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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithode. irrata to pelure, n d 1 2 3 32X t 2 3 4 5 6 KI^ THE N 7 I KING OR KNAVE? m R. E. FRANCILLON. *^^>i;!!;i-^^>^^ifif^^ TORONTO: THE NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 1888. / Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousana uight hundred and eighty-eiglit, by Tub National Publisiiino Company, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. ■i ■ ^ I KING OR KNAVE ? CHAPTER I. t« NOTHING COULD BE WRONG. I ** Oh ! what have I — what have we — done ? " cried Marion m dismay ; but a dismay so softly under breath that the breeze well-nigh blew the cry far away out to sea before it could make even so short a passage as from her lips to Guy's left ear. *' What a question ! " said he, bending still nearer till she could see the joy in his eyes. " Don't you know ? " "Yes-no " It was not altogether easy to be alone on the deck of that floating world, the Sumatra ; but there is always a way for two people to be alone in company when they will. It is only needful that the two wills should be one — as those were. Everybody who really knew the ancient city of Marchfjrave was fami- liar, not only with its cathedral and its docks, but with an unpreten- ding house in Chapter Street — a narrow and crooked backlane, requi- ring some local experience to find without at least one blunder at starting, and one more on the road. For there are dozens of cities with cathedrals, and scores of towns with docks ; and it is not an altogether unique distinction to possess both together. But Marchgrave was the only city in the whole world that owned Heron's Bank, and Heron's Bank returned the compliment by owning, directly or indirectly, a considerable portion of Marchgrave— of its flesh and blood, as well as of its bricks and mortar. For it must be confessed that Marchgrave was like many an ancient family — poor, and not long ago had been growing poorer. The ships that used to make their uncertain and difficult way up the Aske had become provided, by a mushroom rival, with better accommodation down the river, and the railway had abjectly followed, like a sycophant and slave. Marchgrave had also boasted, with good reason, of its manufactures, cloth being the staple ; but herein also it had been left behind by less venerable places that knew how to "go." Marchgrave was not payed out yet ; and Heron's, the mpuopoliaing the remainder of the game. Nevertheless, bank, seemed KING on KNAVE? It was really Heron's Bank, for tliero was really a Heron — John North Heron, the third of those names. And, for all that he was but a country banker, he was no ordinary man ;. he might have played no inconsiderable part on a much larger stage than wa^ aiibrded by C'liapter Street, Marchgrave. Of his youth his fellow-townsmen knew liltle ; 'or, though bom among them, he had not been bred in his native town. An elder brother was to succeed to the bank, and John (though the hojue-nest could have found plenty of room for two) went forth after his school- days to seek his fortune in a wider woild, very seldom visiting March- grave after he had once begun to breathe a less sleepy air. He must have been about five-and-thirty years old when the successive deatlis, first of his father, then of his elder brother, brought him back to the town, almost in the capacity of a stranger the last of the Herons of Chapter Street, for his brother had died a bachelor. Whether he had prospered or not during his absence there was no need to ask ; if not, the bank was good enough to make up for a much longer course of failure. Tf, however, it ever entered the head of the most suspicious of his fellow-citizens to ask whi'.t John North Heron the third had been doing with himself all this while, the question very socm lapsed into silence, and was forgotten. Prosperity was written all over him in capital letters of the largest size-- all L's, and S's, and D's ; but mostly li's. He had not been away from Marcligrave for nothing, that was clear. He brought back with him not only new capital, but new ideas ; and these of a vigorous kind. The bank in Chapter Street, which had certainly been taking to nod and drowse over its own obeseneas, and to refuse any business that threatened to become a little troublesome, or to com]>el the departure of an inch from the strictly hereditary groove, suddenly lifted up its sleepy head and threw open its doors with a clatter when its new repre- •*entative came from nobody know where. Taking to himself no partner, he remained his own master ; and he was thus able, moreover, ^yithout having to bestow dangerous confi- dences, to enter upon enterprises calculated to give his ancestors the nightmare in their very graves. The clothiers, of whom some were reduced nearly to the ends of their means and their wits, received such unexpected backing that they, in their secret hearts, sometimes sus- pected Henm's Bank of having gone crazy, until they found out that no mistake was ever made. This, however, was but one beam in the general burst of golden sunshine that gradually stole from that dusty corner in Chapter Street over all the town. Nor was the sunshine made wholly a matter of business. Never was right hand less ostenta- tious in its works ; but such matters are bound to ooze out, and it pre- sently became a proverb that no man or woman whose thrift and honesty deserved a helping hand need fear unmerited misfortune ao long as John Nort'i Heron had a tinger le(J him. Before he was forty, public-spirited projects were as plentiful as blackberries in a good season ; while John Heron of the bank was always to the fore with his counsel in any case, and his seemingly unweariable energy and bottom- dt'j ^cil Kixr. OR KNAVE? « less purse if he approved — wliich he mostly did, seeing that nine out of every ten projects were his own. Kich, distini^uished-looking, {generous, honourable, it would clearly be lus own fault if the Herons of Chapter Street ran any further risk of coining to an end. And, as if to crown to overflowing the measure of his popularity, he fell in love with a Marchgrave girl. That he mar- ried her, I need not say ; for his choice did not fall upon a mad woman. And he imported a pleasant dash of romance into the affair by giving his hand — unquestionably with his heart in it — to the sixth of the nine living and unmarried daughters of the curate of one of the parish churches ; a pretty and amiable girl, but, naturally, without the pos- session or expectation of a jienny. Everybody in Marchgrave, from the Bishop himself downward, gave the bride a wedding present or subscribed to one. That which received the place of honour, above even the Bishop's, was a hideous .and un wearable pair of worsted mit- tens, knitted by a nearly blind old woman, who had no other means of showing gratitude. His own present to his bride was a newly-built house, large and comfortable, without being ostentatious, standing in quite a fair-sized park running down to the Aske, built from cellar to gable by Marchgrave hands, and furnislied all through by Marchgrave tradesmen. Meanwhile, he had the good tnste and the good sense to leave the old bank in Chapter Street alone. Not by so much as a frosh coat of var- nish or by the expatriation of a single m<»ney-spider did he insult the spring of his fortunes and of his power to do all manner of good things with them. It was, therefore, into no very imposing parlour that young Guy Dervvent, the shipbroker, ushered himself a day or two after that little episode on board the Sumatra. On the contrary, the private room of John Heron, through which passed in one way or another all the busi- ness of Marchgrave, was almost prudishly plain and free from any sug- gestion of luxury. There was a large writing-table with many com- plicated shelves and drawers, which the cudest inhabitant remembered ; a great armchair, with gouty legs and an upright back, saying much for the powers of slumber under difliculties enjoyed by a past genera tion, and apparently a lost art in cmr own ; a smaller and still less indulgent armchair for the visitor for the time being ; a buffet of black oak ; a Turkey carpet ; and a banker, whom (luy on this occasion found busy over a large map with an important-looking stranger. John Heron and Guy were as good friends as some seventeen years' difference in age allowed. Th^re could be no intrusion on the part of the younger ; and the elder's quick nod was (juite enough to say, " I'm busy ; wait a minute till I'm disengaged," (Juy did not mind waiting ; he happened to be in that frame of mind when nobody minds anything, and when one's own thoughts are the second best company in the world. Had he been less pleasantly engaged he might have learned a great deal from the conversation that was proceeding. But he was only con- scious of a buzz in that quiet room, in which words were heard that m KINO OR KNAVE f conveyed no particular meaning. At last the important stranger moved importantly to the door, accompanied by the banker, who then threw himself back into his chair, so far as the stiffness of its back would al- low, stretched out his legs, and glowed genially upon Guy. He was a man of middle height, whose bearing gave the impression of his being tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, and rather heavily built, with the first symptoms upon him of a portly future. He was dressed like a gentleman — that is to say, neithei so ill nor so well that any- body could possibly notice what he wore. It is questionable how far he could be called handsome. The features wore regular — almost too regular to agree with the strength of character and purpose he undoubt- edly possessed ; but then, as all sensible people soon learn, physiogno- mists are the only class of people who are always, and without excep- tion, irreclaimable fools. Otherwise it would be needful to call certain points about John Heron positively unprepossessing. The eyes were too close and too deep set ; the lips at once too hard and too full — an abnormal combination ; the chin and lower jaw too deep and heavy to match with the calm and phiU>sophic forehead, over which a strong growth of dark and slightly frizzled hair was beginning to grow thin. All these things should, according to accepted rules, signify some sort of discord ; but there was no discordance about the man's deeds, and certainly none about the opinion entertained of him in Marciigrave. Possibly — by way of a sop to the physiognomists — the want of harmony was between his active, even speculative, enterprise, and the prudence that carried the seemingly rashest of enterprises to a fortunate issue. In which case the discord would be expressed by impulse plus self- restraining wisdom, or by benevolence minus credulity — which latter is a rarer formula still. " So you're back again ? " he asked cordially, bringing his hand down upon the map that still lay , en. '* I'm glad to see you ! But It seems what six business, upon my soul, when you came in 1 forgot to shake hands, as if it was only yesterday you were sitting in that very chair *' And it's six months to-morrow," laughed Guy. *' Six months 1 Well, time does fly." " That's because time's money, I suppose." •' Ah, you're learning that, are you ? It's wonderful months will do ! If they've taught you to be a man of Master Guy Derwent, they ought to do even this thing here." " What thing— where ? " '* Why, where have your ears been all this while ? If your ears are no good to you, give your eyes an innings. Look there ! ' '• I see a map," said Guy. " See a map, indeed ! No, my lad , this is no map — this is the standard of the resurrection of Marchgrave. This is what I've been working and waiting for ; and now the time's come. . . . Those confounded docks at iskness ! Now, look here. I'm going to cut a canal from the pooi below the bar, that's a good five miles lower down, right up to Marchgvave, and make a real dock — not a puddle for a oockleshell. There 1 " KING OR KNAVE 1 er moved jn threw ^ould al- ipression ily built, s dressed ,hat any- how far most too undoubt- lysiogno- it excep- 11 certain syes were full — an heavy to I a strong row thin, some sort eeds, and trci.giave. ■ harmony I prudence late issue. phis aelf- lich latter his hand ou ! But It seems what six ' business, ur ears are this is the ; I've been . Those ig to cut a ower down, iddie for a " You— you're goin« to do (hat! " exclaimed Guy. *' I, and of course others. But it's certainly going to be done. That fellow who's just gone out is Wilson, the engineer, and he didn't sit staring like an uwl." " But it'll be opposed tooth and nail. If I know Askness, it won't give in." '* There spoke Marchgrave 1 Of course if Marchgrave goes on givini: in for ever, Askness won't ; but if Marchgrave won't give in, Askness must, that's all. A fig for your opposition. Who's to oppose ? The railway ? Well, between ourselves, the railway is — I. The Ask- well Dock Company ? Between me and you, I again. The land- owners? Between you and me, though I'm not all the landowners, I'm a good many of 'em. Why, this has been the dream of my life — and it's come to pass twenty years sooner than I looked for. . . . Just think of it, Guy ; Marchgrave another Liverpool combined with another Manchester — who knows 1 The old mills set going again — you know I haven't let one of 'em die that I could help — and a hundred more. Work instead of charity. And all so easy — so easy I Why, it might have been done twenty years sooner, if — if " He was speaking with real enthusiasm — not merely with that of a speculator who sees his way to a colossal fortune, not merely with that of a man who has cause for personal pride, but with that of one who rejoices in the prospect of a great work for the work's own sake, and for the good it will do. The tremor that came into his voice had nothing to do with greed, and not more than was right and honourable with pride. *' If," said Guy, cat<;hing his warmth, and adding that of admiration heret?, " if John Heron had been bom twenty years sooner." " Nonsense, Guy," he said, relapsing into a sudden smile. "If the people of Marchgrave had not been descendants of the Seven Sleepers, you mean, who wanted stirring up with an uncommonly long pole." "You're wasted on a place like Marchgrave, Heron." *' Come, none of that. Nobody need be wasted anywhere. But I'm forgetting myself. How are things with you ? And has the gorgeous East spoiled you for the last bottle of that brown sherry — your sherry, you know— that I've been hiding away in that bureau till you came back again ? " "Oh, I had no time to get orientalised. I just did my business, and came home again." " That's an easy way of putting things for a young fellow whose first flight from home has been India. Either nothing must have happened or — something so big as to put everything else in the shade." " Put it that way, then," said Guy, for his tongue was burning with news that to him was more than the conversion of Marchgrave into Manchester and Liverpool combined. " Something has happened. And " " Ah ! the P. and O. has much to answer for." "The P. and O. !" exclaimed Guy with scorn. For who can bear to be told that his own story has ever been told before ? — even of Adam 8 KING OK KNAVK ? and Eve ; though it is true that theirs had nothing tu du with the P. and O. " Such things must liappen soniewhrrL*. 1 suiiposu." " Somewhere, indeed ! Everywhere — e»i*ecially at sea. But 1 don't mean to chafi. I cunfjiatulate you beforehand, whoever she may be. You're not the sort of man to go very wrong where business isn't concerned." No — he did not sigh : and yet it seemed as if a sigh were somewhere in the room. Well, every bank has its ghosts ; and Heron's must have had many. . . . "Come and dine, and tell Kate. These things are her hobby, you know ; and she'll listen to you for a week on end. But ten to four isn't over yet — for me ; and I've rather crowded up my day. They've made me a city magistrate since you've been gone, and there's some justice work to do ; and I've got to see a deputation about a candidate to oppose that old fossil, Barnes ; and— in short, come and take pot-luck. at seven, when you'll find us free as air. But you needn't hurry oflF like that. If you can tell a love-story in ten minutes, I'm your man. We've got to wet your welcome, and I mustn't be too punctual anywhere. Besides, now those docks are settled, I've earned ten minutes' holiday, I'm sure." " I'll take then), then," said Guy selfishly, while Heron went to the black cabinet and slowly uncorked a dusty bottle of wine. " The fact is, mine is not a common story, you see, in spite of the P. and O. Ana, in fact, I came to tell it you here, before even seeing Mrs. Heron. " ** You don't mean to say you want advice ? My dear fellow, a man who wants advice in a love affair only deserves one answer — that he's not worth advising." '* Oh, that's all right. As if I wanted any advising that way But the story isn't exactly mine — that is to say, it is mine." '* Suppose, then, we begin in the middle, Guy. It's always the best way." *' She has a mother " " Oh ! " " Heron, if there's one sort of joke more detestable than another, it's that stale one about mothers-in-law. Mine, anyhow, is a very charming woman, whatever other people's may be." ** By the way, the ten minutes were not for her mother, but for her." ** A very charming woman. Heron ; intellectual, and all that sort of thing ; and as good as gold " " Welcome home ! " interrupted Heron, having poured out the wine with the care it deserved. " And if you want a toast and a sentiment, make it good luck to Marchgrave Docks, and confound all their enemies." " Amen — confound them — and as good as gold. But she has a hus- band. Heron. She told me everything when I asked her for her daughter on the Sumatra. She scorned to sail under false colours. She refused to listen to my offer till she had told me all. And yet there are idiots who say that women have no sense of honour ! Why. that woman would put half the men I know to shame. Well, she has a husband. I have never heard of a prejudice against fathers-in-law ] but mine is " ■» KINO OR KNAVE 1 *' \t«ll, will be, the biggest scoundrel unhung. There's no milder "tray ol putting it, Heron. 1 wish there were, f<.r my snke and hur«. The bljgest scoundrel unhung. . . . And I'm not going to be luss straightforward than a woman. I'm not going to — and she made it a condition " " Which she ? " '^ The mother, of course — that I should hide nothing from my friends. I had spoken of you and Mrs. Heron as my best and only friends — my more titan father and mother— who made me whatever I am or ever will be." " Oh, hang that Goon." *' And it was she who said you ought to know." ♦' To know what ? " " Don't think I'm ashamed of it, Heron ! I will put it plainly, just to show that I am proud — not ashamed ! — that I am going to marry a convict's daughter — and such a convict's ! . . . Wait before you say a woi-d. There is no reason why a soul in Marchgrave should know this excepting you. But I'm not quite a beast, I hope ; and I can't, know- ing what 1 know, ask Mrs. Heron to be my wife's friend without your leave. Her daughter has come in for a legacy of seventy thousand pounds." *' Seventy thousand pounds ? On my word, Guy, your a better man of business than I ever hoped you'd be !" Guy fired up. "If I'd known that before I spoke to her, do you suppose I should have any story to tell ? " " Why not ? It's true I didn't marry an heiress myself — poor Kate ! But if shed had millions I'd have married her al' the same." "And he's just the sort of man who is cert.. in to get wind of a windfall. But there can't be much mischief done if you know all the circumstances beforehand. Heron. One may want all sorts of advice, and perhaps a backer besides. And that poor lady, the mother, wants all the friends and all the help she can find." " Ah, Guy, my days of knight-errantry are over." " Not a bit of it. They'll never be. Why, wliat's this Dock schemt but pure chivalry ? Only wait till you see her, and she'll have gained the best friend a woman could pray for. Poor lady I she has had cruel wrongs." *' Do you know, you make me quite anxious to see them, Guy. An idea ! I'll prove tio you that since you enlist me as a champion I won't do things by halves. From what I can gather, there's likely to be some talk in Marchgrave about who the future Mrs. Derwent and her belongings may be ; and I will say this about Marchgrave, that it never nods over other people's private aflfairs. Are these ladies coming to any friends or home of their own ? " "No. They have to make their friends in England. They are stay- ing just for the present in London, at the Clarence, while they are looking round." ■■■■ I 10 KING OR KNAVE 7 *' Then look here. Vour young woman must be married from my houBe — Kate's h'.. but the man who was making the town, and restoring it to more than its ancient for- tunes, was litted to bo its voice in I*arliament in place of the obsolete Barnes ? Guy's own heart was so full of grr.tltude that it could scarcely find room for pride. " If Sjiarrow only knew John Heron as I know him ! " thought he. But then tlie alderman's love-making days were long over and gone; and much after-dinner practice had given him the ability to put his fo'sjings into words. " Well, gentlemen," said the banker, " I'm much obliged, I'm sure . . . Moneslly, I'm not eager to be in the House; but you know, as well as I do, that I'm always at tht; service of this city, here or any- where." It had seemed for a moment that Heron's public spirit was about to give way, and that he would refuse. For the banker, with all his energy, was a domeRiic man, who loved his home and his liberty, and had never sought, since his return, a wider field than Marchgrave. Guy sighed with relief : for a stroke of generous kindness had made his friend's career as dear to him as anything could be that was not Marion. " And now for the justice work," said Heron, when they were left alone again. "Ho till seven— ^even sharp, mind. By tho way, it strikes me that I'm going to ask Kate to invite strange guests witliout being able to tell lutr thtir names ! " Even in the midst and thick of his affairs, publio and private, he found time to think of iiuy. KING OR KNAVE ? 11 >m my I they ••J( to ng out u Hkus 3 never M true, would id any- 81'' nal- Alder- leiit. f, Guy ; of Mr. itjd him, lot John jurcely a an who iiit for- bsolete 30 ly fin«il him I " on\i, over le ability m Burc know, aB or any- about to H energy, lad never jy 8ij;hod 8 friond'H n. XV ere left way, it without •' What / Haveii'f I told you ? " "No. V'lHi never called her anythinjj but 'she.' But that will be a triHi; v»i;,'iie, I'm afraid, from Kate's point of view, and from the postman'a also. It will hardly do to address, ' She, Clarence Hotel, Lond..n."' "Marion Funiess," said ^y, dwelling on the name which, for the first time he spoke aloud in full. At seven sharp Guy Derwent ranf^ the bell at The Cedars, as Mrs. Heron's wedding present from her husband was called. A ftjotman, who must have entered the banker's service within the last six months, asked his name, and led the way into the drawing-room. " What, Guy Derwent ! " cried a brisk and bright little woman, almost running f«)rward to meet him. "Well, this is a famous sur- prise 1 Why, we began to think you were never coming home again ! lam glad to see you. I wish John was a*^ home ! " " Didn't he tell you he'd seen me ? asked Guy, in some surprise on his side. " You know what Jolm is," said Mrs. Heron. " I haven't seen him myseir since the morning — and isn't it provoking ? He's had another of those telegrams that are always calling him off about something or another, heaven knows where. It's ungMteful, of course, but I do wish sometimes that John wasn't (piite so much thought of, so that one could tell in the morning a little about what the day is going to bring. Here's liis note, you see: ** Sudden bubiness ; only just time to catch the train,' " " Ah, then it's nolhing wrong. It's about the new docks, I siippose. And " — he was about to mention the deputation and its consequences, when it struck him that such a piece of news might have been inten- tionally reserved by Heron, in order to have the pleasure of tr Marion Furness, who slept so soundly the tirst niglit of her arrival in Loi'.don that she woke in that strangely delicious condition of knowing neither where she was nor who she v.as — scarcely, indeed, if she was anybody at all. If some of us could only prolong those rare minutes of exquisite forgetfulness ! But that unavoidable reflection has nothing m do with Marion. Everything had all of a sudden become delightful to remem- ber — even those long nineteen years of struggle and [toverty on the other si le of the world, which were still nearly as close as yestorday, and yet seemed to concern another Marion, and not the one who was between waking and sleeping in London. But as soon as sho knew who she was, and where, she was out of bed in a flash, and before the looking-glass, so as to make (luito sure. And what she saw was, on the whole, worth getting up for — a picturesquely irregular little face, bright all over, witn hair almost brown enough to be called black, and large gray eyes full of such changing light and colour under their delicate black brows, that it would bewilder one to Bay of what tint they truly were. Her mouth, f<»r all the fineness of its curves, was auq>ly large enough to promise generous speech from an open heart ; and she had what not one girl has in a thousand — a real chin. The sea wind had failed, or forgotten, to make her cheeks less pale ; but they were hetltliily pale, such as a [)ure white rose may be that just dreams of being a damask one. Such was Marion Furness when, at nineteen years old, she took cap- tive, by her eyes, her voice, and her smile, the heart of (»uy Dorwent in the course of half a voyage. And, despite her sound and dreamless sleep, and her very decided appetite ft»r brcMikfast, he had ample reason to be satisHod with the amount of heart she hud given him in return — for it was a very largo heart, and she had given liim the whole, without (Love works greater miracles than triumphing over such a trumpery difficulty as arithmetic) depriving her closest and dearest friend, hor H)other,of a single atont — nay, rather multi]ilying what she had bestowed iu that quarter before sho had ever guessed that a Guy Derwent oxialed in the world. I KINT. OR KNAVfT 13 *• Shall 1, or shall 1 not i " she, now (Irossi'd and ready for a nc*.v day of sunsiiiiie, asked the ^irl in the ^lass ; ;iiid tin u smiled to soe with what profound Heriousness the U8 generations, and was appropiiately <}uiet, dusty, and dull. When shu entered the sitting-rftom, it was as if a sunbeam were bursting thr<;ugh a f«»g. The room had indeed opened its eyes - that is to say, the bhnds were drawn ; but the daylight they let in was thick and yellow-gray. In short, the rooui was not awake. Last night's ashes were still in the grate, and the smell of London in early morning, which some |)eople find stimulating and grateful, was distinct enough for a blind man to tell in what Hpot of earth he was, though just drop- ped at random from the clouds. "Why — oh, you wicked woiiuin ! " cried Mari«m, darting to the nearest window and sei/.ing a shawled tigure in her arms. " What's the good of my passing by your very door on tiptoe to find yon down lirbt, and rno nowhere? It's too horribly mean and wicked of you- -it is indeed ! " '*Did you think I came to England to sleep. May ? " asked a richer and fuller voice than Marion's, and with a tenderer note in it. They were Lark and Nightingale. " Then, indeed, I did, mannna. I'm sure yt)u'vo had enough of get- ting uj) in the dark on the other side of the world- and the Suwatra doesn't count for resting. Wjiy , the best of the castles I've been build- ing is a great sleepy palace, all full of (juiet and rest, and nothing else in it fn)m top to bottom— for you ! But why didn't you call me i " "Oh, May, you silly child ! as if " " Yes ; as if ! As if I wanted to lose a minute of out lirst real day 1 Oh, dear ! For all I know you may have Iuhmi up for an hour. Perhaps you've never been to bed at all-- wliilo I've been sleeping like a toi) — no, like a pig— no, like a " "Like a happy girl. May ; and I've been sleeping too, like a happy woman — who d(taen't want to lose another waking hour for the rest ijf her days. . . . Yes, May ; when I had to work for our bread, F used to fancy that just to go to sleep and stay asleep would be the very best thing in the world. Hut 1 don't want to sleep any more, now. I want to be awake every hour. There'll be plenty of time to sleep when —you're gone." "/gone?" " Of course, May. Aren't you going to— bo Mrs. Derwent ? " 14 KING OR KNAVE 7 *• Your daughter is your daughter, all — the — days — of— her — life I so there 1 " Mrs. Furness was not one of those mothers who, by their likeness to their daughters, threaten the latter's lovers with evil auguries. She was one of the mothers of good omen — who promise an autumn lovelier in its own way than summer and spring. She had kept her figure ; she had not lost all her bloom. The j ast life of labour, whatever it might have been, had evidently failed to break her down ; whatever ill-treat- ment she might have suffered had left no apparent signs — at least out- wardly. The first name that would occur to anybody to give her was Madam Placid ; and nobody to look at her would dream of her having lived any sort of life but one of unruffled calm. There were, it is true, many silver threads in her hair that was a little less dark than her daughter's, but the effect of these was to soften rather than to ago her more regular features ; and she had a steadier light in her eyes, and, in her colouring, much of the rose. She answered Marion's quick embrace with a slow smile. " Of whose life ? " asked she. ' ' Well — for a few days more, any way, and then I shall be content with whatever is to be. No, no. May ; 1 know what you mean, but Mr. Derwent won't care to be having an old woman always round. He isn't going to marry us both, you know." " Isn't he, though ! And as of course he won't want to have an old woman always round, he's to have one young one — that's me ; and one younger one — that's you. It's all arranged. " ♦'Oh, it's all arranged, is it ? " " Everything. You are going to be his mother, as well as mine." " And my duties ? " " Oh, to sit quiet still, and never do anything you don't like, and everything you do, and tell us whenever we are making geese of our- selves. " " No, May. That place won't do for me. I could manage the sitting still ; perhaps even I could manage to put up with always doing what I like, and never what I don't, though that's harder than people know till they've tried. But having always to toll two young people whenever they are geeae — why, my poor tongue would be worn out in a day." " I retract. It's you're the goose, mamma. However, seriously, it's all settled. He said it himself ; and " *' The King must be obeyed. I see." *' Now, really and indeed you are the Queen of all the geese ! " cried Marion, hiding a quick blush under a laugh of silver. " It's lucky you will have two people with heads on their shoulders to look after you — it is indeed." *' Oh, May," said Mrs. Furness, more gravely; "if in three years He said it " is still enough for you, you will be a happy girl." '♦ But then, you see, ' She said it ' is to be enough for him." "Then he will be a happy man. Only what's to happen if He and She say contrary things ? " " Then the skies are to fall. That's all settled too. " Marion's mother breathed the least suspicion of a sigh, How often KINO OR KNAW f 15 have such things been settled ? she may have thought ; and how often have they held firm ? But it was no moment for reading lectures to j Marion on the trite texts that make up what tho world calls its wisdora. " I think — I am sure, that Guy Derwent is good," said she ; and she did not add, As men go. " A ship isn't a bad place to judge people in. One can see people best in long days of little things — much better than in great ones, which the chances are neither you nor they understand. He is a gentleman. He has no secrets. He is not vain. He is not selfish. He talks sense. He can fall in love with a girl without asking what she is or what she has. And, above all, his digestion is of the [first order. I've watched him eat and drink, and I never saw him any- thing but the better for his meals." " Mamma I " " Do you mean you'd like him to be the worse for them ? Or ought I to have said that he is Shakespeare, and Apollo, and the Archangel Michael, all rolled into one, with just a piquant touch of Lucifer ? " " Don't laugh at me, please ! Of course not — only — only " " I know ; and I'm not laughing. May. I dare say he is all that, and more, to you. And if you're a wise girl he'll remain so to the end ; and he'll never change in your eyes through me. But you and I shall be happy women if he's nothing more than what 1 have seen in him ; and if h'- is all that, his faults can't be very terrible ones — unless they should turti out to be weaki esses. Or mustn't I suppose that he hat any faults at all? " •' Of course he has faults. As if I could care for a saint or a machine Of course he has faults — big ones. For one thing, I am quite con- vinced he has been — wild." " ' Wild,' my dear ? What is « wild ' ? " " As if everybody didn't know ! Why, ' wild ' is — wild." •' Well, it seems to me as if there is somebody, at any rate, who doesn't know. Do you mean that he drinks too much ? " " Guy drink ! Why I would not look at him." "Or gambles?" " He hates cards. And so do 1. '* Or finds pleasure in sin and wickedness, without heeding what hearts he breaks or what lives he spoils ? " *' How can you say such horrible things ! You make me creep all over ! Surely— surely you don't mean anything, mamma ? " "Only that you don't seem to know what yvn mean when you talk as if you were rather proud than not of your lover's having boon ' wild.' 1 do happen to know what benig wild means, and There, May, let us talk of pleasanter things. Breakfast, for instance, and then what we will do after. I suppose we two shall be all alone by ourselves to-day ? " "Yes ; he will have his business to see to at Marchgrave. We are as free as air. We'll have all sorts of fun." " Hypocrite ! Anyhow, we'll have breakfast at once. Then— why, then I know you'll be wanting to write just one h)ng letter, whatever you may pretend. And meanwhile I'll go out for an hour by myself, 16 KINO OR KNAVK t il ! Mi all alone. I must go to the bank, and there's no call for jou to f>r too. It's nogoi»d your arguing the point ; I'm going to h.ive my way. Then I'll come back and find your letter finished, and we'll go out and tf^eiid as much of the money I bring back as we can get through in a day. In short, we'll go shopping all day long ; and we'll go somewhere in the evening. We'll read all the papers tt breakfast, and settle wfiiere,; And then " *• Why, mamma, who's running * wild ' now ? " " Only me. May. Come — don't let's lose another hour of this delightful fog. How delicious it smells 1 " That breakfast was a pleasant meal, and in the very midst of it came the post, with a letter directed to Miss Marion Fumuss, and mtrrked 'Marchgrave.' That was an event — it was Marion's first love-le^,ter, and it came with the greater zest inasmuch as it was the first time sho had seen her lover's written hand. She was shy about opening it ttven before her mother, but the latter buried herself in the theatrical &»ul musical advertisements, and contrived to make Marion feel herself for a few minutes better than alone. And the letter proved better »veeen wild enough to swear. "My mother — Mrs. Furness-has gone out," said she stiffly, be- iuse shyly. " Gone out," asked the visitor. •' Well, I suppose she will soon be ? I'll wait. So you are Miss Fumess. So yoxi are Marion. And like her — as like her — as a lily can be like a rose." The speech was odd enough in itself, apart from his knowledge of ker Christian name, and it was delivered brusquely, not to say rudely. That, however, might be merely manner — he might be shy too. " Yes ; I do know your mother," he went on after a moment's ^ilence, as if he were answering the unspoken question in her mind. That is to say, I did years ago. And she will remember me. But ^ou don't — and little wonder, seeing I don't remember you — though 've not forgotten you, all the same. ... I knew her before you mew her. She's well ? " An old friend of her mother's ! Marion felt that it was she who had >een rude. Yes ; her mother had once had friends, she knew. " Quite well. Please sit down and wait ; she won't be long. I ^ever thought wo had any English friends ! Of course, I'm glad to id myself so wrong. But how could anybody know we were lere ? " " Ah ! I happened to see the list of passengers on board the ^imatra. And the name of Fumess isn't so common that — well, I ranted to see with my own eyes. And they told me at a glance whose ^aughter you must be. How strange — it's just as if your mother had rown a girl again ; as if she'd taken the potion in the ballet, you ^nOw, where every drop takes a year oflF your age, and she'd tiiken n'enty. You can't possibly remember your fatlier. Does she- — your jother— ever speak of him ? " The first roughness was passing out of his manner and his voice, and [arion was repenting. " Sometimes— not very often," said she. " Did you know him? " *• He was my closest friend. . . . She speaks of him — kinrMy, I ^uppose ? " ' ' Surely 1 Her dead husband — my dead father : how could she ^peak of him ? " "Ah ! It must 1' „ve sounded an odd question. I didn't mean to ^ut it quite in that way. Indeed, I hardly know exactly what I did lean to say. . . . Only seeing you puts me in mind of so jany old times and old things that you must forgive me if my (2) 18 KINO OR KNAVE f M H I thoughts bolt a bit now and then. . . . And what have you been doing, you two, all this while ? " **My mother," said Marion, swallowing some feeling of shame that she felt to be unworthy, ** has been acting, singing, and teaching, half over the world : and a hard life it has been — till now. She has wanted friends." She could not refrain from this last bitter touch. It was rather late in the day for old friends to be finding her out, just when she had ceased to need them. *'Ah, poor lady. I understand. She always had every quality for the stage except one ; and that happened to be just the most impor- tant of all. No — I don't mean want of voice, or want of cleverness, or anything of that sort. Never mind what I mean. It's a compliment — of a kind. Have you been doing anything in that way — singing, playing, acting ? " " No. I've longed to do something, if only to help her ; and I some- times think I really can sing, when I feel particularly vain. But she never would let me. Poor mamma ! But I would have done some- thing in spite of her " "You've been having a bad time?" * " As to that — we have not been very often without bread ; at least, I haven't ; for I'm beginning to guess dreadful things about mamma. I was too young to guess it once ; but I know now what it used to mean when she used to come home at night and tell me that she had dined, or supped, out of doors. It meant that she had had nothing to eat at all. '' " Ah ! That's bad. It's a great mistake, that. ... I mean, you said something that Made me think the bad times are over now ? " ** Yes, thank God. Mamma had a brother, who wasn't on terms with her. I don't know why. We never expected a penny from him, and he died without a will. So " " All he had comes to your mother, absolutely and without conditions. I see. It was old Skipjack — I beg your pardon ; old John Raye, of Melbourne. Everybody had a nickname out there, in my — in those times. The old villain ! Fancy hu dying without a will ! However, I've known queerer things happen even than that, and all's well that ends well. So old Skipj old John Raye died without a will." A sudden consciousness came over Marion that she had become most uncharacteristically confidential with one who was, after all, an unknown stranger, even though he had been her father's and was still her mother's friend. She had drifted into confidences she knew not how ; j and yet, even now that she suddenly realized it, it still seemed natural. There are people in whom the shyest and most reticent people (perhaps i these the most) instinctively confide at once, without any discoverable I reason why. In the present case there was assuredly no self-evident j reason why. He was still too far off for her to follow his face clearly ; ' hia questions had shown little tact or sympathy, and, li1;e his manner, had not been without a touch of vulgarity. But there is no accounting for these things. For to talk of magnetic influence is simply to say, in KING OR KNAVE ? 19 af shame that teaching, half he has wanted bread ; at least, about mamma, what it used to me that she had . had nothing to . . I mean, ^ire over now ? " ^j t't on terms with ^i from him, and lout conditions. John Raye, of in my — in those [ill ! However, Id all's well that lout a will." tad become most I all, an unknown ^d was still her \ knew not how ; 1 seemed natural, people (perhaps iny discoverable 1^ no self-evident [his face clearly ; llil;e his manner, lis no accounting Isimply to Bay, in other words, that one doesn't know. However, if magnetism be the word for the thing, magnetism was there. Well — her mother must soon be back ; and meanwhile she could not Kave said anything that could do harm. The visitor, whoever he was, evidently knew, of his own knowledge, a good deal about them and their affairs, and was interested in them in a friendly if certainly rather inquisitive way. And, for that matter, there was no secret ablest in the world to read that of her mind and soul, when once put off leir guard. So he talked, and she answered and listened, until she ,ught the sound of a welcome rustle upon the stairs. She just glanced at her letter with a little sigh. This stranger, or lend, or whatever he was, had wasted one precious hour. No doubi I would waste at least another, and half-a-day would be gone. Per- ^ps the whole day would be ruined, and all its pleasant plans spoiled. must have seen the glance, or c .ught the sigh, for he smiled. *' Here I am at last. May ! " said Mrs. Furness, placidly floating in. And now for our fun " All of a sudden she gave a little breathless cry, and stood just within le door, as if struck to stone. The visitor opened his arms wide, as if for her to fall into them. ** Leah ! " he exclaimed. She did not move a step nearer to the extended arms. She made no 3p either way, and yet one felt that she recoiled. "God in heaven ! " she cried ; *' You have let him find me— after all lese years — and now ! " Marion's brain began to reel. Never had she seen Madam Placid >d — no, not even when death had menaced them in the bush, from or fire, or when they had, in their wilder wanderings, been ship- recked among savage tribes, or when they had been in greater peril long the real savages of the world — men who profess and call them- Christians and yet hunger and thirst for gold. What was this Pystery — who was this man ? It is not for the fawn to protect the doe. Marion, bewildered as she was, darted from her window between »r mother and her mother's— friend. ^i 20 KIVG OR KNAVE 1 1 i! 11' ■ ■ ': 1 '}, 1 1 Her eyes took a new light — they flamed. " Who are you ? " cried she. He let his anus fall to his side. "That's always the way with surprises," he said sadly, *' they alwayi fail. She'll come t(. herself in a minute. My dear — tell her — quietly — that 3'our father has found her at last, after all these years." As he spoke, Marion felt that her very lips turned pale. ^ No word would come. Her father ! He of whom she had thought as of one dead — for what her mother had told to Guy Derwent had :, never been told to Marion. He of whom she had thought with a vagin romance as of some departed hero — and this was he ! 'm " Mamma — mother ! Speak to mo ! Is it true ? " Leah Furness advanced, almost thrusting Marion aside. The dn took her rightful place in front of the fawn. "Adam," she said, in a voice as clear as a bell, "1 thought fl reamed, that we had escaped you for ever, I and mine — I and m; Lamb. How you have tracked us out. Heaven knows : but I, as wei =18 Heaven, know why. Poor, I might have starved ; rich, we ar worth the finding. . . . But what is mine, and shall never hi yours." •' You give your lost husband a strange welcome, Leah," said Adaii'::|| F unless, more sadly than before. "But — you were always strange^^ As to any reason for my finding you whom I lost and have been seek ing — I don't know what you mean. What reason can a husband hav for seeking his wife but one ? Come, Leah. Think of our girl, t whom I meant to give a pleasant surprise — as if, worse luck, planne pleasures didn't always turn sour. My dear, you will give your fathe a kiss ? Tell her, you tell her, what I've been saying. She seen dazed." " I am n(»t dazed," said Leah, making a bar of her left arm betwee: . the man and the girl. " And I say to you in your own words — " Whf. reason has a husband for seeking his wife but one ? " And you knt- what that reason is as well as I. And what reason has a wife f 'hiding herself from her husband, and her child from its father — teac' ing her to think him dead ? You know that too." "No, I don't. But before you tell me, suppose Marion leaves for five minutes alone ? " "It's too late for that now," said Leah Furness bitterly. " Tf mischief is done. She knows now that her father is one from whi . her myther has been trying to hide. So she had best know why. > Marion, don't go. I wish you to hear whatever this man may say.' " Then she shall hear it," said he. " Listen, Marion. I have be an unfortunate man. I have been so unfortuna< e as to have be convicted of a crime. And then, when I came back into the woii instead of finding my wife and my child waiting to receive me, th were hist and gone. Well, that might not have been their fault, have been seeking them round the world : that has been the work ray whole life for eighteen long years. And now, when at last I ha braced them, it is to find my own wife, who ought to believe in =S(S TiiS'. KING OR KNAVE 1 21 ly, "they always tell her— quietly le years." pale. I she had thought xuy Derwent had lUght with a vagm I aside. The d<>-^ 1, "I thought : mine— I and m; vs : but I, as wtiJ ved ; rich, we ar4 and shpJl never b<| Leah," said Adaa| re always strange* id have been seekj wi a husband hav- ink of our girl, 1 1 )rse luck, planne 1 give your fathe |j aying. She seen ' )T left arm between wn words—" Wb^ And you kno^ son has a wife fj a its father— teac!^ Marion leaves cj js bitterly. ''Tb^ is one from wIkx ist know why. ^ s man may say. ,rion. I have bed e as to have be^ ,ck into the worl o receive me, th^ |een their fault, ks been the work lien at last I Iw t to believe inK| pnour and my innocence against the whole world, turning from nie as I'om the criminal that I have never been." There was pathos in his voice and his bearing even more than in his ^ords, digniHed and simple as they were. They went straight to irion's heart — she knew not what to believe. Her mother was her I — and yet, if there was an unjustly wronged man in the world, lis was surely he. " But if I am to lose my wife," he said sadly but firmly, *' I am not rig to be robbed of my child. She is mine for two years more — not much, I think, to make up for the loss of seventeen " *' I see," said Leah slowly, speaking clearly, and yet with the manner one under the intiueiice of a dream. " You — Heaven knows how [-have discovered that it is worth your while to claim as your own a )nian who is no longer poor. You forget only one little thing, Adaui, ic neither the woman — nor her child — is yours to claim." Not mine ? " I "Not yours. I have said it. 1 am not your wife, Adam Furness. id now claim my child if you dare ! " e dream passed from her voice and her eyes. She looked him full the face, and threiv away her good name without the seatblance of a Are you out of your mind, woman?" he burst out. "Do you low what you are saying ? Do you know that your own daughter, ^urs and mine, is hearing you — Heaven knows why — swearing away kur name and her own ? " [•' I know everything," said she coldly. *' It is hard on her to learn It she is no man's child — and from me. But it is true." " It is a foul slander ! " cried he. " A slander on yourself, Leah. sane woman would say of herself what you are saying now. Not wife ? Why, you know that you are. You remember our wedding- p' Enough ! ' said she, " I deny that I was ever inanied— that I jr thought myself married ! Prove it— if you can. . . . Come, Wrion, the rest of this talk must be for you and me." Without another glance towards him, she took her daughter's arm, led her from the room. "That's a bold lie!" he said. "Leah, of all women, t(» sell her name for seventy thousand pounds a thousand times told ! " [e rang the bell, ordered a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, lile waiting for the wine, he caught sight of the two letters lying )n the table in the window, Guy's to Marion, and Mai iun'.s unfinished iwer to Guy. He read them through ; and then he read them >ugh again. 22 KING OR KNAVE 1 CHAPTER TTI. lii! 8BVENTY THOUSAND POUNDS. < Marion, though they had been hidden from her as much as a wan- dering life ^^ ould allow, had not failed to see many of those shadier sides uf life that act so diflferently upon dilferent natures. But her original stock of faith in her fellow-creatures had suifered no diminution ; her illusions were no more capable of being blighted by a breath than if they had been so many diamonds. She had an inexhaustible supply of faiths of all sorts and kinds ; her faith in her mother being paramount over all. Even Guy himself would have to wait a while before in this respect he should find himself without a rival. When, therefore, she heard that mother make so startling a confea- sion, it was as if the world had suddenly started from its foundation. Alone with her, she could ask no questions ; nor, had she been able, did either her mother's silence encourage her, or her mother's first words that brought the silence to an end. **You heard what I said, Marion?" asked Mrs. Furness. ''Did you understand ? " "I h'ail something — I understood nothing," said Marion, with downcast vyes. " You Uiiiy fancy it was not for nothing that I made such a confes sion before you ! It had to be made. Yes — even if it makes you hate me or scorn me, it had to be made I You understand — better anything than that you fall into that man's power." '*I hate you ? I scorn you ? " cried Marion, with all her heart in her voice ; "as if I did not know, as surely as I live, that whatever |:j happened, you could never have been to blame. . . . But " :'^ " You mean you would rather I had kept silence ? Is that wha: your ' But ' means ? " '*! don't know what it means — what anything means ; except thai you are manmia, my own mother, and that nothing — Nothing shall evei come between me and you. And so, why should He ? " " Because, if I had married him, he would have the right." "Tome?" " To you and me." " No. He might have a million rights ; but not the power. I kno| better than that he could have kept you with him against your willj I should like to see the man who could keep me against mine, marrie or no ! And what would it signify if I had to be called his daughte; till I am two years older ? What could he do ? " " What could he not do ? But it is no good talking of what coiik or might have been. It is worth all the shame in the world to be f rei tj^ i ri; KING OR KNAVE? •jr? to tot you, Marion. Thank don't understand ; and pray (he world to be frtfj '^ — fr ill him. 1 can't explain everytliing |heru are injmy things in the world you Jod you never may." Mamuia, I am writing to Guy. My letter has not yet gone." Ah— I remember. We were to have had a happy day ^ell, seni your letter as it is, and give him one. I will write to him, Of coui.'e he must know how everything stands " Mtist he know — everything ? " *' Yes ; he must indeed. And from me. I have already told him >mething ; and he has a right to know all. Don't be afraid, May. ^our lover is a gentleman ; and gentlemen don't throw over girls rhom they love, and who love them, and have done nothing wrong. Te is not the hero of a novel, May." Her mother had not called her *' May " since her confession ; Marion i^^ot till now noticed the avoidance of the familar pet name. But went to her heart, now that it had been spoken. At the same time, )r mother's last words contained a bitterness that they were assuredly ir from being intended to convey. Hero or no hero, gentleman or [nly man, Guy w^ould have to learn a secret concerning her birth that rould reflect upon her mother. Ought not her mother's good name to at least as dear to her as her own happiness — ought she not to guard with her life, if need be, as the most sacred trust in the world ? [ow could she bear to let her mother be degraded in the eyes of her >ver? No — there are a few, a very few, impossible things in the world ; id this was one of them. Rather than that he, of all n'en, should tm such a secret, she must deprive him of the right to learn it — and kat in the only way. I She was as yet unconscious of the full extent of such a resolve ; for le was still bewildered and dismayed. But that she must choose atween her own happiness and her mother's good name was as clear if burned into the air with letters of fire. There were other things, loreover. She had not known Guy long, or, at least, what most >ple would call long ; but quite long enough to know that there was chance of his being soared by a bend sinister. As her mother had' id, it is only heroes and heroines of romance who regard the lack of a Bdding-ring between parents as an insuperable bar to the marriage of children, and hold that the world is religiously bound to punish generation for the faults of another ; as if there were not enough lerited punishment without the help of the world. That Guy held such monstrous theories, and was capable of no such monstrous rowing of stones, she knew as well as she knew that she loved him. the contary, he would open his arms to her all the more widely, and ike his lieart a larger refuge for her and hers. But, then, did it not "ce it all the more needful for her to blot herself out of his story, so It hers might be the self-sacrifice and not his —hers the suflfering, and his the shame ? lot that she was the girl to accept the surrender of her own happi- ' without a great deal of rebellion, whenever the time came for it. w ) 24 KlSa Olt KNAVK? i Tlic difli(;u!tic8 of niiirtyrdom liu in its dctailH ; and theHo ut prunent H worn all to conu'. The flanuj in alwuyH ^loriouH till it liO'^iiiH to Hling. Suddenly it MaHluMl into her mind that Hhe had left Cuy'H letter and her own \yui'^ open on th(; table in the window of the Hitting- room, to bo roaf breaking the lieartH of the women he had left behind him, and of bring ing them to Hhame. Mho hiul never dreamed of bin not having gone away. However it was toor mo- Ithor " ''flood God ! You moan sho is " The poor girl could not iupeak the most torriblo word that can l)o spoken outside of hell. " You need not speak it," said ho. " You know what she has ;8».id ; and all the while we are surely huaband and wife as a nnm and a woman can bo made by church and law t(»gother : ayo, and, once upon n time, by true lovo, too." Maiion'w own brain was (piivering. Tho thought was as now to her ;i8 it was terrible, IJut, with all her capacity for faith, she .know how to reason. And which was tho more likely, after all that la man should assert a false juarriage t<» be true, or that a woman should lassert a true marriage to bo a false one V Surely the latter was irnpos- fiible — unless tho wonuin was what Marion dared not put inti> wokU. If that was indeed so, what right had Marion to distrust the father I who had, after the first instant, inspired Ikm- with no disliki;, and had [neither done nor said anything to make her doubt him ? And, tndtted, the idea of Madness throw a ghastly light upon a thousand thingH- [things which had once Heemed nuitteis of courne, but now Heotiiod : matters of couiHo no longer. Other actresses had not lived her motlMJr's wandering life, never keeping an engagement or remaining in any place for any appreciable time. Others had not changed their pr((fes- Hi'itial names constantly liiid cajtriciouKly. And so on, anw«^ that, and it ;he girl rejoined k between them nd I must leave I was mistaken )ther while. He man who yields one thing to be ^one— to fly. Here is a letter for Guy, telling him— what you know. See, please, that it goes, with your own. And — I am tired. For once, I have gone tlirough tx)-day more tnan I can bear. . . . Well ; we will rest in time. . . . And when that is posted, we will strike our tents once more." *' Mamma ! " cried Marion — what had her father just been telling her i A knife went through her heart at each of her mother's quiet words. That eternal need of flying — that consuming dread of being pursued. However, one inn would bo the same as another, now. She longed to say something — anything ; but she could find nothing to say. She took the letter, directed to " Guy Derwent, Esq., Marchgrave." What ought to be done with it if True, a letter is a letter, and a trust i is a trust. But this letter, telling what her own heart as well as her i father now told her to be false — that her mother was no wife ; how jcoidd she, with her own hands, despatch to her lover this signed death - l» warrant of her mother's good name ? If its confession were true, to [send it would be impossible ; being false, it became more impossible [still. And if it were a diseased drei).m of her mother's brain, to send i the letter would be more than a mere impossibility. It would be an I infamy. For the same reason, Guy had rffeither need nor right to another word. He must learn to forget her ; she must teach him to forget that there was a Marion Furness in the world. Mad or not mad, her mother's daughter could be no wife for him. The letter must not go. And then ? He would try to seek her, perhaps. Well, she must learn from her [mother how women can escape from men who seek them against their [wills. She could — to-morrow, perhaps — write him a lino to break off |the engagement and bid him good-bye. Women are privileged to be [cruel without giving a reason, especially if the greater part of their [cruelty has to be borne by themselves. It would only be, for him, a {single wrench of pain. It could not, surely, break a strong man's Iheart to lose a girl on whom he had never set eyes until a very few jweeks ago. Ho would be happy again, some day — at nineteen we [know the world so wonderfully well, and can predict so exactly wjiat I those fabulous monsters, A Man and A Woman, will always do. We have to wait to learn that A Woman never happens to bo This Woman, nor A Man to be That Man. . . . And then? For her mother, [rest ; for herself, whatever might choose to come. With seventy thousand pounds one can buy rest, and one can try to buy safety ; ' and, perhaps, it is too much to expect to get more than such priceless gifts as these. And so, though two letters had been written, the post carried none [from the Clarence to Marhgrave that day. As for what she felt in 'giving up the man whom she loved with all her heart, her brain waa on fire, and her heart was numbed. She had not time to feel. But her father ? Her very belief in her mother conqjelled her belief in him ; for if he was not speaking truth, then her motiier's incredible confession must bo true. And in that case, was she not compelled by -^---^i It 28 KINU OR UMAVE ! « •'I I circumstances to apparent treachery — was she not obliged, for her mother's sake, to defeat her mother's plans of escape, even while humouring them ? It was a terrible dilemma ; and Marion had never had to rely upon her- self and her own judgment since she had been born. If only Guy were there — if only she could look in his eyes, and say to him, You must give me up as a wife ; but be to me. for this last time, a brother and a friend ! That could not be. It did seem like betraying her mother to leave behind her a trace whereby she might be followed by the man she dreaded and abhorred. But, then, if her mother was Mad — and what else could she bo ? However, the letter to Guy, unopened, was concealed in her bosom ; the luggage was packed and in the hall ; the bill was paid ; the cab was p.t the door. And, since Marion knew not their next destination, there was no means of leaving a trail. " The Great Western," said Mrs. Furneas to the cabman, in a clear voice, so that she could be plainly heard by the hotel porter. Marion's new thoughts and fears for her mother filled her with awe, and closed her lips. The horrible thought of Madress rose up between these hitherto closest and dearest of friends, like a dead wall between souls. Arrived at the station, Mrs. Furness had the luggage taken into the cloakroom, and went with Marion into the waiting-room, where she settled herself in a dark corner — it was now evening — and dozed, or seemed to doze, for the better part of an hour. It was all so strange - stranger and gloomier, it seemed, than their shipwreck on a desert. Thu poor girl was growing senously alarmed. At the end of an hour Mrs. Furness roused herself. '* Come, Marion," said she. Engf.ging a porter, she had her luggage taken to another cab, and ordered herself to be driven to an address almost whispered into the cabman's ear. Off they drove again, throiigh a fog now growing black with night, and between rows of flaring gas lamps which, to Marion's excited brain, appeared like a cordon of demon sentries stationed to keep fugitives in view. " If ho calls at the Clarence," said Mrs. Furness, at last breaking silence, " he will only learn that we have left London by the Great Western. If he in(i[uires at the station, he will — if he learns anything — learn that two ladies might have arrived in a cab, or might have come from the country by train. If he finds th is cab, he will learn that wi- have gone to — where we are goirg ; and if he goes there, he will find us flown again, and past following. Yes — even if he strikes the begin ning of the trail, we shall have had start enough to bafiie bloodhounds. . . . Ah, here we are. I chanced to notice it on my way from Lombard Street to-day. We may have to rough it for a night ; but we're no new hands at roughing it, you and 1. . . . We shall be far away, when this time to-morrow comes." The cab, after many twists and turns, had stopped in a dark, narrow alley, at a window whence a warm light glowed through the red curtains of a long, low casement with narrow panes. Once more tlif KIXG OR KNAVE ? 29 bliged, for her ^e, even while :o rely upon her- If only Guy y to him, You time, a brother 3 betraying her be followed by mother was Mad d in her bosom ; lid ; the cab was estination, there at last breakinj? m by the Great learns anything might have come 11 learn that we ere, he will find ;rikes the begin- ffle bloodhounds, n my way from 'or a night ; but We" shall be n a dark, narrow through the red Once more the cab was dismissed ; and Marion, now falling into a dream, followed her mother through the intervening fog, and across a yard of greasy pave- ment, into a close and dingy passage where a man in shirt-sleeves received the two ladies with a stare. "No — nothing can be wrong! " exclaimed Guy aloud, when he lea[»ed from his bed the next bright morning at Marchgrave ; "and, what's more, nothing shall — and nothing ever shall ! " This was Tuesday ; and on Saturday he proposed to run to town. It was a long time to wait— nearly four whole days. Happily for him, however, he was not an idle man, either by heed or nature ; a whole ^\\e of arrears waited for him at his office ; and then there was to be the delight of letter- writing — alas, that it should pall so sadly soon ! — for which four whole days, though with seven posts in them, would be none too many. It was a pity that John Heron's sudden absence had caused a day's delay in the invitation of Marion and her mother to Marchgrave ; but, after all, a day or two would not make much diflFerence in such a life as his was going to be. His one regret was that this would be one whole day without Marion — his first real one since he had first seen her on board the Sumatra. For he had parted from her only on Sunday, and on Monday he !;ad done little but talk qi her to the Herons. To-day there could not be even a letter. Well, it would come to an end : so impatient are we for the sun to set even on our brightest days. And a letter, fragrant of Marion, would come with the new sun. However, be he never so industrious, a man's ledgers and letter- book can never be quite the same comfort to him as they used to be before a new sorb of air and light came between them and his eyes. At mid- I day, an impulse that seemed uncontrollable inspired him to look in at the bank. " I really ought to see if Heron has come back," said he, *' especially after dining and spending a whole evening tete-a-tete with his wife — there's a bill for chaflfdue on both sides." He forgot to add to himself that John Heron, having been made free of the subject of Marion, was, therefore, the best substitute for her own self that was at hand. The banker, however, had not returned ; and Guy had not the face to invent an excuse for another call upon Mrs. Heron. She would too surely have seen through him ; and then business really did require I attention. When it was ovei', he spent the evening in writing his I second letter ; and then subsided into tobacco smoke and dreams. Wednesday mornirg opened brightly above, but sourly below. There I was no letter from Marion. And as the day opened, so it went on. [There was none all day. Nor could he call at the bank, for a French ship had come in from a client at Havre, and plunged hiui in insur- jancos and bills of lading up to the eyes. Which, under the circum- stances, was just as well. But when Thursday morning cama letterless, he began to think of [scarlet fever, small-pox, broken limbs— all sorts of anxieties, defined |«nd undefined. Two women from the Antipodes ought never to have 1 1 ti!jri '!;,»i 30 KING OR KNAVE? If III been allowed to go to London alone. It would be his eternal crime if anything had happened. If he did not hear from Maricm by the last post, he would throw the Lricille of Havre to the winds, take the night- mail, and be in London before another sunrise. As the time for the last post drew dear, his impatience drove him to the post-office itself, so that he might know that day's fate the moment the letters came in. They arrived at last ; and there, sure enough, was a letter for him with the London postmark, and addressed in a woman's hand, both delicate and firm — altogether worthy to be Marion's own. But no sooner had he opened it than his face changed, and he was at The Cedars as fast as the first fly-horse at hand could crawl. It was after banking hours, or he would have gone to Chapter Street ; but, any way, John Heron would surely be at home again by now. John Heron was at home, sitting with his wife over the study fire. If the banker's parlour was stiflF, dingy, and choked with traditions and cobwebs, the home sanctum of the justice and the future member was a model of dignified comfort, wherein the master of the house was to be seen at his best, his innumerable public cares laid aside. Both husband and wife welcomed him heartily, with outstretched hands. " You are a good fellow, Derwent," said the banker. " And what's more, we've been taking the liberty to say so behind your back, Kate and I. Sit down, and light a cigar." " I hope Everybody is quite well ? " asked Mrs. Heron. " I — I hope so," said Guy, in a way that changed the nature of that evei -ready sympathy which insured her a certain charm for young men with love-stories for the rest of her days, however many they might be. *' I've come on business, Heron — banking business, though " "Though it's the wrong time," sighed Mrs. Heron. " Oh, dear ! I did think better of yoti, Mr. Derwent. Just two hours home again- and of course all Marchgrave tearing him to pieces before he has time to turn round. Of course, it's in the nature of the rest of them — but oh— You ! " "Never mind, Guy," said John Heron, with a laugh. "Kate grumbles ; but she's proud of it, all the same. Never mind «hop hours between you and me. I hope there's nothing wrong ? " ' * I hope not— I think not," said Guy. " But " Mrs. Heron could take a hint before it was given. "I shan't forgive you, all the same," said she, than six minutes over the affairs of the sun, moon Marchgrave." She left the room, and left a pleasant smile behind. " Now then," said Heron. " Out with it : and— it is wrong. " No — but very strange. . . . You remember what I told you on Monday about my future father-in-law ? " "Well?" " Then read this letter. It is from Marion's mother. And tell ine what to do." if you are more stars — even df ill] KING OR KNAVE ? 81 eternal crime if rion by the last , take the ni^ht- he time for the lost-office itself, he letters came a letter for him nan's hand, both 'b own. But no L he was at The wl. It was after Street ; but, any ow. er the study fire. I with traditions le future member of the house was id aside. ^ ;eith outstretched | jr. " And what's [ your back, Kate : eron. bhe nature of that rm for young men my they might be. hough — - " " Oh, dear ! 1 .urs home again- pefore he has time Irest of them — but a laugh. "Kate [ever mind «hop [' if you are more )n, stars— even of lit is wrong. Iwhat I told you on ther. And tell me The banker settled his pince-nez, unfolded the letter slowly, and read ^loud. I* Dear Mr. Derwent " (it ran), "The letter you received yesterday from me will have told you rhat need I have to protect our Marion (I will say nothing of myself) rom the man who calls himself my husband. We have left the ISlarencc, and are staying at a small inn, called the Green Cheese, in Mink Lane, in the City. To-morrow (Thursday), the day you get ^s, we shall go back to Southampton and put up at the hotel where re parted — I forget the name : if we have to leave for elsewhere before jeing you, I will let you know where we are gone. But it is not lough for us to remove ourselves. It is my fortune, or rather [arion's and yours, that he is hunting ; and it must be in safer hands lan ours, over which he will surely set up claims if he knows where it to be found. I dare not leave it in any bank here. But he knows >thing of you ; and you are a man of business whom I trust, and who [ill do your best for Marion's sake and mine — :I will not insult you by Iding for your own. I thereby enclose you a draft on Messrs. Drake, Lombard Street, which I have procured this day, for the whole lount — £70,000, which thay are prepared to meet, as I have arranged Hth them this morning. Marion knows nothing of this, I need not jiy. *' Affectionately yours, •'Leah FuRNEss." * '* I suppose you will invest the money, so as to give us a moderate icome. But that I leave to you. Oh, Guy — be good to my May I id you will — for I, even I, have not quite forgotten how to trust ; lid 1 trust ymi. And you alone." "Well?" asked John Heron, refolding the letter, and letting his pince-nez fall. ■i " You know as much as I do," said Guy. ' ' Evidently that scoundrel iitts turned up again — and evidently there is a letter, or, I expect, two Mtters together, that I have not received. Of course I am off to Sbuthampton by the first train — but meanwhile " H| John Heron considered. ■ I " To be sure ; by the next train," he echoed. " Wait a bit, though ! lOcnow a trick worth two of that. Telegraph. The post's a snail, and vHe express is a tortoise. There's nothing like wire. Wire tliem, *C!onie to Marchgrave ; ' tell them to come here to me." _^Guy Derwent was a Marchgrave man ; and John Heron was John ""iron, whose counsel was diamond, and whose word was law. And »s was the best of all laws- -the law of Chivalry. Why should not a ' »ker be a knight-errant— a protector of damsels and a champion of les? We are not told that Sir Gareth of Orkney was a financier, he may have been. And in that case there is nothing to hinder a icier from being a Sir Gareth of Orkney. Bankers become knights ; 32 KINC; OK KNAVE? it and if their knighthnoil mt-ans no.'^hiiijr . . . tluMi nuiRt .folm Homi. of Maro'igrave ho hold an oxcoptiuii to a rule. Yes such a wiro ivs that would l»o drawn of gold indi-ud. (»uy dvi-w a breath of doop ridiuf. Ho coidd not woll liavo reniiiidod his friend of his ollbr and promise ; and his friend had reuiend>ered both <»f his own free accord. " You are a brick, Heron ! " said (!uy, schoolltoy-wi.se, his eyes kind- ling. " I'll telegraph this minute — " What— and rob Kate nnd me of your company f No, no ! Kate will never forgive you : and you've mortally oilVntlcd her already, you know. You must make your peace. Here are forms ; send one tn Sotithampton and another to towti, and I'll send a special mcssiiuger tol the station. I always keej) one on the premises these bu^y tiujes." J " And the money ?" asked (3uy, Iriving tilled ui> the forma withou!| the least respect to nuudter of words. He would have preferred to liel liis own messenger ; but he could not refuse to stay for what, after all,| was nothing more than a whim. " Shall I bring the draft to the bar I to n\orrrow, or '11 y(»u take it nictureR(]UfncHH of inmiaii life, and human nature, and human struggle — foul and hcjiiiblo thoy may be, but they are not dead and dull. People starve ; but they help one another. But the far North goiio- rally, and Piggot's Town in particular, has never yet struck anybody with so much as a sense of actual existence. The people do not actu- ally starve, so there is no imperative call for anybody to trouble about them ; and, in effect, nobody does trouble. There is nothing particu- larly foul or horrible about the qua»'ter to create a national scandal. There is simply an air of feebleness, purposelessness, and universal blight beside which the grim struggles of life on the Lower Thames are stimulating —as being life, after all. Nothing is remembered about Piggot ; but it is wntten upon the face of the work that lives after him that he must have been three things at least: a Builder, a Bankrupt, and a Fool. No builder, I without being a fool, would have started a mushroom settlement on j the edge of an undrained marsh, where nobody would ever want to {live for choice ; and nobody but a oankrupt could have left so complete ' a blight behind. Then there is such an air of pretentious gentility about its grime and |B«|ualor. Behind undulating flagstones with toe-traps and greasy hol- lows, diversitied by mounds of dust and litter, runs a row of shops, [half of them two-thirds built, and all of them empty — some with " To [Let " chalked ominously on broken and tumbling shutters. Not one lof them has ever been taken : not one ever will. Between this forlorn [row and an exceptionally black railway siding is the public promenade |and recreation ground ; for, as the people have nothing ostensible to mrk at, they must play. And play they do, in a dismal way of their making incnsnant and mysterious use of bent buttons, lumps of iy chalk, potsherds, and oyster-shells. Trade is represented here- abouts by a public-house at one end of the shops, and by a shed close the siding, devoted to knobs of coal, two or three faint-looking cab- >ages, and a bottle of pink and yellow sticky-looking balls. The prospect is repulsive in its very monotony. There is nothing to itch the eye — not even a tall chimney. The visitor feels in his bonea lat were it not for the expanse of soot, and black dust, and premature y, he would look over dismal and malarious marshes. Here and lere he may catch sight of a stagnant-looking ditch, coiling about in most incalculable way, and cropping up in all sorts of unexpected laces. However, as it is not likely he will remain long to watch the ^ondescripts hanging about the door of the Royal Albert, or the bare- ugged girls playing hop-scotch, or the scrofulous youths trying to cheat another with buttons and farthings, or the eternal string of trucks reeping through the railway bridge, or the solitary dock-loaf— the bntire flora of Piggot's Town — on the edge of the sewer, ho will no foubt fare further down a by-street labelled Belvedere Road. Here, at the entrance, he gets a view of what were intended for the ickyards of the shops, had anybody been induced to trust them with capital — as things are, simply a chaotic debris of rotten palings, (3) ^/"T" 34 KING OR KNAVE ? I ,11'* , i m m m 1 III M m broken chimney-pots, old boots, and more oyster-shells. Here, also, half the houses — all with one storey, one door flush with the street, three windows, and no basement, as if turned out of Piggot's only mould — were to let ; but the rest partially revealed the secret of their being. Piggot had evidently not intended his Town for artisans ; but mainly, one might guess, for the clerk who marries a greater fool than himself on twenty-iive shillings a week, and, by the time he is fifty, struggles to make it thirty by trying to entice a lodger and a possible son-in-law combined, who may repeat the same round of imbecility, and increase the number of the most helpless and hopeless class in all the world. On each side of Belvedere Road hung the inevitable slums — blight upon blight — where the ladies of Piggot's Town did their marketing ; and such hands at a bargain were they that their purveyors carried on their business at a loss on the whole, and were swept away and renewed in a body with almost annual punctuality. What became of those who vanished nobody ever knew, any more than what becomes of the pins ; the greater wonder is that anybody should follow them in their ruinous career. Piggot's Town could have supported with ease a dozon county court lawyers, if it could have afforded half a fee among them. So who shall say that the East dares hold a candle to Piggot's Town ? For there, at least, nobody has to keep up appearances ; there, at least, pluck and muscle are of value ; there a man can make a real fight before he falls. There is nothing even to tight in Piggot's Town ; and anybody with an ounce of pluck in him would take the first train for Elsewhere. The far end of Belvedere Road, opening upon a quagmire, was called Euphrosyne Terrace ; and each of the very last two houses in Euphr syne Terrace (the aristocratic quarter, distinguished from the rest c.f the road by a doorstep, an area, a knocker, and an extra storey) had a crimson lamp and a brass plate to scowl at one another across the way. So like they were, no mortal might one from the other know, except [>}' the difference of name upon the brass. On the left was ~ ~ Smith, Surgeon ; " on the right, *' Wyndham Snell, M.R.C.S etc., etc., etc.. Physician, Surgeon, and Accoucheur." Mr. Wyndhpm Snell was a slim, youngish-looking man, with a pink complexion and fair hair — rather good-looking in a chinless, snub-facoii sort of way. The four most observable points about him were a pair i ; singularly white and delicate hands, a more than needful display (i dingy linen, flaxen hair brushed and plastered into a pyramid, and tlu sweetest of smiles. He was smiling now to himself as he stood drum ming upon the parlour window, watching a maid-servant carrying ou a big medicine-bottle from Sniith's, over the way. "That's Wigley's girl," muimured he. *' Poor Smith ! It's wondi^ ful what an affinity there is between that plodding dolt and the patient that never pay. ... I only wish there were one or two more tlia did pay " His remarks were half to himself, half to a stiff, angular, sharp-fen tured and underfed-looking youngish woman, in rusty brown, engage "Mr. E. , L.A.C., KINO OR KNAVE ? 85 B. Here, alB<., rith the street, f Piggot's only secret of their ^r artisans ; but reater fool than time he is fifty, and a possible nd of imbecility, eless class in all le slums— blight their marketing ; eyors carried on iway and renewed ame of those who )mes of the pms ; m in their ruinous ae a dozon county ,Tig them. ,™ to Piggot's Town ? I es; there, at least. " naUe a real fight gaot's Town ; and ^the first train for lagmire, was called a houses in Euphr-;' jd from the rest c.{ xtra storey) had u ler across the way. p ler know, except by left was "Mr. E.i M.B.O.S.,L.A.C..| y" man, with a pinl^ chinless, snub-facou t him were a pair < ; needful display *i a pyramid, and tlu as he stood drum (rvant carrying o»' -^rnith 1 It's wonder j^ doltandthepatietit| )ne or two more tha/ , angular, sharp-fev usty brown, engage in studying a heap of jjreftsy scraps of paper at the round table, the top of which kept sinking dlli«i 40 KING OR KNAVE ? " Adam Furness — by Jove ! " " Yes ; here I am," said the other, still noting things with his eyes. " Everybody meets everybody, they say, once in seven years. How- are you flourishing ? Seems to me, from what I've seen of it, that this is a neighbourhood where a doctor ought to do well." " Rather," said VVyndham Snell, throwing a warning look at his wife, who had reseated herself and taken up some sewing. " There isn't a better neighbourhood for practice than Piggott's Town. If it wasn't for a doctor or two, the people would die like flies. No wonder you're surprised to see me here, instead of Harley Street or Saville Row ; but in our noble profession, Furness, we're bound to be in the forlorn hope of the battle. Poverty has a claim, sir, before which even dyspeptic duchesses, nay, royalty itself, must give way. This house is not a palace ; but we must take things as we find them. There's hun- dreds of medical men — I don't blame them, mind — that will look after princes and peers ; and that all the more obliges the chosen few of us to devote our talents to the poor. ' *' I see. Philantliropy. Not a bad game when its well played." " It is hard, you niusfc own, when you're telegraphed for to a consul- tation over a — never mind who, in Mayfair — to send back word that a greengrocer's tenth baby prevents your coming." " I suppose so. Well — conscience does set hard tasks, no doubt ; but then it gives high pay. " "Very true, Furness; most true. I'm afraid I can't offer you a glass of wine. I have to practice on temperance principles in a place like this ; and I mustn't keep for mj'aelf what I mustn't prescribe. But of course you'll stop and dine ? " The table gave a tremendous creak ; which told Adam Furness, as plainly as if it had spoken in words, that Wyndham's foot had come in expressive contact with Julia's. "You forget, Wyndham," said she, with frigid docility. *' You iu\ engaged to dine in town. Oh, hang it — so I am. A medical thing, Furness, where I'hi iu Hamlet in the play — indispensable. I don't know what I should dv without Julia. She's my social memory, you know. Well — another time. " The same cold smile came and vanished that had come and vanished before when he threw her a crumb of praise, and, for just a single moment, took ten years from her age. "And — by the way — talking of that," said her husband, with a laugh, "do you happen to have any loose change? I hate changing notes before I'm obliged — on principle, you know — and it isn't worth while to carry a lot of gold up to town and back ago in. And, in a poor neighbourhood like this, it's downright funny the style a doctor's shillings and sixpenses run away. Could you spare me— h'm — half-a- crown ? " "No, Snell. I can't spare you half-a-crown. But I'll spare you five hundred pounds." Mrs. Snell nearly let her sewing drop, she started so. Her husband threw himself back in his chair. KING OR KNAVE? 