SNAKE-BITE 
 
 AMD OTHER STORIES 
 
 ROBERT HICHENS 
 
\ 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 ROBERT HICHENS 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 ROBERT HICHENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE GREEN CARNATION," "THE GARDEN 
 OF ALLAH," "BELLA DONNA," "THE CALL 
 
 OF THE BLOOD," ETC. 
 
 NEWXajTYORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1919, 
 By George H. Dorcm Company 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
PK 
 
 (,-otf 
 
 rv 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ONE: SNAKE-BITE * ' . . 9 
 
 Two: THE LOST FAITH . 80 
 
 THREE: THE HINDU" 217 
 
 FOUR: THE LIGHTED CANDLES 279 
 
 FIVE: THE NOMAD'. . '. 309 
 
 Six:i THE Two FEARS . ~ . . .1 -33* 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 ONE: SNAKE-BITE 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF ADVENTURE 
 
 IN the market place of Beni Mora rumour was busy 
 with the name of the American, Horace Pierpont, who 
 had already been staying for six weeks at the Hotel Ex 
 celsior. Mr. Pierpont was unmarried, enormously rich, 
 and neither young nor old. He looked a man of about 
 forty, was lean, strong, tall, and very striking in appear 
 ance. Some people thought him remarkably handsome; 
 others considered him almost ugly. But there was no 
 one who overlooked him, who forgot to see him when he 
 was present. 
 
 His face was long, clean-shaven, with powerful fea 
 tures. The nose was hooked and arbitrary, the chin 
 prominent and determined, the mouth very mobile and 
 well-shaped, neither large nor small. The eyes were nar 
 row, steady and fearless, in colour grey; often they 
 seemed to be full of a delicate and almost lazy irony under 
 the thin sweep of mouse-coloured brows. Pierpont's 
 hands and feet were large and strong. He was a bony 
 man with a great frame. He looked like a careless aris 
 tocrat, who had seen the world and men, who had sat at 
 many feasts and known many experiences, and who was 
 gifted with a keen, though never boisterous, sense of 
 humour, and with an unfailing self-possession. 
 
 9 
 
10 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Pierpont's hugeness half frightened, half disgusted 
 some people. Others were impressed and attracted by 
 it. These called him "a glorious-looking man." The 
 Arabs of Beni Mora admired him, and thought him one 
 of the most kingly travellers who had ever penetrated to 
 their oasis. They respected him, too, because he had an 
 immense fortune. 
 
 This fortune had not been gained for himself by Pier- 
 pont. He was no hustling captain of industry, and he 
 knew very little of Wall Street. His father, now dead, 
 Carrington Pierpont, had bequeathed to him his millions, 
 and he had never worked hard for a living. For a few 
 years he had been in the diplomatic service, and had 
 lived in Paris, London, Rome, and Madrid. Then he had 
 retired and had travelled widely. He had a taste for 
 ornithology, was an intellectual man, an unwearied 
 student of his kind, and a good, though not untiring, 
 sportsman. 
 
 Certainly he enjoyed life. By nature he was, or be 
 lieved himself to be, exceptionally independent. He liked 
 travelling alone, and had seldom, if ever, felt the need 
 of a "circle" or of a "home." 
 
 This was his second visit to Beni Mora. 
 
 During his first visit, a couple of years ago, he had 
 lounged in the sun, had read books in the Count's garden, 
 had ridden on horseback to the various oases of the 
 Zibans, and had studied Arabic in a mild way with AH 
 ben Hilmi, who read aloud in one of the cafes every 
 evening to a serious crowd of dark-eyed listeners squat 
 ting pell-mell upon the floor. 
 
 But this time it seemed he had a very special purpose 
 in visiting Beni Mora, and it was this supposed purpose 
 of his which was now being discussed throughout the 
 village wherever the Arabs congregated together. In 
 Beni Mora, now attached to the Bureau Arabe, there 
 was an Arab called Saad ben Youssef. He was 
 un homme serieux, reputed extraordinarily honest and 
 faithful, a man of his word, and diligent in any task to 
 
SNAKE-BITE 11 
 
 which he put his hand. And he had given his proofs sev 
 eral years ago in a very great undertaking. 
 
 A small party of Americans, four in number, had come 
 out to Algeria to undertake a tremendous pilgrimage. 
 They were resolved to travel by caravan from Beni Mora 
 to Tombouctou. Well, they had carried out their project, 
 and Saad ben Youssef had been in charge of the cara 
 van. He alone of the Arabs in Beni Mora had travelled 
 the whole distance. For three times on the way the cara 
 van had been changed, and new men and fresh animals 
 had been requisitioned. So Saad ben Youssef was noted 
 in Beni Mora as a man who had seen great wonders, who 
 had traversed the whole region of the Touaregs, and 
 who had received a large sum of money from the Roumis, 
 whom he had efficiently aided in the carrying out of a 
 remarkable enterprise. In the bazaars many and many 
 a time had he related the marvels of that prodigious 
 journey, told of the land of the ostrches, of the wild 
 beasts which abound near Tombouctou, and of moonlit 
 evenings about the Touaregs when the unveiled women 4 
 of that strange and almost legendary tribe assembled 
 about the tents to make sweet music for the travellers, 
 while the men, shrouded in their veils, remained at a 
 little distance, watchful, enigmatic, their weapons irt 
 their hands. 
 
 Of late Horace Pierpont had been seen continually 
 in the company of Saad ben Youssef. The owner of the 
 Excelsior Hotel, a French doctor, had sent one day to 
 the Bureau Arabe asking the Arab to come that evening 
 to the hotel to make acquaintance with the millionaire. 
 Saad had obeyed the summons, and, since then, he had 
 been with Mr. Pierpont every evening after his work at 
 the Bureau Arabe was finished. They had strolled to 
 gether, had sat in the garden of the Gazelles together, had 
 taken coffee and played dominoes together in the street 
 of the dancers. What did it all mean? Saad as yet had 
 said nothing, but every Arab in Beni Mora had made 
 up his mind on the matter. The American millionaire 
 
12 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 was going to make the journey from Beni Mora to Tom- 
 bouctou, and Saad ben Youssef was once more in luck. 
 Again would he see the marvels of that prodigious jour 
 ney. Again would gold pour through his fingers, or stay 
 deliciously in his big brown palms. All the greedy and 
 the adventurous had clustered about Saad with eager 
 smiles and parasitic gestures. But hitherto Saad ben 
 Youssef had been mum. He knew how to keep his 
 counsel and was a master of long unsmiling silences. 
 
 It was a hot and cloudless day, and Fay Mortimer had 
 gone out with AH, the small boy, half Arab, half negro, 
 who had become her devoted attendant, to sit under a 
 group of three palm trees by a rivulet of water at the 
 edge of the oasis. She had with her in a hanging bag a 
 bit of embroidery, a book, and two packs of cards. Some 
 times, especially when her mind was disquieted, she 
 soothed herself or strove to believe that she soothed 
 herself with a game of "patience." Her husband, 
 young Doctor Mortimer, had gone out with Dr. 
 Bucheron, their host of the Hotel Excelsior, to visit in 
 consultation a French officer of Spahis at the barracks, 
 who was dangerously ill with a fever caught in the ex 
 treme South of Algeria, whither he had recently been 
 on some mission. All the morning was Fay's to do what 
 she liked with. But this was no completely novel ex 
 perience. For the Mortimers had already been in Beni 
 Mora for nearly two months. 
 
 Nevertheless, Fay had not yet become thoroughly ac 
 customed to the startingly new life into which she and her 
 husband had recently been thrust. That was the word 
 she used in speaking to nerself of this desert life. They 
 had by marvellous circumstances been "thrust" into it, 
 she and Alan. 
 
 Three months ago they had been living in Margate, 
 and she had never travelled farther than Paris and Zer- 
 matt. She had been partly educated in Paris, and had 
 been to Zermatt for her honeymoon. That had been 
 
SNAKE-BITE 13 
 
 when she was only nineteen. Now she was nearly twenty- 
 two. 
 
 She hadn't at all revelled in the life at Margate. In 
 fact, she had disliked part of it very much indeed, though 
 she had honestly made the best of things for Alan's 
 sake. It was not his fault that he wasn't rich enough 
 to put a plate with his name on a door in Harley Street, 
 or Queen Anne Street in London, and to sit down and 
 to wait for patients. Fay's father had stuck to his word. 
 He had told her that if she married in a hurry a penni 
 less young doctor he would not give her any allowance. 
 Swept on the waves of tempestuous emotion she had done 
 just what he had wished her not to do. Sir Henry 
 Kennion was very well off, but, unfortunately, he practi 
 cally always meant what he said. So she, Fay, had had 
 to put up with Margate, in which town of fine airs and 
 graceless trippers her husband had picked up a practice 
 cheap. 
 
 A cheap practice in Margate, and now here she was in 
 Beni Mora! 
 
 Alan had caught a severe chill one bitter night when 
 he had been called out to visit a patient. Bad symptoms 
 had declared themselves. A winter abroad had been 
 urgently advised. They had thought about a locum 
 tenens in Margate and Davos for themselves. And then, 
 out of the blue, the Beni Mora temptation had come to 
 them. Quite by chance if there be such a thing as 
 chance Alan had been called to the Cliftonville Hotel 
 to see Monsieur Maurice Darbley, who had an interest in 
 one of the great London hotels and who "ran" the Im 
 perial Hotel at Beni Mora during the winter season. 
 They had become good friends, and Monsieur Darbley, 
 hearing of the young doctor's misfortune, had offered to 
 lodge him and his wife rent free, and to give them their 
 pension at the Imperial during the winter, on condition 
 that he was allowed to advertise "a resident English 
 doctor" as attached to his hotel for the season. Alan 
 Mortimer had jumped at the opportunity. So now Fay 
 
14 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 was sitting under the three palm trees at the edge of 
 the oasis. In a couple of weeks the big hotel would be 
 opened. Meanwhile she and Alan were at the small 
 and quiet Excelsior having a holiday. Certainly just 
 now Alan was away at a consultation. But that was a 
 rare event out here. \ 
 
 When she had quarrelled with her father about Alan 
 he had said something to her which she had not been 
 able to forget. He had said, "Fay, you don't know your 
 own mind yet, and you don't understand your own heart. 
 You are a bit of a volcano. You think young Mortimer; 
 is the only man in the world for you. That's great 
 nonsense. You've been in love before, and, if I know 
 anything of you, you'll be in love again. If you were 
 thirty instead of only nineteen, I might consent. For 
 life isn't merely a question of money or of the position 
 one holds in the world. But you are betrayed by a 
 surface emotion, and you think that your deeps are 
 calling. Wait!" 
 
 And, of course, being a bit of a volcano, she hadn't 
 waited. 
 
 She recalled those words of her father now as she 
 looked out over the sunlit waste and listened to the song 
 of the water behind her. Had he been right ? , 
 
 She had certainly been what is called "in love" more 
 than once before she had met Alan, in love sufficiently 
 to feel desperate, to lie awake in the night, to weep and 
 to long. And since she had met Alan ? Why did such 
 an abominable question come to her ? It had only come 
 to her quite lately, never at Margate in spite of the cold 
 winds, the asphalt promenade, their very banal house in 
 Cliftonville, and the extraordinary trippers, who bur 
 rowed into the sand even when they were dresssed in 
 black cotton velvet and bugles, and who lay on their 
 backs before the whole world presenting their greasy and 
 shining faces, open-mouthed, to the astonished heavens. 
 
 Little AH was squatting at a short distance from her 
 in the eye of the sun, staring under his tarbush, with his 
 
SNAKE-BITE 15 
 
 naked feet sticking out on either side of him, and his 
 almost black hands, with much lighter-coloured palms, 
 resting on the warm earth. For a moment she envied 
 him. Then she opened her bag and took out the cards. 
 A "patience" might possibly soothe her. 
 
 Slowly she began to lay out the cards in lines on the 
 hard ground, bending her lovely little head and pucker 
 ing her white forehead. Three knaves in a row and then 
 seven spades in succession. How oddly the cards were 
 coming out! 
 
 Little Ali cleared his throat noisily, and then did some 
 thing which Fay particularly disliked. She looked up 
 from her game, and was just going to rebuke him gently, 
 when something made her forget all about Ali and his 
 unfortunate lapse. 
 
 At perhaps a hundred yards from her she saw two 
 figures moving slowly over the brown bareness which 
 edged the stones of the dry river bed, dividing it from 
 the first palm trees of the oasis. One was a huge, gaunt 
 man clad in white drill and wearing a Panama hat, the 
 other an almost equally tall Arab in turban and burnous. 
 Thin smoke wreaths curled about them. So still was 
 the atmosphere and so clear that Fay could see, even 
 from that distance, the delicate spirals against the glitter. 
 She flushed slightly as she recognised Horace Pierpont. 
 The other she did not recognise, but Ali was quick to 
 inform her. 
 
 " L' Americain avec Saad" he remarked, in his thick 
 childish voice. 
 
 "Saad ben Youssef ?" inquired Fay. 
 
 Ali nodded his head, and the tassel on his tarbush 
 sprang to and fro. Again he cleared his throat. 
 
 "Ali!" cried Fay imperatively, holding up her right 
 hand and fixing her large golden brown eyes on him. 
 Ali twisted his broad negroid nose, and with difficulty 
 refrained. But though he refrained he was moved to 
 a demonstration of some sort, and unexpectedly he 
 uttered a loud cry, which startled Fay and caused the 
 
16 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 two figures at the edge of the desert to pause ar-d turn 
 round. 
 
 "You i you!" yelled AH again, pleased with the 
 success of his effort. 
 
 "Ali, be quiet !" exclaimed Fay, almost angrily. "How 
 dare you make such a noise?" 
 
 "Via, ton ami qui vient!" returned Ali, smiling. 
 
 The huge figure in white drill, with a loose-jointed 
 nonchalant gait, was advancing towards them accom 
 panied by the Arab. 
 
 Fay reddened again. 
 
 "Ali, I'm very angry with you," she said. "If you 
 can't behave yourself I shall have to get another little 
 servant." 
 
 "Via ton ami!'' repeated Ali, quite undisturbed, and 
 now smiling from ear to ear. 
 
 "Hallo, Mrs. Mortimer, playing patience! How de 
 lightfully idle of you. May I join you?" 
 
 The rather harsh and grating but very individual voice, 
 which seemed somehow to belong inevitably to the big- 
 boned, lean body that stood before her, dropped down 
 to Fay as she looked up very gravely. 
 
 "Ali's manners are abominable." 
 
 "I'm thankful they are. Alles!" 
 
 A flung coin accompanied the command. Ali leaped, 
 grasped, looked into Horace Pierpont's eyes, and went 
 off towards the negro village. 
 
 "You know Saad ben Youssef ?" 
 
 "Bon jour, Saad." 
 
 "Bon jour, madame," returned Saad in a grave, deep 
 voice, which sounded lazily sad. 
 
 He lit a cigarette, his long hands with henna-tinted 
 nails moving with a delicate precision. Then he walked 
 a short distance, sat down beside the stream and gazed 
 tranquilly towards the Aures mountains. 
 
 Pierpont stretched his great length on the ground by 
 Fay's side and looked at her with steady eyes from under 
 the shade of his tilted hat. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 17 
 
 "I wanted to get you alone," he said. 
 
 "Why ?" asked Fay, banishing curiosity from her face 
 and voice. 
 
 "I've got something in my mind. It has to do with 
 your husband. If I presently speak to him about it, and 
 he comes to tell you, you will not let him know I men 
 tioned it first to you ?" 
 
 He was always looking straight at her with his narrow, 
 very intelligent grey eyes. 
 
 "Why should you tell me first ?" 
 
 "I wish to." 
 
 "I suppose there would be no harm in my " 
 
 "Oh, not the least in the world." 
 
 "Very well," said Fay. 
 
 She believed that she had meant to say something quite 
 different. But the two words just happened out of her 
 mouth. 
 
 "Of course I know Mortimer is out here because of 
 his health. But physically he's strong, isn't he ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. But his chest was affected. It's only a 
 question of a few months in the right climate. At least 
 that's what the doctors say." 
 
 "Exactly. And in the right climate he could do what 
 most men could do." 
 
 "What do you want him to do?" asked Fay, with 
 sudden energy. 
 
 With a long sweep of one great arm Pierpont indi 
 cated the desert. 
 
 "Look at that motionless sea. I'm going to set sail 
 upon it, to take ship, and go out on a long voyage. Do 
 you know where Saad has been?" 
 
 The sensitive blood rushed to Fay's temples. A strange 
 song seemed to drum in her ears, barbaric, provocative 
 and tremendous. Suddenly she felt violently excited and 
 desolate ; she knew. 
 
 "You are going to make the journey to Tombouctou," 
 she said. 
 
 "I am." 
 
18 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "And " She was silent, staring at him. 
 
 "Why not dare to say it?" 
 
 "You want my husband to go with you ?" 
 
 "Women understand everything," he returned quietly. 
 "Saad reckons the journey at four months and a half 
 to five months, by camel of course. The camel is the 
 only ship for that sea." 
 
 Again he waved his long arm. 
 
 "When he covered the route before not a soul was ill 
 from start to finish really ill. Now and then there was 
 a touch of something, as there is everywhere, in Margate 
 anywhere." 
 
 Margate ! 
 
 Fay was inundated by a flood of jealousy, jealousy of 
 men. Margate for women and the journey to Tombouc- 
 tou for men! The scales were too uneven. She felt 
 almost in a passion and she wanted to cry angrily. So 
 she sat very still and said in a cold voice : 
 
 "Alan is pledged to Monsieur Darbley for the winter." 
 
 "And if I can settle things with Darbley? D'you 
 think your husband would come? The fact is I want a 
 doctor with me. It's safer. I'm fond of life. I haven't 
 the slightest desire to go before my time. And there 
 are moments when a doctor, a skilled surgeon as Mor 
 timer is, comes in very handy." 
 
 Fay looked into Pierpont's long, irregular face, and 
 though she did not know it, her eyes flashed anger at 
 him. 
 
 "Even if you arranged with Monsieur Darbley I don't 
 see how Alan could go," she said. 
 
 "Why not?" said Pierpont, knocking out his pipe. 
 
 How she hated him at that moment! 
 
 "Well, Alan is stupid enough to be rather fond of me." 
 
 And her lips trembled in spite of herself. 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" 
 
 "What has " she paused. "What do you mean?" 
 
 she said, in a different voice. 
 
 "W r ould you be afraid of the journey?" 
 
SNAKE-BITE 19 
 
 "You you meant you wish me to go too?" 
 
 He said nothing, but looked at her steadily. She felt 
 that she became suddenly white. 
 
 'I I didn't understand," she murmured, and there 
 was a helpless note in her voice. 
 
 "But now you understand why I spoke to you first," 
 he said, pressing some tobacco into the red-brown bowl 
 of his pipe. "If you say you'll come J'H ask Mortimer. 
 If you don't I shall probably not feel justified in asking 
 him. It would perhaps be hardly fair to you." 
 
 Fay said nothing, and looked out over the desert. Her 
 face was still very white. . . . 
 
 That evening the Mortimers and Horace Pierpont 
 dined at the same small table in the salle-d-manger of 
 the Excelsior Hotel. They had fallen into the habit of 
 dining together since they had come to know each other 
 casually as fellow-guests in the pleasant white guest 
 house which stood facing due south. Pierpont was a 
 sociable man and delighted in good talk, and he had 
 evidently taken a fancy to the young doctor, and enjoyed 
 discussion with him. So they "pooled" the table, and 
 Pierpont was not bored with his own company. 
 
 When that evening's dinner was over Pierpont asked 
 Mortimer to stroll with him to the street of the dancers. 
 
 "Of course," said Alan, in his quick, warm tenor voice, 
 which nearly always sounded eager and vital. "Shall I 
 run up and get you a wrap, Fay ?" 
 
 "No; I think I'll stay at home. I've got an interesting 
 book by Metchnikoff. You'll find me on the balcony 
 of our room when you come in. Good night, Mr. Pier 
 pont." 
 
 That evening Pierpont did an unusual thing. In re 
 turning her good night he held out his big hand with long 
 fingers and enormous prominent knuckles. After an 
 instant's hesitation Fay put her hand in it, and when he 
 pressed her hand she felt like something being swal 
 lowed. 
 
 She ran up to her room, and from the balcony saw 
 
20 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 the two men walk slowly away down the white garden 
 road between the dwarf palms and mimosa trees. A 
 yellow dog of nondescript breed cheerfully accompanied 
 them. Alan was quite a good height, over five feet ten, 
 and well built, but she noticed that he looked a small 
 man beside Horace Pierpont. Was not such bigness 
 really almost a sort of deformity? It seemed to Fay 
 that she strove to think so, but failed. The physical 
 bigness of the American really exercised upon her im 
 agination a sort of almost overpowering fascination. 
 She did not know exactly why. His fortune was vast. 
 So everyone said. And he was about to go upon a vast 
 journey through the vastness of the desert. The man 
 himself, that is the soul of him, must surely be tremen 
 dous, too, compared with the average soul of man. Was 
 not its bulk shadowed forth to her, and to others, by his 
 careless and unfailing self-possession? Never, even for 
 a moment, did he give the impression that he was sensi 
 tive to opinion, sensitive, that is, in the sense of shrink 
 ing ever so slightly from an opinion that might be ad 
 verse, even hostile, to him. Never did he seem to be 
 on the defensive. Since she had known him, Fay had 
 become acutely aware how often most people are secretly 
 or openly on the defensive. 
 . He was surely a big man. 
 
 And now he was going to tell Alan what he had told 
 her by the stream in the morning. 
 
 In the white-walled, rather bare, and exquisitely clean 
 bedroom which she shared with Alan there were two 
 small beds, side by side, each enclosed by its mosquito- 
 net. A balcony, just big enough for two, projected be 
 yond the French window above the paved terrace be 
 low. Fay wound a gauzy white wisp of a thing round 
 her long white neck, which somebody (of course a man) 
 had once said was like the throat of a deer, put the lamp 
 on the table behind her long straw chair, lay down on it, 
 pushed up a big pink cushion to the level of her golden- 
 brown head and opened the Metchnikoff book. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 21 
 
 But she did not read one word of it. She was in the 
 street of the dancers assisting at a debate. What issues 
 hung on it! And yet did they? Were not all the 
 issues in her own hands? She was absurd enough to 
 look down at her narrow, long-fingered hands. The 
 wedding ring and the emerald ring Alan had given her 
 glittered now as she held up her left hand. If she had 
 obeyed her father's advice they wouldn't be there. And 
 where would she have been now if a certain native obsti 
 nacy had not formed part of what Americans would call 
 her "make-up"? 
 
 What stars they were ! And how the dogs were bark 
 ing! It was surely a night for the deciding of a fate, 
 ominous with prophecy. 
 
 She lay very still, and she was conscious that her 
 nerves gnawed at her, as they had gnawed at her when, 
 as a child, she had waited to be called in to the ugly 
 room of the dentist. She wished she could rush upon 
 her fate. Lying there under the stars, and hearing the 
 dogs bark on the house-tops and by the tents of the 
 Nomads, was almost intolerable. Yet she did not move. 
 
 About half-past ten she heard steps, and then sounds 
 of voices. 
 
 A quick tenor voice spoke at some length ; then a rather 
 harsh, rugged voice briefly replied. 
 
 Fay quickly slipped sideways out of her chair and into 
 the bedroom. 
 
 A minute later the door opened and Alan came in, 
 looking excited, his honest, intelligent and very clear 
 hazel eyes shining, and his chestnut hair rather dis 
 ordered by the cap he had just pulled off. 
 
 "Oh, Fay, not gone to bed yet! That's right. Why 
 not come down for a minute?" 
 
 "Down! To the terrace, d'you mean?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But I've said good night " 
 
 "To Pierpont never mind. We've got an Arab with 
 
22 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 us, Saad ben Youssef. I think you'd like him. He's an 
 extraordinarily interesting fellow." 
 
 "Very well, I'll no, it's late. I think I won't." 
 
 He held the door open, looking at her. 
 
 "No, really, I think I won't" 
 
 And with resolution she unwound the scarf from her 
 throat. 
 
 "I've seen Saad already," she added. 
 
 "I know. But I should like you to hear him talk." 
 
 "It's it's really too late." 
 
 And turning her back she went towards the wardrobe. 
 
 "All right. I'll tell Pierpont, and be with you di 
 rectly." 
 
 The door shut and she heard him in the uncarpeted 
 passage hurrying away. She began to undress with a 
 sort of trembling deliberation. She laid her white gown 
 away in a trunk carefully. Then she looked in the glass. 
 She saw a slim, girlish figure, very delicate in line. The 
 arms were thin, and the skin which covered them had 
 a polished and almost transparent look. The waist was 
 naturally small and the bust but slightly rounded. The 
 hips were narrow and the limbs were long in proportion 
 to the body. In the face, with its small features, straight, 
 short nose, curved lips and little determined chin, there 
 was a kind of pale expectancy. It was the sort of in 
 tensely feminine face which makes very male men feel 
 the glory of the contrast between the sexes and under 
 stand their manhood. It seemed to ask instinctively 
 without knowing that it asked, and half-broodingly to 
 dream over its own tenuous mystery. Perhaps the vol 
 cano was asleep. 
 
 Steps sounded again in the passage, and Fay turned 
 round as Alan came in. 
 
 "Saad has gone," he exclaimed. 
 
 His voice was rather louder than usual. He threw 
 down his cap on the chest of drawers, where some flowers 
 stood in the midst of books. 
 
 "Oh, are you beginning to go to bed already ?" 
 
SNAKE-BITE 23 
 
 "Do you want to talk?" 
 
 She slipped on a white dressing-gown. 
 
 "Fay, you always look delicate, but you are strong, 
 aren't you ?" 
 
 "Yes; stronger than you are now.*' 
 
 "This out-of-door life is doing wonders for me, and 
 the air. D'you know what I believe I need to get abso 
 lutely well ?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Just to rough it, and keep nearly always out of doors; 
 in this climate, of course." 
 
 She pushed the mosquito-curtain and sat down on the 
 edge of her bed. 
 
 "I don't know about the roughing it," she murmured, 
 looking down. 
 
 "I do. I say, will you hate it if I smoke? The win 
 dow's wide open." 
 
 "No; do smoke." 
 
 He lit a cigar which Pierpont had just given him, sat 
 down by the window, leaned an arm on the table by the 
 lamp, and looked at his wife with a sort of intensely 
 eager and searching scrutiny, which was totally unsus 
 picious. 
 
 "I wonder if you have the spirit of adventure in you, 
 Fay." 
 
 "What has made you think about such a thing?" 
 
 "I wonder whether you ever long to have some ex 
 traordinary experience, to get right out of the ordinary, to 
 keep out of it, to forget it." 
 
 "When it rained at Margate, Alan, really sometimes 
 I did." 
 
 "You darling !" he said, in a different voice. 
 
 He moved, as if about to come to her, then stopped 
 with the exclamation : 
 
 "Oh, my smoke!" 
 
 "Well?" said Fay. 
 
 "Now don't be frightened; I've had a most startling 
 proposition made to me to-night by Pierpont." 
 
24 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Mr. Pierpont! What does he want?" 
 
 "He's going to do a tremendously interesting thing. 
 He's going to travel through the desert from here to " 
 
 Alan paused. 
 
 "Where ?" asked Fay. "To Tunis." 
 
 "Tunis !" Alan laughed and jerked up his head. 
 
 "Why do you laugh?" 
 
 "It sounds so absurdly near, like going from Margate 
 to Birchington. No ; Pierpont is going on camel back to 
 Timbuctoo, or as they call it here, Tombouctou." 
 
 "Good gracious !" said Fay. 
 
 She moved from the bed, letting file net slip softly, 
 and sat down on a chair. 
 
 "Not ordinary, is it?" 
 
 "No, but Mr. Pierpont isn't ordinary." 
 
 "You like him, don't you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. He's interesting and very agreeable." 
 
 "Powerful too somehow." 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 "I seem to feel that he is." 
 
 "Perhaps. Well, and what is his proposition ?" 
 
 "Don't scream! It's simply this. He wants a doctor 
 to go with him, and he's asked me." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "Me." 
 
 "To go to Tombouctou!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But you have promised Monsieur Darbley." 
 
 "Of course I should have to get him to let me off if 
 I went." 
 
 "And if he refused to release you?" 
 
 "I wouldn't go then, though I've no contract. I'll 
 deal squarely with him, of course." 
 
 "Then you do want to go ?" 
 
 "Pierpont offers me all expenses till I get back to 
 England, and a thousand pounds every six months I'm 
 with him. The trip would probably last six to eight 
 months, or so." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 25 
 
 Fay sat looking down. Then, still looking down, she 
 said: 
 
 "And what should I do all the time you were away?" 
 
 "Now for it!" said Alan, getting up. 
 
 Fay glanced at him across the table, and saw that the 
 excitement in his eyes had become stronger. They had 
 shone. Now they burned. By that she realised how 
 much he wanted to go. 
 
 "Of course I could never leave you for six months. 
 You must know that" 
 
 "Then what is the good of talking about Tombouctou ?" 
 
 "Couldn't you brace yourself, steel yourself, call up 
 the spirit of adventure in yourself, and say you'd come 
 too?" 
 
 "My dear Alan!" 
 
 She, too, got up. She was feeling horribly insincere 
 and hated herself in a way. But about her, as if in 
 the air, she felt Pierpont, felt as if he were directing her, 
 impelling her. And that seemed partially to excuse her 
 to herself. 
 
 "My dear Alan !" she repeated. "How could a woman 
 do such a thing?" 
 
 "Isabella Bird " he began. 
 
 And he spoke of famous women travellers, quoted 
 Mary Kingsley and others, then broke into a laugh as 
 he looked at the slim form in the white robe on the 
 other side of the table. 
 
 "They weren't like you," he had to confess. Then 
 he added : 
 
 "But they didn't have two men to look after them all 
 the time, as you would have. And Saad too! Saad is 
 going to manage the whole thing. That's why I wanted 
 you to have a talk with him. I thought he would impress 
 you." I 
 
 "But Mr. Pierpont! He he can't really be willing 
 to saddle himself with a woman on such a journey." 
 
 There was now a faint red in her cheeks. 
 
 "He'd surely he'd get utterly sick of it?" 
 
26 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "He says not. You see, he's rich enough to do the 
 whole thing as well as it can be done. Now let me just 
 tell you!" 
 
 He came round the table, forgetting his "smoke," 
 sat in the armchair, and made Fay sit on his knee, hold 
 ing her round the waist. Then he talked talked till 
 the night grew late. And Fay listened with the faint 
 red still in her cheeks, and carried on simultaneously 
 an intensely active life in her brain which her husband 
 knew nothing of. 
 
 "I must sleep on it," she said at last. "It's the most 
 extraordinary proposition I ever heard of. No doubt 
 it would be wonderfully interesting, an experience never 
 to be forgotten. It would almost make me famous, 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "I should think so! The girl who'd travelled from 
 Beni Mora on a camel to Tombouctou !" 
 
 "Let me go, Alan. Don't talk to me any more." 
 
 He let her go. Presently she slipped under the mos 
 quito-curtain without bidding him good-night. And 
 then till morning she lay awake on it. She had, in a 
 way, promised Pierpont by the stream that she would go 
 if Alan consented. When Pierpont was actually beside 
 her it had seemed impossible to do otherwise. But now 
 he was not beside her. And since Alan knew things 
 seemed different. 
 
 A thousand pounds every six months. 
 
 Her cheeks burned in the dark. What was Pierpont 
 really ? What was he to himself ? She didn't know. He 
 was to her an enigma. Women don't always know what 
 men are. Fay didn't know what Pierpont was. But one 
 thing about him she did know. He had within him the 
 spirit of adventure. It was not his project of travelling 
 by camel to Tombouctou that proved this to Fay; it 
 
 was his invitation to well, to a doctor to go with him. 
 ****** 
 
 "If the idea worries you, Fay, of course we'll give it 
 up," said Alan, three days later. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 37 
 
 Fay was looking worried. She was pale, and had 
 skepless eyes with a very faint blueness beneath them. 
 She was restless, and even a little irritable, and seemed 
 unable to settle to anything. And she had come to no 
 decision about the great matter, or, if indeed she had, 
 had said nothing about it. 
 
 "I suppose we must decide one way or the other," she 
 said, rather crossly. 
 
 "Yes; I really think I must give Pierpont a definite 
 answer. And Darbley arrives by the train from Con- 
 stantine this afternoon. I'm going to meet him at half- 
 past two." 
 
 "I'll tell you to-morrow morning." 
 
 As she said the words Pierpont came round the corner 
 into the small oval space surrounded by trees where they 
 were sitting in the Count's garden. 
 
 "Will you ride with me at two to-day? It isn't very 
 hot, and I've got hold of a horse that's a weight-carrier." 
 
 With a quiet smile he glanced down at himself. 
 
 "To-day? I was just saying to Fay that I'd promised 
 to meet Darbley at the station," said Alan. 
 
 "A pity! Will you come, Mrs. Mortimer?" 
 
 Fay looked at him and knew he had overheard her 
 last words. She opened her lips to say some polite form 
 of "No," and said: 
 
 "Yes, if you like, and if I can get that grey mare from 
 Coreau's stables." 
 
 "I'll see to that," said Pierpont. "I'll go about it 
 now." And his giant form disappeared among the trees. 
 
 "We must give him his answer to-morrow," said Alan, 
 passing a brown hand over his chestnut hair and lifting 
 his eyebrows rather anxiously. 
 
 Fay did not tell him that she knew Pierpont meant 
 to have it that day. 
 
 Pierpont got the grey mare from Coreau's, and they 
 rode into the desert, going out through the village to 
 wards the north-west. 
 
 "We'll leave the dunes on our right," said Pierpont, 
 
28 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "and get a fine gallop over the great flats between them 
 and the road to Amara. And we'll come home by Sidi 
 Zerzour." 
 
 He did not ask Fay if she was up to such a long ride. 
 He knew she was a good horsewoman and wiry in the 
 saddle. She glanced at him half submissively, half with 
 defiance as he finished. Her lips were mutinous, and 
 her lower jaw and chin obstinate. But her eyes were 
 they not the eyes of a slave ? And her figure in its thin 
 ness looked almost fluid. 
 
 They came to the dunes. On the left were the shining 
 flats. Here and there, far off, the dull green stain of 
 a distant oasis showed on the tawny waste. The horizon 
 was lost in a dream of indigo blue more wonderful than 
 the indigo blue of a tropical sea. An eagle hung in the 
 near lighter blue above their heads. A little wind came 
 and went, savouring its freedom and telling them with 
 its whispering voices tales of the magic of emptiness. 
 
