for I saw her shoulders white
in the moonlight, and she had a scarf twisted round
her head. The man was wearing tweeds and a
straw hat.

At the same time I noticed a man in evening dress
coming along the pavement on my left, in a rather
slinking way, in the shadow of the trees which hang
over the railings on the edge of the garden. I went
through the gate and up the central path; and I had
gone thirty or forty yards up it, when I heard his

258 ALICE DEVINE

feet crunch on the gravel by the garden gate. I
looked back to see if it was any one I knew, but a
little cloud was passing over the moon and in the
dimness he was too far off to recognize. He turned
sharply off to the right and passed into a shrubbery
out of sight.

I went on a few yards and sat down on a seat,
and lighted a cigarette. I had been sitting there
two or three minutes when a woman came through
the gate. She came along at a smart pace, and I
saw that she was wearing a feathered hat. I could
not see her face, for it was in the shadow of the
hat, and was further hidden by a veil. She did not
look like the wife or daughter of one of my tenants;
she looked like a lady's-maid, and she did not walk
like an Englishwoman. I doubted that she had any
right to be in the garden, but I was not going to tell
her so; that was the business of the gardeners. I
never see any point in doing my own barking when
I keep a dog. She went straight up the central path
into the central ring of shrubberies, out of sight.

Presently I grew tired of sitting still, got up from
the bench and strolled up the central path. Just
before I came to the middle of the garden, I met
Alice Devine. .We did not often meet in the garden

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 259

in the evening — generally it was in the afternoon.
We shook hands; she turned round, and we went
on to the middle of the garden. She was wearing
an evening gown, with a light filmy kind of wrap
round her shoulders; and in the moonlight she
looked, if anything, prettier than in the daylight.
I thought that her eyes shone like stars.

The pair of lovers and the woman in the feath-
ered hat were nowhere in sight.

Alice said that she, too, had found the house
stifling, and had come out into the garden for fresh
air. We both agreed that, if it only could be done,
it would be much nicer to sleep in the garden on a
night like that than in a stuffy room.

We came to the middle of the garden, which is
set with a ring of shrubberies in the shape of a
wheel. The hub is a circular clump of shrubs; the
spokes are narrow shrubberies running from it ; and
the tire is a ring of shrubs about fifteen feet thick.
In between the shrubberies which form the spokes
are little lawns. Each of these lawns has a narrow
entrance — a break in the tire of the wheel.

We turned into the nearest of these little lawns
and went to the seat at the end of it, which was right
up against the hub of the wheel, and well sheltered.

2<5o ALICE DEVINE

We sat down and began to talk. We always had
plenty to talk about; there were the poor children
whom Alice was in the habit of collecting in the
Park. She had always plenty to tell me about them,
and I always found it interesting to hear. They are
such rum little beggars. As we talked I heard the
sound of voices, very faint, on the lawn on the other
side of the shrubbery on our left. I just noticed it,
and no more. I was giving my attention to Alice.

We had been talking for about ten minutes, when
there came the loud startling bang of a revolver
from the lawn on our left, and then a woman's
scream.

Alice sprang up with a little cry of fright, and I
got up more s,lowly. There was a crashing in the
shrubbery on our left and a man in evening dress
burst out of it, bolted across the lawn and out of
the entrance. He went too quickly for me to recog-
nize him, and I only got a three-quarter back view
of him.

"Come on !" I cried to Alice. "We must look into
this!"

"No, no! Be careful! Oh, do be careful!" she
cried, and she clutched my arm with both hands.

"It's all right!" I said. "They won't hurt me.

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 261

,You wait here for a minute or two and I'll come
back. You'll be quite safe," I said, and I tried to
loosen the grip of her hands.

"No, no ; you'll get hurt !" she cried, holding my
arm still more tightly.

"But I must go — I must really," I said.

"Then I'm coming, too," she said.

"Very well; only don't be frightened. I'll sec
that you don't come to any harm," I said; and I
slipped my arm round her waist to keep her courage
up.

We hurried out of the entrance of the lawn and
I saw at once that we had lost time. The man in
evening dress was already out of sight, and there
was no saying which way he had gone. But in the
open garden to our left, the girl in evening dress
was hurrying down a path that led to the left-hand
gate.

She was a good way off, but I shouted to her:
"What's happened?"

She did not answer ; she did not even look round,
she hurried on.

Then, beyond her, on another path also leading
to the left-hand gate, I caught a short glimpse of
the woman in the feathered hat as she passed a gap

262 ALICE DEVINE

between two shrubberies. She, too, was hurrying
fast, as if the sound of the shot had frightened her
badly.

I hesitated a moment; if Alice had not been with
me I should probably have rushed after the girl in
evening dress. Alone I could have caught her be-
fore she got out of the garden, but with Alice it was
hopeless to try; the girl had far too long a start.
Then I hurried Alice to the entrance of the lawn
from which the sound of the shot had come. In the
middle of it lay a man, fallen on his face, with his
arms outspread. Alice stopped short at the sight;
I went quickly to him, dropped on one knee, and
turned him gently over on his back. He looked
to be a foreigner, a man of about thirty, and he
smelt of garlic. His face was very pale, his eyes
were half closed and his mouth was open. I felt
his wrist, but I could not feel any pulse. I was
quite sure he was dead.

Alice burst into a frightened sobbing.

I could do nothing. It was a matter for the police
and a doctor. I rose and said : "Come on, we must
go and tell the police at once."

I slipped her arm into mine; she was very pale
and looked very scared ; but she hurried along beside

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 263

me at a good pace, and before we had gone fifty
yards she had stopped sobbing.

We took the path to the left-hand gate. When
we came out of it, neither of the two women was
in sight. That side of the gardens was empty.

It seemed to me that the best thing I could do
was to save Alice all I could. She would have to
give evidence at the inquest, and that would be try-
ing enough. I took her straight to Scruton's house,
telling her not to be too much distressed about the
business, and saw her let herself in with her latch-
key. Then I ran to the top of the gardens and
down the other side. At the bottom I found Brookes
and told him what had happened, and then, on his
suggestion, we hurried round to my house and told
Richards to telephone the news of the murder to the
police-station. Then Brookes and I ran to the lawn
where the murdered man was lying.

He was lying just as I had left him. Brookes
knelt down and examined him. Then he shook his
head and said : "He's quite dead, m'Lord."

Then he rose and began to look about the lawn,
holding his lantern about two feet from the ground
and searching it carefully. About six feet from the
dead man he found three envelopes, lying close to-

264 ALICE DEVINE

gether. They were empty, but all three were ad-
dressed to Sir Theobald Walsh. The addresses
were typewritten. Knowing Walsh, I was able to
assure Brookes that the dead man was not he, and
he went on searching. The dead man's straw hat
was lying quite ten yards from the body, close to the
left-hand shrubbery, as if it had pitched off his head
and rolled along when he fell. On the other side
of the lawn, behind the dead man, half-way between
his body and the right-hand shrubbery, Brookes
picked up a small revolver. It was stuck sidewise
in the turf, which, since it had been lately watered,
was soft. By the light of the lantern we saw that
the name of the maker was French, and that the top
of the barrel was choked with earth.

"Now, why on earth was it stuck in the turf?" I
said. "It couldn't have merely been dropped, be-
cause it's not heavy enough to stick into the turf of
itself."

"It do seem odd, m'Lord," said Brookes.

"Of course, when people are excited they do odd
things," I said.

But I was puzzled. It seemed so very odd that
after shooting the man, the murderer should have

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 265

stuck the revolver in the ground. There seemed no
purpose in it.

Brookes said we had better not trample the lawn
too much, and we came out of it and waited at the
entrance, discussing the crime. It was quite plain
to us, that either the girl in evening dress or the man
who had bolted out of the shrubbery had fired the
shot. It seemed more likely to be the man than the
girl, for she had screamed after the shot had been
fired. But what they were doing with this seedy
foreigner in Garthoyle Gardens passed guessing.

We had only waited a few minutes when an in-
spector of police, a doctor and a man in a gray
tweed suit came hurrying up. They were followed
by two policemen, wheeling an ambulance. I gath-
ered that the man in the tweed suit was a detective
and that his name was Pardoe. He seemed to have
been at the station when Richards telephoned. He
was tall and thin and hook-nosed, with bushy eye-
brows and thin lips. He looked like a hawk, as one
expects a detective to look. Most of them don't.

He took charge of the affair and gave the orders.
As soon as the two policemen came with the ambu-
lance, he sent them off to search the gardens for

266 ALICE DEVINE

people who had heard the shot fired, or seen either
of the people likely to have fired it — the lady or the
man in evening dress. Then he and the doctor went
on to the lawn to the body.

The doctor knelt down beside it and presently
I heard him say: "Cervical vertebrae smashed.
Must have been killed instantly. The bullet is em-
bedded in the neck. You can take him straight
along to the mortuary, Pardoe."

Pardoe himself fetched the ambulance, lifted the
body on to it, and wheeled it out of the lawn. Then,
by the light of the lanterns of Brookes and the in-
spector he searched the dead man's pockets. In the
breast pocket of the jacket was a good-sized bag of
money. He opened it and took out a handful of
coins. They were all sovereigns. There was a
handful of loose silver and coppers in one of the
trousers pockets; and in one of the side pockets of
the jacket was an ugly-looking sheath-knife, such
as sailors carry, and very sharp. In the other side
pocket of the jacket was a packet of Caporal tobacco
and a packet of cigarette-papers. In one of the
waistcoat pockets was a cheap black American
watch; and in the other were four visiting-cards on
which was printed the name "Etjenne Bechut."

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 267

When he read the name on the visiting-card, Pardoe
took a lantern and again looked at the dead man's
face closely.

"I thought I knew him. A bad lot. Soho," he
said in quick jerky sentences.

"Well, if you know him, we shan't be long finding
out all about him," said the inspector in a tone of
satisfaction.

Then Brookes handed Pardoe the revolver and
the typewritten envelopes addressed to Sir Theobald
Walsh. Pardoe studied them for a minute or two,
then he questioned me closely and at length about
what I had seen and heard.

I told him that I had seen a man in a tweed suit
and straw hat, like those the murdered man was
wearing, walk up the central path of the garden,
with a lady in evening dress with a scarf round her
head, that I was pretty sure that he was the mur-
dered man. I also told him that I had seen the man
in evening dress come into the garden and go up the
right-hand path parallel to the central path, and that
a woman, veiled, and wearing a big feathered hat,
had gone up the central path about fifty yards be-
hind the lady and the murdered man, and that I had
strolled up that path myself, met Alice Devine, and

268 ALICE DEVINE

gone with her into the lawn on the left; and that we
had heard a revolver shot and a scream, and seen
the man in evening dress bolt.

"Did you recognize him ?" said Pardoe.

"No, I didn't. I only saw a little bit of his face.
He bolted with his back to me," I said.

"Would you know him if you saw him again?"
said Pardoe.

"No, I shouldn't," I said.

"Would the young lady know him?" inquired
Pardoe.

"I don't think there's a chance of it," I said.
"She got just the same view of him that I did and
she was very much startled by the shot and the
scream."

"That's a pity," said Pardoe. He paused and
added : "Did you see the lady in the evening frock
plain enough to recognize her again ?"

"No ; she was a good way in front of me up the
path. But I got an impression that she was all
right — a lady, don't you know?" said I.

"This foreigner hardly looks the kind of man a
lady would be walking with at this hour, here," said
the doctor.

"You're right there, Doctor Brandon," said Par-

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 269

doe slowly. "But then there's this bag of sover-
eigns."

