NEDL TRANSFER
HN 12 JB 8
THE
TURNSTILE
OF
NIGHT
WILLIAM
ALLISON


-
1
5
.








THE TURNSTILE
OF NIGHT









“He had forgotten the woman ... without even
glancing in her direction, he flung himself on his knees be-
side the fallen man ... ”


THE TURNSTILE
OF NIGHT
BY
WILLIAM ALLISON
AUTHOR OF
"A SECRET OF THE SEA”
FRUCTUS LA FOLIA
FRONTISPIECE
BY
JOHN NEWTON HOWITT
GARDEN CITY
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1920


К) 576 1
TA
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. In Which There Is Talk OF AN UNDER-
GROUND TEMPLE . . . . . .
II. The Cost OF THE STARS ...
III. THE MOMENT AND THE Man. ..
IV. A STRANGE JOURNEY .....
V. A HALF SHEET OF PAPER . . . .
VI. The Last CHANCE
VII. The ROOM WITH THE Glass Door . .
VIII. From BEHIND THE Blue CURTAIN ..
IX. While ROLAND SLEPT . . . . . .
X. Tool or Lover? .......
XI. APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE . .
XII. THE HORROR OF A Dream ....
XIII. THE COMING OF A LETTER ....
XIV. The House WITH THE CLOSED SHUTTERS 100
XV. “My Name Is Jack HARNED” ...
XVI. THE SOUNDS IN THE CELLAR ... 113
XVII. A MAN's Voice ....... 119
TH THE
UTTERS 100


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGB
XVIII. What Jack Harned Had to Tell . . 125
XIX. A FOLDED NEWSPAPER
· ·
134
137
XX. RONALD'S WORK . . . . . . .
XXI. THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF Two BROWN
MEN . . . . . . . . .
150
XXII. A DEAD Man's PORTRAIT
DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT
.
.
.
.
156
XXIII. BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER . . 168
XXIV. A New PARTNERSHIP . . . . .
XXV. “She Loves Him!” .....
XXVI. Jack HARNED Pays Calls . . . . 193
XXVII. THE ADVICE OF NADEGE . . . . . 198
XXVIII. In Jack's Note Book .....
XXIX. A SPRING TO A CONCLUSION . . . . 214
XXX. How Loris St. LEGER PROPOSED ..
XXXI. How Honour's Letter Came ...
XXXII. THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING . . . 232
XXXIII. From BEHIND THE TAPESTRY ...
XXXIV. At River House AGAIN . . . . .
XXXV. The Man Who Had No FEAR . . . 253
XXXVI. The Man IN THE STAGE-Box ...
XXXVII. “A TRAVELLER NAMED NEVILL BROOKE” 272
XXXVIII. The Man Who Knew. . . . . 278


CONTENTS
vii
CHAPTER
PAGE
XXXIX. THE QUESTION BETWEEN HONOUR AND
ST. LEGER . . . . . . . 283
XL. The WATCHERS . . . . . . .
XLI. St. LEGER's Move . . . . . . 295
XLII. A HAND IN THE GAME ..... 303
XLIII. “My Life For Hers” ..... 307
XLIV. BRIDAL FLOWERS . . . . .
.
. 317





THE TURNSTILE
OF NIGHT





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
1 opium smoke, three men sat by a small brazier of red-
smouldering charcoal. Two were on a divan, bending for-
ward, 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 intel-
ligent and thoughtful. It was he who talked, in his native
tongue, stopping sometimes while the bronze-haired English-
man 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 toward 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 of a metal
pipe. Shadowy bodies, twisted into fantastic positions,
loomed dark in lesser darkness. Slumbrous murmurs stirred
3


THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 English-
man. “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 Eng-
land.”
“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,"
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 counting them, we both know-
what if we escape, to find that Lal Singh's story is a legend?”
"Don't you trust him?" asked the older man, Colonel
Ronald Charteris, with a glance at the Chinaman squatting
still and stolid now, for Lal Singh could understand but a
few words of English.
seautyan who 100%You can
Ro Don't you pe, to find that ounting the
" asked thah's story is oth know


TALK OF AN UNDERGROUND TEMPLE 5
a king's ransom story for the whonest. But he
“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 century!
Jewels worth a king's ransom hidden for centuries in an under-
ground temple beneath a Buddhist monastery in Thibet!
Even if they ever existed, and were concealed in a place so
strange as Lal Singh describes, wouldn't they have been un-
earthed long ago?”
“Who can tell?” murmured Charteris. “There's nothing
too strange to be true. I wish I could rattle off the Chinese
jargon as you do, but you tell me Lal Singh says that super-
stition 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 existence. 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.”
“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.”
“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 circum-
stances—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 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


THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 realize," said the other, “that it would
take more money than we can scrape together. We'd have
to equip an expedition, you and Lal 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 breastplate 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 Lal Singh knew the man who
would do the trick.”
"He has met an inmate of the monastery whom he believes
to be treacherous and mercenary—a dangerous fellow to deal
with; besides, for all that Lal Sigh can tell, he knows nothing
of the underground temple or the Breastplate 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 Lal Singh is romancing, must be a dia-
mond of priceless value, worth risking one's life for a dozen
times over.”
"A dozen times over!” 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 soldier of fortune. If it


TALK OF AN UNDERGROUND TEMPLE 7
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, anyhow, 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 Lal 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 Chinaman, and nat-
urally 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! And to lose all for a
few miserly hundreds. It's maddening. Let's risk it on
your-or rather your daughter'smeight hundred.' .
"Perhaps you are not aware," breathed a voice so low it
might have been a spirit-whisper, "that expeditions into
Thibet are forbidden by the Government?”
With a great start the two Englishmen turned their heads.


THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 toward 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 after. 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 knowledge 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 a Calcutta
paper in a-er-an interval of leisure. But I am tired of
writing. I tire of most things. This adventure you propose
would suit me, and if you take me along I can help you.”
"We don't want your help,” growled Charteris.


TALK OF AN UNDERGROUND TEMPLE
“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 infor-
mation 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 Lal
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 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


10
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
carry out your plans without you. That is your protection.
And by wiring my uncle in London, who will trust to my judg-
ment, 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
W before we decide
said Brooke.
know something about
"Anything you please. I'm a citizen of the world; I have
lived in China and in Russia; I have lived in England, and of
the three I like England least, though I can count upon a
warm welcome there from persons of importance 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 any one 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 Lal Singh. And the eyes of Lal
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.
Mr. John Smith-who was said by his nephew to be "in the
City”-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.
Lal Singh contributed his knowledge of the treasure and its


TALK OF AN UNDERGROUND TEMPLE II
ude.
e to
nave
dof
Long
ona
en I
Ited
ave
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 contrib-
uted 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 unassum-
ing name of “John Smith,” was an equal contributor with
Harvey Kane.
If the adventurer succeeded in penetrating into the heart
of forbidden Thibet, and acquired the sacred Breastplate 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 obtain-
ing 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, signed 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
accidents, the adventurers thought it prudent to separate into
two parties as far as Kashmir, to avoid attracting the atten-
tion of the Indian Government. No disguise would be
necessary up to that period of their expedition, and in Kash-
mir they would buy their mules, horses, provisions, and
merchandise to sell, before joining forces at the appointed
rendezvous.
Vad
등을
​ely
na
see
ed
in
ts


CHAPTER II
THE COST OF THE STARS
M ONTHS later three of the men who had talked in an
IV1 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 cows'
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 witch-
craft, 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 resthouse lay the hope of 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


THE COST OF THE STARS
15
In the temple of Buddha of the Moon worship was per-
petual. There was always one sentinel priest who prayed
to the silver god; every four hours he was relieved 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 pas-
times were there. Nain Khala's self-respect was saved by
accepting from the pilgrims a generous offering "for Bud-
dha," which he doubtless intended to keep for himself, smug-
gling 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 Lal 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 tem-
porarily in his possession. A priest awaiting vigil was sup-
posed to rest or pray there for an hour previous to entering the
temple. But after the setting of the moon—that was a differ-
ent story, though Nain Khala had been careful not to explain
the difficulties of the situation to Lal Singh.
The pilgrims could not pass out of the temple without 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


THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
he could guessed the trappointed guide. Lal Singh
lose the money he coveted, but his position in the monastery,
perhaps his life.
Lal 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 Lal 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 fitted batlike across the white square of moonlit
courtyard, and inside the cell they were again in darkness.
A chime of silvery bells in the temple adjoining announced
the hour when Nain Khala should relieve the praying 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.
to the garlothing of adventu
of pushed


THE COST OF THE STARS
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 procession was to move; and five
minutes later Brooke, Charteris, St. Leger, and Lal 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 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 prayers.
Lal Singh had the money agreed upon, in gold, which he
took from a bag carried in his breast, and laid upon the altar,


· 18
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 four-
teen 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 mechani-
cally 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 al-
most 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 Lal
Singh.
“Yes," returned the Chinaman, stolidly. ,
“We must put him to sleep as soon as possible," St. Leger
wenton. “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, and will dare say
nothing, rather than a dead one whose blood would speak.”
“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!” 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!


THE COST OF THE STARS
19
Their phat Destiny Wing so marvel
I must hide you, and if it be a false alarm, I will come soon to
release you again.”
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 noiselessness.
Nain Khala pointed downward, 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) Lal Singh and Loris St. Leger, who were near-
est, plunged one after the other down the secret stairway.
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 dumbness,
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. Char-
teris 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 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 Char-
teris, 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 un-
prepared for emergencies, and he knew that his moment had
come. Quick as light, with his free hand he snatched from his


20
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
$ instinctive grasp on Maid lips. Here with a
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 for-
ward, down the steps, his grasp on Nain Khala's wrist re-
laxed, 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 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 up out 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 Lal Singh which, grasping the dagger
withdrawn from Charteris' back, stabbed the murderer in the
throat, once and again, till his blood stained the secret stair-
way crimson.
foot of the stonnds of his line dow black 28
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 COST OF THE STARS
21
the treasure, stamped his foot in impatience. 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
"Hehrough togetheut, you shansion, We coutails of our
"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 Lal Singh and Brooke to come on.
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.


22
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 suddenly
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!” exclaimed St.
Leger, “or they would not have taken all these precautions
to keep out the sacrilegious amateur!” 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.


THE COST OF THE STARS
23
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; then the
lantern held high in the hand of Brooke sent a revealing ray
to the right, striking out a gleam that was like a flash of
brilliant eyes in the gloom, or a shower of meteors flung 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 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 Lal 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 immeasurable 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,


24
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 some-
thing 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. Im-
patiently he jerked it free, and then sprang back with a loud
yell of fear and pain, for something had darted at him, stab-
bing him deeply in the hand.
Brooke, who had just pocketed the bronze toad, caught St.
Leger and saved him from a fall, while Lal Singh, with hor-
rified 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


THE COST OF THE STARS
25
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," an-
swered 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
1 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 over-
hanging 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 made 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 in-
stinct 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
26


THE MOMENT AND THE MAN 27
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 any one
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 path-
way; 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 I shall have to
submit to-1, 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 off 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 accosted
had a strange impression of it, or rather two impressions
which contradicted each other as rapidly as a flash of light-
ning 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-brimmed 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


28
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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,
stiffy. “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," 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."
“I'm not very strong just at present,” said the other. “It
isn't long since I came back from South Africa, somewhat
the worse for wear. I suppose my face shows that 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 uncon-
sciously 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 off 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.”