 Pierpont had chosen well the place for her decision. 
 
 "To the left!" he said, in his harsh voice, pressing 
 his knee against his horse's flank. "Good-bye to the 
 dunes." 
 
 He looked at Fay and they were off, and the little 
 wind with them, whispering more loudly as they raced 
 towards the dull green stains that were palms, and the 
 indigo blue that was the call to women and men to go 
 onward. 
 
 "Now, after that, can you hesitate ?" 
 
 They were beyond the track to Amara, and the ground 
 was broken and tufted with dusty half a grass. The 
 horses picked their way at a foot's pace. 
 
 "I don't mean to go/' said Fay, looking at her horse's 
 thin neck. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 ''Why do you want us to go? It's a mad idea." 
 
 "Mad ideas keep me a live man." 
 
 "You would get sick of us. It's just a whim, and you 
 would repent of it." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 29 
 
 "Do you really mean that you're afraid you would ?" 
 
 "I shall not risk that." 
 
 "Then I shall ask your husband to come alone with 
 
 me." 
 
 Fay grew scarlet. 
 
 "You told me you wouldn't do that." 
 
 "You told me you would come if he would." 
 
 "I hadn't had time to think over it then. Alan wouldn't 
 go without me." 
 
 "He wants terribly to go. I must have a doctor. I 
 know he is poor. I would offer him great bribes. I 
 would fight hard against your influence. And I generally 
 get my way even with men." 
 
 "Why is that?" she said, with a sort of sombre bitter 
 ness. 
 
 "My intentions are very strong, stronger even than 
 my limbs." 
 
 She glanced at his great frame and thought of cen 
 taurs. 
 
 "Alan wouldn't leave me," she said. 
 
 "Very well; we'll fight it out." 
 
 A slow defiance of this man smouldered within her. 
 Yet she felt doubtful of her own powers. Suppose he 
 did prevail upon Alan to go without her? How much 
 did Alan love her? Till this moment she had never 
 bothered about that question. She had assumed that 
 Alan would sacrifice anything for her sake. 
 
 "I don't know why you are so determined to take 
 Alan," she said. "You could easily get a French doctor 
 to go with you. Most people would jump at such an 
 offer." 
 
 "But you don't." 
 
 "I'm not a man." 
 
 Pierpont pulled up his horse and turned its head to 
 the south. 
 
 "Look!" he said. 
 
 Fay turned her horse too. 
 
 And they looked out over the desert. 
 
30 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Are men to have all the adventures?" he said. "Is 
 all the real glory of living to be exclusively theirs ? Some 
 women haven't thought that What about Isabella Eber- 
 hardt? You've been reading her books, I know. Haven't 
 they said anything to you? Don't you remember your 
 Kinglake, and the strange lady of the Lebanon? Isn't 
 the spirit of unrest in every human being who's worth 
 anything? I know you better than you know yourself. 
 You are longing to go. If you don't go, all your life 
 you'll regret it. You'll lie awake in the night many a 
 time, and you'll clench your hands and think, 'What a 
 fool I was! I was the greatest of all cowards for I was 
 afraid to be happy. I was afraid to make my life in 
 teresting !' " 
 
 The harsh voice seemed just then to be telling Fay 
 her own innermost truth, to be prophesying what she 
 knew must inevitably come to pass if 
 
 If! 
 
 But there was always her secret obstinacy to be dealt 
 with. And it persisted now. She looked towards the 
 far horizon, she looked towards Tombouctou. But she 
 would not give in. 
 
 "We must fight it out," she said. "Now, I'm tired. 
 Let us go home, please." 
 
 That evening Alan told her that Monsieur Darbley 
 wouldn't stand in the way of his going. 
 
 "He's been awfully decent about it. He says it's the 
 opportunity of a lifetime, and I'm not to think of him at 
 all. So now it depends entirely on you, Fay." 
 
 "Alan, I think a woman would be horribly in the way 
 on such an expedition." 
 
 "Tell me the truth," he said, looking at her with his 
 eager bright eyes. "Are you afraid to go?" 
 
 After a pause she answered: 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 Alan sat still for a moment staring at her. She saw 
 by his face, and even by his attitude, that he was tre 
 mendously disappointed. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 31 
 
 "Well, Fay," he said at length, in a voice that was 
 definitely cheerful. "We'll give it up. I expect you are 
 right. It's probably too great an undertaking for a 
 
 woman." 
 
 "Yes," she said faintly. 
 
 Alan got up, came to her, and gave her a rather boy 
 ish kiss. 
 
 "And now " he said. 
 
 "Why, where are you going?" 
 
 "I'm going to tell Pierpont He ought to know at 
 
 once." 
 
 And he went out of the room quickly. 
 
 They had been talking in the salon of the hotel. Din 
 ner was just over, and Pierpont had gone off, probably 
 into the garden to smoke. Fay sat alone and looked at 
 the room. Just opposite to her hung on the white wall 
 a marvellous photograph. It showed an ocean of sand 
 waves in the track of a setting sun. On the crest of 
 one wave were the footprints of a camel. Just beyond 
 an Arab, with his face to the sunset, lifted his bronze- 
 coloured arms, from which his white burnous fell back, 
 in a gesture of fanatical worship. Liberty and silence 
 lived in the photograph. Fay looked at it for a long 
 time, and tears came into her eyes. Alan was horribly 
 disappointed, but she felt sure that his disappointment 
 was as nothing compared with hers. 
 
 Presently she got up, and went out to the terrace. 
 She had seen from the open French window that no one 
 was there. Pierpont and Alan were fighting it out some 
 where else. 
 
 She walked slowly up and down for a long time under 
 the stars in the warm night air. What was Pierpont 
 saying to Alan? How would he try to persuade him? 
 And if Alan were to give in what then? She would 
 certainly say nothing. She would accept the situation 
 and they could go away together. Pierpont would no 
 doubt have punished her. But how about himself ? Sure- 
 
32 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 ly it was not possible that she had misread him, had failed 
 to understand his real desire. 
 
 What a long time they were away ! She was getting 
 quite weary of walking. The waiter came out and 
 stared. 
 
 "Do you want to shut up the house?" she asked him. 
 
 "No, madame no. The gentlemen are still out. I 
 cannot shut up till they come in." 
 
 He sighed and went in slowly. 
 
 Alan must certainly be arguing the matter. He 
 couldn't have refused point blank in such a way that 
 Pierpont had had to drop the subject. She looked at 
 her watch by a light from a window. It was past eleven. 
 
 Just then she heard voices on the high road close to 
 the railing of the garden. Pierpont was speaking. She 
 stood very still by the window. Now she heard Alan. 
 He and Pierpont had stopped and were talking by the 
 garden gate. She wondered why till she was aware of 
 a grave voice interrupting them. Saad ben Youssef was 
 with them. Now she caught the words, "C'est la saison. 
 On doit partir maintenant." Then she missed some 
 thing, and then she heard distinctly "Tombouctou." 
 
 They were still talking about that journey; they were 
 even discussing the right moment for departure. Then 
 Pierpont had had the audacity and the cruelty to do what 
 he had threatened to do, and it seemed that actually 
 he had prevailed. It must be so. Otherwise, why should 
 they be with Saad talking about the departure ? 
 
 "Alan !" Fay called sharply. 
 
 To herself her voice sounded horribly loud in the night. 
 But he did not hear it She waited, and still they were 
 talking by the gate. 
 
 "Alan !" she cried out again. 
 
 "Fay ! Is that you ? Where are you ?" 
 
 "On the terrace. Do come in. It's very late, and they 
 want to shut up the house." 
 
 In a moment she heard his step and saw the darkness 
 of his form among the little trees. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 33 
 
 "It's not much after eleven," he said, as he came nearer. 
 He ran lightly up the few steps to the terrace. "What's 
 the matter?" he added, as he came up to her. 
 
 "Nothing. Why should there be ?" 
 
 "Your voice sounded so so unusual." 
 
 "I don't know why. Let us go to bed." 
 
 "Pierpont's just coming. He's at the gate." 
 
 "Surely we needn't wait for him." 
 
 With a quick gesture Alan put his hand on her arm. 
 
 "Fay, tell me, do you dislike Pierpont?" 
 
 "Why should I dislike him? He's quite an agreeable 
 man." 
 
 "But you don't like him ! Oh here he is !" 
 
 Pierpont sauntered up the narrow road. He was smok 
 ing his pipe, and he took off his hat when he saw Fay. 
 
 "Still up, Mrs. Mortimer ! You're wise. It's divinely 
 beautiful, more beautiful than daytime." 
 
 He stepped on to the terrace. 
 
 "The waiter doesn't think so," said Fay prosaically. 
 
 "The waiter?" 
 
 "He wants to shut up." 
 
 "I'll send him to bed, and lock up myself." 
 
 He called in a loud voice : 
 
 "Louis!" 
 
 The waiter appeared, looking obsequious in the dim 
 light. 
 
 "I'll lock the door. Don't bother to sit up." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "Here, Louis!" 
 
 He gave the man something. Louis looked more ob 
 sequious and went in. When he was close to the door 
 he stared at what he held in his hand. 
 
 "Good night," said Fay to Pierpont. 
 
 "We can't let you go yet." 
 
 He drew forward a straw chair. 
 
 "Stay another ten minutes." 
 
 Fay opened her lips to say no, and sat down in the 
 
34 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 chair. Alan and Pierpont sat on a bench which was 
 close against the wall. 
 
 "I heard you talking at the gate," Fay said abruptly. 
 "You were still discussing Tombouctou. When do you 
 start, Mr. Pierpont?" 
 
 "It ought to be very soon. All the preparations are 
 well forward, including a tent for you." 
 
 She grew scarlet in the darkness. 
 
 "But we aren't coming. Didn't Alan tell you?" 
 
 Alan shifted on the bench, crossed his legs, held his 
 right knee with his clasped hands, and answered for 
 Pierpont. 
 
 "I've just been telling Pierpont what you said to-night, 
 Fay." 
 
 "Yes," said Pierpont, "and I've just been talking to- 
 Saad about the furniture for your tent, Mrs. Mortime r 
 
 There was a sound of humour in his voice, but it vn 
 an arbitrary voice. A sudden desire to bring n^-"^"! 
 to a crisis overcame Fay and she said, with an ej- 
 carelessness : ^ 
 
 "Why don't you go with Mr. Pierpont, Alan ; ^fic 
 a splendid opportunity for you. I can go back to Eng 
 land and stay with father. He's all alone, and he'll be 
 glad to have me." 
 
 "But we both want you to come, Fay. We'll take good, 
 care of you, never fear. Saad says you will be qj 1 * 
 reasonably comfortable and perfectly safe. Of 
 if you really hate the idea we'll give it up." 
 
 Hate the idea! Fay had great difficulty in 
 back a shriek of laughter which seemed trying to figh ; 
 its way out between her lips. There was something t<* 
 ribly ironic in being loved so much by a man who kne\v 
 so little about you. Her conception of her husband's 
 abysmal ignorance made her feel reckless, but Pierpont's 
 narrow grey eyes held her silent. 
 
 "Tell your wife what Doctor Bucheron says," Pier 
 pont exclaimed, in a rasping voice. 
 
 "Doctor Bucheron! What has he to do with it?" 
 
SNAKE-BITE 36 
 
 asked Fay, looking quickly from Pierpont to her hus 
 band. 
 
 "Now, Pierpont," said Alan, with vexation, "I didn't 
 
 wish " 
 
 "I think your wife ought to know." 
 'Tell me, Alan!" 
 
 "No, really " 
 
 "Then I will," said Pierpont, leaning forward and 
 thrusting out his chin. "Your husband consulted Bu- 
 cheron about his health the other day, when I first asked 
 him to come with me. And Bucheron strongly advised 
 it, even urged it." 
 
 "Probably Doctor Bucheron doesn't wish to have an 
 English doctor here all the season interfering with his 
 practice." 
 
 "Oh, Bucheron makes plenty of money with his hotel. 
 
 M Mora can be very cold in January and February. 
 
 oing south. The open air existence is the ideal 
 
 ~ for your husband just now. We can travel by 
 
 ,;s. But that sort of life makes everyone hardy. 
 
 now, Mrs. Mortimer, will you set yourself up 
 
 .gainst a doctor?" 
 
 "It seems there's a conspiracy to force me to go to 
 Tombouctou. You will be saying next that if I refuse 
 I may be the cause of Alan's death." 
 f course I should do very well here for the winter," 
 interposed anxiously. "I never meant you to know 
 Bucheron." 
 
 ""But now I do know, and it puts me into an awkward 
 "tuation." 
 
 ''I hope so," said Pierpont, with smiling malice. 
 Fay got up from her straw chair. 
 "Do you absolutely refuse to go without me, Alan?" 
 she asked, standing in front of the bench and looking 
 down at him. 
 
 She noted an instant only an instant of hesitation 
 before he answered. 
 "Of course I do." 
 
36 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 He got up with Pierpont. 
 
 "Either you go or the thing's given up, Fay." 
 
 "Very well. We won't argue any more about it." 
 
 She paused, keeping them on the sharp edge of expec 
 tation ; then coldly and decisively she added : 
 
 "I will go with you. I will go to Tombouctou." 
 
 "But, Fay " 
 
 "Don't say another word, Alan ! I am going. Under 
 stand that! I have made up my mind. The matter's 
 settled. No doubt it is written in the stars." 
 
 An almost fanatical look came into her face. 
 
 "You think," she said, gazing at Pierpont, "that you 
 have managed the whole thing. And I dare say Alan 
 supposes that a sense of wifely duty has driven me into 
 submission. But you are both wrong. I have always 
 wanted to go." 
 
 "Fay !" exclaimed her husband. 
 
 She turned on him almost fiercely. 
 
 "Who wouldn't want to make such a wonderful jour 
 ney? Why the mere thought of it sets my blood on 
 fire!" 
 
 "But then why on earth " 
 
 "Do we always think we ought to do what we want 
 most to do?" 
 
 "But when we both " 
 
 A contemptuous smile curved her lips for a moment. 
 
 "Perhaps I thought I should be a burden on the way," 
 she interrupted. "Perhaps I thought you'd both end 
 in secretly cursing me for being with you. Yes, yes, 
 you might you may! But now I don't mind whether 
 I'm a burden or not. I've given in to you both. Take 
 care I don't rule you with a rod of iron when I have 
 you both at my mercy in the desert. Take care !" 
 
 She began to laugh, but there was something almost 
 sinister in the sound of her low laughter. 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Pierpont," she added, suddenly 
 checking herself, and looking at him with deep, almost 
 
SNAKE-BITE 87 
 
 threatening gravity. "I may as well let you know some 
 thing about women." 
 
 "What is it ?" he asked, returning her look steadily. 
 
 "They are never more dangerous than in the moment 
 of giving in. A prudent man doesn't force things on 
 
 a woman." 
 
 She turned, walked quickly down the terrace and dis 
 appeared into the house. 
 
 "We shall have our work cut out for us, Mortimer!" 
 said Pierpont, with a laugh. 
 
 "Oh, of course, she was only joking," returned Alan, 
 rather uncomfortably. "Anyhow, I'm glad she really 
 wants to go." 
 
 "She's a woman of spirit. I always knew that." 
 
 "Well, if she is she'll have plenty of chances for show 
 ing it on the journey, I expect." 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 "Good night, Pierpont." 
 
 "Good night." 
 
 Directly Alan came into their bedroom that night Fay 
 said: 
 
 "Alan, I wish you to tell me something." 
 
 "Of course, I will. What is it, darling?" 
 
 "Did Mr. Pierpont try to persuade you to leave me 
 here and go with him alone to Tombouctou after you 
 had told him I didn't mean to go ?" 
 
 "Yes, he did, but only when I said you were afraid 
 to go." 
 
 "Afraid ! You told him I was afraid ?" 
 
 "I repeated just what you said to me. There was no 
 harm in it. Any woman on earth " 
 
 "Perhaps. But there's one woman who is not afraid 
 of anything. And I'm that woman." 
 
 "I'm sure Pierpont must understand that now. Fay, 
 tell me, do you secretly dislike Pierpont?" 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 
38 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Was that your real reason for refusing to come at 
 first?" 
 
 "I don't actually dislike him. No. But, perhaps be 
 cause he's so rich, he is inclined to suppose that he must 
 always have exactly what he wants. I resent that." 
 
 "I don't think he means to " 
 
 "Did he try to bribe you to-night to go with him ?" 
 
 Alan looked uncomfortable. 
 
 "Bribe is hardly the word." 
 
 "Use another then. Did he offer you money ?" 
 
 "He said he must take a doctor with him, that he'd 
 far rather have me than anyone else, that money was no 
 difficulty, and that I could name my own terms." 
 
 "And you ? What did you say ?" 
 
 "That it wasn't a question of money, but of your feel 
 ings about the matter." 
 
 "But you could have gone without me." 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 She remembered that instant of hesitation on his part 
 
 "Alan," she said, coming close to him, and holding his 
 two arms with her long-fingered hands, "do you love me 
 very much?" 
 
 "Don't you know it?" 
 
 She looked into his eyes with a piercing intentness, 
 
 "Some women need a great deal of love, more love 
 than the average woman needs. I do. I wonder how 
 much love you have to give me. Some men have more 
 than others. Some men have a great store. They are 
 the dangerous men to women like me." 
 
 There was something sombre in her voice, something 
 almost menacing in her eyes. Her hands were still on 
 his arms when he put them round her. 
 
 "I don't know exactly what my love-capacity is, you 
 
 strange girl. But you would know if " he paused, 
 
 staring into her face. 
 
 "If what?" 
 
 "If a great test came." 
 
 "What sort of test?" 
 
SNAKE-BITE 39 
 
 "Haven't you enough imagination to think of one for 
 yourself ?" 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 "Yes. For instance, if you were very ill, if you were 
 dying, you would know how much I loved you." 
 
 She slipped out of his arms. 
 
 "You have a professional imagination," she said, as 
 she went towards the dressing-table. 
 
 Putting up her hands she began to take the earrings 
 out of her ears. 
 
 "When shall we be able to start?" she asked. 
 
 "Very soon, I believe. Oh, Fay, I'm so thankful you've 
 consented to come." 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 "It's an opportunity in a thousand." 
 
 "Yes, it is that." 
 
 "And if you have the spirit of adventure " 
 
 "I think I have a good deal more of that spirit than 
 you have." 
 
 Again there was an almost menacing look in her eyes 
 as they regarded him in the mirror. 
 
 "Perhaps. But, anyhow, I have enough to feel most 
 awfully keen and excited about the journey. I shan't 
 sleep, I know I shan't." 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous." 
 
 "Isn't it natural to feel excited under the circum 
 stances?" 
 
 He moved about the room, then stepped out upon the 
 balcony and was silent for a moment. 
 
 "Pierpont's still out," he said presently in a low voice, 
 putting his head into the room. 
 
 "Well, don't begin talking to him, because I'm going 
 to bed" 
 
 "He's really a splendid chap. I'm certain of that." 
 
 "Yes, because you are the one doctor he wants to take 
 with him to Tombouctou." 
 
 "Hang it, Fay, isn't it natural to be gratified when 
 one's powers are trusted?" 
 
40 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Of course. Now do come in and shut the Per 
 siennes." 
 
 Alan obeyed reluctantly. 
 
 "I almost hate to shut out such a night." 
 
 "And to shut out the great millionaire." 
 
 He looked at her doubtfully with his hands thrust deep 
 into his pockets. His eyes looked feverish, and his thin 
 body, which had rather obviously been ill, leaned a little 
 to the left side. 
 
 "I say, you won't be horrid to Pierpont when we get 
 right away from everyone, will you ?" 
 
 "No; he will be our master." 
 
 "What rubbish!" 
 
 "At any rate, he will have the right to call the tune." 
 
 "Pierpont's a gentleman, Fay." 
 
 "And a man too." 
 
 "Isn't that in his favour?" 
 
 "Of course. But it's men who are men that call all 
 the tunes worth the playing. You see, they don't care 
 how much they give the piper. Now please be quiet, 
 Alan, I'm going to say a prayer." 
 
 She knelt down by the side of her bed and hid her 
 face in her hands. Her bending figure seemed to him 
 to express abandon. He couldn't help wondering very 
 much what she was praying about. 
 
 But she never told him. 
 
 From that night Fay lived in a condition of hidden ex 
 citement, hidden emotion, which often gave her a curi 
 ous sensation of living a double life in some strange 
 and feverish dream. Outwardly she was self-possessed, 
 energetic, and practical. Really she was tormented by 
 doubts, fears, expectations, hopes. Yes, even her hopes 
 tormented her. For the shapes of them all seemed to 
 her monstrous. They passed through her soul like great 
 bellying clouds at sunset, shot with colours that were 
 vivid, or ominous and dark with the presage of storm. 
 Sometimes their vastness was linked in her mind with 
 
SNAKE-BITE 41 
 
 the bigness of Pierpont, who had called them all into 
 being, and she felt a terror of the immensities which 
 included a terror of the desert. But the spirit of adven 
 ture within her was a doughty combatant of fear. Often 
 it had the upper hand. Then she rejoiced at the prospect 
 before her, she exulted at the working of Fate. And 
 always, at every moment during this period of prepara 
 tion, she was strongly alive. Life had a keen edge like 
 the edge of a sharpened sword. If it drew blood pres 
 ently, what of that? Better to suffer by living than to 
 suffer by not really living; better to be cut in pieces 
 quickly by a bright blade than to be suffocated slowly 
 under a mass of soft pillows. 
 
 Alan was surprised by the tireless energy of his wife. 
 The prospect of the journey, the effort of decision, had 
 wonderfully changed her. More eager than he had ever 
 seen her before, she was surely harder too. Once when 
 he commented on this gently, she said : 
 
 "Soft women can't do such things as I'm going to do." 
 
 "You are a heroine in Beni Mora," he said. "The 
 
 Arabs are amazed at your courage. But I don't want 
 
 you to turn into one of those lean, sunbaked women 
 
 who look as if they had been born in the saddle, or with 
 
 a gun in their hands. I don't want you " 
 
 She interrupted him decisively. 
 
 "My dear Alan, remember that if this great journey 
 changes me very much that will be your fault. You per 
 suaded me to undertake it." 
 "Or was it Pierpont?" 
 
 She remembered an instant's hesitation, and answered : 
 "No, it was you. I am going because of you." 
 "Let's hope you will never repent of it." 
 '7 don't intend to," she said, smiling. "Repentance 
 is often a sign of weakness. If you are going to repent 
 of a thing, you shouldn't do it." 
 He looked at her almost anxiously. 
 "Sometimes I scarcely understand you, Fay," he said 
 gravely. 
 
42 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Perhaps we shall all come to a fuller understanding 
 of each other and ourselves on the journey. We may 
 even know too much by the time we arrive at Tombouc- 
 tou, if we ever get there." 
 
 "Saad swears he will bring us there safely." 
 
 'Then that's settled. Now I'm going into the market 
 with Mr. Pierpont. I've got one or two things to buy." 
 
 She left him alone. He stared after her, and presently 
 saw her slight form going down the sunny white road 
 towards the village with Pierpont's huge frame striding 
 beside it. Saad ben Youssef followed them at a short 
 distance. As Alan watched the three moving figures 
 he thought of the words of his wife. It seemed to him 
 at that moment that he knew too little. He felt that he 
 was wrapped in faint mists of ignorance. But those fig 
 ures and he were soon going out into the glaring lands, 
 where colours were strong and outlines were hard and 
 clear, where the light of the sun was fierce, and the 
 shadows lay like living things on the burning gold of 
 the sands. 
 
 Which was better for a man, to know too little or too 
 much? "Qui odit veritatem, odit Lucem." Well, he loved 
 the light, so surely he would love any truth discovered 
 in the light. 
 
 Yet something in Fay's manner, or something per 
 haps in her eyes, had troubled his spirit for a moment. 
 
 The three moving figures disappeared on the white 
 road. The hot stillness of noon was about him. He 
 leaned his arms on the balcony railing, and he seemed 
 actually to hear the great silence into which he was going; 
 the silence of the wastes where there seems to be nothing, 
 and where there is a nakedness that is akin to the naked 
 ness of truth. 
 
 For the first time he felt a creeping dread of the jour 
 ney. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 43 
 
 n 
 
 THE HORNED VIPER 
 
 For two days the Saharan sirocco had prevailed. The 
 wind from the north-east, perhaps -born in the sand hills 
 of the great Erg, had driven across the desert for hun 
 dreds of miles carrying the sand grains with it. Now 
 at last the wind had died away, leaving a fiery heat 
 that was intense as the heat from a furnace, and a silence 
 that was startling almost as a great outcry. 
 
 During the sand-storm Pierpont' s caravan, under the 
 direction of Saad ben Youssef, had lain at Insalah, an 
 oasis containing three native villages lost in the bosom 
 of the central Sahara. Long ago our travellers had been 
 made free of the Sahara, but they had not fully under 
 stood its menace, its power for evil, until this sirocco 
 came upon them, whispering to them with its hot and in 
 sidious voice: "Give rein! give rein! Civilisation has 
 no meaning here. The voice of conscience tells nothing 
 but lies. Here men and women may do as they will, 
 and they must will according to my behests. Give rein ! 
 give rein !" And the wind died ; and the hot and insidious 
 voice grew faint; and the sand grains settled down once 
 more on the vast enigmatic wilderness. But the storm 
 had left its mark on temper and soul; it had affected Fay 
 and her husband and Horace Pierpont more even than 
 they understood. 
 
 So far the great journey had seemed to be a success. 
 Having carried his point at Beni Mora, Pierpont had 
 shown none of the vulgar conceit of triumph. He had 
 been considerate and charming in every possible way, 
 in moments of difficulty serene and courageous, in long 
 hours of monotony patient and philosophic, strong al 
 ways, and yet easy to live with. And hitherto he had 
 never too obviously called the tune, although the size 
 of the caravan and the comparative comfort in which 
 they lived, showed how liberally he had paid the piper. 
 
44 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Alan, who had always liked him, had become enthu 
 siastically devoted to him, and made no secret of the fact, 
 being always an open-hearted and unself conscious fel 
 low. 
 
 And Fay? 
 
 She was more reticent than Alan. 
 
 Long before the caravan reached Insalah Alan had 
 marked a change, a development in his wife. During 
 the journey she had shown a resisting power, and in 
 difference to physical discomfort, that were extraordi 
 nary. Perched on her Mehariste camel she rode day after 
 day without complaint over the burning sands, the dry, 
 stony water-courses, the hard-baked earth broken up into 
 mounds innumerable tufted with half a grass, the rocky 
 hillocks that here and there rose grotesquely in the midst 
 of the great desolation. She never called a halt because 
 she was more weary than others. Wrapped in the dream 
 of the desert she seemed pertinacious, filled with a strange 
 longing to go onward and ever onward. She had be 
 come bronzed by the sun without losing the almost 
 ethereal look that Alan delighted in. Her eyes glittered 
 with fires caught surely from the fires of the sun. There 
 was a sort of robust delicacy in her appearance, a fine 
 drawn energy in her movements and postures which Alan 
 wondered at sometimes and admired always. The only 
 woman in the caravan, she seemed worthy to be there 
 taking part in an enterprise of men. And she seemed 
 aware of her own worthiness. Although not usually 
 capricious, she subtly made her will-power felt as she 
 had never made it felt in the ways of civilisation. A cer 
 tain inflexibility was often manifest in her. It was not 
 ugly though it was sometimes not free from obstinacy. 
 It went naturally enough with her physical strength, her 
 readiness to endure. In the bracing of herself for this 
 unusual effort she had, perhaps unconsciously, acquired 
 a mental robustness which marched, as it were, along 
 side of her bodily powers. 
 
 She certainly ruled in the caravan. And now and then 
 
SNAKE-BITE 45 
 
 she showed that she knew this, that there was intention 
 in her ruling. Then Alan remembered her words on the 
 terrace at Beni Mora, and wondered if Pierpont remem 
 bered them too. Hidden in her wand there was surely 
 the rod of iron she had spoken of. Alan did not find 
 it irksome upon his shoulders. But occasionally he won 
 dered whether Pierpont felt otherwise. He had never 
 found out exactly what his wife thought about Pierpont. 
 She revelled in their adventure. That he knew. It had 
 shed a new life all through her. Yet he sometimes be 
 lieved that she resented that very insistence of Pierpont 
 which had so Alan supposed brought her into it, that 
 she had a secret intention of repayment. Nevertheless, 
 they got on marvellously well together in the terrific in 
 timacy of their situation. And Pierpont never showed 
 the least regret for what he had done. So no doubt it 
 was "all right." At any rate, it was all right till the 
 sirocco came. 
 
 When the wind died into fire and the dead silence fell 
 over the plain Saad ben Youssef arose, uncovered his 
 mouth and went to the Travellers' House in which the 
 Mortimers and Pierpont had been lodged for greater 
 safety against the storm. He suggested that they should 
 leave Insalah that night. There would be a bright moon. 
 They could travel in the cool. Everything was ready 
 and there was nothing to wait for now that the storm 
 was over. While he spoke from a room close by there 
 came sounds of coughing. 
 
 Pierpont, who looked thinner and more big-boned and 
 angular than even at Beni Mora, and who was burnt to 
 a deep brown by the sun, said he was ready to be off that 
 evening, but must consult the Mortimers before deciding 
 and, followed by Saad, he went to their room and knocked 
 on the palm-wood door. It was opened by Fay. Looking 
 beyond her they saw the doctor lying stretched on a pile 
 of gaudy rugs on the uncarpeted floor. Till now he had 
 borne the long journey splendidly, but during the sirocco 
 he had suffered. The sand grains, which penetrated 
 
46 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 everywhere, had irritated his throat and chest, and 
 brought on a hacking cough ; his cheeks showed a strong 
 flush through their freckled brown, and his eyes looked 
 unnaturally bright and almost fiercely observant. It was 
 evident to Pierpont that sirocco had played the devil with 
 his friend. He had never seen Mortimer look at all like 
 this before. Mrs. Mortimer, too, looked strung up and 
 as if she were on the edge of her nerves. 
 
 "Let's go! Let's go!" exclaimed Alan directly the 
 proposition was made. "I've taken a hatred for this 
 place. Let's get away from houses out into the desert 
 again." 
 
 "Is he fit to start?" asked Pierpont of Fay. 
 
 "Of course I am," cried Alan, raising himself on his 
 arm. "It's only the cursed sand that's made me like 
 this." 
 
 He glanced quickly from his wife to the American, and 
 the hard cough broke out in his throat. 
 
 "Then if it suits you, Mrs. Mortimer, we'll be off at 
 nine to-night after dinner and travel till dawn." 
 
 "I shall be thankful to go," she replied. 
 
 There was something unrestrained, almost reckless 
 in her manner. 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 "Why? Oh I hate being under a roof. I I " 
 
 She twisted her hands together. 
 
 "I want to get on," she added. 
 
 "Come out. It's as still as death now. Let him rest 
 till evening," Pierpont whispered to her while Alan was 
 coughing. "Come, Saad. We'll be off at nine, Morti 
 mer." 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 Again the loud cough broke out. Pierpont shut the 
 rough wooden door. Fay had said nothing, but he knew 
 by her eyes she was coming, and he waited for her out 
 side in the shadow cast by the house-wall, with his feet 
 planted in the sand. Saad had slowly drifted away to 
 
SNAKE-BITE 47 
 
 the camp which was pitched in the oasis a little to the 
 south of the village. 
 
 The silence that prevailed seemed unnatural, almost 
 sinister, after the uneasy uproar of the wind. The 
 masses of palm trees were motionless. But the water in 
 the small trenches which led from the wells glided hap 
 pily on its way. The sun blazed implacably over the 
 sand plain and the low sand-hills in the distance sur 
 mounted by palm leaf barricades. As Pierpont stood 
 there he felt that in this strange lost place, in this dead 
 peace after the storm, Fate was at work dealing with him 
 almost as the potter deals with the clay inexorably. Till 
 the sirocco came he had felt that he was not only his own 
 master but the master of others, despite the light tyranny 
 of Fay. Now there was within him a feeling of being 
 governed. It had come with the sirocco. He disliked, 
 almost hated it, but he could not get rid of it. He heard 
 the sound of a step, the creak of a door, and Fay stood 
 beside him in the sand. 
 
 "We'll go into the oasis," Pierpont said. 
 
 "Yes. How horribly still it is I" 
 
 "Horribly?" 
 
 "Yes; I can hear Alan's cough in it. I hated the wind, 
 but now I almost want it back." 
 
 "You're ultra-sensitive. The sirocco has affected you." 
 
 "And Alan too." 
 
 "Alan! How?" 
 
 They had been walking over the deep sand. Now he 
 stopped, and stood looking at her. 
 
 "How? You don't mean physically, do you?" 
 
 "No. Let us get to the palm trees. Then I'll tell you." 
 
 She spoke quickly, unevenly, like one preoccupied and 
 secretly impatient. They came into the shade of the 
 oasis. Behind them, in the distance, the red clay walls 
 of the officers' quarters gleamed in the sunshine with a 
 sort of moody brilliance. The dull yellow water was at 
 their feet. Over their heads the tufted trees spread an 
 unwavering protection against the burning blue of the 
 
48 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 heavens. Among the wrinkled trunks shadow and light 
 were mingled in the breathless hush of nature. 
 
 "Sit here against this palm trunk," said Pierpont 
 brusquely. "What's the matter with Mortimer?" 
 
 He stretched his great body beside her. 
 
 "Of course I know he isn't so well as usual, not nearly 
 so well," he added. 
 
 "I wonder how ill he is," said Fay, in a low, almost 
 surreptitious voice. 
 
 "How ill?" 
 
 "Yes ; last night, when the storm was raging, I thought, 
 'Suppose he were to be very ill. Suppose he were to 
 to die ! What would happen then ?' I seemed to be ask 
 ing the sirocco." 
 
 "Well what was the answer?" said Pierpont harshly. 
 
 "There was no answer." 
 
 "Because you asked the sirocco. You should have 
 asked me." 
 
 He paused, staring at her, devouring her with his nar 
 row grey eyes. She did not look at him, and said noth 
 ing. 
 
 "You haven't told me what is the matter with Morti 
 mer," he added, after a moment 
 
 "He seems to have suddenly changed towards me." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "If it wasn't so absurd I should say he suspected me 
 of something. His eyes are suspicious." 
 
 "Because he is unwell. The same thought that came 
 into your mind may have come into his. He may have 
 said to himself, Tf I were to become very ill, if I were 
 to die, she would be left with him.' And then, not be 
 ing well and being under the hideous influence of sirocco, 
 he may have felt the touch of jealousy!" 
 
