The turnstile of night

BERKELEY\

LIBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF I
CALIFORNIA /

I)

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

THE STRONGEST OF ALL THINGS

Madct-tne Albancsi
THE YOUNGEST MISS MOWKRAV

Mrs. />'. M Croker
THE IDES OF MARCH Mrs. HaWe-Reynolds

(Author ff" Thala-isa," etc.)

A YOUN(i MAN FROM THE COUNTRY

Madame Albanesi
HER OWN I'KOPLK. Mrs. K M. Croker

HURST AND BLACKETT'S

NEW J./KKAKY OF

7d. COPYRIGHT NOVELS

Here is your ink," she said. "Our time grows short." p

THE TURNSTILE
OF NIGHT

Mrs. C. N. Williamson

London :

Hurst and Blackett, Limited
Paternoster House, E.G.

TO THE MARCHESE

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

I. — IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF AN UNDER
GROUND TEMPLE . . . .,., 5
II. — THE COST OF THE STARS . . 15
III. — THE MOMENT AND THE MAN . . 27
IV. — A STRANGE JOURNEY , . ,, , . '.'.. 39
V. — A HALF-SHEET OF PAPER ... . 44
VI. — THE LAST CHANCE + , % r . ' . .... 48
VII. — THE ROOM WITH THE GLASS DOOR . 51
VIII. — FROM BEHIND THE BLUE CURTAIN . 57
IX. — WHILE RONALD SLEPT . . . . 63
X. — TOOL OR LOVER ? . ... 69
XI. — APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE . 74
XII. — THE HORROR OF A DREAM r. . . 85
XIII. — THE COMING OF A LETTER. , . , . 89
XIV. — THE HOUSE WITH THE CLOSED SHUTTERS 99
XV. — "My NAME is JACK HARNED" . 103
XVI. — THE SOUNDS IN THE CELLAR . , / m
XVII. — A MAN'S VOICE. . . . .' II7
XVIII. — WHAT JACK HARNED HAD TO TELL . 123
XIX. — A FOLDED NEWSPAPER . . .132
XX. — RONALD'S WORK . . . -135
XXI. — THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF Two BROWN

MEN . . . . .147

XXII. — A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT . . . 153

XXIII. — BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER . 165

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

XXIV.— A NEW PARTNERSHIP . . .174

XXV.— " SHE LOVES HIM !". . . .181

XXVI. — JACK HARNED PAYS CALLS . 190

XXVII.— THE ADVICE OF NADEGE . .195

XXVIII. — IN JACK'S NOTE-BOOK . 207

XXIX. — A SPRING TO A CONCLUSION . 211

XXX. — How LORIS ST. LEGER PROPOSED . 215

XXXI. — How HONOUR'S LETTER CAME . .225

XXXII. — THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING . . 230

XXXIII. — FROM BEHIND THE TAPESTRY . . 237

XXXIV. — AT RIVER HOUSE AGAIN . . . 244

XXXV. — THE MAN WHO HAD NO FEAR . . 250

XXXVI. — THE MAN IN THE STAGE Box . . 262

XXXVII. — " A TRAVELLER NAMED NEVILL

BROOKE "..... 269

XXXVIII.— THE MAN WHO KNEW . .275
XXXIX. — THE QUESTION BETWEEN HONOUR

AND ST. LEGER .... 280

XL.— THE WATCHERS . . . .288

XLI. — ST. LEGER'S MOVE . . 293

XLIL— A HAND IN THE GAME . . 3°2

XLIII.— " MY LIFE FOR HERS " . . 3°6

XLIV. — BRIDAL FLOWERS . . . . 3l6

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF AN UNDERGROUND TEMPLE

IN a long, low-ceilinged room, where hung a brown curtain
of opium smoke, three men sat by a small brazier of red-
smouldering charcoal. Two were on a divan, bending
forward, their elbows on their knees, their heads close
together. These were Englishmen, one extraordinarily
handsome, though his rippling bronze hair was streaked
with silver ; the other stout, white-headed, of the type
that the Eastern sun burns red, with a mouth that seemed
ready to smile, eyes on the point of twinkling, even in
moments of seriousness.

The third member of the party was Chinese. He sat on
the clay floor with knees embraced between both arms,
when his hands were not busy with gesture. His almond-
shaped eyes were bright, the features of his round, yellow
face intelligent and thoughtful. It was he who talked,
in his native tongue, stopping sometimes while the bronze-
haired Englishman translated to his older companion.
They spoke almost in whispers, yet often their eyes shot
hasty glances here and there, striving to pierce the dusk,
and see whether any of the faces (half hidden in the narrow
wooden berths that made this Calcutta opium-den like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship) were peering towards their
end of the room.

But all seemed sunk fathoms deep in the dreams they
came to seek. Red sparks glowed like rubies out of the
gloom, each one meaning a portion of opium in the bowl

6 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

of a metal pipe. Shadowy bodies, twisted into fantastic
positions, loomed dark in lesser darkness. Slumbrous
murmurs stirred the silence, and saved the whispers of
the three men, who had never been more awake in their
lives, from being remarked, if any listened. But none
seemed to listen. The man who was nearest the group lay
with his head thrown back, his bare throat and upturned
chin glimmering like marble in the gloom, his pipe falling
from an inert hand, while stertorous sounds proceeded
from his parted lips. He alone might have been a possible
eavesdropper, but all three had made sure that there was
nothing to fear from him.

" Jove, a glorious adventure ! " chuckled the elder
Englishman. "I'm older than you by twenty years,
Brooke, and yet I'm keen for it."

" I've had many disappointments,'-' answered Brooke.
"I'm more weary than I used to be. This last affair out
here has nearly finished me. I meant to go home and
settle down with my little girl. Something says she needs
me. We've been separated too long.-

" But think, if this goes through, you could make her
an heiress. Why, she'd be the most sought-after girl
in England.''-

" That isn't the fate I want for her — to be sought for
her money. Poor child, she's had little enough chance
of it so far ! " Brooke laughed faintly.

" No, not for her money, but for what she is — and money
helps women to happiness. You say she looks like you,
and a young woman who looks like you, my dear chap,
must be a beauty -'

" Honour gave promise of beauty when I saw her last,11
said Brooke, " but that's four years ago. She was only
fifteen. Well, you put heart into me, Charteris. One
more try for my little girl's luck, if it can be managed.
But what if we escape the dangers — and there's no count
ing them, we both know — what if we escape, to find that
Lai Singh's story is a legend ? '•'•

" Don't you trust him ? « asked the older man, Colonel

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 7

Ronald Charteris, with a glance at the Chinaman squatting
still and stolid now, for Lai Singh could understand but
a few words of English.

" Yes, I trust him. I saved his life, and he has vowed
devotion since. I believe him sincere and honest. But he
may be mistaken. "What a story for the twentieth cen
tury ! Jewels worth a king's ransom hidden for centuries
in an underground temple beneath a Buddhist monastery
in Thibet ! Even if they ever existed, and were concealed
in a place so strange as Lai Singh describes, wouldn't
they have been unearthed long ago ? '-'-

" Who can tell ? '-'• murmured Charteris. " There's
nothing too strange to be true. I wish I could rattle of£
the Chinese jargon as you do, but you tell me Lai Singh
says that superstition kept the jewels sacred. He says it
has been believed, since that time when the breastplate
was hung on some beastly idol in a temple, that the Grand
Lhama's power would decline if it were removed, and
moreover, that the man who stole the jewels, or lifted them
from the idol's breast, would lose his hope of future exist
ence. You know more about these Johnnies than I do,
for you once got into Thibet in disguise "

'-' That was years ago, and I didn't get near Lhassa.'J

-" What I mean is, you understand the fellows better than
I can. They like mysteries ? "

" They live upon mystery, breathe mystery, eat and
drink mystery. Si

" Well, then, the thought of such a den underground,
with reptiles for guardians of their sacred jewels, would
appeal to them. Now, it seems to me that the thing's
wasted where it is, eh ? doing nobody any good. Whereas,
in our circumstances — you down on your luck because the
speculation you counted on has failed ; I, because my
savings have gone in a bank smash, and retired Colonel's
pay doesn'-t suit my book — we would know how to use
that ' king's ransom.* You want money for your daughter.
I want it for myself while I live, and for my namesake,
my dead brother's son, when I die.'-'- Colonel Charteris

8 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

began to chuckle again. " Jove, I promised Ronny to
leave him a fortune one day — when he was a jolly little
boy sitting astride my knee, pretending his uncle-godfather
was his horse. It would be a joke to keep my promise
after all, and a surprise to him. He hasn't heard from
me, except indirectly, for years, nor I from him, but I've
thought of the boy nearly every day of my life. You see,
I was in love with his mother, but she married my elder
brother, because her people made her do it, though she
cared for me. It didn't break my heart, but I never was
quite the same ; and when Ronny came I used to say to
myself that if he'd been mine I couldn't have loved him
better. We've both got someone to strive for, Brooke.
Let's go in for this adventure. '-*

" You don't seem to realise,'-' said the other, "that it
would take more money than we can scrape together.
We'd have to equip an expedition, you and Lai Singh and
I ; and then, though he has been accustomed to going from
China into Thibet with his caravan, he could not guide
us as far as the neighbourhood of Lhassa, even if we hadn't
lost our ears and our eyelids or our lives long before. He
couldn't take us inside the Monastery of the Moon, as he
calls the convent where he believes this diamond breast
plate to be hidden. We should have to bribe somebody,
and the bribe must be a big one, or it would be worse than
useless.'-'

" But I thought you said Lai Singh knew the man who
would do the trick."

" He has met an inmate of the monastery whom he be
lieves to be treacherous and mercenary — a dangerous fellow
to deal with ; besides, for all that Lai Singh can tell, he
knows nothing of the underground temple or the Breast
plate of the Seven Stars. "

" The Breastplate of the Seven Stars ! " repeated
Charteris, with unction. " What a beautiful idea, eh ?
when you think that each star, unless Lai Singh is romanc
ing, must be a diamond of priceless value, worth risking
one's life for a dozen times over."-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 9

" A dozen times over I " laughed Brooke. " If we go
in for this we shall risk our lives a thousand times over
before we see it half through. But as for me, I'm a sol
dier of fortune. If it weren't for my little girl, and one
other consideration, I shouldn't care a rap if my time came
to-morrow, and, thank Heaven, a man can die but once."

A far-away look put out the twinkling light in the elder
man's eyes. "I'm with you there. Only- — I should
grudge dying on the eve of a success that might turn an
emperor's brain. A pity we haven't got money. It's a
beastly shame to be held up for a few hundreds. If it
hadn't been for that bank smash I might have laid my
hands on a thousand. As it is, I haven't a penny beyond
my pay."

" If my irrigation scheme hadn't gone wrong, I needn't
go adventuring to Thibet," retorted Brooke. "I've been
an unlucky beggar ; but it's a long lane that has no turning.
Who knows but here's a turn at last ? I might get eight
hundred pounds — if I liked to risk a little nest-egg invested
for Honour with my solicitor in London. She doesn't
know of it. The money was to be hers on her marriage
— if she should marry — and she'd be the first to say,
'Dad, take it,' for she's a good plucked one. But, any
how, eight hundred pounds wouldn't be enough to start
with, for, once started, we shouldn't dare to be stopped
for lack of money."

" Hasn't Lai Singh got any hoard to put into the fund ? "
queried Charteris.

" He may have something, though the money he made
on his last expedition as a caravan merchant was stolen
at the time I saved his life. But he's a canny China
man, and naturally he would think supplying information
and acting as guide equivalent to putting in a large sum.
No, we couldn't count on anything from him."

" Seven priceless diamonds among us three ! " muttered
Colonel Charteris. " We'd be kings I And to lose all
for a few miserly hundreds. It's maddening. Let's risk
it on your — or rather your daughter's — eight hundred."

io THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Perhaps you are not aware/-' breathed a voice so low
it might have been a spirit-whisper, " that expeditions
into Thibet are forbidden by Government ? "

With a great start the two Englishmen turned their
heads. Only the Chinaman did not start. He never
started or showed emotion in any violent way. But a
wicked gleam lit up in his slanting black eyes. It was like
the cold glitter on the sharp edge of a steel knife, as his
gaze fixed itself upon the face of a man who had crawled
towards the group, inch by inch, serpent-like, along the
earthen floor.

" So you were not asleep ? '-- said Brooke, his handsome
mouth hard set.

" No, I never sleep in these places. I am an observer.
I come for what I can see and hear — strange things often.
But you have not answered my question. Are you
aware of the regulation against trespassing in Thibet ? "-

" Whether we are or not is our affair, not yours, Mr.
Stranger,-'- sharply said Colonel Charteris.

" Mr. St. Leger, if you please "

" You're no Englishman ! '-' exclaimed the retired
officer, peering through the dusk at the other's pale, high-
cheek-boned face, which a short time ago had lain with
its chin turned up in feigned slumber. "I'm hanged if
you're not as Russian in feature as in accent."

" My father was an Englishman, my mother a Russian,"
coolly remarked the eavesdropper. " We are likely to
know more of each other later on, for your expedition
doesn't start without me. That is the reason your know
ledge of the law is my affair as well as your affair. "

" Lucky for you that there are two Englishmen here
and only one Chinaman," said Brooke, " for if it were the
other way round you might know little more of anything
in this world, Mr. St. Leger. "

"Ah, I took my chances,"- replied the other, drawling,
though his light eyes were bright and catlike in his long,
dark face. " Besides, it is known that I am here to-night ;
I come often. I have been doing some special writing for

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT n

a Calcutta paper in a — er — an interval of leisure. But I
am tired of writing. I tire of most things. This adven
ture you propose would suit me, and if you take me along
I can help you.'-'

" We don't want your help/' growled Charteris.

" There you are mistaken. You do want it. You need
money, and I can get it. You can't go without money ;
you can't go without me — the latter for the simple reason
that, if you attempt to rid yourselves of me, I will at once
lay information against you and stop the whole scheme.'"

" You talk as if you were going out for a morning walk,"
sneered Brooke, " instead of undertaking an expedition in
which each man engaged will carry his life in his hand.
I lived in China as a young man ; I speak Chinese — that
is, one or two dialects, well enough to pass for a native in
a good disguise, at which sort of thing I am rather an
expert, my life having depended upon it more than once.
My friend would have to pass for a dumb fakir ; our guide,
as you see, is himself a Chinaman. You "

" I have also lived in China. I understood every word
that passed between you in Chinese, and it is a tribute to
Lai Singh's eloquence that I was not only deeply interested
in, but convinced by, his story. I assure you that as far
as the language and disguise go, I shall be a help, not a
hindrance. For money, I can get anything you want up
to two thousand pounds — not my own money, but that
of a relative in your country. He will lend — though he will
expect to be repaid."

" You can have little pride to force yourself upon strangers
in this way, after spying upon them while feigning sleep
that you might overhear their conversation."

"The more fools they to converse here.-'

" It was necessity that drove us to meet our Chinese
friend here," cut in Brooke.

" And now it is again necessity, not choice, that constrains
you in accepting me as your partner — for you do accept
me, don't you ? "-

Brooke shrugged his shoulders. " It may be that we

12 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

shall take you as our Old Man of the Sea. But what
guarantee can we have that you don't mean to betray
us ? '-'-

" The guarantee of my self-interest. You need me,
but I need you also. I know enough about your plans
to stop your carrying them out, but I did not hear enough
to enable me to carry out your plans without you. That
is your protection. And by wiring my uncle in London, who
will trust to my judgment, I can get the money within the
next few days."

" I think we had better have a further talk before we
decide upon a plan of action,'' said Brooke. " We should
like to know something about you."

"Anything you please. I'm a citizen of the world;
I have lived in China and in Russia ; I have lived in Eng
land, and of the three I like England least, though I can
count upon a warm welcome there from persons of im
portance when I choose. My name is Loris St. Leger.
I am thirty-one years old ; mother and father dead. I
have always wanted more money than I had, and I have
a relish for adventures. Now you know as much about me
as anyone knows, save four persons, one of whom is myself. "

As the man finished, he bowed with ironic courtesy, first
to the two Englishmen, then to Lai Singh. And the eyes
of Lai Singh were daggers.

Within the next week the adventure to be undertaken
had mapped itself out somewhat on the lines of a Tontine.

Two cipher cablegrams had been sent to London from
Calcutta ; one to Nevill Brooke's solicitor, Harvey Kane ;
the other to Loris St. Leger 's uncle whom he spoke of,
secretively smiling, as Mr. John Smith.

Harvey Kane had answered to the effect that owing to
a financial " slump " his client's African mining shares were
unsaleable, except at a ruinous loss. But that, rather than
see his client lose a brilliant opportunity, he — Harvey Kane
— would risk eight hundred pounds of his own, stipulating
only that in case of success, he should have an equal share
with the others engaged in the profits of the expedition.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 13

Mr. John Smith — who was said by his nephew to be
" in the City z' — made much the same stipulation. It
had been agreed that he was to be asked for eight hundred
pounds, and this sum he promised to send, provided that
he were considered an equal partner in the transaction.

Lai Singh contributed his knowledge of the treasure
and its whereabouts — a secret which had come down to
him through two or three generations of his ancestors, one
of whom had been a renegade Buddhist priest from Thibet.
He contributed also his skill as a guide and his experience
in fitting out and conducting an expedition.

Colonel Charteris and Nevill Brooke gave themselves
and all that two brave men could do, Harvey Kane,
the lawyer in London, furnishing money, without
which the expedition could not start. Loris St. Leger
contributed himself as a blackmailer ; and his uncle, who
retired behind the unassuming name of " John Smith/'
was an equal contributor with Harvey Kane.

If the adventurers succeeded in penetrating into the
heart of forbidden Thibet, and acquired the sacred Breast
plate of the Seven Stars, which was said to maintain the
supremacy of the Grand Lhama, they would divide the
treasure equally among themselves and such others (if
any) with whom they were finally obliged to share the
secret for the sake of obtaining assistance. Each of the
six men already concerned would name an heir, and an
agreement with the terms of the mutual understanding
should be in possession of each, sighed by all the names,
save those of Kane and Smith, which must be written by
their proxies, Brooke and St. Leger.

The diamonds, if obtained, would be converted into
money, and the proceeds divided on a certain date and at
a place to be named, among the survivors of the expedition,
their backers, or the appointed heirs.

The funds from Harvey Kane, the solicitor, and Mr.
Smith, the convenient relation of Loris St. Leger, duly
arrived.

Certain of enough money to see them through, barring

14 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

accidents, the adventurers thought it prudent to separate
into two parties as far as Kashmir, to avoid attracting the
attention of the Indian Government. No disguise would
foe necessary up to that period of their expedition, and in
Kashmir they would buy their mules, horses, provisions,
and merchandise to sell, before joining forces at the ap
pointed rendezvous.

They were to set forth from Leh, in Kashmir, in the guise
of Buddhist pilgrims, travelling with a merchant caravan,
in order to worship at Lhassa, the " Ground of God. " St.
Leger's and Brooke 's fluent Chinese would materially assist
their disguise ; Lai Singh, as a Buddhist, was safe in his
own character, though in his secret heart he had leanings
towards Christianity ; while Colonel Charteris was to pass,
according to Brooke's suggestion, as a dumb fakir — a pose
calculated to cover ignorance and mistakes. If they had
the luck not to be found out they had merely the almost
incredible hardships of such a journey as they contem
plated to endure ; the privations when food was giving
out and no human habitations near ; the bitter, intolerable
cold, the anguish of long, forced marches with hunger
gnawing their vitals, thirst parching their throats and mad
dening their brains ; the danger of meeting bands of bri
gands, and encountering savage beasts of prey, which are
the only denizens of the greater part of barren Thibet ;
the peril of their own death or their animals' from cold or
exhaustion.

All this, if they were luckier than ninety-nine out of a
hundred other expeditions, which had started and turned
back before coming near to the sacred city that only one
European had ever been known to enter and leave again.

But if they were not lucky — if their disguise should be
penetrated, even without their real motive being suspected,
from that instant the two Englishmen and the Russian
were as dead men. For Lai Singh, if he could successfully
plead ignorance in leading the expedition, there might be
escape ; but for the others none from torture excruciating
and from a death of nameless horror.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 15

Of these facts they were aware ; yet the Seven Stars of
the Sacred Breastplate dazzled their eyes waking and sleep
ing ; and when the day of starting came there was not
one man who would have turned his face towards safety.

CHAPTER II

THE COST OF THE STARS

MONTHS later three of the men who had talked in an
opium den of Calcutta were huddled into a little clay-
walled room in a pilgrims' rest-house in Lhassa, the Rome
of Thibet. There was no door, but they had hung blankets
over the archway of unbaked brick, ornamented with
cows1 horns, which divided the squalid sleeping apartment
from the larger and less expensive lodging which adjoined,
and they spoke in cautious whispers. A word overheard,
and they would be hacked to pieces by savage fanatics,
who would regard them as carrion.

From a small, unglazed window they could have looked
down upon a street crowded with Buddhist pilgrims from
all parts of Asia; students, " fire-breathers, " practisers
of witchcraft, long-robed men on foot and on donkeys ;
men laden with praying-wheels and other sacred relics
which they had bought to carry to their distant homes ;
fanatics selling " lightning bones " to cure all ailments,
or holy rosaries blessed by the Grand Lhama, the Pope
of Buddhism. But they had looked their fill, these men
who had passed together through a separate danger for
every one of the thousand odd miles they had travelled.
They were sickened with the smells which came up from the
filthy street, and deafened by the howls of the Buddhist
priests who danced among the rotting bodies of dead
animals, under the red light of flaming torches. But in
the saturnalia outside the rest-house lay the hope of

i6 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

safety, because the New Year festivities were in progress ;
the people were half beside themselves over the cruel
pastimes of the season, approved and witnessed by the
Grand Lhama ; and few of the mad, religious pleasure-
seekers had thought to spare for their neighbours.

The three men who whispered were Brooke, Charteris,
and St. Leger, haggard and travel-worn under their dis
guise ; and as they talked Lai Singh entered, having
murmured a word which gained him instant admittance.

" I have the permission/1 he announced in Chinese.
" When I had described our sacrifices, our sufferings in
devotion to the cause, and pledged in our names the
offering of five hundred taels to the silver Buddha of
the Moon, we were granted the boon for which we crave ;
permission to enter the gates of the monastery at mid
night, and remain in the temple till daybreak, until the
four-hours' prayer be concluded and the moon set."-

At this news the breath of those who heard came quickly.
The walls surrounding the Monastery of the Moon, which
stood on a bleak eminence overlooking the city of Lhassa,
were insurmountable, the great green bronze gates im
pregnable ; but they read between the lines of Lai Singh's
announcement, guessing that the thing on which they had
pinned their one hope had come to pass. The priest Nain
Khala, of whom Lai Singh had spoken many times, had
proved venal. In accepting an offering for the shrine
of the silver god, he had in reality taken a huge bribe for
himself, as nobody else in the monastery would know —
if he could help it — that the shrine had been visited, or
an offering laid upon it.

The silver Buddha squatted in his temple in the centre
of the clustering white buildings which covered the
Eminence of the Moon. What they had risked their
lives to reach was not there. Where it might be found,
precisely, they did not yet know, or even whether it
existed, save in the stories handed down from generation
to generation ; but they pressed close to discovery —
dazzling success or crushing disappointment ; and they

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 17

would have, thanks to Lai Singh's manreuvre, four hours
in which to solve the secret — those four mystic hours
between midnight and the setting of the moon over
its votive hill.

In the temple of Buddha of the Moon, worship was
perpetual. There was always one sentinel priest who
prayed to the silver god ; every four hours he was re
lieved from his vigil by another ; this was the rule of
the monastery. At twelve on this night chosen for the
venture, the vigil of Nain Khala would begin, and half an
hour earlier the four pilgrims who were to pay for the
privilege would be admitted. At any other time of the
year it would have been more difficult to obtain the favour,
even for a price, for it was against the law of the monastery
to admit pilgrims farther than the outer courts, where
they were occasionally fed. But at this sacred season all
who could be in town witnessing the religious pastimes
were there. Nain Khala 's self-respect was saved by
accepting from the pilgrims a generous offering " for
Buddha/' which he doubtless intended to keep for himself,
smuggling the pilgrims into the monastery unseen. Once
they were in the temple with him, he need not fear that
the long prayer they wished to make would be broken in
upon before the four hours'- vigil was ended And before
that he hoped to have them safely out of the way.

This was the understanding ; but, oddly enough, Nain
Khala 's conception of the last clause was different from
that which he had wished to leave in the mind of the
pilgrims' spokesman, his own old acquaintance Lai
Singh.

At the time of the New Year feasts, it was comparatively
easy for the priest to bring three or four strangers inside
the monastery gates before midnight. Previous to that
time he was free from duty, and the cell where he intended
to secrete the pilgrims, close to the temple of the silver
god, was temporarily in his possession. A priest awaiting
vigil was supposed to rest or pray there for an hour previous
to entering the temple. But after the setting of the moon

i8 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

— that was a different story, though Nain Khala had been
careful not to explain the difficulties of the situation to
Lai Singh.

The pilgrims could not pass out of the temple with
out being seen by the waiting priest in the cell, which
was practically a sentry-box ; and if they were seen,
not only would Nain Khala lose the money he coveted, but
his position in the monastery, perhaps his life.

Lai Singh had never entertained a high opinion of Nain
Khala 's character, otherwise he would not have ventured
to make the offer he had made, for most of the priests of
Buddha were absolutely incorruptible. But Lai Singh
had not sounded the soul of his appointed guide to its
depths, and even if he had guessed the treachery of which
the man was capable, he could not know the magnificent
facilities Nain Khala had at hand for concealing crime if
he committed it.

This being the case, it was with comparative confidence
that the four men left the pilgrims' rest-house, and started
by way of dark and deserted by-paths to leave the town
for the height where the monastery stood.

The scene was weirdly picturesque under the light of
the Eastern moon, which cut out every shadow, sharply
outlined as serrated lines of ebony on ivory ; but if the
adventurers felt the magic of the night, they said nothing
of their emotions to one another. Even up to the gates
of the monastery, which were silently pushed ajar for them
at their knock, they scarcely spoke ; and once inside they
were dumb as statues, the long robes they wore melting into
the shadow under the walls, as they let the darkness hide
them, swallowing them up.

So they stole beneath an archway, on through a series of
winding passages, coming out at last close to the temple
that had one entrance from a small, square courtyard, into
which the cell where they were to wait opened with a grated
window and a door.

They flitted batlike across the white square of moonlit
courtyard, and inside the cell they were again in darkness.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT ig

A chime of silvery bells in the temple adjoining an
nounced the hour when Nain Khala should relieve the pray
ing priest. A door gave communication between the cell
and the temple, not directly, but by crawling on the
knees through a short passage, which mode of progression
was supposed to signify the humility of the priest.

Nain Khala opened this door, dropped on his knees, and,
mumbling a prayer, shuffled along the passage. The others
were instructed to remain where they were, until a certain
word signalled the fact that Nain Khala 's predecessor
had gone, leaving him alone in the temple.

Nevill Brooke, who was to be the first to follow, knelt
at the entrance to the passage, and a pale light, less bright
than that of the moon at the little barred window, filtered
out from the lamps on the other side. It was his quick
ears that listened for the cue, and received it. A touch
on the hand of Charteris, close behind, told that the pro
cession was to move ; and five minutes later Brooke,
Charteris, St. Leger, and Lai Singh stood in the temple
of Buddha of the Moon.

To Nain Khala they were genuine pilgrims, Asiatics
like himself. Had he guessed that they were not as
simple as they seemed, he might have feared to pit his
subtlety against theirs, for even as it was, the priest's
heart was knocking against his side with such irregular
hammerings that he feared lest the sound, so loud in his
own ears, might be heard by others.

He waited, while the four pilgrims looked reverently
(as it seemed to him) about the octagon-shaped temple,
their eyes dwelling on the windowless walls of white stone,
the slender pillars of silver supporting the domed roof ;
the globe-lamps, imitating moons, set at the juncture of
wall and ceiling, in the midst of a band of silver-starred
blue enamel ; and above all upon the great silver idol,
standing on a carved ivory pedestal in the centre of the
temple. The dome above the god had a round aperture
open to the sky, as in the Pantheon at Rome, and the
moon at this moment being at its zenith, the effect of the

20 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

one straight beam of light falling upon the silver image
and deadening the feeble, artificial illumination of the
distant lamps was extraordinary, even thrilling.

" Before your devotions are begun, the offering must
be laid upon the altar/' said Nain Khala, in the same
monotonous, sing-song voice with which he chanted his
prayer.

Lai Singh had the money agreed upon, in gold, which
he took from a bag carried in his breast, and laid upon the
altar, kneeling. This done under the glittering eyes of the
priest, the other three were allowed to kneel, closely
grouped about their leader. They began ostensibly to
pray, in voices so low that the words they said could not
be audible even to Nain Khala, who knelt, also seemingly
in deep devotion, on the other side of the great altar, at
a distance of twelve or fourteen feet.

They dared not speak in any language save Chinese,
lest Nain Khala, catching some strange inflection, should
give the alarm, bringing in his brothers like a swarm of
venomous ants. But, had they ventured, the priest would
have been more oblivious than they dared to hope. While
he mechanically gabbled the familiar words of the four-
hours' prayer, his thoughts were busy with the details
of the thing he meant to do ; and his eyes were on the
gold.

He would have four hours for the deed and the hiding
of it ; but he knew that he could not long bear the strain
of suspense. He must act soon, and have the work over.
Success was almost sure, but though his mind was made
up, the physical part of him rebelled with trembling and
nausea.

" Have you the chloroform ? '-' whispered St. Leger to
Lai Singh.

" Yes," returned the Chinaman, stolidly.

"We must put him to sleep as soon as possible," St.
Leger went on. " A pity that the others were so squeamish,
though after all, perhaps it will be safer for our skins to
leave a living man who will think he has had a bad dream,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 21

and will dare say nothing, rather than a dead one whose
blood would speak. ll

" If, as you were told, there is a way from this temple
to the underground holy of holies, " murmured Nevill
Brooke to the Chinaman, " my opinion is that there might
easily be a secret way down under the "

" Hush I " aspirated Nain Khala, springing to his feet
with such suddenness as to break the other's words short.
" I hear sounds. I fear it may mean that something
unusual is on foot. It may even be that you were seen
entering the courtyard, and if you are found here we are
lost. Quick ! I must hide you, and if it be a false alarm,
I will come soon to release you again. v

As he spoke, his dark face like yellow wax in the pale
light of the moon and lamps, he pushed the pedestal which
formed the altar of the god.

The great idol, which looked so ponderous, moved
on its carved block of ivory with strange ease and noise-
lessness. Nain Khala pointed downwards, with a shaking
hand, and the four others, crowding close, saw a square
black hole, with a steep flight of stone steps descending into
utter darkness.

Their pulses throbbed, and the blood sang in their ears.
It seemed that Destiny was playing into their hands. They
had dared hope for nothing so marvellous as this.

Without an instant's hesitation (since an instant missed
might lose all) Lai Singh and Loris St. Leger, who were
nearest, plunged one after the other down the secret stair
way. Brooke coming next followed, but Charteris, with
his foot on the first step, chanced to catch such a gleam
in Nain Khala 's snaky eyes that he paused.

Having taken up the role of a man afflicted with dumb
ness, he spoke no word, but caught Nain Khala by the arm,
and pulled him down the stairway also. That sinister
gleam had told him at a glance that the priest meant
treachery. Charteris was sure in a second that Nain
Khala had in reality heard no noise, feared no intrusion
upon the sacred hours of prayer ; and whatever danger

22 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

might lurk behind this hidden stair, the hot-headed old
colonel resolved that the would-be traitor should share it.

It was the priest's left arm which fell into the grip
of Charteris, and he could not help but obey. The savage
jerk of his flabby muscles, which threw him forward down
step after step, despite himself, well-nigh drew a shriek
of pain, but he clenched his teeth lest, turning to see
what happened above, those below should rush back to
the aid of their comrade.

Nain Khala was a physical coward, but he had not been
unprepared for emergencies, and he knew that his moment
had come. Quick as light, with his free hand he snatched
from his bosom a knife and plunged it up to the hilt in
his captor's back.

The blow sent the breath out of the old man's lungs
with a gasp, and a spurt of blood from the parted lips.
He fell forward, down the steps, his grasp on Nain Khala 's
wrist relaxed, his arms instinctively outstretched, and the
priest, leaving the knife in the wound, fled with wild
leaps and animal pantings up the steps down which he
had been dragged.

His one hope was to reach the top and push the great
idol back into its place before the others could be upon
him. From below there was no escape, though the idol
was easily moved from above, and the deadened sounds
which might ascend would be considered miraculous by
those who heard. As for the bodies which would presently
lie rotting underground, he need not fear that he would
be connected with them in the minds of their discoverers,
for the hidden temple would not be visited until a certain
feast day two months later.

Breathless, Nain Khala bounded from the last step
on to the inlaid floor of the temple, and had seized the
corner of the idol, when a hand reaching out up of darkness
seized his priestly robe and pulled him down.

It was the hand of Nevill Brooke which caught the
traitor ; but it was the hand of Lai Singh which, grasping
the dagger withdrawn from Charteris' back stabbed the

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 23

murderer in the throat, once and again, till his blood
stained the secret stairway crimson.

Down at the foot of the stone steps lay Charteris, his head
on Nevill Brooke's knee, the sands of his life running out.

In a corner, crumpled out of sight in shadow black
as his treachery, was a dead man ; but the glazing eyes
of the old soldier saw only his friend.

Blood, bubbling from his lungs, choked his utterance,
rendering his words inaudible, yet he would speak, and
Brooke bent down to listen, while Loris St. Leger, drunk
with lust for the treasure, stamped his foot in im
patience. For him, while each moment was precious,
Charteris took too long to bid the world farewell.

" If you find it,"- gurgled the dying man, " my share
— don't forget — it's for Ronny. The paper — my will —
you've got it. I trust you, Brooke. If you succeed, and
— live, you'll see he has his rights. I'll not keep you.
Find the jewels — though I can't be there. Leave me.
Ronny "-

"No, dear old man,- answered Brooke, his beautiful
eyes, so like his daughter's, shining behind tears. " It's
all right about your nephew. My solicitor has had the
details of our Tontine, and the date of the division. We
couldn't cheat you if we would. But you shan't die here,
after all we've gone through together. "

" He is dead already," said St. Leger.

It was true. The light of life had gone out of the eyes
still staring up at his friend's face. Colonel Charteris'
last thought had been of his namesake — the son of the
one woman he had ever loved.

Brooke laid the white head down, and closed the wide,
sightless eyes. It was the old soldier's wish that the
others should go on, and for his sake as well as their own
there must be no more delays. Already St. Leger had
lighted a folding lantern and was urging Lai Singh and
Brooke to come on.

24 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

From the level space at the foot of the thirty steps
down which they had come a rough, dark passage hewn
out of the rock that formed a foundation for the monastery
led away. The roof was too low for a man to walk upright.
They had to bend almost double as they groped their
way along, St. Leger now going first with the lantern.

The passage sloped steeply downward, and the rocky
floor was so irregular that, with the fantastic lights and
shadows cast by the swinging lantern, they stumbled
and more than once fell to their knees. But they staggered
up again and plunged blindly on, though the thought
weighed on their hearts that they might not be on the way
to the underground temple after all.

^ Presently they reached a place where the sloping passage
abruptly widened, and St. Leger started back with a cry.
•" A trap ! '•' he stammered. " Good heavens ! another
second, and I should have broken my neck. ?>

Here the path was wide enough for the others to join
the leader, and looking over his shoulder they saw by the
lantern's light that he had just stepped back in time to
avoid falling headlong into a well, of which the bottom
could not be seen. He had been saved by one chance in
a hundred, for the way cut in the dark rock was so black
that there was scarcely, at a first casual glance, a difference
between solid stone and solid darkness.

On either side of the hole was a narrow ledge, along
which it was possible for a man with a steady head to walk,
by planting one foot before the other and pressing against
the wall.

Here Brooke went first, and his companions followed,
each with a hand on another's shoulder.

Beyond, the passage continued as before, until sud
denly Brooke called out for caution. They had reached
a rough flight of stairs cut in the rock. Counting as they
went, they descended fifteen steps only to find themselves
confronted with a gate made of iron bars, and fastened with
a quaint padlock.

" By heaven, this is the way to the temple ! n exclaimed

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 25

St. Leger, " or they would not have taken all these pre
cautions to keep out the sacrilegious amateur I " So
saying, he snatched from his breast a revolver, and, firing,
blew the lock to pieces, the shot causing a strange, almost
deafening detonation, and filling the ill- ventilated passage
with smoke.

The gate, however, was no longer a barrier. They passed
on, not down a sloping path as before, but walking upon a
level pavement of mosaic, which showed colour in the rays
of the lantern, while a bricked roof arched at a good height
above their heads. Darkness curtained the distance, but
a few steps farther on this black veil resolved itself into a
pair of low bronze doors.

Brooke set his strong shoulder against them, and they
opened. All three men passed through.

For a moment they saw nothing, save that they were
in a large, open space, where shadows loomed gigantic ;
the lantern held high in the hand of Brooke, sent a reveal
ing ray to the right, striking out a gleam that was like
a flash of brilliant eyes in the gloom, or a shower of meteors
down the steeps of night.

" The Breastplate of the Seven Stars ! " faltered St.
Leger.

Fate and Nain Khala had sent them to the place of
their dreams. And as the poor illumination which was all
they had, showed to their dazzled eyes a great golden idol,
smiling an unchanging smile and wearing on his bosom
a constellation of stars, the blood rushed to their heads,
turning them giddy.

Each of the seven stars was a blazing crest of diamonds,
while the centre of each was formed of one great white
stone as big as the Koh-i-noor.

They had come from very far off, with a siren-song
ringing in their ears, but the siren had not sung falsely.
The treasure was theirs to take for the putting out of their
hands.

" Look, what is that, like a bright drop of blood in
the idol's hand ? " said Brooke. He held the lantern

36. THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

closer, and in the outstretched palm of the golden god
sat a dull bronze toad, scarcely two inches in length, the
top of its head filled in with a fiery stone which appeared
not unlike a common carbuncle.

" A toad with a jewel in its head ! '-'- he said, while
St. Leger scarcely heard or looked. But Lai Singh had eyes
and ears for Brooke's discovery also.

" Do not touch it ! '-'- he cried. •" I have heard of that,
but purposely never mentioned it to you. It is a great
fetish — a thing of small intrinsic worth, yet of immeasur
able value to the worshippers in this hidden temple. I
implore you to leave the toad. It can bring nothing but
evil upon you so long as you may live."

" I am not superstitious/' said Brooke, " and if neither
you nor St. Leger make any claim upon this strange little
beast, I shall certainly take it to keep in memory of this
night. The diamonds we will convert into money and
divide according to arrangement, but this toad one need
not part with, and if I get home alive I should like to show
it to my daughter. "

" I confess I am superstitious, and wouldn't care to
touch that thing,- answered St. Leger, rousing himself.
" All I want is my share of the jewels to show for this night's
work. '-'-

The Breastplate of the Seven Stars was suspended
round the short throat of the idol by a chain of gold.
Climbing eagerly up on the pedestal, St. Leger attempted
to detach it, but the chain was stronger than he had
thought, and something held it tightly in place at the back.
Balancing himself with difficulty, and holding on to the
idol's great shoulder by the left hand, he passed his right
round the neck of the god. In this way he discovered that
the clasp of the chain fitted into a groove, as if into a
tight box without a cover. Impatiently he jerked it free,
and then sprang back with a loud yell of fear and pain,
for something had darted at him, stabbing him deeply
in the hand.

Brooke, who had just pocketed the bronze toad, caught

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 27

St. Leger and saved him from a fall, while Lai Singh, with
horrified eyes, pointed upward.

Out of the aperture from which the clasp of the chain
had been torn had sprung a golden snake, which twisted
round the idol's throat, and was still vibrating, a delicate
metallic tongue protruding from its open jaws.

" The Guardian of the Stars ! " faltered the Chinaman.
" A terrible piece of mechanism. The snake has stung the
hand of the robber with its poisoned tongue, and I fear
that the sting means death. '-'•

Groaning with horror, St. Leger stared at his hand. In
the fleshy part of the palm was a small puncture, from
which no blood oozed ; but a purplish tinge which coloured
the wound spread and deepened as he looked.

Without a word, Nevill Brooke took the hand, and
pressing his lips to the blue mark, sucked the wound until
the bitter blood flowed freely into his mouth. Then he
spat, and coolly wiped his lips with a handkerchief. " I
hope that will stop the mischief,'-' he said.

" It may -be that you have saved my life, "stammered
St. Leger, pale and faint as he had not been when, half
an hour ago, he saw two men die.

" I assure you, if I have, I did not do it for love,'1
answered Brooke, " therefore you owe me no gratitude.
Come, let us not waste time."

CHAPTER III

THE MOMENT AND THE MAN

THE full moon was rising like a silver shield out of the
Mediterranean, and flooding the Casino gardens at Monte
Carlo with pale, mysterious light.

Hardly could there have been a more striking contrast
than between the shadow-flecked peace of the garden

28 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

overhanging the sapphire sea, and the gaudy gaiety inside
the Casino whose windows jewelled the darkness. Out
from the noise and glitter hurried a man, who had turned
his back upon the gambling rooms ; upon the gorgeously
dressed women, flashing with diamonds, real or false ;
upon the hard, eager faces of men absorbed in one all-
engrossing thought ; upon the yellow gleam of gold on
the long tables, upon the heated atmosphere make up of
mingling scents and crowding humanity.

He was a young man, and an hour ago he had been
full of the joy of life. So quick was he of observation
that at most times such a marked contrast would have
struck him with a thrill ; but now the shadow of ruin
rose grimly before his eyes, and there was no peace for
him in the moonlit garden.

He had not come there for peace, but with the proud
instinct of hiding his haggard face, and to collect his
thoughts before trying to decide what he should do next.

Last night he had pitied certain reckless ones who
had lost heavily, and shown despair in haggard faces ;
women who had cried in the gardens ; and men who had
not left themselves enough for a consoling cigar. Now,
he hoped that nobody would see or dare to pity him.

As he walked down one of the paths that led to the
terrace over the sea, the moonlight found his face and
showed it young, handsome — the sort of face that women
turn to look after, and even men admire. At this moment
to anyone who loved him it would have been pathetic
in its rebellious pain and shamed humiliation.

He stopped and stood staring out over the dark water
that had a wide band of silver across it now — the moon's
pathway ; but he saw none of the beauty of the night.

" What a fool I've been ! " he said to himself, half
aloud. " It's unbelievable that I should have made such
a mess of my life. Good heavens, if I could wake up and
find that I'd been dreaming ! But it's real enough. The
bad things always are. The question is, what to do now
that this hour can't be undone. What intolerable insults

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 29

I shall have to submit to — I, who can't even pay my hotel
bill, much less get away from this hell that masquerades
as Paradise. I've a mind to end it all. There isn't a
soul who would care, and it would save a lot of bother."

From behind, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and
with a start and an impulse of irritable resentment he
turned, shaking ofE the touch. But the one who had
approached him quietly stood his ground.

Now the face of the newcomer was in the full light of
the moon, and the young man who had been silently ac
costed had a strange impression of it, or rather two im
pressions which contradicted each other as rapidly as a
flash of lightning cutting the night contradicts darkness.

" What a horrible, white old face — like a vampire's,
with its loose red lips ! " was the first thought that leaped
into his mind ; then, an instant later, he wondered that
he could have had such an idea. He was gazing at an
elderly, white-haired man, with a long beard, turned to
a fall of silver by the moonlight. On the head was a low,
broad-leaved hat of black felt, and the dress was that of
an English clergyman.

" I beg your pardon, I hope you won't be angry with
me for speaking to you,'-'- said the newcomer, in a winning
tone, yet with an underlying peculiarity in his voice — a
certain throaty hoarseness. " I really couldn't help it.
You seemed to be in trouble, and the one business of my
life is striving to help those who are in trouble. Won't
you let me help you ? "

"Thank you, you're very good,- replied the younger
man, stiffly. " But I assure you it isn't as bad as that
with me. I don't need help from strangers, however
kind.''

"We're not strangers, ll pleaded the old man in clerical
dress. " Nobody is a stranger to me who is suffering,
and it is useless to disguise that you are suffering. ll

" I'm not very strong just at present," said the other.
•" It isn't long since I came back from South Africa, some
what the worse for wear. I suppose my face shows that

30 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

I'm not quite up to the mark — even by moonlight." And
he laughed bitterly.

"Ah — ah! South Africa ! " echoed the clergyman;
" that draws us the nearer together. Instead of being
strangers, as you called us, we shall, I hope, soon be friends.
I had relatives fighting there. Perhaps we may have
acquaintances in common.'*

" I was only a Volunteer/'- said the young man, but
unconsciously his tone warmed a little. It was good after
all to be spoken to in a friendly way by an Englishman.
" I was sent to the Riviera to pick up my health again,

and instead of that I've His sentence broke ofH

short, and he bit his lip, annoyed that he should have been
" drawn."

" Instead of that," the old man caught him up, " you've
dropped something you're afraid it won't be so easy to
regain. Look here, won't you have a talk with me ?
We might be of assistance to one another. "-

" There's nothing that I can do for a fellow -being,
except take myself out of his way ! " exclaimed the
younger.

" Allow me to be the judge. As a matter of fact, there
is a service which you could do for me, if you were willing
to undertake it. It is not much — technically — but it
would be of value to me. And if you found that you were
able to perform it, it would be only fair that you should
accept an equal service in return."

•' You are trying to sugar the pill of charity."

" I assure you I am doing nothing of the sort. I can
easily convince you of that. Let us get away from this
place. It is past eleven o'clock, and I am hungry. I dine
early, and sup when I have finished — my work. But my
work is over for to-night, and if you will come to my
house we will have supper together. ' '

The young man hesitated. He was lonely and desperate.
He had lost every penny, and the shame of being turned
out of his hotel, thrust into the street without resources
unless he chose to appeal to a quarter to which he would

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 31

rather die than apply for help was unbearable. Here
was an hour's respite. He did not understand this philan-
thropical old man's interest in him, but it was possible
that good might come of it.

" Why are you so kind ? " he asked abruptly.

" Kind ? I am not kind. I give up my life to serving
those in distress, and I'm sure there's no merit in that.
I have spent this and other winters and springs at Monte
Carlo, not for the reasons which bring most men here, but
to help those who have lost everything (including courage
and the wish to live) to regain hope. Every night I walk
in the gardens of the Casino, and seldom does it fail that
I find someone who needs friendship. But to you, I am
strangely drawn. Yours is no common case, I feel. Will
you tell me your name ? Mine is Willoughby ; the
Reverend Jasper Willoughby."

" And mine is Ronald Charteris,'' the other answered
quickly ; but again, for an instant, the impression of some
thing hidden behind the white mask of the old face with
its half-concealed eyes sparkling behind gold-rimmed
spectacles, stabbed him with a pang of surprise and dis
taste. But it was gone as soon as it had come, and
Ronald Charteris was telling himself that it was a mere
fleeting effect of the moonlight. The face was benevolent
in feature — the face of a dreamer, a philanthropist.

" Thank you for answering, " the clergyman was saying
in his sweet, slightly hoarse voice. •" And you will sup with
me to-night ? '-'-

" Frankly, though I thank you, I'm in no mood for
company, 'J answered Charteris.

" I promise you that you shall meet no one but me.
You need not even see a servant. I live in a flat. Every
thing will be ready on the table — even to a second plate.
I often bring home a guest or two. I want a talk with
you, and it will be better there. Every moment we are
liable to be disturbed in these gardens."

" Very well, I will go with you," said Ronald Charteris.

They walked away, turning their backs upon other

32 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

human shadows that flung themselves like lost souls
out of the gay Casino into the engulfing night.

Charteris had not been in Monte Carlo for many days,
and he soon found himself with his new friend in a street
that he did not know. They followed to the end, reaching a
neighbourhood of villas set among gardens with thickly-
growing trees. Presently the clergyman opened a gate
and made Charteris enter. " My flat is here," he explained.
" The people on the first floor attend to — to me." There
was a break in this sentence as if he had intended a different
conclusion, but scarcely had Charteris had time to notice
it before his companion began talking of something else.

The door was opened with a latch-key, and the Reverend
Jasper Willoughby showed his guest the way upstairs.
In the square hall on the ground floor a dim light was
burning, and as Charteris glanced up he thought that he saw
a faint illumination there also ; but either he was mis
taken, or else it was suddenly put out, for as the two men
reached the top of the stairs it was to find the landing in
darkness.

" Very careless of them to have left the place unlighted,"
exclaimed the clergyman. " I'm afraid I've no matches,
so we must grope our way to the nearest door.'-

" I have matches," said Charteris, putting his hand into
his pocket. As he spoke he was conscious of a slight rustling
near at hand.

" Don't trouble. Here is the door of the dining-room, "
hastily said the old man, rattling the handle of the door
as an accompaniment to his words. " Ah, here we have a
light ; the gas turned down. Pray, come in, Mr. Charteris."

Ronald obeyed, and as he crossed the threshold of the
room was greeted by the fragrance of heliotrope. He
happened to hate the scent, which strongly affected his
nerves ; and he recalled now that he had detected it very
faintly in the hall outside as well.

By this time his host had turned up the gas and closed
the door.

The room was more luxurious than Charteris had been

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 33

led to expect from the outer appearance of the villa or
the furnishing of the hall. There was a suggestion of the
East about this dining-room, with its polished floor strewn
with Chinese and Indian rugs, its Oriental hangings and
Chinese ornaments, its cushioned divan running round the
wall, on one side of which was a map of India, China, and
Thibet, marked here and there with a red cross. It was
as little as possible the sort of room one would expect to
find in the house of a clergyman of the English Church ;
but Charteris reminded himself that the flat had been taken
furnished.

The table was laid with an embroidered cloth, handsome
china, a little good silver, and on it was spread a supper
of cold fowl, salad, wine, and sweets. In the centre was
a vase containing several sprays of the heliotrope which
had charged the air with fragrance.

It was long since Charteris had eaten he remembered
now, and he would have been hungry had it not been for
the heliotrope ; but he made pretence of eating, and his
host, looking at him with interest, put the first question
which was to inaugurate the proposed talk.

" Now, won't you show your confidence in me by telling
me something about yourself ? Such things, at least, as
led up to our meeting ? "

'•' Doesn't every step of one's life lead up to some other
step, if one knew ? '•'- asked Charteris. " Well, I went
out to South Africa as a Volunteer, thinking I had plenty
of money. Not that I was rich, but my mother had left
me something, which I thought was well invested, and I
could afford to amuse myself. In South Africa I saved a
civilian chap's life one day, and he gave me a diamond
to remember him by. I didn't think much about it, but
meant to have it set in some form or other when I got home
— if I ever did. Then I was wounded, and had fever as
well. They advised the Riviera instead of England in
March, and I didn't mind, for there was nothing to call
me home.

34 THE TURNSTILE .OF NIGHT

" I've travelled a lot, but somehow I'd never been to
Monte Carlo, so, like a fool, I came to this place. I hadn't
been here more than seven or eight days, stopping at one of
the best hotels and running up a big bill, when I got news
from home that staggered me. Every penny was gone in
a big bank smash.

•" The news bowled me over at first, for, as I told you,
I'm not very fit yet, but I thought of the diamond, and
took it to a man to see how much he would give for it.
He asked for a few hours to think it over, and this after
noon, to my surprise, he offered me eighty pounds for the
thing. What is more, he paid the money down. If I'd
kept my senses I should, by this stroke of luck, have got
enough to last until I could look round. I could have gone
to England, and found something to do, but being stark,
staring mad, I decided to try my luck at the tables. I
thought the money for the diamond would be a sort of
- fetish, '- and I was sure I should come out of the rooms with
a thousand pounds for my eighty. Instead, I haven't
got eighty centimes left. I'm dead broke. But after all,
IVe been in pretty bad scrapes before now, and got out of
them somehow, and I shall again. If I were in normal
health and strength I shouldn't have gone to bits as I
did there in the gardens. Now I come to think of it, too,
I believe I've heard that the authorities here are ready to
pay your hotel bill and pack you off with your railway
ticket, rather than you should get them into bad odour by
complaining or blowing your brains out. Perhaps I shall
have to stoop "

"No, no," broke in the clergyman. -Why submit to
humiliate yourself when you can have a loan from me,
and pay the money back at your leisure ? I am rich, yet
I call myself but a steward of the money which in the
world's eyes is mine. To some men in your place I give
it ; but you are not of their kind. I will lend you two
hundred pounds, to be repaid as you can. Eifty pounds, or
more if necessary, you can have to-night. The rest

" But I have no security to offer, no references, or at

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 35

least none that I choose to refer anyone to," broke in
Charteris, astonished. He had been led to expect an offer
of a loan, but he had not dreamed of its being more than
twenty pounds, nor had he made up his mind to accept.

" I ask for no security, no references but your face and
your manner — the fact that you are a gentleman and a
fellow-countryman. And I make only one condition."

" What is that ? " asked Charteris.

"It is the question we raised before — the question of a
return service. I lend you two hundred pounds. For that
accommodation perhaps you will think I have the right
to ask a small favour of you in return. If you are of an
adventurous disposition you will not, I think, be dis
pleased at the slight air of mystery with which the circum
stances (concerning another than myself) oblige me to
surround the afEair."

Charteris' interest grew. At this hint, for a moment
he forgot his folly and misfortunes and gave all his atten
tion to the words of the clergyman.

" In any event, it would be your choice, would it not,-s
went on the latter, "to go to England as sbon as possible,
now that your future outlook is changed by your money
losses ? "

" Certainly it would," replied Charteris.

" Well, then, I would ask you to leave here to-morrow,
travelling by easy stages on account of your health, and
going to London. I would ask that you took with you a
companion."

" You wish to go also ? " Ronald asked.

" No. It is — a lady I should expect you to escort, and
see her safely home at the end of the journey. That is
my condition. "

•" Why, that is nothing — nothing at all ! " ejaculated
the young man.

" Wait, I haven't finished. The lady would have
to travel as your sister."

" Oh ! " observed Charteris. His eyes fixed themselves
on the white face of the clergyman, which was so opaquely

36 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

colourless, its features so hard and clearly cut (save for
the red, loosely-hanging lips which he seemed always
anxious to draw in) that it resembled a plaster cast —
a death mask. Charteris' gaze searched it now, but it
remained expressionless, and the bright eyes behind the
slightly convex glasses met his fearlessly.

" Yes/' the elder man said. " That would be essential.
You would stop in Marseilles, and at the hotel where you and
the lady put up, her name would have to go into the
visitors' book as 'Miss Charteris.' And the same in
Paris. I deprecate anything resembling deceit, but for
a woman's sake -'•

" Why need we stop in Marseilles and Paris ? '-' asked
Charteris. "If we went straight on the difficulty would
be obviated. "

" Your health would suffer."

" No, I assure you I can stand the journey straight
through to London.'1

•" There are other reasons why it is advisable to stop
on the way. As it is the affair of a lady, you will under
stand that it may be impossible to explain everything.
Do you consent to the arrangement ? It will be a great
service to me, and to another.'1

" Very well, I consent,'- said Charteris. " It was on
the lady's account I hesitated.'-1

*-'• Thank you. You will not see her face during the
journey. She will travel thickly veiled, and will take her
meals in her own room. I can promise that you will not
be bored by much conversation. The lady will not talk
except when it is necessary.'1

" Is there anything more ? '' went on Charteris, whose
curiosity was beginning to be piqued.

" One thing. When you arrive in London, I would ask
that you drive with your companion to the house where
she is to stop. You will go in with her, and remain at
her service for a short time — perhaps no more than an hour.
If you see that she requires assistance you would, of course,
give it to her.11

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 37

•" Of course,"- echoed Ronald.

" Of any kind ? "

" Naturally, for a lady ; even though I hadn't seen her
face," said the young man, smiling. Ronald Charteris
had a delightful smile, which made him look oddly boyish,
though he was twenty-eight, and had seen things to age
a man in South Africa. He had blue-grey eyes, with
thick, black lashes, and his hair was of so dark a brown
that it looked black also.

"Then, "said the clergyman, having gazed for a moment
in silence at Charteris, as if taking in every feature, every
trick of expression, " then I think that I may trust the
last of the instructions to the lady herself. It is even
more important for her to leave Monte Carlo at once than
for you, and I am glad, in giving you a little help, to for
ward her cause also. One must do what one can for others
in this short life, you know. Everything being made straight
for you here, could you leave to-morrow afternoon ? "

" In the morning, if you like."- Ronald found himself
now in an odd position. Tacitly he had accepted Mr.
Jasper Willoughby's bounty, and he could not go back
and refuse at this late moment without appearing anxious
to rid himself of responsibility in regard to the mysterious
lady.

"Well, then, that is settled between us," said the old
man, passing a large, beautifully shaped hand across his
mouth, as if to hide some sudden change of expression.
Charteris' eyes rested mechanically upon the hand, and
he noticed that the top joint of the little finger was missing.

" I suppose you would prefer to give me your I O U
for the fifty pounds I shall advance to-night," Mr. Wil-
loughby continued. " To me, it does not matter, but if
it would make you more comfortable "

" It would, indeed," Charteris filled up the pause.

" The remainder of the sum will be paid in instalments,
if that will suit you. On your arrival in Paris, fifty pounds.
On your arrival in London, the remaining hundred ; and
the bearer in both cases will be empowered to take your

38 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

I O U, if you choose to give it. As for the hotel in Paris,
select whichever you choose, only — for the lady's sake —
I would advise a quiet one.11

« The Hotel de Noailles ? ll suggested Charteris.

" Very good. The money shall be sent you there. You
may depend upon it. And now for the first fifty pounds.
I think — though I don't keep large sums in hand — I can
manage it in gold and notes. A cheque would hardly
serve your purpose. If you will excuse me for five minutes,
I will bring you the money.11

With old-fashioned ceremoniousness, he left the room.
For a moment or two, when he found himself alone, Ronald
sat at the table, sending his thoughts back to the beginning
of this night's events. As he sat thus, it seemed to him
that he heard whispering voices in the hall outside, so
close to the door as to suggest that someone must have
been caught by Mr. Willoughby listening at the keyhole.
Then the sound ceased ; all was quiet, save for the far-away
beating of the sea against the rocks ; but suddenly so
strange a noise began that Charteris started from his
reverie.

It was an extraordinary chattering, a shrill, continuous
scolding which had a thrill of the uncanny in it. Words
were apparently uttered, yet none were distinguishable ;
it seemed to Charteris that, as they were shrieked out, in
a high-keyed voice, it must be the fault of his own ears
that he could not understand. But, as the chattering
went on, and he could separate no one word from another,
he began to wonder if the jabbering creature were not
scolding in some foreign tongue which he had never heard
before.

He had risen, expecting the room to be invaded, and
instead of sitting down again at the table, he walked
across the room to look at the map which covered a large
space on one side of the wall.

It was at this moment that, the chattering having ceased,
Mr. Willoughby came back, offering no explanation, either
of the sound or his prolonged absence. Charteris did not

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 39

feel that there was any reason for hiding the fact that he
had been engaged examining the map ; but had he caught
the gleam which lit up behind the convex glasses as the
old clergyman saw his occupation, he would have received
an electric shock of surprise.

CHAPTER IV

A STRANGE JOURNEY

" BY JOVE ! " exclaimed Charteris. "I wonder if they're
not coming."

It was the afternoon of the next day, and he was at
the railway station of Monte Carlo, where he had come early
to keep the appointment with Mr. Willoughby and the
unknown lady whom he had sworn to adopt — temporarily
— as his sister.

Already he was a different man from the desperate
half-mad fellow minded to end his folly by ending his
life. Some day he would be able to pay back the loan
for which he began to feel passionately grateful. Mean
while it was a renewal of self-respect to have settled his
account at the hotel, and to walk out a free man ; and as
for the journey which represented his " service " to his
benefactor, he was young and of a reckless spirit which
had carried him into some strange places, and he could not
help regarding this in the light of an adventure.

Had he been expected to meet Mr. Willoughby again
to-day at the villa where he had supped and completed
his queer bargain last night, he would have been obliged
to make inquiries how to reach it ; for the clergyman
had escorted him almost as far as his hotel last night,
therefore he had not been compelled to keep his eyes
alert for landmarks. He did not know the name of the
street where the villa (which had a close resemblance to

40 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

dozens of other Riviera villas, so far as he had been able
to judge in the moonlight) was situated, and, so keen
had been his state of exaltation, that he had scarcely noted
the direction in which his guide had conducted him.

Fortunately, however, Mr. Willoughby had emphati
cally negatived his question as to whether they should
meet at the villa before going to the train. The clergyman
had named the railway station as the rendezvous ; and
as he had particularly stipulated that Charteris should be
early, his own tardiness in keeping the appointment was
the more remarkable.

Ronald had been walking up and down for nearly half
an hour, his box labelled, and his ticket to Victoria in his
pocket. At last, as the time grew short, he began to fear
he might have been careless and made a mistake. Perhaps,
instead of leaving it settled that they should meet on the
departure platform, Mr. Willoughby might have recon
sidered and suggested something else.

Charteris looked in the waiting-rooms and the cafe ;
he even went to the lift which takes passengers up to
the garden of the Casino, but nowhere could he see the
commanding figure of the old clergyman, accompanied by
a veiled lady.

The situation was beginning to be awkward. He had
made all his arrangements, as agreed, to travel by the
train nearly due, and his luggage would certainly go in
it. But, though he had kept his word, through some
misunderstanding Mr. Willoughby might at this very
moment be accusing him of bad faith. Nevertheless,
he could do nothing, for the reason that he had no idea
where to find the clergyman and the lady who was to be
his fellow-traveller. He was pledged to take her with
him, and whatever happened, no matter how long the
delay, he must wait for her.

The crowd on the platform increased ; the train was
signalled. It was exactly on time. Still no white-bearded
old man with a veiled woman. Then the train came thun
dering into the station. People hurried to take their

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 41

places. Ronald moved a few steps back. He had given
up hope of going. Suddenly a voice spoke in his ear.
•" You are Mr. Ronald Charteris ? li The words were
almost whispered.

Charteris turned quickly. A tall, slender woman
dressed in black, with an extraordinarily thick veil tied
round a close-fitting hat, had come so near to him that
as he turned his arm touched her shoulder.