"Blackmail?" said Doctor Brandon.

"Looks very like it," said Pardoe.

"But why should she shoot him? She's got the
letters," I said.

"We don't know that, m'Lord," said Pardoe.
"She may have got them after he was shot."

"But then she'd have carried them off, envelopes
and all. She wouldn't have waited to make sure
that they were the right letters and dropped the
envelopes," I said.

"That's so," said Pardoe.

"She may have wanted to make sure that he did
not blackmail her again, and shot him as the best
way of doing it," said Doctor Brandon.

"We don't know that it was her who did shoot
him," said Pardoe.

He began to question me again about the man in
evening dress, about his figure, his height and
breadth, whether he walked like a gentleman or not.

I told him what I could remember of it; but it
was not much. When the man came into the gar-
den, I had not been particularly interested in him;
and that little cloud had made the moonlight dim.

ALICE DEVINE

Then he asked in what position the murdered
man had been lying when I first came on the lawn.
I told him that he had been lying on his face, and
that he had fallen with his face toward the left-hand
shrubbery out of which the man in evening dress had
bolted. He asked Doctor Brandon whether a man
with that wound would fall straight forward. Bran-
don said that he might pitch forward on his face,
or he might spin round and then fall.

"Well, the way he lay doesn't clear the man in
evening dress from the shooting; it leaves the place
where the shot came from quite open," said Pardoe.

Then he questioned Brookes about the finding of
the revolver. He, too, seemed puzzled by the fact
that the barrel of it had been sticking in the turf;
and I pointed out that it was lying half-way between
the body and the right-hand shrubbery, so that if the
man in evening dress had fired it, he must have
bolted right across the lawn past the woman. Par-
doe went on to question Brookes about the people
he had seen in the Gardens while on his beat that
evening. Brookes had seen none of the actors in
the tragedy.

Then the two policemen who had been scouring
the garden for some one who had heard the sound

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 271

of the shot, or seen the lady or the man in evening
dress as they came into the garden or fled out of it,
came back with the tidings that they had not found
any one who could give any information. They had
found four pairs of lovers, but each pair had been
so absorbed in each other's society that they had
seen and heard nothing.

Pardoe stood quiet, frowning and thinking; then
he told the inspector that he was going straight off
to Soho to try and find something at Bechut's lodg-
ing that might throw some light on the matter,
and that he would come back at half past three,
when there would be light enough to search the lawn
and the shrubberies thoroughly.

Leaving the inspector and Brookes in charge of
the lawn, Pardoe, the doctor and I came out of the
garden, followed by the two policemen wheeling the
ambulance with the dead man on it. I bade them
good night, and went home.

I had an engagement to meet a party at the Covent
Garden ball ; but I did not feel in the least like keep-
ing it. The murder had cleared away any wish for
a dance. I went up to the library, sat down in an
easy chair, and tried to work out the murder —
whether the lady or the man had shot the black-

272 ALICE DEVINE

mailer. It was hard to decide. Also I could not
think who either of them could be, though it was
very likely that they were both tenants of mine. I
did not think it likely that Alice could throw any
light on the matter; she had seen less of them than
I had. The man who could throw light on it was
Sir Theobald Walsh. He would know the sender
of the letters that had been in the envelopes.

At twelve o'clock I had some supper; and after it
I smoked and read a novel. I kept stopping my
reading again and again to puzzle over the crime. I
read till half past three; then I went back to the
garden and found Pardoe and the inspector just
about to begin their examination of the lawn.

At the very entrance Pardoe made a discovery.
Hanging from the projecting bough of a shrub was
a black lace scarf. It was surely the scarf the girl
in evening dress had been wearing when first I .saw
her in the garden ; and it had been caught from her
head by the branch as she ran out of the lawn. It
was an expensive scarf, but not very uncommon.

On the lawn itself they found nothing fresh; but
Pardoe questioned me carefully about the exact
position in which the murdered man had been lyhig
before I turned his body over. Then he examined

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 273

the little hole in the turf which the barrel of the
revolver had made. Then they searched the left-
hand shrubbery, from which the man in evening
dress had bolted. In that they found nothing; not
so much as a single footprint, for the soil was hard.
They went on to search the shrubberies at the back
of the lawn, that is to say, the central clump, the
hub of the wheel, and then the shrubbery on the
right of the lawn. In that they found one of those
leather wrist-bags in which women carry their hand-
kerchiefs, powder-puffs and purses. It was old
and worn and shabby. It might have been thrown
away by a housemaid. It smelt strongly of some
coarse violet scent; but in the dry weather we had
been having, it might have lain there for a day or
two and still kept the scent.

There was nothing more to be done; and I went
off to bed. I breakfasted early, and went round to
Scruton's house directly after it. I wanted to talk
the matter over with Alice and prepare her for
Pardoe's visit, which might frighten her if she were
not prepared for it. I found that she had, very nat-
urally, had a bad nigHt, and was looking pale. She
was rather relieved to hear that the murdered man
was not a person on whom one need waste much

274 ALICE DEVINE

sympathy. She could throw no light on the iden-
tity either of the man in evening dress or of the
woman, for she had seen the man no more clearly
than I had ; and the woman she had not seen at all,
save for that distant glimpse. Pardoe game, and the
three of us discussed the matter together.

I was surprised to find no mention of the matter
in the evening papers ; plainly the police were keep-
ing their own counsel. Pardoe paid me a visit in
the afternoon to coach me in my evidence at the
inquest; and I learned from him that Sir Theobald
Walsh had declared himself quite unable to identify
the three envelopes. That enabled me to assure him
that there was no chance whatever of his getting
any information from that quarter; having once said
a thing, Walsh would stick to it till all was blue; he
is as stubborn as an ox. For my part I did not
blame him in the slightest for refusing to give the
woman away. In any case he could not have done
that; and since it was a matter of this Soho for-
eigner, probably a blackmailer (in fact, Walsh must
know that he was a blackmailer) , it made his course
all the plainer.

The inquest brought no new facts to light, if any-
thing made it plainer that the crime was a really

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 275

complicated affair. It made it quite clear that the
revolver had most likely been fired from the right-
hand shrubbery; and the coroner brought out the
fact that it was very unlikely that it had been fired
by the girl in evening dress, since she had screamed
after the shot had been fired, and not before it. It
certainly looked as if the report had frightened and
surprised her.

The coroner had a great struggle with Walsh,
trying to get information from him about the en-
velopes. Walsh stuck to his guns; he said that he
did not identify the envelopes; that all three of them
were different; and that in the last month he had
had hundreds of typewritten envelopes from trades-
men, charitable institutions, his solicitors and so on.

There were not many people at the inquest But
among them I noticed the piebald duke; and I saw
that he was taking a great interest in the evidence.
I was a good deal surprised to see him there; for I
had not known that he was one of those people who
are keen on crimes and trials. Indeed, he had never
struck me as being at all morbid.

But I was a good deal more surprised by the fact
that there was no newspaper storm. I had expected
that there would be columns and columns about the

276 ALICE DEVINE

business in the evening papers. I could find no
report of the inquest in any single one of them, nor
in the morning papers. Some one had done a lot
of squaring. This certainly deepened the mystery.

Now, Walsh had the key of it He must know
who the girl' in evening dress was ; and he probably
knew, or could guess, who the man who had bolted
was. In the case of any other man but Walsh, it
would have been possible to guess the lady. In the
case of Walsh it was practically impossible — there
were too many of them. There were three at any
rate in Garthoyle Gardens; and half a dozen more
lived within half a mile of them. I have never been
able to understand why that hulking brute had such
an attraction for women ; but there it was. I could
not fix on any one of them as the woman I had seen.

It was curious, how after the inquest nothing
seemed to happen. The affair fell dead. Yet I
know that the police went on hunting, for I saw
Pardoe about the Gardens frequently; and three or
four times he came to see me to talk about little
clues he had found. They were not of any value.
I had an idea that he believed that I, like Walsh,
knew more about the business than I said; that I
could have told him who the girl in evening dress

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 277

and the man who had bolted were. He was always
trying to trip me up by sudden questions.

One day I said to him : "Look here, Pardoe, it's
not a bit of good your trying to catch me out, be-
cause I don't know. I don't say that if I did, I'd tell
you. Very probably I shouldn't But I don't
know."

"You people do hang together so, my Lord," said
Pardoe grumpily.

"Why don't you get it out of Walsh?" I said.

Pardoe shook his head.

It was clear to me that the police were balked.
They had not traced the black lace scarf to any one ;
and they could not find the woman in the feathered
hat. She had bolted after the revolver had been
fired; and it seemed likely that she could throw
some light on the matter. I suggested to Pardoe
that they should advertise for her. Pardoe only
shook his head and said that if she were a foreigner,
as my description of her suggested, it was any odds
that she would not read the English papers, and the
advertisement would be wasted. But after all he
did advertise for her; for I saw the advertisement
in the agony column of the Daily Mail.

In the meantime I went on making quiet inquiries

278 ALICE DEVINE

myself. If I had discovered anything, I had no
great intention of informing the police of it. I
meant to exercise my discretion. I was not going
to get any of my friends, or even my tenants, into
the mess of a lifetime on account of a wretched,
blackmailing foreigner. I made the inquiries en-
tirely on my own account. The murder had excited
my curiosity as nothing else in my life had ever
excited it; and I wanted to satisfy it.

Everything turned on the question, who was the
woman in the evening frock? If I could find her,
I could find the man who had bolted from the shrub-
bery. I had no doubt that one or the other of them
had shot the blackmailer.

It was most likely that she was one of my tenants,
or rather a wife, or daughter, of one of my tenants.
She plainly knew the central garden well. Also she
was one of the ladies who was, or had been, attached
to Walsh. There were three of these ladies in Gar-
thoyle Gardens; and the girl I had seen walking
with the blackmailer might have been any one of
the three. Two of them, indeed, were dark and one
fair; but since the girl in the garden had had her
hair wrapped in a scarf I had not been able to tell
whether she was dark or fair, while as regards

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 279

figure, the three ladies who loved, or had loved
Walsh, were about the same height and breadth.
The girl I had seen might be any one of the three.

I set about trying to find out what these three
ladies were doing on the night of the murder, mak-
ing my inquiries as quietly as possible. I found
them very difficult inquiries to make ; it was so hard
to make any reason for wanting to know such a
fact. I came to the conclusion that the only way to
make such inquiries was to be a policeman. Then
you go straight to the person whom you want the
information about and say straight out: "What
were you doing on such and such a night ?"

I inquired and inquired, and I did not get the
information. I saw two of the ladies several times
in the gardens, or at other people's houses. If
either of them had committed the murder, they were
very good actresses, or very sure of not being found
out ; and shooting a blackmailer did not weigh at all
heavily on their minds. But I did not come across
the third lady anywhere, though I had been meeting
her about often enough before the murder; and I
began to fancy that she was keeping out of sight.
Then, coming into the Palladium late one night, I
found her husband in the smoking-room; and I saw

280 ALICE DEVINE

at once that he was looking very much off color. I
kept my eye on him, wondering; and I saw that he
was fidgety and restless, and very nervous. He had
a way of looking at the door, whenever it opened,
with a frightened stare that made me think he was
expecting to see a policeman come in at any mo-
ment and collar him. After that I only tried to find
out what he and his wife had been doing on the
night of the murder. I thought I was getting warm.

Then one night about a week later, when I was
playing baccarat at Scruton's, I noticed that the pie-
bald duke kept looking at me in a rather odd way.
The interest he was taking in me must have put
him off his usual game, for he actually won — over
four thousand.