 A slow flush crept upon Fay's cheeks as he spoke. He 
 watched it with a sort of hunger. 
 
 "He's been horrid to me the last two days. All the 
 time we've been married he's never been like that till 
 
 now." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 49 
 
 Tears came into her eyes. The deep melancholy of 
 sirocco possessed her. Pierpont thrust out a great bony 
 hand and took hold of hers. 
 
 "It's illness. He can't know." 
 
 Fay's hand started in his. He held it fast. 
 
 "Know what?" she said uncontrollably. 
 
 "What you and I know, what we knew before we left 
 Beni Mora. We have never spoken of it but we have 
 always known it. The devil that kept us back from be 
 ing frank about it has been driven away by that wind 
 from hell. It went on the wings of sirocco." 
 
 She left her hand lying quite still in his, and, looking 
 into his face almost defiantly, she said : 
 
 "I am tired of pretending too. In such a region as this 
 it seems so horribly unnatural to pretend anything. In 
 these last days I have sometimes felt desperately reck 
 less. More than once, when he was horrid to me, I near 
 ly told him." 
 
 Now she tried to draw away her hand, and he let her 
 doit. 
 
 "What would you have told Mortimer if you had 
 spoken?" said Pierpont. 
 
 Fay got up and stood by the palm tree under which 
 he was lying. Just then she felt a need to look down upon 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, just why I came on this journey. He doesn't 
 know why, and neither do you. You're surprised! But 
 men scarcely ever know a woman's reason for what she 
 does. I came because once in Beni Mora I asked Alan 
 a question and he hesitated only for a second before 
 answering it. That second's hesitation of his was my 
 reason for coming. You didn't persuade me though 
 perhaps you thought you did." 
 
 "What was the question?" 
 
 "This: 'Do you absolutely refuse to go without me, 
 Alan?'" 
 
 "I remember. You said it on the terrace." 
 
 "Yes. Alan could have left me to go with you. When 
 
50 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 I knew that I felt I could come. I was changed that 
 night. I it was almost as if I became suddenly wicked." 
 
 "Now I understand why you were menacing that 
 night." 
 
 "Some of my softness went out of me for ever," she 
 said, with a sort of strange, almost weary, bitterness. 
 
 "Do you repent of what you have done?" 
 
 "No. But I'm suffering." 
 
 "So am I." 
 
 "What did you mean when you tried to force me to 
 come ? What do you mean now ?" 
 
 "I had found a girl who knew how to make me love 
 when I thought I had lost the power. I meant to make 
 certain of being always inevitably with her, far away 
 from all the infernal interruptions of ordinary life." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Perhaps I meant to try to pour my influence upon 
 her always when I was with her." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "I let the future keep its secret." 
 
 "But Alan would always be there." 
 
 "I was ready to chance that." 
 
 She gazed at him in silence. At that moment some 
 thing inside of her surely turned pale. Yet she did not 
 feel irresolute. 
 
 "Did you did you think he was very ill?" she mur 
 mured. 
 
 "I let the future keep its secret," he repeated. 
 
 "Why did the sirocco come?" 
 
 When she said that Pierpont knew that till the storm 
 he had been able to endure without too great misery the 
 bizarre and even horrible situation which in Beni Mora 
 he had striven to bring about Now, abruptly, he felt 
 that it was unendurable. 
 
 "To put an edge to our human misery," he answered 
 moodily. "To light up our madness so that we could 
 see it plainly and know it for what it is." 
 
 He felt the silence; he looked at the dead stillness; 
 
SNAKE-BITE 51 
 
 everything seemed to have stopped except the energy in 
 their two souls. 
 
 "What are we going to do?" he said at last, looking 
 again at her. 
 
 "What can we do?" 
 
 "Do you really think he suspects?" 
 
 "I don't know. But he's horribly uneasy. It's al 
 most as if the sirocco had made him clairvoyant. And 
 at this moment I don't think I mind. I could almost go 
 now and tell him." 
 
 "That's the vile influence of the wind. It will pass 
 away from us, and then we shall be desperately sorry, we 
 shall curse ourselves, if we do anything irreparable 
 now." 
 
 He clenched his great hands into fists. 
 
 "I won't be the sport of nature," he exclaimed. "I'll 
 be my own master." 
 
 "I've always felt that you are tremendously strong." 
 
 "You, who rule me!" 
 
 He got up. 
 
 "No, don't!" she said. Don't!" 
 
 He thrust his hands into the pockets of his riding 
 breeches and stood still. 
 
 "Can Saad have spoken to Mortimer?" he said after 
 a minute, during which he had kept his eyes fixed on 
 the ground. 
 
 "Saad ! How could he know ?" said Fay in a startled 
 voice. 
 
 "He knows because he's an Arab. Arabs know every 
 thing." 
 
 "But if he did know, surely he would never speak of 
 it to a Roumi." 
 
 "I never can tell what an Arab will do, or not do. 
 I don't understand the breed." 
 
 "I must be mad to-day," she said. "I'm sick of pre 
 tence. Something in me wants Alan to know. But if he 
 did know, this isolated life of us three, from which we 
 
52 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 can't escape, would be impossible. For how could we 
 go on travelling together if he knew ?" 
 
 "How could we do anything else ? We can't well break 
 up the caravan. We can't divide Saad in two. And he's 
 indispensable to us all. If Mortimer says anything 
 I don't believe he will, but if he should you must laugh 
 at him. Don't yield if you have an impulse to speak 
 the truth. Choke the words down. Fay, do you love 
 me?" 
 
 "Yes. You seem to enclose me." 
 
 He moved. 
 
 "Then let me " 
 
 "No; I love you, but I don't mind your suffering. I 
 want you to suffer. I meant what I said on the terrace 
 at Beni Mora. I yielded to Alan and you, but I always 
 meant to punish you. Why will men never let women 
 alone?" 
 
 "Wouldn't women curse them if they did?" 
 
 "There is Saad !" she whispered. 
 
 The tall figure of the Arab was visible in the glaring 
 sunshine coming towards them across the sands. 
 
 That night they left Insalah by the light of the moon, 
 journeying due south across the shining silver of the 
 sands. Alan was warmly wrapped up, for when the night 
 grows late it is chilly in the Sahara. His cough still 
 troubled him. As the long line of laden camels moved 
 on noiselessly at a regular pace, Fay and Pierpont heard 
 it, and it seemed to Fay to strike on her heart like a 
 little hammer as well as upon her ears. And, looking out 
 from her moving height upon the radiant immensity 
 spread around her, she said to herself, "Will he die?" 
 and "If he should die!" And she felt almost like one 
 struggling with difficulties in a dream. She did not want 
 Alan to die, and yet she knew that life could never be to 
 her the gift she desired while he lived. If Alan could 
 cease from her life and leave her legitimately free, with 
 out dying, she could give herself to the happiness every 
 
SNAKE-BITE 53 
 
 woman wishes for. Yet even then a regret would haunt 
 her. For she was fond of Alan and she knew that. She 
 was fond of him, but he did not encompass her. She 
 felt equal to, or even superior to him. She had the 
 habit of him and he had always been good to her. But 
 he was not impressive to her. She looked upon him as 
 quite an ordinary man. Pierpont, on the other hand, 
 impressed her, made her often secretly wonder, even 
 secretly fear. And of one thing she was absolutely cer 
 tain, as women can be certain of things never brought to 
 the test of experience; she was absolutely convinced that 
 if she ever belonged to Pierpont she would worship him. 
 And never, not even when she had believed herself to be 
 violently in love with him, had she felt just like that 
 about Alan. 
 
 The shadows of the camels and of their riders moved 
 over the radiance of the sands furtively. The great stars 
 glittered in the firmament. Now and then a camel driver 
 broke into a melancholy song. And those three, who 
 knew each other so well, and so little, pursued their dou 
 ble journey, of the body and of the soul, through the 
 night of nature and the twilight of human life, specks in 
 immensity, yet each one of them a world. The chill of 
 the midnight touched them, and, presently, the different 
 chill of the dying night. And the spell of sirocco went 
 with them. 
 
 In the blazing heat of noon on the following day they 
 were encamped far away from any oasis or native vil 
 lage, in the midst of a vast plateau of dried earth min 
 gled with chalk, with sand-hills billowing in the distance 
 like waves of a sea dyed orange by the flames of the sun. 
 
 And here, in this desolation, unknown to them, it was 
 ordained that the drama in which they were inrolved 
 should come to a sudden crisis. 
 
 They intended to rest all day, and to continue their 
 journey by night. During the morning, weary with 
 much riding, they slept. At midday they met in the 
 shadow of an awning stretched before the Mortimers' 
 
54 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 tent to have their lunch, followed by coffee, pipes for the 
 men, and a cigarette for Fay. 
 
 Alan still looked ill and strangely self-conscious, but 
 he professed to be much better already, now that they 
 were away from the village. He wore a forced air of 
 unnatural cheerfulness, and his whole demeanour was 
 that of a man filled with uneasiness which he was trying 
 to hide. Warned by Fay, Pierpont was on the alert for 
 a change in his friend, but it was more marked than he 
 had expected. Before the short meal was over he felt 
 convinced that something which as yet neither Fay nor 
 he knew of had occurred to startle Mortimer out of his 
 normal contentment. Mortimer's physical condition was 
 certainly worse than usual, and mentally no doubt he 
 was still unfavourably influenced by sirocco. Pierpont 
 knew by his own experience that people sometimes take 
 several days to shake off entirely its evil spell. But 
 there was something else. He wished to think other 
 wise; he even tried to force himself to think otherwise; 
 but his effort was vain. There was a new politeness, a 
 creeping formality in Mortimer's manner towards him, 
 which put intimacy at a distance. He found himself 
 "making" conversation, wondering what to say next, 
 looking over to Fay for help. Something horrible, like 
 a fetid breath from civilised life, poisoned the air they 
 were breathing. Pierpont's tremendous self-possession 
 seemed to tremble on its throne. He damned him 
 self for a sirocco-victim, and in that he was justified. 
 But no amount of self -damning could do away with his 
 conviction that Mortimer had somehow got on the track 
 of his and Fay's long hidden secret. And suddenly he 
 realised, sitting there by the tiny camp-table on which 
 they took their meals, and eating the sardines, the cous 
 cous, the bits of stewed mutton, the peculiar impossibility 
 of the situation which Would be created by Mortimer's 
 discovery of the truth. That a man should love another 
 man's wife there was no novelty in that! But that 
 a husband of Mortimer's type, as Pierpont knew by 
 
SNAKE-BITE 55 
 
 instinct totally incapable of playing the role of a mari 
 complaisant, should be forced by circumstances to live in 
 day and night intimacy with his wife and the man she 
 loved and by whom she was loved, realising exactly how 
 matters were between them there would be a diabolical 
 novelty in such a situation. And such a situation no in 
 nocence of body could save. Pierpont tried hard to trick 
 himself into the conviction that his anxiety was ground 
 less, was born of sirocco, but as the meal progressed a 
 sort of desperation overcame him. The change in Mor 
 timer's demeanour was too marked to be misunderstood. 
 Here was a usually natural man, a man still like an hon 
 est, well-meaning boy, a man, moreover, hitherto openly 
 devoted to him, Pierpont, obviously playing a part. And 
 Mortimer did not act well. He was too unaccustomed 
 to acting to play any role cleverly. 
 
 The uneasy conversation presently languished and died. 
 They sat in a sombre silence. 
 
 At last the meal was over, and Saad set the coffee be 
 fore them. The men lit their pipes, and Fay began to 
 smoke her cigarette. The heat of the noontide was heavy 
 upon them. The stones with which the plateau on which 
 they were camping was strewn glittered in the tre 
 mendous sunshine. The heavens above them were as 
 brass. The stillness about them was like a living thing 
 waiting for some great action. And the immense naked 
 ness of the land for the first time seemed to utter to 
 Pierpont's soul an implacable condemnation of the decep 
 tion he had practised, of the lie he had lived so long. 
 All through a life made easy by his vast fortune and by 
 his powerful personality, by the self-possession which 
 had never yet failed him, and by the will of iron which 
 had upheld him and brought people in obedience to do 
 what he wanted, he had never been tormented by the 
 thing men call conscience, and he had seldom indeed failed 
 to possess himself of any pleasure, or any passion, which 
 had tempted him. Now he suddenly felt small, mean, 
 even almost fearful. Yes, in the midst of this fierce 
 
56 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 heat, this blazing world, he felt the intimately cold touch 
 of fear. He sat staring into the distance and wondering 
 about the future. 
 
 Presently he heard Fay and Alan talking together. 
 They were speaking about Arabic. On the journey they 
 had all been studying Arabic, and had amused themselves 
 by comparing each other's progress. It had been agreed 
 that Alan showed the most marked aptitude as a pupil 
 of Saad's. He really had what is sometimes called a 
 knack for picking up a language almost without know 
 ing how he did it. Pierpont now heard Fay speaking. 
 She said : 
 
 "I don't know how it is, but though I can talk a little 
 I can't ever properly understand when Arabs talk to 
 gether." 
 
 "I can understand," said Alan. 
 
 There was nothing remarkable in the words, but the 
 way in which they were uttered struck forcibly on Pier 
 pont. It seemed to him that Mortimer spoke them with 
 a sort of biting significance, and he looked sharply across 
 the table and met the young doctor's eyes. They were 
 fixed upon him in a stare, and seemed full of hostility. 
 
 "Eh? What is it?" he said, jerking out the words 
 almost unconsciously, forced, he felt, to ask those eyes 
 why they looked at him like that. 
 
 Mortimer looked away at once, smiling. 
 
 "You were in a brown study, Pierpont." 
 
 "Yes. I feel the heat more than I generally do to-day. 
 I think I'll be off to my tent for a bit. Perhaps I'll lie 
 down again." 
 
 Without looking at Fay he got up and strode off. 
 
 His tent was pitched perhaps a hundred feet away. He 
 went to it, and sat down inside it on his folding-chair. 
 What had Mortimer meant by those words which had 
 sounded just like a threat? He lit a fresh pipe and 
 pondered over the matter. Why should Mortimer's 
 understanding of Arabic, when spoken among themselves 
 
SNAKE-BITE 57 
 
 by the Arabs of the caravan, have any dangerous signifi 
 cance for himself and Fay? 
 
 After a time he felt the small enclosed space in the 
 tent to be insupportable to him. He longed to get away 
 for a little, to lose sight of the encampment, to hear no 
 longer the occasional voices of his men, the trickle of mu 
 sic from a vagrant pipe, the snatch of a nasal song, the 
 grunt of a camel. The smallest sound or movement was 
 hateful to him just then, seemed to paralyse his power 
 of thought. He got up, pulled off his riding breeches and 
 the thin drawers of silk he wore beneath them, put on a 
 pair of loose white trousers and a huge straw hat with 
 a pugaree, took his sun umbrella and smoked spectacles 
 and stepped out of the tent. And as he did so he looked 
 towards the Mortimer's tent. They were no longer 
 sitting under the awning. No doubt they were lying 
 down inside the tent. Walking softly, he went away from 
 the encampment, going towards the west. Almost im 
 mediately he saw Saad following him. He stopped. The 
 Arab came up. 
 
 "I don't want you, Saad," he said. "I'm only going 
 a little way. Leave me alone." 
 
 "You will not go very far, Sidi ?" 
 
 "No, no. Only a few yards. I'm going to have a 
 smoke and look out over the desert. Tell the Arabs no 
 one is to come and disturb me." 
 
 "Very well, Sidi." 
 
 Pierpont went on. Saad stood where he was looking 
 after him. 
 
 In the region where they were now the plain here and 
 there was broken up by shallow gullies, almost like fis 
 sures in the earth. Pierpont presently came to one of 
 these. He looked back, saw the camp in the distance, the 
 white-robed figure of Saad at gaze, smoke curling up from 
 a fire. He waved a hand to Saad and went down into 
 the gully. On the side opposed to the camp he found a 
 meagre mimosa shrub growing. He stretched himself 
 
58 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 at its foot, adjusted the sun umbrella, and fell into 
 meditation. 
 
 After Pierpont had left them Fay and Alan sat for a 
 minute in silence. Then Alan knocked out his pipe rather 
 violently against the edge of the table, glanced side 
 ways at Fay and said : 
 
 "What are you going to do, Fay?" 
 
 "What can one do but rest here, or in the tent?" 
 she said. 
 
 "You won't go with Pierpont? I'll bet you he doesn't 
 lie down, but goes out for a stroll in the desert." 
 
 "In this heat? It would be madness." 
 
 "Well, isn't Pierpont a bit mad at times?" 
 
 "I've never noticed it." 
 
 She paused. Then something within her drove her to 
 add: 
 
 "What do you mean? In what way is Mr. Pierpont 
 mad or even eccentric?" 
 
 "It isn't everyone who'd ask a woman to come on 
 such a journey as this." 
 
 "Why, you begged me to come when I refused to." 
 
 "I don't claim to be any saner than Pierpont." 
 
 "It's not very polite to me to say that. Here's Mah- 
 moud coming to clear away." 
 
 As she spoke she threw away the end of her cigarette, 
 got up and went into their tent, Alan lingered a moment 
 by the table. Fay heard him speaking in Arabic to 
 Mahmoud. He was certainly becoming quite fluent in 
 that angry language. She began slowly to take off her 
 frock. What else could she do but lie down ? She might 
 sit in a chair, but in such heat it was surely best to let 
 the whole body repose. She slipped on a thin loose robe, 
 white and yellow, and looked at the bed. And as she 
 looked at it she saw the bedroom at Beni Mora; she was 
 again with Alan there on the night when he came to tell 
 her of Pierpont's offer; she remembered her sleepless 
 night. And then, presently, she remembered how she had 
 
SNAKE-BITE 59 
 
 prayed on that other night when she had consented to 
 make the great journey. She shut her eyes and tried to 
 feel herself back in Beni Mora. But in her whole body, 
 as well as in her brain, she was conscious of the central 
 depths of the Sahara, of the irrevocable distances that 
 must be traversed slowly, painfully, before that body and 
 soul of hers could be either again in Beni Mora or in 
 Tombouctou. Innumerable days or nights on camel back 
 must be endured before she could be free from the Sa 
 hara, could escape from these human beings who were 
 with her, fellow prisoners in the great freedom, chained 
 together in immensity. 
 
 She heard Alan whistling outside. He was trying to 
 whistle an Arab melody, and, of course, failing in the 
 effort. He broke off and tried again. Fay went to her 
 bed and lay down. And the sirocco seemed to lie down 
 on the bed with her, as if it had crept after her from 
 Insalah without her knowing it. Waves of sirocco 
 seemed to flow over her, hot, heavy waves, carrying her 
 blindly somewhere as a great flood carries a corpse. 
 Alan's ugly whistling drew a little nearer and stopped at 
 the tent door. She looked. As she looked he stepped in, 
 turned with his back to her, and seemed to be peeping at 
 something. For his thin body was bent for a moment, 
 and his head was thrust forward. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" she asked. 
 
 Putting one hand behind him he made a gesture which 
 seemed to mean "Hush !" She was silent. Presently he 
 turned round. 
 
 "It's as I thought. Pierpont has gone off alone into 
 the desert." 
 
 "Why shouldn't he? There's nothing very odd in 
 that," she said, with nervous irritation. 
 
 "No. But it's odd that I knew he was going to do 
 it." 
 
 He pulled off his coat, threw it on the ground and 
 rolled up his shirt-sleeves. His arms were red-brown. 
 He had no waistcoat on and the thinness of his body was 
 
60 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 very apparent. He was as lean as a panther. He caught 
 hold of a chair, pulled it to the side of Fay's bed, and 
 sat down facing her. She felt half afraid of him. She 
 did not know what he was going to do or say, but she 
 knew he was going to do or say something exceptional. 
 She also felt afraid of herself. She knew quite well that 
 she was not normal, that she was swayed by an influence 
 of nature. She might have the sense to struggle against 
 this influence, since she was almost sharply aware of it. 
 But on the other hand she might find herself powerless 
 to do so. 
 
 "I told you just now I can understand Arabic when 
 the Arabs talk it among themselves/' Alan said slowly. 
 
 "I wish I could. That's the only way to get to know 
 the Arabs," said Fay. 
 
 "Yes. They're a bad-tongued race." 
 
 "I've always heard that. Mr. Pierpont thinks so too." 
 
 "They're tremendous gossips." 
 
 "I suppose they are." 
 
 "Just before the sirocco came I heard two of them 
 gossiping, Saad and Mahmoud. It was quite by chance. 
 It was the night before we got to Insalah, when we were 
 at the oasis of Foggaret el Zoua." 
 
 He leaned forward and laid one of his red-brown hands 
 on the bed. Fay noticed that the fingers of it were 
 clenched. 
 
 "I got up that night when you were asleep. I had 
 insomnia." 
 
 "You never told me of it." 
 
 "No. The tent seemed a prison. I put on a burnous 
 and went out. I went a little way and sat down on the 
 ground. I happened to sit close to the tent where Saad 
 and Mahmoud were sleeping. At least not sleeping they 
 were talking, and I smelt keef . What do you think they 
 were talking about?" 
 
 His eyes were fixed upon her and looked quite unlike 
 Alan's. 
 
 "What?" she asked unwillingly. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 61 
 
 "You." 
 
 Fay lay still for a minute. One of her hands had lain 
 near Alan's. She drew it softly away and covered it 
 with a fold of her gown. Then, slightly sticking out her 
 chin and with her obstinate look, she asked : 
 
 "What did they say about me ?" 
 
 Alan's hand quivered on the bed. 
 
 "They said, that is Saad said they talked about us 
 all, not only you that Pierpont had only asked me to 
 make this journey because he wanted you to go." 
 
 "Silly !" Fay formed with her lips. 
 
 "Saad ben Youssef was telling Mahmoud, evidently for 
 the first time. I should think he was under the influ 
 ence of keef. He coughed several times, as keef smokers 
 do." 
 
 "Keef -mad !" Fay formed with her lips. 
 
 She longed to push the sirocco from her. It lay so 
 close to her; it embraced her; she felt in its arms. 
 
 "He said several very odd things odd to be invented, 
 I mean. He said to Mahmoud that Pierpont told you 
 about the journey before he told me, that he asked you 
 to go before he asked me." 
 
 Fay shrugged her shoulders against the big pillow. 
 They made a dry little noise. 
 
 "He declared that all your hesitation about going was 
 a piece of acting, that you had promised to go from the 
 beginning and had always meant to go." 
 
 "What liars Arabs are!" Fay managed to whisper. 
 
 "He said" Alan's voice went up a little "you and 
 Pierpont loved one another loved one another! Just 
 imagine ! He said that I knew it, but that Pierpont had 
 offered me such a huge sum of money to come, that, of 
 course, I couldn't refuse it. He actually said that of 
 
 me." 
 
 And Alan's body shook in the chair, as if with sup 
 pressed laughter. 
 
 "I take Pierpont's money I take for such a reason ! 
 
62 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 By God, Fay, how is one to help laughing at these 
 devils?" 
 
 And his body shook more violently, though his lips 
 were not even smiling. 
 
 "What it must be to have such filthy imaginations!" 
 
 Fay lay quite still and said nothing. She felt oddly 
 vague. It had come the blow. Whether Alan believed 
 what the Arab had said or not, she felt sure that he 
 would never again be with Pierpont as he had been, open- 
 hearted, admiring, an enthusiastic friend; whether he 
 believed or not he would always have moments of doubt 
 fulness about Pierpont and her. She knew that by the 
 look in her husband's eyes. And yet, for the moment, 
 she only felt vague. She stretched her thin body slightly 
 and sighed. 
 
 "Well?" said Alan. 
 
 He was always staring at her, was devouring her with 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 He leaned forward, pressing his clenched hand on the 
 bed. The veins stood out on his bare arm and looked 
 violent. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty bad to have such a thing said of you as 
 that, and not to be able to do anything? I couldn't go 
 into the tent and thrash Saad. He's Pierpont's servant, 
 and, besides, we depend absolutely on him for every 
 thing. If anything were to happen if he were to leave 
 us we should be in great difficulties." 
 
 "What does it matter what an Arab says? You and 
 I know it's a lie. Isn't that enough?" 
 
 "Why d'you speak like that?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "In in such a it scarcely sounded like your 
 
 voice." 
 
 She turned uneasily on the bed. 
 
 "It's so hot, and so terribly still. I don't feel like my 
 self to-day." 
 
 "I hate the desert!" he exclaimed, with sudden bitter 
 
SNAKE-BITE 63 
 
 violence. "I wish to God we had never come on this 
 journey. Whatever happens, it will be months before 
 we get to the end of it. Even if we turned back now it 
 would be weeks before we could reach Beni Mora." 
 
 "Turned back?" 
 
 "Yes, you and I." 
 
 "How could we possibly do such a thing without a 
 reason?" 
 
 "D'you think I can enjoy travelling on for months, 
 in the midst of a crowd of beasts who think think-- " 
 
 "Arabs!" she said. 
 
 "Fay!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When I told you you didn't seem surprised." 
 
 "Nothing they could say could surprise me." 
 
 "But don't you mind its being said ?" 
 
 "It's disagreeable, of course." 
 
 She was trying to struggle against a growing morbid 
 desire to give in to circumstances, to put her two hands 
 in the hands of Fate and let herself be taken unresisting 
 even to perdition. Just then the one thing which she felt 
 she could not do was to go on acting, lying, dodging 
 things, being subtle, trying for self-preservation. She 
 was possessed of a desire, almost voluptuous, to go with 
 the tide, like a twig borne along on a wave of the ocean. 
 She remembered, of course, Pierpont's warning. No 
 doubt he was right. These moods of sirocco would pass. 
 But what did it matter? Since Pierpont had spoken of 
 this love of theirs it seemed to her to have a different 
 character, to demand different conduct on her part and 
 his. Their deception seemed to her far greater, far 
 more deplorable even, in this region, far more ridicu 
 lous and useless, now that they had been frank with each 
 other. 
 
 She raised herself on one arm with a hand under her 
 cheek and looked steadily at her husband. 
 
 "Shall I tell you exactly why I came on this journey?" 
 she said, in a louder, harder voice. 
 
64 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Tell me." 
 
 "It wasn't because Mr. Pierpont was determined we 
 should go with him." 
 
 "Why was he so determined ?" 
 
 She ignored his question. 
 
 "It wasn't because you wanted so much to go and 
 tried so hard to persuade me." 
 
 "I did try. But you said afterwards you had been 
 longing to go all the time." 
 
 "Alan, it was because you could have gone without 
 
 me." 
 
 "I!" 
 
 He straightened himself up abruptly. 
 
 "How can you say that?" 
 
 "I say it because it's true." 
 
 "But I absolutely refused " 
 
 "You could have gone. Don't let us discuss it. I 
 know it. I knew it when I asked you on the terrace 
 at Beni Mora that night, 'Do you absolutely refuse to go 
 without me?' You hesitated before you answered. A 
 hesitation like that tells a woman everything every 
 thing. From that moment I decided I would make this 
 journey." 
 
 Alan was silent for a minute. His face looked drawn, 
 and his eyes were fierce, and seemed to be gazing in 
 ward, as if he were searching himself. At last he said : 
 
 "Why did you refuse to come before?" 
 
 "I had a reason." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 She hesitated, trying to struggle with sirocco. 
 
 "Never mind what it was." 
 
 "You shall tell me. You always wanted to come. I 
 asked you to come. Then why did you try to avoid 
 it?" 
 
 "I thought it would be unwise for me to travel so 
 far." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 65 
 
 In spite of the marvellous dryness of the heat which 
 enclosed them sweat burst out on his face. 
 
 "Did Pierpont speak to you about making the journey 
 before he spoke to me?" 
 
 Fay twisted her lips into a sort of smile. 
 
 "Do you believe Arabs then?'' 
 
 "I didn't believe them till we were at Insalah and 
 sirocco came." 
 
 "Ah !" she said, on a long breath. "The sirocco came." 
 
 "Then I began to think things over. I felt horribly 
 ill. I thought, 'Suppose I were to die on this journey 
 and what Saad told Mahmoud about Fay and Pierpont 
 were true/ Is it true? Is it true?" 
 
 An almost fierce desire came to Fay to cry out, "It is 
 true!" But she resisted it with all her remaining force. 
 She let her arm drop and her head fall on the pillow. 
 Still twisting her lips in the little smile, he said : 
 
 "If you believe what Arabs say you will believe any 
 thing. You might even believe me if I said it is true." 
 
 She shut her eyes. 
 
 "Now do let me rest," she murmured. "It's so terri 
 bly hot." 
 
 There was a silence. Then she heard him say : 
 
 "I'm going to Pierpont." 
 
 And she heard him go out of the tent. 
 
 When Alan was outside the tent and had walked a 
 few steps he stood for a moment motionless. He was 
 still bathed in sweat. All his body was damp. He had 
 a strange dual sensation : he felt both dull and violent. 
 Saad ben Youssef was no longer standing at gaze. He 
 had gone into the cook's tent, and was squatting there 
 with the Arabs, engaged in one of those violent and 
 interminable conversations which alternate with the long 
 and profound silences of the men of the East. The 
 hobbled camels were resting and eating their fodder with 
 sideways moving mouths. The desert stretched around 
 empty under the blaze of the sun. Nothing moved in 
 
66 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 the vast expanse, no figure of man, no body of animal 
 or of bird. Where was Pierpont? 
 
 Alan had seen him start and knew in what direction 
 he had gone. After his pause, almost mechanically Alan 
 followed in that direction and presently came to the 
 edge of the shallow gully in which Pierpont was lying. 
 He struck the gully at some distance from Pierpont, 
 who was turned from him and looking in the opposite 
 direction from that by which he approached. Pierpont 
 was now stretched out at full length by the mimosa 
 shrub. His trousers had got rucked up and Alan could 
 see some of the bare brown skin of his great legs ex 
 posed to the sun as he lay. His socks had fallen down 
 nearly to his ankles. There was a look of disorder in 
 his presence which was unusual, for, as a rule, without 
 being at all a dandy, he was particular about his clothes 
 and was always perfectly neat. Walking in the bottom 
 of the gully Alan approached him slowly. The heat 
 seemed even greater in this depression of the ground. 
 The earth seemed to shimmer with heat. Far off those 
 mysterious vapours out of which the mirage arises lifted 
 themselves like smoke from the tawny waste, and the 
 orange-coloured crests of the sand-hills gleamed under 
 the flames of the sun. 
 
 When Alan was quite near to Pierpont his foot shifted 
 on a loose stone; the latter heard the noise, lifted himself 
 and looked round. 
 
 "Hullo, Mortimer/' he said, in his harsh, very in 
 dividual voice. "Come to sit with me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How did you find me?" 
 
 "I saw you start from our tent." 
 
 "The tent was hot and I felt a bit restless." 
 
 "The sirocco seems to have waked us all up." 
 
 "Waked us up! Did we need that?'' 
 
 "I can only answer for myself." 
 
 He sat down near to Pierpont, but not close to him, 
 and a little above him. In his hand he had a rough 
 
SNAKE-BITE 67 
 
 stick such as the Arabs often carry. He never felt at 
 ease when walking unless he carried something. He held 
 this stick across his knees now as he sat, bending a little 
 forward. 
 
 "Perhaps I did need waking up/' he added. 
 
 "I can't say I'd noticed any peculiar sluggishness in 
 you." 
 
 "I've been having a talk with my wife." 
 
 "She's lying down?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I think we're all rather done up to-day, in spite of 
 what you say. A sirocco like that at Insalah really plays 
 the devil both with body and mind. We shall want a few 
 days to recover our balance, to get back our usual spirits. 
 I noticed at lunch that we were all rather flattened out. 
 But in a journey like this there must be such moments I 
 suppose." 
 
 "Why have you come out here?" 
 
 "For something to do." 
 
 "But why come away from the camp to a place where 
 you see nothing? As you're lying you can see nothing 
 except the gully." 
 
 "This mimosa attracted me. Even a shrub like this 
 means a lot in the midst of such a desert as we're in just 
 
 "What were you thinking about when I came up ?" 
 
 "I believe I was half asleep." 
 
 "Oh, no, you weren't." 
 
 "Then you know more about me than I do about my 
 self?" 
 
 "I know more than I did a very few minutes ago." 
 
 Instantly it flashed into Pierpont's mind that Fay had 
 madly yielded to the sirocco-impulse of which she had 
 spoken to him in the oasis at Insalah. He remembered 
 her words, "I could almost go now and tell him." He 
 lay very still, and his long determined face did not 
 change. 
 
68 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Friendship ought to be based on knowledge," he 
 said carelessly. 
 
 Alan pulled his broad-brimmed panama hat down on 
 his wet forehead. 
 
 "I want to know something. I want to know why you 
 asked my wife if she would come on this journey before 
 you asked me if I would come." 
 
 "I didn't." 
 
 "I've heard that you did." 
 
 "She has told him," thought Pierpont. 
 
 "The fact remains. I didn't." 
 
 As he reiterated the lie he had a sensation of fighting 
 with the woman he loved. 
 
 "I did not tell your wife first." 
 
 His voice was imperative and ugly in its harshness. 
 
 "Every Arab in the camp knows you did !" said Alan 
 violently. 
 
 And he broke into a desperate fit of coughing. 
 
 Pierpont was conscious of an immense feeling of re 
 lief. He realised that he had nearly fallen into a trap. 
 
 "Ah !" he exclaimed, with contempt. "So you've actu 
 ally been talcing vile Arab gossip for truth! You've 
 overheard some camp slander and you've believed it. If 
 you hadn't told me yourself " 
 
 "I haven't told you !" Alan interrupted. 
 
 "But it is as I say. If not, deny it! Who else could 
 have said such a thing?" 
 
 "My wife might have said it." 
 
 "Your wife! Are you crazy, Mortimer?" 
 