•" Yes, I am Ronald Charteris,'1 he answered abruptly.
-" And you ? '-'-

" I am — your sister. Mr. Willoughby could not be with
me. Come — if we don't make haste, we shall miss the
train. "-

Without another word Charteris helped her into the
nearest first-class compartment, and followed closely
after. Already the train had begun slowly to move out
of the station, and thirty seconds more would have made
them too late. As it was, a guard would have prevented
Charteris from attempting to board the train while in
motion, but before the man could reach him he was inside,
and shutting the door of the carriage.

There were only two vacant seats in the compartment,
and these side by side. The veiled lady took the one
by the window, and when Charteris had sat down by her,
he was suddenly aware of a curious, self-conscious con
straint. He was also aware of a faint fragrance of
tuberoses. He would have felt it incumbent upon him
to say something to his companion, even if there had not
been questions he wished to ask, concerning Mr. Wil
loughby ; but for his life he did not know how to begin.

At last, however, he made an awkward effort. " I
was afraid you were not coming,-- he said. " But, of
course, if you hadn't I should have waited. "-

She made no answer, and Ronald glanced at her face,
which was half turned from him. Scarcely the dimmest
suggestion of the outline of her profile could be traced
under the heavy black veil, which was thickly embroidered
with a close pattern. Charteris thought its wearer must

42 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

have difficulty in seeing through it. It was more like a
mask than a veil, and he decided that instead of one there
must be several thicknesses of lace.

At least, her silence gave him a clue to the lady's wishes.
She evidently did not want to engage in a conventional
conversation, and Ronald's rebuff reminded him of Mr.
Willoughby's warning that his veiled companion would
speak little during the journey. All that she had said
so far had been said in a whisper. If he were to hear her
speak aloud he would not be able to recognise her voice.
This he told himself, wondering if that intention had been
in the lady's mind, and if she supposed that it would be
possible to make a long journey together, stopping for
two nights on the way, according to instructions, without
exchanging any words except in a whisper.

But hours passed, and silence reigned between the two,
so strangely thrown together. Ronald did not know
whether the veiled woman were young or old, beautiful
or ugly. He could hardly judge even of the graces of her
figure, for she wore a loose travelling cloak, and he had
merely been able to assure himself that she was tall, and
apparently slender. Beyond this, he only knew that
she spoke English, as far as he could tell from those few
whispered sentences, without a trace of foreign accent.

The train brought them to Marseilles, and they got out,
Ronald offering to relieve his companion of a handbag
she was carrying. At first she hesitated, then surrendered
the bag.

" She's got valuable jewellery in that,*1 Ronald said to
himself, " and she's half afraid to trust me.u

" We came oft in such a hurry that I forgot to ask you
if you had other luggage,1'- he remarked aloud as they
stepped to the platform.

For answer, she shook her head. Ronald began to be
piqued. Such a silent woman was an anomaly to him.

Still in silence they drove to the hotel which Mr. Wil-
loughby had recommended, and Charteris engaged rooms.
The veiled lady remained with him, looking over his

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 43

shoulder as he wrote in the visitors' book : " R. Charteris ;
Miss Charteris ; England."

" Mr. Willoughby said, I believe, that you would prefer
to dine in your room ? "he remarked, rather stiffly.

" Yes," she murmured. " Thank you — for everything."

Again the whisper. Ronald wondered, if, after all,
it was only because she had a violent cold, or a defect in
her voice.

He went with her to the door of her room, because he
considered that this would be the duty of a brother. Then,
with a reminder of the hour at which their train would go
in the morning, and a " good-night," to which came no
audible response, they parted.

The second day was like the first, only longer. The
veiled lady refused to go to the dining-car for luncheon,
but Ronald humanely hoped that the mask was raised
for the purpose of eating during his absence.

In Paris at last, they drove to the Hotel de Noailles,
and in the cab which took them to the Boulevard des
Italiens — all in darkness, save for the lights of the rain
swept streets — the woman found her voice. But her tone
was still low — only just raised above a whisper, that it
might be heard over the noise of traffic.

" After you have dined, will you come to the door of
my room for a moment ? I shall have something to give
you."

Ronald formally assured her that he would do so, with
pleasure ; and he was prompt in keeping his promise.

He knocked at the door, half hoping to be granted
a glimpse of the face unveiled ; but only a hand came
out to him, holding a sealed, unaddressed envelope. As
he was about to take it, the fingers opened too soon, and
the envelope fell to the floor.

There was a faint exclamation on the other side of the
panels, and the hand descended as if the woman were im
pulsively stooping to pick up what she had dropped.
Ronald could see the folds of her trailing dress on the carpet
of the room within, as the door opened a few inches wider

44 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

and somehow the fallen envelope had insinuated itself
partly under those black folds.

The young man stooped also, and was quicker than
the woman, for he had the envelope in his grasp before
she had reached it. Quickly the door was closed again
with a stifled murmur that sounded like thanks ; and
it was not until Ronald was alone in the corridor, with
the noise of a slid'ng bolt in his ears, that he made a
discovery.

CHAPTER V

A HALF-SHEET OF PAPER

BESIDES the sealed envelope, doubtless intended for him,
he had in his hand a torn half-sheet of paper.

At first, he supposed that it had been given to him in
tentionally, and the moment he was in his own room,
before breaking the seal of the letter, he began to examine
the loose sheet of paper.

To his surprise, it appeared to be the end of a letter,
the first half having been torn off. The words at the
top of the page commenced in the middle of a sentence.
" Of the Tontine,' ' Ronald read. " On April the fourth, at
River House, as near as possible to eight o'clock. — L. S. L.'z

That was all, and Ronald could make no sense of it, except
that the date mentioned was that of the following day.
He opened the envelope, having puzzled for a few minutes
over the lines, hoping to find an explanation which would
tell him why the torn sheet of paper had been given him.

But he was disappointed. The envelope contained
English notes to the value of fifty pounds, and a kindly-
worded note from Mr. Willoughby, saying that he had
been taken ill, and found himself obliged to upset one or
two of the minor arrangements made in Monte Carlo.
Mr. Charteris would receive the promised money from the

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 45

hands of the lady, and could give her a receipt and I O U.
Mr. Willoughby added his regrets that indisposition had
prevented him from seeing his friend again. He hoped
for a meeting in the future, however ; and meanwhile
once more recommended Mr. Charteris' travelling com
panion to his chivalric care. She needed protection, and
was worthy of it. At the end of the journey she might
need it even more than before.

There was nothing else save the signature ; not a word
of reference to the torn bit of paper ; and Ronald began
to suspect uncomfortably that after all it had not been
meant to fall into his possession. Either it had been laid
under the envelope and handed to him by mistake, or
else it had been swept along the floor by the trailing
draperies of the lady. Brought thus close to the door,
in his haste to obtain the envelope and thus save the lady
from stooping, he had caught up the two together.

There was something attractive to Ronald about the
word "Tontine." It vaguely suggested treasure, and
mystery, and adventure, all on a grand scale. His eyes
dwelt on the word at the top of the page, with a sense of
fascination. The date, too, might be of importance to
the veiled lady. Doubtless it concerned an engagement
for the next day, which could only be in London, as they
would not arrive at Victoria Station until very late in the
afternoon. Still, the paper being torn, and allowed to
fall on the floor, permitted the inference that it was no
longer valued. Probably it would be just as well if Ronald
kept it in his possession till next morning, when they were
leaving Paris by the early boat-train. This, in fact, he
decided to do, rather than disturb the veiled lady again
that night.

Ronald Charteris was of too healthy a nature to tolerate
superstition which he would have scorned in others ;
nevertheless, he waked on the following morning with
a vague weight of depression upon him. For a few
moments he lay drowsily, not sure what had caused the
feeling ; then he remembered with a disagreeable thrill

46 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

a dream he had had in the night. He had dreamed the
same dream before on several occasions, and it had always
been followed, almost immediately, by misfortune of some
sort. Therefore, had he been inclined to such weakness,
he would have been superstitious about that one dream,
which was singularly vivid.

He had dreamed that all the strong, white teeth which
added so much to the charm of his handsome face when he
smiled, were loosened, and that one by one they dropped
out.

" Of course it's all rot,'-? he said to himself as he hastened
with his bath and dressing, to be in time for the train.
" Of course, it's all rot. The same things that have
happened to me in my life after such a dream would have
happened just the same if I hadn't had it. And perhaps
I've dreamed it lots of times and forgotten all about it,
when nothing disagreeable has followed to mark it in my
memory.'1

This argument had common sense to back it ; still,
Ronald could not quite forget the dream, and every once
in awhile during the journey that day he stopped himself
scornfully in the midst of wondering when the misfortune
prophesied would befall him. This made him rather absent-
minded early in the day, and he did not remember to speak
of the torn paper until just before taking the boat at
Calais. As he gave the veiled lady his I O U for Mr.
Willoughby, he said : " By the way, there was a paper with
the envelope you handed me last night. I thought it was
meant for me, and read it. Something about a Ton
tine ' '•

For the first time his companion spoke out, apparently
in a natural tone. " About a Tontine ! li she echoed
quickly.

" Yes, only that word at the top of a page, and then a
date. I fancied it was of no further importance to you, or
I should have knocked again at your door and risked dis
pleasing you last night. '-'-

Now she had controlled herself once more, and was

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 47

speaking low. " You are right. The paper was — of
no importance. But I should be glad if you would throw
it away. Why did you think it would displease me if
you came to my door again ? "

" Only that — well, you have not seemed to wish to
talk very much, and so "

" Perhaps I did wish it, however," was the whispered
answer. " You must not always trust to appearances.
But here we are at the boat. Will you please secure a
private cabin for me ? "

Ronald saw no more of her until it was time to take
the train. That veil of hers had begun to get upon his
nerves. It was like trying to strain one's eyes to see
in pitchy darkness, even to glance at the concealed face.

Once or twice, as they came into London, Ronald heard
her sigh heavily.

" Are you tired ? " he questioned.

This time she answered him, " To the heart."

He did not know how to reply, and wished that he
had not spoken.

At Victoria he left his luggage in the cloak-room, and
was ready for his last service to the veiled lady, which
was to see her to her destination and await her orders
there. At her request he engaged a four-wheeled cab,
and then he asked her for the direction.

" The ' Hand and Key,' Hammersmith," she said.

Civilised London — as he would have called it — Ronald
knew well, but the " Hand and Key," Hammersmith,
suggested nothing to him. He put no more questions,
however, for the cabman refrained from comment on the
instructions given him, and drove promptly out of the
station, with the air of knowing exactly where to go.

Out to the end of all things they appeared to drive,
and at last cabby, whose assumed knowledge had been
partly a pretence, resorted to making inquiries of chance
passers-by. Various directions were shouted to him,
and presently he drew up in front of a small and ancient
public-house, facing a dreary green. On a weather-beaten

48 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

sign, which creaked in a melancholy, wet wind blowing
up from the not far distant river, could be read the illus
trated legend, "The Hand and Key."

" Please pay the cabman, and see that he drives away,'1
said the veiled lady.

Ronald did as he was requested, only fulfilling the last
command by largely over-paying the man, who had cher
ished visions of remaining to drink a glass of beer.

" Is this the end of our journey ? " asked Ronald,
marvelling inwardly what business could bring the veiled
lady all across London to a poor and insignificant public-
house, apparently of a low class.

"No," she said, "we must go farther. But it was
better to let the cab leave us here. Do you mind walking
a short distance ? "

" Certainly I don't mind," returned Ronald.

" But it is not really very short ; you may think it
rather a long distance. More than a mile, I fancy. And
there is my bag to be carried."

" The bag is nothing. Neither is the distance. Shall
we go ? And which way ? "•

" I know the way," said the veiled lady. " All you
have to do for the present is to come with me."-

CHAPTER VI

THE LAST CHANCE

DARKNESS was falling — a darkness thick with a raw mist
that turned the street lights beginning to gleam out here
and there into yellowish blurs. Ronald remembered
the moonlight and soft warmth and the flower-scents
in the Casino gardens at Monte Carlo ; but even so, he
preferred London, and his spirits were sustained by the
feeling that he was in the midst of an adventure. No one
could tell what might be about to happen next.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 49

The woman moved away from the " Hand and Key,"
crossing the green diagonally. It was now getting on
towards seven o'clock.

They walked on together for a few moments in silence,
and, leaving the open space of the green, went down a
street with a few scattered new houses. Suddenly the
veiled woman turned to Ronald, and laid her hand upon
the travelling bag which he was carrying.

" Give it to me ! " she exclaimed imperiously.

" Why ? " he argued, quietly resisting her efforts.
" Don't you trust me ? "

" It isn't that. I trust you — almost too much. But
I want you to go — to leave me — at once."

" I'm sorry you want that," said Ronald. " It's a poor
compliment to your guardian."

" It is the best compliment in the world — if you knew."
There was a note of restrained passion in the voice. " I
beg you to do what I say — for your own sake."

" I can't," returned Ronald, " even if I would. I
gave my word to Mr. Willoughby that I would take you
to the house where you wished to go, and stop there until
I could no longer serve you. If it is only for my sake that
you want to send me away you must let me carry out the
programme laid down to the end."

" To the end ! " the veiled woman repeated. " Oh,
why are you so different from what I thought you would
be ?"

" How am I different ? " urged Ronald, walking by her
side, as — after a slight pause — she began to hurry on again.
It was a relief that the stifling silence, maintained so long
with so few intervals, should be broken, even in this un
expected fashion.

"You are different in every way ! I had thought you
would be like — the others, a man of no importance. But
you — oh ! You know what you are. Many women
must have told you."

Ronald laughed. " I don't know many women ; and
those I do never committed themselves to any opinion."

50 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" I am not jesting. It's no time for that," said the veiled
woman. " Will you take me at my word, and be a little
grateful to me afterwards, if you can, for sending you
away ? We might meet again, if you went now. Other
wise "

" I must keep my promise to Mr. Willoughby," Ronald
broke in. " Nevertheless, I thank you for wishing to
spare me something which you think may give me
trouble '

" Yes, something which may give you trouble," she
echoed,- almost sullenly. " You have been good to me,
in these days we have spent together, and — I don't like
putting you to — trouble."

" I don't mind, I assure you," Ronald answered cheer
fully. " And I think we both owe a debt to Mr. Willoughby.
We must pay it."

" Very well," said the veiled lady. " Remember, I
offered you this chance, though by doing so I should have
brought myself into danger which it would have been
impossible to escape. Remember that when you think
of me — if you ever do."

"I'm not likely to forget," he replied. " And I'm glad
that I did not take the chance, since you admit that it
would have involved you in suffering."

He heard her draw in her breath sharply, but she did
not answer ; and Ronald, excited and thoughtful, was glad
to walk on in silence.

It seemed to him that they had gone much further than
a mile after leaving the " Hand and Key " before his guide
stopped at a gate in a high brick wall, evidently surrounding
a large garden. It was so dark now that objects even at
a short distance were curtained with mist and blurred into
indistinctness. But Ronald could see a network of bare
tree-branches above the garden wall, and in the background
the roof of a big house, suggesting Queen Anne outlines as
it was silhouetted against the sky. Over the brick wall
hung disordered trails of ivy, and the gate at which they
had paused had lost almost all traces of the bright green

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 51

paint with which it had once been adorned. Even in the
darkness, an air of dilapidation was perceptible about
the place.

" Yet one more chance ! " said the veiled woman, as
Ronald laid his hand upon the latch of the gate, seeing
that it was here she intended to enter — here, the journey's
end. " Once and for all, will you leave me ? "

" Once and for all, no," responded Ronald. " Are
you expected ? I don't see any lights in the house."

"Yes, I am expected," she repeated. " There will
probably be some lighted rooms on the ground floor. Come,
then, if you are determined."

Ronald opened the gate and shut it again when his
companion had passed in. A smell of dampness came
up from the earth ; the path, which wound round a lawn
thickly planted with trees, on its way to the house, was
spongy and wet under feet. At first, the low hanging
branches of beech trees laced over their heads ; but the
last approach to the house was under an arbour built across
the path, and covered with creepers which had scarcely
yet felt the warm touch of spring. It was only as they
stepped from under the arched doorway of the arbour
that the house was fully in sight, and then they were within
a few yards of it.

CHAPTER VII

THE ROOM WITH THE GLASS DOOR

THE house was early Queen Anne, and the door on which
Ronald rapped with a huge brass knocker was beautiful
with richly-carved old woodwork.

Two lighted windows seemed to watch the lawn like
the yellow eyes of a cat waiting for prey ; and when three
or four long minutes of utter silence had followed Ronald's
knock, a door was slammed somewhere inside the house.

52 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

A moment more, and there was a sound as of a bolt being
slid back, and the front door was thrown open. A tall
man in dark livery stood with his back to the light of a
large old-fashioned lamp, with a great cut-glass globe, which
stood on a marble bracket underneath a mirror opposite
the door, across a square hall of no great size.

By the light of this lamp Ronald could dimly see his
own face and figure, and the black shadow of the woman's
form, as they entered the house, and the thought flashed
into his mind that they both looked like ghosts. Why,
the house, shut away in its tangled garden like the palace
of the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, seemed more habitable
for ghosts than for human beings.

" Good evening, Parsons," said the veiled lady, as the
servant relieved Ronald of the bag he was carrying.
" Has anyone come inquiring for me ? "

" Not yet, my lady," answered the man, in a voice so
deeply bass as to be almost startling. " Nobody has
called."

" Good ! " she exclaimed. " Are there lights in the
Blue Room ? And a fire ? "

" Yes, my lady. You will find everything ready there,
and in the dining-room."

" Very well. Then I shall not want you again for the
present. When I do, I will ring."

The man bowed and disappeared. As he went Ronald's
eyes followed him to the turn of a stairway, with shallow
oak steps. Close to this stairway, at the left, was a
corridor which led away into darkness. In the hall the
only furniture consisted of two very handsome carved seats,
apparently attached to the wall.

" You are thinking that this is a strange house," said
the woman whom the liveried servant had addressed as " my
lady." " And you are right. There are queer stories
about it. It is supposed to be haunted. There are noises
sometimes in the night that I — but you will not have to
spend a night here."

" I don't think I believe in ghosts," replied Ronald.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 53

" I wonder if you will say that to-morrow ? " The
words seemed to break from her. Then, with a quick,
nervous step, she went across the hall, and would have
caught up the lamp, had not Ronald been before her.

"The corridors aren't lighted," she explained. "This
house is far too large for us who live in it. We keep only
certain parts habitable, now we are so few. And even those
parts are not very cheery."

They passed to the end, went up three steps, and round a
sharp turn into a second corridor.

The light of the lamp held so close to his eyes was con
fusing, and Ronald could see only that the dark wood of
the floor was neither carpeted nor carefully polished, and
that numerous doors were set deeply into wainscoted
walls. So far, except for the presence of the servant and
the lighted lamp, there had been absolutely 110 sign that
the house was tenanted.

The young man and his veiled companion left the corri
dors, and passed through several small, unfurnished, com
municating rooms. After a suite of three, the woman
opened a door which had shown a knife-blade of light at
the side, and as she did so a glow of firelight came out.

It was a room of fair size, having walls covered with
faded tapestry of a predominating azure tint, which no
doubt suggested the name — " The Blue Room."

On a beautifully-carved mantel there were silver candle
sticks, each of which held four wax candles ; and these,
with the wavering red firelight, gave the only illumination.
Before the hearth lay a white fur rug. A small sofa,
with several silk cushions piled upon it, two or three chairs,
and an old-fashioned card-table appeared to be the only
furniture ; but Ronald's eyes, after roaming for a few
seconds, were attracted by a door at the opposite end of
the room.

It was of glass, with many small panes ; and half drawn
back from it was a curtain of flimsy blue Chinese silk ;
but enough of the glass was visible to show that there was
a light on the other side of the door.

54 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

The veiled lady went straight to the fireplace, and
shivering, held out both black-gloved hands to the blaze.

" Are you hungry or thirsty ? " she asked, turning her
concealed face towards Ronald, who, having placed the
lamp on the card-table, drew near to the fire also.

" Thank you, no. I am excited, I think," he frankly
replied. " I could not eat or drink."

" Yet you look tired ; your face is white under the tan,
and your eyes have dark circles."

"I'm posing as an invalid still," he answered laughing.
" But I wonder you can see all this through your veil.
And I — am I never to see your face ? "

" Why do you suppose I have hidden it so carefully ? "

" I have tried to remember that that was your affair,
not mine."

" It was because — well, no doubt you have guessed
that I had reasons for not wishing to be recognised. Even
my voice — but that's past. You will see my face soon
enough. You have played your part nobly through the
first acts. Now, only the last remains. Will you promise
me something, and may I trust you to keep your promise,
whatever happens ? "

" I don't think I have ever broken a promise," said
Ronald, simply.

He was looking very handsome, as he stood there in
the light of the wax candles and the fire that was already
beginning to die down, for the big lamp was at his back ;
and the hidden face of the woman was never for an instant
turned from him.

"It is this. You serve Mr. Willoughby by serving me
also. I must leave you alone now, for a short time, after
I have told you what I shall expect you to do." She spoke
stiffly, as if she were repeating a lesson, though sometimes
her voice quivered. " You see that glass door ? Before
I go I will draw the curtain entirely across. But the blue
silk is thin — not much thicker than heavy gauze — or this
veil. When the lamp has been taken away — as it will be —
and the candles are put out, and the fire has died down a

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 55

little more, a man standing in the dark on this side the
door can see everything that goes on in the lighted room
beyond. As soon as you hear voices speaking on the other
side, will you go to the door and watch all that happens
through the curtain ? "

" I will," answered Ronald, gravely. For otherwise
than gravely he could not have answered those hardly-
controlled, agitated tones.

" You will not move, you will not turn your eyes away
for a second ? "

" No."

" If anything unexpected occurs — if you see me in need
of help, will you instantly throw open the door and — and do
all that — that a chivalrous gentleman such as you've shown
yourself to be would think right to do for a woman alone
and in danger ? "

" You may depend upon me," responded Ronald to the
woman whose face he had never seen.

" I thank you ; and I believe you," she answered.
There was no more hint of dissuasion now. " Had you
forgotten, Mr. Charteris, that another payment was to
be made to-night of the money Mr. Willoughby owes
you ? "

" He owes me nothing ; it is the other way round,"
said Ronald. "As a matter of fact, I had forgotten.
You see, there's been a good deal to occupy my attention.
But you know my name. Am I to hear yours ? "

She shook the veiled head. " No, I think not." Then,
turning away, she drew from the bosom of her dress an
envelope. "Here are notes for the remaining hundred
pounds ; and I prefer to put it that Mr. Willoughby owes
you the money."

Ronald could not choose but take the envelope, though
it jarred upon him even more than before to do so. "I
must give you my I O U," he said, looking vaguely about
for paper. But nothing of the sort could be seen in the
sparsely-furnished room.

" Take the envelope," the veiled lady suggested.

56 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" But my stylographic pen, which I carried with me
everywhere in South Africa, has run out of ink, and "

Quick as lightning she snatched a large hat-pin with a
tiger's head on it from her hat, and pushing up her sleeve
so that a white zone showed between the black cloth and
the black suede of her glove, she scored a deep scratch
across the skin. A streak of bright red answered the stroke
of the pin, and with blood running over her arm she held
it out to Ronald. " Here is your ink," she said. " Our
time grows short."

" How could you do that ? " he exclaimed. " How
foolish ! How unnecessary ! Do you think I could write
my name with your blood ? "

"It is that which I want you to do ! " she cried. " I
want to remember it. If you will not, I shall believe
it is because you hate me. Write ! write ! Don't refuse
me, I beg."

Ronald set his lips together, and drew his stylographic
pen from his pocket. He had seen horrors in South
Africa, and after the first few weeks had not even dreamed
of them ; but qualms of sickness came over him as he
dipped the point of his pen in the red ink of this woman's
blood.

When he had written with the stylographic pen he always
carried she took back the envelope and hid it again in her
breast.

" Now I must go," she said. " Good-bye." And the
young man took the hand she held out in a close grasp.

" Why do you say good-bye ? " he asked. " I'm to
see you again in a few minutes, am I not ? "

" Of course. I — only mean good-bye till we meet
again."

"Is it necessary that you risk danger of any sort ? "
Ronald went on. " Can't I go with you into that other
room behind the glass door ? "

" You can do exactly what you have promised — mind,
exactly. No more and no less."

She went to the blue curtain and pulled it across the door,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 57

which still showed an etherealised azure light. Then she
put out all the candles.

Only a red heap of wood ashes was left in the big fire
place now ; and when the veiled woman had reached the
door of the entrance with the lamp in her hand, the dark
ness was relieved but by a faint, ruddy glow, which turned
the glass behind the blue curtain into a pale oblong of
sapphire light.

Ronald held open the door. On the threshold the woman
turned, and said " good-bye " again. For the first time he
caught through the veil a jewelled glitter of eyes, as the
lamp flashed a ray through the thickness of the embroidered
lace. Then, she was gone.

Ronald stood watching the vanishing form until it was
out of sight, but at last, with a sigh of mingled weariness
and excitement, he closed the door, shutting himself up
alone in the red dusk.

CHAPTER VIII

FROM BEHIND THE BLUE CURTAIN

THE silence of the house was so deep that it seemed to
embody a sound of its own. The air was filled, to the
strained ears of Ronald Charteris, with a soft purring, as
of an unseen cat.

There was enough fire-glow to guide his steps without
risk of stumbling in a room so empty of furniture, and he
walked to the mantel, where he stood looking down un-
seeingly into the red ashes, till his eyes were dazzled.

He had remained thus for five minutes, perhaps, think
ing — as his youth and the warm blood in his veins decreed
• — more of the veiled woman than the work that might be
ahead of him, when suddenly the dead stillness seemed
to start into life with the clear striking of a clock in the
next room — that room on the other side of the curtain.

58 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

It announced the hour of eight.

" On April the fourth, at River House, as near as
possible to eight."

With the striking of the clock those words spoke them
selves in Ronald's brain.

It was April the fourth. And it was eight o'clock.
Was this River House ? If so, what was the appoint
ment which had been written on that torn half-sheet of
paper ; and would it presently be kept ?

As he asked himself these questions there came the
distant sound of a door opening, then voices in the ad
joining room.

Ronald's heart began to beat faster. Quickly and noise
lessly he crossed the room. Not even a board creaked under
his feet. In a moment more he stood looking through the
thin blue haze of curtain that veiled the glass door.

He had been asked to obey instructions with exactness,
and soldier-fashion he had not varied a hair's-breadth.
He had been told to go to the glass door when he heard
voices, therefore he had not approached or attempted to
glance through before. Now, he was surprised to find
how clearly he could see, without danger of being seen.

His room was in darkness ; that on the other side of
the door must have been brilliantly lighted, for not a detail
of its furnishing, not a feature on the faces of the two men
who stood at some distance, but could be plainly discerned.

The room was apparently a dining-room. Ronald could
see tv/o darkly-curtained windows with heavy folds of
drapery that lay on the bare oak floor. In the middle of
the room stood a round table, covered with a white cloth.
In the centre was a vase containing flowers.

An elaborate meal was spread out, which resembled
supper rather than dinner, for there was a garnished
boar's head, cold game, salad, ornate-looking sweets, and
fruit, all of which appeared curiously unreal through the
blue curtain, like a feast in a scene on the stage.

The walls of the room were wainscoted, and into one a
quaint sideboard was built. Upon it were bottles of

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 59

champagne, and a cut-glass jug nearly full of a red
liquid.

Near this sideboard stood the two men whose voices had
brought Ronald in haste to the glass door. One was the
servant whom he had seen in the hall, but, as his face had
been in obscurity then, he was now recognisable only by
his height and his livery. Here his features were lighted
up, and Ronald thought them of a strange cast. His eye
brows were abnormally thick and black, making a bridge
across the nose. The long upper lip was clean shaven,
but on the chin grew a short black imperial, brushed up
in so queer a manner as almost to hide the lower lip, which
appeared to be sucked into the mouth, under protruding
upper teeth. The black hair was combed over the fore
head, and then cut squarely into a short, stiff fringe ;
on his hands were badly-fitting white gloves.

The other was a very different order of being. He also
was tall, but as alertly graceful as the servant was awk
ward. Though he was in travelling clothes neither fashion
able nor new, he had an air of distinction. His age might
have been something over forty, and he was darkly bronzed,
yet his face was beautiful as a woman's. Not that he
was effeminate, for there was strength in the cleft chin,
and a fiery daring in the dark gipsy eyes that Ronald could
almost fancy were piercing the curtain and gazing into
his. But the nose was pure Greek ; if the gracious arch
of the eyebrows had been pencilled by an artist it could
not have been more perfect. The mouth was rather small
and full ; and in speaking a dimple dented the left cheek.
A grey felt hat was in the new-comer's hand — a nervous
hand — and the bright brown hair touched with silver,
rippled back from the forehead in burnished curves, as
if the head had been carved in bronze.

" Heavens ! how lovely a woman who looked like him
would be ! " was the thought in Ronald's mind.

" Only the lady ? " the stranger was asking the servant.

" Only the lady, as yet, sir. But she expects you."

" Tell her, then, that I have arrived.'-5

60 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

Ronald could not hear the words distinctly, but he be
lieved these to have been the ones uttered. The servant
disappeared, and the man who was left almost instantly
afterwards took some small object from his pocket. What
ever it was, it lay hidden from Ronald's sight in the hollow
of his hand, where he held it as he stared down, frowning.

" Pah ! " he exclaimed aloud. " Loathsome little beast,
how I hate you ! "

With an impulsive stride, he was at the nearest win
dow ; and pulling back the curtain, he flung wide the
sashes, which opened outward from the middle. Whether
or no he threw something into the garden Ronald could
not tell, but when he turned away and closed the window
his hands were empty. He had just pulled the curtain into
place, when the door opened and a woman came into the
room.

At sight of her the blood rushed to Ronald's head.
At last he saw the face of his veiled travelling companion
— for that it was she who had entered he could not doubt.

Curiosity regarding that face had pricked him keenly,
and he had speculated many times, as his eyes were
thwarted by the impenetrable mask of thick lace, as to
what it would be like, whether fair or plain, middle-aged
or young. But he had scarcely dreamed of such gorgeous
beauty as this.

She was dressed still in the gown in which she had
travelled, and the black cloth set off the whiteness of her
skin, the scarlet of her lips, and the copper-red of the hair
which was waved and brought down on either side of the
face, so as to cover the ears. The features were aquiline,
and not remarkable ; it was the colouring which was so
superb as to strike at the eyes of a man.

As she came in Ronald thought that he saw her throw
a quick glance at the dark, blue-curtained door. Then she
walked to meet the new-comer, with whom she shook
hands. Some words she murmured which Ronald could
not hear ; but he caught the answer : " Yes ; I have
brought everything. All are safe.'-1

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 61

For a few moments they talked in low voices, standing ;
but presently the woman made a gesture towards the table.

" Very good. I am hungry and thirsty, too," exclaimed
the man. " Better get the business of feeding over before
he comes.'1 So saying he drew out a chair for his com
panion, and she sat down, saying something which sent the
stranger to pull an old-fashioned bell-rope dangling near
the fire-place. When he had jerked the rope he also
sat down at the table ; and barely were both seated when
the servant appeared, beginning at once to serve " my lady "
and her guest.

Ronald's excitement gradually cooled. He was
ashamed of the disappointment which crept in with the
conviction that there would, after all, be no need for his
help. Thus far, nothing could be more amicable than the
relations between the two sitting at the table, and when
the servant had supplied their wants and was gone, they
leaned towards each other, talking more intimately. The
woman hardly touched her food, but the man ate with good
appetite, and drank often of the red liquid in the glass jug
which had been placed near his elbow.

At last the woman rose slowly. Resting one hand on
the back of her chair, she answered some low-spoken words
of her companion's — answered almost in a whisper, for
Ronald could scarcely hear the murmur of her voice. Her
attitude expressed humility, even supplication, yet with
a loud, inarticulate cry of fierce emotion, the man jumped
up so suddenly that his chair fell on the bare floor with a
crash.

" Great Heavens, you she-devil ! " he shouted ; and so
quickly that Ronald only half realised what was happen
ing, he had leaped at the woman, seizing her round the
white throat with both hands.

One shriek she uttered which died in a gurgling moan
as the breath was choked from her lungs ; but Ronald had
not waited for her cry.

His moment had come ; and flinging the glass door open,
he sprang into the adjoining room. But the room was

62 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

large, and the table was between him and the two figures
locked together in a struggle of life or death. The fraction
of a moment passed before he could reach them. Through
it all, the woman 's gaze appealed to him, dark and agonised.
The bands of burnished copper hair framing the pallor
of her face were disordered, pushed out of place, and the
disarrangement revealed a secret so ghastly that — his eyes
rinding it — Ronald's blood chilled in his veins.

Both ears had been cut ofi.

At sight of this terrible disfigurement, a wave of sick
ness rushed over him, but he fought against it, and spring
ing forward, struck the handsome stranger a " knock-out "
blow under the chin.

Instantly the grip of the brown hands on the woman's
white throat relaxed, and the man dropped as if shot,
striking the back of his head with a great crash on the floor.

As he fell, it seemed to Ronald that the beautiful dark
eyes reproached him with one awful look of accusation,
burning with the pent anguish of a lifetime. Suddenly
all his thought was for the man. He had forgotten the
woman, her mutilated loveliness, and the unprovoked
attack upon her. Without even glancing in her direction,
he flung himself on his knees beside the fallen man, the
expression of whose face denoted intense pain. His eyes,
half open, showed only the whites. The lips, drawn
and colourless, were flecked with a slight froth. There
was not the sigh of an indrawn breath, the flicker of
nostril or eyelid, no faintest movement of the chest.

Ronald, over whom crept the cold numbness of night
mare, laid his hand upon the still breast, and kept it
there for a long moment of suspense. The heart had
ceased to beat.

" God help me, I have killed him ! " was the cry wrung
from his soul.

" God help you indeed ! " echoed a voice behind him.

Mechanically Ronald turned his head and saw — not the
woman who was the cause of all — but the old clergyman of
Monte Carlo.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 63

CHAPTER IX

WHILE RONALD SLEPT

" You here ! " exclaimed Ronald. And for the first time
his eyes sought the woman ; but she had gone. Save for
Mr. Willoughby, himself, and the dead man, the room was
empty.

" Yes, I am here," repeated the old clergyman. " I was
telegraphed for, on business of my own ; but it seemed as
if an influence irresistibly hurried me to this house. Now,
I believe that it must have been so. I was sent here to
your help."

As he spoke he came to Ronald and knelt beside him,
placing his hand, as Ronald had, on the breast of the dead
man.

" Life has fled/* he pronounced solemnly. " My poor
boy, I witnessed the whole terrible scene, though the actors
in it were too absorbed to observe me, or to hear my cry
of protest when I entered."

" I heard nothing," said Ronald. '•' God knows, I had
no thought of killing this man. You tell me that you saw
all. You must have seen why I struck him."

" Yes, it was in the chivalrous desire to protect a woman.
Nevertheless, we must face facts. This man is dead,
and you have killed him. In the eyes of the law you are
a murderer. But I thank Heaven, in whose eyes you are
innocent, that I came at this moment. You shall not,
if I can save you, be allowed to suffer, except in your own
soul, for the calamity which has befallen you."

-'•'• You will bear witness that he JJ began Ronald ;

but Mr. Willoughby cut him short.

64 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" I will bear no witness ! I shall not lie. I shall keep
silence, and so will you."

" No ! - ejaculated Ronald. •" I shall give myself up
and stand my trial."

The face of the old man changed. -" You must be mad ! "
he exclaimed.

" I should be mad to think of anything else," Ren aid
retorted. " If by misfortune I've killed a man, at least
I'm not a coward to sneak away and try to hide what I've
done. I'll tell the truth and '-'-

" Ruin a woman's life ! " broke in the clergyman.

Ronald was silent, gazing at the white old face aghast,
slowly taking in the meaning of those four words.

Still, the two men were kneeling beside the motionless
figure on the floor. There was no sound in the room save
their quick breathing, and the soft fall of an ash now and
then in the fireplace.

So they remained, holding each other's eyes, until at
last Mr. Willoughby spoke again.

" I do not believe that you are a selfish man. If for
your own sake you do not see the wisdom of keeping this
secret, if you have no loved one whom you would wish to
shield, you see that for the sake of a woman who trusted
herself to your care — an innocent woman in danger and
trouble, with none to aid if you fail — you see that for her
sake you cannot give yourself up.u

" Oh, God ! What a burden you would have me bear
— to my grave ! " Ronald gasped.

•" It must be borne, for another's sake. Is it beyond
your strength ? ij

-" No. But "

" There are no 'buts.' It was not the woman's fault
that, in trying to protect her, you killed a man, any more
than it was yours. Neither could foresee what has hap
pened ; and since time immemorial men have been ready
to suffer that a woman might be saved. You are such a
man, unless I have failed to read your character aright.'5

" I hope I am such a man. But is it better for her that

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 65

I should conceal a thing, which is almost certain sooner
or later to come out, when the truth may sound like lies
behind which guilt has tried to hide ? "

" Humanly speaking, the truth cannot come out if you
and I agree to conceal it. Who knows of this — accident,
save you, a woman whose fate hangs upon the secret, and
myself ? "

" There is at least one servant in the house," Ronald
answered, rising at last to his feet. " He may have heard
or seen '•'-

" Nothing. When I came into the house, he went out.
I sent him upon a mission, which cannot be finished until
after midnight. There is no other servant, and at this
moment the house has no living occupant save you
and myself."

" Where is — she ? ll

" That I cannot tell, for I do not know, though I shall
know later. I can only say that she has gone.'-1

" Gone ! '-'•

•" Yes. Would it not have been unbearable for her
to remain in the house with — this ? " Mr. Willoughby
pointed to the dead man, from whose face the look of pain
was being slowly smoothed by the hand of death.

The thought passed through Ronald's head that she
might have stayed to speak a word of kindness — to say
that she did not think of him as a murderer. But he put
it out of his mind with the image of her as he had seen her
last — the copper hair dishevelled, the secret of her dis
figurement betrayed.

" You will hear from her," went on the clergyman.
" She will send you thanks for your devotion. But she
must not occupy us now. I have told you that there are
only three persons in the world who know, or need know,
what has taken place in this house, to-night.'-'

" Surely others must know that the man was to call here. '?<

" None. I was not acquainted with him, but I have,
through the woman to whom I have given aid and counsel,

3

66 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

enough knowledge of him and the circumstances which
brought him here to-night, to be certain that he would
hide his destination — hide it from his nearest friend, if
he had a friend.''

" He will be missed. Inquiries will be made, and the
police —

" Will never be called into the affair, unless through
you. The man had been absent from England for years,
and had returned without announcing his arrival to any
one. It may seem strange that I should know so much,
and tell so little ; but all my information came from the
woman whose name, even, it is my duty to keep from you
unless she chooses to reveal it, as one day she may. The
man who is dead robbed her, did her a great injury

Ronald started at these words, which brought vividly
back the sight revealed by the disordered hair. Could it
be possible, he asked himself, glancing at the dead, that
a man with a face so fine, a bearing so noble, could be
the wretch Mr. Willoughby described ? Could it be
possible that the woman whose throat he had seized owed
her mutilation to those brown hands, now so helpless ?

At Ronald's quick start and glance, the old clergyman
had paused, his eyes watchful behind the convex glasses.
" I think I read what is in your thoughts," he said. " Well,
I must not betray her secret ; form your own conclusions
when I say that the man who came to his death through
you had many strange sins to repent. I pray for his guilty
soul, but I wish to aid the innocent ; and a plan has
matured in my mind. You and I must bury this body —
put it out of sight for ever. You see how far I, despite my
cloth, am ready to carry my devotion to an injured woman's
cause, to say nothing of anxiety for you, whom I indirectly
brought into this situation. Surely you have strength of
soul enough to follow the lead of an old man, whose sands
are nearly run ? ll

" Tell me how to act, and I will obey — as best I oan,"
answered Ronald, half beside himself with horror of what
had been done, of what was yet to do.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 67

" Listen, then. This is not the first time I have been
in this house. I came more than once before going to
Monte Carlo this year, to talk with her whom you have
seen. It is a rambling old building, and underneath there
are certain to be vast cellars. There the grave must be
dug, and we have three hours for the work, before we
can be disturbed. Will you go with me and reconnoitre ? "

" Yes," said Ronald, dully.

Mr. Willoughby looked at him. " My poor boy," he
exclaimed, " you have gone through an ordeal which would
try the nerve of a strong man while you are still an invalid,
and have had days of anxiety and travel. I am a friend
of temperance, but I know when stimulant is needed.
Sit down and remain quiet, until I have found brandy and
given you a stiff drink."

" I'd rather not, thank you," said Ronald, to whom the
thought of swallowing anything was abhorrent.

" But you must ! Why, man, you look like death 1
And presently I shall need your help. I want you to be
in a condition to give it to me, for what must be done I
cannot do alone in the time at my command."

Ronald offered no more objections. It was true that
he had been subjected to a terrible ordeal, almost beyond
the strength hardly yet recovered since his illness in
South Africa. Besides, though he was far from realising
it, he was faint for want of food. He threw himself
into a chair near the table, where the woman and her
guest had sat, and, resting his elbow on the back, covered
his eyes with his hand. It was good, even for a moment,
to shut out of sight the room, grown hateful to him, and
the still form stretched along the floor. It made the irre
vocable horror seem like a dream — made him forget that
all his life was to be different after this night of April
the fourth.

Once Mr. Willoughby glanced over his shoulder as
he stood at the sideboard, pouring something from a tiny
bottle, hidden in his hand, into a glass which he had half-
filled with brandy. But Ronald did not heed his move-

68 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

ments, which on this fact being ascertained, became more
leisurely.

A moment later the old man was standing beside the
young one, with a hand laid on his shoulder.

Ronald looked up, as if brought back to realities from
some haven of peace. Mr. Willoughby almost forced the
glass into his hand, but he drank without waiting to be
urged. It was easier to yield than to argue.

When he had drunk the brandy the old clergyman took
the glass, and stopped him when he would have risen.
•" Sit still a minute," he insisted, •" or you may be giddy.
Meanwhile, I had better have something myself. I begin
to feel the reaction after the nervous strain, for I'm not as
young as I was.''

He walked towards the sideboard again, and this time
Ronald's eyes followed him. Mr. Willoughby had been
right. Already the liquor was mounting to his head.
The receding figure swam before his eyes, fading into vague
ness, and at last disappearing into a mist. Ronald had
never been a hard drinker, but he could boast a steady
head, and never had he been so affected by liquor. He
told himself it must be because he had not eaten for
long.

The memory of what had happened began to grow
blessedly dim. Wheels were going round in his head. Bells
were ringing — he found himself trying to find a tune in
their chiming. After the mental torture which he had
endured, this blurring of realities was a relief. He was
inclined to believe now that he had been dreaming. Be
tween sleeping and waking, he began to say to himself,
•'Thank God it isn't true.'1

" Isn't true — isn't true ! "- The words repeated them
selves until they lost all meaning.

His chin dropped forward ; he slipped farther down in
the arm-chair.

By this time Mr. Willoughby was beside him, shaking
his shoulder. " Charteris ! " he exclaimed. " Wake up,
man — what ails you ? '•'-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 69

But Ronald did not answer or stir. He was meshed in
sleep, as if he had fallen under a spell.

Instead of making further efforts to rouse him, Mr. Wil-
loughby regarded the young man with what seemed like a
quiet smile of satisfaction. He stood looking into the
unconscious face for a few moments, then turned to move
towards that other sleeper, who would never waken, when
a sound at the glass door brought him to a standstill.

CHAPTER X

TOOL OR LOVER ?

RONALD had left the glass door open, but — though he
had been in no condition to notice such details — somehow
it had been closed again later. Now it opened until the
blue curtain on the other side was visible, and the woman
for whose sake Ronald had sacrificed himself came swiftly
into the room.

Her hair had been pulled into place once more, but
her face appeared aged and hollowed, and there were
black circles round her dilated eyes.

The old man motioned her away with an angry gesture,
but she did not heed it.

" What do you want here ? " he demanded, in a low,
but sibilant voice. " Your work is done."-

" Oh, Heaven ! — it is ! it is ! '-'- she cried, with a choked
sob, and, going to Ronald where he half-lay, half-sat in
the arm-chair, she stooped, lifted one of his strong, but now
inert hands, and kissed it.

" You fool ! -'- sneered the old man, with an expression
on his face that would have surprised the sleeper.

But the woman seemed neither to see nor hear. She
had raised her auburn head, and was looking at Ronald.
" Poor boy ! '-'- she murmured. " It is I who have brought

70 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

you to this. But I did not know what you would be like,
or never would I have begun it. How long your eye
lashes are ! And how sad your poor, brave face is ! Will
it always be sad after this ? Will you believe in ghosts
to-morrow ? ''*

" I suppose all women are fools,'-5 said the old man ;
" but I had flattered myself that your brains were of a
higher order than the average. I was mistaken. You spent
the time on your journey in falling in love, did you ? ''-

" I would give my life now that it's too late, to undo
this night's work,11 the woman answered.

" And undo everything else with it ? Well, fortunately
it is too late. The thing is done. I had meant to con
gratulate you on the way all had been managed, but now
I see what a fool you really are, I am inclined to think it
has been more luck than skill on your part.?1

" I told him to leave me," she said, defiantly, " but he
would not. He would keep faith with you, for his promise
and the ' debt ? he owed. Great Heaven — the debt ! "

" So, you let your passion carry you as far as that, did
you ? " demanded the old man, icily. " Did you stop
to think what would happen to you if he had taken you at
your word ? "-

"I did not care ! -l the woman flung at him.

" You wished to turn a tool into a lover, at all hazards,'1
said Mr. Willoughby. " But, if he should wake now,
and you should tell him all '•*

" Tell him the fraud that has been practised upon him
— that he had no hand in this man's murder ! " she broke in,
fiercely. " That is what you mean ! ij

" Yes, that is what I mean, if you choose — since the
chloral in the brandy has done its work so well he would
not hear if I shouted the truth in his ears. I was going to
say that, if you told him all, and begged his forgiveness
on your knees, your tears and kisses falling on his hand,
he could never love you. Your beauty is poisoned for
him. He would shrink from you in horror, because — he
knows the secret you hide under your hair.t!

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 71

With a groan, she covered her eyes with her hands,
shrinking from. Ronald as if he could see or hear.

" Perhaps you do not know," went on Mr. Willoughby,
exulting in her pain, " that in the struggle your hair was
so disordered, no one could help learning the truth. I saw,
as I stood at the other door, which I opened at your scream.
And that he saw also I know by the look in his eyes when
I spoke of an injury you had received. It was a look of
disgust."

" You are cruel as the grave," the woman ejaculated.

" Speaking of the grave reminds me of the work that
must be done," the old man said, with a horrible coolness.
" Fortunately we have all night before us, and all to
morrow, too, if we choose, though I told Charteris, when
he enquired about the servant he had seen, that the man
might be back by midnight. His curiosity on the subject
was a compliment to the disguise. Has Loris finished
what he had to do in the cellar ? "

" I don't know," answered the woman. " Since I left
this room I have not stirred from the glass door. I waited
until I saw that you had put him to sleep, and then — I came
back."

" And why did you come back, when I had ordered you
to go elsewhere ? "

"I have obeyed you so far," she retorted. " At last
I acted for myself, and on my own impulse. I can't tell
why I came back, for I don't know, except that I felt I
should die, if I did not."

" Now that you have looked on your love, and seen
that he is in no danger, but only in a sleep which will
save his reason, perhaps you will leave us — unless you
are ready to help me in my search — over there ? " And
he indicated the form of the dead man, with a double
gesture of head and hand.

The woman shuddered. " No ! " she ejaculated.
" Even I am not hard enough for that."

" I did not expect your help, nor do I want it, as a
matter of fact. Go to Loris ; tell him that the chloral

72 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

works, and that while this fellow lies in his deepest sleep
I will do that for reason of which I drugged him."

" Loris will wish to be present," she said, " and will
be furious if you don't wait for him. Do you dream that
he trusts you ? "

" As much as I trust him? But in this case it would
be difficult for one to deceive the other — the plans of
both have been too well laid. Tell Loris that, if he
chooses, he may come. But he must be out of the way
again before I wake Charteris. Go, Olga. Don't undo
all your work of the past by useless disobedience now."

His eyes, behind the convex glasses, dived into hers.-
She had felt their power before, and slowly yielded to
it now, as in her heart she had always known she would;
With one long, backward gaze at Ronald Charteris sleeping
in his chair, she left the room, not by the glass door, but
by the one through which she had come scarcely two hours
ago, to greet the man now lying dead.

Apparently without a qualm of the flesh, the white-
haired man in clergyman's dress stooped over the body,
and passed his hands inside the coat. What he wanted
was not there, and deftly he opened the waistcoat, feeling
for a belt. As he did so, something round and bright
dropped out from one of the waistcoat pockets, and rolled
away across the floor, until it was stopped by the edge
of a rug. Mr. Willoughby rose, with singular alertness
for a man of his years, pursued the object, and picked it
up. When he saw what he held in his hand, he uttered
half-aloud a most unclerical ejaculation. The thing was
an old-fashioned, open-faced locket, set with pearls, and
contained an ivory miniature of a young girl.

For a moment he hesitated, seemingly undecided
whether to toss the locket — which was of little intrinsic
value — into the dying fire towards which his eyes turned,
or to replace it on the body of the dead man, or to secrete
it upon his own person.

As he stood with the pearl-circled gold disc in his hand
the door opened and the woman returned;

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 73

" Loris is coming," she said, speaking to Mr. Willoughby,
but with her eyes on Ronald's face. Then, turning to
the clergyman, she saw the locket. "Whose is that ? '•
she asked, sharply. " Does it belong to Mr. Charteris,
or "•

By the time her sentence broke off she was at Mr.
Willoughby's side, an eager gaze fastened on the miniature.

" If you are afraid that you behold a rival," sneered
the old man, " I can relieve your mind ; though, for you,
handicapped as you are, such a girl as this would be a
formidable one. But the locket is not the property of
Mr. Charteris, who has probably never seen the original
of the portrait, never will see her. Don't you notice a
likeness between the face on the ivory and another face
you will henceforth have good cause to remember ? "

The beautiful woman shuddered. " Yes/' she said,
" I see what you mean. I know now where you got the
locket. Will you give it to me ? "

" Why do you want it ? "

" For a woman's reason. I want it because I want
it.'8

" Well, you deserve a souvenir of this night of April
the fourth.'' Mr. Willoughby laughed a laugh that was
not good to hear. " Take the thing — which is of no
importance to me."

She took it, her sole reason being the jealous wish to
guard against an accident by which Ronald Charteris,
on waking, might see the fair, pure face that smiled in the
bewitching loveliness of early girlhood, from the ivory ;
and seeing, hold the memory in his heart, where her own
gorgeous beauty could have no place.

This was her one motive in keeping the locket ; but
upon such trifles hang sometimes the gravest issues of
destiny.

74 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XI

APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE

"I'LL bet that Honour was the prettiest girl who kissed
Queen Alexandra's hand last night. Wasn't she, Lady
St. Leger ? "

" My dear child, when I was your age, young women
didn't ' bet/ "

" Dear me, I wonder if life wasn't dull when you were
my age, Lady St. Leger ? But, there ! Honour's glaring
at me, too. I will be good. Only please remember
that I'm nothing but a naughty play-actress, who can't
show my poor little turned-up nose at Court, and who
doesn't know how to behave, and doesn't want to know.
And, please, you're ducks, both of you, to let me bring
my dolls and play with you to-day."

With this, a tiny young woman, with fluffy light hair,
and a quaint little piquant face under a big black hat,
sprang from her chair, and dropped two such deep curtseys
that she looked on both occasions as if she were going to
sit down on the floor. One curtsey was for a tall, handsome,
thin-lipped, fretful-eyed woman in pansy-purple velvet
embroidered with jet ; the second was for a tall, radiant
girl in white.

In the Academy would be shown next month a picture
by a famous artist, called " Life's Morning," and Honour
Brooke had been so earnestly implored to lend her face for
the realisation of the painter's ideal that, after persuasion
on the part of Lady St. Leger, who was her friend and
guardian, she had consented. Somehow, one did think
of dawn, and lilies sparkling with early morning dew,
when one saw this girl for the first time.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 75

She had great, long-lashed brown eyes that were like
mountain tarns catching a glint of the sun between shadowy
reeds. Her hair was deep bronze in the shade, and gilded
bronze in the light, which struck the crests of its heavy
waves. Her brows were dark, and long, and graciously
arched. Her skin was cream-white, like ivory, and the
mouth, not small, but charmingly shaped, was full and
red, while in the left cheek, when she smiled, a deep dimple
flashed into sight.

Honour's smile was famed among those who admired
her, and sometimes it was ready enough, for she was
" sweet and twenty," with warm young blood, and a
love for all the beautiful things in the world with which
youth gave her kinship ; but to-day, though she had been
presented last night, and had had a great many delightful
things said to her ; though to-day she wore as pretty a
frock as any debutante could wish for; though she was
heroine of the " At Home " which Lady St. Leger was
giving this afternoon to celebrate Honour's birthday — •
that dimple of hers had scarcely been seen.

It was early still. Kitty Carlin (who happened to
be the fashionable fancy of the moment in a certain set,
or she would never have gained welcome from Lady St.
Leger) was the first arrival.

She was a queer, audacious, warm-hearted little creature,
who managed to make people think she was pretty, and
who loved to keep them on tenterhooks as to what she
might do or say next. She also loved Honour Brooke,
who was, she said, the first girl she had ever seen who
" wouldn't know how to be a cat if she tried," and the only
girl on earth worth another woman's bothering about.

This being the state of her mind, Kitty Carlin's big
blue eyes, that could be so impudently daring when she
liked, dwelt keenly on the wistful face of Honour Brooke.
When Lady St. Leger 's maid came in hurriedly, to mend
a torn trail of frilling before anyone else should appear,
the little actress drew Honour aside.

" What's up, Beauty ? " she demanded abruptly,

76 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

abbreviating the pet name she had bestowed upon her
friend, whom she had christened " The Sleeping Beauty
in the Wood," because she had discovered that " the
Prince " had never yet come.

" Nothing's up, Miss Mouse," retorted Honour, evasively,
though she knew what Kitty meant, as women do know
most things, by instinct. " Nothing's ' up,' that I know
of, except the pavements."

" Don't try to turn the subject, as if it were a piece of
bread to be toasted ! I won't have it ! There's something
wrong. Have you had a row ? "

" Lady St. Leger and I never have rows."

" Oh, please don't do the 'igh and 'aughty Lydy
Imogen act, or I shall be crushed — and as I'm not ' truth,'
I shouldn't be able to rise again. If you won't tell me
what's the matter, when you know how fond of you I am,
I shall believe you're in love at last. Come — that's it !
You've gone and fallen in love with a Royal Prince, and
you're miserable because you can never be Mrs. Prince."

" You are a ridiculous child ! " exclaimed Honour.
" If you know me, you know that the only man who ever
troubles my thoughts is my dear, precious dad."

" Have you had bad news ? " asked Kitty.

" No — o, I haven't had any news."

" But no news is good news. We've had that drummed
into our heads often enough."

" I suppose so. Still, there are things that make me
worry horribly, and it seems sad to have been presented,
without his being here to see me, to call me his ' little
girl,' and take an interest in my frock, and my success
and everything, as he would — my darling ! " Honour's
voice broke. She turned away, but Kitty's sharp eyes
saw a sparkle of tears on the curve of her lashes.

" Well, it's better to have a father at the other end of
the world," the little actress said, consolingly, " than not
to know whether you ever had one at all, like me."

" If I only were quite sure he was in the world ! " sighed
Honour. " If I were sure he was well, and as happy as

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 77

he could ever be, parted from me, then I think I shouldn't
mind — much. But it's awful not to know. And I have
terrible thoughts sometimes. To-day has been one of my
bad days — the more because I ought to have been happy.
But he has never been out of my mind. I remembered
how we used to talk of the future, and he told me funny
stories about how I should be presented, and all the un
married dukes in England would promptly fall in love
with me, just as if I were the heroine of a penny novelette.
Oh, we used to be so merry together, my handsome dad
and I ! When he was at home — though that couldn't
be half often or long enough, because he had the fever of
travel in his veins, and, besides, he had to make money
because we were poor — but when he was at home, he
was father and mother both. I worshipped him — I wor
ship him still."

" He would like you to be happy to-day," said Kitty.

" I know. Yet how can I, parted from him ? I'm
tired of it ! I don't care for anything, away from dad —
the savour is gone from life. I didn't want to be presented
this year. I wanted to wait till next, when dad had
written that perhaps he would really be at home for good,
and have me to live with him again. But then Lady St.
Leger said I was too old to wait. I'm twenty to-day,
you know, and she wanted it so much, and one of the last
things I remember dad saying when he left me in her
charge five years ago, was that I was to obey her in every
thing. She has been very kind, and, of course, it's only
for my pleasure that she wants me to be out in society,
instead of "

" Just leaking out, by degrees," broke in Kitty, com-
prehendingly. " I think she was ' jolly well right,' dear, as
the only duke I know says. But, speaking of dukes, I
hear the rustling of their strawberry leaves, or whatever
they've got — if I'm not mixing them up with mere mar
quises or such things."

" Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Exbury,"
announced Lady St. Leger's one footman — a youth who

78 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

was driven by the ardour of self-esteem to assist Nature
in the matter of calves, and on great occasions endured
torture lest the additions should by some untoward accident
suffer dislocation.

After this moment Honour had little more time for
thought. She had to smile and give fair change for the
gold of many compliments, and altogether acquit herself
in a way to do her chaperon and hostess credit. Kitty
Carlin was swept away by a tidal wave of chatter, and she
was surrounded by men and the sort of women who make
a point of being " nice " to pretty debutantes, because
" you never can tell whom they may marry," when Lady
St. Leger came up to her with a man she had never seen
before. Of this Honour was sure, for his was not a person
ality to let itself be easily forgotten.

He might have been of any age between twenty-eight
and thirty-five. What his complexion had once been it
was hard to say, for his eyes were light blue, with violet
rims round the pale iris, and his thick, straight hair was
black. But at present his skin was tanned to such a
swarthy shade as to aid the high cheek-bones and the
marked features of the sombre, beardless face, in making
up a superficial resemblance to an American Indian.

But this bronzed tint was a recommendation to Honour
Brooke. When she saw a man who looked as if his skin
wrere darkened by travel in warmer lands than England,
she was at once inclined to be interested in him, for might
he not have known the experiences which her father had
known ? — might he not have met her father ? — since, after
all, the earth was a small planet.

Lady St. Leger was not a woman to be easily excited,
but as she advanced with this new man by her side, her
handsome, discontented face was unusually animated.

" Honour," she said, " you have heard me speak a
thousand times of my husband's cousin, Loris St. Leger ?.
Well, here he actually is in the flesh — unless he has managed
to develop an astral body in his strange travels — and he
wants to know you."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 79

Honour's eyes, always bright, became stars.

" Oh, you've been in Russia, and India, and China, and
all the places where my father has been ! " she exclaimed,
holding out her hand.

A curious expression was born on the face of Mr. St.
Leger as he took the girlish hand. There was a certain
ironical delight in it, the sort of delight which a blase man
can derive from a new situation. He retained the hand
as long as he could without violating conventionality,
looking with his light eyes into Honour's great soft brown
ones. During the second or two which passed in this way,
there was time for the idea to flash through the girl's mind
that she could imagine a beast-tamer having such eyes as
these.

Suddenly, she did not like him as well as she had at
first. Perhaps this was because he did not shake hands in
a nice way, and his fingers were disagreeably cold.

" If you have heard of me from my cousin Florence,"
he said, " you know that I am half Russian. My mother
was one of the most beautiful Russian women of her day,
I'm told, though I can't remember her, and as some property
in her country has come to me, naturally I've seen something
of Russia. As for the other countries, however, I've visited
them through sheer love of adventure."

" He's very interested in himself," reflected Honour.
Somehow, she resented his fancying that she could care
for details of his past, unless there were any stray ones
connected with her father. But she took herself to task,
as she knew that Lady St. Leger entertained a romantic
admiration for this adventurer.

" And did you ever see my father ? " she asked.

St. Leger was slow in answering, and if Honour had
been better equipped by experience for the reading of
thought and character in faces, she might have wondered
if he were waiting to learn by hers what she expected him
to say — whether she were only " drawing " him, although
in reality supplied with knowledge from another source,
or whether her curiosity were genuine.

So THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Yes, I have met Nevill Brooke," St. Leger answered.
" He never wrote you about the circumstances of our
meeting ? "

" There is his conceit again ! " thought Honour. " No,"
she answered, aloud, blushing a little because her letters
had not been so frequent or full as her heart wished.
" He never mentioned meeting you. But he meets so
'many people, and I suppose you didn't know each other
well ? "

" I could hardly claim him as a friend," admitted St.
Leger, a spark lighting his eyes. " I only asked because,
as my surname and Florence's are the same, Mr. Brooke
.might have coupled us in his mind, and questioned you."

" Dad had not known Lady St. Leger long when he
left me with her," explained Honour. " He is a careless
man in some ways, and I don't suppose he'd remember
her relations if she told him. You see, Lady St. Leger
wrote to him about me, when she came back to England
after a long absence, reminding him that she and my
mother — who died when I was a little girl — had been
intimate friends, and suggesting a meeting. So they did
meet, and finally it was arranged, as dad was on the eve
of going away, and didn't want to put me at boarding-
school, that I should live with Lady St. Leger."

" Florence and I haven't met for six or seven years,"
said the traveller, " and I never write letters, so it was news
to me to-day when I walked in and surprised her, to hear
that she had a young lady living with her. But I was
interested to learn that you were your father's daughter."

People had drifted away, leaving the two together,
when sentences regarding India and China and Nevill
Brooke reached them. From a distance Lady St. Leger
glanced at the pair, and a charming contingency arose
in her mind. She had adored her husband, and Loris
St. Leger, though Russian in many of his characteristics,
reminded her of him. Even whispers of gossip regarding
his career which had wandered, like stray breezes from
other lands, to her ears, had added to the atmosphere of

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 81

romance surrounding this man so much younger than her
self. He was a fascinating hero for any girl's life story,
to her mind, and she did not see why Honour Brooke should
not be the girl.