As usual the party broke up about half past three;
and just as I was going out of the house, the duke
called to me : "Half a minute, Garthoyle, I'll stroll
along with you."

We came out of the house together; and at the
bottom of the steps he said: "Are you in a hurry
to go to bed ?"

"Not a bit," said I. "After a long gamble like
that I'm often quite a time getting to sleep; and
a quiet stroll and some fresh air are soothing."

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 281

"Have you got the key of that middle garden of
yours on you?" he said. "I want to talk to you;
and the air in the garden will be fresher and less
dusty than here."

I had a key on me ; and we went into the garden.

"You might take me to the lawn where that
foreign blackguard got shot," said the duke.

The words "foreign blackguard" were rather
an eye-opener. I saw that the duke knew some-
thing about the matter; more, in fact, than I did. I
took him straight to the lawn.

He looked slowly round it and said : "It's about
that murder that I want to talk to you. I know
who the lady was who was blackmailed; and I
know who the man was who bolted out of this
shrubbery past you."

"The deuce you do!" said I.

"Yes," said the duke. "They came to me and
put themselves into my hands in the matter. If
you go on much further with these inquiries you're
making, you'll find out who they were yourself.
That wouldn't matter much, because you would
very probably keep your discoveries quiet. But it's
your inquiries that are dangerous. In enlighten-
ing yourself you will very likely enlighten the peo-

282 ALICE DEVINE

pie who, if they got the information, would do a lot
of harm in the way of causing an infernal scan-
dal. Now, I want to give you my assurance that
I am absolutely convinced that neither of these two
had anything to do with the shooting. Both of
them were as much surprised by the report of that
revolver as you were yourself; and, as you say,
both of them bolted. They bolted in a hurry of
course ; but I believe that it was the very best thing
they could have done under the circumstances, for
they were very awkward. Now, I don't know
whether you care to accept my assurance that
those two are innocent; but after what they told
me, and after testing their story, I am absolutely
convinced of their innocence."

"Of course I'll take your assurance," I said
quickly. "I'd sooner take your judgment in a
matter like this than anybody's."

"Thank you. I thought you would," he said;
and he sighed as if I had taken a weight off his
mind.

Then he walked to the middle of the lawn and
stopped and said: "There are one or two points
which support my judgment. The man lay
here" — he tapped the turf with his foot — "and

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 283

the revolver lay here, half-way between the man
and the right-hand shrubbery. The man who
bolted, bolted from the left-hand shrubbery on the
other side of the body. My opinion is that the
shot was fired from the right-hand shrubbery."

"Yes," I said. "I noticed that; and it does
rather complicate the matter. It lets the man out
pretty well; but it rather makes it look as if the
woman fired the shot"

"Yes; but you yourself brought out the fact quite
clearly that she screamed after the shot was fired.
I am quite sure that she told me the truth when
she said that she screamed because the shot sur-
prised and frightened her. Besides, she had already
got the letters; why should she shoot the black-
guard?"

"Well, but if neither of those two fired the shot,
who on earth did?" said I.

"Well, I think that the police did not attach
enough importance to the wrist-bag they found in
the right-hand shrubbery, and to the fact that the
revolver was of French make. Those seem to me
to be the real clues," said the duke.

"Then who do you think the murderer was?"
said I.

284 ALICE DEVINE

"The woman in the feathered hat," said the
duke.

"The deuce you do !" said I.

"Yes, I do," said the duke, in a tone of absolute
certainty. "You say the woman walked like a
foreigner. The man was a foreigner. She was
veiled. I believe she was following this black-
mailing scoundrel and the lady; that she followed
them right to the lawn where 'he handed over the
letters, and slipped into the right-hand shrubbery
to watch them. After the shot was fired, you saw
her running away. She has disappeared entirely,
though the police made every effort to find her, in
case she could throw some light on the affair. She
never answered their advertisement. Why is she
hiding?"

"These are pretty awkward facts," I said. "I
shall have to work it out afresh from this new
point of view. Didn't either the lady or her hus-
band— I take it that it was her husband — see this
woman ?"

"No; they only saw the flash of the revolver,
and both of them declared it came from the right-
hand shrubbery," said the duke.

"These are certainly new facts," said I.

>

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 285

"And you might put them to that infernal de-
tective who is always nosing about — Pardoe. He
comes to see you. Working on his present lines,
it's just possible he might discover these two in-
nocent people and make a great deal of trouble.
It doesn't seem likely; and I've seen to it that the
police are not being encouraged to show too much
zeal in the matter. If you could put them on the
right track, the trail of the woman in the feathered
hat — it would be a great relief ; and they may show
as much zeal as ever they like."

"I'll try my best to put them on it," said I.

"Thank you," said the duke.

We turned and walked to the bottom of the gar-
den. As we came out of the gate I said : "I sup-
pose, whether the police come into it or not, this
business has smashed up those two people's lives
pretty badly?"

"No, I don't think so," said the duke slowly. "I
think that it will be rather the other way about.
They were drifting apart, but this business — being
in this mess together — is rather drawing them to-
gether again."

"That's all right," I said.

After considering the matter, I thought I had

286 ALICE DEVINE

better lose no time putting the police on the trail
of the woman in the feathered hat. If I waited
till Pardoe' s next visit, he might in the meantime
light on the two unfortunates whom the duke
wished to save from the scandal. I therefore sen£
a wire to the detective asking him to look me up in
the afternoon, and at three o'clock Jie turned up,
looking rather eager, as if he expected to learn
something from me.

I gave him a whisky-and-soda and a cigar; and
when he settled down comfortably I said:

"Well, Mr. Pardoe, at last I have discovered
who murdered Etienne Bechut. It was neither the
lady he was blackmailing nor the man in evening
dress. They do not, very naturally, want to appear
in this matter; and they have put themselves into
the hands of a third person and told him all they
know about it."

"They have, have they?" said Pardoe quickly.

"They have; and I am absolutely convinced that
they had nothing to do with shooting that black-
mailing scoundrel.'*

Pardoe scratched his head and looked at me very
keenly; then he said: "You'll excuse me asking

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 287

you, m'Lord, but do you really, honestly and truly
believe that?"

"I give you my word that I believe them to be
absolutely innocent," said I.

He hesitated for a few seconds and then he said :
"I take it, m'Lord, that you're the person they put
themselves into the hands of?"

I said nothing.

"Well, my Lord, what are your new facts?" h«
said.

"The shot was fired from the right-hand shrub-
bery by the woman in the feathered hat," I said.

He frowned thoughtfully and said: "I've
thought about her a good many times. It was odd
that she bolted in such a hurry and never came
forward, even when we advertised. We ought
to have been able to find out something about her —
we tried hard enough — but we didn't."

"Well, my theory is, that she was following
Bechut for some reason or other, carrying with
her the revolver, in the wrist-bag you found in
the right-hand shrubbery. She saw him meet the
lady and followed them right to the lawn, and
slipped into the right-hand shrubbery, watched

288 ALICE DEVINE

them, took tHe revolver out of the bag, dropped the
bag, shot Bechut and threw the revolver on the
lawn so that it stuck in the turf. It's just the kind
of thing an excited woman would do after firing
it. Then she bolted."

Pardoe sat very still, frowning, then he said:
"There may be something in this. The facts fit
in all right. I'll look for her in Soho."

"And mind you let me know if you find her,"
said I.

"I will, my Lord," said Pardoe.

He asked me a good many questions about the
woman in the feathered hat; her height, her
breadth, the color of her hair, the color and shape
of her dress, the shape of the feathers in her hat,
and the color of her boots. I answered his ques-
tions as well as I could remember the details.
Then he finished his whisky-and-soda, wished me
good afternoon and went away.

During the next three days I wondered how he
was getting on. Then on the fourth morning he
came again. I went up to him in the library, and
when we were settled down he said :

"Well, m'Lord, I've found the woman in the
feathered hat — or, to be exact, I've got on her

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 289

track. This man Bechut was mixed up in half a
dozen shady games — white slave traffic and black-
mailing— and this woman, Cesarine Thibaudier,
helped him. She seems to have been infatuated
with him, and just as jealous as could be. She was
always quarreling with him about other women, and
half a dozen times different people heard her
threaten to murder him if ever she caught him
carrying on with any one. He must have got jolly
well tired of it all, for I found out long ago that
he had arranged to slip quietly away to France as
soon as he got the money for the letters. He was
just running away from her. She found out this
plan of his and rowed him about it; for she'd made
up her mind that he was going off with another
woman. After that she must have watched him
and followed him."

"It seems to look very promising," I said.

"Yes, it does fit in," said Pardoe. "And then,
without a word to anybody, she went off at six
o'clock on the morning after the murder and has
not been seen since. Probably she's in Paris."

"Well, you ought to be able to catch her without
much difficulty," I said. "Will you go over to Paris
yourself ?"

290 ALICE DEVINE

"Wait a bit — wait a bit, my Lord," said Pardoe,
smiling. "Where's our evidence? I've not been
able to find any one who saw Cesarine Thibaudier
nearer Garthoyle Gardens than Soho. It's true I
found two of her friends who declare that the
wrist-bag we found is the very image of one that
belonged to her; but it's a very common pattern.
In fact, I counted nine women in Soho carrying the
identical wrist-bag, in the course of one morning.
Also, Cesarine Thibaudier used the scent of violets,
of which the bag smelt. But the two women who
told me so smelt of it themselves. I have not been
able to trace the revolver to her; and I shouldn't
wonder if it belonged to Bechut himself, and she
stole it. Again, neither the lady who was black-
mailed, nor the man who bolted, saw anything of
the person who fired the shot; or, I take it, they
would have told you about it. Unless this woman
chooses to confess — and she doesn't seem the kind
who confess — we haven't enough evidence to hang
a cat on."

I got up and walked up and down the room. It
sounded extremely annoying. I certainly had no
particular feelings for the blackmailer himself, but

THE BECHUT MYSTERY 291

one has a feeling that when a murder has been
committed, somebody ought to be hanged.

"All the same, I am quite convinced that this
woman followed Bechut to Garthoyle Gardens,
carrying that revolver in the wrist-bag, and shot
him from the shrubbery," I said.

"I'm inclined to think it was so myself," said
Pardoe.

"Well, I'm quite sure of it," I said. "I think
she ought to be tried."

Pardoe took a long pull at his whisky-and-soda ;
then he said : "Ah, my Lord, if we were to arrest
all the people we're sure have (committed murder
we could keep the Central Criminal Court going
with murder trials for the next six months. But
I don't suppose we'd get one in ten of them hanged.
Murder's one thing, and evidence is another."

"It's very cheery hearing," I said.

He finished his whisky-and-soda and went away.
He has not been to see me since, nor have I heard
that the police have arrested Cesarine Thibaudier.

CHAPTER XII

WALSH INTERVENES

IT was a blessing to have the Bechut affair
cleared up without any severe scandal, such as
might very well have arisen from it. Over it I
had grown friendlier than ever with Alice Devine,
for there was so much in it which we had to dis-
cuss together. But I had never grown quite com-
fortable in mind about her uncle. Now and then
fresh evidence turned up that Scruton was really a
millionaire; and the clearer that grew, the more
difficult it was to 'understand why he had tricked
my uncle, and tried to trick me, into letting him
have his house rent-free by setting Alice to play
that ghost trick on us. I might have thought that
it was his idea of a joke, if he had ever shown any
other signs of a humorous disposition; but he did
not. I never came across anybody more serious.
Besides, he had never paid the quarter's rent out of
which he had tricked my Uncle Algernon, as he

292

WALSH INTERVENES 293

should have done if it was a joke. But, of course,
his being a millionaire would explain that. Mil-
lionaires never part.