41 with his eyes. n years How of it, that this ing look at his wing. " There ;'8 Town. If it BS. No wonder treet or Saville and to be in the (fore which even . This house is I. There's hun- it will look after chosen few of us veil played." d for to a consul- back word that a »8ks, no doubt ; ■an't offer you a ,ciples in a place lustn't prescribe. .damFurness.as Ifoot had come in ility. *♦ You n.i\ Ilk where I'l^ rhat I should do J — another time." (me and vanished Ifor just a single Ihusband, with a I hate changing md it isn't worth And, in a poor style a doctor's lie— h'm — half-a- lut I'll spare you lo. Her husband I** Five hundred pounds ! " Why the devil do you put on your windbag airs to me ? Don't ] )w how you're off, and don't you know that I know ? You're ring in this heaven-forsaken hole because it's the only place where can squat for nothing ; and because nobody knows you. You don't 9p wine because there isn't a pothouse that will trust you. You're engaged to dinner ; you've got no bank notes ; and you want half- )wn for just the ame reason that other men like you want half- rns. You're an impostor, Snell ; and I hate imposture. You've 3d as an actx)r ; you've failed as a finance agent ; you're failing as a jk ; and your confounded conceit would make you fail even as a ^ide, if you tried. No offence, Mrs. Snell. Ymi won't mind what Well — I'm come to give an old friend another chance — and this you can't fail." Tyndham Snell shrugged his shoulders. I Oh, Julia won't mind. She has a fine sense of humour, has Julia ; san take a joke, and so can I. If there's anything we can do for Furness— without prejudice, you know — we'll do it with all the sure in life " [Never mind about the pleasure. To come straight to the point, j's a lady, in whom I'm interested, tliat wants a home, with medical idance, and strict privacy." lady ? " asked Mrs. Snell, very sharply indeed, lady. In short, my wife," said Adam, ind you," said Mrs. Snell, while her husband silently contem- his finger-nails ; *' you propose that your own wife, a lady. Id lodge — here f " Sooner herj than anywhere. Where is there to be found such rivicy ? Wnere such careful watching ? Where such undivided ndSbal attention ? " There mig'at be the dream of a sneer in his words ; 9rtainly no more than a dream. " There's only one little thing 1 to say. This lady, though as surely married-to me as Mrs. Snell ^ou, is subject to one slight delusion, or rather two. She has a morbid hatred to myself ; and she believes herself, poor thing, [unmarried. It's strange ; but " .case of monomania — and exceedingly interesting, "said the doctor. I should like to undertake the case. I'm writing a book on diseases of the brain. But it's a serious thing. I'm not sure, il come to think of it, that five hundred pounds " fuite so. Five hundred pounds down, as a premium ; that should you to put your house in order, and make a fair profit for a year ; be bothered with monthly bills and payments, and that sort of I don't know myself where I may be. . . . Or, wait a bit. do you say to this— add a thousand to the five hundred"— he at Mrs. Snell as he spoke — " and cure her as quick as you can t »e I mean money down. " |doctor and his wife exchanged looks. pen hundred pounds all at once-— a leap fmm an abyss into the I of air. :j?f W 42 KING OR KNAVE ? 'i"!i|i||in m 1 •. or live . Mrs threw *'It's worth thinking of," said the former. "Of course, fiftei hundred's none too much — and there is nothing takes so long to cure monomania " " Well — take it or leave it," said Adam Furnesa. " I don't suppoi it will be hard to tind a doctor who'll take in a woman with a weak li for fifteen hundred, and run his chance whether he makes a profit oi of her or no. . Wyndham Snell's eyes roved instinctively to the brass plate acra the way. I "Do you mean to proi:)(>se that if this poor lady's cure took twent years I should get no more ? " " Just so. iiut then you'd get no less if she died to-morrow." I There was no special emphasis upon the words. But they wei spoken just slowly enougli for each of them to tell. And, though tli{ were received in dead silence, he added not a single word more, till ea^j had its full time for weighing and being weighed. " If she died to-morrow," he repeated, in an abseiiu way. . . *' Mrs. Snell will kindly prepare a room ; and meanwhile you'll, nia a run up to town and see my poor Leah. You'll have to judge of I state of mind. You'll have to assure yourself of her state of* mi towards me ; and to hear what she says about being married, woman denying her own marriage — who ever lieard of such a thint,' i of Bedlam i And I'm afraid she's got a weak heart, as well as a we brain. However, all that's for you to judge, as her medical atteiuli — not for me." " Is there — is there any chance of her refusing to come ?" ' ' Every chance— if she sees or hears of me. None, if you tell that you come on the part of one Guy Derwent, of Marchgrave. Yi'| say that he has gone to Southampton, and sent you to town, so t| there might be no chance of missing her ; and that you, being the* to tind her, are to telegraph to him at Southampton, and to acconipi her to Marcligrave. But I'll give you your exact story, as we go.' " And when she finds herself here ? " "When that happens — I leave things to you; and" — he beiitj head politely — "to Mrs. Snell. Perhaps fifteen hundred was a mean. Say two thousand : fifteen hundred down this very aftern and when I hear from you ^'lis day week, five hundred more. . No ; not another word. That's my very last, and " " If we start at once, we shall catch the eleven-eighteen. Julia, dear " Adam Furness left the parlour first ; husband and wife followon: "And you said," she half whispered, "you'd sell yourself to- Nick — for five hundred pound." " I didn't — so hold your jaw. But if I did — what then ?" " You've done it for four times the money. That's all." " I haven't. But if I had — the more fool he. . . Two thou?' Julia 1 When he might have had the couple of us for two half -en' . . . Well, well. There's no pleasing a woman. When she's f she worries ; and when she is rich she worries all the more," KING OK KNAV?: 1 43 " Of course, fiftct tesaolongtocurea " I don't supped man with a weak liil le makes a profit o| he brass plate aero iy'8 cure took twen'^ ied to-morrow, .rds. But they wej 11. And, though tlif ;le word more, till eii^ bseuo way. neanwhileyoullinal II have to judge ot tl of her state of- mH ub being married. >ard of such a thint a yard away. I ! it 'III I'll 44 KING OR KNAVE ? "■Iv. ■ i The widower started — he nmst for the moment have been far himself alone. " Yes — it's that," he growled. *' Poor Leah — poor girl I " "I mean poor me," said Wyndham Snell, in the same monot( before — atone that nature or cultivation had taui^ht to carry just as the ear it was meant to reach, and no farther. " It's just my and I'm — hanged if it's my fault this time." " What the devil do you mean ? " asked Adam Furness roughly a sudden flash in his eye. " Hush ! " whispered the other, nodding slightly towards the of the sofa, over which a hidden face was bowed. " I mear I'm ruined by one minute and a quarter — that's all. On mj it's hard." Adam Furness had already faced round upon him, and now sur the man he had meant to make his tool with a long look of grave i Then his eyes followed the direction of the other's nod, and resti an instant upon the hidden face and tumbled brown hair. There should, by rights, be but little room for pity in the hei one who had, in effect, be n hiring an assassin. But no man can hard of heart as not to feel some sort of awe when fate, or cham whatever be the power in which he believes, has taken his crimi its own hands and saved him from the need of developing sinful thi into sinful deed. It tempts a man to believe in Providence itself while gaining the reward of murder, his hands are left clean. "Oh — you mean your fee," he said. " Come downstairs. \N talk before the child." Ever since their flight from the Clarence, Marion had livel dream. It is just in dreams that we hurry off by unknown w escape from unknown hunters ; that we find ourselves now in a railway-station, now crawling through a fog, and now in some da dingy inn, our lives growing all the while more and more confust strange faces crowding out sense and memory. And could this than a dream — would she not wake up in a moment, and tou mother's warm and living hand ' So surely thus it seemed that she endeavoured to wake. Bu never entered her deepest and wildest of dreams that so dear beautiful a mother should die. She was numbed in mind and i as if in an actual nightmare, when one may live four whole horror in a fraction of an hour. Had her mother spoken to 1 ^ead lips, she would not have been amazed. She did not mo gjie was left alone. Her whole body was heaving; but no me. (jyj.j*resently a hand was laid on her shoulder — heavily, but no is \\ 'y* ^'^® '^**^ '^**^ wondered that her father should be here. ti/onderful in a dream, ^easf Marion," said he. A first broken sob told him that she h knov ' *'*''' ^^^ ^*'''*' " ^^"ten to me. . . . You must listen 'v it's hard. Can you — to a word '( Very well. I am youi m KING OR KVAVE ? 45 (Toured to wake. But| clreaiTis that so dear^ umbedinmindandij uay live four whole ^ mother spoken to hi^ ed J^he did not \nos{ ma heaving; but not! ton. I must think for you ; and I have been thinking for the best, tust and 1 believe. That gentleman who came with me is Di-. |l ; 1 brought hiu) to judge, as a physician, of your poor mother's of mind. . . . Well, . . . and he finds her dead of her heart. . ?o he certifies. You will have to live somewhere, you know. I've mt'd for you to stay, just for the present, with Dr. and Mrs. Snell." je looked up — still with dry and burning eyes. She was terribly and forlorn — parted from her mother by death, from her lover ^orse than death ; and all in throe short days. What mattered it \e she went, for a time, so long as it was far enough from March - ), and beyond discovery by Guy ? She could write to him from ^here ; and how her life must be filled, thought and time must ind — mamma ? " said she. I question must have bewildered him if he was speculating on any lition to his plans. Everything will be seen to," said he. " You can do nothing more I is no place for you. And . . . you will come now. Yes ; you je by yourslf five minutes if you like. Only remember that the is waiting to take you home ; and that a physician's time must wasted by a girl. Never mind about your things ; the people rill see to them." \e minutes, as it were, for a breathing space between two lives — pcond as incalculable as that which lies before us when we die. alone, Marion pressed her lips to her mother's forehead, cover- face, kneeled down beside the sofa, and tried to pray without More than the five minutes' grace had been given when she jimmoned by a sharp tap on the door. )d-bye, mamma," she breathed hurridly, without another glance I face ; and hurried away. journey, first by cab and then by rail, was performed in silence is she was concerned, while her father and the Doctor, of whose ^nionship she was only dimly conscious, conversed in too low a >r her to catch more than an unconnected word or two here and ), before leaving the better streets, the cab stopped at a large >uilding, and two or three times at shops, where the Doctor got a minute or two and returned with various parcels ! so thai by le they reached the station they were inconveniently loaded. Jn«j the shed .hat did duty for a station at I*iggot's "Town, the J, great and small, was left on the platform ; and, while Wynd- leli was astonishing a wooden-legged loafer with the sight of a ialf-crown, and giving directions about the things, Adam Fur- )ke to Marion. |e Snells," he raid, " are people I can trust. The Doctor, being and a philanthropist, is of course as poor as a rat ; and he has homely woman without an H to her skin — your learned men lo. But I've put it in their power to treat you well, and like a Ind I shall see you from time to time whenever I can. For the 46 KING OR KNAVE 1 OC ■ ! Ml first time, in a week from tc^-day ; and then we can talk further ab your plans. For now — good-bye." "Now, Miss Furness," said Wyndham Snell, hurrying up to he:; "as they haven't sent the carriage, 1 dare say you won't mind walking to Euphrosyne Terrace — it's not tive minutes — and I hope, I do hopf we shall be able to make you feel at home. We're a bit in the rou2 at present — our servants struck last Friday, so we haven't had time t get new ones ; but all that will be put right in no time. And, after al one doesn't measure welcome by the yard." To find an eminent physician living, without servants, in a bai settlement was very much less strange to one with Marion's experiunc! of distant travel than her new host supposed ; she had taken mu: greater incongruities as matters of course, and, had she been in a cri 1 cal humour, his excuses would have been to her far more curious th 4 the things excused. No common-place courtesies came to her lips I way of answer ; and they reached Euphrofyne Terrace without anotk| word. " Ah, here we are, Julia," said he, as, having opened the door v\ his latch-key, he went first into the narrow passage. Mrs. Wyndh Snell — Miss Furness ; our new guest, my dear." ' ' Miss Furness ? " exclaimed Mrs. Snell, surveying Marion fr head to heel. " Miss Furness, Juila. A sad circumstance has changed our p! Would you mind stepping for a moment into the parlour, my d young lady, while I explain ? Mrs. Wyndham Snell is naturally tai a little by surprise. . . . There, Julia. So that's dcme. Two thous#l in my pockets — all in bank notes and gold ! I think we'll astor Smith now, eh? Two thousand! Ah — Skill's the horse to back ^ the two mile after all. 'Tisn't every physician that makes his thousand a day— his seven hundred and thirty thousand a year ! ' " You said Miss Furness," said she. A woman whose notions of finance are bounded by the task of ha to buy shillings- worths with sixpenses is not easily carried away golden dreams. A visible five-pound note would have been far mi impressive to Mrs. Snell. " Yes ; exit mother — enter daughter. And a live daughter like:"* for a dead mother — I call it a good exchange. Adam Furness such a bad lot, after all — I've known better men do shabbier thii; I have indeed." " That girl is to live here — in this house — with you and rae ? " **' "In this house — with you and me." " And for how long ? Is that arranged too ? " " Julia, one would think your father was an acute angle and ;• mother a quart of vinegar. Yes, it's all arranged. More than* minutes, and less than a hundred years." " My father was a respectable coal merchant, and my mother | cousin to a dentist, as you very well know. I don't pretend f o j star, and a cherubim, and a hangel— T do my duty in that statiij life ; and if everybody did the same, 'twould be a better world. « KIXO OR KNAVE ? 47 i talk further abod ^em that do their duties, they have their rights ; and I'm not going have that — girl, in this haouse, no, not for a thaousand paound. id 80 — there ! " [•'And quite right too. Nor tvould I, my dear. But it's for two >usand, you see." I** Nor for ten thaousand, then ! So there ! " I*' Julia! You would turn away Fortune when she is knocking, sitively double-knocking, at the front door ? " I "I'd " [He with all his coolness, she with all her stiffness, almost jumpel. ^r even while he was speaking the double knock came. Then, however, Mrs. Snell recovered and opened, it was not to a ly holding a pair'of scales and with a bandage over her eyes. It jfht, nevertheless, be Fortune, all the same ; for the shapes in which comes are countless — sometimes, indeed, making people slam the >r on her very nose, and without ever learning whom they have led away. On the present occasion, if Dame Fortune it were, she le in the guise of a broad-faced man, with a sullen, do;^ged air, a ^ous odour, and black and broken nails. Lt such a sight, it had been the habit of Wyndham Snell, for lonjjj |t, to retire into invisible privacy, leaving Julia to deal with the ly. On the present occasion he thrust himself chivalrously in it of the lady, and substituted for her sombre sharpness the gent of smiles. And pray, my man," he asked, " who are you ? " I'm no more a man than you be ! So none of your soft sawdei me, Doctor Snell," exploded the representative of Fortune in a )w that must have been heard half down Belvedere lload. " I'm that's who I am." [Crisp? Well, I'm glad to see you, Crisp, I'm sure, whoever you One of my patients ? Let me see — anyhow, it isn't a case of lungs." [Patient, indeed ! No, Doctor ; it's Impatient, this go. Here's oldest boots, my missus was green enough to take in while 1 was -but they don't take in me. Not another patch on 'em till I see polour of my little account ; and that's two pound twelve for ovei ^ear. So here's the old things ; I'm not going to Hud no morti ker for nothing, not I. So take 'em to them as will." |mething black flew over Wyndham Snell's head, and fell in the of what had once bean boots at the foot of the stairs. Lnd if you want to know what's to follow them boots, 'tis a sum- ," shouted Mr. Crisp, for all Piggot's Town to hear. " I reckon [e got sticks enough for two pound twelve— not that you've paid >em, I'll be bound. But every man for himself ; and a man that [ pay his bootmaker — that man ought to be flogged at the cart's id what of a man who doesn't pay his medical attendant— eh, |risp ? "asked Wyndham Snell cheerfully, ipays mine— and he's Smith ; and for why ? Because he pays mo, " I 48 KING OR KNAVE? li- IT! " Ah — mutual accommodation, I suppose. He cures your body, i you mend his — no ; I won't waste a pun. If you had any sense humour, Mr. Crisp, you would perceive the folly of asking a pro: sional gentleman for money in such an untradesuianlike way. I ' going to give a rather extensive order for boots, and should of con have preferred to patronize a local tradesman ; but you have compel me to transfer my custom to the West End, and hang me if I'll ever a good natured thing again. I've done with you, Mr. Crisp ; and w every tradesman in Piggot's Town." " That's true enough. Doctor — seeing they've done with you." " They'll have to be, my man. Pick up those boots, Julia. Tha you, my dear. There, Mr. Crisp. One — two — three sovereig You'll give me a receipt and the change. And rtiere, Mr. Crisp- make you a present of the boots ; you may wear them yourself, if j please. And now be off for an impudent blackguard ; go to blazes, j cobbling thief, and if they condescend to ask who kicked you thj with your own toe-leathers, say it was Doctor Wyndham Snell." Mr. Crisp's eyes became saucers and his mouth a yawning abyss amazement as he stjired from Wyndham Snell to the sovereigns j back again. No — they did not fly away. He scrawled a receipt w a pencil-stump on the bill, and stood dangling the old boots, one each hand, in a feeble sort of way. " Sir," said he, in a hoarse whisper, '* don't you going to no ^fl End ! You'll get them new boots twice as bad and half as chea^J I lie — that's to say, half as good and twice as dear ! " He went off like a cobbler in a dream — a tradesman of Piggot's T' who had been paid his whole account, all at once, and withof haggle, by a customer, and that customer Wyndiiam Snell. On' way to the Rf»yal Albert, weighed down with a piece of local news] would come thundering upon his fellow-patrons of that establisho like an avalanche, he passed the milkman and then the grocer's yil man each on his way to Euphrosyne T(}rrace, and each with a df mined air. He guessed their errands ; and, slapping the gold! silver iu his pocket, quickened his step to the Royal Albert, tha^ might be the very first with the golden news, and start a new sco'] his own. Wyndham Snell turned to Julia, as another quick rap — shar; single, this time — fell on the door. "That will be the candH maker," said he. " I gave a porter half-a-crown at the station | it has brought the hawks down. And you'll turn away Miss Fur' Well, well. There's always a workhouse ; and there's always a g^ Mrs. Snell sighed — a long, deep sigh. But she went to thf| and let the milkman in. If only Fortune had come to Euphrj Terrace in a little less fair a form ! Marchgrave was fairly roused from its torpor. It had Docks j )>rain. When John Heron dropped a spark, it never failed to burst ini KINO OR KNAVP ? 49 aresyo«tbody,a.'? I had any seme ' J of asking a profes anlike way. ^d should of vouhavecompells: Z- me if I'll ever ^ Mr. Crisp ; and ^t 1 war COUK That^ lone with you. boots, Julia. , _- three sovereigri rt.ere, Mr. Cns^- | them yourself, iji .mrd; go to blazes 5 yndham Sp«"- , ^^. th a yawning abyw J to the sovereigns J scrawled a receipt , the old boots, on«! 'crccx. t jar 'i-^-'i^nti^o; at once and Snell. On? ^.rp^roflocalnews ^Joi that esteblisl I then the grocer sy e, and each With a Ji 1, slapping the g- he Royal Albert, and start a new i Im V Iher quick Lt will be rap — shai the candli crown at the station turn away Miss * '; to the' Euph' nd there's always a iBut she went had come to It had Docks ^Tpor bver failed to burst int^ e was not merely the man who dk^ams greatly; he made others dream eatly too. And not only so, but his great dreams turned out to be at facts, that bore the test of waking. But never had any of his ns been on so grand a scale as this, or borne such promise of being nificontly fulfilled. Even when ladies called upon one another in afternoon, the talk, instead of beginning with what might pass for ngs in Marchgrave and presently plunging into persons, scarcely n with persons before rushing into things — the Docks, and nothing the Docks, always and everywhere. In one way or another, every- y's fortune was to be made, either by having a finger in Dock pie the beginning, or by sharing in the general wealth that would fall rge upon the town. There would be opposition, of course. Every- iy knew that. But when had anything, in great things or small, essfully opposed John Heron, of the Cedars and Chapter Lane ? [t was rather premature, of course, on the part of Alderman Sparrow suggest, in strict confidence to everybody, the idea of celebrating opening of the New Dock, when that came oft', by unveiling a sttitue ohn Heron, marble or bronze, at the meeting of the four ancient ts in his native town, where the City Cross had stood once u]ion a in addition to hanging him — that is to say — his picture in Shire However, when a place wakes up in,the manner of Marchgrave, with a burst, like a sudden spring after a long winter, when the fes promise blossoms and the blossoms fruit well-nigh before the has fairly melted out of mind. And artists in bronze and marble re time, as even Alderman Sparrow himself was dimly aware. It " hardly do to entrust such a work to the hands of Wilkins, in ince Road, who called himself a "sculpture," and was great in mental cherubim. The face of the banker was anything but bic ; and then it was generally thought that the statue should be for the sake of greater dignity. No doubt there was a certain of anticipatory gratitude in all these plans for John Heron's r glory. But there was a great deal of honest public spirit, all me, as is mostly the case in the hero-worship of a town that con- real John Heron. urse these ideas were studiously kept from the ears of its object, Kate, his wife, could not help catching an occasional echo. hile they gave a personal zest to the main business of the Docks Ives ; so that, in tine, there was but a single human being (not ng infants in arms) in all Marchgrave who, though a man of and entirely amenable to new and energetic ideas, failed to full and living interest in this great scheme. This was Guy int, who had sent two telegrams and had received no reply. Not ' had he heard of what to him was worth more than a million ks since that fragmentary letter from Mrs. Furness which had rred Marion's whole fortune into his keeping. He wrote, of but in vain. And finally, business or no business, there was for it but to sot out either for London via Southampton, or for pton wa London. What were a world of docks, if Mario© there to see ? knt *l I i m .'■«i?i 50 KING OR KNAVE? For a hundred reasons it was needful to see .Tohn Heron, if possibl before starting. The banker was to be the ladies' hont ; he was tli confidant of their story ; he was constituted their paymaster, advisei and trustee. Moreover, a lover, if he be also a shipbroker, is not s entirely master of himself and his time, and his client's time, as thos delightful lovers of romance who never have any responsibilities excep to their sweethearts, and never anything at all to do, whether they b rich or poor. Guy was as anxious and as passionate as the idlest am least responsible of them all. But then he had the Lucille of Harve oi his hands, not to speak of others ; and a foreign captain is not lightl) thrown overboard. Then, what with dock business, and what with tli- politics into which the popular candidate for Marchgrave had throwi himself with his accustomed energy, he was always being called ava suddenly, and none, not even his wife at the Cedars or his principj cashier in Chapter Lane, could ever be sure when he would return. At length, however, Guy contrived to manage matters so that, with( risking irreparable injury to his clients, he could give himself a Friiii. for travelling to one or both of his alternative destinations, a cle^ Saturday and Sunday for whatever might befall, and a Monday for I retuxn to Marchgrave, bringing, as his inmost heart and hope coa not fail to trust, his love safely home. What could ' ave gone wrun except the post, after all? Had Marion been ill, he w ^ assuredly ha| heard. Had her father been proving troublesome, - mother's let: hod Assured him he would have heard all the more. The anxieties tl had been heavy upon him while he could go nowhere and do nothi; lost half their weight so soon as he was able to go and to do. So things are utterly impossible because they are too unspeakably cri; And that anything should be seriously wrong with Marion — that ? surely the most impossibly cruel of universal things. No : Marion ; his love for her were far too sacred things to be made toys of by cha.V; or doom. He paid a last visit to the postoffice, and a twentieth to Cha[ Lane, on his way to the station. No letter— no John Heron. Soi ] ampton or London — which should it be ? It was almost a case for the only unbiassed and almost the only re sensible way of arriving at a decision on any practical question — H« or Tails. That method gives an even chance of doing right ; every " gives at least ten chances to one of doing wrong. Had Guy Dei ' only taken from his purse the first coin that came to hand, spun ii the ledge of the ticket office, said " Heads — London," and had For (as is her wont) favoiired the boldness that trusts her all in al). history would here have come to an end. As things were, howi^ he trusted his judgment ; took his ticket for Southampton ; Lost a Day. It was therefore not on the Friday, but late on the Saturday, th reached the Green Cheese in Blink Lane. There had been sf)niei fantastic about the place to Marion, when seen through a veil o| and flare. Guy, less fanciful, only saw a mean tavern, in a mean! alloy, distinguished only by an air of shabby antiquity from huDiil KING OR KNAVE ? 51 Horon host if poBsiVde. he was the paymaster, adviser, upbroker, is not . ent's time, as tho« ponsibiUties excep lo whether they b ?; Is the idlest a.c iuciUe of Harve J aptain is not \xM 8 and what with tb 'chgrave had throvr. ys being called aw., dars or his prmcii« he would return^ otters so that witW. give himself a *n , Winations, a clei and a Monday for leart and ^^v^ ' e mother's letj ?e' The anxieties tl ::hereanddonotb. o eo and to do. bo °too unspeakably c^ ^'^ ^^r^aSoi SeSsofbych.^ twentieth to W John Heron. ^^''^ coul o nd almost thj only «j ractical question- -^« doing n;,ht;ever>; ng 'Had Guy De me to hand, spun ndon," Irusts her things were, ho^^ ■or Southampton , ■ and had For; all in all more. It was evidently not a place where a chance customer would drop in for a glass of ale : far less a natural halting-place for a lady. So little. Indeed, was it the latter, that Guy passed the red-curtained window wice and three times before he could inquire at such a place without extravagant absurdity. And, moreover, when one has been a prey anxiety for days, and at last the moment for ending suspense has ved, so inconsistent are most of us that the more the heart is full { impatient eagerness, the more painfully it is sure to plead for just me moment more. At last he entered the close smelling passage, and then the bar, where blotched and pimply man in shirt sleeves, bald-headed and club-nosed, as serving a knot of seedy-looking cust-omers at one end of the counter, d a red-haired girl was chatting with a smart and smiling gentleman OSS the other. Except for these two it was a solemn though shabby kthoring ; and yet Guy knew by instinct that he had come into queer impany. And Marion — here ! " Are two ladies staying here 1 " he asked of the pimply man. The latter turned upon him a long, slow gaze. ** No, mister. There's no ladies kept here." An awkward sort of whispered chuckle eemed to come from the knot smokers, round. Guy's spirit turned at once both faint and angry, ugh he scarce knew why. ' Have none been here within these seven days ? " asked he. " This " e Green Cheese, Blink Lane ? " This is the shop, mister. No mistake there." * And no ladies are here — have been here V e landlord of the Green Cheese shifted his gaze from Guy to the customer at the other end of the bar. Then : No, mister," said he, shaking his bald head " This is a respectable se — none of that cattle here." mehow, Guy felt that the man was consciously lying. And yet should he lie ? Unless — have we not all heard of such things ?— on and her mother had, in some fit of fright and folly, strayed into n of robbers and murderers and — Fancy shuddered at the picture laid her pencil down. Of course the thought was wild ; but Guy a countryman after all, to whom legends of London were more fact fable, and were saturated with all manner of gloomy mysteries — in innocent-looking floors, hidden cellars, and the unfathomable its of the Thames. shouldn't have thought your house was so large," he said, ,t you'd have forgotten what seems to be so unusual a thing, I n to know that two ladies have been here within the last seven til , on the Saturday Ce had been s^t. een through a veil c rtavern,i«amean^ antiquity from hunfl Tou know a great deal, mister, about my house — a precious deal , than me. Why should I deny it if 'twas true ? 'Twould be It to me, so long as they drank square and paid their score — least- as somebody paid. " I know this much," said Guy, speaking low and doing his best to [cool," that I have a letter from one of them in my pocket at this f ' r'*kl 1 ;|: ill II 52 KINO OR KNAVE 7 Blink moment, telling me that they were then at the Green Cheese in Lane." " "Women are rum," said the landlord of the Green Cheese. '* Lost your sweetheart, sir ? " asked one of the group, giving a genial wink to another, and a jocular nudge to a third. " That's bad — but never you mind ; it's not half so bad to lose 'em as to find." *' Ah," said another, '* but to lose two of 'em at once — no wonder the gentleman feels a bit put out, and so would you. " '*Not a bit, I'm sure he's welcome to the lot of mine. P'r'aps if you'd show me that lady's letter, sir, I might advise, knowing the ropes of London better than a gentleman from the country could be looked for to do. It's a wicked place, is London. Eh, Jellitt, you bald-head- ed old sinner ? None of your tricks on travellers. Give the gentleman his sweethearts back at once — do you hear ? " Temper must reach boiling point at last, and Guy's boiled over. "Ther, Mr. Jellett," said he, " if that's your name, since I cant make you remember, I must find somebody that can. 1 don't fan y this is a house where the police would find themselves welcome " Allow me, my dear sir, said the smart customer, leaving his chat with the barmaid, and advancing with a winning smile. " I think / can settle this little matter. Mr. Jellett is quite right to make no admissions. How can he tell what the motive of,your inquiry may be ? Jellett, though he mayn't look it, is just a lump of chivalry ; and unless you can convince him of your good intentions, you may have him drag ged to the gallows before he'll say yes when he thinks it his duty to say no. He's just the most honest, the most chivalrous, the most faithful, the most pig-headed publican in all London. There — don't blush, Jellitt ; it's true. But a gentleman knows a gentleman when he sect one : and so I know you. There have been two ladies here. But they're gone. Our friend Jellitt's right there." " Gone ? " tiAked Guy, touched with a new distrust. " Have you any [ reason " *' For knowing, or for interfering ? I attended the elder for — a pass- ing ailment, as a medical man. In that capacity you find me here now." " And where are they gone ? *' Well — I suppose it is no breach of professional confidence if I say abroad. Yes: the}' distinctly told me abroad." It was a safe place to send fchem ; but it tallied with the letter. And a sudden flight abroad tallied also with the same terror of her husbaiui that had induced Mrs. Furness to rid herself, for surer and swifter escape, of the fortune now safe in John Heron's hands. Guy began t< hope that he had found help at need. The drowning man does not] require credentials from his straw. ** Did they tell you nothing more than that ? " he a<;ked. Now tha^ the gentleman had come forward, the shabbier customers had fallet back and left the end of the counter clear for quiet speaking. '* Yoti will do them, and me, an infinite service if you will call to mind every | thing you can." :i I « KINO OR KNAVE 1 53 ihoese in Blink Jheese. . ,, giving a genial that's bad -but find." „ce— no wonder nine. P'r'apa i« nowingtheropea could be looked b, you bald-head- v'e the gentleman boiled over. ,me, since I can t 1. 1 don't fan y 1 welcome — — •, leaving his ^}^''^\ nile. "I think/ right to make no r inquiry may be I tiivalry; and unless lay have him drag- tsithisdutytosay the most, faithful, ^ere— don't blush,! imanwhen he sewi ladies here. 1>»M t. "Have you any! le elder for-a pass- you find me here| confidence if I »»>'' th the letter. And rorof her husband T surer and swifter Guy began t Hian does not! [ids. ing Now that! had falle t speaking. "Yo^ 1 call to mind every le a'iked istomers " ()f course — of course. I'd tell you with pleasure anything 1 could remember— and more." " Did they send no messasre to anybody before going away ? " *' Let me see. . . . Oh, yes ; they sent a telegram. 1 des- patched it myself — of course, it's not exactly a professional duty : but — the good Samaritan — you understand." *' Ah — then you know the very message " •' Confound my — memory ! That's what comes of tackling a big book on the top of an overgrown practice like mine. I remember — the telegram was one of my own, to fix for a consultation in the Isle of Man ; it was a letter I posted for your ladies at the same time. Of course it was a letter " " Addresbed to " "Ah, addressed to. Let me see. . . . I've such a slippery memory for names. It's cases I remember. One gets to be like that, in a practice like mine. Why, I couldn't tell you, ofi-hand, the name of the nobleman I've got to see in the Isle of Dogs, without looking in my notebook. . . . Addressed to — I have it. Guy Derw&nt, Esquire, Marchgrave." " Thank you with all my heart ! " baid Guy, his heart relieved from a load. Had he only waited a *.ew more hours patiently at Marchgrave, he would have had that letter — perhaps even now he might have been look- ing into Marion's ey^s ; perhaps oven bringing her home. *'Pray don't mention it," said his friend. "Anything I can do ou're welcome, I'm sure. Perhaps I'm not wrong in thinking I have ihe pleasure of speaking to Mr. Derwent himself ? Allow me to intro- uce myself — Dr. Wyndham Snell. You may have heard of my little ork on Tuberculosis Mesenterica ; but perhaps medical literature isn't your lino. It's an amusing — I mean an interesting little work, hough, if you ever find yourself with an hour to spare. I wish I ever id ; but — well, well. One mustn't complain. Take the word for it of successful man, Mr. Derwent ; there's only one way to succeed, and (hat's — to succeed. If you don't succeed, why you may remain unsuc- ssful all your days. That's always been my maxim from my cradle ; ,nd it's proved a sound one. What can I offer you ? You mightn't ink it from appearances, but Jellitt there keeps some uncommonly ecent champagne. These sort of queer little old places, that anybody ho didn't know the ins and outs of things would turn up his nose at, Icen do." "Thank you again. Dr. Snell, and gcod-night — I'm more than glad have met you," said Guy, too full of his own affair to notice any of is new acquaintance's little mannerisms. His one thought was to get ck to Marchgrave by the quickest train, there to find the letter that as doubtless waiting him, and to hurry to wherever it would summon 'ill— even so sacred a tiling as business must go to the wall now and en. He did not think it needful to throw Mr. Jellitt more than the lightoat of nods as ht? turned fioiu tlio counter towards tlie glazed "SiM? 1 ^m llllSljinli i\ ,1' ■' 'I'll 54 KING OR KNAVE t door, which opened aa he came close to ifc for the entrance of a new- comer. Guy started back as lie came fjuje to face with hiiii. "John Heron ! " he exclaimed. CHAPTER VI. VESUVIUS AT HOME. Marion, not being deaf, was compelled, in spite of herself, to hear at least the louder portion of the argument between the physician ant the cobbler, including the flight of boots from the street-door to the stairs. Nor, despite her being a stranger in the land, and used to rough ways, could she reconcile it with any available theory of the man- ners and customs of aristocratic England. However, this was a queer world — so much at least she had learned since she had left the Equator behind. Meanwhile, she must wait in patience till she should see her fathei and learn to know him. Whatever iirst impulse had suggested, reason could find no cause for mistrusting him. He had unquestionably im- pressed her ; and such an im])ression could readily pass for the natura recognition between kindred blood — which, they say, is thicker than waior. Accepting the only too strong likelihood of her mother's mad- ness, her father had done nothing, allowu.g for some natural rugged- ness, that did not become a loving husband and a father anxious to Erove himself tender. It was not his fault tha his wife and child ha( een so hard to find. Nor his fault that his wifo, when found, gave him a bitter welcome of fear and horror. Nor his fault that she had died, not in his arms, but in a chance tavern, whither she had crept for futile refuge. And anything rather than faults that he had followed a wifo, whom he might fairly have taken at her word, in order to protect and care for her, and that he was now burdening himself with the care of a girl who was not the less a stranger to him because she chanced to be his child. Well — who ho was and what he was she must needs know very soon ; and until then, and for the rest, it mattered little where she mourned. Perhaps, indeed, it is better, when a iirst great sorrow comes, that wo should be forced ) . nee from all familiar sights and sounds, be thrown straight among ne./ faces, and be com|)elled to cut ourselves adrift, without a breathing space, from old things and old ways ; and all this before the heart wakes fully to its Kjss and ceases to be numbed Marion could not so keenly miss her mother's face and voice in Euphro- syne Terrace, Belvedere Road. Rather to meet with such a face and such a voice in such a place would be strange — like finding in a dust- heap an angel's wing-feather. It wimld be easier to think of her as in' a better and a happier world than that which contains Piggot's Town. KING Oil KNAVE 1 65 trance of anew- .f herself, to hear the physician and street-door to the land, and used to theory of the man- ■ this was a queer ad left the Equator )uld see her father d suggested, reason unquestionably ini- pass for the natural say, is thicker than ' her mother's mad- )me natural rugged- father anxious to p wife and child had len found, gave him that she had died, f had crei)t for futile lad followed a wife, >rder to protect and f with the care of al she chanced to hej puds know very soon;! where she movirnedJ rrow comes, that wo id sounds, be thrown s cut ourselves adrift'. d ways ; and all tins! ases to be numbeilf and voice in Euphrd-I with such a face andj e finding in a duHtl to think of her as in^ ;ain8 Piggof B Town. After what seemed an interminable lev^e on the doorstep, her host ime into the parlour flushed ;iiid triumphant, followed by her hostess, lokisig cold and grim. " You'll excuse your being left alone so long. Miss Furness," said the )octor ; "but a professitmal man can't call himself his own master, fou know — not for an hour. Patients never can be got to observe con- iulting hours ; and they will persist in coming in crowds. And as for their manners — well, it isn't for society that one exchanges the enerva- ting allurements of Mayfair for the Sparbm regimen of an incompletely fashionable suburb. But the noblest of professions, Miss Furness, has privileges as well as its responsibihties. I don't pretend not to appreciate orttilans eaten in ducal company ; but then one doesn't see tuch a variety of practice, and my work on the Epidermis — aa we call the outer nkin — requires conditions for study under all sorts of unplea< mt conditions which— well, ducal complexions are not sufficiently apt afford— and so " " Miss Fumeas would like to see her room," said Mrs. Snell, sharply tnd icily. "I've tidied up the second-lioor back as best I can. And you're going to that great dinner up in town, I've arranged to give tisB Furness her refection as soon as the things won't be in your way." " What, Julia ! do you suppose I don't know my manners better than [hat — to leave a lady guest to feed all alone with you the first day she [omes ? No ; we'll all dine together ; and, mind, I say dine. *■ Befec- [ions ' be — Hanged," " Then I'm sure I don't know where to cut enough off that cold ^nuckle for the two of you," sighed Mrs. Snell. "It's true I might md out for chops again, now things have took another turn ; only we lan't get the tiring in in time ; and we must have a new gridiron. . 1 thought you was to meet the College and read a pyper ' Why, where are your witsV Didn't I tell you 1 looked at my it, and found I'd made a mistake —that paper on Hypochondriasis is ted for — well, not for to-day. Didn't I ? Well, so it is, anyhow. le can't be expected to keep a million engagements in one's head, as they were so many — so many — ideas. And if the whole College of lysicians was to go down on their bended knees to ask me to read a hundred papers, do you think I'd throw over Miss Furness the 9t day she condescended to come? " The Doctor's right hand made a wave towards his heart, as he bowed lid beamed. Marion followed Mrs. Snell up to the narrow stairs, lose carpet grew more fragmentary until it disappeared, into a room a crazy -looking bedstead in one corner, a rush-bottomed chair Ith a broken back, and an apology for a toilet-table in the window, Irniahed with a distorting mirror, a beerjug tilled with water, half a of dry soap, and a cracked soup tureen. The window, without a id, looked over a patch of marsh and a deserted bricktield to a black rizon of complicated railway linos. I hope you'll be able to make yourself comfortable," said Mrs. all. "But I'mafrydo you won't," she added, in a tone tliat very dis- Ictly implied, " And I decidedly don't mean that yon wliiill." SB KING OR KNAVE ? u iin' i 1 ■ ' A\ , 1 '■ ■ ■ . Ig<\ .■ ■:,|l; .;■ t. ''Si 11 1 ■ 1 1 i 1 ft |i li J ! ! III f 1 i n ■ 1 " I'm sure it will do very nicely, indeed," said Marion, though rather blaiikly. " Please don't give yourself any trouble ; I don't want to give any at all." So humbly and so sadly the poor girl answered that Mrs. Snell, despite the prejudice against personal beauty, turned sharply round with a less stony look in her eyes. " I'm told how you just lost your mamma, Miss Fumess. Is is true ? " If the sour and down-trodden woman had only been a little less awkward she would have opened her arms and made a friend for ever. She might have felt that Marion was thirsting for a touch or a word of sympathy — of a woman's sympathy with a woman, which, if not always the best, is still the most needful. But that is as much as to say that she might have spread her wings and flown over the moon. " Yes," said Marion — if she said any word at all. '* That's a pity. Though if it's true she had a bit of a bee, of course it's nob so hard. And a precious big bee she must have had to marry Adam Fumess— a regular^ mWe-bee." " He is my father, said Marion. *' No oflTence, I'm sure. Though I wouldn't be touchy about that, if he was mine. He was a coal merchant, and brought us up to be lydies — though I dursay you wouldn't think it, now. There. If you miss anything you've been accustomed to, take the hairbrush and hammer the floor ; my room is just below." Marion did miss a great many things ; but she certainly had no notioo of summoning back hostess whose whole bearing seemed delibe- rately repulsive. Nor had she been much more favourably impressed by the vaunted manners of her host, which seemed to her a trifle over- flowery. But then she had always been taught that genius is not to be judged by common standards ; while it is notorious that the most brilliant men invariably go out of their way to marry the most inap- propriate wives they can find. Well — it did not matter. Nothing mattered ; nothing could ever matter again. So she sat down on the edge of the creaking bedstead, and cried with all her heart and eyes. At last, what sounded like a clattering of a pair of tongs upon a teatraj warned her that she must return to the parlour. She had more that half a mind to plead a headache, and go to bed ; but her luggage had not yet arrived from the station, ancl sha had many misgivings as t what Mrs. Snell's treatment of a headache might be. So she took the simpler alternative of going downstairs. Mrs. Snell's threats of an insufficiency of cold mutton were unrealized to a startling degree. Only her husband's occasional stoppages for par eels at the London shops could account for a table spread with bewilder^ ing profusion. Either he or a wizard had covered the round tabl^ with all manner of cold things, displayed at a single view — p&t6 dj foie gras, smoked goose's breast, salamd, oysters in their deep sheik Roquefort cheese, lobster, game pie, various cak^s, and chaos know] what besides, with champagne to wash it down. The plates were cracked the knives chipped, the forks and spoons of German silver, and ther was nothing but a pewter pot, a cracked teacup, and a chimney-pic KING OR KNAVE ? 57 Marion, trouble ; thougli I don't ornament for the champagne. But one must have a mortal objection to nightmares to quarrel with the fare. "And yet there's doctors, and big pots too," said Wyndham Snell, letting a cork fly, " who'll tell you that piecrust, and shellfish, and all those sort of things are unwholesome. That's all gammon, IViiss Fur- nesB. I'm a specialist on hygiene ; and 1 tell you that the more com- plex the creature the more complex and artificial ought to be its diet — and what creature is so complex as man, unless, indeed, it be woman ? You see before you the Feast of True Reason ; and I trust you may find it accompanied with some not inconsiderable amount of the Flow of Soul. I have a theory that man in his final development will wholly exist on p4t6 de foie gras. Have some now. This is the best sort — look at the truffles. Welcome to Euphrosyne Terrace, Miss Fumess. Julia, give Miss Furness an oyster — she looks tired." Marion had to make a pretence of eating, and of sipping from the acup, the mantel-piece spilljar falling to Mrs. Snell. Fortunately er want of appetite passed unobserved by the Doctor, who, reducing is medical principles to practice, made an entire circle of the dishes, ..^_.nd then rebegan at the beginning, ouchy about that, ii™^ "We'll have in a grand piano to-morrow," said he, lighting a cigar, xt us up to be lyaie8™«4 j^^^ Wyndham Snell is passionately fond of music. You sing, of . that Mrs. Snell, ed sharply round mess. Is is true?" been a little less a friend for ever, touch or a word of hich, if not always luch as to say that Q moon. , of a bee, of course i have had to marry Chete. If you miss irbrush and hammer rtainlyhadnonotioni 'ing seemed delibef avourably impressedi I to her a trifle over I that genius is not to| riouB that the mostj larry the most inapl )t matter. NothingI she sat down on tlw! er heart and eyes. tongs upon a teatraj| She had more thaii^ but her luggage hao lany misgivings as t Ibe. So she took tht itton were unrealized I ial stoppages for pai^l jpread with bewilder jred the round tablt Single view— pAt6 J| in their deep shells* ifis, and chaos ^"^^^"^^ le plates were crackedj liian silver, and ther" [and a chimney-piect urse ? I've observed that a beauUfui voice always goes with eyes like ours. And so do I. We'll learn some duets together. I'm an peratic tenor — up to C sharp ; I've taken the top £ flat, real chest oice, before now. People usedn't to know the diflerence between me d Giuglini ; and if you sing half as sweet as you speak, we'll make a ir." "Wyndham," said Mrs. Snell, " people don't sing before their others are half cold in their graves." *' Don't they? Of course not, I mean. But it don't take long to ;et Mhole cold ; and then they can— eh ? " Day by day, almost hour by hour, a transformation crept visibly ver Euphrosyne Terrace, Piggot's Town. The house grew gradually rnished ; Marion had no longer to sleep in a chamber that a maid-oi- work would have scorned. A cook and « housemaid followed, to it on as best they might with Mrs. Snell. The meals became frequent, s chaotic, and less cold. The threatened grand piano appeared, and, some magic, was squeezed through the front daor. And forthwith, strange to say, the patients who had hitherto patro- ^zed the simple doorplate of E. Smith, Surgeon, felt a magnetism that w them to that of Wyndham Snell, M.R.C.S., L.A.C., Physician, rgeon, and Accoucheur. In the mornings the latter had no longer stand at his parlour window, smiling, envying, and trimming his '~ He found himself in such sudden request that, had his patients ils. ly been of the paying sort, he might have set up a carriage on the ength of his practice alone. As for Julia, she was reduced to wan- ring about the house, and to climbing and reclimbing the stairs for it of anything in the world to do, like some ghost of a housekeeper inting the scene of her ancient reign, and finding the repose of the ive iiu uoinfurt, but a wearinesu tu brain and bDUoa. I ■ ■■* ■ Vt' l-l-f r, r ■11 .:l?l 58 KING OR KNAVE t Marion wrote to Guy. And if her first letter had been hard to write, what had this to be ? After all, it is one thing to sentence one's own heart to death — it another thing to deal the blow. But it had to be done. " It must all be over. Do not ask me why. It is no fault of mine — none of yours. That is all I oan tell you, now or ever. You must live as if there were no me in tiic '.vuild. Tliat ought to be easy — for a man. It is only to look on a few weeks as if they had been a dream. Do not try to find me. You would only distress me beyond words ; and so I shall take care never to be found. Only forget me — that is all." To such, in effect, came her letter ; for, though it was a long one, it told him nothinj? more. When it was written, she felt that she had been writing with frozen ink ; but she could not bring herself to read i it. For go it muse ; and if she read it, it would never go. So sh« signed the death-warrant, and sent it to be posted in London — that no| postmark might tell tales — by Wyndham Snell. And, under the cii- cumstiinces, she might as well have thrown it into the ditch where the] dockleaf grew. " Foi*," he argued shrewdly, " there's just one certain way to makej a man hunt out a girl like a bloodhound till he finds her, high or low— I and that's to dare him. If that letter goes, then good-bye to Miss] Marion." She had better have thrown the letter into the ditch. The dockleafi could not read. Perhaps it may be thought a little strange on the part of Dr. Snell that, having presumably been paid his fee in advance, he should be anxious to retain a guest whose company must thenceforth be all lossl and no gain. Perhaps he did not like to take unfair advantage of hi| position. Perhaps he, being by no means ungifted with fancy, saw ii^ Marion a Mascotte — a bringer of good luck to every roof that shelter her. Perhaps he had more complicated views. But, however tliii might be, to Julia it was all as clear as day. Where is the woman whcj does not believe that she can read her husband through and through] And being right in her belief six times out of seven, what wonder she sees nothing to baffle her the seventh time i And certainly, if men are to be judged by acts, and acts by coloure spectacles, Julia, who had nothing left her to do but to watch anol worry, found plenty of occupation in that way. So far as Marion knew* Dr. Snell might be a model of all the domestic virtues. But Julii could count on her fingers the number of occasions on which Wyndl ham had spent an evening at home during their residence in Piggot'l Town— eight she made it, counting once when the line was blocked bj a railway accident, and three times when he was out of sorts and wante nursing — before Marion Furness came. Within the first nine days her visit, however, he stayed at home no fewer than seven times. Il was true he had a separate reason for every one of them. On Monda}! for example, he had to read up a case of pericarditis that had coiuj before him in the morning ; on Tuesday he was tired with his giowiiif KINQ OR KNAVE 1 69 een hard to write, ntence one's own But it had to be no fault of mine , ever. You must t to be easy— for a liad been a dream, me beyond words ; forget me— that is ' i was a long one, it i felt that she hMf ring herself to read i never go. So sho | in London— that noj Vud, under the cit- the ditch where the [-.ertain way to make s her, high or low- n good-bye to Miss itch. The dockleaf he part of Dr. Snel nee, he should be sol anceforth be all los fair advantage of m ;d with fancy, saw in jry roof that shelter But, however tin ire is the woman wM trough and through 3ven, what wonder y and acts by colourei^ o but to watch am' o far as Marion knew, c virtues. But Jm ions on which Wynd residence in Piggoti e line was blocked b; at of sorts and wantr the first nine days than seven times. H Ethem. On Monda; rditis that had coii tired with his giowiK practice, and needed to go to bod early ; on Wednesday it rained ; f)n lursday he expected a Bummons from Mrs. Crisp ; and so on, and so N't possible objection could ever be made to one of his reasons, tken alone. But there was the one fact for Julia — that girl. He had not been able as yet to bring about the duet. But the grand [iano had not been conjured into the house for nothing, and he was sally something of a musician, even though it was he himself who had kid BO. He could sing light and easy songs in a pleasant voice and » ileasant way, doing special justice to pathetic passages — indeed, he had luite a knack of touching those f the heart that are only be stirred by certain scents and certain suunds, and then with a shy id secret rapture that is harder to bear than pain. Marion was in ke mood to be moved by slight things ; and Mrs. Snell, though im- irvious to mu'iic herself, could not fail to perceive how Marion listened [hen VVyndham played. Though tactless herself, sho could be jealously rare of the effect of the subtle flattery bestowed upon the vain heart man by silent attention ; and her spirit writhed. Never had Wynd- im stayed at home to play to her. It is true that there had not >en till now any instrument to play on ; but that was a detail. The rinciple remained the same. Then a brilliancy — to her mind, at least, a brilliancy— came into his nne talk that he had certainly never wasted upon his domestic h' ,f llll( KI\G OR KNAVE 1 She stopped short — the time had not yet come when she could speak of her mother to a woman who kept her at arms' length. " Thank you, Miss Fumess," said Mrs. Snell, snapping her scissors and her words at the same time ; *'but I've always done Dr. Snell's sewing myself ; and it's too lyte to chynge — thanking you all the syme." " Is there nothing I can do — till my father comes ? " " Till what, Miss Furness ? " "Till my father comes." *' Oh — you're going away, then ? " ** I don't know," sighed Marion. "I don't know anything yet— 1 suppose I shall. ... I onl> know one thing. I can't go on doinj nothing all my days." *' It hasn't seemed to me like as if you'd found things so dull here Miss Fumess. " "Dull ? Indeed, no ! But if it had been — I'm sure you've both oi you been very kind, and I'm sure I don't know why. Is it for mil father's sake ? Have you known him long ? " Some such question she had been burning to put ever since shd began to realize thr the very worst, I mean, I don't think I can do better than come to .u." She looked her hostess very steadily in the eyes as she spoke, and kS met by a sharp, quick glance that seemed to say, " Oh, oh, my lung lady ! you've got a spice of spirit, have you, behind those lacka- lical ways ? Then so much the worse for you. " *' I'm sorry you've that opinion of me, Miss Fumess," said she. lAs if I was always on the look-out for evil — when I'm the last ever do such a thing. Only I take people as I find 'em — that's all. ten I see a young woman making a fool of a man — not that a man much making — I can't pretend I don't. And when I see an ,ped convict coming back from the bushes to make mischief uf all in a happy English home, I can't undertake to approve." "Well," said Marion, "I suppose my father will soon come ; and in I shall soon go. Never mind telling me any more." * There's no call to snap one so short up," said Mrs. Snell, who had intention of losing such a chance of giving a few bad minutes to a rl with stars in a haze. " I'm sure I'll tell you everything, and »lcome, seeing you want to know. Didn't your mamma ever tell why Adam Fumess was sent to Bot'ny B'y ? No ? 'Twas for [ery — which people used to be hanged for ; and serve 'em right, I. Because then, when they get fre*^, they can't come mischief- kking over them that may have their weak points, like the men, poor itures, can't help having some, but would be right enough if they're let alone. Perhaps, Miss Fumess, you'll perceive why I've no lost for Adam Fumess when I tell you he's been our ruin — and 62 KI\(; OK KNAVE ? H M ■,. '! iiKiyl)o he's being our ruin ever again. That's why people ought to he hanged ; of course, meaning nobody in particular, Miss Furness, and nyming no nynies ; but scores of 'em, all the syme. I'll tell you the whole story of one of the sort, if you've never heard it, and haven't, got anything to do." " You must go on now," said Marion. " I have heard too muc not to hear all." " [ don't know about ' must,' Miss Furness. But, to oblige you, will. . . . Meaning nobody in particular, and nyming no nymes. . Dr. Snell, when first I knew him, was assisting a medical gentleman in a dispensary — wild he was, like a young man will be that's worth his salt, but as clever as he's high, and if they say there was &uj wicket ness in him, then they lie. Youll understand. Miss Furness, that the girls used to be after him, poor fellow, in rocks and shoals. However, he married the only one of 'em all that never lifted a finger out of her way for him : which that one was me. ... Of course, a man like him with his talents and accomplishments, couldn't be expected to spend all his evenings at home, especially when the dispensary shut up because of an unfortunate accident without Wyndham being to blame, and when he took to lecturing on Poetry, and Noses, and those sort things, and acting, when he wasn't kept out by jealousy. So one evening he brought home a friend — Mr. Adam I'll call him, not to be nyming nymes. Everybody's Adam, you know, in a kind of a way. didn't take to Mr. Adam. And I didn't take to him any the more when it seems Dr. Snell had recognized him for a bachelor friend who'( been sent for forgery to Bot'ny B'y. 1 never did take to Dr. Snell'i bachelor friends — they all seemed to have been in trt)ub]e of some sort, except the doctor and one that was killed on a railway before he ha( time. And what was more, Mr. Adam couldn't be fairly at large ; foi it stands to reason that when a man used to be transported, he couldn be back again in London in three years. So he had to be an escape( convict, which makes it all the worse : for that's the law. So you'( have thought Mr. Adam would have given Dr. Snell a pretty widi berth, but not he. Mr. Adam was just a devil — not a man. I didn see things clear then, being only an innocent slip of a girl " So Mrs. Snell had once been a girl ; and, as it is always the smaller trifles that catch the mind the most when the heart is the nm absorbed in great ones, Marion caught herself vaguely speculatin what kind of girl Mrs. Snell could ever have been, or how long it tool and by what process, to develop any kind of girl into a Mrs. Snell. "But I grew wiser, very soon. This was that devil's game — to nii my husband up with all his wickedness, so that he couldn't dare tell- ' split ' is the word they use. And Dr. Snell, being, with all his geniu; just as innocent and unsuspecting as a baby, he fell into the trap, ar| in a couple of weeks he daren't call his soul his own." *' What trap ? " asked Marion, gradually feeling her eyes giving ws before Mrs. Snell's unwavering gaze. "Ah ! indeed ! But that I've no call to say. It's enough, I ahou think, that poor Wyndham, instead of being President of the Golle^l 'M KING OR KNAVB 1 63 heard too much [of I'hysicians, and me hciiijjf Lady Snell, has had to grind and grovel [away in Piggot's Town. Ikit I did think we were rid of him — and Inow " And now, Mrs. Snell T' " And now, as if he hadn't done enough, he's sent ijnn. here to steal iway my own hnsband's fancy under my own very eyes I " She could not have meant to bring her triumph to a more complete |climax, but the thrust was irresistible, and passion had carried her iway. An iceberg could not be expected to keep its head if it sud- lenly discovered itself to be a volcano — Etna would be outdone. Marion's brain wliirled and reeled as if Mrs. Snell had risen and lealt her a sudden blow with her open hand. What could it mean ? ?hat she had been listening to her father's story she had of course been )erfectly aware ; but this last monstrous charge had thntwn discredit in every word. That she should have been sent into Piggot's Town t<^) lake love to Dr. VVyndham Snell — it would be ridiculous had she )een in any other mood ; there had been a time when she could have laughed it away with a wf>rd ; as something too utterly absurd to luse even a moment's shame. Before she could recover her wits, [rs. Snell amazed her still more by bursting into tears. Nor did poor Mrs. Snell know in the least how to cry. She had no loubt had plenty of cause, but had hitherto had no leisure for learning le useful but dangerous accomi)lishment of graceful tears. Her ^yes swelled and boiled over ; her sharp nose reddened and swelled ; ind the tracks of the tears d(twn her cheeks were too i)lainly be seen. And then she did not let the rain come, as another woman rould, but fought hard to swallow it down. "It 7« hard," she said. "After working for him — and being true him — all these years, 'n years, 'n years, and now just when we'rj^ fetter off, and patients coming at last — to have another woman come jtween — and you so pretty, and he such a Fool ! " Hideous and grotesque as was the sight, Marion could not help feel- ig overwhelmed with pity for the woman who had been nursing such monstrous delusion. She held out her hand. "Indeed, Mrs. Snell," she said, "you are wrong as could be. As I — as if anybody, would think anything of Dr. Snell, except that he been very good-natured and kind to a very stupid and troublesome ; and so have you." But Mrs. Snell folded her arms. Poor Marion, meaning to appease jr, had flown too far the other way. " Not think anything of Dr. Snell, indeed !■ Why — why, let me toll )u there isn't a woman in all London he mightn't have for the ask- [, and wouldn't jump down his throat if he opened his lips to speak them ! It's not his fault that so he's made. Grycious heaven— a rl not done growing not thinking anything of Dr. Snell ! As if there m't duchesses that wouldn't be proud to clean his shoes ! I suppose grypes are sour. Not think anything of Dr. Snell ! Whatever's le world coming to now / " 64 KINO OR RNAVBl , i > . *• You may as woll shake haiulR,' saitl Marioti coldly. "Of cournr. 1 can't Ro away without, saying go«Hl-l)ye. And of irourse I can't stay where where "' " \Vlun*»i ? " asked the doctc)r himself, with a pleasant smile. •* And what, as well ? What did 1 hear about u^ood l>ye ^ " Had he not occupied the doorway. Marion would have left the room at once, leaving Mrs. Snell to explain, and have got her things ready for starting by the tinte that the explanation was over. As it was. however, she could oidy retreat to the new mirror over the fireplace, and turn her back upon any storm that was to c«mie. And it did come. She saw in the mirror the doctor's pleasant smile suddenly turn into a singvilarly ugly and unpleasant one. "Julia," said he, " they don't build thick walls in Piggot's Town, and I heani every word. This young lady's father has placed her under my protectitm ; and she shan't be insulted by you, if you were fifty wives. As if I — a gentleman, if ever there was one— would take advantage of a bcautif\il and charming girl ; as if a young lady like Miss Marijm but what's the good of arguing with a born fool? No, Miss Fv'rness you shall not be driven away. This home is yours ; and if you go, then— mark my words, Mrs. Wytulham Snell — 1 go too. There. M as Furness, i/oi*, cao't say the age of chivalry is dead. I'm your friend ; and — halloa 1 " "Let me pass, if ycm please," said Marion, sweeping past him, neither he nor she knew how. CHAPTER VII. NrMRKK SKVRNTBKN. ilji! ISi " Weli,- and why not ?" asked John Heron, in his hearty way. Guy Derwent was so taken aback at seeing the Marchgrave banker inj the t,ap room of the Green Cheese, Blink Lane, that he failed to per 1 ceive how J«>hn Heron had seemed for a moment the more startled ofj the two ; how he had, indeed, given a gasp for breath, and had! glanced hurriedly and anxiously round the room before becoming| himself again. " I dont know why not — but all the panic, you're the last man dreamed of nioeting here," said Guy. " You're another, if it comes to that,'" 8«id J*.lm Heron. " i should have thought there was nobody 1 was less likely to meet in a placej like this than you. ' " Don't you remember — this was the place where Mrs. " ' Ah — I remember now. Well ? " There was certainly something odd in John Heron's voice — some thing tight and constrained. Even (luy, preoccupied as he wa&l noticed it now. He would have suspected any other man of having] RINa OR RNAVR T 65 ,nt smile. '•Ami )vi'ro tlio last man imething mnre thnii dined, and of keeping hiinnelf something more IhRM Bober by f«>rce of will. " They Aaie been here. . . ." " Yes ? " "And have ffone. Hut, by ^nod luck, I met this gentleman, who tils me that a letter is waiting for me "it " "Home? Ah ! Then of course you will fly on the wings of the rind. I've got a little account to settle here at the counter— I'll join outside in half a minute, if you can wait so long ; and I'll walk or kb with you as far as our wavs lie together." Guy was not sorry to find himself again in such fresh air as Blink ine was able to afford. Hidding a cordial good-night to Dr. Hnell, |rho had returned to his flirtation, he reflected, in the itality, thought he couldn't give me a greater treat than by taking lo ' a snug little shop, sir, where they broil you the best steak this Temple Bar, and wash it down with the finest port wine that's /ed.' And, on my word, he wasn't far wrong." All the same," pesrsisted Guy, " it is strange." ' Of course it is. And so is everything. The only really strange js are those that aren't strange at all. ... So you're off home le next) train ? " course I am." Lndthen?" 66 KINO OR KNAVE ? ii I •' Wherever Fate may call me." " Meaning tho fair Marion ? " " They mean the same to me, Heron. . . . No ; don't tell me that nothing is strange. It is strange that here, in England, with the postoffice and the telegraph at our service, and with all the will in the world to meet, two sane people should have been playing- a maddening game of hide-and-seek for all this v/hilo. One would think the very devil was in it somewhere. And there's somebody else 1 want to find, as well as Marion." '*Her mother? Well — when a man is hunting high and low for his mother-in-law 1 suppose one must own that there is something strange, after all, in the world." " No — her father. The unspeakable scoundrel — to bo hounding a poor lady about in this way. I'm looking forward to a solitary inter- view with Mr. Furness one of these fine days. Next to Marion and her mother, he is the creature I'm more anxious to meet than anybody else in the world." •'If you did meet him- what should you do ? " Guy "hrugged his shoulders. ''I don't think there's much need to consider that," said he. *' Any tiling that will ijive this poor lady peace, Tfhatever it may be." **Well. . . . A pleasant journey home. I wish I could travel down with you, instead of when the Docks will let me. I've got another appointment before turning in— so I must shake hands now. Here our ways divide." " When shall you be back at Marchgrave ? " " To-morrow, I hope. Goud-night." "Good-night, Heron." ' John Heron, having shaken hands cordially with Guy, lighted a fresh cigar, and stepped out more briskly. The two had left t!ie city behind them long ago, by way of Fleet Street and the Strand , and the banker now struck from Pall Mall to the north-west, always walking, until he reached ITpper Vane Street, which as every Lon- doner knows, has joii od Huntley and Eastr.ard Squares ever since the days of Queen Anno, it was not an unlikely place for a contrac tor, or Parliamentary agent, or anybody in a great, solid, and respect able way of business, to be found in after office hours ; for an aris tocratic flavour still lingers about it, and it is still quite common t( Bee a blazoned hatchment over the central drawing-room window, jusi as it is by the side of the front door to ilad an extinguisher like a Pierrot's cap — a relic of the days when link-men used to wait upor sedan chairs. It is not a very long street, but tolerably bioad ; and' its tall brick houses, with generously wide entrances and double doorsj Sombrely absorb, instead of reflecting, the gaslight by night and the sunlight by day. It is not a lively street ; but it has a quiet, com fortable, and even distinguished air. and the respectability of its ad dress is undeniable — eminently suitable for people who, if not socia roses themselves, are sufliciently well off to pay for the privilege living well within the perfume of the roses. brass plate, exct'i r^ KING OR KNAVE ? 67 o braBB pUte, excev e, hardly larger than a visiting card, on the door of a fashionable lysirian, marks the pi'ofessional element that had no doubt crept in of years ; nobody as yet — ostensibly at least — conceals a contraband ger ; and butlers and broughams are still as numerous as normal man nature, which really loves dulness in the depth of its heart, can ire. There is a legend that a lady from the opera, who used to sing Sundays with all her wi^ ows open, once sojourned in Upper Vane eet ; but not for long. And there was yet a darker legend — but body was ever quite able to g'ither its nature, except that it concern- Number Seventeen. pper Vane Street runs north and south, Huntley Square being at north end ; and at the back of the western side — there are special ons for special accuracy — runs Eastwood Me^'s, a cul-de-sac with an ranee into Eastwood Square. Of this western side, with backyards offices running to the mews, the central numbers are Sixteen, Seven- and Eighteen. umber Eighteen was in the occupation of two elderly maiden sisters, i Burden and Miss Charlotte Burdon, who had a long lease of the se, and an ample income from the Funds — quiet ladies of ecclesias- tastes and habits, aristocratic connections, and early hours, umber Sixteen was in the occupation, still following the directory, Mr. Ward — a quiet bachelor, occupied in the City, with some one ose multifarious pursuits which, being ' in the City,' include alike lending of millions and the borrowing of half-crowns — in his case minently respectable and profitable one, or he would not be in er Vane Street. He was also understood by the neighbouring lers and their subordinates to be of a sc entitic turn, for he had a in the upper part of the back of the house fitted up as a labora- of which he kept the key and did all the cleaning, like a prudent The service of the two houses was rather lopsided, the Miss ons keeping the regulation butler, three maids, a coachman, and a in livery ; Mr. Ward, only an elderly cook and a middle-aged emaid, whose places wer** nearly sinecures. [Umber Seventeen was empty — a fact possibly due in some measure e legend that nobody rightly know. w people are fully aware of the number of houses in London to h such dim legend clings. Sumo day, perhaps the heading unted Houses " will be made a regular feature in the Court Guide. then people will foolishly wonder that there are so many in a oitv plumes itself, not without good cause, on being the most htened in the world. Foolishly, because the wonder slxtuld bo e other way. How is it that, many as they would seem, they are so few? The wonder is that every house built more than a gene- ago does not swarm with ghosts. For what are ghosts but fi memories ? And how it is that anybody can fail to see the in- rable memories with which every London house must needs be ed, is past all understjinding. iWevor that may be, Number Seventeen, Upper Vaiic Street, was and yet was not to let, so far as anybody could tell. How that 68 KINO OR KNAVE 1 li 1 4 ':: . V. ■'( 1 ) i 'ill I i CR11U1 to hap])en might well have been ful down the street on both sides — for neiglibours in Up])er Van*' Street wore real Christian neighbours — tliey did as they would be don« by, and av«»ided the faintest knowledge of one another, as all really good neighbours do. However, there was, both by day ami by night, something about Number Seventeen to catch the eye of any commonly observant stranger- such, for instance, as John Heron. Hetween its two next door neighli^ours it looked both deaf and blind. There was a gaf lamp right in front, as if to draw particular attention to its peculiari ties. And the ray.s fell upon blindless and oirtainless windows, look ing like black 8rld - from the stars in their courses to tlio meeting between a mutton chop «.nd a hungry man ; from love and hate to a passing glance at imo stone rather tlian another by the way- side. There was real, tangible reation why the glance of dohn Heron, or of any other passer-by, shor.ld seek for a moinot to penetrate tlio blackness of those bUrik, stjiring eyes without balls. For there was life behind thetn, dead though they seemed. Had any glance pierced far enough, it would have entered a larj^o upper rt)om at the back of the house, without any window, and venti lated, not lighted, from above, so that neither daylight could pass into it from without, and no lamplight out of it from within. There were two doors — once more to be precise, for causoone opposite to whorij a back window should have been ; the other apparently in the partyl wall on the south side. The floor wns heavily carpeted with severftf thicknesses of drugget, and the same stulf was hung from the uornice,! KINO OR KNAVE ? «r mor of c«»n\ninnt lie Street- i'.<'<>v«' irs tliero seotncd •vaut wonkl havo mty of interests. thcmselveB over fcrred an empty ious a thing to bo ,0 other aide, had ov any gosnip that duct of Ethyl or , ttnes. A"*l s" ^Wi ,8 in Upper Van*- hey wouUl bo don»' ,thor, as all really , 8on»ethinR 'vboui mn\«mly obstrvanl woon its two next There was a K'>'' on to its pcouliari less windows, look .lohn Heron waf- s. rU\t any darni^ newhero about hnn. r Seventeen, befovf Ward's. Vossibly. ,Be of a loiv«c in ho i-ht not be .'i gooa 10 ^reat man ho waa oat and small, here, r, whatevor we may unr courses to tlio MX ; from love an.i nnother by the way ,i,ee of .lohn Heron. >.it to penetrate tho :.vll8. For there wiw ■uivo entered a lar^o V window, and ventv Uaht covild pass mto within. There wove no opposite to whove parontly in the party! [.ftrpcted with sevetftll nig from the oornicej instead of paper, over the walls, so as to effectually Imprison even -viore than ordinary B«)unds. The furniture was still nujre peculiar thn i the hanginfj;". A stove was brought out into the room from thenort'i wall, furnace fashion, supplied with largo fixed belhtws and a pipefv.'. smoke, which, instead of passing thnnigh the roof, traversed the ceiling, and disappeared in the wall above the tipposito door. There was a dull tire in the stove, and on a bench hard by was a row of cruicibles. On other benches ranged along the wall were singular little engines com- pt)8od of screws and cylimlers, with boxes of punches, drills, and other nistruments not usual in any recognized trade. A large bare table, stained and burned, bearing a shaded lamp, oociipied the middle. The igenrral aspect of tho room was confused ; but a very cursory glance [Was enough to show anybody who knew anything about the condition.j f W(»rk that tho sooming confusion was systematic, and ar-.ise from aving everything ready to hand. Nevortheless, half smitliy, half laboratory, as the room appeared, it his not Number Sixteen where Mr. Ward studied chemistry, but umber Seventeen, with which he had no more concern than the Miss urdons on the other side. There was plenty of space for the throe occupants of the house Inch looked to passers-by so forlornly emftty. Two of the three were ion ; the third was a gi "1, who sat on a Ioav stool in front of the 'urnaoo, warming ho:* toes and staring at the embers. Of tho two men, gre, and Stephen lie vampire ; and we'll grin. I wonder when there's the next full irnoon." "Fortune — Fun!" said Stephen, flashing scorn. " Much of them Borne to me. It's always some day — some day — some day. And as for fun !" And indeed he looked like one who had never known any such thing, even in a dream, " There's my last die ; and " Cynthia drew herself up to her full height — not a fraction under five feet one — and regarded him gravely. " Stephen," said she, " where are you going 1 What are you going to do?" " Anywhere — anything." " Ah, I understand. No — you cannot, you, a great, the very greatest irtist, mean to desert your art. That is impossible. Nor can you, a jreat revolutionist, bo going to be false to your cause — the Ann— what it > — Nihilation of Law. I understand. You are a man ; and you ire going to desert me. . . , Very well, then. All right -good-bye." KING OR KNAVE 1 " Don't be a born idiot, Cynthia ! Of course you're coming, too. "What — to anywhere ? Not I. What does it matter to me ? You'l be all right. I've no doubt there'll be scores of girls, ever so mud taller than me, who'll be only too happy to sew on your buttons am keep your pencils pointed and your burins and needles ground, aiu spot flaws in your work, and run your errands, and — and make al sorts of fools of themselves. I'm only of use to you here, where elsi you'd have nobody at all." " Am I an artist, Cynthia ? Yes or no ? " " You know you are. There. Good-bye." *' And yet you ask me to stay here — slaving for a convict, and "' A convict, and V Go on, Stephen Ray," said Adam Fur ness, entering from the sidedoor and closing it behind him. " Ot second thoughts, though, don't go on. There's no call to play pot ami kettle. It's always! waste of time." " I suffered for a Principle," said Stephen sullenly. " For tin eternal right of every human being to equality of Fortune " "A Principle ! So did I. Come, none of that cant. I'm an ex forger, and you're an ex-thief ; and I suppose our principle, deep down was pretty much the same. Ah — there you are, Cynthia : bright an bonny. Well, Petersen— how have things been going ? Nothiiii wrong ? " " Nothing wrong, Adam Fumoss, but that this girl is a fool, to bran at ghosts ; and that Stephen Ray, he talks of I know not what absut iin " Absurd or not absurd," said Stephen Ray, " I've done my la stroke of work here." "Indeed?" asked Adam Furness, lifting his brows. "Cynthia what the devil does the fellow mean ? " " He says the place doesn't suit him," said she demurely, " and we've been saying good-bye." " Well — it's a free country ; and if you can't keep him, Cynthia, sure it's not forme to try. He won't peach, because he daren't," said with an absent sigh. Well, Ray — if we must part we must ; doubt a fellow of your talents has only got to cant hard enough to somebody soft-headed enough to put faith in those fine white fingen And now — don't stare — I'm going to retire from business, too." " You, Adam Furness ? " exclaimed Red Beard. " No. You do such thing ! " "Yes. I ; and you, Peter Petersen; and Father Isaacs ; and Count ; and Jellitt ; and the Knacher ; and I'd have said Stepb Ray, if he hadn't taken French leave. And I'll tell you why. \Ve not done badly ; but we're going to make so big a coup this time if we don't retire on our winnings we shall be a pack of fools. " '*I wait," said Red Beard, resuming his pipe, "to know the litt kame." " It's told in a dozen words. And it means seventy thousai pounds." " Seventy thousand pounds," said Red Beard. " That is a great Zum." th KING OR KNAVE ? 73 're coming, too. ittei to me ? You'l girls, ever ao much;| L your buttons andi eedles ground, and] and— and make alll )u here, where el8e| a convict, and r," said Adam behind him. , call to play pot Fur' " Oi aiu luUenly. "For M Fortune it cant. I'm an exi principle, deep down Cynthia : bright and m going ? Nothnil I girl is a fool, to brail iuow not what absurd ''I've done my la^ browB. *' CynthiaJ le demurely, " and ceep him, Cynthia, I'l cause he daren t, ast part we must; at hard enough to t )ae fine white finger business, too." d. "No. YoudoBJ rather Isaacs ; and tki I'd have said Stephf tell you why. >Vej 5 a coup this time thi pack of fools. B "to know the \M Bans seventy thousat^ That is a great ] Qirnthia had subsided back to her stool, and fell to grinding the point of an etching needle while she hummed a tune. Stephen Ray sat llipart, making charcoal scrawls on the surface of one of the long benches [•nd wiping them off again. " Yes ; it is a biggish sum. The Count has got the office that a mil- jlion roubles in specie have got to be paid next New Year's Day — old Ittyle, of course, which gives us time to the good — to the Khan of jMoulkhend, wherever that maybe — somewhere in Tartary, I suppose. iOf course it's secret service ; or else there'd be nothing in my idea. iNow, what is to prevent our receiving the million roubles, and paying lihe Khan of Moulkhend ? " Red Beard shook his head. " Everything is to prevent," said he. '* It's risky — I know that. So risky that this must be the last time. listen to my plan. All that has to be done is to contrive so that the than of Moulkhend's agent for receiving the Czar's little present shall )e one of ourselves ; or rather not one of ourselves, but somebody who rill serve us innocently. Very well. I hear from the Count that the loney is to be paid to Moshel Kraff, who keeps a bank at Oufa, on be- %\i of the Khan. Now, I know, of my own knowledge, that Moshel )ufa is under obligations to an English financier — never mind names—* rho has the strongest possible reasons for serving me. Wheels within rhcels, you know : and I haven't laid my plan without putting a lagnifying glass to every cog and every screw, like Cynthia there to le point of a needle. Very well. I go to my English friend — a most sspectable man, by the way — and I say, ' ' Lend me a clerk to do me a Ittle confidential business at ' " " But will he— this vriend ? " "He will. And what's more, Moshel will be instructed to employ lis particular clerk in this very afliiir. You may leave all that to me. id the clerk will carry out our specie, in sealed packets, for delivery the Khan, and have clear instructions to bring us home what he ceives from the Czar. We have only to make the best exchange we of the good ruublss into English gold— and there you are." "Ah. It is a beaudiful idea. A beiiudiful idea. AH but when the lan finds himself zold." Let him. A Tartar Khan isn't an expert ; and ton to one our lubles will be scattered about all over Tartary before some Jew or ler gets hold of a sample. But even if he does find out the trick, then ? Either he'll try to bqU somebody else with them, or he'll iplain to the Russian Governminit. The Russian (iovernmunt won't e to make a fuss — they'll come lown secretly on Moshel. Moshel either pay up, with interest, or ytafis on inquiries to my English Bnd. My English friend will at once pass them on to the British ^reign Office. And then Russia will bow politely, and say, ' Never id. All right. We made a little mistake, thank you - that's all.' " Ah I So! I gomprehend." I ' And the difference between the cost of making our roubles and thb |ue of the real ones, allowing for incidental expenses and probable fpP'M! ,74 KING OR KNAVE ? Whyhf sit thef loss on exchange, will be, at the very least, seventy thousand steilii Only we must get an extra good die. Let me see — we'll put on t Knacker. I don't think he's ever yet tried his hand at a rouble ; I he must make a trial piece or two. And we must look sharp — a milli coins aren't to be turned out in a day. " Cynthia swung herself round, stool and all. " Then that you shan't ! " she cried. ** The Knacker ! not to be trusted with a teetotal medal. Stephen — don't messing the clean bench like a baby. You're the only man — man ii deed ! — that can do it ; and do it you shall." j " No," said Adam Furness, sharply and shortly. *' This isn't a gaij at play." j "Oh, I wish I were a man! Stephen — don't you hear? Thi think the Knacker a better artist than you." "Than me?" cried Stephen, blazing around. "Give me jo sharpest pencil, Cynthia, and a scrap of tracing-paper. . . . Ther Let the master of the Russian mint beat that for a rouble if he can. Adam Furness took the delicately pencilled design, and handed it Red Beard, who nodded silently. "It's a pity — a great pity," said Adam. "I shall keep thia, course, though the Knacker won't like to work from another nia design." " Cynthia ! " said Stephen feebly, almost with a moan. " Well ? What is it now ? " " I wilts* do just this one die more." Then it was Cynthia who almost sighed. She had conquered — bui was the artist , not the man. At last, after what seemed like a snail's crawl, the express read Marchgrave. (xuy, late as it was, lot himself into his office with latchkey ; and there, sure enough, was a letter from London. It in a strange hand — no doubt from Marion. He tore it open, his li beating. And he read "Sir, " If you want to see Miss M. F,, come to Euphrosyne Tern Belvedere Road, Piggot's Town, London, N. Dr. Wyndham Snell the door. '' Your obedient servant, " SOMEDODY YOL Don'T KnOW." M,^ ilii KING OR KNAVE ? 