What a splendid couple they would make ! Not that
Loris was actually handsome — no ; some people might
even consider him ugly ; but none could help glancing
at him twice. In his way, he was as remarkable-looking
as Honour, and how delightful it would be if by a marriage
the only two persons for whom she really cared should be
drawn nearer to her. Honour might always be counted
upon for devotion, though the girl had no idea how much
she really owed to Lady St. Leger. If she ever did come
to know, she would be the more anxious to please her
benefactress, for Honour was of a passionately grateful
nature. In any case, it would require no persuasion to
keep the girl near her guardian, and if Loris fell in love
with Honour, he would be happy in gratifying her wishes.

" I'll sound him about his impressions of the child,"
she resolved, and she was pleased because for once no
ambitious element entered into her plans for Honour's
future.

She had never thought of the girl for St. Leger, because
for years he had vanished out of her life, and she had
no more been able to calculate the date of his reappearance
than she could count upon the flashing of a meteor down
the blue steeps of night. Being a woman of the world,
she had wanted Honour to be successful in the market of
Society, and to make a brilliant match worthy of such
beauty, and of her own skill as chaperon — for Honour's
face and heart and mind were her sole fortune, and Lady
St. Leger herself was not a rich woman.

Honour's mother had been the daughter of an im
poverished earl, and had made a mesalliance in marrying
handsome, devil-may-care Nevill Brooke, who had been
only a war correspondent, of no family or fortune. Lady
St. Leger had wished a better fate for her protegee, but now
that this new idea had seized her, in a moment she threw

82 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

to the winds ambitious scheming. Honour would be a
divine wife to the man she loved ; and even if the strange,
vague stories about St. Leger's adventurous life were true,
he would but make the better husband because he knew
the world, and had tired of it. He was exactly the man,
she told herself, for an innocent girl.

When she saw that some other man had interrupted
the tete-a-tete, she summoned the traveller with a look.
Absorbed, she did not notice that Kitty Carlin stood
close by, talking to the young Duke of Exbury, who
liked popular actresses almost as well as he liked dogs,
and cherished visions of restoring his fortunes by going on
the stage. Even if Lady St. Leger had observed Kitty's
nearness, it would not have affected her to caution, for
Miss Carlin was a doll in her eyes — an amusing doll, who
danced and did funny things when you pulled a string.

" Well, what do you think of my debutante ? " asked
Lady St. Leger.

" She's the prettiest girl I ever saw," responded her
cousin by marriage.

" I'm so glad. And she's as good as she's pretty."

" Good girls are usually dull, but I shouldn't say that
Miss Brooke was dull."

" Quite the contrary. She's witty in some moods,
and she has great pluck and spirit. You should see her
on a horse ! She's tremendously admired, I assure you,
though she has not been really ' out ' till now. If she were
an heiress, she could marry anybody." As Lady St. Leger
said this, she glanced at her companion, but she could
not understand the expression on the man's face. She
would have liked to read his thoughts, but sometimes
it is well for our happiness that our desires are not granted.

" Miss Brooke is attractive enough to succeed without
money," he remarked.

" Men are so selfish and mercenary nowadays — that
is, the men in our set, who wouldn't sacrifice one luxury
for Helen of Troy. I shouldn't be sorry to see her give
herself to a different sort of man. But you'll dine with us

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 83

to-night, of course — we shall be quite alone — and learn
to know her better."

" Thank you, I should like it of all things," said St.
Leger, " but, unfortunately, I was just going to tell you
that I must say au revoir. I have a pressing engagement
for the evening." His smile was more cryptic than
ever.

" An engagement ! " echoed Lady St. Leger. " Why,
you told me that you'd only just arrived in England,
after your six years' absence ! "

" That is true," admitted the traveller. " Nevertheless,
I have an engagement of a pressing nature."

" That sounds as if there were a woman in the case ! "
exclaimed his cousin.

" Then it sounds deceiving. There's a man in the case,
and it's on his account that I came to-day to England."

" You are not flattering to me."

" But I came to you first. It was pleasure before busi
ness. My engagement this evening is business."

" I hope not disagreeable business."

St. Leger's eyes narrowed. " To some men it would
be. To me, I cannot say it is. Now I must go, or I shall
be too late to — do all I have to do. But I shall come again
soon."

" When — to-morrow ? "

" If I can. It must depend on how my affair goes to
night. Will you wish me luck ? "

" With all my heart," responded his cousin. " And so
will Honour."

Again, a whimsical enjoyment of a strange situation
showed itself on St. Leger's face. " Really, I think I will
ask her," he said.

At this instant he had the sensation that a pair of eyes
regarded him intently. He searched, and met the gaze
of Kitty Carlin.

They measured glances as fencers measure foils, and
St. Leger knew that he was looking into the eyes of an
enemy.

84 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Little cat ! " he said to himself. " How have I stroked
her the wrong way ? "

" Brute ! " said Kitty to herself. " So he's to have
Honour ? Well, not if this child has got anything to
say."

A few minutes later St. Leger was bidding good-bye to
the heroine of the day.

" I was asked to stay to dinner, and am desolated because
I have business for to-night which will take me away,"
he announced. " Will you wish me success in my under
taking ? "

Honour looked up, prepared to say something con
ventional, but she met his eyes, and a shock ran through
her nerves.

" Oh, I — I " she faltered, and suddenly her lips

turned pale. " Do excuse me," she said. " I suppose it's
because I've been standing so long, but I feel rather
faint."

Somehow, Kitty had reached her side, and it was she
who gave Honour support, not St. Leger.

He took the girl's attack in a somewhat unusual way,
seeming to study it as an extraordinary phenomenon,
instead of expressing solicitude. Still, the change in
her manner had impressed him, and not pleasantly. As
soon as Miss Brooke was better, he went away.

" Did you notice," asked Honour, " that Mr. St. Leger
had heliotrope in his buttonhole ? I wonder if the scent
could have made me feel faint ? Already I'm better."

" So am I, because he's gone," snapped Kitty. " Don't
blame the heliotrope — the only innocent thing about him,
I'll bet. It's the man himself. I'm not much on nerves,
but his eyes made me feel as if I had caterpillars walking
in my spine. There's something appalling about him."

" Did you feel that ? " ejaculated Honour. " Why, so
did — but we're both idiotic, dear. Mr. St. Leger's an
interesting man, and Lady St. Leger's Admirable Crichton.
You'll often see him here, and you must learn to like
him."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 85

" Did he speak to you of his engagement for to-night ? "

" Yes," said Honour. " He asked me to wish him
success, and then — I began to feel faint."

" He was talking about it to Lady St. Leger, and his
face looked like — like a mummy come to life with seven
evil spirits inside. Mark my words, that man's engage
ment's a queer one. Let me see, what day of the month
is it, so that, if one ever hears anything, one can remember
and say, ' I told you so ! '

"It is April the fourth," answered Honour.

CHAPTER XII

THE HORROR OF A DREAM

HONOUR BROOKE went up to her room early that night,
for she had had another attack of faintness — a thing
unheard of until that day — and on the second occasion there
had not even been a spray of heliotrope to account for it.
Lady St. Leger and she had sat down to dinner at eight
o'clock. Then Honour had been well, though slightly
pale and languid, but after several courses had come and
gone, scarcely touched by her, she had experienced a
bewildering sensation. It was, when she tried to describe
it afterwards, as if she had received a shock from an electric
battery.

She half sprang up in her chair with a stifled cry, her
eyes dilated. Lady St. Leger, startled, echoed the ex
clamation, and the butler and footman — the only other
persons present — had all they could do to preserve the
statuesque demeanour which was their servants' hall
mark.

" What is the matter ? " ejaculated Lady St. Leger.

" I don't know," stammered Honour, sinking back into
her chair. " A — a sort of wrench of the heart. I can't
describe it."

86 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Are you better ? "

" I shall — be quite right in a minute," answered the girl.
But in truth she was astonished at the continuance of her
suffering. She was trembling, and so unnerved that she
could hardly help bursting into tears. She was ashamed
of herself for the " exhibition " she had made, and, with
a shaking hand, lifted a glass of water (Honour never drank
wine) to her lips. She felt as if she were a telegraph wire,
vibrating with the passing of a message which she could
not read.

It was only by a strong effort that she sat through the
remaining half-hour of dinner, and pretended to sip coffee
afterwards in the drawing-room. As early as she could
she said good-night, kissed Lady St. Leger, and dragged
herself, with a languor very different from her usual
springing step, up to her own room.

Lady St. Leger shared her maid with Honour, but the
girl could not have endured the ministrations of that
soft-stepping woman to-night. Josephine had put her
into a simple white tea-gown for dinner, and Honour made
herself ready for bed without help. A great oppression of
sleep was upon her. She felt as if she had swallowed
a decoction of poppies, and it seemed to her high-keyed
fancy that strange dreams were crowding near, eagerly
pressing her eyelids down with invisible fingers, that
they might materialise in sleep.

Then, almost at once, sleep came. The girl plunged
fathoms deep in it, as if she had fallen with a great landslip
over a precipice.

It .is said that if, when we dream of falling, we dreamed
also the shock of striking the bottom of that sleep-abyss,
we should die. Honour did not dream the end of her
fall, but she had the sensation of waking suddenly, to find
herself stumbling through dark passages in a house which,
though she groped her way through black night, she knew
was strange to her.

Vaguely she wondered how she had come there, and
whether she were trespassing ; but even as the question

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 87

asked itself in the confusion of her mind, its answer came.
She realised, as if a voice had spoken in her ear, that
she was in the house because there was something or some
one there whom she must find, or die searching. Some
thing, or someone — yes, yes, it was someone. Oh, her
father ! Where was he ? How should she find him in
the darkness ? The darkness was there to keep her from
him — to separate them for ever, if it could — to prevent her
from knowing what was happening. Ah, that was it ! A
horrible something that was happening out of sight.

Blindly, desperately, with death in her heart, she groped
through the dark, from passage to passage — a network of
passages, a maze of them, that led nowhere, and brought
her back again and again to the same spot.

What agony ! Would it never end ?

" Oh, God 1 '•• she moaned, in a slow, stifled voice, for,
as if she were being choked, she could not cry out. " Oh,
God, help me ! — help me find my father 1 li

What was that light in the distance — a thin, knife-
blade of light ? Why could she come no nearer to it,
though she went on and on, always seeing the bright
streak flitting before her like a will-o'-the-wisp ?

At last her hand touched a door. The yellow gleam
was behind it. She pushed, and half fell into a room full
of blinding light. For an instant, there stood her father,
tall, handsome, with beautiful bright eyes, and rippling
bronze hair touched with silver, exactly as he had looked
when she saw him years ago, only differently dressed.

" Honour I " he called, holding out his arms. But, as
he took a step towards her, looking into her face, a black,
shapeless form sprang upon him, crushing him down, grind
ing his life out before her eyes, while she could do nothing.
And she knew that the form was the incarnation of Murder.

" Murder ! Murder I " she shrieked aloud, and tore
herself from sleep to waking by the agony which bathed
her body in a cold dew.

The shock of being flung from that scene of horror, with
its blinding light of revelation, to darkness and the springy,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

familiar softness of her own bed, was so sudden that Honour
could not believe she had been sleeping. She was sure that
she had been in that lighted room, and that she should
know it again, though the house, with its labyrinth of
passages, had been strange.

She. thought that someone must have put her out of the
room where her father was being killed, and locked the
door. Therefore she did not try to stop her anguished cries
of " Murder ! Help !— help I "

Staggering from her bed, she began groping about in
the dark, with the impression that the dream, or whatever
it had been, was beginning again, and that, if she could go
on, she would find herself presently in the house with the
lighted room where the murder was being done.

With the confusion of her own screams mingled other
noises. There were hurrying footfalls, broken exclamations,
and then her door was burst open, showing faces and
moving lights. She flew towards it, her brain still pri
soned in the dream, which seemed to break like a bubble
at the sound of Lady St. Leger's voice, calling :

" Honour ! — Honour, darling, for Heaven's sake, what
has happened ? "

The elder woman was in her dressing-gown, with hang
ing hair, and her maid and several other servants clustered
behind, candles flickering into strange lights and shadows
on white faces.

With a heart-broken sob Honour fell into the extended
arms, and lay there, panting, speechless.

" Thank God, there's nothing dreadful here ! " exclaimed
Lady St. Leger. " I feared — I don't know what ! My
child, you must have had some terrible dream. But don't
be frightened any more. It isn't true — it isn't true."

"It is true ! " answered Honour, releasing herself from
the haven of clasping arms. Her eyes were glowing with
prophetic light. In her long white nightdress, with her
beautiful hair streaming in shadowy masses, she looked
more like a sybil of strange past days of superstition, when
the world was young, than a girl of the present. " Call it

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 89

a dream, if you will," she said, " but I know that my father
is dead — murdered, and that he was given this way of
showing it to me. I have seen him die, and I dedicate
my life to seeking out his murderer 1 "

CHAPTER XIII

THE COMING OF A LETTER

HONOUR slept no more that night. Her veins ran fire.
Her dream was more real than reality, and she strove,
in her helplessness, to penetrate the mystery which sleep
had shown, as if her soul were a wave beating against rocks,
never resting, never gaining by its rebellious tumult.

Lady St. Leger had offered to stay with her through
the night, but Honour wished to be alone.

The hours between dawn and the time when the house
hold began to stir seemed endless. Honour was half in
clined to rise at some unwonted hour, but common sense
laid a cold touch on the pulse of excitement, counselling
the wisdom of composing her nerves till it should be time
to act.

She lay still, therefore, until a tap came at her door at
half-past eight. This tap invariably meant a cup of tea,
the bringing of letters, and bath. This morning it was
like the assertion of the commonplace, which has always
its petty triumph after great crises.

Josephine brought in Miss Brooke's tea, and kind in
quiries from Lady St. Leger.

Refreshed after her vigil by the hot tea, as soon as the
maid was gone she sprang out of bed, having forgotten
the letters which had been laid on the counterpane. The
quick movement threw them on the floor, reminding her
of their existence, and uppermost lay an envelope with an
Indian stamp upon it. Honour's heart leaped as she saw
her father's handwriting.

go THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

It was months since she had heard from him, and in the
last letter, which she had re-read every day since it came,
her father had told her not to expect another for a long
time, as he was on the point of journeying into a country
where he would be unable either to send news or receive
it. He was going to " try his luck " in an adventure
which might bring him fortune, but the expedition was to
be kept a secret, and, beside herself, only two persons not
in the party were informed that it was setting out. Honour
must not speak of the matter, even to Lady St. Leger,
for it was impossible to say what harm might not be done
by an indiscreet word. Still, the girl need not be anxious.
He was going into no greater danger than a hundred times
before, when he had come out unscathed — no greater
danger than Stanley or any other explorer had encoun
tered. He would write when he could — Honour might
be sure of that. Yet, if a year passed without a letter,
she must not be surprised, but remind herself that no news
was indeed good news, for evil tidings travelled fast.

So Honour had waited, and counted the days, and now
the longed-for letter had come, as if in answer to the bitter
cry of her spirit.

The girl snatched the envelope from the floor, where it
had fallen, leaving the others unregarded, and, before open
ing it, glanced at the post-mark. She could not make
out the name of the place from which it had been sent, but
the date was only four weeks old.

With fingers that trembled she broke the envelope. So
near this letter seemed to bring her father, that she was
almost ready to hope her dream had been a deceiving one
— that her dear one was still in the world, perhaps on his
way to her.

Seldom as she heard from her father, at least when
letters did come they were usually long, and this was one
of Honour's consolations. But hope died when she had
pulled the one sheet of thin paper from its envelope, to see
that even the second page was scarcely covered with the
small, firm writing which she knew and loved so well:

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT . 91

" My sweetheart daughter,'-1 Nevill Brooke had begun
his letter. " At last I can write to you again, and, thank
Heaven, I've good news to tell, for I shall be following this
to England, and within a few days after it has reached you I
hope to hold you in my arms. The months since we have
been able to communicate have been adventurous ones
to me. There were hours when I thought that I had seen
your dear, beautiful face for the last time this side the
grave ; but though brain and body both had constant
work, never a moment has passed that hasn't held its
thought of my sweet girl, its hope that what I was striving
to do would be for her happiness.

" What my adventures have been would make far too
long a letter. You shall hear all— all that it would be
well for you to hear — from my own lips, if I live to meet
you, as I see no reason now to fear I shall not. No, I see
no reason at all, and yet I'm oddly depressed to-night. I
trust that nothing is wrong at home. But, of course,
presentiments are nonsense. I've gone through a good
deal, and shall need petting from you before I'm as strong
as I was, or I shouldn't be yielding to foolish fancies
now,

" I ought to be with you on the fourth or fifth of April,
at latest, only a day or two after you have received this
letter — so you see it's useless making it a long one, or I
shall have no news left in my budget for you when we
meet. If you don't hear from me or see me by the fifth,
go on the sixth of April to my solicitor, Harvey Kane,
King's Bench Walk, Temple, and ask for news. If he has
none, drive to River House, Mortlake Road, Hammer
smith, and inquire for ' Mr. Smith,1 who will tell you what
you want to know. Or, if not, that will be time enough
for anxiety ; for if Mr. Smith, of River House, has not
heard from me before the sixth of April it win be a sign
that some serious obstacle has prevented my communi
cating with him. However, it's hardly worth while to
frighten you. We are almost certain to be together, darling,
on the night of April the fourth, before ten o'clock. That

92 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

is what I am aiming for, and I can hardly wait, but don't
make inquiries until the sixth, for to do so might cause
trouble which I can't explain, and don't mention even
to Lady St. Leger that I am coming. Till death and after,
dear one,

" YOUR LOVING DAD.'*

" Till death and after ! " Honour repeated. He had been
" aiming " to come to her on April the fourth. Had he come
to her then ? Must she believe that the dream was no
dream, but a warning ? That — her father's last thought
being of her and for her — he had been able to keep his
appointment at the moment when soul and body were
parting ?

His letter had been delayed a few days longer, evidently,
than he had expected, for to-day was the latest date named.
Dared she still expect him, after what she had seen in her
sleep ? Might she not go to the solicitor in the Temple,
or to the house in Hammersmith, without dragging through
twenty-four hours of suspense ?

She asked herself these questions, yet she knew that she
would obey her father. He had said that she must be
patient until the sixth. She must simply suffer to the
end.

Still, she was thankful for the letter. It was like a
beloved voice speaking out of the night, and with it lying
warm over her heart, strength would come to her to live
through the hours.

When Josephine thought that mademoiselle had had
time to doze a little more, and then to finish her bath, she
came knocking at the door again, but, to her surprise,
Honour was dressed, and ready to go to her guardian almost
immediately. Lady St. Leger, lying still among laced
and embroidered pillows, was shocked at the girl's pallor.

" Poor child ! " she exclaimed. " You haven't got over
the effects of that dreadful dream ! But dreams go by
contraries. This was a sign that you'll hear from your
father. When you do, you will laugh at your fears."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 93

" I have heard from him," Honour answered, " yet I
don't laugh."

Then she told of the letter that had come, but, obedient
to the instructions received, was silent as to its news. She
could not understand why her father wished his impending
arrival in England to be kept secret, but he did wish it,
and that was enough.

There were several engagements for the day, but Honour's
white face, as well as arguments, pleaded for her release,
and Lady St. Leger went reluctantly out to make excuses
for the pretty girl whose companionship ensured her a
double welcome everywhere.

Honour was left to get through the day as best she
could. She felt weak and shattered, but she would not
stop in bed, lest her father should arrive. At each ring
of the bell her nerves quivered, but the hours wore on,
and he did not come.

In the afternoon, as she sat trying to read in Lady St.
Leger's boudoir, to her surprise Loris St. Leger was shown
in. This was against orders, for Honour had said that
she was not at home to anyone, unless some intimate
friend should call. She had inserted this phrase lest her
father should be turned away with the information that
"the ladies were out." St. Leger could not be classified
as an " intimate friend,"- but he had contrived to make
his cause good with the footman, and Honour found her
self cut off from escape.

The girl did not understand the feelings which St. Leger
excited. She wanted, for her guardian's sake, to like him,
and she was sure that she ought to be attracted towards a
man who had travelled so much in the countries which
her father knew best. Besides, he was interesting in him
self. Any woman would look at him twice, even if she
did not think him handsome. Still, Honour felt the im
pulse to snatch her hand away when he took it. Again he
wore heliotrope in his buttonhole, and Honour wondered,
as she had wondered yesterday, whether her distaste for
the flower might not be enough to account for the nervous

94 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

agitation (it almost amounted to that) which seized her
once more in St. Leger's presence.

As he talked, he hardly removed his eyes from her face,
and at last he remarked that she was like Nevill Brooke.
" Some day," he said, " I want to tell you about our ac
quaintance, your father's and mine. I think you would
be interested."

" Of course I should," returned Honour. " Tell me
now."

" No," said St. Leger. " I must know you better first.
Will you give me leave to try and win your friendship, as
I had your father's ? "

" I thought you told me yesterday that you and he
had been acquaintances, not friends," Honour caught
him up.

But if St. Leger considered himself caught, he had
perfect control over his features. They did not change,
and his eyes did not flinch from hers, as he answered
that " that depended upon what one called friendship."
He never cared to claim even that to which he had a right,
and he had not wanted to begin his acquaintance with
Nevill Brooke's daughter on the strength of her father's
opinion. Still, now they had gone so far, he might admit
that Nevill Brooke and he had been comrades. " I had the
luck to save his life on one occasion," he finished, watch
ing to see how Honour would take the statement.

She took it with a blush — a guilty rush of colour, because
she could not call up passionate gratitude. Somehow St.
Leger's words did not carry conviction, though she was
bound to believe him. " How was that ? " she asked,
eagerly. But St. Leger had not been leading up to a story.
He rose to go.

" That is part of the tale I am saving for you when you
have let me learn to know you better," he said. " But
you are tired. Tell my cousin Florence I was sorry to miss
her. I will come again — perhaps to-morrow, and take her
advice on the subject of where to settle down in town for
a few months."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 95

St. Leger was not sorry to have missed his cousin's
widow. On the contrary, he considered himself lucky, for
he had wanted to see Honour Brooke alone.

The situation struck him as piquant. Knowing certain
things that he knew — things known only to two other per
sons in the world — it seemed to him that the circumstances
surrounding him and this girl were unique.

He would have been glad to prolong his call, but he had
seen that Honour was ill at ease, and he thought it wiser,
at this early stage, not to risk irritating her.

When he had left Lady St. Leger's house he turned into
the Park, and as he had no curiosity to see the afternoon
parade of " Society " he found a secluded path. His wish
was to think quietly, and make up his mind on matters
where at present he wavered.

St. Leger was a man of quick decisions, but yesterday he
had come face to face with a new development, and his
time had been so occupied since that he had had no leisure
for mental adjustment. The fact was, Nevill Brooke's
daughter had surprised him.

St. Leger told the truth when it happened to be more
to his advantage than a falsehood, or when he had not
been given time for invention, and he had told the truth
yesterday in assuring Honour of his ignorance that she was
living with Lady St. Leger. He had called in Park Lane,
not because of impatience to see his cousin by mar
riage, but because he wanted to borrow money. He ex
pected shortly to be rich — very rich, but at the moment
he was pressed, and he had thought that Lady St. Leger
would lend.

When he had seen Honour, he had changed his mind
about the request, resolving, rather than ask Lady St.
Leger, to get what he needed in another way. He never
had borrowed money of his cousin, and though, before
meeting her ward, he had been willing to risk losing her
good opinion, he thought differently when he learned that
Honour Brooke was an inmate of her house. He knew
that he would need to be backed by Lady St. Leger if he

96 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

were to win favour in the girl's eyes, and he was afraid that,
if he asked for money on his first day in England, his dear
Florence might not regard him as a desirable lover for Miss
Brooke.

That was the light in which, after the first moment or two
in the girl's society, he wished to be regarded, and for
several reasons.

For one thing, though there were obstacles in the way of
marriage for him — obstacles which a certain person, power
ful in moulding his destiny, might make well-nigh insur
mountable — there was a strong money inducement. If
late news from India had unfortunately reached Harvey
Kane, a solicitor in the Temple, it would be difficult to keep
Honour Brooke ignorant of a fact important for her to
know. As an outsider, she was dangerous to interests
precious to him and his. As the girl who had promised
to become his wife, it did not matter much what she was
told by the officious Harvey Kane.

Before seeing Honour, or knowing where she was, St.
Leger had thought (with his business partner and superior)
that, if Nevill Brooke's daughter were likely to become too
wise, she must be cleared out of the way before the road
could be safe. But St. Leger had some few feelings in
common with better men, and he had taken a fancy to
Honour.

The reasons which should have prevented him from
thinking of the girl made his desire for her more keen. It
would be sweet to know what he knew, and to have her
for his wife ; to kiss her, to hold her in his arms, certain
that she wrould never suspect, or that, if she did, it would
be impossible for her to free herself from him. He was
angry with his tactlessness in stating to Honour that he
and her father had been acquaintances, not friends. He
must contradict that inadvertent admission of the truth ;
and he had a splendid story to relate by and by. When
they had known each other a few days longer he could
plead impetuosity, and say that he loved her, urging that,
when he had saved her father's life, Nevill Brooke had

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 97

said he would ask no better gift of Fate than to have Loris
St. Leger as a son-in-law.

Before this should be ventured, however, there were
details to be thought out.

If Harvey Kane, the solicitor, were armed with news
lately sent from India, Honour might be told that St. Leger
had been one of Nevill Brooke's companions during a cer
tain eventful expedition, and that he was a sharer in the
Tontine which would bring her fortune. Now, if she knew
this, it would be better that she should first hear something
of it from his lips — something in the form of a thrilling
narrative, which he could embellish for his own advantage,
almost as he pleased, becoming virtually the hero of the
tale. But if the solicitor had nothing to tell — that is,
nothing newer than his first knowledge of the expedition at
its start — Honour need never hear that her father's last
great adventure had been undertaken in St. Leger's com
pany. She need never know that she had any right in
the fortune which would come to her with her husband ;
and, thinking thus, St. Leger almost regarded himself as
a rather high-minded, unmercenary fellow, who had
fallen in love with a penniless girl, and would marry her
in spite of threatening danger.

It had been arranged between him and his partner
that they would see the solicitor together ; but St. Leger's
sudden fancy for Honour Brooke gave him an interest
separate from — even opposed to — that of his uncle ; while,
as for Lady St. Leger, she would know what Honour knew
— no more and no less — and she would be proud to call
herself his ally. She had (thanks, perhaps, to his moral
strength in doing without the loan) already shown him this.

Having come so far, St. Leger began to see where he
stood. Evidently the next thing was to call on Harvey
Kane. He could " cook up -' some excuse to his uncle
for having done so. He left the Park, and hailed a han
som, for it was nearly five o'clock, and the solicitor might
be leaving his office.

98 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" King's Bench Walk," he said to the cabman, and,
twenty minutes later, in the quiet precincts of the Temple,
he was mounting the steps of an old-fashioned house, with
the name of Harvey Kane, among others, on the doorpost.

The solicitor's office was on the second floor, and St.
Leger walked into a dim, wainscoted room, to find one pallid
clerk sitting on a stool before a high desk.

" Is Mr. Kane in ? " briskly asked the new-comer.

The clerk shook his head, and answered, wearily, as if
he had gone through the same routine often : " No, sir ;
Mr. Kane's ill, and has been ordered abroad," said the
youth ; and St. Leger's pale gaze fastened upon him so
sharply that, for some reason, the thin face coloured up
to its eyebrows.

" How long has he been gone ? " asked St. Leger.

" About a fortnight, sir."

" When is he expected back ? "

" I can't say, exactly. Perhaps in a few weeks' time."

" Has he left no one to attend to his business ? "

" Only me, sir. Mr. Kane has no partner. The other
clerks have been given a holiday. "

" Oh, indeed ! " St. Leger began to be thoughtful.
" You forward Mr. Kane's letters ? "-

As he asked this question he looked into the eyes of
the clerk, which flinched slightly. He replied, very
quietly, however : " Yes, I forward letters."

" Could you give me Mr. Kane's present address ? "

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that, sir. He wires from time
to time where to send, as he is travelling with his family.
At the moment I don't know where he is."

" Indeed ? " St. Leger commented again. He had no
other questions to ask, and, having nodded to the clerk,
with a mutter of thanks and a " Good day," he took
himself off.

The youth closed the door after the departing caller,
and then sank down, not on his own high stool, but into
an easy chair intended for waiting clients. As he did so,
he heaved a sigh which was a groan, and, standing just

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 99

outside the door, St. Leger heard it. Having heard it, he
proceeded downstairs.

" Something fishy there ! " he said to himself, " and that
furtive-looking chap is more or less in his master's con
fidence. I wonder whether anything could be got out of
him, and whether Harvey Kane's disappearance has any
thing to do with our Tontine ? '-'-

CHAPTER XIV

THE HOUSE WITH THE CLOSED SHUTTERS

THE fifth of April passed without any sign from Nevill
Brooke. Again that night Honour did not sleep, and,
when morning came, she had decided to call at the Temple ;
then, if need were, at the house in Hammersmith named
in yesterday's letter, without confiding her intention to
Lady St. Leger.

Honour was an outspoken girl, and hated the con
cealments and beatings about the bush which make life
dramatic for many women ; but obedience to her father's
wishes was almost a religion. She did not see how she
could half explain her expedition ; therefore she determined
to keep it secret.

A letter from Kitty Carlin gave her an inspiration, just
as she was seeking a pretext which would not necessitate
a fib. Kitty's new costumes for a forthcoming play had
arrived from Paris, and would " Beauty " lunch with her,
and criticise them ?

Lady St. Leger was surprised that Honour, who had
begged to have her engagements cancelled, should pro
nounce herself well enough to spend hours with insigni
ficant little Kitty Carlin. But she was thankful to see
Honour more like herself. Besides, she had received a
note from Loris, asking if they might have a talk that
afternoon, and so she consented to Honour's plan.

ioo THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

At twelve o'clock Lady St. Leger dropped Honour at
Queen Anne's Mansions, where Kitty Carlin lived in a
flat with an elderly and dictatorial maid, and permission
had been grudgingly granted for the girl to drive home
alone in a cab when she felt inclined.

Even from Kitty it was difficult to get away. Honour
was obliged to hold to the programme, see the dresses,
and stop to lunch, then to wait for a thunder- shower before
she could escape from the actress.

It was after two when finally she escaped, only recon
ciled to the delay by telling herself that solicitors must
lunch also, and probably Mr. Harvey Kane would be
absent from his office in the middle of the day. She arrived
at the Temple a little before three, was received by the
same youth who had flinched under St. Leger 's piercing
eyes, received similar replies to her questions, and presently
went away again, bitterly disappointed, but too inexpe
rienced to be suspicious, as St. Leger had been.

There was now nothing left but to go out to Hammer
smith, and she gave the driver of her four-wheeled cab the
address in her father's letter.

Never had a drive appeared so long to Honour. Over
and over again she looked out of the window into the rain,
meaning to ask the cabman if he were sure he knew the
way, then lacking courage to put such a question. She felt
lonely and miserable as the rain beat against the cab
windows, and the sky darkened for another thunder
storm.

When the cab stopped at last before the closed gate
of a large, high-walled garden, the rain had stopped.
The wind, which had been blowing the drops against the
panes, had suddenly died down ; there was a brooding
silence, save for an occasional rumble of thunder, which
seemed to come from mysterious regions underground ;
the low-hanging clouds were of a tawny, ominous copper
colour, which gave an effect of unnatural twilight ; and
Nature seemed waiting breathless, for something to happen.

Honour felt the influence of the hour, and glanced about

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 101

her, fearful of she scarce knew what, as the driver opened
the cab door for her to step out.

" Here you are, miss — River House, Mortlake Road,"
he said, pointing to a name so faded that it was only just
visible on the gate of the high-walled garden. 5< A job I
had to find the place, too ! Nobody couldn't tell me where
it was till just lately, and I hadn't no idea. It's most out
o* the world, and if I'd known 'twas such a distance, I
couldn't 'a driven you. It's time I was back at the stables
now, and I'd be obliged if you could give me my fare and
let me go, miss, if you expect to be long indoors. "-

Honour's heart sank. This seemed more like a lonely
country road to her eyes than a street in London. She
felt as if the shabby four-wheeled cab which had rattled
her over so many miles was her only link between this
desolate place and her far-away home. Still, she could not
detain the man against his will.

" I can't tell how long I shall be inside," she said, with
a glance at the roof of a low-built house showing among
trees. " Perhaps I may be half-an-hour, or an hour.
But — can I get another cab when I want it ? -

" You'll only have to walk a short way, miss, to do that,"
replied the driver, with encouraging optimism. " You turn
round that corner *'• — pointing — " then the first to the
right, the second to the left, the third to the right again,
and you'll come to a public- 'ouse where there's sure to be
a 'ansom, if not a growler. And I must ask you twelve
bob, miss, for this job — Queen Anne's Mansions to the
Temple, a long wait, then from the Temple 'ere.'1

Honour paid the money without question. She had
scarcely ever been alone in a cab, or paid a cab-fare.
Lady St. Leger's carriage took her everywhere, or, if a cab
were needed, she was accompanied by her guardian or
Josephine.

Hardly had the man got his money when he was of£,
thinking himself in luck, and, having watched him away,
with a lost and deserted feeling in her heart, Honour tried
the gate, It stuck, and she had to exert all her strength,

102 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

but, just as she had begun to be afraid that she would not
be able to get in, it yielded. She saw before her a winding
path, in the midst of a neglected lawn, where grass and
weeds grew rankly under crowding trees and laurel bushes,
and a smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation came
to her nostrils. A curious effect was that, the nearer she
drew to the house, the less she could see of it. Trees and
laurels shut it out of her sight, and it was not until she
had passed under a forlorn arbour and out again that
suddenly she found herself in front of a beautiful old man
sion, evidently dating from the reign of Queen Anne.

Yes, beautiful was the word for it at first glance, but
the second impression, quickly following, was melancholy
in the extreme. The " moated grange " in which Mariana
wore out her passionate life could not have been more
desolate than this old Hammersmith house behind its dark
screen of trees and its high wall of faded bricks. It was
half-covered with ivy, veiling many of the windows —
ancient, rope-stemmed ivy, twisted in gnarled agony, so
old that much of it was dead, the bare stems threading
grimly through the living masses of a newer growth.

Not a flower bloomed before the house, though ancient
rose bushes had grown boldly past all appointed limits,
until they reached half-way up the windows, presumably
of a drawing-room, mingling their leaves with the darker
ivy. Inside these windows (and all others which the girl
could see as she swept a wistful gaze over the front of the
house) dusty white shutters were fastened together. The
place appeared asleep ; its eyes were shut ; and the idea
of trying to wake it by knocking at the door seemed almost
hopeless. Still, there was nothing else to do. " Mr.
Smith," to whom she had been sent, might be an eccentric
person, who liked to shut himself up from the world and
live the life of a hermit. If he were not away, he must
occupy rooms at the back of the house, for the front
windows were fast shuttered ; or, if he were absent, there
must be a caretaker left on the premises, who could
give Mr. Smith's address.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 103

There was a huge knocker on the door, and Honour lifted
it, letting it fall several times. Then she stood listening in
tense expectation, but after the echo of the knocking had
died away into hollow silence there was not a sound within.

CHAPTER XV

As Honour stood anxiously waiting, she noticed how
dust lay thick on the panels of the door, and even on the
knocker, except in the spot where a hand must grasp it
for use. There it was almost clean. She looked at her little
glove of pale grey suede, but the fingers were unsoiled, and
it struck her that the knocker must have been used lately
before she had touched it.

When two or three minutes had passed, Honour rapped
more loudly than before, but again only the echo answered,
as if mockingly. Twice and thrice more she tried, breaking
her glove across the back at last, and then, with an impa
tient exclamation, she sprang down the two or three stone
steps before the door, beginning to walk hastily round the
house towards the back.

A wind was rising once more, moaning through the tops
of the great Lebanon cedars, towering high above other
trees on the lawn. As Honour looked up at the darkened
sky a few drops of rain splashed into her face. There was
no path across the lawn, and the girl had to push her way
through the rank grass and weeds. Thus she had turned
the corner, and was glancing at the windows in the vain
hope of seeing at least one unshuttered, when her foot
struck against some small object, and sent it bounding
ahead. Involuntarily Honour glanced down in time to
catch a red gleam, which was like the flash of an eye peering
out of the grass. She stooped, and saw a toad, less than
life-size, beautifully carved in a curious dull bronze, the

104 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

top of its head filled in with a fiery red stone, somewhat
lighter than, but not unlike, a common carbuncle.

Honour bent over it, fascinated. A toad with a jewel in
its head ! That ought to bring luck, if there could be
such a thing as a luck-bringer. No doubt it had been
fashioned for a fetish, and perhaps carried about as such
by a superstitious person who believed in the toad's magic
power. The girl picked it up, and turned it in her hand,
so that the jewel in the slender bronze head sent out fiery
shafts of light.

Someone had lost the fetish, and if she had not hap
pened to stumble upon it, it might have lain hidden in the
unmown grass for years. Perhaps it might already have
been there a long time.

Honour regarded the toad thoughtfully, not knowing
what to do with it. She did not like to throw so curious
a thing back again where she had found it. If she could
make herself heard, she might give the toad into someone's
charge ; but if not, and she were obliged to go away without
learning anything of or from Mr. Smith, it occurred to the
girl that she would do well to keep it. By advertising for
the owner, she might obtain knowledge of Mr. Smith, and
through him of her father. With this idea in her mind,
she slipped the toad into the pocket of her grey cloth
jacket, and no thrill warned her of what would come from
that insignificant act.

Her pause had allowed the storm time to gather, and
as she reached the back of the house, a flash of lightning
and simultaneous clap of thunder seemed to give the signal
for which the rain had waited. Down it came, as if the
doors of Heaven had been opened to let out the deluge. A
torrent of water swept over the girl, and, gathering up
her skirts, she ran for shelter, which — of a sort — was to
be found under the roof of a modern porch built over a
door.

There had not been time to scan all the windows for a
sign of life here at the back of the house, where her one hope
lay, but Honour, still sprayed upon by the rain which

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 105

drove towards her on the wind, rapped on the knockerless
door with her hand.

She had hardly dared expect an answer after all her
vain efforts at the front ; yet her heart sank at the silence
which was the only response. Her nerves were unstrung
by the experiences of the past two nights and days, and,
dripping wet, shivering in the cold wind, which was more
like March than April, desolate, almost despairing, she was
ready to break into tears, when suddenly she started at a
curious sound.

It came apparently from a distance, yet it seemed to
Honour that it proceeded from the house. Even when
she had heard it, she hardly knew whether to believe her
own ears, and listened again, her heart beating fast. Yes,
there it was again — an extraordinary noise, as if someone
were chattering inarticulately.

A chill ran through Honour's veins. Here, alone, in
the unnatural twilight, the air electrical, the veil of rain
shutting her away from the world, that was not a pleasant
sound for a girl to hear coming out of a lonely house she
had begun to believe deserted. There was something
unhuman, terrifying, in it, and she was seized with a desire
to run away. She had even taken a step, when she remem
bered that Nevill Brooke's daughter must not be a coward.

Pressing her lips together, she turned, and knocked
again. All was still in the house for a moment ; then
came a sound like a far-away echo of her knocking. Once
more she beat with her hand on the door-panel, and pre
sently the distant pounding could be heard as before.

Honour was puzzled as well as alarmed. She could only
suppose that, after all, there was someone in this shuttered
house — someone who not only had no intention of an
swering her summons, but even mocked at her efforts.

What was she to do next ? She could not break into
the house, yet how was she to bear to go away thwarted,
with that faint, chattering laughter ringing in her ears,
and no other means of reaching the Mr. Smith who alone
possessed information about her father ?

io6 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

It seemed to the girl that, if she acknowledged herself
beaten, if she went away now from this old house, she would
lose her sole hope of communicating with the one she
loved best on earth ; and obstinately, almost fiercely, she
determined that, come what might, she would stay until
that malicious, hidden creature should be forced by
curiosity to peep out and see whether she had gone.

On each side of the wooden porch (which could not have
been more than forty years old, and looked out of place
in contrast with the dignity of the ancient house it de
formed) ran a narrow seat. Honour sat down, resolved
to make no more disturbance, but to await events. The
rain dripped upon her through the creepers, just in bud,
but she no longer cared. She was so wet now that a little
more rain would not matter. There was even satisfaction
to be found in physical discomfort.

For a short time all was still again save the wind and
rain and the thunder, which, after its first terrifying
burst, had grumbled away into distance. But Honour had
hardly resigned herself to inaction for more than five
minutes when she heard footsteps, not inside the house,
but coming along the way that she had taken. She sprang
up, her eyes watchful, a bright colour burning in her
cheeks.

An instant later, a man had come into sight round the
corner of the house. He was young and slender, rather
short than tall, almost boyish in figure, and with a quick,
alert step. He, too, had been drenched by the rain. The
travelling cap that he wore dripped water, and the collar
of his tweed coat, which was dark with wet, was turned up.

The moment that their gaze met, the eyes of the girl
and the man brightened with surprised interest. Within
a few yards of the porch he stopped short, snatching oft
his cap.

A curious sensation took Honour captive. She knew
that she had never seen this young man before, and yet he
did not seem to be a stranger. She felt at once at home
with him, and glad that he was here. It was as if a new

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 107

friend had come into her life, yet there was no apparent
reason for the feeling. The man, who might be of any age
between twenty and twenty-six, was not a prince of ro
mance as far as appearance was concerned. Only a pair
of fine, bold, dark eyes, with a sense of humour as well as
audacity lurking in them, redeemed the pale, clear-featured
face from comparative insignificance. Yet, somehow,
it was a face not to be forgotten. A student of character
might have hesitated to pass a favourable verdict upon it
at first ; might have pronounced it reckless, suggestive of a
life which had been lived hard — lived every moment —
short as it must have been ; might have counselled a
girl not to trust its owner. But Honour did not analyse
the face of the young man, nor her own impression. She
knew only that his coming seemed to mean something.

" I beg your pardon ! " he said, in a pleasant voice, which
sounded more like that of a Colonial than a native-born
Englishman. " Pve been knocking at the front door, and
as nobody answered, I thought I'd make a tour of explora
tion. You live here, perhaps ? "

" No," said Honour, conscious that a pair of black eyes
were looking very hard at her, taking in her beauty.
" No ; I, too, knocked at the front door, and came here,
thinking there might be a caretaker. But there seems
to be nobody. At least, nobody comes, though I did hear
sounds "

The young man's eyes gave a flash. " Did you hear
something like a laugh — a queer sort of chattering ? ll

" Yes ! " cried Honour. " You heard it, too, then ?
I wondered if I could have fancied it. But now I know
that couldn't have been. And there was a pounding

" I heard that, too," said the young man. " Since I've
seen you here, though, I'm inclined to think you heard me,
and I heard you. You were knocking on this door ; I
was making an infer — an awful row in front."

" Oh, perhaps ! " Honour answered, disappointed. " But
the chattering — is there any way of explaining that ? "

" If there is, I'm too muddle-headed to think of it,"

io8 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

replied the other, who could hardly take his eyes from
Honour's face. •' But there's, anyhow, a way of finding
out.'-1

" What way ? "-

" Trying once more to make somebody come. If they
can chatter, they can answer a knock. And then, if they
won't do that, getting into the house.1'

" I shouldn't like to break in," said Honour, smiling
despite her anxiety at the young fellow's nonchalant
coolness. " Still, I much want to see a Mr. Smith who
lives here."

" That's the man I came to see," added the young man.

" Indeed ? " queried Honour. " I've corne a long way."

" So have I — all the way from Tangier, as it happens.
And you ? "

" Oh, I," returned Honour, " have only come from
Park Lane."

" You look as if you came from Park Lane," the young
man retorted.

Honour blushed, and yet she was not vexed, though she
was sure that this audacious-eyed stranger meant to express
appreciation of her face, dress, and manner combined.

'•' And I look as if I had come from Tangier ? -' he went
on.

" I don't know,'1 Honour smiled. " My father has been
in Tangier, but that is since I have seen him." Her smile
died at the thought these last words called up. The tears
sprang to her eyes again, for her nerves were highly strung.
" I came here to ask where he is now — from Mr. Smith."

The young man's face changed, losing its reckless non
chalance. "That's queer," he said. "/ came to ask Mr.
Smith where my best friend on earth is. And I don't mean
to go without finding out something, if I can help it. I shall
knock again."-

" Knock '-' was a mild word for the assault he made upon
the old, locked door, which rattled and trembled under
the blows of the slender fist, that must have been strong as
steel. When for a time he had pounded continuously,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 109

suddenly he stopped and listened. He and Honour held
their breath, their eyes on each other's, as if they had
known and had confidence in one another for months instead
of moments.

From far away came a faint, whimpering, chattering noise.

" There it is again ! " exclaimed Honour. " Only it
doesn't sound like laughing now. It's more like crying.
It must be somebody's voice. And yet — somehow, it's not
human."

" That's just what I was thinking," said the young man.
•" Perhaps it's one of the family ghosts. I believe this
house has several. "

" Oh, you know the place, then ? " asked the girl. •" I
never heard of it till yesterday. "

" All I know is what was told me in a public-house where
I stopped to enquire my way, about a mile and a half from
here. Nobody could be got to live at River House, they
said, on account of the ghosts."

" But Mr. Smith ? " questioned Honour, eagerly. " We
have both been told that he lived here."

•" Yes. He's the owner, or lessee, I suppose. As he
can't get tenants to take the place off his hands, he comes
sometimes, so they said at the ' Hand and Key.* But
they thought he didn't live here."

-•• What shall we do, then ? " asked Honour, her voice
faltering. " It's so terribly hard to wait another day for
news, and if Mr. Smith isn't here now, and we can't find
out about him, how can we reach him with a letter ? "

The young man seemed to be touched at her pretty,
unconscious identification of their interests. His eyes
softened.

" We'll see if that chattering ghost won't tell us some
thing,'1 said he. "I'm going to have a try at getting in
through a window. Wait here for me, if you like, and —

" I would rather go with you/* broke in Honour. It
did not occur to her that she was on the eve of doing an
extraordinarily unconventional — perhaps even dangerous
• — thing ; she only thought of her impatience to learn what

no THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

she had come to learn — her rebellion against being thwarted
by a blank wall of mystery.

The big black eyes scanned her keenly. " You care a
lot about your father, don't you ? " the young man ex
claimed, with a certain wistfulness.

" More than for anyone in the world. If he were dead,
I should not want to live — unless he had died a death
to be avenged. Then I would wish to live I "

" By Jove ! " ejaculated the stranger. " That's the
way I feel about the man whose letter sent me here to
find out what's become of him — the only human being
who was ever good to me, or understood me. But I don't
believe any fellow ever loved a father as I love this friend—
the finest, bravest chap God ever made — Nevill Brooke ! "-

" Nevill Brooke ! " repeated Honour. All the colour
fled from her face, and she fell back a step or two, catching
at one of the wooden posts supporting the porch. " Nevill
Brooke is my father ! '•'•

The man also blanched, and his eyes lit up with a strange
glow, as if a lamp had been lighted behind them.

" You — his daughter ? " he exclaimed. " You are —
Honour ? "•

" Yes.'/

" And we have come here, you and I — you, his child ;
I, who owe him everything I am, every impulse of good in
me — we have come to this place on the same day, at the
same hour, to seek tidings of him ? "
Yes,?J- the girl whispered again.

" Will you let me take your hand ? '-'•

She held it out to him, trembling. He pressed it tightly,
and then, raising it to his lips, kissed the little suede glove,
spotted with rain.

" My name is Jack Harried," he said, looking up. "I'm
a wastrel, but I can be a staunch friend, and henceforth
what I would do for Nevill Brooke I'll do for you. It
seems to me that Fate means something by bringing us
together on this errand. Doesn't it seem that way to
you ? "

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT in

Honour bowed her head in assent, her hand still in the
tight, nervous grasp — a grasp which was, if she could
only have known, prophetic.

" You are anxious about your father ? " Jack Harned
asked, when at last he released the little grey glove.

The girl answered without hesitation. She believed
and trusted him. Whether she liked this pale-faced, slim
young fellow, with something of a tiger in his eyes, some
thing of the born law-breaker in the hard, premature
lines round his mouth, she did not know ; but he fascinated
her ; she felt his influence.

-" I am desperately anxious,1'- she said. " Two nights
ago I dreamed that I saw him murdered. It was no
common dream. The more I think of it, the more I believe
that he actually came to me as his soul and body parted.
I have fought against the belief. I wish — oh ! how I
wish to put it aside — to think of him as living. To you
I can say this — you loved him. You will understand."

" I do understand," said the other, gravely " I am
anxious, too. If he's been hurt — if he's been done to death
— his murderers will find me a bloodhound, tracking them
down. You and I, Miss Brooke, will work for the same
end. But we won't give up hope yet — there's no reason
why we should. He wrote me, as I suppose he did you,
to make enquiries here, if he weren't heard from by a certain
date. And now I'm going to make those enquiries. We'll
see if we can't find that mysterious chatterer inside, and
get him to speak ! "-

CHAPTER XVI

THE SOUNDS IN THE CELLAR

So saying, Jack Harned took out his handkerchief, wrapped
it round his hand, and then deliberately smashed several
panes of the nearest window. When that was done, and
he had unlocked and raised the sash, he attempted to

H2 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

push open the shutters. The inside fastening refused to
yield to his hands, or the thrust of his shoulders ; but this
young man was evidently not one to be easily thwarted.
He set his mouth doggedly, and did not rest until a dozen
vicious kicks of his foot had so weakened the inside lock
that at last he was able to push the shutters apart. Then
he stepped inside the window, which was scarcely two feet
above the level of the grass, and helped Honour to follow.

They were in a room bare of furniture, dim, smelling
of mustiness and rotting wood. In the grey light which
shone in through the open window motes of dust could
be seen floating in a cloud, stirred up by their entrance.
Evidently the room, which was large and low-ceilinged,
with many cupboards, had once been a kitchen ; but the
red rust on the great old-fashioned range was alone enough
to tell that it had been unused for long.

From the kitchen they passed on to other rooms, one
after another. All were alike dark, unaired, musty,
destitute of furniture or trace of occupation. There
was not a sound except for their own faintly echoing
footfalls. Not a door was locked ; they were free to go
where they would. Only in one room was there any
furniture. They looked into it from another, through a
glass door, and saw a few chairs, a sideboard, and two
or three old-fashioned tables pushed into a corner of the
•oom, just visible a,s scarcely denned shapes in the shut-
ered dusk.

They did not go into every room, but peeped into all,
to see that no one could be hiding. Even upstairs they
went, looking into empty room after empty room, going
on to the attic, which extended over the length and breadth
of the house. The cellars they left for the last.

A chill struck into Honour's veins as they went down
the narrow stairs. She would have been afraid — actually
afraid — if Jack Harned had not been with her, and she
knew it. Even as it was, though out-of-doors the spring
afternoon still lingered, the brooding mystery that seems
to haunt every very old, deserted house sharpened her

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 113

imagination so that each faint sound — the rustling of a
rat in the walls, the creaking of a loose board under her
foot or her companion's — caused her to start and peer
through the dimness as if she expected something to spring
out at her from concealment.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs and stood
upon the damp floor of the vast, dark cellar — these two, so
strangely brought together on one quest — the same in
explicable chattering sound that had lured them to force
an entrance into the house broke on their ears again.

" Hark ! " whispered Honour, laying a hand that
throbbed in all its fingers on hei companion's arm. « There
it is — just as it was before, only louder. Where can it
come from ? "

Jack Harned stood still, listening, but the sound had
already ceased. It was impossible for him to place it,
try as he might. He had heard it as plainly as Honour
had ; yet, though it still seemed to linger in his ears, to
save his life he could not have told whether it had pro
ceeded from the right or left, from above or below.

The chattering had broken off as abruptly as it had begun,
but down here in the cellar the dead silence of the house
overhead, which had only been accentuated by its few
occasional rustlings and squeakings, did not exist. There
was a strange, continuous murmur, a subterranean rush
ing, like the sound of hidden water ; a gurgling, a watery
knocking, like wet knuckles tapping on wet wood ; a
far-off, indistinct bubbling, and the " gluck, gluck,"
that liquid makes as it runs out from the neck of a bottle.

Involuntarily Honour drew nearer to the man of whose
very existence she had an hour ago been ignorant.
" What is it ? What is it ? " she asked, sharply. " It's
as if one were down in the hold of a ship."

" Wait a minute — I must think," Harned answered.
For a moment neither spoke, but stood close together,
listening acutely. Honour was conscious of a strange,
thrilling feeling that if she listened long enough, and in
the right way, she would learn a secret which was just on

H4 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

the brink of revealing itself. But then, of course, she knew
very well in her heart that the feeling must surely be born
of overwrought nerves. "I'll tell you what it is," said
Harned, reflectively. " The river's close to us. There's
a stream running under this cellar. That's what we hear,
and I shouldn't wonder if that's what has given this old
house the reputation of being haunted. In the night one
might even hear these noises upstairs, and if one didn't
set one's common sense to work, thinking what they were,
they would sound weird enough."

" But the chattering ? " asked Honour. " Surely the
river could have nothing to do with that ? "

" One would think not," said Harned. " But it's queer
about that, anyhow, with me. When I don't hear it,
I can hardly remember what it was like. It's unreal
in one's memory — or that's the only way I can explain
its effect on my mind."

"It is much the same with me," Honour returned.
" Yet we must have heard the sound. We couldn't both
have imagined it, and not only once, but several times
over."

" Well, we've searched the whole house, except the
cellars, and we've heard it since we've been down here ;
so the chattering Thing — if there is a Thing — can't have
got away while we were looking somewhere else. We'll
make the round here, and see what we can find. I've
got a few matches that will help us out in the dark
corners."

He took from his pocket a silver match-box, and lit a
wax vesta. By the little wavering ray of light Honour
saw the box, and with a quickened beating of the heart
instantly recognised it as one that long ago had been her
father's property.

Jack Harned seemed to feel her eyes upon it. " Mr.
Brooke gave me this," he said. " It was one of his first
presents to me after I grew up and took to wandering
over the earth — I knew him, though, when I was a child.
I can hardly remember the time when I didn't know him,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 115

and I'll tell you all about our wonderful friendship some
time, if you'll let me. I wouldn't part with this match
box for anything in the world."

They went on together, and searched the cellars, finding
nothing to excite surprise or interest. There was a wine
cellar, empty save for a few broken bottles, covered with
dust, and a pile of old boxes heaped in a corner. There
were dark, cavernous spaces behind bricked archways,
and pillars or doorways without doors, and in some parts
of the cellar the subterranean gurglings and sighings were
more distinctly audible than in others ; but not again
did they hear the unhuman chattering that had disturbed
their nerves, nor did they find a locked door to rouse their
curiosity. There was nothing for it but to go into the upper
air again, confessing that the quest had failed.

Honour had scarcely thought of herself or her own
discomfort, but as she stepped out of the window which
Jack Harned had broken open, and found herself standing
in the wet grass again, the rain still falling from a dull
grey sky, she realised that she was thoroughly chilled,
her soaked dress clinging coldly to her arms and
shoulders.

Jack Harned looked at her remorsefully.

" What a brute I am not to have noticed the plight
you were in ! " he exclaimed. " I go swaggering about,
making promises of what I'd be ready to do for you if
need be, and then I deliberately let you get your death of
cold. You've got to be warmed and dried as soon as you
can, Miss Brooke, or you'll be ill — and your father wouldn't
like that."

" Ah, my father ! " Honour exclaimed, poignantly.

" I know what's in your thoughts. But if he's alive,
you must live for him, and if — your dream was true, you've
still just as strong an incentive to live. You can't drive
back to Park Lane — where your home is, I suppose —
all dripping wet like that. You've been so long enough.
You're as pale as death, and you can't keep from shivering.
Look here, are your people expecting you — will they be

n6 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

worried if you stop away a little longer ? It's only half-
past five."

" I haven't any people, except Lady St. Leger, who is
my guardian," said Honour. " She won't be very anxious,
because she thinks I'm spending the whole day with
a friend, and we don't dine till eight at home. But, of
course, I must tell her everything sooner or later, and —
I ought to go now. I don't believe I shall take cold.
It won't matter very much if I do."

" It will matter tremendously," Harned insisted, in
his pleasant voice, with its Colonial accent that Honour
could not quite place. He was hardly a gentleman in
the sense that she had been taught to mean when she spoke
the word ; at least, he had a certain crude abruptness of
manner, a haphazard way of choosing his expressions, and
his clothing was not like that of the men she knew. Still,
she felt herself absolutely disarmed from all criticism, and
the odd fascination which he exercised over her was grow
ing rather than diminishing.

" Mr. Brooke wrote that I was to come to London, and
wait for him to arrive, after which there would be certain
things he wanted me to do," Harned explained hurriedly.
" Then, if he didn't turn up by the fifth of April, I was
to come here, to this house, and ask Mr. Smith for news
of him. Well, when I arrived in London, three days ago,
I took lodgings in Hammersmith, about a mile and a half
from this place, though I didn't know then exactly where
I was to find River House. My landlady's a decent body,
and she'd dry your clothes and get you tea in half an hour,
if you'd trust me as your friend and come along with me.
Will you ? There's no use trying to find a cab, but we
can walk fast and get you warm again."

Honour hesitated only an instant. This was a curious
adventure in which she was engaged — she, whose life
for the past few years, ever since she had come to Lady
St. Leger, had been shaped to placid conventionality.
Only a day or two ago, if anyone had told her that she
would entertain the idea of going to be dried after a wetting,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 117

and comforted with tea, in the lodgings of a young man
who was practically an absolute stranger, she would have
scoffed at the suggestion. Now, however, she consented
without hesitation.

Nobody was near when they went out together from
the gate of the great desolate garden which surrounded
River House. Nobody knew that the old deserted
mansion had been broken open and ransacked from attic
to cellars — nobody, unless the Thing that chattered had
•ears as well as a tongue.

CHAPTER XVII
A MAN'S VOICE

JACK HARNED'S prophecy proved right ; they passed no
cabs ; but the rain was now no more than a drizzle ; and
though neither he nor Honour Brooke had an umbrella,
the rapid walk did the girl good, driving the chill out of
her veins, and bringing colour to her cheeks. As Harned
marched at her side, almost forcing her to keep pace with
his long, quick steps, he glanced often at her face, which —
as Honour was a tall young woman and he was not a tall
man — was nearly on a level with his own. Never had he
seen and spoken with such a girl. To him she was a prin
cess. He thought her the most perfect being he had ever
dreamed of, and it would have been a joy to throw himself
down and let her walk over him, only to keep her feet
from the mud, if in these days it were possible for men
to do such extravagant deeds for great ladies.

He had had a strange life, with no real love except that
which he had felt for Nevill Brooke, and there had been
things in it — many things — which he could not tell to
any good woman, above all to Honour Brooke ; but he
was impatient to tell her all he could, and to make the
test of his eccentric, adventurous self for her hearing.
He could hardly believe in his own luck that she should

nS THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

be treating him, after an hour's acquaintance, like a
trusted friend ; that she was going home with him ; that
she would drink his tea, warm her radiant self at his fire,
and listen, with those star-eyes bright with interest, while
he talked about himself. He knew that he did not deserve
such luck ; but then, he meant to deserve it in future.
She should never have any cause to regret trusting him.

River House was almost as isolated as if it had been
actually in the country ; but before they had walked for
fifteen minutes, these two strangely-met companions
found themselves in a more populous though still sub
urban neighbourhood. They passed through streets where
large, old-fashioned mansions and new villas and glaring
little shops shouldered each other, or gazed at one another
disapprovingly from across the way ; then to more uni
formly modern regions, where aesthetic houses of red
brick imitated the designs of older days ; and having
crossed a green where children played, despite the rain,
they entered a short street built up with semi-detached
houses of a gloomily respectable appearance. Before
one of these, which had more tasteful curtains in the front
windows than its fellows, Harned paused, opening a creaky
gate.

" My landlady, Mrs. Gates, has both these houses,"
he said, as if anxious to represent that dame as a person
worthy of Miss Brooke's confidence. " There are doors
cut between the two, but the other's let now to one family,
and I'm the only lodger in this. She's a nice old thing,
and she can make tea. She'll have you comfortable in
side five minutes."

So speaking, Harned opened the door with a latch-key.
As Honour went in, beginning to realise what an extra
ordinary thing she was doing, he tapped at the first door
in a neat passage. " This is Mrs. Oates's sitting-room,"
he said. " I'll see if she's here — but she's sure to be in,
anyhow."

He had hardly spoken when the door opened, and a
plump, smiling dame looked out. Her eyes, behind their

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 119

spectacles, flew admiringly to Honour's face, under the
pretty, drenched hat ; and by the time that Miss Brooke's
presence had been accounted for with unblushing men
dacity by Harned, Mrs. Gates would have been able, with
her eyes shut, to describe every detail of the young lady's
dress.

" Yes, indeed, miss," she said, in a soft voice, " it will
be a pleasure to do what I can for you. Would you
condescend to come into my room upstairs and take off
your things, so that they can be dried ? "

" I should be thankful," said Honour, with the smile
that always won hearts for her in a class below her own.

" And if I might make so bold as to offer the loan of
a clean white dressing-gown, miss," went on Mrs. Gates.
" Quite a clean one, with fluted ruffles. You might make
it do while you wait for your frock to be dried and ironed
out a bit."

Again Honour expressed gratitude, and Mrs. Gates,
with the air of one who entertains royalty, led the way
upstairs. Her room was at the back, on the second floor,
which was really the top of the house, and the moment
that the door was thrown open, Honour heard a voice
talking rapidly — the voice of a man, which sounded so
close at hand that involuntarily the girl looked round,
expecting to see the speaker. But the plainly-furnished
little room was unoccupied.

" Would to Heaven I could die, and it were over and
done with for ever ! " cried the voice.

Honour started and drew back, upon the threshold.
Her eyes fixed themselves on a door at the head of the
high white bed, then turned to Mrs. Gates, who nodded
reassuringly.

" Don't be frightened, miss," she whispered. " It's a
young man — a lodger in the next house — who's ill and
delirious. It's congestion of the brain," the doctor says,
" so 'tisn't as if it was anything contagious. He's well
looked after. There ain't nothing we can do that ain't
being done."