THE MOMENT AND THE MAN 29
apply for help, erstand this philantod might come
“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 sup-
per 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 rather die than
apply for help, was unbearable. Here was an hour's respite.
He did not understand this philanthropical 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 distaste. 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?”


30
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“Frankly, though I thank you, I'm in no mood for com-
pany," 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. Everything
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 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 neigh-
bourhood 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 con-
clusion, 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 mistaken, 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


THE MOMENT AND THE MAN
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 led
to expect from the outer appearance of the villa or the fur-
nishing 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 orna-
ments, 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 clergy-
man 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 helio-
trope; but he made pretence of eating, and his host, looking at
him with interest, put the first question which was to in-
augurate 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


32
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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.
"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 afternoon, 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, I've 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 be-
lieve 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 complain-
ing or blowing your brains out. Perhaps I shall have to
stoop "
“No, no," broke in the clergyman. “Why submit to


THE MOMENT AND THE MAN
33
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. Fifty pounds, or more if necessary,
you can have to-night. The rest— "
“But I have no security to offer, no references, or at least
none that I choose to refer any one 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 displeased
at the slight air of mystery with which the circumstances
(concerning another than myself) oblige me to surround
the affair.”
Charteris' interest grew. At this hint, for a moment he
forgot his folly and misfortunes and gave all his attention
to the words of the clergyman.
“In any event, it would be your choice, would it not,"
went on the latter, “to go to England as soon 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 compan-
ion.”
“You wish to go also ?” Ronald asked.


34 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“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 yet. 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
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 expression-
less, 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 dep-
recate 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.”
“There are other reasons why it is advisable to stop on the
way. As it is the affair of a lady, you will understand 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.”
“Very well, I consent,” said Charteris. “It was on the
lady's account I hesitated.”
"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


THE MOMENT AND THE MAN: 35
conversation. The lady will not talk except when it is nec-
essary.”
“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.”
“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 de-
lightful 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-gray 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 forward 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 Wil-
loughby's bounty, and he could not go back and refuse at this
late moment without appearing anxious to rid himself of re-
sponsibility 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


36
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
fifty pounds I shall advance to-night,” Mr. Willoughby con-
tinued. “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 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."
“The Hôtel de Noailles?” 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."
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 could seme jabbering crea never hea
e jabbering creword from another went on, and


THE MOMENT AND THE MAN 37
He had risen, expecting the room to be invaded, and in-
stead 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 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
RY JOVE!” exclaimed Charteris. “I wonder if they're
D not coming."
It was the afternoon of the next day, and he was at the rail-
way 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. Meanwhile, 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 repre-
sented 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 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 emphatically
.: 38


A STRANGE JOURNEY
39
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 particu-
larly stipulated that Charteris should be early, his own tardi-
ness 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 reconsidered and sug-
gested something else.
Charteris looked in the waiting-rooms and the café; 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 signal-
led. It was exactly on time. Still no white-bearded old
man with a veiled woman. Then the train came thundering
into the station. People hurried to take their places. Ron-
ald moved a few steps back. He had given up hope of going.
Suddenly a voice spoke in his ear: “You are Mr. Ronald
Charteris?” The words were almost whispered.
Charteris turned quickly. A tall, slender woman dressed in
black, with an extraordinarily thick veil t ed round a close-
fitting hat, had come so near to him that as he turned his arm
touched her shoulder.
badoughing his son


40
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“Yes, I am Ronald Charteris," 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 attempt-
ing 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 win-
dow, and when Charteris had sat down by her, he was sud-
denly aware of a curious, self-conscious constraint. He was
also aware of a faint fragrance of tuberoses. He would have
felt it incumbent upon him to say something to his com-
panion, even if there had not been questions he wished to ask
concerning Mr. Willoughby; 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 pat-
tern. Charteris thought its wearer must 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 thick-
nesses 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 con-
versation, and Ronald's rebuff reminded him of Mr. Will-
oughby's warning that his veiled companion would speak
little during the journey. All that she had said so far had
of the veil, which wought its welike a mask


A STRANGE JOURNEY
41
been said in a whisper. If he were to hear her speak aloud
he would not be able to recognize 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,” Ronald said to him-
self, “and she's half afraid to trust me.”
“We came off in such a hurry that I forgot to ask if you
had other luggage,” 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. Will-
oughby had recommended, and Charteris engaged rooms.
The veiled lady remained with him, looking over his shoulder
as he wrote in the visitors' book: “R. Charteris; Miss Char-
teris; 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 con-


42
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
sidered 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 Hôtel 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, and some-
how 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 sliding
bolt in his ears, that he made a discovery.


CHAPTER V
A HALF SHEET OF PAPER
DESIDES the sealed envelope, doubtless intended for him,
D he had in his hand a torn half sheet of paper.
At first he supposed that it had been given to him inten-
tionally, 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 4, at River House, as near as pos-
sible to eight o'clock.-L. S. L.”
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 ar-
rangements made in Monte Carlo. Mr. Charteris would
receive the promised money from the 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, how-
ever; and meanwhile once more recommended Mr. Char-
teris' travelling companion to his chivalric care. She
43


44
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 sus-
pect 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 Sta-
tion 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; neverthe-
less, 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 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


46
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 dark-
ness, even to glance at the concealed face.
Once or twice, as they come 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.
Civilized 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 pre-
tence, 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 sign, which creaked in a
melancholy, wet wind blowing up from the not far distant
river, could be read the illustrated legend, “The Hand and
Key.”
“Please pay the cabman, and see that he drives away,”
said the veiled lady.
Ronald did as he was requested, only fulfilling the last com-
mand by largely over-paying the man, who had cherished
visions of remaining to drink a glass of beer.
"Is this the end of our journey?" asked Ronald, marvelling


A HALF-SHEET OF PAPER
47
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 dis-
tance?”
“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
N ARKNESS 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 woman moved away from the Hand and Key, crossing
the green diagonally. It was now getting on toward 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


THE LAST CHANCE
49
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 stilling silence, maintained so long with so few
intervals, should be broken, even in this unexpected 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."
“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 afterward, if you can, for sending you away?
We might meet again, if you went now. Otherwise "
“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, cheerfully.
“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.”


50
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 farther 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 indis-
tinctness. 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 dis-
ordered trails of ivy, and the gate at which they had paused
had lost almost all traces of the bright green 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 Ron-
ald 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 ex-
pected? I don't see any lights in the house."
“Yes, I am expected," she repeated. “There will prob-
ably be some lighted rooms on the ground floor. Come,
then, if you are determined.”
Ronald opened the gate and shut it again when his com-
panion 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 underfoot. 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
I 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. 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 ser-
vant relieved Ronald of the bag he was carrying. “Has
any one 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?"


THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“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 pres-
ent. 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 at-
tached 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 some-
times 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.
"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 confus-
ing, and Ronald could see only that the dark wood of the floor
was neither carpeted nor carefully polished, and that numer-
ous doors were set deeply into wainscoted walls. So far,
except for the presence of the servant, and the lighted lamp,
there had been absolutely no sign that the house was ten-
anted.
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


THE ROOM WITH THE GLASS DOOR 53
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 sug-
gested 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. Be-
fore 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 at-
tracted 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.
The veiled lady went straight to the fireplace, and, shiver-
ing, held out both black-gloved hands to the blaze.
"Are you hungry or thirsty?" she asked, turning her con-
cealed face toward 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 re-
plied. “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 recognized. 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 some-
the catank yould not


54
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
I must leave shall expect your though somefore
thing, 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 begin-
ning 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 little more, a man
standing in the dark on this side of the door can see every-
thing 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 andand 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,


THE ROOM WITH THE GLASS DOOR 55
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 en-
velope. “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.
“But my stylographic pen, which I carried with me every-
where 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 Ron-
ald. “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.


CHAPTER VII
FROM BEHIND THE BLUE CURTAIN
THE silence of the house was so deep that it seemed to
I 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 unseeingly into
the red ashes, till his eyes were dazzled.
He had remained thus for five minutes, perhaps, thinking-
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
It announced the hour of eight.
“On April 4, at River House, as near as possible to eight.”
With the striking of the clock those words spoke themselves
in Ronald's brain.
It was April 4. And it was eight o'clock. Was this River
House? If so, what was the appointment which had been
written on that torn half sheet of paper; and would it pres-
ently be kept?
As he asked himself these questions there came the distant
sound of a door opening, then voices in the adjoining 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.


58
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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, there-
fore 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
two 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 cham-
pagne, 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 ser-
vant whom he had seen in the hall, but, as his face had been
inob scurity then, he was now recognizable only by his
height and his livery. Here his features were lighted up, and
Ronald thought them of a strange cast. His eyebrows 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 forehead, and then cut squarely
into a short, stiff fringe; on his hands were badly fitting white
gloves.


FROM BEHIND THE BLUE CURTAIN 59
The other was a very different order of being. He also was
tall, but as alertly graceful as the servant was awkward.
Though he was in travelling clothes neither fashionable 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 as 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 gray 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."
Ronald could not hear the words distinctly, but he believed
these to have been the ones uttered. The servant disappeared
and the man who was left almost instantly afterward took
some small object from his pocket. Whatever 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 window;
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


60
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
was shiosity Tested may
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 remark-
able; 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 newcomer, 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.”
For a few moments they talked in low voices, standing; but
presently the woman made a gesture toward the table.
“Very good. I am hungry and thirsty, too,” exclaimed the
man. “Better get the business of feeding over before he
comes.” So saying he drew out a chair for his companion,
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, noth-
ing 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 toward each other,
talking more intimately. The woman hardly touched her


FROM BEHIND THE BLUE CURTAIN 61
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 ex-
pressed humility, even supplication, yet with a loud, inarticu-
late 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 realized what was happening,
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 Ainging the glass door open, he
sprang into the adjoining room. But the room was 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 agonized. 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 finding it-Ron-
ald's blood chilled in his veins.
Both ears had been cut off.
At sight of this terrible disfigurement a wave of sickness
rushed over him, but he fought against it, and springing for-
ward, struck the handsome stranger a "knockout” 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


62
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
Withibated lovelineke man. He
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 sign of an indrawn breath,
the flicker of nostril or eyelid, no faintest movement of the
chest.
Ronald, over whom crept the cold numbness of nightmare,
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.


empres, I am here business of myto this house here to your
CHAPTER IX
WHILE RONALD SLEPT
VOU here!” exclaimed Ronald. And for the first time his
1 eyes sought the woman; but she had gone. Save for
Mr. Willoughby, himself, and the dead man, the room was
"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 be-
lieve that it must have been so. I was sent here to your
help.”
As he spoke he came to Ronald and knelt beside him, plac-
ing 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 pro-
test 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 " began Ronald; but
Mr. Willoughby cut him short.
Nevertheled him. aven, in wbou shal


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,” Ronald re-
torted. “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."
"O 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?”
“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 happened; 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."
"I do notou do not see et whom you w who trusted trouble,


WHILE RONALD SLEPT
65
“I hope I am such a man. But is it better for her that 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 my-
self?”
“There is at least one servant in the house," Ronald an-
swered, 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 ?”
“That I cannot tell, for I do not know, though I shall know
later. I can only say that she has gone.'
“Gone!”
“Yes. Would it not have been unbearable for her to re-
main 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 disfigurement be-
trayed.
"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,


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. Enquiries will be made, and the
police "
“Will never be called into the affair, unless through you.
The man has 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 situa-
tion. Surely you have strength of soul enough to follow the
lead of an old man whose sands are nearly run?”
“Tell me how to act, and I will obey—as best I can," an-
swered Ronald, half beside himself with horror of what had
been done, of what was yet to do.