75 CHAPTER VIII. CATCHING A TARTAR. had conquered— bul Marion had learned, all in a moment, what it means to be in a passion. She darted upstairs, threw herself into her own bedroom, [locked the door behind her, and then paced up and down like an im- prisoned storm. Mrs. Snell's accusations had been less insulting than the Doctor's [defence. The wife had the excuse of jealousy, which is as unanswer- jable as that of any less extreme form of madness. But there was jsomething about Wyndham Snell's style of chivalry which showed that Jthe jealousy was not entirely smoke without lire. She had never ■dreamed that there were such people in the world ; she knew there were {none on that other and rougher side whence she had come. The idea of its entering any human brain to conceive so monstrous Ian imagination as that she, Marion Furness, could seem, even by acci- [dent, to flirt with Wyndham Snell ! It was too outrageous for comedy -it made her cheeks bum and her ears tingle even now that she was ilone. And for the Doctor himself to have heard the charge, and yet have interfered in that odious way ! What could her father have leant by bringing her and leaving her here 1 Her father ! The burn- ig and the tingling ceased, and left her cold. Of the story of his crimes and his punishments, and of the evil ifluences he appeared to exhale, she could make nothing. But slie )uld not avoid a full measure of fear. She had felt bound to be his ipion in the presence of Mrs. Snell ; but she had no right to sup- [>ose that the abominable woman had been lying. And what had liecoine of him ? Since the day of her mother's death he had never ant her so much as a message. Except that she knew him by sight, ie was as much a stranger to her — indeed, more a stranger — than before le day of her mother's flight from him in terror. If she had not Iready sent that letter of dismissal to Guy, she could never have had le heart or the strength to send it now. Had she really, in her deepest t, even when she forbade him to seek her out, meant that he lould take her at her word ? Well — he had done so ; it was true that le was hidden away past finding out ; but still she had a sort of instinct lat a true knight and lover is not to be battled as if he were a police- Mistable. She would never marry him, of course — but if he had only )und her out, despite all her precautions, and come to lier against her Surely there was no girl in the whole wide world so utterly defence- is and alone. Her mother dead ; her lover bidden to forget her ; »r father a man to be feared, and as likely to be her foe as her friend ; 76 KING OR KNAVE ? !'.■■:'!.• '^ii; :m no creature to speak to except a woman who had insulted her, and- Dr. Snell. And what sort of thing was her life tjp be ? There was bu one certainty about it — that it could not go on like this for another daj How could she endure to sit again at the same table with her host aiK hostess, after the scene she had just left behind ? Agitated and bewildered as she was, she tried to think out some plai of action, so as to find some safe corner where she might sit dowi awhile and decide whether and how she should enter the ba*;tle of lifi alone, or whether she should throw herself on fate in sheer despair She sat on her bed, or walked up and down, thinking that she wai thinking, until the cracked teatray proclaimed that Dr. and Mrs. ISuti were going to dine. As she took xm) notice of the summons, it was repeated in the fon of a tap at the door. "If you please, miss," said the voice of the new housemaid, "tl gong's gone, and master he says the soup's getting just like charitj and would you please to come and sit down V. All at once she was inspired with a plan. '*Tell them not to wait," she said, opening the door; " I am n coming to dinner to-day. And then get me a cab, if you please.' "A cab, miss?" " Yes. I shan't Ve many minutes packing. I am going away. " A cab, miss ! Why, there isn't such a thing for miles." "Well, you can find somebody who will take my things to the train " You're going off by train, miss — withcjut o'er a bit of food ? " " Yes — I must be off at once " " I ask your pardon, miss. Am I to say anything to Dr. Snell ? Marion had of course seen the girl constantly ; but something in t| manner of her question, half hesitating, half confidential, made observe her for the first time. She was a young person, plain and col mon-looking enough to suit the most jealous mistress of the househ| of the most volatile master, and something of a slattern, red-haired ; freckled ; but with the undefinable air that goes with a greater bel in one's own good looks than is shared by the world. She had alnij whispered her question in what seemed a most significant way. "Of course," said Marion, a little haughtily. " Thank you, miss. I only wanted to know." Y'es ; that would certainly be the best thing she could do. Thl was neither law nor duty to detain her with this odious couple ; instinct, the result of a hundred little things unnoticed at their tu\\ but now brought into a focus, warned her that if Mrs. Snell wa woman to be detested, the Doctor was a man to be feared. And they been her best and dearest friends, she could n< t have stayed tcj a mischief-maker and a cause of quarrel. All she had to do was to I herself off, and then send her new address, whatever it might bei her father, to the care of Dr. Snell, It was the easiest thing in \ world. And there was something attractively defiant about it too. T| was never a girl whom nature and habit combined Iiad made so luiil KIN(; OR KNAVF, 1 77 nsulted her, and-| ,e ? There was m his for another day e with her host m.i think out some i»lai she might sit dow ter the ba*^^tle of ite in sheer desi inking that she t Dr. and Mrs lifd ait wa SntJ repeated hi the fovu tl^ lew housemaid, Lng just like chant; the door ; " 1 am b, if you please. [ am going away." »1. icith* id only stretched n^i i: r! fcdess her friends remove her, or host announces her — cured. Do you understand now '>. Shall we duets together, like good friends 'I Or does your mental trouble lire sharper treatment — treatment that it would infinitely distress |to use '\ " You are keeping me here as a mad-woman? Me ? " H'm. Brain trouble is not necessarily transmitted ; but 1 can't 3t why I was called in — too late — to see your mother. And there say the least, a curious similarity in her craze for running away her husband, and yours for escaping from your best friends, we must hope for the best. And we must work for the best, -so perhaps you will oblige me by taking off that bonnet, nnw.'' sr eyes might struggle ; but it was his that had to be obeyed. 80 KIVG OR KNAVE ? HU 'l:S '■■■\ym Guy Derwent, in his office at Marchgrave, read over and over again, by the ligh^j of a single candle, the mysterious communication that had reached him concerning Marion. Everything about it was strange. Dr. Snell — it was a Dr. Snell whom he had met at the Cireen Cheese. Why shou d he have concealed any knowledge of Marion ? And why or how should anybody else have sent him news of her — who should know anything about him and her ? And what need should there be for secrecy — for a letter without a name ? Above all, how came it that there was mention of Miss Furness only, and of Mrs. Furnessnot a word ? The handwriting was also a puzzle — evidently that of v,'oman unused to a pen. Some secret mystery f,cemed to be folding itself round Marion, Otherwise it was impv. .sible that so much time could have passed without a single word from her, or even about her, but for this scrawl, which provoked even more anxiety than would have come of dead silence, in its different way. Of course there was only one thing to be done — to act upon the message without delay. It might be a trap ; it might be a false scent : but it \m,s the only sign of a clue in what was becoming a oewildering and alarming maze. So he spent the rest of the night in business correspondence, and ni making the best arrangements he could for his affairs to do without his presence for another two da^s , breakfasted on coffee and a pipe ; held counsel with his clerk ; and was waiting for the next up-train, when he received in his own very office the honour of a visit from no less a l)ersonage than John Heron. " You must think me the original bird that used to be everywhere atl once," said the banker genially. "Good-night in London — good mornf ing in Marchgrave. I got away sooner than I hoped for — left town bjj the half -past live a.m., had a good sleep in the train, and here I am onl my way to breakfast and Kate at The Cedars. Any news ? Whiclii means, I hope, any j;ood news ? " "None. And " *' Indeed ? And you certainly don't look yourself, Guy. I am afraid you're worrying." " No doubt about that, Heron. " There are impulses to reticence as well as to speech ; and some moii uncharacteristic impulse of that kind prevented Guy at once layini- before his friend and counsellor that letter from " You Don't Knov Who." No doubc there were plenty of good reasons for immediati' reserve, i^nxiety was beginning to burn itself into him too deeply t come readily to the surface ; he was a little youthfully ashamed o: doing nothing in Heron's eyes but chase about after a girl ; and he wiu^ naturally reluctant to trouble further, aboui his own private affairs, personage so overwhelmed in great public undertakings as the greal mall of Marchgrave. True, that great man was the essence of sympathvll good nature, and practical helpfulness ; it was notorious that not oiil"| his money was at all men's services (that is common), but his tiniC which is uncommon, and his trouble, which is rare indeed. But thel this made it the more incumbent upon all real friends to show grat| KING OR KNAVE 1 81 and over again, lication that had it was strange. le Green Cheese, rion ? And why ^^er— who should should there be all, how came it Mrs. Furnessnot dently that of a If round Marion, ould have passed ,ut for this scrawl, ive come of dead ily one thing to be light be a trap • '* clue in what , it! was I jspondence, and m •s to do without his ee and a i>ipe ; held next up-train, when visit from no less « to be everywhere at K)ndou-good morn- d for— left town by and here I am 05 A.ny news? wnicni f,Guy. lamafraii ech ; and Bome mos Guy at once layini You Don't Kno -asons for immediat ito him too deeply ^ uthfuUy ashamed er a girl ; and he w own private affairs, lertakings as the gre B essence of sympatlv otorious that not onl] mon), but his tinu re indeed. But thel friends to show grati Itudo by sparing him any avoidable trouble or loss of time by every eana in their power. Guy already felt himself too guilty in this aspect to trouble him any more than ho was obliged with love affairs, nd, besides all these excellent reasons for reticence, there was one 10 subtle to be called a reason — some filmy phantom of feeling too ague even to be called impulse ; altogther unconscious, and incapable if being put into thoughts, much less into words ; the sort of sensation hat now and then will suddenly strike the most open-hearted of ihildren shy even in the middle of an exciting game. Some people 11 it a proisentiment, when anything happens afterwards ; but, as ostly nothiag happens, the world seems, for once in want of a word. '* Ah, you must learn not to worry, Guy. And don't say you can't «lp worrying — a man who works must have no more to do with worry an a soldier with fear, and it's an equal shame. Work and •it, and everything's sure to go right ; once worry, and everything m that moment goes wrong. I'm an anxious man by nature, but th all my irons I never worry about one of them. I don't dare. I ven't passSi a sleepless night since I've been in Marchgrave. How- er, I didn't come to preach ; and I suppose you're wondering why I come, before even going homo. Poor Kate I — I really must manage get a little moi*e time for home. I might just as well be a country ctor, or a sailor, or a bagman. When you're married, Guy, don't be justice, don't stand for your native town, and don't get Docks on the in. Stick to office and home. I mean it ; for there does come a r' at last when a man gets tired ; and yet, if he's not kept himself his n master, he must all the same, tired or not, go on roll, roll, roll ; d, Guy, I'm getting to feel uncommonly like that man." So unlike the most indefatigable, the most work-enjoying man in gland was John Heron talking, and in so hitherto unheard a tone of f-pjty, that for a moment Guy's own anxieties felt small and ashamed, er all, had Marchgrave been ccnsiderate to its willing servant — had ufficiently remembered that the strongest and most unselfish of men ot a machine, that human nerves is not made of cast iron, and that in he who thinks the least of himself has his own human affections his own need of repose for heart and brain ? In truth, John Heron looking weary — more weary than was to be accounted for by his ig just come off a journey that had started with the sun's. Could that John Heron was showing a syni})ton of breaking down ? The idea of it was appalling to a Marchgrave man, who was besides the grateful of all his friends. I wiah to heaven there were any way I could help you ! " said he. I know you do. . . . But come, my lad, you needn't look so d. I'm game to roll as long as I hold together ; I want a sight of and a pound or two of rump-steak ; nothing more. Only. . . you can do mo a bit of service. Gay, and that's why I'm come." jTliank you, Heron. And I hope it'.s hard." I'm afraid it is — in a way. Could you spare the time to go to iBia, and, of course, back again ? " arion ! Guy hoped th«t his face did not fall. (6) mmmmmmHKtUKHM <\o niM. on n*y in ;^l>iMi1 n ViMlniolil ; •\\\>] \i>n unylil In- miimIIiim fci ( nijflil nv prrlirtpA r>' fi> tl\nt : rttvl n iiMrini'\ f-M (holvntl; itH 'IiomIim |,iMn nill i-imi rt tnnl^iluilo "f <\in"» " " Vn.l \v1v\< -^hoiiM 1 hrup 1o ilo ?" < loHtM liMii'lntU'; lM:)vii'n ; in wliii-h i!i'-.i'. lu' lni"\x , .lolin l|ot"ii wi^nM 1*0 ibo l:io1 tnnn in <1u^ \\i>iM Id tVonMi- l\iiii '(IimhI ullii-r lltiiu' flml \^ onM ivm n lum ;n\:M n>> frli it (i> In mi immvkiIIiv wiMli. (Imi !»h>M\lil in;ilit' Inin nnwiUniu In >\<\ \\\\:\i w-yx in iHi'll' Imi( -i mIjiiIiI 'ipivIiJ f.M- ho ('\\.>il hi-^ ^i•^\\ in lili- :ti>i| lit" )iiiii(l|\ nn oo\ir)<>n* oonnton.int'p \ oniMml him 1" IliinU nf IMniii'ii : ntnl 1\i«><. 1o>\ whon <1-.^i1 \n;in -,i>rnn'il fm (h(>l'n''( I it>ii> ) .i Im> liM>liii»r lli woiivht n hnl'Mie nil ; nml llMnMiv T.'f\\\ t»>'.lf tt nih^ >\ (Mi^ n■^1 :n\i>^nn i\\0 fi\)\^\\r^\ I'lcnii'tUfl iti n, hue v\>itlli! ol' Mov A>^1 "^nvi'h Tnvi'l^ ■'hi' sxi^nM hi> f'>nnil het'iMi'^inti, :\nil H R(i(MV< ho ohviroil. hcfni-o l,ovo nnil hnmilship oonhl Bt'<™> iMinllirl m ol;uni'>. " 111 foil v<^n in two niin\ifo<« ; nn'l yon'U rivr (hnt I ootno fn y(»M H' hoo.Tu-ii' lho>-o"p nny vonl ililhlh\it ,*n('^> llniun nl n n)in nf oni^o \i>nnu .-inil ni'livo iMLMuih fov vi>ni>h I ttu cllinii, ulm ho fvnAtO(^ rthn>n(l wnh ;\ hn.) f-nlnno in n)iooio, nnd «hii onn huld fonuhf f\ivn onf nnioh fo.> no(i\(>; hontiohi !»iHo HuRRifi 'j 1V\,i«<. nn fhov* Vnil thovi' nvo phxhon flioy'n^ f;Ov out i>f thoiv uvoovob." l^wy oonhi not holpfoohn^ tlnMovoil Vppvohnlion I'lntn .lohn Ih' nf MflwOvorflV'' xxns )M',ii^o n\ilooil " Tho ' •'•.isi nnd shovt of if is fin-'. " mnil .lohn Moron A oorronp i^onf of mn)0 in town ii» rtU(Mit tov n lonn {<■< t\ T.nlnf l lh,' ninnoy > »Ij>oso \> o ffhnll hjn o Kiny IMiiv..ii» .Innihn n t or iho rhiof of fh<' nnM>>lu'os. \]\ ] Vi'ojyross nuA t 'ivili/iilinn | T«-ont1orfnl thir.ii;* ; if'i* nil jrooil f,\y hnninoi'^ ; niiil upon my hmm' fnlhov lionl willi a «looonf { anni>\»l, who wonhl ^ivo fnit RiMMiiil\, Tilth jiomo 1\>tont:\to« 1 oouhi nnino tio.-uor honnv Ami thon IIiIh U< inn't ^ oo'timon ?\hnn Ho"» :ho Kluni of INIonlUhoml " " A •nlkhona < " " Von iiovor honi\^ of tho Kh,iii of AlonlUhoml i Woll vory not. (Vntrnl Asian volition nron't on«y lo follow without Bpoi'inI m tion ; ftn\\ fhofso rominsj mon nri» too "onto to Inwv iiononil nolb thomso]\»"'« till tlioy oonio So thi« lonn isn't to ho tnlKoil nf ntij — 5'ou urit^oT^tAnt^ ItV to ho p,u«l in spooio poniKiH Rtorlinf; RINii OtI K\\\ K ? l„'i.'i''-"^''"' \\A nv\ \ i\\\\\ cntiy till' tni'iM'\. piii'lii'il uml ■irfil'-'I, In '• (il'icn ffillml Onfd, po'ir [ilic T'" till I'l Mill ifC, in ( »l I'lllillliJ hy Hin \V!iy. cvnfy m-iilixl ^MvUtiur nill I'i> (tint I((mI ' V Vimi will (tlfM, I iiikIcisIjuhI. fcf-ivc fJuMnifli n |i>nnli't M» iho Bumr |tlMiM'. fn wlinm vh uill linv»? ;i»i iiit r'nlucMdn, n Invin' 'itnn iti Ibi'j'tiiu itiMinM , wlii'li ycii will |im(I; niid fictil yniitnlMi\p |m| I nil fiMfiifM ''lily ufi'lof blnml lli^tl yi'ii nin I" pnv nilli IIh« I'liii^li'sli iiinfM.^, frifi(|<('(| ' A,' fitwl k,i jiiitiii liMt'lf III" HllMiii'lii liinliny, iiiMtkM'ij m^y ' \\ ' • f/i |, ]\'f\ nil vory Mlllpl"' I" f tltrilt wlin jiff! i|tli'|( feel, cIpjiii IkiimIm. ,'iti'l n pilf'f?! I'lfifMto I " ll I'cilMiiily ilnt'R tiiil !|(i Itd.lil,' Mfiiil \i\ jf nnf lic<.,, [M IMniinti UMiilil |ifiv<> |fi(i|;i'(| fi'iw'U'l I'l fi lioliilny, ^villi n fhudi 'if iih I'lilnic mI'mhI il lo f^i^'' il |ti'|n!iM(y. " I'tn tml lil;»ly fo Inilcr, or fclciHcr. nr Ihjil inyonlf in 'I'pxnfl. I «ii|i|imm(> IIm-k. II luivr' In lii> pnsH- ^(•1 1«;, Jititl Hini<^« ( ' "'Ml, (hcy'll l)P nil liylil iiimI ni> will iiil tu'liicl innq nii'! in'sl riir( jofm 1 iloliiil \\'n Unl; my "WM ,'illnii, linyoiid (ililit;iiitf prififififih wfio liavo ^t'if 1'Pinntifl fur l|ii»ijr in lli(< lijiclvuioiind < tf cniirso, f IkiI'r nnfliirif.!; ) nu' nt ynti, Ri> Imifi mr I liiinw ulm llify ""v Vntu '>»:(i''rii»>fl will Im JTnl, itf cnUiBP ; nfiil ydii'll cIimI"" for your liin" nri'l. if yni || tnlco n jinl. yi'M II t'lmt(»p liij^li Niid mmw IIihI'f! HpMlfwj, f II inv n wliojn finlf r>in In lli(> iimri- IHMM VihI llmiilc yni Ii'm jml. nnr- nf Uinqf< qinnll linynlliMl tJjivp nun Inn Himpm nmto wfirry lli.in liif^ iit\''<\ \ rnif/lil havn Ili>n uppltn in IIwap Imwy liincM Innlnnu fnr n m.'in if il liMrln'f hcr>ri fnr Ml " *riiPio WfiB limn In cnlcli IIh> n|ihMni; nri'l tli" nii'I'll" of fho nflnr tnii fntiml (Jny, tin IniiL'pr lliinldiiy nf IdinriR nr pfuifiilial«, nf. tho rnil- Iv mIii'iI !il l'i','!;nr« 'I'nwn lln lunl nnvr li'>fif'I nf Ifrnf. plnfr>, pny ,))p lluin nj |>iniill{linli Itiiiyld Mini, il wniiM liPimlil fnr n Rpnil nf '1','irlnr niln flfrdrw! Asi;i 111 iml lin fln (Jnd fnr,qMl(<>n t\f* I*i(n;nr« 'I'nwti ; nnfl li'< ci>\\\(\ r\t,f, linip piilin intjr nn ImlliM- m«pr nf I'iiii/liHli jniM lliMfi In'ljMtti^ n. Tarfiir f'hipf jtlny II iiiul ill llin niriiirs nf I lie wnrld. Arid Mfirinn and hnr IIhm wIiiiI ill ll'p Ilium* nf clmnM cniild limy If 'Inin^ hnm / Sn Par lipy WPin t'nnpnrii(i-pd llnlvndnro llnad, In- duly ma^dicd Mm hra«?« plafn Aliii'li lip liiid linnn dirncfnd, and ld inin Mh< frnnl. [ifirlniir vvfmrn Ijm r]f,r,f/,r Raw •iilit'iilH and mpdilali'd nvnr llnm»> (.jrcai inndif.ai wnrka Ihaf wcivt^ !■/» p liiiii faiiiniiM in liiHinry In nninn. At. llm rrmrriorit hn was natpnaildy mm\pvi<^ nn(ii^^Btiiif4 iin|«»-IJ'' ''""*""' ,o. nud «VH '<"' „,;nnfn>m.lol'''"" '::. ,uv\ «'iviir/,.di.'p ,>nd upon my «"" „,., (,i, MP.M.nlv iUvl\ond." ..M NVoU vPvyV > I nn\U\ dp BtPVl\»ni «5^ %\tjr5 oYv « > W yr ! N^ M-^t rAn \ ^!\Vo i\w Y]v^M\\v 'M\ \>\ \ w <\\\ }^. niAVn ,M Mjno V\>>'^^>^sei, who. V^M^ i '(niM^* 1\\ \h-\niM* 1'i'V i>ur«' \n i^u\ ^iv>'ft 1 .V-n i i>^),»>i'i y ^ M'i!«* l^^n^o';'^ ) A^» "iV) \>-\\^ \.>vioy\n wovo )M>tri>rl)\ n(«\\1 ) • f^wiii-- \ln^^^V'>^ i^v,^ ih n\<^\io^\«'t* M \VoV\t dI" \^mi'l| I tiUiM- ^^of^^1V<;'. tho\>\>h \ .\>n umo'^i* \t". \\rth\\o \»^vV \\«'\^ \>\<\ \\\\ri\ \ i.>'n \ i. ih^Si \ 1mi> OUKCy^pOil to Vo >U;>VVh>>^ to \\\o \v\\\\0 \.\A\ , V'M will \\\\i]i \ ^\'•al»^^^ '"" \V ?Jj>oli thivW ■> Vi^piil ii\rt^\«'0 ^--^^^M'^ '^" >'"^'>^ ''(»^'' \\l<>w NfnUM \t iNxM^^ >;uv\\na <<^nv >.tiiM\ Ho .i»>f»\MX\o,\ >^^o^v \y\o\vtoi^j\i' i\\M\ 1>.> h*.! •, Unt 1\.- \<'\\ M(h • .Mit,'.\v^i^^ \>> !^ 1^M^o^^Vl \\>^^<>h. \\ho\o \\ \<> <\\\y\r\\\,A\ w lln) |,< ln- ^o^^ 10 fviirtx \^\v SnoH mijiUt M- \\\\^\ ^ \\i\y\ !\Hi1 \i^\\\<*x^ uilli lnili.M> fix^lX . ii>\ \\V"ich OiN*0 tho 1\m\.'\\\<> tn;Vl«'U V\ouli) IxM-oUIn i\\\ o|»i«ll ilnn .i^riv^ t;i\\ xxo\\\^ V>>ov\ ^.^^^ \o iNtv»« hi** ;Ul'V<'ii t^oiuiv ih)>n »>ili»li' VXh^i ho «xN.^ N\?^* tho onU \\\\\\\\ Vy\\\ M<\ \\o\ oonni, n|»ott " IXN !^n •(>Xo.'\>>« \ v^U\tO \UV<0V«\1'UM1. WW A\yS\ '\\\," w\\i\ hi' t'lfUt'l'l " \"1 \ W^MV ^ hA\M- i>1\x^V :> \ii^U\>\ \\iMU;»n. \ 'ihi'UliI ilo (Mt'i'l'd'll ''I <»)irt><^ 1 NN'ill >^>Hi ^ho VoU V'now , ' he ^idd lo Iho whom tho hoil M\>u^ii>i>0(^ "tt^)! \.>\n nunM."\^ ^^^^r»^ i^t «MSW ^1i"< '^noU will. 1 hoj^. Iw nnjintlnil !»« « . .^i iv\\t"t\ow, <:i\<^ ho \vA\ u Jkx'' hr^';'>)"'iM\o.Ul\!U V'.n\n_\ \^^^ nol t.* )v> 1:M I" Ihcl Mip Mn vvh^^ h;^»x h-'i^vnox^ 1^^M>^ hov h'ii'»h;^u>< tho iin-t tlutt iho |iMililli«»t hcli'i the tV'nf .■^n»\ tho h:ioV iNix^lotttx* wj^-* oxoooilinnlv mwl MoMiollinon I't'k >\^nTontI\ th>>> . !^»«\ on no;ntn»i tho nio>t>»;tm' "iio oonooivcd ntt nlm " .^n^mi^tv Mi'tn!^t\on. h\ \xh\oh M'tti«>tt nl\otihl ho ih'lhiMi'tl onl m| «^i!»h>«\> of (I iNS> *\)*<>^^j^tt\>h^ »tO!n\not. ^xithoiif 'ho looinlnjj iiitI i 1 V\ni "ii^-i.^ %i ho> o\\>x vh-ot-» \\ \\o\tl(< ho o!»n\ oni'tti»h. I' iii'hl i'] i"m<^o'> tho oMNMinx^t^-^t^i-o*. to ntvo h» ot l\ot .MNit noi'oiil ; n\\{\ hh ItM \> ytt'lliim*. nitt'Vt n ns;:'*^^^"' o\U ot" tho *nn;n \on ;\o ho oonld till IMininit uf»n "uti th* WTVJ . i»)xt» tvtt ^* \i *hi^ hrtto.l hitn omm\ ini r , ''r " liot A\ mj»tA'»«x o( tnn^^«h^\;^^o^y otM'yittn Itt'i htiRl't\nl^ •^niMiiiMnn, «-w\t up*t*\n> ^nx^ ts'^p{>0(\ jr«M>tly nt lN, M^.•»^t ' " ^" „., .,\i v'^» ^"*:"^^ ' -«.r,.i nuv, "»'"' ..U n Un) l'> <"' ^,. M.,(.l (.' t'« I y,.^^^\ \\<'\ In 111" ' ' „. ,,'.)!>( M.mI Mfl n . •»' ,,, \,s \\\\A IVtvp M'"'| \\yo |»\Hill'>H l'«'l" Mo\i\tMMM\ -Ml) -'I '^ 'Im> 'ii'cnilni' '"''' „\ ,,n ».<» WvM'll""" \y\\ IVItnion «iin •■"' !, •■ lu'V N.' nu'i\«i-v \\\\'.\\u Hii\i iil.i.l (i!j(l l;'|>i |i' I 111 'Ml "Ij'ii ijiiUolj >«ti((M.< ■\I.'M nU'i\«iM f\tt;»n) Mii\i iii.ii ii!i(i U'l-i ii' I 111 'Ml <'ij"Miiiu*MV m(((M.< ili-V |>r)l(njia fllin »\ci ill. II rtlu* W'tis '»nl) 'h'luj, Mi"yt;tM |»'ljl^ (n ' >niptl!H<. II \\n'» uiil"v'*il i| !t liillp Idtllw.M mIIiI : llii'H hiiHiti iitwi hitlliMj', \\ lltnl nVif nlll/ttn' i) ■' '■. >n»i|rl,. \\i,\\ ,,\ |||(. )Mni;| '\iit| M'.)| M|||\ \V(1M )\>v\ '\\\\\\ .»)■ Miiiii.n lipniMll iiih<4ltiu!, mii Ium IhhiI<« WM»t« juii l<*u(, hi>)iU It.i jnlll )|i') lit l||l. Ot'vj jt'tlll "111 '.-, Mtc cldlii tnl iH\)!»\iii|ii|i' Iii<) itil'4i'tiil>li' <'v«" I'tVll I'llAl IMIt IX. • !i'S l»t inn'Mi uiiIImI Iii hI|"M(«' uIiK* Mm. U<<''l'H''i f,u l)l« I'liHi' • III iiuv t'llf' III till I "111";! i'lpM ""}' ''iiil'l (I'll iiinio' ihU\t',i* i^ .'.\\\ ll(i IVMM fn(|\ liKril IIimI I lie hni'lof vv/t« (lit munl; (•oiinnit of 'iflir-r ■(•I'll ItUt liltM ; M,iii|\i'l li'nv CMilM li' ("MKllll »('(|(lv (l(>''<»lv»'fl «fl»illv, ifi lUu\ Ui'nm, i,f ti, ^fltf l)n Hlll'il III. |(,|i>;i)i In IK'll^ll I" il(( ,H ((« Woll fH BCf '/«./(» «< fl f(i'' '/uv^ /f l^illl li'iiiii liy llin 'iltn(il('M, I»M|mIH»(.<1 / (^iiiiri>llUi}i*td HtxUtiCifi Hd (tUf^tty ItIIi' ; tiMil \i'\ III' niillil foi-l Mm »I(.mI.( ((i)|( M'tf'l'ifl flHH l/'Mfifif 'Oti lli'il Vimiv liiijifil ii'iicK n)iM liMint^ M|i ifi liifn, r-vpfi wfiilf? ft^vftr^ II lti« wii'i iiiloiliiff IiiIm mm iKilni'iwfi r'Mffdry, w(|<^f»i ^M* ffirmf rt«»cii JIv lii'iK I lie hiii'lt lHll<"i* i(>ft';'> Mli't l'«'fi>, t'<'ii Ijl nllJv III. fMllM llM Vf Ml«(.|| wIimI \V)tM (l/l«lH fifj i»l M(f« ffl if I'l 'if "H p\l\)|tuff|f'(l hi fi(i<) llif< wN/.lo lijttikc^fiil ll»Mliiii|f iittKid liliii ('/If (m« lui'l unl 'I' .'/fi VfnriMfi in rh/> b'ioV«< <>f hil KM II, fiiiiniMlti mI IticMii/f. for ifoifiyi yofifM Ui i'utt\i\ rifi'l, or/ f.^M- liiiilli iif liM , liii'l 'li'fill, vvlMi III" M((f'/ii/il r''ff(ifiifi/3( fr-d (,'/ »ti\/n ^.hf*l Jllil li!Hi> imimIo IiIm tvlfc, li'i'l 'tlif kfi'ivvn of Hi"r.'?, f\^ l')r f'"'1(ftrr.. Hill willi till. l(illii(>(i»T« (|(f(f, II fitiifi of liMt f!i<"irifi*iofi '//oiil'], t\n a mrr* mT cmiii'ii', !><((«((, ovf'f nfiy y'l'i'if? vvoffinri, nri/l i//li'>ri /'ifh M«( )fr»'»\/(' Ifi- mIIicc fill Iii>i'i< fuil'"'i''lf'hft, ii" fi.'i'f fior.n |ii«t w.'«y f'l frtf,.kirif(; fflfi t»'i"liiinlv lino ncdijiid of (//)M».f, mifitifiiof, wlii'h (irorriiio*''! t'l'oriraln "iimiIn jtviwi »fiof<» f|i'l((,i||ifff(| flifi,fi \f'i\i\ f'lr ^'> iVfli rifrf, «'» cinf^h « ^|lv 'H M iioo'ly ffinn ; n iriar> ifi/lor»r| o-v^rflo/zirij/ tviM-i *n norH» of H'oiM wliii 'i ftioro j/o|fl foiiM tidt ftppr'iinn. A tkI n'r-vc, jiinf; vvhfin hft 'tiglil fVMfyhoMy w«« M-ifc ftrcl '•fffnin, JMnf vvh^n h^ hnO ^'. trvim- iii SC^ KlN(i OH FtNAVB? phantly ovorwholtuod Marit)n witli a boiisp of powor that no woniRn «iti oarth oould cdPtinno io witlisfand, hovo oaino this lNrarph)t to send hip cards flying Kinus, (^)n<'oiirt, Knaves, and all. Luckily, ho had nut coininittcd hiniH(>lf, or told an irrovocahle lio ; and he had gained some interval for thought hy sei\dinjLr for .lulia. And now how wotdd it do to stick to his old ground, and call his wife to witness that there was not, and never had betMi, any creatin-o living in the hoiise l)esid«»s their two selves? No. TIkmo was the sei vantu : and there was the Prince of Wales hard l>y. Mow wotild it answer tn admit the jiresence of a guest, hut in the character of a lunatic wlm <'t)uld not be sctMi, antl who neither in face, nor in age, nor height, nor in name, was Marion I That might do liettor, if lio could manage tn give his wife his cuo. lint no-it would ho U)o delcato as well as tun dangerous a game. He would have to send Marion elsewhere for a while, and to proviflo: himself with a mad woman answering to his discription in view of ni 8ect)nd visit and how was that to bo done? And tho lunacy laws, though convenient instruments, arc apt to turn dangerously in tin hands of those who try to play with them in an amateur way. But — " I have it ! ' ho exclaimed fit last, sei/.od with a real inBi)ii;i tion. *' I've got it, by all that's IMue 1 J really hoa yoiir pardon, Mr. Derwont," ho adood hastily ; for, like many anotheij philosopher engaged on a proplem, he had forgotten for tho inomonj that he was not alone. " 1 mean rvo8pt)tted her Iadyshii)'8 syniptoiiisj that have boon j)uz7.Iing tho faculty for yeara. A little obulliuon i excusi iible Suddenly the door was thrown open ; and, standing within it, like picture it\ its frame, tJuy behold a grim woman with icv^ in hor boaritij and thunder in her eyes. Dr. Snell ! '" she broke out, " what havo you dono with tliil gir 1? Conf Julia!" cried tho Doctor, "what arc you talkiiij about?" Are you " " Yes, Wyndham, I am ! You've no call to remind me there's visj tors ; 1 SCO that ; and I see a great deal more. And 1 don't caro v liears no, neither who they an' nor wliai they an) ; if they won^ (pieen. What have you done with that girl 'i " Wyndham Snell tried the etfect of that mighty frown on whicli plunu'tl himself as being imjierial in its power to silence and awe. Hii tliough backed by a peculiar motion of liu^ I'st a masonic sign \vt| understood by certain initiated wives it failed, and the Doctor wan ' li>oking like a bafHed Jove. " 1 ask you," said the lady, *' what have you dono with Miss Maiil Furness I and whore's she gone / Ah you may prettuid to K*;\f But well I know what's been going on under my very oyos dot my iif .sllO one came ml \s if I didn't see througli that thai baggage, tho very ni As if 1 was took in by tricks that wouldn't bamboozl] byby ! As if 1 ilidnt know what a girl's up to that does hor hair that, and what's up when u man that ought to bo ashamed of hiinN KINO Oil KNAVIS'/ 87 Icato as wel ^f she isn t, goes i)hilaiulering up and dnwii ilie stairs. Yea . />h H under - IJH/, Dr. HnoTl IJiit I'm not goiiij^ to put up with Biinh loings oil any metre. What would you, say if / wijnt ofl' -with a Man i " " Say I Why, I'd nay llcavtMi ht^Ip the poor fool ! " said tho D()ct«»r, latching at his vanishing wits in shoor dos|tair. " Worimn alive—will ou como to just ono of your seven BcnseH, and say somothing that it ioesu't want tho Devil hiniHelf to understand I" "1 iinll say it, then. IVliHS Furness is gone ; antl I kntnv why ; and ^mtknoic ichere." "(June? I M'lV/Unow what you moan I " " And BO," saiddiuy, very »|uiotly, " will I." Verily tho Fates wore lighting againut Wyndham Snell that day. He kad just struck out the most magnilicont of plans an idea so c(»mplotely Iplcndid that he might have ealen all his cakes and kept them to(j — llid in (ho very moment of inapiratir)n it was paralysed l>y a spasm of liotic joalouHy ; llaltjuing, no dctubt, l)ut outrageously ill-timed. So jmpletely paralysed was it that, could it over again bo available, ho Ifuuld bo unable to recall it even to his own mind. But not oven his anger with his wife approached the bicterne.ss of his ige against IVIaiion And that rage was less on account of hur having [rouglit him into this maze of trouble than on behalf of Vanity, which, its tenderest place, had received a cruel blow. Never had it dawn- u\H)n him t/hat' he was not irresistible, even when she had repulsod lis advances in a 'vay that a much less really thick-skinned person would ive been able to understand, lie had regarded her behaviour oi yes brday as but a trilling Hkiimish that gives /,est to vict(»ry, and e/uibles Iwoiuan to yield without forfeiting the b.ruuil honours of war. And i-she had really gone : nay, had outwitted as well as rcspulsed him. [ariou FurncrtH had made Wyndham Snell feel like a fool - that is t«» ly, she had doiui what his entire experience of himself, despite a life unbroken failure, hail hithertij failed to do. And what man over Irgave a wonum who makes him feel like u fool '/ [lie would sooner forgive his own wife after shaking her for his own alt, or H benefactor to whom he has been ungrateful. . . . And worst of it was that he could not even |)ohc as having really carried 'and hidden away a young and pretty girl. There was no salve left pool' Vanity none. 5o, afr.or a whole minute's dead sileiici;, ho siuldenly turned to Guy th the calmest and easiest c)f smiles. "m sorry," he said, " that a comparative stranger should have )n present at this \d,\.\v. donientic scene. Hut wo scientific men un Socrat,es hail his tiSray Mare : and if you were a married man M think nothing of it ; you wtiuldn't indeed. Mrs. VVyndhani 11 will be Hoi'ry f^r this when we are alone," ho added in a gentlei' Ice still. [' 1 am waiting," .said <«uy. I am coming to that. Mias Furness has been my guest. She was Bod under my caro uy her father who afterwards sent for her, and }m she lia.-i now gone to join. If .Mr.s. Wyndham Snoll, instead of 88 KiNrt on knavr! ontonnjj; into ronipotition with IMi-s. Siddonn. \\n*\ ubUjmI ihr nbotii Miw K'uruosR t^ui«'nio\vli:i1 |MUufnl acciuv" MiB Snoll throw l)!uth togefcliPiJ wiih nn a\uiiM»> olioU, \m{ said unt rt \vi>nl. " Him- frtthor," I'xolaimod (Juy. 1^*^ ln'iirJ niiikitii;. " Ami Iuti lunl'iov V Vml you fol«l mo Ilu>y wovo jihrojiH." " H«M- mtWhov," Mu\ l>r. Snoll, wiHi liis oyos upon Inn wife, "is iin (lovibt oxniMly w horo »'\ cry wifo oiiolit to Ito Aiul when Mr! KurnoBs sonJ t^v his danghdM-. i( «i»a (o (ul<«» hi'V ahroiu) where, || havo not the loast, «lo\iht, thoy av»» now." " ' Vhnvul " n\oanH nothing. NN hovo ? " " M) «h\'iv sir, if a yonna huly » nthanood hunhand Mitoaii't know, Imwl in tho world slioidd 1 ^ 1 n»»g \ on will not miHuntlerfltand my ptiRitioiiJ Mr. l\>rwont I ant Kimplv a jihyRician : and pcoplo to me ate caHOs j nothing moro. AHarulo, I don't ovon romonilu'r their namoR, Mr. A.,m| old p:\iiont, ror her to her natural gttardiaii : give a ivoei]it for my fee ; and there's an end. What l»ecomeH of fhcitj afterwards whether (hey are eaten hy hoars in Keejee or by eannilmli in Moxioo. 1 neither know nor oaro, Hy the way, yo«i emiii fi>nu a plaoi' oallod Marohgrave, don't you/ Do you hai)peiJ to knm anything of a gentlen\ati nann>d Ih>n>n .lohn Heron?" '"The banker there ? What of him I " " Oh. nothing thank yo\j. Nothing to do with your yotmg lady,i that » what vo\> meati. " "That is everything that 1 meavi." said (Jtiy. " I've not. eomo Ihmi to be played with. l>r. Snell. Perhaps when I tell you that I kin iwoiv about hin\ than y»^u fanoy I «lo that he has bee!\ a eouviet, aii| IS still a criminal — "What '; V(U/ know all about John Heron, of Marchgrave '/ " askiij thf doctor, staring hanl. "John Horon '. What has ho to do with it ! I'm talking «»f Adai? Kurness. And you will be good (>nough to speak of Adatu Kurii('<^| liH\"' "Oh/ .... .\dam b'urness. True. Julia, my dear oin think ! ?<1r. Furnoss, my old [mtient, has been a convict. ! So som ingly respectable a n\an. Well, well ! I'll never trust appearand" again. .\h this is a wicket world. Mr. Adam KurneBB a convin l\v Jove, though, when «u\o comes to think of it, that may account f^ his being in such a Innry to go abroad. Those convicts <)fteii arjl Let me see I fancy they mostly g«) to tlio United Stat«»H, or SwediMJ or Spain." From desperation to liHhletuiB anger ; from aiig«»r tit fnuikness aiij confidence ; from these to ingenious Rlmpliilly sut^h had been l( SncH s path to a mastery of the siluation. Ho had liiLsted to liiu'll and l.uck had faxourid liiiii. Him ling taimdy anil hopelcHHly, his Ht.if KINM OR KNAVR ? R9 MnrclmvHN i " ac^'' IBM it nrocniMlt'd ^a^luM'f<•| foifc-, coluM'fncM, njul lil IfiiipfaHnn was RtroMt^, ln' tli'l ii'»t »|mh'. I So llit'ic \\t\H iml liiiij^ In he tlojn* ; and Mr Sim- Mm flf nty liiKiy hh well Ltm>lli«M Hint ^i\\\ hcrwrlif a rcaMtm IuhI •(» yield fn it, flioiiyli iiin IliMtincI Hiill tfltfjicd. And hm hnlli iimllicr and diMit,dilff had falh-n, ■I) »MMn> iitiitna^inaMn way, iiiln a tiiyHln i'lim Hcnimdrt I'm pnwiT. He pryaii lt> niid«MHland l»Mn»»r tmw why MrH !''«H hail mad»« hitri llic pcic) hn»l»M' tif htn- whnh« fmhiiM', now I'dpnily Haf» in Mm' hands of ohn Ht'foii. And hn Ix'^an now lo giicH^, only too well, how witfr tin* Joky «'\(M>pt.ion of that all impoitant rcinittancc cvtMy httcr had iniH liii«>d. 'hn> man nniHl Im< a \ iiy di'vil of foi If tho foiliiiu' of which lu' had f^ot. wind ; and '«ny »liiiddcr d at t,h« I tn^hl of Marion in that. deviTH liandH. Me natinally rcrodcd from jplying to tin* police, and creating a Kcandal that, woidd fall on tlin •ads of the two Women whom he waa vtiwed, hoth liy will and hy i\nly, i (h'feinl at. almoHf. any imibI. from even a whimper of harm. I'>nt, liet.ter pen Hcandal, even for them, than the na,meleHs petjlM that he fearcfl. And whiit. wonid the polic(> do ? he had toaRk liirtmelf a« he wariflered ||ok, hatlled and aindcHs, in the «lire(;tion of the towji. I'rdeaHthe inn conid he charged with some definite <'rime, he niir^ht laii'jjh at tfie Iv the police could not, deprive a hiifihand of jiia wife and the father liiH (^liild. "Julia ! " Raid the I)octor, facing sharftly round on /os wife, a« «o(»fi I they W(>re a loin'. iHhe set her teet.h luird ; hiil, the lingerR were t.wif.<:hirig nervoUHly, Ld he could alnumt heai' her Iiohoiii heave. l" I BUppoR<* thin ifl your doing eh '( You, that, just, hecause you mw acidRR a girl (hat. you could never have held n cMii'lle t/; in your ^t dayfl, must ihumIh hully her out, of the house, iu\<\ hring a hornet'H It ahont. yoin- own hunhand'H earR ■ WhoR to pny the piper now, ten M\ir last. hiindred'H gone / VVIio'h t,'» hold ori for another month kiul jimt when I was (Ui a t.rack t.hat, would fiave turned Adar.'» Fur- "^H into n gold mine without, a hoft'irn I Who ' 'fake that,, you iihmI, infernal Hag, Vipcu-.aml Fool I" "•t vvn came Ihr hand, Bwingiug wit,h all itR force, upon her ear : and n hIio went, with a Rcrcam. nrinii had gone upfitaiiR and taken off her honnet, as she hafl heen en ; and then, Heated w Sdences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WUSTIR.N.Y. US80 (716) 173-4503 \ iV '^ \\ y ^ 6^ o y I !! 92 KING OR KXAVE I And she feared tha^ she must have betrayed herself still more when he, throwing a broad stream of light across the floor by opening the parlour-door, came out and looked round. He indeed almost touched her as he pass?d her where she crouched bd«k into the darkest shaduu on his way to the head of the kitchen-stairs, down which he disap pearud stumbling, in search of materials for his vigil. That was hei one irrevocable moment. She opened the street-door, closed it behind her without overmuch noise, and took tc her heels. At the farther end of Belvedere Bof!.d, all sound asleep, the lighti of the railway line came into sight, crimson and green, and she heard the whistle of a passing or starting train. Her one definite idea wad to make for London. The lights in front guided her through the dark ness that partially veiled the deformity of Piggot's Town, past the skeleton houses, the dicch, and the cinder heaps, till she reached the station. Alas ! it was locked and dark ; and she read by the glimmei of a solitary outside lamp that she had heard, only five minutes ago the whistle of the very last train. Five minutes — at what now felt like the crisis of destinv ; and witl everything round her so dismal, so unutterably hideous, and so lone Marion was no heroine. She just sat down on the nearest cinder-heaj and cried. That is the worst of loneliness — being forced to pity one's self fc^ want of having anybody else to pity. And the tears of self-pity becor so horribly hard, and at last so cruel, in time. But this first outfloJ over herself did Marion good ; and, for that matter, she still had he[ dead mother and her lost lover in her heart ; for she would never sei them again. And so — not being wholly for herself — the tears, thoug springing from weakness, presently gave her courage to nse and to her face to the great far-away glow that shows by night like a pillar ( fire, where the road to London runs. She was now committed flight, however floolishly ; and to London she must somehow fare. So, till she mij;;ht^, chance upon wheels to carry her, on she did fa — again past the skeleton houses, full of black windows ; through] short passage of old turnpike way between ditches and twisted lards ; into a paved street between rows of mean shops, presenti diversified here and there by half-a-dozon brick houses with raili gardens ; then along a black and murderous canal, where a long bar or two lay sleeping ; and so on, till when, half ready to drop, vague blotch of (Uideveloped town began to take form, and aigiis night life to appt^ar. And then, already weary, she began to be roa] afraid. It was time to ask herself whither shd was going, and I realize that the mere fact of having reached the fringe of Lonili meant nothing at all. She remembered the Clarence; she might there when she could find a cab to take her. But then that was v»M Guy would surely have inquired for her — if he had inq^uired ; and i knew that it had a special connection with the neighbourhood! Marchgrave. Indeed, for aught she knew, he himself might actua[ be there. If only she might act upon that as a hope instead of a fear ! KING OR KKKVE ? 93 tUl I stui more when I . by opening the! sd almost touchedl ,e darkest shadow which he (hi^m 1 That was heil r, closed it behinnum limim - went (ho doep voice of a distant, bell. And, m waiting for tlie signal, a whole chorus of voices lH'\vn, with hor head on the knees of a girl, seato on a doorstep, whose face bent over hers, and whose breath stirrc her hair. " Of course you are,' saitl the girl. " Wiiat made you faint away Lucky 1 wasn't a bobby— you'd have been drunk and incapable befor you could come to agaiti. Ah — and lucky it was Me, evei-yway. T) you think you can sit on the step a bit ? LfU'd, how cold you arc Take my cloak. It's \M\t very big, but it's nice and warm." The girl was nlmont as young as Marion, very small and slight, m pretty, but with lively lips nnefle I r like ice, and now youl I thought^Who s y\ agh and through, eyej ^^ «ooinod to feel act >n ro ugh. said she ; Who'do you know at se to go. riini, however you came t«> know «if sucli a plnro. yon vnv*t go ! iSn tluM'o I Yovi'vo run away from homo '( I^ut there what's the^ood lof asking questions when you're half-Htnrved, and don't know what lynu 10 Hayii!|^? A young lady fainting ofl" in the streets at two in the ItiKTuing, and going t<» the (ireen ('heese ! And now you're all shiver- ling again : just now you wore like fire. Now loik here. I know Iwhat running awav in, and il/s very good f»in for Me. Hut, it don't igreo with you: r,nd I'm going to whistle for a cab, and see yo»i hf)nie. )on't be afraid of the faro. I've got enongli for that, and |»lenty It lore. •' No ! " protested Marion, thougli she felt, her brnin swiinining again ; }* I liave no home " " 1 nhould like to get at liivi, whoever he may lie," Raid the girl bbarnly. "Then, whatever is to be done? Something, tliat's flat. 7oll if you have been murdering somebody and I hr»pe it'R Him- - b's nothing to me. By Jingo, it would be rather fiui : and (Jracious, troif'f/ bo ; heaps ; and I will ! There ootno along. " " Marion had not yet learned t(» fear her own sex. unlesn, indeed, it ipponod to take the shape of Mrs. Hnell ; but, indeed, afraid f>r not fraid, she was no hmgor in a stnto to resist any stranger who laid handri ion her in what seemed a generous way. And, ft»r that matter, this articular specimen of young womanhood was obvifMisly in it one to bo isily disobeyed. So she tried to rise, but only sank bjick nguin. "Come — you can d(» better than thai," .said the girl. " And why — tcause you must, unless you want t(> be found there by a long sight lorse hands than mine. 1 suppose you do fecfl wcnik ; hut you can lean me. I'm little; but I'm awful strong. There'll be the deuce of n IV ; but who cares ? " I" Where are wo going to ? " asked Marion. " Never you mind. Not many steps away. Only to bed and supper. »d you won't see a mortal Sf»ul but me — unless it's por>r Stephen, and I don't count for anything • he's nothing but a (Jenius ; not like a Him all. There — that's better. Lean hanl. And now you're all over again 1 No -I'm hanged if I care ! " larion felt rather than knew her'iolf to Ik? led out of the square ough a dark passage strongly smelling of stables, and with only n jlc lamp to keep anybody from stumbling over a broken path f»f ^li stones. It was sheer faintness, assuredly not cf>urage, that kc[)t from being afraid. So feeble and so forh>rn was she that she might \g been led like a Iamb into a den of wf)lves. The girl, hf)wever, ftterodas if to cheer her in the most unwolf-like way till she reached lall door in a brick wall, wh ch she f)pened with a key that must ()oen exquisitely oildd. The two were now in a small square yard, Jin high walls and paved with gravel, on the other side of which one of a row of tall, blackened houses. Jto this the girl also led her, by means of another noiseless key. ling the backdoor, she struck a match in the pitch darkncF<<, and, spark, taking Marion by tlio hand, followed a oloso and gluomy ko passage to the foot of some steep utairs. KIXR OR KNAVB? "Mind how you come up those," she whispered. " They're all ful of ratholes - and, for Gracious' sake, make no noise. Isn't it getting to be creepiful and fun ? " CHAPTER X. ADAM PURNESS. COIN«R. When Marion woke, the first and the last thing she could call t( mind was the sensation of picking her way in the dark among a laby rinth of ratholes. Up to that point, everything was clear , between that point and the moment of her waking ran a blank wall. She remern- bered every detail of her flight from Piggot'e Town, and of her forlorn tramp to London ; her collapse in the si[uare ; and her being carried into a strange house by a strange girl. But all this did not account foi the utter weakness in which she woke — a weakness not of fatigue, oi evsn of exhaustion ; but of a kind hitherto unknown. She had fe!i plenty of fatigue during her wandering girlhood ; but a night's rest hac never failed to restore her elastic nerves and spirits to their prope spring. Now, however, she felt that she had no spring left in her. I was as different from her waking in the Clarence, after her happy voj age in the Sumatra^ as could be. Then the return of thought had bee a new birth of joy ; now the very simplest thought required an eflfoi and im]>li(>d a dread of succeeding. So she lay back on her pillow, an let her eyus wander, without any help from her brain. She was in a small but clean and fairly comfortable bed in a larg bare room, uncarpeted, and with almost as few bedroom appliances her room in Euphrosyne Terrace before it had received its share drops from the golden shower. And, like that, this also had neith^ curtains nor blind to the window, which had apparently never be cleaned for many years. The furniture consisted mainly of boxes, oj and shut, whole and broken, heaped or thrown about like the contenj of a lumber-room, which they altogether resembled. Meanwhile tif room itself had obviously been meant for better things than the recei tion of useless lumber, whether in the shape of broken boxes or hopj less girls. No Piggot had been so generous of length, depth breadth ; had built walls "so capable of shutting out the faintest soul from without ; had framed a painted ceiling in an elaborately carvl cornice ; and had set up a mantel-piece of polished marble. Katun' the ceiling drew her eyes to it more and more — a group of Cupids, | rose and carnation, disporting themselves on a sky-blue ground, bound together with loose garlands of impossible flowers. The w| had no doubt been considered fine in its way ; but the effect was considerably injured by large patches where the blue had turned gfl or brown ; one Cupid had lost a face, another a leg ; most were orac]| and all were fly-blown. KING OR KNAVE t 97 It seemed odd, even to Marion, that she could be so much less occu- )ied with herself than in speculating on what must have been the ori- {inal Attitude of the jiarticular Cupid whuse best leg had fallen a victim gangrene. But the occupation was so much less unpleasant and itailed so much trouble ; and, after all, the Cupid seemed ever so luch more real than she. And there seemed something familiar about ^he creature, too. She had a dim impression of having watched it try- ig to dance whole hours together — sometimes by gray daylight, somc- imes by a flicker of flame casting shadows that made it really seem to love. Of course its familiarity must be sheer fancy ; but, then, so rere any number of much less unlikely things. At any rate, the Cupid was something to hold by, and to keep her rits from wandering altogether away. Then, weary of looking, her jes travelled down a long waving strand of cobweb, thick and black ^ith accumulations of dust, and connected with a whole labyrinth of brands and webs in every corner of the room. Fuiile attempts to gain clue to that vast and complex systehi of a Spyderland where brooms ^ere unknown occupied her between sudden slecpir.gs and sudden wak- ^s over and over again ; and whenever she slept she dreamed bhe was rake ; and whenever she woke, she fancied herself sleeping. It was during one of the latter fancies that the thick thread waving loae from the Cupid's remaining knee guided her eyes to the girl who been the chief among her last real memories. She gave no start ; 10 felt no surprise. She only lay and gazed. Yes — it was the same girl, little and quaint, dressed plainly in black, id engaged in sharpening some small instruin..Mit on a whetstone, on lich she poured now and then a drop or two of liquid from a small lial. And as she sharpened she partly whistled, partly hummed, a )W jumble of tunes. It was better than looking at the one-legged ipid or the spiders cable. But at last the sharp eyes n)et hers. " Why, you arc awake ! " said the girl, on her feet in a moment, ^thout seeming to go through the process of rising. " Wait a minute, " you slmll have some beef tea. How do j'ou feel ? " I don't know," said Marion, wondering what had become of her ice. " I don't think I feel anything at all." ' Ah ! that sounds better. The nonsense you have talked, to be But you mustn't bother to talk yet awliile. Go to sleep, there's girl. I'll send for the doctor as soon as he can be spared. I'm Jy the nurse, you know." Doctor ? Nurse ?— have I been ill ? Is this a hospital 1 Or is madhouse, she was going to add, but the word was too heavy for tongue. Ill i Rather ! Ill and a half, / should say. But never mind ; 're going to bo all right again now." I' How long have 1 been ill ? " I* Just three weeks to-day." I* Three weaka 1 I've been three vveoka — here ? " 7) 98 KiJUi OK KNAVE 1 N It "Nowhere elao, for sure. But don't fret about that. You inigli have ha^n four " •'And whore " '• Are you ?" anked the girl, who never seemed to require a <|ne8tior to be put into words. '* (Mi, ii*ver mind about that. Everybody mtiBi be somewhere, you know ; and what's the odds where you are, st) Ituis as you're there / " *' Is it a — madhouse?" " Well— no," said the girl, looking at her extra sharply. " No - nni a bit of it," she said decidedly. " So you needn't be a bit afraid. Oh, we're awfully sane people here, especially Me. Stephen may be a liii cracked, now and then ; but then he's a Genius, you know ; so lie'i bound to be " " A hospital ? " *' Lord, no 1 Nor a palace, nor a workhouse, nor a church, nor a theatre, nor a gaol. There— don't worry ; you're going to have soiiif beef tea." " Have you a name ? " "Oh, never mind about names. Everybody must be somebody, you know ; and what's the odds what you're called, so hmg as " " But it is great odds," said Marion u[ravoly. "I want to know 1. what name to think of somebod)' who found a stranger fainting in tl street, and has been nursing her for throe weeks long." "Come— stop that!" said the girl sharply. " 1 always know win I'm about — catch Me ! Of course you've been no end of trouble— yoin right enough there — but it's not been bad fun. and— there. I'm iiiiik ing a precious mess of it," she laughed. " And I'm Cynthia ; it's funny sort of name ; but 1 am. " *' Cynthia. Perhaps — perhaps 1 shall be able to say what I think you — if I ever get strong again. You couldn't tell how much nior grateful I should have been — if you had let mo dio." " Ah — you are better ! Nobody over talks about wanting to di long As there's a '^hanco of being took at their word. Stephen's alvaj wanting to die, too, but he never does it; and once, when tlioro whs off chance of his getting sudden death off a buUot, Lord, you'd liii split your sides to see him scuttle under the table ! You see, he's o. of them that's all Fire and Dew. " " Fire and Dew ? " echoed Marion. " Fire and Dew ? " nodded Cynthia gravely. " I can't toll y(»u w it means, because I don't know, but so he says : and if he don't kii what he's made of, you can't expect me." And with this, which might be simplicity or might he satirt-, ; without seeming to walk, run, or fly, she was out of the room ay leaving Marion ignorant of where slie was, or with whom, or what been happening for three whole weeks to herself or to the world, seemed scarcely possible for any human being to be so completely oft from all human life as to know nothing of herself but that 7.«s alive, and absolutely nothing more. Indeed, f^he thought, nsj KINfJ OR KNAVR? Oil that. You mM renuiroaiHteBti.m Kvery\)«»tly niuHtl re you are, so U\%\ ^arply. No--""* ,e a bit afraul. Oli jphen may be a Mt \ . „ . =.. lit! si you know -, BO nor a church, nor »l going to have Bo,ne| jBt be 8om«\>ody, y-^ I U>nn as — 7 » I want to Know ranger fainting lu ' lalways know wh«| b„doftroublo--you.. l_-there. 1 "» "V'*^' id I'm Cynthia; Us to say what I think tell how nuuh n»«>r ic. iumt wanting to div rd Stephen s arva; nee, when there wa Uot, Lord, yoiid, ,lo ' You see, he s oi \vAi 17^ Th '' I can't tell you whj and if lie don t \letely of herself but that J leed, «he thought, as f- cloned her eyes again, she had much 1>etter have died out and out, and have Hono with lonelinenH, once for all. Hut Uy that time Cynthia was back with a hirge cup of Htr(»n({ broth, for which a certain vors, but real students in the hospitals —and I wouldn't Irnst one }em to draw a child that you could tell from a mophcad or a niilk- -not that they weren't very good fun, in their own way. . . . [, Stephen — what ought we to do now ? " t, indeed I Cynthia, she and you between you have kept us three weeks after I put my foot down. It's a simple infamy that kreer of an Artist should be at the mercy of chances and childish RITJOORKNAVnt ^^^ I .n «..t arc well enough to gefc U| ..Th.lt'8iu>ttho.iuo8n«m. " Uut it's the aiiBwer. -No." , „ • •' Yes, Stcvlio" ,.^.i„]^o." ..The «■•'"'?"' ,SM.i-^"t«"';»V7'^'rfe,>'h"« "P'" y )ii of all that in a yoa'. • ^,^ of course, tl»e'^« y^tu'\ " >vhi8pered Marion - Is he your hu«)>an > ^^ awkwardly. ^^^^^ «n Cynthia laughed ' /,^^« that because ^^« ^"^^^ J^^.^n y'.r opin.m o'Ah, I ««H^''^^r"Xiv, Stephen; now you ^ „| But i.'« only ourjm. hu ,^^^1^^^. aju no h ug ^t^^^^^ . ^ ^^,, you can go. 1 l^"^y Tliorc," ahe saul, as ne V y^^xtit clove: iuderstand. • • • ^.'now you've seen a ^l" "" ^ Uist the ri«h the same. >> h^-" Y^ ^^ ,,ud you see liow ^ b „ -^ Mano holding out ;;*^J '^^^^^^^^^^ misery jj^^^dy can understa be got ""^ " ,fSa ," ,,'d run aw»y -;r ^^V^yi^ -e;; -'-.t^V-'ve done „othi„g-noth„,g »» "Gracious, no 1 a»" mean —--" „ , ^ Marioti . , . ^ i always did hate i :;;r*v„»t ^.;kso i.o™b,y^g;;;;f^V«t^^ *-^ people ever .inoe 1 WW born. KING OR KNAVE? 101 enough ^o get U). ift hor spoon I ' Vt whether «ho can -your whinr en how ripht yo..| Vml of iouvse <••>;«'! cour«o to got Btrun,! ^ of goo(Uhinn«- MuHbarronvamti-M I novor hfivo thou^ a plenty of it -Nvl'J an at one an..thor «' vo given your opn- thiutf to do -I rersayiuBttUevg think that's my " . who knows hnnwc. ^ther people wouW ,l8-but ho nm"»» 3 \ tosayy^uddio, riuht he's boon, /though," said Mano^ 5h tears that came f ro< Nobody can understai there's no good ,n of the tree. 'fott.>m 1 . All the top \e vice of them. 1 took to )\ nothing-nothing bad ^I always did hate gc seen much of them then I don't want to. Let tne see — T know you've gofc pluck some- whert;, «tr you wi'uldn't have run away. You Bhaii ho something very nice indeed. A Miuderess— that will do very well. You've murdered lot !ue see — you've murdered two jiidgcs and a dozen policemen, and I all their wives. No — three judges and three dozen policemen, and the wives of course, all the same. Yf»u make them all in l<»ve with you — 1 mean all the men ; and then you ank them t(» sunper and put aqua- fortis in their wine, so that they die in agonies. You are a countess, lof course— those sort of people always are. And then you make [friends of all the wives, and put vermine powder in their tea. And jthen you " But Marion heard no more of her chatter ; she was really sleeping, hich wap perhaps the chatterer's aim. As soon as she wastiuietly otF, ynthia left the room, which she locked huhind her — all the koys in ihat house turned with amazing smoothness and silence— and went pstairs into the workshop, whore Peter Peterson with the rod beard as toiling at a press, and Stephen Ray was picking up and examining e silver coins that fell from them one by one. She entered singing : and, still singing, kneeled down and picked up e coins, handing them to Stephen so as to save him from stping — lU attention for which he thanked her with a growl and a scowl. •* Shall we get done in good time ? " she asked, between two bars. "Not if we so laze," said Peter, increasing his speed. "We shall lOt have done — no ; not tmce upon a dime." There was something about her that seemed to make the press itself ork faster, and three coins to fall where only two fell before. In short, Adam Furness, the Coiner, had obtained a greater acrpiisi- to his establishment in Upper Vane Street than even in Stephen y. He would have found it difficult to procure a better artist ; but possible to catch half so good a she-help, seek high or seek low. There not her equal in the art, far more difficult than the more making ilse coins, of getting rid of them when they were made ; and then threw herself into that part of the work, with its disguises, its risks, tricks, and its triumphs, with the skill of a born actress and the zest a child at play. Then she had such marvellously shari* eyes and ears nothing escaped them ; she was at once a sentinel against danger 1 without, and a spy against possible treachery from within, and was loyal to the core. And then, moreover, she had the spirits of a at large, and kept up to the mark energies which, as being secret criminal, were apt to (lag and despond. For she revelled in secrets, had absolutely no sense of crime— a reckless and defiant creature : rn rebel and outlaw, who takes to crime as a matter of course, just use lawlessness is more lively than law. And it may be that there more such honest criminals then we wot of — sinners whom one would more dream of morally Judging than one would dream of letting go n they are caught, seeing that they are the most dangerous of all. eed, short of hanging them, there is nothing to be done with them thing in the world. luch was Cynthia— ^if that was her real name, as was scarcely likely 1 |i i in 1 1 i ! 1 ■:r;:| 1 1 in .{ H 1 1 ' ■•■''■'■" 1 !• 102 KINO OR KNAVE 9 — whom Adam Furiiess, in the course of his travels about London, ha< met at some more or less disreputable place of entertainment, and wit I whom he had at first been struck in a non -professional way. For th Coiner kept (jueer company not only when at work, but when at plaj) One cannot very well contrive to lead a double life — that of a crimina during ofhce hours, and of a model citizen out of them. He made th girl's acquaintance ; and, having been struck by her personal piquancy was no less struck by her brains. But by her stupendous recklessnes he was struck the most of all — there are men who prefer a woman ii proportion as she is unwomanly, and will do their best to make one so But there was still a surprise for him in store. Rich as he was, at leas in her eyes, he found her devoted to a creature who seemed bom to h scorned by women and pitied by men ; penniless, incapable, feeble worse than ugly, selHsh, vain, morose, peevish, and deformed. F*i this poor wretch's sake she slaved joyfully as other women slave miser ably ; and for his sake she reduced to simple chaos all the notions o Adiini Funioss about women, who had hitherto, after the manner of hi sex, fiiitteic'd himself that he knew hers through and through. Heha( found a mere girl who, without either pride, or prudence, or discoverabli conscience, was yet, even while poor, pretty, and thirsting for life am all its ploasures, as unattainable as the topmost snows of a maidei mountain ; if such is still to be found in these days of adventurous dest cration. However, he was not the man to take a rebuff of that sort tt heart : indeed, he had not the time. So, having seen his invincible riva' he pitied her poor taste, and, since he could not get one into his service took the two. And never had he repented from that hour. She was more than he had expected, barring her unnatural fidelity to her scarecrow ? an Stephen — strange to say — was in all sober truth what she entitled hiii] a Genius as genuine as ever came into an unappreciative world, fellow had no more bniins than a block ; he was half daft, half dullar but his blazing eyes and his exquisitely fine fingers were inspired. Gil him an idea, and he would stare at you like a sullen baboon ; give h| half an inch of chalk or charcoal, and it is you who would stare. Of the gang who had taken secret possession of a whole house in most respectable street in the *' Court Guide," Adam Furness was head, Cynthia the heart, Stephen Ray the hand. But there were ot| members besides. Next to these in importance- -if next to them— came Peter Peteij of the Red Beard, a foreigner from either Northern Russia or Sweden, or at any rate from somewhere thereabout. He had not long taken service with the firm, coming with an introduction froj highly valued correspondent abroad, but had speedily achieved repute and confidence as a skilled workman, whose only distractioiil his pipe, who could have set an example of honesty and sobriety to man, and who knew how to hold his tongue. He was a sort of for^ of the works, and was consulted accordingly. A fifth was that valued corre8pv)ndent who had introduced Petersen — a Pole, named Mirski, who called himself a Count, anc KING OR KNAVR 1 103 ive been a real one. He was seldom or never in London ; but would on Sunday in Paris, on Monday at Hamburg, on Tuesday at rienna, on \Vech;esday at Mcmaco, on Thursday at Berlin, and so on ; sliort, on any day somewhere where money was flying, false or true. [e it was who collected intelli!;;ence, which he telegraphed in cypher. Inliko Peter, he was a brilliant personage, with many friends in many [uartors, high and low ; a gambler, moreover, and a man of pleasure, |ut one who knew how to make his chances and his pleasures pay — an ivaluable secret, known to few. A great many people who knew that lariuini; Count Mirski would have been a good deal taken aback hsid ley known the real whereabouts of his estates in Galiciu and his gold lines in Tumeswar. And it was he, of course, who had heard of the in to the Khan of Moulkhend. The sixth was not otherwise known than as the Knacker — an engra- }r of more talent than honesty, who had done most of the artistic >rk before the engagement of Stephen Ray. He was a rather humble jeniber of the concern, having been in his time, besides an artist, a Iliard-marker, a writer of begging letters, and an inmate of various tual wards— once even a sham parson. But he had never been able get into real and serious trouble, for want of enterprise and brains. was clever and competent, but was little trusted. For if want of Ibriety is a fault in an honest workman, it is a fault in a dishonest \e ten thousand times more. (The seventh was Mr. Jellitt, landlord of the Green Cheese, Blink ne — a highly useful man in his way, by keeping a house where |rious matters could be transacted without risking the secret of tliu tory at Number Seventeen. Moreover, his position as a publican tbled him to perform multifarious necessary functions. He could hward messages ; he could do errands, in person or by deputy ; he |ld set any advisable gossip going ; he could do a hundred odd jobs [.which it was advisable that no more deeply 'mplicated member of firm should appear. And not only could he do these things, but did them ; and he also was a man who knew how to hold his ;ue, even when he was not quite so sober as the landlord of a jised house ought invariably to be. Vith these materials, it was obvious that the business conducted by ^m Furness enjoyed greater advantages, and was carried on under ter conditions, than is usual in the case of an ordinary criminal As a rule, such undertakings fail because they are not conducted )und commercial principles. That could not possibly be said of company whose central office, chief workshop and principal ware- »e was in Upper Vane Street. The head of the firm had taken care, it has already appeared from the list of shareholders, that one of his partners should be qualified to interfere with his Jme direction or to set up a divided control ; and he had always able to inspire them with a certainty that it was to their interest ccept his authority. John Heron himself had not more easily himself undisputed King of Marchgrave than Adam Furness had himself autocrat of this band of Knaves. Criminal as he was, he m Mi \>'. I ii 1: ' • : 1 HI- 104 KING Ok KNAv;, ? could therefore be no coniinon one. He had none of the ways of tlit class to which ho belonged. He kejtt strict and method iciil accounts, in carefully arranged books, both of money, time, and labour, which— except for the certainly important fact that they were in cypher—] would hav<^ enabled him to pass an examination in bnnkruptcy with the very higliest honours. He never allowed pleasure to send business I to the wall. He never ran a needless risk — that form of rope with which most men pretty soon contrive to hang themselves. He was nut I & mere poacher on the field of the financial prerogative of the Queen. He was a financier, with the qualifications of a f ractical banker who i has mastered his bu.sine8s ; and he had taken to coining as the best means he knew of making a fortune with speed and certainty— a troublesome business, no doubt, and fertile in anxieties ; but not, [ managed as he managed it, more so than that of any man who give! hisi mind hoi estly to his work, and much less so than legitimate] speculative businesses often are. His origin was unknown to his associates ; so that, by his no doulitj calculated reticence, he acquired such additional prestige as belongs to mystery. And it speaks v<»lumeB for the position he held auiongl them that nobody tliought of inquiring. Not that his reticence wa»l entirely the result of calculation. For his past career was connectedl with two grand mistakes of which he was ashamed, as having lowered] him in his own eyes. He had started in life by committing a crime that had been disl covered ; and he had married a wife in whom he had only been able tu| inspire hatred and fenr. The crime had been a commonplace forgery ; the marriage (whichl had befallen him the first) had been with a romantic and stiif-principledl young woman, who had taken it into her head to idealize him, andl then to make him answerable for having fallen short of her impossible! ideal. That, at least, was his point cf view — no doubt hers was al different one. However that might be, when he remedied his financiall blunder in his own way by escaping from gaol, and, coming to his wife,r unfolded to her future juans in which she might play an oxcuedingljff useful share, she had repulsed him with terror. There are people wli« see in the fragments of broken idols, not mere lumps of common clajl of which there is still a bust to be madi', but the materials of a ficni still potent for future evil. Still, it could hardly be called madnesi that it should be the aim of a mother's life to shield her only girl frotcl tlie knowledge of so much of such a father's name, and to preserve lieif from falling into the hands of one whom, after all, ehe had betteil means of knowing and judging than all the judges of both sides of thJ world. Such aims are apt to grow, and at lahl to poHsess the life, n(| when the nature is weak, but when it is strong. And she, knowiiiij him, doubtless knew that when hate once grows out of love, it is ocr| tain to be returned ; and that the hate of Adatti Furness would rvi confine itself to thoughts and words. She had dreaded for her giij what he would call punishment, and she revenge. He had certainly come to regard himself as an ill-used man. VM KING OR KNAVE 1 106 the ways of tla liodiciil accouuth, labour, which— rero in cypher— b»nkru|»tcy witb] 3 to seiul business i jrm of rope with vee. He was nut | ire of the Queen, tical banker whoj lining as the best i and certainty— 8 1 xieties ; but not, ny man whogivi'sl [) than legitimate! by his no doubt I itige as belongs u\ ,u ho held among I , his reticence wasl reer was connectedl as having lowered! Dhat had been dial 1 only been able tul le marriage (whicli jandstilf-principled > idealize him, and t of her impossible , doubt hers was a] imedied his financial , coming to his wife play an oxceedingl; here are people wbd ips of common claj materials of a fiend r be called madner- d her only girl froi and to preserve hei all, ehe had bettei of both sides of th( » possess the life, m And she, knowini ,ut of love, it is cc I Furness would n dreaded for her gi i ill-used man. VMi| indeed does not, when he has to bear the natural consequonces of what he would leave undone were he able to live his time over a^'ain ? In his case, and with his self-centred niituro, that way of regarding him- self was especially inevitable. His wife'» attitude simply emphasii^ed that of the whole world. He was not merely a convict— a strong man might live down that fact, if he really willed it, ns he might a broken leg, or birth outside the social pale — but an escaped convict, a i.ian for whom the law would never cease to watch more or less actively, and on whom it might at an}* moment lay its hand. After that intui view with his wife, he was a man of great ideas and hungry energies without I a career ; and one had to be made. And, once made, ho found him- self as much the slave of it as the man who raised the monster and had to do its bidding. He had no confidant, and could have none ; that would have meant [putting himself into another's power. And therefore no creature lainong his associates dreamed of the real and inspiring reason for the Iconcoction of the great stroke of business now on hand, (t was not Ifor the sake of profit, though that was no*^ despised. It Wjts that ho jwas longing, at a critical period of middle-age, to cut himself away "rem his monster, and to be no longer at war with the world. And to lo this there was only one possible way. It was to implicate his iccomplicos in a plot of so during a kind, and of such peculiar peril, that it would be incumbont upon everybody to withdraw upon suffi- ciently good profits, and to suspend operaticns which should never be tesuined. He had been long watching for a chance, with the patience khat is bound to find at last the chance it watches for. What was to iappen afterwards was also arranged. But in this man there were tjcrets behind secrets ; and it was the arch -secret of his unfailing sue- that, having once fixed upon his end, he never allowed further 3nsideration of it to divert the least fraction of his mind from the letails of the immediate stop that had at the actual m(>mont to be limbed. The grand step at this actual moment was to wind up the rm. The step to do this was to mvolve it in a particular enterprise a suicidal kind. To this, the present step was the substitution of a Jrtnin number of false for real coins. To this, the rapid production the false coins. And to this Adam Furness was devoting himsulf, Bart and soul, as if it wore the only thing to be thought of, for its own |ike, and without a view to any further end. Not even Cynthia, with all her sharpness, had dreamed of guessing to be other than he seemed — a Coiner, who plied his trade with a ^irit and a success unprecedented in the craft's chronicles, and whom, ^erefore, it was pure delight for one of hor humf)ur to help and serve. takes something longer than a needle to roach more than a strictly lited depth : something much more penetrating than a woman's wit reach a real man's core. Cynthia believed that slio know Adam irness as every woman thinks she knows every tnan — through and rough ; and she did know him just as every woman does know every m — to the full depth of his skin. The first step to freedom was now coiiipleted with the chink of the i I ''11 ■r' i: ' 106 KINO OR KNAVE t last rouble : and all had been well made, thanks to the workmanlikt qualities of Peter Petersen, the inspiied fingers of Steph ^n inay, an( the microscopic eyes of Cynthia. Ad?*.m Fivness had gone througli the tale, and had given directions for packing. Then he review ,id his general scheme in his own mind, and could not discover a single flaw The tale of the roubles itself was no^ more comjilete : and he ha( examined every point as jealously as he h^d counted every coin. ^' Yes," he thought to himself, *'I shall have conquered life in my own way, after all. There's more than mere luck in Leah's dying uut of ihe way just then and just there ; and there's no danger from a qirl who knows nothing, and whom I've got under my hand. ... I shal be as free to live a great life as if nothing had ever been — yes, Free ! The day after the counting of the coins, Guy Derwent received > summons from John Heron. CHAPTER XI. THE OTHER CANDIDATE. 1:1 •• Have you heard the news ? " asked Alderman Sparrow, bustlii up in front of Guy at the corner of Chapter Lane. "Whatne^s?" " It's come ! " ♦' What's come ? " "Dissolution. I've just seen the telegram. I always knew it woulJ It's quite phenomenal, the number of times I've been rit,'ht about Mk/ sort of tiling!*. Ah, politics are nothing but common sense, if vj take 'em by the right end. Only most folk will take 'em by the widiJ and burn their fingers. So now for a long puli, and a strong pull, iiif a pull all together, as my old uncle used to say — what original thiiij he did use to say, to be sure ! A pull all together — that's the way.j " I'm on my way to see Heron now." •'Ah — then I mustn't stop you. That man's time's gold. Bl what do you think I've heard ? It makes one ashamed of one's u{ town. Fancy there being ungrateful fools enough in Marchgrave j put up a man against Heron — John Heron ! But it's true. A| there's none of your common sense in politics. It wants an ArgJ to see through that milestone ; wheels within wheels. It's the Doclj Those Askness people — they're 'cute chaps, as the Yankees say, on i word." *• Why — what can they do ? " asked Guy impatiently, but still wj anxious interest in his friend. "I'll tell you ; and mark my words — I can tell chalk from cheost',| my poor uncle used to say. It's a put up job. They've nobbletl 1> n. KINO OR KNAVE ? 107 (erwent receivea ^11 Sparrow, bustlii ,atiently, but still 4 the county members, and bought that mercenary rag, the Watchman^ md are working to make thw Docks a party thing. They're bringing lawyer from London to tight John Heron in his own town." " Do they take us for fools ? " " Looks a bit like it. But they'll give trouble, and they'll put as to pxpense, and they'll stir up bad blood ; and if Hnything was to happen Heron— which God forbid— they'd be ready to fight a weaker man. Lh, I understand these things ; and Askness is a regular nest of vipers, (ut we'll be a match for 'em ; Honesty's the best Policy, as I've heard ly poor uncle say many a time ; and gad, sir, the old gentleman was ■jht ; it's true. So ' Heron and Honesty,' say I. By the living Heorge, sir, when 1 think of what that man has done for Marchgrave, 3, and will do, the very thought of a contest makes my blood boil, le Marchgrave man that didn't vote straight as a die for Heron ought I) be tarred and feathered, like they do in the States. I say. English- men ought to fight fair — and if I don't find out some ugly story about W precious carpet-bagger of theirs, my name ain't Sparrow. He's a ^wyer — so there's sure to be something against him ; and if there I't, one can find something out, all the same. A lawyer ! If he sn't done one thing, he's safe to have done another. He wouldn't himself be made a cat of by the Askness monkeys if he wasn't more jave than fool. Good-day. I'm going to get the Mayor to call a Beting, to denounce this phenomenal, this discreditable, this un-Eng- this — this But Time's money, sir ; and Time and Tide — my jr uncle— a Nest of Vipers, sir ! (Jood day ! " , released from this enthusiast, who, after all, represented no )re then the general feeling of the town toward its King, found John tron engaged with his cashier, and thus had time to notice that his Bnd was certainly beginning to look a little worried and pale. And [wonder, considering all the work he had «m hand— the leading bank the county, the new Docks scheme, the magisterial bench, the ive management of all the public charities and institutions in the ^n, a Parliamentary candidature, and the confidence of everybody > chose to give it to him as trustee, as almoner, «)r simply as adviser friend — not to speak of such private afl'airs as nobody can escape, for which everybody must somehow manage to find time. Thanks for coming over so promptly, Guy," said he. "I'd have ke to you myself ; but " Of course you couldn't. By the way, I've just heard you're to be }sed. Is it true ? " Quite true. A man named Morland — the inevitable barrister from ion. Who over failed to bo opposed by a barrister from London, leas and young i I'm glad of it — I want a tight ; a big victory do good to the cause ; the Docks, the wh(.>le Docks, and nothing |the Docks ; that's the cry I'm toing to win with ; better than all Peace, Retrenchment, and Reform. Marchgrave first ; England id, and the rest of the world nowhere. However, politics will Do you remember promising to make a little journey for me ? " Of course I remember. ' l«! ■■f J I 108 KING OR KNAVE ? ** Can you start — to-morrow ? It's short notice, no doubt ; but I'l answerable for your business, you know — you can dine with me an Kate, and instruct me just as if I were your chief clerk instead of yoe banker " " To-morrow ! If it weren't for one piece of business, I'd start , the end of the world by the next ti-ain," said Guy. "And that is ?" "Marion." " I see. . . . Yes ; that is awkard. You've still heard nothii — nothing at all ? " '* If you had been in Marchgrave, and if I could have got at you, Ehould have asked your advice long ago." ' ' I must give up some of my irons. I'm ashamed of not having tio for my friends. How do things stand ? " " I had an anonymous letter, telling me that I should find her— i mention was made of her mother — at a certain house in London, went there at once — only to learn that she, and no donbt her moth too, were in that scoundrel's hands, and had been carried abroad, where " " Whnt house ? " asked the banker sharply. "A Dr. Snell's — odly enough, the very man I came across at t Green Cheese. He lied to me then ; and though he explained hiniJ plausibly enough, for aught I know he's lying now when he sayBJ knows nothing of where they've gone." "Dr.— w'/io.?" " Dr. Snell — a quack, if there ever was one, practising in a forsaken suburb called Piggot'sTown." " The Banker rose and paced slowly up and down the room. " And the anonymous letter — can you guess from whom it came i " It is beyond guessing." " I don't think your Doctor was lying, Guy," said the Banker i decision. " Unquestionably your sweetheart is with her father, her motlier too, abroad ; and unquestionably their address has not I left behind. Have you been doing anything more ? " '" I have been to the police, of course. I was unwilling — but it| the only thing to be d( me." , "Thej)oHce! Well?" "They find there was an Adam Furness transported for forgery, having escaped, now either dead or at large. They were interest hear ot him ; he hadn't been heard of for near twenty years." "VVelir" " 1 could give no description ; and of course he would have cha in all that time, even if there were anybody in the force who chal to r»member him. However they made inquiries as to whether aj with two ladies — whom I cokW describe — had left England ; and tlij communicated with the police abroad." " And they've hoard " "Nothing." "And if you find this — man?" KING OR KNAVK? 109 no doubt; but 111 X dine with me an ,erk instead of yotj isiness, I'd start {J B gtill beard nothii Id have got at you,| ed of not having tiij I should find her-^ tiouse in London, no doubt her niothj i carried abroad. n I came across at t h he explained himil g now when he saysl practising m a lown the room, rom whom it came said the Banker .„ with her *ather. leir address has not lore ? " v. i. ui as unwiUing-but it| iS *• Put all the pressure that can be put on an escaped felon. He lust leave the country at once, and return at his peril " " I see. . . . Yes; of course that's what you'll do. Meanwhile, ^ou must first catch yt^ur hare." "Exactly. And as the police are evidently a broken reed, I an* [oing to take it into my own hands. I will hunt down this scoundrel. it takes me all the rest of my days. And 1 shall succeed. Heron — le world does not hold the place where I shall not find Marion " " Yes ; the world is a very small place. And, as the song goes, Love ^ill find out the way. But your business, Guy "^ " ' ' Marion is my business, till she is found. And now foi your counsel, course I shan't stop the police from going to work their way. fut how shall I begin in mine f " " Let me see. Yes — in such a case as this, the beginning's half the ittle ; or rather the whole." " Put yourself in my place, Heron. How should you begin ? Sup- se you had lost your Kate, as I liave lost Marion " '• I'm afraid — I'm afraid, Guy, that even Kate would have to yield to ^e Docks, poor girl. . . . But in your place— I'll toll you exactly lat I'd do. I would do as you have done : set the police to work on irope, and the accessible parts of America. Then I should do the one ing the police can't — go straight to Galveston, in Texas, and from that I centre work round and round the far West : the refuge of runaways. >u mayn't tind anything there, but you may ; and if you don't, kbody else will. The polic* must work were they can ; but you must where they can't. Come in." It was Guy's clerk, from the oflBce, with a telegram that had just pived. Guy took it anxiously and eagerly ; those buff envelopes wore ich more to him now than merely the masterpiece of the great )rry- Fiend ! He opened it. f'Good God ! " he exclaimed. " Read that. Heron." The Banker slowly and deliberately mounted his glasses. ' Funiess to Derwent, Marchgrave, Enyland " ' — the messa^ 'e was in pnch, but he translated it as he read on. " ' We are in Mosrow. i,not write or say more. Come.^'* By George, Guy, here is another of shoes ! What shall you do now ? " Heron, if I never believed in Providence in my life, I should nsported for forgery. They were interest r twenty years." be he would have cha in the force who cM luries afl to whether left England ; and tiii Providence ? " ' A coincidence — no : a plain guidance like this makes one afraid ! ^cow — where I was to start at once for yon ! And now " lit is queer ! It hadn't struck me — to tell you the truth. I had for- m my own business in yours ; indeed, I had made \x\) my mind you were to be let off your bargain. But now, as you say — why ||k8 to my business, as you call it (though it's really not mine), " have your passports and i)apers and everything you'll want ii'.idy itarting by the next train, if you phase. I can't answer for Piovi- I ; but it is uncommonly queer. . . . The Russian police does its work. Put it into their hands on your way to f )ufa ; and you'll ! W Jii 110 KINO OB KNAVK? ,1 ■ ^ s'It' li find it done on your way home — you'll return with joy, bringing your sweetheart with you." It was altogether a natural ttiing to say — and yet it did not seem entirely natural as said by .John Heron to Guy. There was something I n little mechanical and even absent-minded about the Banker's manner, which could hardly have failed to strike a listener in less impatient j mood. *' There's no time, anyhow, to talk about coincidences," said Guy. ** You spoke of my being able to start by the next train, if I pleased. I do please. And don't let my business trouble you. My clerk will! be able to put otf all that will keep, and do what won't ; and what he can't do and w?