120 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" How can I bear it — all the rest of my life ? " groaned
the voice on the other side of the door.

It was a young voice, unmistakably that of a gentle
man. Broken with suffering as it was, there were deep,
sweet notes in it, that touched Honour's heart with the
pathos of a man's strength crushed to weakness. In
stinctively she felt that the unseen sufferer on the other
side of that door would have known how to hide his
emotions if his brain had controlled his body, and the fact
that his soul, drugged by delirium, was using the tongue
like a mesmerised subject to betray its own secrets, seemed
to her terrible. Never before had she heard such delirious
ravings, and the blood rushed up to her face as if she had
been eavesdropping.

" How sad ! " she exclaimed. " Oh, I can't bear to
listen ! Couldn't I go somewhere else ? "

" It's more comfortable here," said Mrs. Gates. " You
see, I'm house cleanin', as Mr. Harned is the only lodger
in Number 15, and most of the rooms is a good deal upset.
Don't you mind. He'll never know, poor dear, as anyone
heard him. Now let me help you undo your bodice,
miss."

"Is he dangerously ill ? " asked Honour, submitting
to be assisted. She could hardly take her eyes from the
door which communicated with the next room, and
sympathetic shivers ran through her as the voice begged
" Mother, darling mother," to lay a cool hand on the head
which had a " fire lighted inside."

" Oh, I do hope not, miss," said Harned 's landlady.
" It would be a pity that such a splendid young fellow
should be cut off before his prime. You never saw such
a handsome young man ! I know I never did. Mr.
Harned's got a taking way, and a dashing sort of young
gentleman he is, and you feel as if you'd known him all
your life when you've met him two hours ago. But this
other one's different. He's my idea of a young duke, or
I'll tell you what he is like, miss — the engravin' in my
sittin'-room of Lord Byron. I couldn't 'ave took 'im

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 121

into my house, if it had been let the same as usual ; but
there's an old clergyman, quite a saint, miss, has had
the whole house for the last few months — Number 16, I
mean, not Number 15, which you and me is in now. He
makes it his 'eadquarters when he is in England, which
ain't always, though he pays reg'lar as the month comes
round. The dear old gentleman is that charitable, and
often, when he's in London and comes across anybody in
trouble, wanting a night's shelter, he brings or sends 'em
here. That was the way this time. Mr. Willoughby,
he'd telegraphed me to expect him in a day or two, and
the second day after he arrived, if he didn't drive up about
six in the morning with this poor ill young gentleman in
a four-wheeled cab. It's my belief Mr. Wilioughby spends
half 'is nights among the pore and unfortn'it, doin' good ;
not that he ever makes a boast of it. But, says he, when
I'd come down in my wrapper and unlocked the door, ' Mrs.
Gates,' says he, ' here's a pore fellow I found lyin' ill in
the street. The perlice would 'ave it he was under the
hinfluence of liquor, and would 'ave taken 'im hoff to the
station ; but I'm a bit of a doctor, and I knew better.
After an argyment, they let me 'ave him, seein' my cloth,
and I'm goin' out again now to engage a nurse to take care
of him.' With that, the blessed saint was off — or he was
when we'd got the young gentleman upstairs and into
bed ; and in an hour he was back with a nurse, one of them
in uniform, you know."

" Is the nurse with him still ? " asked Honour, who
by this time had been put into the promised dressing-
gown. Through Mrs. Oates's chatter, she heard the ravings
from the next room. The delirious man believed himself
to be at Monte Carlo now. He was talking about the
faces — the terrible face there.

" Well, she's in the house," said the landlady, in her
unctuously confidential tones ; " but the queer part is,
miss, the young gentleman couldn't seem to abide 'avin'
her near him. This door here — in my room — it's fastened
up now, and hasn't been used for months, though I had it

122 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

cut through for accommodation to some lodgers when I
first took on both the 'ouses. But, anyhow, I can hear
things that plain in the next room, as you can judge, miss,
and I mostly talks in sort of whisper when anyone's
with me here. I 'appened to be in this room when
Mr. Willoughby brought in the nurse, or I come up to
change me dress a few minutes after ; and though the
young gentleman was out of 'is mind with the fever, just
as he is now ('twas only yesterday morning — April the
fifth — miss), he seemed to take a sort of 'orror for the nurse.
He kep' on sayin' things about 'er cars — I couldn't quite
understand what — and raved so that she couldn't stay
in the room — though a handsomer young woman than
she is, with such wonderful hauburn 'air, you'd 'ave to
go a long way to see, miss. But perhaps she reminded 'im
of someone he'd known. Anyhow, although Mr. Wil
loughby explained to me that, as she was engaged, it
wouldn't be honourable to discharge her at an hour's
notice, and he'd keep her on in the 'ouse, another nurse had
to be fetched as well — an elderly person, recommended
by the doctor. The new nurse waits on the patient, and
the other does what she can outside the room, so the illness
makes no hextra work for me or my servant ; but that's
just like Mr. Willoughby, dear old gentleman — always
thinkin' for others. I bless the day he 'appened to see
my hadvertisement, and come to look 'ere for lodgings."

" Dead — dead ! Can it be that he is dead ? " groaned
the voice in the next house.

" Maybe the poor young gentleman has lost his father
or someone he was fond of," suggested Mrs. Gates, seeing
her guest start and glance at the door again.

" Lost his father ! " Honour echoed, in a half whisper.
Her heart went out to the sufferer, longing to do something
for him. Of course there was nothing, yet she wished
that she could help and she knew that, though only a
strange chance had brought her for a few moments near to
this shadowed life — like a passing of ships in the night —
she would not be able to shut the sound of that voice out

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 123

of her ears, would not be satisfied unless she might learn
in days to come whether the young man who " looked
like Lord Byron," and had perhaps " lost his father,"
lived or died of his fever.

The girl had been impatient to begin her talk with
Jack Harned, but now she went down with a divided
mind, half of herself seeming to have lingered in the room
with the closed door.

Mrs. Gates, holding over her arm the dress, jacket, and
hat which were to be dried, threw open the door for Honour
to go out into the passage, and so downstairs ; but on
the threshold the girl turned. The voice in the next house
was speaking again. " For honour — for honour ! " it
cried. And Honour Brooke had an impression that the
call was for her.

CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT JACK HARNED HAD TO TELL

IN Mrs. Oates's sitting-room Jack Harned was waiting.
He had thought her the most beautiful girl he had ever
seen from the first moment of their meeting ; but he had
scarcely realised how lovely she was until he saw her
bronze hair uncovered ; while as for Mrs. Oates's dressing-
gown, which Honour had fastened round her slim waist,
with her own gold belt, it was more exquisite than any
Worth " confection " in the eyes of Jack Harned.

The girl smiled in an embarrassed way, for the situation
was a curious one, and then her gaze, straying round the
sitting-room, with its cheap furniture and tasteless orna
ments, was suddenly arrested by the picture of Lord Byron
of which the landlady had spoken.

The handsome face, with the dark, passionate eyes, the
splendid forehead, beautiful mouth, and determined chin
set haughtily on the strong throat were familiar to her ;
yet now she saw them with new eyes. The man who lay
raving upstairs — dying, it might be — looked like that.

124 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

She could scarcely concentrate her attention upon her com
panion's first words, for thinking of the portrait and the
resemblance.

Harned was begging her to come closer to the fire,
which, while she had been changing her things, he had
lighted in the grate.

" Tea will be here in a minute," he said, all eagerness to
entertain his guest in an adequate manner — a manner
which would not cause her to despise him and secretly
think him an alien.

As he spoke, Mrs. Oates's maid of all work appeared.
In her red hands she carried a napkin-covered tray, set out
with a brown teapot, a plate of thick bread and butter,
a cake, and two cups painted with very small birds and
very large roses.

It was as exciting as a strain of music to Jack Harned to
watch Honour pour out tea, to hear her ask if he liked
cream and sugar. What a princess she was ! Could it be
true that she was here alone with him, or was he dream
ing ? He had just enough presence of mind to strive after
effectiveness, to try and make the story he had to tell as dra
matic, as picturesque as possible, so that he might hold her
breathless, her great brown eyes fixed upon him as he
talked.

He told her how his first recollections had been of Spain,
and a beautiful, dark-eyed woman, who had alternately
petted and scolded him. Then came a blank ; the woman
disappeared out of his life. He was at school in a monas
tery, with brown-robed, bare-footed monks as teachers ;
he was called " Juan," and he knew that his destiny was to
be a priest. But one day a tall, handsome man came to
the monastery, and took him on his knee, talking to him
kindly and stroking his hair. There was much discussion
between the monks and this man, to which the boy lis
tened with a beating heart, for somehow, though he did
not understand or even hear much that was said, he was
aware that his whole future depended on the decision.
At last the man asked if he wished to spend his life at the

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 125

monastery until he grew up, or if he would like to go out
into the world and see other countries. The boy had, with
emotional exceptions, been resigned to his fate ; but sud
denly he knew that he could not bear to stop when the
tall, handsome stranger went away, and he begged that
he might go with him.

He was only four years old then, but he remembered
a long journey with the man, who was very kind, and
said his name was Nevill Brooke, but that he was to
be called " Guardy." By and by the boy was told that
Nevill Brooke had been a friend of his father and of his
mother, whom he would never see any more — such a
friend that he meant to undertake the charge of the boy's
future. Perhaps they might not see each other often ;
but Jack (the boy was " Jack "• now, no longer " Juan ")
must always remember that Guardy was thinking of him,
doing the best he could for his welfare.

They went to Australia together, and there, at Mel
bourne, Jack had grown up. After parting with Nevill
Brooke, they never met again until Jack was nineteen,
but letters had always been exchanged, and the boy was
told by the people with whom he lived that to Mr. Brooke
he owed everything — his education, the very bread he ate,
and the clothes he wore.

" I didn't see your father in Melbourne the next time,?i
said Jack Harned. " I knew he was in South Africa,
because of his letters, and I ran away from home, and
worked my way there, to meet him. I had some queer ex
periences on the way, partly as a common sailor, partly
as a tramp, partly as an actor in a ' barn-storming * com
pany, when I had to ride a ' bucking-horse J on to the
stage, and speak three lines.

" I hadn't let Mr. Brooke know I was coming, for I
was sure he'd tell me to stay at home, where I'd just gone
into a solicitor's office, and had a chance to get on. But
I hated the law. I was born to be a vagabond — it was in
my blood.

" Well, I found your father in Kimberley, and he

126 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

shrugged his shoulders and laughed when he heard the
story. After that, there are lots of things that I can't tell
you about. I'm afraid I was a disappointment to your
father, but he never failed in his kindness, and, in spite of
some awful scrapes I got into in South Africa, he wouldn't
give me up. Wherever he went — that was nearly six
years ago — he always wrote to me ; and I believe he
trusted me, in a way, though I don't think I gave him much
cause.

" I made money in South Africa, out of some he lent,
and I've been half over the world since. The last time I
saw my best friend, your father, was in Calcutta, nearly
two years ago. From there I went to Japan, from Japan
to Egypt, from Egypt to Tangier ; and this is the first
time I've been in England, though the little I know about
myself is that my father was an Englishman, a sort of
rolling stone, whose tendencies I've inherited, and my
mother a Spanish woman, with whom he fell in love in
Madrid."

" And my father wished you to come to England ? "
asked Honour. " He wrote to you to meet him here ? "

" Yes. His last letter said that he had very important
information to give me, something which he ought to have

told me long ago, something which " The young man

checked himself, stammering, and flushing all over his
pale, reckless face, from forehead to chin.

" Why don't you finish ? " questioned the girl, gravely.
" Please tell me his words. I know he would be willing."

" Well, his words were that he had something to tell
which had ' been on his conscience for a long time, and
now he wanted to get it off ' — that's all. But, of course,
it couldn't have really been anything that need have
troubled his conscience, for I'd stake my soul that Nevill
Brooke never did a dishonourable action in his life. Any
how, in England I was to hear something to my advan
tage, and meet him at a place he appointed, at about
midnight, on the night of April the fourth. If he didn't
come then or at the same time the next night, I was to

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 127

apply to Mr. Smith, at a place called River House, in
Hammersmith."

" And he did not come ? " breathed Honour.

" No, he did not come."

" And don't you feel that I — that we — have great cause
to be anxious ? "

" Yes," said Jack, slowly. " I'm afraid I do."

Honour looked him in the face, and spoke out sharply :
" You have some special reason for feeling so — something
more than I know. What is it ? "

Jack could not meet her eyes. " Only that Nevill Brooke
was the sort of man to keep his word if he had to move
heaven and earth to do it ; and, besides

" Besides — what ? "

" Well, he gave me to understand in his letter that —
that it would have gone hard with him if he didn't turn
up on the night of the fourth or fifth at latest."

" He said that you were to take it for granted that evil
had befallen him if he did not come ? "

" Well, something of that sort."

" Will you — show me the letter ? "

" I'd — rather not, if you don't mind, Miss Brooke."

"That means, if 'you let me see it, I should be more
anxious than I am ? "

" Partly. And there's no use in your worrying till we're
sure. Lots of things may have delayed him — things he
couldn't have counted on. We'll wait and —

" Wait ! " Honour echoed him with astonished in
dignation.

" Oh, I don't mean to wait in idleness. I've done a lot
of things in my life, and turned my hand to queer trades,
but I've never tried being a detective. I wish I had —
it might make things easier. However, I shall have a shy
at it. I'm going to find out where and when Nevill Brooke
was last seen, and whether he came to London."

" What clues have you ? " Honour asked, eagerly.

" We've got River House, and the name of Smith,
though Smith himself we don't seem to have got yet."-

128 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Did my father say anything to you about his solicitor
in the Temple — Mr. Harvey Kane ? "

Jack shook his head, and Honour wondered why she
had been told to go first to the Temple, while Jack Harned's
instructions had only sent him to Hammersmith.

" How can I bear the waiting ? " she sighed. And, as
she spoke, her thoughts flew again to the man whose
voice she had heard. Some trouble was eating his heart
out, too, a trouble which he thought that he would have
to bear " all the rest of his life.'1 She wondered if it could
be as hard to bear as hers. *•

" I hope you won't have to wait long,'* said Jack. " I
want to stay in England, and find out what I can. But I
shall employ some one to go out to India, if we don't
get hold of an unmistakable clue here, in the course of
a day or two."

" It will cost a great deal, won't it, to hire a detective ? "
Honour asked, diffidently. " I ought to be the one to
bear the expense, for I am his daughter. I don't know
whether I have much money or not, for Lady St. Leger
will never talk to me about it — she says business dis
cussions are not for me until I am of age. But I always
have everything I want — more, indeed — so I suppose
dad must have arranged a good income for me, which
Lady St. Leger spends for my dress, and so on, giving me
what is left for my pocket-money. If dad hadn't said I wasn't
even to tell her that he meant to come to England, I could get
something from her to put into your hands ; but if I can't
explain what I want money for, it may be difficult "

" Look here, Miss Brooke," broke in Jack Harned, " it
hurts me for you to talk that way. If Mr. Brooke had
been my father I couldn't love him better than I do, or
owe him more. His money supported me till I could earn
my own living, and it wasn't his fault that I haven't earned
it in a better way. He saved me from being a Catholic
priest — the sort of life I was least fitted for, and should
have disgraced myself in, sure as fate, besides being mad
with despair, too late, il I'd been forced into it. I've got

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 129

money enough, and though you might think it hadn't been
honestly come by, anyhow, it's mine, which is the same
as his ; and if anything could wipe oil the stain — what
you'd call the stain — it would be spending it in a good
cause. You let me undertake the expenses, such as they
may be, of this campaign, if you don't want to make me
the most miserable fellow alive. You will do this for me,
won't you ? "

Jack Harned, despite his roughness and crudeness of
manner, had a winning way of asking a favour.

"I'll think about it,"- said Honour, with a sad little
smile. " Thank you for being so good to — my father's
daughter. I'm glad you are going to stop in England.-
I can't do much, but I shall feel we are working together.
And you will come every day, won't you, to tell me all
you have done ? "-

Jack flushed. " That's the thing I'd like best," he said,
" but — I'm not of the Park Lane cut, and your guardian
might want to show me the door."

" Now you hurt me"- exclaimed Honour. " Lady St:
Leger isn't like that. I mustn't tell her yet how we met,
since I can't let her know that my father was expected,
and I found you while trying to get news of him. But
you are to call, and say that you were my father's friend.
He did speak to you of me ? '-'•

" Yes, he said he had a dear daughter, whose name was
Honour, and that he loved her better than the whole
world. But — he never told me he wanted us to meet. I
— in fact, I'm not sure he did want it."-

" He loved you, too, and Fate has brought us together,'-1
Honour answered, not guessing how Jack Harned's heart
thumped at the words, which might be thought to mean
so much. " You must come and see me," she went on,
" and tell me everything. It will be enough for Lady
St. Leger that you were my father's friend. And I — will
welcome you for yourself, too." She could not help
adding that, for his face looked so wistful. It lighted
up, then clouded over again.

5

130 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" There are things you ought to know about me, before
I take you at your word," he said, almost sullenly. " I'm
not the sort of fellow you're used to. Why, the very way
I've made my money, since I was old enough to refuse to
live on your father, is enough to set you against me. I'm
a born gambler. I believe I'd gamble on my death-bed.
The first ' scoop * I ever made, if you know what a scoop
means, was to buy land in Kimberley without having a
penny to pay for it. A fellow trusted me, because I was
a sort of pal of your father's, and I knew I could sell the
land for a lot more than I should have to pay, and I did.
I got the money from the buyer twenty-four hours before
I was obliged to pay, and I made two hundred pounds.
I was a kid, you know — only eighteen ; and pulling it off
like that seemed to go to my head. I went in for poker
after that, with a lot of older chaps, and we played for
big stakes. Luck was with me, and I made something.
My next deal was to go in with a fellow who wanted
to build a town. We hadn't a penny between us, but we
promised shares to the builders instead of money down,
and somehow or other we worked it through, though we
were pretty near being arrested for swindlers once or
twice. You can imagine Mr. Brooke read me lectures, for
he thought I'd come to a bad end ; but even his influence
wasn't enough to keep me out of mischief. I've done
almost everything, from being croupier in what you'd
call ' gambling dens ' to shipping lions over from Africa to
circus people, and making money on the job. I've been
on my uppers one day. and given a dinner to an Indian
maharajah the next. And there are lots of other queer
transactions, shadier than any I've confessed to you;
Now don't you want to reconsider your invitation to Lady
St. Leger's house in Park Lane ? You know, if you do,
I can send you all the news I get by letter."

" No, I don't want to reconsider," said Honour. " I
think that you and I are going to be friends."

Jack Harned's eyes flashed, but, instead of speaking,
he held out his hand for Honour's. She gave it to him, and

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 131

just managed not to utter a little cry of pain when he
crushed her rings into her fingers.

" I'd die for you, Miss Brooke ! "• he exclaimed, boyishly.

"Don't talk of dying," the girl answered. " We have
too much to do — together."

With this, the door of Mrs. Gates 's sitting-room opened.
Half an hour had been spent in drying and pressing Miss
Brooke's dress and jacket, and they were ready for her
to put on. Honour sprang up at once, for it was half -past
six, and if she were not at home to dress for the eight
o'clock dinner, Lady St. Leger would be anxious, and send
to inquire at Queen Anne's Mansions.

In fifteen minutes Honour was clothed in her own gar
ments again, only the hat and gloves the worse for their
drenching. When she had thanked Mrs. Gates for the
third time, and was going out with Harned to the cab
which had been called by the little servant, a woman,
attracted by the unwonted sound of wheels in the quiet
street, peeped between the half-drawn curtains of an
upper window.

She saw the slender figure of the girl in the grey frock
passing out of the gate ; she saw the coils of bronze hair
under the drooping hat ; and at that instant, as if drawn
by the eyes fixed upon her, Honour turned, glancing up at
the house. She caught the gleam of a pair of eyes between
the curtains, without being able to distinguish the features ;
but her face, turned over her shoulder, the great brown
eyes gazing up, made a picture on the retina of the watcher.

The woman started back, drawing the curtains close
together.

" The girl in the locket ! 'l she said, aloud. " Here !
What can have brought her here ? "-

132 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XIX

A FOLDED NEWSPAPER

RONALD CHARTERIS was ill with congestion of the brain for
a fortnight. For several days of that fortnight he raved
constantly, and even when he came to himself, in an un
familiar room, with a kindly-faced, middle-aged nurse in
a grey uniform attending upon his wants, he could not at
first believe that the strange and dreadful things which
crept back into his memory were real. He prayed that
they might be only dreams among other dreams ; but,
as he grew better, and youth and a splendid constitution
began to triumph over that fever of the brain produced
by shock and an overdose of a powerful drug, he could no
longer put the truth away from him. He had to face it,
and he had to live on with the belief in his heart that he
had killed a man.

The picture of the dead face, as it had lain on the floor
of that bare, lighted room in the old house at Hammer
smith, was always before his eyes when consciousness
had fully come back, or else another thought, still more
horrible — the awful memory of what had been done after
wards in the cellar.

He could see the tall form of the dead man wrapped in
one of the rugs which had lain on the floor, near the place
where he had first fallen. He could feel the heavy weight
as he and Mr. Willoughby together had carried the body
through dim passage after dim passage, then with great
difficulty down a narrow stairway to the vast, vaulted
cellar where a gurgling murmur of unseen water was like
an accusing spirit whisper in his ears. He could hear Mr.
Willoughby checking his surprise at finding a long, narrow

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 133

hole like a grave, already dug, with the explanation that
the work had been done while he slept after drinking the
brandy which had been given him. He could hear, also,
the soft fall of the loose earth as, with a great spade and
a shovel, which Mr. Willoughby said had been found in
an outhouse, they covered the body wrapped in the Indian
rug.

Suddenly, as they had worked, into the murmur of the
water had broken another sound — a curious chattering,
which carried with it a startling impression of something
unhuman. It was the same sound that Ronald had heard
in the villa at Monte Carlo ; and though, down in the
mysterious darkness of that Hammersmith cellar, engaged
in the grim work of concealing a crime which he believed
to be his own, he had felt amazement only for a moment,
in recollecting the thing was astonishing, even horrifying.

When he was strong enough to talk, the nurse asked
him if he would like to see the kind old clergyman who
had given him hospitality during his illness. Mr. Willough
by asked after his health very often, said Sister Mostyn,
and would be glad to come into the sick-room for a chat
whenever he might be wanted. Indeed, the nurse had
the highest opinion of Mr. Willoughby's nobility of char
acter. She had been given to understand that her patient
was practically a stranger to his host, who had taken him
in entirely out of charity ; yet if the young man had been
a beloved son, he could not have been better looked after.
A first-rate doctor had been called in, her own and another
nurse's services had been engaged, and she had been told
that whatever was desirable should be provided, regard
less of expense. All these things were repeated to Ronald
by Sister Mostyn, and it was from her that he learned
whose guest he had been through his illness.

He hated the thought of having to see Mr. Willoughby,
for to do so would mean 'that there must be reference to
what had happened in the old house in Hammersmith.
But he told himself that this reluctance to speak of the
past was cowardly, and must be overcome. As soon as he

134 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

felt able to bear the strain, he said to Sister Mostyn that he
would see his host, and Mr. Willoughby promptly availed
himself of the invitation.

The sight of the white face, framed with still whiter hair
and beard, the full, moist, red lips, and the half-hidden
gleam of eyes behind their concealing spectacles, was
abhorrent to Ronald now, for it was a reminder of the
tragedy which must wreck his whole future ; but he re
proached himself for the feeling of repulsion which seemed
so heartlessly ungrateful after all Mr. Willoughby's goodness
to him; He had every reason to think of the old clergy
man as a marvellously kind and charitable person, and
he tried to stammer thanks, but Mr. Willoughby waved them
away with a mild, denying gesture.

" Don't thank me, my dear young friend," he said, gently.
" In a way I feel myself responsible for the terrible misfor
tune which has overtaken you, and what little I have
done and am doing is no more than my duty. You have
been continually in my mind since that dreadful night a
fortnight ago, and at last I think I have hit upon a plan
for your benefit. But tell me, first, have you thought
much lately of your future ? "

" I have looked at it," said Ronald, bitterly, " as one
looks at a building which has been struck by lightning in
the night and brought to ruin. I'm next door to being
penniless, and I've scarcely heart to set to work and earn
my livelihood when life seems so little worth living. Still,
I've got to brace myself up to it, and I shall somehow,
for I don't want to be coward enough to follow one crime
by another, and take my own life."

Mr. Willoughby drew a folded newspaper from his
pocket, his eyes bright and shifty, with an unpleasant
humorousness behind his spectacles. But Ronald did not
see. " There's something here I have been waiting to
show you,"- he said, in his softest voice. " Something
which may concern you, and even be of the greatest
importance."-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 135

CHAPTER XX

RONALD'S 'WORK

THE old man's hand, which looked singularly young
and firm for his age, glided down the paper — unfolded
now — until the pointing index finger stopped at a para
graph in the personal column.

" ' If Sir Ronald Charteris, last heard of as a Volunteer
in the Imperial Yeomanry in South Africa, will apply to
Messrs Everett and Johnston, solicitors, Savoy Mansions,
he may learn something to his advantage,' " Mr. Willoughby
read aloud. " Now, the question is," he remarked, looking
up sharply, " are you Sir Ronald Charteris, or has this
advertisement been inserted to attract the attention of
some namesake of yours ? "

Ronald laughed rather bitterly.

" Oh, the title's mine, fast enough ! It's about my only
possession — not a very solid one."

" You have been letting me address you as Mr. Charteris/'
said the other.

" What did it matter ? Wouldn't you have thought
me even more of a fool than you did if I had asked you
not to ' Mister ' me, because my poor father had left me
his title — the one thing remaining to him which wasn't
gone in the big smash ? "

" Well, it is of no consequence," replied Mr. Willoughby,
soothingly. " Only, of course, I didn't know. You told
me you had lost your money "

" Yes, I thought when I got to the Riviera a few weeks
ago — Heavens ! it seems years ! — that I should have
enough to rub along with, though the small estate which
had been home to me as a boy was not entailed, and had

136 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

been sold years ago when my father was in a tight place.
My mother's money had come to me, however, on my
father's death, what there was left of it, but as I told you,
the bank which had everything went to bits, and I only
heard of my loss when I had come from South Africa to
the Riviera to recruit. Then, with the little I had in hand,
I made a fool of myself, as you know, in the mad hope of
turning that little into much. Penniless and humiliated,
ready to throw myself in the sea — was that the time to
assert my paltry right to be called ' Sir,' by the man who
saved my almost worthless life ? "

" Perhaps it is no wonder that your title seemed of
small importance to you/' said the old man. " Never
theless, you are Sir Ronald, and so I must call you in
future, unless, indeed, you intend to hide yourself from the
world and take another name ? '•'-

" Since I must go on living, or be a coward, would to
Heaven I could hide myself from the world ! " exclaimed
Ronald.

-" Would it not be nobler to try and do it all the good
you could accomplish, by way of atonement for — your
great misfortune ? And doesn't it strike you that this
paragraph may open the way towards such an end ? l?

" You mean that I may have come into some more
money, which, if I chose, I might use for the benefit of
others as unhappy as myself ? '-'

•' You have exactly guessed my meaning," said Mr.
Willoughby. •" How does the idea strike you ? "

Ronald was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he
answered :

" I am to ' learn something which may be to my ad
vantage.' That's what the advertisement says. It may
be money. If it is, it can only come from one source, I
should think — a source to which I would never have
applied, no matter how low an ebb my fortunes had reached.
I have a cousin, an elderly lady, who was very good to
me when I was a boy at school, and who used to tell me
then, very injudiciously, that when she died I was to have

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 137

everything that was hers. But she was a dear old Puritan,
and I had the misfortune to shock and grieve her as I
grew older. She wrote to me once — a long time ago now
— in answer to a letter of mine, to say that, after the
way I had conducted myself, she was so disappointed in
me she did not wish ever to see or hear from me again.
I'm afraid that some of my ways had been rather too
reckless to commend themselves to a dear old maiden
lady who had lived all her life in one small village. Still,
I had nothing very serious on my conscience, and naturally
I was hurt, and took her at her word. I'd always
a sneaking idea that, if I chose to write a penitent sort of
letter, she wouldn't bear a grudge against me, but I could
never have brought myself to do it, especially for the sake
of getting anything out of my poor little old cousin. Now,
she may have died and left me something, after all, though
it hardly seems probable "•

" To me it seems the most probable thing in the world,'*
broke in Mr. Willoughby, " and I should certainly advise
you, as soon as you are strong enough, to call upon the
solicitors who have inserted this paragraph. You must
have money, if you are to live, and here it may be waiting
for you. Besides, I have a plan by which, if it commends
itself to you, you would be able to do a good work in the
world. We should labour side by side in the vineyard,
where the grapes are men's souls."

Ronald felt again that there was something brutal in
his own callousness. He strove again to be grateful,
and could not. He did not wish to spend the rest of
his life near this man ; but because be believed the man
to be good, and because he believed also that he owed
him much, he forced himself to answer cordially, asking
to hear the plan.

" I am old, and need a helper," said Mr. Willoughby.
" I spend my money freely in my work, which is no credit
to me, for I have few personal needs. But what I have
is a mere drop in the bucket — the deep, deep bucket of
misery, which it is my object to relieve. Your money — if

138 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

you become possessed of any — will be a drop in the bucket,
too. Yet we can but do our best. Would it not comfort
you, my poor boy, to feel that you were doing something
for others even more unhappy than yourself ? Would not
such a life-work be a suitable atonement for your sin — if
sin it may be called ? "-

" If I am fit to engage in such a work," Ronald answered
wearily. " Tell me what you propose that I should
do."

" I propose that you take, furnish, and preside over
one or two houses which can be homes for penniless
wretches until they can find their lost footing again.
What if they are not ' deserving ' ? Would we be de
serving if we had been overwhelmed by the black tidal
wave of misfortune which has swept so many once well-
meaning men off their feet ? No ! The charity which opens
its arms only to the ' deserving '• does not merit the name
of charity. I propose to appeal to the black sheep, and
that our effort shall be, with the help of a Higher Power,
to whiten them. Your part would be the hardest, perhaps,
according to my plan, for I have already more work than
I can well attend to, and can scarcely take up another heavy
burden. You would take houses in the poorer parts of
London — as many as you could afford afterwards to keep
up. You would furnish them very simply, after the manner
of lodging-houses. You would cause it to become known
that if a man were out of work, friendless, hopeless, you
would invite him in and aid him to get honest employment.
It would be there that my part would come in. I have
resources for finding work tor industrious men. I am
particularly interested in those who have just been re
leased from serving a term in prison. No doubt, in your
sad circumstances, my poor friend, that class of unfortunate
would appeal to you also. But for the fact that your secret
will be kept, and despite the real innocence of your heart,
even a worse fate would await you."-

A chill ran through the young man's veins, and he
felt that he hated the soft, insinuating voice. But it

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 139

was wickedly ungrateful to hate it ; and, as a matter
of fact, the plan roughly mapped out by Mr. Willoughby
was one well calculated to interest him in his present
mood. He felt himself a pariah. His heart might be
innocent ; nevertheless, his hands were stained with
blood, and nothing — save, possibly, a long atonement —
con Id wash the stain away. He had killed a man, and
with that knowledge corroding his brain, though it might
remain a secret from all the world, he could not mix with
men or with women, as of old. Life as he had known it
was over for him, and there was left out of the wreck
but one thing in which he could truly rejoice. He was
glad that he had fought for his country in her time of
trouble ; and some day he would be glad if, through
this old clergyman, he could do good among the poor who
were always near him.

He promised that, as soon as he was able to walk out
unassisted, he would go to the solicitors who had advertised
for him, and learn what they had to tell that was to his
" advantage.'1

At the end of three days he kept tne promise, and a
beautiful, auburn-haired woman watched him leave the
house, as she had watched Honour Brooke leave it, more
than a fortnight ago.

It was as he had half-expected. His cousin, Miss Fox-
Strangeways, had died and left him forty thousand pounds.
This was scarcely a fortune, but, if he had never gone
to the terrible house in Hammersmith, he would have con
sidered himself very lucky to have come into such a sum.
As it was, he hardly thought of himself in connection with
the money, for, by this time, Mr. Willoughby 's idea had
been more fully elaborated, and he was possessed with
it. He felt that the hope of doing some good in the world
was the one thing to preserve him from a melancholy
madness worse than death. Almost he forgot his unreason
ing dislike of his old benefactor when he came home to tell
what he had learned, and to plan how the money should
be disposed of. Mr Willoughby was greatly interested,

140 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

and efficient in advice. He fired Ronald with his own
enthusiasm, until the young man could scarcely wait to
get affairs in train.

Messrs. Everett and Johnston, the solicitors, were
deferentially curious as to Sir Ronald Charteris' intentions ;
but the young man did not satisfy their curiosity. He
was courteous, thanked them for all they had done, and
removed his legacy from their charge. Mr. Willoughby
mildly suggested investing the forty thousand pounds to
the best advantage for his young friend, but on that point
Ronald took his own way. He did not distrust the old
clergyman's good faith, but he had his own ideas concerning
investments. After his late experience, the somewhat
speculative plans put forward by Mr. Willoughby for this
money, which Ronald now regarded as a trust, did not
appeal to him as they would a short time ago. As soon
as the elder man saw, however, that his suggestions were not
favourably received, he ceased to make them, and did not
even inquire how the forty thousand pounds were to be
managed. He brought his attention to bear upon helping
the young man to choose the house in which the good work
was to be begun. Already, it seemed, he had one in his
mind — a fair-sized house in a street lying between White-
chapel and Islington. He took Ronald to see it, dwelt
upon its advantages of situation and size, and the same
day it was decided upon. Three days later the furnishing
had been rushed through, and Ronald was tired out, but
with a healthier fatigue than he had known for weeks.
Sometimes, for a few moments, he forgot, and was almost
happy, in helping to put up blinds, paint floors, and choose
the books which were to form his guests' library. He
even bought a few engravings for the walls, because he
wanted to make the place look home-like for the poor
wretches who had never known a home, or had missed
it for long.

The plan was not only to visit prison-gates in the early
morning, but to haunt the embankments and the parks,
at hours when the sleepers on the seats were ordered to

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 141

" move on." Men who had " done time,'-- and felt that the
hand of their fellow-man was against them ; men who had
sinned ; men who were weak ; men who were discouraged
— all were to be fish for the net of Ronald Charteris and
Mr. Willoughby ; and when the first house was full, and
successful according to this plan, Ronald had calculated
that, with an income of about two thousand pounds a
year, he could afford to support two or three more places of
the kind, carefully and economically run.

His was the work of going forth into the by-ways
and hedges — such work as Mr. Willoughby professed
to have done for years in Monte Carlo and nearer home ;
and the mingled suspicion and gratitude of the men to
whom he made his offer struck at his heart. Disinterested
kindness seemed the one thing that they could not under
stand ; but they never refused to accept his generosity.
Sulkily, humorously, cynically, or stupidly, they in
variably followed him. They were fed and housed for a
day, and then sent to Mr. Willoughby, who guaranteed to
find them work. Strangely enough, though many of
Ronald's recruits seemed to be the very off-scouring of the
earth, they appeared as ready to accommodate themselves
to the kind old clergyman's ideas of honest toil as to their
first friend's arrangement for their comfort. Ronald was
surprised at this, for he had supposed that the difficulty
in the scheme would be to make lazy men industrious.
He was also surprised at the indefinable change in the
manner of his proteges to him after they had been inter
viewed and provided for by Mr. Willoughby.

At first, on seeing the temporary home provided for
them, their suspicion usually changed into something like
wondering gratitude. They apparently regarded Ronald
as an unknown creature of another sphere, who was not
to be comprehended, but might be admired — in fact a
philanthropist pure and simple, whose sympathy it would
be politic to win. But, after a call on Mr. Willoughby
at the house where Ronald had lain ill, all was changed.
The meanest sycophant no longer whined to Ronald,

142 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

telling tales of his own misunderstood virtue in the past.
The men said little, but there was a curious new boldness
in their eyes when regarding their young benefactor.
Ronald did not fail to see the change, but was unable to
account for it, and it was too indefinable to admit of
questioning.

If a man were without family or home, he was allowed
to use the place in Oswell Road as a lodging-house if he
chose, even when he had obtained work, in such a case
paying a small v/eekly sum, in accordance with the wages
he said that he was getting. But most of Ronald's strange
guests departed when they had got what they wanted ;
and Mr. Willoughby's facilities for obtaining all kinds of
employment for all kinds of persons seemed marvellous
to the younger man. The old clergyman, however, ex
plained it humbly by saying that he knew everybody in
London who was interested in charitable or industrial
associations, and, as he had given up many years to this
sort of thing, it would be far more strange if by this time
he had not thoroughly mastered his work.

So Ronald was satisfied, and the weeks went on. But
liis heart was heavy. His very youth, and natural longings
for life as it had been in brighter days, made life as it was
now harder to bear. If even one or two of the men whom
he brought under his roof had continued to show real
gratitude or affection for him there would have been balm
for his wounds. But always, as soon as they were provided
for — which generally happened almost immediately — that
strange and subtle change set in. It was well-nigh as if
the pensioners upon his bounty had been inoculated with
a sneering, half-amused contempt for him, which they
dared not put into words.

Sir Ronald Charteris began to be known, and talked of
here and there, as a young man who had chosen an ex
tremely original mode of life for one of his class and record.
Perhaps the solicitors through whom he had received his
legacy were the ones to set the ball rolling ; but — be
that as it might — a garbled version of his story was dis-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 143

cussed and gossipped over in more sets than one as the
summer went on. He was remarkably handsome ; he
was young and well-born ; he was brave, for he had fought
through the war, been honourably mentioned in despatches
and invalided home. Now, he had had a fortune left him
— the amount was wildly exaggerated — and, instead of
spending it on his own pleasure, had gone to live in a slum
and devoted himself to helping the poor.

By and by, Lady St. Leger heard the tale, and seized
upon it with interest for she had known both Ronald's
father and uncle, and the girl both men had fallen in love
with had been at school with her and Honour Brooke's
mother.

" Your mother and Gladys Wray were our two beauties/'
she said to Honour, hoping to rouse the girl, who had
been drooping of late. " They had their photographs taken
together, and we all clamoured to have one. We three
• — your mother, Gladys Wray, and I — kept up our friend
ship for several years after we all left school. Poor Gladys
loved one brother, and married the other to please her
parents. She died when her child was born, and I lost
sight of the Chart crises, who went more or less down in
the world, owing to extravagance and bad management
of their property. But I should like to see this son of
Gladys. I believe I'll write to him, and ask him to
dinner. He's chosen such an original way of becoming a
celebrity that he must get lots of letters from strangers,
and I'm not quite that to him."

So Lady St. Leger wrote ; but she did not take Loris
St. Leger, whom she saw often now, into her confidence.
She was inclined to fancy that he was jealous of other
men who came to the house, and she thought she knew
why, and was pleased. Still, she did not see why she should
deny her curiosity the gratification of meeting Ronald
Charteris. Presently came an answer — a pleasant and
grateful answer. Ronald would have liked much to meet
his mother's friend, and sent her thanks for remembering
him. But — he could not get away from his work. He

144 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

went nowhere any more. He was, he said, scarcely
civilised. Lady St. Leger, who was not used to having
her invitations treated with indifference, was hurt and
piqued, despite the grateful tone of the letter. But Honour
— to whom it was given to read — was touched by the note
of suppressed sadness which Lady St. Leger had not found
there. " That man is very unhappy, and dreadfully
lonely,"- the girl said to herself.

Somehow of late, she knew, by a quick, sympathetic
instinct, when people hid sorrow or anxiety under a smile.
It was, she thought, as if she were a receiver for messages
of sadness, carried by wireless telegraphy from all those
who came near her in her daily life ; and the reason was
not hard to guess. Because her own soul was troubled,
its door was open to thought-waves which a little while
ago would have passed on elsewhere. She began to think
rather often of this Ronald Charteris, who had given up
his youth to such a brave work in the world, and she envied
him because he was of use. She could do nothing —
nothing — not even help Jack Harned to find out what had
become of her father.

Jack had been introduced to Lady St. Leger now, as
a protege of Nevill Brooke's. He was not " her sort/-*
although he had been to a Bond Street tailor and had had
his outer man made to resemble that of other visitors to
the little house in Park Lane. But she was kind to him
for Honour's sake, and the girl and the young man were
allowed many long half-hours together, talking over the
one subject which occupied Honour's heart and mind.
There was no danger, Lady St. Leger was sure, that the
beautiful, fastidious girl whom she had brought up would
fall in love with such a rough, crude-mannered young fellow.
Besides, she had been told something of the bond of
interest which drew the two together. Jack Harned and
Honour had decided to respect Nevill Brooke's injunction
to secrecy regarding his movements, so far, at least, as
Lady St. Leger and his other old friends were concerned.
Lady St. Leger had not been informed that he had started

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 145

for England, and ought to have arrived long ago. But
Honour confessed that she was more than anxious. Those
promised letters had not arrived ; and Lady St. Leger
knew that, by Honour's wish, the young barbarian, Jack
Harned, was endeavouring to find out where Nevill Brooke
now was. This fact she confided to Loris St. Leger, who
heard her words in silence, only shrugging his shoulders
lightly when he learned of the mission undertaken by
Harned. He had been disposed towards an uneasy jealousy
of the somewhat remarkable young stranger when Jack
Harned made his first sudden appearance in the household.
But he had his own reasons for sneering at the thought of
such a detective on the track of the man who had vanished,
and if Harned were not to be feared as a rival, he was not
to be feared at all. He was so young, so insignificant,
so rough, so altogether undesirable, that Loris St. Leger
was inclined to agree with his cousin that Honour would
never think of him as a lover. Still, Jack was often near
the girl. She seemed to find comfort in his presence. She
talked with him confidentially, and looked at him with a
gentle kindliness in her lovely eyes which was never there
when circumstances obliged her to turn them on St. Leger.
Her continued shrinking from him, her preference for
another man, her proudly hidden grief and anxiety, for
which he so well knew the cause, all piqued St. Leger 's
fancy for her into a passion. A marriage with her was
necessary as a business transaction. He would have
wished to marry her even if she had been without attrac
tion for him ; but, as it was, this girl who instinctively
feared him was becoming for St. Leger the one woman in
the world — the woman he was determined to have.

When Loris St. Leger was determined to have a thing
he usually got it, not always by fair means ; but it was
borne in upon him that Honour Brooke would be more
difficult to win than anything else he had ever tried
for in his life.

Other things were going exceedingly well with him.
He had succeeded in obtaining a great fortune which he

146 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

had risked his life — and more than his life — to gain. To
be sure, he was obliged to share it with others whose help
had been, and still was, necessary to him ; but the partner
ship was not, for particular reasons, as irksome to him
as he had feared it would be. For instance, a certain
woman concerned in a difficult business connected with the
fortune might have made it impossible for him to marry
Honour Brooke. But, instead of being his enemy in this
affair of the heart, she was eagerly his ally, anxious to
hurry on a marriage. Thanks to one of his partners —
this woman's father — matters were shaping themselves
practically and plausibly for Loris St. Leger. He had
told his cousin, and she had told many others, that he
owned a diamond mine in South Africa, and that it was,
after long working, " turning up trumps." He had taken
a huge house in Park Lane, which had come into the
market through the sensational suicide of a reputed
millionaire, and Honour Brooke and Lady St. Leger
were aiding him with advice as to its decoration. He could
not help seeing that Honour could not bring herself to care
in the least whether the library was red or green, the
biggest drawing-room Loui? Quatorze or Louis Quinze.
But at least the discussions gave him an excuse to be
near her ; and Honour, ashamed of her dislike, always
tried to be gracious, affecting an interest she did not feel.
She promised, also, to "be nice " to a beautiful cousin
who was coming with her father, to visit, when the grand
new house should be in order ; and, really, almost every
thing seemed to be going as St. Leger would have it.

But it was at this time that Honour heard of Sir Ronald
Charteris' work in the slums, and began to wish that she,
too, could do a little good in the world. She thought
of him almost as a saint, and wished that she might ask
his advice as to what a girl who had no money of her
own might do for the poor.

Sometimes Lady St. Leger mentioned the young man's
name rather resentfully, and one day Honour ventured,
half-shyly, to give her opinion.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 147

" I'm sure he would have liked to come and see you,?J
she said. " Something very real must have prevented him,
I think. But the life he leads makes him quite different
from the men we know. One can't put him in the same
category at all. Why shouldn't you go to see him, some
time, for his mother's sake ? He would be grateful and
appreciative, I know ; and maybe you could help him in
his work."

Lady St. Leger caught with some interest at the idea.

" Perhaps you're right, dear," she said. " You usually
are. I'll go to see the man and his flock, it you'll go with
me."

" Let us go to-day," exclaimed Honour.

Lady St. Leger laughed.

" Why not this moment, then ? "

" Why not ? " echoed the girl. And in a few minutes
Fate had arranged that they should start.

It was the end of July, and as London was full of foreign
visitors, it did not seem strange to them, as they came
out into the street to take their carriage, that two men
who looked like Indians should be sauntering slowly past
the house.

CHAPTER XXI

THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF TWO BROWN MEN.

" THOSE Indians seem very much interested in us, dear,"
Lady St. Leger remarked to Honour. ' ' In you particularly.
Well " — and she laughed without bitterness, for she had
no middle-aged jealousy of the girl's beauty — " one can't
be surprised at that."

The footman opened the door of the brougham, and they
got in. Still the Indians were watching from a distance,
and one was talking eagerly to the other.

" I think they are interested in this — not in me," said
Honour, touching an ornament which she wore at her
throat. It was the little bronze toad with the fiery jewel

148 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

in its head which she had found on the weed-grown lawn
of the deserted house in Hammersmith. She had shown it
to Jack Harned, and during several weeks he had ad
vertised it for her in the London daily papers, hoping
that " Mr. Smith/' or someone who knew that mysterious
person, might come forward to claim it. But there had
been no answer, and .at last the advertisement had been
discontinued. Then Jack Harned had, with Honour's
permission, taken the strange little fetish to a jeweller,
and had a stout gold pin placed underneath the toad's
squatting body, so that it could be worn " for luck " as
a brooch. Just because Honour had found it on the day
when her father should have come home, and at the house
where he had sent her to search for him, the thing seemed
to the girl like a link between her and the one she had
loved and lost, and she had grown so fond of the toad
that she wore it every day.

Though she and Jack had kept the secret of Nevill
Brooke's intended return from his old friends, Harned
had confided the whole story, as he and Honour knew it,
to a detective named Richard Otway, who had lately
gained some fame in his profession, and now they were
told that " something was being done." Nor was Jack
idle in the matter. He wrote many letters to men he knew
in other countries, and offered money for information,
and sometimes he thought that he had come upon a clue ;
but, oddly enough, he had always had a queer impression
about the bronze toad. " If that thing could speak,"
he had said to Honour once, " I believe — though I suppose
it's nonsense to believe — that it would tell us something
about your father." Honour had not been able to forget
that impulsive speech, and she set an almost superstitious
value upon the fetish. The eager look in the two dark
faces, attracted by the red light of the jewel, impressed
the girl, and if she had not been assured by the man who
had made the toad into a brooch that, intrinsically, the
stone was worth only a few sovereigns, she might have
been half frightened in remembering the look. But why

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 149

should anyone wish to steal the bronze toad ? As they
drove on, the impression faded away, and Honour began
to think of other things.

Lady St. Leger, who could never keep names or numbers
in her head, had written Ronald Charteris' address on a
piece of paper before leaving the house, and had read it
out to the coachman — " 28, Oswell Road."

Oswell Road was not a neighbourhood of which he
could approve, and the expression of his highly respectable
face (as he penetrated with his well-groomed horse and
the neat brougham containing his mistress deeper and
deeper into the grey, grim London slums) would have
amused Lady St. Leger and Honour if they had seen it.

At last they arrived in Oswell Road, and stopped before
No. 28, the smart turn-out creating quite a sensation in the
street. Children looked up from sailing paper boats in
the gutters, and slovenly mothers appeared in low, narrow
doorways, with weary-eyed babies in their arms. It was
seldom that even a tradesman's cart stopped in Oswell
Road, for people brought home their own modest pur
chases ; but here was a handsome carriage, with a coach
man and footman in livery ; and at the end of the street
was a four-wheeled cab, from which a dark face under a
turban peeped furtively out and disappeared again. This
was excitement indeed for Oswell Road, and even a few
men with clay pipes in their mouths strolled to doors or
windows, to peep out at the unwonted attraction.

" It's all the mission baronite," they murmured ex
planatorily to one another. Save for a few wife-beatings,
child-tortures, and murders, the establishment of Sir
Ronald Charteris and his " mission " had been the first
sensation Oswell Road had ever had. But that had
been a nine days' wonder, and the road was used to Ronald
and his pensioners now.

The footman got down from the box, with his aristocratic
nose in the air, and knocked at No. 28, which was freshly
painted, and had tiny window-boxes of marguerites and
red geraniums. In a moment the door was opened by a

150 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

decent-looking man of middle age. He believed that the
" Guv'nor " was in. Would the ladies step inside ?

Honour's heart was beating quite fast. She had looked
forward to meeting this " mission baronite," who would
not allow himself to be addressed here in Oswell Road as
" Sir Ronald." She wondered if she were going to be
disappointed in her saint or the reverse.

Lady St. Leger alighted, and she followed. They were
shown through a narrow passage, newly and tastefully
papered, to a room which was evidently dining-room and
sitting-room in one. For so poor a place it was wonder
fully pretty. The floor was stained and polished. At door
and fireplace there were cheap white fur rugs. The paint
was olive green, and the wall a cheerful primrose yellow,
with a large, roughly-made bookcase on one side, and here
and there an engraving in a dark green frame. Honour
and Lady St. Leger were telling each other how pleasant
it was, and what a delightful home the place must seem
to the unfortunate ones who were welcomed there, when
the man who had opened the door came back. After all,
the " Guv'nor " was not in, but must be at No. 22, another
house lately acquired, where one of the inmates had been
ill.

" Shall I go and fetch him ? " he asked, " or would you
ladies care to walk down to 22 ? It's but a step, on the
same side of the street."

Honour sprang up. " Let us go," she said. " Maybe
it will be inconvenient for him to come back."

When Lady St. Leger had been assured that the illness
in the other house was not contagious, she consented to
transfer herself there. The coachman had obeyed his
mistress's directions, and was driving up and down. The
street was narrow for constant turning ; therefore he had
gone round the corner, meaning to come back in a few
minutes. For the moment the carriage was out of sight,
but, as Lady St. Leger and Honour stood hesitating for
an instant before the door of No. 28, a four-wheeled cab
approached slowly, keeping close to the pavement. They

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 151

had not taken half a dozen steps in the direction of No. 22,
when a picturesquely dressed figure jumped out from the
vehicle, without waiting for it to stop, and landed imme
diately in front of the two women.

" Why, it is surely one of the Indians who were looking
at our house in Park Lane ! " Honour said to herself, in
extreme surprise. She had hardly time to form the
thought, or to wonder what significance there could be
in the brown man's presence here, when he had addressed
her.

" Want that," he said, pointing imperatively at the
bronze toad, with its glowing jewel.

Honour's colour rose. " No," she answered, firmly,
attempting to pass with Lady St. Leger, who gave a little
frightened cry. " You cannot have it. That is mine."

" Mine — mine ! " returned the dark man, whom she took
for an Indian, keeping obstinately in her path. " Must
have. Money — plenty money." His air, though eager
and hurried, was full of dignity and controlled passion.
To illustrate his broken words, he held out, in his lean
brown hand, a netted crimson purse, with slip-rings of
gold. Through the open silk meshes the gleam of yellow
coins could be seen ; and apparently it was his intention
to barter the purse and its entire contents for the coveted
ornament.

Honour motioned the purse away. " No," she said
again. " I will not sell the toad. Please let us pass."

The brown man's eyes sent out a sudden knife-like gleam.
He uttered an exclamation, and his companion who had
been with him in Park Lane sprang, ' light and swift as a
panther, from the cab. Dimly Honour was conscious
that the cabman called out some protest, and then, whip
ping up his horse, drove rapidly off, as if he were willing to
lose a fare rather than be mixed up in a disreputable pro
ceeding. But all this the girl remembered afterwards,
rather than realised it at the time, for her thoughts were
fully occupied with the matter in hand. Lady St. Leger,
greatly terrified, was calling the name of her coachman ;

152 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

but the brougham was by this time in the next street, and
her cries were in vain. None of the two or three slouch
ing men with pipes in their mouths seemed inclined to
interfere, though a shrill gabble went up from the watch
ing women, and ragged children, who had been playing
dangerously near, ran screaming to their mothers.

One of the turbaned men, grimly silent now, seized
Honour's arms from behind, holding them tightly, while
the other attempted to possess himself of the bronze toad.
But the pin with which it was fastened was peculiarly
strong, and was, moreover, protected by a safety hook
invented by the jeweller. It was embedded deeply in a
silk crepe cravat which Honour wore, tied at her throat,
and in his fiercely impatient efforts to wrest the fetish
away at any cost, so that it were done quickly, the man
twisted the cravat and choked the girl. All her blood
seemed to rush to her head. Sparks floated before her
eyes. She gasped for breath, unable to utter a sound,
though she bravely struggled still to release her arms.
A purple haze shut out the ugly street from her sight. She
was fast losing consciousness, when suddenly a man's
voice, which sounded familiar, broke into the dull humming
of her blood in her ears.

" You cowards ! You cowards ! " it cried out twice.
There was a sound of blows, an exclamation in some foreign
tongue, and the pressure on her throat was relaxed. Her
arms also were free ; there was a patter of racing feet,
ejaculations in the rough, Cockney voices of the street,
and she felt herself falling. Someone caught and held her
firmly, giving an impression of strength and trustworthiness
which it was good to feel after those wild moments of
terror and confusion.

For an instant she remained quite still, without opening
her eyes, her aching throat expanding with deep, full
breaths which seemed to renew her life. There was a
sensation of weight upon her eyelids, but, resisting the
inclination to slip away into unconsciousness, by an effort
of the will she raised them, to look straight up into the face

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 153

of a man, who was bending over her, holding her in his
arms.

It was a strikingly handsome face, though pale and
somewhat worn. Honour knew that she had never seen
it before, or any other man's resembling it, and yet —
and yet — why, yes, it was like the picture of Lord Byron,
in Jack Harned's lodgings ; and this voice which sounded
so familiar was the voice of the man who had raved in
delirium in the next house.

CHAPTER XXII

A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT

" You are better ? I hope you are not much hurt ? '••
he asked.

It was so strange to Honour that accident should have
thrown her literally into the arms of the man who had
been so often in her thoughts that she almost forgot to
answer. But, with a sudden bright blush, she released
herself. " Oh, yes, thank you," she said, rather un
steadily. " I am better, and — and not really hurt at
all."-

" Thank Heaven ! " exclaimed Lady St. Leger. " I
was never so terrified in my life. Those wretches ! How
I wish we could have caught them."

" I am very much afraid they have got away," said
the man who had come to the rescue. " But the police
can be notified, and their description given. They were
remarkable figures, both, and ought to be easily identified."

" I would rather not do anything," said Honour, quickly.
" They tried to steal my brooch, but they didn't succeed,
and it would be horrid to be obliged to appear in a police
court. My brooch is safe. That is all I want. And I can
hardly thank you enough for what you did. I thought
that man was choking me to death."

154 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Probably he would have choked you if this gentleman
hadn't come just in time," broke in Lady St. Leger. " We
came to this place to find Sir Ronald Charteris —

" I am Ronald Charteris," said the young man.

Somehow Honour was not surprised. She felt as if
she had known him from the first ; and again a deep blush
stained her cheeks, for she remembered the confessions
of his delirium, his agony of mind, which she had pitied
and been unable to forget. It was as if she had been eaves
dropping, and had come into possession of his secrets un
known to him. A painful self-consciousness rendered her
uneasy in his presence ; yet her heart went out to him in
sympathy. How strange it was, she told herself, that she
should have guessed at a hidden sadness from the short
letter he had written to Lady St. Leger. Now, even if
she had known nothing of him, she would have seen in his
eyes that he was not happy. For a moment after he had
spoken his own name it would have been impossible for
Honour to utter a word. But, fortunately, Lady St.
Leger had no suspicion of what was passing in the girl's
mind, and she answered with agreeable conventionalities.
She was so glad that it was to him they owed their debt
of thanks, for he was not really like a stranger. Since
Mahomet had refused to come to the mountain, the moun
tain had come to Mahomet. She had wanted to know him,
because he was his mother's son, Lady St. Leger went
on, pleasantly, and because of his work. They both
hoped — she and Miss Brooke — that he would tell them
all about it, and perhaps let them help in some way — a
woman's way, if that could be.

Ronald glanced rather wistfully once or twice at Honour
as Lady St. Leger spoke, and his handsome, haggard young
face touched her strangely. " He would like to have us
help him, because he is starving with loneliness, and is
homesick for his own sort of people," the girl said to her
self. " And yet he is trying to find an excuse to send
us away from him quickly, because for some queer reason
he thinks it his duty.11

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 155

It was true. After his long martyrdom, his isolation
from his own kind, it seemed to Ronald that all the sweet
ness and light in the world were concentrated in this
beautiful girl who was smiling at him in frank friendliness.
He could not bear to let her go, and the brief gleam of sun
light with her, but — he had no right to such sweetness
and light as girls could bring into men's lives. " I am a
murderer " he had to remind himself, that the grim truth
might give him a strength equally grim.

" You are very good," he said, almost stiffly, to Lady
St. Leger. " But my work isn't woman's work, and it
wouldn't be fair to let you in for helping. It's all among
men, you know — rough fellows, most of them, with whom
the world has dealt hardly. But I hope you will come in,
nevertheless, and rest. No. 22 is scarcely finished yet.
We have only just got in, but perhaps it is all the better
for that. You will not be disturbed."

Lady St. Leger was so vexed at what she took for un
graciousness that she almost forgot what he had done for
Honour, and — as the brougham at this minute appeared
round the corner — she would have refused Ronald's
hospitality had it not been for an appealing look from the
girl. It was that which induced her to go in through the
door of No. 22, Oswell Road, when Ronald held it open.

He showed them into a combination of sitting-room
and dining-room, much like the one they had seen in the
other house, and when they were seated, he remained
standing. " I should like you to have tea," he said,
simply, " but we have no servants here. We do our own
work, and the men are all out now ; but if you will
forgive our clumsy arrangements, I will soon have some
tea ready. I have learned to make rather good tea."

Honour sprang up. " Oh, do let me make it 1 " she ex
claimed. " It would be fun. I should like it so much. I
see there, on the sideboard, you have a gipsy kettle, and
there are cups and — oh, yes ! a tea-caddy. If you will
get the water, I'll have everything ready."

Ronald smiled more brightly than he had for a long

156 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

time. To be sure, if this girl knew that he was a murderer,
the lovely light would die out of her eyes and she would
shrink from him in horror ; but she did not know ; and,
without being actually rude, he could not refuse her kindly
little offices. No, he would not refuse. He would be
happy for once, only for these few moments, and then she
would go out of his life, and be none the worse for having
shed upon it the light of her presence for — perhaps — one
half-hour.

He went to the kitchen, and brought back water in the
tea-kettle, a large cottage loaf of bread, and some butter.
The bread he would have cut, but Honour liked cutting
bread very, very thin, she said, and begged to do it. Ronald
brought milk, and together they set out cups and saucers,
and he entirely forgot that he was an outcast. So different
was he in manner and expression that Honour was more
sorry for him than ever, and wished that he might always
be as he was now. When she had made him actually
laugh more than once, and had induced him to tell stories,
grave and gay, of his work and the men he worked among,
she said, gently :

" Do you think it's quite fair to the men to refuse our
help, Sir Ronald ? You say they are ill sometimes, and
that their time passes heavily. Lady St. Leger and I
could come and bring them books, and write letters for
them to their friends, or read to them. I have often done
that at hospitals. Oh, I'm sure there are lots of things
we could do, if you would let us."

He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he
said :

" The truth is, I don't think either the men or I are
worthy to have you come here among us. Some of them
have been criminals, you know, and — and I am not very
proud of my life. It is a temptation to accept an offer of
such kindness, but — for your sake, I —

"If it is for our sakes that you would refuse, we will
come sometimes, won't we, Lady St. Leger ?." exclaimed
Honour. " What does it matter to us how bad the men

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 157

who come here may have been ? Perhaps they are trying
to do better. Anyway, you are helping them to try.
How dreadful it would be if, because people had sinned
or made mistakes in the past, others who hadn't happened
to do the same turned their backs on them ! "

" Ah, but women — ladies ! " protested Ronald. " It
is different with them. And, besides, don't you think
when people have sinned, as you say, they ought to keep
away from others who haven't — anyway, from sweet,
pure women — not to contaminate them with their touch ? '-'-

" No, indeed, I think nothing of the kind ! " cried
Honour. " The very fact that they could have such
scruples would show they weren't all bad. You will let
us come and help, won't you ? "

" Then — yes,"- Ronald almost stammered, the blood
rushing to his forehead. " It would be a great happiness
— far more than I— than any of us deserve. But — if you
would "

" That is settled, then," said Lady St. Leger, mollified
by the change in him. " We will bring you lots of books,
and we will try to collect among our friends clothing
suitable for the poor men you've told us of, to wear in
stead of their rags, when they go out to find work. But
now, about yourself. You are your mother's son. I want
to hear about you.'1

If she had been in a critical mood, Lady St. Leger might
have noticed that, in obeying her, Ronald went far back
into his past, giving no details of his own personal life for
the last few months. But she was not in such a mood ;
besides, what he did tell interested her. She began to like
him, and to think that it would be amusing to secure him
as a guest. He was original, and extraordinarily good-
looking — the sort of new, unusual person whom people
in Society, blase of each other, liked to meet. But, when
she forgot past grievances far enough to invite him once
more to her house, the light died out of his face. " I
can't come, Lady St. Leger," he said in a constrained voice.
" Don't think it's because I don't want to. It's far from

158 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

being that, and I thank you. But all that sort of pleasant
thing is over for me. I have turned my back on the
world I used to know, and I can't — I mustn't go back
to it.'*

His eyes were so grieved and wistful that she could
not be angry, even at a second refusal. " I mustn't urge
you, then, I suppose," she said, putting down her empty
teacup on the table, and rising. " But — forgive me — I
can't help looking on you as a mystery."