I had quite made up my mind that his baccarat
parties were on the square. Too many of the
keenest gamblers in London, men who could not
be cheated for any length of time, played at them
regularly, week after week. The only time that
there had been anything wrong at them was when
the sham Nugget rooked us of twelve thousand,
and I was quite sure that Scruton was not standing
in with him. I could not understand, however,
why he gave these parties so often, for though he
played most of the time himself, he did not seem at
all a keen gambler, and not once did I see him
plunge heavily. Again, he did not use those parties
as a means of rising in the social scale. He seemed
to have no ambition that way. I came to the con-
clusion that my idea, that it was his hobby to have
the severest gambling in London at his house, was
the right one. I always noticed that he kept a
close eye on our winnings and losings; and at the
end of each party he would rub his hands together,
and say gleefully that twenty-five or thirty thou-
sand pounds had changed hands in the course of

294 ALICE DEVINE

the evening; and then he always added: "Fine
gambling — first-class gambling! Eh? What!"

But it did seem to me a trifle thick that he should
use Alice as an attraction to bring men to his
parties, if they were merely his hobby. It would
have been more excusable if he had been playing
some shady game with them. But there, million-
aires are queer fish.

I went to most of his parties, and every time I
went I was annoyed afresh to find Alice being used
as a decoy. It was really no business of mine,
except that she and I were growing more and more
friendly. In fact, I liked to go to them chiefly
because I could keep an eye on her and see that
she was not annoyed by any of her uncle's guests.
I felt that that was rather my business, since, by
helping Freddy Gage to carry off and marry Kitty
Maynard, I had robbed Alice of her chief support.
If Kitty Maynard had also been used by Scruton
as a decoy, none the less she had been a support to
Alice. New guests who did not know the ropes
were apt to be familiar and needed checking. I
did it.

One night, sonje one who ought to have known
better — I think it was Alperton — brought with

WALSH INTERVENES 295

him a bubbling young stock-broker. I suppose
the stock-broker had. put him on to a good thing in
oil or rubber. They had done themselves not wisely
but too well at dinner, and the young stock-broker
was in very high feather at rinding himself among
what he called "the nobility." He seemed also
to be considered a fascinating fellow in his circle
and he set himself to fascinate Alice in what I
suppose is the stock-brokerly way. Alice snubbed
him with a quiet straightforwardness that would
have shut up any decent sort of chap, and I told
him quite plainly to hold his tongue. It did not
seem to have any effect. Alice rose and went to
the door; he followed her, apologizing. I opened
the door for her; she went out and he went out
after her, still apologizing. Then, on the empty
landing, I was on him like a knife. I got him
comfortably by the scruff of the neck, ran him down
the stairs, along the hall to the front door. The
butler opened it smartly, and I kicked my young
friend heartily down the steps. He did not come
back for his hat.

I came quietly back up the stairs and found
Alice leaning over the banisters of the landing,
from which she had watched the young cad's de-

296 ALICE DEVINE

parture. There was a very fine flush on her face
and her eyes were sparkling quite fiercely.

"Oh, I'm so much obliged to you," she said. "I
wonder how that cad got into the house?"

"Must have sneaked in at the back door," I said.

"Well, I don't think he will come again," she
said.

"I don't know about that. He only got what he
was asking for. Perhaps he likes it and will come
back for more," said I.

"I am so much obliged to you," she said again;
and she moved toward the stairs to the second floor.

"Don't let him drive you off to bed," I said.
"It's quite early yet"

She hesitated a moment ; and then she came back
into the baccarat room with me. We went on to
the balcony and had a very pleasant half-hour's
talk.

That bubbling young stock-broker was only a
passing nuisance as it were; Sir Theobald Walsh
was a nuisance every time. He had been a guest
at Scruton's parties since the beginning, long be-
fore I had ever come to one. He seemed to think,
or at any rate he pretended to think, that that gave
him some kind of a claim on Alice, and unless

WALSH INTERVENES 297

something prevented him, he always spent a good
deal of the evening hanging over her and talking
to her with a proprietary air.

Now, as I have said, Walsh is not at all the kind
of man one likes to see hanging about a nice girl.
Married women are all very well, but a young girl
is different Besides, it wasn't only Walsh's ways,
and what we all know about him among ourselves,
but his bad character was notorious. He had not
only appeared in the Divorce Court as co-respondent
in the Cumberly scandal; but at the inquest on the
unfortunate Mrs. Bulkeley it came out that she had
committed suicide owing to the blackguardly way in
which he treated her. Also I happened to know of
the orgies — they were really orgies — which he held
at The Cedars, his country house near Pinner.
Naturally he was not the kind of man who could
hang about a girl without harming her reputation,
and whenever I saw him hanging about Alice I
interrupted.

He hated to be interrupted, but I never missed
a chance of doing it. I joined in their talk, or
rather I joined in his talk — for Alice had very
little to say to him — firmly ; and every time we were
soon snapping freely. I would sneer at things he

298 ALICE DEVINE

said, and he would sneer at tilings I said, till our
conversation grew rather cheery. Nearly always
before ten minutes were up, I got him rabid and
snarling, and generally at the end of half an hour
I drove him off to the card-table. He must have
lost quite a lot of money from playing baccarat in
a bad temper. Sometimes, however, he would
stick it out till Alice went off to bed.

Alice enjoyed our little bickerings up to a certain
point; when Walsh began really to snarl it made
her uncomfortable. I scored because she was al-
ways on my side. In fact, as far as Walsh's getting
encouragement from her went, there should have
been no need for me to interfere at all. She snub-
bed him straight and steadily all the time. But he
could get on without any encouragement. She
might have snubbed him ninety-nine evenings run-
ning, and the hundredth he would have turned up
scowling, driven away any one except me, who
happened to be talking to her, and then leaned over
her and talked to her for an hour, in a low con-
fidential voice, with his air of a proprietor.

One night — we had grown quite friendly enough
— I said to her: "I say, I wish you would keep
away from these gambling parties. I know it's

WALSH INTERVENES 299

pretty dull for you, and they make an amusing
break. But all the same, they're not quite the
thing for you, don't you know ?"

She frowned a little and said slowly: "Oh, I
don't come to them because they break the dulness,
but because my uncle makes a point of it."

"I shouldn't take any notice of that, if I were
you," said I.

"Oh, but I must," she said. "Here I am living
in his house, practically dependent on him; and
I must do what he asks me. And what forces
me to do it more than anything else is that it's
the only thing he does ask me."

"Well, if that's so, I must keep on being sociable
with Walsh," said I.

"You do annoy him," she said; and she laughed
softly.

"I do it for his good," said I.

I kept on being good to Walsh, and at last I
worked him up to a state of first-class fury. When-
ever he saw me his eyes began to sparkle, and his
usual amiable scowl grew blacker and blacker.

Then one night I had been particularly bland
with him, and though we came out of Number 9 in
a nice bright morning light, and he should have

300 ALICE DEVINE

had time to cool, since Alice had been in bed this
four hours, it seemed that he was boiling still.

I went down the steps first and walked toward
my house, expecting him to keep his distance behind
me, for outside Scruton's I always cut him.

But he caught me up at once and said: "Look
here, Garthoyle: we've got to come to some ar-
rangement about that girl of Scruton's."

"That's a pretty way of speaking of Miss De-
vine," I said.

"I'm not in a punctilious temper to-night," he
said savagely. "I'm in earnest. I'm going to have
the matter settled up here and now."

I looked at his working face and saw that he
was indeed serious.

"Don't be an ass," I exclaimed. "How can you
settle it? The woman always settles this kind of
thing."

"It's no good your shuffling. You know she
can't settle it," he snarled. "You won't let her.
You keep diverting her attention from it."

"From }-ou, you mean," said I.

"Yes, from me. You're always trying to set her
against me. And it isn't as though you meant
anything yourself. You don't. You're just play-

WALSH INTERVENES 301

ing the dog in the manger. You'd never marry
her," he said.

"Would you?" said I.

"Yes, I would — I will," he cried.

"Poor girl," said I.

He stormed and cursed at me m a growling roar.

"Don't make so much noise, you'll wake my ten-
ants," I said.

He made more noise.

I waited till he had run out of breath. It gave
me more time to think. Then I said. "No; you
shan't marry her — not if I can stop it. You're not
fit to come near a decent girl, much less marry her.
I'll stop it if I can; and I think I can."

"You think you can, do you? You infernal
prig!" he cried. "Well, I'll show you all about
that, and inside of a month, too."

With that he went off down Carisbrooke Street
and I turned off to my house. He had given me
plenty to think about and I was uneasy. I did not
see what he could do ; but I did know that he would
stick at nothing where a woman was concerned.
'At the same time I was a good deal surprised to
learn that he was carrying le bon motif concealed
about his person.

302 ALICE DEVINE;

On consideration, I did not believe in it ; certainly
he would not marry Alice, he had no intention of
marrying her. Well, I must look after her more
carefully than ever when he was about.

But that was where he put a spoke in my wheel.
Three mornings later, Herbert Polkington came to
see me. I hadn't seen him for some time ; not since
I had congratulated him on having been saved from
marrying Kitty Maynard by Freddy Gage. He
came looking his most portentous — more like a fun-
eral than a human being — and I braced myself.

He sat down, crossed his legs and looked at me
in what he believes to be an impressive way. It
makes him look like an excited codfish; then he
cleared his throat and said :

"I've come to see you about a serious matter,
Rupert — a very serious matter indeed."

"You generally do," I said, without any show
of gratitude at all. "What is it? Fire away and
try to put it plainly."

Herbert frowned. "It's about Miss Devine," he
said. "I have been assured that you propose to
contract an alliance with that young woman, the
niece of that more than suspect New Zealander,
Scruton."

WALSH INTERVENES 303

"Well, you've been assured wrong," I said.
"But suppose I did? Miss Devine is a very nice
girl — quite charming."

"I wish I had been misinformed," said Herbert
gloomily, shaking his large head. "But my in-
formant "

"Who is your informant?" I said quickly.

Herbert hesitated, then he said: "Sir Theobald
Walsh."

"The biggest blackguard in London. You
Liberals do keep nice company," I said.

"I met him quite by accident," Herbert half
apologized.

"We all know all about those accidents," I said.
"And now I come to think of it, it was you who
first took me to gamble at Scruton's. You Lib-
erals do lead lives !" I said.

"As a matter of fact, I met* him at one of your
clubs — the Palladium," said Herbert, his round
face beginning to grow purplish. "And in a case
like this, I would as soon take the opinion of Sir
Theobald Walsh as anybody's. His intrigues have
made him an expert, and he is convinced that you
are infatuated with this girl — infatuated. But it
won't do, Rupert. With your name and money,

304 ALICE DEVINE

you can't marry a girl who is merely a decoy in a
gambling-hell. That's what Scruton's house is."

"I like this, from you," I said. "It's exactly
what you wanted to do yourself. You wanted to
marry Kitty Gage, and she was just as much and
just as little a decoy as Miss Devine is. In fact, I
think that Kitty Gage was a great deal more
aware of the part she was playing than ever Miss
Devine was."

"Yes; I did want to marry Kitty Maynard, and
I have learned that you saved me from the mar-
riage "

"Saved her, my good chap — saved her," I inter-
rupted in a kind voice.

" — by helping Freddy Gage to carry her off and
marry her," Herbert went on without heeding the
interruption. "I am grateful to you now, though
I was very much annoyed at the time. It was an
unfortunate fascination, and I had a lucky escape."