WHILE RONALD SLEPT
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 ex-
claimed, "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! And
presently I shall need your help. I want you to be in a con-
dition to give it to me, for what must be done I cannot do .
dition in the time at more objectiondeal, almost
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 realizing 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 irrevocable 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-
moorIt forget thpourth
cable till form out of with high and
stoodce Mail the that all


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 re-
action after the nervous strain, for I'm not as young as I was."
He walked toward 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 vagueness, 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 be-
cause 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 ring-
ing-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. Between sleeping and waking, he
began to say to himself, “Thank God it isn't true.”
"Isn't true-isn't true!” The words repeated themselves
until they lost all meaning.
His chin dropped forward; he slipped farther down in the
armchair.
By this time Mr. Willoughby was beside him, shaking his
shoulder. “Charteris!” he exclaimed. “Wake up, man-
what ails you?"
But Ronald did not answer or stir. He was meshed in
sleep, as if he had fallen under a spell.


WHILE RONALD SLEPT
69
Instead of making further efforts to rouse him, Mr.
Willoughby regarded the young man with what seemed like a
quiet smile of satisfaction. He stood looking into the un-
conscious face for a few moments, then turned to move
toward that other sleeper, who would never waken, when a
sound at the glass door brought him to a standstill.


CHAPTER X
TOOL OR LOVER ?
DONALD had left the glass door open, but-though he
N 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 you to
this. But I did not know what you would be like, or never
would I have begun it. How long your eyelashes 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,” said the old man; “but I
had flattered myself that your brains were of a higher order
70


TOOL OR LOVER?
71
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,” the woman answered.
“And undo everything else with it? Well, fortunately it
is too late. The thing is done. I had meant to congratulate
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.”
“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 Heavens—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!” the woman flung at him.
“You wished to turn a tool into a lover, at all hazards,"
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!”
“Yes, that is what I mean, if you choosesince 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.”
With a groan, she covered her eyes with her hands, shrink-
ing 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
should to Willough, turn a com


THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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. “For-
tunately 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 mid-
night. 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
use. Has Losity on the subi man might enquired
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 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


TOOL OR LOVER?
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 toward which his eyes turned, 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.
“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. Willough-
by'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


74
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
the locket is not the property of Mr. Charteris, who has prob-
ably 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 remem-
ber?”
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."
“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.


CHAPTER XI
APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE
T'LL bet that Honour was the prettiest girl who kissed
1 Queen Alesandra'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 noth-
ing but a naughty play-actress, who can't show my poor little
turned-up nose at Court, and who doesn't know how to be-
have, 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 realiza-
tion of the patter's ideal that, after persuasion on the part of
Lady St. Ibpgers who was her friend and guardian, she had
consented. Somehow, one did think of dawn, and lilies
sparklifichiwith early morning dew, when one saw this girl
for the first time early moonę did this and guard in the part of
éviat-
75


76
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
the creer shade, anden shado
dark, and
She had great, long-lashed brown eyes that were like moun-
tain 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 débutante
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 Carli
'l.se
eyes, that could be so impudently daring your
dwelt keenly on the wistful face of Honou
Lady St. Leger's maid came in hurriedl
trail of frilling before any one else shg
actress drew Honour aside.
“What's up, Beauty?” she dema


APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE
77
ing the pet name she had bestowed upon her friend, whom
she had christened “The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,” be-
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-0, 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 in-
terest 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


78
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
should promptly fanovelette. Oh: "When he was on, because
Honour. “If I were sure he was well, and as happy as 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 unmarried 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 to-
gether, 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 worship 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 everything. 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, compre-
hendingly. “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 marquises or such
things."
“Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Exbury," an-
nounced Lady St. Leger's one footman-a youth who was
wante com licare for on can be hap


APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE 79
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 dis-
location.
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 débutantes, 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 personality 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 pres-
ent 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 were
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.”


80
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 de-
light in it, the sort of delight which a blasé 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 con-
nected with her father. But she took herself to task, as she
knew that Lady St. Leger entertained a romantic admira-
tion 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.


APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE
81
“Yes, I have met Nevill Brooke,” St. Leger answered.
“He never wrote you about the circumstances of our meet-
ing?”
“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 men-
tioned 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 sur-
name 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, remind-
ing 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 board-
ing-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 romance surrounding this man so much
younger than herself. He was a fascinating hero for any


82
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 con-
sider 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 impover-
ished earl, and had made a mésalliance in marrying handsome
devil-may-care Nevill Brooke, who had been only a war corre-
spondent, of no family or fortune. Lady St. Leger had wished
a better fate for her protégée, but now that this new idea had
seized her, in a moment she threw 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 hus-


84
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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!” ex-
claimed 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 business.
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.
"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.


APRIL THE FOURTH IN PARK LANE 85
"I was asked to stay to dinner, and am desolated because I
have business for to-night which will take me away,” he an-
nounced. “Will you wish me success in my undertaking?”
Honour looked up, prepared to say something conventional,
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, seem-
ing 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.”
"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 engagement'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.
blame it's the man as if I had about himour. “Why
There's som feel that?" ejacu. Mr. St. Legion.
el that selling about hias wal
“Yes," said Honoto feel faint." ady St. Leger, anden


CHAPTER XII
THE HORROR OF A DREAM
D ONOUR BROOKE went up to her room early that
11 night, for she had had another attack of faintnessma
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 afterward,
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 exclamation,
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.”
“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 her-
self 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.
86


THE HORROR OF A DREAM
87
It was only by a strong effort that she sat through the re-
maining half hour of dinner, and pretended to sip coffee after-
ward 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 in-
visible fingers that they might materialize 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 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 someone there
whom she must find, or die searching. Something, or some-
one-yes, yes, it was someone. Oh, her father! Where was
he? How should she find him in the darkness? The dark-
ness was there to keep her from him—to separate them for
ever, if it could—to prevent her from knowing what was hap-
pening. Ah, that was it! A horrible something that was
happening out of sight.
Blindly, desperately, with death in her heart, she groped


88
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
through the dark, from passage to passagea 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!” 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!”
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 blind-
ing light. For an instant there stood her father, tall, hand-
some, 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!” he called, holding out his arms. But as he
took a step toward 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!" 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, witn its
blinding light of revelation, to darkness and the springy,
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 nave 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!"
Staggering from her bed, she began groping about in the


THE HORROR OF A DREAM
89
been, was herself preas being do own se
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 toward it, her brain still prisoned 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 hanging
hair, and her maid and several other servants clustered be-
hind, 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 pro-
phetic light. In her long white nightdress, with her beauti-
ful hair streaming in shadowy masses, she looked more like a
sibyl of strange past days of superstition, when the world
was young, than a girl of the present. “Call it 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 will dedicate my life to seeking out
his murderer!”


CHAPTER XIII
THE COMING OF A LETTER
LJONOUR slept no more that night. Her veins ran fire.
11 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 household
began to stir seemed endless. Honour was half inclined
to rise at some unwonted hour, but icommon 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 bring-
ing of letters, and bath. This morning it was like the asser-
tion of the commonplace, which has always its petty triumph
after great crises.
Josephine brought in Miss Brooke's tea, and kind enquiries
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 move-
ment threw them on the floor, reminding her of their exist-
ence, and uppermost lay an envelope with an Indian stamp
upon it. Honour's heart leaped as she saw her father's
handwriting.
90


THE COMING OF A LETTER
91
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,
besides herself, only two persons not in the party were in-
formed 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 encountered. 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 re-
mind 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 opening 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 al-
most 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


92
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
which she knew and loved so well. Nevill Brooke had begun
his letter:
MY SWEETHEART DAUGHTER:
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 ad-
venturous 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 4th or 5th of April, at latest, only a
day or two after you have received this letter-so you see it's use-
less 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
5th, go on the 6th 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, Hammersmith, and enquire for
‘Mr. Smith,' 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 6th of April it will be a sign
that some serious obstacle has prevented my communicating with
him. However, it's hardly worth while to frighten you. We are
almost certain to be together, darling, on the night of April 4th,
before ten o'clock. That is what I am aiming for, and I can hardly
wait, but don't make enquiries until the 6th, 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 Loying Dad.


THE COMING OF A LETTER
93
“Till death and after!” Honour repeated. He had been
“aiming” to come to her on April 4th. 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."
"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


94
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 wel-
come 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 any one, 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 herself 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 toward a man
who had travelled so much in the countries which her father
knew best. Besides, he was interesting in himself. Any
woman would look at him twice, even if she did not think
him handsome. Still, Honour felt the impulse 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 agitation (it almost
amounted to that) which seized her once more in St. Leger's
prache talked, he
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 acquaintance,
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.


THE COMING OF A LETTER
95
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 com-
rades. “I had the luck to save his life on one occasion," he
finished, watching to see how Honour would take the state-
ment.
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 be-
lieve 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."
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


96
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 marriage, but because he
wanted to borrow money. He expected 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 in-
mate of her house. He knew that he would need to be backed
by Lady St. Leger if he 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 desir-
able 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, powerful
in moulding his destiny, might make well-nigh insurmount-
able 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


THE COMING OF A LETTER
97
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, it
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 think-
ing 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 would 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 acquaint-
ances, not friends. He must contradict that inadvertent ad-
mission of the truth; and he had a splendid story to relate
bye and bye. 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 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 certain
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


98
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
first knowledge of the expedition, at its start-Honour need
never fear that her father's last great adventure had been
undertaken in St. Leger's company. 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 re-
garded 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 hansom, for it was nearly five
o'clock and the solicitor might be leaving his office.
“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 newcomer.
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?”


THE COMING OF A LETTER
99
"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, how-
ever: “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 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 confidence.
I wonder whether anything could be got out of him, and
whether Harvey Kane's disappearance has anything to do
with our Tontine?”