Ronald flushed once more at the word, and Honour
wished that Lady St. Leger had not used it. Five minutes
later they had gone, with a promise to come again, bringing
contributions for the men. Their host went out to the
carriage with them, and stood with bare head, watching
the brougham drive away, until it had passed out of sight
round the corner.

" How beautiful she is ! " he said to himself, as he
turned slowly to go back into the house, mentally taking
up the burden that he had laid down for a little while.
" Of course, it is only a coincidence that her face is like
his — the eyes especially, and the way her hair ripples
away from her forehead. Or perhaps it isn't really like
at all. Perhaps, because I am always seeing that other
face — because it haunts me like a ghost — I only imagine a
resemblance that doesn't exist. "-

So he satisfied his own curiosity. Yet he remembered
how he had thought on the terrible night when the ship
of his future had been wrecked, that, if the man at whom
he gazed from behind the blue-curtained door had a
daughter who looked like him, she would be a girl of extreme
beauty and charm.

This girl had extreme beauty and charm, but he did not
associate the two together, save in the passing thought
which he hastily put from him, because he could not bear
to recall the man whose life he had taken. When, after
recovering from his illness, he had made up his mind to ask
Mr. Willoughby the name of the murdered stranger, the
old clergyman had said : "Do not ask. It is a foreign

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 159

name. It would have no meaning, no association for
you. It is far better that you should know nothing what
ever of the man, or every time you look at a newspaper,
you will have a shock of the nerves for fear of seeing his
name or something about him. Let the dead past bury
its dead. Do not think of the man whose death you
caused ; do not think of the woman for whose sake you
struck the blow."

Then Ronald had been silent — weakly, perhaps, because
it was anguish to talk of that night and what had passed.
And never had he brought up the subject again. He had
given his word to keep the dreadful secret of the old house
in Hammersmith — the secret which was the woman's as
well as his ; and he would not break the promise. There
fore no good could be accomplished by continually looking
into the closet where the skeleton secret lay hid.

In a few days Lady St. Leger and Honour had collected
a pile of novels and other books for the men of the
" mission," as they called it. They had also asked their
friends for cast-off clothing, and had been given a boxful.
It was arranged that they should drive down to Oswell
Road again on the fourth day after their last visit, and
a note, written by Lady St. Leger, telling Ronald to expect
them, was written and sent. Then, on the appointed after
noon, she was ill with a headache. It seemed a pity to
disappoint Ronald, when the visit and — more especially —
the things had been promised. Therefore, Lady St. Leger
thought it might do if Honour drove down with her
maid.

" You might leave the books and the clothes," she said,
" and then, when you come back, do — like a good child
— drop in at poor Loris's big, splendid barrack, and call
on the new cousin. I forgot to tell you — my head was so
frightfully bad this morning — that I got a letter from
the dear boy by the first post, saying that the cousin and
her old father, Mr. Kazan, would arrive to-day. Poor
Loris was called away last night on the most important
business — something legal, that couldn't wait — but

160 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

wouldn't put them off ; and, as they are there all alone
till to-morrow, you must drop in, explain why I couldn't
be with you, and ask if they won't dine with us here to
night. It would be so gloomy for them in that great
house, on their very first night in England, without
Loris."

" Oh, very well, dear, I'll call with pleasure," answered
Honour, the more cordially because of the assurance that
Loris St. Leger was absent. " I shall be interested to
see Miss Kazan, if she is so charming and such a beauty
as Mr. St. Leger describes her. But I wish she could
speak English. I didn't get on as well as I ought with
Russian, which I studied to please my dear father, and
I'm a little afraid of my French accent when it comes to
talking with a girl who probably speaks as well as a
Parisiemie."-

But Lady St. Leger assured Honour that her French
was all that could be desired, and sent her off with the
maid.

The first thing to do was to rid herself of the heap of
clothing and books which filled all available space in the
brougham. But it was not the thought of getting rid of
a tiresome burden which made Honour glad that she
was going at once to Oswell Road. She did not define her
own eagerness for the visit, but it would have been a sharp
disappointment to her if she had been obliged to give up
making it to-day on account of Lady St. Leger's headache.
She longed to see Ronald Charteris and talk with him
again — about his work, of course ; and, besides, he needed
a cheering word and smile sometimes. She was sure of that.

Josephine shrugged her shoulders and made a little
moue of disgust at Oswell Road.

" Ah, mademoiselle ! " she exclaimed. "Is it possible
that we are to stop in such a street, and such a house ?
What a house ! It is probable that we shall get some
disease. "

" If you are afraid of that, you needn't come in with
me,'1 said Honour, not without an impulse of joy, for

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 161

critical, purring, narrow-minded Josephine would be a
drag on her conversation with Sir Ronald about the mission.
" We will send in the things, and I will follow, but I don't
suppose I shall be more than five minutes."

They had stopped at No. 22, where Lady St. Leger
and Honour had had tea with Ronald Charteris a few days
before. The footman knocked, and when the door had
been answered by a thin little man with the eyes and face
of a fox, he began carrying in relays of books and clothes.-
In a moment Ronald appeared ; and while he expressed
polite regret for Lady St. Leger's absence and the cause
of it, his blood quickened. Was it possible that this dear
and beautiful young girl was coming into the house alone ?
But the question answered itself. She must tell him some
thing about the clothes and the books, she said, and if
they could be laid on a table in the sitting-room, she would
be able to explain everything that was necessary in a
few minutes.

Not daring to realise how happy he was in seeing this
girl whom he scarcely knew — a girl he was meeting now
only for the second time in his life — he took her into the
house, and, as she was alone with him, he ignored the poor
little preparations for tea which he had hopefully made for
the entertainment of the two ladies. But Honour's eyes
fell upon the bowl of sweet peas, the pretty tray cloth,
the delicate china, so much finer than that they had had
the other day — the jug of cream, the cakes — all bravely
set forth on a corner of the table now usurped by a leaning
tower of books. She waved her hand at the humble array,
with a lovely smile.

" Was that to have been for us ? " she asked.

" Yes,-- Ronald admitted. " I hoped that you and
Lady St. Leger might "

" And so we would ; and — and so I will. Only, I mustn't
be long," broke in Honour, feeling adventurous, and more
like her old self than she had felt since that memorable
night of April the fourth.

6

162 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Will you — really ? " Ronald could hardly believe
she was in earnest.

" Yes, really. And, what is more, I will make the tea
again. If you have water boiling, it will take only a few
minutes. "

He had water boiling. Nevertheless, Honour did not
go away in five minutes. She said what she had to say
about the contributions she had brought, and Ronald
thanked her many times, even more times than necessary ;
and they drank tea together, and Honour praised the bread
and butter and the cakes. Then, somehow, they began
talking of themselves, and of each other. Honour could
not talk for long of herself without speaking of her father.
Ronald had mentioned his uncle's fondness for roaming
over the world, and Honour wondered aloud if the elder
Ronald Charteris and her father, Nevill Brooke, had ever
met.

" I only wish I knew that or anything else about the dear
old chap," Ronald answered with a sigh. " I was named
after him, and the happiest days of my childhood were
spent in his society, but it's years since he wrote to any
of us. I tried to communicate with him when my father
died, but failed, and I don't know where he is. I only hope
that he's still somewhere on the face of the earth. I can't
bear to think of him as being dead — that I may never
see the kind old boy again."

Honour's eyes filled with tears.

"If it were your father ! " she said, brokenly. " Your
father, who was everything to you — everything in the
whole world. Think what that suffering would be, and
pity me, Sir Ronald. Oh, I didn't mean to speak about
it — I hardly ever do speak of it, even to Lady St. Leger.
But it's killing me — the suspense and horror — the terrible
uncertainty."

Looking into her paling face, her tear-bright eyes that
met his as if with an appeal for help — it was all that Ronald
Charteris could do not to fall on his knees at her feet and
cry out that he loved her, and longed to comfort her

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 163

sorrow. For it was true. He did love her. He knew
now that he had loved her since that first moment of their
meeting, when he had held her in his arms, and felt the
throbbing of her heart. She was the one woman in the
world for him, and though he had no right to love her,
and she must never know, there was a strange joy in his
secret worship. The man's whole being seemed a shrine
for the dear goddess, and his adoration of her was like
incense. His voice trembled with the supreme effort
he made to answer calmly, showing nothing of what he
felt, save kindly sympathy. " I am so sorry," he said,
simply. " I didn't know."

" You couldn't have known," faltered Honour. " No
one has known, except Lady St. Leger, a man who loved
my father as if he had been his son, and detectives whom
that man has told of our fears concerning him. You have
suffered ; you know what suspense is, though hardly as
I know it, I think. You can imagine what I have lived
through, when I tell you that, after hearing months ago
that I must expect him within two days, I have never
since had a line from my father. Now, it is the first of
August, and he should have come to me on the fourth of
April."

Ronald Charteris quivered with a sudden fierce shock
of the nerves.

" April the fourth ! " he mechanically repeated, white-
lipped.

Honour scarcely heard the murmured echo of her words.
She was conscious only of an extraordinary sympathy,
so keen as to be well-nigh painful, which this man gave
her. It was as if their souls held each other by the hand,
and she clung to his in spirit.

" I believe my father did come to me on that night,"
she went on. "It was in a dream — a horrible dream.
I saw him, in a great lighted room — oh, so plainly ! It
was his very self, his splendid brown eyes, his handsome
face, turned fully towards me, his hair, like bronze and
silver, in short, crisp waves. Then, a dark, vague Some-

164 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

thing sprang upon him, and he fell. I knew he was being
murdered, and I could not reach him — I could not help.
All these weeks have passed since, and life goes on. I talk
and smile — sometimes I even laugh. But that is a kind
of outer self going through an inevitable routine. My real
self only lives to find out the truth — to discover his
murderer, if he was murdered, to give the wretch up to
justice. Oh, I don't think I am cruel at heart, yet I want
that man to suffer — to suffer all that human nature can
suffer, as a punishment. You look at me as if such
words from a girl's lips filled you with horror. Perhaps
I deserve that from you. I can't help it. You don't
know what my father was to me — my handsome, noble
father ! See — was there ever a man so worthy of love ?
Look at his picture ; then you may partly understand.'-'-

Carried away on the tide of impulse, the girl tore a brace
let from her wrist, and, pressing a spring, caused a square
stone-cameo to lift like the cover of a locket. Under
neath was a small photograph. Ronald's eyes fastened
upon it, and dwelt with a ghastly fascination on the face
of the man whose death he was expiating in daily
torture.

" My God ! n he ejaculated, the words torn from him
by mortal pain. " Your father 1 "

" Yes, it is his very self," Honour answered, her eyes
drawn from the photograph to Ronald. " Why do you
speak so strangely ? 4l

" I — Was thinking of the man who robbed you of your
father,- he answered. " You are right. He should
suffer — all of which human nature is capable. And he
will. Have no fear. He will 1 li

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 165

CHAPTER XXIII

BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER

WHEN Honour left Ronald Charteris, it was to drive back
to Park Lane. But she was not yet ready to go home,
for Lady St. Leger's bidding must first be done. She must
call at the big house, which was a magnificent advertise
ment of Loris St. Leger as the newest millionaire ; she
must make the acquaintance of his cousin, Miss Kazan, and
deliver Lady St. Leger's invitation asking Loris 's two
Russian relatives to dinner.

An unusually gorgeous footman opened the door. He
was over six feet high, and looked down from a magnificent
height of self-satisfaction on Lady St. Leger's man, who
was consumed with jealousy.

Miss Kazan had arrived some hours earlier, it appeared,
and Honour Brooke was shown into the Louis Quinze
drawing-room, in the decoration of which she had mani
fested such scanty interest. She was kept waiting for a
few moments, and her thoughts had gone back to the
little room in Oswell Road, where she and Ronald Char
teris had had tea and some strange talk together, when
instinct, rather than her sense of hearing, told her that
she was no longer alone. She had not heard a footstep
or a rustle of drapery, but suddenly she felt that someone
was looking intently at her. Raising her head quickly,
her eyes met those of a tall and beautiful woman who
stood not thirty feet away — one of the most beautiful
women whom Honour had ever seen.

There was no colour about her anywhere, save the red
of her lips and the intense black of hair and eyes and brows.
The long oval of her face was of a peculiar ivory whiteness,

166 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

scarcely warmer than the rich cream-white of the quaintly-
made, picturesque tea-gown of soft woollen stufE which
hung in straight, heavy folds about the slim, yet stately,
figure. Her throat was uncovered, and rose like a lily out
of the plainly-fashioned white bodice. Her black hair
was parted in the middle, and folded over the ears, like
a raven's wing on either side of the pale, passionate face.

" What a wonderful creature ! " Honour said to herself,
as she rose. " Who would have thought that Loris St.
Leger would have such a glorious girl for a cousin ? But
why does she stare at me so gloomily ? "

Even as she wondered at the repellant look in the great
black eyes, it faded into a serene, conventional smile, so
that the girl was half inclined to fancy that she had im
agined it. Still, as the two approached each other, and
touched hands, with greetings in French, Honour could not
but be aware that Miss Kazan continued to look at her
with marked intentness, even curiosity. " I suppose her
cousin has told her things about me, and now I am turning
out to be quite different from what she had expected,"
the girl told herself.

The obligation to speak in French — as she had been
warned that St. Leger 's Russian relatives knew no other
tongue save their own — made Honour somewhat self-
conscious. She felt insignificant and unformed — almost
awkward — compared to this splendid creature, who seemed
to her more like the superlatively handsome heroine of a
French novel than a real, ordinary woman. Her surprise
would have been intense if she could have read the mind
of her companion, and seen the passion of jealousy, the
reluctant appreciation of her radiant youth, her exquisite
girlish charm, which, contrasted with the personality of
the other, was like a budding blush rose beside a fully-
blown waxen magnolia. " She is even lovelier than the
miniature in the locket, " the woman was thinking. "And
pure — oh ! pure as the morning ! What must it feel to
be as she is ? I hate her ! I hate her for everything !
And I am glad that he will never see her. Why should he ?

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 167

No, of course, it cannot happen. I may be at ease as to
that."-

Honour said kind and pleasant things in French, hesitat
ing a little now and then for a word, and stabbing the
other's jealous heart with a sight of her lovely dimples as
she smiled at her own slight mistakes. She delivered Lady
St. Leger's message, asking if Miss Kazan would forgive
such an unconventional invitation, and come to dinner
that evening, rather than dine alone, the first night in a
strange house.

"It is a strange town and a strange country to you,
also, is it not, mademoiselle ? " asked Honour. " You and
your father have never been in England before, I think Mr.
St. Leger told us.'*

" No, we have never been in England before," echoed
Miss Kazan, with rather an odd light in her handsome
eyes. " We are quite strangers. This is our first day ;
and I should be delighted to go to you for dinner. It
would indeed be dull for us here without Loris. But, since
you and Lady St. Leger have asked us, we need no longer
regret his absence for this one night. I will ring and
have my father sent for. I know that he will be as grateful
as I."-

She touched an electric bell near the sofa on which she
had seated herself, and a footman, who seemed to have
been cut out from the same pattern as the other whom
Honour had seen, appeared. As he stood waiting for the
order, Miss Kazan opened her lips as if to speak, then
turned to Honour with a smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

" I forgot that this man cannot understand French,"-
she said. " Pray be so good as to tell him what I want to
say."

Honour obeyed, when she had received a few words of
instruction, and presently Mr. Kazan came into the room.
He was a surprise to the girl who admired his daughter.
Quickly her imagination had painted a picture of a dig
nified, distinguished man, with a long dark beard, perhaps
streaked with silver, and hair growing back from a high,

168 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

intellectual forehead. But Miss Kazan's father was clean
shaven, and looked like a foreign actor, Honour could not
help thinking. He was almost destitute of eyebrows,
which gave him an odd, unfinished, somewhat astonished
expression. His dead-black hair was cut unusually short ;
his head was of a bullet shape ; and his beard was so
strong that his chin and cheeks were of a bluish tint. The
grey eyes had the faintest suspicion of a cast, which showed
itself only occasionally ; the forehead was low, and the
mouth was rather unpleasant, with thick, loose-hanging
lips, which were pale and bloodless, the chin being remark
ably square and heavy. The only particular in which
Mr. Kazan resembled Honour's imaginary portrait of
him was his height. He was tall, and held himself with
dignity. He was well dressed too, with great attention
to perfection of detail, and greeted Honour with im
pressive compliments, which displeased her. She decided,
after the man had spoken only. a few words, that she liked
him no better than she did his nephew, Loris St. Leger,
whose mother, she remembered hearing, had been Mr.
Kazan's sister.

After her father came into the room, Miss Kazan (whom
he called Nadege) seemed to feel that the responsibility
of being agreeable to the visitor had been shifted from
her shoulders. She leaned back among the pink and blue
silk cushions on the sofa, which threw out the whiteness
of her gracious figure, and sat almost in silence while her
father talked, asking Honour a great many questions.
But the great sombre eyes scarcely ever left the girl's
face.

Mr. Kazan began by speaking of life in London during
the season, and then deftly drew the conversation to Miss
Brooke's own life with Lady St. Leger. Without letting
it appear that any special motive underlay his questions,
he contrived to find out how often the two ladies saw Loris
St. Leger, and how Loris had applied to them for advice
concerning the new house.

•' I am glad for him that he has such kind friends,'- said

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 169

the Russian, " and glad for myself and my daughter too,
because I hope that we shall have you for our friends also.
We expect to make our home with Loris for some time to
come. He was the only child of my poor dead sister, and
is, indeed, our only near relative living. It is fit that we
should be near each other, but I had feared loneliness for
my daughter, the one woman in this great house, in a
strange country. But you — you will be good to her, I
know. Nothing could be happier for Nadege than to
have a charming English girl so near her own age, as a
friend. You will help her to make pleasant acquaint
ances, to find congenial occupation and deserving charities.
The sooner she has these, the more glad I shall be."

" I can tell her now of a deserving charity ," said Honour,
blushing, but unable to resist the temptation to bring up a
subject that occupied all the thoughts she could spare from
her constant longing for her father, or good news of him.
" Lady St. Leger and I have just found out about it, and
we are so interested. A young man whose people she used
to know is spending all his fortune in giving homes to
very poor men, whom he finds in the streets or at prison
doors, and helping them to get work which otherwise they
would never be able to obtain. All that he does must
take a great deal of money ; it would be good to be able
to help, if one were rich. It is a splendid work. I have just
come from one of the houses, in, oh ! such a slummy street,
but he has made the place quite pretty and home-like. It
is wonderful ! Lady St. Leger and I might take you there,
if you liked, Miss Kazan, and you could give books and
lots of things that the mission needs."

A curiously magnetic silence fell as the girl's enthusiastic
words ceased. Father and daughter looked at each
other.

" What is this man's name ? " inquired Miss Kazan,
in a voice which Honour would have thought strained if
there could have been any reason why it should be so.

" Sir Ronald Charteris,'-* Honour answered.

<( Ah ! " ejaculated Mr. Kazan, hastily, with a com-

170 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

pelling glance at his daughter. " We must keep that name
in mind. It sounds a good work that is being done. You
often go to this street that you call a slum ? "

" I have been once with Lady St. Leger, and to-day
alone, as we had promised some things, and she was not
well," said Honour, flushing so deeply under the two pairs
of eyes that she was surprised and vexed with herself.

" And this Sir Ronald Charteris — he is interesting, as
well as his work ? "

" Very interesting. Nobody could help thinking him
so," replied the girl, honestly, though her cheeks kept their
carmine stain. It was very stupid of her to blush, she
told herself, and she could not at all understand why she
did it. But the more she tried not to, the deeper grew the
rose-tint, so that even her little ears grew pink, and the
tears were forced to her eyes. It was horribly embarrass
ing, and she would have given almost anything in the world
to be at home. " You must see him, and talk with him of
his work," she said, turning to Miss Kazan. Then, rising,
she added that she had been too long away from Lady St.
Leger, and must go back.

Mr. Kazan went to the door with her, paying florid com
pliments on the way. Then, when she had driven of!; in
the waiting brougham, he returned to his daughter.

" Well ? " he remarked, in English, with no trace of
foreign accent, " that news was unexpected."

The tall white figure was standing now at one of the
windows, looking out on the street, but wheeled swiftly
round at the words.

" Unexpected to you, perhaps," the beautiful woman
answered, " but not to me. Something told me always,
from the very first, that it would happen. I knew — I
knew that Fate would bring those two together."

" After all," said the man, "it is a matter of no great
importance. I flatter myself that, though he sees Mr.
Willoughby every day, or nearly every day, he would see
no likeness to that reverend gentleman in Mr. Kazan.
I have at least three disguises of which I am absolutely

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 171

sure. Possibly my features might not lend themselves to
more, but those are enough. When I am Alexander Kazan,
I am myself ; that makes a fourth personality ; and it is,
I assure you, something of a relief. As for you, I hardly
think that you realise what a tremendous change dyeing
your hair black has made in you. You are absolutely
another person. To be sure, a man who had known you
well with other colouring would notice a distinct resem
blance, but it would be impossible for him to declare that
you were the same woman. Besides, it is not necessary,
so far as I can foresee, that Mademoiselle Nadege Kazan
need ever meet the man she led to a certain old house in
Hammersmith one night four months ago." As the
man added the last words he looked intently at the woman,
his clean-shaven lips drooping a little at the corners in a
faintly contemptuous smile.

She saw the smile, and knew what it meant.

" Since she sees him, I shall see him, too," she an
swered, obstinately.

" That is still your state of mind ? I should have
thought some of those ravings of his when he was ill, and
you had set out to play the part of nurse, would have
put you of!;, my poor Nadege. Even in his delirium he
hated you and — remembered."- So speaking, the man let
his eyes fall evilly upon the raven wings of dusky hair that
were folded over her ears, and she shrank from the look
as if he had struck her.

" If you talk to me in this way, and torture me deli
berately for the sheer pleasure of it," she said, " you will
have to do without my help in future. I will go away and
live my own life. Anything would be better than the hell
that you make for me."

" I am not afraid of your keeping such a threat," replied
her father ; yet perhaps he covered a real fear with defiance,
for his tone changed. He was anxious that peace should
be restored.

" I spoke for your own good," he said, coaxingly. " I
hoped that you were forgetting a brief madness, which, if

172 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

you encouraged instead of crushing it, might spoil your whole
future. At last we have reached the pinnacle for which
we have been striving. Such coups as we have made before
in our career were paltry compared to this one. In a way
we owe our good luck largely to Loris ; but he could not
have brought of£ the affair without my money and both
our brains. Therefore we share an immense fortune, just
about to be actually realised, together — we three. This
binds him to you. There have been times when he ap
peared restive, but now you can do with him as you choose,
despite this girl who seems to see so much of him. He
feared at first, or pretended to fear, that she might learn
the details of the Tontine, and that she was one of the
heirs ; but months have passed, and no word has reached
her. It never will now. To-morrow, when Loris comes
back with news that the solicitor, Harvey Kane, who ran
away , is dead, knowing nothing of the success of the ex
pedition to Thibet, there will be no longer an excuse to
delay the marriage. As his wife, and with almost un
limited money, your future will be of unparalleled bril
liance. This cousin of his by marriage, Lady St. Leger,
apparently knows everybody who is worth knowing in
London. You can become one of the leaders of Society.
Even I, when I tire of the genuine amusement and interest
of my double life, can settle down if I please, and even
marry for the second time. Why not choose Miss Honour
Brooke for a wife ? You could not object to her as a
stepmother. Loris could urge nothing against my choice,
since it was originally he who suggested that, separated
from our interests, she might become a danger. Ah !
I can see an ideal existence arranging itself for us all !
You have only to forget that midsummer madness."-

"It is the one true feeling which I have ever known/'
answered the woman whom he called Nadege. " I will
never marry Loris. He is a hateful reminder of the past
which it is a supreme agony not to be able to forget.'-'

"So is Charteris a reminder of the past,11 retorted her
father.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 173

" The only tolerable one, despite the sadness, and the
knowledge of my sin against him. I have not tried to
hide my feeling for him from you. It would have been
useless. I shall not try now. I love him — I am eating
my heart out every day, every hour, in hopeless love for
him."-

"It is indeed hopeless. I am glad that, at least, you
realise that," said Kazan. "It is well that you see how
utterly impossible it would be for you two, of all people
on earth, to be anything to one another. '•'-

" There is a still greater obstacle between him and Nevill
Brooke's daughter ; at all events, Ronald Charteris believes
in it. By this time perhaps he knows whose daughter that
girl is. Oh, I hope he knows ! He shall know, even if he
does not now. If he and I can be nothing to each other,
at least he shall never be anything to her. I would kill her
first, or — give her to Loris ! "

" Strange girl ! — strange girl ! " murmured her father.
" You would throw over your whole future — such a future
as you used to dream of with bounding ambition, and work
for with all the energy and courage you had — you would
throw it all over for a passing folly ? "

" Folly it may be, but it will never pass, because it has
become an essential part of myself. All the dreams were
before I knew what a power love could be — a power for
good and — for evil.-4

The man came close to her, and took her by the
shoulders, looking down keenly into her white face.

" You startle me by your vehemence," he said. " I do
not know you, since that work last April. All the old trust
and pride in your ability, your singular, almost unfeminine
astuteness, is gone. I am afraid for you and of you,
Nadege. Swear to me that, for all our sakes, I may still
trust you — that you will do nothing rash and irrevocable.'1

"I do not know what I shall do ! " she cried, des
perately. Then, after a pause, she added, in a low voice :
" Now that he and that girl have met.'4

174 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XXIV

A NEW PARTNERSHIP

HONOUR had not been gone long from home, on her
charitable mission to Oswell Road, when little Kitty
Carlin called at Lady St. Leger's house, and asked for Miss
Brooke. When told that she was out, Kitty gave an
exclamation of disappointment.

" Oh, dear, how annoying ! I did want to see her,"
she ejaculated. " Will she be gone long ? "

The footman's understudy, a somewhat blighted youth
in buttons, informed the young lady that he thought Miss
Brooke would return soon, as Lady St. Leger was not well,
and that a gentleman was awaiting her return.

Kitty remained silently reflective for a moment. She
had left town about the first of July to go on tour with
the company from the London theatre where she had been
playing for some months. This was the first time since
going away that she had been near enough to town to run
home, even for part of a day ; but now she had rushed up
to London from Manchester, to do some shopping and be
fitted for several important new frocks, and she could not
bear to go off again (as she must in an hour) without a
glimpse of her beloved " Beauty." She wondered who
the gentleman could be who was waiting for Honour.
" Perhaps," she thought, " it's that horrid, mongrel, half-
Russian person. Or — what if it should be her father
come home all right after all, and waiting to give her a
big surprise ? I can't think of any other man who would
have the cheek to ask for Beauty, without Lady St. Leger,
and sit calmly waiting for her to come home, unless — well,
it might be that protege of her father's she's told me about.
I'd rather like to see what sort of fellow he is. He must be

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 175

an odd fish. Anyhow, there's no harm in my waiting for
Beauty, too." Aloud she remarked with dignity that she
would come in, and hoped that Miss Brooke really would
not be long.

Now, Kitty knew very well that in this pretty doll's-
house of Lady St. Leger's there were only two rooms in
which it was at all likely that a friend of Honour's would
be put to wait. One of these possible places was a tiny
reception-room on the ground floor ; the other the drawing-
room. To be sure, Lady St. Leger had a boudoir behind
that, but it was sacred to her own intimate cronies, and
Kitty was sure that the mysterious waiting gentleman
was not there. The youth in buttons was showing the
way upstairs, but, before obeying his lead, the little actress
slyly pushed the door of the reception-room a few inches
further ajar than it was, and peeped in. Nobody was
there, and so she was safe to go upstairs.

As the drawing-room door was opened for her to enter,
and she stepped briskly over the threshold, somebody
who had been sitting in the shallow bow-window at the
back sprang up, eagerly, with the book he had been reading
to pass the time open in his hand.

" Miss Brooke ! " he exclaimed. Then, before the word
was quite out, a quick drawing in of the breath told that
he was already aware of his mistake.

Kitty laughed, taking in the young man's slight figure
with one of her quick, comprehensive glances. " I am
complimented ! " she said. " No one ever took me for
Miss Brooke before."

" I was hoping she had come," returned Jack Harned ;
and then, in his ignorance of the subtleties of social life,
wondered if his frankness would be considered rude by the
quaint little Dresden-china girl who was gazing straight
up at him with large, bright blue eyes.

But Kitty did not consider him rude. She saw his
embarrassment, of which she was the cause, and liked it.
A man who did not flatter himself that he knew all about
women, and exactly how to treat them, was refreshing to

176 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

her. Besides, she thought his reckless young face ex
tremely interesting, quite different from any other she had
ever seen. Kitty had never happened to meet Jack
Harned, though Honour had talked of him, and she knew
that he came quite often to the little house in Park Lane.
But she was sure, from the description given of Nevill
Brooke's protege by Nevill Brooke's daughter, that this
must be Jack Harned. She bestowed on him the smile
which she reserved for those people of whom she thoroughly
approved, and sank calmly into the most comfortable
chair in the room.

" / am hoping she will come, too," remarked Miss Carlin.
" Do you know, I can guess who you are. You are the
young man from everywhere, who has done everything."

It was Jack's turn to laugh, and the reckless face was at
its pleasantest in laughter. " That is a large order,"
said he. " Now, I should like to guess who you are, but
I don't know whether that would be the correct thing —
I never do know the correct thing, though Miss Brooke
is kind enough to try and teach me."

" What a pity ! She may spoil you in the process.
If I know the correct thing, I generally refrain from doing
it, on principle — at least, so my dearest enemies say.
But hasn't Beauty ever mentioned to you a girl whose
description I might answer ? "

Again Jack showed embarrassment, for, in truth, there
was but one girl in the world for him, and her name was
Honour Brooke. If she had ever wasted a few moments of
their scanty time together in describing irrelevant girls,
the words had gone in at one ear and out at the other,
while he watched her eyes or her lips as she talked. But
this would scarcely be a polite confession to one of the
irrelevant girls ; and, as he paused to think of an appro
priate answer, Kitty broke in :

" I quite see how it is," she said, " and I don't blame you
a bit. Honour told me that you were just like a character
that we both like in Bret Harte's books — a namesake of
yours as far as the ' Jack ' goes, so, you see, I couldn't

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 177

help recognising you on sight. As for me, I'm a play-
actress, and if you were Jack Hamlin instead of Harned, I
daresay you would be very nice to me. But, as it is,
probably you are quite superior, and despise the theatre,
and never heard the name of Kitty Carlin."

" I've been a play-actor myself," said Jack, " and,
now that I have heard your name, I shall never forget it."

" Well, then, I suppose we are introduced," remarked
Kitty. " And it is quite time, too, for I am one of Honour's
best friends, and I shouldn't wonder if you are the other.
I'm really quite glad to have met you. Ugh ! What
should I have done if I had come bouncing in here, and found
the Loathsome Reptile, instead of you ? "

" May I ask who he is — or she ? "

" The L. R. is known to the public as Mr. Loris St.
Leger. Possibly you've met him. If you have, I should
like to know your opinion of the gentleman."

Jack Harned, who had been standing until now, ven
tured to draw up a chair within reasonable distance of
the Dresden-china girl, and sit down upon it. An eager,
interested expression lit up his face. " No, I have never
really met Mr. St. Leger," he said. " But I have seen him.
I came to call once, just as he was going away, and since
then I've seen him in the street, and riding in the Park.
He is rather remarkable-looking — one doesn't forget him."

" No, I wish one could," said Kitty.

" How you seem to dislike him ! "

" I do. But I don't know why. That's the worst
kind of dislike. It worries you so, and you lie awake
nights trying to find excuses for it."

" It's rather curious," remarked Jack, thoughtfully.
" That is a good deal the way I feel towards Mr. St. Leger."

" Good ! I'm glad. I like you all the better for it.
Makes me feel sure you and I have something in common.
There must be some real reason for such an instinct, you
know, for it is an instinct — just as when a cat or dog
avoid or attacks a person. Bless you, they never take
dislikes at sight to really nice, good-hearted people like

178 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

us. No, more do we. There's something terrible about
that Loris St. Leger. I felt it creeping all through me the
first minute I set eyes on him, on the fourth of last April."

" The fourth of April ! " repeated Jack Harned, still
thoughtfully. " He must have made a strong impression
upon you, that you should have remembered the date of
your first meeting all this time."

" He did. I felt as if he was bringing an evil influence
into my dear Beauty's life — ' Beauty ' is my pet name
for Honour, of course. But that wasn't the only reason I
remembered the date. It was something else — a mysterious
sort of something else, that I always keep half-way ex
pecting to find out more about, though I don't suppose I
ever really shall."

" That sounds interesting," said Jack, who was bitterly
jealous of Loris St. Leger, because of the opportunities
given him by his intimate footing in the household.

" Perhaps you wouldn't think so, if I told you how
little there really was in the thing, except a perfectly
creepy impression," replied Kitty. " It was like this.
Beauty had been presented the night before, and Lady
St. Leger was giving an ' At Home ' ' in honour of Honour,'
as I said. Poor child ! it was her birthday, and she ought
to have been radiantly happy, but she wasn't. She had
been expecting news of her father, and hadn't heard for
ages. She was dreadfully worried and ' down,' though
she was being such a success. Just as she was saying
' How-do-you-do ? ' to shoals of dukes and earls, and re
ceiving lots of compliments from everyone, who should
appear on the scene but the L. R., just back from the
North Pole or somewhere, and fancying himself tremen
dously. He fixed his eyes on Beauty from afar, just like
another kind of reptile on a beautiful, innocent white
dove, that it means to bolt. And I believe that was just
what this Loathsome Reptile was making up his mind to
do. He looked at her as if he could eat her."

" Brute ! " involuntarily exclaimed Jack, clenching
his hands, completely carried away by the narrative.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 179

" You may well say so. But wait ! After he had
talked to Honour for a long time, keeping everyone else
away with that kind of basilisk glare of his, Lady St.
Leger got him to herself. You know she adores him. I
happened to be close by, and couldn't help overhearing
their conversation. They talked about Honour. It was
easy to see that Lady St. Leger wanted to make a match
between them, and I kept saying to myself, ' No, you
don't, my lady ! No, you don't if / can help it ! ' Then
she begged the L. R. to stay to dinner, but he said he
couldn't ; he had a most important engagement. When
he said that — oh, if you could have seen his face ! I can't
describe it, except to tell you I once saw a beast of a little
boy in the street torturing a poor lame cat, and he had
exactly the same expression — a nasty, sly, concealed sort
of gloating grin. I'm delighted to say that I slapped the
little boy and knocked him over, so the cat got away,
and my fingers just itched to do the same to the man,
though, so far as I could see, there wasn't any cat. He
turned, with the same look — only worse — and asked Honour
to wish him luck in the engagement he had for that night.
Wasn't it queer ? — she began to do it, out of politeness,
but she turned suddenly faint, and couldn't. I thought
she would have fallen, and her dear, lovely face was as
white as a lily. She said afterwards to me that she sup
posed it might have been- the scent of a big sprig of helio
trope which the L. R. was wearing in his horrid button
hole which made her feel so odd, as the perfume of heliotrope
does, it seems, have a strange effect on her nerves some
times — it's so powerful. But / told her it was no such
thing — that it was the man himself who caused it, and the
impression of some sly, wicked purpose he had in his head
to carry out that night. Said I, ' Let me see, what's
the date? so if we ever hear of any horrid thing being done,
we'll know how to put two and two together.' ' It's
April the fourth,' Honour answered, and I never forgot,
though, so far, I've waited and watched in vain to be able
to say ' I told you so ! ' "

i8o THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

Again Jack Harned repeated the words — " April the
fourth." That date he also had good reason to remember.
It was the day when the best friend he ever had — Nevill
Brooke — should have returned to England and come to
him in London. A curious sensation of deadly cold stole
over him, though the day was warm. He seemed to see
the dark face of Loris St. Leger, with its strange light eyes,
obliquely set above high cheek-bones, wearing the ex
pression which Kitty Carlin described. An extraordinary
desire suddenly overwhelmed him to know what the man's
engagement had been for the night of April the fourth,
just as if it might be an affair of great importance to him —
Jack Harned. Yet how could it be so ? What could an
engagement of Loris St. Leger's for that date have to do
with him ? It could only be through the disappearance
of Nevill Brooke, but — of course, there was a tremendous
" but," an abyssmal chasm of a " but." Nevertheless,
in an instant, Jack Harned's mind flung a bridge across
it, and his spirit was on that bridge, when Kitty Carlin 's
voice stopped him half-way.

" Honour doesn't come, and I must go, as I have to
catch my quick train, and play to-night in Manchester,"
she said. " But I'm very glad to have met you and — to
have had this talk. We are Honour's friends. Where
her father is, and whether he will ever come home, who
can tell ? Lady St. Leger worships that horrible man.
If she could, she would have Honour marry him. My
dear girl needs all the help and protection she can get.
I am afraid of the Reptile for her. It amounts to a pre
sentiment, though usually I scorn such things. Let us
make a compact. We will stand by her, and we will
stand together in trying to find out Loris St. Leger's
wickedness, so as to save her from him, now that he has
blossomed out into a millionaire. What do you say, Mr.
Jack Harned ? "

" I say ' Done ! ' " cried Jack.

She put out a tiny hand, and he almost crushed it in the
pressure which cemented partnership.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 181

CHAPTER XXV

" SHE LOVES HIM ! "

JACK HARNED had been away in Paris, where he had gone
to meet the detective, Richard Otway, who thought that
he had come upon traces of Nevill Brooke's presence there
as late as the third of April. He had been back in London
only for a few hours when he called upon Honour to tell
her such news as he had, and was surprised, while waiting,
by Kitty Carlin. Next to Honour, he thought Kitty the
nicest girl he had ever seen ; nevertheless, the distance
between them in his mind was immense. Honour was
a goddess ; Kitty was merely a charming and piquant young
woman.

When she had gone, he remained, for he was determined
not to leave the house without seeing Honour. But he
gave more thought to Kitty than he had to any other
human being except Nevill Brooke and Nevill Brooke's
daughter since he had arrived in England last April. He
liked her for her enthusiasm and her impulsiveness ; he
liked her because of her quaint prettiness, and because
she had called Loris St. Leger a loathsome reptile ; but,
above all, he liked her because of her loyal love for Honour
Brooke, and the thought of their newly-cemented partner
ship warmed his heart. The co-operation of such a clever
little lady was not to be despised, and some day he
might be glad of it.

Jack had waited a long time when Honour came at last,
and when he had finished telling her how Otway, the de
tective, had learned that Nevill Brooke had spent the night
of April the third at a quiet, out-of-the-way little hotel in
Paris ; how a lady wearing a thick veil and a long travelling

182 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

cloak had called to inquire if he were there, and had left
a note, but had not asked to see him ; how nothing was
known of the lady at the hotel, except that she was very
tall and graceful, with a sheen of copper hair showing
beneath her veil — when these details and a few others had
been given and discussed at length in all their bearings by
Jack and Honour, it was nearly time for the girl to dress
for dinner.

" Won't you dine with us, if Lady St. Leger invites
you ? " she said at last. " There are such lots of things I
have to say to you still ; and if the Kazans should go
early we might be able to talk them over to-night. You
would just have time if you took a cab at once to drive back
to your lodgings and change."

Jack hesitated. He had never dined at the house in
Park Lane ; had only once been asked, and had been
obliged to trump up an excuse to decline the invitation,
as he had not then possessed any evening clothes. Now,
however, he had provided himself with the best to be
obtained, and he had a boyish desire to show Honour how
well he could bear himself among what he called " her kind
of people." Besides, an extra hour or two with the girl
he worshipped was a boon worth paying dearly for. But
he would have to pay, for he knew that Lady St. Leger
regarded him as a sort of wild man of the woods, and
tolerated him entirely for Honour's sake. Jack was
sensitive and proud, and was ill at ease under scornful
toleration, which was all that he could expect from Loris
St. Leger's cousins, the Kazans. He decided, however,
that he would put up with all possible humiliations for the
joy of sitting at the same table with Honour Brooke,
and perhaps having a few words with her afterwards,
alone.

" If Lady St. Leger will have me, I'll be glad," he said,
quite meekly, and the girl ran off to beg the wished-for
invitation. It was more easily obtained than she had
thought, for Lady St. Leger's headache was still very bad,
and she was beginning to fear that she should not be able

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 183

to sit through dinner. In case she had to give up, it would
be convenient for Honour to have somebody to help her
out, " and perhaps even Mr. Harned would be a little
better than no one at all." As he was a protege of her
father's, in a way he was almost like a relative ; and the
Kazans being foreigners, they might not see how very
peculiar he was according to English ideas.

Obliged to make the best of this, Honour went back to
Jack Harned with the invitation. He hurried off in a
cab, and as the lodgings which Honour had once so unex
pectedly visited were a long distance away, Mr. and Miss
Kazan had arrived, Lady St. Leger had come down —
looking white and ill — and dinner had just been announced
when Jack reappeared, to be published at the drawing-
room door by the footman as " Mr. Arned."

Already Lady St. Leger had explained him away to the
Kazans, lest they should wonder at his presence in so small
and informal a party ; and, having learned that they
were to expect a " sort of ward " of Nevill Brooke's, father
and daughter glanced up, on his entrance, with veiled
interest. Instantly they recognised him as the young man
who lodged in the house next to one very familiar to them
both. The old woman who was their landlady and his
had been questioned with apparent carelessness concerning
him, after the day when Honour Brooke had been seen
with him, by Nadege. But she had pronounced the name
so that it had sounded like " Arnold," and had said, in all
good faith, that Mr. Arnold had happened to meet the
beautiful young lady, drenched with rain, when she was
looking for a cab, had shared his umbrella with her, and
offered her shelter. This had sufficiently accounted for
Honour Brooke's presence and her acquaintance with the
young man named " Arnold " who lodged in the next
house — that next house which Mrs. Oates was allowed to
let as she pleased, in order that there might never be the
slightest suspicion regarding the tenant of No. 16. When
Loris St. Leger had spoken to his uncle and cousin of Jack
Harned, a protege of Nevill Brooke's, who had undertaken

184 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

to play the detective, it had not, therefore, occurred to
them to associate the two.

As for Kazan, there was no fear of recognition. If the
lodger in No. 16 had ever happened to see the old clergy
man next door, whose kind deeds Mrs. Gates praised so
often, he could not dream that he was looking at him now.
No two men could be more different in type than the
smooth-shaven, blue-chinned, actor-like Russian gentleman
of middle age, and the venerable, white-bearded spectacled
Mr. Willoughby. He could fearlessly look Jack Harned
in the face with his slightly squinting grey eyes ; but he
was not quite so confident in regard to Nadege. Fortu
nately, as he had insisted when trying to reassure her
concerning Sir Ronald Charteris, it would be impossible
for anyone seeing her now to be certain of her identity with
the copper-haired woman of the past. Still, there was a
keen alertness in Harned's face which suggested the faculty
of observation developed to an unusual extent, and if he
had ever seen the nurse in the grey uniform who had lived
for several weeks in the adjoining house, he might now
be struck with the resemblance ; and the curiosity of such
an exceedingly wide-awake young man, an intimate friend
of Nevill Brooke's, might lead to undesirable issues. But,
so far as Kazan could see, the long look which Jack Harned
gave to Nadege expressed nothing more dangerous than
rather bold admiration.

French was one of several languages with which Jack's
wandering life had made him proficient, and he talked to
Miss Kazan a good deal at dinner, his eyes always upon her
beautiful face, with its frame of dead-black hair. He told
several amusing adventures which shocked Lady St. Leger,
but entertained Honour and the Kazans, and finally, when
the father and daughter rose to go, the former invited Jack
to come and see them. He promptly accepted the in
vitation, somewhat to the surprise of Honour, who thought
she knew that he did not care for society.

" Why did you ask him to call ? " enquired Nadege,
on the way home.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 185

" Couldn't you guess ? " retorted Kazan. " I wanted to
have that young man under my hand, so that if at any
moment it became necessary I could close it upon him."

" You are afraid of him ! " exclaimed Nadege. " You
whom they call the ' Master ' ; you who, under another
name, pull what strings you please and make London
dance ! You are afraid of that pale, thin boy, with the
burning eyes ! "

Kazan laughed. " You misunderstand me," he said.
" I am as little afraid of him as I am of the wind that
blows across London to-night. But I wish to win his
confidence. I want to know what he is doing in those in
vestigations Loris spoke of so scornfully. I think Loris
makes too little of him because he is young and crude, that
is all. The nearer he is to us the less likely will his sus
picions be to point our way. Not that, in any event,
there is the slightest chance they should. As soon expect
the sun to stand still in mid-heaven."

" Some day you will make a mistake," said Nadege,
as they arrived at the big new palace which was to be their
home and Loris St. Leger's.

Meanwhile, having been told by Honour that Jack
Harned had something to say to her about her father,
Lady St. Leger left the two alone, with a warning look
which meant that Jack must not be allowed to stop long.

" Now, aren't you very, very glad that you dined here
to-night ? " asked the girl, smiling.

" Of course. But why especially ? " Jack asked.

" Because of Miss Kazan. You admired her so tre
mendously. And they asked you to call."

" She looks exactly like someone I have seen," said Jack,
" except for her hair."

" Is there anyone else as beautiful as she ? "

" There is one whom I think incomparably more beau
tiful. Nobody could have two opinions about that.
Anyhow, no man could. But that's not the person I'm
talking about. The woman Miss Kazan looks like was a
nurse in the next house to mine. She had red hair, and

186 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

wore a grey uniform. I saw her go in and out two or three
times some months ago. She was employed, Mrs. Gates
told me, to nurse a fellow who was ill next door with con
gestion of the brain, or something of the sort. An old
parson had taken the chap in, out of charity, and engaged
a couple of nurses to look after him. The woman I speak
of was one."

" Oh ! " exclaimed Honour, " the woman who nursed
Sir Ronald Charteris ! "

The instant the words had left her lips she regretted them.
She had not told Jack Harned of the agonised ravings she
had heard on the day of her odd visit to him. To speak,
even to her friend, of what she had been forced to hear
would somehow have seemed almost dishonourable, as if
she were betraying -a sad secret confided to her. But
now, with Jack's words, there came a quick rush of
memories. She recalled the landlady's gossip, and what
had been said of the beautiful, auburn-haired nurse against
whom the delirious man appeared to feel such an un
accountable aversion. It seemed such a queer coincidence
that a striking resemblance should exist between the
nurse and the gorgeous Russian, Miss Kazan, who could
scarcely, by any possibility, be related to her, that Honour
had uttered the impulsive exclamation.

Jack caught her up quickly. " Sir Ronald Charteris ! "
he echoed. " Who is he ? "

" A man Lady St. Leger and I have met lately," an
swered Honour, frankly ; but again she flushed, as she had*
at Loris St. Leger's house. She felt the hot blood spring
to her cheeks, and could have cried with vexation. Was
she always going to blush like a silly schoolgirl after this,
whenever she or anyone else mentioned Sir Ronald
Charteris ? " It's a wonder you haven't heard of him,"
she went on, hurriedly. " His name is quite well known
in connection with a splendid charity, helping poor men
to find work, and housing and feeding them till they can
get it. He's spending everything he has, and living in
the slums. We — go and see him — that is, to try and help

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 187

a little if we can — sometimes, Lady St. Leger and I. You
see, she was an intimate friend of his mother's, in old days."

" I see," echoed Jack, a horrible pain wringing his
heart. Never had he known a pain so sharp, so insidious.
It was not caused by Honour's words, but by her blush,
which to him spoke far more loudly than any words. He
loved her. Nadege Kazan loved Ronald Charteris. The
instinct of love was not to be deceived, and each had guessed
from the girl's face something that she did not yet know
herself. " Is Sir Ronald Charteris the man who was ill
next door to my place ? "

" I — I don't quite know," stammered Honour. " I
think he may have been, but I only think so because he
looks like that man."

Jack Harned's bold black eyes opened wide. " You
saw him — that day you came ? I can't think how you

" Oh, no ! " Honour hastened to explain, more angry
with herself than ever for getting into such a hopeless
tangle. " I heard that — someone was ill. He was —
talking a little to himself on the other side of the wall when
I went upstairs with your landlady to change my dress.
She said he looked exactly like a picture of Lord Byron
which was hanging up in your sitting-room. Then, after
wards, when I met Sir Ronald, I thought the voice was
the same ; and — and he is like that picture. So it seemed
as if it might be he — but, of course, I'm not sure. Only,
when you mentioned the nurse reminding you of Miss
Kazan, I was surprised, and spoke out before I stopped to
realise how stupid it would be — that's all."

" I know that Byron picture," said Jack, miserably.
" Your Sir Ronald Charteris must be a very handsome
fellow."

" He is ! " exclaimed Honour. " But you needn't call
him my Sir Ronald. I've only seen him twice — one after
noon with Lady St. Leger, and now again to-day, when
I went to take him some books and things for his poor men."

Jack made no comment, but he knew that, since Honour
had met the man to-day she must have been alone, for

i88 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

Lady St. Leger had been at home ill during the whole
afternoon, as he had heard repeated more than once.
Never before had Jack experienced to the full the sickening
pain of jealousy. He had fancied himself jealous of Loris
St. Leger, because Loris could come whenever he liked
to the house, and was the favourite of Honour's guardian ;
because he was said to be a millionaire, and could give
the woman he married all that a woman's heart could
desire ; because he was a man of Honour Brooke's own
world. But Honour had never changed colour or stam
mered at the mention of St. Leger's name. She had even
appeared rather bored sometimes when his admiring
cousin sang his praises in Jack Harned's presence ; and
the unhappy young man wondered how he could ever
have imagined real cause for jealousy where St. Leger
was concerned. Now — now, he knew what the real thing
meant. He hated Ronald Charteris, and felt as if the
only relief for the agony he suffered would be to grapple
with this man, whom he had never seen, in a fight for life
or death.

" She loves him," Jack said to himself, with a sensation
as if his heart were being pinched by a hand in a glove of
steel. " He's Sir Ronald, a baronet, I suppose, therefore
he's in her own set. He'd never be at a loss for the right
word, or the right thing to do. He wouldn't feel like a
fish out of water when he walked into a lady's drawing-
room ; but I bet he wouldn't be quicker to lay down his
life for her than I would, though he does look like Lord
Byron. Great on charity, is he, and lives in the slums ?
Two to one he's a pious fraud. What wouldn't I give to
show him up ? And the beautiful nurse with the red
hair ? What's become of her, and what is she in this
charity business, I wonder ? "

Jack was in no fit mood for talk with sweet Honour
Brooke now. The wild strain in his nature was upper
most. Wicked thoughts were in his mind ; wicked words
burned his tongue. He excused himself to Honour, saying
that, after all, he had told her something that he had to

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 189

tell, earlier in the evening. He hoped for further news
to-morrow from Otway, the detective, who was still
pursuing his investigations in Paris, and the moment he
had any information he would come or send to her.

In some moods the touch of her soft little hand, which
his wiry fingers could so easily crush, would instantly calm
him, as balm soothes the fierce throbbing of a wound. But
to-night, to have it tingling in his sent the blood like a
torrent of fire to his brain. He felt as if he were going
mad as he ran down the steps, and began striding along
the dark street. He had almost flung himself from the
house, to the surprise of the highly-decorous footman who
opened the door, and so suddenly had he sprung into the
street that he nearly knocked down two men who were
standing close together talking, near the steps. He was
the aggressor, and it should have been he who begged pardon
for rudeness ; but he was in no mood for graciousness. He
was thinking that some day the little, soft, satin-smooth
hand, which had been his for a brief moment, and could
only be his for brief moments as long as he lived, might
belong for ever to the man who had power to make Honour
Brooke blush at the sound of his name. And for the
sake of his sudden hatred for Ronald Charteris he hated
all men, among them these two who dared to stand under
Honour Brooke's window. It seemed to him that, as he
brushed them roughly aside, they drew stealthily towards
him again to peer into his face ; and, instead of honest
outspoken anger at his rudeness, they kept silence. Jack
glared from under frowning brows, first at one face and then
at another. The men he had nearly knocked down in
his unnecessary haste were not English, though, save
for their head-covering, they were in European dress.
They had yellow-brown faces, and oblique, dark eyes.
Jack's impression was that they were Indians.

" What do you /want here ? " he demanded, savagely.
" What are you lurking about people's doors for, at this
time of night ? Move on, or I'll call a policeman to have
you arrested."

190 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

Jack would have liked nothing better than an angry blow
in answer to his insolence ; but, whether the two brown
men understood the meaning of the roughly-spoken words
or not, they made no protest. Still in silence, and as if
with one accord, they turned away and " moved on," as
he had commanded.

CHAPTER XXVI

JACK HARNED PAYS CALLS

WHEN Jack reached his lodgings, his first thought was
to look at the picture of Lord Byron, which hung on the
wall of his sitting-room. Byron was the one poet he had
ever cared in the least about. Something in the man's
story, his banishment, his strange life and reckless bravery,
appealed to Jack Harned, and he had often sat smoking
his pipe and gazing meditatively at the handsome portrait.
But now he saw it with different eyes. It was no longer
a presentment of Lord Byron, whose passionate heart had
been dust for many a long year. It was the likeness of
Sir Ronald Charteris, the man whom Honour Brooke
loved, who therefore, of course, loved her. Miserably
Jack studied every line of the face, and said to himself
that, if Charteris really was like it, he should know the
man at sight. And he meant to see him. He made
up his mind that, if there were anything to be found out
to Ronald Charteris's prejudice, he would find it out. Such
jealousy and yearning for a spiteful revenge against a
man he had never met was mean, and Jack knew it well ;
but he told himself that he did not care. No man who
was not worthy should ever have Honour Brooke. In
a way, he felt that he had a right to think of himself as
her guardian in the absence of her father, and at least
he would be a faithful watchdog, since he was not grand
enough or fine enough to be anything more.

He heard nothing from the detective in Paris next

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 191

morning. Therefore, he had no pretext for calling again
upon Honour, or even writing to her. But he did notr
according to his point of view, waste the time which he
would so joyously have given to his goddess. He inquired
of his landlady if she had ever known the name of the man
who had been so ill in the house next door, a few months,
ago. Mrs. Gates thought for a moment, and then com
mitted herself to the opinion that the name of the hand
some young gentleman who looked like Lord Byron had
been Mr. Chatters, or something of that sort — she really
couldn't be quite sure. His having come to the house
when ill and out of his mind made a difference ; a body
hadn't thought of him by any name ; he had just been the
poor ill young gentleman. As for the handsome nurse, with
the red hair parted over her ears, she had not been allowed
by the doctor to attend on the patient after the first few
days, as only to see her excited him, and made him say the
strangest things. But Mr. Willoughby, the dear, good
man, said that she had been engaged for several weeks, and
she should not be sent away because of a sick man's whim ;
so she had stayed in the house till her time was up, and
sometimes, when the young gentleman was asleep, she
would steal in and look at him. Once Mrs. Gates had
met her coming out of the sick room, crying as if her heart
would break. Oh, yes ! it^ had gone hard with the poor
thing not to be permitted to take her proper place. At
last she had gone away, Mrs. Gates did not know where,
but probably to find some other engagement. Her name ?
Well, it was not a pretty one — not something to remember,
because it was different from other people's, like her hand
some face. It was Miss Smith — plain Miss Smith. Mrs.
Gates had seen little enough of her. She wasn't a talkative
young woman, and had kept herself to herself, as you might
say. But when she did speak, she had a nice voice, like
a lady born, but just a bit of an accent that wasn't quite
English — yet it wasn't un-English either. Perhaps Miss
Smith was a Colonial of some kind — Mrs. Gates couldn't
exactly say what.

192 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

When he had heard all that his somewhat garrulous
landlady had to tell about " Mr. Chatters "- and the beauti
ful nurse who had gone away and left no sign, Jack Harned
went to the secretary of a well-known charitable organisa
tion and asked for some particulars about Sir Ronald
Charteris and his work. The important gentleman
shrugged his shoulders with an air of good-natured tolera
tion. No doubt Sir Ronald was quite sincere, and it was
even possible that he accomplished some good. But he
was a faddist, distinctly a faddist, and absolutely an
amateur. His principle was wrong — all wrong from begin
ning to end. This taking men in without reference, and
doing as much for the notoriously undeserving as the
deserving, was an unworkable theory ; Sir Ronald would
find it out in time. If anyone had money to give to a
charity, it was far better to bestow it upon a well-recognised
organisation with established principles. Jack Harned,
having learned the address of Ronald Charteris, which
was really what he most wanted to know, rewarded his
informant with a sovereign for his own " well-recognised"
organisation, and promptly took his way to Oswell Road.
There he made some inquiries with widely differing results,
and at last called on Ronald himself, pretending to be
interested in what he alluded to as the " great work,"
until Ronald looked him full, gravely, and inquiringly in
the eyes. Then Jack Harned realised that, whatever else
Sir Ronald Charteris might be, he was a brave man, and
no hypocrite.

The last thing that Jack wanted in Oswell Road was
to learn to respect the " mission baronite," as already he
had heard him called, but somehow — though hatred grew
with growing jealousy — all the cynicism which Jack Harned
called to the rescue could not laugh down respect for his
unconscious rival.

" Some things which Miss Brooke told me about your
work interested me so much that I came here," he could
not resist saying, his eyes on Ronald's face as he spoke.
" I was dining with her and Lady St. Leger last night,"

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 193

he added, with elaborate nonchalance ; " and, after hearing
her account of what was being done here, I decided that
I must look you up."

At this he was rewarded by the sight of a deep flush
which spread to the roots of Ronald's short dark hair.
He hated the other all the more for it, and was plunged
further into abyssmal depths of gloom than ever ; for to
him Ronald's change of colour at the girl's name meant what
Honour's had meant at mention of his. But if he could
have read Ronald Charteris's heart, and seen there the
hopeless yearning, the desperate resignation to a bitter
fate, and the brave struggle not to envy the man who could
come nearer Honour Brooke than he — the man who could
" dine with her " and speak almost lightly of it afterwards
as if it were quite a matter of course — perhaps the throb
bing pain of Jack Harned's jealousy might have been
allayed.

Instinctively, Charteris felt that there was something
underneath Harned's visit to him. He felt the younger
man's dislike, and, though the iron had entered too deeply
into his soul to leave it free for such boyish spite as a return
of that dislike, his mental attitude towards the reckless-
faced young fellow who dined with Miss Brooke was one
of armed neutrality. He would have been glad to refuse
the five-pound note which Jack almost flung at him as a
contribution towards the " success of the mission," but
he told himself that he had no right to let his personal
feelings interfere with the work he had undertaken, and
therefore he quietly accepted the money. Jack knew by
instinct, on his part, that Ronald Charteris had hated to
take it, and this knowledge brought the one ray of pleasure
afforded by his call. Otherwise, it had been only an
aggravation, for Charteris was handsomer, more of a
gentleman, and altogether a finer fellow, he had grudgingly
to admit, than he had expected before seeing him.

In the afternoon, Jack determined to pay his first call
at the house of Loris St. Leger. It was Mr. Kazan's house,

7

194 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

too, he had been given to understand ; but, even if it had
not been so, he would not much have cared, now that he
had transferred his jealousy of St. Leger to another man.
He disliked St. Leger as heartily as before, and distrusted
him a great deal more, since his interview yesterday with
Kitty Carlin ; but the man's existence did not mean as
much to him as it had twenty-four hours ago. Besides,
he would not have to eat St. Leger's food. If Miss Kazan
ordered tea to be brought to the drawing-room while he
was there, he determined that he would refuse it.

Jack congratulated himself on not having shown surprise
or emotion of any kind last night, when he had first seen
Miss Kazan, and noticed her extraordinary resemblance
to the grey-clad nurse who used to flit into the house
adjoining his lodgings. He did not like what he called
" giving himself away " under any circumstances, and
though probably there was no connection of kinship between
the young Russian beauty and the vanished nurse, he
wanted to find out as much as he could about the ante
cedents of the Kazans without their guessing why.

He was glad to hear that Mr. and Miss Kazan were both
at home when he called, having only that moment re
turned from a drive in the Park. He was taken into the
drawing-room where Honour had been received the day
before, and was left alone to wait for a few moments. He
sat looking about, half-admiring, half-contemptuous of
luxury beyond any that he had ever seen, when suddenly a
sound, coming from a distance, reached his ears and caused
him to straighten himself into alertness, with every muscle
tense.

It was the same curious, unhuman chattering which he
and Honour Brooke had heard months ago in the old
deserted house at Hammersmith.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 195

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ADVICE OF NADEGE

As Jack sat listening, surprised and half incredulous, Miss-
Kazan came into the room, and he sprang up, apologising
boyishly for having called so soon after his invitation.
" I wanted to come," he'said, in French, " and when I want
to do a thing it is always hard for me to wait. I suppose
it's very ' backwoodsian ' to feel like that, or — anyway —
to say so, isn't it ? And probably it will be still worse
if I ask you the meaning of that strange sound. But it is
a curiosity-exciting sound."

Miss Kazan smiled indulgently, as most women did
smile on Jack Harned. "It is a compliment that you
have come to see us so soon after making our acquaint
ance," she replied. " As for that sound, no wonder it
excites your curiosity, since it would be hard to guess what
it is on first hearing it. It is because of the sound — or,
rather, because of the thing which is making it — that my
father is not here at this moment. But he will come. The
fact is, that my cousin Loris has just arrived, and has
brought with him a very queer pet, of which he is tre
mendously fond. My father and I generally keep and
take care of it for him, when he is wandering about the
world, but it had to be shipped from home, and knowing
that it was due to reach London to-day, Loris claimed it
and picked it up on his way home. He and my father are
at this moment introducing it to its new quarters, which,
I am thankful to say, are in such a distant part of this big
house that we shall not, in future, be troubled with its
chattering. Listen ! Already it has gone so far away

196 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

that you can scarcely hear it. Now — it has ceased alto
gether. "

" Since you have told me so much, and given me a clue,"-
said Jack, " I think I may safely guess that this strange,
chattering pet of Mr. St. Leger's is some sort of monkey.'1

"It is a very large and very clever chimpanzee, which
my cousin caught himself when it was a tiny thing, and its
mother had been shot. He is not particularly fond of
animals, I think, and I never knew him to have any other
pet ; but he is quite superstitious about this creature. He
actually believes that it is a * mascot ' — that it brings him
luck — and that if it were to die or escape, he would at once
be unfortunate in all his undertakings. The chimpanzee's
name is Mephistopheles ; but, really, it is a well-behaved,
quiet beast when it is not excited by any sudden change
in its daily routine, or by a noise which it doesn't under
stand. Poor old Mephistopheles is extraordinarily sensi
tive to sound.-1

" I suppose, when it hears any noise that surprises or
annoys it, it chatters its protest, as it did just now when
it was being introduced to a new home,'1 said Jack. He
spoke in a tone of merely polite interest, but his eyes were
very bright as he looked at beautiful Miss Kazan.