 Pierpont was lying on his right side leaning on his 
 right arm. He had not changed his position during their 
 conversation. Just behind him in the hard earth of the 
 gully there was a large crack or rent, which Alan looked 
 down on but which was invisible to Pierpont. At this 
 moment, while Pierpont was in the act of saying his last 
 words, something attracted Alan's eyes to this rent in 
 the ground. He looked. Surely he had half seen some 
 thing move for an instant. He was just beginning to 
 
SNAKE-BITE 69 
 
 wonder what it had been when he perceived the head 
 of a grey snake pushed out of the crack not far from 
 Pierpont's left leg. On the head, above a broad snout 
 and a pair of small eyes with vertical pupils, were two 
 straight horns. This head remained out as if the snake 
 were watching or listening to something. It looked sur 
 reptitious, intent, and strangely mental. Alan was fas 
 cinated by it 
 
 Before coming on this great journey he had naturally 
 made certain medical preparations. He was engaged to 
 accompany the expedition as a doctor, and it was his 
 business to be ready to deal with any medical or surgical 
 emergency which was likely to arise. He had made in 
 quiries as to the special dangers of the region they were 
 about to traverse. Among them one of the first which 
 had been mentioned to him had been the danger of snake 
 bite. He knew that the cerastes cornutus, or horned 
 viper, was one of the deadliest snakes in existence, and 
 that certain regions of the Sahara were infested by it 
 He had in his medicine-chest, safely locked away, a cej*7 
 tain serum, first produced by Calmette, which was anti- 
 venomous, and which, if injected at once into the body 
 of one bitten by the horned viper, in combination with 
 injections of permanganate of potash, would almost cer 
 tainly save the sufferer from death. Now for the first 
 time he looked upon this enemy of the desert, and was 
 surprised by the smallness of a reptile which contained the 
 power to slay a man. And he looked, too, upon the man 
 whom he had thought of as his friend, but whom he 
 now thought of as his deadliest enemy. 
 
 "Are you crazy, Mortimer?" repeated Pierpont, with 
 a sort of almost fierce defiance. "Has your ill-health 
 shaken your mind ?" 
 
 The horned viper shifted very surreptitiously a little 
 nearer to Pierpont, upon whom it seemed to have con 
 centrated its attention. Alan's hands closed mechanically 
 upon the long stick which he had been holding lightly 
 across his knees. 
 
70 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "My ill-health!" he said. "Who says I'm ill?" 
 
 The horned viper paused, then crept on its white belly 
 an inch or two closer to Pierpont. The whole of it had 
 now emerged from the rent, and Alan could see that 
 the tip of its tail was black. Behind its staring, vertical 
 eyes were two streaks, dark and oblique. Its little straight 
 horns were like two menaces and suggested a mind wary 
 and acute, a soul implacable in its evil. The whole of 
 the reptile looked intense. In intensity at that moment 
 Alan was own brother to it 
 
 "Are you counting on my ill-health?" he continued 
 slowly, and with a sinister emphasis. "But what would 
 you do in the desert without a doctor? You were so 
 determined to have a doctor." 
 
 "You aren't well, you aren't yourself, or you couldn't 
 possibly talk like this. If I didn't see what your con 
 dition is, do you think I would put up with such an 
 abominable insinuation as you have just made? You 
 ought to know me too well " 
 
 "But if all this time I haven't known you at all !" Alan 
 interrupted quietly. 
 
 He was able to bridle his violence now because he had 
 suddenly been filled with a sense of immense, almost 
 of exuberant power. 
 
 "And what could you do out here, whatever I said, or 
 did? How could you get rid of me? How can we 
 separate ? We are tied up beyond hope of getting loose 
 from one another. Besides that you depend on me." 
 
 A sudden red rose in Pierpont's lean cheeks. 
 
 "Depend on you! What the devil d'you mean by 
 that?" 
 
 "Simply that there's no other doctor within a good 
 many miles." 
 
 And Alan laughed ; but his eyes were intent. For the 
 viper had moved noiselessly along the hot earth and was 
 now close to Pierpont's leg. 
 
 "And you made such a point in Beni Mora of the ab 
 solute necessity of having a doctor always with you. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 71 
 
 Both my wife and I remarked that you were shall we 
 say exceedingly careful in regard to your health?" 
 
 "D'you mean to imply that I'm a physical coward ?" 
 
 "No; only that you take great care of yourself." 
 
 "You're offensive, Mortimer." 
 
 The viper crept forward and rested its head on a 
 rucked-up fold of Pierpont's trousers, just above his bare 
 leg. He noticed nothing, but Alan held his breath and 
 his two hands strained themselves round his stick. The 
 natural impulse to kill a noxious reptile was strong in the 
 doctor, but a stronger, overpowering impulse held him 
 back. The desire to know dominated him. His wife 
 had evaded him. Pierpont had probably, indeed almost 
 certainly, lied to him. There was something concealed 
 from him by them both. Of that he felt positive. Fate 
 had, perhaps, brought to him out of the bowels of the 
 desert a means to force the exact truth from these hu 
 man beings who possessed the devilish power to with 
 hold it from him for ever if they would. Could he 
 be such a fool as to destroy the weapon given to his 
 hand before it had struck? 
 
 "You're damnably offensive. But I put it down to 
 your condition." 
 
 "There you make a big mistake. I feel ever so much 
 better already than I did at Insalah. I shall be quite fit 
 to look after my wife till this journey is ended, never 
 fear." 
 
 The viper raised its head, slipped forward and poised 
 itself above Pierpont's bare leg, slightly quivering. 
 
 "Strike!" something in Alan said. "Strike, you foul 
 thing! Strike!" 
 
 As if it had heard the injunction the reptile again 
 slipped forward and dropped upon Pierpont's bare leg. 
 
 "What the devil " he exclaimed in a loud, startled 
 
 voice. 
 
 He made an abrupt and violent movement. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried out. 
 
 The horned viper had bitten him. 
 
72 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Alan sprang to his feet, gripped his stick, and in an in 
 stant had killed the snake. He turned it over with his 
 foot, looked at it for a moment with an indescribable ex 
 pression, then kicked it violently away from him. 
 
 "It's a cerastes cornutus" he said to Pierpont 
 
 The two men were now standing close together at the 
 bottom of the gully. Pierpont looked hard into the 
 doctor's eyes. 
 
 "You knew it was there !" he said. "You knew when 
 you said that I depended on you." 
 
 Alan faced him in silence. Pierpont thrust his hand 
 into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, bent 
 down and tied it tightly round his leg just above the 
 bite. 
 
 "I must get to the camp," he said, lifting himself up. 
 
 He did not show any sign of pain. 
 
 "Of course you've brought anti-venomous serum with 
 you," he added. 
 
 Alan made no reply. Without another word Pierpont 
 set out for the camp. Alan followed him up the side of 
 the gully. In the distance the camp was visible, the 
 tents, the hobbled beasts, smoke curling up to the blaze 
 of the sun, and one figure, a woman's, standing at the 
 opening of a tent motionless, gazing out over the desert. 
 When he saw that figure Pierpont stopped. 
 
 "You can save me, can't you ?" he said to the doctor. 
 
 "I suppose I could." 
 
 "Are you going to save me?" 
 
 "That depends on you. You've lied to me. Now you 
 must tell me the truth." 
 
 After a pause, Pierpont said : 
 
 "I have told you the truth." 
 
 "If you don't tell me," said Alan, pointing to the 
 distant figure by the tent, "she shall." 
 
 "She can only say what I have said. You must be mad 
 to believe Arabs." 
 
 "I feel that she and you are trying to deceive me. I 
 know it." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 73 
 
 "You mean the sirocco has told you a lie." 
 
 "We'll soon prove that. When we get to camp go to 
 your tent without a word to her. If you say a word of 
 all this I swear I'll let you die." 
 
 Pierpont looked at him in silence. Then he walked 
 slowly onward. He began to limp slightly and leaned 
 on his stick. Alan kept beside him and did not speak 
 again till they were close to the camp. Then Alan said : 
 
 "Remember; not a word of what has happened, or 
 of what we've said, to her, or I'll let you die. If it's 
 murder, I don't care. I've got to know the truth." 
 
 "You do know it." 
 
 "If she backs you up, after I've done with her, per 
 haps I'll believe what you've said. Go to your tent and 
 lie down. Don't say a word to the Arabs. I'll come to 
 you very soon." 
 
 As they reached the camp Pierpont was limping no 
 longer. Fay, who was still at the tent door, looked at 
 them with a curious, almost sullen expression. Pier 
 pont took off his hat with a smile. 
 
 "The heat out there was too great. I'm going in to 
 lie down for a little," he said. 
 
 He turned and walked into his tent, still without limp 
 ing. 
 
 "Whatever he is he's a sportsman!" 
 
 That thought went through Alan's mind almost against 
 his will. Then he turned to Fay. 
 
 "Come into the tent, will you, Fay ?" he said. "There's 
 something I want to tell you, something I want you to 
 tell me. And we haven't much time." 
 
 "Not much time ! What do you mean ? Surely we've 
 almost unlimited time at our disposal out here." 
 
 "No, we haven't. Come in." 
 
 She looked at him, then followed him into the tent. 
 
 "Sit down on the bed, Fay," he said. 
 She sat on the side of her camp bed. He sat down 
 on his with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. They 
 
74 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 were clenched, but Fay could not see that, and his face 
 was much calmer in expression than when he had left 
 her to follow Pierpont. 
 
 "Now listen to me, and whatever I say don't cry 
 out." 
 
 "Cry out !" she said, startled. 
 
 "Yes. We've got to keep this from the Arabs." 
 
 "Go on!" she whispered. 
 
 He crossed one leg over the other and stared out 
 through the tent door. 
 
 "If I choose it," he said, "in a very few hours Pier 
 pont will be a dead man. Sit down !" 
 
 She sat down again. She was trembling slightly. 
 
 "Why d'you say such such a cruel thing? It's hor 
 ribly unmanly to try to frighten a woman." 
 
 "It's the truth. Just now in the gully Pierpont was 
 bitten in the leg by a horned viper." 
 
 "Ah !" she cried, again starting up. "And you, a doc 
 tor, sit here !" 
 
 She caught hold of him by the shoulder, and her hand 
 seemed made of iron. 
 
 "Go and save him. You have the power, haven't you ? 
 You've got something against snake-bite !" 
 
 "Whether I save him or let him die depends on you." 
 
 She gripped him more fiercely. 
 
 "Then you'll save him!" 
 
 "Do you love him ?" 
 
 She gazed at him, trying to read in his eyes what she 
 had to say for the saving of Pierpont's life. 
 
 "He's our friend. You are here as his doctor. If you 
 let him die you are a murderer." 
 
 "Do you love him, Fay ?" 
 
 She was silent, still holding his shoulder. 
 
 "He's waiting !" said Alan. 
 
 "As a friend I think I do love him." 
 
 "Do you love him as a woman loves a man? Do you 
 love him as you once thought you loved me?" 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 75 
 
 "Was that the reason why you refused for so long to 
 come on this journey?" 
 
 Gazing at him and holding him fast she made so it 
 seemed to her a supreme effort to read what was in his 
 soul. Never before had she so longed to speak the plain 
 truth to a human being. But Pierpont's life hung on 
 her action. How could she dare to speak it ? 
 
 At last she said : "Mr. Pierpont doesn't love me. I'm 
 quite sure of that, though I think he does care for me, 
 and I know he respects me. I'm fond of him as a friend. 
 I acknowledge it. But if I hated him, and he died by 
 your wilful neglect of him, when I saw him dead I should 
 hate you much more. I should hate you as I never 
 thought I could hate any human being." 
 
 Her grasp of him relaxed. In the sudden softness of 
 her hand he seemed to feel hatred. 
 
 "Now go and save him !" she said. 
 
 She took away her hand. Alan got up. 
 
 "I'll get the remedies," he said in a husky voice. 
 
 And he turned to go out to the place where their lug 
 gage was heaped beside the lying camels. As Fay 
 watched him moving she knew he would do what he said ; 
 she knew he was going to save the life of Pierpont. And 
 as that knowledge came to her there came to her with it 
 an overwhelming sense of moral degradation. Alan 
 hadn't loved her quite enough. Otherwise she would not 
 have come on the great journey. But in his way, the 
 way that was possible to him, Alan had loved her. Sud 
 denly she felt a stern necessity to rise up to the best that 
 was possible to her, and she felt also a stern necessity to 
 see Alan rise up to the best that was possible to him. 
 
 "Alan !" she called out. "Come here ! There's some 
 thing more I must say." 
 
 He came and stood in the tent door. 
 
 "Alan, I have told you a lie. I do love Horace Pier 
 pont, and he loves me. We both knew it at Beni Mora. 
 We never spoke of it there. But he did tell me about 
 the journey before he told you, and I realised he would 
 
76 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 ask you to make it not because you were a doctor, but 
 because he cared for me and wished to have me near him. 
 I was insincere with you in concealing that. I felt I 
 couldn't tell you after I had refused to go. When I 
 understood that you could go without me that night on 
 the terrace somehow my sense of chivalry, of honour 
 towards you, seemed to die in me all in a moment. 
 Women are made like that, Alan. They can't help it. If 
 it's anyone's fault it's the Creator's. So then I said I 
 would go. But Horace Pierpont and I never spoke of 
 our love for each other till the other day at Insalah. Then 
 we spoke together. He has never taken me in his arms. 
 He has never kissed me. Once I asked you how much 
 love you had to give to me. And I said that some men 
 had more to give to a woman than others had, and that 
 they were the dangerous men to women like me. I was 
 thinking of Horace Pierpont when I said that. I feel 
 he's a big man and that he loves in a big way. Now you 
 know all the truth. Go and save him now, Alan, know 
 ing it. Somehow I feel you can. You are 'a generous 
 man. I have always known that in my heart. Save him 
 and then let us part from him. We must go back to 
 Beni Mora, Alan. You will have done a great thing, 
 though it is such a simple thing to do, and, of course, 
 just your plain duty. But to be able to do it in this 
 moment will be great, I think, and I shall always love 
 you for having been able to do it." 
 
 Then she turned away from him, knelt down by her 
 little camp bed and laid her face in her hands. 
 
 At that moment she was conscious of a wonderful 
 sense of peace. A great burden seemed to have slipped 
 from her shoulders. In a moment she heard Alan's voice 
 say: 
 
 "Thank you, Fay. I'll go and look after him." 
 
 And then she was alone. 
 
 Pierpont, who had stripped to his shirt, and was lying 
 down on his bed, heard a step and looked at the tent door. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 77 
 
 The doctor came in carrying a leather case in his hand. 
 
 "How are you feeling?" he asked. 
 
 "Pretty well. There's beginning to be a faint sensa 
 tion of nausea." 
 
 "That'll increase, I expect And you may be cold 
 presently." 
 
 "Cold!" exclaimed Pierpont incredulously. 
 
 "Yes. We shall have to remain here and keep you 
 quiet for several days, in all probability. I'm going to 
 inject Calmette's anti-venomous serum, and, close to the 
 bite, permanganate of potash." 
 
 He began to open the leather case. His manner was 
 quiet His voice, to Pierpont, sounded professional. 
 Pierpont lay and watched his preparations for a moment. 
 Then he said: 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "Oh, she backed you up. Evidently I've been a fool. 
 The sirocco has got into my veins and poisoned me, body 
 and mind, for the time. I ought to apologise to you, I 
 suppose. Now then!" 
 
 "Wait!" said Pierpont 
 
 "There's no time to lose." 
 
 "No, no wait! I do love your wife. I loved her 
 at Beni Mora, but I never told her so. I never said a 
 word to her. But I loved her and I love her still. That's 
 why I asked you to come with me." 
 
 Alan stood by the bed with the needle in his hand. 
 
 "Does she love you?" he asked. 
 
 "Not a bit. She knows nothing about it But I 
 couldn't let you cure me without telling you. I thought 
 I could in the gully, but now damn it ! I can't." 
 
 "Pierpont, you're a tremendous liar. But I don't think 
 you'd lie except for a woman. She's different She's 
 she's" his mouth twitched for a moment "she's 
 given you away, Pierpont She backed you up at first. 
 But when she saw I was getting the serum she couldn't 
 keep it up. And now I've something to tell you, and 
 
78 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 then we shall be clear. I let the snake bite you. I wished 
 it to bite you. But I can't let it kill you, Pierpont." 
 
 He bent down over Pierpont and injected the serum 
 into him. 
 
 Fifteen days later, after a brief but sharp illness, Pier 
 pont si x>d in front of the officers' quarters at Insalah 
 and ws'ched a caravan start for the north. Fay Mor- 
 t : mer h, .d found the fatigues of desert travelling too great 
 for her endurance, and had been forced to abandon the 
 journey to Tombouctou. Her husband had, therefore, 
 resigned his position as doctor to the American, and was 
 on the way baa with her to Beni Mora. The almost im 
 possible had been accomplished. The caravan had been 
 broken up. Two French officers with an escort had hap 
 pened to pass Insalah on their way to Ouargla just when 
 the Mortimers and Pierpont were debating what to do. 
 And at the instance of Colonel Laperine, the command 
 ant of Insalah, they had agreed to look after the Mor 
 timers as far as Ouargla. From there it would be quite 
 easy to reach Amara and Beni Mora. Saad ben Youssef 
 remained with his master. 
 
 As the moving caravan crawled, a long darkness, over 
 the sunlit sands, Colonel Laperine, who was standing 
 beside Pierpont, remarked in French : 
 
 "That was a very charming woman." 
 
 "Mrs. Mortimer; yes, she is charming." 
 
 "Much too charming to go to Tombouctou. And yet 
 I think she was very unhappy at giving up the journey." 
 
 "D'you think so? She went off quite gaily." 
 
 "Oh, yes. She went off quite gaily." 
 
 "Well, then!" said Pierpont lightly. 
 
 "Are they happy together, those two?" asked the 
 Colonel, still following the caravan with his keen eyes. 
 
 "Surely! Don't they seem so?" 
 
 "He looks very ill, I think." 
 
 "He doesn't look well, poor chap." 
 
 "If 1 wonder whether she would break her heart?" 
 
SNAKE-BITE 79 
 
 "I think she has a great opinion of her husband,' 1 said 
 Pierpont firmly. "He's a fine fellow. The trouble he 
 took with me was quite wonderful." 
 
 "Then you certainly have cause to think well of him." 
 
 "I have, indeed." 
 
 "There's something about Madame Mortimer that in 
 trigues me very much," said the Colonel, "and the 
 devil I don't know what is. She looks to me like a 
 woman who has travelled even farther than Tombouctou. 
 She looks but speculations are useless. With a woman 
 one never knows." 
 
 "No," returned Pierpont. "With a woman one never 
 knows." 
 
 With a sigh Colonel Laperine turned away and went 
 into his quarters. 
 
 But Pierpont stood where he was till the moving dark 
 ness of the caravan faded into the golden bosom of the 
 sands. 
 
TWO : THE LOST FAITH 
 
 WHEN Lord Sandring returned from America he was 
 in high spirits. His visit had been more interesting, 
 more delightful, even than he had anticipated. He 
 had been warmly welcomed in various centres of cul 
 ture, had met many fascinating personalities, and to 
 crown his satisfaction, which, indeed, almost amounted 
 to complacency, had brought off a coup; yes, really a 
 coup. He had persuaded, induced, got he finally set 
 tled on that strong, virile little word got Olivia Traill, 
 the most remarkable woman in New York (if he knew 
 anything of women), to promise that she would cross 
 the ocean in February and pay a visit to London to 
 show them all how well-founded his theories were. 
 His peers might call him a crank, a fellow with a bee in 
 his bonnet, a victim of charlatans, even a bit of a char 
 latan himself. Pioneers, the hewers of new paths 
 through the forest of ignorance towards the clear light 
 of true understanding, were always girded at, sneered 
 at Olivia it had already come to that, merely Olivia 
 Olivia would show them! Lord Sandring went about 
 almost chuckling under his bristling brown moustache, 
 as he repeated to himself again and again that Olivia 
 would show them ! 
 
 Lord Sandring was unmarried, rich, and just at the 
 right age. He was thirty-eight; old enough to know, 
 young enough to exult The follies of youth lay be 
 hind him, the dreary regrets of old age perhaps before, 
 
 80 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 81 
 
 but far ahead in the distance. Meanwhile, there he was 
 mature, like an excellent bottle of wine. And he had 
 got Olivia to do it. He was indeed a happy man when 
 he walked into the Bureau of Psychic Healing, which he 
 had established at his own expense in a quiet street not 
 far from Piccadilly. He was going to make Harley 
 Street "sit up," by Jove, he was. The doctors laughed 
 at his pretensions, but wait till Olivia arrived ! 
 
 She came by the Yellow Star Liner, the Hiawatha, 
 and Lord Sandring and his ardent coadjutor, Miss 
 Averil Jones, met her on the quay at Liverpool. It was 
 a day such as might have been described in the Inferno, 
 but Lord Sandring was in a state of properly controlled 
 ecstasy, and Miss Jones, in a coat and skirt of heather 
 mixture, boots the shape of the foot, and a hat that 
 would have looked well on the head of a statesman of 
 sporting tendencies, beamed over her pince-nez as who 
 should say "Hallelujah!" 
 
 "Are you quite alone?" said Lord Sandring, as he 
 grasped Olivia's firm hand and looked into her steady, 
 unworldly grey eyes. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said, in a strong mezzo soprano voice. 
 
 "No maid?" 
 
 "I don't need a maid on a journey. Do you?" she 
 turned her cordial eyes on Averil Jones. 
 
 "No, of course not," said Averil. "But then, I never 
 wear anything that fastens behind!" 
 
 "Now you're treading on the verge of the mysteries," 
 laughed Lord Sandring. "Hullo!" 
 
 At this moment a tall, well-dressed young man, ap 
 parently almost a boy, with light, straight hair, a short 
 upper lip, and ardent, indeed almost fanatical, blue eyes, 
 suddenly interposed his athletic figure between Olivia 
 and her welcomers. 
 
 "I've got all your luggage together," he said to Olivia. 
 "Your porter's number is fifty-three, a short man with 
 a nose well, I mean, with an unusually large nose. 
 Shall I ?" 
 
82 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Let me introduce you to Lord Sandring," interrupted 
 Olivia. 
 
 The young man swung round with an eager, search 
 ing look. 
 
 "Lord Sandring, this is a friend of mine, Fernol West 
 Fernol, this is Miss Averil Jones." 
 
 "Glad to meet you," said the young man. "You 
 may possibly have heard of me. Not that I am famous ! 
 But she cured me. I'm just one of her marvellous cures. 
 My father is Garstin Allerton West, the financier. I 
 had a bad accident in Central Park, fell from my horse. 
 She pulled me out of hell." 
 
 Lord Sandring glowed. 
 
 "Of course I've heard of you. I was hoping to meet 
 you in New York, but you were in Chicago with your 
 father when I was there. You are one of the greatest 
 proofs of our dear friend's powers. Miss Jones, you 
 remember my telling you " 
 
 "The case is tabulated at the Bureau," said Averil. 
 She gazed at the young man with profound interest 
 "You're tabulated," she assured him. 
 
 "Sounds cosy!" he rejoined. "Seems to give me a 
 sort of niche over here, makes one feel at home. I shall 
 think of that at the Savoy to-night. I owe it to her. 
 I owe everything to her." 
 
 There was something striking in the tone of his manly 
 voice, something that suggested worship, a hidden thing 
 absorbed, living by, and in, some atmosphere, deprived 
 of which it must fail and fall away and be as nothing. 
 Lord Sandring's thin, eager face suddenly became grave, 
 intense. A piercing curiosity shone in his small, dark 
 eyes. He lowered his head and gazed at Olivia. 
 
 "I was enabled to do him good," she said simply, with 
 out the least trace of conceit or egoism. "He had faith 
 in me and that made it inevitable. Now, good-bye, Fer 
 nol. I'll remember number fifty-three, with a nose. 
 I'll write to you when I'm settled." 
 
 The young man took off his soft hat. But Lord 
 
THE LOST FAITJI 83 
 
 Sandring had a word to say to him, more than a word. 
 
 " You'll be at the Savoy!" he said. "I shall be certain 
 to find you there if I call?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. It's good of you to say " 
 
 "Good! I'm deeply interested in your case. You are 
 a living wonder, Mr. West." 
 
 "That's what my people over there say." 
 
 "You are a great proof that my theories are founded 
 on the impregnable rock of truth. Lunch with me to 
 morrow in the restaurant at half-past one, will you? 
 We must be friends." 
 
 "So you didn't come alone!" said Lord Sandring to 
 Olivia, as they went towards the customs, jostled by the 
 crowd in the gathering darkness of winter. "You 
 brought one of your 'cures' with you. A very sensible 
 thing to do. It will help us greatly with London." 
 
 "But I didn't bring Fernol," she said. "He turned 
 up on the boat. I knew nothing of his intention. But 
 I'm very glad he came over. I love him." 
 
 Miss Jones jumped in her heather mixture under the 
 statesman's hat. 
 
 "One loves those whom one has healed," said Olivia, 
 "They are witnesses to the Divine Power, and one can't 
 look at them without joy. And joy and love are twins, 
 I think." 
 
 "Oh, in that way! I quite understand!" said Miss 
 Jones, with a little air of evaporation. 
 
 "I know ! I know !" said Lord Sandring. 
 
 She took a long and very feminine survey of the Faith 
 healer, and then added : "I think you are very universal, 
 Miss Traill." 
 
 "But very personal, too," said Lord Sandring. "In 
 tensely personal." 
 
 "There's the nose!" exclaimed Olivia, "I'm certain 
 that's number fifty-three." 
 
 "How quick you are!" said Lord Sandring. "Noth 
 ing escapes you! You are really wonderful!" 
 
84 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 And he made for her porter. 
 
 Within half an hour they were all in the London ex 
 press, rushing through the darkness towards the great 
 city. 
 
 They had agreed not to talk at the request of Olivia. 
 She had said very simply that she wanted to "get ready" 
 for London. She had never yet been there. She was go 
 ing there not as the ordinary person goes on business, 
 or pleasure, or family affairs, but to bring to London her 
 great power of healing, a new force, almost a new 
 gospel. Although absolutely free from pose, Olivia took 
 herself and her powers seriously. She could not do 
 otherwise, for she believed herself to be the repository 
 of a noble force, and she had to be careful of it, to guard 
 it, to cherish it, lest it might diminish or die out alto 
 gether. So she "gathered herself together" while the 
 train ran on, while Lord Sandring read "the Hibbert 
 Journal," and Miss Averil Jones turned the pages of 
 "Country Life" and meditated on the respective beauties 
 of Tudor and Georgian homesteads. 
 
 Olivia was only just twenty-eight, but she had had 
 already a remarkable career. The daughter of a Boston 
 bookseller, she had been an unusually earnest and medi 
 tative child, though crammed full of vitality, and not 
 without the saving grace of a robust sense of. humour. 
 She had worked hard at college and had done well. But 
 her teachers, and even many of her school-mates, had 
 felt rather than noticed in her something that set her 
 apart from the typical "bright" student, who is good at 
 passing examinations and carrying off prizes. Some 
 times she had seemed to fall into walking dreams, to be 
 come abruptly remote, and at these moments there was 
 about her, as if emanating from her, an atmosphere 
 heavy, indeed almost sullen, which suggested a caged 
 power softly struggling to spread itself over large spaces. 
 Many were disturbed by this atmosphere, and asked 
 Olivia why she was so "odd" at times. She had no sat 
 isfactory answer to give them. For it was no satisfac- 
 
THE LOST FAITJH 85 
 
 tory answer to tell them that she felt "odd" in these mo 
 ments. She herself did not know why she was seized 
 with a strange sensation as if someone were thwarting 
 her, as if she possessed something some power which 
 she ought to give out, to exercise, but which she was 
 obliged to keep shut up within herself, useless, till it lay 
 like a burden upon both her body and soul. Sometimes, 
 giving herself up to introspection, she asked herself what 
 this power was. But she could not identify it. She did 
 not feel that she was superior to her college mates in 
 intellect. She had fairly good brains, but there were 
 many others who had brains as good as hers, or much 
 better. Her imagination was not remarkable. She was 
 not conscious of possessing the peculiar gifts of one des 
 tined to be creative. Nevertheless, she often felt that she 
 possessed some hidden force which set her apart from 
 all those about her, and at times it seemed almost to rend 
 her. Then she became melancholy, brooding, perhaps 
 sullen, and was beset by a numbing misery half spiritual, 
 half physical. This continued till she was seventeen. 
 
 Then enlightenment came. 
 
 A young and pretty girl who was afflicted with St. 
 Vitus's dance arrived at the school. At times she was 
 like the other girls, but in moments of excitement, or 
 if she were startled by any unexpected happening, she 
 would twitch, jump, turn her poor head awry, jerk her 
 hands and arms, almost rattle in the throes of her piteous 
 complaint. Some of the girls laughed at her till they 
 were rebuked by the mistresses; others were afraid of 
 her. Nearly all the pupils wondered at and finally pitied 
 her. And the poor child pitied herself, and was deeply 
 ashamed of the exhibitions she gave. 
 
 Olivia, who had a great deal of stillness and calm, 
 despite her abounding vitality, had never before wit 
 nessed such a nervous complaint, and at first she looked 
 on it with an amazement which she tried to conceal. Her 
 amazement was succeeded by a shrinking of disgust for 
 which she blamed herself severely. But her blame of 
 
86 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 herself did not drive the disgust away until the appointed 
 time. 
 
 One day when Olivia had fallen into one of her 
 "moods," as her college mates called her peculiar fits of 
 depression and uneasiness, Lily happened to be in the 
 room with her reading. Lily was deeply interested in 
 her book, and was sitting quite still, immersed, self for 
 getful and happy. Olivia was brooding in a corner. A 
 dog outside gave vent to a piercing and prolonged howl. 
 
 Instantly Lily fell into a sort of convulsion. The 
 hand which was holding the book shot up from her lap, 
 hurling the book into the air. Her head jerked fran 
 tically. Her whole body was in violent movement. Even 
 her teeth snapped. Olivia sat watching for a moment. 
 Then, as if ordered, she got up, came over to the child, 
 stood in front of her, gazed steadily at her, and said in 
 a firm, rather loud voice : 
 
 "Lily, you need not do that." 
 
 "I can't help it!" gasped the child 
 
 Olivia stretched out her hands. 
 
 "Yes, you can. Take hold of me." 
 
 The child mechanically snatched at Olivia's hands and 
 clutched them. 
 
 "That's right. Now believe that I can stop you from 
 shaking like that and I shall be able to stop you." 
 
 There was authority in her voice, authority in her 
 whole bearing, and in her steady and shining eyes. Lily 
 looked at her, and was quieter. 
 
 "Now lift your hands with mine and press them 
 against your forehead." 
 
 Lily did so, and in a few minutes was perfectly calm. 
 
 "I can cure you of your trouble," said Olivia. 
 
 "But the doctors can't." 
 
 "That's no matter. Just tell me do you believe that 
 I can cure you?" 
 
 After a pause, and a long look, the child replied sim 
 ply: 
 
 "Yes." 
 
THE LOST FAITH 87 
 
 That was the beginning of Olivia's career. She had 
 discovered what the power was which she had long 
 suspected she possessed, which she had long sought for. 
 She was a natural "healer." 
 
 An extraordinary feeling of relief, of emancipation, 
 came to her. She seemed to float into peace. Strength 
 thrilled in her, tingled all through her. A great oppres 
 sion was removed. The burden dropped from her the 
 burden of ignorance. She had not known what she was, 
 now she knew. And she was wonderfully happy, and 
 worshipped. She worshipped what was within her, and 
 Him who had put it there. But she did not worship her 
 self. For, even in that first moment of illumination, she 
 regarded herself as a vessel into which something 
 precious had been poured, and she was humble in spirit. 
 
 She was humble, but she was exalted with faith. Faith 
 made her feel strong like a lion and prodigiously inde 
 pendent, as if the world belonged to her, was suddenly 
 enclosed in her hand. 
 
 So Olivia began her career, a career which was to 
 bring her into extraordinary prominence, even into fame. 
 
 She cured Lily of St Vitus's dance not immediately, 
 but within a few months. The nervous excesses became 
 less violent; less prolonged; the intervals between them 
 widened; finally they yielded instantaneously to treat 
 ment by Olivia, and at last ceased altogether. 
 
 Lily's parents were enraptured, and Lily herself re 
 garded Olivia as a giver of life. The cure, having been 
 made in a big school, was carried abroad by many tongues 
 of mistresses and pupils. 
 
 Olivia was soon on the way. 
 
 At first her parents were inclined to oe alarmed by 
 the new and startling development in the family circle, 
 but they quickly "came round" when they realised 
 Olivia's quiet determination, and noticed the respect in 
 which she began to be held by many of their neighbours. 
 Mr. Traill had an important and prosperous bookseller's 
 business, and as his daughter's fame spread abroad he 
 
88 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 found that it did him no harm. Certainly the doctors 
 showed a strongly antagonistic spirit, and were con 
 temptuous of his daughter's cure, but, on the other 
 hand, the newspaper men took her up. She was written 
 about, interviewed. People thronged to his store to 
 inquire about her, and often bought books when their 
 curiosity was partially satisfied. Olivia's peculiar gift, 
 if gift it were, certainly made things hum in the store. 
 And then Olivia herself was greatly improved since that 
 first strange episode with Lily. A sunny cheerfulness 
 radiated from her. Her vitality of mind and her vigour 
 of body were strengthened. It was impossible not to 
 feel the power which emanated from her, difficult not to 
 believe that it was wholly beneficent. 
 
 Her parents would never submit themselves to Olivia 
 when they were unwell, which happened now and then. 
 They stuck to the family doctor, who, by the way, was 
 a good customer to the store. But they soon began to 
 be rather proud of her "cures" in the town, and ac 
 knowledged that there was "something in it all." 
 America is the home of strange "cults." By degrees a 
 sort of "cult" for Olivia grew up. She took it all very 
 quietly and reasonably. Her head was never in any 
 danger of being turned by the noise made about her. She 
 was full of robust common sense, and never encouraged 
 folly in others. But side by side with the strain of com 
 mon sense in her there was another strain. When she 
 had discovered her power of healing she had discovered 
 the source from which it flowed. That source was faith. 
 When she stood before her convulsed school-mate she 
 had felt that she was resting on a rock, the rock of a 
 great faith ; faith in her power to heal, faith in Him who 
 had given it to her. At that moment she had realised 
 a mighty truth, that faith can move the mountains. 
 And she knew that she had moved her first mountain on 
 the day when Lily was cured. 
 
 From that day onward she strove to live by faith. She 
 boldly called herself a faith healer, and declared that 
 
THE LOST FAITJI 89 
 
 though no doubt she possessed some peculiar physical 
 gift, without faith she would be powerless to employ it 
 beneficially. 
 
 She spoke quite frankly to those who cared to listen 
 about the necessity of this strange and mysterious aid, 
 and demanded co-operation from those who consulted 
 her. 
 
 "I don't believe I can bring about a complete cure of 
 any malady if I fail to convey my own faith in myself 
 to the patient," she said. "I need reciprocal faith." 
 
 And often she would say to the sick : 
 
 "I believe that I can cure you, and you must believe 
 it too. Then we shall work together, and all must go 
 well." 
 