CHAPTER XIV
THE HOUSE WITH THE CLOSED SHUTTERS
THE 5th of App that night Honour call at the Te
THE 5th of April passed without any sign from Nevill
1 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 concealment
and beating about the bush which make life dramatic for
many women; but obedience to her father's wishes was al-
most 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 pronounce herself
well enough to spend hours with insignificant little Kitty
Carlin. But she was thankful to see Honour more like her-
self. 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.
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 grudg-
ingly granted for the girl to drive home alone in a cab when
she felt inclined.
100


HOUSE WITH THE CLOSED SHUTTERS 101
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 reconciled 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 inexperienced to be suspicious,
as St. Leger had been.
There was now nothing left but to go out to Hammersmith,
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, mean-
ing 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 thunderstorm.
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
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. “A job I had to find


CHAPTER XV
"MY NAME IS JACK HARNED.”
AS HONOUR stood anxiously waiting, she noticed how
n 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 gray suède, 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 impatient ex-
clamation, she sprang down the two or three stone steps before
the door, beginning to walk hastily round the house toward
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 ob-
ject, 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 top of its head filled in with a fiery red stone,
somewhat lighter than, but not unlike, a common carbuncle.
104


“MY NAME IS JACK HARNED” 105
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 wno 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 happened 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 her-
self 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 gray 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 simul-
taneous 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 drove to-
ward 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


"MY NAME IS JACK HARNED” 107
mined that hidden creatures he had gone which could ng
mined 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 deformed)
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 re-
signed 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 watch-
ful, a bright colour burning in her cheeks.
An instant later, a man had come into sight round the cor-
ner of the house. He was young and slinder, rather short
than tall, almost boyish in figure, and with a quick, alert
step. He, too, had been drenched by the rain. The travel-
ing 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 off 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 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 romance as far as appearance was con-
cerned. Only a pair of fine, bold, dark eyes, with a sense of
humour as well as audacity lurking in them, redeemed the


108
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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. “I've been knocking at the front door, and as
nobody answered, I thought I'd make a tour of exploration.
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 some-
thing like a laugh-a queer sort of chattering?”
“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,” replied
the other, who could hardly take his eyes from Honour's face.
“But there's, anyhow, a way of finding out.”
“What way?”
“Trying once more to make somebody come. If they can
chatter, they can answer a knock. And then, if thev won't
do that, getting into the house."


“MY NAME IS JACK HARNED” 109
"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 come 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,” 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. “I 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, suddenly he
stopped and listened. He and Honour held their breath,
their eyes on each other's, as if they had known and had con-
fidence 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.”


LIO
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“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 some-
times, so they said at the 'Hand and Key. But thew thought
he didn't live here."
“What shall we do, then?” asked Honour, her voice falter-
ing. “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, uncon-
scious identification of their interests. His eyes softened.
“We'll see if that chattering ghost won't tell us something,"
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 extraordinar-
ily unconventional-perhaps even dangerous—thing; she only
thought of her impatience to learn what 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 exclaimed,
with a certain wistfulness.
“More than for any one 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!"
“By Jove!” ejaculated the stranger. “That's the way I


"MY NAME IS JACK HARNED”
III
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,” 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 suède glove
spotted with rain.
“My name is Jack Harned,” 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?”
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 gray 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, something of
the born law-breaker in the hard, premature lines round his


II2
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
mouth, she did not know; but he fascinated her; she felt his
influence.
"I am desperately anxious," 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 anx-
jous, 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
CO SAYING, Jack Harned took out his handkerchief,
W 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 at-
tempted to 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 gray 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 cup-
boards, 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
113


114
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
corner of the room, just visible as scarcely defined shapes in
the shuttered dusk.
They did not go into every room, but peeped into all, to see
that no one could be hiding. Even upstairs they went, look-
ing 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 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 inexplic-
able chattering sound that had lured them to force an en-
trance into the house broke on their ears again.
"Hark!” whispered Honour, laying a hand that throbbed
in all its fingers on her 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 al-
ready 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 proceeded 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 over-
head, which had only been accentuated by its few occasional
rustlings and squeakings, did not exist. There was a strange,
continuous murmur, a subterranean rushing, like the sound
of hidden water; a gurgling, a watery knocking, like wet


THE SOUNDS IN THE CELLAR
115
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 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 cel-
lar. 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 chatter-
ing 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.”
ing Thing?" somewhere els i've got a


116
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 recognized
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 pres-
ents 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, 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 any-
thing 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 un-
human 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 dis-
comfort, 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 gray sky, she
realized 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.”


118
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
to find a cab, but we can walk fast and get you warm
again.”
Honour hesitated only an instant. This was a curious ad-
venture 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 any one had told her that she would entertain the
idea of going to be dried after a wetting, 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 almost 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-no-
body, unless the Thing that chattered had ears as well as a
tongue.


tall ai with hihim she had ever down
CHAPTER XVII
A MAN's Voice
TACK HARNED'S prophecy proved right; they passed no
J 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 princess. 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 best of his eccentric,
adventurous self for her hearing. He could hardly believe in
his own luck that she should 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.
119


120
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
.
River House was almost as isolated as if it had been act-
ually in the country; but before they had walked for fifteen
minutes, these two strangely met companions found them-
selves in a more populous though still suburban neighbour-
hood. 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 uniformly modern regions, where
æsthetic 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. Oates, 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 inside of five minutes."
So speaking, Harned opened the door with a latchkey. As
Honour went in, beginning to realise what an extraordinary
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 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 mendacity by Harned Mrs.
Oates 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?"


A MAN'S VOICE
121
“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. Oates. “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. Oates, 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 in-
voluntarily 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. Oates, 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 delir-
ious. '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.”
“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 gentleman.
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. Instinctively 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 subjct 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.
frightened, he next house the doctor
looked


I 22
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“How sad!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I can't bear to listen!
Couldn't I go somewhere else?”
“It's more comfortable here,” said Mrs. Oates. “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 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 gentlemen 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. Willoughby spends half 'is nights among the
pore and unfortn'it, doin' good; not that he ever makes a


A MAN'S VOICE
123
boast of it. But, says he, when I'd come down in my wrapper
and unlocked the door, ‘Mrs. Oates,' 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' 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
faces 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 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 any one'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 5th-miss), he seemed to take a sort of 'orror for the
nurse. He kep’ on sayin' things about 'er ears—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. Willoughby explained


124
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 gentle-
man, always thinkin' for others. I bless the day he 'ap-
pened 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. Oates, 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 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. Oates, 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.
that, thovet she wishes thing
would med life like but her for
perhaps "lose man who “lo.might learn ind of her


WHAT JACK HARNED HAD TO TELL 127
ide a bucking Mr. Brooke know where I'd just but I hated
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 Melbourne,
Jack had grown up. After parting with Nevill Brooke, they
never met again until Jack was nineteen, but letters had al-
ways 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,”
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 experiences on
the way, partly as a common sailor, partly as a tramp, partly
as an actor in a 'barn-storming' company, when I had to
ride a 'bucking horse' 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 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 ten-


128
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
Weiss face, from fommering, and Aust." They
dencies 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 con-
science, for I'd stake my soul that Nevill Brooke never did
a dishonourable action in his life. Anyhow, in England I was
to hear something to my advantage, and meet him at a place
he appointed, at about midnight, on the night of April 4th.
If he didn't come then or at the same time the next night, I
was to 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 4th or 5th at the latest.”


WHAT JACK HARNED HAD TO TELL 129
here and when"
"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 indignation.
“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
Smtih himself we don't seem to have got yet.”
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 in-
structions 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.” 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 someone 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
bed, eagermith, thous


130
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 discussions are not for me,
until I am of age. But I always have everything I want-
more, indeed-so I supposed 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, if I'd been forced into it. I've got 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 off 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 man-
ner, 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 tommy 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.”


WHAT JACK HARNED HAD TO TELL 131
"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,"
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.
“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 get 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


132
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 by letter all the news
I get."
“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 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. Oates' 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 enquire at
Queen Anne's Mansions.
In fifteen minutes Honour was clothed in her own garments
again, only the hat and gloves the worse for their drenching.
When she had thanked Mrs. Oates 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.
haged not to vrlor Honour's. St. Instead of sne
Lady were not at hemp at once, for were ready for her... Miss


CHAPTER XIX
A FOLDED NEWSPAPER
DONALD CHARTERIS was ill with congestion of the
N brain for a fortnight. For several days of that fort-
night he raved constantly, and even when he came to him-
self, in an unfamiliar room, with a kindly-faced, middle-aged
nurse in a gray 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 tri-
umph 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 Hammersmith,
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 afterward in the cel-
lar.
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 sur-
prise at finding a long, narrow hole like a grave, already dug
134


A FOLDED NEWSPAPER
135
in een found in and a shehe soft faly which
sound the impression of ous chattering of the
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 recollection 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. Willoughby 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 character. 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, regardless of expense. All these things were re-
peated 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 felt able to
bear the strain, he said to Sister Mostyn that he would see


136
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 reproached 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 clergyman 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 misfortune
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."


CHAPTER XX
RONALD'S WORK
THE old man's hand, which looked singularly young and
I firm for his age, glided down the paper-unfolded now-
until the pointing index finger stopped at a paragraph 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 advertise-
ment 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
137


RONALD'S WORK
139
when she died I was to have 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. Be-
sides, 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 he believed the man to be good, and
because also he owed him much, he forced himself to an-
swer 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
is my object to relieve. Your money-if you become pos-
sessed of any–will be a drop in the bucket, too. Yet we can


140
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
but do our best. Would it not comfort you, my poor boy, to
feel that you were doing something for others even more un-
happy than yourself? Would not such a life-work be a suit-
able 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 deserving if we had been over-
whelmed 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 after-
ward 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 for industrious men. I am
particularly interested in those who have just been released
from serving a term in prison. No doubt, in your sad cir-
cumstances, 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 was wickedly un-
grateful 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.


RONALD'S WORK
141
be glad if, ty in her time of was glad that thing in
His heart might in innocent; nevertheless, his hands were
stained with blood, and nothing-save, possibly, a long atone-
ment-could 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 un-
assisted, he would go to the solicitors who had advertised
for him, and learn what they had to tell that was to his “ad-
vantage.”
At the end of three days he kept the promise, and a beauti-
ful, auburn-haired woman watched him leave the house, as
she had watched Honour Brooke leave it, more than a fort-
night previously.
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 considered
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 unreasoning 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
gretly interested, 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 deferen-
tially curious as to Sir. Ronald Charteris’ intentions; but the
If in conneca had beerelt that t
God in the madness. This old benela plan


RONALD'S WORK
143
about two thousand pounds a year, he could afford to support
two or three more places of the kind, carefully and economic-
ally 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 they could not understand; but they never re-
fused to accept his generosity. Sulkily, humorously,
cynically, or stupidly, they invariably followed him. They
were fed and housed for a day, and then sent to Mr. Wil-
loughby, 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 ac-
commodate themselves to the kind old clergyman's ideas of
honest toil as to their first friend's arrangement for their com-
fort. 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 protégés to him after they had
been interviewed and provided for by Mr. Willoughby.
At first, on seeing the temporary home provided for them,
their suspicion usually changed into something like wonder-
ing gratitude. They apparently regarded Ronald as an un-
known creature of another sphere, who was not to be com-
prehended, 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. Willoughly at the house where
Ronald had lain ill, all was changed. The meanest syco-
phant no longer whined to Ronald, telling tales of his own
nisunderstood virtue in the past. The men said little, but
there was a curious new boldness in their eyes when regard-
ing their young benefactor. Ronald did not fail to see the
change, but was unable to account for it, and it was too in-
definable to admit of questioning.
If a man were without family or home, he was allowed to


144 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 weekly 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 employ-
ment for all kinds of persons seemed marvellous to the
younger man. The old clergyman, however, explained 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 his
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 gen-
erally 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 threre, as a young man who had chosen an extremely
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 discussed and gossiped over in
more sets than one as the summer went on. He was remark-
ably handsome; he was young and well-born; he was brave,
for he had fought through the war, been honourably men-
tioned 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.