>n't keep must go elsewhere. Where am I to get iny| papers and instructions ? I'm ready now." " I do like a dash of recklessness about a man ! Some people say ll like it a bit too much ; but — well, a good journey to you 1 As tol instructions, I have told you generally what to do. You'll receive al consignment of specie, Russian money, for you to pay to that Tartarl fellow's ageni at Oufa ; and you'll receive from a Russian agent anothcrl l«)t of specie to bring home. You will be put, 1 believe, in commuiii | cation with some local banker. Rut as to the details, of course know nothing, except that, of course, a Russian loan to an Asiasticl potentate is naturally a state secret. You will, therefore go to lujl correspondent's private address instead of his place in the City — Nmn- ber Sixteen, Upper Vane Street — Mr. Ward. If you put on yourl visiting-card 'From J. H.' he'll understand. I've alrea«iy written tell him that for tact, discretion, desi)atch, integrity, and resoursether isn't your ed trying ordeal of close shaving, and a pleasant look in an alert and conscious sort of way. What drew Guy's attention to him in the instance was the number of newspapers with which he had pro- d himself, and which he ran through rapidly before he seemed to even aware of Guy. ' Do you mind my smoking ? " he asked, taking a " yes " for granted puning a well-furnished cigar-case. '* It isn't a smoking carriage, I w ; and that's why 1 come here to smoke— I can't stand any oco but my own. Take one yourself — they ought tc be good and ink they are." is voice, also, w j not an unpleasant one, and somehow sui^uos^od tice in speaking : there was neither slurring nor iangour, nor haste, each word came out round and clear. He seemed altogether oo li ^1 ,112 KING OR KNAVB f very good terms with himself, and therefore with the world, and with a very probable touch of impudence about him of a not unbecoming kind. t " Here's a light. You got in at Marchgrave ? So did I. It was my first visit. It is a v?ry inturcsting town — city, I should say. 1 do like those fossilized old places. Have you ever been in the States t " "Never." " Everybody ought to go to the States. I have ; I was there four whole weeks, and have pretty well seen them all — enough for my pur- piKse, wliich was to study their institutions with my own eyes." " And what do you think of tliem \ " " Why, that they want a few Marchgravos. Unluckily, while that's essential, they can't get them." " Perhaps when they're as old as we " "Never. They'll never be as old as wo, because they started older I than we ever were, or ever shall bo. They were never young — thoy wore born senile. One must have a few places like Marchgrave tnj keep a country young ; and if wo over improve them — we shall be con- siderably bigger fools than I hope we are." "Isn't that a bit of j)arndox f " said Ouy, smiling. "Any way, i| hope you are wrong." "No chance of that ! I wish there were. But why ? " "Because Marehnravo will very soon bo improved beyond knowing."! "Oh — you mean those blessed Docks. Absurd. The fable of the| frog raid the bull. Are you a Marchgrave man ? " "I am," said (*uy, stitl'ening. "And an elector, perhaps?" " And an elector." " And there are people in Marchgrave who really think they ar going to blow themselves out into a Liverpool ? I'll tell you what- haven't bcra two days in Marchgrave without seeing how the wiii(| blows. You Marchgrave people are all a long way too much undeJ one man's thumb." The stranger was unqu;^stionably impudent — and not so pleasant',! so as he had promised to be. "If I ditier from you," said Guy, "it is because I have knowil Marchgrave, not two days, but nearly thirty years." " Exactly so. That is why you ditt'er. The longer one lives inj pl.oce the less one knows it — that stands to reason. Your visiij biM lines local. The place I know least of is London, because rail Londoner. To whatever you said to me about London, I should boa On the same grounds, I am the better qualified to judge Marchgravej "Do I understand you have come among us as a missionary ? " ask([ Guy, provoked into being a little amused. "As a missionary. Or rather as an Iconoclast — an idol break«i That is my mission in life ; and therefore I am a missionary. I i one of those rare creatures called enthusiasts, and I hate and ab shams- Tory shams, Liberal shams. Radical shams, Church shai Phapel shams, Atheist shaivs, shams of every sort and kind. An KINO OK KNAVR T 113 Pld, and with unbecoming [ It was my ay. 1 do like tatos f was there four fh for my P«r eyes. \y^ while that's 5V started older I ^fr young-thoy Marchgrave to| wo shall be cuu i* A.ny way, 1 !oyond knowing' The fable of the ly think they w I tell you what- ing how the win too mv iiitl; not 80 pleasa 1 have know ,UBO between you and me, one of the higt^ost shams I've yot come across is John Heron of Marchgrave." Guy pitched his half-smoked cigar out of the window. " Then let me tell you that you are the bi'^ent Rham of all ! " he said hotly. " As you liko plain hpciiking t-> sir.ui;,a'r.-i. 8i> do I. 1 know John Heron not only as everybody in Murchyravo kn(»w8 him, hut as his friend — and better and truer and wisur friund no human creature ever had in this world. I know him through and through. And what all Marchgrave says, I say too — there is not a finer or noldcr or l)otter man all round living than John Heron. . The notion f>f pre- tending to know a man like that after bei*>g in the same town with him two days ! " The other slightly nodded and smiled. ** Any way, 1/oJf're no sham," said he, "Tly.Jove! 1 hope I shall ver have a man stick up for me liko you for Huron 1 I'd apologize for peaking, only that would be a sham ; for I'm of the same oi)inion still ; nd, as you see, I don't go in for tact. That's the bigguf^t thing out in hams. There are two ways of succeeding — making friends and making nemies. One's as good as the other, so long as you tnVe the one that luits yourself, and d») it thoroughly. The only thing is to find out hich suits your own line, and then stick to it. Mine's the fighting e ; it« slower, but it's much surer. Heron's seems to bo the other, suppose he counts on every vote in Marchgrave ? " "No. It seems that Marchgrave has its (juota of cowards and fools." Alderman Sparrow himself could have said no more. " Ah ! Well. Perhaps independence may be cowardice ; and it ay be wisdom, to be the victim of a craze. That's no new idea. How- er, after that— and because you're just the sort of enemy I like to ke — I ought to give you my card, and thanks for a pleasant battle, you ever feel inclined for another, come and see me in Pump Court, mple. That's my name — Draycot Morland.' " What ! The stranger the .i.skne8s people have put up against hn Heron?" " The same ; and who means fighting even if he can't win." •' Then, if you'll take my advice," said Guy, " you'll go back to Pump urt and stay there. If you tulk to the other electors as you do to nuer one lives i« ^ Your V19W vdon,becau8elJ ,don, 1 should bo^ udgeMarchgra missionary? a^kfl ;_-au idol break^ a inissionary. ,t — i»i» • — 1 . 8si)« ^^ .^^ «f . „,au whom the ^skne^s p P^^^^ ^^ ^ ^ Pj;l^*'^;%Uor, especu John Heron. X. would have crmged before an .^ ^ usual pattern, >^^« J^^^ ^nd have tried, if ^e co^W no ^^^^^^ before one opposed to him, a^ ^^^ ^ ^^.^oss ^J^J"^ ^ „„v,ivi8 ^U to .'J^^^HutTo t'^^^^^^^ and ^^y^'^^^X^Ts^-^m -^ laving himself out w lo ^^ t there was » ^^^^ complete indifference as to Jj^^ the others, "^*^ , "° %ut foi^ Sen newspapers^ and r^tm.ne^^,ea through o'^/Xn^^^^ W,^, in them here and ^^^l^J^^ ^ withdraw his a"e«^ij^ Morland b^ tV.A davB went on, slept less » . ^ gymptoni Marion, as the ^^fX^ ^ . ^.^d then came ^'^^ cruc j^ "^ V next Btage ol recovery w , i;»i I'ia KING OR KNAVE f 115 li.1 . there must be I terribly m«eut they are for me. How do you begin ? " I'll talk to you like a mother. The question isn't how you begin — >w you go on, and how you end. All you have to begin with ia a -Ml M KING ORKNAVbI 1^^ TVii^f's whv I'm Cynthia, i- n^Pan a aood sounding name. That B why It CHAPTER Xll. * CYNTHIA. the receipt of a "l«8"™f ^8 not quite «> "'»'^»"^' completely i '■'irtC3ett»-t might .e^^^^^^ Lrofre"sce„e,a,Guy^J'.-f^t:u' be c.^^^^^^^ of circumstances-wlncn mjy j ^^^^^ puzzled ^^^.^ ' ^^,1^ coi °^rKcyS^me.hatJjb.ck,^^^^^^^^ t„„ the. could account « «r tne ^^ ^^^ ^^f^^^ Durness himself- "«»?di"etno"nneXn bftween ^-^Z'^^I^^^^ f^t »„ e?'P««''n« J°;tC i„ that passive way. ^^^^^^A^^ for I S«V"^l^t£F«n.s™.hthav^^ Cynthia knew. iNo-u. i«^; J. t KING OK KNAVR 1 117 ly I'm Cynthia. Marion, withoutl ir chait* id ty ite all appearanci and Guy Derwen a matter of chanci or BO completely re such combmatioi led coincidences ,d wiser heads \ few all possible CO ,ntly they must r, stipidly term ex than they are. ^ adventures though ,en in bore the to be a>«ar®,^":: And then there think-Bhe flaslv tne sense ot nor lot •^o inward leese *lf named Marion L, unless there Fumesshimself- ^istress-thatcoui infallible glanc®^ An honest elopem might be on the n>i S'to communicate never have lain so daughter flying froi aozen daughters for itt'ft tavern was t place she would have been making for. Then there was her xiety to earn her own living under another name. That, too, was consistent with the notion that she had any explicable object in mak- g for a place where her name would be so exceedingly well known. Here were things to get at the bottom of, with a vengeance. Cynthia lit the divine fire which is dignified with the title of phil(».sophy when display- itself in the sons of Adam, and contemned as curiosity when moves' in ."^he daughters of Eve. Yet, magpie as she was, she waj t all magpie. Only a prodigious capacity for helping the helpless uld have made her devote herself to such an ill-conditioned monstro- as Stephen Ray, who had as much right to expect a woman to care him as a cinder has any natural hope of being taken from a dust- p and worn on a white neck in a setting of gold. Some women are fe that way, and these by no means always the best in other ways, h do not crave to lean — they long to be leaned upon : they — pily for some of us — prefer weak men to strong : they are bom lers, and, like all real mothers, like to have the creatures they for so made as to be incapable of escaping from under their wings, ay be that Cynthia would have taken less keen delight in rebellion nst the forces of the world if she were less consumed with instinc- sympathy for the world's w eak ones, from its geniuses to its broken The worst of her Genius was that he was never ill : Marion was first experience in the delight of having somebody as utterly ndent upon her as a baby — of having to give up sleep, rest, comm- and all sorts of humdrum things. But one can't indulge in ure of that sort without getting to care for the patient when grown ; and though Marion, helpless with fever and fighting with death, been infinitely preferable, still there was comfort in finding her so htfuUy friendless, and apparently ignorant of the very alphabet of Cynthia took for the world — the battle of the wits of the weak st the armed legions of the strong. nd to the bottom of this I'll get, if I die for it ! " thought she. t girl to get her living with her throat or on her toes ! She n't : and if she could, she shan't : I'd as soon put her to my own and she's as fit for that as I am to be a Quaker. It is queer how nt girls are made, to be sure. Why shouldn't I like to see her what I do every day for fun ? . . . Stephen, you know every- TeU me this minute what's the difference between Right and the le What ? " asked Stephen, looking up from his copper-plate in )rkroom, which the two now had to themselves. "'I wish to Bbub you women could be made to think of other people than )wn muddle-headed selves. You've made me spoil a plate with lattering. But much t/ot( care." no — it isn't as bad as that ; it isn't spoiled ; you couldn't spoil if you tried. I am muddle-headed, and I do chatter I I won't gain — only I do so want to know." ill ? In for a peiAy, in for a pound. You're always wanting ling. What is it now ? " 118 KING OR KNAVB f ' *' Whftt's the difference between Right and Wrong? " " It's Right not to worry an Artist when he's at work ; and when you | do, it's Wrong. If it over happens again, I'll — I'll hire a room, and lock myself in " " And come out again in five minutes ! I know. What is it — really, I mean ? " " It's Wrong to bo found out ; and it's Right not to be. Don't yu know t!-at ? " "Of coursoit's wrong to be found out; but I don't mean that thistinie. '* Well, then. Whatever isn't, is Right ; and whatever in, is Wr<»ng. " No : nor that either. It isn't anything of that s<»rt. Why wouldn t I have that girl in the back drawing-room know what we're up to — no, n(jt for a thousand pounds ?" He laughed shrilly, until his usual fit of coughin^t stopped him. *' Ask a fool to tell you that ! Because she's a woi.ian, and a woman'i^ got a tongue, and the nearest beak's got ears — long ones, may lie, but " '• You mean, because she'd split? Not she. For shame, 8t([)hon I think you've known one woman that can hold her tongue ; and il there's one, there's two. Ask Adam Furness if he'd trust a secret Peter himself stumer than he would to mo," " Adam Furnoss be — hanged ! Right and Wrong, indeed ! That] wrong : that a Man, like me, should bo a .slave to a — Tyrant, like liiii If this hadn't been the last job, there'd have })een splitting done " Stephen ! What do you mean ? " " What I sa}'. If this hadn't l)een blarneyed among you into doin what no other living man could have deij to you again." " Then I shan't get my plates spoiled." " Nor your needles ground " " Nor my nerves shattered and mangled every minute of the dal Never speak to me, indeed ! As if you were the only girl in the worlj Why, there's ar.,»llier in this very house " " I bog your pardon, Stephen. I didn't mean I'd never speak to}] again. I meant something else — quite else. But never mind." " What did you mean 'i " •' That — I would kill you ! " She soemod to grow an inch taller! she spoko ; and her voice came hot from her soul. " And that woj bo no Fun at all," she said, becoming herself again, with a laugh nrj sigh. " Oh, Stephen ! whether we re right or wrong, let's anyli stick by one another. Dun't let's be mean. iSffc wouldn't — that uti girl." KINO Ott KNAVE ? 119 and when you ro IV room, and! at IB it-renlly. be. Don't yui rttbattlustin.e. „riH,iB Wrong. Why vvouiuiitl we're up to— n", oppe tlnvkoMinl ohinnh»M- ; Hu' olhor ihni, if RfepltPti vrnn tiHII ahporlioi^ on liin plntr. he nnmt Iwnc <1ovp1i»ihm1 orttw' py'''^. And «lip nnulit hnvp s,-\t thoio. in unpi(>f»'ih»nh'(1 ntilhtoBB ff)r nnofhpr whnlnj mimitr oi|nnl l«' hMt Ium-. of fluMiisnlvcB. Mini soino rhniiRP hm] trtUon plnoo in iho Imnian !i(nin'»phovo of Hio roont. Anp»»nfly ih«» Vnow. n« .1 orti knows, hy novvons inst-inpf, ihnMhp ih-orpiipp nf | Stoj^luMi \{n\ hnii boon trrtn«fi>nn('(l into fhui itf P«»f«>r !'»'hMsnn. Konriirn \V(\h nn. Hiivin^ u['>np fln-onnh n wlntlp onufHo nfl monfnl ton^ioiv lior i\o\l in\|n»lBr «(\b (o piny tl'o ulnmt nt fhc> exprtiBcl of IumI U«>;u>i fln> SoliMon, Sln» wnnfotl \n l!iu";li nf RonM'tlnt»n ; n?ii| hy >vrt» tlio only tliinsr I0 Imnil. So sho ctppl, if hov Rvviffand nitin»'li'Hn| niottoti oonli\ ho onllcii ovoopinsj, behind fho onvtnin llinf. rovptcd oRi(o Iho f\n'nn»'<», and waitrd f<»r ovontn to yive hov 11 one IVtor WHS so soU nm twul si> »toHd (IimI Io rIuvIU" Inin wonM he n| trinniph. and povhaj^s pnt hov itiio «;oi>d hnnionr iiif;iit» willi thinyMiit Ifti^ro- sho ilow to rt jok.- us a man in lilvo oanp would liavp yono lo llipj noa\t*Bt l>ott1o. Tho livst Ihina Mastor IVfor did waR to opon a rIoRo lattfprn. Ity flipl light of whioh »no saw that Stophon had vivilly h'fl thp room in llii"| dark for avlistio mi'ditation, no donht, nR the SnlUs of tU>ninn i»rp| oalUnr Thon ho mado ato\n\of inapootion round tho intom, i>x»mi»)iii|(| o\ory ohjoot m it, and making froipiont rofpronooR to a notohooU, whioh i>laoinu: his Inntorn for the purpoRp on tho honoh or on llif| ij;iv>und lio now and thon mad«» a niarU or an pnlry. It W!«h an poooii trio pi\voodn\g alloixothor. Cynthia frownod to hprRidf - rIip had nut barpainod to como aon>R» anything pIrp, that Bamo pveiiing, of wlnrli| nho oo\dd »iot niako hoad <>v tail. And Ro for that rpas«>n. ahsoihod at»d tluMt^foro ripo for Rtarthni; nJ ho was. showaitod a littU> simplo ourioaity waa roRuminfi; itR noniin iviitn «nor tho masipio. Tivsontly hp took \ip (ho plato on wliiilj Stophon had boon w.nkinu;, oxan\inpvl it with Rpc'oial oiuv, and Ifti"! down with a grunt whioli might mpan a dozon oppoRito thin^R. Tlicij he PPt hmiRplf io anothor busmosR—that of niarking, with a kniffl pvory ono of tho boxos in whioh tho faJRP nmbloR wore ready paohcf for oxportAtion. It was n dot,Hil of tho Rohomo. no «h)ubr ; but J seenuni singular, all tho Ranuv Thoro oouhl bo no ndvantauo, rnllxf tho rovorsp. in making tho paroolR m»>rp oaj^ablo of boing identilitii Sho had thought sho know ovory Irick and dotailof tho Bclionio so w( ns to bo ablo t»> diroot ovorything hprsolf in caso of nood. But if thor" was no appariMit ocoasion for 8c«)ring tho cnROR, (lioij could only bo moiv oaprioi* in ftimilarly nu\rkii\g tho proRS in vnricf plscps, and soratohing stuno of tho tools. Some grown up cliildro^ »ho know, havo a ]>;vsaion ior aoribbling their initialR on everylliiij they seo, fn>m a bAikon tile to a marble Rtntue ; rtiui this might the pastime oi the w.^'kman wh<'> appeared to have no other. Hut next prtx^eeding was inexpliouble on any ground. Ko opened oaolij the oases in turn. to«^k a single coin out of it, marked it, and retain^ it — all save 01; which, having also marked, he rettunuU. UIN»P ♦'* '''"j ft iho voi>n» in lUa of iJeuins nn| room. px«mii<'"»| 1 \)i?w\\ «>r on llwl evening, «>f wh>< no Havania««\ vntiv of boinfi itleuiilu- ,f tbo HChoUlO BO w ■ iuhhI. r tl»P l>rcn8 in vnn. , v?rown up cM'\' nitiiUs on evoryU" ; ftud this might vo no other. Hut He opened oftoU krUed it, and returni Ained. F'viih'iifly a I'nn'fiil )>i"rcMM of iflrnlilifntion tio «|Mii)iMiliniif flinf.. Mm why ^ t'viitliin Iwnl Ihn wlmlii plMti liy li'wiil, wfrp hy stn|i, iiidit- ilinif Hip hiyt'in of ynod cdim pliict'd nlmvp (lie ftilHc niiow ffi pjilipfy t'ustoni Miinsc itif»|t(>('l iiiii, lunl (Im iiicthiMl liy which fho cftBi'S w«>rn tn ho n>niovr fnom, (dnHod IiIh hifdfuri Huiiiii, innl wiw ^rono wlHimit her hnvinj^ rnndo iiii ntteiript In Hcnro him. Havitif^ wiviltMl ivwhilo, nlm cnino niif nf hor hidiiiir plnoo, fiirnod on \hv lius. mill Hol hornolf to find «nd. w hut IMitMhtr I'olor hnd hoon nhonf, in this niysitM'itiiiN wiiy. And Rnro onnntfh, Hh«» found th»d, wlMTover ho Imd Bcctnoil to ninlto (I ncridoh or ii Hcoro, wmb .icorod or Norahihiid • ho siuin> Hpparonlly ni(>.anin;doHN (ii'iuo oompMH»«d of thrco ntrai({)d> hiioM i»r diUoroid lonylliH pi'iidiarly aiinnyod. WIml in tho w(»rld Cfudd il nu'iui / Sho iniwhl, it iHtnio, Imvo ««»i(»'d I'otor liinisolf ; hut ity did lint noour to hnr •»» roj^'oi Imviny misRod that way of putting her mind Hi oiist>. Slu' Rtaniped Hhntply out. of Hln>or indiynnlion at thin addition tn her liiniiiole of niywtoriof*. 'I'litn Mho hIro oontiroiod Iwr tonr of tlio rof»rn, \ll sho. in h»'i- tnrn.canio to I ho pinco whcro Klfphon had heen lanfc ii'iMipiod. TholP wuH I ho plalo, it waw trno. thnt sho had heen anrimed if Hpoilint^. lint thoro also w«r, on n Ihobo hIiooI of pxpor, a pejicillod Aitlino of a wonian's fiioo. Stophon wmr in I Ik- hahit of Hkntching while WHH talliin^. Hut ho wur not. in thn hiiliit, at riioIi tirnen, of orcn- yinu hiniBolf with Iho IomIimcr of aofiml womon nnd this wan neither iionniiid. aiim»I, nor (iond. It, waR Miirion KnrnoRR, line for lino, and ixpiiaitoly «lrawn. poor (Jynthia lot it tlnttcfr haok to its plao(» aR if it had Inirnf^d her tim'i'R. Il'id Stophon nifnnt. hor to roo it., out f»f rlritiance '/ Or had i» loft it there wilhont hoedins; whother nlie ini<^ht roo it or no ? Or id nhe conte u[»on tho rovolntion of u Hooret, flnd iiMionRiRtonoy in othorn iRRirrifdy prooial/ion of tlio hoantifnl in him that a woinan Iihr no rnoro huni- Hfl to ho jealouH of anothet woman r portrait tlinn r)io lian of a nketch a oaiihtiower. Sho look jiiHl the woinan'R view anri hapfiy anrl raro in the wf»man ) haH no knowlodf/o of what that viow wouhl ho. Arifl wtio would a straw for the woman wh(» in Riioh a (;aRo Rhf»uld Kf- iho^/frthor 10 / Cynthia, from no hotter catiRO than the Bketfliof a f>ico, felt t tliin^H were i>li|)pin^ away from hor ; that noKody want'-ri hor ; that there niiKJit ho puch a thin^ in life an fooiini^ alouo. The lifd wan ahout to ]m hrokoii, with all tho poriln and exr;it< ; and even tho man wiiorn sha iuvud buund tu hur by Ium hoiplouHnoBS was- she could not bear to KINO OR KNAVE ? think of it ; she sat down among the lying coins, and felt that they wore exoordingly hke what is turnod out from the mint of the world — fair-Bcoming silver, and nor. worth a straw unless one can pass them cleverly. What did Petornon's eucontricities signify, after all 7 It may bo remembered that Number Heventeen was not only next door to Mr. Ward, of Number Sixteen, but also on the other side, to Number Eighteen, occupied by two maiden ladies of high respccta bility and good connections of the name of lUu'don. It happened, mgreover, that a late sister of tlnurs had married a gentleman of the name of Morland ; and that Mr. and Mrs. Morland hr.d left an only son, christened Praycot, afcor an ecpuiUy respectable and well-connected godfather. Now only sons, unless brought up with quite exceptional wisdom, are apt to develop that uneomforttible (puility called Character; and Draycot IVlorland was no exception to the rule. Perhaps the world owes more of its originality — that is to say, of its food for humour — to only son3 than to any other class of the conununity. As an original, it would naturally be thought that Draycot Morland would be but little in favour with Aunt (trace and Aunt Charlotte. And— since what would naturally be thought is absolutely certain to be absolutely wrong — these two most conventional of elderly ladies petted their unconventional nephew a good deal beyond the measure of his heart's desire. A spice of wickednosc^, in somebody else, gives a zest to life at a certain ago ; Draycot was as salt to the old ladies' food — odious, perhaps, in itself, but certainly indispensable. And lie was pepper, muatard, and vinegar besides. N»»t that he was really bad — he was a Radical, a Socialist, a Heretic, and everything that well- regulated minds cannot adide; a man who thought for himself, and made a point of flying in people's faces ; an unacc«)untable being, who I gave his aunts scope for wondering where ht would go to when ho diodj and yet impelled them to make tilings pleasant for liim, and for them- selves, so long as he was alive. And he, like everybody else, whatever they may say, liked now aiidl then to go into the sober old-fashioned, monotonous respectability dfl Upper Vane Street for a change. And so little has this story of Maritml Furness had hitherto to do with the merely respectable, that Draycutl Morland's occasional liking for it sets up a temptation to escape for a| while fron\ worse com|Mny. It was the Sunday ft)lIowing his expedition to Marchgrave thatj having nothing better hnM n nijRtory to fntlmm Iut own. That rIio wnn somo «ort of ]>riRouer \\!ia cIcju'. \U\\ nofliiti^ mpinnv) with hor uoHohr oI ii tuttdhouno : thoro « us no doctor ; thiTo was im Bort of r»)nnjfer for \ho pivsont HUB|>oi>t hi'rself of the vMirse hor nioliMM- h.-ul hoqnoalhod hor. It tnifrht I'oino in timo hut Rh«« oonhl not fod that it ha«t oonio already. On the oontrary, she had novcr folt so clear hfaded RR uhih« in a Rituation that aundy wouhl have haMh'd fho ch'aveHt hrains. Still, thoro had hoon that long |n»riod of hIanU nnconRrioiiRnoRR whidi she could not rooall, even bo niuoh hr one recalla a dn'ani. Ilnw might she not have acted during that time ? What might bIio not have Reemod ? Clearly there w.aa no uho in trying to get anything out »»f Cynthia ;| and fmm finding an opportunity «)f queationing Stephen nhe recoiled But h«nv long waa this to go on ? If ahe wore not in a madhoiise, hIu' WiM certainly heing litted ft>r one. It did not aeem to occur to lion gaolers unlcBR in»leed they forgot, it, on purpoae that whe had notliin: to do b»»tween waking and Bleeping; not even anything t«> read. Itl had r.ot mattered during hor weaknesR, when even thotight had hciil too h.eavy a labour ; but two whole daya, broken only by talks with IhtI wnfathomable nvn-Re, out of which nothing had come, had net up rebi' lion in every nerve. One thing, however, sho might do, while waiting. She could nifiKi an exhauRtive tour of her room. When, however, it came to action, she felt how weak Rhe at ill w,ui energy and hunger for simple liberty di«l not reach from her biain her limbs. l\v the time she had inspected a few empty chosta she l('li| unspeakably tired. " Perhaps 1 am going to die after all," she thought, with an indill'iri ence that even to herself seemed Btrango. " Perhapa these pe<'|il know it, and fanry it would hurt me to tell. No — I don't want to kii" where 1 am. 1 don't want to get out of this room. It's the wlinl world that's i>ast undeiiitanding- and 1 want to lly out of the wliol world -n«»t to crawl out of a room. Mamma had the best of it; nni she has the best of it still. I'm nothing to anybody— not even myself. It's all a riddle t»>gether life ; and l«)ve ; and all. Yes ; I stij^ pi'kse Guy has forgotten me by now. He has taken our parting (piii'i and wisely— just as he ought to have done. . . . I'm glad lioi so strong and so wise ; I was afraid. . . T'erhaps I shall gn sleep to-night, antl not wake to-morrow. Mannua will be glad to me : as glad .as I shall be to see her I And " Hopelessness went all at once to the winds. While aimlessly eMiiiil Riivn OR knavhI 127 While aimlessly cxniii iiiii^.' the clipntw that. «M»iifaiiiiiI tli(> lilood nlinrply fiiuii her hrnrt to her lini^t'i' tipH and luidk nt^rMii. Knr the etnhtein of itiipi-iHoiiineiit in nlno the euiMein of delivcnitice. It wHB ft k'.^y. It wftB covered with riint, imd buried in cfdiweh ; luit it wnn still n key. Of courne it niiylit prove iiHelens ; l»nt Htill Hfnneliow the very fli^lit of it lujulo Miirioii think of the open nir find of freedom to hreiithe tlicioin ; i\nd b»» lonj/ iih onn retninf) a thoM^ht «»f tliiit, life, f(»r mere life's Bftke, in worth living fltill. She wiiB fltill younij ; niie ntiil loved ; fdie Rtill lielieved in a heaven licyond the veil ann there whr a key. She liftt^l it, wiped away the cofiwelip, ami, with n pair of Rt-iRRorp, Heraped olVaR uiuc.h of the nist aR wnnid come away at th«' llrRt intention. She tried it on tlio door at which ('yntliia and Steiiheii iiRed to make their exit, lint it would nr*t even paRB into the keyfiole. It muRt have lieen made to lit Bomeihinn ; and that R(»mething riiiiRt jiftve heen a dot)r. I 'nfortunately, the room, lari/e as it waR, had hut n einjile entranoo ; bo that Rhe migh^ as well liuvcMliHcoven^fl a magic wand witiioiit the Bpell whereby alone it could avail. It waB aB if a prinoner on a deRert iBJand had found a gold mine. UHcleRS aR her diRcovery waR, however, it Ret her brooding over the Kinnibilitiea of eBoape if not from the lionHe ifRcIf, yet fn»m her laV>y- •int!> of uncertaintioR. And those sent her to sleep, and tf) those itoftmH which, whether out of mockery or kindnesR, are alwHys }»righb ii\{\ flweet in proportion as the waking life is dull and bitter. And she 'oke to the resolve n(»t to let ('ynthia hiave her next time without iiaking everything clear. She geiier.'illy woko t" find Cynthia grinding needles !»y her bedside, 'his nioriiiiig. however, hIk* woke to solitude ; and was not sorry. She imo and dresHii!, and, for the lir'it time since lier illness, made an inspec- ion of her own bcilongings. 'I'lio few poundR hIk^ had carried with her nnii Dr. Snell's still remained in her purse unbroken ; anri her trin- tets had boon laid out neatly together. Tht^se, with the cl(»thes she rore, made up her all not a very lurL^e outfit to face the w(»rld with, ^Ut capable of serving, with nuinagemciif . till she could earn .something, she, ill her wisdom supposed. Her mother had never wanted ff»r read, su why should she / remembering how many jrumbs, out r)f tln> broad baked in London, there must be to spare. Hy the time she had lingered over these sm.'ill atlairs as long as she luKl, not fogotting to pocket the k(!y, as a po.Hsil-hi talisman, she Igan to miss Cynthia- and, to tell t.lie tnilh. her breakfast al.sf», for i8t and tea hiul been as regular as Cynthia's hunmiin.'. This break the monotony of her convalescence! was at first merely an nncomfort- und not an anxious ono. But as the mimites dragged by, and anie hours of unbroken neglect and solitude, mere disc(»mfort ;amo anxiety. It could hardly be that she was forgoften. Some- [ng must have hap[)oned to keep Cynthia away something might happened tu Cvnthia herself ; who could tell i 1 w^l !!!: I ;■ 1 1 i ■ i m 128 KINO OR KNAVB ? When, however, after many hours of growing suspense, morning had turned into noon and noon into twilight, which the condition of the windows made earlier in that house than elsewhere, anxeity became alarm. Everybody knows what it is to wait and wonder for a familiar face or a familiar rustle, even when there is not enough love for serious fear, end no reason for any fear at all. But Marion had only herself to think of ; and, next to that unapproachable misery, had the con- sciousness of being either a mouse caught in a trap or a bird forgotten in its cage. And, meanwhile, she had not even so much as a book, or a needle, or a pen, wherewith to pass the time. Supposed something had happened to Cynthia — something to keep her away for days. Supposed she was lying injured in a hospital, for example ; or had fallen into other kinds of trouble ; for Marion had by this time come to suspect her good Samaritan of reasons for being so secret about herself and her a airs. Or a hundred things might have happened, beyond the vaguest guessing. What would happen, in that case, to a girl locked up in an unknown room in an unknown house, no human being knowing where she was, or missing her, or caring to find her i Somebody or other \v«»uld no doubt come some day to open the room. But it might be a Ion.? time first ; and by that time in what state would she be found ? Such fancies as these, if they could be called fancies, wore not likely to allay themselves spontaneously in one who had passed the whole day in hunger, thirst, worry, and utter solitude. But when the darkness came on, they were scarcely to be borne. It was only nervous excitement that kept her from collapse ; as things were, a touch of her old fever returned, to help her for a moment with its treacherous energy. Her ears were strung to catch the slightest sound — even Cynthia's w.ll- nigh inaudible step ; but there was not the slightest sound to be heard. They built a great deal better in Upper Vane Street a hundred and fifty years ago than in Euphrosyne Terrace yesterday. She struck one of the few matches fortunately left her, and lighted her candle — she liad never been given more than one. But in that large, sombre, dust- t 'ouded room, the flicker gave less light than shadow ; and, if she siiifted the candle ever so little, the shadows took a ghostly life, and moved, with changing depth and size. They took all manner of forms, as the wick flared or flickered in a | draught that came from heaven knows where in that hermetically- sealed room. Here was a giant shiiink into a dwraf, and then I expanded into an ogre. There a in(»nstrous, shapeless thing with wings rose up from the floor and vanished among the dancing Cupids in the ceiling. The dark corners opened out into vast halls or endless corridors, down which processions of phantoms moved. And there was one huge shadow with a king's crown that did not change with the others, butj was always ready to meet her eyes, whenever she turned them that way. Which being so, she seldom kept her eyes from it for long, but wasl impelled by inevitable and invincible fascination to return to it untill its crowned head, its one eye, and its gaping jaws became too real andl KING OR KNAVK I 129 (thing to keep a hospital, for Marion had by ns for being so igs might have lappen, in that nown house, no ,r caring to find lay to open the t time in what were not likely d the whole day le darkness came i?ou8 excitement of her old fever IS energy. Her Cynthia's w 'U- and to be heard, a hundred and She struck one her candle— she re, sombre, dust- ow ; and, if b1i« ghostly life, and or flickered in a lat hermetically- Iwraf, and then thing with wings ng Cupids in the endless corridors, lere was one huge ih the others, but ed them that way. for long, but was return to it until ■came too real and familirr to belong to a mere ghost called up by a fantastic light in a weakened brain. It was all as if real madness had leaped upon her at last, suddenly. " They are nothing — nothing — nothing ! " she repeated to herself aloud, as if she were using a charm. "They cannot hurt me ; and if they could, they would not be allowed. I do know who I am : I do know what they are : I do know that God is everywhere. Nobody can bo really mad who knows all those things. I wonder if mamma ever felt like this — I wonder what Guy would say ? . . . But how shall I go through this night ? I can't stay with those things for hours. If only a rat would make a noise 1 " And all the while, though encircled by these dreadful phantoms, 1)6 more dreadful for their silence, she could not bring herself to i)ut ut the light which had summoned them. For all her assurance of heir true nature, it seemed as if that same light protected her — she alt as if in the dark they would still remain around her, and become et more terrible than ghosts unheard ; that is to say, ghosts unseen, raycot Morland, who imagined that he was eager to see a ghost, khould have been in Marion's place now. Man though he was, he ould have imagined any such eagerness no more. So she crouched on the foot of her bed, without stirring a finger, till »er eyes grew more and more fixed upon the king of the ghosts whose ce would not change. And the lower her candle burned, the vaster d the more confused they all grew but he. And what would happen hen her candle should give its last leap in its socket and leave her alone ? No : worse than alone, a thousand times. Suddenly she heard a startled cry— either of a beast or of a man : ther of rage or of pain. She leaped to her feet, and stood with beating heart and ears strained, e had hungered for sound ; but her hunger was gone at such an answer her longing. She neither thought nor wondered — her brain seemed ralysed, even while her nerves quivered and ached with more than rror. The cry was not repeated. But heavy steps were hurrying to e door of her ro. m. Was she to welcome relief, or was she threatened with real danger — inger from living men ? Was it for good or ill that she was behind a ked door ? But before, she could either cry out or hide, the door looked no longer, and she was no longer alone. Cynthia ! " cried a man's voice that seemed strangely familiar. Quick — Petersen, damn him ! has brought the police next door ; y're on their way here. If the infernal Russian spy hadn't tried to e me himself instead of waiting for the constables, I should have handcuffs on : I'm hurt by his knife as it is : but he's — done for. ick — there's time to make for the back still : dead men can't de ; but there'll be none in a minute more, with my blood f jr a il. . . . Use your wits, girl, for God's sake ; mine are gone — ess you turn trator too." er father's voice ! Had she gone mad indeed ? For a mom«nt sho gored back in helpless tciror and hopeless amaze. And, as ho (9) m 130 KINU OK KNAVIi ? Btrodo up to the lij.'Iit. from .'niiong tlio sliJidowH, sho s.'ivv that it waa luir fjitlior ; hut i>aIo, liau>;ar(l, rcoliuf^ as if fri'sh fntni a Iianl stiujx^^lo, and 8taiiio(l with hhwul that was Htill droppinj; fioiu his wrJHt ami liaiul. llut whoii ho roachuil tho li^'ht, it was ho who Bturtod and rocoiloil, as ho (lashud liis utiwouiulud IkiikI aoroH.s hin oyus. "Not- Cynthia ! Marion !" " What is hap])cning ? " she gasped, as well as her choking throat | would allow. •' Are you alive, V •* I'm afraid— I am." "Then" — ho went back to the door and locked it ; then, havind plunged his wounded arm into tho water- pitcher, ho took his hand- kerchief and bound it roughly. "One must act first, and talk after. ( . . . Where is Cynthia ? Do you know ? " "No " " Then " — he overthrew a pile of lumber against the side of tlnl room opposite the window, and displayed tho handle of tho foldiii;! doors that divided tho drawing-room in two— tho back, where Mariniij had been lodged, from tho front, whence, for obvious reasons, sho liiuil been debarred. He turnele ; wherever he is, his boots betray him. You li.sten. My ears bu/.z and sin^. " iNlaricm knelt down, and put her ear to tho keyhole. She was reali/.ing nothin<^ ; but 8tren<.'tli seemed to have come to her from heaven knows where, now that she had any creature who was not her- Hclf to think f(»r and act for. No ; not only heaven, but everybody in his Bonsos knows that from having tliis, and from having this alone, strength or courage can over come. She listened, while Adam Furness almost held his breath so that ho might not confuse her ears. For a full minute ehe heard nothing but the neigh of a horso in the nearest stal)le, and the crow of a bantam whoso mission in life was to keep other bipeds from too continuous slumber. " 1 hear no trami)ing," she whispered. " Wo mustn't hurry, thotigh. A policeman can keep quiet for more than a whole minute sometimes. I am g«»ing to give myself five." Marion listened again. And presently she heard the faintest rustle —so faint as to be no stronger than the ripple of leaves in a June breeze. Then she caught tho softest sugi^estion of a tune, hummed so low that it would not have broken a kitten's dream. 8he started, back and shrank into tho shade of the wall, as the door opened, and Cynthia entered tho yard. But she did not start back so swiftly but tliat Cynthia saw her ; nor [yet did Cynthia perceive hor so swiftly as Adam Furness came foi-ward [and seized the girl by both arms. " If your hand's in this," ho said below his breath, "and if I'm taken —by hell, I'll hang for j/ow .' Make a sound or a sign, and I'll shift Imy hands from your arms to your throat — I've not lost too much blood |to throttle a girl." **Adam ! " she exclaimed. " Hush ! Do you mean me to be as good as my word ? " " Lord ! Do you moan Ah, I see ! No — I don't see ; I can't " But I do ; and if I don't, I will. " "Ah- -but; I can ! Only — you don't mean to tell me that — whoever is— he's alive ? " "Alive? No." "Who is it?" "Peter Petersen." "Oh— then I don't mind. I was afraid But oh, what a fool fve been ! " It seemed to Marion that they were talking in some strange sort of ^orthand. And so, for that matter, they were ; for no words written length can give the way in which Cynthia, when not bewildered by ^congenial metaphysics, saw to the heart of things flash-wise. I" Nothing worse than a fool ? " asked Adam sternly. t 4 Mi; i ' i \ i! 1^: KING OR KNAVE t "What's worse than a fool? And me to let the red-whiskered wretch send me out on a fool's errand — I'm dead of shame to the end of my days. . . . So he thought he'd take you in the house ; and then when I came back . . . But he is dead ! " *' It had to be he or I— and here am I." *' I was afraid it might have been — but never mind now." '* And I — I was afraid " *♦ What ? " •• That it might be you." " I ? I? Ah— then there w a bigger fool than Me, after all ! I'd never forgive you — if I hadn't ought to be forgiven too ... for thinking . . . but never mind. Are they there ? " "The police? I don't advise you to go and see . . . Are they there — outside ? " , " I've seen none " *' Girl — I'm going to trust you as man never trusted woman before— at least, without repenting. I wouldn't ; but that there's nothing else to be done. I'm badly hurt ; and I must see a surgeon at any risk, short of being caught alive. The thing's smashed, but there are a good many pieces to be picked up, and «re can't stop for that now. Meet me — let me see — on Wednesday at — I'll write where and when : you know where to look for letters, and you'll call every day ; and you'll say noti.ing to Stephen Ray : after Petersen, I'll trust one more woman, and no man Ah ! " With a stifled exclamation, he threw himself back into the shadow. That peculiar tramp by which constables announce their approach was heard advancing from both directions at once along the mews towards the postern, Cynthia heard it too. " Quick 1 " she exclaimed, in a sharp whisper. " You can reach the stable r joi from the wall. It's the Miss Burdons'— they wont think of searching there for a good hour ; and you needn't stay : there's a painter's ladder into the next yard, ftnd all the walls are low all the way to the square, and no spikes anywhere. Come " she added, catchijig Marion by the hand, drawing her into the mews, locking the door (juickly, and tossing the key over the wall. Adam Furness paused. He was safe for at least another minute ; and his trust in women was about to follow over the edge of the precipice his trust in man. Could it be that Cynthia had not been detaining him to give the constables time to arrive ? — that her pretended ignorance had not been a lie ? He bound the saturated handkerchief more tightly about his wrist, and twisted a piece of whip-cord firmly round the arm above the wound, so asjfco cut off its connection with the heart as completely as possi- 'e. Then he measured the opposite wall and the stable roof with his eye : the I climb could be made, no doubt ; but then that roof might be made a seccmd trap — it would be wiser to try the wall against which he was| leaning, and full(>w the route Cynthia had given him by the law of con- trary. But there was not a gliost of a foothold, and the coping was farl too high for a spring ; and to drop into Mr. Ward's back garden would [ mean to court capture. KING OR KNAVE f 133 l-whiskereJ to the end house ; aud iter all i I'd ... for . Are they >man before— 8 nothing else n at any risk , it there are a for that now. jro and when : very day ; and trust one moro | ito the shadow, r approach was } mews towards >u can reach the y wont think of stay : there's a e low all the way added, catchiiig >cking the door her minute ; and of the i)recipice ;en detaining him ended ignorance about hia wrist, above the wound, etely as possi-'e. : with his eye : the might be made a nst which he wasi by the law of con- the coping was far jack garden would With the constables at the back door, with the house iu their posses- sion, with an impassable wall behind him, with probable treachery in front of him, and with his own blood staining the gravel, he felt himself at bay. There were but two courses open : to wait till the door was burst open and to make a ruth for it, or to let the constables find another corpse in addition to Peter Petersen's. It may seem strange ; but he had no thought of letting himself be taken alive — the alternative never entered his mind. Whatever his reasons, they were so much part of his nature that he had no occasion to muster them. They were part of the very breath he drew. He set his teeth, drew a revolver from his breast, and stood prepared to die rather than yield his secret — what- ever it might be. And it was the same world, the same little world, that contained Adam Fumess and John Heron. While the banker was advancing to great- ness by rapid strides — while his native city was at his feet, voting statues and talking of peerages for the man who was to make it a power in the empire ; while his were the hands, the head, and the heart that inspired new life into a whole town ; while he was trusted, loved, and honoured with a zeal that rivalled his own, Adam Fumess was standing in a few square feet of London yard, betrayed by those he trusted, a hounded outlaw, and preparing to escape by self-murder the murderer's doom. "There, but for God's grace, goes Richard Baxter," said that thorough- going Calvinist, on seeing a highwayman on the way to Tyburn. And who shall say but that there might not have been standing John Heron, of Marchgrave — but for, say, a hundred things ? Assuredly, if Marchgrave, in some coporate vision, could have seen John Horon standing where Adam Fumess stood now, it would haveforwith voted a madhouse big enough to hold the whole town, and have unani- mously committed itself thereto, man, woman, and child. And if John Heron could have shared such a nightmare — if he, who lived firstly for tlie public good, and secondly for honourable ambition, could have put himself in the place of the coiner on the eve of arrest, of an actual mur- derer, of a criminal who had failed — then John Heron, of Marchgrave, despite all his principles, would have preferred suicide to the hideous downfall of letting himself bo identified with such a man, and have thanked heaven, even in his sleep, that dreams are but dreams. But even dreams may be too wild for words. Good men do no Mur- der, even in a dream. The tramp came to a sudden halt ; Cynthia, outside the door, laughed lightly, and hummed the fag-end of a lively tune. " Halloa, young women," said a gruff voice, in a tone of authority ; " clear out of this — what are you doing here ? " "We're taking a stroll," Adam Furnoss heard Cynthia answer demurely ; " me and this young lady — my friend." " Then you'll take your stroll elaowliore. . . . Wait a bit though. Has anything being going on here before we oauio ? " " Nothing in particular, Mr. Sergeant. But, giucious ! is it a burg- lary?" " Never you mind, That's our affair. " 'i ill \l ^fill! m 1 ^ If i ^t 134 KtVO on KNAVE ? '* Only think, Eliza 1 " said Cynthia, putting a cockney twang into her voice, and speaking with the most innocent iiir. " You renjcinbor Hceing that man scrambling along the But there, it's none of our business. The sergeant says so. I tliink we'll go homo." ♦• Stop a bit ! What maji ? Whero '' " . " Blest if 1 didn't think 'twas a something. Didn't I say so, Eliza 1 There's something up, I says to Eliza, as sure as my name's Jane." " How long ago ? Which way ? " '* Oh, p'r'aps a minute— ])'r'ap8 less, or p'r'apa more. Lord, how ho did scramble along to be sure ! If ho don't break his leg, I says to Elizii, says 1 " " A»i5wer sharp I Which way 1 " " ilight al«>ni^ But, gracious ? he'll never get there without a broken neck, or a limb. Oh ! " she screamed —" look — if there he ain't right atop of the wall of Number Twelve I Oh 1 — Ihn't look, Eliza- he's gone ! " Adam Furnoss's heart gave a great throb. The girl was putting the constnbloa on a false soent with airs of stupid innocence that would have taken in Ft)uo]iL' liimsclf. She was true. Ueturning his revolver, anresses- everything on a regular scale. And it's sail the business has been going on for years : coining half the bad monejj that's about everywhere." " And they've cxught the smashers ? " " Not one of 'cm ! It's the biggest bungle that ever was. Now RING OR KNAVE 1 1.39 errupted tho y. SpeJiking I'd the bless- in a couple of new chance -yet, though. Once an eve- Some people's oflf, nor knock placently, who nd scented war. sure ; and Mr. ^ou as welcome all gentlemen 3 visitor, who- ertain tendency ; smashing case Fancy an emi)ty a of smashers- en me only the irit, perhaps, sir ' dfavourme witlil n! Rather— Vve| [escribe, though; Ltion I We must! But— there youl hancery, or some )n they received,! ar, occupied by >| house was a roonil eing a laboratinryl ven to clean. Outl tv wall of NumM lip with furnaces, tie. And it's m lalf the bad monel ever was. M.uchgrave wo should have — but tlie London police are just duffers. I'lic'ic Wiis only one man in the whole (ilace : and he stabbed tho infor- mer and escaped over a back wall." "They did muff it, by Jove. But he'll be taken, of course. Why, it's murder as well." *' Yes : I expect he'll be arrested," said Mr. Bruff. " He was des- perately wounded in tho struggle with the informer, for they've traced his bh)od over so far " " His blood ? " exclaimed the visitor, starting. " His Blood I " answered Mr. Bruff impressively, as though the credit for the touch of melodrama were his own. " Why, he must have bled like a pig, to have been traced really far." "Indeed, sir? Is that so?" " Rather ! By the way — I take a bit of an interest in such things — I when was this : when did it occur ? " " Monday night " " By tlie living George ! . . . Well : everything must happen Ion a Monday that don't happen any other day . . . But this ain't [nice talk for the ladies. I vote we make a change. I'm here on a bit luf business. Does there chance to be a gentleman living here named iHeron ! " Had he asked at Windsor if there happened to be an occasional resi- Jent there called the Queen, he would have been met with the same Btares that me thim now. As he felt those amazed looks bent upon him, le felt he had lost caste even in Miss Lamb's eyes; " Perhai)s, sir, said Mr. Prendergast, the shipbroker's clerk, "you light chance to hear of the gentleman if you were to inquire in Chap- r Lane. It's just possible, you know." Tho cutting satire broke the general frost of bewildered amaze. " Well— after all, John Heron ain't the Dean an' Chap'r,' said the hcar-choral, asserting his superiority, while finding his whisky-and iter l>eginning to tell a trifle upon his vocal chords. "Ganunon ! " broke in Mr. Green, clutching at his first chance of jvengo. liem : "A fig for your Deans and Chapters. There's scores but there's only one John Heron of Chapter Lane." True for you, Green ! " came the chorus. " Here's long life to tho ember for Marchgrave — and good luck to the Docks, and confound eir enemies ; God save the Queen ! " " Well — I'm only a Londoner," said the visitor humbly. '* I'll low better next time. John Heron, of Chapter Lane. Member for archgrave. Hero's his good health : may ho live long, and prosper. . . By tho way, it is a piano that I see before mo ? Does nobody ig ? It would be a shame if such good company should part without stave. ' I know a Bank ' — Eh ? John Heron's, in Chapter ne '/ " The visitor str^ick a chord that made the piano of Mrs. Clapper's py youth creak and jar as with pain. But- he had tact enough to mour it : and presently the couipany were bending appealing looks n Mr. Hemp, the vicar-choral, as if asking that musical authority 140 KINO OR KNAVE ? ' whethor they ought to bo pleased or not, iuul if ho, how far, or hoij otherwise. They wore gnitified to find that the cathodrnl ohoriBter wan noddiiijl — say, tiino. " (Joing— Goiii^ - (J-g one 1 " ho niurtnured, with a BoraT phic aniilo. Well he was out of the way ; and the mice might |ilnj as they pleased. It was i>a8t midnight when they parted, with luuci shaking of hands, and when Mrn. Cliippitr and IVf ias Lamb retired t'( their respective coucht's without a solitary yawn. The lirst ])eraon in Marcligrave who had business at the Bank thej next mornitig was Mr. PriMulergast, the shipbrokor s clerk — the ship broker being Guy Derwont, whose ailairs, during his absence abroajJ the Hanker had so kindly volunteered to superintend, much to tli pride of Mr. Prendergast, who was iin honest fellow, was shy of responj sibilit}', ;ind did not yield even to Alderman Sparrow in his admirutiui for John Heron. For the tirat time since ho had sown his modest crop of wild oats^ now many years ago IMr. Prendergabt overslept himself, and wokewit| a headache that clamoured for soda-water. "This will never do," thought he. ''I'm hanged if \ know wliaj came over us all last night. That chap's a lively customer— a bit U lively I'm afraid. If the Hock business is going to keep him long, must be looked after. Susan Clapi)er's but a wunan : and it wnulj never do if the old Hell was to get into wrong hands. If she doni know what's truly good for her, she'd better take (ireen or HrutY, orJ no : not llemp. lie's t«)o free with his chafF : and if he was xuum 'twouldn't bo so easy to keep him down. Pll drop in on Greju, nif talk it over. Yes —if things are to go on as they are, and keep coiiifiij table, something must be done, ^!o — I wouldn't so much mind («m Anybody can sit on Green.'* i It was the first forboding on the part of a soul in Marchgrave iU the grand new life might mean the breaking-up of some comfoiiaU old ways. Mr. licndergast, however, was not a man to puttwoaij two together, except in oflice nuitters, when ho did it admirably on his way to the oflice, he occupied his aching head with pkuuiii how, oven when Marchgrave became a greater Liverpool, with k\ resting strangers cropping up every hour, those snug evenings in Bell parlour should remain disturbed. By the time ho had gott office letters, he had almost nuide up his mind that it wasa public dij to turn Susan Clapper into Susan Prendergast ; and public spirit now pervading the air. Well — he would have a good talk with (Jrei and see. Having ctdlocted the hitters, he carried them to the and went straight into the jiarlour, where he was allotted a roguj hi»ur whenever the Banker was in town. He was in town to-day. " Bless my si)ul, sir," exclaimed Mr. Prendergast, on retiring, "' has happened to your arm I " For John Heron's right arm was fixed on a 8|)lint in a sling. "Oh — nothing, Prendergast," said John Heron. "Nothing at| Only a spruin — the worst of it is that it's the right arm ; if it wiwl left,' it wouldn't matter a straw." r\ KINfi OK KNAVIC ? 141 :iw far, or hoil i-r was n()il«^iiijl kul, with a Bcra] iico might i»1hjI -.oa, with muci jiunb rotirod t\ vnry Boriotw tiling IihUhmI," Baiil .lolni IlciMii, with )i Hiiiih>. " I'or in«j, it's lialf a jlidlifhiy. Ah - your hittcrB. I'll rthing in them you can't attend tr> itlidut mo. (jood-day." " Your governor don't seem himself this morning," sairt Mr. Prender- t to Mr. Smith as they loft the parlour together. " And what has e done to his arm ? " " (Jotting out of a cab, up in town," said .Smith, not forgetting to put the note of condescension duo to a clerk in a c«>muion oflice from a erk in Chapter Tiano. '* A serious thing — a very serious thing," said Mr. Prendergast ; who ,d been iinprossed loss by tho sight of the sling than by a look of Hid weariness and an air of inditferenco to the details of business ingularly uncharacteristic of John Heron. *' A verj' — Holloa 1 " It was odd — so Mr. Prendergast thought in his simplicity— that the ^^an of whom his thoughts, in connection with Susan Clapper, wore \an to put *'Y"*^fcll, should almost run up against him in this very IJank on this very X it aduurabiy i'^^,Pj,j,^j^ rpj^^ oddness of coincidences is hourly puz/.ling blockheads ; d will continue to puzzle them so long as this world of th(»irs endures, d this coincidence was of a peculiarly irritating kind. While Mr. endergast's head was splitting, and his conscience accusing him after 10 manner of conscience before luncheon, Mrs. Clapper's guest looked t as spruce, and smiling, and pink as when he was sipping the port the late canon ; and his pleasant nod and "Good morning" were ro irritating still. AVhen Mr. Prendergast loft him, John Heron rose from his throne, nt to the bureau of black oak, and tilled himself a glass of that famous wn sherry wherewith ho had welcomed (Juy Derwent home from ia. He was not himself— that was clear. But how could such a as he be himself, with a useless right arm ? He might make light it— that was always his way ; but oven self-suppression tells, and oases pain. The heroes of Homer used to howl aloud when they e hurt, and lived to five-score — wo think it bad form to howl, and )p of wild oat»J olf, and woke will if I know wb itomer-a bit t oep him long, ui : and it woul ds. If she donl •eon or BrutY, or d if ho was u\!i»li in on Gre-n>, » , and keepcoiuf' much mindC'i'i' 1 Marchgrave ttj some con»foi'aq load with pVtuuiii iverpool, with inj ig evenings i" ' time ho htul got t it was a public dJ nd i»ublic spirit t H,d talk with (Jre I them to tho m ivs allotted a vogJ t, on retiring, lilt in a sling, n, '-Nothing Jit ht arm ; .;■.. I MA m if it°wiisl : 4 !Mi ii! •ill 142 KING OR KNAVE 1 die, on an average, in less than half the time. To think that a John Heron should be at the mercy of a sprain ! It seemed monstrous — over the whole Bank it cast a gloom which would presently extend over the whole town. For if one of John Heron's teeth had ached, every jaw in Marchgrave would have ••» ^'^ed for sympathy. . . And he was the man whom a London lau. n* dared oppose ! No doubt Mr. Prendergast was right : a sprain is a serious, a very serious thing. He had emptied his glass, and locked the bureau, as quickly as his left-handedness would allow, when the anonymous gentleman, who had called on important business, entered the room. John Heron had already seemed to Mr. Prendergast worn and pale. But, as he set eyes on his visitor, not one human being in Marchgrave would have recognised John Heron. The pallor became ghastliiiess— the weariness deepened into the gaze of a hunted quarry before it turns to bay. One could see the deadly sickening of the heart in the L'lJiy tinge that spread over the skin, and the film that suddenly deadeiud the eyes. And yet the visitor was nothing, in himself, so terrible. He was as i fresh and as smiling as when he had been throwing the apple of diBC(y fvt'ii iiii iilfii, lie it I()\(>, or frii'iHlHJiip, or invt-iiHun, or j»lii!;iiilliit>|>y, or cflli <•( iii^ cnickt'd tfiioiipa, without ilH lu'comin;^ a j.asHion. .Jolni lli ion wiisoin! of tliuso men. Kvt!!'} Id.tly kllow.H the .■(oiy of (he pifisli | »iii'.--l ill iaii<'(' who wiiH conti'ul- to Hultniit to a long life of hcoiii and lialrcd as "the (iriper," l)"OJiii.se of his inoHt tiiu-lfvical iiiiHerliiicHs ainl '.rit'cd for sous. Ife starvi'd ; lie hoarded siiay i)in.s and oddH .'>iid end.s of .st.iiii;^' ; and yment, the engine of his own creation kould ave jolK'd ovvv him and crushed him altoLfcther, ».y had make John, Heron of Marcli'Mave, serve Adam Furness, oiheiwisc; v.i , _j — ,^ -,-.___, — - ... — -^ [V\ aid, of l'|)per \'ane Street ; because the greater the ca])ital tin; latt (lathis Command, the greater the sai'ety he could .secure'. Adim irness could not have bou 'lit the leases of two houses, and iitted them ith the best and finest oi machinery, without the aid of John Ht-ron. And for this John Heron had to pay double-wise. His respec al)ility lad to l>e without rejiroaeli ; his ])osition in men's minds mori' than lerely beyond suspicion. He had to ma'.e hini.self .a name that should (10) .1,|:; 7l; l^ 146 KING OR KNAVE ? be synonymois with honesty and honour. For this he had laboured Hke Hei'cules ; for this he had taken a wife ; for this he had sought to make himself every man's trusted friend. But with prodigious success came honest zeal, the greater because not in its fulness could it be indulged. He hungered for a life of honour as for forbidden fruit ; for free indulgence in honesty as having the added zest of unlawful plea- sure. If only he could simply be what he seemed ! For, as middle age came upon him, he also hungered for peace of mind. Then, more- over, it became needful that he should seem called upon to make long and frequent absences from home ; and for this purpose the idea of tlie new Docks had come upon him, at first as a self-defensive inspiration. But the inspiration had become a real passion — he being he. Thus the man, take him which way one will, was no mere criminal using ies])ectability as a cloak to cover his crimes. He was a man with a grea<. public passion for the greatness of his native town, for which he laboured greatly with his neck in a noose. And so, by degrees, even his crimes became entangled in the service of Marchgrave. If Chapter Lane had to feed Upper Vane Street, Upper Vane Street ha 1 in turn to feed Chapter Lane. Public spirit had to take the place of what, had he been master of his own life, might have been private ambition. He became as unscrupulous for Marchgrave ascertain great statesmen have been for themselves. The frauds of Adam Furness became, as it were, consecrated by the purposes of John Heron. And at last the Docks had come into sight, and liberty besides, and the power henceforth to take his own life into his own hands. . . , And all had been overthrown, in one miserable moment, by a Wynd- ham Snell ! As he sat alone in his locked parlour, he saw the great ends of his life vanishing from before his eyes like a dream. ^Ho saw himself | condemned to a life of barren labour solely that he might enrich Wyndliam Snsll, who might, if blackmail ran short, send him back to the hulks or forward to the gallows. He was absolutely in the vermin's | power. The bank itself had become virtually Wyndham Snell's. l^nless he chose to pay whatever was demanded — for there could be no i question of making terms— he would be worse than a mere felon : he would be degraded in the sight of Marchgrave. He could hear tlio talk and anticipate the ninety days' wonder ; not Adam Furness, but John Heron the Forger, John Heron the Escaped Gaol-bird, John] Heron the Coiner, John Heron the Murderer. It was hideous; horrible. Why, he dared not even face the thought of John Heron the I Suicide. Anything would bo better — even a thousand more crimes.! Uf what account was the life of a wretched piece of vermin, like Wynd- ham Snell, m comparison with Marchgrave's greatness and Johii| Heron's good name ? It was plain enough for a child to read — henceforth Marchgrave'ij greatness could not grow save from the grave of Wyndham Snell. Once fairly assured that Adam Furness had baffled pursuit, Cynthial took advantage of the confusion to slip away from the mews, leadiiigl PTI KING OR ENAVB 1 147 •- ■ ■■': i d laboured i sought to ious success could it be sn fruit ; for lawful plea- , as middle Then, more- > make long e idea of the ! inspiration. e. lere criminal s a man with n, for which , by degrees, rchgrave. If le Street ha 1 ) the place of been private } certain great dam Furness Heron. And ides, and the t, byaWynd- ,t ends of his saw himself might enrich i him back to in the vermin's dham Snell's. )re could be no iiere felon : he xmld hear the 1 Furness, Initl aol-bird, John] was hideous; ohn Heron the | I more crimes, lin, like Wynd- less and Johnj h Marchgrave'il lam Snell. lursuit, Cynthial ) mews, leading Marion after her. When once around the comer she quickened her steps, and, having made as many turnings as a hunted hare, finally came to a halt before a coffee-stall. "The Fun's getting a bit lively, it seems to me," said she. " You ought to be peckish— if you're not, 1 am. Why — now I think of it, you can't have had a thing to eat all day. Here — eat this : eat every- thing. You must be starved. It's not my fault : it's that red-bearded villain, who sent me out on a false errand — I only hope Adam's knife didn't miss his heart — the spy ! Oh, what a fool I have been ! Hei'e's some more coff'ee for you. The wretch — I wish he waren't dead, so that I might kill him my own way. It should be slow death : I'd — marry him ! " " And — your husband ? " asked Marion. *' Is he safe — or " "Stephen l" asked Cynthia sharply. " What's that to me ? Stephen's a fool. I don't know, and I don't care. " Marion was now long past being bewildered. " I thought you did care — very much," said she ; more for the sako of saying something than because she had a word to say. "Then you thought like Cox's Pig," said Cynthia, more sharply still. "The men — they're all the same ; if they have got red beards, they're spies ; and if they haven't, they're fools. And better a knave than a fool. . . . No ; 'tisn't your fault you've got a pretty face, and that men are — Jlen. I'm not jealous, so don't think it ; I don't know what jealous means. Why, so little do I care, that if Stephen was to be hanged to morrow, I wouldn't lift up a little finger to save him. Never mind men, and rubbish. Let's think of ourselves." " Cynthia " said Marion timidly. " Well ? " The girl still spoke as sharply as if, instead of Stephen's needles, she had spent the day in putting a point on her own tongue. " 1 think you're right about — men ; but " "I know I am. 1 was never wrong but about two : and one's past counting, being dead ; and the other's not worth counting, being a Genius— and a Fool." "B.* -I mean— Cynthia : I am nothing to any humtiii being except to one ; of him I know nothing, but that you have saved him from I know not what peril ; and heaven knows why or how we have been brought together — but you have saved my life— and his— and I— oh, rhat can I say, when I know nothing, nothing on earth, not even what j is right or what is wrong ? " "Oh — then you've been bothered with that conundrum, too? I Well — if Stephen, the idiot, can't tell me, 'tisn't likely I could tell you. But there's no fun in talking as if you were rambling in your sleep. [We've got to be pals, I take it — you nnd me. You know what I've [been to Stephen. What's Adam Furness to you ! " "My fa Cher." . "Oh!" "And " " So that's why you were looking for the Green Cheese ? " ■i'\ i' !i 4 I f;„ h ^B^MM *:• ni Hi ■H >i! 1 Wm'\- ^ II''''' lil: jft* ■' !«. H h 148 KINO OU KNAVR? "No. W was becaiiHo iIutc my ludtlior ^iod. To-night, ia tin third time 1 havo soon my father, whom 1 thtnitfht doad till only a fow wooks aijo. Who la i\o ? 1 mnst know ;ind 1 will." "And it was by ohanoo, thon, yon woro (akin}; the oornor of Vaiio S(re«'ton yo'ir way (o the Choose I Lot mo <;ot a good look at you. yonni lady. Vos ; it's trno. But it s aiinii;hty rum And I am a» alone an if (Jod you've got no mother ; I'o brother ; no sinter ; no youi'ic uian / " Hut for my father, and for yoii. . . I am a» alone an had forgotten mo."' "Oh, everyb'idy's got to be alone. And a goo»l jdb, t()(». So am I. .\nd so'll Stoithen have (o be now. There's nobndy but luyself would touoh him witli a pitir of tongs. Don't you think he's the ugliest .soarooiow that o\or was made / . You do/ Tlien you're wron'4. Nobody onn be roidly ugly with ,'^uoli eyes as tho.'je. Yes — fool as he is, his eyes mr line ; and then -but I hate lum all the same. No : I ilon't ; 1 just di'sjiise huu ; and but there I ook Inn'o, Miss Kurness. We'll liavo lu>a|»s of tiuu; to make out how weeame together ; but we haven't heaps of tinm to make \\[) our minds what wero going t<> do. We can talk free now, you at\d I ytu« with Adam Kurnoss on your hiuids, and mo with Stephen oil" mine. We're in the siuno boat, ban you row i " " i oan do nv>thing in the world." " 1 don't know about that. I onn't make head nor tail of you, Miss Furness. If I've boon twioe triokod by men whioli maybe means oftomn- 1 did think 1 knew (Jirls. i did think a (Jirl wiis a Creature that just muildlodanl maundered till slio ga\ • herself up to a bigger fool than herself, and was liioky if he was no, worse than a fool. Ibit you clean put tne out. Y«)u'ie as green as a go.-'O ; and you don't seem to euro for Fun. If I was to give you a nov irthing, you'd just buy a farthing oandle, instead of getting ninot kmi shillings eleven pi'uoe throe farthings in change. But you're pretty— Stephen wouldn't have put you to paper else ; and a jiretty girl tlut isn't a goose can always marry a duke, ami a pri'tty girl that ix a goose can always make .1 liviuL' with her voioo. if it's as lutarse as a crow's, liocause our men ohance to be in trouldo is no reason why we should starve. That wouhl bo bad for us, and do no good to them. I'm going to play secouil tiddle to yuu on the boards." " Thon — you think— 1 can T" asked INfarion ; fiir what else had her mothoi- done 'i " I never think. lt«= stii id. Men think ; 1 knoH\'' said Cynthia, "lUithow " " How be hanged 1 i)nly you nuist get some sleep first. Nobody can sing, or play, or danoo with red eyes." " What has n'ly father d- no /" " Played for big stakes, had lots of fun, and killed a spy. " rnesa ' ■ ' • ' ^ •- ■^'- '•••'^ ' — Miss nouirli to stick to a fot)l of a genius, instead of oluuking him over for a real man. But -ah, well, there. That's the worst of a good time ; it always cianos to an end." worh in no to baj friem "A taken tlio s duche How r KJNfi OK KNAVK ] 1411 ht is tin »nly a fi^w V of Vaiu' k at you. . Aiul iis if (Jod So am 1. wlf \v toirethor ; •o"ro K"'"^ ''iiniCHfl on ituuo boat, you, Miss ybo ineauH a Croaturo to a bi,i;tj;i'r fool, lint you don'f you'd just ugs elovon >n wouldut V goosu can Iways luako ao our uion ivve. That ing to play jlso had her Cynthia. it. Nobody spy. Miss A asB enougli >r for a real od time ; it •' And is be in roal danger ? " " I'retty fair. I?ut between Adam I^'uiiumh and the police, I'll back Adam to win. Don't, yo'J worry abdiit hini nor about any Him. Th(!y're all muoii of t\. niiitdinesH. I'vedont^ with -Him. . . , Have you got such a thing as a half-cn»wn about you, iMiss Furneas '( Not a tlash one —I've got plenty of such — butareal / I know wheio to drive, if you can pay." Marion had gathen^d at least enough from this strange day to learn, ill her excitement (»f oxhaiistion, that her oik? link with her fellow- rreatures was a criminal who had escaprd, by the skin of his teeth and liy the cunning of ('yntliia, from bi-ing lakt-n red-handed in rebellion against the law. And all the eireuinHtanccH had «'nliHt(>d Iwr in his cause. Shn also, niisti-usting her own Hinily, Iiad given up, as inscru- table, the ([uestion of the diflt-rcnce i»ftvvei>ii right /md wrong. AIUhm- piiueiples were b(>ing ovcutuined ; and the all-Huflieient rea.son was that she was — .Alone. On a des«!it Island, what is I'ight what is Wrong? It, is for the desiri! of the solitaiy Crusoe t»» decifle. Me is his own solo law-giver. Mis own will bi'cnnit-s his only law. Why .should she h
r to be all in all for the guidance of free women and frin; men 'i What, after all, is Law hut the tyranny of the many over the fmv ! Of relations between the State and the individual, whence privaln mint-i bci; K1N(J OK KNAVE ? U- Hi 1- so wull jiuardod. IMis:< Adiiui, Miss Vane, I am Minn Adam — my cousin is Miss Vane." " And your address, if yon wouldn't mind ? " '' What shall 1 put down, Marion ? " asked she, suddenly remember- ing that in these horrible days an inquiry can lie sent to the other end of the world and answered in a few minutes' time. " We haven't fjot one yet in Edinburu^h," she explained to the manager ; "and we have left our residence abroad — would that do ? " " Perfectly well." ''Thou — l'al;i/,zo Sparafucile, Genoa. If you still suspect us, you can teleu;va]>h at once to the Rev. John Adam, care of Count Mirski, to whom tlie palazzo bcloiigs. Shall I add the cost of the telegram to the throe [)ounds 'i " 'rrntli and the gentlest approach beamed from her eyes. Tiie otticial of the hotel Ictoked downright ashamed of himself as, with an aiKiiogy too profointd for words, ho resigned the ladies ijito the hands of a chambermaid. Led into a bedroom, Cynthia locked the door, threw herself on the bod, and laughed merrily. " As if anybody who really loves action would go on the stage I " she said when her laugh was a little satisfied. " But how grave //<*» look! Are you sorrowing, after those three pounds ? Ai-e you aiiaid that man, wliom we bewitched between us, toill tele.uraph to (ieiioa !* Well — if he does, there is a Palazzo and there is a Count Mirski, to whom I shall telegraph to open any message to our reverend relative, and how to reply. So I hope he will." But Marion still looked grave. Into what labyrinth of welfare with the world of her dead mother, and the dluy Derwent. had she fallen - a labyrinth which centred round her father, and (»f which the clue was every moment batlling her more and more ? And the worst of it was tliat she was so abjecvly helpless — when she lied from Piggot's Town, she seemed to have left even her will l)eliind her. If she was destined ttr the only life tliat soenied opening before her, in which her whole duty was to be owed to crime, at least she might have been allowed the privilege of entering upon it with open eyes, instead oi drifting intd it like a child. . . Well, she had d(me one good thing in hei life : she had saved Guy from a fatal marriage with an adventuress, the eliild < f an outlay,', and the future companion of swindlers and thieves. If among them lay duly, so bo it ; she had no impersonal reverence foi law. Hut at least he was free. As file two girls came down stairs on their way to their sitting-i'oom, they passed a young man wlio gave them a second look which every man is entitled to give any woman anywhere, if ho has eyes at all. rimoticed by them, however, he gave them a third, and then strolled to the o[>i!n book in the hall whei-e their nanres were inscribed. Beinnger bound by a sense of honour to her eccentrically- chosen lover, yet so it was : for .«lie was as true as steel. " And— after all, it's Fun that's the only thing worth thinking about." said .she, with a profoundly retUctive air. " It's no good crying over spilt milk — it iras good fun while it lasted; and now it's gone we mustn't funk, but just make the best of things as they are There's just as much fun of the fair when one swings down as when one .swings up again." Marion, never having 'oeen at a fair, was not in a position to appre- ciate fully Cynthia's philosophy- -a philosophy, by the way, whicii, in point of practical value, has never been bettered by the highest etfV)rts of more self-conscious wisdom. " So just [lut a brave face on it, and look things straight in the eyes. I've got to reckon up where we are. We're as safe as the Mint ; though dinner's doubtful. lUit Adam's not ; and he may want help, any time. We must look out for him first, and then for our- selves. " '* Do you know whore he is, then ? " askeiiv!inRi«ioiing evoiytliinu- b«) ! inuRt loftve you in pawn wliilo I'm vo than an hour. And thon woMl Bee. Keep up yotn- spintB : and if anj body coiuos nnking qnoBtionH, toll thoin to wait for Me." " I'm not afraid," Biu;hod Minion. " I'm afraid of nothinu; more." In trnfli, r1»o was ylad to ho alono !iji;ain, if only f»)r an hour. Slio also, thotijrh in a dilVoront sonsc' fron> t'yntlun, noodod to reckon lior boariuirs, ;\m\ to traoo «M\t. if rIu> <'onld, whither nho had boon tlriftinj^, and how far. \VoU it was nothinji; that nhe waB boinu; pasRod oil' as a jiofitiona person nn bo heard of by him whom she had resolved Rhovdd never aRHin hear her old name. Indeed, a part of her plan had been to be Marion Fmnesa no more ; and Marion Vane wo\ild do as well aa anything oIho, weiv it not that it had been forootl upon her, like all the rest, instoatl of beino; the resvdt of her own free ehoioe and will. Passive as sl\e was by nature, helpless as she Boemod by circum- slanoes, she w.is berning ftir the p<-t\ver to juvopt her place in life, wot because she nniRt, but becauBO she cliose. In short, the so\d which she had tho\ight to strangle when she wrote her letter of dismissal to (5uy, and which had gone to sleep during bodily fever, was comiujj; back again in ])ower. Atid in what wise sliould it ct^me to the child at once of Adatu Furness and of John Hon Ml ? In whichever guise, h«nvcver, it had to bo an active and a roBtlosa tnie. for i^ood or ill. "If I must be mad," she cried, though not in words, "it must bo the madness that does something not the m.-idncsa that pines and stArves I 1 w«mder I wonder if mamma ever felt like 1 do now I Hut no. never ; shf never fell jilone ; she lived her own life ; anine8 und low i Hut I she had 10 sort of when she >aity than \in crude 1 degrees, an to say ended for hid oypH thf)Bo, to a youflcMuan, aro not niattnrn forltiddon by d(3finito law any inon^ limn luniour foilHtln liiiii to walk a hundred niiloi with liiH foot in tlio nir of Ft(|tiarin^ tlu» oirclo. Honour dooB not concern ir Vano Street — -was ho disappointed ; for the l»(»liof in ghosts was as yot scarcely on the ovo of its fashioiiablo r«>vival. Hut. sooing that his moditations on tho oxtornal arrajigomonts of Number SoviMiloon had rosultod in his boing in at a p«»li(;e raid of tho lir.=it. clafs, any idloRt lingo nf clifla^pointmont had been amply made up for. lie was rathor dispostul to shake hands with himself on a nolablo addition to hin catalogue »»f adventures. " It's vory singular," he rolloctod, '* hf)W some people go roinid tho world without anything evor happoniug to them, and «»thors can't take an evening stroll willmnt tuud>ling into a big thing. I wouldn't havo lost the sight of llial fellow sorauibling over tho walls and the roofs for twonty pouinls — well, anvhow, not for nineteen. I wjtnder whether I'm iH'ally soiiy ho gut oil' clear? No, of course f'tn not. I wonder why tho .sympjithio.s of thn natural juan, with the sham rtibbed off him, »lu)uld ahv;i,\H be on tho criminal sido, so long as he's g(»t nothing to lose. (Vinl'oinid tho peeloin, though, all tho same. If I'd only man- ag»>d to got into that Iiouho on my owti hook, 1 should have had Noniothing to brag about for tho rest of my days 1 " Ibil wlu'ii, having roMU'iiod to the hotel whore ho had an appoint- ment with a lawyer from AsknoRs, he met two your)g ladies on the stairH, ho poicoivod that, if ho Iwul hmt something to brag about for all his days, he had at any rate found something to thitik about for one of tliom. I^u' he was observant by tinturo, and had cidtivated his natural faculty, by practice, in the special directifui of human fa;;eH. And he wnn as C(Uivinced as unlikelihood would allow him that he had harely two hours before seen two maidsi-rvants in Ea«twf>od Mews as like those young latlies, clothes and all, as Dromio to Dromio. Had there boon a .s'ngle likeness, it would havo counted little - everybody lu\3 a doublo who is always turning up at unoxpec'ood times and places. Ibit a pair of doubles at once, and in company, is not in the nature of tilings. "It is odd," he thought, as he woke tho next morning, " how some people never come across an adventure, and others aro always tumbling 11 ;;i l.^O T\1N»; OU UN W K 1 P k oNor tlioni if v »(i' 'Ivop. \ M.Nn't ilrsiMAc r\(T 1i> liMVo nnnt hi'v. Si> I wim'l Ic) i( (Imp NV In p1i('>\1»1 1. !\i"(iM .'01 :' TliiMr's i\ chnnro of m"(iiii| (o ll\(> I>ii1(iiin n| .T I'lijj tlnivj. wiilioui thv ]h>lil cIms'^i'm n< (No w :vy of nrinu )>tMsin\;»llv oon<1ni toil In ,» j^.-Iut s(M^'^'^nt ia tl\»' Instiri'sl shdni yoinu;. \U\\ (liiw lot^Ks lll\(^ ,1 ^.•1^'k^^u^V. An«<. 1\v .liUO ! w huf oyi'« lln> snijvllcv jrill hl\tl fhov s('Mi I'no liKon ninili'l. Tlnw ttnHl l>i' Rrt-n 1i> ; thnTs o1o.iv.' Not britio .iIIIioIimI \\\i]\ sliyn<^">''. ov \\i(I> (ho cuiioii'* foiin of insMtntv \h:\'. Koo)^"? souio v.^iin!!; l>;»vvi.''(oi'R w.'iitino \\\ oli!»n»1>o\M (or luiofM • Iiioit thoy Know will no\or oon\t\ MorlMml, I^oin^r ono of (ho !nl\ ('\)1 nioi.M (n wlnMii ;\(hontinos huppon. sot o\ii oti Ins t\nt!uM o\p!oi!»(iou ,\\ |)\Mn;in njitiiiv ; nov IS ll>oro ;>n\ nroil (o .•ts'^nino i]\:\\ j ho (\\0'> whoso lulnu ptn>'t Mor1;in nsoont in m l^-^lloon Ho h;\(] ii\iloo<1 notn.illy boon m1>o\ (> \ho olonilw \vi(ho\i( ,Mn\ oyos (o .•i(tv.io( hnn ; :\\\i\ bo li.ul loUowotl np (In.s o\povioi\oo l»y » dos ooiit in .-x <^i\ iui; boll. Ho hml (vmollotl with jryp'^ii's ; ho h;nl oonipnMoil .•\ nvii'lon Alp: bo bn,is intvnosioi) ni hnni^n n;v(\n-o. ;\\u\ oniioim r\b.Mil Its nitoks ;u\tl oovr.ors. bo« ;niso bo \\,«s hnn-'tlf ,«o fnll of il. If f bo jiulf b,»d boon ;i oonplo of (\)bnuol\!<. (hoy noul.l b.-n o h;nHhoir nttv;io(ion . j\n ovor. it nvnb' bor no( onl\ s(;\i(. bn( troniblo. a( tbo idoa of b.-xving i^^ faoo o\on a w.iiSn- or ;i ob.antborni.iiil wilhout Cyn tbia's road> wit ..r pb\asuro in \i1;iy aotin^. tbonijb bn(, (o an nnajipro oiatixo andionx'o of ono. *' Paribn mo. said tbo yt">uns i^ontUnnan who (nitorod. (o bor oon fusion. "It is an intrnsion, of oonvso ; bnt bavo I tbo plo.a.-^nto of s]>oakiUii to M ss .Vdani. or to A?ivS,s \ ano '^ " Ho bvvkod roimd as l\o sp>'ko ; (bo^o woro no( (bo o\ os (hat li.ad lot^kod bi)n ibr.nijrb. " Ml.-*.*. .\.lam is iMit.." s.'vid Marion ; that was los.^ bard \o nay (ban "** 1 am Miss Vano." Oould tbis porb,\-ps, sbo tb*ni*ib( oat onviablo tbioknos$. '* Tlion yon aiv Miss Vano?"' askod l\o. "1 boar yon .aro in aonu' tronlVlo about sionio niissinsj lni:iivv«ro : and 1 asko>i niysolf if yinj ooirld bv »nv foi'tiiuate chanco bo any rolation v>f nu frionds, tho Vauoa of - n i>V(»ot\iy n '1''^ ■nnmii'ii'il of it. 1 1 ]y.\A lltciv lir well. li i\n iin'i ('(Mt.nuly cmUlo. ;\\ \.>iit Cyii unuppvc luM' ('i>l\ >;»smi' III lh;i( Ii!\«l h:\\ (bail 'f fiUlnM'"s it'i'Mt. she liUo thill onviaMo \\\ aonu' you otMilil viios ot" - him; iti( u NAVi;; ? in? ilf MdlcllirKM I'," III- "!li'l, I'll illii II". Ii|.!| |il<|' <■ (llflt (■(• UMi'l I" li'MI ■I'l llii' innMiiiiiv I i>'iiili'iici« fif itM.Hiiiiiiv lii'ii'l" (|i- Iim'I finl llic |:ii!ili"n tif I I|m|ii Im| I Iii.|||'t'ii HimI Iii« vvii-^ !i \iiiiic^ ^I'lil li'iii.'iii .JiMtii |iim(i|ili. i(i(|(> wiMi Mm- mMIi' Midy. fit|i| It'll ( In- iiiili. ' Nii'l iP 'Jit. il. IM fiiy lnmifi("r(i\ I'lil IMni Itnul '' !\l;iii'l|i4i :iV'' !" cvrl'iimi'il M;iiiM|i. ImIu'M liy hiiii him |>i Im". ' I mil liiilil, llii'ii '" In- riMlifl, cLiini'li'Dilily HMi |if i"c.| m lii". (iicn ' ' iiil'l liiM itn I'lil i'lti li'i\.. |iMmiili|-, ,Hliirl< mm lln- |ii"i'l ii i(>;il nnil ' • ' riM llli'li' It" \'illl'"i III M 1 1 illLjl'M (• > ' I ii;il wnllld he Hi" fli-Vll '»f »i llll'H, " I l|lll|u||l III' " Nil," Hiiiil IMmi inn liuii i. 11 V " We lire f((ii(i filii'iM'l." " Ami y'liivi! iml IkimhI ynt i>\ \n[\i Iih^^mi/c /" " No."' " TIimI'h nl f iiiirp ! « >f I'liiii'tK, il'H m'iI'm Im I urn m|» ; liill if rriiinf, )tt> ■\\\U\\i\r<\ I'ni yi'ii !i'ijM(Iul(.(| linnM. Am'I cKfimK ?rt" (im M'ln-y I t'ltn'l. ('Iniiii iin|iiiiiiiliii''^ I'vi'ii nl ';■ i'mu'I Ii'mmI," Im- Ms-i'l with .'Hi cxiciMliiiiily fiMiilt Mini Iimiii.hI Hiiiihi ; ' I»m' I Hi ii'' n cMM'.'r'rifiMfiHl lii'ini^, mill il. jilw.'iyw liii'4 hi"'Iim"I Im mi> I Iml h||i Miily lii'i'iii:" Im'mimI liny ;ii"mI ; i", cnl.y ycMH mJ/I ..'hI liivt'h I lini'ii iiil riti|iiri>i|, in llin iii'sl I iili'iiI'MiM nf !ill ( i'li''iil"M.« hIi irtm. Ilmti Koil ijiii )itil II l>'ii'u\^ v'lii l MiMi'il III hiiimi'll" m inimTiiM" pifi <« '»f cnmil^liy ciimii^Ii ; Itill. (hiMi III" wd'A nlri'.'iily ln':iiiiiiiii!.( In ilmilil lii^ nwii Mycq Wi) « !H lio^imiiii^ Im MiH(M«"t. Iiiiii ;(ir "I li niii;; iici'lo n, lii'h'MiR liliimlnr, ami Mi'4«« Viiiic mI' lininir ;< \n,i\y .il'ti-r nil. liul. Hmim Ii< I I'lfllloil tllMsn nl licr ny(>H of yc^l I'l'liy , n". il id'i'iMMl. in Midif JMMk frnrii llii'siMiH ( 'iiiii)iiiriHnn fMili'il liiin. " I'm Hiii'M yitii Mii'Miil nMMiiii!.( Iml nlwil wna kind," Haid MMrinri m'im '111 ly ; tiir M I(>iii|iImI inii \v»m jf.il.liciin'.; in In r mind " II. is yi'M wliMMii' kind In ^tiy lint, " •;Mid Im, in ii. way Hial. wsm j:'t M rtliiuln (("4^ »';i",y. " I III i\ I'l' any cm I nf !i > Md 'nr uiivli*. ynii ci.n li'li ; Mild " Mninn'rt (>y(>^ mi'l. hi I willi sirli nnmi ■■'Mk.i.Mi wnndii' in tli''iri t[ih fn ii WMtnaii fmni Urn Ina.^l. Inkfii nf fnid i-tinn in a rnfiii, " pcopln dnn't HimpiMit lliMHnwIiM Md'cr I.M hflj) Miiin "TIriji wlicivymi CMiim Iimih mn.Ht. ho a [utMinnH Jong way from here. 1.^8 Rlt«r. OR UN wr. ? II; % Howov cv. Iio w.v* rivill\ '5jV(>\Knivi tln' hono-il htilli mtw. Ilii only snHpioiiin now w-t* lli:\t »]u» urwl bi'fi'ic Imn u.r' in \< \nt of linlp l>is'5 of Ineil'.vi'' : nniHlio Kniulii i>\i;n>( \\h\i \\\\ ili>iiii:n\) tmilnr liis oiMitio"* 1n>o;rm to pt iv 1^hr> fonipfntion ili.it liml (MO]i* into Minii-MP miu'l wnsimw ftitryini; •u liov lionrt "Jtrniirs " Yoti inoiifionoil i\ plioo cnUoil M.uclinrnv c. ' '^^\A nho. " I tli>\H Know 'it hut 1 linvn l^(>;\n1 of it, !