 Very seldom she failed to pour faith into those who 
 came to her. The mere sight of her often swept away 
 scepticism. 
 
 Olivia was not beautiful. She was fairly tall, with a 
 rather large frame and robust shoulders. Her features 
 were blunt and rough hewn, lacking in fineness and deli 
 cacy, but powerful and indicative of will. Her brow was 
 broad and intellectual, and her grey eyes were large 
 and lustrous. She had splendid brown hair, full of life 
 and warm colour, which she wore parted in the middle 
 and gathered into a big roll behind. Her whole appear 
 ance suggested honesty, fixity of purpose, energy and 
 kindliness. There was never a trace of self -consciousness 
 in her look or manner. Her bearing was fearless and 
 simple. She always dressed plainly, with extraordinary 
 neatness, and never wore anything that was eccentric or 
 likely to draw attention to her. Most people were in 
 stinctively attracted to her at first sight. There were 
 some who declared that she possessed hypnotic powers 
 and used them without acknowledging them. 
 
 Her fame gradually spread from her native city to 
 distant parts of America. She was discussed, written 
 about, praised and abused. The Christian Scientists soon 
 heard of her, and tried hard to persuade her to declare 
 
90 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 herself one of their body. But she told them plainly 
 that she found grave errors in their teaching. She 
 thought the denial of disease either insincere or ridicu 
 lous. She considered that to tell people that disease 
 exists only in mortal mind was to tell them a flat lie. 
 She held that disease does exist, that it ravages the tis 
 sues of the body, that it causes often agonies of pain, 
 that it may devour the organs by which men live, and 
 bring about the cessation of life, but that it may be ar 
 rested and finally expelled by the mysterious curative in 
 fluence of another body helped by the mind and soul 
 within it. 
 
 "I have such a body," she would boldly declare, "and 
 by it, using it as a vehicle, I convey the healing force 
 which is mysteriously connected with the soul." She 
 never tried to cure people without touching them. "I 
 don't believe I could do it," she said. "I have no faith in 
 what the Christian Scientists call 'absent treatment.' Per 
 haps I am wrong in my scepticism. I can't help that. 
 My beliefs and my disbeliefs are given to me, I suppose, 
 like my hands and feet. I find myself unable to change 
 them. I think it honest to acknowledge them. Christ 
 used the body in healing, and I cannot do less than He 
 did." 
 
 She firmly believed, and always upheld, that all the 
 so-called miracles .of Christ were performed within the 
 natural Law, were not arbitrary violations of it. (Per 
 haps she forgot the raising of Lazarus. ) 
 
 The incident which made Olivia famous throughout 
 the whole of the States was her cure of Fernol West. 
 
 Fernol West was the only child of one of the greatest 
 financiers in America, and was adored by both his 
 parents. He was a particularly strong, healthy and joy 
 ous boy, very athletic and devoted to sports and games, 
 crammed full of life and hope and promise. When he 
 was eighteen he was the victim of a terrible accident. 
 While out riding in Central Park his horse, a very diffi- 
 
THE LOST FAITH 91 
 
 cult one, bolted and dashed the rider against a tree. 
 He was picked up senseless, and remained unconscious 
 for three days. Then he opened his eyes, moved, spoke, 
 took nourishment readily. His delighted parents thought 
 that all danger was over. There was a wound in the 
 head, but it gradually healed. No limbs were broken. 
 The boy was soon able to sit up, to walk. He remem 
 bered his accident clearly. He knew what was going on 
 around him. The doctors, the most famous in New 
 York, said that he would soon be all right. He had had 
 a tremendous shock, but boys as strong as he was got over 
 such things, got over almost anything. 
 
 "It will be all right with him soon." 
 
 That was the verdict. And presently there was the 
 rider "He is all right." 
 
 But time passed and it wasn't all right with Fernol. 
 
 His accident had left him mysteriously and horribly 
 changed. 
 
 He regained all the former strength of his body, but 
 he had lost all his zest for life. He was haunted day 
 and night by the black dog of an intense nervous misery. 
 He tried to take up his old occupations, to study, to play 
 games, to ride and shoot His old companions sought 
 him out. His devoted parents did everything they could 
 think of to make existence bright and cheery for him. 
 Love surrounded him. Money was lavished upon him. 
 But it was all in vain. He got up in the morning dread 
 ing the day that lay before him. He went to bed at night 
 secretly fearing the dark hours. Nobody was able to 
 be of any real good to him. No amusements really dis 
 tracted him. Formerly he had been devoted to music. 
 Now the sound of music deepened, put an edge to his 
 wretchedness, drove him lower down in his nightmare. 
 Sometimes, carried by his malady beyond the restrain 
 ing sense of shame, he would put his head down on his 
 mother's knees and cry till he was exhausted. As he 
 said himself, he felt "damned." It was inconceivable 
 by him that he had once enjoyed almost every moment 
 
92 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 of life, had enjoyed getting up, bathing, eating, study 
 ing, talking, playing games, shooting, dancing, reading 
 a book over the fire, meeting other fellows and knocking 
 about with them, sitting in a corner with a pretty girl. 
 He moved as one encompassed by a hideous black cloud 
 dreading everything, above all dreading himself. 
 
 Nerve doctors were called in to him. They said he 
 was the victim of acute neurasthenia, no doubt brought 
 on by his accident. They prescribed all sorts of things: 
 massage, physical exercises, tonics, sleeping in the open 
 air, rest cures, moving about, hypnotism, cold douches, 
 travel, hard mental work, no work at all, gaieties, com 
 plete solitude. Their followed advice did Fernol no 
 good. Even the hypnotists failed entirely with him. He 
 was not mad; he was just profoundly and unalterably 
 miserable. The brain specialists said that there must be 
 some obscure pressure on the brain. An operation was 
 suggested, but as the surgeons evidently did not know 
 exactly what they would operate for, Fernol's parents 
 would not allow it. 
 
 The boy began to be haunted by a longing for suicide. 
 But as he was sane he fought against it. Nevertheless 
 he wished with all his might that he could die painlessly 
 and have done with his misery, which was almost un 
 bearable. 
 
 At last his parents tried a Christian Science healer, 
 who treated their son for a long period with absolutely 
 no result. This had seemed to them the last chance for 
 Fernol. Its failure left them and him in despair. The 
 boy said to his mother : 
 
 "Mum, I shan't be able to stick it out very much 
 longer. You don't know what it is. Nobody who hasn't 
 had this sort of thing can know what it is. I tell you 
 it's like going about and knowing you are damned for 
 all eternity. I'm sane, though you mightn't think it. 
 I swear I'm sane. But I can't stick it out much longer. 
 When I hear anyone laugh or see a happy face it just 
 
THE LOST FAITff 93 
 
 He broke off, and again had one of his dreadful fits 
 of weeping. 
 
 That night the mother said to his father : 
 
 "Garstin, what are we to do?" 
 
 "There's nothing more we can do/' said her husband. 
 
 "But if Fernol should " 
 
 She did not dare to finish the sentence. They looked 
 into each other's faces for an instant in silence. 
 
 Then Mrs. West said : 
 
 "There's only one more thing I can think of that 
 woman in Boston." 
 
 "What woman?" 
 
 "Olivia Traill." 
 
 "Another doctor ! But " 
 
 "No; she's a healer." 
 
 "That's what the doctors call themselves," said Mr. 
 West bitterly. 
 
 "She lays her hands on people." 
 
 "Much good that'll do! No; we've tried everything. 
 The boy'll never be right again." 
 
 "Let us try that Miss Traill," said Mrs. West. "It 
 will be useless, of course, but she has made wonderful 
 cures, they say." 
 
 "Who say?" 
 
 "Weil, the newspapers." 
 
 "The papers ! Good God if that's all !" 
 
 "I can't help it. I shall take Fernol to Boston." 
 
 "But we've tried the Christian Scientists." 
 
 "She isn't one. She doesn't believe in their theories." 
 
 "Then what does she believe in?" 
 
 "Herself, I suppose. She contends that it's done part 
 ly by faith." 
 
 "Money-making humbug." 
 
 "Do you mean that you would grudge any money 
 
 
 "No, no! Take Fernol to Boston, my dear, if you can 
 get him to go." 
 
94 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "I think he would try anything, poor child. It's 
 it's heartrending, and one feels so impotent." 
 
 "One feels what one is," said Mr. West drearily. 
 
 At first Fernol refused to go to Boston. 
 
 "It's no good, Mum," he said. "It's no good. I 
 thought that hypnotist fellow might put me right I be 
 lieved in him. Even after sixteen goes of it I still hoped. 
 But " 
 
 "Come, for my sake." 
 
 "No, Mum ! Don't ask me any more. Faith healing ! 
 And I've no more faith in any damned thing! Don't 
 drag me to Boston." 
 
 "Goby yourself then!" 
 
 "No, Mum. Don't ask me." 
 
 She gave it up. But, to her great surprise, after a 
 few days, Fernol said to her desperately: 
 
 "I am going to Boston. I can't stand another week of 
 this. What's that woman's name?" 
 
 "Olivia Traill." 
 
 "Where does she live?" 
 
 "I don't know. But her father's a well-known book 
 seller. Ask for " 
 
 "I'll find her." 
 
 There was an almost frantic look on his grey face; a 
 frantic light shone in his sunken blue eyes. 
 
 "She'll be no earthly good, but I'll find her." . . . 
 
 Afterwards Fernol often told the story of that visit to 
 Boston, told it as a man might tell how out of darkness 
 he was caught up into Heaven. 
 
 He sought out the bookseller's store, and went in 
 among the stacks of books and asked for the address of 
 the bookseller's daughter. 
 
 A clerk looked at him curiously and gave it. 
 
 "When does she see people?" asked Fernol. 
 
 "Any time, I believe," said the clerk. "If she's in." 
 
 "I'll go now." 
 
 And he was out of the store in an instant. Not 
 many minutes later he stood at the door of a modest 
 
THE LOST FAITJI 95 
 
 apartment on the western outskirts of the city. A maid 
 servant answered his ring. He asked for Miss Traill. 
 
 "She's out at a meeting/' was the reply. 
 
 Fernol felt a sickness run all over him till it seemed to 
 find its way to his soul and make its home there. 
 
 "When will she be back?" he said. 
 
 "I couldn't quite say." 
 
 "May I wait? Please let me wait I don't care how 
 long she is. I'll just sit till she comes." 
 
 "You need her, I can see," said the girl. "You can 
 come right in. She'd wish it." 
 
 "Would she?" said Fernol. 
 
 "She'd wish it." 
 
 He often said afterwards that something in those last 
 words of the girl, and in the way they were said, gave 
 him "a sort of lift." 
 
 "She'd wish it." 
 
 He stepped in, put his hat down, and was shown into 
 a plain little living room, without any pictures or orna 
 ments. On the wall hung a scroll showing the words: 
 "Thy Faith hath saved thee" A few books were lying 
 about. They were all by the great optimists of the 
 world: Emerson, Browning, etc. Fernol sat down in 
 a small, but very comfortable easy chair, rested his 
 head on the back and looked at the scroll. Presently he 
 shut his eyes. He didn't feel sleepy, but he did feel in 
 clined to be passive. As he sat there life somehow seemed 
 just bearable. For many months, though he had borne 
 it, it had seemed unbearable. He laid his hands on his 
 knees and let his muscles relax. 
 
 "There seemed to be something in the room," he af 
 terwards said, "that quieted a fellow down." 
 
 He sat like this for over an hour without taking count 
 of time. Then he heard steps in the passage, the open 
 ing and shutting of a door and a voice speaking. It 
 said: 
 
 'Tm rather late, Annie. Has anyone called for me ?" 
 
96 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Another voice the girl's answered in a long and 
 careful murmur. Then the first voice said : 
 
 "That's quite right Never turn anyone away who 
 seems really to need me. I'm here for that. Just take 
 my hat and cloak and I'll go right in to him." 
 
 Fernol sat up. His misery was still upon him, that 
 almost unbearable misery, at the same time vague and 
 terrific. But he felt a sense of expectation which was 
 new to him since his accident. Then the door opened 
 and Olivia came into the room. He got up. She looked 
 straight at him with a smile, held out her strong hand 
 cordially, and said: 
 
 "Good evening. I'm sorry I've kept you waiting. 
 I've been out to a lecture. What's your trouble ?" 
 
 "Don't you don't you want to know mv name?" 
 Fernol stammered. 
 
 "If you'd like me to know it." 
 
 "Fernol West." 
 
 Olivia sat down very near to him. 
 
 "Thank you. Now sit right down and I'll try to help 
 you." 
 
 He obeyed. 
 
 "I've come from New York. My mother heard of 
 you. She wished I thought I would come." 
 
 "I'm glad. You're all wrong. I can see that. You're 
 just choke full of what Metchnikoff calls 'disharmonies.' 
 You know what I mean by that, don't you? You keep 
 striking discords inside, and they make life hideous to 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, that's just it. Life is hideous. How did you 
 know?" 
 
 "Your face shows it. You want to get back to the 
 harmonies.". 
 
 "I do, oh, I do! It seems so unmanly but I can't 
 help it." 
 
 "Of course you can't. It isn't your fault. How did 
 it begin?" 
 
 He told her the story of his accident and of his ap- 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 97 
 
 parent recovery from it. Olivia listened with concen 
 trated attention without interrupting him by a word. 
 
 "The doctors said I was all right," he concluded at 
 last. "Until I had to go to the nerve men." 
 
 "And what did they say and do?" 
 
 "Well, some of them said I was all right, too, if I 
 would only use my will and look on the bright side of 
 things." 
 
 "In your condition that's easier said than done. Tell 
 me everything they tried on you. Don't miss anything." 
 
 He told her about everything, including the suggest 
 ed operation, the efforts of the hypnotists, and of the 
 Christian Scientist. 
 
 "He told me there was no such thing as disease, that 
 my trouble only existed in mortal mind." 
 
 "I sometimes wish it was so," said Olivia. "But, you 
 see, the trouble is that it isn't." 
 
 "Then you think I am really ill?" 
 
 "You're very bad," said Olivia. "You're right down 
 in Hell, and you've got to be pulled out. I know how 
 you feel." 
 
 "Yes?" he said. "I I thought I would come to 
 you." 
 
 "Very well. Now, then, the first thing is to get quite 
 clear between ourselves. I'm not a doctor, I'm a healer." 
 
 She spoke without the least trace of irony. 
 
 "I can heal," she said, quietly in her full voice. "I 
 can heal you. That's as sure as that we're sitting 
 here. But you've got to help me. Let's have a little 
 talk about faith. Goethe says some fine things about 
 Faith." 
 
 She paused, seemed quietly to collect herself, and then, 
 leaning forward, quoted : 
 
 "In Faith everything depends on the fact of believing. 
 Faith is a profound sense of security. The strength of 
 this confidence is the main thing. Faith is a holy ves 
 sel, into which every man may pour his feelings, his 
 
98 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 understanding, and his imagination, as entirely as he 
 
 can." 
 
 Again she paused. 
 
 "That's what Goethe says about Faith. And someone 
 greater than Goethe said, 'If thou canst believe, all 
 things are possible to him that believeth.' " 
 
 "Yes I remember that," said Fernol. 
 
 "And I daresay it seemed to you just an improbable 
 assertion, as it does to a great many people. Now, when 
 you set out for Boston, had you any hope at all that 
 I might cure you?" 
 
 "I don't think I had," said Fernol. 
 
 "Well, you took a ticket all the same. And when 
 you got right here where I live ?" 
 
 "I don't think I had any real hope." 
 
 "And when you sat in this room?" 
 
 "I I seemed to feel something in this room." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I could hardly say. I felt quiet here, in a way." 
 
 "Did you hear me outside?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I meant you to. Get anything from my voice?" 
 
 "I I don't know. But yes perhaps I did. I do 
 believe I did." 
 
 "And then I came in, and here I am. D'you get any 
 thing from me?" 
 
 Her large grey eyes were fixed upon him, but tran 
 quilly. There was no effort in their gaze. They just 
 rested upon him, like the eyes of a good friend. 
 
 "Yes, I do," Fernol said at last, after a long si 
 lence. 
 
 "What do you get?" 
 
 "I feel more of a man with you than I have felt since 
 I had the accident." 
 
 "You'd given up all hope of being cured, hadn't you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And what do you say now?" 
 
THE LOST FAITJH 99 
 
 "I feel that if anyone on earth could put me right it 
 would be you." 
 
 She smiled, almost tenderly and quite happily. 
 
 "That's just what I want you to feel. You're com 
 ing my way. And I'm just all faith; I haven't a doubt 
 in me about my power to put you right. But I've got to 
 fill you right up with faith too. Reach out your hands." 
 
 Fernol obeyed, and Olivia took hold of them, and 
 kept them in hers resting on her knees while she went 
 on talking about faith, and quoting what great men had 
 written and said about it. She filled the little room with 
 faith, till it almost seemed to the boy that he could see 
 faith hovering there about the two of them like some 
 thing tangible. Then at last she was silent and just sat 
 holding his hands. Perhaps ten minutes went by; then 
 she released his hands. 
 
 "You're better," she said. 
 
 Fernol started. Suddenly, when she spoke, he real 
 ised that for ten minutes he had been feeling contented 
 interested for the first time since his accident. That 
 was very wonderful. 
 
 "You you want me to go now?" he said. 
 
 He did not want to go; he dreaded to leave that room. 
 
 "I don't want you to go at all," said Olivia; "but 
 I've got to get some tea, and then I have one or two 
 others to see." 
 
 Fernol got up. 
 
 "Shall I see you again?" he asked. 
 
 A horrible anxiety pulled at his heart. 
 
 "Why, of course! I may have to see you a good few 
 times. I can't tell yet how long it will take. But it's 
 going to be quite all right. Where are you putting up?" 
 
 He told her the name of his hotel. 
 
 "Go there and keep quiet. Don't see a lot of people. 
 
 Keep yourself for me. Read " she went over to a 
 
 table and selected a book "Read some Walt Whitman. 
 I love old Walt. And come here again to-morrow at the 
 same hour. I feel very happy about you." 
 
100 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Her strong Jace lighted up with a splendid smile. 
 
 "There's a lot of faith in you already. But I want it 
 to fill you right up. Faith makes men, and women too." 
 
 Fernol stood for a moment gazing at her. Then, with 
 a slight awkwardness and with a flush on his face, he 
 said : 
 
 "May I will you please tell me what the fee is?" 
 
 "Oh, I never charge anything. See here, this is how 
 it is. My father's a bookseller " 
 
 "I know. I went to his store to get your address." 
 
 "Well, he's a good father to me. He knows how I 
 feel, that to sell what comes out of the spirit into the 
 body and goes out to those who need it badly wouldn't 
 help me any in what I am trying to do. I never could 
 hold with that, somehow. It would seem to get in the 
 way. So he just keeps me going like this. It's good of 
 him, but he's a good man though he runs a prosperous 
 business. There's nothing to pay. And now before you 
 go, just lay hold of this. You're not cured yet. So don't 
 think it Maybe before you get back to where you're 
 staying, you'll feel almost as bad as ever, perhaps quite 
 as bad If you do, just say to yourself: 'But I was 
 well for ten minutes. And to-morrow I shall be well 
 for half an hour.' I tell you that. Do you believe it ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Fernol. 
 
 "That means you're on the way to be perfectly well. 
 You've got your two feet on the path that's to lead you 
 right into the blessed sunshiny. I do feel happy about 
 you. Come again to-morrow at the same hour, and 
 write to your mother to-night that you're better. I guess 
 that will ease her mind." 
 
 "Thank you," he said. "She will be glad; my father, 
 too. But you give me all this and I " 
 
 "I like giving out. That's how I get in strength." 
 
 "That's funny." 
 
 "You'll try it some day and find it answers." 
 
 And she went with him to the door. As she opened it 
 she said : 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 101 
 
 "Don't forget that letter to your mother." 
 
 "No, I won't." 
 
 "And if you feel very bad to-night, you'll write it just 
 the same ? You'll tell her you're better ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you'll mean it, won't you? Then just put a 
 good thick line under the words. Score them under. 
 What time will you write?" 
 
 "Any time." 
 
 "No, that won't do. Tell me the time." 
 
 "Just before I go to bed ten o'clock." 
 
 "At ten o'clock I'll sit and think of you scoring a line 
 under 'I'm better.' ' 
 
 She shook his hand and let him out. . . . 
 
 Just before ten o'clock that same night Fernol sat in 
 his room in the hotel and felt terribly miserable. The 
 influence of Olivia Traill seemed to him to be operative 
 only for so long as he was with her, to be limited to her 
 close neighbourhood. It was great. He knew that. He 
 had felt it like something one can grasp and lean on. 
 But when her door had shut her out from him, when he 
 was alone, could no longer see her steady eyes and hear 
 her reliant voice, he had fallen again into the blackness. 
 And awful doubts had assailed him. If she could only 
 act upon him when he sat with her, felt the clasp of her 
 hands, he could never be healed by her. For he could 
 not live always in her presence. Was she like a doctor 
 whose treatment was only efficacious while he was sitting 
 by the patient's bedside? Fernol was almost terrified. 
 For he had mounted, and now felt like one fallen from 
 a height and lying bruised and bleeding in some hideous 
 ravine. Nevertheless, as the hour of ten drew near he 
 remembered his promise, went to the writing-table and 
 sat down. He did not like to break his promise. That 
 would be dishonourable. And yet how could he write to 
 his mother a lie ? It would make her happy, fill her with 
 hope, and then, when she saw him again, her old distress 
 would return upon her intensified. Had he the right thus 
 
102 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 to deceive her, to lay up for her such a burden of grief? 
 
 Yet he took paper and pen. He began to write. The 
 clock struck ten. He thought of Olivia. He knew she 
 was doing what she had said she would do. She was 
 sitting in her little room thinking of him. She would 
 take nothing from him. She was a splendid woman any 
 how. A sense of pure chivalry came to the boy, guided 
 his pen in the words : "I am better." Then he hesitated. 
 Could he score a line under them? "Yes, damn it, I 
 will!" he said to himself with a sort of defiance. And 
 he drew a thick line. As he did so the cloud lifted from 
 him for just a moment, and he thought Olivia was smil 
 ing in her room. . . . 
 
 Three weeks later he wrote to his mother : 
 
 "I am cured. Olivia Traill is the greatest woman I 
 have ever met. I am happy. I enjoy everything I do. 
 And it is all owing to her." 
 
 He returned to New York a changed being. His 
 parents saw once more the gay energetic youth, full of 
 the zest for life, whom they had rejoiced in and mourned 
 almost as we mourn for the dead. They could not con 
 tain their delight. Their gratitude to the woman who 
 had wrought the marvel was unbounded. Her abso 
 lute disinterestedness in the matter astonished them al 
 most as much as her extraordinary powers. Mr, West, 
 especially, who was one of the shrewdest and hardest 
 men of business in the States, found it almost impossible 
 to believe that Olivia wanted no reward for all the time 
 she had given up to his son. 
 
 "But no one does anything for nothing!" he said. 
 "You must have made a mistake, boy. She'll send in 
 the bill to me." 
 
 "I tell you, Father, she never takes money for her 
 cures." 
 
 "Then she must take something else." 
 
 "She doesn't!" asserted Fernol, almost indignantly. 
 "She works for the sake of humanity. There's no other 
 
THE LOST FAITJH 103 
 
 woman like her. If you could only see her you'd under 
 stand." 
 
 "Does she know who I am?" said Mr. West. 
 
 "Of course she does." 
 
 "Then she's certainly a right down extraordinary 
 woman." 
 
 When he was alone with his wife Mr. West said: 
 
 "I feel like going over to Boston to see this Miss 
 Traill. I can't quite understand things." 
 
 "How d'you mean, dear?" asked his wife. 
 
 "Doesn't it strike you that Fernol may be in love 
 with her?" 
 
 "I had thought of that," Mrs. West said, reflectively. 
 
 "Fernol will have big money some day." 
 
 He glanced at his wife. 
 
 "She might be playing for the big monev, eh?" 
 
 "If she were I'd forgive her. I'd forgive her any 
 thing for what she has done." 
 
 "Well, Kate, I think I'll just run over to Boston and 
 have a look at her. I can judge women as well as most 
 men, I guess. That's why I married you." 
 
 Mrs. West found it difficult to combat this proof of 
 her husband's astuteness. Moreover, she was intensely 
 anxious about the Faith healer. So she encouraged him 
 to go. He returned from Boston almost as enthusiastic 
 as his son. 
 
 "The boy's right!" he said. "There's no other woman 
 like Olivia Traill. And she's no more designs on Fernol 
 than I have on the Presidency. What's more she won't 
 take a cent. She's a grand woman. I only hope Fernol 
 isn't in love with her. For she'd never look at the boy. 
 I'm certain of that as I am that I shall carry through 
 the amalgamation of Chicago Automatics with but you 
 take no stock in such facts, though you don't mind play 
 ing with the interest. A woman like Olivia Traill 
 wouldn't fall in love easily, and if she ever did she'd 
 choose a man among men. She's strong, she's bully 
 strong, she'd look for strength." 
 
104 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "But our boy is strong, Garstin!" said Mrs. West, 
 with a slight sound of huffiness in her gentle voice. 
 
 "Not in the way such a woman would want. Be 
 sides, she's seen him very sick, remember." 
 
 "And what has that to do with it?" 
 
 "You'd jump to it if you knew her. Watch it, Kate, 
 for the boy." 
 
 And Mrs. West watched it, with that gentle, terrible 
 cleverness of the adoring mother, and came to a not 
 too unhappy conclusion. 
 
 Fernol adored Olivia Traill, but not in the way of a 
 hopeful or even a longing lover. He looked up to her 
 as a lover never quite looks up. There was a peculiar 
 moral admiration in his worship which somehow ex 
 cluded the possibility of physical passion. Mrs. West 
 soon found that out, and was perfectly at ease in the 
 matter. 
 
 "Fernol could no more imagine Miss Traill belonging 
 to him than I could imagine belonging to Mercury," she 
 said. "He sees her with wings, Garstin." 
 
 "So you've figured it out that I haven't got any wings." 
 
 She stroked his hand. 
 
 "I should never have fallen in love with Mercury. We 
 needn't worry." 
 
 And they didn't. But they made a tremendous propa 
 ganda for Olivia. And the papers were full of her mar 
 vellous cure of the millionaire's son. Fernol had no sort 
 of shyness in alluding to his former condition of misery 
 and contrasting it with the glory and wonder of his now 
 abounding health. He tried to pay part of his great debt 
 to Olivia by singing her praises. He interested himself 
 in the progress of her fame. He was furious with those 
 who attacked her, resented all criticism of her almost 
 fanatically. There was indeed a hint of fanaticism in 
 him since his return to health which had been absent 
 from, or at any rate had lain dormant in, him before 
 his accident. This marked a slight, but definite, change 
 in the boy. But few people noticed it as anything strange. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 105 
 
 And his father and mother thought it quite natural, and 
 even fine, a proof that their boy had in him chivalrous 
 feeling and an almost fierce sense of gratitude. Fernol's 
 great desire was to persuade Olivia to come to New 
 York, and, at last, with the help of his parents, he 
 achieved it 
 
 She stayed with them for a week in Fifth Avenue. 
 
 From the first moment of her arrival she conquered 
 Fernol's mother. And she conquered many others in 
 New York. She wished to have a quiet visit and the 
 Wests wished her to have it, but it was impossible to 
 keep everyone out. There were many who were anxious 
 for her to try their healing powers on them, and who 
 clamoured to be received by her. She was firm in re 
 fusal of these, however, and saw only the Wests' most 
 intimate friends. She had come to have a little holiday 
 because she needed it. She knew when rest was neces 
 sary for her, and she was resolved to have it. So she 
 went about with Fernol and his mother to see beautiful 
 things, pictures, statues, antiquities, and she let them 
 take her to hear fine music. 
 
 "I'll come here again some day to work," she said. 
 "There's a new field for me here, and I feel like tilling it 
 and putting in some seed. But not just now." 
 
 It was when they were at a concert one afternoon that 
 Fernol realised, with a sort of almost cutting sharpness, 
 what Olivia had done for him. Music, once his delight, 
 had been a torture to him when he was ill. Now, once 
 more, it led him into those pure regions of joy to which 
 no other art gives the soul of man entrance. 
 
 "When I hear music I know what you have done for 
 me," he whispered to Olivia, during a pause. "And mu 
 sic makes me almost ache to do something tremendous 
 for you. Why can't I? It hurts." 
 
 "You do all I want by being healthy in body and mind 
 and soul," she said. "By being clean and bright right 
 through." 
 
106 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 After the concert he returned to this "ache," as he 
 called it 
 
 "That's the worst of music," he said. "It makes one 
 feel one ought to do wonderful things, that one might 
 do them if something. But what is the 'something'? 
 Music never seems to tell me." 
 
 "Perhaps some day you'll find some wonderful thing 
 to do lying close to your hand, Fernol," said Olivia. 
 "And then you'll do it, without music. I believe in doing 
 things without anything from outside helping. All that 
 is necessary to prompt us to the finest actions we are 
 capable of lies in ourselves. I'm certain of that." 
 
 "You must be right. You always are," he said. "I 
 hope if I ever can do anything wonderful I shall do it 
 for you." 
 
 Olivia carried out her intention of putting in some seed 
 in New York later on. She left Boston, rented a modest 
 apartment which the Wests found for her in a quiet street 
 not far from them, and settled down there to carry 
 on her strange profession. She still refused to take fees, 
 and continued to live on the very moderate allowance 
 she received from her father. And people of all classes 
 thronged to the little room where she saw patients, and 
 read, as they came in at the door, the words Fernol had 
 seen on the scroll at Boston, "Thy faith hath saved 
 thee." 
 
 It was there that Lord Sandring found her when she 
 had been in New York for over three years. 
 
 II 
 
 Lord Sandring was an enthusiast about what he called 
 "Psychic Healing," and proclaimed his enthusiasm in 
 season and out of season. He was an amiable man, with 
 a good deal of energy and some cleverness, but he was 
 easily carried away, and on more than one occasion had 
 been taken in by charlatans. Society was inclined to 
 laugh at him, and the medical profession sniffed in a 
 
THE LOST FAITH 107 
 
 superior manner when his name was mentioned. But 
 he was delightfully imperturbable and revelled in con 
 troversy. He was always keen to have "a slash at the 
 doctors," and frequently appeared on the platform in 
 support of his bureau. He possessed large estates in 
 Northamptonshire and Wiltshire, and, when they would 
 allow it, tried his powers of psychic healing on his ten 
 ants and villagers. He asserted that he had made sev 
 eral "cures," and had published a beautifully-bound 
 volume dealing with them in detail. His claims and as 
 sertions had been received, alas, with polite incredulity 
 by a sceptical world, but opposition only nerved him to 
 renewed efforts. He was of those who doubt the value 
 of any new theory unless it is attacked, and often said : 
 "If the doctors didn't go for me I should be afraid I 
 was on the wrong road." Such a man is difficult to 
 knock out, and hitherto, even after the most violent bouts, 
 Lord Sandring had always gone smiling out of the 
 ring. But, as his "Psychic Healing Bureau" did not 
 make much headway, he had gone to America to seek 
 for "new blood." Olivia Traill's arrival in London was 
 a triumph for him. He had persuaded her to come over 
 for a short time merely in order to show people that he 
 had preached a true gospel, that the healing power, backed 
 by faith, could accomplish marvels, that spirit could 
 sometimes do for the body something that medicine could 
 not do. His psychic healers had not been altogether lucky 
 in their well-meant endeavours to get the better of physi 
 cal troubles. His instinct told him that the time had 
 arrived to "make a big splash." He meant to make this 
 big splash with Olivia. 
 
 She had come to London simply to put some seed in 
 new ground. She had accepted from Lord Sandring 
 the money for her passage over, not a penny more. He 
 had prepared for her a room at the Psychic Healing Bu 
 reau, where she would receive patients, and he had given 
 it out that the famous Miss Traill would not make any 
 money out of her visit to England, but came to put her 
 
108 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 extraordinary powers gratuitously at the service of suf 
 fering humanity. He had also arranged for her to de 
 liver a short course of lectures on "Faith," "The Power 
 of Spirit over Matter," and kindred subjects. 
 
 Olivia's first lecture at the small Queen's Hall was not 
 largely attended, but several well-known people were 
 present. Among them, to the great surprise of Lord 
 Sandring, was the celebrated soldier, General Sir Hector 
 Burnington. 
 
 What Sir Hector was doing in that galere Lord Sand- 
 ring could not imagine. He came in two or three min 
 utes late alone, sat down at the back of the room, stayed 
 till the end of Olivia's speech, and then got up and went 
 out. Lord Sandring saw the General's towering figure 
 on its way to the door as he rose to "say a few words" 
 of comment on the lecture and of thanks to the lecturer. 
 He was almost stupefied, but recovered his aplomb in a 
 moment, and spoke with his usual energy and effective 
 ness. Afterwards he said to Olivia : 
 
 "I wish the audience had been larger, but you had one 
 of our greatest men to hear you." 
 
 Fernol West, who was with them, said eagerly, 
 
 "Who was that? Was it the immensely tall fellow who 
 sat at the back?" 
 
 "To be sure it was," said Lord Sandring. 
 
 "I saw him," said Olivia. "Who is he?" 
 
 "Sir Hector Burnington, the only man we've got with 
 a genius for organisation and a supreme power of man 
 aging men." 
 
 "Burnington!" exclaimed Fernol. "You don't say!" 
 
 He flushed with pride for Olivia. 
 
 "We must get that in the Press." 
 
 "I shouldn't," said Lord Sandring, with unusual self- 
 restraint. "Burnington's a wonderful fellow, but he's an 
 odd fellow, and wants careful handling, if he can be 
 handled at all. Some of the politicians say he can't. As 
 to women well, Miss Traill, I daresay you know his 
 reputed views about them !" 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 109 
 
 "They say in the States that he thinks we are not helps 
 but hindrances to any big man who's got big work to 
 do in the world. Is it true ?" 
 
 "True as gospel. Burnington has no use for women, 
 but they worship him from afar." 
 
 "I wonder why he came to hear a woman speak," 
 Olivia said thoughtfully. 
 
 "That beats me!" said Lord Sandring. "You spoke 
 grandly to-night. I wonder what he thought of you." 
 
 Olivia did not show any anxiety to know the great 
 man's verdict, but even she, who was almost entirely 
 free from personal vanity, was secretly impressed by 
 the fact that Burnington had sat and listened to her 
 a woman for over an hour. 
 