RONALD'S WORK
145
him tos son of Glent of the world,
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 to-
gether, and we all clamoured to have one. We three-your
mother, Gladys Wray, and I-kept up our friendship 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 Char-
terises, who went more or less down in the world, owing to
extravagance and bad management of their property. But
I should like tosee this son of Gladys's. 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 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 dread-
fully lonely," the girl said to herself.
Somehow of late, she knew, by a quick, sympathetic in
stinct, when people hid sorrow or anxiety under a smile
ork. He Weady St. Le in differen


146
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
sadness, carried by will life; and the reason is door was
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
protégé of Nevill Brooke's. He was not “her sort," al-
though 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, fastid-
ious 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 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 slightly when he learned of the mission under-
taken by Harned. He had been disposed toward an uneasy
jealousy of the somewhat remarkable young stranger when
Jack Harned made his first sudden appearance in the house-
do togethevil Brookat least, as Lady Stand, and she was


RONALD'S WORK
147
dend comfort in ack was often our would ner
hold. 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 confi-
dentially, 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 shrink-
ing from him, her preference for another man, her proudly
hidden grief and anxiety, of which he so well knew the cause,
all piqued St. Leger's fancy for her into a passion. A mar-
riage with her was necessary as a business transaction. He
would have wished to marry her even if she had been without
attraction 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 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 partnership was not,
for particular reasons, so 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, in-
stead 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


148
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGAT
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 roon Louis 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 everything 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.
"I'm sure he would have liked to come and see you," 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, if you'll go with
me.”
“Let us go to-day,” exclaimed Honour.


RONALD'S WORK
149
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
East Indians should be sauntering slowly past the house.


THE TWO BROWN MEN
151
whole story, as he and Honour knew it, to a detective named
Richard Otway, who had lately gained some fame in his pro-
fession, 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 some-
thing about your father.” Honour had not been able to
forget that impulsive speech, and she set an almost super-
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 fright-
ened in remembering the look. But why should any one
wish to steal the bronze toad? As they drove on, the im-
pression 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's 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
gray, 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 door-
ways, with weary-eyed babies in their arms. It was seldom
that even a tradesman's cart stopped in Oswell Road, for


152 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
people brought home their own modest purchases; but here
was a handsome carriage, with a coachman 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 un-
wonted attraction.
“It's all the mission baronite,” they murmured explana-
torily 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 aristo-
cratic 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
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 "Şir
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 pa-
pered, to a room which was evidently dining room and sitting
room in one. For so poor a place it was wonderfully 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
of the reversted, and sheewly and tasand sitting
in herdy St. Leger narrow passantly dining roderfully pret


THE TWO BROWN MEN
153
the door came back. After all, the “Guy'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 trans-
fer 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 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 immediately 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, at-
tempting 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
colour rose. Lady St. Leget That is m


154
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
"I The bored a marken
meshes the gleam of yellow coins could be seen; and ap-
parently 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 exlamation, 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 cab-
man called out some protest, and then, whipping up his horse,
drove rapidly off, as if he were willing to lose a fare rather
than be mixed up in a disreputable proceeding. But all this
the girl remembered afterward, rather than realized it at
the time, for her thoughts were fully occupied with the mat-
ter in hand. Lady St. Leger, greatly terrified, was calling
the name of her coachman; but the brougham was by this
time in the next street, and her cries were in vain. None
of the two or three slouching men with pipes in their mouths
seemed inclined to interfere, though a shrill gabble went up
from the watching women, and ragged children, who had been
playing dangerously near, ran screaming to their mothers.,
One of the turbaned men, grimly silent now, seized Hon-
our'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 jewel-
ler. It was embedded deeply in a silk crêpe 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 be-
fore 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.


THE TWO BROWN MEN
155
feel after of strength and and held on and she felt
“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 fall-
ing. Someone caught and held her firmly, giving an im-
pression 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 of a man who was
bending over her, holding her in his arms.
It was a strikingly handsome face, though pale and some-
what 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 lodg-
ings; and this voice which sounded so familiar was the voice
of the man who had raved in delirium in the next house.


A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT
157
his agony of mind, which she had pitied and been unable to
forget. It was as if she had been eavesdropping, and had
come into possession of his secrets unknown to him. A pain-
ful 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 convention-
alities 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 herself. “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."
It was true. After his long martyrdom, his isolation from
his own kind, it seemed to Ronald that all the sweetness 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 sunshine 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 him-


158
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
self, 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 was the brougham at this minute appeared
round the corner-she would have refused Ronald's hospital-
ity 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!” 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 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


A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT
159
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 who come here
may have been? Perhaps they are trying to do better. Any-
way, 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


160 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
others who haven't-anyway, from sweet, pure women-not
to contaminate them with their touch?”
“No, indeed, I think nothing of that 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 rush-
ing to his forehead. “It would be a great happiness—far
more than 1-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 instead 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."
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, blasé 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 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.”


A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT
161
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 contri-
butions 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 fore-
head. Or perhaps it isn't really like it 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. Wil-
loughby the name of the murdered stranger, the old clergy-
man had said: “Do not ask. It is a foreign name. It
would have no meaning, no association for you. It is far.
better that you should know nothing whatever 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


162
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
word to keep the dreadful secret of the old house in Hammer-
smith-the secret which was the woman's as well as his; and
he would not break the promise. Therefore 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 afternoon, she was ill with a head-
ache. 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
niew 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 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


164 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 realize 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 pre-
parations for tea which he had hopefully made for the enter-
tainment 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 4th.
“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.
minut had brought necessaread and
essa por her hour cyber bread and


A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT
. 165
"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 un-
certainty."
Looking into her paling face, her tear-bright eyes that met
his as if with an appeal for help-it was all that Ronald Char-
teris could do not to fall on his knees at her feet and cry out
that he loved her, and longed to comfort her 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.


166
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 ist of August, and he should have come to me on the
4th of April.”
Ronald Charteris quivered with a sudden fierce shock of
the nerves.
“April the 4th!” 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
toward me, his hair, like bronze and silver, in short, crisp
waves. Then, a dark, vague Something 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 bracelet
from her wrist, and, pressing a spring, caused a square stone-
cameo to lift like the cover of a locket. Underneath was a
small photograph. Ronald's eyes fastened upon it, and dwelt


A DEAD MAN'S PORTRAIT
167
with a ghastly fascination on the face of the man whose death
he was expiating in daily torture.
"My God!” he ejaculated, the words torn from him by
mortal pain. "Your father!”
“Yes, it is his very self,” Honour answered, her eyes drawn
from the photograph to Ronald. “Why do you speak so
strangely?"
"1-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!"


CHAPTER XXIII
BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER
W HEN 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 de-
liver 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 tall and looked down from a magnificent height
of self-satisfaction on Lady St. Leger's man, who was con-
sumed with jealousy.
Miss Kazan had arrived some hours earlier, it appeared,
and Honour Brooke was shown into the Louis Quinze draw-
ing room, in the decoration of which she had manifested 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 Charteris 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 Honour had ever seen.
There was no colour about here 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,
168


BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER
169
scarcely warmer than the rich cream-white of the quaintly
made, picturesque tea-gown of soft woollen stuff 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 repellent 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 imagined 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? No,
of course, it cannot happen. I may be at ease as to that."


170 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
Honour said kind and pleasant things in French, hesitating
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 uncon-
ventional 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 in-
struction, 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 dignified, distin-
guished man, with a long dark beard, perhaps streaked with
silver, and hair growing back from a high, intellectual fore-
head. 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,


172
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
indeed, our only near relative living. It is fit that we should
be near each other, but I had feared loneliness for my daugh-
ter, 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 acquaintances, 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 his 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 enthusi-
astic words ceased. Father and daughter looked at each
other.
“What is this man's name?” enquired 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 compelling
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?”


BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER 173
“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 car-
mine 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 embarrassing, 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 off 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 win-
dows, 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 sure. Possibly
my features might not lend themselves to more, but those are
enough. When I am Alexander Kazan, I am myself; that


174
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
makes a fourth personality; and it is, I assure you, some-
thing of a relief. As for you, I hardly think that you realize
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 resemblance, 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 answered,
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 off, 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 deliber-
ately 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
you encouraged instead of crushing it, might spoil your whole
future. At last we have reached the pinnacle for which we


BETWEEN FATHER AND DAUGHTER 175
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 off the affair without my money and both our brains.
Therefore we share an immense fortune, just about to be
actually realized, together-we three. This binds him to
you. There have been times when he appeared 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 solici-
tor, Harvey Kane, who ran away, is dead, knowing nothing of
the success of the expedition to Thibet, there will be no
longer an excuse to delay the marriage. As his wife, and
with almost unlimited money, your future will be of unpar-
alleled brilliance. 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 in-
terests, 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," retorted her
father.
“The only tolerable one, despite the sadness, and the
knowledge of my sin against him. I have not tried to hide


176
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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
realize 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
now 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.”
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, are 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.”
"I do not know what I shall do!” she cried, desperately.
Then, after a pause, she added, in a low voice: "now that
he and that girl have met.”


CHAPTER XXIV
A NEW PARTNERSHIP
LIONOUR had not been gone long from home, on her chari-
11 table 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 ist of July to go on tour with the com-
pany 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 wait-
ing 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 protégé of her father's she told
that waiting for wondered without a lot
177


A NEW PARTNERSHIP
179
women, and exactly how to treat them, was refreshing to her.
Besides, she thought his reckless young face extremely in-
teresting, 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 protégé 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.
“I am hoping she will come, too,” remarked Miss Car-
lin. “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 appropriate 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, you see, I couldn't help


180
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
recognizing 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 Kitor, and des me. But of Harne play-actre
Kittyviends, ane glad to me boun
“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, ventured
to draw up a chair within reasonable distance of the Dresden-
china girl, and sit down upon it. An eager, interested expres-
sion 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 toward 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 avoids or attacks
a person. Bless you, they never take dislikes at first sight


A NEW PARTNERSHIP
181
to really nice, good-hearted people like 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 4th of last April.”
“The 4th of April!” repeated Jack Harned, still thought-
fully. “He must have made a strong impression upon you,
that you should have remembered the date of your first meet-
ing 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 remem-
bered the date. It was something else-a mysterious sort of
something else, that I always keep half way expecting 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 receiving 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 tremendously. 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.
Child! it was ne hut she wasn't. Und for ages. She was


182
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
"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 I
can help it!' Then she begged the L. R. to stay to dinner,
but he said he couldn't; he had a most important engage-
ment. 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, con-
cealed 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 afterward to me that she supposed it might
have been the scent of a big sprig of heliotrope, which the
L. R. was wearing in his horrid buttonhole, which made her
feel so odd, as the perfume of heliotrope does, it seems, have
a strange effect on her nerves sometimes—it's so powerful.
But I 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 to-
gether.' 'It's April the 4th,'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!""
Again Jack Harned repeated the words—“April the 4th.”