\\\\\ i»f proplo thouv No tiohmly nnnio*^ V.ti\o Tlioiv is n 1vii>K(m- on\ iijihumI Moron ?" Th.-^t >v,iR n.if tlio nnnio n> hov mind ; ImU in^linot. not wliollv lVmniin«'», 1o(1 hor intM'> .1 i>>uni1;ibont ri>:i<1. II bohnvoil liov (o show no spooial mfoi'ost in h^<\ yivon hiM' np withont !i fnsa thritiK ho.iwn for tl1.1t (ino (hinij;. "H(Mv^n'? Unthor I Vt>n «io Know sonnHhiivj; nlmnt IMiivohirrMM', thon, th.-\{'« cl<»ftr. By tho nv.av. hiivo yon ntiv spooi-^l intorcst \n ilohn I'l-.Ton '( '■ "No Only I havo aiw.'xvs hoanl a laroni ilivvl of him in oonnootion with M-iivhirw-wt*. " ^^l(l^.\n K.\^ dly hoooniinn almost nt hi ' oapo with this yonnji: man who ^vr^- tnon still an lutov stranijor. Ami in proportion as lior oaso inrroasoil. his lo'-,;5( novV \\ \\.v:> \oiy far friMii T^rayoot Morl,-\n trn;»t in ov«M-yh>vly, hoonnso, boine aa'!i'.v« . A «^'y ,voon!vuv ai - 'rr, on (o hooK j^oo-plo wiih onlrauoonn opinions, ho ]ia>l boon l,ibollo«i " Oansjor " Unt ho was none lln* h"<'4 inspiring oonfi»loncf in IM-inon. IViiiips , liat, howov»M-, was not to ln' so( (l(>wn altoofothtM" to any qnaiilios 01 his own. It was tho firs< timo sinoo hor mot hoi's doath that sho hat! o\ohanij«*il a word ol oonouon kindlinoss with a livinsj; oivatnro. sa\o t''ynthia ; ami Cynthia was still a mystoiy, bolousiins^ to an nnKnown worUl, on tho thn>sho1.1 of wliioh sho stoi-ni and (roniblod. And as {o his moHvo in visitin«n allowod to t.ako for grantod that a man oonld not bo civil to n ^irl e?vv"op( f.-r oanso Indood, sho had si'a'liorod plonly of oolonial oxpori onof that poiiuod tho othor way. " I'm glad yi>u havo no g ono. !• yonVo anything oi a p(->liiioian. Miss Vaiu\ you 11 ;;iid.>rs'land mo whon 1 t^ll you that he and 1 arc rival oandidato.n fo.r tho hon-^nr of repro renting Maroh you taK<» any intorost in jv^lit.K\s, 'Miss Vane ( " *' I m ftf-«id " ' Ah— thai means Xo. It's a pity, booauso 'afraid" ought to moan "Ves --l>ecause it's tho intorost in ]>olitios. not tho want of interest in them, that's ihe real inisfovtaae. If only nobody would t^ke an inte KISn (i»f KVAV kI in«i li'^ only l>i'V'»nil \u\v\ liin ' » Aow I Mobnily I) M ron ( « holly mIiow no I' vifU to i:li1 htM'H no moil' n fUHH •('lujrrnvi'. \u .)t)hii tnnootion ^Sl at 1\iM >v. A nil fjw fron\ hri'fuipo \1 VMijt'onp \]\0 l0'-'» noi \ci to n iirivl 1 OXlMM'i ono. I' mo whon of icpvo y ijitcrost t«t in pftUflcn, how wi'll ovcrvhoflv would ho novonifvl Iimw ♦h'tifioiinly i»viMv*hitit» wonltl vn on | mIop'I mr m l«iuli<'nl, MiB«« \'Mfi»'. |i»'Cfui«f ofio niiiBt nhuul on f«o»n('t|iin{f, tu\<\ ln><(ni'<»« ({jMlicMliptri i^ fh»' iKsf fifMfficdi i'ro»'tl fot n man who htitcn flinl }fi!.rMnfi<' ^llnt^l r-dlh-M diliorfy. l/ili"rfy, un looil tlR if if ovtM mi'iint M»ivthin(; Imf flic wcmI-cuJ I'oiftcf fo fhc wmII Vml iti oiilor to nl'olish liilti'ily. I m'-fin (o iro in for n oliqlufi' l/.-iw." " Tht'n |/f>i» tl'inl< liiiw is nil *\ton|' iintl evil/" ti«l;«'tl Mdiion, with Binhlon inttMi'«t " thnt n nmn \n iti f mm tight who puts hittmflf oiitsi'lc it. ntttl tluhtfl iii;Mitint it im hnfil mm Im (tin ' ' " A )thilono|ihi'r in )tt>ttirMtil«, cfloi '" thought hf». n"t rffriornhorim* thul when H M'lil WMttiMfi nnkn im nliMtrnct f|i(<'Mtiofi noiric very pcr«'>finl i\|t)tlii'!»tioti of it in Biifo to h«> tio (Ho'it flistuncf' Mwny. " Of conrcif., " ho imswon'il. " Who (roi noo ; in tlioro miyhody oho I'vo ho(ir»l of nt IVf(iroh(,TMVO / Isn't thiMo !i Mr. Porwont if tlmt'n f ho nnrnw '< " "horwont? N«i, I «lon'ti fhirilt. |!y Jovr, ffioiitjh, I i]fi ' Of oonrno ii yonity follow with opinionn nn old nn Mctlnmfhih uhout, ntiol(inu np for liin friotnln ; nn if (ill thnt Inidn't hrcMfno tln» very mnnhli''Rt of nhtimn. I mot him in tho trnin, ooniing up from my lirnt, vinit ti» my futnro oonntitnoncy or .John lloron'n. I took ratfior a likin^ to tho yoiinu follow. VVhon I foil foul of .Inhn Moron, I thonj^hb ho'il have Unockoil mo down." " Yon that \n,ul,i ho ho !" " I nhall havo to yot him on my nido ; no if yon havo any infliifinoo with anylxtdy in Mari'liyravo who»vin got nt^ yiing horwont, rormidorit/ honnokon. Uy tho way, I oamo acronn him aftorwardn, anrj ;inkod hirn to drop in at my ohainnorn ; which ho promispd to do and didn't, — — " " You mot him in jjondony" MHkcil Marion, whom hrayot iVforland wan hy no moann natinfying with hin mothod of roporting. Why <;oiild ho not, fool, without. t»M» plainly nooing, what wore tho thingn nho warif/ed to know I " Yon ; on thodoornton of a houno in I'y .fovo ! " Why, it hafi, fIpf»or Vano iStroot ; ami ho had hoon ankod aftor hy tho donhlc of that, girl in tho mown! Huppicion wont up ajfain ; hcliof went. down. Whilo ho fanciod himaolf pumping tho girl, oonid it ho lliat nho was piirrij)ing him ! Atul yot. . . . with that voi(!e, and with tho.qo oyos ! " 'IMio inyntory of EantwoiMl Mowh hroko into now inti^ro.st tho piccos of tho pu/zio ho;.^an to irionp thomnolvon. N'mnhor Kixtfori was tho houBO which had norvoil for tho covor and ontranoo of .N'nrnhor Hovrsn- teon. Mr. («ny Dorwont, of Marchgravo, had hc.on (tailing thfuf. nt tho hoad(]uartors of a gang of ooiiMna. And Mr. Ouy f)crw^.nt, of Marohgravo, waa now hoing iiKpiircd aftor, with sign.H of sjiocial intf! roat,hyu girl whono nunpt^oti'd coniiocliori with tho failure of the fiojjro had boon Draycot Morland's main roason, if nf»fc hin only rnnnoti for h^» call. 'Mr 160 KING OR KNAVE ? " Of a house— you were saying— in ? " suiryested INFarion. He paused, to give hir)i;;elf a moment for reflection on the course he should pursue. Clearly, if he let the matter stop here lie would learn nothing nioi'e ; yet the slightest badly calculated word onl}' put the girl on her guard. The detective fever was growing upon him, and with it some of that gambling spirit without which a dett'ctive iK iiot worth his salt — so long as he knows how to correct the caids. " In Upper Vane Street," said he playiiig a bold ojird. "Vane Street ?" asked Marion, without intelligence; for she did not know so much as the bare name of the stronf- where she had been living all this while. " Yes ; that was it. Upper Vane Street— where that raid on coiners happened, that you may have seen in the morning's paper " Marion could neither help a start, nor the start from Loing seen. The street of the raid on coiners — and Guy Derwent there ! Her heart leaped and tlirobbed within her. Could it be, then, that he had not taken her at her word — that ho had followed her so well as to have tracked her to where she iiad been not so much hidden as buried alive She could not tell, nor for xhnt matter did she try to tell, wlietht;r what she felt was sudden juy, a fla.sh of lij;ht thniugh midnight black- ness, or the completion of dcsjiair. She had bidden him forget her ; she had daily thanked (Jod for his obodience- and yet not to have been forgotten after all 1 It was as if a cup of water had been offered her in the midst of a raging thirst that .she was forbidden to assuage — .she must refuse the cup ; but who good it was that it had been proffered ; the proffer could not be thrust away. And yet she, who was murdering her life f(jr the sake of her lover, believed herself to be the spo"t of waves and currents when, by a .single stroke, she could swim on sluue. What wonder she had no will left for other things when it was all absorbed and centred in the irre- vocable will to drown I She had learned enough ; she dare not .uigle for more. liui. with her visitor, the appetite came in feeding. He saw the sud- den start, and the sudden flush, and the sudden li'^ht that roso into the gray eyes and made the'^i beautiful. The atmf)..phere of vulgarity inse])arable from crime when it fuls into the hands of the police was failing out of the mystery ; his imagination was beginning to tal:e fire. What more could he ask '( And yet how could he lenve so promising a problem unsolved — not for the sake of Law or Justice, but just for his own ? Why, never in all his life, sutliciently adventurous as it had been, had he come across so interesting a my.stery ris this Miss Vane, who, with eyes through which one seemed able to read \wv soul, must surely be the most consummate actress in the world. " It's well I'm no green- horn," thought ho— as if to doubt is not just 'is green a proceeding as to l)elieve. It was well for him that, balancing between the need of going and the desire of staying, Marion was for the moment too absorbed in her- self to 1)(! a\vari> of his company. " He does not forget mo yet I " her heart kept singing so loudly us to deafen hor ears. Morland, with Dll. Mjurse he aid learn ' put the and with lot worth she did had heen )n coiners )ing seen. Her heart e had not } to have ied alive , wliethtH jht blcick- rget her ; liavc been red her in uage — she jroffered ; her lover, hen, by a ad no will 1 the irre- the sud- roso into vulgarity lolico was tal;e fire. ;oniising a list for his had been, ano, who, ust surely no green- deeding as going and ed in her- yet I " her and, with KINO OR KNAVE? 161 other eyes than a detective's, saw that she was excited with some emo- tion that looked strangely unlike alarm. It was as if the girl, hitherto merely pretty in a mild and melancholy way, had been all of a sudden struck into beauty by an enchanter's word — and that word his own, though beyond any guessing which word, or why, or how. And he had a real sense of beauty, apart from his taste for the added piquancy of mystery. That this was no common adventuress, no companion of ordinary criminals, he w^ already prepared to swear in the face of evidenre clear enough to hang a murderer. And in that case, what extraordinary sort of adventuress could she be ? Evidently, this was far too delicate a business for police hands, which had bungled it already, and would take into account none of the complexities of the border-land between such different things as legal guilt and moral sin. "One may be as innocent as a baby, though steeped in crime up to the — eyes," he thought, looking into hers ; "another may be an arch- villain, though he never connnits a single crime," he argued to himself in his paradoxical way. " This is a case that w^ants delicate and intel- ligent handling — very much so indeed," he mentally added, with a glance at a mirror which showed him back Draycot Morland as the sole owner of the tact and intelligence required. But the mirror also showed him something very much less interesting — a waiter bringing in a letter, which he handed to Miss Vane. Who on earth could bo addresbing her under her new name ? What in the world could it mean ? Yet there was the direction in the clearest of copper-plate, with "immediate" thrice emphasized in the upper corner. " It's Awful 1" it ran, without preliminary word. "I'm he'mg fotloived. And just when I've had word from Adam that I must meet him, for instructions. And he's being followed too, and must be warned ; and being followed myself, I daren't : it would be just trapping him. All 1 can do is to baffle the scent ; but he mvst be met, and at once. You're not me ; but there's nobody after you ; and unless you want your father hanged, i/oti must go. Burn this when you've learned the enclosed by heart ; and w*>en you see him, say, ' Bar Eighty-six ' : he'll uni'irstand. Never mind me. If you want money, pawn your rings ; but Go. — C." Marion's hand trembled as she crumpled up the note ; but not with fear. "Mr. Morland," she said, in a new voice, and with still new light in her eyes. "Miss Vane?" " I am going to ask you something very strange." " Consider it answered — and if it is to do anything " " It is to do something. . . . We are strangers but " " I hope not quite, Miss Vane." " Can you — without one single question — take this ring " She slipped a diamond hoop from her linger as .«lie spoke, while, a. well he might, he stared *' And let me have enough money to take nie to the farthest place ir (10 ■ ■ I:' ■ KVJ KIN({ OH KNAVK? Engliind that will ho safo. It is for lifo nnd death ; and I have uowhoro elao to turn." A look at her anxious face deprived hitn of surprise. " Miss Vane, " said ho gravely, " you have askoil ine n strange thing. But it is not so strange as what I am ti;oing to do. I am going, with my s wide open, to lend you enough to carry you comfortably to .T«)hn ()'(^roat's, which is the farthest piMut 1 know ; and I am going to tjikc the ring without K)oking at the stone." " Thank you ! " she said, in the most natural way iti the world, with- out seeming to uildersland a wonl more than that her roc^uoBt had not been made in vain. " That's either the coolest hand out, or the ipieerest ! " thought he, as he looked out the metiey he always kept it mixed and loose, so that the oju^ration took st>me little time. "That's either the freshest and frankest thing out in oonlidenee tricks, or else things are \nicom- monly the cotitrary of what they seem. . . . Well, perha|,s they are. There's I">erwent : he seemed a good follow : and there's that prophet in his own country, John Heron. What a 8ham it is, nut t<> spell prophet with an F and an II" CHAPTKU XVII. .sn\l>0\VS OVKl? MAK('HOHAVK. To trace llunumr to its fotmtaiu was never set among the labours of Hercules. And for this good reason, that it was a million times more ilitticult than the whole of them added together and then midtipUed by the number t>f the inhabitants of the wt>rld. H«)w, therefore, the idea tirat Ci^ept into Marchgrave that (»uy Derwent'a absence was something m«>re than business -that won! of talismanic power- C(mld explain, is not to be told. Such thin.ijs g*>nerate themselves spontaneously in the air : unless the 1U»11 may have a tritle to do with them. At any rate, Mr. Prendergast could not help wondering and being not a little hurt by the want oi conlidence displayed towards him. Nob since his employer went ott' at scarcely an hour's notice had the clerk received a word addressed to himself personally. All instructions, where any wore needful, came from the Bank ; and the Bank, though always treating Mr. Prenderuast witlj all possible deference and con- sideration, and relying in the most complimentjvry manner upon his inde]>endent judgment, never comlescended to tell him whore Mr. Pervvent was or when he would be home. Of course, the fact that the Bank was at the back of everything, and was advancing all money rei^uired for current needs, was enough, and more than enough, for bi>th clerk anil clients from a business point of view. It looked sis if the shipbrokor were to have the inostimable Kmri OR KNAVR? Ifi.'i HO advantage of the Bank'B ba('hii\i,' for ^ood and all. And it niiglit fair'y bo tlumgiit that nion of Itusiiuwrt would concorn thonist'lvoH with no'h- ing nioro. But (lOBsip plays ho largu a part in roal businuss that it /as bountl to conio in. (jiuy stood alono in the world, and had no friend intimate enough to expect private lot ttU'H, or else Hinnour might have started earlier and grown faster. Thus far, therefore. John Heron had been able to pro- vide his corroHpniidi'iitH with an ideal mesHonger. But, as has been said, people were beginning to talk, esju-oially now that election time was drawing near. A mini's own self may never be missed ; but his vote is of value. Mr. I'rendtirgast began at laab to bo rather ashamed of going to the Bell ol a Friday night with no news to give of his employer. He was compelled for IiIh own credit 'h smKc* to put on airs of knowingness, and to assume the manner of the cuHtodian of a Htat^ secret. For, other- wise, the chaiV would have liccn intolerable - it was bad en<»ugh as it was, anly injury enouu[h to he hfinm'd, though v\o\\ hut in ethuy, without, heing mrt«h» Ro o\(r!ua|j;nntly fnt MUtl hMlil. Sr a uj.in rwlly hiuigetl witho»»l hin wiu: ? lie *\u\ not know ; hut he felt that. Bomo sort of a line must he dnvwn mtinewhere. lie n\n«h> no allowance for the exigonoioR of early art, which niakoR a nmti fat . n«>t hoeauRe he iR roally fat, hut. heoauRe a hotly iR the njoro easily r*>preseute»l hy a oitvie ; an«1 which niakcH him hahi, irre Rjvctively of fact, because it has not yet contpicrctl the tlitlicultiefl of tlie Iwnnan hair. He u»a»le, indcc'tl, no allowance at all he fumed. For a motncnt, in«lrtc«l, he evci\ thought of calling in the terrorR of the law. Svnvly no lihel cat\ poHsihly he worse t.hai\ the p\ihlic BUgnes- tion, on one's owt\ otUce »loor, that otie has committctl a nntnler ami ouaht to he haiigcd. Ibita night's sleep, sound with the consoiousneRs of imuuvnce and of tvspcctahility, (i)ok the tirst edge oil Imh wrath, and lie conduilcd to appeal to a yet Rtronger power than that of the law. "Mr. Heron," said he r«'spectf\dly yet tirndy. wh(>n he jmid hiR customary nuMning visit io Chapter Lane for instiuclions, " I venture io sidnnit that I outjht to have son\e idea -say some tliiu and distant glimmer of when Mr. Oerwent may he expected home." The Uanker still wore his arn» on a splint, and still lookeil pale and worn. Hut he had l\v no n»eans broken down. " (>h, that's imp»siblc to give you, ' saitl he. "It's a long and ditlicult biisinosM pri^1i(id>le. ni> doubt, in proportion. I don't know, niysell. .inytlung u»ore." "Yes. Air. ilcron. And. as I used to learn at the old (J ram mar School, \vhat'« sport to y«m, if y(>u'll pardon me saying bo, sir, is death to WW." The lUnker glared at hi»u sharply. "Death ( " asked he. " In a piuvly n\ct;erwcnt is Murdered. There ! " "Wliaf? Cot\fo\ind this aru> of mine. . . . There it's hotter now ; but every now ami then it is just agony. Who says it i What do they mean ?' "1 tlio\ighl you'd be excited, sir I Yes; they've got it about, all i>vcr tlic town, that I'm a niunlcrer, TMr. Heron." " Yi>n i Oh ! Well ; foiils must be fools."' "Yes, sir: ilu\v must. Hut I'm not g»>ing to bo caricatured on a s^ailows. and having the boys putting their tongues out and their knuckles inti) their collars when I go by ; an»l they're an impudent lot down at the lUsin. as cvMybody know. I dimt nnnd it among friends, th»>ugh before ladies a gentleman's feelings ought to bo spared, seeing he cAn't retAliatrt but when it ci>mcs to the boys ! " *' Well, well," said the H.\nkcr knully, "we're public characters, ■HiiflHtt! KING on KNAVK? 1G5 Pi'pntU>rnnBl ; ntui wo inuBf. fnlu» flie cMriRfinioncoH. li'H el<>rti(in iim© nli'oiuly ; hikI if yoniiK MorlnturH frioiHln Htop nt piMtiiiK ni«- m a khI- loWR, ilipy'll Ih> ♦'nsily untiBluMl. MiinliMvr, iinlet'il why, I look fco be <;lm«;i«»(l wUb nil tlio ciiiiioR in i\w (h'CHlomM'. You'll honr h v»>ry dif- leroiit iharfu'tcr of hip, iny yood ftioml, from what you'vohpoii un><\ to, before we've doiio. Lot them hui^h tliut win." " It would be great cotnfort to nie though, if I hn<1n't got to more thftti half lie when I'm asked for news of iVIr. I)erwent- '' '* Whv I'endergiiRt, you eouldn't tell half a lie, nor a «|uarter, if you tried. Whal do you nay '( " " I am bound to way Rotnething at timen. Maybe, sir, you don't know how bad it in to have to k(u

idiiy, «»r that with the day befoi(». I'm dreadfully afraid I'vo Rent him, all at once, fo |)enniark, Leghorn, and IbienoR AyreH. We've corroRpondenee with all thoHo ])artR, anng before they'v»» doiuj. liy the way of courso you've got a share or two I " " Li the Docks, Mr. Heron ?" " Whiit else ! " In what I'lse should a Marcligrave man have Rharos / I've had my eyi^ on you, Mr. I'rendergnHt, and you dcHerve to have Roniething moi'(> I lian a little linger in tix^ pie. I've got Home of the new issue to place, and if you're not too jtroud to take a i)re8ont from a friend " " Oh, sir ! It's iiutre than I deserve, indeed " " Not a bit. I only want everybody t/o have a pernonal interest in what's to bo so j^n-cat a thing for us all. . . . Weil, between our- selves, I believe that Mr. |)erw(mt is in Kgypt, but of cmirHi! that goes no further. It's really most important busincHH ; and the Docks — you understand." Ntiver mind the cackle of As a magis T 166 RiNu on knavkI Mr. Prcn«lerfj;a8t «lid not votittiro to own, ovpii to liiniRplf, tliat he did not uiuloi'BtAiul ; althonyh in inith ho h'ft Chiipter Liuio not ii wit tho wiser than ho had ooino, and oonsiiU'iahly inor^ oontunod. Ho had a Bort of Bonso that he hail hctMi promisi'd a (h)ui'onr, partly on account, of personal nioiit* too little recognized by Iur frietuls, lust palpable to a really ii;reat nian partly as some oonipensation for a tnartydoin that invested him with diynity ni>w that it waa aacrihed to public uronndB. And yet, for all that it somehow oozed out before next mornn'n that (tuy berwent was in Kgvpt »)n the gre.it Dock busineHs, and a facetious warehousemat^ invented a bran new j<»l i)u' nine days" wonder caused among the great world )f (pndnuncs by the o\pli»!*i«m of the great inint in V'pper Vane Street had passed ; and in llie aj^proaoh o\' political strife, with its public talk and ilB pri- vate ends, all lesser things were luMjfg swept out of the air. The police had failed to tiace th«M'riminal who had given thetn tho slip bo narrowly. The i^irl. if followed for a season on that or on some otlior score, had not fallen into tluMT hands. Whatever any outsider, such aa Draycot Morl.tnJ, \i.i>;ht ha\e suiMuisctl ret»»ainod in (Juess land. And a thou- sand otliev ilnujas of cijual interest had alsi been rolled out »tf tho road. (greater matters were to the fn^nt, atul t*> greater mattora thereforo must wo for their ihie season turn our haitds. Uy sou\e nnaccrtuity, tho Aaknoss candidate — it was in vain to deny it was making way. It waa inwaccountablo, bocaUHO tho popularity of thi King of Marchgrave in no wise lessened, while tho mer.Maot of opj^osition had the etfect of concentrating his forces and bringing them shouUler to shouUler. Nor did anybody seriously doubt that he wvudd emerge triumphatitly fn>tn the p«»ll. And, on tho other side, the op^nisition candidate seemed bent upon not being taken seriously. He appeared \o have entered upon his campaign rather in the spirit oi a schoolboy than of a gr»>wn man engaged in a ni«>nientou8 struggle. Rut that was possibly the reason for tho way ho made, and fiH- his justification of the choice «>f the Askness wiro-pullors. His mission in Maivhgrave was the denunciation of Shams- Civil, Kcdesi- astical. Social ; but especially in the form of the Promotit)n of Public Oomj^inies and of great Pers»>nalitiea. Who was John Heron'/ he asked : and the question, which had at lirst taken all Matchgt'avo aback with aniuscmctit, then with indignation, tlnn with impatience, was at length, by dint o( itcratitui, beginning to tell. \Vho is Draycot Ml rland I was avsked contemptuously in return. But the retort failed, because he himself -answered it with startling frankness. Ho pro- claimtnl himself a brielicss barrister, without uionoy or prospects ; an adventurer, who had no claim upon that or any other constituency, who cared nothing for parties or current ipiestions, and was only bent - if anyboily pleased to put it so— on advertising himself by exposing the quackeries of others. Nobody could throw a hard word at him UtNU (Ml KNAVirJ 167 which he dill not nocepf with lh<> tiioHi ^ood-hiitnoiired lnii||/h in tho world. Ill Hhurt iho Ikm-hh ho nnU) whh liiipuduncn : ntid thero ia nonn that ruiiH a hmiii^ rnce half nu w(>ll. In course of timo, oven tho s'lniiHihoBt Bupporlorn of f.hiii|4H that wern hugnii to hnd n kind of inaliriotiH oxcitoiiiutit in lu'/iriiiK tho inniiic.ipnl inagniito ho roundly nhuBod. It wan a now HoiiRation to hoar uvon tho niuBt ultra-horolic nn^goHt a Hiinpioioii that .lohn Moron of Ohaptor Iamo waB not the wibobI, nohloBt, hont, and f^rotitoBt of mankind. That is tho worst of ho'ii^ lahollod porfoctioii ovoryhody is so ploafled to find a Haw iti tho gold. It is rofroBhing ordinary hunian natiiro does IK »t care, in tho long run, to find itnoif too ooniplotoly oiitHhonc. It lent i»i(|uancy t*) tho idoa of tho ntatno that was to bn unvoilod at tho MaiKot Oross, althruigh it did not divert from that monnmont of gratitudo a Biiiglc poiiny. Thus a fooling of nnconH(;i(Mm gratitude extended itstMi to Draycot Morland for providing tho t«twn with tahlo talk, and for importing excitemont int<» an oh'flion that woidd othor- wiflo have boon oven unhecomingly tamo. And all tho while nohody could deny that the Katlical candidato — for ho had to accept Bome party name, oven while openly ridiiMiling the necoHsity, in a purely local struggle fiMight fair. Me maile liin attack on the hroadoRt linoH. The absurdity of supp(»Riiig that a centre of coiiMnerce and iiianufacturo could bo created as if by tlm wave of a wand ; tho dograi'Hniiiilly popidar, and ho made mi^n laugh —at tirst at him, but t.hen with him ; while nobody ever laughed either at or with John Heron. The great man took it all as a lion may tho yctlping of a cm. But if courtiers like Alderman Sparrow ami <»thor8 could have seen into tho lion's heart they W(»uld have Ht<»od appalled. For tho lion knew that ovory seeming random b(>!t drawn at him found some hole in his armour ; and that when Draycot Morhmd urged tin) folly of trusting all things to one man, not half tint truth of that folly was told not a tithe of what his opponent might justly have proclaimed ; not a hundredth «)f what would have to come out if any reiterated taunt should i)n»mpt a shadow of in([uiry — oven if Adam Fiirncss were blotted from the record. However, whatever happetufd, rot a sold coidd say that the Banker left a single duty neglected, «>r was "nacciinaiblo to tho huinblest of his fellow-citi/ens (wheflier elector or n'lt) who needed his aid. He had never realized how closely his native city had twined itself up with his heartstrings until now, when his work and tho results of it appearerl to be transforming themselves into a dream that was slipping away froni between his fingers. Things could not go on like this for ever, witli all his designs at tho huuLriy mercies of Wyndham Snell. How waw he to go on amassing money, and gathering int«) his own cotters all the rcHrmrces of the city he had come to love with a passionate devotion, only to feed the maw of a slaved river 'i A crash must come soon or late. Why not u lOS KINO Oil KNAVbV 8(»t)n / Why (Icliiy tho inovitablo for one iisuleiie h'»nr, for tho sake of prolotijui'd iiuHoiy nnd intonsil'u'eoi)le who die are the men, tho wonjen, and the children we love ; not tlie vermin we abhor. The blood-sucking leech is the true synibol of immortality. Besides, John Heron of Marchgravo wa8 not the man to trust to chances. In his boldest schemes he had taken cai'e to be ma.ster of his cards. . . . To-day, in eB])ccial, he felt as though something were about to happen ; not for any reason, but because he was in that mood when things to come Reomed to cast their longest 8had«>w8. There had been something ominous oven about that visit from RJr. l*rendergast. So people were beginning to talk already ; and the fingers of g«>ssip were groping unpleasantly near the end of the oluo. There was no fear of its being foiuid in that direction at present taken ; btit the slighe^t of accidents might shift that direction— accidents are always the things to be feared. It was tho merest of accidents that had ])ut him in Wyndham Snell's p be swarming in the air ? Was Wyndham Snell's worthless life a card that must be left to chance, and not sub- mitted t«) mastery I His way home, .'»fter bu.siness hours, led him through the cathedral close. As he cnvssed it, the old gray tower was rosy with the after glow of sunset ; and, in all his visions of a great civic future, this rose-gray tower was still the changeless centre of all. To us, who know hini, and may partly surmise all ho had in his heart, it may seem strange that he p.tssed under that tower, round which the rooks were cawing their way home, well nigh in the mood of a worshipper. But that tower belonged to the life of every creature that had been born in Marchgrave. It belonged to his best, his earliest, his longest memories ; all tho best part of his wtuk and his life had been carried on under its shadow ; it was the heart of the city , it was- What did it matter what it was ? It was Jis good as mortgaged to Wyndham Snell. Leaving the cathedral behind him, he passed the hospital, which he might almost claim to have founded, so poor a makeshift was it when he tirst came back from foreign parts, so great an institution was it now. And it still depended largely uinm the profits made in Chcapter Lane. He had made its perpetual endowment an essential part of his will. Well — the poor oi Marchgrave might whistle for their beds and their doctors now. What had been theirs was henceforth Wyndham Snell's. Then he came to the old Docks, where the new docks were to be. More vividly than ever rose up before him the vision of his master- passiim ; the great swarming wharves, with goods, and passengers embarking and disembarking for and from all parts of the world : the warehouses overflowing with v;ealth ; the bewildering grandeur of a groat town. He knew the plans and estimates of engineers and contrac- tors by heart ; and he saw them all fultilled. It was a fulfilment where- with to float down to pt)sterity, proudly indeed— not for the sake of one's own name, but for that of the work which had been done. He saw it KING OR KNAVE? Ifif) it It o be. aster- jngers the uf a ntrac- here- one's iUW it all open before him -the hrofid pools with their fleets ; the crowded wharves ; the towuring palaces ; the shower of gold and greatnoH»,i)imn>d from an i'lexhaustible horn. In a moment the vision crumbled. It had been sold to Wyndham Snell. And the people for whose sake the dream had been dreamed, whom he was deluding with false h()pe8 to their ruin, and whose harvests, great and small, he had been gathering together to cast to the wind ; the families who were risking their all because he whom they trusted so Itade — these, too, were to be olTerod up a siicrifice to Wyndham Snell. The man had his own amVntion. But it was not mere Helf that asked him once more ; What is one vile life compared with all these things? Why, to realize one-half of them he would give his own as well as Wyndham Snell's. And then, when the banks of the Aske — dreamless of its destiny, and only thinking of its daily tidal duties — brought The Cedars in sii^ht, the Hinirking shadow of Wyndham Snell still met him, oven at the gate of li(»me. Notliing remained really his own — neither the present of honour nor the future of glory. If Wyndham Snell bade him sell The Cedars, sold it must be. And then there was the wife in there, waiting for him, for whom he entertained an affecticmate friendship, such as he had intended to rest upon pleasantly and soberly so soon as the other life had been cut adrift for good and all. She, too, was a portion of his better life ; and she, too was — none the less for not knowing — at the mercy of Wyndham Snell. Of the death of the Russian police-agent by his hand he thought nothing. That had been the work of necessity and hot blood, and a piece of rough justice besides. It never troubled him for a moment ; he had graver things to think of than the life or death of a spy. Why, then, should ho scruple about the removal of a Wyndham Snell, seeing how clearly he had decided that Marcligrave demanded so slight a sacri- tice as the life of so worthless a thing ? Yet he did scruple. And the reason was surely the strangest in the world. It was Adam Furness who had stabbed Peter Petersen. But Wynd- ham Snell would have to be executed by John Heron. And were they not the same '/ To those who might come to learn the secret, yes ; but to the man himself, a thousand times no. "Ft is nf)t too much to say that John Heron held Adam Furnoss in unspeakaVjle abhor- rence ; while, on the other hand, Adam, tho reprobate and the outlaw, had a sort of rebellious feeling towards the impeccable John. And this would be bitterly hard to explain, were it not that so many thcmsands of us live that double life, though, it may be, cmly within ourselves, and though one of the two may live and die without havin-^ made a single visible sign. How many of us who lead the most godly, righteous, and sober lives have had some hateful self in chronic rebellion against the chains in which self-interest makes us heedful to hold him ! How many who sit at home all thoir lives at writing desks or on office-stools are adventuriTs in spirit, for whom the world is too narrow, and the world's life too tame ! How many, ondemmed to be such vagrant. 170 KINO 6R KNAVE 1 adventurers in act, carry about a second self that would give up every pleasure of travel only to be allowed to sit still 1 And how many con- demnied to crime are hungering for the decent virtue whereof those who enjoy it are weary in their secret souls ! For John Heron to be at the mercy of Adam Furness was horrible ; but to feel himself impelled by that other self to deliberate Murder, though for the Public Good, was more hideous by far. He had meant, to keep the two men apart ; not to make them accomplices. And now There was Kate, wailing for him in the drawing-room, just as usual, with her bright smile— just a little forced of late, for she could see better than others that there was trouble, and that this great, strong husband of hers was beginning to need rest, if he was not presently to break down. For little aho guessed that there was no real question of breaking d('\vn with him -he did not, dare. And still less could she guess that it was actual pain to him to be in her company, where he ought to have found solace, if anywhere. Kate's very presence reminded him every moment too bitterly of things as they were with him ; brought into full relief the contrast between these and what was to have been. litherto, his other self had never troubled him at homo. Johr Heron had kept no secrets from his wife ; and with those of Adam Furness she had no concern — she had never even heard his name. But now the Secret stood for ever between them — and she set down the gloom to election worry and a wounded arm. It was worse than want of sympathy. It was torture to him. "There ! " she said, rising to meet him. We're to have one quiet evening — aren't we ? You've got no meeting to-night, 1 know ; and — no ; for once you're not going to jump up in the middle of the fish U> catch a train." " Well — not precisely in the middle of the fish, Kate. I have an appointment " "Oh, dear!" " But it will give us plenty of time to feed and have a chat besides." " Well, then said the little woman, rising to the occasion and turning a sigh into a smile, " we must make the best of small mercies. You shall eat, and I'll talk ; and we'll both get through as much as we can. But 1 shall he glad when that horrid Morland is beaten and the Docks are finished — yes ; I shall indeed." " Kate — I think you're the best girl in the world." " Yes ; I think I am. Indeed, I believe I've got only one fault ; and that's pride. When you've done everything you're going to do, I shall be just eaten up with pride. . . How soon do you think it will be?" " What will be ? " "Why, of course, the Election, and the Docks, and — your being able to rest at home for a day or two now and then ? " If she had known the truth, and had planned to sting him, she could not have stung him more. Why had she, on this day of all days, fallen upon this way of greeting him i Every word was a barb, tipped with poison. KINO OU KNAVE ? 171 up every laiiy con- 9of those horrible ; Murder, id meant. es. And as usual, :ould see it, strong isently to iiestion of 1 to be in i,ny where. r of things i between had never 1 his wife ; had never r between I wounded to him. one quiet w ; and— /he fish til I have an besides." nd turning ies. You as we can. the Docks fault ; and do, I shall t will be?" being able , she could iays. fallen ipped with "Oh— all in good time ; hurry no man's cattle," said he. ** It can't lie litng now before the — End." ■' Then — Patience ! But you do look tired, John ; and you must put up with my being anxious sometimes. 1 wonder if anybody else ever worked like you." " Oh, I'm all right. Never mind me." " But I do mind you. What's the news ? When are they going to throw that horrid Morland into the Aske ? People like that really uught not to be allowed. I was calling at the Deanery this afternoon ; and if you'd heard Mrs. Dean speak of you, you'd have been pleased. I was, I know." "And what said her very reverence ? " "What didn't she say? She sung your praises all the time. I declare 1 began to feel quite jealous, John. And the new man at the Grammar School was calling there too ; and he said that you ought to throw your ring into the sea. What did he mean ? " "He meant," said John Heron, "that I am like an ancient king named — I forget — who was so lucky that he got frightened, and so threw away a bit of his luck for fear the gods themselves should envy him, and " She glanced at him in alarm, his voice had suddenly become so hard and cold. " But that's all rubbish. . . . Let him tell that bosh to his boys. No ; I've got no news ; none." "Have you heard yet from Guy'/ They were talking about him, t(»o. Do you know that I have my suspicions, John ? Oh dear — that poor arm 1 I'm afraid it hurts you terribly still." " Yes, it still gives a passing twinge. . . . Your suspicions < " he asked, with sudden geniality. " And what may those be ? " But, all the same, she had made him. for one sudden instant, turn hot and cold. What an intlictit-n the very best of wives may manage to be. ... as Bluebeard was not the first to learn. "You may call it Business; but it's Love, John — as sure as I'm alive." ' » "Oh— is that all?" "All, indeed ! As if — But mark my words ; I always fancied from the beginning there was something curious about that engagement, and every day I think so all the more. He never told us exactly who she was, you see. And it is a curious thing, to say the least, that ever since his engagement he has been flying about, here, there, and every- where- " " Oh, business " " As if a young man like that would have business like that ; like you." The talk was growing intolerable. Do what he would, it always came back into the one groove. It was with a sense of infinite relief that he bade his wife good-night, and set off on foot for the station, on the plea of needing exercise. 172 \K\Si\ ou UN wr-; 1 niArrFJ^ win. A VO>MN. A srAMKl. V W V I ^ (IT TUP.W. A ro\sil>v.«Ai^l.K Inuo liml p;\sHril h\ now. Binrc Mis S)u«ll wnn left by h«M- hwsbniul on tlio pnvlonv liooi- ; nml ncsnlv ivm nincli ninc«>, mi (ominu to lnM"sr]f, slu^ vonh/<>i' }\n\ \\\ no \vj\y hnA sho Mispl-iyod luM' stnpuiity nn>ro nmiploli'ly Himi in norophnu hov Iwtsbnni^ ni cvon ponirlhing inoti» limn hin owti vulii lion. Vli.U iR n iovni o1" stnpiiiity m of inipopt'Hn im poonlirwly pnino lioavon known wlw, soring how ninny tiaily chinnw th»>y nnist oujoy of boinsj onliulitonon. So iv liinl Immmi, howovi'V ; tm so nlso ni,-\A Iv.ig'OiU, liKo faith, IniK prooiBoly in thi» phiors whou' it wonlii iho Uv-ist bo ioo1v«h1 for. For (lio vnlean^'sl an«i sfwpulost of woinon is jvist an nutoh ft woniati as if sho woro tho in.^st ivtino.i ;\\\y\ fho most hvillinnf of hov box ; ami, \f thoro bo any tlirtoronoo in ilio liogroo of hov woinMiilinoRs, fho bahuuM in oovtam important ways, is a^^t to bo in lior fa\our. Tra^ody hail ontt iv»l into tho >?ull bfo i^f All's. J^noU. No tragio poot wouhl hsr oh<>s« n luM' for a boroino. witli hvv grim foainroa, hov shrill voioe, ai hov oon\o. l>o mo. wlio aro all. of oonvso. potontial if ni- aotnal Inn'oos of romaiioo. all hoanliful. all bvilliunt, all fasoinating il ■wo. in our snpoviority. ovor panso to roalizo \vlial tvagoily may moan i th«^ ilnll. tho ]>lain. aiul tho ab..-»x\ ? \\ hon wo sntl'ov. wo oan oonsolt « u;sol\«»s with tho pvulo in our sntu "inu ; wift oan fool ouipolvoa iligiiilioo by a strugolo with tlostiny ; wo i-an at all ovonts plnmo onvsolvos on tli distinction of sntV* ring as smvly n*^ mort^'\l ovov sntVorotl bofore. W oan olaim synijvithy. an»^ oan o\on soinotimos got it ; and if wo oan cot all wo want, wo oin onjoy tho supiM'iority of boiiijv misuiulovstoiH V.'-"'^ Vl '"^ b\ a oolti ,Hnut po^^r Mi-s. SnoU h.ui no such advant.agos. It hai nover <»oonrrot^ to hor that an olfondo«i wifo oan sot hovsolf on a vor boooniing podostal if sho i^loasos ; and. had sho kiunvn it, sho did ti« know how. Nor. had sho kn.nvn how, would any cirolo havo foiiui anything the least syn ]>aTlutic in tho sight of an ugly, oUlovly, unaiiii able. H-loss woman ot tho decidedly lower middle-class — that le.u* romanuo of all classes loosing as .Xriadno loft f^^r1orn. It is to teare' II long an f hvingiiig to hov 0[] ^oingR (»|i It was that blow tvuost, Ml niatvimo? peooadilh miiRt, trial Ins list in hilt whoii now ! \V ing hone Tho man i deprived ducking rI •So sho \ fools who she watcln lior. \Vh( »II appear,' » general KIND oil KN WrI \T.\ I'll wi\« i»>n iu> «o11 !'«' » own vhIii pOBlMl-B l\ll' lily chnnn'i ivovpv : nm i>f» wlu>i«' it 'h ft wtnnmi r Rox ; am' l\o b»lmu't>, r«)i«Hly \y,\ \\\\\M l\n^ I voioe, nM the inon ntiiil if ni ay uieau i nn oo\i8i>li l\ OS «n» (li fot-M. W if we oaiV »jn«lor8t >\iHiai'o o\\\ a JO to l^ no inavko nioa to til > any ^in.ui joa. It li* on a vor ihi> vlivi w havo fouiv rly, iniaiii -that lo;i It 18 to 1- t» provoko lilllf Itiit liiiiylitct- Anil, iii'lccrl, flii'U' w»i?< im '•iiclo in |'ii;i;o»'« Town I'l'tinr which to iioHi" in nu\ slyl" Villi \(i Hot INIoihii litMHi'lf Mn« »iioit> cfiiinhli' of jcMloiifly, of Imiiiilin |i"n. of M Mifipr of UloliLr^ mIh) of II (IIIHh of j II ll'ji ifm, th'iM wim Mf W \ iiilliMiii Miii>||. SIm' dill not (ly to Imt ilcnk iiiiil Id licrm'lf out In n Hinitcl thill iniyht Ininu hot Inilf a yiiinca'fl woitli of »'o»iflol(iliofi ; nhn (lid iixl int'ti Nit down iind way to liciHcIf, "All Mii-^ in jimf \\kr> UfyiiiMM and Mniifl in llio novel. All llin men nm «lil:<^ ; find it'« jiiHt liliH A Man," 'riii'Hc tliiiin« «lio did not, fof idiviniin rcanonn ; lnik bIii> dill fi'i'l th;i( nhr hali'd IMaiioii |''iiini>^;q with ii puMRioii tlinf «x|in'Hii(M| ilnclf in cohfii'iil thoiiuhtH miuh lew in wordH. No thoiiuh Imm- •■»r WHH still Htintiiiii; and lid, iiiJil that yiil ifniif, upon tlio sri'no I* And had tluMi' hcon n iikhiii'IiI of poiiio or c'lntont sin<'o thnt, i»itl hinl i'oiii(> / Of conrsi' hIh' l st rirt sciiho of the t"iiii llii'drJindM whom thfir wives ndoie, si'jiloiii (iri». Nor had she always, in licr innioHl heart, taken onti«:d. II" ' ,ri krocktul all his fiiultg, nil his IKH'cadilloes even, out of himnel'" '.vifh his ''vn hand. With what arts must tnat pattern husluuid havii \u.yvu ! "m ih-d hefore he eoiild raiso his list in anger agaiuHt tuni who had nevrr 'leen worthy of him indeed, hut whom he had always tre"t M w^lh on? .00 generous kindiMiSS until now ! What vile huasii^s a;;. „;;;''!;>; ':< 'le at huge in the world, flelu- iling honest tneii hy their wiles, and wrecking happy homos I Of coursH Wyndham knew perfectly woll where the haygage was gone. And, what was even more to the purpose, Wynilhai/i's wife would knf»w tori. The man nnist he li; )uglit hm-k to the senses of which wit-chcraft had deprived liiin, and for the girl, it was only a thouaaiid pitie.s that ducking-stoola and cart's tails are no more. So she watched; and, heing a woman -there are more such than the foolH who nu»ke proverhs wot of who knew how to hold her tongue, she watched well. And having her heart in her wr»rk, tact came, to lior. When Wyndham came houH> in the small hours he found her, t/» 11 appearance, sleeping soundly ; when he woke with a headache arid general impression tijat tho world was (uigaged in a con«[)irH(.y tf> % 174 KING OR KNAVE ? i4 lf< spite him and keep him down, his grumblings were accepted with a meekness that would have made a less clever man shrewdly suspect some sort of a brew. In a dim kind of way he had been meditating some sort of an apology, of course in a condescending way, for having knocked his wife down, though of course the chastisement had been no more than she deserved. But her conduct changed his mind. "A woman, a spaniel, a walnut-tree," he muttered. "Yes, they do like it. overy one of them. They like to feel a Master. Now, some mer. m my place, especially with the headache on, would go whining to Ju, and call themselves brutes, and be henpecked for the rest of their miserable lives. Hard to understand a woman ? Not a bit of it. Whine to lier, and she'll despise you and domineer; kick her, and she'll grovel ; arid the more she grovels, the more she'll love you — supposing' one cared for the love of a dried-up old hag like Ju. Well — 1 don't want to quarrel ; and there's no need, now I've brought her to her bearings for good and all." And so it seemed, for never had he known her so sweet-tempered, so docile, so heedfully anti-jipative of all his possible wants in the way of home comforts, since their courting days, when she had those hun- dreds a year of he" own. It did not go to his heart — for an obvious anatomical reason ; but it agreeably flattered him , and made him feel forgiving. " We are up a tree, though," he said, but rather in sorrow than in anger, by the time nursing and a judicious distribution of reviving drinks had done their work with some degree of efficacy. " I'm not going to scold ; but you must see for yourself that you were an infernal fool." "Yes, Wyndham," said Mrs. Snell humbly. "I'll never do it agyae." " You won't have the chance. Such chances don't come twice to a man ; and when the bills come in, much your never doing it again will get them paid." " The Bills, Wyndham ? " "The Bills, I'd have thought you'd know that word by now." " But all that money " " All what money ? " "All the money you had from Adam Furness. Why, wo can't havo spent a quarter of it ; no, nor half a one." " Haven't we, though ! Anyhow, it's gone." " In the name of Grycious, where ? " " Ah I If you could answer the question where money goes, you'd be fit to puzzle Solomon. Where does money go ? I wish somebody could tell me — that's all. And I'd be there." It was not her cue to argue ; and indeed she waa the sort of woman who is far more impressed with the loss of a threepenny bit than with the unaccountable disappearance oi millions. For, to her, threepenny pieces had been hard facts, at times desperately hard ; while millions were but something in the money column of the Tlmto. But still KING OH KNAVE ? 175 ted witli Y suspect rt of an icked his lore than , they do )w, some hining to ; of their )it of it. md she'll upposin;^' -1 don't ir to her empered. the way lose hun- n obvious him feel w than in reviving 'I'm not L infernal er do it wice to a igain will )W. [vn't havo 38, you'd omebody f woman lan with eepenny n)ilIionB jtill ** We have lost Two Thousand Pound, Wyndham ! " she could not but exclaim. " In speculation, it wasn't my fault, of course. But this is a world of rogues." " In speculation ? " she asked. " Yes, in speculation," he answered sharply, suspecting a touch of the old Eve in her tone, and thinking'^it better to put down his foot at once to prevent a premature necessity for repeating the stronger discipline. '* You wouldn't understand how, even if I was to explain." Nor, indeed, would it have been easy to explain to Mrs, Snell the art and mystery of arranging one's betting-bock in such wise that, on settling ap, one is bound to double one's capital, except in the event of one impossible chance, which perverse Fate invariably brings to pass in the most miraculous way. Nor would it have been a whit more easy to explain to Wyndham ^nell himself how it was that, throughout life, he had always arranged to win on whatever he was about, except in the sole case of some one impossible chance that inevitably befell. So, for want of an explanation from her husband, Mrs. Snell had to find one for herself. People do not speculate away two thousand pounds in no time without any explanation at all. Practice had made her a good financier in a small way ; and so, while her husband smoked and sipped a restorative of his own invention, she totted up their household expenses since the advent of Marion, and found that these-, shamefully extravagant as they had been, had but nibbled at the sum paid for lodging, board, and medical care. And what speculation should be answerable for the bulk ? Speculation, indeed ! What was " speculation " but *' Marion Furness " differently spelled ? When a man does make a fool of himself about a girl, Mrs. Snell knew perfectly well that there are no limits to his possible folly. He will even spend hard cash upon her — incredible as such weakness may seem. It is true that nobody, not even Wyndham when he was courting her, had ever spent moiiey on Mrs. Snell ; rather the other way. But she had read the papers, especially the parts concerning the relations of the sexes ; and she knew something of the shady side of life in her own muddle-headed way. And, having set down Marion as being everything that was infamons and vile, the inevitable conclusion followed. Marion was getting through that two thousand pounds ; and poor, befooled Wyndham knew where. That nothing out of the common seemed to happen for some days puzzled her, until it struck her that something was happening very much out of the common indeed. Wyndham was becoming a stay-at- home. And then she felt double assurance that her belief in his infatuation was only too well founded. What should eft'ectso striking a change but the need of blinding his wife's eyes ? When a husbiind grows ej^tra attentive — '* Every wife knows what that means,' thought poor Mrs. Snell in her jaundice " unless she's a greater fool than Me." And had he been less attentive than ever, then Mrs. Snell would have found ecjual food for jealousy iu his diminished attention ; and so it 1 i; 176 KING OR KNAVE t H 'fei ■Li -t . i' ' would have been had his amount of attention neither grown nor slack- ened, but had remained precisely the same. As things were, however, " He U8ef> to keep at home when the Baggage was here, and he don't want me to see a difference," thought she, " now the Hussy's gone." One evening, when he did go out, as of old, she followed him secretly ; but she failed to track him beyond the door of the Green Cheese. The tavern struck her as an odd place for scientific meetings ; but it could obviously have no connection with Marion. Not that her mind was in the least relieved — nor would anybody imagine it for a moment who has ever had even a bowing acquaintance with Jealousy. He returned with the familiar signs of Science upon him. But ho WHS more than usually morose. No doubt he was brooding on Marion. So little had sho learned by watching that she watched more and more. She waylaid the postman, and relieved him of the trouble of deliver- ing his letters. She studied the agony colunui of the morning paper. She searched Wyndham's pockets diligently. She tried to decipher tlie marks on the pages of the blotting-book. She lay awake hours at night, on the chance of Wyndham talking in his dreams. It was all to no purpose. The postman never biought anything but matter for the waste-paper basket from dealers in v/ine or coals, or aj)peal8 from chapels in want of repair. Wyndham's pockets were as Dame Hub- bard's cujiboard ; the agony column revealed little beyond craftily devibed references to soaps and sauces ; the vestiges of the blotting- book were, whenever legible, rows of figures following an L., an S., or a D., but never an M. ; and Wyndham never, save once, said anything in his sleep, and that was : •' A thousand to one on Influenza for a place — Done.' Evidently the plot against her peace was laid with diabolical skill. But after these things had proceeded for a time, Wyndham — it was one morning after he had been called up at night to attend to an acci- dent — said : '* Ju— I see daylight. And, Jupiter, it's time." It was all he said before leaving home somewha^ earlier than usual. But it became a remarkable speech in her memory when she woke the next morning and she failed to find him by her side; when breakfast- time passed and he did not appear ; when it was not till nearly the next midnight that he returned, dressed in his Vest, and followed by thf^ )ne- legged porter from the station with a valise. And he was looking ai- tively radiant — ah, those Handsome Men ! surely, felt Mrs. Snell, ,»itli despairing pride, they are not to be judged like others ; their tempta- tions are bo strong. And yet she fancied that it would take but a trifle mure to make her hate him. Why had he c nie back so radiant and so gay— why had he been away two whole days and a night in his best frockcoat, and a pair of trowsers that ho had not put on twice before ? Answer : Marion She was far t( , vise, or thoiight honself so, to put questions that would only provoke lies. Wyndham volunteered no explanation of his absence — which was exactly as suspicious a proceeding as any other would have been. If his journey had been Hl)out money, he would fi-'HI or slack - lowever, he don't |one." ,ved him e Gfeon eetings ; that her it for a ealousy. But ho Marion, id more. deliver- ,' paper, decipher hours ;it fAS all to ' for tho als from lie Hub- craftily blotting- an S., or inything sVill. it was an acci- n usual, oke tho :eakfast- the next th^ >ne- KING OR KXAVE ? 177 mg ai- ,*ith ell, tenipta- it a triHe it and so his best before '/ Dns that Dn of his other 13 would have told her, she was sure. Thcu-efore it was not about money. Therefore it h'' ilic trtcUfi of that horrible girl, on KING OR KNAVE ? 179 But I'd re were ir heart iting. showing to sell J would hunting Don't it with- it weve ig at all. uni, this and I've )spect of fortune. talents, so often , leen very s second o doubt w-white ipon his manner, le same ses, and of no \x about nose he Irs. Snell ile pack- going to bolt and arry his before e end of n ir of that where is q: to let r-' that From just within the door of the waiting-room, and with her veil down, she watched her husband saunter gracefully into the booking- office and take his ticket. Then — having taken the precaution to carry off the house-keeping money and her savings therefr'nii — she bought a third-class ticket for the London terminus, and contrived to get a corner seat without being seen. There was no fear (.f the Doctor's entering the same carriage, for he invariably travelled rii-st, on princi- ple. Arrived at the terminus, she followed him cautiously into the larger office, where seeing without being seen was proportionately easier than in the shed at home. Then, as before, she took another third-class ticket to the nearest station by the next train, which was to leave for the north-west in another half-hour. From the booking-office she kept Wyndham in sight to the door of the refreshment room, where he staid some ten minutes ; thence to the bookstall, whjre he supplied himself with newspapers enough, pink, yellow, and gray, to last through a longish journey ; and so on, through the usual processes of time-killing, till the five minutes' bell rang, and she saw him establish himself, with much parade and ostentatious communications with guards and porters, in a first-class smoking carriage. She crept into a third-class compartment as before ; and presently was travelling, she knew not whither, through unknown suburbs, between cuttings, and then past green fields. She had manasjed — fortune favouring — to get a corner seat on the platfortn side ; and whenever the train stopped she leaned out and looked through her veil along the line of the train. It was not always an easy matter to make sure that any particular passenger did not get out ; but her eyes were sharp, her senses were quickened, and the first-class passengers were fortunately few. And once, circumstances favouring, she ventured to leave the train at one of its halts and to hurry past the Doctor's carriage, to make sure that he was still there. "There he was ; and there he seemed likely to remain. But at last, after how many hours Mrs. Snell, for want of a watch, was unable to gather, and while the porters were bawling a couple of vowals without a consonant to help them, the Doctor stepped out with his valise. It was a small country station, where few persons left the train or entered it. A few cottages were nerir ; a pointed spire rose from a mass of foliage hard by ; low, wooded iiills made a kind of basin round ; and, at the foot of a steep road leading up to the station rolled a broad river, brown and gray, with banks of silver mud, shadowed witn thick leaves, and with large stretches of wet brown sand left here and there by the ebbing tide. A moist wind blew, salt and cold ; and here and there a boat lay upon the mud t»r sand, waiting for the flow. Mrs. Snell had arranged her plans iox whatever might happen. She lingered till the Doctor had given up his ticket and was on his way down the road. Then, having during the journey thrown her third- class ticket out of the window, she professed to have lost a ticket all the way from Lo idon to Askhcjlm, as the place proved to be. Ladies of her appearance are privileged to sutler such misfortunes without 180 KING OR KVAVE 1 comment or inquiry ; and she was allowed to leave the station on the p yment of her full fare. And now canie the most difficult portion of her undertaking. It is easy enough to do detective business in a crowded street, but far from easy on a country road. Fortunately for her, Wyndham was content to travel on his own feet ; but then he might turn at any moment, or might even accost her to make some inquiry. All she could do was to hang behind as far as she could without losing sight of him, and to keep well within the sliadow of the red cliff through which the road was cut on its way down to the shore. It should have been a pleasant walk ; nor did the Doctor appear to think it otherwise. He fiueincJ to be even enjoying the fresh breezu and the view of the river, and wtjuld pause every now and then to rest his arm from the no great weight of his valise to watch a seagull or to revive the light of his cigar. And the woman who followed him would never have been suspected by a passer-by of being a creature in whom wasted love and maddening jealously had been creating a soul. There was tiage ly at largo upon that lonely road by the river as surely as in a drama of Knigs and Queens. At length the road, foUowin'^ the river generally, though not closely, made a sudden abrupt bend to the left, and again sloped downward till it skirted the very edge of the shore. And just opposite to the point where it almost touched the mud-bank at low tide and the water at high, stood a nondescript kind of cottage, such as might belong either to an exceptionally prosperous fisherman, or to an unusually small farmer — to somebody who was both, [)erhaps, as a boat with masts unshipped was anchored on the bank ready for launching. Or it might be a river-side alehouse or a ferry-house ; or, indeed, a combination of all four. A rough patch of unfenced garden lay in front, and an orchard straggled behind. Whatever it was, here the Doctor came to a halt ; and Mrs. Snell knew, as by instinct, that here lay the mystery of this new life of his in which she had no share. She kept close under a convenient projection in the cliff and looked to soe what he was about to do. It was a singular spot whereto to have traced Dr. Snell. She had not expected to be carried beyond London ; and she had travelled into another world. But its meaning grew plainer and plainer. Business and speculation indeed — as if a man would travel on business to a lonely cottage in a wild. But it was just the [)lace a man might choose who had a love affair on hand that he was anxious to hide. There was concealment, distance, solitude. There was the zest of mystery. And, by no means least, there was Mie broad river whereby to escape in case of need for flight, and the l)')at ready wherewith to fly ; a serviceable boat, fit even for the s,?a. In short, it was a lover's paradise — or else an ideal place wherein to concoct, to conceal, and to escape from, a Crime. A HadM half as ch tions wou From A Green Ch Euphrosy Upper V{ Marion F at randon power had lande all the otl There w plenty of never had ber, thoug thing in tl exhausting Askholme her news ; " You'vi pause, as I'd sooner have ; and there are c I'm not gc I am ? " " You ai " Yes ; : less share, worse that regret sho Murder, daughter o "I am yciurs, too. "Marior she would j " Don't one anothe KING OR KNAVE ? 181 CHAPTER XIX. A BROKEN IDYLL. looked areto to beyond meaning as if a it it was nd that olitude. ere was and the I s?a. rein to Had Mrs. Snell's eyes been able to see through rough stone walls half as clearly as she saw through her husband's cunning, her convic- tions would have received contirmation indeed. From Australia to the Clarence in London ; from the Clarence to the Green Cheese ; from the Green Cheese to Euphrosyne Terrace ; from Euphrosyne Terrace to the haunted house in Upper Vane Street ; from Upper Vane Street to the Great Railway Hotel — all these steps had Marion Furness made, almost as an elastic ball thrown upon the ground at random bounds aimlessly from spot to spot until it exhausts its power. And so it seettied to be the case with her, until a final uound had landed her here — an even unlikelier place than the least likely of all the others. There was at least one good thing about the place, however — she had plenty of leisure to consider how she came there, and thus she had never had a chance of getting elsewhere. There was plenty to remem- ber, though the journey thither had proved the swiftest and simplest thing in the world. Acting on Cynthia's directions, and without nearly exhausting her borrowed sovereigns, she had reached the station at Askholme ; had met her father openly on the platform ; had delivered her news ; and had waited till Adam's brown study came to an end. " You've got pluck ; and you've got resource," said he, after a long [pause, as they walked up and down. " I'm hanged if I don't think I'd sooner have you to hand than Cynthia after all. Someone I must have ; and what Cynthia would have to act you'll do by nature ; and — there are other things. But wait a bit. I shall have to trust you, and I'm not going to trust again without making sure. You knov/ what I am ? " " You are escaping from danger," said Marion. " Yes ; from danger that I never meant you should dream of — much lesa share. I have killed a treacherous scoundrel who sought to do worse than kill nie ; and though I no more regret it than I should regret shooting a tiger or strangling a rattlesnake, it will be called Murder. Your mother hated me, remember. Are you going to be her daughter or mine ? " " I am always hers — for ever I " said Marion. " But she — I am yours, too." "Marion, 1 believe if your mother were alive, and had the power, she would give me up to bo hanged." " Don't you think— don't you feel — that people get to understand one another when they become Souls ? " 182 KING OR KNAVE ? " I don't know. I never chanced to come across a soul. However, what do you think she'd understand ? " * ' That you are in trouble ; and that it is my duty to help you for her sake — if I can. If she didn't understand you — with her brain — wouldn't she make up to you now ? " . " You are strangely like what I once fancied she would be — when we were both young. I did love her, Marion. If she had let me, I could have loved her as no man ever loved woman. But you saw how, in her morbid state, she even denied that she was my wife — as if any woman in her senses would insist on her own shame, even if it were true . . . You are like what she would have been. Though you don't know me, you don't turn away from me just because I've nobody else to turn to " Nor have I anybody to turn to," she could not help sighing. " As we're both alone — what have I to do ? If only I can do it, it shall be done." "Anything — whatever it may be ? " " Whatever it may be. " *• Even if it is called crime ? " *'What does it matter to me," she asked, with gentle bitterness, " what things are called ? I didn't come here to you without knowing what it did mean. I only want to be of some use — any use. I don't want to have to spend my life in dying." Certainly something new had come to her — and yet, maybe, it was not new. She had the blood of Adam Furness in her veins. He turned upon her almost roughly. " What makes you so reckless — you, a girl ? And brought up by — Her ? " " I'm not reckless. I've made up my mind that I've got only one work given me ; and if it's given me, it's right — and that I'll do." "And that is " " To do for you," she answered, with a hot flush, " whatever Mamma would have done, if only — and did not do. " "And I wish — but never mind now. You're sure you have no other tie — nothing to make you flinch or pause ?" Not one." " You care for no living soul ? " " There is no one " " Not even a girl's fancy ? " "Father — (^o you want me to swear to you that there is no one between you and me ; never will be, till I die ? Do you want me to swear it ? If you wish it — I will." "I believe you. And I trust you ; there is not ; there never shall be. Now mind — I trusted once — and was betrayed. But I am trust- ing again. Do you know all that means — a man's trust for the last time ? " "I know." "Then — remember. Nothing, for ever, to come between you and me ; not a memory ; not a dieum. Marion, some people would think me the v« I put myj "Tell; "You changed i all you h£ place in a particular "Isthi "That ill an out- evtMi the , with a bl( Aske— an world. . woman 3( You'll ha^ no matte maniac al send you wt)uld-be thing. S have a qi from at o; at any mc plenty of "Your "Yes. you see. door ; an( settled pi you will 1 I needn't precipices "And- "Help Marion things — a open to h hours gall of conscie ever unco very lette lead, she of the cor tion coulc precisely And, f< hourlj an i Kino or knave I 183 me the very fool of fools. But rashness has always been my strength, I put myself into your hands." "Tell me what to do." " You must wait. I could have told Cynthia at once ; but, as I have changed my agent, I must change my plans. For the moment, though, all you have to do is all that she could have done : to wait at a certain place in a certain way. I have taken a cottage near here where, for particular reasons, I am least likely to be looked for. Can you paint ? " " Is that necessary ? I have sketched — a little " " That will do. It is only needful to have a reas^on for a girl to live in an out-of-the-way cottage, and alone. An artist may do any^^hin:,' — even the yokels won't ask questions if you put up an easel and go !il)out with a bl(jck and a pencil. You're an artist who wants to study the Aske — and no wonder. There's no river like it, to my mind, in the world. . . . You've fixed yourself there, just as many a young woman aefore you has fixed herself all alone in the middle of a moor. You'll have a girl from the village, and she won't be a dangerous critic, no matter how you daub. A painter, or paintress, is a privileged maniac all over the world. You can take any name you please. I'll send you all the things you'll want : and you won't be troubled with would-be friends, so long as you don't go to church, and all that sort of thing. So far, there's nothing hard. The great thing is that I should have a quiet place, just here, to receive my friends ; a place to escape fnMii at once by water, in case of need ; and somebody whom I can get at any moment to do any sort of business I may require. There'll be plenty of that — soon." " Your— friends ? " " Yes. You must wonder at nothing that happens ; at nobody whom you see. You must never go more than a sketcher's distance from the door ; and whenever you go out you must leave written word in some settled place where you are to be found. Whatever money you want, you will have. Only one thing more ; but no — you are not Cynthia. I needn't warn you against being too clever. You won't be skirting precipices — for fun." " And— this will help you ? " " Help me ? This will save me -that's all ! " Marion Furness was not much of an artist. But she could do most things — a little ; and, happily, she had enough skill with her pencil to open to her the most mind and soul-absorbing -^lethod of making the hours gallop that has ever yet been found. It seemed to her a matter of conscience that, having once devoted herself to a certain task, how- ever uncomprehended and incomprehensible, she should obey it to the very letter. In her mood of self-renunciation, to whatever it might lead, she would have faithfully performed any bidding ; the enthusiasm of the convert who for the first time feels the luxury of spiritual direc- tion could not outdo the zeal of the girl who had devoted herself in precisely the same spirit to the furtherance of crime. Anf), for the present, the sense of relief from daily doubts and hourlj anxieties was so intensely precious that she became well-nigh 181 KING OK KNAVE ? hai){)y, and forgot that she was alone. It was real repose ; not like the helpless convalescence of her prison-house under an irritatingly and wearisomely vivacicjus gaoler, but real rest, with only nature for her companion. And tl:e repose was all the sweater for her assurance that it was duty fulfilled — not understood, but still fulfilled. For the time she fancied it would be enough if thus, with a good conscience, she could go on drifting and dreaming to the end. She rose early in the morning with the priceless pleasure of feeling that all the long hours of the new day were wholly her own, and yet not quite .so much her own as to be unoccupied by congenial duty. She sketched because she had been bidden ; and all day long, because the task became a pleasure — even a passion. Poor her work might be, from an artist's standpoint, but it made her love the broad river, gray at Hood and brown at ebb, with its silver mud and sombre sands. If she co"ld not paint, she could feel ; and the part she was playing ceased to be a mere part. It approached a passion. When it was wet she made wild efforts with unmastered materials and implements, upon the canvas on her easel — efforts that would have made a true arti.st, who knows the pathos of the struggle between desire and impotence, weep with sympathy, and the false artist sneer and stare. And at night, weary with effort, and sleepy with the sweet, salt air, she lay down and dreamed as little as might be. What could it all mean ? But, whatever it might mean, the days did not drag. They flew. As her father had predicted, she was not worried by neighbours. Indeed, there were but few neighbours to worry her ; and those of a non-worrying kind. Nor did she feel the slightest craving for com- panionship. That might come, she being human ; but, meanwhile, having surrendered and cut herself off from the only companionship that had ever meant anything to her, solitude was welcome. If some fairy had risen out of the Aske and told her this was to go on for ever, she would have been content — at any rate, something more than resigned. A good many days of this kind had flown or floated by, and her father had as yet made no sign, when, having performed the usual rite of pinning on a pre-arranged part of the wall a notification of where she was to be found out of doors if wanted, she betook herself io the point of the river whence she was just then engaged in making a study. It was a rather ambitious sketch — ambitious by reason of its very sim- plicity ; a wide reach of the river at low tide, with varied effects of light and reflection, with a single broken boat to suggest desolation in the midst of calm, and with no life but a few gulls busy in fishing, She had forgotten herself in her work for perhaps a. couple of hours, when she became conscious of the instinct that invariably warns sensi- tive people that they are not alone. Presently she heard a light and firm footstep , and then a young man carrying a fishing-rod and basket passed her on his way to the water, throwing her just a glance as he went by. It was annoying, for her love of solitude had become perhaps a trifle morbid f sketched from the for a moi tling him one of ui the angh down, se in the m with a nothing hard by with the Suddei elbows, a *' Exci me if the She ha with the At the "In tl we shouL here ! " It did stranger short a w behind t natural i grave shi almost b( it was ai could be there mi escaping, But hi of mind anything thing mi hencefor by way fallen up hands " 1 So she different fawn fro " Yes, found a narrow ' in Lond KING OR KNAVE 1 185 than morbid from indulgence, and it so happened that she had never before sketched in company with anybody more formidable than a stray child from the scattered village or a troop of uncritical cows. She thought for a moment of rising, seeing that the young angler seemed to be set- tling himself within hailing distance ; but she felt that the impulse was one of unreasonable cowardice, and therefore to be opposed. No doubt the angler would presently move on. Instead of that, however, he sat down, set his rod and line to loolr after themselves, lighted a cigar, and, in the most unsportsmanlike manner, began to read and to make notes with a pencil. She saw only his back ; and he, consequently, saw nothing of her. No doubt he knew that a young lady was sketching hard by ; but he took that after all not very extraordinary circumstPiice with the utmost ease. Suddenly, however, he rolled round, so as to face her, resting on his elbows, and, just raising his straw hat, said : " Excuse me — but I am still a stranger in these parts. Can you tell me if there is a ferry across the river, or if I can find a boat any wliere ? " She had to look up : and, to her dismay, f 7 '/ ^, Photographic Sciences Corporation C*^^^ O 4 23 WIST MAIN STRIET WliBSTIR, N.Y. 14SS0 (716) 873-4503 o^ ^^47^' 186 KINO OR KNAVE t " Oh, never mind that. Do you take me for a dun ? I'm much more like to be a dunned. So you live — here ? And your cousin — is she here, too? . . . I'm hanged," he thought, ** if she isn't just a commonplace country parson's daughter after all." " Oh, no. I'm only here for a time — making a few studies. It's a great thing to find new ground in these days. I suppose Askholm will be found out in time, like everywhere else ; and then it will be spoiled. I'm doing what I can with it before it gets as vulgar and common us — as — Switzerland or Wales. ]!if any people would call it ugly ; but it has a great charm. " She was astonished at her own fluency — the more especially as her lips were trembling and her tongue stumbling all the while. Never in her life had slie spoken so many words all at one time. ** Ah — you are a painter, then ? " asked he, brightening to find that she was something more or less adventurous and unconventional after all. " I daub a little myself — enough to make me interested. May I see ? By Jove ! " Before her first critic the conscious impostor flushed to the hair. •' You are a painter, Miss Vane ! And, what's more, you're the only person I ever came across that understands what I'm always preaching — that there is nothing really beautiful but the ugly. The business of the painter isn't to copy what everybody can see is beautiful, because he can't. It's to see the beauty of ugliness, and make everybody else see it besides. And what 1 preach, you do. You would simply make as a portrait painter. Miss Vane. That is a splendid poem. You make me see everything round us with your fortune study. It is a new eyes. His paradox was beyond her ; but he seemed in earnest, and she could not help feeling pleased. One cannot love one's work without loving its praise. So she flushed still more, and the first impression of danger began to fade. ''But what an ass I am ! " he exclaimed suddenly. *' I forgot all this time that you had some connection with It'iaruiigrave. Of course you'd be here." *' With Marchgravo ?" she asked, beginning to flutter again. '* Ah — you don't remember what I told you of myself. But never mind. And I'm not going to remember politics either, for a good five minutes to come. Don't let me interfere with your work ; ill do the talking for two. And, talking of art, you can prove the beauty of ugli- ness ; and I've been picking up an extraordinary fellow, with a real genius for demonstrating the ugliness of beauty. I've brought him down to Marchgrave for purposes of my own — everything's fair, you know, in love, war, and elections ; and when you come to see your friends when the great fight conies off, I must exhibit my genius to vou. I'm a collector of human oddities, you know — a connoisseur ; and my last new specimen is just — Prime. He is a genius, Mios Vane ; and guess where I picked hitn up ; in the street, caricaturing a whole rank of cabmen, giving each of them three minutes. He's a caricature him- self — as solemn as a ghoul. But I'm lighting a losing battle, you know, KING OR KNAVE t and have got to hit hard ; and my ghoul is goin^; to set Marchgrave by the ears in a way that — well, you'll see. I'm afraid my genius is rather a bad loo ; I shouldn't wunder if he's seen the inside of a good many gaols. And he's half art idiot besides — but that, as he's a genius, of course goes without saying — understand me ; I mean in a man. When a woman has genius it means she's a long way above the rest of her sex ; when a man, it means that he's a long way below." The blunder and its instant correction by a paradox intended on the spur of the moment passed equally unobserved. He spoke as if they were in the neighbourhood of Marchgrave — a chance to more than trouble her. " How far is Marchgrave ? " she asked suddenly. " Why — don't you know ? Look up the river — no ; up, not down. Do you see a faint blur of smoke hanging round the ghost of a gray tower ! " She put on her glasses and followed his finger with her eyes. " I think I see it— yes ; T do see it. Well ? " "That is Marchgrave." Alas ! What could this mean ? Marchgrave, that was to have been her home ; Marchgrave, whence she had been striving to fly ; there it lay in sight, and thithdr dectiny had been drawing her even by means of her flying. Could it bo that, striving to put more than a whole world between them, only a few miles, over which the eye could travel, lay between her and Guy ? And if it had been Guy instead of this stranger, who had come a-fishing by the Aske ? The whole charm faded from the scene. He also might cor.ie this way without the help of accident ; or he might hear of her through Morland, and identify her. This at any rate must not be left to chance, whatever else might bo. " You once did mo a great favour," said she. " Will you do me one more. " "Surely — and more." *'I am here to be alone with my work. I want no interruption — especially from my friends. May J trust you to keep my secret — not to mention me to anybody, especially in Marchgrave ? "I see. You are the one girl in ten thousand who really loves her art for itself, and not for the sake of having it seen that she loves it. By all the gods — ay, and the fishes I have not been catching — I have found the woman who is not a sham. I will respect your secret. Miss Vane, as I respect you ; I will be prouder of sharing it than of being member for Marchgrave ; nay, of being the beaten candidate, of which I shall be prouder still." "And my debt " " Will you pay it me in my own way ? Will you finish this sketch for me, and so wipe out the score with interest besides ? All right ; we shall meet again. I must be off ; I've got to give John Heron a public wigging to-night, and I must catch my train. I came here to get up KsHRy I 188 KING OR KNAVE ? my speech ; but I've done better, aiid shan't speak a penny the worse, I dare say. Au revoir." He was off before she could get in another word. ■ Dr. Snell, watched by his wife, tapped at the door of the cottage. She saw him enter. And must she stand watching, and watching, and doing nothing but watch a doorway till he emerged ? If she kept a veil well over her face, and gathered her cloak well about her, so as to alter her figure, she could, at any rate, come close to the house without fear of recognition through the window. She moved forward, in pursuance of an indefinite desire for more active vigilence, until she reached the door. And must she stay here ? What good, what discovery, what venge ance could come of her standing idle outside a door ? Ah, but a door has something more than An outside. What if she were to enter and surprise the guilty pair ? It was an inspiration, to such a point had she wrought up by her jealous rage. Her tongue would annihilate the wretch where she stood ; and she would have her husband f j completely thenceforth at her mercy that he would never stray again beyond the tethor of her apron- string from that time for ever. It was a bold, but congenial stroke : and her hand was on the door. She tried it before knocking, and it opened as readily as country doors will. She found herself in a narrow flagged passage, leadmg through into the orchard at the back, with a door on either side. She listened at bot'i, but heard nothing. She opened one gently ; and found herself, by stepping a little to the left as she entered, behind a high easel bearing a canvas ho large as to conceal the upper part of her person from any occupants of the room, while a box seat with a small draped table covered her skirts and her toes from view. She instinctively took up this covert : for the instincts of the eavesdropper were strongly devel- oped in Mrs. Snell, and the experience besides. Besides it would be so much more effective a stroke to observe first, and then at some ctitical moment, to start from behind the easel and appear. There were two voices in the room. And the first was Wyndham Snell's. " That's all very well. But don't you find the neighbours trouble- some and inquisitive ? " he asked ; and the question made Mrs. Snell's blood boil. '' Believe me, I know what these solitudes are ; delight- fully romantic, and all that, of course ; but terribly dangerous ; and tlie more dangerous the more lonely. Ah — for real solitude, in real, chemical combination with real safety, give me a big town —London for choice. You can see a single drop of water in a thimble, but not in the sea." " Yes. That's jiist what all fools say." Mrs. Snell started at the deep tones that were assuredly not Marion's. The voice was familiar enough — only too familiar; but she felt a strange sort of disappointment to find that her husband was in nothing worse KING OR KNAVE 1 189 than the worst of masculine coii.pany. What should have rejoiced her, well nigh made her more angry still. It is disheartening for Juno to arm herself with all her terrors airainst some rival nymph or goddess, and to find that she has taken all her trouble in vain " Yes : it's what everybody says, fancying he's the first to say it ; and what's the result ? All your too rlever-by-half people go crowding into London, so that the variest noodle of a detective has his hat over them. I grant you, a mere simpleton will go and hide himself in a desert. The thief-catchers know that much ; and so they argue that what a simpleton does is exactly what a clever rogue will not do. The half-clever rogue of course plays into their hands. But the really clever rogue does just what the simpleton does just because the simple- ton does it ; and so baffles them all. Don't you see ? They'll argue like this : — Adam Furness, not being a simpleton, is still in London or abroad. Therefore, the obvious course of Adam Furness is neither to stay in Lond(»n nor to stay abroad, but just to act like a simpleton ; that being the only thing nobody would expect him to do. I suppose even such a clever fellow as you can see now? And as to neighbours — so long as one fixes on a place where the parson's a bachelor with(»ut sisters, one may be what one likes and live as one pleases. A country parish is just like an omnibus. People stare at you like Gorgons when you first get in ; but you soon get accepted as a regular part of the body corporate from the beginning, to be made common cause with against the next new-comer. When one gets over the first nine days people forget you haven't been among them nine years." *' That's not the common notion, though," said the Doctor. " ^f course it isn't. And that's why it's so true." Adam Furness ! Mrs. Snell began to see light ; and therefore the more anxious to see more. Being, as has been said, accustomed to such manoeuvres, she, without a single telltale rustle, contrived to peer hastily roui^d the easel — and there, sure enough, were her own hus- band in company with Marion's father ; the latter leaning against the mantel-piece ; the former lounging in a wicker chair that creaked at every motion he made. Taking advantage of this defect, sire kneeled down, so as to see whatever happened between the bottom of the canvas and the top of the boxstool. " To come to business, then," said the Doctor. " I've got a capital notion. You must agree with me that I'm completely thrown away on a place like Piggot's Town. I'm thinking of buying a tirst-cluss prac- tice in town. There's one going in Mayfair that wculd suit me down to the ground. But it naturally wants money ; and then I must have a good house properly furnished, and start in good style." " Ymi in fashionable practice ! Why, I wouldn't call you in to a ccw." " P'raps not ; and if you did, I wouldn't come. But you wore glad enough to call me in when — you hurt your hand and arm. Shall I look at it again ? " '• Well ; you want blackmail ? How much, this time f " " Blackmail 1 What do you take nio for, Fiirni. ss ? I come to my banker for an advance —to buy a practice ; a perfectly legitimate .,^i ".w"^ 190 KINO OR KNAVE ? object, oflTerinj/ tliebest possible security. Why, the Bank of England would jump at such a security as a practice like that — the lapt man was made a kuii^'ht. and retired on twenty thousand a year. 1 don't like joking about business. Say — to begin with fifty thousand pounds. That won't break you, I suppose ? " " Oh. Fifty thouicand pounds. Of course you mean including the ten thousand you had the other day." " No. That went in— speculation. If things had gone as they ought, I wouldn't be troubling you now." " And when this goes in — speculation ? " " It can't. Don't talk nonesense, Furnesa." " If, then ? Put never mind answering. Look here, Mr. Snell. / am engaged in a speculaticm ; not one like yours, but one ceitain to bring in ten times as muc!i as I can now lay my hands on. If you are wise enough to wait, you may look, not for a poor fifty thousand d(»wn, which you'll throw away in a week, but to be a millionaire in a few years. But if you go on in this fashion, you'll ruin, not only me, but yourself too." " A million — in a few years ? " ** Yes. Every share I hold in the Matchgrave Dock Company I'll make over to you." "Oh! You will?" •* I'm not going to waste breath in trying to explain what March- (frave Docks mean to me. You wouldn't understand how anything can be to a man more than money. I'm not going to try to explain to a blind man what red means. But I tell you this— that rather than give up the work of my life, I'll go without personal profit from it, by so much as a penny " " Indeed ? Excuse me, Furness ; but if you can't make me see Red, you mustn't expect me to see green. ... I don't believe in a future million that somebody is ready to give away in order to save a few thousands now. No ; none of your dock shares. The next thing we should hear of would be a bear let loose in the market. Excuse me — me thinks I like not the security, as sings the Swan." ** I can't raise fifty thousand pounds." " I'm afraid you'll have to, Furness. Please don't oblige me to put on the screw." *'I don't know. I shall have to face the screw Some day. Why not now ? And there'd be o^^e comfort. You'd have got nothing. For your sake, don't ask too much, or " ♦' Or you'll be- hanged ! " •• Yes. But not for knifing Petersen, though." " For what then ? " " For strangling— You." " Nonsense. You've made one little mistake, though, Furness. As if I — I of all men — don't know what dross money is compared with a thousand things : science, for example. I'd sooner be What's his- nanie than Rothschild. And so, for Science's sake, I'll be content — for the present — with fifty thousand down." KINti OR KNAVKt 191 "Impossible. What with you, and thij Docks, and a hundred things, the Bank wouldn't bear the strain. It would have to go — and you as well." "It's no use, Fumess. That money I must have. And — to tell you the truth — that practice I'm telling you about isn't exactly in Mayfair. That's only to throw dust in the eyes of the old woman at home. Between you and I, I can't stand Mrs. Wyndham Snell any more. She was always old enough and ugly enough ; but she's been taking to be affectionate, and that's the straw that killed the camel. Ah, if I'd only known your Marion a few years ago. . . . Anyhow — say seventy thousand : and — I'll say good-bye to you for gosd and all. After all, there's nothing like the United States for a real held : and " ' * You mean you would close the bargain and go ? " asked Adam Fur- ness in a voice that made the listener start perilously — so hoar&e was it, and so full of hope that seemed like fear. "Foi.' Seventy Thousand. Come — don't hang back: or I increase the dose — I mean the bidding." " But. what security " " That I shan't come back ? Good Lord ! You nsk that — and you have seen Mrs. Snell ! " CHAPTER XX. THE MARCHORAVB MYHTEnV, Words have yet to be invented for the sugs^estion of the effect upon Mrs. Snell of her husband's final words. Words belong to articulate natures ; Mrs, Snell's newly-discovered soul was inarticulate — nay, dumb. She could neither think nor speak ; she could only feel. And that was her tragedy. Instinctively judging from some motion that the two men werd about to part, she contrived — how she knew not — to slip from behind the easel and out of the room without being heard or seen ; not that she much cared. And it was that very recklessness which no doubt enabled her to effect her escape imperceptibly. She had heard enough; there was no need for her to listen to another word. Marion, as she understood it, was at the bottom of it all. Her husband — the wretched imbecile — was using his power over Adam Furness to fly from his lawful wife with Marion. Shd comprehended none of the talk about docks, banks, and shares. Marion was the beginning ; Marion the end. And, as if to goad her into sudden vengeance, while passing from the cottage, she caught sight of a graceful figure that she hated with the whole passion of her nature approaching from the river-side. Many a woman will comprehend her first impulse — to attack her odiously triumphant rival with such words as she did know how to use. But 9ome — it is to be hoped not so many — will appreciate with her .;1 192 KING OK KNAVE? second : to spoak no word nfc all. For in such a case speech is buf f)iinishment ; silence is revenge. And not even now was it on her hus- )and that the vengoanoo must fall. Without victory vengeance would ho vain. With far other feelings Morland returned to the turmod of March- grave from his meditations on Askholm. He had lost neither head nor liojirt in his mysterious acquaintance ; but he was interested; and in that condition of both with regard to her which made that aitastropho not whidly imptmsible. IJeauty and mystery combined, with an imprcNsi m that anylxidy who gave his heart and his hand to Miss Vano would have a glorious opportunity of shocking social pivjudices and of dying in the face of the world, exercised their combined magnetiHUi upon one who was in the chronically unsafe condition of conlidently believing himself exempt from danger. However, for the present, it was peril only, not catastrophe. Danger it cert4iinly was, for he had mtt the faintest intention of letting the acquaint;ince fall. Nor had he any feeling that, if the girl had a secret, he was bound to respect it, so far as he himself was concerned. Why sliould he ? She might be simply unfortunate, in which case she would need help ; and if she were so»iiething worse than merely unfortunate, she would need help all the more. The universal interest of tlie cnndidate for Marchgrave in all that concerned mankind could not possibly fail to extend itself to womankind, especially when woman- kind took a concrete form of beauty s'lid mystery. What mortal, though anned with the qualities of the Lion and the Fox combined, can boast that he has placed himself beyond the reach of discitvery — that he has left no posturn open ; no loophole of his fortress without a guard ? Hoth Adam Furness and John Heron had thus boasted themselves ; and with every apparent cause. The last people on earth whom they would have dreamed of fearing would have been Draycot Morland and Mrs. Snell, as persons from whom even the most remotely possible [)eril could come. And these were no less ign«)rant of the true nature of the trail upon which they had fallen. Alas I if one wishes for safety, one must throw fc"" 'vnd craft etjually to the winds. One must either procure a hundrc .4 eyes, a hundrctl hands, and a hundred bi'ains ; or else — but no : there is no other way. It is not true that murder will out ; but that does not render tlio luckiest of murderera any the njore praiseworthy on the score of skill. The worat of such things is that, when (mu holds all four aces ia one's own hand, the pack may prove to have a dozen m( re. And so it came tt> pass that Marion, is devoting herself to her father, was unwittingly drawing an unconscious chase his way. Dra,>cot Morland was in time, and only just in time, to bo decently ]>unctaal at his meeting ; and then — such things have woman to put up with when brought into collision with aluu>st any rival, from statesman- ship even down to politics -that the cantlidato clean forgot all about Marion. He might have but *^w virtues, and would have told you KINO OR KNAVE 7 198 that he resembled his fellow -creatures in having none, oxo'pt the honesty of not pretending trosont in an audience consisting mainly of dock labourers, who were not even Marchgrave men; but then, for that very reason, the applause was all the more loud. And, after all, he only wanted tu sow discord — not to win ; and to make a noise, and therefore a name. He was leaving the meeting arm-in-arm with a solicitor of no groat repute, who had some spite against the banker, and had been so lost to every sense of local decency as to consent to act as principal election agent for the opposition. And no doubt the candidate found addi- tional zest in his sensational campaign in having to work with an acknowledged rascal whose sharp practices afforded constantly fresh amusement and daily objects for phycholo'^'ical study. For Draycot Morland was a man who, had he been surprised in his bedroom at two in the morning by an armed burglar, would have astonished tlie intruder by asking him to supper, and have kept him talking till, having mastered all the mysteries of the craft, they parted the best of friends. Yes, the Miss Burdons were unquestionably right. Draycot did affect low company. The two were passing the Bell — where, it need not be said, the opposition candidate was not stivying — wlien a stout, middle-aged person, just entering beneath the suspended joints attracted the notice of the lawyer. " Holloa ! there goes old Murder," said he. "After the widow, I suppose. " " Old Murder ? " asked Morland. ** What an unlucky name. " " What ! don't you know old Murder ? Why, it's the joke of the town." *' Ah ! I always thought Marchgrave must have some joke or other somewhere. No ; I never heard of old Murder. 