 A few days later she received the following note : 
 
 2 a, Cadogan Square, S.W. 
 
 Feb'y. ifth. 
 
 Madam, / have not the honour of knowing you, but 
 I heard your first lecture the other night at the small 
 Queen's Hall. You are evidently a genuine believer 
 in the power you claim to possess. I should like to have 
 a few words with you if you have no objection. As I 
 prefer not to set foot in the Psychic Healing Bureau 
 not that I have anything against it I should be glad to 
 know whether you could appoint a time to see me some- 
 where else. I should not detain you for more than a few 
 moments. 
 
 Believe me, Madam, yours faithfully, 
 
 HECTOR BURNINGTON. 
 
 Olivia laid down this letter, after she had read it care 
 fully twice, and sat wondering for a moment. She felt 
 both surprised and interested; she also felt flattered. 
 The General's reputation was enormous. He was re 
 garded by his countrymen as their supreme efficient, a 
 man who had the strength and the intelligence to pull 
 whole countries out of messes, to quiet rebellions by 
 
110 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 his mere presence on the scene of them, to set staggering 
 protectorates firmly on their feet. He had transformed 
 a war. What had he not done? But Olivia's peculiar 
 interest in him sprang from report of his personality and 
 from her remembrance of his many adventures, which 
 had been recounted in the newspapers of the world. The 
 mysteries of the East hung about him like heavy odours. 
 Far away he had built up his reputation in regions whose 
 mere names suggested romance. He had ruled over peo 
 ples whose wild eyes had never looked on our compli 
 cated civilisations, and had inspired them with rever 
 ence and awe. He spoke strange dialects of the East, 
 and, a master of travesty, had travelled as a blood com 
 rade with men who would have slain him had they known 
 who he was. And he was reputed to be strangely self 
 less and heroic, and threaded through with a strain of 
 fatalistic mysticism. He stood out from his nation as 
 something portentously invulnerable; a soul of bronze in 
 a body of bronze; supremely successful but cold and 
 indifferent in his success, alive not to love, not to pity, 
 not to fear, not to enjoy, but to get things done. 
 
 "Why does this man want to see me?" Olivia asked 
 herself. 
 
 And the quiet firmness of her was slightly shaken. A 
 hidden string vibrated for just a moment. She sat 
 down and answered the letter, suggesting that the Gen 
 eral should come to the little furnished flat which she 
 had taken in Buckingham Palace Mansions on the fol 
 lowing evening at six o'clock. She was usually at the 
 Bureau till after five. In reply to her note she received 
 on the following day a telephone message, taken by the 
 porter of the mansions when she was out. The message 
 was: 
 
 "The gentleman Miss Olivia Tralll kindly wrote to 
 will call on her at six o'clock/' 
 
 When she had read it she only did so at a quarter to 
 six she sent down a message asking the porter to bring 
 up anyone who called at six. She was not expecting 
 
THE LOST FAITH 111 
 
 any visitor but Sir Hector. After her day's work she 
 usually rested, unless she had to deliver a lecture. Lord 
 Sandring would have gladly "run" her in his social cir 
 cle, but she had resisted his kind importunities. 
 
 At five minutes to six when she was in her small sit 
 ting-room awaiting Sir Hector there was a ring at the 
 bell. She went to answer the door, and found Fernol 
 West with some flowers for her, and a new book by 
 Rabindranath Tagore, which he kne-\y she wanted to 
 read. 
 
 "I didn't wait for the lift. I just ran up/' he said. 
 "May I sit with you for a bit?" 
 
 He saw that she hesitated. 
 
 "You're busy." 
 
 "No; come in, Fernol." 
 
 She shut the door. 
 
 "I'm waiting for someone who is coming to see me at 
 six. It is Sir Hector Burnington." 
 
 "Burnington coming here!" exclaimed Fernol. "Do 
 you know him ?" 
 
 "No. He wrote to me." 
 
 "Is he ill?" 
 
 His eyes shone. 
 
 "If he's ill and you cure him the whole of England 
 will believe in you. It will silence even those beastly 
 doctors. They've begun to attack you furiously al 
 ready. Have you seen to-night's Messenger?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "There's an article by Sir Mervyn Butler called "Hu 
 man Credulity and the Charlatans," warning people 
 against you. Oh, it's made me so mad. These wretched 
 fellows who can't " 
 
 "Don't abuse people. That only does you harm." 
 
 "I know. But it's difficult when I know what you 
 are, when I'm a breathing proof of your powers. Is he 
 ill? Is Burnington ill?" 
 
 "Not that I know of." 
 
 "It may seem inhuman, but I would give anything 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 for him to be downright sick, real bad, so that you might 
 cure him. Ah, it would go all over the world in a mo 
 ment such a cure as that !" 
 
 "Fernol," Olivia said, looking at him steadily. "I 
 hope you will never be fanatical about me. I don't like 
 fanaticism at all. I think it is unhealthy. And I want 
 to feel that there's nothing unhealthy in you." 
 
 Before he could answer the front door bell rang. 
 
 "There he is!" said the boy, with an eager start. "Oh, 
 I oughtn't to be here." 
 
 "You need not speak of his coming. I should be 
 sorry to have a great name used. Now you might let 
 him in." 
 
 As Fernol turned to go down the little hall, he whis 
 pered, with a sort of laughing worship, 
 
 "I can't help it. I want him to be ill, desperately 
 ill!" 
 
 A minute later he opened the sitting-room door, showed 
 a strongly flushed, excited face, and said, 
 
 "Miss Traill, Sir Hector Burnington has come to 
 see you." 
 
 Then he stood against the wall, rather like a soldier 
 at attention, and gave room for the famous general to 
 pass. 
 
 Seen close in the bright light from electric burners 
 Sir Hector looked almost gigantic in height. As 
 a matter of fact, he was just over six foot three. His 
 face was unusually dark in complexion for an English 
 man ; his dark brown smooth hair was parted in the mid 
 dle above a very broad and very low forehead ; his nose 
 was straight and short, his chin firm but not aggressive, 
 his mouth determined with tightly closed full lips. His 
 ears were large, were set close to his head and indicated 
 power. His figure was lean, and his tread was firm and 
 striding. But in that first moment of meeting Olivia 
 looked at his eyes. They were very peculiar eyes, set 
 far apart, long, in colour green and brown some people 
 called them "greeny brown" with unusually small 
 
THE LOST FAITH 113 
 
 pupils. And there was a curious glazed look in them, 
 which suggested not dulness of intellect but secrecy, a 
 remoteness that somehow was watchful. Impossible to 
 look into them! Yet they seemed to look into you as 
 well as beyond you. On his upper lip the general wore 
 a thick brown moustache with a marked curve in it. His 
 eyebrows were almost straight. 
 
 He strode in, looking imperturbable, grave and quite 
 un-self-conscious, and held out a long brown hand. 
 
 "Good evening, Miss Traill. Very goodj>f you to see 
 me. What's your friend's name?" 
 
 "Fernol West," said Olivia. 
 
 The general shook hands with Fernol, neither cor 
 dially nor coldly. 
 
 "I'll be off now," said Fernol to Olivia. 
 
 She knew he was simply longing to stay, but she did 
 not like to keep him as an appointment had been made 
 with her visitor, so she said good-bye. 
 
 "Good-bye sir," said Fernol to Sir Hector. 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 Fernol turned to go, took two steps towards the door, 
 hesitated, then abruptly swung round. 
 
 "If you'll allow me I should like to tell you that when 
 I was broken to pieces, she put me together again. They 
 attack her. They've attacked her to-day in a paper 
 called the Messenger. But I was in hell and she's made 
 life worth living for me. I swear it." 
 
 He paused. There was something almost violent in 
 his look and manner. He covered Sir Hector with an 
 eager, searching glance. 
 
 "Ah!" said Sir Hector. 
 
 And he turned his strange glazed eyes on the lad. 
 
 Fernol waited an instant more, then went out, shutting 
 the door rather sharply behind him. 
 
 "I did him good, so, as he's a chivalrous lad, he sings 
 up in praise of me," said Olivia simply. "Please sit 
 down." 
 
 Sir Hector sat down without any comment. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Allow me to tell you the reason of my visit, 5 ' he said. 
 "I heard of you some two years ago. I know the States 
 pretty well and I see American papers. As I happen to 
 be interested in various things which most English people 
 deride, and as I believe in a great deal which untravelled 
 islanders, profoundly ignorant and proud of being so, 
 deny, I attended your first lecture as I mentioned in 
 my note. I wished rather to obtain an impression of you 
 than to listen to what you had to say. The impression I 
 obtained was that you thoroughly believe in yourself." 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Olivia, looking steadily up at him 
 from her chair. "I have absolute faith in my power of 
 healing." 
 
 "Without it you could probably not heal even a slight 
 nervous complaint," returned Sir Hector. 
 
 "I don't think I could, though I am sure I have some 
 exceptional physical gift. It may be a gift of conveyance, 
 which most people lack." 
 
 "Ah!" said the general. 
 
 He stared either at her, or beyond her she was not 
 quite sure which for a moment, then he continued, in 
 his deep and steady voice, 
 
 "I am not married, and I live at present I'm looking 
 into the condition of our artillery at the moment with 
 my only near relative, my unmarried sister. She is four 
 years older than I am sixty. She was, in my opinion, 
 the finest horsewoman in the British Isles, but eight years 
 ago, when I was in Afghanistan, she had an accident in 
 the hunting field. Her horse, a big Irish hunter, fell at 
 a wall and rolled over on her. She was kicked on the 
 back of the head. Since then she has suffered from 
 agonising headaches. They come on about once in ten 
 days. The pain at first is slight, gradually increases 
 she often keeps about for some hours after the premoni 
 tory symptoms and finally becomes terrific. Then she 
 goes to bed and stays there, usually from twenty-four to 
 thirty-six hours. After that the pain subsides and ceases. 
 
THE LOST FAITJI 115 
 
 Of course, she has had all the big doctors. And she's got 
 one a pleasant fellow, Mervyn Butler by name who 
 attends her regularly. He doesn't do her any good and 
 she knows it. But he does something, and I suppose, 
 when one's in such a condition, it's a sort of relief to know 
 something's being done. (I've never been ill in my 
 life, so I'm no judge.) It isn't pleasant to me to see 
 my sister under these perpetual attacks. And they'll cer 
 tainly break her up in time if they aren't stopped. I 
 should like you to try to stop them." 
 
 "I will gladly do so." 
 
 "Ah!" said Sir Hector, with his peculiar stare, which 
 suggested to Olivia that he was looking out over some 
 vast expanse in the foreground of which she was set, 
 an almost infinitesimal figure. 
 
 "That is very kind of you. Thank you," he answered, 
 after the pause which was characteristic of him. "But 
 there's a drawback." 
 
 "What is it? Her doctor would " 
 
 "Her doctor doesn't matter. He doesn't cure her and 
 I shall have no consideration for him. He fails in his 
 job. And no consideration should be shown to failures ; 
 otherwise you create a sort of forcing house for the culti 
 vation of inefficients. My sister is the drawback." 
 
 "Why is that?" 
 
 "She's the most sceptical woman in England about 
 anything mysterious. She likes hard facts, things ascer 
 tained by science." 
 
 "Hard facts. And you?" said Olivia. 
 
 "I've travelled widely, and she hasn't," returned the 
 general. "I judge by results. My sister's doctor knows 
 a great many medical facts and is totally unable to cure 
 her headaches. He and his facts are, therefore, quite 
 useless to my sister. But, as women are remarkably un 
 reasonable, she pays him heavy fees to go on not curing 
 her. Multitudes of women in England do exactly the 
 same. My sister will probably be entirely sceptical of 
 your power to do her any good if you come to her as 
 
116 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 a healer . . . because she is ill. And her scepticism might 
 frustrate your attempt to heal, I daresay." 
 
 "Perhaps it might," said Olivia. "But, then, what 
 is your plan?" 
 
 "How do you know I have a plan?" 
 
 "I don't think you would have come here without 
 
 one." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Again the stare and the pause a long pause this 
 time. Then the general said: 
 
 "I told you that these headaches return every ten days, 
 or so, with remarkable regularity. One knows when they 
 are due. What I wish to do is this. I intend to arrange 
 for a dinner party at my house on a certain evening. 
 I shall know pretty well when to fix it. Even if my 
 sister's headache has started she'll be down. She never 
 gives in till she's obliged to. I want you, if you will, to 
 come in the evening after dinner. (I hope another time 
 you will honour me by dining. ) My sister will meet you 
 socially, will be able to observe you and see what you 
 are, without connecting you with herself. It is possible 
 that you may be able to impress her with confidence in 
 your bona fides. If so, the ground will be prepared for 
 the attempt at a cure. Then the cure might be attempted 
 under favourable conditions." 
 
 "I am quite ready to come," said Olivia. "But please 
 tell me one thing. Do you believe I can make such a 
 cure?" 
 
 "I think it quite possible." 
 
 He stared into the distance. 
 
 "People are often sceptical from sheer colossal ignor 
 ance, or they are afraid of seeming superstitious. Both 
 superstition and scepticism may grow from the same 
 root the root, by the way, of nearly all evil. I may 
 write to you then ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Do you object to cigarette smoke in your drawing- 
 room?" 
 
THE LOST FAITH 117 
 
 "Dear no!" 
 
 The general lighted up, after offering Olivia a ciga 
 rette, which she refused. 
 
 "Now," he said, "I wish to say a word or two in con 
 fidence. I shall probably be offered almost immediately 
 one of the highest posts a man of British birth can fill. 
 For years it has been the ambition of my life to get this 
 particular post, because I know I am peculiarly fitted for 
 it. It's a job I could do better than any other man I 
 can think of. But it would be necessary for me to have 
 a woman at my side if I accepted it. My sister is at 
 present far too ill to undertake the position. She must 
 be made sound." 
 
 In saying the last sentence the general seemed to be 
 giving an order to someone. 
 
 "The doctors can't do it," he added. 
 
 "And if I fail in my job?" asked Olivia. 
 
 "H'm!" said the general. 
 
 A faint smile flickered over his face. 
 
 "You'll kick me out of your consideration into the 
 limbo where the charlatans dwell, I suppose?" said Olivia. 
 
 "I shall be deeply obliged to you if you succeed," he 
 replied. 
 
 He got up. 
 
 "The matter's quite clear now, I think." 
 
 "Quite clear. But may I ask you something ? " 
 
 "Please do." 
 
 "Why, when I spoke just now about hard facts, did you 
 say, 'I've travelled widely and she hasn't' ?" 
 
 "I merely meant to convey that in travelling one conies 
 up against many people with peculiar gifts, and that, 
 therefore, one is not so disposed to deny possibilities as 
 those who seldom move out of the region in which they 
 were born. The English have some remarkable gifts 
 as a nation; but their limitations are also remarkable. 
 My sister is very English. She hates humbug. Having 
 only just come over here, you may not know yet that 
 in an English mouth the word humbug often covers just 
 
118 SN.4KE-BITE 
 
 those very things which are most worthy of minute in 
 vestigation. Ah !" 
 
 He stared down at her and, for a moment, there seemed 
 to Olivia to be something piercing in the expression of 
 his strangely detached eyes. He held out his hand. She 
 got up and took it. 
 
 "If your friend, Mr. Fernol West, would care to come 
 to my house with you when you come, I should be very 
 glad to see him," said the general. "Good-bye." 
 
 He turned and went out of the room, striding with 
 long loose limbs which looked as if they were made to 
 grip a great war horse. 
 
 Six days later Olivia received a note from her visitor 
 asking her if she would come to his house the following 
 evening at half -past nine; in a postscript was added: 
 
 PS. (f l shall be very glad to see Mr. West, too" 
 
 Olivia wrote to say she would come and would give 
 Fernol the message. She believed that she knew why 
 Fernol was invited. Miss Burnington was sceptical; 
 Fernol was an almost fanatical believer. The general 
 knew that. Olivia had already realised that he was a 
 man who usually had a purpose behind what he did. 
 
 Fernol was overjoyed when she gave him the invi 
 tation, and on the way to Cadogan Square on the fol 
 lowing evening he expressed his feelings with animation. 
 His chivalry had been hurt by Olivia's reception in Lon 
 don. So far her visit had not been a great success. Not 
 many people had consulted her, and the attacks upon 
 her, led by Sir Mervyn Butler, had been fierce. In a 
 certain very well-known weekly paper it had been round 
 ly asserted that American charlatans ought not to be 
 allowed to prey upon the gullible English public, and that 
 the powers of the police ought to be extended if they 
 were not already sufficient to deal with such people in 
 a fitting manner. Olivia's name had not been mentioned 
 in the article, but it was obvious at whom the arrows 
 were aimed. And a sentence in which "Pernicious busy- 
 bodies whose brain power is as low as their rank is high" 
 
THE LOST FAITH 119 
 
 were gibetted was undoubtedly meant for Lord Sandring. 
 
 "I like Lord Sandring," said the boy to Olivia in the 
 taxicab. "And he's worth all these beastly journalists 
 and doctors put together. But I rather wish you hadn't 
 come over under his auspices. I've found out that they 
 laugh at him and the Bureau in London." 
 
 "I dare say they do," said Olivia's calm voice. 
 
 "Yes, but I mean he's really made some bad mistakes. 
 He's made claims without proving them. He's had some 
 rank failures connected with his Bureau. I can't bear 
 to see all that come back upon you. Besides, it sets up a 
 regular wave of unbelief." 
 
 He broke off, then said in an excited voice : 
 
 "I count a lot on this evening. If Sandring has done 
 you harm of course without meaning to I count on 
 Burnington to set you where you ought to be. I don't 
 ask you to tell me why he called on you, or why he asked 
 us to-night, but, of course, I know it must be something 
 to do with your lecture. You must have made a fine 
 impression on him. And he's a thundering great man. 
 It's grand of him to ask me, and I can't think why he's 
 done it. Can you?" 
 
 "He didn't say," was Olivia's quiet answer. 
 
 "If only he could fall sick and you could cure him ! I 
 would give anything for that." 
 
 "I don't like to hear you wish sickness for anyone, 
 Fernol. That's the wrong sort of mind action. Sir 
 Hector Burnington has never been ill in his life. My 
 wish for him is that he never may be." 
 
 "I know it's all wrong of me, but don't you see " 
 
 "I never want anyone to wish an unclean thing be 
 cause of me." 
 
 "Unclean!" cried Fernol, as if stung. 
 
 "Yes, Fernol. I call it unclean of the mind to wish 
 evil to anyone for any reason. 
 
 "I shall never be selfless like you," he said almost 
 sulkily. 
 
120 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 And he did not speak again till they reached the gen 
 eral's house. 
 
 As a footman opened the door of a large drawing- 
 room on the first floor Olivia heard a murmur of con 
 versation and was conscious of a very unusual feeling. 
 Perhaps she was not quite sincere with herself in mentally 
 calling it "excitement" ; perhaps nervousness would have 
 been the right name for it. She knew that it was caused 
 by something in Sir Hector's personality, by the expecta 
 tion of a great man who had impressed her with the 
 sense of his ruthless bigness. Since she had met him she 
 quite understood why he managed to make the men under 
 him work up to the very limit of their capacity. She felt 
 that she was about to be tested as she had not been tested 
 hitherto. And a slight anxiety crept through her. She 
 did not like it, and instinctively she put her head a little 
 back, sticking forward her chin, as she walked into the 
 room, followed closely by Fernol. 
 
 "Miss Olivia Traill Mr. Fernol West," said the 
 footman. 
 
 And immediately there was a silence in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Sir Hector met them, shook them by the hand, and 
 took them to a tall woman, with thickly waving white 
 hair, who was getting up from a sofa by the fire. 
 
 "Let me introduce my sister." 
 
 Olivia looked at the pale, lined but handsome face of 
 her hostess, a face marked with the impress of suffering, 
 and at once lost her feeling of anxiety. Miss Burnington 
 said a kind word or two, in a cordial, yet strictly non 
 committal manner, then turned to make the new-comers 
 known to her other guests, Mrs. Harford, Lady Pang- 
 bourne, Colonel Lumley, and Sir Mervyn Butler. 
 
 At the mention of the last name Fernol's young face 
 was flooded with indignant blood. This was the famous 
 doctor who had attacked Olivia in the Messenger. Of 
 course, the Burningtons were not aware of that or they 
 would never have arranged a meeting between the two. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 
 
 Making a strong effort at self-control Fernol stared at 
 the enemy, and saw a good-looking, clean-shaven man, 
 with a massive head covered with snow-white hair, deep- 
 set yellow eyes, and a smiling sarcastic mouth. Then he 
 found himself he scarcely knew how in a corner near 
 a grand piano, talking with Mrs. Harford, a pretty 
 woman, with a worn-out face, bright, quickly glancing 
 eyes, and a pathetic smile, the wife of a well-known 
 politician. She got him in less than five minutes on to 
 the subject of Olivia. 
 
 "The general sprang her on us as a surprise/* she said. 
 "Do tell me about her. She's had quite a bad Press over 
 here." 
 
 Fernol took up the cudgels. Mrs. Harford listened, 
 at first with indulgence, then with swiftly growing in 
 terest. 
 
 "It's a great pity she's let Lord Sandring nobble her," 
 she said presently. "He's got so hopelessly wrong with 
 the doctors." 
 
 She glanced at Sir Mervyn, who at the moment was 
 sitting with Colonel Lumley, a handsome man of not 
 more than thirty-six, with a sharply intelligent soldier's 
 face, and was taking very deliberate stock of the woman 
 he had so recently thrashed in an article. 
 
 "I hate doctors," said Fernol, in a very low, very 
 fierce voice. "Oh, I'm sorry!" 
 
 "Millie Pangbourne seems interested," said Mrs. Har 
 ford. "But she's interested in everybody who makes a 
 noise." 
 
 "A noise?" said Fernol. 
 
 "In the world! If you don't she physically can't trou 
 ble about you. Her eyes mechanically refuse to see you. 
 She's trained them to it, I suppose." 
 
 Lady Pangbourne, a dark, smart, pale and puffy 
 woman, with self-conscious eyes, was engaged in a rat 
 tling conversation with Olivia. She did all the rattling. 
 It was plain to see that Sir Hector's "surprise" had given 
 her impetus. The general and his sister were in the 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 group, and Fernol saw that Miss Burnington was watch 
 ing Olivia with close attention, and that, while doing so, 
 occasionally she winced, as if flicked sharply by whip 
 cord, shut her eyes for an instant, and compressed her 
 pale lips. 
 
 "She's got one of her horrible headaches coming on," 
 observed Mrs. Harford. "She oughtn't to be up. But 
 she's almost as iron in resolution as her brother. Fortu 
 nately for him he's got iron health too never been ill in 
 his life." 
 
 "Oh, does Miss Burnington suffer from headaches?" 
 
 "She's a martyr to them, a real martyr. Sir Mervyn 
 is her doctor." 
 
 "Then why doesn't he cure her of them?" said Fernol. 
 She caught his boyish sneer on the wing, as it were, and 
 gave it a faint smile. 
 
 "For the best of reasons," she murmured. "Because 
 he doesn't know how to." 
 
 "She could !" said Fernol. 
 
 "Can that be why she's here?" said Mrs. Harford. 
 
 "The general always has a purpose " She broke off. 
 
 "It would be just like him," she concluded after an in 
 stant. 
 
 At this moment Miss Burnington shivered, and, los 
 ing her self-control for a second, put a thin hand to the 
 back of her head. Sir Mervyn got up. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said, in a weighty agreeable voice, 
 "I see you are suffering. Now do forget about us. Go 
 up to bed and just do what I advised you with the " 
 
 Before he had finished she had put her hand down 
 and was smiling. 
 
 "No, no! What's that, Lady Pangbourne?" 
 
 "But, dear, you really look " 
 
 "What were you saying?" 
 
 "I forget something about Boston. Miss Traill, why 
 don't you show us what you can do with poor Miss Burn 
 ington ?" 
 
THE LOST FAITfl[ 123 
 
 As Lady Pangbourne said this she looked as alert as a 
 weasel, and put her head on one side. 
 
 "Sir Mervyn won't mind. Will you, Sir Mervyn?" 
 
 The sarcastic lips smiled. 
 
 "I should be very much interested to see an exhibition 
 of Miss Traill's healing force." 
 
 Olivia sat quite still for a moment looking at Miss 
 Burnington. It seemed to her just then that she was 
 back at her old school. She shut her eyes and saw Lily 
 convulsed. And there came upon her that irresistible 
 feeling of power to heal, of necessity to exercise it, that 
 had long ago revealed to her what she was intended 
 to do in the world. She remembered what Sir Hector 
 had said about the scepticism of his sister, about the im 
 portance of preparing the ground. But something within 
 her swept away caution. She felt too strong, too certain 
 of herself just then to be cautious. She opened her eyes, 
 and they rested on the face of Sir Mervyn Butler, who 
 was looking at her with an expression of half amused, 
 half contemptuous satire. No doubt he thought that 
 her silence, her closing of the eyes, were calculated ef 
 fects, tricks of the Sibyl designed to create an impression 
 on the foolish. His face said so plainly. Sir Hector 
 was watching her, too, with his remote and yet pene 
 trating gaze. She looked at Miss Burnington. 
 
 "I never try to heal people in public," she said quietly. 
 
 "Very wise of you, Miss Traill," said Sir Mervyn. 
 
 "But " She paused. Then she said to Miss Burn 
 ington, whose face was twisted with agony : 
 
 "I know I could do you good if you were able to be 
 lieve in me. Can you believe in me ?" 
 
 Miss Burnington evidently made a great effort to con 
 trol herself. Her thin tall body stiffened under the in 
 fluence of the mind. 
 
 "It's very kind of you to care," she said. "I'm sorry 
 I am making such a fool of myself. But I'm really 
 afraid there's nothing to be done for these tiresome 
 headaches." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "I can cure you entirely in time," said Olivia, "if you 
 will only help me by believing I can." 
 
 Miss Burnington forced a smile. 
 
 "I should be only too thankful to anyone " she be 
 gan. 
 
 She broke off and got up from her sofa. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, but I must go up to bed," she said. 
 "The pain's too severe. Do forgive me for making such 
 a fuss. Hector, I'm quite ashamed of myself." 
 
 "Let me take you up," said Sir Mervyn. 
 
 "No, no, I don't want to break up the party. Good 
 night. Good night." 
 
 She went towards the door. The general looked at 
 Olivia. She rose and followed Miss Burnington. 
 
 "Please let me come with you." 
 
 "It's too kind of you, but " 
 
 She turned towards Olivia. 
 
 "Well," she said. "If you really . . . just to my bed 
 room door." 
 
 They went out together. 
 
 "Oh, but I wanted to see it done!" said Lady Pang- 
 bourne in a frustrated voice. "I thought they just put 
 their hands on people and the pain fled away." 
 
 "You are mixing Miss Traill up with your recollections 
 of the New Testament, Lady Pangbourne," said Sir 
 Mervyn. "These good ladies from the United States 
 are not all direct descendants of the Apostles." 
 
 "May I please tell you what Miss Traill did for me?" 
 said Fernol. 
 
 His cheeks were burning and he clenched his hands. 
 He came and stood before the doctor. . . . 
 
 Meanwhile Olivia had accompanied Miss Burnington 
 into her bedroom and shut the door. A fire was burn 
 ing in the grate. Miss Burnington felt vaguely for the 
 electric light switch. 
 
 "No; don't turn it on," said Olivia. "Let us sit by 
 the fire." 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 
 
 She drew Miss Burnington down gently into a chair 
 and took both her hands. 
 
 "I will make you believe in me." 
 
 The firelight flickered over her strong face. Miss 
 Burnington looked at her with eyes full of pain. 
 
 "I'm a fearful sceptic," she said. "I can't help it." 
 
 "Do you believe Sir Mervyn Butler can cure you? 7 ' 
 
 "Sir Mervyn oh, no !" 
 
 "Yet you call him in, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes. I suppose I've a faint hope " 
 
 "Have a little hope in me. That's all I ask of you 
 yet." 
 
 "Well, I do believe you're a very kind woman." 
 
 "I never take any money. I only wish to do what I 
 was intended to do when I was sent into the world. 
 We are only at ease with ourselves when we do that. 
 Now sit quite still. Don't say anything and I shall very 
 soon make you much better." 
 
 Miss Burnington leaned back in her chair and shut 
 her eyes. 
 
 "The touch of your hands is certainly very strong and 
 very soothing," she murmured. 
 
 It was half -past eleven when Olivia returned to the 
 drawing-room. She found Sir Hector alone with Fernol 
 West. He looked at her with, she thought, a sort of 
 severe enquiry when she came into the room. 
 
 "Your sister is asleep," she said. 
 
 "That's very unusual. Did she take a sleeping 
 draught?" 
 
 "No. I got her to bed. No one must disturb her. I 
 will call and see her to-morrow. Now, Fernol, we must 
 be going." 
 
 "I'll have a taxicab sent for," said the general, ring 
 ing the bell. 
 
 While the servant was getting it, they stood by the fire, 
 and Olivia told them what had happened in the bed 
 room. 
 x "Your sister was in such acute pain," she said, "that 
 
126 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 I think it undermined her scepticism. She clung to me 
 as I suppose she has clung to her doctor. That seemed to 
 be enough her longing to be helped. Anyhow, I was 
 able to diminish the pain, and finally she fell asleep. That 
 is a step on the way to a cure." 
 
 "I am immensely obliged to you," said the general. 
 
 "You've done a lot for your country," said Olivia. 
 "I shall be very glad to do something for you." 
 
 "If you cure my sister you will have done a great 
 deal." 
 
 When he said that Olivia wondered whether he was 
 thinking of his sister or of himself. His words, "She's 
 got to be made sound," were still in her memory. 
 
 "I'm sure you are very fond of her," she said, almost 
 appealingly. "She's a very brave woman, I should 
 think." 
 
 "It would be odd if she were a coward," he returned. 
 
 The footman came in. 
 
 "The taxicab is at the door, sir." 
 
 "I'll take you down," said the general. 
 
 He came out bareheaded on to the pavement and helped 
 Olivia into the cab. 
 
 "Good night," he said. 
 
 His large hand grasped hers. 
 
 "If you get my sister right Sir Mervyn will hate you." 
 
 "Isn't he fond of your sister?" 
 
 "Very, I believe; but fonder of himself as a sacred 
 repository of medical science. Good night, Mr. West. 
 Sir Mervyn considers you a neurotic, but you are an ex 
 cellent fighter." 
 
 He turned away and disappeared into the house, leav 
 ing the footman to shut the door behind him. 
 
 "I a neurotic !" said Fernol indignantly as they drove 
 away. "Sir Mervyn said that because he won't have it 
 that you can cure anyone, and I told him, I told them all, 
 how you had cured me. I'm glad Sir Hector thinks I 
 can fight. He's a glorious fellow. All England looks up 
 to him. He could do anything for you." 
 
THE LOST FAITH 127 
 
 "I djon't want him to do anything for me," said 
 Olivia. 
 
 "No; but others may wish for you more than you wish 
 for yourself." 
 
 And then he fell into silence. But in the cab Olivia 
 could feel the excitement of his atmosphere, and the doc 
 tor's verdict "neurotic" on Fernol stayed somehow dis 
 agreeably in her mind. When Fernol had first come to 
 her in Boston he had certainly been suffering acutely 
 from what the nerve doctors generally call neurosis. Did 
 any trace of that old malady still show in him, per 
 ceptible to the trained observer? Or was Sir Mervyn 
 merely malicious? She wondered a little. Surely she 
 had made a complete cure of Fernol? She had never 
 really doubted it till this moment. She was not sure that 
 she doubted it now. But since they had been in London 
 she had noticed once or twice. . . . 
 
 The taxicab stopped at the door of Buckingham Palace 
 Mansions, and Olivia said good-bye to Fernol. 
 
 After a hard fight, one of the hardest of her career, 
 Olivia conquered Miss Burnington's headaches. Her 
 difficulty in doing this came, she believed, from the pe 
 culiar mind of her patient, for Sir Hector's diagnosis of 
 his sister's nature had proved to be right. She found it 
 almost impossible to believe thoroughly in any power 
 which partook of the mysterious, any power to which she 
 could not attach hard facts of which she could make a 
 list for the benefit of herself and those about her. When 
 Olivia had once in the course of argument with her 
 quoted Sir Hector as an example of partially mysteriojus 
 powers, Miss Burnington had disagreed with her. 
 
 "My brother rules men because he knows more about 
 their jobs than they do themselves," she said. "He is 
 a storehouse of knowledge." 
 
 Olivia could not gainsay that. But she tried to make 
 Miss Burnington acknowledge that the extraordinary in 
 fluence which the general exercised over men was par 
 tially due to something totally independent of knowledge, 
 
128 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 to a force born in him, not acquired by him, a force felt 
 by everyone but not to be explained by anyone. 
 
 "Oh, Hector is no hypnotist," said Miss Burnington, 
 with a touch of sarcasm. "He is just a wonderfully able 
 man with a remarkably strong character. He does big 
 things because he knows. There you have the secret of 
 his power over men." 
 
 "Then it isn't a secret," said Olivia, with her pleas 
 ant, strong smile. 
 
 And she set herself again to the struggle with Miss 
 Burnington's malady; and she won, almost in despite of 
 Miss Burnington; almost, but not quite, for Miss Burn 
 ington was longing to be cured, and had lost all faith in 
 the doctors. Perhaps her longing helped Olivia, was the 
 weapon which put her scepticism out of action. Olivi'a 
 believed so, and was thankful. For she had never before 
 wished so ardently to triumph over any ill-health as over 
 those headaches of Miss Burnington. Sir Hector's in 
 fluence was potent upon her, that influence which she felt 
 to be mysterious. Like the men who worked under him, 
 and were often afraid of him, she wished, even longed, 
 to satisfy him, to wring from him a "well done." Hitherto 
 she had never worked to win the approval of anyone. 
 Her efforts had been made because they were necessary 
 to herself. She had healed as an artist creates to satisfy 
 an imperious need. But now a change had been wrought 
 in her. 
 
 "My sister must be made sound." 
 