"She had, at any rate," said I, keeping up the
kind voice.

"I could not let you fall into the very pit out of
which you helped me, without a word of protest
and warning," Herbert went on. "And this mar-

WALSH INTERVENES 305

riage wouldn't do. Walsh is very shrewd, and we
both agreed that it wouldn't do.'*

"I'm devilishly obliged to both of you for your
interference," I said. "But I've never dreamt of
marrying Miss Devine; and I'm quite sure she's
never dreamt of marrying me."

"Oh, hasn't she?" said Herbert "It's no use
telling that kind of thing to a man of the world like
me. Of course, she's had your thirty thousand a
year in mind all the time."

I stood up rather suddenly.

"You'd better go, Herbert," I said quickly. "I
should hate to kick a cousin out of my house."

Herbert rose suddenly, too, and he went, protest-
ing that that was not the way to receive a well-meant
remonstrance. But he went quickly.

I was really angry. Alice was the last girl in the
world to think about my thirty thousand a year —
the very last. He had no right, moreover, to talk
about my marrying her. We were not at all on that
kind of footing. We were just good friends, and
nothing more.

I was glad that Herbert went quickly; on second
thoughts I should have certainly kicked him out of

3o6 ALICE DEVINE

the house. At any rate, I had checked his inter-
fering and I thought no more about him. I had
two or three of my usual talks with Alice, in the
central garden or at her uncle's parties. Then for
two days she did not come into the garden once — at
any rate, while I was in it. I began to wonder what
kept her away, and I was quite surprised to find'
how much I missed her. When I first caught sight
of her at her uncle's next party, my heart gave quite
a funny little jump.

But something had gone wrong. She did not
smile when I shook hands with her, she looked at
me in quite a different way. There was no friendli-
ness in her eyes. She only said "LYes" and "No" to
everything I said to her.

Presently I left her, thinking I would talk to her
when she was not so busy with her uncle's guests,
and went to the card-table. I wondered a little what
had upset her. Then Walsh came, and she was very
different with him. She smiled and talked to him
quite cheerfully. They seemed all of a sudden to
have become quite friends. I was a good deal an-
noyed. An hour later, when Walsh was playing
baccarat, and no one else was with her, I went to

WALSH INTERVENES 307

her and tried to talk to her again. It was no use.
She looked at me with no expression at all in her
face, and had nothing whatever to say to me.

All that week she did not come into the central
garden — at any rate while I was there. During
Scruton's next party I left her alone and she seemed
more friendly than ever with Walsh. It was very
annoying. I wondered whether it was that he had
made it plain that his intentions were on the square,
and she was consequently trying to have less to do
with me to please him. I did not think it was so,
for she seemed really offended with me, not merely
cold.

At the party after that, I made my effort. I
tried to get her to tell me what I had done to offend
her. She said she did not know what I meant, and
pretended I had no reason at all to fancy that I had
offended her. Then she let Walsh talk to her for
more than an hour and seemed to enjoy it thor-
oughly. She was bright and cheerful with him all
the time. It was very annoying.

I saw that some of the other men noticed her new
friendliness with Walsh, and I saw that they did not
like it, for they were friends of hers. Then I was

308 ALICE DEVINE

helping myself to a drink at the side-table — when the
piebald duke came to it and began to mix a brandy-
and-soda.

He looked at me in a rather hesitating way, then
he said: "I say, Garthoyle, that little girl — Scru-
ton's niece — she's a friend of yours, isn't she?"

"Yes," I said, wondering what was coming.

He paused and looked at the cheerful pair on the
sofa, then he said : "That hound Walsh seems to be
getting very friendly with her. Doesn't it want
checking? You know what Walsh is with women.
And she seems a nice child — simple. She has no
business to be at these parties at all, don't you know ?
Couldn't you play a little less and keep her amused —
keep Walsh away?"

"I might try," I said. "Not that she will take any
harm from Walsh — she's not the kind."

"Yes, yes ; of course. But she's very young. No
use taking any risks. You know what women are —
silly."

"Well, I'll do what I can," I said. "But I don't
think I can do much at present. Either I've offended
Miss Devine, or Walsh has been telling her lies about
me."

WALSH INTERVENES 309

He looked at Walsh not at all as if he liked or
admired him.

"I should think it's that Walsh has been lying/'
he said.

"Well, anyhow, I'm afraid I shall have to play a
waiting game," I said.

"It would be an awfully good thing, if you could
find a reasonable excuse for blacking both his eyes
and keeping him at home for a while," said the duke
almost viciously.

"He wouldn't give me the chance. He knows too
much about me," I said. "If a middle-weight ama-
teur champion wants a scrap, he has to find a perfect
stranger to oblige him. As a matter of fact, I gave
Walsh a fair chance a few nights ago. I told him
several unpleasant things about himself. But he
didn't take it"

We finished our drinks and went back to the table.
I was a good deal surprised by the duke's speaking
to me. I had not thought that he could keep his
attention off the game long enough to notice such a
thing as the friendliness between Alice and Walsh.
His warning made the matter much more serious.
A duke is naturally an expert in women; they run

3io ALICE DEVINE

after him so. He must be thinking that things were
getting pretty dangerous. I knew that Walsh was
in dead earnest; and now there was no relying on
Alice's dislike of him. He seemed to have worn it
down. It was very annoying.

If only I could find out how I had offended her,
and set that right, it would be a different matter;
for, if she and I were friends again I thought I
could queer Walsh's game. But I could not think
what on earth I had done, or what she had been told
I had done, though I thought of every possible
thing.

Then Walsh himself gave me the hint. At Scru-
ton's next party, he was sitting by Alice talking to
her when I came in.

"Ah, the gay abductor!" he said in his sneering
way.

Then I tumbled to it. He was friendly enough
with Herbert to learn from him how I had helped
Gage carry off Kitty Maynard. I might take it as
pretty certain that Herbert had also told him that I
had said that I never dreamed of marrying Alice.
Walsh had told Alice this with embellishments. He
had made it seem absolutely offensive. No wonder

WALSH INTERVENES 311

she was angry with me. I could have wrung his
neck cheerfully.

When I came to consider the matter I found my-
self no better off now that I had guessed why she
was furious with me than I was before. I could not
go to her and say : "Look here ; you've been told
that I've been saying that I should never dream of
marrying you. I didn't say it the way you think I
did."

It was absurd. I did want to wring Walsh's neck.

Well, I could only sit tight and keep my temper.
I did. I took Alice's snubbings like a lamb, a cheer-
ful lamb. But once or twice when Walsh chipped
in, I was pleased to get the chance of showing that
the lambness was only skin-deep. Certainly I gave
him every excuse to punch my head. I only wished
he would. But to Alice I tried to make it plain that
whatever she might say, I was still her friend. Yet
it was hard work to see her playing with fire, and
keep quiet. If I had not been so tied up, if I could
have let myself go, and made up my mind to marry
her, and ask her to marry me, I thought I could get
into a position to set things right. But I could not.
The ghost trick stuck in my mind.

312 ALICE DEVINE

All the while she went on growing friendlier and
friendlier with Walsh. I found that she was even
letting him help her take her waifs into the country
for afternoon outings. He spoke to her about it
before me just to annoy me. He took them in his
motor-car, just as I had taken the anarchists; and
she went with them to look after them. I must say
that that did annoy me worse than anything. I
could only hope that her old distrust of him was
still alive under this new friendliness; and I had
an idea that she showed herself far more friendly
with him when I was present, hearing their talk,
than when I was not. He tried to be quite insuffer-
able with his triumphant airs; they did not get at
me much. I took it that he was only putting them
on just to annoy me.

Naturally I was delighted to see, one evening at
Scruton's, that Walsh had received a set-back. Alice
had plainly quarreled with him; she would have
nothing to do with him. He kept leaving the bac-
carat-table and coming to her and talking. But
from his face I gathered that she was snubbing him
worse than she snubbed me. He was a blackish
purple. At the same time she showed herself no
friendlier with me; she did not use me to annoy

WALSH INTERVENES 313

Walsh. Then I thought that she looked rather un-
happy ; and it spoilt my pleasure in her quarrel with
Walsh. It looked as if she were feeling unhappy
because she had quarreled with him.

I was taking her coldness in my usual cheerful
way ; and I could not help saying : "I'm glad to see
you've found Walsh out. I thought he was pretty
sure to give himself away. He's not the sort of
man that it's safe for a woman to be decent to at
all."

She was sitting stiffly enough; but she drew her-
self up even more stiffly; and her pretty eyes spar-
kled, and she said : "I — I don't see anything what-
ever to choose between Sir Theobald Walsh and
Lord Garthoyle."

"Oh, but there is — lots," I said.

She said a little breathlessly: "Oh, you have —
you have a — a "

"Cheek ? Yes ; I have. I was born with it," said
I, stroking it. "But all the same it's true. And
honestly, where Walsh is concerned, you have to be
careful — you do really. You can tell him I said so,
too."

She looked at me as though she did not know
quite what unpleasant thing to say — as if I was too

3i4 ALICE DEVINE

aggravating for words. She opened her lips; then
she shut them and said nothing.

Of course, it was cheek; but I was glad to have
given her the warning. I suppose, however, that
that was why she let Walsh make peace with her,
and seemed more friendly with him than ever. It
really looked as if he would win out and marry her.
It would be a great pity; she was far too delicate
and sensitive to be the wife of that scowling scoun-
drel. She might be happy with him for a couple of
months at the outside; then it would be the usual
neglect and other women.

It was very annoying. It worried me and made
me restless. Things grew so tasteless — polo, and
motoring, and even being the complete house-agent,
and running Garthoyle Gardens. Baccarat was
rather better; though I had to be careful to play sit-
ting with my back to Alice, that I might not see her
and Walsh together. I felt so helpless to prevent
her making a mess of things. Yet somehow I could
not get it out of my head that she did not really care
for Walsh, that she was just friendly with him and
no more. I wondered how he would take it when
he found out that it was so. I was afraid he might
make himself violently unpleasant. I could only

WALSH INTERVENES 315

hope that I might be at hand when he did; for I
did not think that, even if she went to Scruton, he
iwould be of much help to her. The whole business
was very annoying.

Then, one evening I noticed that they had had
another quarrel; for Walsh came scowling to the
baccarat-table, and did not go near her for an hour ;
then they seemed to make it up.

The next afternoon I went down to Wembly
Park for some polo practise. As I motored into the
Gardens, on my return, I saw a small and rather
ragged boy hurrying along the pavement, and I
recognized Alice's protege, Robespierre Briggs, the
anarchist. I stopped the car and called to him.

He came running up and cried : "Mr. Garth, it's
Miss Alice! She's bin carried awye!"

"Carried away! What do you mean?" I said.

"It's Sir Theerbald Walsh — 'im what's a baronit.
'E an' Miss Alice took us to Chipperfield Common
in 'is moter, the syme as you did. An' we got outer
the car, an' 'e shoves a 'andful of money — silver —
inter my 'and, an' catches 'old of Miss Alice all'
pulls 'er back inter the car. An' she tells 'im ter let
'er go; and 'e says 'e ain't never goin' ter let 'er go.
An' she calls out ter me : 'Go to Mr. Scruton, Gar-

3i6 ALICE DEVINE

thoyle Gardens, Robbie, an' tell 'im!' An' the car
goes orf an' leaves us there. An' I gives Cherlie
most of the money, an' I run most of the wye to
King's Langley stytion, an' a tryne to London come
in, an' I come by it to Euston, an' got 'ere in a bus ;
an' there ain't a copper abart, an' I can't find which
is Mr. Scruton's 'ouse!"