1 thought I had a monopoly of all the jokes in Marchgrave." " It isn't a joke for the pf)or old boy ; and that's just the fun. P'r'aps you might make a point of it in your noxt speecli— a local allu- sion's never thrown away. That was old Prondergast — a red-hot Heronito. There isn't his like for innocence and respectability in all (13) , 194 KIN(; OK KNAVK? the city. I do believe hoM <:jivo a hundred pnunds any day of his own to save ii puppy from li.'ivini; hia ouis pulled. And in some heaven knowH-how sort of ai way the story's got about that he has cut hi.s niasler's throat, and buried him in the coalhole." '' Well done, Marchgravu ! I'll never suspect it of being wanting in a sense of humour again." * ' It's not bad, is it, Mr. Morland ? " **Bad! Why, I can't lind words that would do it justice, Mr. Giles." " It is funny," said Mr. Giles. ** And, if you knew old Prendergast, you'd think it funnier still. It just makes his life a misery to him. He's }:ot to fancy that everybody believes it, and that sends him wild. I say— do you think that caricaturist of yours could make a sketch if 1 gave him the idea — old Murder, you know, sitting in a coalhole and picking his master's bones ? " *' An exquisite design, Mr. Giles." "Not bad, Mr. Morland, eh?" ** From a ghoulish point of view, admirable ; but from a political one, I liardly see." " Ah, you're not up to all our hopes yet. Old Murder has got to be a sort oif toady and bottle-washer, you know, of Heron — every morning in Chapter Lane. Heron's backing up his — old Murder's — master, who's the most howling Heronite in the place — a good job he's away." " Well, I don't sen it myself, Mr. Giles ; but you know best what will fetch your own fellow-citizens, I dare say. But who's old Murder's master ? How can he be the most howlin<; Heronite in the place if he's been sent, no doubt, to howl, elsewhere ?" " Capital, Mr. Morland. Ah, I thought you'd be able to touch it in somehow. 'A howling Heronite sent to howl in — Helsewhere.' Capital. If that don't fetch 'em, nothing will." *' I didn't know they were so fond of H's in Marchgrave. But you haven't explained the mystery." "Well, old Murder's master's a shipbroker, who's away abroad, on Dock business, I believe : and doesn't seem in a hurry to come home. 1 suppose it's secret service ; for even old Prendergast doesn't know where he is, and has to invent a dozen lies a day to make believe, for his own credit's sake, he knows. It is fun to ask old Prendergast where Mr. Dorwent was when he last heard." " Mr. Derwent, did you say ? " " That's the man. Mr. Guy Derwent — a young fellow that Heron t<»ok up and pushed for som? reason or another — I suppose he found him useful. You were quite right in your rattling speech to-night, sir. This is a city of lickspittles. If John Heron told the Dean to lick his boots for a Dock share, down his very reverence would go " " They seemed a good, honest, independent lotto-night, Mr. Giles." " And not three votes among the lot of 'em. You speak like a regular Diogenes ; no doubt about tha*. ; but our Asknesa friends '11 find it hard to bid above John Heron." ■ » . " Wei 1 go for ;' And Iks's i(ot up his { declared, Drayc( " Ave '• I be; "Oh, statuos— salutes tl "You "And Giles. Mr. Gi "That ♦'Oh, lingo, toi " Capil any hit at "But crving sti '"Ohm better noi shouldn't mnn, you " I'll se good-nigh " Rath( "All r seven. I' A magnifi old Devil is really i Giles. 1 1 may be su But of t were toucl liis detecti Derwent \ much intei he had tra^ seen on th( now that h Number Si tion of gho bad met th KIXO OR KNAVE ? 195 " Well, well. The non-vuters of to-day are the voters of to-morrow. 1 go for the future, you know.'' ilea. " like a ds'U Ho jjways did ; and that's where that^ where they're going to put unveil it on the day the poll's And Heron for the present. Jin's got the pull. . . . There up his statue ; they're going to declared." Draycot Morland lifted his hat. '• Ave CcFsar — moriturnm te salntaitms ! " said he. " I beg your pardon ? " said Mr. (iiles. " Oh, nothing. I only said, ' All right. Let the present have it's statues — it will want all it can get in timo to come. The Future salutes the dying Present : and bids it good-bye.' " "You said all that?" " And more — all in five words. It's a pity we don't all talk Latin, Giles. We should save such a devil of a lot of time." Mr. Giles shook his head. " That would hardly suit us lawyers," said he. . "Oh, you could talk thieves' Latin. That's an expressive sort of a lingo, too." " Capital ! You must touch that in, as well. It's wonderful how any hit at us lawyers fetches the crowd." " But wouldn't that be rather fouling one's own nest — or rathei crying stinking Hsh ? I'm a lawyer, too." •'Oh no. You're counsel, sir. But talking of statues, I've got a better notion for your artist fellow than poor old Prendergast. W hy shouldn't he make a picture of a fancy statue to John Heron ? Mam- mon, you know. ' *' I'll see about it," said Morland, a little absently. " I'll wish you good-night now. Have I got to speak anywhere to-morrow ?" " Rather, Mr. Morland. 8even sharp at the Piebald Boar." " All right. Then make everybody leave me sacredly alone till seven. I'm going to take a day. I want to meditate on — Mammon. A magnificent subject, Mr. Giles ! I'pon my soul, I believe that tine old Devil is the only creature alive that isn't a sham. I wonder which is really right — Heron or I ? . . . No ; don't be frightened, Mr. Giles. I shall get up to-morrow in a healthy state of cock-surety, you may be sure." But of that he was by means really so sure. For ho felt as if he were touching a niystery at more than one point ; and his confidence in his detective powers and psychological insight was giving way. Guy Derwent was the citizen of Marchgrave, whose name had created so much interest in Miss Vane. Guy Derwent was the man with whom he had travelled from Marchgrave to London, and whom he had last seen on the steps of Number Sixteen, in the street which— by Jove ? now that he came to think of it— bore Miss Vane's own name. And Number Sixteen was the entrance to Number Seventeen, the habita- tion of ghosts and coiners. And at the back of Number Seventeen he had met the two girls of whom one was, if not Miss Vane herself, Miss 196 KINO OR KNAVB f Vane's double. And now, while Miss Vane herself was in somethin<:; very like hiding near Marchgrave, Guy Derwent — last seen at the door of Seventeen, Upper Vane J^reet — had disappeared from his native town. Round and round went this whirl, losing in curiosity and gaining in interest because of Marion, until Morland, curious by nature and interested by circumstances, felt that he had a very personal problem to solve. He could not bring himself to remain longer in a statu of doubt — no longer possessing any piquancy — whether the girl was worthy of something more tlian his mere psychological interest or not. Had he been already in love, he would not even have asked the ques- tion ; but, as he was one to whom love was thinking of coming, but to whom it had not yet come, the question and the answer were all-im- portant things. To present a social nobody, a mere artist, to the Miss Burdons as their future niece, would be delightful ; but a combination of circumstances seemed tt> point to a more serious kind of plunge. And he was the last man to make a plunge blindfold — unless it should ever come to pass that he found himself very much in love indeed. In that case, no doubt, the social philosopher would feel and act excee- dingly like any other man. Before he went to bed — not at his usual hour, because he had none — he tried to join the separate pieces of the puzzle together as well us the grievous gaps among them would allow. As something of a lawyer — despite Mr. Giles — his first course was tc arrange the pieces together in point of time. On such a day, Guy Derwent, shipbroker, travelled from March- grove to London. On the next, he was calling at Number Sixteen — practically identical with Number Seventeen — Upper Vane Street. Immediately afterwards, the police had made a raid upon both houses, making, fortunately or unfortunately, no arrests, but amply demonstrating that the houses were a centre of an elaborate system of crime. Guy Derwent — like everybody connected with that system — had dis- appeared. During the visible escape of one of the criminals, a girl precisely resembling Miss Vane had been present — not, impossibly aiding. Misfi Vane had herself admitted her acquaintance with Marchgrave in general, and with Guy Derwent in special. These, divested of gossip and surmises, were all the facts, which served of themselves to connect Number Seventeen, Guy Derwent, and Miss Vane. They might point in a hundred directions ; but inseparable they remained. "And suppose they do — what then?" asked Morland, when he woke, not over early, the next morning. " I'm not a detective nor a thief-catcher. No doubt these people know their own affairs best ; and why should I make their troubles harder ? . . . But — no ; that girl is pure and honest ; that I'll swear. There are truths beyond the philosophy of a detective ; and this is one. What right have I, oi has any man, murderer becomins business, and as if the busin therefore And 80 aback by of "Mr. he would comprehi love and time. " Mr. Prenderg and whei Mr. Pi man. B be limits. streets, n Now ? " out of kii BO pardoi man. Tl It was ba from his But wher for the pi the worm " Sir," And, a "And- Morian said he. enemy. Mr. Dorv dream of one of tl spy." ♦♦ I dor this, that for which •*Allov more. P any sham quarrel w of him. he went a KINO Olt KNAVE ? 197 any man, to go on suspecting a girl of being the consort of thieves and murderers when a little energy could cl^ar her ; perhaps save her from becominsc what she is not yet — thank Heaven ? * Mind vour own business,' indeed— as if everybody's business isn't everybody else's ; and as if any sort of business weren't the better for overhauling. No ; the business u none of mine ; and therefore I'm bound to see to it ; and therefore I will." And BO Mr. Prendergast, sitting gloomingly in his office, was taken aback by the presentation by the ofiice-boy uf a card bearing the name of '*Mr. Draycot Morland." Had the card been inscribed "Satan," he would not have been more appalled. London must not hope to comprehend what politics mean in Marchgrave until it learns how to love and how to hate — things for which we have altogether insufficient time. '* Mr. Prendei-gast ? " asked Morland politely, hat in hand. ** Mr. Prendergast may I ask you when you last heard from Mr. Derwent ; and where is he now ? " Mr. Prendergast was a mild, a psitent, and, of late, a long-suffering man. But to long-suffering, patience and mildness there must needs be limits. For weeks past he hud been asked in the offices, in the streets, nay, in the sanctuary of the Bell, "Where is Mr. Derwent — Now ? " And he knew, all the while, that the question was not asked out of kindly interest ; he suspectod that it was not asked even out of so pardonable a motive as that of gettin<; a rise out of an inoffensive man. There was a cruelty about it, which he could not understand. It was bad enough, coming from the clerks of other shipbrokers and from his boon companions at the Bell, not to sjieiik of the street boys. But when the Askness candidate, Draycot Morland, called upon him for the purpose of putting that eternal questi(m, the cup ran over, and the worm turned. *' Sir," said he, sternly •' I don't know ! " And, as if that fierce retort were not enough, he added : " And— I don't care ! " Morland nodded approvingly. "Quite right, Mr. Prendergast," said he. "There's nothing like showinj^ a bold, defiant front to the enemy. But you needn't be afraid that I'm come canvassinj^. I know Mr. Dorwent's political opinions, and your own, much too well to dream of turning them — at present, of course, for I mean to do that one of these days. And I hope you don't think I've come to pry or Bpy." ** I don't know what you've come for, Mr. Morland. But I do know this, that you've put me an insulting, insolent question, for which — for which " ' * Allow me to apologize. And I hope you'll allow me to do even more. Political opponents may be personal friends, I hope, without any sham ; and I some weeks ago had the pleasure of a violent political quarrel with Mr. Derwent which left me with the friendliest impression of him. He was to have visited me in my chambers in London before he went away ; and I quite looked forward to the satisfaction of finding 198 KINO Oft KKAVB f him among the adversaries here whom I mean to turn into friends. And I want to hear where he is, because— because I am anxious about him, from things i have heard. And — so are you." Mr, Prendergast fidgetted and scratched his wig." '* I can't answer any questions, Mr. Morland. These are business secrets which I'm bound not to disclose. For ai v information you may legitimately require, I must refer you to Mr. Heron, Chapter Lane." *' Mr. Heron is in communication with Mr. Derwent, then ? " "Of course. Unquestionably. Everyday." '* Giles was right," thought Morland ; " that fellow knows no more of his master's movements than I do. And what's more — he's anxious, though he won't even whisper to himself that he is so. We'll, if Heron knows where he is and all about him, of course it's all ri;;;ht, and things are a good deal simplified. But — it's a capital chance of meeting old Mammon face to face. I will." But first he droriped in at his committee-room, and, by means of inquiries easily mude without any appearance of special purpose, learned that Guy Derwent was a man of irreproachable character and reputation-^a rising man, moreover, of equally excellent commercial and personal credit, backed by the Great Bank, and high in the favour and confidence t»f the King of Marchgrave. This was the jealous testi- monj' of opponents given in the heat of party strife ; to suspect such a man of complicity with a gang of London coiners was prodigiously absurd. In short, the problem had changed its conditions. Here was a man of high mark and character in his native town who, in the course of a journey abroad on business, had called at a den of thieves. " 1* o ; I'll not call in Chapter Lane," thought Morland, "after all. It's just those irreproachable provincials who daren't step an inch from the straight line in their own town that give a kick over the traces where they can. That can't be twisted into any business of mine." But his heart could not help sinking a little ap he felt that to put aside Guy Derwent in this way was also to think the worst of the girl he had seen at the backdoor ; and that, despite of all evidence, he could not bring himself to do. So he changed his mind once more. " There's no harm in asking old Mammon if everything is really all square and above-board," ne urged at last. " Old Murder was really anxious — and — come : no Sham ! So am I." He was the last person to think of the gossip that would arise from the private and personal visit of one candidate to the other in a place like Marchgrave ; and he was the first, if he had thought of it, to make a point of giving it a good start with plenty of food to feed on. No doubt within half-a-minute of his arrival at the bank it was all over the town that Morland was closeted with Heron, with ten thou- sand reasons why. The banker was himself sur])rised ; and looked so. " I feel rather like a lamb in the lion's den," said the visitor, with a smile. "Ought we to shako hands? I've been doing so very much my best against you with my fists that I'm not sure whether " " Yes i I've heard that you've been laying yourself out to hit hard," ItING OB KNAVE ^ 199 Baid John Heron. '• I'm afraid I must own that I have not yet had the pleasure of reading your speeches myself ; but I am told they are very good indeed. By all means let us shake hands. I am very glad to aw> you, I'm sure." Now it is not agreeable to find that one's eloquence has been thrown away ; that the one man has been overwhelming with scathing rhetoric for weeks together has not even troubled himself to know what wh have said of him. Morland felt rather like a toy terrier who has been trying to worry a mastiff — that is to say, exceedinuly small. However, the terrier does not suffer from loss of self-esteem for long ; nor did he. " I was referred by old— Mr. Prenderyast to you, as able to give me the present address of Mr. Derwent, with whom 1 have some acquain- tance, though of the slightest. " "Of Mr. Derwent? He is on business — abroad." '* So I am told. Can you tell me when he will return ? " " It is impossible to say. " *' Of course you are in communication with him ?" "Certainly," said John Heron, after a pause too slight to be observed. " And if I write to him to your care, it will be forwarded ? " *' It will reach him in due time. But if it is on business, I am atten- ding to his affairs " " Oh no. It's purely personal. By the waj, they seem to be talk- ing a great deal of nonsense abt»ut Derwent in Marchgrave. Howeve»', as you know all about his movements " " Yes, Mr. Morland. A great deal of nonsense is talked in March- grave, I am sorry to say. But I am glad to say it is not by Marchgrave men. " " Meaning Me ? " The banker shrugged his shoulders. " However, so far as Mr, Derwent is concerned you may make your- self easy. You are aware that business is very often a delicate mjitter, and » Morland felt himself bowed out ; and he was conscious, besides, that he, with all the impudence and sawj-froid on which he plumed himself, had no chance of coping with the heavier force of his oppiment, who, without a single effort, seemed to bear him down. Then (luy Derwent was no criminal — no creature of mysterj'. He had notdisajtpeared ; he had simply been taking advantage of a flight through Londcin to see life, as young men will. It was worse than a mystery ; for everything seemed now to reflectHipon Marion, and he hated that notion more and more. Having nothing else for the moment to occupy him, he strolled to the lodging he had taken for the caricaturist whom he liad picked up by way of a Bohemian whim ; and, finding the fellow out, amused himself while waiting by lazily turning over a volume of sketches. " By Jove ! if he hasn't got Heron already," said he. " But this is a portrait — not a caricatmo. And — but what's this?" he almost exclaimed alou\ as he lifted up the carefully-pencilled outline of the face of a girl. ^00 KING Ob. KKAVE 1 CHAPTER XXI. "leave ill alone." The portrait of a girl. And why not in any artist's portfolio? In what portfolio is there no such thing ? But it must be either real or ideal. If it be a fancy portrait, the betting is a thousand to one against its being the picture of any actual girl ; if real, then ten thousand to one. It was more like a million to one that Draycot Morland'a caricaturist had not made this sketch without an intimate knowledge of the features of Miss Vane— nay more, withbut that greater knowledge which alone can enable the swiftest of artists to reproduce the expression of the soul. That the fellow he had picked from the gutter had some sort of genius he knew. But genius was far from being enough to account for such a coincidence as this, even though without genius some knowledge, however intimate, must have failed. Though not yet in love, Draycot Mv rland was touched enough in fancy to be convinced that the world di * not, and could not, contain two Miss Vanes. Of course that might be the worse for the world or the better — probably the bettei. And that only made it all the more likely that this mysterious young woman was unique ; and that hib artist's genius in this instance had come in at the eyes. While he was examining the artist's work, the artist hin^self entered — a cadaverous, almost deformed, creature, shabby and morose — the last whom anybody less deliberately eccentric than Draycot Morland would dream of selecting as likely to excel in caricature. Rather would any ordinary critic have sot him down as a seer of visions, and a dreamer cf dreams wholly outside the world of politics, or even of much less savage and sordid things. "Who's this, Ray?" asked Morland. "She's an uncommonly pretty girl." " Oh, I never remember names. A face is a face " " No, it isn't. It's nothing of the kind." " A rose by any " ' ' No, it wouldn't. Call it a pigstye, and see if the notion of pigs don't somehow get into the nose. I'd give you five guineas for this if it had a name." The artist made no answer. His thoughts seemed suddenly to go off after wool. " What I like about you, Ray," said Morland, ** is that you are such a jolly sort of fellow. Of course it was your genius that drew me first ; but it doesn't follow that because one admires a man one's bound to like bim. because it "You stand." "A mj " ought n up. I m( I give yo» gutter po frankness tery ; anc to go for Now, ] Stephen who is boi of Miss V that the y, " Vanity. "You am." "Then of a consp Stephei interest " How i "Then " It is Understan patronage. " Nay ; descend to " Mr. A! "if 1 wen Morland had he see French pi spectator one 1 " the of vanity, once bittei even as M "This ; some I us( That's the the world, for once t< destiny, IV " Indee " Yes. m KIKG OR KNAVE ? 201 like bim. The joviality does not lie on the surface, I own ; but that's because it*8 so deep down." " You arc right there," sighed the artist. " I'm not easy to under- stand." *' A man who could do this," said Morland, touching the sketch, '* ought not to have had the streets for Iiis studio. Come — 4on't fire up. I mean to be offensive, so as to get that part of the business over. I give you full leave to say that a fellow like me oughtn't to be raking gutter politics for garbage. All I want is to set up a system of mutual frankness, so that we may understand one another. You are a mys- tery ; and a mystery is to me like a red flag is to a bull. I am bound to go for it, whatever it may be." Now, Draycot Morland no more believed in the mysteriousness of Stephen Ray than he did in that of any other helplessly clover man who is born to be drowned. But he did mean to fathom the mystery of Miss Vane ; and he had learned enough of human nature to know that the way to the heart of any mystery is to touch the spring labelled "Vanity." •'You are right there," the artist again sighed; **a mystery I am." " Then have a cigar. It's my opinion, Ray, that you are the victim of a conspiracy." Stephen Ray's eyes suddenly turned upon Morland with a blaze of interest. " How in the devil's own name did you find out that ? " asked he. "Then I am rij^ht ; and you are ? " "It is a comfort for once to maet with an appreciative mind. Understand me, Mr. Morland ; I refuse anything in the shape of patronage. I speak to you simply as man to man " " Nay ; as one who has been touched by the divine spark may con- descend to speak to common unillumined clay." "Mr. Morland," said the genius, putting out his exquisite fingers, " if I were not an artist, I woulu be a critic like you." Morland looked at the fingers — long, white, and taper — never before had he seen such, save once only, and that was in the case of a famous French pickpocket, at whose trial he had been present as a casual spectator in the course of one of his foreign tours. " Art is truly one 1 " thought he. But he said nothing more. The angler in the sea of vanity, if he be skilful, never wastes his bait. The fish that has once bitten, the more it is left alone, the more surely it will rise. And even as Morland looked for, so it proved. "This is a good weed," coughed Stephen. "Almost as good as some I used to have myself in other times— not quit(>, but pretty near. That's the worst of Art ; it impoverishes the true artist while enriching the world. I might have been a rich man if I pleased. It's pleasant for once to talk to somebody who understands. I've been a victim of destiny, Mr. Morland. all my days." "Indeed?" " Yes. There are periods of history where I should have had a 202 RING OR KI^AVB t great part to play. And therefore, by the law of circumstance, 1 am born into an age where I am bound to have none but that of martyr and slave. " *' But isn't the part of martyr a bi^ one — the biggest of all ? I am a martyr, Mr. Ray. It's my profession ; and, in my opinion, there's none better going. Only, of course, like any other, it wants industry and strict attention to business, and all that sort of thing. Now I doubt if you're altogether a business man ? " " So you think that, do you ? Then I toll you this — it isn't that I'm not a man f . uusiness ; it's that nubody else is, that I'm the only one — the only sane human being in a world of madmen and fools ! " " By Jove ! " "Understand me, Mr. Morland ; I don't mean you. You have shown me that — that — if you can't produce, you can appreciate ; and that's what I've never found before." Morland felt that he was beginning to read the artist like a book. But he was still a long way off from reaching his aim— getting the vic- tim of circumstance and of crazy self conceit to throw light upon the story of the girl whom his pencil had reproduced so faithfully without putting him on his guard. For the more crazy one's witness, the more cautiously one has to move. But there was no good in beating about the bush for ever. " Now this young woman, for example," he said meditatively. " She must have been another fish out of her element in Upper Vane Street. To look at her, one would think her a princess ; to look at you, one would take you for a — a world. And yet both of you — well, it's a queer He spoke very quietly, and as if nothing were more a matter of course than that any given people should be members of a coining firm. If his shot oiissed altogether, he would know how to recover himself by pleading jest or abstract hypothesis, or any of a hundred things that any moderately ingenious mind will at once perceive. But there was no need to revoke. Mr. Stei'hjn Ray dropped his cigar, and forgot to pick it up again. " Oh, I'm not prudish," said Morland, with a pleasant smile. " Bless you, I'd as soon be friends with a law-breaker as with a law-maker, any day — sooner, for there'd be no law-breakers if nobody made any laws. Don't you know that when I'm ia the House I'm going in for the total abolition of all restraints on everything ? There can't be criminals if there's no criminal laws. So now you know my princi- ples." "And honour them!" cried the artist, his eyes suddenly ablaze. "Mr. Morland — when you go forth into the streets I claim the right to plant the first red flag upon the first barricade ! " " Then — when I do you shall, Citir en Ray ! Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality— eh ? No more prisons ; no more— no more — anything. Ray -you shall play Marat to my Robespierre. We'll contest our elections with the guillotine ; and we'll strike off our adversaries' heads instead of polling our own. But we shall want a Madame Roland. No ■1 KIKO OU KNAVE 1 203 woman - no revolution ; that's the universal rule. Let me see — she iiiust be beautiful ; she must be young ; she must have a soul, and that soul must be in the cause. Let me see — would this do ; Miss — Miss — Vane l " asked Morland, hulding up the picture. ' ' Miss Furuess ? " asked Ray nervously. "No. . . . Yea. . . . No." "Of course — Miss Furness," Morland corrected himself quietly. " I'm a regular fool about names. I was thinking of the street, you see. Miss Marion Furness. Now my opinion is she would do. " " You know hert" asked Ray. "Haven't you made out that I know pretty well most things ? " asked Morland. "Isn't it my business," went on that imaginative and not wholly unscrupulous young man, partly in jest, partly pretending for a pur- pose, partly honestly and earnestly (for the moment) adopting in good faith the rdle of revolutionist ; he assumed, " isn't it my business to enrol for tlio good of the world at large all those great associations which bad laws compel to waste themselves upon law-made crime ? That was the idea of that great and good man, Robert Hood, of Hun- tingdon ; and by that idea alone social and political salvation comes to the world. Yes, my friend, philosophy has tried and failed. Chris- tianity has tried and failed. Philanthropy has tried, and miserably, ignominiously failed. Science and education, t' course, have failed. Law has worse than failed : it hasn't even tried. Therefore, it is time to call in, not the tyrants and oppressors and people who tell other peoi)le to be good in order that they themselves may have the mono- poly of profitable evil — not those, but the victims and the martyrs, absurdly called criminals, who alone know what is wanted ; who alone have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. . . . By Jove ! " he thought to himself, " if I havent got hold of the right end of the stick at last — upon my soul if I don't believe that it's a grand idea — of course if the world is down-side up, obviously the way to right it is to turn it upside down. And to think that it never occurred to any human being before. . . . Yes ; I do know her. I look for the realization of the future of humanity to us three — the woman who inspires ; the genius who is inspired ; the man who translates their inspiration into words and deeds — Marion Furness, Stephen Ray, and Draycot Morland. There's one other man still wanting^, though. Ycjur establishment in Vane Street, citizen, seems to have been the model of what a Secret Society should bo. We mustget at Mr. Ward." " Damn him !" cried Stephen, whose brain, whac with vane glory and funaticism, was becoming on fire. " No ! " " But I say Yes ! " said Morland, not dreaming of the twin devils he had been raising in the rudderless, ballastles, soul, whereon he thought himself so skilfully playing. "No," repeated Stephen Ray. " I have not overthrown a tyrant to submit myself to him again — I have not turned like the worm on Adam Furness to crawl under his boot a so ond time." It was as if from those slender, helpless-looking titigerd that Draycot 204 KINO OR KNAVE ? Morland had received a blow to make Samson reel. It was true, then ; than what he had dreaded, the dawnin'j; truth was worse by far. Marion Vane was named Marion Fumess, and Adam Furness was the actual name of the mysterious financier, knov.n to his neighbours in Upper Vane Street, and to the police, as Mr. Ward. Doubtless, it enhanced her interest from the student's point of view. But he had staked upon her virtue, and even upou her innocence, despite all appearance, his whole capacity for judging human nature ; the whole of that, and perhaps something very different from judicial capacity, and a great deal more. *' I see ; She is his wife," he said, in a voice from which all the life had gone. " VVho is whose wife ? " asked Stephen Ray '* Marion Fnrness," gulped Morland, no longer lingering on the name. *' Adam's daughter ? Whose wife?" cried Stephen, with a note of rage. " His daughter ? " Weil — that was better ; it was almost a relief for a moment, to find that the girl who had advanced so far into his 'eart was xihe daughter of a man whom '.he law was seeking for a life of guilt, crowned with murder. But it was sorry comfort. The moment's relief left the greater blankness behind. It was all deplorably inconsistent, no doubt. He should have rejoiced that his demand for a criminal heroine had been so promptly answered. But — well, if all mankind had been created consistent, Draycot Morland would have Seen the exception to the rule. Yet it seemed so hidiously impossible that the girl from whom he had parted but yesterday on the banks of the Aske should have been more than the daughter, the associate and companion, of Adam Furness, the coiner and murderer. Had she been only the daughter, he would have been the last to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children, even to but one generation. But the abettor of Adam Furness — the friend of Stephen Ray, and of heaven who knew else — it was more than horrible. And the finger of love that had been laid upon him felt like a poisoned sting. "You damned Adam Furness," he said dreamily. "Why? Was he not the chief of you all ? " '' I damned him ; and I do. He shall not have a little finger in the cause. He " " What cause ? Oh, I remember. The Cause. Well ? " " Ho found me— an artist, if there ever was one ; he took advantage of my necessities, of my misfortunes ; he made me do slave's work for slavto's pay. When I protested, he put upon my spirit — an artist's spirit, Mr. Morland — an insult such as no man, no worm, of any spirit would bear. He " ■»^ " In short, you hate him ? " " I hate all tyrants, Mr. Morland. All." ' " All right. . . . Then you must set to work against tyrant number one — to wit — John Heron. It's true he's only tyrant of March grave ; b make a I the Cross No? Th Guy Derv ♦' Guy ] " Perhj see I kno^ Upper Va Stephei wits from " I hat< name. H would ha\ — one thii *' Why- ♦'Idon passed frc *' I mean ment, and you wante I suppose ♦' Not b Morlanc means mil out of St unauthori Into what He shu looking cl muttered *' Leave He satiE Mr. Smitl Mr. Smitl but prove( advisable good look fortune, it sessions, a attend. "And day, petty Hall ; I'll able to tal So said cadaverouj with a rud 1 KING OR KNAVE? 205 grave ; but one must begin somewhere. My agent suggests that you make a burles«i|ue design for the statue they're putting up to him at the Cross ; You might see your way. Have you ever seen the man ? No ? Then I must put you in the way. By the way — what became of Guy Derwent ? " "Guy Derwent ? I don't know the name. Who was he ? " *' Perhaps he had an alias too. A friend of Miss Furness — you'll see I know something when I tell you that he was at your place in Upper Vane Street just before the police came down." Stephen Ray put his hand suddenly to his temples, as if to keep hia wits from flying away. " 1 hate all tyrants," he murmured — "all. No, I never heard the name. He wasn't one of the slaves. If he had been, I and Cynthia would have known. Not being one — if he put his foot into the place — one thing's certain : it would never have gone out again." *' Why — what the devil do you mean ?" *' I don't know what I mean; but I " The bewildered look passed from his face. "Excuse me, sir," he said, almost humbly; " I mean nothing — nothing at all. I'm of a highly artistic tempera- ment, and I get excited about little things. You spoke of something you wanted of my pencil. Well — you've hired me. It's despicable ; but I suppose I was born to be a slave." "Not to me." Morland spoke merely for the sake of speaking, for he had by no means misunderstood the significance of the grim hint that had oozed out of Stephen Ray with regard to the fate of any intrusive or unauthorized visitor to Number Seventeen, or its neighbour next door. Into what labyrinth of murder had he strayed — after a girl ? He shuddered and shrank back, as one who, opening an innocent- looking chest, finds it full to the brim of mouldering bones. He muttered to himself : " Leave ill alone." He satisfied his restlessness by taking his artist to his agent — that Mr. Smith whom Asknoss gold had rendered a traitor to Marchgrave. Mr. Smith was fertile in artistic suggestions, possible and impossible, but pr<>ved perfectly amenable to the proposition that it might be advisable for a caricaturist, before proceeding to business, to have a good look at the object to be caricatured ; and, by a stroke of good fortune, it so happened that it was one of the days for the city petty sessions, at which the most active of all the justices was certain to attend. " And it's a busy day for Marchgrave altogether," said he — " market day, petty sessions, electitm of mayor. He'd better go to the Shire Hall ; I'll put Mr. Thingamy at the solicitor's table, where he'll bo able to take off John Heron's phiz under his very nose." So said, so done. Thanks to the g od oftices t»f Mr. Smith the cadaverous stranger, resembling nothing so much as a pair of eyes with a rude human sketch attached tiiereto, obtained a good place at 206 KING OR KNAVE? the table. But presently, as if the concentration of the eyes around him had the effect of heat upon vapour, he seemed to melt away, until his place became empty. Morland, sitting on the bencli, rubbed his eyes, but the creature had certainly vanished, and that in a ghostly way ; nor did it return — at any rate in visible form. Meanwhile John Heron himself, after having shown Draycot Morland the door, had returned to the multifarious business that every day inevitably brought to Chapter Lane. This finished without more than ordinary interruption, he could give his whole mind for a few moments to his private, or rather much more private, affairs. The man at whose mercy he was, and all the great purposes of his life, were bought off and banished for a poor seventy thousand pounds — if that could be ! But he knew the Snell tribe too well. What wjuld be seventy times seventy thousand pounds to a Wyndham Snell ? They would be spent, or squandered, or gambled away before the purchaser of peace could realize his purchase for an hour. And then back would roll the rolling stone, barren of moss, and imperative for more. And yet, none the less, the sum demanded must be given even now, unless Yes, the moment had come at last when he must choose between his whole life's work - the one great thing he lived for — and the life of — a man. No, of a Wyndham Snell. How but in one way could he choose ? What was one wretched life to Marchgravo's gren tness and glory for ever ? And Marion — honestly w^ould he have purchased peace for himself by giving up the fight if it were not for tire great work on »vhich he had by now set every living atom of his soul. Even the thought of his child, any more than that of his wife, had no right to confuse so clear an alternative as that which lay plainly before him. One despicable life — why for one moment should he pause? He had not paused when Redbeard's throat had been in his left and his knife in his right hand. He had never felt a moment's remorse for that. Why should he pause before so much slighter a thing ? He could find no reason for a single instant's pause — unless it were for decision as to the surest means. Though deliberate murder had been rendered needful, it was essentially a case in which discoveiy would be infinitely worse than crime. Poison ? He could invite tlu- doctor to Askholm, or better still, to The Cedars, where nobody would dream of a more than formal inquest on any guest of John Heron, i f Chapter Lane. A walk along the river by the cliff path, and a sudden fall t That, too, was worth cc»nsideration : for death might be insureil by a strong grip before the push, and anybody might stumble over a broken cliff-side. Or a trip in a boat, with the bottom of the Aske for a haven. That, in many respects, might be the best of, all, for the Aske mud was an accomplice that would never tell tales ; and — the grim thought would come, as such things will come at the most incongruous times — the new docks would base themselves on the bc^y of the doctor in a very literal way. *'No,"t reason wh it gives wa conscience a great sch my own, if nerves in different fr smite, but With de with the m hall. "Good-( colleague. you'll serve thought it John He "A warr document t John He •♦I see" With find one Adam 1 transportatl waiting by At the I encouuterec When M woman wh< her to so u all things a reflections, of a single way. She hurrying al where in tl thoughts oi out of her that was nc KING OR KNAVE f 207 *' No," thought he ; "to doubt is mere cowardly f«>lly. There is iw reason why I shuuld spare this man. And what is the use of reason if it gives way by an inch before some scruple of nerves ? A queer thing conscience must be — to strain at removing an obstacle in the way of a great scheme. Why, there's no single life worth regarding — no, not my own, if it stood in the way. No ; there's only one way to keep nerves in order. Crush them down." At any rate, he was in this much different from others — the temptation he fought against was, not to smite, but to spare. With deliberate murder, therefore, in his heart, and his brains busy with the means, the magistrate proceeded from his bank to the Guild- hall. "Good-day, Mr. Mayor !" whispered Mr. Alderman Sparrow to his colleague. " You're unanimously elected. Heron. And of course you^U serve. I know I oughn't to let the cat out of the bag ; but I thought it better you should be prepared." John Heron nodded gravely. "A warrant to back sir," said the clerk below him, handing up document to the Mayor-elect of Marchgrave. John Heron took it and read it slowiy. " I see" he said " I suppose it is all in form ?" With fingers that did not tremble, a warrant for the apprehension one Adam Furness, charged with being at large before his sentence transportation had expired, was signed and handed to a constable waiting by John Heron. At the same moment, the magistrate, glancing to the gallery, encountered the blazing eyes of Stephen Ray. a of of in CHAPTER XXII. IT COMES. r a for the the ost m-Av When Marion returned from her sketching, she saw nothing of the woman who, impelled by so tragically grotesque a demon, had pursued her to so unlikely a place as Askholm. Nay — despite the belief that all things about to happen to us project themselves, in the form of reflections, upon our souls, was she conscious of a single presentiment ; of a single feeling that a new shadow had been cast across her path- way. She saw, it is true, a middle-aged woman in black irregularly hurrying alonp; the roadway ; but such a sight is not uncommon any- where in the world, and she had no reason for connecting it with thoughts of Mrs. Snell — who, indeed, had well-nigh passed altogether out of her mind. If the figure looked in the least degree familiar, that was no doubt because it was common. But, in ti'uth, she did not 208 KING OR KNAVE ? give a second look, much less a real whole thought, to so insignificant a meeting. And, indeed, had it been otherwise, any passing shadow of curiosity would have very soon indeed have passed away under another much more direct interruption to the monotony of her days. She took off her hat and shawl, and stood, half idly, half critically, before the canvas on the big easel which had afforded Mrs. Snell so convenient a covert. But presently she began thinking. It was strange that she should have met Draycot Morland for a second time — exceed- ingly strange. But it was infinitely less strange than that the wind of destiny should have blown her, of all places in the whole wild world, straight to Marchgrave ; almost the one spot where she would almost have given her right hand not to be. Within easy sight, within arm's length, so to speak, was the gray tower of which she had so often heard Guy Derwent speak on board the Sumatra^ beneath whose shelter was to have been her home for the rest of her days. Guy Derwent himself was there, even now ; and what was to prevent her meeting him by a no more out-of-the-way chance than she had met the other ? True, she had besought Morland to keep her secret ; and she had faith in him as a gentleman. But she had no means of measuring the degree of his intimacy of Guy ; and who can compel secrets *o keep themselves ! And — if by chance or design — he should discover her, which God forbid, what should she say, and what should she do t She had not surrendered one least atom of her will — of her resolve that, come what cowi might, she must be nothing more to him than a memory, nor he to her than a temptation of evil. More than ever was she now aware what manner of man was her father ; more than ever was she Isound, by outward oath and inward will, to do her dead mother's duty by him, which had now become her own. But she none the less, ot" •rather all the more, felt in her heart that to will all thetie things to Uerself in solitude meant something very different indeed from what it would be if her lost lover were brought back to her, persuading her ' heart to rebellion against her new allegiance and loyalty. There was nothing she could say to him — nothing she could explain. She would have to resist in bitter silence — it might be that she would have to act towards one who was ranged on the side of law and oppression as if he were her father's foe, and therefore her own. Then, even amid such reflections as these, she, standing before the work of her own hands, could not but be conscious of 4he praise, the first praise, she had received that morning. Self-consciousness had been touched in her in another way ; and she thought, since she must forswear the full life of a woman, that she could be content to live among woods, hills and rivers with her pencil, and still find it far from empty. If art could never possess her, as it may possess a man, making love, and one's own heart, and the hearts of others of slight account thereby, still she felt she could find in it an asylum, wherein assurance of bread, with even some modicum of fame, were not to be despised. If one cannot be praised by one, the next best thing is to be pr^i^e^ hy all. Morland had k)|d her she was a painter— was in truth what true ? An It would her hand h mattered a be caressed sword and Suddenl; shadow pas well-remeni her Father, He nodd room. ♦'I was the room, s against littl in?" She reme nobody tha Vot that di! her much ci things. Di self to be hu she was cor. solitude anc even yet ha< * ' Not vei '' I meanl the way. \ makes thing too ; she did unluckily, w ^vorried altoi .vill do." *' Are you "Yes," 8.1 talking moot What Mar mybody sud at once forge And, some le was, he hi from tea-mal :tnd minister Presently 1 l^vare, after stretched the Ispell. He h jbank-parlour KING OR KNAVB 9 209 disguise. Was it ire the 36, the ^ss had must |to live it far man, slight therein to be kg is to Iwas in truth what she was seeming to bo for the sake of true ? Ami if true what meant this new caprice of destiny ? It would not have mattered what she was, once upon a time, when her hand lay in Guy's, with her heart in it and contented. But it mattered a great deal, now that hor hind was no longer something to be caressed, but something to tight with — it might be, to prove both sword and shield. Suddenly, in the midst of her double thoughts, she was aware of a shadow passing the window ; and before she could glance round, a well-remembered footstep, slow and heavy, told her that He at last, her Father, had come. He nodded to her gravely and somewhat absently as he entered the room. " I was here about an hour or so ago," he said, looking hastily round the room, as men do who have acquired a habit of being on their guard against little things. *' But you were out. How long have you been in?" She remembered his orders that at nothing that might happen, at nobody that might come, was she to show the least sign of surprise. Xot that discovery of the close neighbourhood of Marchirrave had left her much capacity for being taken by surprise — not to speak of other things. Did her father's coming mean Action ? She had fancied her- self to be hungry for action; and yet, nowthat its possible time had come, she was conscious of an inconsistent and disloyal pang. This season of solitude and rest had become sweeter than she knew ; and it had not even yet had time to oppress and to pall. *' Not very long," said she. " I meant to have- seen you long ago ; but something was always in the way. You have been really painting, I see. All the better ; it makes things so much the simpler. . . . Your mother could paint, too ; she did most things well, I think ; all except one ; and that, inluckily, was the most important of all. I'm hot, and tired, and worried altogether. Bring me something to drink — anything. Water ,vill do." *' Are you safe— still ? " " Yes," said Adam shortly, and examining the canvas — clearly in no talking mood. What Marion did was perhaps the last thing that would occur to [anybody suddenly called upon to entertain an escaped convict who was |at once forger, coiner, and murderer. She made tea. And, somehow, she m tde it so quickly that, man and all athirst as iie was, he had scarcely time to be impatient at the delay inseparable Ifrom tea-making. She set out the homeliest of cups on a white cloth |:ind ministered to him silently. Presently he looked round at greater leisure, and could not but bo ivvare, after his battle with Dr. Snell, that peace and quiet had stretched their wiji 's over him for a short but unspeakably refreshing hpell. He had escipod from the close and opprossive disunity of his Ibank-parlour in Chapter Lane, and from the luxury of his home a( 210 KING OR KNAVB 7 The Cedars. Rude and homely as was the cottnge he had taken for H ^^ enters h secret interviews and sudden emergencies, it held none of his troubles! comes from — now at least that Dr. Snell had left him for a while. No longer had ■ There is ( he to play before the city to which he had given his brain and his soul I ^he art of d the part of irreproachable magnate ; no longer had he, at home, to I incongruouf play a yet harder part before the woman who believed herself to be his I m this Mari lawful wife, and who loved him even better than Marchgrave honoured I & silence, s[ him. And, at the same time, no longer had he to play to himself the I She shool part that was hardest to play of all — that of audacious criminal, I ** I shall i while all the while his real soul waa, through and throu' h, and withB **Ah — ^yo hungry passion, on the side of truth, the honour and thu honesty on I though I da which he based what crime had made imposture. Here were no f el- ■ that gets yo low-citizens to overwhelm him with deluded beliefs- -no Kate to ■ devil s earth chatter loving questions that racked him to answer until a hundred! single grum times he had wished her well out of the world. The sun was setting ; and the softened rays streamed pleasantly through the lattice on the snow-white cloth and humble crockery, catching also the sky on the canvas, and making it look like a window into wider world of peace beyond. Through the window, which he| faced from his wicker chair, he could see the whole sweep of the broa< and sluggish Aske, no longer broken by mud shoals and sandbanks, over which the tide had flowed, but bearing hear and there a white o; red-brown sail. And, but for the slow and steady tick of the woodeni clock in the corner, and the caw of homeward-bound rooks, sound then was none. There was deeper stillness even than the sleepiness c Marchgrave Close on a Sunday afternoon. Could it be, he felt, sitting opposite to Marion, that he was a ma hunted down by the law, his hand red with a fellow-creature's blood bondslave of the vilest of jackals, baffled in every desire, and onl; desperately avoiding the hulks of the gallows by leading two hostil lives, of which each was a lie ? It seemed impossible — unless for the hour, he was leading yet a thin that^uy De life still. It was like going to sleep, and better ; for he was no troubled with what he might say or do in a dream. For a long time- or it might have been a short one — he sat and mused. "Marion," said he. "I am here." " I have something to say to you — something very importan indeed," She was all eager attention : Something was at last to come. feel as if — a "And ma an Australia uf Australia "And by But it's no I it, and take "Andl- " By-hej there'd be fe only ask wh could trust J She felt h( But it did same momen She had heai from that qu n When you marry," said Adam — it startled her, in spite of he warning. But he went on — " When you marry, remember that you husband will have ♦^wo rights ; to be sacredly observed. One is — fo| you to remember, always, that every man has troubles and worriei every day of his life, more and greater than any woman has to face i a year, and very few in a lifetime ; and always of a kind that his wif can never — never understand. The other right is — never to find a singl worry waiting for him at home ; to feel that whatever be the weath outside, he is sure of warmth, sunshine, comfort and peace the momei " I must "Keep quiei pictures, exc that look to these days. Good-bye for " You prai He frowne " Yes. I " I only wj you only keei " Oh— that harm. No ; ing you here and " " Cynthia ? " What do KING OK KNAVE 1 211 a mar bloodj id onlj hostild a third l^as no| time- of he at you is— fo worriei face i his wi! a sing] weath mome: he enters his own door. . . . All misery in marriage, bar none, comes from women forgetting these two things." There is certainly no reason why a criminal should not homilise on the art of domestic happiness over the teatable : few things are really incongruous, whatever they may seem. Nevertheless, such discourse as this Marion never dreamed of hearing when her father, after so long a silence, spoke her name. She shook her head with a littl<) resolute smile. '* I shall not need to remember," said she. **Ah — you mean you'll never marry? Well — I hope you won't: though I dare say you will. And I'm inclined to think he'll be lucky that gets you. For here I sit, as full of trouble as any man on this devils earth ; and you haven't worried me with a single question, or a single grumble, ever since I've been in this mom. You have made me feel as if — as if — things were as they might have been." " And may they not be ? Are you bound to stay in England ? I'm an Australian girl, you know ; and it seems to me that everywhere out of Australia every thing is always wrong." "And by — heaven, you're right there. Always, and everything! But it's no use talking that way ; my work lies here ; and I must grip it, and take my chance of dying bef(»re I've done." "And I — where am I to do my share ? " " By — heaven again, Marion, if there were more women like you, there'd be fewer men like me. You don't ask what the work is ; you only ask when you are to have your share. ... I almost feel as if I could trust you : I mean through and through." She felt herself turn pale with the dread of some new revf lation. But it did not come. Presently he looked at his watch : and at the same moment she heard the distant boom of a bell striking the hour. She had heard it daily , when the air was still, or when the wind set from that quarter ; but now she knew it to be from Marchgrave : and that Guy Derwent's ears must be hearing it too. " I must be going now," said Adam ; and he did not even say where. " Keep quiet, and go on with your painting. I don't know much about pictures, except what I've been told ; but I've paid big prices for things that lofjk to me a good deal worse ; and it may come in useful one of these days. I've put some money for you on the chimney-shelf. Good-bye for now." " You praised me for not asking questions," said she ; "but " He frowned a little. " Yes. I did. And I hope you will earn my praise." " I only want to know one thing. Am I being of use to you, or are you only keeping me here — because you think you are bound ? " " Oh — that's all. If you never ask worse than that, you'll do no harm. No ; I'm not keeping you here because I'm bound. I'm keep- ing you here because I must have somebody here I can trust at a pinch, and " "Cynthia?" *' What do you know of Cynthia ? Oh, I remember. I thirk there 212 KING OR KNAVE ? was something to make one forget things in that tea of yours. No. I don't want Cynthia. I don't want a single creature that knows me. I want somebody with whom one may start afresh, if need be. I don't want cleverness. I want — well, want somebody, anybody, who is good, and yet will stand by me — but I didn't come here to talk twaddle. Good-night." He left her abruptly, and strode, in his heavy way, along the road. And not till he was gone did she recollect that she had forgotten to tell him of her interview with Draycot Morland — her confused retiec- tions, her father's sudden arrival, and the eflfort she had to make in order to restrain, in his presence, her eager thirst for light, had put out of her head what she felt might be a more important incident than it seemed. However, that could not be helped now ; and, after all, the idea that any harm could come to anybody but herself from such a causal meeting was a matter of instinct rather than of reason. For the rest, that evening had given her thoughts ample food. This terrible and myste- rious father of hers, Cain and Ishmael combined, had impressed her in a hew way. was the instinct which even blind and self-conceited reason can trust which told her that, apart from conscience, apart from remorse, apart from outlawry, he was a most unhappy man. Why had he preached to her about domestic troubles ? Why had he seemed to snatch at a stray hour's silent peace as men clutch at happy moments that just touch the fingers without closing their wings ? Was it grief for her dead mother, and a hopeless regret for what might have been ? There had been pathos in every gesture, in every tone, none the less true because he had been ashamed of it, and because ho had tried to crush it down. In short, Marion felt that he was wretchedly human ; and her heart 'vent out to him. And, indeed, whither else in the whole wide world had her heart to go? The next day nothing happened. Nothing indeed — for she did not even go out sketching, for fear (as she put it to herself) of again happening to meet Draycot Morland — who, being interpreted, signified Guy. She worked upon her indoor canvas, and with a quiet interest in her work which surprised herself — ignorant of the way in which over-strung nerves will imitate, at a certain degree of tension, the calm that inariably prognosticates storm. It seemed to her as if, whatever| happened, she had to finish that picture ; as if it were laid upon be that she could leave something in the Avorld finished from her hands, It was an unconscious feeling only, without even a film of reason, ( evBU of meaning ; but it hnd to be obeyed. And even likewiao passed the next day, and the next. Nothing hap- pened, save the gradual growth of the canvas into the broad A ske at lev tide, with the gray sloping woods beyond. It was a sunlit scene 1 tit i-here was something gloomily solemn even in the sunlight. He own soul was finding its way into the scene. So absorbed did sli become in that indoor work, that she lost the will, as well as the heui to go- out of doors. But she n my other so: the well-kno Mahomet ca knocked on "I forgot "But I enqi to you ; som Now that, rules, mean i rules ; and Dun. Bearing in ol surprise, b father of this inly looked 1 " I hardly ill, Miss Var most people, bas made me "No," she ihe spoke ; i »ho hears a r " You nee( 'ou know — it ang my ions with the e that thert unlawfully at lught not to t " A warran !eling that t1 " It seems i e's to be fou ''Here?' Her head w " I thhik I rhat afiair thii show you tl |ot seen you < lyself, that it mystery to n lystery to e\ fho knows th le's all righ tween. Yot save you, i [urness what lim, forewarn KINO OR KNAVE 1 •213 scene It. Hei did sill he hear But she miscalculated sadly if she fancied that absorption in work, ur any other sort of self-blinding process, would have any better effect than the well-known contrivance of the ostrich for hiding from the hunters. Mahomet came to the mountain — it was Draycot Morland himself who knocked on the knocker-less door. "I forgot tc ask your address," he said, rather abruptly — for him., ' But I enquired after you in the village — and I have something to say to you ; something very serious indeed." Now that, from a young man to a young woman should, by all the rules, mean only one thing. But she was living altogether outside rules ; and for her, at any race, it could mean no more thiiu to a Dun. Bearing in mind the one duty hitherto laid upon her, to show no sort ul surprise, but regretting more than ever her forgetful ness to tell her lather of this complication, immaterial though it seemed to be, she only looked her inquiry, and let him follow her indoors. " I hardly know, he said, " how to begin. . . . But — hang it ill. Miss Vane, I don't see why 1 shouldn't know. An accident, which most people, I suppose, would call a strange one, has . . . Well, IS made me tind out who you really are Do you understand ?" '* No," she said ; but she could not quite keep back a quick gasp as ihe spoke ; for she was afraid — as a child in a dark passage may be, irho hears a rustle in a corner. " You needn't be afraid of me. I'm an eccentric sort of person, ou know — it's my business to fly in the face of — things at large, mong my Marchgrave friends is a certain lawyer, who has associa- with the police, and is a sort of a weasel by nature. And he tells e that there's a warrant out against one Adam Furness, for being nlawf ully at large. He ought not to have told me, and of course I ught not to tell you. But I do." " A warrant — for being at large ? " echoed Marion, visibly pale, and feeling that the circle was beginning to close. " It seems some woman or other has been telling the police where le's to be found." "//ere?" Her head was beginning to reel, despite all commands. " I think I would rather not know that. I sujjpose you're wondering hataflfair this is of mine — why I should bring warning. I'll tell you, show you that you may trust me without fear. Miss Vane — I have )t seen you often ; but often enough to know, as well as I know yself, that it is not your nature tt) be mixed up with crime. You are mystery to me still ; but not more, I suppose, than everyljody is a lyatery to everybody, when all's said and done. . . . No man ho knows the world need look at a woman twice to know whether e's all right or all wrong ; and — in a woman — there't nothing tween. You are living in horrible peril—I can see that ; and 1 want save you, if lean. No- not* if ' ; I uull. You must tell Adiini urness what I have come hereto tell you ; and if he is the man I think ttm, forewarned is forearmed. He is nothing to me but you are— 214 KING OR KNAVE t well, a very great deal. He nuist escape : and you — you must take your right place in life ; the place Heaven, or whatever you call it, made you for . . . Miss Furness, I've thought it all over, from top to bottom, and through and through. I don't care a single half- hang for that confoundedest of Shams, the World. I'm not going . . Be to make tine speeches ; that's all humbug and sham — but my Wife. There ! " Not to be startled— whatever happened ; whoever came ? The com- mand went to the winds. If was a strange way of wooing — as strange, perhaps, as his method of electioneering. But there was not the less earnestness in his eyes and in his tone. For, in truth, if he had searched the world round for fifty years, never could he have found a better chance of flying in its face and letting his whole self go. He had thought it all out during the four miles of rail between Marchgrave and Askholm. The girl was interesting, mysteriously, fascinatingly interesting, from head to hed. She had beauty ; she had genius ; she had all the unmistakable impress of purity ; she was a varitable Una. But she was a Una in peril- body and soul ; Una still, but Una surrounded with an atmosphere of masculine crime that must needs end in feminine sin. It was she whom he had seen in Eastwood Mews. It was she whom he had found living on her wits (on no worse as yet) at the great hotel. It was she who was even now keeping house for the arch-criminal portrayed by Stephen Ray. She had to be saved. Where Una was, there must the Knight of the Red Cross also be. Did he love her ? No. That was all gammon and sham. But — she had to be saved. And Draycot Morland's whole heart laughed at the thought of what Aunt Anne and Aunt Charlotte would say- if they knew. But it is late in the day, and little to the purpose, to speculate on Whys and Wherefores in connection with Draycot Morland. He was He. And — to go to the bottom of things at once — I fear that an instinct to the effect that, of all women on earth, to marry Marion Furness was just about the maddest thing he could do, lay at the root of his impulse fully as much as chivalry — though that also was there. So — " Be my wife ! " said he. Marion wandered to the open window for air. She could not doubt the zeal of his wooing, strange as it seemed. Nay — under the influ- ence carried by all earnestness, she felt something of what mingled in his bidding ; of the pity, the chivalry that was ashamed of itself, the generously overmastering desire to save. So, breathing deeply, she turned and held out her hand. •' No," said she humbly. "No ; though — though I almost think I understand ! Have I— has he — found one good friend ? Oh, Mr. Morland — don't you spoil your goodness ! Don't, ask me what I can't give ; and never can. . . . You are right ; I am Marion Furness ; and my father's life is mine. . . . Oh, what can I say ? " "Say, ' Yes,' " he said, taking the hand she gave him. "Never mind love, and all that r<»t. You need me — and I want you." She thought of that twilight scene on board the ^matra, and sighed klKG Ob KNAVE f 215 link I Mr. can't [•neBs ; In ever lighed I i— she almost smiled, as she drew her hand away. It did not, after ull, 1 geem a case in which a " No " was a cruel thing. '* I don't want— so much as that, to make me trust you," said she. '* I am never going to be anybody's wife ; and if I were —how could I I think of such nonsence— of such things, I mean, when. . . . Don't you understand ? You say you know who my father is. His life is I mine." If ho had not seen that she was as far above his offer as the sun is I above the moon, he must have been blind. Of course he, being a man, should have entreated with the servility which is in truth a command. Nor was Draycot Morland one t(» be content, in a common way, with a woman's "No." But ho was not without sensitiveness ; and the manner of Marion's "No"gr.vehim a chill. Perhaps the fuel, bla- I zing hot as it was, had not been really much more than straw. '* But that is just it — just what I mean," he argued. '* His life [must not be yours. He has no right to take your life and make it — God knows what it must be made. You mtts< be guarded. Don't you gee what this warrant means ? Only a return to his sentence — that is the form. But you and I know that things won't stop there. You know, and I, that the arrest of Adam Furness the convict will soon prove to be the arrest of the coiner of Upper Vane Street ; of the — I slayer — of Peter Petersen " " The more he has offended," said Marion, with a proud curl of the llip not far removed from scorn, " the more his life is mine. You have warned him — it is good of you. But don't let it be for my sake ! Help ime— to save him ! " She clasped her hands as she spoke, and looked up in his face with lintense appeal. A certain unwonted sense of humiliation made him [waver. Why should he transfer his aid from the girl whom he would Isave from Adam Furness to Adam Furness himself, to save a murderer Ifrom the arm of the law ? But the hesitation was not for long, before [the clasped hands and pleading eyes. " There is not much I can do," he said, ** except the only thing you [have refused. I could save you from him — but how a criminal frou) the llew ? And yet I will — if I can. Yes ; I will, Miss Vane, — Miss Fur- Iness ; I will not behave like a lover ; that is to say, like a seltish hun)- |bug ; I will behave — unlike one. Only we must look things in the face, lad see them as they are. It is true that your father is " " An escaped convict ? " said Marion proudly. '* It is true." '* And the head of a gang of coiners ? " "So I am told." '♦ And has " " Put to death a traitor, and a spy." " The law will not call it so. But — it will bo best, for you, to think bf it as you will. . . . One thing more. What has Heron's friend, juy Derwent, to do with your father's affairs ? " "Guy/" cried Marion. "Mr. Derwent? Nothing — nothing in lie world I " " It's do use my going to work in the dark : though of course I can't itk you to tell me more than you will — I am not here as a spy. Guy ;^''», m klNG Ob KNAVE '/ Dervvent is said to be ;< broad. I told you tli.-tt I had seen him, r.i ' wlieve : at that house in Vane Street. And, since that moment he ha.> never been seen again : not even his own clerk has heard of him : nobody has heard of him bub John Heron ; and he will say nothing. I confess myself in a fog. You say that, though you know Guy Derwent, he had nothing to do with your affairs. And I believe you — I need not say. But — in addition to his being a convict at large, a coiner, and a — all the rest, has he anything to fear in connection *^ith this myste- rious disappearance of which all Marchgrave is full ? . . . I must help you : I will ; but, in the dark, what can I do ? It was not for a full moment that Marion realized his meaning. But even before she realized it, and while he spoke, a mist, worse than mere darkness, fell over her eyes. She held out har hands as if clutch- ing after a hold to keep herself from falling. Morland stepped quickly towards her with a look of alarm : alarm so intense as to forget to become renewed suspicion of a darker kind. She knew, and she alone — what else could she think possible ?— the only reason that should bring Guy Derwent to Upper Vane Street. He must, in some wise, have traced her from the Clarence to the Green Cheese, from the Green Cheese to Euphrosyne Terrace, from Euphrosyne Terrice to Number Seventeen. And, in the course of such a sleuth-hound-like labour, he must needs have run Adam Fumess to earth as well — Adam Furness, who, for reasons no longer beyond discovering, good as well as evil, had been keeping his daughter hidden, and the secrets of Number Seventeen hidden more deeply still. What had Cynthia said — about what would befall one who, being neither ghost nor accomplice, should find his way within those doors ? The wordd had burned themselves into her brain. Her father's hand was, she knew, red with the blood of one inuruder. And how many more? She recovered herself with an effort ; but not one she could hide. "But — his friend — John Heron," she began. ' ' Says he is abroad. But it's my opinion John Heron knows no more about it than I. My belief is he thmks Guy Derwent has made a bolt, and doesn't want to make a scandal among the Heronites just at election-time. I, I — I'm afraid you knew Derwent well ? " " Yes — no But ask me nothing more. There is nobody can help us : and you least of all. Don't think I'm ungrateful," she said with a miserublc smile. "But there is only one thing you can ever do for me — for us. Go : and forget there are such people in the world. . . . Go at once, for God's sake 1 " she cried : for her strained nerves felt, rather than heard, the approach, of a slow and heavy tread along the road. He lingered ; wavered ; wondered if he should go or stay. But in her voice and gesture there was what had to be obeyed. And he had asked her to marry him. He felt as if he had been trying to court a Pythoness ; and for all his chivalry, and all his impudence, he shrank appalled. For she saw that she had given her life to a father who had slain bar lover : and that she herself was the cause an unnati KING OK KNAVE 1 217 CHAPTER XXIII. AT BAY. When Morland left her, Marion crouched into a corner of the room, and buried her face in her hands — too forlorn to moan. There are horrors that bring their own proofs ; and this was one. She thought she knew her father : she knew that she knew her lover — the stubborn violence of Adam ; ti.3 chivalrous courage of Guy. He had sought her in the robbers' den, and had met with the fate prepared for all honest men who crossed its threshold. It was no mere ghastly suspicion. Longing to disbelieve, she was overwhelmed with certainty that every least remembrance rendered more certain still. And this is the life to which she had vowed herself without reserve ; this was the gi'and revolt against tyranny and law. It came home to her as a poisoned dagger to the heart. And she was the cause ! If it had not been for her miserable self, Guy Derwent would even now be alive and happy ; her father would have been spared a crowning — nay, an unnatural crime — for what is more against nature, in the sight of woman, than blood between one she loves and one to whom she has sworn duty ? Such a crime as that rends her in twain. But what place have thoughts in an air that blinds the whole brain with a black and crimson glare ? For herself, Marion could only impotently wonder why she had ever been born to be a mere blind, hepless bond- slave of destiny, and to spread a curse around her wherever she might go. Not once since she had stepped from the deck of the Sumatra had one single thing happened to her of her own doing or of her own will — not even her flight from the Snells ; for there was nothing else that any girl could have done. Even her vow, she now desperately saw, had been ferced from her ; and how could it be kept — for it needed both will and heart to keep it : and the heart had been struct dead and the will had never been alive. I have said that she hurried Morland out of the cottage because she heard her father's footsteps upon the road. How that could be, I know not, nor can pretend to know, seeing that many miserable minutes passed before her fore-hearing proved true. There was more than time enough for Mtjrland to pass out without the meeting ; there was eternity enough for her to realise the whole horror that had befallen. But no doubt there are times when the whole being is strained to its uttermost, when the eye, the ear, and every organ of sense shares in the strain, and normal limits disappear. In such a state, however, the imagination reaches the extremity of tension too. As he entered, somewhat slowly and wearily, her eyes, by a sort of fascination, sought his right hand, as if expecting to see it stained with crimson. If he had been less self-absorbed, he must have 218 KING OR KNAVE 1 been struck by her icy paleness and her hopeless eyes, as, after glan- cing at his liand, she shraiik away. '^ Something has happened, at last," said he, sinking wearily into a chair. *' And it means — I give in," Even his voice sounded changed— either actually, or only to her own ears. Fortunately he did notice her silence. " There's a warrant out against me, which I've traced to the Snells. What they mean by it, I can't conceive — with everything to lose Ivy my capture, and nothing conceivable to gain. I had thought ot ridding the world of the rascal ; but it's too late now. It isn't worth wasting powder on such trumpery as revenge. And so — you don't know how hard it is, Marion — I give in." She heard, though scarcely listening ; but still she said no word. She was more than ever conscious of his power ; but it had become the power of turning her to stone. " So there goes the work of a life," said he. *' There's one creature nobody can fight against— and that's a Cur. . . . They've got the net fairly round me now, and there's no mouse to gnaw the ropes ; not even you — good girl as you are. They've left me only three things ; to fight on, and be beat ; to give in without fighting ; and— well, t« make the best of things — to save the pieces," he said, almost savagely, and yet with a shadowy suggestion of a smile. *' The pieces of a life ; of a wreck ; such as they are." Marion was still silent. " You once asked me why I did not leave the country," said he. "I could not tell you then ; and there is no reason for my telling you why I could not now. For that is what I mean to do. There will be com- motion enough — but what will that matter, after all ? I've never worked for fame ; and if the work has to fail, fame and name and all may go. What they may say of John — of Adam Furness, won't matter to some other man under some other name. ... I can carry enough away with me out of the hands of the Snells to live on, in the way I mean to live, beyond the sea. I want rest ; I want safety , They're the only things left me to get ; and wanting anything but what one can get "s fool's play. Marion, if I know anything of you — and something I've got to know, I hope and believe — you won't be sorry to know that you've saved me from the fourth thing left me : to blow out my brains. I've planned it all. We will carry this cottage — the only place where I've found a minute's peace for twenty years — to some country where nobody will know anything of me but that I'm a dull and highly respectable elderly widower, with respectable means, and a daughter that sticks to him like a burr. You shall paint ; and I will — sleep myself out, and, when I happen to be awake, look on. Th.it'B the whole programme ; and if some wise young man, who goes to church, and is a pattern of all the virtues, without being too much of a prig and too unbearable a bore -no ; I mean if he's both —wants you, and gets vou to want him, I'll give up even you if he undertakes never to Uve half-a-mile away." The p merely, "But my metl without world, watch e from Asl fault tha Was ]V to a disci been her "But to the lo loophole affairs ; i boat that Aske — fc been bac It's as sii He als and of re surrende Adam F been abk it needs what it 11 twenty 3 town. I prete may be tl for thems aid. He fall on M that the indeed, ii the respei or rather nation of as terribl murder, was only fly ; to tr of it no m sion of I annihilate And so wife (in n KING OR KNAVB ? 