A NEW PARTNERSHIP
183
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 expression which Kitty Carlin de-
scribed. An extraordinary desire suddenly overwhelmed him
to know what the man's engagement had been for the night
of April the 4th, just as if it might be an affair of great im-
portance 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 dis-
appearance of Nevill Brooke, but of course, there was a
tremendous “but," an abysmal chasm of a “but." Never-
theless, 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 presentiment, 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.
Leger's wicherstand togethe compact. uh, usually Lise for


“SHE LOVES HIM !”
185
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 him-
self 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 afterward, 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 in-
vitation. 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 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.”


188
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
: “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 investigations 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 suspicions 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
shot that, in likely will crude, tharis makes totigations Loce.
they arise St. Leger's been told by her father,
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 tremen-
dously. And they asked you to call."
"She looks exactly like someone I have seen,” said Jack,
“except for her hair."
“Is there any one else as beautiful as she?”
“There is one whom I think incomparably more beautiful.
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 wore a gray uniform.
I saw her go in and out two or three times some months ago.
She was employed, Mrs. Oates told me, to nurse a fellow
who was ill next door with congestion of the brain, or some-
thing of the sort. An old parson had taken the chap in, out


“SHE LOVES HIM !”
189
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 agonized 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 unaccountable 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 re-
lated to her, that Honour had uttered the impulsive ex-
clamation.
Jack caught her up quickly. “Sir Ronald Charteris!”
he echoed. “Who is he?”
"A man Lady St. Leger and I have met lately," answered
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 any one 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 to see him—that is,
to try and help a little if we can sometimes, Lady St. Leger
and . 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


190
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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?”
"1-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, afterward, 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 realize 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 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
him my ih Lady St. Le books and thenew that,
wentick made nan to-day me ill durin once. I


“SHE LOVES HIM !”
191
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 stammered 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 im-
agined 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 uppermost. 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 tell, earlier in the evening.
He hoped for further news to-morrow from Otway, the detec-
tive, 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,


192
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 Aung 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 toward
him again to peer into his face; and, instead of honest, out-
spoken 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 impres-
sion was that they were East 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.”
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
W HEN Jack reached his lodgings, his first thought was
W 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 there-
fore, 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 any-
thing to be found out to Ronald Charteris' prejudice, he
would find it out. Such jealousy and yearning for a spite-
ful 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 morning.
Therefore, he had no pretext for calling again upon Honour,
or even writing to her. But he did not, according to his
point of view, waste the time which he would so joyously
193


194
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
have given to his goddess. He enquired of his landlady
is she had ever known the name of the man who had been so
ill in the house next door, a few months ago. Mrs. Oates
thought for a moment, and then committed herself to the
opinion that the name of the handsome young gentleman who
looked like Lord Byron had been Mr. Chatters, or something
of that sort-she really couldn't quite be 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 gentlemen. As for the hand-
some 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. Oates 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. Oates 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.
Oates 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. Oates couldn't
exactly say what.
When he had heard all that his somewhat garrulous land-
lady had to tell about “Mr. Chatters” and the beautiful
nurse who had gone away and left no sign, Jack Harned went


JACK HARNED PAYS CALLS 195
solutely an he was a falsible that he on-
to the secretary of a well-known charitable organization and
asked for some particulars about Sir Ronald Charteris and
his work. The important gentleman shrugged his shoulders
with an air of good-natured toleration. No doubt Sir Ron-
ald was quite sincere, and it was even possible that he ac-
complished some good. But he was a faddist, distinctly a
faddist, and absolutely an amateur. His principle was
wrong—all wrong from beginning 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 any one had money
to give to a charity, it was far better to bestow it upon a well-
recognized organization 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-recognized"
organization, and promptly took his way to Oswell Road.
There he made some enquiries with widely differing results,
and at last called on Ronald himself, pretending to be in-
terested in what he alluded to as the "great work,” until
Ronald looked him full, gravely, and enquiringly in the eyes.
Then Jack Harned realized 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,” 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


196
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
spread to the roots of Ronald's short dark hair. He hated
the other all the more for it, and was plunged further into
abysmal depths of gloom than ever; for to him Ronald's
change of colour at the girl's name meant what Honour had
meant at mention of his. But if he could have read Ronald
Charteris' 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 afterward, as if it were quite a matter of
course-perhaps the throbbing pain of Jack Harned's jeal-
ousy 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 toward the reckless-faced young
fellow who dined with Miss Brooke was one of armed neu-
trality. He would have been glad to refuse the five-pound
note which Jack almost flung at him as a contribution toward
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, 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 so much to


JACK HARNED PAYS CALLS 197
him as it had twenty-four hours earlier. 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
gray-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 antecedents of the Kazans with-
out their guessing why.
He was glad to hear that Mr. and Miss Kazan were both
at home when he called, having only that moment returned
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 before in the old
deserted house at Hammersmith.


CHAPTER XXVII
THE ADVICE OF NADEGE
AS JACK sat listening, surprised and half incredulous,
O Miss Kazan came into the room, and he sprang up,
apologizing 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 acquaintance,” 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 tremendously 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! Al-
ready it has gone so far away that you can scarcely hear it.
Now it has ceased altogether."
198


THE ADVICE OF NADEGE
199
“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."
"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 be-
lieves that it is a ‘mascot'—that it brings him luck-and
that if it were to die or escape, he would at once be unfor-
tunate 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 understand.
Poor old Mephistopheles is extraordinarily sensitive to
sound.”
“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,” 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 chattering
now. Loris would not feel that he could settle down and be
at home in this house unless his queer ‘mascot' were here."
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 confessed 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, and can
read English books quite well. All I want is courage to pro-
nounce the words, and I know that is only to be gained by
constant conversation. It is much the same with my father;


200
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
but he talks with my cousin Loris. I have not even the con-
fidence to do that, for he teases me when I make mistakes.
Do you know of any one 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 sent, from our po secretly, eachin the dim tw that
“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 daylight, and that he
should suddenly see a definite end to the labyrinth. He
wanted to keep in close touch with 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


THE ADVICE OF NADEGE
201
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
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 con-
clusions reached. Nadege had heard and remembered 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 school-
girl 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, without 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
is on hing, excephed her fand beti
been on in a moogered that, Jack
adventure.
When St. Leger had called at Harvey Kane's chambers
in April, and learned that he had gone away “on a holiday,"
vanishing into space as far as an address was concerned, he
had not by any means given up the quest. It was essentially
necessary to find Harvey Kane, and to discover whether
Nevill Brooke had written to him of the success of the ex-
pedition. If the solicitor knew only that the party had
started, and that if the object with which it set out were


202
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 adventure had ended in death and dis-
mal disaster; that the party had never reached their goal;
that the story of the diamonds had probably been 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 daugh-
ter and Sir Ronald Charteris.
Naturally, Loris St. Leger and his uncle felt keen interest
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 extremely tempting bribe for real
information regarding the solicitor. When the bait had fat-
tened 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 enquiries 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 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
and thene had bething, and


THE ADVICE OF NADEGE
203
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 subscribed by him toward the
Thibet expedition, had in reality belonged to one of the
unfortunate clients. Remembering 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 enquiries,
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 private 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 committed by Harvey Kane could
no longer be kept dark but filled columns in the daily papers
and created a popular sensation. Meanwhile, the occupa-
tion 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
Št. Leger emplongland lest certain had then come


THE ADVICE OF NADEGE
205
"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 stranger 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 knowledge 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 con-
cern 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
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


206
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
be possible. You cannot look me in the face, Loris, and tell
me that you really intend to carry out the old arrangement."
“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 inex-
tricably together for that. And as you and my father natur-
ally 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 you. 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 promise 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 dis-
comfort 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 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
this you are mads well as for the innocent


208
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 somehow. He is
as fully awake as you are to the necessity of having the girl
in the family, but he is ready to sacrifice himself 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.”
"He would never dare to 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!
She is as like that man as a woman can be. But even if he
never spoke, that would not prevent her from loving him
more and more—so much that she could never give herself
to any one 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
Now.itate me by asect that I shall aThere is the her time to


THE ADVICE OF NADEGE
209
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.


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
discovery. 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 wonder-
ful 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 con-
stantly distracted by street sights and sounds, and the neces-
sity 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. 1.-Nevill Brooke sends me to River House, Mortlake
Road, on the 6th of April, to make inquiries concerning him of a
Mr. Smith whom I should find there. I go. The house is shut-
tered and apparently deserted. I break in. I find the rooms prac-
tically 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 advertise-
ments in "personal” columns of daily papers. Without saying
anything to Miss Brooke, I go several times to River House. It is
always the same-shuttered, deserted. The place where I broke in
210


IN JACK'S NOTE BOOK
211
has not been mended. I linger about, but never again hear the chat-
tering 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 6th at the house with the
closed shutters in Hammersmith. Miss Kazan explains the chatter-
ing 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 Eng-
land to-day. I am then asked to give her lessons in English, and I
accept. Last night, at Lady St. Leger's, she appeared 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 per-
sons, events, and coincidences together?
Jack studied the notes which he had set down in black and
white, and, after much ruffiling 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 6th that Miss Brooke and I were both told to go
to River House unless Nevill Brooke had come home between April
4th and that date.
It was on April 6th that Miss Brooke came to my lodgings and
heard Charteris talking in his delirium; but it was on the morning


212
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 6th, and
have been kept somewhere else since then, till he could be conveni-
ently 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 Char-
teris come into the story? Is the beautiful Miss Kazan a sister or
near connection of the nurse who was engaged to take care of Char-
teris by Willoughby? Who is the Reverend Willoughby? What
had caused Charteris to fall ill with congestion of the brain, presum-
ably on the 4th or 5th of April last?
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' 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, 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 enquiries regarding
this reverend person from other sources. Meanwhile, he con-
tented himself by questioning the garrulous little woman as to
the kind old man's relationship to Sir Ronald Charteris.
"Indeed, there was no relationship at all, sir,” she pro-
tested. “I'm sure I've told you that before. It was just
Mr. Willoughby's charity and pity for the poor young gentle-
man, Mr. Chatters.”
"And Mr. Chatters," went on Jack, indulgently. “He
was delirious, wasn't he?”
“Oh, 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?”
--


CHAPTER XXIX
A SPRING TO A CONCLUSION
M RS. OATES was fond of telling anecdotes, and she
I 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 afterward 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 anec-
dote; 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; and when
214


216
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 suc-
ceeded best by surprising his opponents. Astonishing bold-
ness had been his favoured method, and after thinking over
several plans of action which suggested themselves, he deter-
mined 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 himself, 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!” 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 set-
ting 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. He began:
Dear Miss BROOKE,
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 fa-
vour to you, to River House, Mortlake Road, at five o'clock in the
afternoon, 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


A SPRING TO A CONCLUSION
217
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 after-
noon of the next day.


CHAPTER XXX
HOW LORIS ST. LEGER PROPOSED
LIONOUR was addressing her answer to Jack Harned,
11 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 tête-à-tête 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. Sometimes, 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 in that Dresden
bowl over there. They will look charming."
218


220
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 kidnapped 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 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 avenging him if he be dead, would not be reward enough
to pay me for all that I should have to sacrifice and risk.
it may requiree for, to work folized that it can
with no prospect while if the prize
it. I loved your


HOW LORIS ST. LEGER PROPOSED 221
221
Yourself 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 re-
mains 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 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?”