 As upon the scroll in her room at the Bureau her pa 
 tients saw "Thy faith hath saved thee," so, during her 
 fight with Miss Burnington's scepticism and ill-health, 
 Olivia saw gleaming before her mind's eyes those words 
 of Sir Hector. She had received her order from this 
 strange man. She was determined to carry it out. And 
 at last she did carry it out. The headaches came more 
 rarely, lasted a shorter time when they did come, became 
 less and less painful, and finally ceased. Two months 
 went by without any headache at all. Miss Burnington 
 
THE LOST FAITH 129 
 
 looked, as all her friends declared, "a different creature." 
 The dread which, despite her almost Spartan courage, 
 had haunted her eyes and been seen of men, faded from 
 them. A day came when she ventured to say : 
 
 "It really seems as if I might consider myself cured/' 
 
 She was, of course, deeply grateful to Olivia for the 
 extraordinary kindness and assiduity which had been 
 shown without any hope of a reward. She had indeed 
 come almost to love Olivia. Nevertheless, so strong was 
 her ingrained habit of mind, she could not be fully per 
 suaded that the cure was entirely owing to Olivia's power 
 of healing. It might be so. The facts seemed to point 
 that way. And yet might it not be a mere strange 
 coincidence that she began to get better only when Olivia 
 came into her life? Might not some physical change have 
 been at work which happened to begin manifesting itself 
 just after she was brought into contact with Olivia? 
 Miss Burnington did not express these characteristic 
 doubts of hers to anyone except her brother. But they 
 prevented her from coming out into the open as a whole 
 hearted champion of Olivia's powers. She was a very 
 sincere woman. Had she been positive that Olivia, and 
 Olivia only, had cured her, she would certainly not have 
 hesitated to proclaim the faith that was in her. As it 
 was she showed, hand in hand with her frank and freely 
 spoken of gratitude to Olivia, a certain reserve. She 
 could not help it. She was one of those rare women who 
 have to be true to themselves. She was not sure, and so 
 she would not say she was sure. 
 
 This slight but definite holding back on her part in 
 furiated Fernol West. And he spoke hotly about it to 
 Olivia. 
 
 "After what you've done it's unfair," he said. "I be 
 lieve it's because you're a woman." 
 
 "I'm quite certain it isn't," said Olivia. "Miss 
 Burnington has been extraordinarily kind about me." 
 
 "If Sir Mervyn Butler had done for her what you have 
 
130 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 done she would have told everyone in London what a 
 marvellous doctor he was. But women hate to give credit 
 to a woman. I can't think why. Now, if it had been the 
 general he would have said straight out that you had 
 cured him, although they call him a despiser of women. 
 He's great enough to do that." 
 
 "I'm quite sufficiently rewarded for what I have been 
 able to do," said Olivia. 
 
 "How are you rewarded? People still write against 
 you over here. You have never been accepted as you 
 were in America." 
 
 "If I tell you, will you give me your word of honour 
 not to repeat it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Sir Hector has told me that he is convinced his sis 
 ter's restored health is entirely owing to me. And not 
 only that. He said to me only yesterday that if he were 
 ever ill he would call me in and would not summon a 
 doctor." 
 
 Fernol was silent for a moment. 
 
 "Did he say that?" he said at last. 
 
 There was something so peculiar in the tone of his 
 voice that Olivia wondered. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "And I know he meant it. That is 
 reward enough for me." 
 
 "Did he give you his word?" 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Did he give you his word he would call you in ?" 
 
 "I have just told you what he said. Why should he 
 give his word ? He never is ill, thank God." 
 
 "That's just it!" said Fernol slowly. "He never is 
 . So what's the good of such a promise?" 
 
 He paused, like one thinking deeply, brooding almost. 
 Then he said, 
 
 "The English are fearfully slow in catching on to big 
 things that they're unaccustomed to, aren't they? We 
 are more open-minded in America. Look at the way 
 you've been ignored here, except when you've been 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 131 
 
 libelled. It makes me sick. I should like to give them 
 a lesson." 
 
 "Them?" said Olivia. "Whom?" 
 
 "The people over here, the doctors and the whole lot 
 of them. They want it badly." 
 
 "Oh, I shall soon be going back to America. And 
 it's high time you went. Your father wants you to help 
 him, and you ought to be at work." 
 
 As she spoke she looked at him rather narrowly. 
 
 "I don't like to see you idle, Fernol." 
 
 "Do you want to get rid of me ?" he said. 
 
 "No. But I want to see you busy and happy in the 
 best way. I don't think you're quite yourself here in 
 London." 
 
 "That's because of the way they have treated you." 
 
 "I am quite satisfied," said Olivia smiling. 
 
 "Because Sir Hector said that?" 
 
 "Coming from him it did please me very much." 
 
 "Well, I only wish he could have the chance to fulfil 
 his promise," said Fernol. "Then the English would 
 catch on to you at last. For everything Burnington 
 stands for is gospel to them. They say he'll be the next 
 Viceroy of India." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder if he were," said Olivia. 
 
 "Would you be glad?" he asked her. 
 
 "Yes. I think he would be the very man for such 
 a great post." 
 
 "You are wonderfully unselfish, Olivia!" he said. 
 
 There was a sort of break in his voice. His expres 
 sion was oddly emotional. He gazed at her and she 
 saw an affection in his eyes which stirred a faint anxiety 
 in her. 
 
 "You do everything for others, and no one does any 
 thing for you. Sometimes I hate the world." 
 
 "Fernol, dear, if you talk like that " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I shall think I didn't really cure you," she said, so 
 berly, almost sadly. 
 
132 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "You did cure me !" he exclaimed passionately. "And 
 I shall never forget it, never." 
 
 And he flung out of the room. 
 
 When he had gone Olivia sat for a long while quite 
 still. She was more disturbed in mind than she had 
 ever been before, disturbed about Fernol and herself. 
 She was almost sure that Fernol had guessed her se 
 cret. How? Had his curious devoticn to her made 
 him clairvoyant? or did perhaps others know? For 
 some time she had been deeply in love with Sir Hector, 
 but hitherto she had believed that she had hidden her 
 love from everyone. She was possessed by it, but she 
 did not wish anyone to suspect that possession. For 
 she felt sure that Sir Hector felt nothing for her. She 
 could not imagine him loving a woman in that way. 
 He seemed to stand entirely aloof from the ordinary 
 human passions, isolated from them by an almost cold 
 intensity, the intensity of the tremendous worker, con 
 centrated on the doing of big things for his country. 
 Perhaps probably even he was abnormally ambitious, 
 but she did not feel his ambition as she felt his greed 
 for work, his lust for the job he was fitted to carry 
 through in the world. 
 
 Only a great man could be like that; no woman 
 could ever care for accomplishment in just that way. 
 In a woman's life work could never shoulder love out 
 of the path. Did Fernol know her secret? She feared 
 so. He had looked at her strangely when he said, "You 
 are wonderfully unselfish." There had surely been 
 knowledge in his eyes. She was touched by Fernol's 
 devotion to her; she was grateful for it. She knew he 
 was not in love with her, never had been. And yet to- 
 day she felt as if there were something almost danger 
 ous, almost menacing, in his affection; she felt almost 
 afraid of or was it for Fernol. 
 
 She had known for some time that the post Sir Hec 
 tor was hoping for was the Viceroyalty of India. That 
 was why he had been so anxious for his sister to be well. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 133 
 
 There must be a woman out there to be the handmaid to 
 his glory. 
 
 Was he not less, or more, than human ? 
 
 There was a good deal of disquiet in India. A woman 
 had been active in stirring it up. So rumour said. 
 
 He would soon crush it, that man of bronze. 
 
 It was tragic to love such a man. Yet she knew that 
 she clung to her love. A word from him meant more 
 to her than all the deeds of others. She had satisfied 
 him, had come up to his expectation of her in what she 
 had tried to do for him. That was enough reward. 
 The attacks, the contempt or indifferences of others, were 
 as nothing to her. 
 
 It did not occur to Olivia that, for the first time since 
 she had found out her power as a healer, she had used 
 that power for a partially selfish reason; that, for the 
 first time, she had been instigated to a healing effort 
 by something akin to egoism. Her love had made her 
 think of, act for, her own advantage; and her love now 
 prevented her from being quite sincere with herself. 
 
 A week later it became known that the Viceroy of 
 India had sent in his resignation, and Sir Hector's name 
 was mentioned in the Times as his probable successor. 
 
 Two days after this piece of news had been read by 
 Olivia, Sir Hector telephoned asking if he could see her 
 at a certain hour. She had never received him in her 
 flat since his first visit there, but she had seen him many 
 times in Cadogan Square. She answered saying she 
 would be at home at the hour he mentioned, and, punc 
 tually to the moment, he strode into the room. 
 
 She thought him looking rather worn, even a little 
 weary. But he smiled as he gripped her hand. 
 
 "Is it true what they say in the papers?" she asked. 
 "I hope it is true." 
 
 He shrugged his big shoulders. 
 
 "We shall know presently. I've got a word or two 
 to say to you about my sister. Let me sit down and 
 light up, may I ?" 
 
134 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Yes, do. 
 
 When his cigarette was alight and he had crossed 
 his long legs comfortably, he said : 
 
 "Now, tell me. Do you believe that my sister is really 
 cured finally cured?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Olivia, without hesitation. "Do 
 you doubt it?" 
 
 She looked at him with a sudden keen anxiety which 
 transformed her strong face. 
 
 "I wanted to hear your opinion. I know it is an ab 
 solutely honest one. I am not given to trusting women, 
 but I trust you thoroughly. I am not speaking of your 
 intellect ; anyone can make a bad mistake. I am speaking 
 of your bona fides/' 
 
 "Thank you," said Olivia. "But I wish you would 
 tell me your opinion." 
 
 "I don't know that it would be worth much on a mat 
 ter of this kind. She certainly seems to me to be cured. 
 Since her accident she has never looked, never seemed, 
 as she looks and seems now. The change is extraordi 
 nary." 
 
 He pulled his moustache and looked straight before 
 him. After a pause he continued: 
 
 "Fernol West is a strange young fellow." 
 
 "What made you think of him just then?" 
 
 "Well, he's the only 'cure* of yours whom I happen 
 to know. He dined with my sister and me last night. 
 I ran across him in Whitehall and asked him." 
 
 "I didn't know," said Olivia. "I haven't seen Fernol 
 to-day." 
 
 As the general said nothing she added, after a silence : 
 
 "Why do you think Fernol strange?" 
 
 "Well, I've had a great deal to do with men of all 
 classes and a good many nationalities, and it strikes me 
 that there's something decidedly unusual about young 
 West. Last night I noticed it" 
 
 "Did Fernol do or say " 
 
THE LOST FAITH 135 
 
 "You know my sister. She's abominably truthful, 
 eh?" 
 
 "She's thoroughly sincere. I love it in her." 
 
 "Like answers to like. Last night you were spoken 
 of. West stuck up for you, as he always does, and was 
 very bitter about the way you've been treated over here. 
 (By the way, that's a good deal Sandring's fault. Be 
 tween you and me he's more than a bit of a fool.) 
 Finally, he asked my sister if she wouldn't, in some pub 
 lic way, acknowledge that you had cured her of her tor 
 turing headaches." 
 
 "I am very sorry Fernol did that" 
 
 "Then, of course, my sister's drastic sincerity came 
 into play. She said she couldn't do that because she 
 was not positively certain that her cure had been owing 
 to you. She spoke of nervous headaches, of how nerves 
 and the imagination seem to be connected sometimes, 
 implied that, possibly, she had been mentally influenced 
 rather than physically. You know how women run on, 
 messing things all up together. I saw West was get 
 ting more and more excited. Finally, my sister said 
 that if she had had some perfectly definite disease, such 
 as cancer, or diabetes, and had been treated by you and 
 recovered, she would have told the whole world what 
 you were. As it was, she could only be tremendously 
 grateful to you, and say that it was quite possible that 
 you had had a great deal to do with getting rid of her 
 headaches. Ah!" 
 
 "And then was that all?" 
 
 "Well no. West just managed to contain himself. 
 But I never saw a pair of eyes look more menacing 
 than his did." 
 
 "Menacing !" said Olivia, sitting forward in her chair. 
 
 "Yes," returned the general with quiet force. "He 
 turned to me and asked me if I were cured by you of 
 ill health whether I would publicly acknowledge it. I 
 said I would and let them laugh at me as much as they 
 likecj. Then he became calmer. I took my sister dp- 
 
136 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Stairs. We'd just finished dinner and I had to go to the 
 telephone. When I came back to the dining-room I 
 found West standing by the window with the curtain 
 pulled back." 
 
 "What was he doing?" 
 
 "Getting some air. He looked odd deucedly odd." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "White. However, we finished our wine together and 
 he seemed to calm down. But all the rest of the eve 
 ning I felt that he was keeping something under. In 
 India I've seen two or three native soldiers run amuck. 
 H'm!" 
 
 He was silent and seemed to be thinking profoundly. 
 
 "What did you cure West of exactly ?" he asked pres 
 ently. 
 
 Olivia told him. 
 
 "It was like acute neurasthenia. Some of the doc 
 tors thought there was some pressure on the brain. He 
 was desperately miserable and haunted by a desire to 
 kill himself." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 He lit another cigarette and uncrossed his legs. 
 
 "The brain!" he said, as if to himself. "My sister 
 fell from a horse, too," he added, speaking to Olivia. 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "There might be something akin in the two cases?" 
 
 "I perhaps there might." 
 
 After a minute of silence Olivia said : 
 
 "I'm afraid you doubt my cure of your sister." 
 
 "Well no; I don't." 
 
 "Not even after last night?" 
 
 "You follow me, I see." 
 
 He looked full at her. And this time she did not 
 feel like a tiny figure in the foreground of some vast 
 space over which he was gazing. Her heart began to 
 beat fast. 
 
 "My instincts guide me more than you might sup 
 pose," he observed. "I believe you have made a cure 
 
THE LOST FAITH 137 
 
 of my sister. But I wanted to test your mind. I might 
 sacrifice a good many people if I thought their sacri 
 fice would advance things. But I shouldn't care to sac 
 rifice my sister. She is an unselfish woman where I am 
 concerned. I don't wish to take too great advantage 
 of that weakness in her. Well, I must leave you." 
 
 He got up. So did Olivia. 
 
 "I'm I'm almost sure now that you wouldn't call 
 me in if you were ill," she said. 
 
 Her lips were trembling. She could not keep them 
 still. 
 
 "Would you wish me to?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I should." 
 
 "Then I would give you the chance to put me right. 
 It would be my way of paying the debt I owe you. I 
 always settle my debts. Some men have reason to wish 
 I didn't, I believe. Good-bye." 
 
 He stood for a moment looking towards her. And 
 again Olivia noticed, this time more definitely, some 
 subtle change in his appearance. She could not have 
 defined it, but she was strongly aware of it. 
 
 He shook her hand and went out. 
 
 When he had gone Olivia sat for a long while think 
 ing about him, about Miss Burnington, about Fernol, 
 and about herself, and she was conscious that her usually 
 steady and strong mind was troubled. Events seemed 
 to be stealthily grouping themselves together to make 
 an ugliness, some shape that she would not care to look 
 upon. Presently she even began to feel as if that shape 
 were looming over her, although she could not see it 
 yet. 
 
 She did not meet Fernol that day. A week went past, 
 and she neither saw him nor heard from him. This 
 surprised her, as he generally looked in on her at the 
 flat three or four times a week. Saturday came. She 
 went as usual to the Bureau. She had been there about 
 an hour when a messenger arrived with a note for her. 
 
138 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 It was marked "Private and urgent." She opened it 
 and read : 
 
 "Strictly private. 
 
 "2A, CADOGAN SQUARE. 
 "Saturday. 
 
 "My DEAR Miss TRAILL, 
 
 "Can you possibly come at once? My brother 
 is very unwell and wishes to see you. Please do not 
 say a word to anyone about this. I know I can rely on 
 you to keep the matter a secret. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "HONORIA BURNINGTON." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Olivia burnt Miss Burnington's note, had a taxicab 
 called, got into it and was on the way to Cadogan Square 
 within five minutes of the receipt of this message. As 
 the cab moved out into the stream of traffic she leaned 
 back and shut her eyes. The great moment of her life 
 had surely come. She was trying to collect all her forces 
 to meet it But for the moment she felt frightened, 
 horribly frightened, almost like a child struck for the 
 first time and shuddering not merely in body but in soul. 
 Fernol's desire had been fulfilled. That was strange. 
 She thought of ill-wishing, of the old superstition con 
 nected with the burning of a waxen image of your 
 enemy, of the more modern belief that by the force of 
 his thought a man may cause to happen that which he 
 longs for. Was Fernol's thought-power very strong? 
 Could he have set himself to an evil use of it? She 
 saw before her Sir Hector and Fernol, the great man 
 and the excitable boy. It was fantastic to suppose that 
 such a man could be influenced by such a boy. Yet there 
 was force in Fernol. His concentrated devotion to her 
 had proved that to Olivia long ago. And more than 
 once he had almost passionately expressed a wish that 
 
THE LOST FAITH 139 
 
 Sir Hector could have the chance of redeeming his prom 
 ise. And now the chance had come. Sir Hector was 
 going to redeem it. She did not doubt that. Directly 
 she had read Miss Burnington's note she had under 
 stood. 
 
 She strove to gather her forces together; she called 
 upon her faith as if it were distant and needed a sum 
 mons. 
 
 When the cab stopped she opened her eyes. 
 
 She got out and rang the bell. A footman came to 
 the door. 
 
 "Can I see Miss Burnington ?" she asked. 
 
 As she spoke her eyes searched the young man's face 
 and found only a stolid indifference. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," he replied. "Miss Burnington is ex 
 pecting you." 
 
 He shut the door and preceded her up the staircase. 
 
 She waited for a moment in the familiar drawing- 
 room which to-day seemed unfamiliar. Then Miss 
 Burnington came in looking anxious and Olivia 
 thought almost stern. 
 
 "Thank you for coming," she said quickly, holding 
 out her hand. "Had you gone to the Bureau?" 
 
 "Yes. I got your message there." 
 
 "I sent to your flat too. Miss Traill, you know my 
 real regard for you, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And my great gratitude to you. But I'm afraid you 
 may doubt both when " 
 
 She broke off, then resumed : 
 
 "Hector made me send for you. And, of course, his 
 word is law in this house. But I want him to have a 
 doctor at once. I want him to have Sir Mervyn. If 
 you will only refuse to go to him then the road will be 
 clear, and he must give way. Don't you see? It isn't 
 that I doubt you. I know you are thoroughly sincere. 
 But Hector's life is so precious and science " 
 
140 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Sir Hector wished for me," said Olivia. "Doesn't 
 that show - " 
 
 But Miss Burnington interrupted her. 
 
 "He insisted. He said he had a debt to pay and he 
 meant to pay it." 
 
 "That was like him r 
 
 "But I know you will feel yourself that it is madness 
 not to send for a doctor. He has never been ill before, 
 so he can't understand. My headaches they were 
 nothing. Anyone may have but I'm asking a great 
 deal, I know. It is almost like an insult, but indeed I 
 don't mean it so." 
 
 Suddenly, with an almost violent gesture, she took 
 both Olivia's hands in hers. 
 
 "I don't know how to make you understand, but I 
 can't help it. I have no real faith in any healing power 
 outside medical or surgical science. If you will only 
 refuse to go to Hector I can call in a doctor. May I? 
 May I?" 
 
 "Your brother trusts me. If I refuse he will think 
 I don't trust myself, that I am a humbug. He has asked 
 for me, and I must go to him. Remember how ill you 
 
 were." 
 
 "And now I'm well. Yes, I know, I know. But I'm 
 nothing." 
 
 "You were everything to me when I was treating you. 
 And now he will be everything to me. Dear Miss Burn 
 ington, please take me to him." 
 
 Miss Burnington's thin figure stiffened. 
 
 "Well, if I must," she said, with a beaten intonation. 
 "But just one thing. Hector doesn't wish anyone to 
 know he's ill. He's ashamed of being ill, I believe. At 
 any rate unless we can't help it we are not to say a 
 word." 
 
 "But the servants?" 
 
 "Only Sidney, his valet, knows. The others think 
 he's got a slight chill and is keeping his room." 
 
 She stood quite still, then threw back her head. 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 141 
 
 "Please come up," she said. 
 
 But now a strange hesitation seized Olivia. She was 
 afraid to go to that room upstairs, to see the man who 
 was ill. 
 
 "Miss Burnington wait a moment !" she said. 
 
 "Yes? What is it?" 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Is he very ill?" 
 
 "You will see for yourself, Miss Traill. Do you be 
 lieve you can cure anything?" 
 
 Her dark eyes looked piercing, as if she would read 
 the soul of her visitor. Olivia did not answer her. There 
 was a moment of silence. Then Miss Burnington said : 
 
 "He has never been ill before. I cannot understand 
 it. I can only suppose that he has eaten, or drunk, some 
 thing which has made him ill. His constitution's mar 
 vellous. But no one is safe from a chance of that kind." 
 
 "No, of course not Well, let us go up." 
 
 And she followed Miss Burnington out of the room. 
 
 Sir Hector lived on the second storey in a set of three 
 rooms at the back of the house bedroom, bathroom, and 
 writing-room. Olivia had expected to be taken into a 
 bedroom, but when Miss Burnington softly opened a 
 door she saw a small chamber full of books, and con 
 taining a large flat writing-table, a settee and some arm 
 chairs. Sitting with his back to her, close to the fire, 
 towards which he was leaning, was Sir Hector. 
 
 So he was up ! She felt a strong sense of relief. But 
 it died away as he looked round. 
 
 "Here is Miss Traill, Hector," said Miss Burnington. 
 
 And she went out of the room. 
 
 Sir Hector sat with his head turned towards the door 
 and his eyes fixed on Olivia. 
 
 "Very good of you to come," he said. "There's some 
 thing wrong with me." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She came up to the fire. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "What do you feel?" 
 
 "As if I were going to be very much worse than I 
 am now. It's been coming on for days stealthily 
 creeping on me. I kept about till I was afraid of people 
 noticing it. To-day, when the light came, I knew I 
 couldn't do a thing. So here I am useless. If you 
 don't stop it I shall soon be pretty bad." 
 
 "Yes, I can see that." 
 
 She sat down. Now that she was close to him it 
 seemed to her that the pupils of his strange eyes had 
 altered. When she had met him first she had been struck 
 by their abnormal smallness. Now they were larger, 
 or, at any rate, looked larger. 
 
 "What are you staring at?" Sir Hector said, with a 
 touch of almost sharp suspicion. 
 
 But she did not answer him, 
 
 "Just tell me what you feel," she said, in a practical 
 voice. 
 
 "Well, I should say it's all very much like the begin 
 ning of enteric." 
 
 "Enteric fever! That's the same as typhoid fever, 
 isn't it?" ^ 
 
 "Yes; intestinal fever. I've never had it, but I've 
 seen chaps sickening for it by the dozen. They were all 
 as useless as I am. I feel tired all the time without 
 doing anything. It's abominable. The thought of food 
 turns me sick. My head aches like the devil. And it's 
 all getting worse. I'm on the road to something infer 
 nally bad, Miss Traill, and the pace is quickening every 
 hour. I'm certain of that." 
 
 He lay back with a heavy sigh. 
 
 "I thought you didn't look quite as usual the day you 
 called on me," said Olivia. 
 
 "The day after young West dined with us. It was 
 just beginning then, I believe." 
 
 There was a moment of silence, during which Olivia 
 looked at the man whom she loved, noticing the almost 
 sinister change in him. He was pale, a bad colour. A 
 
THE LOST FAITJH 143 
 
 sort of crust of weariness lay over his strength, like 
 moss on a wall of stone. There was something hopeless, 
 broken, in his whole aspect. Even his great limbs looked 
 hopeless. Near his eyes fever seemed lurking eager to 
 light up her torches. Olivia knew something that was 
 not medical knowledge told her that this man who had 
 never been ill in his life was on the verge of a danger 
 ous, perhaps a deadly, illness, And an agony of pity 
 and fear swept through her, pity and fear for him and 
 for herself. At that moment she felt very helpless. The 
 fact that he had sent for her, that he had held to his 
 word, given when probably he had felt, like most healthy 
 and very strong men, that illness could never come to 
 his powerful body, touched her too much, almost un 
 nerved her. Had she really any force within her that 
 could operate on a human being whom she felt to be far 
 above her, on one whom she loved ? To believe so seemed 
 to her at that moment to be almost an insolence. Yet 
 if her faith in herself deserted her she must surely be 
 useless. She must believe in herself more strongly than 
 she had ever done before. The supreme chance had been 
 offered to her by fate. She must seize it. She must 
 triumph over her own weakness of a woman who loved, 
 and who, because she loved, feared. 
 
 She strove to recover by force the sensation of mys 
 terious power which had filled her when she went up to 
 Lily and said : "I can cure you" . . . She got up and 
 stood before Sir Hector, looking down upon him. 
 
 "If you hadn't made me a promise/' she said, "would 
 you have sent for me?" 
 
 Sir Hector opened his eyes. 
 
 "I have sent for you," he replied, with a touch of his 
 old commanding brusqueness. "That's enough. But 
 please keep it quiet. I hate people to knew I am ill. If 
 you put me right that's another matter." 
 
 "If I do I will ask you to give me another promise 
 never to tell anyone, either that you were ill or that I 
 was able to help you." 
 
144 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "And young West?" he said, faintly, but with a 
 strange half smile on his lips. 
 
 "Fernol? Why should Fernol ever know? Now, 
 please give me your hands." 
 
 That evening Olivia telephoned to the Savoy Hotel 
 and asked for Fernol West. She feared that he might 
 not be in, but almost directly she was put through to 
 him. 
 
 "It is Olivia speaking," she said. 
 
 "Oh!" said Fernol's voice at the other end. "Are 
 you all right?" 
 
 "Yes. Have you anything to do this evening?" 
 
 After a perceptible pause Fernol's voice answered : 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Will you come round and have a talk, then? I'm 
 all alone." 
 
 Again a pause, then the voice : "All right. I'll come." 
 
 Olivia put the receiver up and looked at her watch. 
 It was half-past eight. If Fernol started at once he 
 would be with her in ten minutes. She wondered whether 
 he would start at once. She had received through the 
 telephone an impression of reluctance. But, of course, 
 he would come. She sat down, took up the book of 
 Tagore, which he had given her, and tried to read. It 
 was essential that she should be serene, complete mistress 
 of herself to-night. Any turmoil of spirit must weaken 
 her. She must banish anxiety, suspicion, and, above all, 
 fear. She must control thought. 
 
 "He will be better to-morrow," she said to herself. 
 "I know that. He's getting better now. To-night he's 
 going to sleep calmly. He will wake refreshed, free 
 from headache, free from malaise. The headache will 
 have left him. He will be much better." 
 
 She put down her book and insisted on these strong 
 and hopeful thoughts. Fear disintegrates. Suspicion 
 does harm to her who suspects. Doubt is destructive. 
 Faith can move the mountains. Presently she sent her 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 145 
 
 mind to Palestine, to dwell in imagination by the deli 
 cate shores of Galilee. When she had read the Bible, 
 very often she had wondered at the lack of faith shown 
 by many of those among whom Christ wrought His 
 miracles. "If I had been alive then," she had said to 
 herself, "I should have been one of the first to believe, 
 and I should never have wavered in my faith." Now 
 she wished to think herself back into that mood of ro 
 bust and glorious confidence. She looked into the fire 
 and trod the ways of the Holy Land with Christ. "Only 
 believe !" What is impossible to God ? And God works 
 through men and women, sends His spirit a double 
 portion of it into those who wait for it, and are eager 
 to receive it. He had helped her to heal, and He would 
 help her to heal again. Through Him she could walk 
 on the waters. But if once she let fear invade her, com 
 plete trust desert her, she would sink in them. They 
 would sweep over her. She would drown. . . . 
 
 Presently she moved and looked up. She had made 
 a strong effort of mind and will and she felt almost tired. 
 She glanced again at her watch. It was twenty minutes 
 past nine. And Fernol had not come yet. She was 
 beginning to wonder whether he would come, in spite 
 of his "All right!" when the door bell sounded. She 
 got up, but she did not go at once to the door. Some 
 thing held her back. She waited, looking towards the 
 passage. The door bell sounded again. Then she 
 turned out the electric light with the exception of one 
 lamp in a corner, walked down the passage and opened 
 the door. 
 
 Fernol West was standing outside. The night was 
 cold, and he was wrapped up in a big fur coat with the 
 collar raised to his ears. 
 
 "Well, Olivia!" he said. 
 
 His blue eyes were fixed upon her, and she noticed 
 that instead of moving he stood quite still where he was, 
 almost like a man who doubted whether he would be let 
 in. 
 
146 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Good evening, Fernol. Come in. How late you are. 
 I'd almost given you up." 
 
 "Am I late?" he said. 
 
 He stepped in and she shut the door. 
 
 "Take off your coat. I've got a good big fire." 
 
 "That's splendid. It's horribly cold. I walked." 
 
 He went to hang up his coat. 
 
 "Why didn't you take a cab?" 
 
 "I wanted air." 
 
 The words recalled to Olivia Sir Hector's description 
 of Fernol standing by the dining-room window in Cado- 
 gan Square with the curtain pulled back. 
 
 "Don't you get enough in the day?" she asked. 
 
 "Not always." 
 
 He had hung up his coat. As he turned round from 
 the hook he shivered. 
 
 "It's cold!" he exclaimed. "Let's get to the fire." 
 
 "Yes. You'll soon be splendidly warm. ... Sit down 
 here close to it." 
 
 She drew forward an armchair. For the first time 
 with Fernol she felt embarrassed. She knew why, but 
 she did not wish him to notice it. He sank down in 
 the chair with a boyish sort of flop, and stared into the 
 flames. She sat on the sofa and took up a piece of work. 
 
 "Smoke if you like." 
 
 "No, thank you, Olivia. I'm off smoking." 
 
 "Why's that?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Nothing wrong with you, I hope?" 
 
 "Wrong!" 
 
 He shot a side glance at her. 
 
 "Why should there be?" 
 
 "I don't know. But you haven't been near me for 
 quite a long time." 
 
 "Just over a week." 
 
 "Well, that's quite a long time for us." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is." 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 147 
 
 There was a pause. Then Fernol shifted his chair 
 round towards her. 
 
 "Since I've seen you I've dined with Sir Hector and 
 his sister," he said. 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Oh! YouVe seen them, then?" 
 
 "Sir Hector called here the next day." 
 
 "Did he? And he told you, of course? It was good 
 of him to ask me. But I can't stand Miss Burnington." 
 
 "I like her very much." 
 
 "You like everyone. It's your creed. But I can't. 
 I'd give my life for a friend, but some people " 
 
 He broke off and moved his hands nervously. 
 
 "I think I will smoke," he said. "D'you mind a 
 cigar?" 
 
 "No; anything you like." 
 
 He drew out and lit a cigar. She noticed that his left 
 hand was trembling. 
 
 "Are you still cold?" she asked. 
 
 "No; why?" 
 
 "Your hand is shaking." 
 
 He started. 
 
 "Give it to me for a moment." 
 
 "It's all right. I'll hold it to the fire." 
 
 He stretched his right hand out towards the flames. 
 
 "It's your other hand," said Olivia. 
 
 "Oh," he said brusquely. "Don't bother about me." 
 
 "Fernol, what is the matter with you? Why haven't 
 you been near me all these days? What's troubling 
 you?" 
 
 "Who's been talking to you about me?" he retorted 
 almost savagely. 
 
 "Nobody has mentioned you, except Sir Hector." 
 
 "And what did he say?" said Fernol, with an ugly 
 glance at her. 
 
 "Don't you like Sir Hector?" 
 
 "Yes. He's a real live man." 
 
148 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Well, you may be sure he has never said anything 
 against you." 
 
 "Have you seen him again since he called on you?" 
 
 "Yes. I saw him to-day." 
 
 Fernol was staring at her. Was it the light of the 
 fire which set two gleams in his eyes? 
 
 "To-day! Here?" 
 
 "No; I called at Cadogan Square." 
 
 Fernol said nothing, but continued to stare at her 
 like one who was fiercely expectant of something. Olivia 
 realised that he was in an acute state of nervous excite 
 ment, was quivering with anxiety, or under the lash of 
 some intense desire. Could he have got wind of Sir 
 Hector's illness? That seemed impossible since even 
 the servants in the Burningtons' house did not know 
 the truth. She was not a curious woman, but Fernol's 
 look, his whole manner, woke in her a strong curiosity 
 mingled with an under reluctance which was akin to 
 apprehension. Everything to-day seemed fighting against 
 her, fighting to beat down the strength which had made 
 her what she was, a woman who was of use in the 
 suffering world, one to whom the afflicted came, and 
 from whom they went away renewed. Even Fernol was, 
 perhaps unconsciously, attacking her, Fernol, who had 
 been one of her greatest joys, a piece of her handiwork 
 of which she had been humbly proud. She no longer 
 felt proud of him. To-night something in him forced 
 upon her a knowledge that was a deadly foe to her soul. 
 A voice within her said clearly again and again, "Fernol 
 is not cured. You thought him cured, but you were 
 wrong. Look at him, listen to him, and be sincere with 
 yourself. You know that you have not cured him." 
 
 At this moment, while Fernol was staring at her, 
 the voice was louder than before, the silent voice which 
 nothing can drown, not even the roar of Niagara. It 
 drove Olivia to greater frankness. She could not be 
 really frank to-night, because she had to keep the secret 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 149 
 
 of another, but she could surely clear away some of the 
 debris which divided her from Fernol. 
 
 "Fernol," she said, in a resolute voice. "You know 
 I believe very much in the force of thought, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I look upon thought as a weapon for good or evil. 
 A wicked thought, I believe, does harm to the thinker. 
 But that's not all. It may harm another too. It often 
 does. I am sure of that. Some of us are much stronger 
 in thinking than others. We can put much more force 
 into a thought than they can. I believe you and I are 
 strong in that way. I know you are. You can concen 
 trate tremendously. I feel it. And I feel it specially to 
 night." 
 
 "I don't know why you should," said Fernol uneasily. 
 
 "You and I are good friends. That links our minds 
 together perhaps. It helps me to feel your mind easily. 
 But to-night, though, I feel I don't know. I wish you 
 would help me to know. I've been afraid for some 
 time." 
 
 "Afraid! What of ?" 
 
 "That you might be led to think in a wrong way." 
 
 "What way, then?" 
 
 Suddenly Olivia resolved to tell Fernol the secret 
 which perhaps he had divined. An obscure instinct, of 
 which she was scarcely conscious, but to which she 
 yielded without a battle, a woman's instinct, drove her 
 to do this. But her cheeks flushed as she spoke. 
 
 "Fernol, I'm going to give you a proof of my friend 
 ship for you, and I know I can trust to your honour 
 never to speak of what I am going to tell you." 
 
 An expression that was like an expression of fear 
 changed Fernol's face. 
 
 "Don't you want me to tell you ?" she asked, startled. 
 
 Fernol passed his tongue over his lips and clenched his 
 hands together. 
 