219 The petrification proceeded ; the statue was becoming not silent merely, but dumb " But the first thing is — to get there, wherever it may be. I have my methods of getting behind the police : behind the detectives goes without saying — Detective's another way of spelling Idiot, all over the world. I've given orders myself — I mean orders have been given — to watch every train that passes Marchgrave, and every ship that sails from Askness ; damn the place ! — or from there. Well — itfs not my fault that Marchjjrave tonnage will stand where it is " Was Marion dreaming, or was he wondering, that she was listening to a discourse on tonnage ? The doubt made her listen ; it must have been her wits that had been wandering in a dream. " But that's nothing more to you and me. . . . But they're not up to the loophole, Marion. They don't know any address ; and a single lc»ophole is as good as a barn door. ... I want a night to settle my affairs ; and then you must leave that big canvas of yours ; there's the boat that I bought with the cottage, and I'm sailor enough to cross the Aske — for the last time — take the train at Oldport (the warrant hasn't been backed there) for Milford ; and then — a new life in a new world. It's as simple as — as — blowing out one's brains. He also relapsed into silence, regarding, not her, but a visionary and <»f rest and peace, beyond the wooded hills. Was it John Heron surrendering wealth, honour, good name, life's purpose — or was it Adam Furness longing for the peace which John Heron had never been able to win ? Men of double lives may be able to surmise. But it needs the most passionate of enthusiasts to even dimly conceive what it meant to the man to resign what he had lived for through twenty years — not his own glory, but the splendour of his native town. I pretend not to imagine — this is a chronicle ; not a dream. But it may be there are some few who will bo able to imagine and to realize for themselves, and to others the skilfullest pen could give but scanty aid. He, at any rate, could picture to himself the frenzy that would fall on Marchgrave when it learned that John Heron had vanished, and that the great Dock scheme had been a fraud. Actually picture it indeed, in all its details, he did not dare : for the criminal who prized the respect of his fellow-townsmen more than life had not the courage, or rather the strength, to set it before him in full. Even the conster- nation of Alderman Sparrow, and the gossip of the Bell parlour, loomed as terrible things to one who had no very special scruples against murder. There is no human courage without its limits ; and there was only one way left to spare himself the sight of his own ruin — to fly ; to tteat it henceforth as if it did not exist, and if possible, to think of it no more. John Heron had signed the warrant for the apprehen- sion of Adam Furness ; and now Adam Furness must proceed to annihilate John Heron. And so complete must be the annihilation that even John Heron's wife (in name and belief) must be left to take her chance in the universal 220 KINQ OB KNAVE ? catastrophe. She had not married Adam Furnesa, even so much as in name ; and even if the need uf lale of acting an impossible stage part before her had not been compelling him to detest the very thought of her, he had heart and mercy enough left in him to spare her the dis- covery that instead of being n^erely the wife of a fraudulent banker she was actually the mistress of a man whose real calling was crime. . . . She had her settlement, and would not starve. So complete must be the separation of these two men that the anni- hilation of the Banker must amount less co his fraudulent flight than to his murder, for the sake of plunder, at the hands of the Criminal. So the matter took shape in Adam's mind. The public-spirited philanthropist, the great and wise citizen who only breathed for the welfare of his fellows, was already virtually slain — so his brain, rever- sing the normal process, felt ; while his heart argued : why should an Adam Furness strain at such a gnat as robbing the slain man ? His one self had issued the warrant to apprehend his second ; it only remained for his second to rob his iirst ; a bewildering but inevitable charade. And then, with this last crime, and this last flight, all would be over — the burden of the double life ; the strife between two irreconcilable enemies imprisoned together in a single body : the dread by night and the haunting terror by day. Marchgrave must no longer hope to rise, on the ruins of Askness, into rivalry with Liverpool, But he who dreamed that great dream, and laboured for it, and sinned for it would not be without such comfort as some hermit may have found in the desert when driven from a throne. And he would be even better off than the hermit, inasmuch as he would not be alone. Marion had devoted herself to him, while knowing the worst of him : it was she who had put it into his heart to pine for the peace that was now all Fate had left him ; and " She shall never repent it ! " he swore. The girl who thought herself the mere helpless waif of a miserable destiny, with neither control over her own life nor influence, sa\ e as an unwilling curse, over others, had not done anything very appreci- able as yet in the case of Adam. But an eflfect, heaven knows, need not be appreciable to be great and real ; or there would not have been many changes in the world for the last six thousand years. The man was repenting oi nothing but failure, and was still plotting ruin. But, none the less, the Adam Furness who was Marion's father was not the Adam whom her mother had feared and flown. True, she had done nothing — beyond letting him know that there was a world of which he might, at few and far off moments, have dimly dreamed, but had never seen. Meanwhile, Marion felt his presence with growing horror ; for every word he had spoken strengthened her certainty. A sort of fascination impelled her to put the question gnawing at her heart to some test ; but she could think of nont* short of putting it in so many words. And if she did that, it was not likely that a man like him would not know how to answer a girl ; whilo any attempt to put it indirectly wag ■■^ KING OR KNAVE ? 221 a thought, scarcely to be borne. It is rnt all in a moment that unac- customed fingers can nerve themscl'.to to open what they feel to be one of the portholes of hell. So she remained silent. But he did not observe her silence ; indeed, that was perhaps her crowning merit, that he could think at ease in her company, and be alone without feeling alone. " I came to warn you," he said presently ; " not to stay -and to rest a minute in the only spot I have ever found to rest in. Well— that will be over soon. Has anything happened since I have been here last time ? " It was as much as she could do to bring herself to speak ; but she had to answer. *' Yes," she said. " I knew you were to be arrested before you came." " You knew ? The police can't have been here — already ? No ! " *' It was not the police. It was a Mr. Murland, who is one of the candidates for Marchgrave. " She spoke as if she was repeating a lesson. But such an announce- ment, so coldly made, wsvs more than enough to make him deaf to a girl's tones, even had that sort of observation been the least in his line. " Morland ! What — He has been here ? Tell me instantly — there mayn't be a moment to lose ! Let me see how quickly you can tell me everything " " He helped me whe.. I was alone in London. I had known nothing of him before ; I hardly know how he came to help me ; but it somehow came out that we both knew " Her throat suddenly closed. " Quick ! " cried Adam fiercely. " You both knew " Guy Derwent ! " she said, with a clearness that amazed her — her eyes at first not daring to seek hia, for fear of seeing a murderer's conscience revealed in them ; but the next moment trying to pierce him through. "Then," cried Adam, "he lied? He no more knew — him, than - But go on. Well ? " " Afterwards, I met him by chance here, while I was sketching. We talked about pictures, and " i'And " ** Nothing more. I don't know why I didn't tell you : but " ** Never niind ' but * now. Go on." *' And to-day he found me out to tell me of this warrant, so that you might escape while there is time." " Did he tell you why he, or any respectable man, should busy him- self to help a criminal to escape the law ? " "That was what he told me," said Marion ; who could not have brought herself to say another word beyond what was still the duty to which she had made herself a slave. A look came into Adam's face that might have told her much had she ever seen some strong beast at bay. " X see. The Snells have carried their wares to Askness ; ay, and 222 KING OR KNAVE ? Askness knows they would be dirt cheap at seven times seventy thou- sand pounds I And so this is how Morland moans to win ! By God, he has done it well I Marion — whatever people may say of me, I'm the only nian on this infernal earth who isn't at once a coward and a But it's no good talking. . . It's not your fault, Marion. I should be sorry if you had V>een a match for a — Draycot Morland. Only, there's not a minute to loose. 1 must be grateful, I suppose, for being allowed to escape ; unless it'^ a trap. I suppose the business would look a bit ugly for the Snells and the Morlands and the Askness shippers when it leaked out, if they had me hanged. You'll have some- thing to do now. I'll be here in the morning somewhere about day- break. Be ready for starting. I'll look over the boat before I leave now. Don't take more things than you can carry ; we'll get everything you want elsewhere. I'll see to it that they don't strike to-night, even if Mr. Draycot Morland's warning was a blind." He turned to go ; but, when he reached the door, turned back again. » " Only one thing more. . . . Things may go wrong, even now. It may be a trap ; and knowing what they know, they may close in on me before morning. I must risk that ; but one must be prepared. If I'm not here — let me see — by nine o'clock, something will have gone wrong. In that case go to the station, take a ticket for Marchgrave — there's a train at 9.40. When you're there, drive to the bank in Chapter Lane, and ask to see Mr. Heron, And wherever you are told he is, there go. " Heron 1 How well she knew the name ; how often, even during their brief voyage together, had Guy spoken that name as that of the greatest and best of men. And now it was a further link betw^een Adam Furness and Guy. But what could she do ! It was becoming the ghastilest of nightmares, with no sign of waking. If she could only save her father from his fate by dying, she could have done it with ease and peace ; but to help him by living had become past bearing. Did he mean her to live with him and comfort him with her lover's death on his soul ? He must be a fiend. And yet she must do his bidding- she could see, though she could see nothing else, that her father was trusting her with his life, and that she was all he had to trust to. As for him, he had not Uie least intention of letting her into the secret of his double life unless under invincible necessity. But it was clear enough to his mind, as it would have been to anybody unaware of such remote forces as Mrs. Snell's jealousy and Draycot Morland's eccentricity, that, unable to defeat the King of Marchgrave by open fighting, the threatened interests of Askness had conspired to effect a sensational collapse on the eve of battle. He could see it all as clearly as if the plot had been his own. The Askness wire-pullers had been beating about for flaws in the record of their apparently unassailable enemy — the great respectability sham, he called to mind, had been the theme, of all Morland's electioneering speeches, of which the purpose had now become plain. By some infernal hook or crook, they had got hold of Wyndham Snell, or rather Wyndham SneU of them ; and he. finding and that accordai virtuous to Wync but it wi understa land, wi haps bei trusted not bein " to def< pool, an< the Kin descend He se since tha still? peace ; force of way befc poison, i instinct < tions wit stay and there wa into the luck to 1 knew. ] knowledj have to i without 1 Thent ing — too whom h< cottage t route fro He die maddeni; he was a He need) let himst out of th irons hac Indeed, catch an Then, work out Qow I KINO OR RNATR 1 223 finding that the Banker's resources were more limited than he thought, and that he cuuld make better terms with the other side, had acted in accordance with his character — so misunderstood may be even the most virtuous and honourable of professional men. It was bitterly unjust to Wyndham Snell, no doubt because he had done nothing of the kind, but it was the Doctor's doom to suffer unjustly — why, ho never could understand. Wyndham Snell knew where he was to be found : Mor- land, with a singular propensity for doing his own dirty work, or per- haps because that work was too delicate as well as too dirty to be trusted to jackals, had gone about to investigate that the Doctor was not being paid for nothing. *' Yes," thought the unh;bf)py enthusiast ; " to defeat Me and the Docks would be worth a fee that only Liver- pool, and Glasgow, and Askness all combined could afford to pay." So the King of Marchgrave was to be thrust from his throne, not to descend from it, after all. He set his teeth as he asked himself, on his way homeward, whether, since that was to be the case, whether it was not worth a battle— even still ? It was one thing to yield out of the new hunger for rest and peace ; it was quite another to give way to a paok of curs. All the force of his nature revolted at the idea. Though he did not yet see his way before him, unless he could invite all his enemien to a feast of poison, impossible in these English and degenerate days, it was this instinct of battle which had inspired him to leave alternative instruc- tions with Marion. If, as his whole nature demanded, he elected to stay and fight, he must have some one at his side he cuuld trust : and there was none but she. And— for such gamblers' notions will come into the wisest brains at such desperate hours — it might mean good luck to have on his side the only pure eyes and stainless fingers he knew. He would cut off his right hand sooner than trust her with full knowledge of his whole life : but his own Self told the other, he must have to do even that sooner than let his enemies triumph over him without a bite or a blow. The new Mayor of Marchgrave returned to the town late in the even- ing — too late, perhaps, to perceive that a certain shadowy person of whom he had been dimly conscious of passing on his way from the cottage to the station had ridden in the same train, and took the same route from Marchgrave Station to Chapter Lane. He did not go home to the Cedars. Kate would have been more maddening than ever with her affectionate questioning : and, besides, he was about to do her a necessary, but not the less infamous, vrong. He needed solitude for his plans, and for sometliing else besides ; so he let himself into his bank with his private key. There was nothing very out of the way in that, at any hour of the night : a man with so many irons had to do, as a matter of course, hundreds of unseasonable things. Indeed, he occasionally slept there if he had heavy work and had to catch an early train. Then, having lifted his lamp, his Worship the Mayor sat down to work out his plans. ^ow much was kpowii to his enemies ? The warrant, the first he 224 KINO OR KNAVB ? had signed since his election to the civic chair, was merely for being at large during his sentence for forgery. Had VVyndhani Snell sold his suspicions as well as his knowledge I Probably not : because the crime •ot out in the warrant wly denied his identity with Adam Fumess, the forger, and brazoned things out. How could that identity 1)6 proved ? His wife was dead ; and which would be credited — his lopute, or the oath of Dr. Snell ? Only then, if the doctor were cor- nered, he wouH bring out his identifitation of the forger and the mayor with the suspected coiner ; and though his oath might be of small account, not even the detectives could fail to be set upon the traces ; and tliore was the notorious evidence of the wounded arm ; and, above nil tilings, there was Draycot Morland, who, not being a detective, was to be really feared. It was a complicated matter, and he, whose brain was so proverbially clear in the affairs of others, became confused when anxiously applied to his own. So he allowed his mind a certain time wherein to clear itself and strip for combat ; and applied himself to the easier labour of examining, by means of his private books, how much capital he could contrive to carry with him abroad. This led to the opening of certain safes, and the inspection and coUectioi; of sundry bank notes and negotiable securities which, in the agi;regate, allowing a margin for what would be useless plunder, made a more than respectable sum, including the gold kept to meet ordinary demands. For a banker to rob himself — that is to say, his customers — is not an easy matter, if done in a direct and unfinancial way ; but John Heron — or rather Adam Fumeas, who was robbing John Heron — had the advantage of concentrating the bank in his own person, so that the work was somewhat less difficult than it might in the uiajority of cases have been. And, thus far, the work was one of calculation only — a mere stocktaking. Actual conveyance was yet to come. A great deal could be done — enough, at any rate, for peace and com- fort beyond the seas. The philanthropist felt no compunction at the idea of plundering his fellow-townsmen, though he would willingly have gone to the stake for their profit and glory in his own way ; and in great things, not in small. Indeed, so completely had the man become two, that Adam Furness could feel no possible scruple over plundering the customers of John Heron. No, if that separation of persons, actual though it was, seemed too violent for belief on the part of those whose lives are, happily, one — then be it that if the Docks were gone, all was gone ; it mattered nothing to the Fanatic what became of Marchgrave, or its people, or all else in the world. Then, once more, he returned, his brain strengthened by Arithmetic, to the crucial question- tight or fly. " Adiun Furneas ! " came a consumptive sigh through the dim lamp- light from a corner of the roomt ■• It. KING OR KNATB f 225 at The Banker hastily cloned the ledger before him, and started from his chair. Had he been trapped at last ? But in the name of every terrible wonder, how? " You are a tyrant and a traitor ? '* cried the voice, coming nearer. •' But your time has come ! I am Stephen Ray — and it is my hour ! " Snell — Morland — Ray ! For a moment the coolest brain in Europe turned hot and reeled. But it was for a moment alone. Had the moment for biting come? Then so be it — Adam Fumess was John Heron. "Who are you? How did you come in ? What are you doing here ? " asked the mayor — sharply and sternly, and not as one afraid. " Who am I ? Stephen Ray. How did I come in ? I shouldn't have thought Adam Fumess would have needed to ask how one enters a door when the owner pockets a key ; and anybody else has fingers— liku these. Feel in your pocket ; and if you miss a key — look in mine, if the things you call fingers can find their way. What am 1 doing here ? What are youf" " You mean you havo picked my pocket. I see. Well — the next time you try to rob a bank, make sure that the banker's away." He threw open the window. " There — I've left you a way out. Now, my poor fellow, will you take it, or will you tell me all about yourself ? I've often wanted to interview a London burglar — you're from London, of course ? I'm interested, as a magistrate, in — Crime ; and 1 don't want to call the police, unless I'm obliged." He felt his heart beating hard ; but his voice was firm as a rock, and clear as a bell. For a moment Stephen Ray almost cringed — such was his captain's power. But he had not come to cringe. " You are Adam Furness. And only yesterday I saw you sitting on the bench — you — I understand now ; thief-taker ; informer ; traitor ; spy ! " " I don't understand," said John Heron, with sarcastic politeness, even while the sweat rolled from his brow. " Adam Furness ? I never heard the name. And if I were Adam Furness — I wonder if Adam Fumess, whoever he is, would keep his hand from your throat. I wonder — if I were to send you through that window, whether it wouldn't be a shorter way than calling a constable. As I don't want to be troubled, you may go " The rrtist looked round him — somewhat feebly. But, sudden as a cat, he made a spring. '• As you to Petersen, so I to you — sic semper tyrannis ! " * he cried, while a sudden knife gleamed in his hand. *' Bah ! Idiot ! " cried John Heron, grasping both the intruder's wristd as in a vice of steel. " 1 know what I have to do with now — so * " Thus ever to tyrants ! " So said Wilkes Booth when he assassinated Mr. Lincoln. Wilkes must (and it is likely enough) have been acquainted with Mr. Ray. (16) 226 KTNG OR KNAVE? they can't beat me without killing ! Then I know where I am. Be oflf with you ; your niiisters wouldn't hire knives if they knew a better way. So — there ! " The fall of Stephen Ray on the rough pebbles outside was the one thing needed to steady and bring to its bearings the brain of John Heron. They had readied, then, the root of the matter, or they would not have hired the knife of Stephen Ray. And so — war ! Of course the man might have been a midnight robber, who saw a miraci^lous chance for plundering one who dared not resist plunder ; he might have been simply crazy with self-conceit and a greivance against the universe which, concentrated on a single object, called for blood rather then plunder, or, at any rate, for a combination of the two. But the prompt action of the Banker was inspired by what filled his own mind. He closed the window — he had no fear of that creature at any rate, dead or alive. If dead, all the better ; if alive it was not worth while to turn aside from the onset of the hounds in order to trample out a worm. Cooled and steadied by action, he turned to his letters. All were on ordinary business except one And thus, engaged in calculating the robbery of his own bank, and having by violence renewed his strength for a last desperate struggle against the law of the land, the convict by status, the coiner by calling, who had fittud himself to pass from the hulks to the gallows, received a gracious intimation that a baronetcy was not considered more than was due to the philanthropic services of the new Mayor of Marchgrave, who had set an illustrious example to every citizen of every town of the realm. He could not help a grim smile ; he of all men to be entitled to display the Bloody Hand ! But there waT no need of the badge of Ulster ; Stephen Ray's knife had already reddened once more the hand that had scarce r^^covered from that of Peter Petersen. If John Heron had earned the badge of Baronet, Adam Furness nad won it too. Their partnership would not dissolve. CHAPTER XXiy. A NEW SORT OF FUN, There was sensation the next day in Marchgrave. When ]\^r. Prendergast, now grown thoroughly anxious about his missing master, went down to the office, he had occasion to pass the Guildhall, round which a little crowd, early though it was, had gathered — an excited crowd. ** Shame 1 " cried one. . ** The cowardly blackguards ! " KING OR KNAVE 1 227 Hip— hip — hip- " Three cheers for Heron ** Three groans for " Then in the midst of a chaos of cheers and groans, Mr. Prendergast thrust his way in, put on his spectacles, and saw a large sheet nailed over the hall door. It bore a nnisterly portrait of John Heren himself, done in coloured crayons ; and underneath was written, in huge capitals, increasing in size as they decended : Electors of Marchgrave ! Vote for this MAGISTKATB ; TYRANT ; TRAITOR ; INFORMER ; THIEF ; bigamist ; convict; , • COINER ; SWINDLER ; FOROER ; MURDERER, MAYOR ! "Great heaven! It's sacrilege ! " exclaimed Alderman Sparrow, recognising Mr. Prendergast in the growing crowd, w^hich by this time consisted of all sorts and conditions of men. " It's worse than that — its Actionable ! " said an articled clerk standing by. " Morland never had this done — that I'll swear," said somebody, whose hat was promptly smashed over his eyes, while three more groans for Murland went up as from one man. '* It ia bad to call a man a murderer," said Mr. Prendergast. **A man who calls another a murderer ought to be hung." " This is a case for strong measures," said the alderman ; *' for mea- sures very prompt and very str:)ng indeed. In fact, we must have no half measures. We must have this sacrilegious— this " "Actionable," pr«)nipted the articled cler!:. "This sacrilegious and actionable insult to a great and good man — Taken Down ! " The alderjnan spoke with stern determination. And forthwith, by a law of ni;turo that has hitherto baffled investigation, but never fails to provide a crovvd with whatever it wants, from dead dogs and rotton eggi) upwards or downwanls, a ladder sprang into exiutence, and a man upon the ladder. An angry cheer rent the air. And it would have gone wrong with that work of art had not a big voice called out : " Slop there— hold ! " Every creature in Marchgrave knew the voice of John Heron. " What is all this a'oout ? " asked he. Fifty forefmgers pointed the answer : a hundred eyes were upon the man who knew that every word below the portrait was True 228 KINO OR KNAVR t He read it without a change of countenance, every word. He saw himself at last, and for the first time, advertised to his fellow-uiti/.uiiH in his true colours ; but he also saw another stroke on the part of tlie enemy, and all the battle in him turned his nerves to steel. And ho also knew that there wiis only one hand in England capable of thub masterly outline — that of the worm who had turned against him in the person of Stephen Ray. " Leave it alone," said he. **My dear Heron 1 '• protested the alderman. ** What — leave that infamous libel — alone ! " '* What else ? " asked Heron aloud, so that everybody could hear. ** We've never yet taken notice of anything our opponents do ; and we won't begin now. If a man want^ to make you angry, disappoint him. I wish this thing to remain, for all the world to see to what shifts our opponents are driven. If they had a chance of winning, they wouldn't throw away that chance by libels and lies. I don t think anybody who looks at that picture on his way to the poll will waver as to whom he'll vote for. Besides, it would be a thousand pities to hurt so admirable a portrait. When the election's over I'll have it framed and hang it up in The Cedars — and if I can find the artist " '* Pitch him into the new Docks, John ! " cried a voice of the crowd. John smiled grimly. "No. He's a Genius. He shall paint the portrait of Mr. Draycot IVforland after the poll." " Ay, John ! With black for the eyes and blood for the nose — and not a rag on his dirty carcase ;" and there went up the ugliest sound on earth — the laugh of a crowd that means mischief. John Heron had not said a word to excite it ; and yet it had come. He had acquired a 8tran^ he wants a bit of somebody's, sir," said a grocer who had in early ''■!» ^cen fined for playing tricks with weights and scales, and had theirr-uc put himself on Morland's committee. " He's in hospital ; tumbled down in putting up that bill about the mayor, no doubt, and picked up with a broken back in Chapter Lane." * Tlio deuce ! " exclaimed Morland, wishing that even there had been Stephen Ray before he had ever been brought down to March- gnwe. " Well — they'll hardly kill one in the hospital so long as one isn't a patient with a disease that them hungry for a post mortem. I can go there." " So long," said Mr. Sharpo, "as you don't go past the Guildhall." For almost the first time in his life, Dmycot Morland felt small. He could see for himself that the placard would tell bitterly against him, and that it was his own fault for bringing down a (ienius to Uxke part in practical affairs. But why "Coiner?" He had traced the connec- no RING OH KNAVR f tion betwt^on Mnrion i\\\*\ Ahn Horon'H conteinpt, he wovdil liavo n-opivod 8Mnu«thiiiy moiv than a n;ii>an. Thomoau ho did vooi'ivo: and it did n at the portrail. Ho wan a hettoi' !iit critio than Mr. rri'ndiM'jiant or than AUlernuin Spartow ; inul there was no qvieBtion of ita exoeUence. it was not a oarieaitn-e ; and yet it wore an expiVBsion that oonhi not poRsihIy haveheen familiar to Marchmavo. Every feature waB exaet, to an extent that waa haiely credihUi, even in the oaBe of (ieniuB, withojit \o\\^ and careful Rt\idy. Hut there was a aufr- gi>Rtion of whatnouiortal hadever ideiititled wilh.lohn Ilercm — hypocrisy and fear. Every artist, of c<>urBe. knowa the trick of making any face expivsR anything he pleases. Uut not every artist knows how to do this without at least a touch of caricat\n-e. " It looks like a sanctitied devil ! " th-uj^ht Morland. " It's what I felt ah»)ut Heron fn>m the hejiiiuiing only this fellow has put into lines what 1 could never have put into wortls." Arrived at the hospital of whiih dohti Hervm was the sGCOml founder and principal supporter, he was told that what ho had heard was |)cr- feotlv accurate -a patient, precisely answering to the description of 8teplu»n Hay, had hccn hrou^ht in by two constahles in the early morning, and was lying seriously injurca in one of the wards. At least not so very seriously, hut still hadly, and with tnuch nutre fever about him than his injm-ies could accou\it for. There was wo f)bjectioi\ to Morland's seeini hiu\ quite the contrary ; but the visitor, while treated |>»ditely, was conscious all the while that he was bcitig received by the 8Ui\jcon in charge of the house with anything but open arms. " It's a mysterious sort of business," saitl the surgeon in charge. " Why ? " asked Morland, as he was being conducted to the ward. *' He was found lying as if he had fallen from a height ; and just ont«ide Mr. Heron's bank. He was \>erfectly sober, I expect it's just a chance that ho tinnble«l off the bank coping instead of " " Where ?" asked Morland. "Well say the (Guildhall." Naturally the surgeon was a strong Hor«>nite, and had hoani the news of the day. When they entered the ward, an assistant and a nurae were by the patient s bedside. '* Well ? "' asked the sui^eon, taking the assistant asid . It was plain to see that Stephen Way was in a high stage of fever. Morland had been a great freqaentor of hospitals, and had for some time studied medicine and surgery with what he called seriousness, ms a necessary de]\trtment of human nature. Fever was tangible in the harsh skin— visible in the glowing eyes, that glared at him without recognition as he bent over him. " What do you think of him ?" .asked Morland gravely. **I'll t«ll you exactly what I thmk of your— friend," said the surgeon kind OR rnavh) 231 Holiiiedly. " T<» lu-^in with, liin nttifitifiition wftfl iiovor worth a yoftr's nurehnfie ; ntid I doiiltf, if ho'n ^ofc tiKne than half h lung. If h« hndn'fc iieei; ho ii|jhl a woi^ht ho'd hnv^^ hrnkeii hin iim^k ; nn ii in, he han had II violent nliock to the HyHtciii which Hhr he any r«OationH, your itieiul y If 8o, they ouuhl tn ho Boiit for, " Tyrant Traitor Thief/" couched and Bjdntterod the patient. " Bo tliere you ait in yimr R(;arlet kmwii, do you '/ '\nd leave thoae who have made you rich to be han^ed ! " '• H'ni I" grunted the surgeon. " Not nitudi doubt, 1 think, who did that little bit of electioneering at the (luildhidl." •' Yes Adam Ftniiess, the (Joiner I There he stands seize him. Itofore more murder's done I " He sank back as he screamed out with such strength ns he hud left ; but his eyes and bin finger were p<>intedly fixed at one who th'.-n jtint entered, " Seize him - Adam Furness, t^o Oniner ? " ho cried ngnin. '• Poor fellow I " said .fohn Heron, nodding tf» the docfofs, and bow- ing to Mnrland slightly and coldly. " Ah 1 thought no sane human creature could have posted that placard. Poor fellow I s(>(v Do you think ytm'll pull him through, Williams i What name was he saying - Auam Furness? Perhaps you will ask Mr. Morlatid if hv knows the name '/ " Nothing could have been kinder than the bunkers bearing — nothing more dignified. Morland himself felt shamed out of his vague suspi- citMiB. Suddenly SteplnMi Hay broke n of this jjoor fellow here, and to accpiit you of all complicity in an act of simple lunacy, and nothing more." Ho spoke without flinching, looking Morland straight in the eyes. Yet it was a moment of agonised HuapeiiHe -it was a tent whether his identity had been discovered by his enon)ie8. If it haoecho8 " "Oh. speech is free. Say what you liko-T never read a wf)rd of it," said John Heron, who had to say something to account for a smile of triumph that ho was unable to restrain. 232 KING OR KNAVE ? After all, the jdea of letting the ravings of a crazy vagabond reflect for a moment upon the Mayor of Marchgrave, whose statue was waiiiny to be unveiled, and of whom it had got about that the new meuiber was henceforth "Sir" John Heron. Sir John lost nothing by his kindly visit to the stranger, whom everybody now knew to be the author of that monstrous libel ; nor, somehow, though he was good as his word in expressing his belief in the good faith of Draycot Morland, did the unpopular candidate gain much from this more than generous advocacy. As Mr. Alderman Sparrow pointedly put it : " Sane men don't hire lunatics to do their dirty work without uncommon good reason why." In the course of the next afternoon another visitor arrived at the hospital tor ►Stephen Ray. This was a pretty little woman, dressed in black, with big eyes, and quick but not altogether unladylike ways. " I read in the country news of a London paper," she explained to the sui'geon in charge, of an accident at Marchgrave ; and, as the description answered to a missing friend — relative — of mine, 1 took the next train, and hurried down. ... Is he — very, very ill ? " The young lady, or young " person " — the doctor was unable to decide which — noticed enough anxiety in the question to make him more reticent about the patient's state than he had been before strangers. "He is a good deal shaken in mind and body," he >aid. " But I am glad somebody is here to claim him. Of course you know his name ! " ♦' What does he call himself ? " •'Stephen Ray." *' A^i — that is he 1 Lot me see him at once " ** Certainly. You say he is a relation of yours ? " "Yes. . . . He vnll get \fe\l" *' We have done what we could. But — as you are not his wife — it is an anxious case. By the way, has he ever, to your knowledge of him, been strange at all in his ways ? " , ^ " Of course he has— he is a Genius ! " said she. The fever had certainly lessened — indeed it always left him some- what prostrate in the afternoon. The young woman went straight to the bed, and laid her hand on his brow. " Stephen, d(m't you know Me ?" He turned feebly on his pillow and glared. ♦' Don't I, though I " said he. '* And what do you mean," she said sharply, taking somewhat ungene- rous advantage of the superiority of a healthy youag woman over a help- less man. "What the douce — I mean what the something mild and proper — do you mean by going rambling about and getting into mischief all alone ? " " Freedom — Liberty 1 " he moaned. "Oh ! Freedom to make a fool of yourself — Liberty to tumble oif ladders 1 " said she. " Oh, Stephen— are you very, very ill ? " KING OR KNAVE ? 233 ** Hush ! No ! I was : but they've got to think so, still." " Why — if you're not very ill, I'll give you a bit of my mind. But why have they got to think so ? What's your game ? Oh, dear, that's slang ! " . "And what .of that?" "Why, that I've found out at last what's right and what's wrong. And slang's wrong. Not so wrong as swearing ; but infernally improper, all the same." " Hanged if you haven't been lagged, Cynthia, and been nobbled by the Devil-dodger ! " said the Genius. " Lagged — I ! As if the Bob — police-constable were born that would ever lag Me ! The idea ! And as for Devil-dodger, I don't know what you mean," " The gaol parson," he sneered. "Stephen," said Cynthia severely. "There's no sort of Fun in talking that way — no Fun at all." "Fun!" "Yes, Stephen, Fun. We're going to be good, Stephen. And that's the biggest Lark in the world." " Rot. You asked me my game just now. What's yours ? " " Stephen," said Cynthia, with a grave smile, as she stroked back his hair, "you know how bothered I was about things ! You remem- ber Marion ! " " What of her ? " " You made me just mad with jealousy. Yes ; that's a rum thing for a woman to own up to ; but you did, and it's true. I just hated that girl. Why did you like her ? For you did like her ; and don't tell me you didn't, because I know. No — you needn't answer. I know why. She was good ; and 'twas she that made me think about right and wrong. Well, I was bothered. She hadn't half my wits ; and I don't believe she can see clear a yard before her nose. I don't believe she knew a good sovereign from a Hanover token. But then she wouldn't have given the token for a sovereign ; she'd have took it ; and that mn/lc me so that I didn't know which W4is my head and which were my hula' "Dian'tyou?" " No. Then I thought to myself, what Fun it would be to get hold of a few young girls, and bring them up to be like Marion, and not like me I/' She might have had tact enough to see that she was worrying him, as he lay there at her mercy ; but she showed none. "It seems to me, before one teaches, one's got to learn," he said, with another sneer. " Oh— and wait to begui till I'm Eighty-five I A lot of Fun that would be 1 " ••Well?" " Well, I got myself up like a Quaker, and made a call on those two old maids at Number Ei<{hteen. 1 told them I wanted to start a house I where a few poor friendless girls could find a home. I didn't know Jt >;' V 4' m klJiQ OR KNAVB f where else to go to, you see. I came over them — trust me 1 By — no, not ' by ' ; I moan I could have passed a whole mint of sham shillings on them before I'd done. Yes, Stephen, I do beat that Marion of yours in one thing ; no, in two— Tongue and Brains. They're going to help, and to send the hat round besides. And where do you think we're going to set up our School ? " *' How should / know ? " " Number Seventeen / " "What!" " Number Seventeen. It's to let dirt cheap from the ground landlord ; we can have it for as long a term as we please. Just think, wl^at Fun it will be. Me — for I'm to be manageress, of course — teaching a lot of poor young girls to be just as unlike myself as I can mike them. Oh, I can do it — no mistake there ! You see, I know the bad side of things, and that gives me a long pull over them that know none but the good Ride. And now for the biggest Fun of all ! " " Well ? " " You shall teach the girls to— draw ! " The girl spoke with the utmost gravity. And, after all, I do nol know that tliere was anything more absurd in her notion than in seventy- nine philanthropic schemes out of every eighty-two ; it is best to be strictly statistical about such things. " What's really the matter with you, Cynthia ? " asked Stephen. " Oh — I've been thinking ; and I've got to think that to be thrown into a music-hall ballet, and then to get her living as a smasher's decoy, alone among a lot of gaol-birds, with a murder thrown in now and then for a change, isn't quite the best sort of life for a girl in a general way." "Indeed. It seemed to suit you." " No it didn't. I used to think so — and so did Cox's pig. That was one of the things that made me hate that Marion of yours till I wanted to strangle her. I'm going to make a regular breed of Marions — girls that don't know wrong from right — not like me, because they've never tried what's right ; but like her, because they'll never have tried tho wrong." " You've turned saint, then ? " " I'm going to make other girls so — if I can. And of course I can. Adam Furness used to say I could always do anything I pleased. And that's the fun of it — a young woman like me that knows all the ropes going in for this work How those old maids at Number Eighteen would stare if they knew ! " " Cynthia 1 what's your screw ? " ♦'My " " What do you get by it .? " "Nothing." " How are you to live, then ? " " Oh, we shall work ; we shall make things, and sell them. And then there'll be voluntary contributions— there's always voluntary con tributions — and private theatricals and bazaars. " ♦ KINO OR KNAVE ) 235 aid boll '•Voluntary contributions, eh? You'd better have an interview with a great philanthropist that hangs out in this very town, running over with money and charity. As you're come down to the begging lay, you'd belter go and see Mr. John Heron." ''■ 1 will. It's a big work, this is going to be ; and we must get what we can. But oh, Stephen, I do so wish I could get you to understand i When you went off by yourself, I was that mad, I swore (I hadn't given up swearing then) that I'd never see you nor speak to you again. But when I started this plan, it made me feel like bringing you up properly too, and making you comfortable, so that you could be the great man y'>u ought to be and can be ; and when I read of your accident — well, here I am. You can't do without Me, aftar all ! No, Stephen, you can't ; so it's no use for you to try. . . . Just think how splendid it will be ! I'll nurse you well in no time ; and the very minute you're strong enough I'll take you back to town." " All right," said he wearily. ** What name are you going by now ? " *' Mrs. Stephen, Matron of the Institution for the Transformation of Weeds into Flowers." " Ex-lady Superintendent of the Institution for the Transformation of Real Pewter into Sham Gold. Well it's a queer world ; and when I've settled a certain score with it, the sooner I m out of it " " No. You're going to be Good. And But what score ? " *' Never you mind. I'm going to sleep ; your chatter has made my brain burn like " " Hush ! " said she laying her hand on his brow. The arrival of Cynthia certainly seemed to have marvellously calmed him, and it was noticed that he never again repeated the craze of con- founding the Mayor with some unknown or imaginary enemy. Indeed, since yesterday morning the name of Adam Furness never again passed his lips. Yet there was something unsatisfactory about his calmness ; it had made an uncomfortable impression on the mind of the house-sur- geon, who fancied he could detect symptoms of the madman's cunning in his sudden reticence and apathy. But then the patient had already proved himself (juite mad enough for everything he did or did not do to serve for confirmation. Cyntliia had a long talk with the doctor on the case, in the course of which she interested him warmly in her project for the conversion of human weeds into flowers. She was not in the least like the conven- tional lady philanthropist ; she was at once business-like and enthusi- astic, and with a peculiar piquancy about her perhaps better calculated to charm a man than attract a woman. If he had any suspicion that she might once have been something of a weed herself, she had been an unquestionably pretty one — say the sort of weed called wild flower. In fine, so interested was he that he promised to speak to his friend Sir John about it, who, though he devoted his philanthropic energies to his native city, might, under such special circumstances, give a helping hand. " f must run back to town for to-night and to-morrow morning," said she, " if I can. I have to go over the house we have taken for 236 KINO OR KNAVE f our work ; an interesting house," she said, with impudent demnrenets, '* as having been the scene of a great crime. It is said to be ghost- ridden, too; so we get it very cheaply — indeed, almost for nothing." *' I hope your girls won't be scared off by the ghosts, Mrs. Stephen." "The first thing lam going to teach them," said she, "is to be brave. Nobody can be good for anything who isn't brave. . . . Can I safely leave him, do you think, for four-and-twenty hours ? " "Certainly. There is no danger of that V;nd. Of course he was already receiving every attention ; and afte; vhat you have been tell- ing me, the attention will not be lessened, you may be sure. May I offer you a guinea towards the expenses of your work ? I wish I could afford more." "And 1 wish you could, too," said Cynthia, thanking him with a bright smile, " for I am very, very greedy for my weeds that are to be. And when I come back, I may see your friend — I forget his name." " Sir John Heron. We are all proud of Sir John Heron. He is our Mayor : he has just been made a Baronet : he will be our Member he is creating the new Docks ; he is a very great and very good man." " Then," said Cynthia, " he is the very man for me." There could be no question of the sincerity of this strange young woman. Thorough in all things, her conversion — if such it can be called — was as violent as it was sudden. She was as earnest and as singlehearted in her new passion for keeping other girls out of her own mischiefs as she had been in passing bad money ; and I doubt if any- thing beyond high spirits, a craving for constant excitement, and a hunger for enjoying life to the utmost, was really at the bottom of her own transformation. Unless, indeed, there was Marion — the girl who believed herself to be without influence upon a human life ; not even upon her own. She was proud of having gained that guinea — her first honest one. " I believe poor Stephen got into Burglary at Marchgrave just that I might get to know this wonderful Mayoi-. It ifc wonderful how one thing leads to another, to be sure. Oh, what can I do to keep him ov* of mischief ! He is a trouble— more trouble than a hundred girlj, poor dear things, will ever be. I have it ! He must be the head of another institution for boys ; he could look after the bojs, and I could look after him, and see that the boys didn't lead their teacher astray. But that's nonsense, I suppose. ... Oh dear ! J. don't believe that I'm really fond of him, any more. I suppose I must give him teaching work ; and sit in the room all the time. But he'll have to understand that the first time he gets into trouble, out he goes. Oh, dear me ! Geniuses are provoking things." She did not know Marchgrave ; and was therefore less struck with the appearance of those usually Ueepy streets, as she passed through them on her way to the station, than she would otherwise have been. Unmistakable roughs were about— not of the heavy Marchgrave pat- tern, nor sailors from the docks, but men looking like navvies out of work, whose boots were plastered with the mud of the river on which Askness lay. They were peaceable enough, loafing about in knots, KINO OH KNAVE? 237 and staring at the passers-by. But they had evidently no business in the place ; and their presence had a threatening look in sight oi orderly citizens like Mr. Prendergast and Alderman Sparrow — a result that Mr. Sharpe quite possibly had in his mind, when bethinking himself that, thanks to Stephen Ray, the unpopular candidate might require a bodyguard. Cynthia's train was just starting for town when, giving a last glance out of the window, she started at the figure of a girl passing quickly along the platform. She leaned out, and looked eagerly ; but at that moment the whistle sounded, and both train and girl were off and gone. ' ii CHAPTER XXV. OTNTUIA AT HOME. It seemed to Cynthia as if she had caught a vision of Marion Furness before the train whirled away — of the very girl of whom she had been thinking ever since they had parted in London. Nor was Cynthia on- to suspect herself of optical illusions. With her, seeing was believing. And being, as I have said before, just twice as curious as a magpie, ■eeing with her did not mean merely believing, but also wondering How and Why. Circumstance had made her a thief ; but Nature a detective. How had Marion Furness come to Marchgrave Station ? Why had she come there ? What was she doing ? And, be it remem- Ibered, Marion was the most interesting creature to Cynthia in the 1 world. ** Change for Askness and Askholm ! " cried the porter at the tirst I junction, where a solitary passenger entered her hitherto empty I carriage. Cynthia never forgot anything. She would notice a speck of iron- I mould on a white dress, and remember its exact shape and position for years. Askholm : that was the name of the station where she had I been summoned to meet Adam Furness, and whither she had sent I Marion as her deputy. And Stephen Ray was in trouble at March- I grave — hard by ! " He's not left the country, then. He's taken to burglary ; and he's Igot hold of Stephen. And he's got hold of Marion, too. She'll come Ito ruin among them as sure as she's alive. And Stephen — oh, the IFooI 1 " She gave a mental stamp; and possibly a more actual one. For [temper was still one of her weaknesses ; and conversion, however [complete, is not incompatible with the old leaven of jealousy. And at Ithe same time it came upon her as a sort of shock that the girl towards Ivhom she felt with mingled jealousy, hatred, and almost possionate Korship, was becoming what Cynthia herself had been. 9M KINO OR KNAVE? ** And she won't like me, either. She hasn't <{ot her wits always bristling like niu. She's so innocent that over shu 11 go -clean. She won't do what's wrong for fun. She'll do it because — because — she's She," thought Cynthia, stumblingabout in a psychological quagtniru. "I know that sort of girl. When they go, they do go, and no mistake ! It's time I turneil up to keep a few dozen of them safe from the men, and the women that s worse than all the men together. I must got hold of Marion. She shan't have anything to do with Adam, who'd make a devil out of a grasshoppur ; and she shan't have anything to do with Stephen, that inf Oh, hang and confound it all — I mean that very silly man. She must be a Weed ! " " A (Ine morning, miss," said her fellow-passenger. Of course, even while absorbed in her own thoughts, she had obser- ved every hair in his carefully -arranged whiskers, and even the W.S., M.D., in spotless white letters on his brand-new valise. She could have told to a penny what he had given for his hat, and could even have made a very fair guess at the name of his bootmaker. '* Very, sir," said she in her demure style. W.S., M.D., plumed himself after the manner of some men and all cock birds in the presence of a fairly presentable hen. *' Going all the way to town ? " Of course a lady would have snubbed him, for there was imperti- nence in his manner, if not in his words. But Cynthia would not have even called herself one. " All the way," said she. I see you got in at the station for Aak- holm. I believe it's very pretty about there ? " " Not so pretty as about here," said he, with a smirk and a bow. *' Nor, I expect, so cool," said Cynthia, more demurely still. " Cool ? Oh — I see ! Capital ! Meaning me ? Oh, 1 can be warm enough, when I please." *' Most people can," she said, icily. *' When they please, Doctor —Smith, 1 think, of Askholm ? " She knew the meaning of M.D., and that W.S. is at least as likely to stand for William Smith as for any other name. What she wantid was to put herself en rapport with Askholm ; and to make a mistake was as good as any other way. " By Jove ! It's odd you should spot my profession, though. But I'm not Smith — not even Smith, of Pig^ot's Town. But — by Jove ! Aren't you Mademoitselle Cynthia, of the Pelican ? Here's luck, by Jove ! " " I beg your pardon, sir. I am Mrs. Stephen, Lady Superintendent of the Home for the Cultivation of Weeds." " Of the— what ? " '* Of the Home for the Cultivation of Weeds — into Flowers. Volun- tary contributions thankfully received. Perhaps, as an M. D. , you are acquainted with Dr. Williams, of Marchgrave ? Or with Sir John Heron?" "^Sir John Heron ? Rather ! . . . But 1 owe you a thousand apolo- j{ie8, madam, for mistaking you for a young person who, between you and KINO OR KNAVE T 239 I, is — well, say no better than she should be. We doctors are brought into unavoidable and involuntary relation with all sorts of people, ^on't you know, high and low. One day a marchioness ; another, a creature at a music hall . . . Your admirable institution is pro- vided, no doubt, with a medical man? No 7 Well, there's no harm in giving my name and address, my dear madam. My card — Wynd- ham Snell, M.D., M.R.C.S. — never mind the address. That's purely temporary. I'm just moving into Upper Vane Street ; or else Park Lane. But, if any emergency in your noble institution MhmUd arise, a telegram to Euphrosyne Terrace, Belvedere Road, Piggot's Town, would bring me, I am sure, on the wings of the wind. The Countess of — H'm — the Marchioness of — Hah ! — mine's a lady's practice ; and though I say it that shouldn't, I may say, between our two selves, that I'm waiting daily to attend the very Highest, or next to it, in the Land." Wyndham Snell I The very man, the very place, whence Marion had been escaping when she fainted away in Eastwood Square. And he coming from the very place where she was now ! Curiosity, and something else, rose to boiling. *' Persons in my position," she said, with as much dignity as she could contrive, *' come across all sorts of out-of-the-way peoi 1e. You go^ 'n from Askholm. Do you happen to know anything ui a young \i whose acquaintance I made under rather curious circumstances, a whom I am deeply interested — Miss Marion Furness ? She is staying there, I believe." " You know Marion Furness?" he exclaimed. "Well — the world ia small." '* And what is she doing at Askholm ? " " Doing ? Oh, she's painting — making pictures, you know. She's a clever girl ; and a pretty one, too. " " Stephen ! " thought Cynthia, when she heard of pictures. " And her good father ? Is he there too ? " ♦♦ You know him 1 " " Oh, yes." " And did I understand you to say that you are acquainted with John Heron ? " " /Sir John Heron," said Cynthia, a little anticipating her promised introduction. Her work demanded every advantage she could give it; and as she could not as yet venture to boast, like her companion, of marchionesses, a prospective acquaintance with a baronet was not to be despised. *' You know Adam Furness and Sir John Heron ? " asked he. ** Why not ?" asked Cynthia, suspecting that she had somehow been putting her foot into it, but unable to see how. ** Because, then," said he, looking at her hard, " there's nobody knows both of them but you — and me." A dreadful pang shot through the doctor's heart. Could anybody else have discovered the secret identity and be trading ou it ? Hq made .■VV« 240 KINO OR KNAVE '/ his last remark to see how it was taken. If she did know the secret, it WB^ incredible that she should have played with it before a stanger — UiiHss, indeed, she were playing some very deep game indeed. And he was the inore puzzled because, almost for the first time in her life, Cynthia was playing no particular game at all, but was groping about in ihe dark no less than he. *' But you — and me," he repeated significantly. If she really knew of the Identity of John Heron and Adam Fumess she would understand. ** How curious !" said Cynthia. '* It is curious ; but so it is. . . . How much does he subscribe to your noble institution, if I may inquire ?" " Sir John ? I don't know yet. Ah — you are a medical man ; per- haps you have been going begging for something, like me. What do think he'll stand — giv e, I mean ? " *' Stand !" thought the Doctor ; " that isn't a Lady Superintendent's word ; and if a Lady Superintendent had used it she wouldn't have changed it for another. Lord ! 'f this business gets wind, the golden goose is killed — that's all, he reflected, his forehead turning damp and cold. '• And I'm hanged if she doesn't know I'm in the swim, too. ... I wouldn't advise you to put the figure too high," said he. " What wculd you call high ? Of course, I want to get what I can for my Weeds." " Of course. Naturally. Well, you'll be lucky if you get — say five hundred. To my knowledge, the Bank's shaky ; and " '• Five hundred !" exclaimed Cynthia, who had been thinking of five. " It isn't much, of course ; but — look here, we mustn't have the goose killed. Of course, neither of us is likely to split ; it wouldn't pay. But look here ; I'll make it a wh'>le thousand, on mj' honour as a medical gentleman, if you'll undertake not to worry Adam — Sir John. That's handsome, I'm sure." Cynthia began to doubt her own wits ; but she began, in some sort, to see through her companion, and that he meant to keep what he called the golden goose in his own hands. So she said at a venture : " All right — if you'll make it two thousand, money down." " Impossible, my dear — young lady. One thousand was halves, on my honour as a " " Two thousand — or I split," said the Lady Superintendent, though what she had to split she had not the remotest idea. The Doctor considered. Well, that w^ould leave him sixty-eight thousand pounds ; and he was never mean to a pretty woman. *' Done, then," said he, with a sigh. " Two thousand. I'll give it you in notes as soon as we get to town. But mind this, young lady — if you ever ask our mutual for a penny (and I'll know it), I'll let every one of your lady patronesses know that you're as like MadcMnoiselle Cynthia, of the Pelican, that Sir Adam Furness, the Forger, used to be sweet on, as two peas." *' Yes ?" asked Cynthia sweetly. ** I have heard people say that she ii a very charming gifl. I wjudor if she would 4o for a Weed." KING OR KNAVE ? 241 it The talk languished after that. The Doctor had intended a flirta- tion, and had ended as the blackmailer blackmailed. Cynthia was distracted between ravening curiosity and speculation as to what wonders she could do for her sex with two thousand pounds. She never doubted for a moment she would get it ; for it was clear Dr. Snell, whoever and whatever he was, was buying her silence about her know- ledge of Adam Furness, and she wished she Jiad asked three thousand instead of two. It was real fun to think ol^aking an obvious rascal pay to save girls from other rascals ; and she had not ceased to be Cynthia by the mere fact of her unscrupulous fraudlency having been transformed into no less unscrupulous philanthropy. Her notions of right and wrong were considerably mixed still. "And that donation ? " she whispered when the carriage, which they no longer had to themselves reached the terminus. " I have your address, you know," she said, showing him a comer of his own card. " Oh, don't come there ! " he said hastily, thinking of Mrs. Snell, who had not been of late so manageable as of old. " What's yours ? " " Number Seventeen Upper Vane Street. At least " " What?" " Tes ; I've got it cheap because of its bad name. But I shan't be there till three days from now ; and I don't want to wait for the money so long. Leave it for me, in good notes, at the Miss Burdons', Num- ber Eighteen. If you bring it to-morrow, all right ; if not — I'll split as sure as " " As sure as you're like Cynthia of the Pelican as two peas ! " " As sure as if you don't bring two ♦'^ousand — in notes — I'll make it three ! " " What a goose of a girl ! " thought Wyndham Snell, as he drove in a hansom to Euphrosyne Terrace. " Lord ! " if I hadn't been as sharp ?s a lancet she might have asked, not for two thousand, but for five- and-thirty thousand — and had it, too. Well, I've done her," he said, as, with a sigh of relief, he wiped his brow. " What a fool of a man 1 " meditated Cynthia, as she travelled in an omnibus to the nearest point to Upper Vane Street. " Buying some- thing or other I hadn't got to sell ? If I hadn't been as shar]) as one of Stephen's needles I might have lost a thousand pounds. Well, I've done him!" Arrived in Upper Vane Street, she knocked at Number Eighteen, and was received by the Miss Burdons with open arms. Not only was she a jewel of a girl, so zealous for others, so self-devoted, but she was about to exorcise Number Seventeen next door, and to purgu the street of its scandal. A Home for Weeds was not the neighbourhood they would have selected for choice ; but it was preferable to a den of thieves, it which everybody pointed as he or she passed by. And then Cynthia had managed to infect those most conventional and most respectful of t pinsters with some of her own enthusiasm — heaven knows how, unless it was that her own earnestness equalled her want of scruple ; which, after all, is no uncommon thing. He is not much of a nussionary who dares not lie, or even steal, for his cause ; or, if not He, then, anyhow, (18) 242 KINO OB KNAVE ? read She. Cynthia, in her new-born zeal, would have sold her soul, if by so doing she could have saved a single Weed. *' Only think ? " said she ; '* I have got two voluntary contributions — one's a guinea ; the other — guess what it can be ? " *' rive ? " suggested Aunt Charlotte. " Three ? Ten ? " suggested Aunt Grace. *' Ten, indeed ! " said Cynthia with scorn. *' Twelve, then ? " " No— Two Thousand ! The Home is made I" '* Why — who in the world ? " cried Aunt Grace. "Ah, who ! Did you ever hear of Sir John Heron, who lives at a place called Marchgrave ? " The two ladies looked at one another. **0h, dear!" said Aunt Charlotte. "The wretch that's candidate against Draycot — oh, dear ! ' "It's Bribery and Corruption!" protested Aunt Grace. "Dear Mrs, Stephen — we don't know what to say ! " " You think," said Cynthia, " that " " We know it," said Miss Grace, with decision. "We don't pretend to know politics ; but when a candidate pays away two thousand pounds &t election time — well, the other must do the same." " Grace !" exclaimed Miss Charlotte. " Yes," said Grace. " We haven't given our donation yet. Dray- cot must get into the House ; it will be the making of him. Getting into the House cost our uncle, Charlotte's and mine, twenty thousand pounds. Mrs. Stephen, if Mr. Heron gives your home two thousand pounds, my nephew Draycot shall give two thousand guineas. Yes, Charlotte, the Family requires it ; and it won't mean to us more han sixty pounds a year. Get me the cheque-book, Charlotte. There, Mrs. Stephen ! If Mr. Heron brags that he has given the homi- two thousand pounds, you will say that Draycot Morland has given a hundred pounds more." " Why, this is better than coining ! " faltered Cynthia, taken aback by this shower of gold. " I — don't know what to say ! " "There's nothing to be said," answered Miss Grace. "This is a thing that's got to be done. " They talked for a good hour over their tea, of the transformation of Weeds. And as it is a subject that demands a thousand Cyiithias, and four thousand time four thousand guineas, I would that what they said were sensible enough to be worth reporting. Then said Mrs. Stephen : "Good-night, dear ladies ! I must have a look at Number Seven- teen before its bedtime — I have the key." " What — you are going into that house il alone ? " " Why, I ve been there a hundred — there already. I don't mind ghosts — not I. " " Of course not," said Aunt Grace. " But still so late " " All this — this money makes me want to see it with new eyes. So, if you hear of a ghost at the window, it's only me. And to-morrow, I may have to be away fur days," KING OR KNAVE ? 243 *' Four thousand, one hundred and one pounds one ! " hummned Cynthia as she let herself into Number Seventeen — " all in one day 1 Why me and six Weeds can live on that without earning a penny or touching capital. Those old ladies are bricks, and M. D. stands for Muddle-lieaded Donkey. Afraid of Ghosts — 1 ! " said the Ghost herself, as she entered the dilapidated hall. Not since the police had made their raid, and subsequent search, had anybody made entrance into Number Seventeen. For want of a claimant, and by unquestionable forfeiture, it had fallen back to the ground landlord — a peer of the realm who was a schoolboy, whose aflfairs was in the hands of the trustees, who left everything to a country solicitor, who acted through his London agents, who employed a sur- veyor to manage the estate, v ho deputed Upper Vane Street to a clerk, who, like a prudent man, took the first offer that was made for a ghost- ridden den of thieves, whatever it might be. At any rate, philanthropy was better than a brass plate ; and it was everything to get the windows cleaned. And, for references, Cynthia had got hold of the Miss Bur- dons, than whom nobody more respectable existed. Entering the hall, she struck a light, and set herself to the considera- tion of how the home could be best arranged, and how far she could reasonably come down upon the landlord to repair the mischief she had taken so much part in making. She needed nobody to show her the way about — indeed she was the only person alive who knew every one of its corners. Into every room, as she came to it, she carried her candle, feeling it odd that she might do so without concealment, and that even if a constable, attracted by a lighted window, knocked at the door, she might boldly open to him, and declare herself to be in an Englishwoman's castle and the Queen herself a trespasser. Having explored the ground-flour, and having made a tour of the basement, she went into the upper regions, which, it will be remem- bered, communicated with the mythical Mr. Ward's next door. Of course the police had carried off all the machinery of the workshop, which was now simply a large, bare room, with nothing left in it but a few benches and forms. A trifle of furnishing, thought Cynthia, and a great deal of light, will make this the very thing for the girls. But, even by her dim candle light, she saw everything ; and presently her eye fell upon a large brown stain upon the floor, which she did not remember, even though the stain, from its position, could never have been covered. Nor was it any stain from acid, which aha would have recognised perfectly well. Examining it more carefully — for she never passed a straw without seeing throuj^h it from end to end — she saw that the main blotch broke oft' into smaller splashes, all runnmi in the same direction, namely, to the unused door at the head of the back stairs. •' I must have a carpet here," she determined, after a momentary shudder. *' The girls won't like to have blood always before their eyes. T suppose this is where Adam killed Redbeard. Oh, dear — I almost wish things had gone the other way. I wonder whether there's much of this sort of thing. Blood's worse than aquafortis for never coming 244 KING OR KNAVB f out, they say. Well, one can get a good deal of drugget for four thou- sand pounds. I wonder if I can trust that Doctor. Of course I can't, though. He's a knave if ever there was one. But I fancy I can do a long sight better tlian trust him. He's buying me off something ; and when I know what that something is, I shall be as sure of him as of my old maids— what fun they are, to be sure. Halloa ! the rats seem to have been finding their way upstairs. Well, we'll soon get rid of them. I'll get a terrier. It'll be fun for the girls, and make it cheer- ful for them at home." Meanwhile she had followed those ugly spots till she reached the door that enabled one to reach her own old quarters— the back draw- ing-room. Somewhat to her surprise, it was locked ; but then she remembered that Adam would be certain to lock it when escaping, and that the police would not require it to reach the drawing-room in the usual way. However, a pupil of Adam Furness was not to be much put out for want of a key. Indeed, locks had always been a favourite study of hers, as is so often the case with curious and ingenious minds, especially wlien they have no scruples about combining practice with theory. In short, Cynthia was never without a ^ lole apparatus of keys. The lock turned easily enough ; but the door stuck a little — Cynthia did not care to speculate on the nature of the cement — and so, bursting open rather suddenly, it blew out her candle. And, at the same time, she seemed to hear a hollow ciy — or rather moan. If anybody was free from ghostly terrors, it was Cynthia. She had much too often been a ghost herself to shudder at any seemingly unaccountable sight ; and I am sure she would never have allowed a disembodied spirit to leave her without the knowledge of the stuflf of which its clothes were made, and what it had paid for them. But see- ing is one thing ; hearing another. It wants something more than any ordinary lack of imagination to stand upon a stain of murder in the dark in a haunted house, and to hear a moan, and not discover that one has nerves. Her first instinct was to close the door again quickly, so ae to place that at any rate between herself and whatever there might be beyond. The room was now absolutely without any light whatever, not even so much as might find its way from the lights of London in a room at midnight ; for the boards that blocked out the windows had not been removed. All was as pitch black as a dark cell in a gaol. However, she was more likely to be without even keys than without matches, and she had luckily kept tight hold of her candle. The crackle of the match wtis ?!()me comfort ; and, having recovered her light, feeble as it was, Curiosity got the better of Nerves ; and never was the might of ruling passion so strongly displayed as by hei opening the door yet again. She strained her eyes into the darkness of the stairs, but, not bein^^ entirely a cat, she could see nothing. She strained her ears ; and again she heard that hollow cry. " Who's there ? " she answered, though rather under her breath) KING OR KNAVE ? 245 and her own voice sounded to herself as ghostly as the moan, if moan it were. *' No ; there can't be anybody," she argued. ' I must go and see. If it's nothing, I can't stand shivering here like a fool. If it's some- thing — here goes ! " *' So, shading her wick with her hand, to prevent another mishap, she threw up her head, and, looking neither to right nor le^t, went down the creaking stairs to the back drawing-room — whistling. For once, however, her whistle was lamentably out of tune and time. And suddenly she heard a faint but unmistakably human cry. Dr. Snell, never being in any particular hurry to see Julia, did not return home immediately. He did not even look in at the Green Cheese ; which indeed had just passed into other hands. However, wherever he went, he got home at last ; and, for a wonder, found his wife waiting up for him. *' I hope you have had a pleasant journey," said she, with a grimness that tried to sound amiable, but which had a note of triumph in it for observant ears. ** Pretty well, thank you," said the Doctor, with a stare. *' Business is never exactly pleasure, you know ; but it's a good thing in its way." *' There's some that manage to combine 'em," said Mrs. Snell." ' ' I don't know what you mean, and you don't know yourself. Now look here, old lady. I don't know what's come over you of late, and what's more, I don't care to know. Perhaps you'll leave me to manage my own affairs my own way iiow," said he, in not altogether sober triumph, and unrolling befor her astonished eyes a pile of thin paper that gave forth a delightful crackle. " Smell that ! " said he, putting it to her nose. " Now you knov-r the smell of Seventy Thousand Pounds ! Ah — I knew I should get appre- ciation at last — that my Time would Come ! " *' Wyndham ! Is all that yours ? How much has Adam Furness got then ? " she asked, suddenly terrified off her guard. " Adam Furness, woman ? What the devil do you mean ? " She saw something ominous about his fist. " Only — only — you had a lot of money from him before — and " "Well?" ** If Adam Furness is ever took — mind I don't say as he will be — will all that money still be yours ? " " What do you mean by saying you don't say he will be ! " " Nothing, Wyndham," said the Informei'ess, seized in her dull mind with a shapeless doubt whether she had not been betraying a gold mine instead of a girl. *' Nothing — nothing at all. Only such a lot of money ! Is it all safe ? Are you ? ** Have you been drinking, Julia ? Bank of England notes not safe ? Why everything's safe. The only doubt in my mind is whether I'll stay at home and be physician in ordinary to the Queen, or whether I'll go to New York and make a million. To be a baronet wouldn't be bad ; Si Ik ..'I 246 KINO OR KNAVB f but there'd be nobody like the Yankees for swallowing Snell's Oerebro- dyspeptic Pills. I just invented them in the train from — town." " And you've heard nothing about Adim Furness ? Nor that girl ? " '•Adam Furness be hanged, and his girl with him. Don't you ask questions, Julia. A man may be master in his own house when he's making at the rate of seventy thousand a day. . . . Confound it ! There's the night bell." '' And with all that money in the house ! It might be burglars ! " said Mrs. Snell. *' Might be another young Cobbler. Go and open, Julia. I'll stow the money away." " Hadn't you best go yourself, Wyndhara, and leave the money with me?" "No, 1 hadn't. Look sharp — don't you hear ? " The bell clattered angrily. " No," Wyndham Snell heard his wife sharply iinswering a voice at the door. " No, young woman ; the Doctor can't go out to night, not if it was for the Queen. There's Mr. Smith over the way ; not much of a doctor, but I dare say he'll do. " " But he won't do, indeed ! " pleaded a voice that made the Doctor start as he stowed away the notes in his table drawer. " There's nobody will do but Dr. Snell. Tell him it's Mrs. Stephen, from the Home." Wyndham Snell hurried into the passage. "What's all this?" asked he. "What — Mrs. Stephen 1 " he exclaimed. Mrs. Stephen looked significantly at Mrs. Snell. *' All right — you want to see me alone ? Leave us, my deur. This lady wants to speak to me. . . . Well ?" "Doctor," said Cynthia hurridly, and in a such a way as to baffle the the most skillful of eavesdroppers, " You know the man we wero talk- ing of ? — you don't want to get him into trouble, for your own sake — and there's a case wants a doctor that'll give no end of trouble if it falls into strange hands. I've been driving here like mad, and kept the hansom at the door ready for you to jump in. It's somebody at Number Seventnen 1 " "Not— Adam?" •' No, indeed ? " But don't stay talking. The man may die. Bring instruments— everything. " " You want me to come to Upper Vane Street ? " asked the Doctor, turning a little faint and cold. " No, Mrs. Stephen — I'm sorry— but " It flashed into his mind what a thing it would be for Adam Furness to get him out of the way : and what if this girl had been sent to travel to town with him, in order to decoy him to a den of murder ? " " And I'm sorry, too," said Cynthia. " For I shall have to go to the first doctor I can find, and he'll have in the police, and — you best know whether you're friend enough of our friend to have your friendship known." ktNO OR KNAVE f 24f *' Very good," said the Doctor, still nervous, but feeling that, if this were really no trap, the secrets of the Furness family had better remain in his own hands. *'But on one condition. Mark me — I don't bring as much as a sovereign with me ; I carry a loaded revolver ; and I leave a written message with Mrs. Snell to say where I'm gone." '* Anything you like," said Cynthia, a little scornfully, " I have plenty of money for fees and cab fares ; you may take a dozen revol- vers, and leave a hundred messages. Only come. . . . Don't your dare to come to a dying man." *' In one moment." He was not very brave, but he had supreme faith in his cleverness ; and midnight murder was not the chief of the risks among which he had to choose. CHAPTER XXVI. **NO MORE HAVE I." Marion, in obedience to orders, waited till the day and hour when she was to expect him whom she dared not call, even in her outermost thoughts, by the name of father. Every circumstance, every word ho had spoken, combined with her unconscious reading of his character and with every likelihood in the matter, accused the slayer of Peter Petersen as being the murderer of Guy Derwent, who had been last seen at the threshold of the house whence no intruder, so Cynthia had boasted, had ever again emerged. She could not call her own father to account for his crime. She had thrown in her lot with him, knowing what he was— one whose hand was against every man, and against whom was every man's hand. Her plight was as helpless as it was horrible. Even had he not been her own father, to whom she owed the help and love her mother had failed to pay, whatever she could do would be out of vengeance ; and ven- geance was in vain. Nothing could bring Guy Derwent back from the grave ; nothing could whiten the hand that sent him there. And to think that if she had never been born, if she had never loved him better than her own happiness, Guy would even now be living in peace and honour and usefulness among his friends, with his young life still before him — was it not time that her mother's curse should fall upon her, and that she go mad forthwith, with so much ampler cause ? No — not yet. She must hold her brain together for a little while still. . . . She could no longer think ; but one thing she knew, that she had vowed her whole help to the man who had given both brain and heart this worse than deadly blow, and that he trusted her, and her alone. Marion was as an Arab, into whose tent has come the slaver of Iii« kind- i ;'v:::i «./ 248 KING OE KKAVE T red, and with whom he has shared salt unawares. Her trust was still upon her. But afterwards— was he not to fly the country : was she not to share his flight : was she not to make him a refuge and a home ? Yes ; she had heard all that ; and to make up to the outlaw, so far as a daughter may, for a loveless and desperate life which had left him without any friend or hope but her. That could not be ; even though she would have, at last, to set her broken will against destiny. Uer last remaining hope she could And for herself, was sacrifice ; but surely even sacrifice must have its bounds. And if she was to go mad, like her mother, what could madden her so swiftly and so utterly as living, year after year (and {rears are endless at her age) with a man who knew not of her know- edge that he was more than a murderer 1 No ; she could make no home for any man, husband or father : and least of ali for him. The only homes for her to think of were for herself, and unshared — first the madhouse : then the grave, But, meanwhile, it was not for her to betray trust ; and the more inasmuch as she knew wherein — save in obedience — the trust placed upon her lay. As he did not come, the only thing for her was to obey orders : to take the next train to Marchgrave, and to inquire for John HeroD. Marchgrave, and John Heron I If this were not an arch-stroke uf fate, it was a dream. Marchgrave was a living picture, and John Heron ics most familiar figure in it, ever since she had crossed the Equator. And how — but how difi'erently from what was to have been ! She was to see both it and him. And what should Guy's Murderer have to do with Guy's Friend ? What meant it ? — what was to come of it ? But, whatever it meant, or was to happen, she must go. The little railway station, usually so quiet, was so crowded with rough passengers that she had some difficulty in finding a place in the already crowded train ; nor, had her mind been less occupied, would she have been over pleased with her company. For classes seemed to have got mixed ; so that she found herself the only woman in a com- partment full of navvies or quarrymen — at least to her inexperienced eyes — and impregnated with a flavour of pipes and ale that reminded her of the entrance of the Green Cheese. But beyond the habits of smokers who have never studied the elegance of their art, she had no reason to complain. She got a few stares, it is true ; but they were ox-like and inoflensive, and in no wise resembling the highly cultivated glances of Doctor Snell. ** Going to see the fun, Jim ? " asked one of a new comer, who hurried in and squeezed himself between two of his mates — luckily not on Marion's side. *• Morland for ever ! " bellowed Jim. " Who's he ? " *' Blessed if I know. Morland for ever 1 Ain't that the name ? " " That's right enough, Jim," said another. *' Blest if I don't wish 'twas election time once a week " ''Stow your blest gab, mates," growled a man in the corner. KING OR KNAVE ? 249 ";;T .