He was white and breathless and ready to cry. I
bade him jump into the car, and ran round the tri-
angle to Scruton's.

We were taken straight to him in his smoking-
room, and found him sleeping peacefully in an easy
chair.

Our entrance woke him, and I said: "I've nice
news for you, Scruton. That blackguard Walsh
has kidnaped Miss Devine."

"Kidnaped? What the deuce are you talking
about?" he cried, waking up thoroughly.

I told him Robespierre's story of the abduction.

"I wouldn't have had this happen for fifty thou-
sand pounds!" he cried. "Alice's all the kith and
kin I've got in the world! How are we to find
them? How are we to get at the swine?"

He was growing if anything blacker than Walsh
was after I had said a few kind words to him.

WALSH INTERVENES 317

"Well, there's just a chance/' I said. "Walsh has
a house near Pinner, and I happen to know that he
uses it in his love-affairs. Now, Pinner's on the
way between Chipperfield and London. It's any
odds that he's taken her there. He doesn't know
that I know anything about it. We might try it on
the chance. My car's at the door."

"By jove ! It's a chance ! Quite a good chance!"
cried Scruton.

He ran across the room to a bureau, opened a
drawer, took a revolver from it, and thrust it into
his hip pocket, saying: "I always feel more com-
fortable carrying a gun when there's trouble about"

I gathered that he had not spent all his life in
quiet New Zealand. We hurried out to the car; I
gave Robespierre a tenner for his promptitude; and
Scruton and I jumped into the tonneau. When I
want the best got out of it, I leave it to Gaston; I
do not drive it myself then. I told him to get to
Pinner as fast as he could ; and he set her going as
we settled back in our seats.

Then Scruton turned to me and said: "What
does Walsh mean by it? What the devil does he
mean by it?"

"He sticks at nothing where a woman is con-

3i8 ALICE DEVINE

cerned. I should have thought you knew that," I
said.

"Does he think that I'm the kind of man to have
my womankind kidnaped? If any harm has come
to Alice, I'll throttle him!"

"If he's taken her to The Cedars, we shall be in
plenty of time. She won't have come to any harm,"
I said. "But Walsh is very sidey; he thinks that,
where a commoner like you is concerned, a British
baronet can do anything he chooses."

I thought it as well to get Scruton furious. Be-
sides, it was true.

"Oh, he does, does he? Well, I'll teach him to
play a scoundrelly trick on a young girl ! I'll wring
his neck for him all right — all right!" he roared.
"And the duke did give me a hint to keep my eye
on him. But I didn't give heed to it, for I knew
that Alice was all right. I never dreamed that
Walsh would play this game on me."

"Walsh is just the man to do it, you see. He
doesn't give a damn for a man like you," I said.

"I'll teach him all about that," roared Scruton.

I saw no point in telling him that Walsh had told
me that he wanted to marry Alice, and was not up

WALSH INTERVENES 319

to serious mischief, but merely trying to force her
to marry him by compromising her in exactly the
same way as Freddy Gage had forced Kitty May-
nard to marry him to save her from Herbert. In
fact, Walsh had cribbed the idea from me; and the
one abduction had led to the other.

At the same time I was infernally uneasy. There
was no trusting Walsh; and if we did not find Alice
at The Cedars, I should be frightened out of my
life,

Scruton was properly furious. All the way he
was either growling or raging at Walsh ; and I did
hope to goodness he would get the chance of dealing
with the hound.

Gaston made short work of the road to Pinner.
But oh, it was a devilishly uncomfortable journey!
I was so frightened lest Walsh should have taken
Alice somewhere else.

I did not let Gaston drive the car to the front
gates of The Cedars. I told him to turn down a
side lane half a mile on the London side of it; and
we came to a gate in a little wood. I knew of this
entrance from Carrie Delamere. I had taken her
out in my car one afternoon ; and she had suggested

320 ALICE DEVINE

that we should have a picnic tea in the little wood.
After tea she had taken me along a path through it
which had brought us to the garden of The Cedars.

Scruton and I hurried through the wood to the
gate of the garden. It was locked; but we lifted it
off its hinges and slipped into the covert of a shrub-
bery which ran right up to the house. I was pleased
to see that several of the windows were open, and a
glass door leading from the house to the garden.

"Somebody's living here, at any rate," said
Scruton.

We came under covert to within ten yards of the
house; then we heard a murmur of voices from an
open window in the left side of it on the ground
floor. As we worked our way noiselessly toward
it, I heard the tones of Alice's voice; and my heart
gave a little jump of relief.

When we faced the window, there was Walsh
sitting with his back to us, right in the window-seat,
with one elbow sticking out over the sill. Beyond
him, sitting at a little table with tea on it, was Alice.
I saw that her face was pale ; and I saw that she was
looking at Walsh with an extraordinary expression
of contempt and dislike.

"For the hundredth time, I tell you there's no

WALSH INTERVENES 321

way out of it — you've got to marry me," said Walsh,
in a lazy aggravating drawl.

"If you were the only man in the world I wouldn't
— after to-day," said Alice.

She spoke quite calmly, without any temper, but
as if she were thoroughly in earnest, and her voice
was as full of dislike and contempt as her eyes.

"After to-day — after this visit you're paying me,
I'm the only man left in the world who will marry
you," said Walsh in a taunting tone.

"That makes no difference — you detestable cad !"
said Alice slowly.

"What a way to speak of your future husband!
On your wedding-day, too," said Walsh, and he
laughed quietly, as if he were enjoying himself
thoroughly. "And do bear in mind that it's only
out of natural nobility of nature that I'm marrying
you at all. It isn't really necessary."

He laughed again — a laugh that made the very
toes of my boots itch to kick him.

While he laughed, in three noiseless strides Scru-
ton crossed the turf, leaned in at the window, and
his arm shot round Walsh's neck, scragging him.
Then with furious jerks and tugs he began to drag
him out of the window.

ALICE DEVINE

"Mind his neck !" I cried.

"Damn his neck! Come out, will you?" cried
Scruton.

And Walsh came out, all waving arms and legs,
grunting, black in the face with fury and being
throttled.

"Get Alice away!" said Scruton.

She was already at the window ; I caught hold of
her, lifted her through it and carried her into the
shrubbery. It seemed the natural thing to do.

"Put me down ! Put me down !" she tried, trying
to twist out of my arms.

"Very good," I said. "But we've got to hurry."

I put her down, but kept an arm round her as I
hurried her along. She tried, not very violently, to
push it away. But it seemed all right where it was —
to me — and I kept it there. She might have tripped
and fallen on the rough ground of the shrubbery.

"Oh, I was so frightened. I am so glad you
came," she said in a shaky voice.

"And I was frightened, too — awfully frightened.
I know that blackguard Walsh. It was the luckiest
thing in the world that I lighted on Robespierre."

"Oh, it was lucky !" she cried.

WALSH INTERVENES 323

We were nearly at the bottom of the shrubbery
when Walsh began to shout. I pushed through it,
out into the open and looked back. He and Scruton
were going at it hammer and tongs on the lawn in
front of the house. I had no fear for Scruton; he
was the heavier man and as hard as nails, while
Walsh was soft and on the puffy side. He was
howling for servants. While I looked he went
down heavily, and he did not get up. I hurried
(Alice out of the garden.

In the wood I loosed her — not that I wanted to —
and we went through it more slowly.

"Oh, I was glad to see you !" she said. "How did
you come to learn about it? Where did you see
Robespierre?"

"I found him wandering about the Gardens, look-
ing for your uncle's house, and he told me that
Walsh had carried you off."

"I knew he'd find my uncle, I was sure of it," said
Alice. "But I didn't see how my uncle could find
me, how he would know where that horrible brute
had taken me. I thought it might be days and days
before he found out, and oh! I was frightened!"

"Well, I knew of that lair of Walsh's, and we

324 ALICE DEVINE

drew it on the chance. It was lucky that he brought
you here. If he hadn't it might have been days and
days before we found you."

She shivered and we hurried a few steps without
speaking.

Then she said: "It does seem strange that it
should always be you who helps me when I'm in a
difficulty." And she looked at me with thankful
eyes.

"No one would think it if they saw the brutal
way you treat me," I said quickly.

"Oh, that," she said, blushing. "Well, you — you
deserved it."

"No, I didn't. I did nothing to make you jump
on me for weeks. And you wouldn't tell me what
I'd done to offend you. What was it?" I said, jump-
ing at the chance of clearing things up.

She shook her head and blushed again. "I'm not
going to tell you," she said.

"I know quite well that Walsh told you some lie
about me," I said.

"Perhaps it was," she said.

"Of course it was. And I don't think it was at
all friendly to believe it; at least you ought to have
given me a chance of clearing it up."

WALSH INTERVENES 325

"Perhaps I ought. But it seemed to be the truth.
He wasn't the only one to say it," said she.

It had been that ass Herbert.

"I don't believe that you believed it — really. You
just made it an excuse to jump on me," I said.

"Oh, no — no ! I didn't want to be unfriendly. I
did believe it truly!" she cried.

"Well, it was very wrong of you," I said. "But
we're friends again now ?"

"Yes, yes; we're friends again now," she said.
And I thought that her eyes shone so brightly be-
cause there were tears in them.

Scruton came running round the corner of the
path behind us, carrying a broom-handle.

"Hurry up! I've drawn a whole swarm!" he
cried.

I slipped my arm round Alice again and we ran
through the wood. As we readied the car we heard
the clumping of thick boots and grunting voices
behind us. We scrambled into the tonneau and I
told Gaston to let the car go.

"I laid him out all right — all right !" said Scruton
cheerfully. "And then I lammed him with this
broom-handle. It was all I could find. I wasn't
half through with him when a gardener and chauf-

326 ALICE DEVINE

feur — husky fellows — came bustling round the
house, and as they came they shouted to some one
else. So I gave Walsh three last souvenirs, and
faded."

"I'm so glad you thrashed him," said Alice.

"Yes, missie ; but for the future you cut out mo-
toring with British baronets," said Scruton.

"Yes; stick to peers — they're far safer," said I.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

I DINED at Scruton's that night, and a very
pleasant dinner it was, since he had to go off to
a bridge-party at ten o'clock and leave me and Alice
together. I tried very hard to learn from her why
she had insisted on quarreling with me, so severely
and for so long, but though I teased her about it
most of the evening, I could not get her to tell me.
I was pretty sure, in fact I was quite sure, that she
had been set against me by some idle lie of Walsh's,
probably backed up by that idiot Herbert.

I was a long time getting to sleep that night. The
whole of this Walsh business — the way his making
love to Alice had worried me, the fright I had had
when I learned that he had carried her off in his
motor-car, that anxious journey to Pinner, and the
enormous relief I had felt when I heard her voice
through the open window — had opened my eyes as
wide as they could be opened. It was quite plain to

327

328 ALICE DEVINE

me that my friendship for her was a good deal more
than friendship.

Of course, it would be delightful to marry her;
she was charming, and thoroughly nice, and as pretty
as a girl could be. I, at any rate, could not remem-
ber ever having known or seen half so pretty a girl.
If she would marry me (and I thought she would in
time, if I were patient), she would make a perfectly
ripping wife. But that confounded ghost trick stuck
in my throat. There was no getting over the fact
that she had helped Scruton to trick my Uncle Alger-
non, and to try to trick me out of a quarter's rent.