" Yes/- she answered. " It is rather a talkative animal,
and its voice isn't musical, is it ? But we have had the
poor thing with us so much that I scarcely notice its chat
tering now. Loris would not feel that he could settle down
and be at home in this house unless his queer ' mascot '-
were here.'1

At this moment Mr. Kazan came in. Nothing more
was said about the chimpanzee, and the subject was
changed. There was a question, it seemed, of at once
engaging a teacher of English for Nadege, who con
fessed to a book-knowledge of the language, without the
confidence to speak.

" I must have someone come every day for an hour,-'-
she said ; " someone who will make me talk. It is really
very stupid of me to be too shy, for I know the grammar,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 197

and can read English books quite well. All I want is
courage to pronounce the words, and I know that is only
to be gained by constant conversation. It is much the
same with my father ; but he talks with my cousin Loris:
I have not even the confidence to do that, for he teases me
when I make mistakes. Do you know of anyone whom
I could get, Mr. Harned ? But I am forgetting what I
heard last night. You, too, are a new-comer in London. "•

" Would you prefer to have a man or a woman as your
teacher ? " asked Jack.

" A man, I think. I should make better progress with
a man. With a woman I should always have the vague
feeling that it was not necessary to take pains."

" Well," said Jack, " I hardly like to offer myself for the
post, but I have taught languages in my various knockings
about, and I believe I have some gift for imparting what
I know. If you and Mr. Kazan thought that my French
and English were good enough, why "-

" But that would be perfect ! " exclaimed Miss Kazan ;
" far better than anything I had hoped for. You are not
a stranger any more, and as you are a friend of our friends,
it would altogether be most agreeable. Yet think of the
trouble for yourself ! "

" It would be a great privilege/' returned Jack. " I've
more time than anything else at present ; and I can fancy
nothing more agreeable than a chance of spending an hour
here whenever you wanted a lesson."

" You would have to come every day till I could speak
properly,"- said Miss Kazan, laughing. " Don't you think
it would be a good arrangement, father, if Mr. Harned
will really be so kind ? "

" Excellent, from our point of view," replied Kazan.
, Each was satisfied, for, secretly, each was playing into
the other's hands. Jack was groping still in the dim
twilight of vague speculations ; but he had an excited
feeling that the dusk would presently brighten into day
light, and that he should suddenly see a definite end to
the labyrinth. He wanted to keep in close touch with

198 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

the inmates of this splendid new house in Park Lane, and
the chance of teaching Miss Kazan English would give him
precisely the excuse he needed. He had seized upon her
first word, and worked up to his offer, considering himself
rather clever to obtain it. In spite of that cleverness,
however, he had not suspected that Miss Kazan had
reasons which she considered as strong as his for wishing
the same thing. And her reasons were partly — not
wholly — her father's. He wanted to keep Jack Harned
under his hand ; to study the young man ; if necessary, to
watch him ; to make sure that he was not a wolf in sheep's
clothing ; and finally to deal with him according to the
conclusions reached. Nadege had heard and remem
bered this explanation of her father's desire for Jack
Harned's society ; and on her own part she said to herself :
" He is a great friend of Honour Brooke's. He will know
what she is doing, and where she goes ; he will know how
matters stand between her and Ronald Charteris. If I
questioned her for a hundred years she would tell me
nothing, except, perhaps, by schoolgirl blushes, for she
is on her guard with me now ; but a woman can always
manage a man, and get what she likes out of him, with
out his suspecting that she has a particular interest in the
subject."

Loris St. Leger did not deign to show himself to Jack
Harned during that first call, though it appeared that he
had come home. In truth, he was not in a mood for
hospitality. For days and weeks he had been on the
track of Harvey Kane, the man who had financed Nevill
Brooke for the expedition to Thibet, had thus become a
member of the Tontine which had been formed, and had
eventually disappeared, taking with him the secret of how
much he really knew about the adventure.

When St. Leger had called at Harvey Kane's chambers
in April, and learned that he had gone away " on a holi
day," vanishing into space as far as an address was con
cerned, he had not by any means given up the quest. It
was essentially necessary to find Harvey Kane, and to

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 199

discover whether Nevill Brooke had written to him of
the success of the expedition. If the solicitor knew only
that the party had started, and that if the object with
which it set out were accomplished, he would be repaid
with a fortune for his few hundreds, no danger need be
feared. Proofs could be given, if needful, that the ad
venture had ended in death and dismal disaster ; that the
party had never reached their goal ; that the story of
the diamonds had probably j^een a mere will-o'-the-wisp.
If, on the contrary, Kane had heard from Nevill Brooke,
he might at any time pounce down upon the survivors and
demand not only his share, but blurt out the whole history,
and claim to represent Nevill Brooke's daughter and Sir
Ronald Charteris.

Naturally, Loris St. Leger and his uncle felt keen in
terest in the fate and whereabouts of Nevill Brooke's
vanished solicitor, Harvey Kane. Loris had taken it upon
himself to run the quarry to earth, and had begun the
campaign by calling a second time at the chambers in
King's Bench Walk. After cautious beating about the
bush with the melancholy youth whom he had interviewed
before, he had first hinted at, then boldly offered, an ex
tremely tempting bribe for real information regarding the
solicitor. When the bait had fattened to the bulk of a
hundred pounds, the fish had bitten. He confessed that
he knew more about Mr. Kane than he had been willing
to admit at first. Mr. Kane had been in difficulties, and
had hired his clerk to " hold the fort " and answer inquiries
with the view of allaying suspicion until he could get well
beyond the reach of angry clients whose money he had
invested rather for his advantage than theirs. In fact,
Mr. Kane did not intend to return to King's Bench Walk,
and it was probable that London, and even England, would
know him no more. The last time that the clerk had sent
his employer's letters had been to Madrid ; since then he
had heard nothing, and did not know where to send again.
Mr. Kane had been almost ill with worry when he went
away, and the clerk confided to St. Leger that he would

200 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

not be surprised if he had died somewhere abroad. As to
his " family," with whom he was supposed to be travelling,
there was only an old maid sister. The story was that
Mr. Kane had had a wife, who had run away from him and
gone on the stage, many years ago, and then died. Whether
that were true or not, the clerk did not know ; but, at all
events, the solicitor had no wife at present.

The melancholy youth told St. Leger various details of
his employer's affairs, which had evidently been in a
chaotic condition, so far as his clients' interests were
concerned, for months, if not for years. From what he
heard, Loris was inclined to think that the money which
had purported to be Harvey Kane's, and had been sub
scribed by him towards the Thibet expedition, had in
reality belonged to one of the unfortunate clients. Re
membering how Nevill Brooke had asked him to send
some hundreds of pounds belonging to Honour, and how
Kane had answered that, owing to the state of the market,
her shares could not be sold out, St. Leger thought the
money sent had probably been Honour's own. Kane,
wishing to reap the fruits of their success, had wished it
to appear that the sum was subscribed by him. In this
case, if the fraud could be proved, Kane would have no right
to share in the Tontine ; but the difficulty would be to
prove it.

All this information, together with the solicitor's late
home address in Sydenham, St. Leger had obtained from
the clerk in April, not many days after his first visit to
King's Bench Walk. He had gone out to Sydenham and
made inquiries, and he had also paid a flying visit to Madrid.
There he had come on traces of the solicitor, who had
taken another name, and seemed to have plenty of money ;
but the trail was soon lost, and St. Leger employed a pri
vate detective, which he had not dared to do in England,
lest certain secrets of his own should accidentally be raked
up. He had then come home, and had appeared to take
no particular interest in the affair, when the frauds com
mitted by Harvey Kane could no longer be kept dark, but

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 201

filled columns in the daily papers, and created a popular
sensation. Meanwhile, the occupation of the clerkly watch
dog was gone. He posed as a much- injured young man,
absolutely innocent of his employer's proceedings ; and
as there was nothing against him, he was allowed finally
to subside into obscurity, in comfortable possession of
Loris St. Leger's hundred pounds. As he knew nothing
more which was of interest to St. Leger, the latter had
now practically forgotten all about him, as he did with
most people whom he had used and found no longer neces
sary.

St. Leger's latest journey had been undertaken on the
strength of news received from the Spanish detective.
English detectives were also employed in trying to unearth
the solicitor who had disappeared with thousands of pounds
belonging to his clients ; but Loris did not concern him
self with their manoeuvres, except that, if they had found
out anything, he would have been quick to profit by it.
His man thought that he had tracked Harvey Kane to
Belgium, and that he was to be found in Brussels, tying
very ill in lodgings. To be sure, he was alone ; there
was no sister ; but the name was the same as that by
which the man had been known in Madrid ; the descrip
tion was the same ; and the person who was ill in Brussels
appeared to be somewhat mysterious — an Englishman
whom nobody knew anything about.

This news had seemed important enough to take St.-
Leger immediately to Brussels, whither he had gone with
all haste. But the mysterious man, who called himself
Hodgkinson, and answered the description of Harvey
Kane, turned out to be an American ; and Loris St. Leger,
very angry with his Spanish detective and circumstances
in general, returned to England in no happy mood.

He was not pleased to hear of Jack Harned's call, and
the view that Kazan took of the advantage to be gained
from cultivating the young barbarian's acquaintance.

" It's bad enough that he should be continually hang
ing round Honour Brooke,- he said, crossly, to Nadege,

202 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

when Kazan had left them alone, " without being for ever
in my house as well. I tell you I don't like it."

" This house wouldn't be yours if it weren't for my father
and me — remember that ! '-' retorted the beautiful woman.
"It is ours as well as yours, and we have a right to see
whom we choose here. The boy seems to fancy himself
dazzled by me. You should be glad that it is so, since
you object to his friendship for Miss Brooke, for he cannot
be in both places at once, and I may succeed in taking him
away from her. I would do that, if at all, for your sake,
not my own, for he is not of the type which appeals to me,
though I find him distinctly amusing. However, I must
play at learning English, since we planned that it would be
best for my father and me to be strangers both to country
and language. An ordinary teacher might be surprised
at the extraordinary proficiency which I intend to show,
and my great quickness, although I have confessed know
ledge enough to read simple books. But Mr. Jack Harned
will not be surprised. I shall look into his eyes, which are
really very nice, and tell him that it is all owing to my
friendship for him, and his splendid method as a teacher,
that I get on so well."

" You have some other motive for troubling yourself
with this young man, Nadege," said St. Leger.

She shrugged her shoulders. " Perhaps. But do not
concern yourself with him. Whatever my father may
think, I don't believe that he is dangerous to any of your
interests."-

" What do you mean by that peculiar emphasis ? " St.
Leger demanded, sharply. " And a moment ago you spoke
as if you thought I had some strong reason for wishing to
keep the fellow away from Miss Brooke. What is in your
mind ? "

" I am not blind, my dear Loris ! And as you have
brought up the subject, I don't see why I should not speak
frankly. There has been for a long time a more or less
vague understanding between us that some day my father's
and my interests should be irrevocably blended with yours

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 205

by a marriage between you and me. Of late, you and I
haven't referred to it, but "

" And why should we refer to it now, Nadege ? The
understanding remains where it was. As soon as possible
we ' '

" I know what you are going to say. But it never will
be possible. You cannot look me in the face, Loris, and
tell me that you really intend to carry out the old arrange
ment."

" I don't see why not. I "

" Neither does my father. But I do. We must be
friends and allies, because of the past. We dare not betray
each other, even if we would. Our interests are knitted
too inextricably together for that. And as you and my
father naturally desire to keep all this money, which you
have both risked so much to obtain, in as few hands as-
possible, it would not do for either you or me to think of
marrying an outsider. But I do not want to marry 3/ou.
You no longer wish me to be your wife ? "

" I have never said so."

" No — you would prefer to spring a surprise upon us
later, if you could bring it off, knowing that we should
be, to say the least, unwise to sue you for breach of pro
mise or anything sensational and vulgar of that sort.
But, since I do not want you for a husband, any more
than you want me for a wife, the secret and the surprise
are not necessary. You began by saying to yourself, I
think, that if without too much discomfort you could get
out of your bargain with my father about me, it would be
a prudent thing for you to marry — Nevill Brooke's
daughter. Some men would tell themselves that such
a marriage would be horrible ; but you are a very bold
man. You are never embarrassed by moral scruples.
No matter to you how the girl's father died, since she is
his heiress, and all danger of discoveries on her part
would be at an end if she once became your wife. That
is what you felt at first, I am sure. Then the piquancy
of the situation struck you; It was .like a new dish to a

204 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

jaded appetite. You found her young, fresh, beautiful,
innocent. You wanted her for her own sake, as well as
for the sake of cold, dull prudence. Now you are mad
about her ; and though you may not fear this Jack Harned
as a serious rival, you are at least afraid that if he is near
her much he may prejudice her against you. She does
not like you, Loris. I never saw you together. But I
guessed that from the way she spoke of you last night at
dinner, the way she looked when Lady St. Leger spoke of
you. Not that she was impolite. The thing was that
she was too polite. She does not like you — she does like
this wild boy, Jack Harned. Therefore you cannot
tolerate him, and would whistle him down the wind. But I
tell you, Loris, if you have really set your heart on marry
ing Honour Brooke, your peril lies in a different direction.
Did you know that she has met Ronald Charteris ? "

For an instant Loris St. Leger was confused, and
thought of the elder Charteris, whom he had seen die on
the steps of a Buddhist temple in Thibet. Then, quick
as a flash of light, his mind turned to the man who, by a
masterly coup, had been given, body and soul, into the
power of a certain white-haired clergyman.

" What ! She has met him ? " St. Leger ejaculated.
" How did that happen ? What was your father about to
let it happen ? '-'-

" My father cannot regulate every hour of Ronald Char-
teris's day. His ' charity - is getting known. Lady St.

Leger heard of it "-

" Curse her ! The woman is a fool ! -'-
" Perhaps. She adores you. It seems she knew Sir
Ronald's people ; and, anyway, she took Honour Brooke
to see him and his ' mission.' The dear girl has been since
by herself ; and, to make a long story short, she is in love
with him. She may not know it yet herself — but she is.
And if you don't get her promise to marry you before she
does know it surely, she will never, never say yes."

" How can you possibly tell that this is true ? Was
the man there, at the house, with her ? "

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 205

" No ; but trust one woman to make no mistake about
another when it's an affair of the hearts I want to help,
not hinder you, with Honour Brooke, Loris, though it
may be hard for you to believe that till I've proved it. I
tell you as a friend, get her — somehow — to promise soon
that she will be your wife. After that, the more quickly
you make the girl redeem her promise, the better for
you."

Loris St. Leger looked at Nadege long and keenly. Then
he said : " Your father hinted to me some time ago that
you were rather taken with Charteris, and that if I didn't
want you to make a fool of yourself, the best thing I could
possibly do would be to marry you at once. But, you see,
I trusted you then."-

" Trust me now. You had already another game to
play, even at that time, and you thought it necessary to
hide it from my father and me, or perhaps you would not
have ' trusted ' me, as you call it. Now, you see that you
needn't have hidden your secret from me, at least ; but I
advise you still to keep your plans concerning Miss Brooke
from my father, or he will do his best to upset them some
how. He is as fully awake as you are to the necessity of
having the girl in the family, but he is ready to sacrifice him
self on the altar."

" What — he would marry Honour ? '-'-

" He was discussing the wisdom of such a course with

me last night, and did not consider you in the running

at all. Now, you are warned from every side, and I advise

you not to irritate me by asking impertinent questions

which you have no right to expect that I shall answer.

You can't help me in any way. I can help you. There

is the difference. Don't delay. Propose to the girl.

Don't give her time to think of Ronald Charteris. ?i

" He would never dare speak to her of love if — he knew

the name of a certain man.'-*

" Perhaps he has guessed. Oh ! I wish I could find out 1

She is as like that man as a woman can be. But even if

he never spoke, that would not prevent her from loving

.206 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

him more and more — so much that she could never give
herself to anyone else."

St. Leger's heavy brows were drawn together in a sullen
frown. " You said just now that the girl disliked me.
Well, it is true ! " he exclaimed. " I'm not sure that
isn't one reason why I want her so much. Her soft but
obstinate resistance makes me long to crush her. How
am I to get over her dislike, and force her, as you advise,
to be my wife ? "

Nadege looked him full in the eyes. " Can you think
of no way in which you could bribe her to consent ? " she
asked, meaningly.

St. Leger answered the look, and caught her meaning.
" It is possible that I can," he said.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 207

CHAPTER XXVIII

IN JACK'S NOTE BOOK

TACK HARNED did not know what to make of his own
discovery. He did not even feel sure that it was a dis
covery. He was like a boy who has picked up in the
street some strange and glittering object of which he does
not know the use and value, but is convinced that it must
be a wonderful thing if he could only find out just what to
do with it.

He was too much excited to concentrate his thoughts
when he left the big house in Park Lane, and his mind
was constantly distracted by street sights and sounds, and
the necessity to turn out for people on the pavement, or
to stop at crossings for traffic. He could not even decide
how much the thing might mean while driving to his
lodgings ; but, once in his quiet little sitting-room, he sat
down at an ink-stained writing-table, and began jotting
down notes on paper, numbering each one as he wrote.

No. i. — Nevill Brooke sends me to River House, Mort-
lake Road, on the sixth of April, to make inquiries con
cerning him of a Mr. Smith whom I should find there. I
go. The house is shuttered and apparently deserted. I
break in. I find the rooms practically bare of furniture.
I hear a curious chattering noise. Miss Brooke hears it
also. We search, but cannot discover the creature which
makes the noise.

No. 2. — Nothing is heard of Nevill Brooke from April
to August. Mr. Smith, of River House, makes no sign,
in spite of advertisements in " personal " columns of daily
papers. Without saying anything to Miss Brooke, I go

208 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

several times to River House. It is always the same —
shuttered, deserted. The place where I broke in has
not been mended. I linger about, but never again hear
the chattering noise.

No. 3. — Next door to my lodgings, in a house kept
by the same landlady, a man called Charteris is ill. A
Reverend Mr. Willoughby has brought him there, and
engaged a nurse who is very beautiful, and has auburn
hair parted over her ears. Charteris, who is delirious,
takes such an extraordinary dislike to this beautiful person
that she is finally kept away from him, but not immediately
sent out of the house.

No. 4. — Loris St. Leger, half -Russian, half-English, a
great traveller, tells Nevill Brooke's daughter that he
knew her father very well, but does not give details of their
acquaintance. Loris St. Leger comes into a great deal
of money, though he seems at one time not to have been
rich. He takes a fine house in Park Lane, and brings to
it two Russian cousins, named Kazan. Miss Kazan is
very beautiful, and if she were not dark, would be as like
as a twin sister to the nurse who looked after the delirious
Charteris.

No. 5. — I go to call on Mr. and Miss Kazan. I hear a
chattering voice exactly like what I heard on April the sixth
at the house with the closed shutters in Hammersmith.
Miss Kazan explains the chattering by saying it is uttered
by a chimpanzee, a pet of her cousin, Loris St. Leger. She
adds that the animal has only just arrived in England
to-day. I am then asked to give her lessons in English,
and I accept. Last night, at Lady St. Leger's, she ap
peared to have no knowledge of English. Now it seems
that she is grounded with grammar, and can read.

No. 6. — Is there, or is there not, a chain linking these
persons, events, and coincidences together ?

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 209

Jack studied the notes which he had set down in black
and white, and, after much ruffling of his short black
hair, and biting the end of his pen, he began scribbling
on another page something which he labelled
" Memoranda."

" It was on April the sixth that Miss Brooke and I were
both told to go to River House unless Nevill Brooke had
come home between April the fourth and that date.

" It was on April the sixth that Miss Brooke came to my
lodgings and heard Charteris talking in his delirium ; but
it was on the morning of the day before that he was
brought to the house by the Reverend Willoughby. I
am certain my landlady confirmed my impression as to
the date, when I talked to her to-day on the subject of
Charteris.

"It is possible that the chimpanzee, ' Mephistopheles/
did not really arrive in England to-day. He may have
been hidden in some secret place in the old Hammersmith
house on April the sixth, and have been kept somewhere else
since then, till he could be conveniently brought to Park
Lane. If he is really the property of St. Leger, does that
mean that St. Leger has anything to do with River House
and the mysterious Mr. Smith ? Where does Ronald
Charteris come into the story ? Is the beautiful Miss
Kazan a sister or near connection of the nurse who was
engaged to take care of Charteris by Willoughby ? Who is
the Reverend Willoughby ? What had caused Charteris
to fall ill with congestion of the brain, presumably on the
fourth or fifth of April last ? -l

Seeing all these statements and questions set down in
order was like pigeon-holing the confused ideas in Jack
Harned's brain. He dwelt particularly upon the thought
of Ronald Charteris's illness having coincided with the
date of Nevill Brooke's disappearance, and could almost
have prayed for some connection between the two events.
Eager to go along the line he had laid down for himself,

210 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

he rang for his landlady, and made an excuse of a request
for tea (late as it was) to get her upon her favourite subject
of the good Mr. Willoughby. Jack determined to make
inquiries regarding this reverend person from other sources.
Meanwhile, he contented himself by questioning the
garrulous little woman as to the kind old man's relation
ship to Sir Ronald Charteris.

" Indeed, there was no relationship at all, sir," she pro
tested. " I am sure I've told you that before. It was just
Mr. Willoughby's charity and pity for the poor young
gentleman, Mr. Chatters."

" And Mr. Chatters," went on Jack, indulgently. " He
was delirious, wasn't he ? "

" Oil, out of his head, something awful, sir ! "

" It must be queer to hear people talk in delirium. I
never did. I suppose they say queer things ? "

" Stranger than if it was a story-book. I used to lie in
my bed at night, with just a wall and a door between me
and that poor young gentleman, and creep right through
to my marrow at the things he would rave about."

" Tell me some of them," said Jack, sipping his tea.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 211

CHAPTER XXIX

A SPRING TO A CONCLUSION

MRS. GATES was fond of telling anecdotes, and she was
nothing loth to grant her lodger's wish. " Poor young
gentleman," she reflected aloud, " he was always fancying
himself in a queer old house that had a garden with a
high wall round it. There never could be a real house
as queer as that one. He thought he saw beautiful ladies
in it, without any ears ; and there were blue curtains over
glass doors you could look through and see all sorts of
strange things happening. He imagined that he went
through such a door, and struck a man, who fell down
dead. He used to talk, too, about burying the man after
wards in a cellar where there was a sound like water
running underground. It is wonderful, sir, the ideas folks
get when they're out of their 'eads. Why, my poor
husband's aunt, when she 'ad a fever, used to think she'd
turned into a teapot, with one arm held straight out for
the spout, and the other akimbo for the handle ; and
she was that afraid of bein' broken into bits, it was all
we could do to manage 'er.'-

Jack listened to the story of Mrs. Oates's husband's aunt
apparently with the same interest he gave to the first
anecdote ; and he questioned his landlady alternately
about the two. But of " Mr. Chatters' '- delusion she had
no more new details to give. The delirious man, according
to her, had gone on ringing the changes upon the imaginary
scene in a house with a walled garden.

In the midst of a new narrative concerning her relative,
the little maid of all work knocked at the door and called
her away to attend to some pressing household matter ;

212 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

and when she had gone, Jack Harned ceased to sip his
tea. His reckless young face was even paler than usual,
and his eyes were very bright. " So,"- he said to him
self, " Sir Ronald Charteris murdered Nevill Brooke at
River House, on the fourth of April, and afterwards he
had brain fever. Some people would laugh at me for
springing to conclusions like that, but things are shaping
themselves now, and it's my experience that, in delirium,
there's generally some method in the madness. What
could have been the motive for such a murder, though ?
Was it money ? By Jove 1 Charteris has money — he's
supposed to have come into it lately, through a legacy.
Perhaps the legacy is only a blind— or partly so. Loris
St. Leger's sudden riches, too. Could they have been
partners in this awful business ? Could Mr. Brooke have
been coming home with money, and they — good Heavens !
and the woman who called for him at the Paris hotel, too !
Otway found out that she had had red hair — like the nurse
who took care of Charteris. Strange how the links are
all fitting in together ! Yet it is as if I were in dead dark
ness, seeing nothing, only feeling the broken chain with
my fingers.11

Jack sprang from his chair, and began walking up and
down the room. He was not sure whether or no he ought
to put Otway, the detective, into possession of the few
facts and many vague surmises among which he was
groping, but his inclination was strongly in favour of keep
ing everything to himself — at least for the present. He
realised that he was animated by the wish to find Ronald
Charteris a guilty man, and he did not want to be dis
couraged by the detective, or even advised to adopt a
course of action different to the one towards which he
was drawn. He felt as if he had discovered secret treasure,
and was unwilling to share it even with his own employe.
Not only was he eager to prove that Ronald Charteris
was the one man on earth whom Honour Brooke was bound
in duty to hate, but he longed for the right to say to her,

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 213

" It is I who have unravelled the tangled thread of this
mystery — I, and no other."- So at last he decided that
he would say nothing to Richard Otway. The detective
should be allowed to go on upon his own lines, and he —
Jack Harned — would do the same.

During his short but eventful life he had invariably
succeeded best by surprising his opponents. Astonishing
boldness had been his favoured method, and after thinking
over several plans of action which suggested themselves,
he determined to accuse Charteris, feigning to know what
he merely suspected, and, by a coup de main, getting the
whole truth from the murderer, not only concerning him
self, but those who had shared in the crime and the plunder.
He imagined the scene between himself and Charteris, and
exulted in the luridly coloured pictures which his fancy
painted.

" If Honour could overhear his confession ! !l Jack
thought. " And if it implicated St. Leger, they would
both be disposed of from that day forth and for ever.'-'
He began trying to think out some combination by which
this brilliant scheme could be worked, As he did so, he
did not cease to feel the prick of self-reproach, for he
knew that the part he was setting out to play was at least
open to question ; but he would not stop for that ; he
would not let himself care. " I believe the man killed
Nevill Brooke," he said, " and he deserves all that he will
get through me, and more."

He wrote to Honour, since he did not feel that it would
be easy to look her in the eyes and say what would be
simple enough to put in black and white.

" Dear Miss Brooke," he began. " You have borne
with me patiently, though I have had little progress to
report in the matter which absorbs both our thoughts.
Please be patient still, and bear with me yet, when I
beg you to do something to forward our common end,
and to do it unquestioningly. Will you write to Sir
Ronald Charteris, and ask him to go, as a favour to you,

214 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

to River House, Mortlake Road, at five o'clock in the after
noon, to-morrow — that is, if you are free to be there at that
hour ? If not, name your own time to him, and let me
know what it is, and what he says in reply. Tell Sir
Ronald Charteris that you will be there, and add that
you have a reason for proposing a visit to this house,
which he shall hear without fail if he complies with your
request. You will wonder what that reason can possibly
be ; but I think it can be explained so entirely to your
satisfaction that you will not regret humouring me. — Your
faithful and devoted friend, JACK HARNED."

Jack sent this letter to Honour by a messenger boy
from the nearest post-office, and in an hour he had her
answer.

She would write to Ronald Charteris, and she would
be at River House — if he consented — at five o'clock in
the afternoon of the next day.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 215

CHAPTER XXX

HOW LORIS ST. LEGER PROPOSED

HONOUR was addressing her answer to Jack Harned, while
the messenger was waiting, when a servant came with the
news that Mr. St. Leger was below, asking to see her.
Lady St. Leger was out, and would not be back for some
time, so that there was no hope of speedy relief from the
pain of a tete-a-tete with the man whose presence invariably
affected her nerves like an electrical storm. But the
message was urgent, and Honour went down to Lady St.
Leger's boudoir, where Loris, as a relative and favourite,
had the privilege of being received.

St. Leger did not bore Honour ; he merely made her
vaguely miserable. She could never think of anything to
say to him, and his strange, pale blue eyes fixed upon her
face sent little creeping shivers through her nerves. Some
times, when she knew he was coming to the house, she spent
many moments in devising elaborate plans how to escape
shaking hands with him. To-day she went down with her
hands full of flowers, which she took out of a vase in her
own room, with the view of transferring them to one in
her guardian's boudoir. But St. Leger, coming straight
to meet her as the door opened, defeated her object by
masterfully taking the flowers from her before she knew
what he meant to do.

" You don't like to shake hands with me. Why ? " he
said, grasping the fingers which would have escaped if
they could without conspicuous discourtesy.

" It's a stupid custom, I think," said Honour. " Oh !
you're crushing my poor flowers. Please ring, Mr. St.
Leger. I want some water, and then I shall put them

216 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

in that Dresden bowl over there. They will look
charming."

" I will ring, if you still wish it, when I have told you
what I came to say, Miss Brooke," returned St. Leger,
with an obstinacy which might have been attractive
in some men, but was not so in him — at least to Honour.
She did not insist, however. She merely froze, and sat
down to hear what he might have to say with an air of
cold resignation which she made little attempt to disguise.

St. Leger brought a chair nearer to the somewhat
isolated one which she had deliberately selected. The
girl kept her face half turned from him, as if she were
indifferent to his movements, and for a moment the man
sat, leaning forward a little, watching her profile in silence.
" I have come to talk to you about your father," he
said.

He had chosen his beginning well. She started, and
looked round at him questioningly, as he had known she
would ; but she waited for him to speak again.

" Nevill Brooke and I were friends," he went on. " I
have told you that. But I never told you why. Now
I will tell you. I saved his life once, and Brooke was a
grateful man. I never told you, either, that he and I,
when we were together in a strange adventure which
united our fortunes for a while, used often to speak of you
— by night, sometimes, under Eastern stars. I think, if
there had been news of him for you — news which might
take courage to hear — I would have been the man chosen
by him to give it to you."

Honour suddenly went very pale. " Is there such
news ? " she asked, in a strained voice, obviously fighting
for self-control.

" Have you supposed that I have been idle all this
time ? " he returned, answering her question by a question.
" I have seen that you suffered, though I kept my own
counsel, aware that you did not like me, though God
knows I would cut off my right hand to serve you, not
alone for your father's sake, but for your own. What I

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 217

did, I did unknown to anyone, even my cousin Florence,
who does not realise the intense anxiety you have been
suffering these past few months. But I realised — I guessed
— that you expected news of your father, and because it
did not come, you have been eating your heart out. I
wanted to help you, though I dared not say so. I have
tried to get upon your father's track, and find out what
has become of him. Now I believe that I am in a fair
way to do so. I have traced him as far as Paris. I know
whom he met there, and what he did. I know that one
of two things has befallen him."

" Well ? " breathed Honour.

" To put it rather brutally, since I am sure you will
not thank me for sparing you — he has either been kid
napped and imprisoned by certain enemies of his, who
would have a motive for so doing, or — he has been murdered
by the same people."

" You — know who they are ? " faltered the girl, white
as death.

" I know who they are. But until I can be absolutely
sure that there has been foul play, I can do nothing to
punish them and avenge Nevill Brooke's injuries or —
murder."

" For the love of Heaven, make sure, then ! " cried
Honour, flinging out her hands to him in a passionate
gesture.

" For the love of you, I will do it," said St. Leger. " Not
for any other love in heaven or earth ! "

" Oh ! " broke out the girl in horror. " You speak of
love — at such a moment ? "

" I must, to make you understand. This moment is
my moment. It has come at last. This mission that you
send me upon will absorb my whole life till it is finished.
Perhaps it may require the sacrifice of my life itself. With
you as a reward to hope for, to work for, the risk would
be nothing. But human nature is so constituted that it
cannot run a race with no prospect of a prize if it wins.
It wearies half-way ; it lags behind ; while if the prize

218 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

be worth striving for, no hill is too high, no path too
difficult. I loved your father, but I did not love him
enough, I tell you frankly, to give up everything in his
interest. His gratitude, if he lives, the joy of revenging
him if he be dead, would not be reward enough to pay
me for all that I should have to sacrifice and risk. Your
self is the only prize worth my having, and for that there
is nothing I could not and would not accomplish."

Honour listened in amazement and fear. " I cannot
— cannot love you ! " she stammered. " Gratitude I
would give in fullest measure, but never love."

"If I had yourself I would be satisfied, hoping that
my love for you would be great enough to win yours in
time. Promise that, if I give you back your father, living
or dead, and the name of the man who killed him, you
will be my wife."

" I can't," the girl panted. " It would be a sin to marry
you, feeling as I do. If my father could speak for me,
he would forbid it. Someone else will find him — someone
who loved him so well that he will neither ask for nor
want any reward at all."

" I know whom you mean," said St. Leger. " And I
know also that he will never succeed. What has he done
in all these weeks ? Virtually nothing ; while I have
the clue in my hand. No one else can possibly do for you
what I can, for I have learned what I already know in a
way so strange, so intricate, that no other human being
could find it. It remains for me to go on along the path I
have opened, or to stop where I am now. And it is for
you to choose. That is what I came to say to you to
day, for there are reasons why long delays would be
dangerous. Now I have finished. Do you still wish me
to ring for a servant to bring water, so that you may
arrange your roses ? "

" No — no ! " exclaimed Honour. " Wait ! Let me
think. How can I be sure that you really have a clue to
the mystery of my father's disappearance ? "

" How can you be sure ? " echoed St. Leger. " Do

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 219

you expect me to give you the secret for which I have
just told you what a price you must pay ? Yet there
is one proof which you shall have for nothing. To show
you that I know where to lay my hand upon those who are
connected with your father's disappearance, I will tell you
what you may do. You have met a man named Ronald
Charteris ? "

" Yes," answered Honour, astonished, and betraying,
by the slightest quivering of her nerves, that she could not
hear that name without emotion.

"Go to him. Make some excuse to lead the conversa
tion into such a channel that you can seem to ask casually
what he was doing on the night of the fourth of April.
If he answers without any sign of distress, believe that I
have been deceiving you. If the contrary, take it as one
small proof that I have not been boasting idly, or lying
to you for the purpose of obtaining something for which
I can give no return."

"Do you mean me to believe that Sir Ronald Charteris
had any connection with my father's disappearance ? "
Honour demanded, with a deep fire in her eyes.

" I ask you to believe nothing until you have made
that test. But you speak as if Charteris were a saint on
so high a pedestal that it would be impossible for him to
step down and do wrong like other men. Is that really
the way you think of him ? "

" I think that he has undertaken an unselfish and noble
work," said Honour, bravely. " Only a man of high
character would care to do what Sir Ronald Charteris
does. I do not know him very well, but even so, nothing
that you or anyone else could say would make me believe
evil of him."

Loris St. Leger laughed — a peculiarly disagreeable,
suggestive laugh that made Honour's cheeks tingle. He
had not meant, when he came, to say so much as he had
said. Yet now he was tempted to say still more. He
had taken a very bold step in advising Honour to mention
the night of April the fourth to Ronald Charteris, because he

220 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

and his were far too intimately connected with the events
of that night to make the smallest allusion to it safe.
But he was certain that, though Charteris must change
colour and blush at such words as Honour had been ad
vised to speak, he would not further betray himself to
her, or incriminate anyone else. Even if he did (which
was next to impossible) there was no connection in
Charteris's mind between the Reverend Mr. Willoughby
or his veiled companion and Mr. and Miss Kazan, Loris
St. Leger's Russian relatives who had come to live in Park
Lane. The veiled woman had already disappeared — for
ever — and Mr. Willoughby would soon do likewise, since
there was now plenty of money for a life of leisure for all
three, and no further need, therefore, that the Reverend
Mr. Willoughby, or the " Master " should continue to
exist. In fact, the sooner these two vanished from the
world where they had been known the better for everyone
concerned, and Loris did not regret the hint he had given
to Honour. He did not even see that harm could follow
if he said a little more, and planted in the girl's heart the
seeds of suspicion which, like quick-growing weeds, would
choke out the life of any newly-sprung blossoms of love.

" I beg your pardon, Miss Brooke," said St. Leger.
" I'm not laughing at you, but at your innocent ideas of
Charteris's ' great work.' It is an open secret that his
so-called ' mission ' is self-supporting, and much more
than self-supporting, in a very queer way. Of course, if
I explain to you what I mean, you will not draw my name
into the affair, for I am not ready for that yet ? "

" I do not wish you to explain," replied Honour. " But
if I should ever hear from anyone some cruel slander
against Sir Ronald Charteris and his work, do you suppose
I would repeat it ? I should be ashamed to soil my lips
with it."

This was precisely what Loris St. Leger wanted to
know, though he thought that he had known already ;
and now that his opinion of the girl's discretion was con
firmed, he was determined that the seed should be sown.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 221

She might not believe what he was about to tell her, but
she would not be able to forget, and — protest as she might
— she would never be quite sure that there was not a grain
of truth in the story. People never did forget evil tales
against their friends ; besides, the story was true, with the
one exception that Charteris himself was innocent — there
fore, it would be more than difficult to disprove.

" Charteris's ' mission ' is a sort of school for criminals,"
St. Leger said quickly, in haste to get out the words, lest
Honour should check them. " Thieves, forgers, coiners,
all sorts of experts are made out of his ' boarders,' and
he, as the manager of the institution, turns a pretty
penny. It is a smart idea, and, as carried out by him,
really quite original. Forgive me ! I didn't know you felt
so strongly, or I wouldn't have spoken." He added these
last words in a changed tone, in answer to an indignant
gesture which commanded silence. Rising, he looked at
the girl appealingly.

" I am very unfortunate," he said. " All that I am
and have is yours. The world would not be worth living
in if you were not in it ; yet I constantly offend you. I am
rough and uncouth and impulsive. A man like your
father could overlook my faults and understand, and
value what was good in me ; but I only shock a girl brought
up as you have been. I ask your pardon. In my anxiety
to justify myself and give you the proof you asked for,
I have gone too far. For that I beg you to pardon me ;
but I can't take back what I've said. Will you see
Charteris, and put to him that question I suggested ? "

" Yes, I will do that — to-morrow if I can," said Honour,
who had already written to Ronald, as Jack Harned had
desired her to do. " But I will only ask the question to
prove to you that there is nothing in the hateful suspicion
you seem to have of him — not to prove to myself that
you are right."

" Yet, if I am right, after all, will you then promise to
be my wife, provided I give you back your father, living or
dead ? "

222 THE TURN STILE OF NIGHT

" After to-morrow I will decide and tell you," returned
the girl, distressfully.

" So much time I grant you," said St. Leger. " But
before I leave, there is just one more thing I wish to say,
As I have told you, I am only too well aware that you
dislike me. I deserve better of you than you are willing
to give. Your father said to me once that he would die
happy if I were to be the guardian of his daughter's life.
In myself I am not much. But I have what most women
desire — I am rich. As my wife, instead of living, as you
do now, on the generosity of a woman who can ill
afford "

" Mr. St. Leger ! " the girl broke in, springing to her
feet, " you do not know what you are saying ! Is it possible
you think that my father would leave me dependent upon
charity — even dear Lady St. Leger's ? He was never
rich, I know ; but, of course, he left money with her to
spend for me "

" All that he was able to leave was eaten up long ago,"
cut in St. Leger. " For years, my poor child, my cousin
Florence has given you every dress you wore ; not a
penny you have had in your little purse has not come
out of hers. If you married me I would pay back to her
all that she has spent, with interest, and "

" I can't believe it — I will not believe it ! " cried the
girl. " Oh ! I think I should die of shame and grief if
it were true ! "

" It is true, and it is best that you should know it now,
though my cousin will be angry with me for speaking. She
told me herself how it was, though, to do her justice, not
until I had catechised her, and given her to understand
that the secret of her generosity was safe with me. You
may tell her that I have betrayed her because to do so
was one more inducement to you to become my wife.
Then, perhaps, as she, at least, loves me, she will be kind
and forgive."

" Please go now, Mr. St. Leger," faltered the girl. " I
want to be alone."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 223

This time he did not try to take her hand. In silence
he walked to the door, and, bowing gravely, left her.

After he had gone, Honour sat for many minutes with
her face hidden between her hands. Half an hour passed,
and Lady St. Leger, who had been to her dressmaker's,
came home, and went straight to her boudoir. As the
door opened, Honour started, as if frightened, and showed
her face, blurred with weeping.

" My dear — what is it ? " exclaimed Lady St. Leger,
hurrying towards her with outstretched hands. " Bad
news of your father ? "

" Is it true," the girl demanded, " that I have no money
— that I haven't had any for years, and that you have had
to support me and give me everything ? "

Lady St. Leger flushed deeply, and her eyes sparkled
with anger.

" Who has dared to tell you such a thing ? " she cried.

" Mr. St. Leger," Honour answered, simply.

The elder woman's lips, which had already opened for a
denial, closed again abruptly^ with a little gasp. She had
been ready to burden her conscience with a direct false
hood, for the sake of Honour's peace of mind ; but she
could not accuse Loris St. Leger of falsehood. She was
indignant with him for having let out the truth ; neverthe
less, she wanted the girl to marry him, and to say that he
had lied was a poor way of impressing Honour in his
favour. " How did he happen to say such a thing ? " she
enquired, weakly.

" He asked me to be his wife, and attempted to show
me all the advantages he could offer, against the dis
advantages of my present position. Dearest Lady St.
Leger, I beg of you, don't deceive me for the sake of sparing
my feelings. I must know — now. Did he tell me the
truth ? "

" I would almost have cut off a finger sooner than this
should have happened," exclaimed her guardian, bursting
into tears. " But — yes, he did tell you the truth." ' :

As she confessed the deception of years, Lady St. Leger

224 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

held out her arms, and the girl gave herself to the loving
embrace. For a moment she could not speak, but clung
to the kindly woman in silence. And as the two stood
thus, with tear-wet eyes, the footman brought a letter
on a little silver tray. Lady St. Leger and Honour started
apart, and the elder woman put out her hand to take the
square white envelope, but, before she had touched it,
her eyes fell upon the address. "It is for you, dear,"
she said.

The letter, which had come back by the messenger
Honour had sent out, was an answer from Ronald Charteris.
It was very brief, and merely said that he would be at
River House, Mortlake Road, Hammersmith, at five o'clock
on the following afternoon.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 225

CHAPTER XXXI

HOW HONOUR'S LETTER CAME

RONALD CHARTERIS knew Honour's handwriting, which
he had seen in several of the books she had sent him for
the men of his mission. It was a pretty and individual
hand, not easy to mistake. The way of forming the
letters seemed to belong as entirely to Honour as did the
faint fragrance which hung about her hair and every
thing she wore, and Ronald was happy when he saw the
writing on a letter addressed to him, brought by a mes
senger boy. He had no right to be happy because the
unattainable girl wrote to him, or thought of him, and
he knew it well ; but he was young. All the joy of life
had not been crushed out of him yet by Destiny's iron
hoof ; and the blood in his veins was no colder than Jack
Harned's.

She wanted him to meet her, "for a particular reason,"
at River House, Mortlake Road, Hammersmith, at five
o'clock next day.

As he read that name, his heart contracted, and all
youthful pleasure in the possession of a letter from the
one woman in his world vanished suddenly like the rain
bow colours of a bursting bubble.

Instantly he saw himself in Paris, reading certain words
on a slip of paper : " On April the fourth, at River House,
as near as possible to eight."

He had never known positively whether the house in
which his life had been wrecked was River House or no.
He had arrived at dusk, and had seen no name on the gate in
the high wall. But it had been April the fourth, and at eight

225 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

o'clock a man had come to the lonely house — a man who
had never gone out again. Often Ronald had wondered
whether the words on that slip of paper had been written
by that man, making the appointment which he had kept,
and paid for keeping.

Ronald had not forgotten that he and the veiled woman
with whom he had made his strange journey from Monte
Carlo had stopped in a cab at the " Hand and Key/' in
Hammersmith. They had then given up the cab, and
walked on across a green, and it had seemed to him that
they had gone on foot for a long distance, nearer to two
miles than the one which his companion had called it.
The way had been intricate, and though once since he had
recovered his health, and taken up the burden of life again,
he had — prompted by a morbid and curious fascination
— attempted to find the house, he had failed to identify
it. A question asked of Mr. Willoughby had been answered
in the same way as the other, concerning the name of the
man who was dead ; and Ronald had not repeated it.
Now, it would be strange, and even horrible, if he should
discover the truth through Honour Brooke, as he had in
the latter case.

He did not know that the house where her father had
been murdered was River House ; he did not know, surely,
that the house was in Hammersmith, though the " Hand
and Key " was there. But there was a cold fear in his
heart that the girl was appointing a meeting at the place
where he had taken her father's life.

His blood chilled at the thought. If it were so, he asked
himself, was she doing it purposely, to catch him in some
trap ? He could not believe it of her, even if she had
somehow learned the truth ; and yet her request, and the
way in which it was made, seemed altogether strange.
Only the theory that she had at least hit upon some sus
picion, and wished to turn it into certainty, could satis
factorily account for it to his mind. He was struck with
horror at being called upon to stand face to face with the
girl on the scene where her father had fallen by his hand;

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 227

nevertheless, he determined to obey her summons; Not
to do so, he considered, would be cowardly ; and, come
what might, he would not be a coward.

On the night of the murder his one wish had been to go
out and, having told the whole truth, take the consequences
of his own act. But Mr. Willoughby had persuaded him
that a confession of his part in the affair would implicate a
defenceless woman who must suffer more than he ; and to
save her he had consented to keep silence.

Since he had met Honour Brooke, however, he had been
thankful for his own sake that the secret had been kept.
It seemed to him that to see hatred against her father's
murderer in those sweet brown eyes would be worse a
thousand times than death by torture. He had ':< be
lieved that it would be the one thing unbearable, and he
thanked God that he had not proclaimed his own guilt
when the impulse was upon him. He had suffered almost
all a man can suffer and go on living ; but while he was
spared that one agonising degradation, he could, he had
said in his own heart sometimes, carry his burden till the
end.

Now he saw himself compelled, perhaps, to meet the
horror which had haunted his worst dreams — the horror of
hearing Honour Brooke call him " Murderer ! "

The terrible word, as if cried out by the girl's clear voice,
rang in his ears as he sat down to write an answer to her
letter. He had made up his mind what to say. Yet, with
the pen in his hand, he was tempted to write differently
after all — to tell Miss Brooke that, unfortunately, he
would not be able to meet her next day. But he did not
yield to the temptation. Instead, he wrote that he would
go to River House at the hour she had named.

When he had sent off his reply by the waiting messenger,
an overpowering melancholy took him in its grip, a pre
sentiment of misery unspeakable for the future, and a
profound despair for the present. He was debating
whether or no it would be well to go to-day to the address
named in Honour's letter, and see whether he recognised

228 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

the house behind the high garden wall, when the man
who usually answered the front-door bell came to him in
the little room which was bedchamber and study in one —
the sole retreat Charteris had now when he wanted privacy.

" A lady has called to see you, sir,"- said the man, one
of the few in the " mission " who did not speak sourly to
their host, and eye him askance.

" Didn't she give you her name ? " inquired Ronald.

" No, sir. She said that she was a friend of yours, and
that it was very important you should see her for a few
minutes. She is a tall lady, handsomely dressed, and young,
I should say ; but she is wearing such a thick veil I couldn't
make out her features."

Ronald's pulses quickened. The man's description
called up a memory all unwelcome ; but he could not be
lieve that the veiled lady of to-day and the veiled lady
of the past could be one and the same. She of the past
certainly had every motive for avoiding him, and it would
be strange indeed, after all these months of silence, if
she sought him out. Still, \vlio else could it be ? When
he had first settled down in Oswell Road, and his work
had begun to be talked about a little, a few women had
been moved by curiosity to come and see him ; but he
had not been encouraging in his manner, and their visits
had soon ceased. It was a long time since anyone save
Lady St. Leger, his mother's old schoolmate, and Honour
Brooke, had come ; but — what if it should be Honour,
who wished to add something by word of mouth to her
letter ? If she had for any reason been obliged to come,
and to come alone, she might have chosen to wear a heavy
veil, for the sake of avoiding observation.

" Where is the lady waiting ? " he asked.

" In the sitting-room," was the answer. " There was
no one there, nor likely to be for an hour or so, sir."

" Very well, I will go to her," said Ronald.

He went down. The door of the sitting-room was closed,
and, opening it, he stood still for a moment on the threshold.
A woman stood opposite him, in an alert, nervous attitude

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 229

of waiting. She was dressed in grey, with a long, loose
cloak of steel-coloured silk, which disguised the lines of
her figure. Round her close-fitting toque a grey tissue veil
was tied — a veil which was like a silvery cloud floating
before her face, and effectually concealing the features.
Yet Ronald knew, at the first glance he gave, that the
woman who had come to him was not Honour Brooke.
He could not have explained how he recognised her, since
dress and hat were different, and the figure was almost in
distinguishable save for its height ; but he was sure that
the companion of his journey from Monte Carlo to London
stood before him.

230 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XXXII

THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING

SHE saw by the look in his eyes that he knew her, and was
glad, for the quick flash of recognition, despite the veil
and cloak, showed that her personality had made an
impression upon him not easy to obliterate. If she
removed the veil he would see the changes made in her
appearance ; the slight darkening of the dead- white skin,
to accord with the dyed hair, the blackened brows and
lashes ; but she did not mean to let her face be seen. There
was too much at stake for that. She had not been able
to fight against the impulse to come, but she did not
intend that he should see her as Nadege Kazan.

"Do you know me ? " she asked, in a low voice, which
she did not attempt to disguise.

" Yes," he said, " I know you."

" I hoped you would. Will you not come in and close
the door ? "

Without speaking, Ronald obeyed, and for a moment
the two stood facing each other in silence. But at last,
when that silence grew strained, he broke it.

" You wished to see me for some special reason ? "

" Yes. I — wished to see you because — because I wished
to see you. That is really all. Except — this. I would
do you a good turn if I could, even at my own expense.
It was so — once before. You would not let me save you
then, though I tried."

" I thank you for trying," said Ronald, steadily.

" Oh, you can thank me — for anything ! " Her voice
broke. "But you hate me — I know you hate me ! "

" You are mistaken," Ronald answered.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 231

" You told it in your delirium — when you were very ill.-
You would not have me come near you."
" You were never there."

" I was there always, till the doctor sent me away,
because you could not bear my presence. My — Mr.
Willoughby did not wish me to come, but I would not be
denied, because — all that you had done had been for my
sake. I wanted to help you — to prove that, at least, I
was grateful. But you would not have me. You said the
most cruel things, which almost broke my heart.'-*

" I was not myself — you must remember that,'1 said
Ronald, kindly, for there was sharp pain in her voice,
and — she was a woman. " I have not even any recol
lection of seeing you after — I was ill."

" Yet, in your delirium, you must have spoken out
what was really in your mind ? " Nadege said, question
ing appealingly rather than asserting. " If you had not

hated me, you would not "

11 1 did not and do not hate you," Ronald broke in.
" What your part was in the events of that awful night I
don't know, and don't ask to know. But I shall not
forget that you tried to save me. You gave me a chance
to — escape the obligations I had taken on myself. ij
" Ah ! if only you had taken that chance ! "
" ' If '- is a terrible word sometimes."
" Yes, it is — it is ! If I thought you could ever for
give me ! Oh, I know you have suffered, but I have
suffered too — for you and for myself ! I have died a
hundred deaths because of what I brought upon you. Your
life is ruined." There were tears in her voice, and Ronald
knew that she was weeping, though he could not see her
face. He pitied her, and it was the natural impulse of a
strong man to give an unhappy woman — unhappy for him
— such comfort as he could.

" I am trying to make the best of it," he said, " and I
have never thought of blaming you.'-1
" Have you thought of me at all ? '-'-
" Often. It would have been strange if I had not.'J

232 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

A slight shudder ran through her. " You have thought
— oh ! it kills me to say it ! But — I can guess only too well
what you must have thought of most. He — Mr. Willoughby
— said that you — saw. You know my — my dreadful mis
fortune — my disfigurement."

Ronald could feel the hidden eyes searching his, and
a dark flush stained his face. " I can't deny that I under
stand what you mean," he said. " But I have not thought
of that as you seem to fancy. I have remembered — your
face."

" You are kind to say that ! "• Nadege exclaimed ;
" kind and chivalrous. It is like you. Others have told
me that my face was beautiful. I should be a little com
forted if I could feel that, in spite of all, it had not been
hideous for you."

" I thought it one of the most beautiful I had ever seen,"
answered Ronald, not warmly, as a man speaks when
he admires or wishes to flatter a woman, but kindly and
honestly, in an impersonal way, as if he spoke of a picture.

" Thank you — thank you a thousand times ! " she stam
mered, her voice still broken. " Would you — shake hands
with me, Sir Ronald ? "

In answer, he held out his hand for hers, and when it
came quickly out to meet his, he pressed it as if it had been
the hand of a friend. Then he would have freed it ; but
she would not have it so. She clasped his hand with both
hers, and laid her veiled forehead down on it. " For the
first time in years I am almost happy now," she said.
" You are the one good, true man I ever knew, and to
think that I have brought ruin upon you ! Even now
I could give you back happiness again if you would have
it so ! "

" That is impossible," Ronald answered, gently drawing
his hand from her clasping fingers.

" You don't know. I could. It would cost me — every
thing that has made my life, so far. Yet that would be
nothing, if you would give me one thing in return.''

" What would you have me give ? '•

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 233

" What would vou give if you could win back your inno
cence of — the guilt which has made your burden all these
weary months ? "

" For that I would gladly give my life. But it is the one
thing I can never hope to have. Nothing can buy it back
for me on this earth."

" Would you give your life to me, to do with as I choose,
if — through that gift you could receive the one thing you
think impossible ? "

" What do you mean ? "

" I mean — oh ! do you need to ask me what I mean ?
I have told you you are the one true man I ever knew.
Is it strange that my heart turned to you ? You said that
I was beautiful ? Well, I love you — love you as no other
woman ever can or will. I am not all wicked. If you
would take me out of my present life I would be all good,
through love of you, and for your sake. I swear to you,
Ronald Charteris, if you are strong enough, brave and
noble enough, to do that, you will be saving yourself as well
as me."

" Don't ! " he exclaimed. " You are making things
hard for us both. Let us not talk of what is impossible."

" Why is it impossible ? Because of — my misfortune ?
That came through an act of hideous cruelty. I was sus
pected of betraying secrets. Before I could prove that I
had not, horrible men punished me with disfigurement
which was worse than death. Yet such is the instinct of
self-preservation that I did not wish to die, and I was
thankful to be saved. But that was years ago, when I was
little more than a child. Often since I have wished that
they had finished me then — at least I should have been
at rest. Because I suffered unjustly at the hands of those
who should have been my protectors, do you say that I am
beyond the pale of human love — man's love ? "

" No, I do not say that," answered Ronald ; but, despite
his pity for her, his voice was cold. " I only say that I
have no love to give ; and, for both our sakcs, let us
not ' '

234 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" You love another woman I -'- cried Nadege. " The
one woman among all others of whom you must not even
think."

" Who says that of me ? " Ronald demanded, sharply.

" I say it. And I say it because I know. The daughter
of the man you "

" Don't speak the words ! " he broke in. " Spare me
that, if indeed you have any kindness for me in your heart.
I have no right to care for any woman, and, believe me,
if that misfortune ever comes, I shall bear it in silence."

" But why — why should you fix your thoughts upon that
one girl ? She is not for you. You acknowledge that.
Why not console yourself, and be as happy as you can ?
You don't care for me. But would you not, at least,
have kindness and gratitude for me, in your heart, if I gave
you back everything that makes life worth living ? "

" I have said before, that is the one impossible thing. "-

" Yet I can and will do it, on the day that you say you
will take me for your wife.'1

Ronald sighed with a passionate impatience. " Let us
not talk of this."

" You are of the same mind still ? "

" And must remain so always."

" Then — good-bye. I have come in vain. You must go
on suffering until the end."

" Until the end ! '-'- echoed Ronald, heavily.

His thoughts turned to Honour Brooke ; but no strange
telepathic wave of sympathy told him how she, too, at this
very moment, was being tempted by a bribe.

If he would promise to give his life and himself to this
woman, she would do for him the impossible. Had there
been no Honour Brooke in the world he might have hesi
tated, for she was beautiful, and she loved him, and he
was drowning in the sea of his own despair.

He did not dream that he was of the smallest import
ance in Honour's scheme of existence, though she was
everything to him. Yet if Honour had never seen Ronald
Charteris she might have given Loris St. Leger the pro-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 235

mise he demanded in return for a great bribe. Each,
unknown to the other, was strong for the other's sake.

Jack Harned wrote again to Honour, and asked that
she would be at River House half an hour before the time
appointed for Sir Ronald Charteris to come. It was always
difficult for her to get away without telling Lady St. Leger
where she was going and what she meant to do ; but during
a call from a person whom she did not need to see, the girl
contrived to slip out, trusting to obtain pardon afterwards
for her fault.

She had never been to River House since that stormy
April afternoon when she went in quest of " Mr. Smith,"
the man who could explain the mystery of her father's
absence. She knew that Jack had returned several times,
and had found the house always as it had been then —
shuttered and deserted ; she knew that he had made many
inquiries' as to the tenant, and had only learned that he
was supposed to be abroad. She knew that Jack had had
the place watched, but that no one had ever been seen to
enter or go out. Still, she could not put away the feeling
that, at River House, if an}^where, she would hear news of
her father. Only, to-day, the conviction was not welcome,
for she hated the thought of any mysterious connection
between Ronald Charteris and her father's disappearance.
She did not and would not believe, she had told herself
many times since yesterday, that there could be such a
connection, at all events to Ronald's discredit, as Jack
seemed vaguely to hint, and St. Leger viciously asserted.
Still, she was uneasy, and excited to the verge of nervous
breakdown, as she drove in a cab to Hammersmith.

Jack met her outside the gate of the dreary walled garden,
and rather hastily took her inside ; for it was not part of
his plan that Ronald Charteris should arrive at the same
time and see Honour prematurely.

" You want to talk to me, I suppose, before Sir Ronald

236 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

comes ? " said the girl. " You promised in your first
letter to explain why you asked me to propose that he
should meet me here. He must have thought it very
strange. I didn't like doing it at all."

"It is a thing that will explain itself presently," Jack
replied, " if you will be very good to me, and be patient to
wait a little."

" I think I have been very good to you in coming with
out knowing why," said Honour, smiling faintly, and
touching the queer little bronze toad brooch at her throat ;
for she and Jack were in the weed-grown lawn now,
standing where she had been when she found the fetish in
the grass, months ago. " I can't be patient, I'm afraid,
much longer."

" You have indeed been good, and I won't try your
patience longer than necessary, I promise," answered Jack.
" But do trust me yet for a little while, won't you ? or
everything will have been in vain."

" What do you want me to do ? " asked the girl, fixing
upon him the great, clear brown eyes which he worshipped
and feared.

" I want you to go into a certain room in this house,
and, no matter how much you may be tempted to do
something different, not to speak or come out until you
hear me call your name.

" You are very mysterious," said Honour.

" I know. But 1 can't help it. Please forgive me if I
do things which you don't like. It is for a great end — the
end that we are working for together ; and I assure you I
don't see any other way."

" But Sir Ronald ? " asked Honour. " He will come
soon. I asked him to meet me, and if I am to be hidden
away in some room, out of sight "

" I will receive him, and apologise for you,'1 said Jack.
" I have already met him, and he knows that I am a
friend of yours, and — and Lady St. Leger's."

" Very well," Honour assented, reluctantly. " I will
do what you ask.'1

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 237

They came to the window which Jack Harried had
broken so long ago. In appearance it was exactly as
it had been in April. Bits of glass still lay scattered under
neath the window and on the sill. Jack stepped into the
room on the other side, and, leaving Honour waiting in
the little back porch, went round to open the door for
her.

CHAPTER XXXIII

FROM BEHIND THE TAPESTRY

DURING the months which had passed since Honour's
dream of her father's death, the first vivid impression
had somewhat faded ; but sometimes at night the re
membrance of the horror came back to her, and she lay
trembling, fearing to dream it again. Now, as she entered
the old deserted house, with its dim and intricate passages,
its creakings and echoings that haunted the footsteps,
she shivered with a chill of recollection. The house of her
dream had been such a house as this. Through such a
labyrinth of passages as these she had hurried, groping and
stumbling, in her terrible vision. She had thought that
night when she waked that, if the dream had indeed been a
vision, some day she might find the house where her father
had been murdered, and that then she would surely
recognise it. But it was to this house his last letter had
sent her for news of him, and it might be here that he had
died — in such a room as one of these through which Jack
Harned was guiding her, only brilliantly lighted, instead
of dark, as they all were now. Yet this was the second
visit she had made to River House, and, beyond the
feeling of suppressed excitement and vague dread of
something unknown, which might happen, she had no
clairvoyant instinct. " Oh, surely it could not have been
here, or I should know," she said to herself. Still, her
nerves were on edge, and when Jack spoke suddenly, as

238 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

they entered a large room with a little furniture piled
in one corner, she started, and was conscious of a sensation
of deadly cold. Out of doors it was a warm August day,
but this room seemed to the girl like a tomb. It was as
if a gust of icy air blew towards her as she entered the
door.

"Do you remember this room ? " Jack Harned was
asking. " We didn't come into it the other time when we
were here, but we looked in from another room, through
that glass door over there. It was because I hadn't for
gotten that glass door that I've brought you back here.
I will bring Sir Ronald Charteris, if you will wait in that
little room beyond the glass door. We'll leave it a trifle
ajar, and then you can hear anything that we say. I
won't open the shutters. Enough light comes in, with the
sun shining on the windows as it does, and pouring through
every chink and cranny, to make a sort of twilight. We
shall need no other light for our conversation, he and
I. Once there was evidently a blue silk curtain across
this glass door. See, there's a bit of the silk caught on
this nail at the top, as if someone had torn the curtain
down in a hurry ; but it's being gone doesn't matter.
Even if you stand close to the door, on the other side, any
one a dozen feet away on this side couldn't see you, and
I'll take care that neither of us comes any nearer than
that."