224
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 ques-
tion 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?”
“After to-morrow I will decide and tell you," returned the
girl, distressfully.
“So much time I grant you,” said St. Leger. “But, be-
fore 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


HOW LORIS ST. LEGER PROPOSED 225
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 catechized 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.”
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, hurry-
ing toward her with outstretched hands. “Bad news of
your father?”
"Is it true," the girl demanded, “that I have no money
Lade hidden had gone, and, bor


226
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
happen tosked me to be huid offer, against th Leger, I beg of
all the advant position. Deasake of sparing my
—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 falsehood,
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; nevertheless, 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 inquired, weakly.
"He asked me to be his wife, and attempted to show me
all the advantages he could offer, against the disadvantages
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
held out her arms, and the girl gave herself to the loving em-
brace. 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 en-
velope, 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 follow-
ing afternoon.


CHAPTER XXXI
HOW HONOUR'S LETTER CAME
DONALD CHARTERIS knew Honour's handwriting,
A which he had seen in several of the books she had sent
him for the men of his mission. It was a pretty and indi-
vidual 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 everything she
wore, and Ronald was happy when he saw the writing on a
letter addressed to him, brought by a messenger 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 youth-
ful pleasure in the possession of a letter from the one woman
in his world vanished suddenly like the rainbow colours of a
bursting bubble.
Instantly he saw himself in Paris, reading certain words on
a slip of paper: "On April 4th, 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 not. He had
arrived at dusk, and had seen no name on the gate in the
high wall. But it had been April 4th, and at eight o'clock a
man had come to the lonely house-a man who had never
227


HOW HONOUR'S LETTER CAME 229
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 de-
fenceless 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 believed 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 agonizing degrada-
tion, 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 hor-
ror 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 pro-
found despair for the present. He was debating whether or
not it would be well to go to-day to the address named in
Honour's letter, and see whether he recognized the house
behind the high garden wall, when the man who usually an-


230
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
swered 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 believe 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, who
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 any one 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 of
waiting. She was dressed in gray, with a long, loose cloak of


HOW HONOUR'S LETTER CAME 231
steel-coloured silk, which disguised the lines of her figure.
Round her close-fitting toque a gray 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 recognized her, since dress and hat were different,
and the figure was almost indistinguishable save for its
height; but he was sure that the companion of his journey
from Monte Carlo to London stood before him.


CHAPTER XXXII
THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING
CHE 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 impres-
sion 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!”
232


THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING 233
“You are mistaken,” Ronald answered.
“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,” said Ron-
ald, kindly, for there was sharp pain in her voice, and—she was
a woman. “I have not even any recollection of seeing you
after-I was ill.”
“Yet, in your delirium, you must have spoken out what
was really in your mind?” Nadege said, questioning appeal-
ingly, rather than asserting. “If you had not hated me,
you would not- "
“I 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 obliga-
tions I had taken on myself.”
“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 forgive 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."


234
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
"Have you thought of me at all?”
“Often. It would have been strange if I had not."
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 misfor-
tune-my disfigurement.”
Ronald could feel the hidden eyes searching his, and a dark
flush stained his face. “I can't deny that I understand 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 comforted 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."


236 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
"You love another woman!” 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 mis-
fortune 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 every-
thing 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.”
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 hesitated,
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 importance in
Honour's scheme of existence, though she was everything to
him. Yet if Honour had never seen Ronald Charteris she


THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING 237
might have given Loris St. Leger the promise 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 ap-
pointed 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 afterward
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 anywhere, she would
hear news of her father. Only, to-day, the conviction was not
welcome, for she hated the thought of any mysterious connec-
tion 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 un-
easy, 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
comes?" said the girl. “You promised in your first letter


238
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 re-
plied, “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 without
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 be-
fore. “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 I 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 apologize for you,” 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.”
They came to the window which Jack Harned had broken


THE ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING 239
so long before. In appearance it was exactly as it had been in
April. Bits of glass still lay scattered underneath 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
URING 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 remem-
brance of the horror came back to her, and she lay tremb-
ling, fearing to dream it again. Now, as she entered the old
deserted house, with its dim and intricate passages, its creak-
ings 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 recognize 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 bril-
liantly 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 clair-
voyant 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 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
240


FROM BEHIND THE TAPESTRY 241
¿ come into another room forgotten !
the girl like a tomb. It was as if a gust of icy air blew toward
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 forgotten 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 any-
thing 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 its 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!” retorted
Jack. “This is the only way. I have told you 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."


242
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 misunder-
stand 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 ques-
tions, 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 look-
ing 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 gray canvas
dress she wore she could not be seen from the farther side, at
all events from a little distance. Jack insisted upon bringing
her a chair from among the pile of furniture in the larger room,
and placing it for her near the door, which he set ajar. Then
he announced that it was almost time to expect Sir Ronald
Charteris.


FROM BEHIND THE TAPESTRY
243
“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 seeemd 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
footsteps 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-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


244
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 dis-
tance 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 comparative 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 recognizable, not as that of Jack Harned or Ron-
ald 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 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 recognized also, with a second thrill of almost incredu-
lous amazement. When she had heard it before, it was speak-
ing French, and disclaiming all knowledge of English; but


FROM BEHIND THE TAPESTRY 245
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 pronunciation of the letter “r.” “Of what
avail would your 'exertion' 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 Lal Singh and Nevill Brooke,"
returned St. Leger. “But as neither of them is here to
speak for himself, 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
and the Reverend Jasper Willoughby cease to exist–to be as
dead as Nevill Brooke, and Lal 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'
precious émission,' let him carry it on for himself after this.
It will be so much the better for him, and 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 toward
the half-open glass door. They were drawing nearer to


246
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 breath-
ing. 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 distance—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.


250
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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. “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 be permitted to escape. This is your one chance. Take
it or leave it. What we want most of all is to have the mys-
tery 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 4th. If you had not told me
that she believed I killed him for his money nothing could
have forced me to tell before you the story which now I will
tell. I am, it seems, less guilty than she believes me. I never


AT RIVER HOUSE AGAIN
251
saw Nevill Brooke until a few minutes before his death, nor
did I even know of his existence. Until I afterward 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 after-
ward I saw that he was dead. That is no excuse, I know.
I don't offer it as an excuse. But, at least, instead of en-
riching 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, exist-
ence is not worth having. Tell what I have confessed here
to the police if you will. I shall make no effort to avoid ar-
rest 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?”
“I killed Nevill Brooke with my own hands, and un-
prompted. I had no accomplices. Afterward I buried him.
His body lies in the cellars underneath this house. It was


252
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 unoccu-
pied. 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!


CHAPTER XXXV
THE MAN WHO HAD NO FEAR
TACK was deeply chagrined and disappointed to find
J 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 eaves-
dropper," 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 dramatic effect on which he
had counted so much was ruined, and for him to inform her
of Charteris' confession would not be at all the same as hear-
ing 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 suddenly 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 questions
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, 1—will answer if I can.”
253


256 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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," ex-
claimed Charteris, wearily. “I've always liked you, Effing-
ham. 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
upon him first, then questioningly, 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
drink.
a set of aysteriously
a shot.
the Mastercar. But i that the none of is


258
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 drop-
ping 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 en-
deavouring 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 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


THE MAN WHO HAD NO FEAR 259
could give the devil lessons in slyness, 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. Şays I to
myself, “This gentleman's about as near the angels as a man
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 seen 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,' 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 could have
surprised him now. With clever-looking taper fingers Ef-
fingham 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."


-262 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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,
must let them drown-we must let them drown.”
"I shall not let them drown,” said Ronald, “if my arm
can pull them out.”
“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 an-
swered. “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 if
she had struck him in the face, or flung him an insult in words.
For her secret departure, in spite of her promise, was like
saying, “Your plan is really too dishonourable for me. On
second thoughts, I can have nothing to do with it; and as
evidently you are not fitted to understand 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
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


THE MAN WHO HAD NO FEAR 263
Ronald Charteris than genuine zeal to convict Nevill Brooke's
murderer. Now all was spoiled, for he was sure that Hon-
our's passionate desire to avenge her father's fate would not
burn fiercely enough to deliberately destroy Charteris in its
flames. His one consolation 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 un-
grateful.
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 deserved
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 re-
quest, 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 wild fancy. He could
hear Charteris' voice making confession. 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


the day of the dresses,
told him
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE MAN IN THE STAGE-BOX
TITTLE Kitty Carlin did not forget her interview with
L 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
any one 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 before 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 correspondence 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 be-
lieve that Honour would ever care for him in the same way,
Nevertheless, Kitty was dimly conscious that she did not
265


THE MAN IN THE STAGE-BOX 267
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 unfamiliar, and she was not
surprised when the very first words she read contradicted the
sender's verbal statement.
Dear MADAM:
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
often 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
photograph 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 con-
venient 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 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.


268
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 con-
cerning 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 bareheaded in a snow storm. Pain and weariness
looked out from the narrow gray eyes, set rather close to-
gether, 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
request.
The girl was, she admitted to herself, “dying to know"
what the man had to say to her, and the mystery surrounding
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 convenient for a
meeting.
Once during the next act she glanced at the stage-box.
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,


THE MAN IN THE STAGE-BOX 269
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 “constitutional,” which, with
the nightly bread and milk, helped to retain for her the com-
plexion 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 recognized 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 scrawl-
ing and unsteady, as if the pen had been held with trembling
fingers.
The short note inside began:
it 100her life. though sh
Forgive me, 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 conversation 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.
Without stopping to think, Kitty walked across the square
hall of the hotel to the nessenger. “Tell the gentleman who


270
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
sent you with this that I will be with him almost as soon as
you are.”
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 expensive 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
farther, 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 the previous 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 came!” he exclaimed, in a voice which at once pre-
possessed the girl in his favour. “How very, very good of
you to trust me!”
“It was not so much that, perhaps," answered Kitty, in
her decided, bird-like way, “as that I have great confidence
in my own capability to take care of myself. I was, besides,
very curious. 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. But don't
be frightened, Miss Carlin. I do not intend to entertain you


THE MAN IN THE STAGE-BOX 271
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 magnetized by it.
"I don't know myself who I am,” 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 that you are my daughter."