That trick was like nothing else in her ; it did not
fit in with the rest of her at all. In fact, there was
no explaining it by any other single thing I had ever
seen in her. It did seem likely that there was some
simple explanation of it, but, worry as I might, I
could not hit on it. I might, of course, have gone
straight to her and asked her about it. But I did
not like to. In fact, I dare not. There was that
awkward fact that when I had caught her playing
the ghost, I had kissed her. I remembered that kiss
quite well, but I also remembered her fury at it, and
the slap, with all the righteous indignation behind
it, which she gave me. I was quite sure that she

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 329

had taken that kiss very seriously indeed ; probably
she had been awfully cut up about it. Very likely
she detested the unknown man who had kissed her.
I knew that she never dreamt that I was he. If she
did learn that I was the offender, judging from the
way she had treated me over that silly lie of Walsh's,
she would probably have no more to do with me.

Of course, it was very unreasonable to take a
snatched kiss seriously. It might happen to any-
body. But Alice was like that; of course, women
never are reasonable about that kind of thing.

It was a very difficult business, and for the next
few days I worried and worried over it. I could
not make up my mind what to do. Jhen the Walsh
affair, too, had changed Alice. She had grown
rather shy with me. It was all right after we had
been talking a while, but she was shy when she met
me, and if I came on her suddenly, she blushed — •
faintly, but quite distinctly. It always made me
want to pick her up and kiss her, and tell her that
she was the only girl in the world for me. After
a while I could not think of that kiss I gave her,
when I caught her playing the ghost, without want-
ing to kiss her again. At least, it was more than
wanting — it was a kind of burning to do it

330 ALICE DEVINE

I kept on getting more and more worried, and I
quite realized that I was in the mess of a lifetime.

At last I made up my mind that the only thing
to do was to bolt, and be quick about it. A course
of foreign travel was the only chance of curing my-
self, and the sooner I took it, the less painful I
should find it. I saw plainly that it was hot a case
for big game shooting. If I got away to the loneli-
ness of the woods and hills, I should only be worse.
I should want Alice worse than ever. A good dose
of racketing about the capitals of Europe was what
I wanted.

I saw this quite clearly, but then I could not drag
myself away from London. I could not bear the
idea of leaving Alice. I had to struggle like any-
thing to get myself to go, but at last I went off to
Paris. I did not tell Alice I was going ; I dared not.
She might look hurt at the thought of it, and then,
ghost trick or no ghost trick, I should pick her up
and kiss her. I knew I should.

I put in three days at Paris, with lots of wild
hilarity in them. Then the whole place seemed to
turn sour, and after lunch on the fourth day, I told
Mowart to pack my things and take ticket for Ber-
lin, a much more amusing town, when you know the

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 331

ropes, than people will admit. I could only stand it
for a day. I was restless, and bored beyond relief.
At six in the evening I told Mowart to pack and
came straight back to Garthoyle Gardens.

I was no sooner in my own house, within three
hundred yards of Alice, than the restlessness left
me. I wanted to see her as soon as possible, of
course, but I could wait an hour or two without an
effort.

I dined at home, with a much better appetite than
I had had in Paris or Berlin; and then I went out
into the central garden. It was late, for I had dined
late — it must have been nearly half past ten. There
was not much chance of finding Alice, for she did
not often come into the garden at night. But there
was a chance, and I strolled all round it, looking for
her. I did*not find her. I had made a circuit of the
garden and come back to the gate opposite my own
house; I turned and went up the broad path which
runs to the middle of the garden.

I was about fifty yards from the ring of shrub-
beries which forms the center of the garden, when
a figure burst out of one of the lawns in the ring
and came running toward me. I saw that it was
a woman ; then I saw that it was a girl, and then I

332 ALICE DEVINE

saw that it was Alice herself. When she was ten
yards from me I saw that she was as white as a sheet
and was panting and sobbing. She almost ran into
me before she saw me, and then, pulling up, fairly
tumbled into my arms.

"Whatever is it?" I cried, holding her up.

"Oh, I've been so frightened!" she gasped.

She was as cold as ice, and trembling as I have
never seen any one tremble before. I half carried,
half dragged her to the nearest bench, and sat down
on it with her in my arms.

"Gently, gently — you're quite safe now — you
needn't be frightened any longer," I said; and I
kissed her.

It was rather taking advantage of her terror, but
I was startled and did not think of that; and it
seemed the natural thing to do — just as one would
kiss a frightened child. She did not seem to mind
it — and I kissed her again.

She sobbed and choked and panted for two or
three minutes, then she recovered enough to say :

"Oh, I'm so glad you came. I should never have
got as far as the gate — never !"

She looked up the path with terrified* eyes «and
shrank closer to me.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 333

"Who was it? Who frightened you? Was it
that brute Walsh?" I said, beginning to get angry;
and I half rose with the idea of going and smashing
him.

"No — no — it was no one. It was the straw hat,"
she panted.

"The what?" I cried.

"It was the straw hat," she said.

"What straw hat? Tell me all about it, please,"
said I; and I kissed her again, to give her confi-
dence.

She pulled herself together with an effort that
shook her ; then she went on in a steadier voice : "I
was coming toward the center of the garden — and I
thought I saw a man — a man in a straw hat — go into
the lawn — the lawn in which Etienne Bechut was
murdered. He was very indistinct, and it was odd —
and it puzzled me. So when I got to the lawn I
went half-way through the entrance and peeped;
and I saw his straw hat lying on the lawn just where
it was when we found his body. And I knew that
his body was lying there, too, just out of sight round
the corner. But I didn't stop to look ; it frightened
me so. And I ran and ran; and the farther I ran
the more frightened I grew. I felt as if he were

334 ALICE DEVINE

after me. And I couldn't have run much farther
when I met you ; I should have dropped."

"Why, you poor child!" I said; and I kissed her
again. "You imagined it all. You frightened your-
self. There wasn't really any hat there. It was
fancy — pure fancy — or perhaps it was the light fall-
ing through the trees in a white patch that looked
like a hat."

"No; there was no white patch. There were no
shadows to make them. The moon was shining full
on the lawn, and the hat was lying full in the moon-
light," she said.

I hesitated . . . she was so sure ... I did not
know what to do. Then I said: "When you've
recovered a bit more, we'll go to that lawn and make
sure."

"No! No! I won't go near the dreadful place!"
she cried.

"All right," I said. "I'll take you home ; and then
I'll come back and look into it."

"No, no; you mustn't. I won't have it. It's
dreadfully dangerous. I'm sure it is," she cried, and
she caught hold of my arm with both hands, and
held on to it as if she meant to keep me there.

I kissed her again; and then suddenly she flushed,

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 335

as if she had just noticed the kisses for the first time,
and tried to slip off my knee.

I held her tight and said : "No ; you're more com-
fortable where you are; and you feel so much safer."

I drew her closer to me and kissed her again. She
was quite still.

We sat on that bench for a long time — I had it
taken away to Garth Royal later; and it is in the
rose-garden there, under a stone canopy. We did
not say very much, because there did not seem to be
anything to say. It seemed to be quite enough to be
sitting there together. At last she said that she must
be going, or the house would be locked up, and she
would have to ring up a servant to let her in.

I rose very unwillingly, set her down and said:
"Well, if you must, you must. As we go by it, we'll
just take a look at that lawn. It will never do for
you to be afraid to come into this garden at night,

now."

"Oh, it will be horrid!" she cried, clutching my
arm. "And there isn't any need — there isn't really.
I shan't be frightened to-morrow at all."

I felt her quivering a little with a fresh terror.

"You'd better come along. You'll be ever so
much less frightened about this, if you actually knew

336 ALICE DEVINE

that there's no hat on that lawn and no body either,"
I said in a coaxing tone.

She did not refuse any longer; but she did not
come at all readily; and when we came near the
lawn, her feet seemed to drag rather in spite of her-
self. As we went into the narrow entrance I held
her very tight to reassure her.

The lawn was quite bright in the moonlight.
There was no straw hat lying on it, nor any body of
the murdered blackmailer.

Alice breathed a quick sigh of relief, and said
softly : "Thank goodness !"

I kissed her and said : "I tell you what, it's pos-
sible that you fancied you saw a straw hat be-
cause you noticed it so strongly on the night we
found the body; and the sight of the lawn again
suggested it so vividly to you that you actually saw
it."

"No; I saw it too distinctly — much too distinctly
for it to be any fancy," she said firmly.

"Well, perhaps there was a real straw hat," I said.
"It's a hot night; and very likely somebody did come
on to the lawn and threw his hat down before he sat
down himself. If you had looked further on the
lawn, you'd have seen him sitting or lying on the

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 337

ground, and probably smoking — a quite harmless
real man."

"And where is he ?" she said.

"He has had plenty of time to go away," said I.

She shook her head as if that did not satisfy her,
either; and we went a few steps farther on the
lawn.

All at once I had an odd feeling, quite strong,
that there was something wrong with the lawn. I
thought that I must have caught some of Alice's
fright ; and just as I felt it she shivered.

I did not say anything; I turned quietly round,
and we walked off the lawn. It took rather an effort
not to jump out of it at the entrance; a chill ran
down my back, and I had a horrid feeling that some-
thing, something beastly, was behind me — coming
after me. Alice gasped and gripped my arm hard.

Once we were clear of the entrance, the feeling
stopped, as though the thing, whatever it was, came
no farther than the lawn. But we walked away
from it pretty quickly.

We had gone about twenty yards, when Alice said
in a voice that had gone shaky again: "There is
something wrong about that lawn. I am sure of it.
I felt it — oh, ever so distinctly."

338 ALICE DEVINE

"Well, it's natural that you should find a place
creepy where you suddenly come upon the body of
a murdered man. But you saw for yourself that
the lawn was absolutely empty," said I.

I did not see that anything was to be gained by
telling her that I had caught some of her fright, and
found trie lawn creepy, too. If I did, she'd never
come into the garden at night without feeling un-
comfortable.

"Yes ; I saw that it was empty," she said, after a
pause; but she did not say it as if she found that
fact at all satisfying.

We walked on out of the garden, going more
slowly the nearer we came to the gate ; and then we
were some time in her uncle's porch before she rang
the bell.

I walked back to my house in a quite contented
frame of mind. Alice's fright had forced my hand
and settled things for us. It had for the time being
put the ghost trick out of my mind. In fact, one
ghost had laid the other ; and I was very glad that it
had. In spite of the fact that I had spent the night
before traveling across Europe, I was a long while
getting to sleep. I had to think about Alice.

When, blushing and smiling, she met me in the

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 339

garden next morning, she looked perfectly adorable.
We lost no time in finding a secluded corner; and
we were very happy in it.

We had plenty of things to talk about; but our
talk was rather jerky and interrupted. It must have
been nearly an hour before we got to the subject
of her fright the night before. She was still quite
sure that she had seen a straw hat lying on the lawn,
and that it was not a real straw hat

At last I said carelessly, without thinking : "Then
I tell you what it was. It was a judgment on you."

"A judgment ?" she said, looking puzzled.

"Yes ; a judgment on you for the fright you gave
me."

"Me ? Give you a fright ?" she said, looking more
puzzled.

"Yes ; when you played the ghost the night I slept
at Number 9," I said.

She happened to be sitting on my knee. She
jumped up and stared at me, blinking, as if she
couldn't believe her ears.

"You — you — was it you?" she stammered; and
there was a fine flush on her face ; and her eyes began
to sparkle.

"It was, indeed," I said.

340 ALICE DEVINE

"You — you — were that — that horrid cad?" she
pried.