" I didn't understand before," said Honour, " that you
wanted me to play eavesdropper."

"Don't call it that ! " exclaimed Jack. " I did say
I'd have to do things which you wouldn't like. This is
one of them. But it is the most necessary of all. There
is nothing dishonourable about it. It isn't as if you were
taking us both unawares. I shall know, and if Sir Ronald
Charteris is an honourable man, with nothing to conceal,
to be overheard can matter to him no more than to me."

" I can't do it ! It is too hateful ! " ejaculated Honour.

" Then we have come here to-day for nothing ! " re
torted Jack. " This is the only way. I have told you

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 239

so before, 'or I would not take it. But you don't trust me.
I'll give up my task, then. It is useless for me to try
any longer to help, since I am not to be trusted. I hoped
that we were nearing the end ; but it isn't for me to go on.
The affair must be put into other hands."

The words brought the image of Loris St. Leger to
the girl's mind, and she had a quick revulsion of feeling.
If only Jack could find out the truth, there would be no
need to accept Mr. St. Leger's costly services. She must
not misunderstand this young knight who was fighting
for her and asking for no reward.

" What do you expect me to hear ? " she demanded.
" You speak so strangely. What is it that you think
Sir Ronald Charteris has done ? "

" I stipulated that you shouldn't put any premature
questions, Miss Brooke," said Jack. " But I will tell
you this. What I expect Sir Ronald to say will answer
your questions better than I could. I mean to ask him
some straight out. If he doesn't choose to reply, he need
not ; and I'll ask him nothing I couldn't ask before your
face, if it wasn't to spare his feelings. Now, are my
inquiries to stop where they are now, or will you keep the
promise that you made to go into a certain room, and
neither leave it nor make any sound till I call your name ? "

" I — suppose I must keep the promise," faltered Honour,
" though when I made it, I didn't know at all what it
would involve."

Without waiting for further argument, Jack took her
at her word. He opened the glass door, and led her into
the room beyond — the room in which Ronald Charteris
had stood looking through the blue curtain. It was darker
than the other, for there were no cracks in the heavy
shutters. There was not a perceptible chink through
which the strong August sunshine could find its way,
and this was well for the plan which Jack had elaborated.
As he had said, even though she stood close to the glass
door, in the dark grey canvas dress she wore she could
not be seen from the farther side, at all events from a little

24o THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

distance. Jack insisted upon bringing her a ohair from
among the pile of furniture in the larger room, and placing
it for her near the door, which he set ajar. Then he an
nounced that it was almost time to expect Sir Ronald
Charteris.

"He may arrive at any moment now," said Jack. "Of
course, he will come to the front door and knock "

" Oh ! go and meet him," cried Honour. " Be waiting
at the door, won't you, and explain things as well as you
can. I feel horribly wicked and treacherous. I shall be
thankful when it is all over. Whatever evil you or any
one else may think of him, I believe that you are mistaken.
He will prove that, even to your satisfaction, perhaps
within the next hour."

" We shall see," answered Jack, grimly. " Are you
sure you are not afraid to be left here alone, perhaps
for a quarter of an hour, perhaps even more ? '-'•

" I should prefer it," the girl said, quickly.

" Very well, I will go. When I come back, it will be
with him," returned Jack Harned, " and I rely on you
to remember your promise. "

When the sound of his footsteps on the bare floor of
the next room had died away, and a door had closed after
him, the stillness of the dark house throbbed in Honour's
ears, with the beating of her heart. Never before had
she heard silence ; but the silence of this place it seemed
that she could hear. She wanted to think. It was for
that reason, partly, that she had bidden Jack leave her.
But the throbbing stillness would not let her think. She
found herself cutting short the thread of each newly-
started thought to listen. Presently, into the midst of
the dull throbbing which held her attention so strangely,
broke a sound more real — a sound suggestive of life, not
death. Jack must already be coming back, and bringing
Sir Ronald, she supposed, for there were voices and foot
steps in the distance. Still, it was rather odd that they
did not appear to come from the right direction. Instead
of reaching her ears by way of the room beyond the half-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 241

open glass door, it was as if she heard two men talking
and walking at the opposite side of the room in which she
sat, although they remained invisible. She strained her
eyes in the gloom to see if there were another door on that
side of the room, the walls of which were hung with faded
blue tapestry. There was a door there, and while she
gazed at it in surprise that, in spite of what he had said,
Jack should have brought Sir Ronald Charteris this way,
a flap of the tapestry was pushed abruptly aside. Two
figures, looking shadowy at that distance as seen through
the semi-darkness, appeared to step out of the wall itself,
while the door at which Honour had been looking remained
closed. She was sitting in the chair which Harned had
placed for her, close to the glass door, her back against the
wall ; and, supposing that the figures were those of Jack
and Ronald Charteris, she remained perfectly still, in
accordance with her promise. Jack had said : "I want
you to go into a certain room, and, no matter how much
you may be tempted to do something different, not to
speak or make a sound. "-

This move of his was unexpected, but she saw no reason
to break her promise. She hoped, however, that the two
men would pass into the adjoining room without Sir
Ronald having seen her, for it was particularly trying to
have them so near, and yet to sit still, like a spy.

The dark figures had paused for a moment, with their
backs to her, and one was apparently doing something to
the wall, while the other held the tapestry out of the way,
as if it had been a curtain. Honour's eyes were so used
to the darkness now that she could see them with com
parative plainness, though, if she had just come in out of
the light, the room would have seemed almost as black as
a cellar. Suddenly one of the men spoke, and now that
the voice was so near, it was easily recognisable, not as
that of Jack Harned or Ronald Charteris, but as Loris
St. Leger's.

" I hope," he said, " that this is not only my last visit
to River House, but yours. We are both very rich men

242 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

now, thanks to my exertion, and there's no more need
to soil our fingers or run our necks into danger."

" Your ' exertion ' is good ! " returned another voice,
which Honour recognised also, with a second thrill of
almost incredulous amazement. When she had heard it
before, it was speaking French, and disclaiming all know
ledge of English ; but now it answered Loris St. Leger in
the language it had denied, and with no trace of foreign
accent, save, perhaps, a slight harshness in the pronuncia
tion of the letter " r." " Of what avail would your ' ex
ertion ' have been without my money ? and that money
I should not have possessed if it had not been for the
business which you object to."

"As to that, neither your money nor my deeds would
have been of much use without Lai Singh and Nevill
Brooke," returned St. Leger. " But as neither of them
are here to speak for themselves, I can claim what credit I
deserve."

" How about Nadege and Charteris ? " inquired the
man whom Honour knew as Mr. Kazan. " Don't you
think that they deserve a little credit too ? "

" Pooh ! I'm not talking of catspaws," said St. Leger.
" To us the credit of the scheme is due, and mine is the
larger share ; yet I have consented to divide the money
as if yours had been equal with mine."

" You have consented, as you call it, because you were
obliged. You are absolutely in my power."

" And you are as absolutely in mine. Either one could
hang the other. But what's the good of recriminations ?
All I want is for you to keep your word, and let the ' Master l
and the Reverend Jasper Willoughby cease to exist —
to be as dead as Nevill Brooke, and Lai Singh, and the
elder Charteris, and one or two others I could name."
" As dead as you hope Harvey Kane is, eh ? "
" And as you hope he is. Yes — as dead as that. You
have left the Master's business in good hands, and as for
Charteris's precious ' mission,' let him carry it on for him
self after this. It will be so much the better for him, and

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 243

the safer for you. I shall not trouble to look you up after
this, as I did to-day. If you break your word again, I
shall think you are like a drunkard, who promises reform,
and "•

" Don't attempt to take that line with me, Loris. It
won't pay you," exclaimed the other, sharply.

They had turned now, and were crossing the room
towards the half-open glass door. They were drawing
nearer to Honour with every step, and she saw that the
man with the voice of Mr. Kazan was white-haired and
white-bearded. His eyes were concealed with curious
spectacles, which caught a faint gleam of light in the
semi-darkness, and his dress was that of a clergyman.
He was entirely unlike Mr. Kazan in appearance, but she
was sure of the voice, which, in talking to Loris, he had
made no effort to disguise.

Stricken dumb by what she had heard, and wondering,
in a frozen way, if Jack knew, and had planned that she
should overhear these men, Honour sat motionless, scarcely
breathing. The pair came closer, sauntering carelessly,
entirely at ease and unsuspicious that in this dim room
were other eyes and ears besides their own. When they were
so near that Honour could have put out her hand and
touched the clerical coat, there came a sound from a dis
tance — the closing of a door. Loris St. Leger was in the
act of pushing the glass door wider open, so that he and
his companion might pass through. He stopped, started
back, and — saw the girl sitting in her chair not three feet
away, against the wall.

244 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XXXIV

AT RIVER HOUSE AGAIN

RONALD CHARTERIS was as much surprised as Honour
had fancied he would be to see Jack Harried standing
in the doorway at River House. He had recognised the
place, and knew now that River House, Mortlake Road,
Hammersmith, was the one for which he had searched,
and failed to find. It was to him as if he were deliberately
walking into a chamber of torture ; for here he had killed
Honour Brooke's father, and here she had come, he be
lieved, to accuse him of his crime. How she had dis
covered the truth he could not guess ; but he told himself
that he should know that soon — and more, much more.

Ronald had seen Jack Harned only once, and in some
circumstances might have forgotten the face of one
stranger among the many he was constantly meeting.
But Harned had claimed friendship with Honour Brooke
and Lady St. Leger, and that alone had been enough to fix
his features for ever in Charteris's memory.

As he met Jack face to face on the threshold of the
shuttered house, he looked at him gravely and question-
ingly, waiting for him to speak first. Jack did speak,
promptly :

" I am Miss Brooke's messenger to you," he said.
" When I called on you the other day, I told you, you may
remember, that I was fortunate enough to be her friend ? "

" I remember very well, Mr. Harned," replied Ronald,
with the dignity of manner which, because of its very
nobility, irritated Jack.

" I hope you will come in," he remarked, somewhat
stiffly. " Miss Brooke will see you a little later." So

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 245

saying, he stood aside to let Charteris enter, his keen
black eyes fastened on the pale, tense face of the other.
There was a hope of coming triumph in his heart ; yet
for the present he was not happy. He felt that he himself,
beside this man whom he wished to torture and disgrace,
was not only insignificant, but mean.

Ronald crossed the threshold, and then waited for
Harned to lead him. He pressed his lips tightly together
at sight of the square hall, with its dim mirror and two
stately seats of carved oak. It was like a dream to see
them again, and the corridor leading away into darkness.
If he had been a woman, suffering as he did, he might have
fainted ; but he was a man, and strong to endure what he
was sure now he must endure. Without any sign of
pain, he unhesitatingly followed Jack Harned along the
way he knew so well. Presently they left it, for, avoiding
the three communicating rooms he remembered, he was
taken up two or three steps into a short passage, and at
the end, instead of finding himself in the blue room where
he had stood at his post by the curtained glass door, he
was ushered directly into the room where Nevill Brooke
had come to sup and which he had never left, alive.

Here, if he had been a woman, he must have shrieked,
and fought his way out, even though Harned had tried^to
detain him. But still his man's strength and pride upheld
him ; and if he was paler and more haggard of face than
before, the change was not visible in the dim twilight
of the shuttered room.

A moment passed in silence. Then Ronald spoke in
a cold, controlled voice.

" You say you are Miss Brooke's messenger to me,"
he began. " Am I, then, to expect from you an ex
planation of my summons here ? "

" Do you really need an explanation ? " demanded Jack.

" I have asked for one."

" Then I will give it, though Miss Brooke has not author
ised it. She wrote to you on my advice, asking you to
meet her here.'1

246 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" I have kept the appointment. Miss Brooke has not.'*
" She will keep it, Sir Ronald Charteris. Meanwhile,
I have something to say to you. I told you I was her
friend. I did not tell you how our friendship began. But
I will do so now. In the early days of last April Miss
Brooke received a letter from her father, saying that he
was on the point of coming home. If he did not arrive by
a certain date she was to call at River House, Mortlake
Road, Hammersmith, and make inquiries. He did not
arrive, and she came here, to this house. On the same day,
and at the same hour, came a man to whom Nevill Brooke
had been as a father. That man was I. We found the
house deserted, and shut up as it is now. Time passed on,
and Nevill Brooke did not come ; but his daughter and
I — who loved him as if I had been his son — devoted our
whole lives to solving the mystery of his absence. For
a long time we worked in vain. But at last a clue came into
our hands. We followed it up, never once letting go.
That is why, Sir Ronald Charteris, I called upon you the
other day. That is why Miss Brooke wrote and begged
you to meet her here."

" And now that I am here ? "- asked Ronald, shortly.
" I will ask you a question. What did you do on the
night of April the fourth ? "

" I do not acknowledge your right to ask me that or
any other question. If Miss Brooke questions me, I will
answer, not otherwise."

" Then, if you refuse to answer, I will answer for you.
On the night of April the fourth, here in this house, you
murdered her father, Nevill Brooke — murdered him basely,
with or without accomplices, for money which he was
bringing home for the daughter he loved better than his
life. On that money you are living now, and parading
as a sort of amateur missionary."

Charteris was utterly amazed, not at the first accusation
— for that he had expected from the moment he recognised
River House as the scene of the murder — but at the
motive alleged.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 247

" What ! She believes that of me ? '•'• he exclaimed,
in astonishment, so evidently genuine that for an instant
Jack Harned was staggered. " She believes that I killed
her father for his money ? My God ! What a loathsome
thing ! '-'-

Jack caught at the loose end of an admission which he
saw floating.

" You do not deny that you killed him ? " he said a
" That, at least, is well, for it would be useless, I know,
and by this time she knows too."

" She is here now, listening to what we say ? " ejaculated
Ronald, hurt reproach in his voice, which must have struck
at Honour's heart, though it merely angered Jack.

" She is here, and listening, because I insisted that she
should do so," he admitted, hotly. " Murderers have not
usually such nice feelings. We have played detectives,
she and I, and successfully. We have you where we want
you now. Your face, your voice, have confessed, even
if your words have been cautious. If you go on — if you
will make a clean breast of it — we may allow you to go
free, for you must carry your punishment for ever in your
soul, even though your body is permitted to escape.
This is your one chance. Take it or leave it. What we
want most of all is to have the mystery explained. But
attempt to brazen it out, and you pronounce your own
death-warrant. We know enough now to have you arrested
if you are obstinate, and force you to stand your trial for
the murder of Nevill Brooke."

" She is there ? " asked Charteris, pointing through
the glass door.

" Yes — Miss Brooke is there."

" Then I speak to her, not to you. I am sorry if my
voice reproached her. She was right to use any means
within her power in the hope of learning the truth about
her father. I confess to her now that he died by my hand
in this house, in this room, on the night of April the fourth.
If you had not told me that she believed I killed him
for his money nothing could have forced me to tell before

248 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

you the story which now I will tell. I am, it seems, less
guilty than she believes me. I never saw Nevill Brooke
until a few minutes before his death, nor did I even know
of his existence. Until I afterwards met Miss Brooke, and
she talked to me one afternoon at my house in Oswell
Road, I did not so much as know the name of the man
I had .killed. It was from what she said then that I
learned whose life I had taken. The money I have —
literally every penny of it — was left me by a cousin. Go
yourself, and take Miss Brooke, if you will, to Somerset
House, where a copy of the will can be seen. So much
she must believe, because her own eyes will bear witness
for me. I do not attempt to justify myself in any way.
How should I ? I am a murderer. I robbed her of all
that was most dear, but I cannot bear to have her think
I robbed him of his money. I did not know what he had,
or was. Why I killed him I shall never tell, but I did not
do it for lust of blood or gold. I struck him down, and
afterwards I saw that he was dead. That is no excuse,
I know. I don't offer it as an excuse. But, at least, in
stead of enriching myself, as you say she thinks, I ruined
my whole future — ruined it in a single instant. If I
could, I would have given myself up to justice. It was the
one thing, it seemed then, to save my reason, when I found
out what I had done. I wanted to die. But there were
reasons why I could not yield to the impulse. I decided
to keep silence, and after a long illness which followed
immediately, I came to myself to find that silence was still
incumbent upon me. Such atonement as I could make I
have made. That is nothing. If Miss Brooke desires my
life for her father's life, it is hers. I have no wish to
' escape.' When death is in the soul, existence is not
worth having. Tell what I have confessed here to the
police if you will. I shall make no effort to avoid arrest
or conviction. But more than I have said to you I will
never say.''

" You mean,'- said Harned, " that you will not give
up your accomplices ? "

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 249

" I killed Nevill Brooke with my own hands, and un
prompted. I had no accomplices. Afterwards I buried
him. His body lies in the cellars underneath this house.
It was that, coming after what had gone before, that
turned my brain, I think."

" You shall show me where you buried him."

"It is not for you to say ' you shall ' do this or that.
I do not intend to go with you and show you that place.
But, for his daughter's sake, I will tell you where to find
the body of the man I killed. There are three cellars,
each one opening into another. I remember passing
through them all. In the third under a coating of clay,
well stamped down — if it is as it was then — is a trap-door.
This leads into a small sub-cellar, ventilated from a grating
in the garden. Down there is the grave. I need say no
more."-

" No, you need say no more — for the present," Jack
flung at him. " Miss Brooke, I beg that you will come
here, and tell me what is to be done with your father's
murderer. "-

There was no answer, no sound from the next room;

Jack's conscience gave him a sharp twinge. The ordeal
had been too much for her. He might have known that
it would be so.

" She must have fainted," he exclaimed, and, hurrying
to the glass door, looked anxiously into the adjoining
room. The chair which he had placed against the wall was
unoccupied. Peering into the darkness, he could see
nothing ; and, with a loud knocking of the heart against
his side, he rushed to one of the windows and unbarred
the heavy shutters. As he threw them violently open, a
flood of afternoon sunlight streamed in, illuminating the
room, and turning the floating motes of dust to glittering
gold.

Honour was not there !

250 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XXXV

THE MAN WHO HAD NO FEAR

JACK was deeply chagrined and disappointed to find
Honour gone, but he was not alarmed. It would have been
easy for her to leave the house by the back way which
they had used to come in, without being seen or heard
by him. He stood for a moment in the empty room,
telling himself that the girl's dread of the expected scene
with Charteris had got the better of her, and, rather than
"play the eavesdropper/' as she had called it, she had
broken her promise and run away before he had returned
from the front door, bringing his companion. The dra
matic effect on which he had counted so much was ruined,
and for him to inform her of Charteris's confession would
not be at all the same as hearing it from the murderer's
own lips. He felt that Honour had humiliated him before
the man over whom he had hoped to triumph ; but sud
denly it occurred to him that he might yet save himself.
Charteris need not know that the girl was gone.

Harned turned away and walked back into the next
room, where Ronald was waiting for him. He shut the glass
door, and then said, slowly : " Miss Brooke has not fainted,
but she does not wish to see or speak to you. Later she
will let you know, through me, what she has decided to do."

" Miss Brooke need not fear that I shall try to escape
the consequences of the confession which I have made — not
to you, but to her," said Ronald. " She will know where
to find me when I am wanted. Are there any other ques
tions which she wishes you to ask ? There are some which
I should have to refuse to answer, but if there are any
which concern me alone, I — will answer if I can."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 251

" There is one question," returned Jack. " How did
you kill her father ? "

" I struck him under the chin, knocking him down.
He fell on the back of his head, and was dead on the
instant. "

" You had no grudge against him ? "

" None."

" Did you strike in self-defence ? "

"No."

" In defence of someone else, or someone else's interests,
perhaps ? "

" That is one of the questions which I do not choose
to answer, even to Miss Brooke. I have made my con
fession. I killed a man, and I am willing to die for it.
But there is no power on earth which can force from me
details which, for certain reasons, I am determined never
to give."

" Very well," replied Harned. " Let it rest there for
the time being. I must have a talk with Miss Brooke,
and after that you will hear from us. Though you have
committed a great crime, I do not believe that you are
dead to all sense of honour. I accept your word that
you will not try to escape the consequences of your sin.
I will write or send to you at Oswell Road. That, I sup
pose, is the place you meant when you said that Miss Brooke
would know where to find you ? "

" Yes, that is the place I meant," answered Ronald.

" We do not wish to keep you any longer, then," said
Jack.

The two men bowed to each other, and with one in
voluntarily glance at the glass door behind which he be
lieved Honour to be waiting, Ronald went out.

In a way, he had broken his promise to Mr. Willoughby ;
but it seemed to him that any other course than the one
he had just chosen would have been impossible, and as
he had taken all the blame upon himself, and would
always do so, whatever happened, there was no danger
for others beside himself. Honour had somehow come

252 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

to suspect him, even if she had not more than suspicion
to act upon, and he could not lie to her. Now that she
knew, instead of being crushed under the weight of her
hatred and horror, as he had believed he would be should
she learn the truth, his heart was lighter, though very
cold. He felt curiously calm and numb to all sensation
as he left River House, where his youth had been murdered
with Nevill Brooke.

It was unlike his ideal of Honour that she should have
sent for him to come there, and have had him put to the
torture, while she watched as a Roman lady of old might
have held her thumb down for the death of a wounded
gladiator in the arena. But she had had the right, he
said to himself, dully, to extort the truth from him in any
way she could, and it would be monstrously unjust for
him to blame her for what she had done. At least she
would understand now why he had seemed unappreciative
of all her sweet kindness in the past. She would give him
credit, perhaps, for what he had suffered in trying to
repulse and finally in accepting her friendly advances.
But then, in all probability, she would not think of his
sufferings. What room could there be in her heart for pity
of the man who had killed her father ? So Ronald went
back to Oswell Road, which he thought of desolately as
" home."

He had forgotten his latch-key, and was obliged to
ring. The one man in the " mission " who had ever shown
any signs of gratitude opened the door for him, and gazed
sidelong at his pale, drawn face with curiosity that was
not unsympathetic. The man's name was George Efftng-
ham, or so, at least, he chose to be called in Oswell Road.

" You do look bad, sir," he remarked. " Is there
anything I can get for you ? A drop of brandy, perhaps."

" No, I thank you," answered Ronald, absent-mindedly ;
but the man followed him into the little sitting-room —
empty at this hour — where he wandered mechanically.

" You may think, sir, there isn't any in the house, "
went on Effingham. " But, bless you, there's plenty. I

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 253

know you don't drink, anyhow where we can see you, and
spirits are forbidden ; but, of course, you know perfectly
well that all the chaps who are in good work have it on
hand. They know you don't object, and it's only to throw
wool in the eyes of the public. But you look to need
something now, sir."

Ronald listened at first, scarcely taking in the meaning
of the words ; but as the man talked on, it was as if an
impatient hand, shaking him by the shoulder, waked
him from a heavy doze. " Throw wool in the eyes of
the public ? " he repeated, in surprise and disgust. "Do
you know what you are saying, Effingham ? "

" Oh, I know well enough ! " retorted the other, lapsing
into sulkiness. " I never said nothing before, but you
looked so queer, it struck me you might have had bad
news, and we'd been blown on."

" Really, I don't know what you are talking about,"
exclaimed Charteris, wearily. " I've always liked you,
Emngham. You seemed to be almost the only one
who, among all the men, had any friendly feeling for me,
but "

" That's it, sir ! It's just because I have friendly feeling
that the look of you worried me, and I wanted to do
something if I could. I didn't see how a bit of frankness
could hurt for once, when I said that about the drink.
Of course " — and he lowered his voice mysteriously —
" if the public got wind that we weren't a set of angels, the
police would be down on us like a shot. We have to play
the game for what it's worth, and a nice little game it is,
for all of us ; just like the Master and his wonderful dodges.
We have to keep true to him, or where would we be, from
you down to the lowest of the lot, sir ? And it was part
of the agreement none of us should ever say a bloomin'
word to you that the bobby at the end of the street mightn't
hear. But if you're in any trouble, sir, either with the
Master himself or outside, if I could help you I would —
that's all."

Ronald heard the man to the end, his eyes fixed sternly

254 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

upon him at first, then questioniiigly, then blankly, at last
with a quick, flashing light of comprehension. But it was
not a pleasant light.

" ' A bit of frankness ! '- '-' he quoted. " I should like a
bit more, now we're on the subject, if you please, Effing-
ham. How would you, between ourselves, define the
' game * that we're all playing here ? "

Effingham, who was standing near the door, which
he had closed, tiptoed over to it, and peeped out into the
passage before he answered.

" I don't know as it's hardly safe, sir, to put it into
words," he said. " Walls have ears, and if the Master

knew that I was talking him over with you " The

man paused, and drew one finger across his throat at the
same time making a grim sound with the tongue between
the teeth, as if imitating a death-gurgle. " Why,'-1 he
went on at last, in an ominous whisper, " anything might
happen. There are plenty to do it."

" I have been under the impression/' said Ronald,
" that if there were a Master here at all, I was master.'1

" Under the man himself, sir, none of us doubts that
you are,"- replied Effingham, gravely. " Some of the men
say you're paid a big salary, but I've taken the liberty of
studying you a bit more than the others has, and I've come
to a certain opinion. "-

" What is that ? I want you to tell me, Effingham.'-1

" Well, if you give me leave to speak frankly, sir, what
I think is this : It struck me from the first you wasn't the
man to go in for a business like this for a mere matter o1
money. Says I to myself, the guv'nor is in the Master's
power somehow, and he's forced to the work. He ain't
the kind of chap to dirty his hands with it otherwises
But they're tied ; that's what it is — they're tied by the
Master.11

" You think I'd be an honest man, then, if I could ? ?5
asked Ronald, even paler than before. And he could be
very pale now, for he was fast losing his South African
tan?

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 255

" I do think so, sir," insisted Effingham, earnestly,
" and so would I be. I was on with the Master before,
for another job, and I got a year's hard for it. But I
never peached. Bless you, nobody ever does peach on
the Master. His life wouldn't be worth an instant's pur
chase if he did ; you must know that as well as I do. Why,
even the police, if they think they've got a finger in one of
his pies, take it out again quicker than it went in. Every
man who ever got seriously on his track, in the last ten
years, disappeared and was never heard of again ; or else
something queer happened to him, and he was the victim
of an accident. A lot of the force are in his pay, so that
he can count on having certain streets safe. Nobody he
ever got in his web crawled out again ; and yet, sir, if
you're tired of this sort of work, and want to break free,
I'm with you if I die for it."

" You consider the work unworthy of an honest man,
then ? " said Ronald, still very quietly.

" Why, of course, no honest man could do it, sir, because
the very doing of it would make him dishonest, if he hadn't
been before, begging your pardon. I don't wish to hurt
your feelings, sir, but you asked me the question.'-

" Yes, and I wanted a frank answer. Let us have a
talk about this, Effingham, while we're alone here together.
It's getting late, and presently some of the men will be
dropping in. Tell me what, in your opinion, is the worst
thing about this business of mine — about which, by the
way, you were right in one particular — I am not working
for pay."

" I was somehow sure of that. Well, sir, what do I
think the worst part ? Why, if it comes to that, I suppose
it's bringing in the chaps who might have stayed straight
if it hadn't been for you.''

Ronald forgot himself at that — forgot that he was endea
vouring to get information without giving any in return.
" Good heavens ! What do you mean ? '-' he demanded.

" Mean, sir ? There's a few chaps, you know, that have
either been sentenced unjustly, or, anyhow, for a first

256 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

offence, and have, perhaps, been making up their minds
while they were in prison that they wouldn't do nothing
likely to shut them up again. Well, then, sir, you got
hold of 'em. You offer them a home till they can shift
for themselves, and you send them to the old parson, who,
some of us think — though nobody knows for certain — to
be the Master himself. He could give the devil lessons in
slyness, sir, and he knows, does the parson, the minute he
claps eyes on a fellow, whether he's the sort for his money
or not. He plays with the fish a bit, and if he's worth
landing, lands him ; if not, he sends him off on some wild-
goose chase or other ; or perhaps spends a few shillings to
get rid of him entirely. Now, with me, when you come
across me, sir, I'd been trying for honest work ; the old
ways had sickened me. But it had got out that I was a
prison bird ; nobody would give me anything to do, and
the charitable associations I'd applied to at last wouldn't
look at me. I'd been sleepin' out for a week, and starved
for three days, when I fell in with you. I'm hanged if I
didn't believe in you for the genuine article at first, sir.
Says I to myself, ' This gentleman's about as near the
angels as a man can be,' and I was ready to worship you.
I came here, and, thinks I, ' It's heaven ! ' Then you sent
me packing to the parson ; and — I knew. I tell you,
it was a blow, sir ! But I saw that Fate, as they say, was
too strong for me. The Master had put out his hand,
and drawn me in. I didn't make any more bones about
it, and, as you know, I have night work, and help you
here at the house in the daytime, when I've had my
morning nap."

" I have never asked what your work was," said Ronald.
" I have never asked any of the men. That has been
part of my understanding with the ' parson,1 as you call
him. But I should like to know now what yours is, if you
will tell me.''

Without speaking, Effingham took a handful of coins
from his pocket. There was gold, mixed with silver, and
the sight of it would have surprised Ronald if anything

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 257

could have surprised him now. With clever-looking taper
fingers Effingham separated certain of the coins from the
others. He pushed one sovereign out of four, one half-
crown, and two shillings away from among the others
which he left lying in the hollow of his palm. " That's
what I do," he said, almost sullenly, and yet with a certain
queer pride. " There's only two others in England that
can touch me at it, and they're both working for the Master
now."

" I'm not quite sure that I understand," answered
Ronald. " This money "

" Look close, sir." Effingham broke into the slight
pause. " Do you see any difference ? "

Ronald did look close, and shook his head. " I see
nothing remarkable about any of the coins, except that
several of the gold pieces and most of the silver seem
fresh from the Mint."

Effingham chuckled. " Only those three " — he pointed
to the coins he had pushed up towards his fingers — " ever
saw the Mint. Now you understand ? I work well, but
I don't work fast. Cribbs and Arnold pass most of the
stuff. Some the Master takes for himself, but that's not
often. If anything went wrong, he could easily pretend
to have been deceived. If you had been drawing
a salary from him, for instance, sir, it would have been
as well to be careful. It would have been like him to play
you a trick. I don't go in for making paper, but there's
others that do."

" The Master has various kinds of employment to
offer ? "

" I should think he had, sir. All's fish that comes to
his net. Why, in his way, he owns London. It's a kind
of Crime Trust, his business. There aren't many things
going he doesn't work, from schools for pickpockets to
spiritualistic mediums. You can't help respecting such
a man, and yet I'd bless the day when I could get clear of
him if there was any chance of decent "work. This sort

9

258 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

of life's too wearing. Not but what you don't do your
best to make us comfortable, and a good best it is. Only
you can't give a man a mind at ease. This is a good place
from the men's point of view, though, of course, most of
the fellows are always coming and going, never with you
for long. But as for the Master, it's better still for him.
He ought to value your services. There's some men you've
brought in — some of the most valuable, like me, for instance,
though I do say it as shouldn't — he would never have got
if it hadn't been for you."

"Is it so, indeed ? " asked Ronald, sadly. " There
are, then, men who would not be criminals if it had not
been for me. And this is what I have called my atone
ment ! I think the best thing I can do is to go and kill
myself. Yet " — and he finished his sentence under his
breath — " I can't do that, since now my life no longer
belongs to me. It is Miss Brooke's, to do with as she
pleases, and I have no right to rob her of a living revenge."

It was Emngham's turn not to understand. He stared
blankly at Charteris. " I don't know what you mean by
an atonement, sir," he said, " unless you're talking about
being in the Master's power. I can well believe that.
You're not the first gentleman, I should say, that he's
tried to ruin—and succeeded, too."

"It is you who have shown me how far I am in his
power," answered Ronald. "But it shall go no .farther.
Efnngham, I am grateful to you for what you have told
me to-day, and I owe you something, not only in return,
but to atone for the harm I have unwittingly done you.
My God, if you were the only one ! "

" If you hadn't taken on this job, I daresay somebody
else would, and things might have been worse,"- said
Emngham, remorsefulty.

" Now I know," went on Ronald, scarcely hearing the
other's words, " why all the men in my houses have treated
me so strangely. I looked — conceited fool that I was !,
— for a little gratitude. I found myself despised. No
wonder. I am only astonished that some of them didn't

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 259

kill me when — as they thought — they found me out;
Heaven knows I wish they had — for my own sake.fj

" You'll make me sorry I talked to you, sir," said
Effingham.

" Don't be sorry. If it were in me to be glad of any
thing, I should be glad of that beyond all other things.
Effingham, let us get out of this together ! But, no !
What am I thinking of ? — selfish brute that I am ! I've
drawn the others in, and I can't go out without giving
every poor fellow a chance. Look here, my man. I don't
see why you should believe me, but I'm innocent, and
somehow I want you to know it. I swear that I did not
know I was playing into the hands of a criminal. I have
believed in Mr. Willoughby, the ' parson,' as you say you
believed in me at first. I thought I was doing a little
good in the world. All the money I had I staked on that
belief. Instead, if you have been telling the truth, and
before Heaven I believe you have, I have been giving my
whole time, my whole income, my whole self, to the service
of the most infamous wretch living.'-*

" You didn't know, sir ? You swear you didn't know ? "

" I swear I didn't know. I thought the man a saint,
and blamed myself because I could not like him."

" Then, sir, you and I must put our heads together and
outwit him if we can, though I don't see how it's to be
done, and I daren't have much hope. As for the other
men, we must let them drown — we must let them drown. ?i

" I shall not let them drown,-1 said Ronald, " if my arm
can pull them out.'1

" I tell you," cried Effingham, " it's no good. Worse
than no good. He'll kill you.'!

" Personally, I should thank him for that,"- Ronald
answered. " When a man has nothing to live for, he has
nothing either to fear."

Jack^Harned had no doubt whatever that Honour had
gone home, and he was hurt and angry. It was to him as

260 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

if she had struck him in the face, or flung him an insult
in words. For her secret departure, in spite of her pro
mise, was like saying, " Your plan is really too dishonour
able for me. On second thoughts, I can have nothing
to do with it ; and as evidently you are not fitted to under
stand what is in my mind, I will simply go away, and save
the trouble of arguing with a person of inferior moral
sense. "-

Jack was very young, and his worship of Honour Brooke
was the first real love he had ever known for a woman;
He had been proud of his detective cleverness and the
dramatic scene he had arranged, although he knew, deep
down in his heart, that his wits had been stimulated more
by jealousy of Ronald Charteris than genuine zeal to
convict Nevill Brooke's murderer. Now all was spoiled,
for he was sure that Honour's passionate desire to avenge
her father's fate would not burn fiercely enough to deli
berately destroy Charteris in its flames. His one consola
tion was that, whatever might now be his goddess's
opinion of himself, she could not let herself love Ronald
Charteris — at least they were separated for ever. But
that advantage was for the future ; and at the present
moment Jack Harned was in a boyish fit of sulkiness —
all the blacker because of his wild love for the girl he
believed ungrateful.

His impulse was to follow her home, find out how much
she had stopped to hear, and supply all details which were
lacking. But he was sullenly determined not to yield to
the impulse. Honour had thrown him over, and she de
served to suffer for it — she should suffer for it. At all
events, he would not go near her until she sent for him,
and begged to be told everything. Then, of course, he
would grant her request, but she should see that he was
hurt, and that it was her place, not his, to ask for pardon.

Jack was in a strange mood, a kind of exaltation, such
as some drunkards feel. After the scene with Ronald
Charteris, to go tamely home seemed too flat an anti
climax. A grim thought came to him, and caught his

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 261

wild fancy. He could hear Charteris's voice making con
fession. He seemed again to hear him tell how he had
killed Nevill Brooke, and buried the body in one of the
cellars under the old house. What if, after all, the story
were not true, and Charteris were shielding someone else ?
Jack's experience of life had been wide and very varied.
He knew men who had confessed crimes which they had
never committed. They had done so either for the sake
of others, or to make themselves the central figures in a
great sensation.

" I must know whether or no his story is true," Jack
said, grimly, to himself, standing alone in the shuttered
room. " If the body is really there, in the place he
described to me, that would prove, anyhow, that he
wasn't trying to put me off, and gain time for someone
he wanted to warn. By Jove ! it will be a terrible task,
but I'll do it — and I'll do it alone. I'll find out if Nevill
Brooke's murdered body does lie here in the cellar of this
house, and if he died from a blow on his head."-

Having decided, Harned stood still for a few moments,
thinking. Then he raised his head alertly, as if his mind
were thoroughly made up ; and, going back to the ad
joining room, he closed the shutters which he had opened
a little while ago, to let in the daylight. He fastened them
again exactly as they had been before, and, threading his
way through the many rooms and intricate passages, he
locked and barred the front door which had admitted
Ronald Charteris.

262 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE MAN IN THE STAGE-BOX

LITTLE Kitty Carlin did not forget her interview with Jack
Harned, " the young man from everywhere, who had done
everything," and was pleased with the compact they
had made to work together as " partners " for Honour
Brooke and against Loris St. Leger. She had never seen
anyone who had interested her so much as Jack did, and she
found herself thinking of him a great deal. There was, she
told herself, something haunting about his face and strong,
magnetic personality.

Before they parted on the day of their meeting at Lady
St. Leger 's house, they had exchanged addresses. Jack
had told Kitty where he lived, and the little actress had
told him what towns were to be her next " stands " on
tour. In case anything worth communicating turned up,
they had agreed they would write to each other.

In the company with which she was playing was an
actor who professed to have known Loris St. Leger years
ago in England, and told queer stories of him. These
stories Kitty promptly repeated in black and white to Jack
Harned, ostensibly because he was to judge whether it
would or would not be best to pass the tales on to Honour,
but really (as the odd little creature knew in her own heart)
because it piqued her imagination to establish a corre
spondence with him.

Hardly had she been five minutes in Jack's society
when she had made up her mind that he was certainly in
love with Honour, and she was sorry for him, because
she did not believe that Honour would ever care for him
in the same way. Nevertheless, Kitty was dimly con-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 263

scious that she did not really want Honour to care. There
was a kind of fascination in pitying a man like Harned.

She was surprised at herself because her heart beat quite
fast when she found an answer from him at the theatre
as soon as an answer could come. Kitty Carlin was not
used to having her pulses quicken because a man had
written her a letter. She received many letters from men,
some of whom she had never seen, telling her that she was
the most charming creature on earth, and laying their
hearts at her feet, which was, perhaps, partly the reason
why Kitty affected to despise men. Nevertheless, she
thrilled at sight of Jack Harned's name at the end of a
short but characteristic letter. She liked the handwriting,
and she liked the faint fragrance of smoke which (she pro
bably imagined) still hung about the paper. Several times
as she " made up," and dressed for her part, she re-read
what Jack had to say, and when she had been warned by
the call-boy that the time was coming for her first scene,
she ran back from the door, caught up the letter, which she
had left in a handkerchief-case on her dressing-table, and
slipped it inside the low bodice of her stage gown.

Never, the girl thought, had she played her part so well,
and she told herself, almost superstitiously, that Jack
Harned's letter was the inspiration. Far back in the stage-
box sat a man who looked at her continually, and in her
electric mood she felt her eyes like magnets. It was
against Kitty's principles to look out into the audience,
for she was a little artist, and made it a rule to think of
the region beyond the foot-lights as if it were a wall of
the house in which she was living. Nevertheless, she could
not cease to be conscious of the man in the stage-box.
" How he looks at me ! '-'- she thought. " His eyes are
sharp as Rontgen rays. I hope he can't tell that I'm
idiot enough to have a man's — almost a strange man's —
letter over my heart, for the first time in my life.'*

There were four acts in the play, and at the end of the
third a note was brought to Kitty's dressing-room by the
stage-door keeper. The bearer had said that he was a

264 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

very old friend of Miss Carlin's, and was anxious for an
answer at once. Kitty guessed that a goodly tip had been
placed in the man's hand at the same time as the letter,
otherwise the stage-door keeper might have found it
difficult to leave his post. The handwriting was un
familiar, and she was not surprised when the very first
words she read contradicted the sender's verbal statement.

" Dear Madame, — I suppose I must call myself a stranger,
but do not fear that this is to be a vulgar letter of ordinary
compliments, such as you must of ten receive from strangers.
I am not a theatre-goer ; indeed, there are reasons why
I should refrain from going to public places of amusement.
I came here to-night because I saw a large framed photo
graph of you in front of this house to-day. Even so, it
was not the beauty of your face which drew me — I confess
that frankly. It was the resemblance to a friend of many
years ago. She was also an actress, but I lost sight of her,
and though I did all that a man could do to find her again,
I failed. Now, twenty years later, I happen by chance
upon her counterpart. I beg that you will let me meet
you, and discover whether there is any connection beyond
a chance resemblance between you and this long-lost friend
of mine. May I call upon you, wherever you are staying,
at any time convenient to you ? But I beg that you will
make an appointment soon. I have been very ill, and am
still far from well. My doctor gives me little hope that I
ever shall be well again, and I don't want to leave this
world without knowing what you may be able to tell me.
Lest you should still have any fear — having read so far —
that I am attempting to impose upon you with a trumped-
up story for the sake of making your acquaintance, I will
tell you that I have passed the evening in the stage-box.
You saw me there, I think — nay, I am sure, for more than
once I was conscious of drawing your eyes to mine. Now
you know that I am not a young man ; and, if you are a
judge of character, you will not think me one who would
delight in playing a trick upon a pretty actress. If you

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 265

will spare me a few minutes for a talk, send back a line by
the bearer. You need not even sign it if you do not choose.
I will understand. — Yours faithfully,

"H. KENNEDY.'1

Kitty Carlin was pricked with curiosity. Luckily,
she had not to "go on " for her next scene for some time,
and she could take a moment or two for reflection. It was
true that the man in the stage-box did not look like an
ordinary " masher." He was of middle-age, and his
statement concerning his health was borne out by what the
girl remembered of his appearance. Never, she thought,
had she seen so thin a man. His face was drawn and
hollow, thin-lipped, high-cheek-boned — " a tortured face,"
Kitty had said to herself once, as she furtively glanced at
it, seeing it dim and white in the shadow of the darkened
box. His black hair, long, and inclined to curl, was
powdered with white, as if he had stood bare-headed in a
snowstorm. Pain and weariness looked out from the
narrow grey eyes, set rather close together, under heavy
brows ; and the absence of beard and moustache, instead
of taking off several years from the man's apparent age,
made him seem older, more worn and haggard. Certainly
he had not the appearance of a person who would frequent
a theatre for the sake of an amusing play, or a pretty
actress, Kitty decided ; and at the same moment, with her
usual impulsiveness, she also decided to grant his re
quest.

The girl was, she admitted to herself, " dying to know ll
what the man had to say to her, and the mystery sur
rounding her own past gave an added incentive to curiosity.
What if she should find out something of which, through
all these years, she had been ignorant ?

Hurriedly she wrote with pencil on the envelope which
had contained the letter, merely giving her address, and
the hour of noon next day as a time which would be con
venient for a meeting.

Once during the next act she glanced at the stage-box.

266 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

The man was still there, his eyes fixed upon her, as before.
As their eyes met, his face lighted up, and before the end
of the play he was gone.

Kitty thought more than once of " H. Kennedy " when
she had returned to the quiet little hotel where she was
staying, and sat alone in her small private sitting-room,
eating the bread and milk which invariably made up her
repast on tour after the theatre. She often laughed
when she heard people speak of the luxurious habits of
actresses, and their midnight " champagne suppers,"
thinking of her jug of hot milk and plate of bread.

Again next morning, though her first thought happened
to be of Jack Harned — whose letter had rested all night
under her pillow, her second was of the man in the stage-
box. Kitty seldom lay in bed very late, and to-day she
was dressed by ten o'clock, and ready for her " constitu
tional," which, with the nightly bread and milk, helped
to retain for her the complexion of a child. She had
reached the door of the hotel, when the manager politely
intercepted her, holding out a letter which had just arrived
by hand. He had been on the point of sending it up to
her room, when he saw her going out. As he gave the
letter he indicated with a gesture the messenger who had
brought it, and who was waiting for an answer.

Instantly Kitty recognised the handwriting, though she
had seen it last night for the first time in her life. It was
that of the man in the stage-box ; but it looked curiously
scrawling and unsteady, as if the pen had been held with
trembling fingers. " Forgive me," began the short note
inside. " I am very ill. I cannot come to you, but I
cannot bear to give up the chance of seeing you. You are
a young girl ; I am an old man, and I may be dying. Will
you trust me, and come to see me here at this hotel, the
address of which you will see on the paper ? The con
versation I want to have with you may have an important
bearing upon your life, past, present, and future. If you
will come, let it be quickly. — Faithfully yours,

" H. KENNEDY."-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 267

Without stopping to think, Kitty walked across the
square hall of the hotel to the messenger. " Tell the
gentleman who sent you with this that I will be with him
almost as soon as you are.?i

The boy, who had on his cap, in gold letters, the name
of the hotel which was on the letter, bowed, murmured
thanks for a sixpenny-piece which Kitty had slipped into
his hand, and went out with long strides that showed his
sense of the errand's importance. The girl followed more
slowly. She had heard of the hotel, which, though quiet,
was one of the best in Manchester, and much more ex
pensive than the one which her somewhat economical ideas
of life had led her to select. She let the messenger arrive
at his destination while she still remained at a distance.
Then she walked on a little further, returned slowly, and
five or ten minutes after the boy had gone in to deliver her
message, she, too, entered the hotel, and asked for Mr.
Kennedy, sending up her name — " Miss Carlin."

There was scarcely any delay before she was shown into
a large private sitting-room on the first floor. On a sofa,
propped up with cushions, reclined the man she had seen
at the theatre last night. In the dark, Oriental dressing-
gown which was wrapped round his thin figure, and with
the strong morning sunlight shining full upon his face, he
looked older and more haggard even than before. As the
door was thrown open for Kitty, and her name announced,
he attempted to rise, but fell back again with an expression
of extreme pain on his worn features.

" You come ! - he exclaimed, in a voice which at once
prepossessed the girl in his favour. " How very, very
good of you to trust me 1 "

" It was not so much that, perhaps, " answered Kitty,
in her decided, birdlike way, " as that I have great confi
dence in my own capability to take care of myself. I was,
besides, very curions. But I am sorry you are so ill."

" I had a sharp attack of rheumatic fever early in the
spring," said the man. " It has left my heart weak, to
put it mildly, and to-day I am rather worse than^usual.

268 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

But don't be frightened, Miss Carlin. I do not intend
to entertain you with a realistic death-scene this morning.
You say you are curious, and that I have your curiosity
largely to thank for your presence here. I, too, am
curious. I want to know who you are."

As he uttered these words, leaning on his elbow among
the soft cushions, he gazed up into Kitty's face with so
strange, so intent a look that she felt herself magnetised
by itj

" I don't know myself who I am,!1 she stammered,
" except that I'm Kitty Carlin, the actress."

" May I tell you who I begin to think you are ? •-- he
asked.

" Yes,'? the girl murmured, almost in a whisper.

" I think you are my daughter.'1

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 269

CHAPTER XXXVII

" A TRAVELLER NAMED NEVILL BROOKE ?I

IT was difficult to take Kitty Carlin by surprise. She
was usually prepared for anything, or was, "at least, able
to appear so, and hide her real feelings if she chose. But
now she lost self-mastery completely, and gazed wide-eyed
at the speaker, with her lips apart, her colour gone.

" You — my father ? " she faltered. " Who — are you,
then ? "

For a moment the man looked at her in silence, and his
eyes were wistful. " I can't pretend that I'm a father to
be proud of," he said. " If I tell you my real name I put
myself absolutely in your power. You will know why
when your hear it, for it has been enough before the public
lately. I am Harvey Kane."

The blood sprang to Kitty's face, and with a little gasp
she stifled the words which rose to her lips, for to have
blurted them out to this pale-faced, suffering wretch
would have been cruel, no matter what he might have
deserved.

" You can — trust me," she stammered, instead.

" I'm sure of that. Now that I've put myself in your
hands, perhaps I have the right to ask a few questions.
It will be the best and quickest way of coming to an under
standing. Will you tell me something about your mother
— and your childhood ? "

" I hardly know anything to tell," said the girl. " I
was an adopted child. Perhaps you've heard of Nelly
Warren, who was the favourite burlesque actress of her
day, about thirty years ago ? Well, she was past her
prime, and had to go to Australia to make money, when

270 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

I first came into her life, ten years later. She was playing
in Melbourne twenty years ago, when a girl who had once
been her. friend came to her lodgings with a little baby one
night. When Nelly got back from the theatre she found
them there, waiting. The girl was very ill. She had come
over from England, hoping to get an engagement, and
had failed, because she was unknown, and so unhappy
that she was losing her beauty. She had taken a frightful
eold, had exerted herself too soon after an attack of pneu
monia, and — to make a long story short — she died that
very night, at Nelly's lodgings, leaving the baby, and
nothing beside. She had begun to tell Nelly how she
had been secretly married and left the stage. She and her
husband didn't get on, and after a quarrel she ran away
from him, taking her little girl, only a few months old.
She had engaged her passage to Australia on a certain ship,
but at the last moment missed it. That ship was burned
at sea, and as the girl's name — her old stage name — was
on the passenger list, it was supposed that she, and probably
her child, were burned with everybody else on board.
Because she felt revengeful against her husband, she had
let the mistake pass, and had sailed later under an assumed
name. While she lay dying she repented, however, and
tried to tell Nelly who her husband was, so that he might
some day know the baby was alive. But death came
before she could finish the story, and as Nelly Warren
thought, from some things her friend said, that the hus
band must be a cruel man, not fit to be trusted with a little
girl-child to bring up, she kept the baby herself, and never
advertised or tried to find out who the man was. She was
wrong, of course ; but it isn't for me to blame her, because
I was that baby, and she was the only mother I ever knew.
She brought me up as well as she could, used her influence
for my advancement when I was old enough to go on the
stage, and when she died, left me five thousand pounds —
all the money she had saved up. I never knew the truth
till she was on her death-bed ; tLen, poor dear, she asked
me to ' forgive her,' as if it was not gratitude I owed her.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 271

That was only three years ago, and it seemed too late for
me to take any steps to find my father, so I just let things
go as they had always gone. My mother's name was
Katherine Clare, but till now I never knew my lather.11

" She told you the truth, "said Harvey Kane. " Kathe
rine Clare was my wife, and I loved her dearly. If she
had stayed with me my whole life would have been different.
I should have been a different man, and a better one. You
will not believe that, perhaps ; but, remember, you know
only one side of the story. Oh, I am not going to blame
her — far from that ! We did quarrel. I was cruel to
her, but it was not all my fault. My sister made trouble
between us when she found out that I had made Katherine
Clare, the actress, my wife. Our marriage had to be
secret, on account of money which was coming to me from
my father. He hated the stage, and would have cut me
off with the traditional shilling if he had known the truth.
Our secret was to have been kept till after his death. My
sister found out, and went to Katherine, pretending that
she had come from me. She thought the poor child an
intriguante who had schemed to entangle a young man in
good position who would be rich. There must have been
a terrible scene, and immediately afterwards Katherine
disappeared. For years I refused to forgive my sister ;
but afterwards, when my blood cooled, I relented, more
for convenience sake than affection, and she became my
housekeeper. Katherine was the one good influence in my
life. She would have given me a home interest, and kept
down my passion for speculation. It is to that I owe my
ruin. Heaven knows, I had no intention at first of being
dishonest. I woke up to find myself so one day, and in
the hope of getting out of the mire, I waded deeper in.
People thought, when I vanished last spring, that I had
made myself rich, but I hadn't. I had only a few thousand
pounds left out of the wreck. I went abroad, and hid
myself successfully. My sister was never with me, though
it was supposed that she was my companion. At first I
disguised myself elaborately, but after that terrible seizure

272 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

with rheumatic fever, of which I just told you, I was so
changed all that seemed necessary was to shave my beard
and moustache, and let my hair grow long.- I wanted to
try the experiment of coming back to England, for I hated
the thought of dying abroad ; besides, I suspected, from
some news I had had, that I might be missing a fortune,
which I wanted, if possible, without too great danger, to
get hold of. The one man I dared trust was in Manchester ;
therefore I came here, only to find that he had gone to
America. Two days ago I arrived. No one has recognised
or even suspected me. Walking back to this hotel yester
day, after discovering at my friend's office that he was
absent, I saw your photograph in front of the theatre.
Then I felt that some power stronger than myself had sent
me to this place. I could not believe the marvellous like
ness to Katherine Clare was a mere coincidence. I hoped
for what I now know to be a fact — for though she was
supposed to have been drowned on the way to Australia
twenty years ago, it was not known whether or no she had
sailed alone. There was a possibility, therefore, that the
baby had not been with her, and though none of my efforts
to solve that mystery ever succeeded, the idea that some
day I might find my child has always been before me —
a kind of ignis fatuus. Now I feel that the impression
was a presentiment. I have found you, and I am glad.
You have no cause to love me — I know that very well — -
still less to be proud of me. Yet I may be able to give
you something which will compensate for many deficiencies
in a father. I am going to die, but, unless I am mistaken,
I can die leaving my daughter an heiress. '-

Kitty was silent. Harvey Kane watched her hungrily
for a moment, and, when she did not speak, began again :

" Perhaps you are thinking that, if such a dishonest
wretch as I left any money to his daughter, it would be her
bounden duty to give it all up to his defrauded creditors ;
but wait until I have told you the story, and then you
will see that perhaps you might conscientiously keep at
least enough to be worth having. The difficulty is not so

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 273

much in making up your mind as to that, at present, how
ever, as it is to lay hands on the money. Did you ever
hear of a man — rather celebrated at one time -as a traveller
— named Nevill Brooke ? "•

" Yes," answered Kitty, slowly, and her training as an
actress stood her in good stead. Only a slight quiver of
the nerves betrayed that she had ever heard the name
before — so slight that it passed unobserved by the man's
keen eyes.

" He was a client of mine,"- Kane went on ; " not a
particularly profitable one, but a curious coincidence
drew us together many years ago. It was a startling
resemblance between an important chapter in his life
story and mine ; and as you may need all the details
concerning him and his past that you can possibly have,
I will tell you Nevill Brooke's secret. It was because of
it, and for help in averting its evil consequences, that he
first came to me for my advice as a solicitor. About two
or three and twenty years ago he married a beautiful
Spanish peasant girl whom he had met in his travels. She
was an artist's model, but a good girl, worthy enough of
love. But the feeling he had for her was not love ; it
was pity, and, perhaps, a passing fancy for her beauty.
He was even at that time passionately attached to an
English girl, above him in station, but he believed that she
cared nothing for him — that his love was hopeless. So
he married the Spanish girl in haste, and repented at
leisure. He found her a bore ; she found him cold and,
as she no doubt thought, cruel. Before they had been
man and wife for three months, she left him ; and evidence
was brought that she had committed suicide — drowned
herself, in fact. She had left a letter for him, and though
her body was not recovered, a hat and a shawl known to be
hers were discovered by the bank of the river which she
had indicated in her letter as the place she meant to choose
for her death.

" Very soon after, Brooke returned to England, learned
that the girl he loved loved him also, and was ready to

274 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

sacrifice all ambition for the sake of being his wife. They
became engaged, and the date of the marriage was an
nounced, when the Spanish woman wrote to say she had
read the news in the papers, and, for her boy's sake, would
warn her husband against committing bigamy. This
was a terrible situation for Brooke, but, like a sensible
man, he told his fiancee the truth. He also tried to dis
cover the whereabouts of his child, of whose existence he
now heard for the first time, but failed to do so until, some
months later, he heard through a Spanish priest of his wife's
death. This time the news was reliable, and soon after he
married the girl he loved. Needing legal advice, he was
introduced to me by a mutual acquaintance. You can
imagine, after my sad experience, how his story interested
me. I did what I could to help him. We became friends,
and remained so for years. Not long ago he engaged in a
difficult and dangerous enterprise, in which I assisted him
with money. If it succeeded, I was to have a share of
what might prove a vast fortune. The thing was arranged
as a sort of Tontine, and I had all details. Well, I supposed
that it had failed. But, though I have not heard from or
of him for many a month, I saw in an English paper not
long ago, while I was still abroad, a paragraph which
interested me. It concerned a man who had been a
partner of my client's in the enterprise I spoke of. His
name is Loris St. Leger."-

This time Kitty did not try to hide her emotion. She
gave a little eager cry, which brought the man's eyes to her
face in surprised curiosity.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 275

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE MAN WHO KNEW

IT was dark when Jack Harned came out from, the shut
tered house behind the high wall. He felt ill, and worn,
and utterly broken. Even the great draughts of fresh air
which he drew greedily into his lungs did not give him back
his strength and youth. It seemed to him that he could
never feel young again. " Some men would have been
driven mad — mad ! " he muttered to himself, because of
the sheer need to speak. And as he walked on, he made
that last word keep time with his footsteps, repeating it
over and over again, till it lost all sense for him — " Mad —
mad — mad ! "

For a long time — an hour, perhaps — he walked on
thus, without any definite aim. He had missed his way,
and knew not at all where he was, but he did not care.
Hateful thoughts, without sequence, drifted through his
clouded mind, like wan ghosts that turned terrible faces
to stare at him as they passed. He lived through the
afternoon once more, and did again the thing which he had
had to do. Not yet was his task over. There was some
thing else. He had made up his mind that it must be
done to-night — by him, and alone. It was chemist's
work. But one of the most intimate friends he had ever
had was a chemist — an expert in such matters as this which
Jack wished to prove for his own satisfaction. He had
watched his friend's experiments ; he had listened eagerly
while each detail was explained. He had even helped ;
and once, to his great triumph, he had successfully carried
out an experiment himself. He had liked that ; not a
qualm of sickness had come over him. But this was

276 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

different — God alone knew how different, and what it
was going to cost him, after all that he had already suffered,
in the awful search he had made. Remembering accurately
the directions given by Ronald Charteris, he had found
that for which he had searched. Down there, in the sub-
cellar, he had come upon the hidden grave. It was there,
too, he knew now, that the chattering baboon must have
been concealed on the day when he and Honour Brooke
had first met outside this strange house, and wondered at
the elusive sounds. There was a ring in the wall, with
a chain, and there were scattered remains of food. But
it was not of this smaller discovery that Jack was thinking
now — he had, in fact, well-nigh forgotten it.

He was asking himself if he could ever put away from
before his eyes the sight of the poor body which that
secret grave had yielded up to him — the body of the man
he had loved best on earth, in whose place he would gladly
have died.

Strangely enough, his dead friend's features were scarcely
changed. This was hardly natural after such a lapse of
time. The fact that it was so set him wondering — greatly
wondering. Then he remembered how his chemist-friend
had told him of a certain poison which, if administered
before death, preserved the body almost as if it had been
embalmed. The name of this poison was granil, and it was
made from the root of an Indian plant greatly resembling
tobacco in appearance. Its use had been known in India
for many years, but it was comparatively lately that the
knowledge had been brought to Europe. Jack had seen
the poison in liquid form in a bottle in his old friend's
possession. It was milky, slightly opalescent in strong
lights, and semi-transparent. A dozen drops in a glass
of wine would cause certain death within a few moments,
half-an-hour at most — death with only one fierce pang of
suffering as the poison stopped the heart. Tests to dis
cover its presence in a corpse were easily made by an expert,
even months after death. All this Jack Harned recalled
when he knelt over the body of his dead protector, which

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 277

looked as if it had been turned to wax". Just such another
waxen effigy had he seen once, in company with the expert
in poisons. A doctor in Colorado had committed suicide
by taking a large dose of granil, which was well known
in the medical profession, though scarcely heard of yet
outside.

He could not understand the strange resemblance
between the dead man he had seen in Denver and the
dead man who lay in the cellar of River House. He
examined the head. There was no sign of an injury caused
by a fall severe enough to kill ; nor was the neck broken;
Either Ronald Charteris must have deceived him, or was
himself deceived. At the latter thought Jack Harned's
nerves felt as if they had been jerked by a communicating
wire. Charteris deceived ! What if someone else had
done the murder, and in some mysterious way made
Charteris believe that he had killed Nevill Brooke ?
Because he hated to think that this might be true, Jack
could not push the insistent idea from his mind. He
had no wish to release Charteris from a burden of guilt,
even though unjustly borne ; far from that. Yet he was
anxious to learn the truth without leaving a grain of
remaining doubt.

There was a way in which he could learn it, thanks to
those old experiments. He knew what to do. He had
only to go and buy certain chemicals, and rub them into
the waxen skin of the dead man. If the flesh turned
bluish, and shrivelled into wrinkles, death had been
caused by poisoning with granil.

This was the I ask which Jack had sti 1 before him
when he came out from the shuttered house. He had
determined on performing it that night, but now that he
had left the dark and musty cellar, now that he was in
God's air, all that was physical in him rebelled against
going back. He felt that he would rather die than make
the experiment which would prove the truth. Yet he would
make it, if he went mad in doing it, there alone with the
horror of the sight. Only, he must cool his spirit with

278 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

the calmness of the night before he immured himself again.
And so he walked aimlessly, and lost the way, and did
not care. At the end of an hour he was more himself.
He came to a cab-stand, and took a hansom, telling the
driver to go to the best chemist's in the neighbourhood.
There he bought what he needed, showing nothing in his
face of what he had suffered, save by a grey pallor which
might have been partly the effect of the electric light
in the shop. The right ingredients secured, he ordered the
cabman to drop him at the " Hand and Key." There he
fortified himself with a glass of cognac, and walked briskly
to the River House.

By this time it was nearly midnight, but the lateness
of the hour did not matter to Jack. He had found a
lantern in the cellar where his grim task had been done,
with a candle in it, only half burned out. He could guess
who had used it last, and when. Mortlake Road was
absolutely deserted. He walked on to the end, where
River House was the only building. Unseen, he passed
like a shadow, and, like a shadow noiseless, through the
gate ; so he padded across the unkempt lawn, through the
long grass, and went in at the broken window.

When, an hour later, he came out again, he knew what
he wished to know. Nevill Brooke had died by the Indian
poison, granil.