CHAPTER XXXVII
"A TRAVELLER NAMED NEVILL BROOKE”
IT WAS difficult to take Kitty Carlin by surprise. She was
I usually prepared for anything, or was, at least, able to ap-
pear 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 you
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 understand-
ing. 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 I first came into her
272


"NEVILL BROOKE”
273
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 un-
known, and so unhappy that she was losing her beauty. She
had taken a frightful cold, had exerted herself too soon after
an attack of pneumonia, and—to make a long story short-
she died that very night, at Nelly's lodgings, leaving the baby,
and nothing besides. 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 pas-
senger 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 husband 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; then, poor
dear, she asked me to 'forgive her,' as if it was not gratitude
I owed her. That was only three years ago, and it seemed
too late for me to take any steps to find my father, so I


274 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
just let things go as they had always gone. My mother's
name was Katherine Clare, but till now I never knew my
father.”
“She told you the truth,” said Harvey Kane. “Katherine
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 intrigante who had schemed
to entangle a young man in good position who would be rich.
There must have been a terrible scene, and immediately
afterward Katherine disappeared. For years I refused to
forgive my sister; but afterward, when my blood cooled, I
relented, more for convenience' sake than affection, and she
became my housekeeper. Katherine was the one good in-
fluence 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 success-
fully. 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 with rheumatic
fever, of which I just told you, I was so changed that all that


“NEVILL BROOKE"
275
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 recognized or even suspected me. Walking back
to this hotel yesterday, 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
likeness to Katherine Clare was a mere coincidence. I hoped
for what I now know to be a fact-for though she was sup-
posed 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 much in making
up your mind as to that, at present, however, as it is to


“NEVILL BROOKE”
277
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 fiancée the
truth. He also tried to discover 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 acquaint-
ance. 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.


CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE MAN WHO KNEW
IT WAS dark when Jack Harned came out from the shuttered
I 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 something 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 satis-
faction. 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 success-
fully carried out an experiment himself. He had liked that;
not a qualm of sickness had come over him. But this was
different-God alone knew how different, and what it was
278


280
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
House. He is a fall severCharte
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 task which Jack had still 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 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


THE MAN WHO KNEW
281
more himself. He came to a cab-stand, and took a hansom,
telling the driver to go to the best chemist's in the neighbour-
hood. There he bought what he needed, showing nothing in
his face of what he had suffered, save by a gray 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 build-
ing. Unseen, he passed like a shadow, and, like a shadow
noiseless, through the gate; so he padded across the un-
kempt lawn, through the long grass, and went in at the broken
window.
When, an hour later, he came out again, he knew what he
had 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 hand 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 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,


282
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
from
till keep sieris had nomen Jack
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 super-
stitious fools paid any attention to them, even when they
were their own. If he - Jack-told that impression of his to
Honour, she would snatch at it, and would go much further
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.
Toward 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.”
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
I 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 reviewed 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 this point of view
there was but one thing to be done, and, without the hesita-
tion 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 pre-
vent 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.
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 came.”
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 wainscoting, and, without
283


284 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 fold-
ing 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 wainscoted room
on the other side ended-it turned to the right. Here was
the well of a stairway, ladder-like in its steepness and narrow-
ness. This was a difficult bit for Loris to manœuvre, with
the girl in his arms, for if he slipped, or the pressure of his
hand over her mouth relaxed 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 diffi-
cult 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 braced himself for success, and set his foot steadily on
the first round of the steeply descending staircase. Somehow,
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. Lal Singh had
avenged that man's death; soon afterward Lal 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


HONOUR AND ST. LEGER 285
great Tontine. St. Leger 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 any one,
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 evidently
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 com-
panions 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.
“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


286 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
find nothing. We must get her out of this, for I want a talk
with her as soon as possible. How about Warehouse 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 Hammer-
smith, Canonbury, or the neighbourhood of Hampstead
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 damp-
ness, 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 removed the hand which had
sealed Honour's lips. Long ago the girl had ceased to strug-
gle for freedom, made certain by experience that her strength
was nothing against his. Now she drew a long breath, and
turned her neck 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 dar-
ling,” 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 undignified 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.”


288 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
what took place in this cellar should be neither overheard nor
spied upon by outsiders; and 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 sometimes at sight
of a great crouching cat, patiently awaiting 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 un-
truth any more than I could have fancied your 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."
“So, that is your 'impression'? 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 indirect 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.”
who has ket there is advantage.fect way, ha


HONOUR AND ST. LEGER
289
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!” 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 in-
quire 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 mys-
tery 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 Char-
teris 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 see now
that, to secure my safety, I must have you for my wife. Pru-
dence 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."
it bluntly,
we cannot save I love you Brooke, or you
“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 ready for the
next.”


THE WATCHERS
291
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 countless genera-
tions. The loss had not been discovered immediately, and
when it had been, owing to the strange attendant circum-
stances, 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 posi-
tion, in London.
The man himself, and all trace of him, had vanished. But
it was simple to watch the daughter, and reasonable to sup-
pose 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-frequented and
important street, well lighted, and well guarded in the dark
hours. Several attempts had been thwarted; and one,
made in desperation, which aimed at seizing the jewel from its


292
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 be aroused; and, accord-
ing 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 han-
som 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 dismissed their
own vehicle, which they had kept standing under the pre-
tence of a difficulty in making the proper change to pay their
fare.
Seeing that the road was empty, and that there was appar-
ently no fear of prying eyes, the two who watched had gone
to the gate, and cautiously peeped in. From behind a thick
screen of low-lying larches, grouped together 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 man who was with her also go
out, but time passed on, and they remained within. The im-


294 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 characteris-
tic patience and obstinacy, they determined not to go away
until they knew what had been done with the girl-and the
fetisher darea hould Tone remie before
They dared not steal the lantern Jack Harned had been
using, lest he should return and miss it at a time inconvenient
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 ob-
tained 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.


ST. LEGER'S MOVE
297
were staying in the house someone who might know some-
thing of his movements. Mrs. Oates shook her head. No,
there was nobody at all in No. 16, which was still Mr. Wil-
loughby's; no one ever 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. Chat-
ters”” 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. Willoughby's short visits. “But
there!” added the landlady, 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 sup-
pose, 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 mantel-
piece, with ‘Your friend, Honour Brooke,' written in 'er own
’and underneath. 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 'er
up to my room to change 'er things—she 'aving been out in
a storm-and we could ’ear every word you said. Sorrowful
words they was, too, and the poor young lady went as 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."


298
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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. Wil-
loughby," he said, quietly, but his voice was dull and lifeless.
Mrs. Oates 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 re-
quested information concerning Mr. Willoughby; for Effing-
ham, 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 unwise 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 that 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; 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 confession. But how could he expect the daughter
of Nevill Brooke, whom he had struck and killed, to argue
the difference between guilt in intention and guilt in deed?
It was a "white night” for him. He did not sleep at all,
ed about Honoher whereaboutsid the night in ignBut he


300
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 informing the police.
He himself, he said, would go to Scotland Yard, while his
uncle took Nadege home. Probably 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 Lon-
don early to-morrow morning and call on you."
The actress kept her word, and it was she who suggested
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 resent-
ment against her was burnt up in a withering flame of re-
morse. Roused suddenly from his heavy sleep by the start-
ling 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


ST. LEGER’S MOVE
301
hand in Honour's disappearance, but he felt that, if his in-
telligence 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 be-
lieves in him; but the Loathsome Reptile you and I talked
about has had a hand in this." There was something 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 perhaps rather haggard
and odd, and because she guessed how desperately anxious
he must be for Honour, realizing 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 re-
turned 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 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


302 THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 help-
ing them, not hindering."
Jack scarcely heard what Lady St. Leger answered, so in-
tently 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 webma 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 the 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 himself,
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 about last night,
and give him his chance to prove that he is innocent."
"We are going," Kitty Carlin was saying, softly, still look-
ing 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.


CHAPTER XLII
A HAND IN THE GAME
JACK unfolded the paper which Kitty Carlin had given
J him. She had written:
PARTNER:
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 knowl-
edge; 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; afterward he would have leisure enough
to realize all that Kitty Carlin's letter meant.
Dimly he was glad that, before he read what she had to
303


304
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 no Honour and I had wamy life I shimself, but farteris and
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 knocker, 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. -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 sus-
picions 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 her. 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 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


306
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
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 Willoughby 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 my-
self 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.


CHAPTER XLIII
“MY LIFE FOR HERS”
chody drooping ged with greet there wa
NADEGE KAZAN was at home. As Jack Harned had
said, she was not surprised to see him. No definite ar-
rangements 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 con-
cerning Honour Brooke's disappearance.
Ronald Charteris, the "friend” whom Jack had taken the
liberty to bring, she looked at keenly, with her great, melan-
choly black eyes, but did not recognize him behind his gray
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 aa 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 permitted.”
He had disguised himself with a view to deceiving Mr. Wil-
loughby, in case the latter were in the house, and, finding
307


310
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
The colour rushed over Nadege Kazan's face, under the
delicate olive stain which brought her complexion into keep-
ing with the dyed hair. “How you love her!” she ex-
claimed.
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 hesita-
tion.
"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, be-
cause 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 accom-
plices, 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 beauty as they had left, making me a horror to all
who looked upon me loathsome as a leper. Then I yielded
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


312
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
Isappe
& secre her.to wanted
ments 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 guard-
edly; but the one thing in the world which could not be de-
layed was the finding of Honour Brooke. All else was second-
ary 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 disappearance. 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 questions. Nothing could force him to tell
what he knew. If he had not been sure that the secret, what-
ever it might be, was well hidden, he would never have sug-
gested informing the police. But Nadege was aware of cer-
tain 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 (Nad-
ege and Charteris) could find 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,


“MY LIFE FOR HERS”
313
communi-
milf in danger of several of these thich established
which she understood, jotted on the back of this map, ex-
plained all, even the existence, in some cases, of communi-
cating underground passages which established a safe con-
nection between several of these places. If a man found him-
self 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 con-
fidences 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-some-
times 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?”
“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
msee, from the river indicating Loris has right in
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 warehouses, in a
street close to the river. “There is a way 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 disappear-
ance. 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 aloud. “I
went there yesterday,” he said. “It will be easier now."
"How did you know the way? Why did you go?" she
asked, quickly.


314 · THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
"I was told the way. And I went—to be accused of Nevill
Brooke's murder."
“Honour Brooke has heard something, then? She believes
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 any one who saw the
man and the lovely woman leaving the house in Park Lane,
on a beautiful sunny afternoon, their expedition 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 pictures. 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.
should be false. Ronald suspect his face in the


"MY LIFE FOR HERS” . 315
truth, sheubordinates, hiustice for the could tal
River House, which Kazan had taken many years ago,
had no secrets from Nadege. She went straight to the panel
in the wainscoting and led the way down the passage, snatch-
ing 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 “Master.”
Ronald was sacrificing justice for the sake of Honour Brooke,
as he was sacrificing himself. She could talk of the “Mas-
ter's" secrets without fear-since Ronald had promised—that
they would not 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 ware-
houses, 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 river-side were to be pulled down; people had almost
forgotten 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 formidable
than rats. In the cellar under No. 4 was a "plant" for
making counterfeit money, everything hidden in great pack-
ing-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


BRIDAL FLOWERS
319
the cellar-left her without food-alone. She was to be
štarved 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 tor-
turing Miss Brooke with threats of a terrible death if she did
not tell them what had become of certain diamonds that
disappeared 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 exaspera-
tion 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. 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.”


320
THE TURNSTILE OF NIGHT
“Mine? But I- "
“Through your uncle, after whom you were named. He
was of the party who went to Thibet, suffering terrible priva-
tions 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 4th, 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 because
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 differ-
ent from other men I have known. Will you-kiss me
once?"
He bent and kissed her forehead.


BRIDAL FLOWERS
321
At eight in the morning the maid knocked at her mistress'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 happi-
ness 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


THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.