"Oh, come," I said, rather taken aback. "What
did you expect me to do ? I catch a pretty girl play-
ing a trick like that on me to get her uncle out of
paying his rent, and of course I kiss her — a la guerre
comme a la guerre. I couldn't beat you for the hor-
rid fright, you'd given me, could I?"

"My uncle's rent? What do you mean?" she
cried.

My heart jumped joyfully. I had been right;
she had not known her uncle's little game. I had
always been sure of it really.

"Why, didn't you know ? Your uncle was trying
to get his house rent-free on the ground that Num-
ber 9 was haunted," I blurted out like a born idiot.

She stood quite still, staring at me, and wringing
her hands: "So that was his joke," she said, "And
— and what you must have been thinking of me all
this time! Oh "

"I thought that your uncle had told you that it
was just a joke he was playing on a friend," I said
quickly.

"You did not !" she cried.

"I did!" cried I.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 341

"You did not! You thought — oh, you thought
that I was a party to the trick."

"I did not — never. I knew you couldn't be," I
said stoutly.

"You did — you did. Oh, I understand now — the
things that puzzled me — the way you've looked at
me sometimes. And that kiss — oh, how I've hated
you for that kiss!"

"It couldn't have been me you hated for it, because
you didn't know it was me. Besides, the other kisses
have wiped it away," I said.

She rubbed her lips; and her eyes blazed at me.

"I'll never — never speak to you again," she cried.
"Not for the kiss so much, but for thinking that of
me. It was — it was shameful! And oh — I did
think so much of you !" Her voice broke a little.

"But I tell you, I didn't think it!" I cried.

"You did. I know you did," she said. And she
turned and went quickly out of the lawn, not
straight, but wavering, as if she did not quite see
where she was going.

I sat still; and if I looked as big a fool as I felt,
I must have looked a congenital idiot. I did not
follow her. At the moment I did not quite see what
to do. I thought I had better give her time to get

'342 ALICE DEVINE

over it a little. It was a mess : it was not only that
she believed me to have been thinking badly of her,
I was also the person she had been detesting for that
kiss. I thought that she would get over the kiss
pretty soon ; for as I told her, there were those other
kisses. But she would be some time getting over
my having believed that she had been a party to her
uncle's little game. I was sure that that would hurt
her horribly. I wondered how I could ever have
been such a fool as to think it. Then I told myself,
with details, what I thought of myself for letting
her learn that I had thought it.

It eased my mind a little ; and I settled down again
to decide what I should do. I first made up my
mind to give her a week to get over it somewhat.
Then I considered how horribly hurt she would be
feeling all that time, and how wretched it would
make her. I could not stand it. It must be stopped
at once, somehow. But I could not think how. It
was beyond my brains to find a way. At last I had
an idea; there was just a chance that she might be
bullied out of her wretchedness at once, while she
was still upset

It was worth trying; in fact, it was the only thing
to try if I would not wait. I walked quickly to

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 343

Number 9; and on the way it occurred to me that
her uncle had got us into the mess, and the least he
could do was to help us out of it. He might have
a great deal of influence with her; she might even
be frightened of him. It would be so much better
that she should have one unpleasant quarter of an
hour than that she should be miserable for a week.
Besides, I should probably find it very difficult, if
not quite impossible, to get an interview with her on
my own account ; he might at least try to work that
for me.

I made up my mind to try it, and rang the bell.
The butler said that Mr. Scruton was at home, left
me in the drawing-room for a couple of minutes
and then took me to the smoking-room. Scruton
was sitting in a big armchair, smoking a cigar, with
a novel on his knee. When I came into the room
he jumped up to greet me with such a bright face
that I fancied that novel-reading was not one of his
strong points.

We greeted each other; he gave me a cigarette;
and we sat down facing each other.

"I've come to see you on an important matter,"
I said. "I want to marry your niece."

Scniton rose, came slowly to me with a solemn

344 ALICE DEVINE

air, held out an enormous hand and said : "Shake,
Lord Garthoyle."

I shook the enormous hand; and he said sol-
emnly : "She is yours."

"That's just what she isn't; and it's your fault,"
I said.

Scruton's face fell ; and he said anxiously : "My
fault?"

"Yes. I had fixed the matter up, and I was just
thinking of beginning to discuss the date of our
marriage, when I stopped to say something about
the ghost trick you set her to play on me."

"She didn't know why she was playing it; she
thought it was just a joke," said Scruton quickly.

"Yes ; but when she found out that I was the man
she had played it on, she refused to have anything
more to do with me. You see, when I jumped out
of bed and caught her, I kissed her."

"That was not the way to treat a lady," said
Scruton gloomily. "Any lady would resent it."

"Well, that's your fault; it was you that put her
into the false position. It couldn't have happened
if you hadn't," I said. "But that isn't the worst of
it. I let out that I thought she knew that you were
trying to get off paying your rent."

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 345

"But you ought to have known for certain that
she didn't know anything about it. A girl like Alice
wouldn't have a thing to say to a bluff like that,"
said Scruton.

"Of course, I know that now," I said shortly.
"But how on earth was I to know that she was a
girl like that at the time? It's so confusing to catch
a girl in a woolen dressing-gown, walking up and
down one's bedroom at one o'clock in the morning,
and sighing like a woman who committed suicide
in it"

"I thought that a man of your birth and social
training could tell a lady at once, under any circum-
stances," said Scruton, with a kind of solemn sur-
prise.

"In a nearly dark room? How possibly could
I?" I asked.

"By instinct," said Scruton.

I stared at him. I thought he was pulling my leg.
But he was quite serious.

"You must be mad," I said.

He shook his head, looked sad and said: "I'm
an old-fashioned Tory, and I've a great admiration
for the House of Lords. I certainly expect a peer
of the realm to know a thing like that by instinct."

346 ALICE DEVINE

"But how the devil is instinct to get a show in a
dark room?" I said rather loudly.

"It's a sixth sense," said Scruton.

"Sixth sense be damned !" I said louder still.

"It's no good getting heated about it. If you
haven't got it, you haven't," said Scruton; and he
looked at me in a disappointed kind of way.

It was no good getting heated about it, and I said
nothing for a minute or two. Scruton said nothing
either; he seemed to be thinking it out.

"Well ?" I said at last, rather grumpily.

"Well, it will be a great disappointment to me if
this match falls through," he said slowly. "I have
always expected Alice to marry well, but this — this
surpasses my most sanguine expectation. Though I
must say that it is rather a disappointment to find
you lacking in an instinct like that. I shall settle a
hundred thousand pounds on her, if she marries you,
Lord Garthoyle."

"That's very handsome of you ; but as things are
at present she won't marry me. She's dead set
against it," I said gloomily.

"But she'll forgive you; you must persuade her;
she must listen to reason. Surely something can be
done," he said, frowning.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 347

"Something has got to be done. Your infernal
thriftiness in the matter of house-rent has got us
into this mess; and I think it's up to you to get us
out of it," I said firmly.

"Well, I'll see what I can do," he said slowly, evi-
dently trying to think of a plan. "I'm not a ladies'
man, of course ; but I'm not unused to women. I've
been married several times."

"Several times!" I howled.

"Yes ; when I was in business on the Pacific slope
— married and divorced. Oh, it's very common
out there, you know. But am I to understand that
before you let this out, Alice had definitely accepted
you?"

"Oh, yes; quite definitely," I said.

"Well, an acceptance of a proposal of marriage
is a very serious thing, and I shall have to speak to
her seriously about it," he said solemnly, and he rang
the bell.

The butler came, and Scruton told him to tell
Alice that he wanted to speak to her in the smoking-
room. We waited two or three minutes, and then
the butler came back and said that Miss Devine had
a headache and was staying in her room. I won-
dered whether she had guessed that I had followed

348 ALICE DEVINE

her home. Of course, she might have seen me come
to the house from her window.

"Tell her that, headache or no headache, I want to
speak to her at once," said Scruton impatiently; and
the butler went.

"Look here, you're not going to be harsh with
her. She's a good deal upset," I said, beginning to
repent a little at having brought him into it.

"I shall do what the circumstances require — no
more and no less," said Scruton; and I wondered if
he had learnt to speak like a copy-book on the Pacific
slope.

He took up his stand on the hearthrug and kept
pulling at his beard. We waited for nearly five min-
utes, without saying much to each other. Then
the door opened, and Alice came in.

She was pale; and she looked as if she had been
crying her eyes out. But at the sight of me her face
flamed red enough, and she stopped short.

"What is it you want, Uncle?" she said defiantly;
and it looked as if Scruton was going to find it a
difficult job.

"Lord Garthoyle has come to me with a com-
plaint— a very serious complaint about you," said
Scruton in a very solemn tone.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 349

"Lord Garthoyle — a complaint — about me?" said
Alice, rather as if the idea had taken her breath
away.

"Yes, a complaint; he tells me that he did you
the honor to make you a proposal of marriage. Is
that so?" Scruton went on in the same solemn
tone.

"Yes, he did. But " said Alice.

"And he also tells me that you accepted it; and
then you suddenly changed your mind, and rejected
him."

"Did he tell you why ?" cried Alice.

"Let us keep to the facts," said Scruton, with a
lordly wave of his hand. "The Scrutons and the
Devines have always been scrupulously honorable
people" — he paused, and added quickly — "in their
matrimonial affairs. It has always been the tradi-
tion of the family — both families. And I'm shocked
• — yes, shocked beyond measure — to find that you
have been playing fast and loose with this — er— er —
amiable young man."

"Fast and loose — amiable ?" said Alice in a stupe-
fied sort of voice.

"Fast and loose," said Scruton ; and he reminded
me of a talking steam-roller. "You accepted his

350 ALICE DEVINE

proposal of marriage, and in — in — how long was
it?" — He turned to me.

"About ten hours," I said.

"As short a time as that! Monstrous!" cried
Scruton very indignantly. "In ten hours you chuck
— you — er — er — reject him. It's shocking, this
coquetry!"

"Coquetry ?" said Alice, with a gasp.

"Yes, coquetry — heartless coquetry !" roared Scru-
ton. "I say it's shocking! Why, dash it all! It's
bad form! Well, I have sent for you to tell you
that I will not have it!" He was fairly bellowing
now. "I will not have a niece of mine behaving in
this disgraceful way. You will marry Lord Gar-
thoyle in a month from now "

"But, Uncle " cried Alice, looking a little

stunned.

"Not a word! Not a word!" bellowed Scruton.
"You marry Lord Garthoyle in a month from now,
and that's all there is to it. I'm going straight to
my lawyers to instruct them to draw up the settle-
ments."

He walked to the door rather quickly, and was
out of the room before Alice could recover herself.

She turned on me furiously, with blazing eyes,

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 351

and cried : "To come to my uncfe ; Oh, you have —
you have a — a "

"Cheek — yes — I was born with it. I've told you
so before," I said, walking quietly across the room.
"But, after all, there was no one else to go to.
Surely your uncle's the proper person. He's your
guardian, and all that sort of thing, don't you know.
And, after all, you can't deny that he has settled
the matter in a thoroughly satisfactory way."

"Settled it! You think he's settled it? It isn't
settled at all!" she cried, if anything more furiously.

"You heard what your uncle said. Of course, it's
settled."

"It isn't settled !" she cried.

"Come, come. It's no good kicking against the
pricks," I said gently. "Come and sit on my knee,
and we'll settle next where we'll spend our honey-
moon."

"Oh, you — how dare you?" she cried; and she
made a dash for the door.

It was just what I was expecting, and I was ready.
She dashed right into my arms, and I picked her up.

"Rupert, don't!" she cried.

The "Rupert" was all I wanted; so I did.

THE END