How he got home, and let himself into his lodgings,
he could not have told. He knew only that he was there,
and that his hands had laid Nevill Brooke's body in its
grave again. There it should lie, until Honour deigned
to summon him, and to give him orders concerning Ronald
Charteris. When those orders should come, what would
he do ? Jack asked himself. Yet, why trouble, since that
was in the future ? Besides, it was all too improbable
that Honour would have turned against Charteris with

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 279

such severity as to wish him punished for her father's
murder. He would say, perhaps, that what he had done,
had been in self-defence. His words this afternoon had
hinted that, though he had refused to tell more. In any
event, Honour would elect to spare him. Let her think
him guilty, then. So much the better. Perhaps, after
all, he was guilty, even more so than he had confessed
in that the crime had been premeditated. There was
only that strange, vivid impression that the guilt of murder
lay elsewhere. Impressions were nonsensical. No one
but superstitious fools paid any attention to them, even
when they were their own. If he — Jack — told that im
pression of his to Honour, she would snatch at it, and
would go much farther than he had gone. She would
be sure that Ronald Charteris was innocent, and because
he had been misjudged, she would give him her heart in
recompense. No, Jack said to himself ; even if he knew
that Charteris had not taken Nevill Brooke's life, he would
still keep silence. He would speak only to save him from
the gallows ; and there was no danger for Charteris of
such an end.

Towards morning Harned slept — the deep, dreamless
sleep of physical fatigue and mental exhaustion. He slept
on and on ; and the church clock not far away had chimed
out the quarter before noon, when a loud and long-
continued knocking at his bedroom door wrenched him at
last into waking.

" Mr. 'Arned ! Mr. 'Arned ! " his landlady's voice
was distractedly calling. " Oh ! do wake up ! I'm so
worried ! '-

Jack managed to answer in a thick voice, unlike his
own : " What's the matter ? What are you worried about ?
I'm all right, only — very tired."

" I know, sir. It isn't that. I said you'd been out late,
and were sleeping to make up for lost time. But the lady
won't go away without seeing you. It seems there's some
thing she wants you to tell her. The name I was to say
was Lady St. Leger."

2So THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

Hardly was the name uttered, outside the closed door,
when Lady St. Leger's voice spoke also.

" Mr. Harned, Honour is lost ! She has not been back
all night. I am half frantic. At last I thought of you,
and came here. For Heaven's sake, tell me if you know
anything about her ! "-

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE QUESTION BETWEEN HONOUR AND ST. LEGER

IN natures such as Loris St. Leger's decisions are formed
quickly, when upon them may depend life or death. It
was he who first saw Honour Brooke sitting in a chair
against the wall, close to the glass door, in the shuttered
room at River House. Instantly he had mentally re
viewed all that he and his uncle had said to each other
since they entered the room. He was certain that Honour
could not have failed to hear all, and that, having heard,
their fate lay in her hands should she go out of this house
to freedom. From his point of view there was but one
thing to be done, and, without the hesitation of a single
second, he did it. With a touch on the arm of Kazan,
he warned him to alertness. Then, before Honour had had
time to be sure that she was discovered, St. Leger had
pressed his right hand tightly over her mouth to prevent
her from uttering a sound, and with the left arm slipped
round her waist, had lifted her from the chair in which
she sat.

With all her strength the girl fought to be free — to
tear away the hand from her mouth and scream to Jack
Harned for help. But the hand lay firm as a band of
iron over her lips, and she was like a child in the grasp of
Loris St. Leger.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 281

" Quick ! " he whispered to Kazan. " You heard that
door shut ? She's not alone in the house. Somebody's
coming to her. We must go back by the way we
cams."

His directions were not needed. Kazan understood
the situation almost as soon as Loris did. Without a word,
and without a sound, he crossed the room, touched a spring
which slid back one of the panels in the wainscotting, and,
without waiting for St. Leger to pass with his burden,
darted through the narrow door which had opened in the
wall. Three seconds later Loris had followed, with Honour
Brooke in his arms. On the other side of the opening was a
dark passage between two walls, and when St. Leger had
moved a little to the left, Kazan, who had stood waiting
at the right, keeping himself out of the way of the other
on entering, slid the panel back into place. A slight
" click " told him that it had fitted into its groove, and
was fastened as firmly as if it had been one of the solid
panels of the wall, which it exactly resembled.

This done, Kazan struck a match and lighted a small
folding lantern which hung from a nail on the wall of the
hidden passage. When the flame rose and burned clearly,
he held the lantern high, so that Loris, who was now going
slowly on ahead, could see to move without stumbling.

There was not far to go. The passage went straight
on for a dozen feet ; then — no doubt where the wains-
cotted room on the other side ended — it turned to the
right. Here was the well of a stairway, ladder-like in its
steepness and narrowness. This was a difficult bit for
Loris to manoeuvre, with the girl in his arms, for if he
slipped, or the pressure of his hand over her mouth re
laxed for an instant, she would take advantage of his
awkwardness, no matter at what risk of a perilous fall.
If she screamed, her voice could still be plainly heard in the
room she had left, and though it would be difficult for
those who heard a cry to tell whence it came, or to follow
if they guessed, the alarm would be given, the hunt would
be up ; and that was a danger not to be defied. St. Leger

282 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

braced himself for success, and set his foot steadily on the
first round of the steeply-descending staircase. Some
how, as he went plodding down, step by step, he thought
of the underground temple, and the man who had been
stabbed by the treacherous priest on the stairway. Lai
Singh had avenged that man's death ; soon afterwards
Lai Singh also had died — by accident, it had appeared.
Even Nevill Brooke had believed it an accident, and — like
a fool — had been sad, instead of congratulating himself
that there was one less in the great Tontine. St. Legcr
wondered why he thought of this now, and why the thought
was so grim. He had an ugly sensation that at any instant
a knife might enter his back, and though he trusted his
uncle as much as he trusted anyone, because their interests
were the same, he was glad for more than one reason when
he had safely reached the foot of the ladder-like stairs.
Here there was space for the other man to pass him.
Kazan did so, and opened a door, which admitted them
into a small, oblong cellar, reeking with damp, and smelling
like a vault. It was unlighted and unventilated, save for
a grating, not twelve inches square, in the low ceiling,
through which stole a greenish ray of twilight, that evi
dently penetrated a pent-roof of tangled grass. This
place was below the level of the cellars, and precisely
resembled the subterranean room which Jack Harned
was to visit an hour or two later ; but it was not the
same.

" Now, what do you mean to do with her ? "• asked
Kazan.

" That depends upon herself," was St. Leger's answer,
meant for Honour as well as for his uncle. " In any case,
it's not safe to discuss things with her here. Whoever
her companions may be, they will wonder where and why
she has gone away, and that grating there would let sounds
be heard up in the garden. Some queer story might get
round, and we don't want that."

" I don't believe that anything could be heard distinctly
enough to give a clue," said Kazan.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 283

" I know it can, for when I left poor old Mephistopheles
in the other room which you know, to wait till his place
could be ready elsewhere, I distinctly heard his chattering
as I went away from the house. But nobody was in it
then, or likely to come even inside the gate, so it didn't
much matter. Now, you must remember, someone is
on the look-out, and we must ^run no unnecessary
risks."

" It's because I think we ought to find out, while we
can, who the ' someone '- is, that I would suggest your
staying here with the girl, while I go back and listen at the
panel."

" Whatever happens, far safer not to go back. They
will find nothing. We must get her out of this, for I want
a talk with her as soon as possible. How about Ware
house No. 4 ? Is it free and available ? "-

" Free till to-morrow night, and safe enough. But it
will take half-an-hour to get there as we shall have to
go."-

" No matter. I am equal to it. Let us start now."

Kazan opened another door — a common door, roughly
knocked together, as if by the hand of an amateur. It
led into a dark, tunnel-like passage, such as can be found,
half blocked up, under more than one very old house in
Hammersmith, Canonbury, or the neighbourhood of Hamp-
stead Heath. Kazan went first, with the lantern, and St.
Leger followed close on his heels, his head bent to avoid
knocking against the arched brick ceiling, which was slimy
with dampness, and had thin streaks of dark green moss
to outline each ancient brick. The floor, too, was slippery,
and Loris's feet nearly slid from under him once or twice.
But he steadied himself without a fall, and went always
doggedly on. At last, when they had left the cellar under
River House thirty or forty yards behind them, he re
moved the hand which had sealed Honour's lips. Long
ago the girl had ceased to struggle for freedom, made
certain by experience that her strength was nothing against
his. Now she drew a long breath, and turned her neck

284 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

from side to side with a sense of relief, for it had been
forced back by the savage pressure of the man's hand, and
the muscles ached.

" You may scream as much as you choose now, my
darling/' said St. Leger. " No one can hear you. I am
going to set you down on your own feet, and let you walk
the rest of the way. I am very sorry to coerce you, but
you will have to come, you know. It will only be undigni
fied to resist us."

" Where are you taking me ? " asked Honour.

" To a place of mine where we can talk freely, without
any fear of being disturbed. You need not be frightened.
I have told you already how valuable you are to me,
and if you are at all amenable to reason, no harm shall
touch you. I am sure you will make up your mind to be
reasonable."

Honour was silent. She was on her own feet now, but
St. Leger had slipped his hand through her arm. Once
she tried to surprise him by twisting her arm from his
grasp. If she had succeeded, she would have darted back,
trusting to find her way to River House, where she hoped
that already Jack Harned was searching for her ; but
instantly the man's fingers closed on her tender flesh like
a steel vice. She did not repeat the attempt, and in
not much more than half the time prophesied by Kazan,
they reached the end of the passage and a ladder.

Kazan was still in advance ; and St. Leger pushed the
girl between them, so that, in mounting, she would have a
man in front and behind. At the top of the ladder was
a trap-door, which Kazan, with some difficulty raised, and
stepping out of the narrow well to a level space above,
stood ready to assist Honour, whether she wished to accept
his help or not. He took her by the shoulders as she
reached the fourth or fifth round below the top of the
ladder, and lifted her, not too gently, to the floor on which
he was standing, and on which he had set down his
lantern.

She looked hastily about, and saw that she was in

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 285

another cellar, in which numerous large wooden packing
cases were ranged against the walls. In the middle of the
room, standing alone, was the largest packing-case of all
— almost big enough, she thought, vaguely, to hold a
small billiard- table. Kazan kept his hand cautiously
upon her arm until St. Leger had shut down the trap-door
again. Then, when the latter was free to look after her,
he went to one of the packing-cases which stood against
the wall, pulled off the cover, which had apparently been
held in place with an innocent-seeming nail or two, and
switched on an electric light concealed inside the big
box. The darkness was chased away by the clear illumina
tion, and Honour saw everything distinctly. High in the
cellar wall she perceived two small apertures, originally
intended, no doubt, for light and ventilation, but into each
one some dark, solid substance had been fitted, which
might have been a sheet of iron or slate. Evidently it
was essential that what took place in this cellar should
be neither overheard nor spied upon by outsiders ; arid
Honour was sure that the electric light would not have
been turned on if a single ray could penetrate beyond those
two dark screens.

" I should be glad, uncle, if you would now leave us
alone together/' suggested St. Leger.

Kazan laughed in the white beard of his disguise, and
shrugged his shoulders. He crossed the cellar, opened
a door, and vanished behind it.

" Now,"- said Loris, with a gentleness which struck
the girl ominously — just as she had shuddered some
times at sight of a great crouching cat, patiently wait
ing the right moment to spring — " now, I must ask you
to tell me how much you overheard of our conversation
in that room at River House."-

" I heard everything that was said," Honour answered.
" You must know that, without my telling."

" I should hardly have believed you if you had told
me you did^not hear. But I cannot imagine your telling
an untruth, any more than I could have fancied your

286 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

father being a coward. What impression did you gather
from what you heard there ? '-'-

" I gathered that you and your uncle — if he is your
uncle — were both criminals. You said that either one
could hang the other. I believe, from what you said,
that one or both of you murdered my father, and stole
for yourselves a fortune which he was bringing home to
me.'1

" So, that is your ' impression ? L You are brave to
speak it out to me — here. But your father's daughter
could not be otherwise than brave. I can't deny, after
what you heard, that we know certain details of your
father's fate. I hinted as much to you before, in an in
direct way, hoping to gain something to my own advantage
for information I could give. But there is a wide difference
between the man who has knowledge of, and the man who
commits a crime. It was your hero, Sir Ronald Charteris,
who struck the blow.''

Honour gave a cry of horror and incredulity. " That
is not true ! "- she exclaimed. " I would never believe it.
Is it you who told Jack Harned some horrible story of
the sort ? «

" Ah 1 " ejaculated St. Leger. " It was Harned who
was with you at River House just now."

" Yes," said Honour. " It was he."

" Why did he bring you there ? "

" Because we had both been warned by my father to
enquire for him at River House if he did not come home
at the close of the first week in April. Mr. Harned
believed that we might learn something at that house
concerning the mystery of my dear father's disappearance.
He had asked Sir Ronald Charteris to meet us there. That
is why I think you must have tried to deceive him, as you
would deceive me. But it is monstrous. Who could
believe Sir Ronald Charteris a murderer ? •'-

" You are prejudiced in his favour. There is only one
thing which can blind a woman's eyes. But we will not
talk of him. The question is between you and me. You

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 287

see now that, to secure my safety, I must have you for my
wife. Prudence and love go hand in hand for once. You
gave me no decision the other day when I offered to serve
you — for a price. Now, we can have no more delays.
As my wife, our interests will be one. As my wife, I can
trust you. To put it bluntly, you must marry me.'1

" I will not."

" Then all my love cannot save you. Next to myself,
I care for you. But even more than I love you, I love
myself. You must take me for your husband, Honour
Brooke, or you have done with this world, and must make
readv for the next.'1

288 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XL

THE WATCHERS

IF Jack Harned had been asked, he would have said that
no human being save Ronald Charteris knew that he had
taken Honour Brooke to River House, unless it were the
rather stupid cabman who had put the girl down in Mort-
lake Road in time for the appointment. Even this last
person, if found and questioned, could not have stated
positively that his fare's destination had been River House,
for she had seen Jack waiting, walking up and down the
lonely road, and had stopped the cab and got out before
reaching the gate in the high wall that surrounded the
old garden.

But in making such a statement Jack would have been
mistaken. There were two men in London who knew al
most as much about Honour Brooke's movements as she
knew herself. Patient as the god at the mill which grinds
" exceeding small," cautious, persistent, quietly determined,
they waited, watched, and followed the girl day by day.
To do this was part of the business which had brought
them to England, from a country very far off. They had
been chosen for the mission because their knowledge
of French and smattering of English fitted them for the
accomplishment of an errand in which they had less per
sonal concern than certain others, unfortunately not .co
well equipped. Great honour and great reward would be
theirs if they succeeded in doing what they had been sent
to do ; and they had no doubt of ultimate success, though
during the few weeks since their arrival in London they
had met with rebuff and failure. They could take no one
into their confidence — all their work must be done alone.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 289

In a land very far off, the order to which they belonged,
as novices, had been robbed of jewels of great price and
a fetish which even all the lost jewels could not have bought
from those to whom it had belonged for almost count
less generations. The loss had not been discovered im
mediately, and when it had been, owing to the strange
attendant circumstances, it was difficult to trace the robbers.
After a time, however, a glimmer of light had penetrated
the darkness. Certain travellers had been followed. One,
a Chinese trader, had died, perhaps naturally, perhaps by
poison, and the man who for some days or weeks had
journeyed with him had contrived to disappear so cleverly
that he had not again been tracked by those who followed.
There was, however, another man upon whom suspicion
had fallen. Once or twice he was on the point of capture,
but escaped, and having found his way out of the sacred
country of Thibet to India, he had reached Europe, and
it had been ascertained that he had gone from France to
England ; but, beyond that one fact, nothing more was
known of him save that his name was Nevill Brooke and
that he had a daughter living with a lady of some position,
in London.

The man himself, and all trace of him, had vanished.
But it was simple to watch the daughter, and reasonable
to suppose that, if he were in hiding anywhere, some day
he would be found — through her. Meanwhile, one thing
was certain — a thing of importance beyond all others to
those who watched and waited. She had in her possession,
and wore flauntingly, the sacred emblem whose absence
brought down a curse upon the order to which, as novices,
the two dark-faced, patient strangers belonged.

If it had been possible, one or both of these men would
have stolen into the house where the girl lived, in the
night, and taken from her the fetish, even if they had to
take her life with it. But the house was in a much fre
quented and important street, well lighted, and well
guarded in the dark hours. Several attempts had been

10

290 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

thwarted ; and one, made in desperation, which aimed at
seizing the jewel from its wearer's throat in broad daylight,
had also ended disastrously. After this last affair, it
had been thought well to lie quiet for a time, lest suspicion
should have been aroused ; and, according to the theory
on which these men acted (less for their own sakes than
for others), precaution must always be held the better
part of valour.

Nevertheless, they had not been idle. Honour Brooke
had not once left home, either alone or attended, that the
Watchers did not know. They hoped that, sooner or later,
their chance to take from her the fetish would come, and,
when it came, she should not go without telling them
where her father was hidden.

But Honour Brooke's comings and goings had never
favoured the Watchers' plans, until the afternoon when she
went out to meet Jack Harned at River House. They
had taken a couple of rooms in a house leading off Park
Lane, and close to Lady St. Leger's. Their presence there,
and their wanderings in street or Park, passed unquestioned,
for the sight of dark-skinned foreigners is familiar in
London streets. They had followed, in a four-wheeled
cab, the hansom which took Honour to Mortlake Road.
They saw her descend ; they saw her met by a man ; they
saw the cab drive past theirs, which waited at the junction
of Mortlake Road with another ; they saw the girl and her
companion go in at a gate in a high wall. Then they dis
missed their own vehicle, which they had kept standing
under the pretence of a difficulty in making the proper
change to pay their fare.

Seeing that the road was empty, and that there was
apparently no fear of prying eyes, the two who watched
had gone to the gate, and cautiously peeped in. From
bshind a thick screen of low-lying larches, grouped to
gether so that it was possible to penetrate into the midst
and stand inside a kind of thicket, the pair waited; From
their shelter they saw Ronald Charteris arrive, and go
away again: They expected to see Honour Brooke and

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 291

the man who was with her also go out, but time passed on,
and they remained within. The impatience of even these
Watchers was exhausted. Dusk was falling. The house
and garden were silent.- Not even a bird sang his good
night in the melancholy trees.

The Watchers came out from their hiding-place. They
had talked together, and decided what to do. Now, one
stationed himself behind another clump of bushes, closer
to the front door ; the other moved, lightly and noise
lessly as the shadow he resembled in the deepening twilight,
round the house. At the back he found the broken
window, and through it went in. He was well used to
lonely places and hidden ways. Soon he had visited every
room, and last of all he found his way to the cellars.
There, sounds which might not have reached ears less
quick warned him that some discovery was his to make.

Jack Harned, working at his dreadful task, believed
that God's eyes alone beheld him wrestling with it. But
there was a Watcher who saw all. Standing in the dark
ness, the man who looked on believed at first that the man
who worked was a murderer ; that he had killed the girl
he had brought to this house, and was burying her body.
Afterwards, he knew that this was not true. When Jack
rushed out into the streets, half-maddened by what he had
done and seen, yet intent on returning for the experiment
he meant to make, the Watcher stole from his spying-
place, where he had crouched staring into the sub-cellar,
and descended. Later, he went to find his comrade in
the garden, and they talked for many minutes, discussing
the events of the afternoon and evening, which they did
not yet understand. Even when they both stood looking
at the dead body of Nevill Brooke, which lay beside its
open grave, they did not know what to think. If a crime
had been done in this shuttered house, it was nothing to
them, unless it should be proved that it was in any way
connected with their secret interests. Their curiosity was
excited — even their awe ; but they were more concerned
for the extraordinary disappearance of the girl who had

292 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

arrived this afternoon and had not gone out again — yet
was to be found nowhere — than they were for the unknown
dead man who for some mysterious reason had been taken
from his hidden grave.

If there was one such sub-cellar under the strange old
house, they argued, there might be others. With their
characteristic patience and obstinacy, they determined
not to go away until they knew what had been done with
the girl — and the fetish.

They dared not steal the lantern Jack Harned had been
using, lest he should return and miss it at a time incon
venient to them. Therefore, one remained to watch, and
the other went out, walking nearly a mile before he reached
the region of shops, and, by offering double money to a
tradesman, who lived over his business place — closed for
the night — he obtained a small lamp, with paraffin enough
to burn for some hours.

Before Jack Harned returned to River House with
the ingredients for making his experiments, the Watchers
were on their way to a discovery for which he would have
given all that he had on earth.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 293

CHAPTER XLI
ST. LEGER'S MOVE

RONALD CHARTERIS had been a soldier, and his methods
were the simple, straightforward methods of the soldier.
He would have gone direct to Scotland Yard with the
information he had received from Efnngham, no matter
what might be the consequences for himself, had it not
been for the men who would be incriminated by such a
course. Though some among them might have been inno
cent, or comparatively so, before they came to live in
Oswell Road, they were certainly guilty now (if Emngham
were to be believed), and as it was indirectly through him
that they had fallen, he did not wish to deliver them over
to the police. He decided to make an attempt to capture
Willoughby — who was supposed to be the redoubtable
" Master " of crime in London — without the interference
of the police. If he succeeded, he would then call a meeting
of the men at one of his houses in Oswell Road, tell them
that the "Master" would need their services no longer,
strive earnestly to work upon their better feelings, and
offer them a chance to be honest. When the result of this
move were known, it would then be time enough to hand
Willoughby over to the police.

Ronald had not been to the house where he had lain ill
with congestion of the brain since he had left it on his
recovery. When he went to see Mr. Wiiloughby, it was at
another place in the neighbourhood of Oswell Road, where
the latter had taken a couple of rooms in which to interview
the men on the subject of finding them " employment.'1
It was not the hour when Mr. Willoughby was accustomed

294 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

to be at home to those who wished to consult him, but,
when Ronald had talked with Effinghani, and then thought
the matter over, he resolved to call, without delay, on the
chance of catching him.

He was not surprised to find the " offices,"- as Mr.
Willoughby called them, shut ; but he was disappointed,
especially as, after this hour, they were not likely to be
opened again till next day. The only thing to do, if
Ronald were determined not to wait, was to drive to the
lodgings where, some months ago, he had lived.

The thought of going there was repellent to Ronald,
because of the hateful memories the house must bring
up — the house where he had waked after the " dream "-
which had spoiled his life. Perhaps, too, the " veiled
woman ?> (as he had always called her in his mind, knowing
no other name) might be there, and he did not want to
meet her again. She had given no address, and he had
asked for none, the day she had come so unexpectedly
to him in Oswell Road ; but he hoped, whatever her
mysterious connection with the . pretended clergyman
might be, that she might not be involved in the man's
ruin. Sinner she was, perhaps — decoy she had been ; yet
there was something fine, something magnetic about the
woman, and though Ronald hoped never to look upon her
beautiful face any more in this world, he wished her well
in spite of all.

Mrs. Gates opened the door of " No. 16," where he
had lain ill, and was greatly surprised and delighted
to see " Mr. Chatters " again. She was sorry that Mr.
Willoughby was not at home ; indeed, she did not know
if he were in London, for he had not been seen for several
days. But, if he were in England, as she thought he must
be — as he had not taken much luggage away — he would
probably return next day. She had often noticed, in
these frequent absences of his, that he would be away for
three days, and then come back, say about the middle of
the afternoon, write a great many letters, remain over
night, and perhaps be off again next morning. Such a

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 295

busy man was good Mr. Willoughby, and his business was
always for the benefit of other people! Hesitatingly,
Ronald asked if any friend or relative of Mr. Willoughby's
were staying in the house — someone who might know
something of his movements. Mrs. Gates shook her head.
No, there was nobody at all in No. 16, which was still Mr.
Willoughby's ; no one ever even came to see him there.
There had been a time when the good man was always
bringing in people for a meal or to stop the night ; but
since " Mr. Chatters' "• illness, and the two nurses (the
plain one, and the handsome one with red hair, that " Mr.
Chatters "- had taken such a dislike to) had lived there for
a while, No. 16 had stood empty except during Mr. Wil
loughby's short visits. " But there ! "- added the land
lady, comfortably, " I get my money regular, and good
money it is. All the better for me if I don't have to pay
for it with any trouble. The place is always ready,
and, thank goodness, No. 15 lets well ! I've still the young
man who was there when you was so bad next door, sir —
Mr. 'Arned ; and then in the dining-room "

" Is the name Harned ? " broke in Ronald, quickly.

" Yes — Mr. Jack 'Arned, sir ; a nice, 'andsome young
gent, though odd in his ways, and a great interest he took
in all I could tell him about your illness — both being
young, I suppose, and the same thing might 'appen to him
at any time. He's out now — been out all the afternoon,
or I should 'ave liked you two to meet, if I might make
so free as to suggest it, sir. I shouldn't wonder if he's
with his young lady. Not that I'm sure he's got one,
though I'm certain he would like to 'ave. A beautiful
young lady — 'er picture is on his mantelpiece, with ' Your
friend, Honour Brooke,' written in 'er own 'and under
neath. How he does look at it, if he thinks no one's
noticin' ! And she was 'ere, too ! Sure enough, 'twas when
you was so bad, and out of your 'ead, sir. I took her up
to my room to change her things — she 'aving been out in
a storm — and we could 'ear every word you said. Sorrow
ful words they was, too, and the poor young lady went as

296 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

white as snow, listenin'. She was that interested in you,
too, Mr. Chatters, especially when I'd told her you was the
livin* image of Lord Byron in the picture in Mr. ?Arned's
room downstairs. "

So ! Honour had heard his ravings ! Now — since
this day, never to be forgotten — she knew why he had
raved.

" I will come again to-morrow, and hope to find Mr.
Willoughby," he said, quietly, but his voice was dull and
lifeless. Mrs. Gates thought that he was handsomer than
ever, but he was looking almost as ill as when he had been
at her house, with two nurses to care for him ; and she
noticed that his dark hair was already powdered with
silver at the temples.

Ronald could almost have wished now that he had
asked the veiled woman for her address, which, as she
had only too much kindness in her heart for him, apparently,
she might have given. He could then have written to her,
and requested information concerning Mr. Willoughby ; for
Effingham, aghast at Charteris' proposal to go alone to find
the " Master," had professed to be in complete ignorance of
his various secret haunts. He felt that it would be un
wise to speak to any of the men that night, as there was
not one save Effingham whom he could trust, and to put
them on their guard before the "Master"- was in the
trap would probably prevent the capture being carried
out.

It did not occur to Lady St. Leger, when she began to
be alarmed about Honour, that Ronald Charteris could
possibly know anything of her whereabouts ; therefore,
she did not send a message to him, and he passed the night
in ignorance that there was cause for anxiety concerning
the girl. But he thought of her much, in a mood that was
bitter-sweet, asking himself what she would elect to do
now she knew the truth, and he was at her mercy. Life
was not dear to Ronald ; nevertheless, it would cut him
to the quick if Honour Brooke decided to give him up to
justice as a common murderer. Yet she might do that ;

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 297

she had the right to do it. He did not want her pity ;
still, her hate was hard to bear, and her trust would have
been a gift beyond gratitude — trust in spite of his con
fession. But how could he expect the daughter of Nevill
Brooke, whom he had struck and killed, to argue the differ
ence between guilt in intention and guilt in deed ?

It was a " white night " for him. He did not sleep at
all, nor did he even go to his bed, for there were many
things to think of, and he knew that, whatever happened,
he was still pledged to keep the secret of the veiled woman,
whom he believed to be no more guilty at heart than he.
She had tried to save him, and, come what might, he must
spare her.

It was a " white night " also for Lady St. Leg r. If
Honour Brooke had been her daughter she could not have
loved the girl more. Honour had gone out in the after
noon, and left no word, which meant that she expected
to come back soon, but she had not come back ; and Lady
St. Leger was sure that harm — dreadful, mysterious harm
— must have befallen her.

Until after dinner she was not desperately alarmed,
though she was very uneasy. But when ten o'clock
came, and there was no news of Honour, she grew hysterical.
Her first thought was to send for Loris St. Leger, and her
maid was despatched to the grand new house with a note.
A verbal answer came from Miss Kazan. Her father and
cousin were both out, but she thought it probable they
would be in soon . Back went the maid again, with a request
from Lady St. Leger that Miss Kazan would, if possible,
come to her. Meanwhile, before the latter could arrive, she
wired to Kitty Carlin, of whom Honour had been speaking
only that morning, remarking, over a letter from the little
actress read at breakfast, that Kitty begged her to come to
Manchester and spend a day or two — she had interesting
things to tell. Now Lady St. Leger wired to the theatre,
knowing that at this hour the play would still be going
on. She had opposed the suggestion of such a visit.
Honour had seemed disappointed, and, among many im-

298 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

probabilities at which her mind caught, the idea occurred
to her that Honour might have gone to Manchester, de
spairing of her permission.

Hardly had the telegram been sent to a central office,
open all night, when Nadege Kazan arrived, a long black
evening cloak over her white dinner dress. She listened
very gravely to the news of Honour's disappearance, and
urged Lady St. Leger not to apply to the police, as she was
beginning to think it might be wise to do, until after Loris
had come. Then, in the midst of their conversation, Loris
did come, accompanied by Mr. Kazan ; and Nadege kept
her great dark eyes fastened searchingly upon Loris St.
Leger's face, as he acquiesced in the suggestion of in
forming the police. He himself, he said, would go to
Scotland Yard, while his uncle took Nadege home. Pro
bably they would find out that all was well with Honour,
and that she had written a letter, which had failed to
arrive. Still, it was best to be on the safe side, and
every moment of delay in such a case was a moment too
much.

So, presently, Lady St. Leger was left alone. As soon
as it could come, she received an answer from Kitty
Carlin. "Heard nothing of Honour,'- it said, "but will
arrive London early to - morrow morning and call on
you.'-

The actress kept her word, and it was she who sug
gested applying to Jack Harned. When Lady St. Leger
went to his lodgings, Kitty was with her ; but of certain
things which had happened at Manchester, and threatened
to change the whole future of more than one person, Kitty
said nothing. The two talked only of Honour — dear
" Beauty " — whom they both so dearly loved, and for
once the " little doll " was the most congenial companion
Lady St. Leger could have had.

Jack was utterly amazed, utterly dumbfounded at the
news that Honour had not gone home from River House.
The theory which he had built up broke like a bubble ; his
resentment against her was burnt up in a withering flame

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 299

of remorse. Roused suddenly from his heavy sleep by
the startling announcement that the girl he worshipped
had vanished, he could not at first think consecutively;
He hurried on his clothes, and went out, unshaven and
haggard, to Lady St. Leger and Kitty Carlin, who had been
asked to wait for a few minutes in his sitting-room. But
when Lady St. Leger began to tell how she had called in
Loris St. Leger, and what advice he had given her, an
electric shock ran through his nerves. He did not see,
yet, how Loris could have had a hand in Honour's dis
appearance, but he felt that, if his intelligence were not
dulled by all he had done and suffered the night before,
he should be able to see, as if by a blinding flash of light.
So thinking, he looked into Kitty Carlin's eyes, which had
been waiting for his, and it seemed to him that, while
she read his thought, he read a kindred one in her mind —
a thought which she was trying to telegraph to him.

It was as if she had said in his ear : " Partner, we can't
speak out what we think before Lady St. Leger, for she
believes in him ; but the Loathsome Reptile you and I
talked about has had a hand in this." There was some
thing more, too — a strange look, a half-shy, half-pitying
look, as if this little childish thing were sorry for him.-
Was it only, he wondered, vaguely, because he was per
haps rather haggard and odd, and because she guessed
how desperately anxious he must be for Honour, realising
that he loved her ? Or was it something even more than
that which he read in her blue eyes ?

Jack told Lady St. Leger how he had asked Miss Brooke
to meet him at River House, on business connected with
the mystery concerning her father's long, unexplained
absence ; how she had kept the appointment, and how,
when he had left the room where she was for a few moments,
he had returned to find her gone. " I was in the front part
of the house/' he explained. " She could easily have
slipped out at the back and gone round the garden to the
gate, while I was on the way — as I thought — to her. I
believed that she was angry with me for a theory I had

300 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

about her father's absence, and I was sure that was why
she went away without waiting to see me again. I do think
so, still. She must have left the house while I was in the
next room ; but the question is — where did she go ?
Since you have informed Scotland Yard — by Mr. St. Leger's
advice — I had better go there and tell what I have told to
you."- As Jack spoke these words aloud, other words
spoke themselves in his mind : " Since St. Leger advised
applying to the police, he must be very sure — if he is in
this — of not being found out. In that case, it's a clever
move, since the police will have reason to suppose he's
helping them, not hindering."

Jack scarcely heard what Lady St. Leger answered,
so intently was he listening to his own thoughts. He
recalled his impression that others were behind Ronald
Charteris in the guilt of Nevill Brooke's tragic death.
If others, why not St. Leger as the leader, and some
mysterious subordinate person or persons ? There were
Nadege Kazan and her father. Jack remembered the
notes he had taken ; and it was as if he saw a web — a
great, glittering spider-web — in which Nevill Brooke and
Charteris had first been enmeshed, and now — Honour.
There was nothing tangible to go on ; the strands of the
web might break at a touch, and yet — if it were true that
Charteris was the victim of a plot, and that Loris St. Leger
was one who had planned it — one of those who, for some
unknown reason, Charteris was shielding, so to speak,
with his own body — no one in the world could be of greater
help now than Charteris himself. The more passionately
he loved Honour Brooke — and he did surely love her —
the more ready he would be to sacrifice any other interest
to that of finding her.

" Selfish, stupid brute that I am ! " Jack cried to him
self, though his lips were silent. " I thought only of
myself and my love for her. I wanted to put barriers
of fire between those two. But what does it matter now ?
To know that she was safe, I could even, almost, I think,
give her up to him. I will go to Charteris. I will tell him

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 301

about last night, and give him his chance to prove that
he is innocent."

" We are going," Kitty Carlin was saying, softly, still
looking at him with that strange, wistful look. " Lady
St. Leger is feeling ill. You will help, I know. You will
do all you can. Good-bye."

She held out her hand. Jack took it, and found, as it
slipped away, that it had left something behind — a small,
tightly-folded piece of paper.

302 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XLII

A HAND IN THE GAME

JACK unfolded the paper which Kitty Carlin had given
him.

" Partner," she had written, " there is something I have
just found out which I think you ought to know without
delay. You told me you had loved Honour Brooke's
father as if he were your father too. Well, he was your
father. Honour is your half-sister. Perhaps this will
make you unhappy at first, but after a while you will be
glad ; for, you see, she can always belong to you, and
nobody can take her away. This I can prove, when you
have time for a talk. In finding it out I found my father
when he was dying. That is strange, isn't it ? But I begin
to think that most true things are strange. There
is more to tell — things about money, and a Tontine ; but
that can wait. You know now what is most important. —
YOUR PARTNER."

Jack did not doubt from the first instant of reading
that Kitty told the truth, and that she could by and by
prove all she said. The revelation struck him as a blow ;
and by his very pain he knew that the thing was true.
Honour was his sister — his sister !

If she had been safe at home, and he could have gone
to her, he would have suffered even more keenly in the
knowledge ; but there was no time to dwell upon his own
feelings now. Some evil had befallen the girl. What
he had to do was to save her ; afterwards he would have

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 303

leisure enough to realise all that Kitty Carlin's letter
meant.

Dimly he was glad that, before he read what she had
to say, he had made up his mind to see Ronald Charteris
and give him a chance, not only to clear himself, but to
help find Honour. " All the rest of my life I should have
felt mean,"- Jack thought, " if I had waited to decide until
after I knew that Honour and I were children of the same
father. I will go now."

He was at the front door when the man he was on the
way to see was mounting the two or three steps to the
door of No. 16. Before Charteris could touch the knocl:er,
Jack spoke.

" I was going to you," he said, abruptly. " Have you
heard that Hon — that Miss Brooke has disappeared ? She
did not go home yesterday after leaving River House;
She hasn't been seen since. I — was going to tell you
that and — something else. You have called to see me,
perhaps ? Will you come to my room ? "

" I called to see a man known here under the name of
Willoughby," said Ronald. " But I can't think of him
now. I must hear what you have to say of Miss Brooke."

Three minutes later they were shut up in Jack Harned's
sitting-room. Such particulars as Jack had heard from
Lady St. Leger he gave ; and — without meaning to do so
when he began — he found himself confiding his strange,
vague suspicions to the other.

" Look here," he said, almost harshly, " I have been
jealous of you. I — saw that you cared for Miss Brooke,
and I was glad that there was no hope for you with hera
I wanted her to know that you killed her father. All along
it was as much jealousy that impelled me to do what I did
as it was my vow that I would track down Nevill Brooke's
murderer. Last night, long after you had gone, I found
out a thing which may change the whole face of affairs for
you. I believe you are shielding someone, and taking the
guilt on yourself. Nevill Brooke died of poison, not of a
blow. That can be proved. And, though this other

304 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

thing can't be proved — yet — unless you can help me,
I am as sure as I'm alive that the people in that affair
with you have something to do with Honour's disappear
ance. If you will make a clean breast of everything to
me, we may be able to serve each other."

" I would give my life to serve Miss Brooke," said Ronald,
" but — I can't do what you say. I can't make a clean
breast of everything. Great Heaven ! if only I could !
And if only I knew where to find a certain woman, who
might be the one to tell us what has become of Miss Brooke !
But I don't know. I let her slip out of my hands — fool
that I was ! "

" A woman 1 " echoed Jack. " It is a man I am think
ing of — a man named Loris St. Leger." As he spoke the
name, he looked keenly at Charteris, but the other's face
did not change. " Can it be that he doesn't know St.
Leger — that St. Leger wasn't and isn't in the game ? "
Jack asked himself. " Or is it possible that he knows him
by another name ? I'll try a description."

Hastily he described St. Leger. Still Ronald's face was
blank. Then Kazan. But the eyes of the listener told
nothing until Jack mentioned that the top of the Russian
millionaire's little finger on the right hand was missing.
At this Ronald uttered an exclamation.

" You do know the man ? " exclaimed Harned.
" Not by such a description. But — to my sorrow —
I know a man who has lost a part of the little finger of his
right hand. It is the man I came here to look for to-day ;
and if, as you say, Nevill Brooke was poisoned, on his head
the guilt must lie."

" The man you called Willoughby ? I have heard of
him from my landlady here — I have even seen him passing
in and out ; but not near enough to see what his hands
were like. Jove ! If it could be Kazan in disguise 1
The very fact that he must disguise himself confesses a
secret. And his daughter — Nadege Kazan. Who is she ?
What is she in this terrible business ? "
" Describe her."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 305

" A beautiful woman — once seen never to be forgotten.
Tall, a perfect figure, great almond-shaped dark eyes
with long black lashes ; pale, olive skin, like ivory ; black
hair, parted on the forehead, entirely covering the ears."

Ronald started. " I wish that I might see this Nadege
Kazan," he said.

" You think she may be the woman who could tell
you something of Honour Brooke ? Come, you may as
well admit it. Your face says yes ; and, before you
spoke, I felt she was in the secret. You see, she is Loris
St. Leger's cousin. They have all three suddenly grown
very rich, and have taken a house in Park Lane. They
live together, with a monkey that chatters. If Wil-
loughby and Kazan are one, you may find him there."

" If they are one, at the sight of me in his house Kazan
will suspect, and escape," said Ronald, remembering the
strange chattering at the Monte Carlo villa. " He is the
more valuable, if there is any chance that he is concerned
in Miss Brooke's disappearance. We must not run risks
by which he might slip out of our hands. If he is the man
I begin to take him for, he is the king of London criminals.
But as for his daughter, it may be she is innocent.
At all events, she must be kept out of this. I think — under
another name — she once tried to do me a service, and it
was not her fault that she failed."

" Disguise yourself, and go to the house with me as
my friend," Jack suggested. " I have taken pains to
gain myself a footing there. They will not be surprised
to see me. I'll take you to a place where, inside half an
hour, they will make you into a different man. An actor
chap I know told me all about it."
" Let us go now," said Ronald.

306 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XLIIIj

"MY LIFE FOR HERS"

NADEGE KAZAN was at home. As Jack Harned had said,
she was not surprised to see him. No definite arrange
ments had been made about the English lessons yet, for
Jack was supposed to have been selecting some books suit
able for them to read together during the " English hours. "-
She fancied, when his name was brought to her, either that
he had come to settle something about the lessons, or that
— possibly — Lady St. Leger had sent him with a message
concerning Honour Brooke's disappearance.

Ronald Charteris, the " friend "• whom Jack had taken
the liberty to bring, she looked at keenly, with her great,
melancholy black eyes, but did not recognise him behind
his grey wig, drooping moustache, and blue glasses. Still,
though the room was shaded with green awnings, and
only a cool twilight filtered in, she saw that there was
something odd in his appearance, and as Jack talked to
her in French, she looked at the silent stranger from time
to time.

" I'm disappointed not to find Mr. Kazan or Mr. St.
Leger," said Jack, " for, as a matter of fact, I want their
help and advice for Lady St. Leger about Miss Brooke,
This friend of mine is a — a sort of detective, and I told him
that you were all very intimate at Lady St. Leger 's house.-
You might, any of you, be able to give him some little
hint which would assist him in trying to work up the
case."

" I should like," Ronald said, also in French, " to speak
to Miss Kazan for a few minutes alone, if I may be per
mitted."- He had disguised himself with a view to deceiv-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 307

ing Mr. Willoughby, in case the latter were in the house,
and, finding that he was not there, Ronald now made little
or no effort to change his tones. He had not spoken
before, except to murmur something indistinct and polite
as a greeting, but, at the sound of his voice, Nadege
quivered, and looked him full in the face.

" Yes, I will see you alone," she replied, " if Mr. Harned
will not object to going into the next room for a few
moments."

Harned rose, and exchanged a quick glance with Char-
teris. They had had an extraordinarily frank talk in
the cab which had brought them together all the way from
Hammersmith to Park Lane. Jack had told Ronald of
the letter which Kitty Carlin had slipped into his hand ;
Ronald had told Jack something of the " Master," his
belief that the king of London criminals and Mr. Wil
loughby, the pretended clergyman, were one, and his
desire to trap the arch- villain. Now, as Jack went into
the library which adjoined Nadege Kazan's boudoir, he
was saying to himself, " If the fellow should come, I wonder
if I could do anything ? "

It was a difficult question, for, if Willoughby, Kazan,
and the redoubtable " Master " were actually one and
the same man, to give the wretch into the hands of the
police might be to close his lips upon the secret of Honour
Brooke's disappearance. Jack cared a thousand times
more that Honour Brooke should be rescued than that
the worst criminal in England should be delivered to justice.
Still, it seemed a pity to let such a scoundrel escape,
especially if the real guilt of Nevill Brooke's murder were
on his head. Jack listened for sounds in the house, and
tried to sharpen his wits, which would go wool-gathering
now that he needed them most.

" You are Ronald Charteris ! "- exclaimed Nadege in
English, as the door closed.

308 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

" Yes," he answered. " We have both recognised each
other, in spite of disguise, it seems."

" What do you mean to do ? You have found me out.
You have come here under false pretences. Are you
going to betray my secret ? It would not matter much
to me, for myself, if you did. I am very miserable. All
these beautiful things round me cannot make me any
thing else. I do not care what happens."

" I do not wish or intend to do you harm. But I warn
you, you must leave the man you call your father if you
would not be broken in his fall. It is close at hand. If
you are connected in any way with his affairs, and can be
injured by the discovery of his secrets

" I cannot be injured — except that I should lose these
things," waving her hand with a contemptuous gesture
which seemed to indicate the luxurious decorations of the
room. " You seem to know a great deal — far more than
I thought ; and you have chosen an acquaintance of ours
as your confidant. That does not concern me, as I told
you. The one thing which might be brought up against
me I did at Monte Carlo. I will tell it to you, to show
you that I am not afraid. I staked counterfeit money the
night before you and I started for England together, and
— I broke the bank. I was testing a system. It was very
successful, but I happened to have nothing about me at
that time except a lot of ' queer ' French money — notes.
They were splendidly done, and the fraud wasn't discovered
that night, but it was sure to be later, and the police are
very clever there. It was thought best that I should
go away veiled, under your protection, and as your sister,
for it would be harder to track me so. Well, I happen
to know that I was only just in time. Do you mean to
make any use of this frank confession of mine, Sir Ronald ? "

" No — you must know I do not."

" Then why have you come ? Surely not — surely not
to tell me, now you have found me out, that — you have
changed your mind about — our conversation in Oswell
Street that day, when you did not know I was called Nadege

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 309

Kazan ? Oh, if you have, I can make you so happy !
I can tell you a thing which will change your whole life.
I can save you from a terrible plot "

" I have come to ask if you know anything about Miss
Honour Brooke ? " Ronald said, simply.

The colour rushed over Nadege Kazan's face, under
the delicate olive stain which brought her complexion into
keeping with the dyed hair. " How you love her 1 " she
exclaimed.

Ronald was silent, and, for a moment, Nadege was
silent too. Then she spoke sharply. " You would not
bargain with me for your own sake. Will you do it for
hers ? "

" Tell me exactly what you mean by that question."

" I mean this. If I can help you to find Honour Brooke,
will you give up all thoughts of her, and take me away
with you — somewhere, anywhere, out of England and
away from those with whom I live now — as your wife ? "

Ronald looked at her steadily. " Did you poison Nevill
Brooke ? " he asked.

The beautiful woman started as if he had struck her
with a whip ; but she answered, with scarcely an instant's
hesitation.

" No," she said, " I did not. If you married me, your
wife would not be a murderess. How you know that he
was poisoned I can't guess ; maybe you will tell me one
day. But since you do know it — perhaps much more —
I can speak to you freely. I knew the poison was there,
in the wine he would drink. I knew that he must die, and
soon. If I had warned him, worse than death would have
come to me. Once, because I threatened to go to the
police and give my own father up to justice, to prevent his
being guilty of a new and ghastly crime which I had heard
him speaking of with two accomplices, he — stood by while
those other men mutilated me — in the terrible way of
which you know. I would not promise silence at first.
I was half mad with rage and pain. Then they threatened
— to cut the flesh from my face and tear from me such

310 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

beauty as they had left, making me a horror to all who
looked upon me — loathsome as a leper. Then — I yielded a
I have been reckless since. I grew not to care what came
or went, so that I kept my beauty, until — I met you. Then
everything was different. I would have saved you if I
could, even if I lost my life for saving you — more than
life. But Nevill Brooke was nothing to me. I did not
want him to die, yet I was not ready to sacrifice myself
for him. Everything was planned, and you were in the
plan. They wanted you in their power, and they got
you. You were the catspaw. You did not kill Nevill
Brooke."

" Thank God !— thank God ! '*

" He drank the poison. Then it was part of the pro
gramme that, when it was too late for him to hope for
life, I should tell him. I whispered, so that, as you stood
waiting behind the glass door to give me help if I needed
it, you could not possibly hear. I said, ' They want your
part of the jewels you have brought home, and your
daughter's — and those your dead friend left to his nephew.
So they have given you poison. You have just drunk
it in that wine. It is quite true. You will be dead inside
ten minutes.' When he heard that, in his rage, he sprang
up and caught me round my throat. You rushed in to
my rescue, as I screamed, and knocked him down. You
thought that he had died by your hand. But now you
know the truth, and I have given it to you for nothing —
for nothing. Sinner I am, but I did not kill Nevill Brooke.
I only let him die to save my own life. And I can save his
daughter, if you will swear not to betray my father, and
if you will do the thing that I have asked. It would be
my soul's salvation."

" I will not betray your father, and I will do the thing
that you have asked,"- said Charteris.

" You will take me away — you will marry me ? "

" Yes ; from the day that Honour Brooke is safe again
with her guardian, I will give myself and my life to you."-

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 311

When, at the end of their conversation, Nadege Kazan
and Ronald Charteris opened the door of the next room
to look for Jack Harned, who was to be taken into their
counsel, he . was not there. They supposed that he had
grown weary of waiting, and, as his errand had been to
bring Ronald to the house, there had been no pressing
reason why he should remain. They did not search for him
long, and in a few moments he had been forgotten by them
both. Ronald had even lost sight of the errand on which
he had been eagerly bent, when he left Oswell Road, two
hours ago — the finding of Mr. Willoughby. There was
little doubt in his mind as to the identity of the man,
though Nadege had spoken guardedly ; but the one thing
in the world which could not be delayed was the finding of
Honour Brooke. All else was secondary now, and must
be, until she was safe. After that, for Ronald Charteris —
the deluge.

Nadege had admitted that she did not know where
Honour was ; that she did not even actually know that
her father or cousin had had a hand in her disappear
ance. But she knew that Loris St. Leger wanted to marry
the girl, because of money which ought to be hers, and
because, also, he had a passion for her. She knew that,
since yesterday, there had been a secret ; she had read a
hidden knowledge of the girl's whereabouts in her cousin's
eyes last night, when he answered Lady St. Leger's ques
tions. Nothing could force him to tell what he knew. If
he had not been sure that the secret, whatever it might
be, was well hidden, he would never have suggested in
forming the police. But Nadege was aware of certain
hiding-places, in any one of which Honour might be at
this moment. Her theory (formed in ignorance of what
had happened at River House) was that Loris St. Leger
meant to keep the girl a prisoner until she was ready to
promise to marry him. Honour Brooke was a girl of
spirit. She would hold out for several days, at least — for
ever, if she could only guess the truth about her father's
death.- If they two (Nadege and Charteris) could find

312 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

the house where she was kept, they could release her before
she had suffered anything save, perhaps, hunger and great
fear.

Ronald felt no surprise at hearing of these different
hiding-places, scattered apparently in various districts
of London, for he had heard Effingham's strange story of
the " Master " and his habits. Once, Nadege said, she
had come across a paper which had been dropped. It
was a map of London, with certain houses and business
buildings marked. A cypher, which she understood,
jotted on the back of this map, explained all, even the
existence, in some cases, of communicating underground
passages which established a safe connection between
several of these places. If a man found himself in danger
of arrest in one, he could disappear, without risk of being
caught, and come out in another part of London;

Of this map Nadege had made a rough copy. She knew
from hints which had been dropped from time to time, or
confidences which for one purpose or another had been
made to her, that several of the haunts in question were
used by people employed there, on secret work, only at
night — sometimes not on every night ; and her idea was
that Honour would be found in one of these houses.

" You could not find her without me," she said, " and
if it were not for me, she would sooner or later be forced
to marry Loris, so that — even though you know now
that you are innocent of her father's death, there would
always be another barrier between you, just as impossible
to beat down. And you will keep your promise to me ? '•'-

lt You know that I will keep it," answered Ronald.

To him there was a certain joy — cold and remote as
the fixed stars on a night of frost ; still, a joy — in the
thought of giving himself to save Honour.

Nadege went away, and returned with the copy of the
map of which she had spoken. " If I am right in what
I think," she said, " that is where Loris has taken the
girl." She pointed to a spot indicating a row of ware
houses, in a street close to the river. " There is a way

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 313

to reach the place, you see, from River House ; that is
why I am so sure, for it seems she went there ; and this
would explain her disappearance. Can you bear to go
back with me to that house where you suffered so much ? "

" I could bear anything for Honour Brooke," was the
answer in Ronald's mind, but he did not speak it aloudj
" I went there yesterday,"- he said. " It will be easier
now."

" How did you know the way ? Why did you go ? "
she asked, quickly.

" I was told the way. And I went — to be accused of
Nevill Brooke's murder. "

" Honour Brooke has heard something, then ? She be
lieves that — you killed her father ? "

" She must have heard me confess it, even if she did not
believe it before. But let us not talk of that. You are
going to help me, and I thank you. Will you lend me
that map ? "

" I will take it. I am going with you. Oh, do not
object ! I must go. You would not find the way to
the secret passage in River House without me. I suppose
you don't carry a revolver ? -'-

" No."-

" Then you must do so. I know where to find one.
We have plenty of arms in this house. There is no telling,
you see, when they might be useful. If — anything were
found out, and escape, by ill-luck, were cut off, Loris St.
Leger and my father would never let themselves be taken
here alive."

So speaking, Nadege was at the door. In five minutes
she had returned, ready for the street, and carrying,
hidden under a fluffy feather boa, the weapon for Ronald.
He took it, since she insisted, and they started. To anyone
who saw the man and the lovely woman leaving the house
in Park Lane, on a beautiful sunny afternoon, their ex
pedition must have seemed ordinary enough. They took
a four-wheeled cab, and drove off together, as if they were
going to a Bond Street tea-shop or an exhibition of pic-

314 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

tures. Their destination was River House, but, lest some
unforeseen incident should occur, they stopped the cab
before reaching Mortlake Road, and told the man to wait,
even if they should be gone more than an hour. Nadege
left a handsome wrap in the vehicle, so that the driver
might not suspect his fares of an intention to play him
false. Ronald promised, also, that the payment should be
generous. They were sure now that their man would not
fail them, in case, by and by, they should need his services
for a companion whom they hoped to bring.

River House, which Kazan had taken many years ago,
had no secrets from Nadege. She went straight to the
panel in the wainscotting and led the way down the
passage, snatching the hanging lantern from its hook.

Hampered with their prisoner, Kazan and Loris St. Leger
had been slow in opening the trap-door, in descending the
ladder, in walking the length of the low, arched passage
underground which led to the cellar under the warehouse
they had spoken of as "No. 4." But Ronald Charteris
and Nadege were not slow. In the cab they had talked of
the Reverend Mr. Willoughby and the " mission " in Oswell
Road. When Nadege learned that Ronald was already
aware of the truth, she spoke openly, admitting that, among
his strange army of subordinates, her father was known as
the f Master. Ronald was sacrificing justice for the sake
of Honour Brooke, as he was sacrificing himself. She
could talk of the " Master's '' secrets without fear — since
Ronald had promised — that they would be betrayed to
the police. If she succeeded in helping him to free Honour,
his interests and her own were henceforth one ; they would
go away together, and she would also make him forget that
he 'had loved another woman. But, meanwhile, she spoke
frankly of things as they existed, as if Ronald had been
a confederate. All this row of warehouses, she said, had
been leased by " Mr. Smith,- who was the owner of River
House — Mr. Smith, alias Willoughby, alias the " Master, •'-
alias Kazan, the Russian millionaire who spoke little or
no/English. It was believed that these warehouses by the

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 315

river-side were to be pulled down ; people had almost for
gotten their existence, they had stood apparently empty
so long ; but strange things were done in the great bare
rooms, supposed to be tenanted by no creatures more for
midable than rats. In the cellar under No. 4 was a " plant "
for making counterfeit money, everything hidden in great
packing-cases, so that, if there were ever a " raid," the
place might be made, within five minutes, to look innocent
enough.

The trap-door at the top of the ladder, which led into
the cellar, had a curious spring lock, which Kazan himself
had designed. It could be worked either from above or
below, if one were initiated (a very necessary arrangement),
and though it had never been given to her, Nadege had
the secret. After finding the map, with the cypher, and
making her copy, curiosity had led her to explore the pas
sages between River House and Warehouse No. 4. She
had worked at the ingenious spring until she had discovered
the mechanism, and it was she who touched it now. But
she was not strong enough to lift the trap — that was
Ronald's part. He pushed it up, while she held the lan
tern ; but before she could follow, and step out from the
top round of the ladder to the floor of the cellar, she heard
Honour Brooke's voice cry out Ronald's name. Then came
revolver shots — three in quick succession. By this time
Nadege, holding the lantern high, set one foot on the floor.
Straining her eyes, she looked out into the cellar, but, before
her confused impressions were focussed upon any one object
in the gloom, two dark figures — only blacker and more solid
than the shadows — sprang towards her. Her lantern was
snatched from her hand — a savage push threw her back
ward. She lost her balance and fell — down into darkness
at the foot of the ladder.

316 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

CHAPTER XLIV

BRIDAL FLOWERS

As she fell, the one thought in the mind of Nadege was —
" Now I am going to be killed. After all, I shall lose
Ronald ! " But she was not killed. Her left arm was
broken, and her whole body bruised and strained. Never
theless, she was not seriously injured. At first she was
unconscious ; yet in the very instant of waking she remem
bered everything, exactly as it had happened, and was
bewildered at finding herself in her own bed in the great
new house in Park Lane. It was night, and the beautiful
room was lit with flower-shaded electric lamps. As she
moved, and sighed, her own French maid rose from a chair
out of sight, and came to her.

" You have had a severe accident — in a cab, I think it
was, mademoiselle," said the woman, as Nadege ques
tioned her, dreamily. " Your head was hurt, and your
arm. You were brought home unconscious. But the
doctor has set your arm, and said it was not necessary for
you to have a trained nurse unless you liked ; I could do
everything. Sir Ronald Charteris, the gentleman who was
with you and Miss Brooke when you were hurt, is waiting
in the boudoir, in case you come to yourself. He is very
anxious to speak to you, if you are well enough."

" Let him in, and I will talk to him alone," said Nadege.

" Tell me everything — quickly," she said, when Ronald
had come to her, and the maid was gone.

" Can you bear it ? There are some things — I wish
you need not hear."

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 317

" I must know. It is uncertainty which I cannot
bear."

" Then — first of all, I must tell you that your father has
been taken. I did not break my promise — do me so
much justice. It was Harned's work. When he was here,
your father came in, and talked with him. Harned, who
had been putting clues together for some time, and learned
certain things from me — before I had given you my word
not to speak — concocted a plausible story, and induced
Mr. Kazan to go with him to his lodgings. There he called
in the police, who arrested your father as the notorious
' Master.' It is not known yet that he has passed under
the name of Kazan, or has lived in this house. Harned
wished to spare you, until you could get away, and it is
practically certain that this other alias will be our secret
until to-morrow. As for your cousin, Loris St. Leger, I
have inquired and found out that he has not been here
since this morning. I have an idea that he suspects
something wrong, and will not return. Though I swore
to you, for Miss Brooke's sake, to be silent, I tell you
frankly that I hope he will not escape. By to-morrow
they will be looking for him at this house ; but early in the
morning, if you are able to travel, I will take you
away."

" And Honour Brooke ? " asked Nadege, in a low,
strained voice. " It was not Loris or my father who were
there, and who ran past me. It was only a second, but I
saw them. They had dark faces, like Indians."

" They were men from Thibet. It is a strange story.
They had come from their own country to recover a fetish
which had been taken from their monastery by Miss Brooke's
father. She found it at River House, in the garden. I
saw him throw something out of the window. Perhaps
it was the fetish — a bronze toad, with a red jewel in its
head. The two men I had seen before, I think, when they
followed Hon — Miss Brooke — to Oswell Road. Now, they
must have watched, and seen her carried from River House,
through the underground passages to the warehouse, un-

318 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

suspected by your father or St. Leger, who had left the
poor girl bound with ropes to one of the brick pillars
supporting the floor above the cellar — left her without
food — alone. She was to be starved into consenting to a
marriage with St. Leger, and in twenty-four hours after
leaving her he was to return for her decision. Perhaps he
arrived soon after we three escaped — you unconscious.
Finding her gone, he would have guessed that the game
was up. The two men from Thibet were torturing Miss
Brooke with threats of a terrible death if she did not tell
them what had become of certain diamonds that disap
peared from their monastery at the same time with the
bronze toad, which they had torn from her dress. As
she knew nothing, she could naturally tell nothing. For
hours they had been persecuting her. They were coldly,
hideously patient, but — she says — they were showing signs
of exasperation at last, and would probably have killed her
in some one of the ghastly ways they threatened if we had
not come in time. Just as we arrived, one of the men
was bending back her hand against her wrist, to the
breaking point, demanding that she should tell him who
had the diamonds. I shot him in the arm, but they both
escaped, almost killing you."

" Did the men tell her the name of their monastery, or
where it was in Thibet ? " asked Nadege, languidly.

" No. They told her very little, and what they did
tell she scarcely understood, in their strange, broken
French and English."

"Then, even if she had the diamonds, and wished to give
them back, she could not ? "

" No, she could not. You knew of their existence ? "

" Yes. If they had not existed, Nevill Brooke would be
alive to-day. But I do not know from where they came.
My father never told me more than he could help. I had
a letter from Loris to meet Nevill Brooke at River House.
I dropped a torn bit of it in the Paris hotel where you
and I stopped. I always thought you might have found
it. They were obliged to explain some things to me, then.

THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT 319

Part of the diamonds, or the money for them (they've nearly
all been turned into money now) should be Honour Brooke's
— her father's share. And part should be yours."

" Mine ? But I "

" Through your uncle, after whom you were named.
He was of the party who went to Thibet, suffering terrible
privations and perils. He was killed, and Nevill Brooke
was charged to bring his share to you. It was to be a sort
of Tontine, and all the surviving members were supposed
to meet on April the fourth, at River House. If Honour
Brooke had her rights, she would be a rich woman. ' She
is rich enough already, in your love. But you she shall
not have. You are mine. I have bought you, and paid.
Tell me, if I live a good life, if I worship you, and 'serve
you hand and foot, is it possible that one day you might
learn to care — only a little ? "

" I will be loyal always to my promise — and you."

" But your heart will be Honour Brooke's, and be
cause you love her, and can never love me, your life will
be hateful. Oh, I shall be wretched, too — the most
wretched woman in the world. Yet you are my one hope
of salvation. I cannot live, and give you up."

" I shall try to make you forget the past."

" You will hate me, and I shall see it. You think me
capable of no nobility, no sublime self-sacrifice, as you
are. And yet — and yet — I am not all bad. I could die
for you, though I could not live without you now."

" Do not talk of dying. I will come for you early in
the morning, and I will try to get a special licence for our
marriage. It will be better that — you should be my
wife soon."

" Yes, come early," Nadege said, in the same strange
voice. " Come for me at eight o'clock. I will — be ready.
Tell me — is it too late at night for you to find some flowers,
and send them to me ? White, bridal flowers."

"It is not too late. I will find the flowers somewhere,
and send them."

" Thank you. You are good — so different, oh ! so

320 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT

different from other men I have known. Will you — kiss me
once ? "

He bent and kissed her forehead.

At eight in the morning the maid knocked at her mis
tress's door. Ronald had come, and was waiting. There
was no answer. Many times the woman knocked, and at
last other servants were called and the door was broken
open.

Nadege lay as if asleep among the flowers for which she
had asked. Under her folded hands was a sheet of paper,
on which she had written :

" Ronald, I have done the one thing I could for the hap
piness which I owed you — I have died. Think of me
kindly sometimes when you and she are man and wife.
It is all I ask, and more than I deserve."

THE END.

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