-■. !;' •' We're quiet chaps, we are, out on a spree to see a bit o' fun. We don't meddle with nobody if nobody don't meddle with we." • " Not with old John's windows ? " winked one. " No ; nor with the lampposts ; nor with the new statty ; nor with nothing ; nor with old John. If anybody wants to duck him in his own Docks " ••Ay, Chickei— what then ? " *' Why — let 'un alone," Chicken growled. *' Which 'un ? Old John, or him as wants to duck old John ? " •' Why, the ducks, to be sure." They were a good-humoured lot, laughing at obscure jokes, and breaking now and then into horseplay, taking no more apparent heed of Marion than if she had been as far away as her thoughts wore. That the election was in progress, she gathered from the name of Morland ; and presently she noticed that one or two of the men wore scraps of red ribbon— doubtless that candidate's colours. What made her notice such a trifle was that one of her companions, nudging his next neighbour, said in a hoarse something, intended for an inaudible whisper : " You've got no colour, Skeweye. Ask the young woman for a bit out of her hat." '• Ask her yourself," said Skeweye gruffly. " She'll be one of Lawyer Sharpe's — she'll be." That was the only notice she received ; and, as it was not meant to be noticed, it was no harm. At the station, they tumbled out one after another, and, joining their fellows from other carriages, were received by a young gentleman on the platform, and then broke up and loafed off in knots of threes and fours. Marion waited till the station was fairly clear, and then asked her way of the ticket-collector to Chapter Lane. She felt wofuUy lost ; she wondered how it was that she was less impressed than she was by the fact that she was in Marchgrave than by her imagination before- hand. Everything looked so different, although in fancy she had a hundred times travelled every step of the way. For one thing, the streets were by no means so quiet as she had always heard. Indeed, at some points they were actually thronged ; and there was unmistakable, though suppressed, excitement in the air — the most contagious sortof all. But the prevailing colours were not those of the train from Askholm. That might be seen here and there, in rosettes and upon posters — mostly defaced and torn ; but blue and white was the cc!our of March- grave. Ladies wore all the blue they could : even the darkest com- plexioned managed to bring in a point of it somewhere. Men paraded it in the buttonhole ; flymen on their whips ; even dogs round their necks, and walls and houses everywhere. Once, on her way, Marion caught sight of th 3 masts rising out of the docks; and every one of them carried Blue Peter topmast high. Which, besides combining blue with white, might be a graceful way of signifying that the shipping of Marchgrave was on the eve of departure from the old Docks to the new. vJj, 260 ULtito 6r knave 1 She caught this glimpse from the comer of Chapter Lane. Arrived at the Bank, she would not let herself hesitate, but entered, and asked the first clerk she came to at the counter for Mr. Heron — an elderly personage, as all the clerks in Heron's Bank were, even when they were young. *' Mr. Heron is not at the Bank at present But, ah ! you are the young lady who was expected to call. I think this is for you ? ' He handed her an envelope without an address. There was nothing out uf the way in the transaction : all sorts and conditions of men and women were always calling to see Mr. Heron, on all sorts of philan- thropic business wherein the left hand was not to learn the doings of the right hand through the use of names. For ought the clerk could tell, the young lady might be the daughter of some poor curate who was to be delicately and anonymously aided by the contents of the letter in her hand. If John Heron let his light shine before men, his generosities were much too numerous for him to find the time to publish them all — especial])*, it might be, at election-time. It was no doubt for her. She opened it — it was unquestionably for her. " Is it all right?" asked the clerk, adding, with paternal jocularity, such as the staidest of men on the eve of polling Jay may irreproach- ably indulge : *• I'm sorry to see your colour ; isn't it rather rash of you to wear it in Chapter Lane ? We've some desperate characters here, I assure you : eh, Mr. Prendergast ? " he added, as that victim of calumny passed the desk on his daily call, wearing a noble rosette of white and blue. " I shall get desperate at last," said Mr. Prendergast. *' But any- thing's possible after that affair at the Guildhall — except that Heron shouldn't get in. There'll be near three thousand majority — less or more. " " That'll be a greatbusiness on Thursday, when the statue's unveiled. Mr. Prendergast — it will be an era in the history of this city. It's a thousand pities young Mr. Derwent won't be there — such a friend to Sir John as he'd always been." " Yes," said Mr. Prendergast, with a sigh. Marion had taken her unaddressed letter a little way aside. ** I have been led," he wrote, " to put off, or possibly to change, my p'ans. I shall have miich to say to you when I know what they are. Go home now. Call here again at the same time to-morrow, and ask if there is any message for you. — A. F." Disappointed by this never-ceasing darkness that eternally ended in nothing, Marion had just run through this new order when she caught the mention of Guy Derwent's name. It was true, then, that he had vanished ; and that men sighed when they spoke of him as gone, as true as that his slayer was leaving messages for her at the house of his friend. It was all gettinR8 was ahead of Marchgrave. There was n^ s^rns of bustle, an(? *., but in life, and whose mere existence was worthlesf now that her heart had been slain ? A drop into the black *water, a moment's struggle, and she would no longer be the daughter of Adam Furness ? no longer hunted and haunted, no longer in thits cruel and incomprehensible world, whence her mother, finding no rest in it, had flown. They had left it — her mother and Guy : why should she remain ? Suddenly there burst upon her ears, no longer mellowed by passage KINO OR KNAVE ? 253 jhe scmss the water, but hoarse and near, a chorus in which women screamed and men roaied : " Rul'4 Britannia ! Britannin riile the waves ! Britons never, never, nrvkr, will be slaves 1" '* Halloa ! " cried one of the advancing Britons. '* Here's a Red 'un ! Make her join in. " Hurrah for the bonnets of blue ! " " Yah I you Askness — Girl ! " cried a Boadicea of the band of Heron- ites — only she did not exactly say " girl " — making a clutch at Marion's hat. , There is nothing so calculated to inspire courage into the heart of the average Free Briton, of whatever sex or age, as a perfectly helpless creature, be it cat, pigeon, genius, idiot, savage, seagull, man who is down — and therefore kickablo — timid boy, or unprotected girl. With all our splendid qualities, we are bullies from our cradles upwards ; the freebom Briton enjoys nothing so much as a good wory — when he can do so without risk to his own precious skin. It is we, and we alone, who jump upon the wives who are fools enough to let us ; who make one another's earlier schooldays into anticipations of hell ; who, for the sake of what we call sport, kill or torture every weak creature we can find ; and who, for what we Pharisees call civilisation's sake, use the very Bible as a means of bullying those who cannot understand a word of it into buying our trash — unless they are wise enough to show a bold front and then we cringe. . . . But what has all this to do with Marion Furness ? Nothing ; except that she was one, while the Free Britons were nine or ten ; and that, had they been one fewer, they might have let Marion's hat alone. It was one thing to be tempted by the calmness of the black water — q\iite another to be set upon by a crew of Caractacus and Boadicea. From the water she recoiled ; from tlie Free Britons she ran. A shout rang out after her, and some seemed to follow. But, when she reached the first dark entry, she was alone, and " Never will be slaves." was howling farther and fainter away. Her place of refuge turned out to be the entrance of an unpretending office , at the side of which was painted in black letters on a white ground, "G. Derwent, Shipbroker." And scarcely had she realised whither she had wandered and where she had found refuge when the inner door opened, and a respectable Iderly gentleman issued, well wrapped up in a great coat and com- forter, and drawing on his gloves carefully. Mr. Prendergast of course —he also had belonged to the story of the Sumatra. How strange everything seemed I The real Marchgrave was the phantom of the M^rchgrave she had known but had never seen. He looked at her suspiciously. *' Are you on business ?" he asked. " It's after office hour«. . . . I beg your pardon. Didn't I see you at the Bank this morning ? Are you from Sir John's. ? " 254 KIXG OR KNAVE ? " No," said Marion. " I was t».io:htened by some people — you can heax them now — and I ran in here. I was going to the station I lost my way " ' ' Wn\ ! that's an awkward thing to lose about the Docks to night, young lady ; a very awkward thin*; indeed. ThereV mischief brewing, as sure as I stand here." " Where is the station ? Is it far ? "Too far for you to walk there by yourself , you'll have to go through some bad places, where anything might happen to-nighfc, from what I see. 1 donit lik« the look of things at all. I'd offer to see you through, but " Prudence before chivalry. It was bad enough to be chaffed for murder ; but the Bell parlour would be no place for Mr. Prendergast after he had been seen walking with a strange young woman after nightfall ; and he would unquestionably be seen. He would simply be loasted to death ; and, then, what would Mrs, Clapper say ? "But " It was not very light in the passage ; but Mr. Prendergast always bought the very best of glasses, and something about this stray younfj person puzzled him. There seemed something about her not unfamiiiai to him. It was not merely that he had seen her ac the Bank that morning ; that had nothing to do with it. It was thai; certain tones of her voice put him in mind of somebody else ; and not only tones of voice, but, the more he came to think of it, her features also. And, absurdly enough, these intangible associations were unaccountably connected with Sir John Heron — and yet not entirely with Sir John Heron. '* What train are you going by ? " he asked, as ulowly as he could — which was very slowly indeed — for the sake of another minute's study. "The nest for — that stops at the junction," said Marion, feeling helpless again. " That'll be at 8.20 ; not much time to lose. ... By Jingo ! " he exclaimed, if one can exclaim without words. " It is — and yet it can't be ; why she's as li«ce that photograph Mr. Derwent once left on my desk as if they were twins. And calling in Chapter Lane ! Therf 's more here, as they say, than meets the eye." It seemed to be more than met even the best spectacles, with any reasonable hope of seeing through. Was she employed in these mys- terious transactions which not Mr. Derwent's own confidential clerk was allowed to share ? It was election time ; could she by any chance be the Man, or rather the Woman, in the Moon I Now Mr. Prendergast, it need not, I trubt, be said, was as honest as the day, and no more capable of a breach of confidence than, despite gossip, of murdering his master and hiding him among the coals. But he was in an exceedingly painful posit' >n. He was really gettins» anxious about his employer. He was becoming daily more embittered .and humiliated by the inventions he had to make in order to hide his Worance of Mr. Derwent's very whereabouts ; and he felt positive that his inventions were all made in vain. He seriously believed that i:!e was lab( victim at c insultingly the secret ^ n)sn. But share ? Under ru tive spirit i once some¥ to pry, we i the detecti despised. was going t succeed, he man, he ha( If Prude "There,' " Will — " See yo These are d *' You an " Now— J there is soi pulling on 1 Derwent las Marion hi she might s( so that Mr. "What!- — weakly, it "And wh he, but did clerL, his c Derwent's al '* Then yc within her. •' Why, oi "Oh ♦' That is 1 where would •'Mr. Pre much hung u God's sake, where. " " Why-w something of ** It means *' Bless mj fadiug as hen KINO OK KNAYE f 255 he was labouring under some suspicious foul play. In short, he was a victim at once of a sense of injustice, of wounded pride, of confidenco insultingly withheld, and of unselfish anxiety. If he only knew what the secret was, he could conspire to keep it, he was sure, as well as any man. But how could he help to keep a secret he was not allowed to share ? Under such circumstances, curiosity, and the awakening of the detec- tive spirit at the touch of opportunity were • cannot help thinking, for once somewhat more than pardonable. If we don't want our servants to pry, we must reasonably trust them ; and the.^e are not days in which the detective spirit need have the faintest fear of befng too much despised. Being a shy bachelor, he had not the least notion of how he was going to set about the process of pumping. But that he should succeed, he did not for a moment doubt ; for, being a simple-i?>inded man, he had the profoundost faith in his own cunning. If Prudence before Chivalry, Curiosity before Prudence. *' There," he said recklessly, '* I will." •' Will " " See you to the station," said he. "At least, show you the way. These are dangerous times. Miss . I didn't quite catch the name ? " ** You are very kind, Mr. Prenderga^t, said Marion absently. " Now — How should she ki?ow my name ? " asked he. '* I'm right ; there is something more than meets the eye," he thought, as, still pulling on his gloves, they left the doorway. '• When did you see Mr. Derwent last — if I may enquire ? And hope he is well ?" Marion had been warned by her father to show no surprise, whatever she might see— v.hatever she might hear. But she started now, even so that Mr. Prendeigast could see. What could he know of her ? " What ! Why do you think 1 know Mr. Derwent ? " she asked — weakly, it must be owned. " And what, makes you think my name's Prendergast, eh ?" thought he, but did not say so. "You see, Miss— Miss — as Mr. Derwent's clerL, his confidential clerk, you understand, I know all about Mr. Derwent's affairs ; there are naturally no sectpta from Me." '* Then you know whc-e he is now ? " she asked, a wild hope rising within her. *' Why, of course I do." " Oh Where ? " cried Marion, forgetting everything but one. *' That is to say, of course not exactly at this minute — let me see , where would he be now ? I've a shocking bad head for names." "Mr. Prendergast," said Marion, heeitatin;^ no more, seeing how much hung upon what answer she might receive, " tell me truly, for God's sake, when you last heard from him — Mr. Derwent — and from where." " Why — what docs this mean ? " asked Mr. Prendergast, catching something of her excitement. " It means — it means that I have a right to know." " Bless my soul ! And don't you know ? " he asked, his own hope fading as hers struggled to rise. ;::ll 256 KINO OR KNAVE? ** 1 know nothin{f. Do you ? " '* And what is your right to know, if I may maku so hold ? " " We were great friends. I was to have been his wife," said she. He could not see her face, but he heaid Boinetliitig like a sob, that was suppressed instantly. Now many a man would have thought it queer, to say the least of it, that a young woman should have been prowling about the office under such singular circumstances as attached to the Marchgrave mystery, liut to Mr. Prendergast, being a tender hearted nerson, with a head (hat he believed to be as hard as the heart that he had took to be harder than the nether millstone, her situation became at once as clear as day. •* I see 1 I see ! You've not heard from Mr. Guy, and you've conio to hear of him. No wonder — no wonder ! You've not heard of hini, then ? " ♦»No " •* No more have I." Out went her last hope before it was lighted. Ho:v could she have been so foolish as to let the ghost of hope enter into a life like hers- the ghost, where the substance had never been '/ *' And nobody has heard ? Has nobody tried to find " "There's only one in the world knows — Sir John Heron. Well, if people don't write to their sweethearts, I suppose their clerks mustn't complain." Sir John Heron — always Sir John Heron ! " And what does he say ? " asked Marion, in a tone so cold that Mr. Prendergast fancied he had heard a heart breaking. " He "says — Patience. My dear young lady— for that you are, or you'd never have been the intended of a gentleman from his hat to his boots like Mr. Guy. My dear young lady — I'm beginning to think all sorts of things. What Sir John does must be right, because he's Sir John ; and he was my poor principal's great friend. And 'tis my belief that Sir John don't know what's come of him no more than you and me ; but that he's searching high and low for him, and keeping it dark for fear of scindal and the business going to the dogs before ho turns up again. That would be just like Sir John — always generous, and considerate, and wise. But — this way to the station " " I am not going to the station," said Marion. ♦'Where then ?^' " To The Cedars. Which is the way ? " •'The Cedars!" '• Yes ; to Sir John Heron's. Whatever happens — I miir^t know whatever anybody knows. You are Guy'a— his friend ; but you can't know, nobody can know, what this means to me. It isn't only that I've lost him ; it means — but what am I saying t . , . Whatever comes of it, I must see Sir John Heron. . . . There, it is striking eight ; I cannot catch my train. Yes ; I was meant to stay here." " Heavens 1 " thought Mr Piendor<;ast, " this will never do. I can't let her go to The Cedars— I'm afraid I've gone auwi put my foot in it KINO OR KNAVK? 267 . . JSo, my dear youu^ lady ; you can't go all the way And you wouldn't hnd Sir John, if you did, 1 happen to -Patience ' i\ftor all. . tliore— no. know ; and "Pationou ' " Just then thoy reached tho flaring High Street, where a dense crowd blocked the entire space between tho Guildhall ind the Bell somebody scorned to be haranguing somewhere, in n voicu frantically shrill, and was answered with uU sorts of claiaours -laughter, groans, hoots, and roars. '• What is it ?" asked Mr. Prendergast of a constable. " I don't know what it is, sir, but it don't look well for to-morrow. The lown is getting just mad against Morland." " And what are you police going to do ? " " His w orship has given strict orders to lot everything alone " " Qviito right — quite right ; nothing like oil on tho waters —plenty of oil." ** And, begging your pardon, sir, to advise all lad*»>s and gentlemen to go home. ' *' 1 want to see Sir John Heron," said Marion. "ThoTi, miss, you'll have to gotohisconmiittee-room ; and that's no easy matter just now." " It's impossible," said Mr. Prendergast. " You can see him to- morrow — at the Bank, you know, or the Guildhall. You -— " At that moment tho crowd swayed backward, and pushed all three — Miirion, Mr. Prendorgrast, and the constable — into tlio archway of tho Boll. " Ah 1 " panted Mr. Prendergast, " that's settled. You'll have to stjiy here to-night Mrs. Clapper's a friend of mine, and I'll step in. ... 1 don't know what to think. . . . But if you'll come in here for the night To-morrow " Just then up went a great roar, as the orator gave out the word "Murder" in a hiijthpitched scream, answered by a great clattering in the inn, and a rush of boots and ostler to close tho big doors. CHAPTER XXVI I. LAM us AT PLAY. Less, it may be, out of either chivalry or decHve spirit, than out of care for his own reputation, of which he was so laudably careful, Mr. Prenderiifast had improaaed Mrs. Clapper with a sunso of the impor- tance of the guest thus thrown upon her hands. The shifts to which he had been put for so long to hide his ignorance of his employer's move- ments were rapidly qualifying him for a full-blown Jesuit of fiction — that is to say, a man who is always lying, but never succeeds in taking (17) 268 KING OR KNAVK ? anybody in. On the present occasion, however, there had fortunatoly been no need of direct lies. At that time of excitement, an excitement for which there seemed to be no sufficient cause, mysteriou? and important whisper, as of a state secret, about some ineffable business with Sir John Heron was quite sufficient to awe the landlady of the Bell, where Sir John's very name was, in oracular significance, equiva- lent to the bishop's and more than equivalent to the dean's. It was with a feeling that she herself had been honoured with some high and migl ty oolitical confidence that she in person lighted Marion to her room aiid made herself generally motherly. So much did Mr. Prender- gast make of it, bringing in Sir John at every word, that Mrs. Clapper, who was a reader of romance of the mysterious and sensational order, began almost to suspect that she might be entertaining a peeress unawares. True, she had no luggage, and had not spoken of any. But then Sir John ! And, so, when Mr. Prendergast impressively added, " And so, my dear lady — a nod's as good a wink, you know — If I was you I wouldn't say much about this — H'm ! — to any of those gossiping fools in your parlour," .she not only threw her head up with an " As if ! What do you take me for ? " but disproved the notion that a woman is not to be trusted with a secret for evermore. It is true the secret, had the tumult hi the street and anxiety for her front windows given her time and leisure to examine it, did not provide her with much to tell ; that the habitues and other occupants of her parlour had other things to think of and talk about in the extraordinary state of the town ; and that she did what little she could to let people know she had a secret which, if she revealed it, would entirely change the aspect of affairs. Still, the great fact remained that the secret was not betrayed. Nevertheless, thou';;h Mr. Prendergast had done so well for himself, both in saving himself from immediate annoyance and in making him- self of real importance in the eyes of the widow, thus making a stride beyond his rivals buhind their backs, he was very, very uneasy. Ho took his tmnbler among his fellows, waiting till the streets were quiet enough for respectable folks to see one another home ; but lie took it silently and unsociably. So not even the young person to whom Guy Derwent had engaged himself know anything of her lover ; while the truth of her tale was manifest from her anxiety to see Sir John. Yes ; what he had already suspected must be true — there was a mystery ; Heaven grant there juight not be foul play besides. It was clear he had really disappeared. It was clear also that Sir John Heron was covering the fact of his friend's disappearance. And why ? Th.ere could be only one reason : that which had at once occurred to him. The sudden disappearance of a young man of business would mean scandal and ruin. Everybody would sot it down to the flight of a fraudulent bankrupt, as the moat charitable and the only business-like way of regarding such things. But then it is not every young man in trouble who is blessed with a friend and banker like John Heron, of Marchgrave ! With all that noble generosity of which surely he alone j wafi capable, he had come forward with his own cash and his own , KING OR KNAVE 1 259 credit to keop tl\ business going, and had accoiiiitod, un his own unijuostionablo auttiority, for the absence of his friend, us if it were a temporary mis.siou of importance to the city. So when Guy Derwent returned tliere would bo a profit instead of ruin, and increased respect instead of scandal ; for ho would question the position of one who w as backed by the whole credit of Cha|»tor Lane ? But if he never returned ? If all this generous protection was being thrown away f Could it be that Guy Derwent had really got into trouble — perhaps been writing the name of his friend and benefactor instead of his own ? Such things have been d me, and nrtstly by the least likely hands. And to cover a friend's fall, though to his own lo^s, and to help him to rise again, would be just John Heron. But no. Mr. Prendergaat's heart was more loyal than his head, and sent his suspicions flying. " I'd sooner suspect myself of such a thing than Mr. Guy ! " thought he. '*I know what that poor girl thinks— that he's had foul play. I never did hold with those trips to London — a wick d place, full of ravening wolves. It's no fit place for a young man without somebody of experience in wickedness to guide him. There's the music-hidls ; and the billiard-rooms ; and the turf ; and the gaming-tables where you lose a five-pound note in n single night ; and the clubs ; and the pa k ; and the places where they delude you into, and sew you up in a sack, and drop you oflf London Bridge ; and the barbers that cut your throat and make you into pies. ... I wonder if Her n'sput on a detec- tive. Wonderful fellows some of them are to be sure. And — by Jingo I He has, though ! " he exclaimed aloud, as his eye fell upon the piano and recalled to his mind that accomplished gentleman Londim, who had asked so many questions, and had been closeted at the Bank with John HerShe need tell him nothing but that she tiras interested in the fate of Guy Derwent, and wished to know all he could tell her. She might even avoid showing interest, and merely make ordinary inquiries, as anybody mij^ht concerning an acquaintance when one hap- pens to be in his native town. As to the rest, she felt inspired at last to use all her wits ; it was more than life and death to her to know at whose hands he had died. And surely John Heron was not the man to leave a friend to disappear and die unsought for and unavenged. Mrs. Clapper brought her breakfast in person. It was a grave con- descension ; but then the crisis was grave ; and the guest was less unlikely to be confidential with the landlady than with one of the maids. *' Ah, these are terrible times," said she. " What with these Mor- landites and such — wicked Atheists I call them — one don't know the very town where I was bom. I'm sure one never used to hear of Mor- landites when I was a girl ; and though one used to have fun at elections and assizes, and such like, it was all good temper, and good for business as well. No ; this isn't good for business at all, unless it's for the public-houses, which if I was the magistrates thoy should all be shut up, every one. Then everybody would have to be respectable, like they ought to be ; and so 1 was saying only the other day to the Very Reverend the Dean. Yes ; we're all very proud of Sir John, and so we've a right to be ; and he knows best, and I'd be the last to say he wasn't, for one. Only there was never all this fuss before the Docks was started ; and — but there, I suppose we must move with the times. Shall you be in town when the statue's opened, or whatever they call it, to-morrow ? It'll be a grand sight— the Bishop's going to be there, and the Recorder, and the Bishop's lady ; p'raps you know them ? And his lordship the lord-lieutenant, and her ladyship, and all the country people, I may say. It'll be quite a ceremony. That was a strange thing happened, wasn't it, at the hospital ? " "Where do you think I shall find Sir John Heron?" asked Marion; " at the Bank, or The Cedars ? " "Ah— there's no knowing on polling-day. Of course you know Mrs. Heron — I beg pardon. Lady Heron she'll be now. She was a March- grave young lady ; never did her poor father think he might have lived to see Miss Catharine a baronet's ladyship ; it's just like a novel. But there — the world's just full of strange things nowadays. And the idea of a patient escaped out of the hospital and running alive about the streets ; it's enough to make one's blood run cold. He was the man, I hear, that put up that wicked bill ; and a man that would do that would do anything. But of course, you couldn't expect a Morlandite to keep quiet in his bed, no, not if his very neck was broke, as every man Jack of 'em oug;ht to be. . . ." " She's a wonderful sensible young lady," said Mrs. Clapper to her niece on returning to her own quarters. *' I never heard anybody talk more sensible, not even Mr. Prendergast ; and to hear her let out against the Morlandites, it was fine ! Ah, and she told me something too— don't you let it out, but she is going to see Sir John." KING OR KNAVE ? 261 But greater things were in progress now than the anxieties of aolerk or the heartbreak of a girl. Worries and heartbreaks are everyday things ; but it is not every day that a David, such as Draycot Morland, dares to battle such a veritable Goliath as Sir John Heron. I quote from a caricature of the hour, in which Morland and Heron were depicted in those identical characters, the giant striding across an unfinished dock, with money-bags sunk into the mud at the bottom, while a stone had struck him squarely in the centre of the forehead. But nobody took the artist for a prophet— had the Heronites condes- cended to fight with lead pencils, they would have retorted by making Samson trample on a wriggling worm, or crushing between his finger and thumb a buzzing fly, while legs, like those of the Rhodian Colos- sus, bestrode the merchant navies of the world. In that case, surely the election of the popular candidate should have proceeded with befitting dignity. But strange rumours had got abroad. It was not only that a strange fanatic, armed with the power of frenzy, had been going about haranguing half-amused audiences to the e£fect that John Heron had been guilty of about a dozen felonies, but that — no doubt Mr. Sharpe best knew how--an article had appeared in a special edi- tion of the Aakness Advertiser calling upon Sir John Heron, Baronet, of Marchgrave, to deny publicly that he had ever gone by another name. Great is the power of print ; and even those who set down the orator as a lunatic suffering from an acute paroxysm of election fever, felt uncom- fortable doubts as to the possibility of so much smoke without at least a modicum of fire. Of course, anybody in the world might now and then find it convenient to take an alias — almost anybody, that is to say ; for the mere suggestion of such convenience in the case of one so immaculate as Sir John Heron, was almost equivalent to breathing on a merchant's solvency or a woman's good name. "Really I think you had bettor take them at their word !" urged Alderman Sparrow. " Go out on the Bell Balcony, and tell the scoun- drels they lie." " Argue with a madman ? " answered Sir John, smiling grimly ; "no." " Treai; him as such, then," said the alderman. " He's inciting to a breach of the peace. " "On their heads be it," said Sir John. " If he provokes my good friends too far — well, I should be sorry to see dragoons in Marchgrave ; but a troop marched yesterday from Redchester to Aakness Junction, and can be hero in twenty minutes, if need be." " What a man you are, Sir John ! You think of everything— every- thing in the world." " What the devil's the meaning of this, Sharpe ? " asked Draycot Morland, pointing to the article in the Advertiser. "And what the devil again do you mean by putting me at the head of an army of wolves? How much do you pay your special madman a day ? " vitH 262 KINO OR KNAVE f •• Wolves? Pray, Mr. Morland, call the People by their right name. Those whom you call so opprobriously " — " hopperobusly was his exact word — "are honest w(»vking men; who, hating shams, but not being voters, have to do the best they can. Heron shan't win without a fight of some sort; and if we can only got him to read the Riot Act, and call out the military, he'll have the devil to pay. He won't be the better for riding into the House on the back of a dragoon. . . . And as for the article, Mr. Morland — throw mud ; somo'U stick some- how. . . . And what do I pay our madman ? What do you pay your genius, Mr. Morland — eh ? " " What is your game ? " " A shindy ! My — (jur game is to get Heron to ride in on the backs of the dragoons. He's sent for them, as I happen to know. He'd have a majority without 'em. But if we make him send for 'em — why, we can always say that without 'em he wouldn't have got in. And then " "Then?" " Why, there you are." , * • "Where?" "Why, there! We can petition. We can set the whole Radical press howling. We can mi.K it all up with our opposition to the Marchgrave Docks Bill. My dear sir — if there's one thing that the British public can't swallow — and there isn't much it can't — it's dragoons. They aren't a sham, you see." " Sharpe — I'm begiiniing to doubt if realities are so much better than shams, after all. I'm quite sure one can't touch genius without being defiled. He is a genius — that madman — but " "As a lawyer, I don't admit his lunacy. He goes about the town proclaiming his worship the mayor a felon. Now suppose it was true ? " " The idea ?" Since his interview with Heron in the hospital, he also had been impressed with the impossibility of connecting any idea of baseness with the King of Marchgrave. " I'm not going to have any- thing of this sort of thing, Sharpe. I came to fight hard — to fight any- how, if you please. But there are bounds to anyhow. And I'm not going to allow a madman " "1 don't admit " " I say a madman, to go about slandering my opponent in this out- rageous way — especially after what passed between Heron and myself the other day. I tell you, that man is a gentleman, in spite of all I've said of him " " I thought you didn't believe in gentlemen, Mr. Morland," sneered Mr. Sharpe. "Any way, I believe in blackguards; and if we don't stop this ruffianly way of going to work, I shall be one of them. Sharpe— I don't want to ask indiscreet questions, so I woti't ask what's the hire of a lunitic for polling day — but " " Not a penny, Mr. Morlaiid, on my honour. It's all pure zeal." " Pure zeal i Then we'll have a little corrupt apathy, for a change. klNG OR KNAVE 1 263 Send somebody to tell him he's wanted immediately, at my committee- room " Mr. Sharpe left, smiling. Things were going well. If only thie heaven-sent lunatic could provoke the luyal citizens of Marchgrave into breaking heads, the contingent from Askness would not submit patiently to have their heads broken, and the amount of political capi- tal to bo coined out of riot was beyond calculation. Why the election might be made void : and if not, the arch-enemy of Askness would suffer an infinite loss of prestige if he had to wade, as it were, through slaughter to the head of the poll. Having brought his Iambs to March- grave, the difficulty was what to do with them. Surely the gods were fighting for Askness, to have sent this madman to scatter whirlwind. And, in truth, it was a whirlwind that was being sown : Mr. Sharpe might find as many difficulties in the way of obeying this candidate's orders as he pleased. It was just as possible as he liked — if not a trifle more than he liked — to penetrate into the crowd, dense, though not large, that had taken to follow about the frenzied demagogue who devoted himself to the denunciation of John Heion. Nor was it on this occasion a wholly unsympathetic crowd The Askness Iambs had begun to understand the reason of their preference in Marchgrave, and they gave the orator cheer after cheer as he shrieked out his catalogue of crimes like a prophet in a rage, and, shaking his fist towards Chapter Lane, asked how anyone who called themselves men could let a monster like that wallow in his ill-gotten millions while honest Englishmen, like those before him, were doomed to grinding toil. " If you've not got votes," said he, "you've got better. I never heard that William Tell had a vote ; but he made his country free. He wouldn't bow to a hat ; but you — you cringe down to a monster's old boots, and lick them ; perhaps you think you can lick them clean of blood, and mud, and slime. But you can't : you only make them filthier still. I tell you, fellow citizens, what William Tell, what Caractacus, what Washington, would have done. Would they have licked the boots of tyrants and traitors ? No. They would have said — There is the traitor, the tyrant, wallowing in your gold. Britons— take your Own : and all else you can ! " " Morland for ever ! " roared the lambs. But at the word the flock, more loud than numerous, was suddenly increased by a rush like a flood tide through a rocky channel, that sent it reeling. Not oven Marchgrave could keep its temper f(jr ever when John Heron was being called all the names in the Newgate Calendar. Whence the rush came, or how its blue-ribboned atoms combined in one, nobody could ever tell — suoh things are beyond telling. Mr. Sharpe might account for his lambs from Askness, and how much secret-service money they cost his clients ; but this was an honest rush, as if an electric curient had darted through the City, and inspired it with gratitude and loyalty. John Heron's heart, heavy with secret anxiety though it wat., might well swell hi<^h with pride as, coming out upon the balcony of an upper i 264 KING OR KNAVE? room in the Guildhall where he was then engaged in municipal business, he saw how impossible it was from holding back his fellow-citizens fruui resenting an insult to his name. This was better than the honour that was to be done him to-morrow by bishops and peers. That would be but the outward recognition of what he was and what he had done for his city, and therefore for his country. But this was heart -burst. Pro- bably there was noc a creature in that crowd who did not own him a grateful debt for personal and private aid, and was struggling to pay it with what Stephen Ray had called better things than votes— to wit, blows, and hard ones. Member — mayor — baronet : a peerage in due time : what were all these things together compared scith one of these honest blows dealt for plain John Heron, of Chapter Lane ! And he had thought of giving up the battle : of exilinp: himself, and burying his very name out of sight with nobody but % timid girl to make a world for him out of a hermitage. Even in the midst of the pride with which he gazed down upon the tunmlt, he was ashamed of having been so weak, even for an hour. That he, John Heron, of March- grave, should even for a moment have let himself feel tlie bond-slave of a Wyndham Snell — have trembled before a Draycot Morland — have condescended to violence upon Stephen Ray ! Looking down upon the friendly mob, and standing in a little knot of staunch friends, who half loved, half feared, and all honoured him, his spirit rose : his heartbeat joyfully : he felt himself a king indeed — a King of M . . . . And even at this moment, when he at last felt his f .11 strength , he saw the masts of the world towering out from the Decks of the future — even now, he realized himself for the sake of his great aim, wherein self was as nothing. He felt impregnable : that the Docks were being dug out of a rock : and that the rock was He. " Good God ! ' exclaimed Alderman Sparrow, as the rush surged past. •' Look at that. Heron— there'll be mischief done." '* I see," said John Heron — not seeing for a moment through a mist that blinded him, and allowed him to see naught but great things far away. But he suddenly turned round with a smile of grim triumph. " No need, 1 think, gentlemen, to give our friend there the lie now / " If Stephen were to sink bodily in that raging and shouting tide ! If only Wyndham Snell were in it also — what a heaven life would become ! If only those hundreds of loyal feet could trample into the mud the whole of his Other Life as readily as all those hands clenched them- selves and struck out for the man they thought they knew ! It would be the changing of life into heaven indeed : it would be like the casting off of the mortal body with all its pains, and burdens, and sins, and leaving the soul clean and free. But the lambs, though formidably and increasingly outnumbered, were not so easily swept oflf their feet by the pack of watchdogs. They had been brought to fight — possibly chosen for each man's fighting power, and their duty lay in the form of Heads, plain before them. Moreover, three out of four had a bludgeon, which gives odds against fist any day. And then they were friends, or at least workmates — KINO OR KNAVE t 265 mostly navvies from the docks at Askness, or quarrymen from Axholm, with a regular bruiser or two from Mr. Sharpe knows where. The Heroiiite rush, on the other hand, was an extempore army, with no recognized leader. So the charge, nfter making the lambs break and give for a moment like the British square before the onset of the Arabs, recovered and showed a front as gallant as if one man there knew what he was being gallant for. And then the blows began in good earnest — smashed faces and cracked cro us. The orator took no part in the affray. Orators seldom do. But, as he could not get out of it, he gave no occasion to doubt his courage, although his deformed shoulders and delicate hands would not have made the want of it the unpardonable sin that a constitutional dislike to giving and taking hard knocks is supposorl to be. He was hemmed in by the lambs, whose trumpeter he had become ; and, from the midst of these big and burly fellows, with muscles like their own crowbars, the consumptive skeleton with flowing hair waved its arms, and coughed and screamed. If he was not mad before he was mad now • the demon of battle had possessed him : he thought himself inspiring a revolution that was to spread over the land — while John Heron saw a vision of peace, wealth and welfare, he saw chaos : where John Heron saw the masts of merchantmen, he saw the poles of the guillotine. It was a great battle for a country town. Without a plan of Marchgrave, it is easy to perceive that the balcony on which Sir John stood was on one side of the High Street ; that Morland's committee room was on the other ; and that the narrow turning into Chapter Lano (nearly opposite the archway leading to the close) was between the two, on the same side as the Guildhall — all these being on the same side of the market cross. Thus Morland had almost, though not quite, as good a view of the struggle as his opponent ; and the sight put him in a rage. He was leaning as far as he could stretch out of the window — he had looked round for Mr. Sharpe, buc Mr. Sharpe had not yet returned, and this enraged him still more. *' I'm hanged if the town isn't being given over to sack and pillage 1 " he exclaimed, all his coolness gone. " It's infamous — and there's no place one can get at to speak to them. I must do something, though. Here, one of you fellows, give me my hat — I'm sorry it's a new one, but it must take its chance " " You'd better not go out, Mr. Morland," said his friend the grocer. '*The Heronites '11 tear you limb from limb." " Well, so long as they'll leave enough of me to get to the Mayor, here goes. Why, this is a riot, Mr. Sims ; u id there's the Mayor in full sight, and not even trying to say a word — • — " But before he had fairly withdrawn his head, crash went a pane of glass juat over his ear, and a round paving-stone sma.^Uod an inkstand under Mr. Sim's nose. At the same moment, the lambs were pusl od back by sheer weight and number, so that presently Morland's com- mittee-room itself, with its flaunting scarlet posters, would be at the mercy of the mob of Blues, which had already thrown its first stone. 266 KlNd OE KNAVK 1 Morland might as well have thrown himself into Niagara. All he could do was to prepare himself for a harangue as soon as the enemy was under his windows, when he shuddered with dismay. '*Good God, if there isn't Sh«!" he exclaimed, pointing to the corner of Chapter Lane, round which the centre of the tumult seethed and surged. But nobody heard him. Mr. Sims was off, searching for a backdoor. There was no time for mutual surprise (were either any longur capaV)le of it), much less for mutual explanation, when Marion and Cynthia met one another at the corner of Chapter Lane. Not that, under the circumstances, there was any occasion for surprise. Strange to say, however, it was Marion who was at least outwardly calui, though miserably pale , it was the Lady Superintendent who was wringing her hands. " And I hurried back from town," she began volubly," " thinking to tind him so quiet and converted — and it was all low cunning ; the Horrible Wretch has escaped out. of tlio very hospital — look at him ! Oh, my dear, never have anything to do with a Genius if there wasn't another man in the world ; they're all alike— all ! and after all I've been to that — Thing ! Do you know what he's dohig, Marion Furness 1 Do you hear ? " It is Stephen Ray I " "Why, where are your eyes/ But, l forget —you wear glasses. Don't put them on ; don't look at the vile wretch : I wish I was blind ; and deaf too. ... A fine plot I've found ! " There were no sheltering shops in Chapter Lane between the corner and the Bank where Marion had once more failed to find John Heron. They could only shrink back from the riot till it might pass by, and enable them to escape from the streets altogether, while Cynthia's tongue never paused. " You know best what your father's up to here, Marion. From what 1 make out, he's up to robbing a Bank belonging to Sir John Heron "What?" exclaimed Marion, aghast — "where these bidden visits, then, of hers to Chapter Lane some undeciphering wheels in a plan ? " " Don't be fraid. Sir John's a friend of mine — or going to be ; and I'm reformed and converted ; but by No ; not by anything, but reformed or not, if I split on old pals, may I be — never mind what may 1 be. Stephen's in with the gang, that's clear ; and — and — but of course you know, being one of the gang yourself Take a hint ; tnat's all. . . . Marion Furness ; tell Adam at once to make himself scarce ; its all blown ! " " Cynthia, for once in my life let me know what Something means 1 " " Ah I Come further back ; we shall get hurt if we stay here ! " " No. !Not a step till I understand." "I — I've gone through things to spoil all my pluck; though 1 always knew you had most pluck, if I had most brains. ... I can't get at Stephen — wouldn't I, that's all ! " KINO OR KNAVE t 267 1" !" '* Do you mean,' askurl Marion, as quietly as if the battle were far away, " that my fiithei" — that Adam Furness is being pursued for some new crime 1 " " For all of them, Marion ; don't ask me how I know it There's no time to lose, and I mustn't mix in such things now, being a Lady Matron ; but Sir John Heron has signed a warrant against Adam Fur- ness, and he's been traced to Askhohn — you know a Doctor Snell. That man has split, as sure as I'm a living woman. How can Adam have been fool enough to put faith in such a man ? I've done him out of some of his blood-money, though — that's one comfort. He knows Adam ; he knows Heron. Who could have put Heron up to the warrant, but he ? Do you trust Snell ? " " Trust Him? " '* Ah ! 1 thought I was riyht, Marion ! There are plain-clothes men from Scotland Yard in the town this very minute. I know them ; there isn't a detective in the country I'm not up to, whatever his rig may be. And one of 'em got out at Askhohn Junction and the others came on. . . . Oh, Marion -Run 1" A more furious charge swept past the corner, and made the girls cower still further back, clinging together. But run they could not, for Cynthia was apprently losing her limbs as well as her head, and Marion felt hej'self turning to stone. Crash ! It was a shower of paving-stonos against Mi>rland'8 windows : the worse aimed demolishing those of the neighbouring houses, with- out distinction of colour. The Blue blood was up, and bent on pelting the Champion of Popular Rights from John Heron's City in a hail storm of fury. The Lambs had given way at last, and were in full flight. Crash I went another storm of stones. Morland had come to the window, waived his arms, and ttied to speak ; but his recepti avoid a stone. Not for a moment did she feel that she her mother's daughter, the timidest and daintiest of girls, only too sensitive to touch a shadow, was being hunted through the streets as if she had been a wounded cur. She was treading on air, far above all such things. Suddenly, though she never ceased to be aware of the tall figure on the Guildhall balcony, all else became a dream, and the shouting around her became as the roar of a distant sea. Her feet no longer felt the ground— whether she was running or truly flying, she no longer knew. She felt herself grasped around the waist ; and struggling to free herself, felt that her strength was gone. For one wild instant she fancied her- self in the arms of Gay ; and she named his name. And then she knew no more. And she had indeed passed through the Valley of the Shadow. It must be so ; for she woke in that other world where, she had been taught, we meet those who have passed through the valley before us to part from them never again. Certainly it did not look very much like a chamber beyond the stars, unless rooms also have their apotheoses, and very fyidinary rooms some- I times. But then it is true that a great many very ordinary people may find I their way beyond the stars— at least, it is to be hoped so or else the popu- I lation will be but small. When the pain of dying out of one world, and I the greater agony of been born into another, was past, the region where I she found herself was singularly like what on earth is called a watch- I maker's — possibly her soul had strayed, being a stranger to the country, I into the paradise of watches and clocks that have at least tried to do I their duty ; fit companions, no doubt, thought Marion, with a faint I smile, for human souls that, in no less ignorance than sightless and will- I less machines, have tried to do theirs, and failed. I But it was certainly somewhere in that other world. She looked round I for her mother ; but no doubt she would come presently to welcome I her daughter home. But, meanwhile there, of course, was Guy — to I give her welcome the lirst of all. She was glad that he was the first I on whom she opened aor eyes. Neitlicr l>l()od nor madness could part I them now, tl\e8e three. She held out her hand with a brighter smile, as the tears came into her eyes. I. 270 KING OR KNAVE ? " I am glad ! " said she, as if it were all the most natural of meetings in any world. "Marion!" Yes — it was the voice ; but the tone was no calm, starry welcome. It was wild at once with earthly joy, with passion, with anger, with bewilderment — with a thousand things. He took her liand, and pressed it almost fiercely to his lips, which burned like tire, while she gazed into his eyes without even so much as simple wonder ; like a child waking from a dream. " What a way to find you — what a ])lace — what a time ! " "Yes; it was Guy— but how changed! How he must have been waiting and hungering for her till she came — had she done right, after all, in loving him so much as to be blind to the greatness for his lovc! of her ? He looked as if he had been starving in slovv fever instead of dying by violence, he looked so pale and worn ; and his eyes seemed to gaze through her's into some haunting vision far away. Suddenly she started, with a little cry. A stream of blood was trickling from his hair. Could it be that the Murdered carry their wounds with them to cry for Vengeance even above the silent music of the stars ? No — that could never be ! " Guy ! " she cried, " I am not dead ! It is you ! " Then, as her senses retuned, the world of earth also surged back, and filled her ears. Oh, if her fancy had only been real — if she had truly changed the desert of life for a happy dream without an end ! The waking of the body from its swoon had not been so full of agony as that of the mindlrom its dream. She could be nothing to him, she knew — no meeting, however sudde'^, could change the past, or her reason for her will. But even in this, her will, that they should never again meet on earth, had been, like all her other resolves, in vain. But they had met — and how should lovers meet after such a parting ? How but in one way ? And, oh the relief, when she know herself, without remembering that it must be for the last time, to be clasped in his living arms and to be feeling his living kisses on her face ; to know that whatever curso still rose between them, it was not the curse of Cain ; it was not her father's hand. That was almost joy enough ; that would mrke surrender seem almost like a thankott'oring. . . . For this moment, at least, they were alone ; knowing nothing of what each had sufi'eied or how they had come together ; hearing nothing but the human storm without ; heeding nothing there. . . . " But questions had at last to come. "You have been in Moscow ?" asked Guy. " In Moscow ? No ! Not oi:t of England, you have been — seeking me ? L shat whore you've been lost all this while ? . . . But you are hurt " " Oh, that's nothing Tlie cowards ! They meant it for you. Well — I was in time, thank God, to give at least one of them a little an unheeded echo of but that they wevo Is that where J , KING OR KNAVE 1 271 ..f lero this iTOU. ittle of what he deserved. But Marion — my darling, what in the name of madness brought you among that pack of wolves ? " "I must think. . . ." *• I can think of nothing but that you are unhurt — alive 1 That I have found you — that I shall never lose you again." •'Guy " " I know. I know in whose hands you have been, though nothing more. But whoever he is, it is nothing to me ; You are You. Is your mother here ? " " (J uy ! You remember our last good-bye ? You said good-bye tt) her for ever She is dead, Guy." " Good God ! . . . And you have been with him, your father, alone ? You are with him still ? Darling, how shall we ever tell one another what has happened — how shall we ever begin ? " " You have been seeking me— in spite of my letter " "Your letter? You never sent me a word. Since your mother wrote me from the Clarence, I never heard of you again until. . . . Seeking for you ! I have done nothing but seek for you. What else should I have done ? Why do you say in spite of your letter ? Nothing would have forbidden me to seek you till 1 had found you, or died seekiiig " " Guy, will you swear to me something — on your honour — on your word?" " Anything — except to lose you again." ' ' Do nothing to harm my father ! Help him — he is in terrible danger. I know what you think of iiim — irhat my dear mother thought of him .._but " For a moment Guy looked hard and stern : changed indeed. " But you have asked me to — help him. Tlmt is enough for me." " Perhaps — it is the only, the last thing I shall ever ask you, Guy 1 He is here, in Marchgrave ; and it is known that he is here " " Yes," said Guy a little gloomily. " He is here, and it is known. But what has he been to you ? Your father ! It wab about him 1 have your mother's last words to me. I believe he hounded her to her death : he has used his ini'ernal power over you for the sake of a for- tune which your mother saved from his clutches at the cost of her hon- our ; is no more to you than lie is to mo — even loss, to you. Let him t able you and the world no more." "Oh, Guy? Your word ! " " I know more of Adam Furness — more than you know : more than y6ur motlier knew. She was right, Marion. That he has imposed on your innocence and your trustfuhiess, I can well believe. If you had ever known him as a father, if he had any right even to your pity, it would be another thing. I would try to save him " " Ah ! But he has — he has a riglit to all my pity Guy ! He i» « most unliappy man ; and I — I have done him cruel wrong ; and he has no friend, no help, but me." " Marion " " Your word ! Oh Guy 1 don't be cruel to me now I As you know <■'■ 272 KINO OR KNAVE ? he is in danger, go to him — warn him — from me. I was hurrying to him when — oh ! don't let me have gone through all — all that — in vain ! " Holding his hand, she for the first time realized what it had been to face that raging njob — that storm of stone. " But (jiuy, if you cannot help him, I will face it all again — weak as I am. If ho is lost for want of a word of mine, I shall go mad — before my time ! « . Oh, do one more thing, for my sake Hark ! " 'riie outer roar which had fallen into a partial lull, rose up again with tenfold rage. She clung to his hand. "No," she cried, " you cannot go ! I am mad to send you. . . . //fi did ?iof kill ! . . . Oh, why can I think of nothing but what in wicked, and do nothing but what fails ? " *' Where is he, Marion ? " asked Guy. She led him to the window. At that moment the uproar ceased, as bareheaded, and with an officer in uniform at his side, the Mayor of Marchgrave, hitherto an inactive spectator of the disorder which was in truth his own glory and a lesson to rebels, raised his right arm, and spoke to the people in a slow, strong voice that all could hear. '* Fellow-citizens," said he, " I understand your anger at the infa- mous.attempt that has been made to interfere with your free election of your own member — an attempt to violate the rights of the people by preventing a free poll. Do not damage your legitimate victory, gained at the pollin • booths, by violence tox^rds the vanquished. I hold in my hand a paper — here it is — ^which siiowsthat you have already gained a great constitutional victory. The returning-oftioor will in due time a n lunce to you by how much more than two thousand majority Draycot Morland will be sent back t > London. Do not give me the shame and sorrow of reading the Riot Act to my own fi-ienda. I am proud of your anjer : of your peaceful triumph 1 shall bo a hundred times more pr lud. Give three big cheers for Marchgrave, and go home." Then went up a mighty cheer. " That is he !" cried Marion. ^ *' Adam Furness Where ?" asked Guy. " He — win ' is speaking to the people " " God in Heaven I That is John Heron 1 , JL... KINO OR KNAVS ? 27? CHAPTER XXIX. TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR. "Splendidly done !" exclaimed Alderman Sparrow. "You have saved the town ! " " It was as well to read Askness a bit of lesson," said John Heron, leaving the balcony. " Of course I shall make good all dania/e — if I were not member for Marchgrave, I'd be a Glazier . . . This dear old city ! Of course you'll dine with me, Captain Lawson ! I don't think you'll be wanted now." "I only wish Sir John, " said the officer, " that our swords were as .'*harp and as strong as your words. Instead of horsos, we ought to be mounted on mayors — ha ! ha ! ha ! " '* Cedant arma togoe : concedat laurea lingn fnend whom he thought ho had for ever removed from his way I ^U,f, tfior all, why should he fea;? He went slowly to his private >)u, 80 as lo think the whole situation out, inch by inch. One of l(, 274 KING OR KNAVE ? two things must have happened. Either Guy Derwenc had succeedeu in disposing of the false roubles to the Tartar Khan — in which casu there was nothing to fear ; or Guy had been detected and escaj)ed — in which case he must contrive to disclaim all responsibility for the transaction. It was awkward ; but it was impossible to decide upon any course until he saw how the land lay. If only the confounded young fellow had not turned up again on this day of all days ! But then that is always so. People invariably turn up on the wrong day — if they turn up at all. "Guy!" he exclaimed, holding out both hands, "where in the world have you been 1 Why have you never written — never telegraphed even ? Have you negotiated the Tartar loan ? Have you found your sweetheart ? Have you But where — when — how — why Any- how, welcome home ! And, of all days, welcome home to-day ! " He held out both his hands. But Guy, instead of touching them, kept his hands by his side, and his eyes upon the floor. " Marion Furness," said he, "bids me warn — her father-that " He raised his eyes, aiid he saw before him, in the place of the strong man, apparently overfl(»wing with welcome and triumi)h, the meanest and vulgarest of all sight in the world — a detected impostor. But could he have seen below that miserable surface, he would have seen something so infinitely pitiable that the vulgarity avid the mean- ness would have been lost in the tragedy. He would have seen the passionate labour of a life shattered in the very moment of victorious pride. His hands were still outstretched, but not, as they seemed, imploring — they were grasping after a Royal dream that was vanishing away. What mercy could he hope for from Guy Derwent — from him, of all men ? Surely none. He remembered — not that there was a grain of need to remember — how Guy had returned home from India, full of love, hope, courage, and, above all, of devoted trust in his friend and hero ; how he had trusted to chat friend all he loved, and all the inmost secrets of his heart ; and how that friend was all the while not only a foe, but a treacherous foe, only bent upon trapping him to his destruction. "Do you hear?" asked Guy, in a voice of ice. "I bring you a warning. The police are searching for Adam Furness, both here and at Askholm. I suppose you do not wish to be arrested here — on Sir John Heron's warrant — in Marchgrave Guildhall." The coldness of his words seemed to break a spell. "I have nothing to say," said John Heron, letting his arms fall feebly, and in a hoarse and hollow voice tliat not even Guy could recognise. " 1 am not going to defend myself. ... I had to choose between you and Marchgrave. . . . And if you and I were together where 1 could kill you — yes, even you, so as to keep my secret safe, I should have to choose Marchgrave still. . . . What| are you going to do ? " "^Nothing to help your poor wife's persecutor —her murderer fo KING OR KNAVE ? 275 aught I know; nothing to help tho robber of your own child — a mail who would make his own daughter an accomplice in his crimes ; nothing, even, to help one who, witliout a scruple, without remorse, has used a friend, who worshipped hnn, as a cat's-paw to his oAvn wrong ; nothing to help one of whom I know, and believe all that I know of you. What pity, even, can 1 have for you, who have left me no wm-e faith or trust in mortal man i" "None. . . . Then why " " Do I warn you ? Because Marion — it is her warning, not mine." " Did she betray me ? " asked John Heron eagerly. "Is the daughter of Judas bound to be a traitor tix) ? No! She risked her life to warn you, under your very eyes. ..." "Thank (Jod for that ! . . . A man who prides himself on his play likes to know how he loses. You say you have brought the police upon me. No ; you could not have even seen her, tin " " No ; it is not my doing that the police have traced Adam Furness to Askholm — to Marchgrave. It is your own. . . . Yes ; you have the riglit to know how. When you, to prevent your daughter's coming to Marchgrave, and recog?iising her mother's enemy in John Heron, hid me from her, and her from me, and sent me abi-oad, as I see now, to find tjie end of my journey in the Siberian mines " " Derwent — I swear to you " "You gave yourself the chance of it, anj'how. When you did all thi^, you did not reckon on my falhng into another of your traps, or on my coming out alive to tell the tale. (Jh, I followed every letter of my instructions. I was received at Mr. Ward's by a foreigner in a red beard — no doubt you know the man " Ay — and he knows me ! I see; he kept you till the police came- " At any rate he kept me — to arrange for the delivery of the bul- lion, or for some such reason— any how I was taken into an upper room " " The damned villain ! " cried John Heron ; " I do see — he meant to bring us all under his hand together "And I should have thought it strange but for one still stranger thing — a picture of Marion. Heaven knows how, but the strangeness of the place, my loss of her, the imjiression I had of her father, all assured me that she had been there —might be there, even then. I was alone. Suddenly I heard the noise of a confused struggle ; twf» men rushed past me 'n the half liglit— one, he with the red beard, fell. What became of the other I don't know ; I received a blow as I piissed, that blinded and maddened me. I foUowed, reeling down some dark stairs. I heard Marion's voice, as surely as I had seen her picture. . . . When all was over, I was a pristmer " . " Of the police ? " " No- alone ; in a room that was locked and barricaded ; in pitch darkness ; sprained, lamed, wovmded ; understanding nothing of what had happened ; trapjjed, for aughi I knew, to be murdered ; not know- ing even the day or the hour " " Oood God - Guy ! . . . You are alive ? " rr 276 KING OK KNAVE 1 *' Yes ; and sane. . . . Miracles still seem to happen now and then. I found candlelight ; I found food — not much, but enough to keep a fever going. Men don't easily starve, I've heard, in fever. How long I lay in that dungeon I know not to this hour ; how I lay there, I shall never know. All that while I never heard a voice or a footfall, unless of rats ; and I was far too weak to break a door. . . . But no more of that. I was found at last " *' By whom?" '*Aman and a woman — a Mrs. Stephen and Doctor Snell. . . . You know him." " Snell ? . . . Then — Guy ; five minutes ago I was going to startle Marchgrave," he said, with a strange smile, " by going into the next room and blowing out n)y brains — as I can't very well blow out yours. But I've got somebody to live for still ; and that is Wyndham Snell. And, by God. I will 1 . . . Where's Marion ? " *' She is safe — now." " Derwent — I know how I look in your eyes ; but not worse than Adam Furness has always looked in John Heron's. And if you knew what it means to give up what I am giving up this day, I should say this — think what you will of me, but, for Marchgrave's sake, forget that there has ever been an Adam Furness — imagine him dead and buried. And so he is ; for if that last trick had been won, I should have buried him with my own hands. Why should Marchgrave lose its future because But I won't trouble you to say 'No,' as I suppose you would, not having dreamed my dream. There's — Snell. Who knows that Adam Furness is John Heron, besides Marion, and you, and— Snell ? " " Not a soul ! " " Then I know what to do — yes, even now. I must sa^ e my skin for the sake of — Snell. . . . Where's Mari(m ? " Of course, the Doctor was as innocent of treachery as a newborn child ; but it was his invariable destiny to be treated unjustly. It is a terrible misfortune for an honest man to look like a knave. For his part, Adam Furness looked so little like a knave that even now Guy Derwent himself was beginning to feel a touch of the old mastery return. Who can shatter an idol without a pang ? " I have said she is safe," said he, the more coldly and sternly for having l-ii himself be moved. " Oh, you needn't be afraid ! She is a good girl. I only wish I had known her sooner. You may hear every word I want to say to her, if you please. I suppose I have a right to say good-bye as well as you?" *-I?" " Well, I don't suppose you want to marry a coiner's daughter — my datighter, I should think, least of all," he said, with an air of bitter scorn. "Nothing, and least of all her father, can come between me and Marion Heron." " I remember — you always knew .she was a convict's daughter. Derwent- grave ! ever hear that bribe Ask holm "Askh. *' Justj emergency the consta Furness ; i John Her chance in Henm's Ai know wha( " But- '-'Oh, sh isn't my w Ycu won't except witl There, I'm It was nc the room w feeling the Heron of c ease. "Pvebr went back India's cora after all. I — there's n( thanks after a national ci Spf spare Drayci Derwent's "But you you don't ki: " Oh, coui bye ; a thoui minute to los I* A Natio] " Sir John "Ah-Tw, _ " And gen Guildhall, " a glorious ma a man of Peac proceedings, KING OU KNAVE ? 277 Derwent — I wish to God you had never stood in the way of March- grave ! Well, I promise you one thing — neither you nor Marion shall ever hear of me again. Nobody shall ever hea • of me but — Snell. Is that bribe enf>ugh to get you and — Marion — to go with me as far as Askholm ? " "Askholm? The police " *' Just so. I keep a boat there, at a private place, ready for an emergency. You see, I put myself in your hands. If I come across the constables, of course Snell will be there to point me out as Adam Furuess ; and if they're London men I shall want you to identify me as John Heron. One must chance something ; but there's nc^t much chance in Snell's persuading the biggest detective idiot that John Heron's Adam Furness against your word and mine. For the rest, I know what to do. I only want an hour. " " But— your wife ? " '' Oh, she has her settlement. . . . and nobody need know she isn't my wife, poor girl, any more than that Marion is my daughter. Ycu won't punish her, I suppose, as you dont mean to punish me — except with coals of fire. Come. . . . Wait a moment. . . . There, I'm ready now." It was no detected criminal, and worse than criminal, who re-entered the room whence he had addressed his people like a king. Guy, now feeling the reaction of weakness, marvelled to see once more the John Heron of old — calm, masterful, a little bluff, wholly genial, and at ease. "I've brought you a surprise," said he. "Here's our friend Der- went back from — which is it, Guy ? Greenland's icy moantains or India's coral strand ? Poor Prendergast wont have to stand a trial, after all. But I've bad news, too. * I must put off our potluck ! No — there's nothing the matter ; but I shan't be able even to return thanks after the poll. I've got to ce tch the very next up train. It's a national crisis just now, you know, and ' Kismet,' as the Turks say, . . . Sparrow, you'll say a word for me to the electors? And don't spare Draycot Morland Derwent's return fell as flat as ditch water. " But you'll be back to-morrow ? " asked the alderman, you don't know anything about it, but "Of course we *' Oh, course — of course ! There are plenty of trains, bye ; a thousand thanks to you all. Come, Derwent, minute to lose. " '• A National Crisis ! " said the alderman, swelling importantly. " Sir John sent for to town ! " said another. ' " Ah— Two and Two make Four ! " . Good- haven't a " And gentlemen," concluded the alderman from the balcony of the Guildliall, " not only have we licked all Aakness into a cocked hat with a glori> 7W HiotDgraphic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STREIT WKSTH.N.Y. 145S0 (716)S72-4S03 ^"^^ 280 KINO OR KNAVE 1 Iniy what I want, and take a passage in the first vessel bound for a port from which there's no extradition . . . and now , . . ." He walked on in silence for a minute or two, as if putting some diffi- cult thought into the fewest and plainest words. "And now," he continued, as if his sentence had been unbroken, •' I will say all that remains. I'm not going to whine, or talk senti- ment ; so don't be afraid. If not to-morrow, yet in some three days at most, it must come out that John Heron has made a bolt of it ; and then will come out the reason why. They'll look into my afiairs, of course. Well — luckily for everybody, I've been obliged to leave every thing in fair order ; cu8tc»mers will be paid when all's realised full eighteen shillings in the pound — I've reckoned it to a penny. And Kate has her settlement. She needn't know she isn't my wife ; you won't want to put forward yours as my daughter. I'm sorry you won't give up Marion — for she's all that's left me ; but — well, I'm not g, though I have to go alone." *' No," said Marion, quietly, with downcast eyes. " Not alone." " Marion ! " cried Guy, aghast ; for of that he had never dreamed. John Heron turned round with slow wonder. He could scarce believe his ears. " Yes, Guy — yes, father," said Marion, in a clear voice that scarcely trembled ; " I know all that I mean : I mean all that I say. Guy — were all things different, I could still be nothing to you — but your sister and your friend. And were there not that which ia between us — how could I leave my father now f" The boat was in sight. " Marion ! " cried Guy again, unable to move. " This is horrible 1 KING OR KNAVE ? 281 Who oil earth needs you more than I ? " I will never lose you. You, whom your dead mother gave to me and trusted to me — what man, what power on earth can take away ? What horrible influence can be between you and me ? " Had he been able, he would have seen in her eyes that her pain was even greater than his own. " Guy," she said, holding out her hand, " don't kiil me — don't think I'm cold ; don't think I don't understand. But when I gave you up — before — I meant it : for good and all. It rmtst hk. As if I had not thought it over and over, night and day ! I must iiever marry ; you, least of all, because — because — I love you. But if I might — Oh. Guy, don't look at me like that, don't speak to me ; you only make hard what must be — I know what my father has lost now ! He does need me — think how much ; you have your life still, your work, your youth, your pride ; but he ! " " Marion," broke in Heron, in a slow, deep voice. " You, of your free will, choose to give up all the good things of a woman's life, all, to follow into exile a convict — an outlaw, of whom no human creature will ever speak but with hatred and shame ? Have you counted the cost ? have you thought of the man who loves you well enough to marry even the child of John Heron ? do you know what you are doing ? do you mean what you say ? " " Do you need me ? " " God knows how much ! Ah, if I had known you before t " " Then I have counted ; I have thought; I do know ; 1 do mean. I will oome." Heron turned to Guy with a sad, strange smile — a l.gion of gala. There was no prouder woman in England than Kate Heron — her pardon : Lady Heron — that day. *' And now," she thought, with a sigh in the midst of her pride, '* perhaps we shall be a little nearer ; perhaps now he will be able to be a littje more at home." As if Parliament meant home — as if there could be any rest till the new Docks were made. . But Ignorance is Bliss — sometimes. Draycot Morland, not liking the sensation of a cur attached to a tin kettle, had made one point of not leaving Marchgrave on the declara- tion of the poll, and another point of going out into the streets at as early an hour ar a late breakfast allowed. He felt not an atom of sore- ness about his defeat — he had fought to be beaten, and circumdtances had convinced him that it was he, and not his opponent, who had turned out to be the Sham. '* Hanged if I don't make a speech at the ceremony, pitching hot and strong into myself," bethought. "It'll be a novelty, and good fun. To abuse one's own self, as if one were Two ! It'll give the Philistines and Pharisees a new idea. Oli, how we should all pitch into ourselves if we only could realise that every man is two men — ii he isn't three, or four, or nine hundred and ninety-nine ! One self abusing the other — when I'm in the House (not for Marchgrave) I'll bring in a bill for recognising Universal Duality : sending one of everybody into the House of Lords, and the other to the Treadmill. That's the only way of getting justice done. 'Done' — rather a double-freed word. . . . Gcjod-mcuning, Mr. Prendergast. A great day for Marchgrave — eh ? Where's your Draycot Morland now 1 ) I b I f r a r d It 284 KINO OB KNAVE ? '* I don't know, sir, I'm sure," said Mr. Prendergast, rubbing his hands. '* A great day 1 Why, sir, it's a glorious day. Our Mr. Der- went's come home ! " If Lady Heron was the proudest woman, Mr. Prendergast was the happpiest man. The only note of anxiety in the place was struck upon the mind of Alderman Sparrow : for the hour of the ceremony was approaching, and there was only one more train by which Sir John could possibly arrive. Nor had there been a telegram. But, as time proceeded, anxiety became mitigated until balm suggested itself in Gilead even if Sir John should not come to enjoy his own triumph. The Alderman's success of yester- day as an orator encouraged him to think that a modest absence on national and imperial affairs on the part of Sir John might look graceful, especially if compensated by a flight of apologetic eloquence on the part of Alderman Sparrow. So he went about in a brown sLudy, planning an impromptu. And now the hour had come — though not the man. The statue, under its canvas veil, stood like a daylight ghost where the Market-Cross had been. On an extemporised platform were the Marquis of Herchester (Lord-Lieutenant of the county) and the Mar- chioness, the Bishop of Marchgrj,ve and Mrs. Stole, the Dean, the Canon in Residence, the Recorder and Aldermen and Aldermen's wives, the County Court Judge, various county magnates and County Members, the Clerk of the Peace, the beneficed clergy of the city, the foreign con- suls, Lady Heron, and sundry flys in amber, including Draycot Morland, who turned, by a bow, a not ill-natured hoot into a good-humored cheer. VVhat with uniforms, silk hoods, scarlet gowns, and, above all, the ladies in their bravest, the banners, the arches, and the golden light of a blue sky, the scene was gorgeous in colour as even honour to John Heron could demand. In the front rank round the covered statue, kept in p-ace b}^ the high sherifi^s javelin-men in antique livery, were the bedesmen and heCe iwomen of the almshouses restored and refounded by John Heron ; the children of the schools established and managed by John Heron ; the staff of the hospital built and supported by John Heron, and the cathedral choir, marshalled to sing to the praise and glory of John Heron. Round these stood the crowd, and beyond the crowd came the open windows filled with feathers and flowers. It was unfortunate that the last possible train came in without bring- ing the hero of the day, and the Volunteers sent to the railway-station as a guard of honour hati to march back again, substituting some other tuue for that march from "Judas MaccabsBus" which their trumpters and drummers hud been rehearsing so diligently. However, ap every- body agreed, on consideration, there could be no real cause for anxiety. A man ma?t sacrifice even the enjoyment of his own praises at a national crisii ; and then — was it not after all in the very height of fine taste and lioyal modesty for John Heron to conceal himself till the honour had been done ? Was not that just like John Heron ? At any rate, though with some slight change of programme, the cere- mony had to proceed. And [)erhaps it was j ust as well for a modest man KiSQ on KNAVE ? 285 to have stayed away. For the Rpeeches were many ; and each outbid ^i^ch. in his praise. The Marquis held him up as a shining example uf au Englishman, who had learned, in helping to rule and benefit his native town, how to help in the good government of an empire — he was ever so little condescending^, perhaps, but, then he spoke for the County. The Bishop, a real orafor, eulogised John Henm as a pillar both of Church and State ; a philaiithropist not only generous, but wise ; no slavish flatterer of the crowd, but a master and judge among the people — truly a Prince of Israel. The Recorder spoke of him as a magistrate. The But there is no need to reproduce in small what may be found set out in all the local papers of the hour. Applause was chronic ; but it reached a climiix when the vice-chairman of the Chamber of Commerce drew a brilliant picture of what Marchgrave was to be in time to come — when John Heron's new Docks would make all those present citizens of one of the greatest and wealthiest cities in the world, and fellow-citizens of one of the world's greatest men. " A statue to John Heron should have Two Faces ; one for the past and one for the future," said he. At last, amid a flourish of trumpets and a firing of bells, a cord was drawn, the coverings fell, and the statue of John Heron became hence- forth the centre of his native town. Where he was to whom all this worship was being paid belongs not to this story. But even while the trumpets brayed and the bells tired, the corpse of a police-hunted convict was lying in a fifihermau's cottage, watched only by the daughter whom he had never known till of late, and by the friend he had betrayed. That statue was all that remained of Adam Furness ; that corps j, all that was left of John Heron. CHAPTER XXXII. *' My Dear Guy, " In my last letter, in which I put Marion's fortune into your hands, I was obliged to write hurriedly, and to le;tvo much untold. I now write to tell you all, in case anything should happen to me. '* As you know, my husband had discovered me ; and, be assured, will not rest until he has deprived my girl of every penny. I know what you will say — ' Marion's forttme is nothing to me.' But to me it is a great deal. Her father shall not injure her while her mother stands tamely by. You understand that though I call the seventy thonsiind pounds Marion's, it is a legacy left to me,, and I, having no settluuient, it is legally my husband's — and that he will stand upon his legal rights, to the letter, you may be sure. But what is law in this ^ 286 KING OR KNAVE ? case anything but justice. That fortune was left to me— to me and my child ; not to a convict — a — but I need not go on . I have there- fore determined on a step which I think right, though it may seem a strange if not mad one. I have dctied my husband to prove that I am his wife, •*To Marion's husband, and for Marion's sake, I confcstj, as if I were in the confessional, and as if it were a crime, the secret that 1 am the wife of Adam Furness. But that is a secret for yon alone. 1 tell it to you for two reasons. Firstly, because it is due to you to know that Marion was not bom in dishonour, and need not blush for her mother. Secondly, because, under changed circumstances, it may become impor- tant Bv^me day that the truth should be known in Marion's or her children's interest, while I might then be out of the world. "Keep, then, this full admission, and the 'marriage lines' accom- panying them, not to use (Adam Furness living— nor then without imperative and practical cause most unlikely to arise) but to keep, as I know you mil keep, any confidence of mine. Meanwhile I shall, against him and against all the world, maintain myself to be no wife ; and as the marriage was candestine against the wishes of my friends, and in a remote Australian station, it will be hard for him to prove, especially without advertising himself as a convict and otherwise in his true colours. " lam now about to escape fr(*m Adam Fumesa once more, leaving no trace for him to follow. Not only do I dread him for myself, but I dread still more the influence he may obtain over Marion. He has no scruples, and his will is of iron. I sometimes think he might have been great, had he pleased. " You will hear from me in a few days. God bless you, my dear Guy ; and that you and our Marion may be happy all your lives, prays with her whole heart your loving mother — in her maiden name — " Leah Field." Such was the letter addressed to Guy Derwent, now a voice from the grave, which, still unopened, Marion had dropped in her flight from the chamber which became her lover's prison, for him to find there and read. And when she read it also — the Curse between them was removed. Leah Furness had not been mad in trampling on her own good name ; only a woman dr'ven to bay by a man. And so it came to pass that at last that Marion and Guy. . . . But this story has been misread indeed if it has been taken for theirs. It is no more theirs than it is the story of how Dr. Wyndham Snell turned his seventy thousand pounds — Marion's fortune — into something nearer a quarter of a million by his invention of Snell's Neurocephalo- panaceatic Pills, so that his wife became a carriage lydy after all ; or of now Mrs. Prendergast disposed of the Bell to less able hands, and enabled her second husband tn retire into dignified leisure, wherein the Vicar Choral's undiminished wit has become a pleasure and not a pain, and the still extant sc briquet of " Old Murder has lost its sting. Nor even of how Mrs. Stephen, Cy? Miia no more, energetically blundered KIN» OR KNAVE? 287 !^ into success with her Weeds, in whom the Miss Buidons grew to take the zealous, but not always helpful interest of wealthy maiden ladies with nothing to do. For that story would lead to a delicate surmise. Draycot Morland presently took to visiti.ig his aunts a threat deal ; and he was just the man to fly in the face of the world — just for Fun's sake and scorn of Shams. She had been a bad lot in her time, no doubt ; but then — nobody knew. No ; it has been the story of none of these things — but of things that never were ; of Docks that were never built, and in all likelihood never will be ; for Glassjow and Liverpool still hold up their heads, and Askness flourishes, and Marchgrave has turned itself round to sleep once more — and is none the worse oflf for that, maybe. But there still stands, in the place of the Market Cross, the memorial of a great tragedy. It is still remembered how Sir John Heron was assassinated by a political fanatic who forthwith vanished and was never heard of again. For none ever, in all Marchgrave, save his unknown daughter and her husband, knew that the city had erected a public statue to a convicted forger, a coiner, a swindler, a bigamist, a murderer, for whom the law was hunting even when, to the sound of trumpet and bells, his glory was unveiled to the sun. His wife, who was no wife, mourns him with pride ; and the glory of Marchgrave was ^uiied in the grave of a scoundrel without remorse or scruple, yet with none but noble aims, and with his first self-conquest for his last deed. Was he Knave, or King ? Let him answer who can. THB END.