 "Yes yes. Go on ! Go on !" he said, roughly. 
 
150 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Perhaps you know it already/' she said, seized with 
 hesitation. 
 
 His look and manner were so strange that they checked 
 the impulse within her. At her last words the boy's face 
 seemed to her to go white in the light from the fire. But 
 perhaps that was an effect of the flames. 
 
 "Know it!" he exclaimed. "How should I know it? 
 Of course I don't. . . . Well, what is it? Tell me 
 please!" 
 
 "I care very much for Sir Hector Burnington." 
 
 She stopped. He said nothing, and seemed to be wait 
 ing for something else. 
 
 "Do you understand what I mean ?" she said. 
 
 "You love him !" said Fernol. 
 
 "Yes. No one knows that but you." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "All!" 
 
 "Yes, or have you something more to tell me?" 
 
 "Isn't that enough?" 
 
 "Why do you tell me?" 
 
 "I thought I would." 
 
 "But why? I know you have a reason. What is it, 
 please?" 
 
 He spoke with a sort of dogged obstinacy which surely 
 was the child of apprehension. 
 
 "I am not sure." 
 
 She stopped and searched her mind. 
 
 "It was something there seemed something to clear 
 away from between us. And I want you to know how 
 anything which affects Sir Hector must affect me, be 
 cause of my feeling for him. I know very well that you 
 care for my happiness. I don't seek it in any selfish 
 way. Sir Hector only looks on me as a sincere sort of 
 woman trying to do her best with any powers she has. 
 I look for nothing more from him than that. He is 
 made for big work, not to love any woman. I have 
 no illusions about him none. Such happiness as I 
 can ever have in connection with him must lie in seeing 
 
THE LOST FAITH 151 
 
 him strong and happy and able to carry forward the 
 great things he is meant to do for his country. Now, 
 Fernol, I have bared my heart to you. It hasn't been 
 easy, but I have done it. Do something for me in re 
 turn." 
 
 "What is it you want me to do, Olivia?" he asked, 
 in a voice that for a moment was husky, as if he were 
 moved by some strong emotion. 
 
 "Promise me that you will never of course, I mean 
 in thought try to do harm to Sir Hector !" 
 
 "Why why should you suppose ?" 
 
 He stopped. He was no longer looking at her. 
 
 "We don't know exactly what a concentrated desire 
 may be able to accomplish. Lots of people would prob 
 ably say nothing, unless it were aided by some definite 
 action. But my own experience tells me it may accom 
 plish a great deal wonders even good things horrible 
 things. What is faith but a great concentration; a sort 
 of gathering together of the best forces of the soul? 
 When you came to me in Boston, and we were together 
 so many times in my little room there, and I saw how 
 dreadfully wretched you were, my one desire was to 
 get you right. It was so strong that it was almost like 
 an enormous physical effort which I made. I felt as if 
 I were standing up and fighting against the powers of 
 darkness for you. And I I thought I won." 
 
 "Thought!" Fernol exclaimed. "You did win!" 
 
 "Thank God if I did." 
 
 "Do you mean you have ever doubted it?" he said 
 passionately. 
 
 His cheeks were flaming, and he looked straight into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "I never doubted it in America." 
 
 "And here! What do you mean? How can you 
 say that what is there the matter with me? I'm per 
 fectly well. Anyone can see that." 
 
 "Don't be angry, Fernol. But just answer me one 
 question. Two or three times you have said to me that 
 
152 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 you wished Sir Hector could have a chance to carry out 
 his promise to me. You know that could only happen 
 if he were ill. Have you gone on wishing him to be ill? 
 Have you concentrated on that?" 
 
 "You always come first with me," he said obstinately, 
 looking down. "That's my idea of gratitude. You 
 condemn it, I know. But I can't help it. I can't be like 
 you." 
 
 "Then you have concentrated on an evil desire?" 
 
 "Why do you go into all this to-night? Is is there 
 anything the matter with Sir Hector?" 
 
 Something in Femol's expression as he asked this 
 question startled Olivia. She felt at that moment almost 
 certain that Fernol did know something of what had 
 happened in Cadogan Square. But her promise to Miss 
 Burnington prevented her from touching on the sub 
 ject. If she did touch on it, if she allowed Fernol to 
 pursue it any further, she would be unable to keep Sir 
 Hector's illness secret from Fernol. She was forced to 
 be something less than sincere. 
 
 "What I wish to say to you, Fernol, is this," she 
 said, ignoring his question. "If you care for me really 
 at all, if you wish to show gratitude to me, there is only 
 one way in which you can do it. Turn your mind from 
 evil desires. Put good desires in their place. Use your 
 strength only in a fine way. Wish well to Sir Hector. 
 I know you will now I have told you what was very 
 difficult to tell. I cannot bear that for me you should 
 become evil. It makes me feel that it would be better, 
 far better, if you had never seen me. If I produce evil 
 in you I must be an evil influence. I I hate to think 
 that of myself." 
 
 She was deeply moved as she spoke. Something that 
 had been firm seemed to be crumbling beneath her feet. 
 
 "Good night, Fernol," she said, after a pause. "I want 
 to be alone now." 
 
 He stood looking at her in silence, but he did not move. 
 
 "Please go," she said. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 153 
 
 "Yes. But say that you know you did cure me first." 
 
 "You could not be fanatical about me if you were 
 thoroughly normal/' she answered, looking at him with 
 steady, sad eyes. "The sane mind in the sane body is 
 never fanatical." 
 
 "Then you think I am mad?" he cried, bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, Fernol, it's no use perhaps we are both exag 
 gerating things to-night. Don't let us talk any more. 
 Now, good night." 
 
 She took his reluctant hand. 
 
 "Give yourself to good thoughts and all will be well, 
 dear Fernol. Send good thoughts to me and to him 
 too. Perhaps we both need them." 
 
 "It would be no use," he said, almost in a whisper. 
 "But, anyhow, I would die for you." 
 
 He wrung her hand, hurting her. But she did not 
 wince. 
 
 "Do you believe it?" 
 
 "I don't want you to die. I want you to live and be 
 fine." 
 
 "Perhaps some day you'll " 
 
 He did not finish his sentence but left her. She heard 
 him in the passage taking his heavy coat down from 
 the hook. Then there was a long silence. No doubt 
 he was putting his coat on. But the silence lasted till 
 she was surprised at it and wondered what could be 
 happening. 
 
 "What are you doing, Fernol?" she called out, with 
 out going to the door. 
 
 Instantly she heard a movement. Then the outer door 
 was opened and shut. He had gone. 
 
 "He's sick he's sick!" said the voice within her. 
 "The man you love is ill in body and the boy you thought 
 you had healed is ill in mind and soul. You never healed 
 him. You can't heal. You haven't the healing power. 
 Perhaps you had it once, but it's left you. It came to 
 you, it stayed with you a little while, and now it has de 
 serted you. You're an empty vessel. You're worse 
 
154? SNAKE-BITE 
 
 you're a humbug. You know you haven't got what you 
 claim to possess, and so you're a living lie." 
 
 As she listened to the voice, the faith within her was 
 shaken. It seemed to grow pale, to be fading away, to 
 be dying. And a sensation of despair seized her. But 
 she fought it. She recalled the many cures she had 
 made or was it had seemed to make ? in America, the 
 deep confidence she had inspired in women and men, the 
 gratitude which had been showered upon her. And then 
 she recalled the attacks which had been made upon her, 
 the cruel names she had been called, charlatan, humbug, 
 crank, self -deceiver. Self -deceiver ! Had she been really 
 that all through her career as a healer? Had she been, 
 as it were, self-hypnotised, and, because of that, had 
 she hypnotised others Lily first of all, and then many 
 suffering human beings ? She saw, as in a vision, a long 
 procession of those who had sought her out, headed by 
 Lily. Presently Fernol went by with his eyes bent down 
 to the ground, as if he dared not let her see what was 
 in them; and long after him Miss Burnington with a 
 sceptical smile on her lips. She had not believed. Per 
 haps her brains were too strong, too penetrating, to be 
 tricked. And last of all strode Sir Hector, with his 
 mien of bronze, and his strange glazed eyes. And he 
 looked at her, and his motionless lips seemed to be say 
 ing : "I am the great test. Cure me and all will believe. 
 But if you fail, death is waiting for me, and you will 
 have been my murderer." 
 
 Then, in her fight to bring back red life to the fading 
 faith, she told herself that the reason of this hideous 
 collapse was that she had been less, or more, than a 
 woman, and that now she was just a woman. She had 
 loved, or thought she loved, humanity, the mass of 
 created beings, with their affections, their sorrows, their 
 terrors, their yearning desires; now she loved one man. 
 And he blotted out humanity from her view ; he expelled 
 humanity from her heart. She knew the narrowness of 
 a great love. Her widely diffused power of sympathy 
 
THE LOST FAITH 155 
 
 had shrunk. She saw it as a burning spark, minute but 
 fierce with the terrible fierceness of fire. She would let 
 the world go for one man. 
 
 But she would not let him go. She would not fail 
 in the job he had set her, the greatest job a woman who 
 loves can have. Exactly how much he believed in her 
 power she did not know. He was a difficult man to 
 read. He had never been ill before, and perhaps even 
 now, in spite of his assertion that the pace was quick 
 ening, could not realise that at the end of the path he 
 was treading death might be waiting. Such a man is 
 apt to have the illusion that he is invulnerable, until old 
 age leads him by almost imperceptible degrees to cessa 
 tion. He was paying a debt. But if he got worse? If 
 the knowledge were forced on him that he was in the 
 hands of a loud-mouthed impotence? She would give 
 it all up before that moment came. She herself would 
 proclaim herself helpless. 
 
 But she shivered when she thought of making such 
 an acknowledgment to such a man. What a contempt 
 he would have for her. If she was not what she claimed 
 to be, she was far less than the unknown millions who 
 had made no claim to be other, or more, than their 
 brethren. She was only an assertive nothingness. Her 
 cheeks burned at the thought of being found out to be 
 that by the man whom she loved. She could not bear 
 it. Women can bear so much, but there is the impossi 
 ble the one thing that cannot be endured. And that 
 would be the impossible for her. 
 
 Suddenly she wished she had medical knowledge. She 
 could have used it to back up her mysterious power. 
 (She was trying to smother the voice.) Sir Hector's 
 words recurred to her mind. "I should say it's all very 
 much like the beginning of enteric." Possibly, if a doc 
 tor Sir Mervyn had been summoned he would have 
 diagnosed the case as one of enteric fever. And then 
 he would have done certain things. What things? She 
 wished she had a medical book handy. That would tell 
 
156 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 her a good deal of what she needed to know. Her eyes 
 fell on a bookcase against the wall of the little room near 
 
 the door. It was not likely that She went over to 
 
 the bookcase. 
 
 "Sir Walter Scott's novels"; "Shakespeare's Works"; 
 "The Mill on the Floss"; "The Sorrows of Satan"; 
 "Shelley's Poems"; "Wuthering Heights"; "The Life of 
 Goethe" 
 
 She read on and on till she came to the bottom shelf, 
 which was larger than any of the others. 
 
 "Chambers's Dictionary." 
 
 There were many volumes. She sought eagerly for 
 the letter E, found it, and drew out the heavy book. 
 
 "Enteric Fever see Typhoid Fever." 
 
 She sought again, and found what she wanted. 
 
 Presently she laid the book she had been reading down 
 upon her knees. What was the matter with Sir Hector ? 
 Was he sickening for typhoid ? From what she had just 
 read she judged that possibly, even perhaps probably, he 
 was. Yet the disease was rarely met with after middle 
 life. He was between fifty and sixty, and tremendously 
 strong. It seemed very unlikely that, living as he did in 
 excellent hygienic conditions, he would be stricken by 
 such a disease. Since she had read about typhoid, her 
 former preoccupation about Fernol's state of mind 
 seemed almost absurd to her. Ill-wishing could not pro 
 duce an illness which science had long ago proved to be 
 caused by an organism. And yet she could not get rid 
 of the feeling that somehow Fernol's peculiar concentra 
 tion on her was harmful, or might be harmful, to Sir 
 Hector. Whenever she thought of either, the other 
 came up in her mind immediately. The great man and 
 the excitable boy were inexorably linked together. Her 
 instincts were at work in the matter. She knew that, 
 and she had long ago learned that instinct is greater 
 than reason. The fact that Fernol's openly and vehe 
 mently proclaimed wish that Sir Hector might fall ill had 
 been so quickly followed by his illness was a very strange 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 157 
 
 coincidence, and Fernol's behaviour troubled her terribly. 
 He was certainly concealing something from her. His 
 eyes were furtive. His whole manner suggested acute 
 uneasiness. All his former frankness and joyousness 
 had left him. What was the matter with him? What 
 did he know about Sir Hector? What was he expecting? 
 He seemed to be quivering with some secret expectation. 
 
 She looked down again on the book and her eyes fell 
 on the words: "The pupils are generally somewhat 
 larger than normal." A little lower down she saw the 
 brief statement: "Death may take place by coma, by 
 exhaustion, in consequence of severe hemorrhage of the 
 bowels or of perforation of their coats, or from pneu 
 monia or some other complication ; rarely from any cause 
 before the second week." 
 
 Perhaps the second week of the illness had begun. 
 Sir Hector had told her that he thought "it" was just 
 beginning the day after Fernol had dined with him. 
 
 Suddenly Olivia turned white and cold. A horrible 
 thought had come upon her like an enemy. She hated 
 it. She was indignant with herself for being able to 
 hold it in her mind. Quickly she shut up the dictionary, 
 put it back on the shelf, turned out the lamp, and went to 
 her bedroom. But the horrible thought went with her, 
 poisoning her mind, doing harm surely to her soul. She 
 did not know how to get rid of it. She undressed, 
 wrapped herself in a dressing-gown and knelt down by 
 her bed. She wanted to pray, but though for years she 
 had practised thought-control and had achieved an un 
 usual mastery of the mind, to-night she was like a city 
 invaded by a horde of brutal enemies. It was as if she 
 heard the tramp of their feet in the night, saw the glare 
 of their incendiary fires. She knew the impotence of 
 the conquered. In vain she tried to concentrate on God 
 and her close connection with Him. Fernol rose up be 
 fore her. She saw a glass of wine set on a white cloth ; 
 Fernol standing by a window holding back a curtain; 
 Sir Hector entering the room. But it was impossible. 
 
158 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Such a thing was impossible. She crushed her face down 
 in her hands. How could such a punishment come upon 
 her when she had always exerted herself for good? Al 
 ways she had aimed at helping people and not at self- 
 advancement. She could not accuse herself of trying to 
 become rich, or of the more subtle endeavour the at 
 tempt to win notoriety or glory. A certain fame had 
 been hers in America; but, honestly, she could say that 
 she had not sought it. She was not conscious of being 
 an egoist. Then, surely, such a fearful punishment as 
 she had just conceived of could not be meted out to her. 
 When she looked around her she certainly saw much 
 apparent injustice in the fates of men and women ; never 
 theless, she had always believed in the Divine justice, 
 and it would be a refinement of injustice that could bring 
 about, or even allow to be, what she had just thought of, 
 was thinking of now in spite of all her efforts to drive 
 it out of her mind. Something unhealthy in Fernol must 
 have infected her to-night. But her mind was not read 
 ing his when it had formed that hideous surmise. 
 
 A something disturbed her. She did not know what 
 it was, but she lifted her head from her hands and 
 listened. It was surely some sound in the flat. Pres 
 ently she felt, rather than heard it again. She won 
 dered what it could be. She had an odd feeling that 
 there was someone near her, either attending to her in 
 some peculiar way, or trying to tell her something. Sir 
 Hector! She sprang up and stood still. Perhaps he 
 had suddenly become worse; was wishing her to be with 
 him. Perhaps Miss Burnington was sending for her. 
 She thought first of dressing quickly, and went to her 
 wardrobe. But just as she was opening its door she 
 was again aware of some muffled and yet near sound. 
 This time she went out into the passage. And imme 
 diately she heard distinctly the telephone bell in the draw 
 ing-room. It must be that Sir Hector was worse. She 
 ran down the passage, went into the drawing-room, and 
 took down the receiver. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 159 
 
 "Yes yes? What is it? Is he worse? Shall I come?" 
 she said. 
 
 She was so obsessed by the idea that the message 
 was from Cadogan Square that she did not think of im 
 prudence till she heard Fernol's voice saying : 
 
 "It's I Fernol. What's the matter?" 
 
 "Fernol!" she said. 
 
 "Yes. Is who worse?" 
 
 "What, Fernol?" 
 
 "Is who worse?" 
 
 "I I thought it might be someone of those I have 
 been treating. What is it you want? I was going to 
 bed." 
 
 "Sorry I disturbed you. I just wanted to tell you I 
 know very well what you were thinking about me to 
 night." 
 
 She fancied that there was a sinister sound in the 
 voice that was speaking. 
 
 "I I don't think I understand," she said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do. You were thinking I was wrong 
 in the head mad, in fact. But you're mistaken. I'm as 
 sane as you are. Good night." 
 
 "Fernol," she said. "Fernol!" 
 
 But she was cut off. 
 
 After this she made no further attempt to pray. She 
 no longer even tried to control her thoughts. She let 
 herself go to thought and to emotion as heedlessly as 
 a terrified girl. There was no longer firm ground be 
 neath her feet. Femol's reiterated allusion to madness, 
 his uncalled-for assertion of sanity, drew her on to the 
 contemplation of a possibility so awful that it banished 
 sleep. And she lay awake all night, companioned by 
 fear. Towards dawn she got up, went to the drawing- 
 room^ took down the volume of the dictionary which 
 contained the article on typhoid fever, and, returning to 
 bed, studied it minutely till the murky daylight of Lon 
 don filtered into the room. She even committed a great 
 part of it to memory, learning with a feverish intensity 
 
160 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 of concentration which she had never been able to sum 
 mon up when studying for an examination in the days of 
 her youth. And all the time that she was learning the 
 silent voice kept repeating: "You hypocrite! You 
 hypocrite!" The words ticked in her brain as a clock 
 ticks in a lonely room. But she defied them. A great 
 life, perhaps, was at stake, and the whole of her happi 
 ness. One sentence which she read she knew she could 
 never forget it, even if she lived to be very old was as 
 follows : 
 
 "No drug is known to cure the disease; and in 
 many cases none is required." 
 
 She clung to that sentence; she cherished it in her 
 mind. As she dressed, while she breakfasted she forced 
 herself to eat as usual she repeated it over and over; 
 to her it meant this: "A doctor would be of no use to 
 him ; I can do all that a doctor could do." She thanked 
 God for that sentence. 
 
 After breakfast she walked to Cadogan Square. She 
 had sent a message to the Bureau to say she could not 
 go there either in the morning or afternoon. She had 
 resolved to give all her strength, all her powers, to Sir 
 Hector. She knew she had nothing to give to anyone 
 else. 
 
 The day was brilliantly clear, but intensely cold. She 
 welcomed the sharpness of the air as a tonic. Although 
 she had had no sleep, she felt violently alive. As she 
 walked, by way of the Park, and then down Sloan Street, 
 she strove to gather her forces together. She had re 
 solved what to do. She meant to remain in the house 
 all day, to spend the night there if necessary, to take 
 charge of the case like a doctor as well as like a healer. 
 She would fill Miss Burnington with confidence in her. 
 She was bracing herself for the fight of her life. There 
 was no longer any question in her mind of giving in, 
 of acknowledging that she was doubtful, of yielding her 
 
THE LOST FAITH 161 
 
 place to Sir Mervyn or anyone else. A change in her had 
 come with the sleepless night. The fibre of her nature 
 seemed to have hardened under the stress of the agony 
 she had gone through. There are crises in which the 
 human being either breaks down or becomes fierce and 
 almost brutally defiant. Olivia had not broken down. 
 But something tender and beautiful in her, something 
 sincere and very delicate, seemed to have snapped like 
 a string drawn too tight. Fernol's visit had made her 
 for the moment unscrupulous. He had put fear in her, 
 and in fighting down fear she had caught something of 
 the brutality of the soldier in battle. 
 
 When she reached the house in Cadogan Square, and 
 was waiting for the door to be opened, she said to her 
 self: 
 
 "He has slept well. He is better to-day. The illness 
 is leaving him." And when the footman came she was 
 smiling. 
 
 She wished him "good morning," and went upstairs. 
 Miss Burnington met her on the first landing. 
 
 "He's better, isn't he?" said Olivia. 
 
 "Please come in here before you go up to him," said 
 Miss Burnington in a low voice. 
 
 She shut the drawing-room door carefully. Then she 
 said: 
 
 "Miss Traill, why did you tell Mr. West my brother 
 was ill?" 
 
 "But I haven't told him." 
 
 "Haven't you seen him since you were here yester 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes. I saw him last night." 
 
 "He called early this morning to ask how my brother 
 was. I didn't see him. The footman said as far as he 
 knew there was nothing the matter but a slight cold. 
 You must have said something." 
 
 Olivia explained how she was startled by hearing the 
 telephone, and wflat she had said exactly before she knew 
 Fernol was speaking. 
 
162 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "I am very sorry," she said. "But I never mentioned 
 your brother's name/' 
 
 "But he guessed who it was. Why was that?" asked 
 Miss Burnington. 
 
 As she spoke she looked at Olivia with suspicion in 
 her eyes. There was something of half-veiled hostility 
 in her look and manner. 
 
 "How can I tell? I never even hinted to Fernol that 
 there was anything wrong with your brother." 
 
 "Then it's very strange." 
 
 Miss Burnington paused. 
 
 "I don't like Mr. West," she said, after a moment of 
 silence. "I know he's your friend, but there's something 
 in him I shrink from. I think he's abnormal in some 
 way. If people like him find out that Hector is ill, I 
 can't answer for what I might do." 
 
 "I don't understand you." 
 
 "Hector is worse this morning. He's had a very bad 
 night. I shan't be able to allow this sort of thing to go 
 on much longer." 
 
 Olivia knew now she was speaking to an enemy. 
 
 "You visit my brother," continued Miss Burnington. 
 "You keep the doctors out by doing so. But have you 
 any idea what is the matter with him ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Olivia firmly. 
 
 "Then, what is it?" 
 
 "I shall be more certain to-day. You must not think 
 that because I am only a healer I know nothing about 
 illness." 
 
 "Have you ever studied either medicine or sur- 
 gery?" 
 
 "Not as doctors do, but " 
 
 "Exactly!" interrupted Miss Burnington. "You 
 haven't. You know nothing of the science. And yet 
 you dare to take chances with such a life as my broth 
 er's ! I speak strongly, but I can't help it. I feel strongly.. 
 I must tell you this, Miss Traill: if anything should 
 
THE LOST FAITH 163 
 
 happen to Hector you will be held responsible by public 
 opinion and by me." 
 
 "I will take the risk. He trusts me. That is enough 
 for me." 
 
 "I suppose you realise that, if Hector doesn't get bet 
 ter, it will soon be impossible to keep his illness from the 
 public. It will get into the papers. It will go all over 
 the world. And the fact of your presence by his bed 
 side " 
 
 "Isn't he up?" Olivia interrupted sharply. 
 
 "No not to-day. . . . The fact of your presence by 
 his bedside will be a public scandal. It will make my 
 brother ridiculous in the eyes of the world, and I'm 
 afraid it will make you odious." 
 
 "You are trying to frighten me, but I am not to be 
 frightened. I have too much faith in myself." 
 
 "Do you really believe in yourself?" said Miss Burn- 
 ington. And she looked at Olivia as if she would probe 
 into the depths of her, would drag into the light her 
 sincerity or insincerity. 
 
 "I have always believed in myself. And your brother 
 must believe in me or he would call in the doctors." 
 
 "He has always hated doctors. And he's tremen 
 dously obstinate. But you can bring him to reason. Re 
 fuse to treat him. Tell him you think it is very serious 
 and he ought to call in a doctor, and I'm sure he will 
 do it." 
 
 "Yes, and put me down as the humbug I am not ! No, 
 Miss Burnington, I will not do that." 
 
 "Well, if it all becomes known the whole jvorld will 
 laugh at my brother. I know what people are. A great 
 soldier, a great public man in the hands of the faith heal 
 ers! It would ruin Hector. No man's reputation can 
 survive that sort of thing. If you are ready to gamble 
 with his life at least pause and think before you gamble 
 with his reputation." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Olivia, with a sort of cold obsti 
 nacy which concealed a turmoil of emotion. "I under- 
 
164 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 stand your anxiety. It makes you rather cruel to me, 
 but I suppose that is natural. So I won't resent it. No 
 one can care more for your brother's safety, for his 
 future, for his honour and fame than I do " 
 
 "Are you of his blood, then ?" interrupted Miss Burn- 
 ington, with uncontrollable bitterness. 
 
 "No, but I " Olivia broke off, startled by the wild- 
 ness of her own imprudence. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Traill?" 
 
 "I have his interests and his safety at heart. Indeed 
 indeed I have." 
 
 "Well, I will say no more. But I warn you that, in 
 certain eventualities, I shall act on my own responsibil 
 ity. I shall defy my brother's wishes, even his orders. 
 Although I am only a woman, I have something of his 
 obstinacy, and I shall not let him die without showing 
 it." 
 
 "Die!" said Olivia, struck by the word as by a blow 
 in the heart. 
 
 "Yes die." 
 
 The two women gazed at each other for a moment, 
 and in that moment Miss Burnington read Olivia's secret. 
 
 "He is going to recover," said Olivia, with a strong 
 effort to control herself. "I know it. I am not afraid 
 either for him or myself." 
 
 "Very well!" said Miss Burnington, with icy cold 
 ness. "Please go to him. Shall I take you up ?" 
 
 "No, don't trouble. Is it the door next to the sitting- 
 room ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I know it." 
 
 And she left the room. 
 
 As she ascended the stairs she felt as if the devil went 
 with her. Never before had she been conscious in this 
 sharp way of the evil within her. Perhaps, blinded by 
 self-conceit, she had thought that she was one of the ex 
 ceptional people who are naturally good. But now 
 she could not help it, she thought she was deliberately 
 
THE LOST FAITH 165 
 
 giving herself to evil. The strange thing was that her 
 love drove her down the broad path. It was her love 
 which had waked in her defiance, insincerity, fear, selfish 
 ness, even hardness. It was her love which had changed 
 her into a humbug. She felt at that moment that she 
 would do anything, risk anything, rather than acknowl 
 edge that she had no more real faith in herself. She 
 knew that she ought to say to Sir Hector, "I thought I 
 had cured Fernol West, but I was wrong. I know that 
 now, and it has shaken my belief in my healing power. 
 Your health is more precious than his. I have no right 
 to try to do for you what I have failed to do for him." 
 When she reached the door of his bedroom she stood 
 outside for a moment. For a moment there was a strug 
 gle between the good and evil within her. For a moment 
 she was uncertain what she would do when she entered 
 the room. But her hesitation was short lived. She re 
 membered Sir Hector's quiet remark: "No considera 
 tion should be shown to failures." And when she opened 
 the door she had made up her mind to go on, even to 
 the edge of the precipice, even perhaps into the gulf. 
 
 Sir Hector was stretched on a narrow, very long bed 
 in a plainly furnished room. His face was turned to 
 wards her as she came in. She had set her face in an 
 expression of calm self-confidence. And as she looked 
 at him this expression did not change, though she saw 
 at once that he was much worse. His colour was ghastly ; 
 his features had sharpened; the torches of fever were 
 alight in his eyes. But he was apparently normal in 
 mind. The first thing he said to her was : 
 
 "It hasn't acted yet." 
 
 "The power? You must give it time. Miracles are 
 not worked in a moment." 
 
 She sat down by the bedside. 
 
 "In a case like yours, we must make use of every 
 means that can help." 
 
 "Means?" he said, moving restlessly on the pillow. 
 
 "Yes. You mustn't suppose that because I heal peo- 
 
166 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 pie without medicine or surgery I neglect elementary 
 precautions. That would be foolish, even wicked. Don't 
 you think so?" 
 
 "I can't think clearly," he said. "My head's too in 
 fernally bad." 
 
 "Don't bother about anything." 
 
 She laid her hand on his broad forehead. 
 
 "Just give yourself up to me and all will be well with 
 you." 
 
 "It seems deucedly odd to come to this," he murmured 
 through a sigh. 
 
 "Shut your eyes. I am going to try to get you to 
 sleep." 
 
 He shut his eyes obediently. When he did that she 
 was conscious of the child in him and knew her love 
 better. And the obedience of this man whom so many 
 had obeyed revived for a moment her belief in her power. 
 Surely such a man could not yield himself to her if she 
 were really impotent. He was a judge of men. Could 
 he be utterly deceived in a woman? She was suddenly 
 strengthened. Still keeping one hand on his forehead 
 she tried to pour all her soothing strength and her love 
 into it. And presently she saw he was sleeping. 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Burnington was in her bedroom put 
 ting on a hat and a warm fur coat. She had not in 
 tended to go out that morning while she waited for the 
 faith healer, but the scene with Olivia had driven her 
 to a resolve. She was, like her brother, decisive. Hesi 
 tation, prolonged mental debate, were foreign to her 
 nature. Before she came up to her bedroom she had 
 ordered her car to come round as soon as possible. With 
 in a very few minutes she was on her way to Harley 
 Street. Sir Mervyn Butler had never done her any real 
 good; Olivia, it seemed, had cured her. Yet now she 
 was hurrying to Sir Mervyn to ask his advice. Such a 
 proceeding might be unreasonable. Perhaps it was. She 
 did not trouble about that. For years she had been ac 
 customed to consult Sir Mervyn. He looked strong. She 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 167 
 
 liked him and she knew he liked her. And, besides, he 
 was a doctor and celebrated. After the painful scene 
 with Olivia, she felt she must see him. She knew that 
 the fact of her brother's illness must shortly get out. 
 Such a thing could not be kept secret for long. Sir 
 Mervyn was the model of professional discretion. She 
 knew of no one else to whom she could entrust her anx 
 ieties. 
 
 When she arrived at the doctor's house his waiting- 
 room was thronged with visitors. Of course, she had 
 no appointment, but the man-servant was certain that 
 Sir Mervyn would see her, although he was, as always, 
 "very much taken up." While she sat in the large hand 
 somely furnished room among the silent, or softly whis 
 pering, strangers, Miss Burnington felt a little less miser 
 able. Sir Mervyn hadn't cured her, but he must have 
 cured multitudes of others, or else why should he be so 
 famous? The sight of the crowd renewed her natural 
 woman's faith in doctors. There was something sub 
 stantial to rest upon. Olivia Traill what status had 
 she? And she dared to love Hector! Miss Burnington 
 was jealous of her brother. His long indifference to 
 women had given her a delicious sense of security. Often 
 and often she had thought to herself, "Hector only cares 
 for me." The knowledge that now another woman was 
 in possession of him made her heart burn with some 
 thing that was very like hatred. And yet, through it 
 all, she could not help being grateful to Olivia. That 
 day she held in her many emotions. 
 
 Twice the man-servant appeared and mysteriously 
 summoned an anxious being to the august medical pres 
 ence. A third time he opened the door, swept Miss Burn 
 ington with a sympathetic glance, raised his blonde eye 
 brows, and formed some cabalistic words with his large 
 and respectable lips. A moment later she was in Sir 
 Mervyn's sanctum. 
 
 He welcomed her cordially, yet with a definite touch 
 of friendly sarcasm. 
 
168 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "In spite of the descendant of the Apostles!" he said. 
 
 Miss Burnington blushed slightly. 
 
 "It's very good of you," she said, rather nervously. 
 "You might very well have refused to receive me, espe 
 cially without an appointment. But " 
 
 "I knew the headaches would come back," he inter 
 rupted, with a sort of bland pity. 
 
 "But they haven't," she acknowledged, almost like one 
 ashamed. 
 
 He looked largely taken aback, but quickly recovered 
 himself. 
 
 "That's well! That's well! Then what is it? The 
 nervous affliction has reappeared in some other part of 
 the organism?" 
 
 "Well no." 
 
 "Dear me!" 
 
 He cleverly hid his disapprobation and drowned his 
 appearance in intelligent inquiry. 
 
 "It's Hector." 
 
 "Sir Hector ! But he's never ill," said Sir Mervyn, with 
 a touch of not wholly ungenerous regret. 
 
 "He is very ill." 
 
 The great doctor leaned back in his chair with an ex 
 pression of almost fatalistic resignation, as one who bows 
 to the inscrutable decree of a doubtless benign Provi 
 dence. 
 
 And Miss Burnington developed her story. 
 
 He listened in silence till the end. 
 
 "And what do you wish me to do?" he then said, in 
 a very detached voice. 
 
 "How can we let this go on? It is madness." 
 
 "Of course it is. But you must remember you set the 
 example." 
 
 "I know and I blame myself bitterly." 
 
 "Don't distress yourself. The young woman has colos 
 sal determination and push, like all these successful 
 frauds. Their stock in trade is small but effective; com 
 plete ignorance, unbounded self-confidence, a plausible 
 
THE LOST FAITH 169 
 
 tongue, and a hide of brass. I'm afraid I can't consent 
 to meet her in consultation." 
 
 "You surely can't suppose " 
 
 She stopped, as if unable to make mention of such an 
 outrage. 
 
 "No," she went on. "But couldn't you come to the 
 house this evening she's sure to be there still and see 
 Her, and try to bring her to a sense of the danger of the 
 position? Do, Sir Mervyn, if you still have any friend 
 ship for me. She might listen to you. She might be 
 afraid of you." 
 
 Sir Mervyn pursed his full lips meditatively. 
 
 "If she went on attending Hector and he were to die, 
 what would happen?" 
 
 "It would be a serious business for the young woman," 
 
 "Make her understand it. Frighten her." 
 
 "The matter requires thinking over." 
 
 "If you will only come, I will make Hector see you. 
 His illness is sure to get out in a day or two, and if 
 it gets into the papers that he's called in a faith healer, 
 what will people say ?" 
 
 "I fear they might say mind you, I don't pledge my 
 self that they will they might say that your brother was 
 not the most suitable choice that could be made for the 
 Viceroyalty of India." 
 
 "Exactly! We can't risk that. If you have any 
 friendship for me you will come." 
 
 "Very well !" said Sir Mervyn, after a suitable pause. 
 
 She took his large soft hand impulsively. 
 
 "That's good of you. But I knew you would. I knew 
 your generous nature. And, of course, you won't say 
 a word." 
 
 "Good Heavens, Miss Burnington !" 
 
 She left him feeling thoroughly rebuked but burning 
 with gratitude. 
 
 That afternoon, just after four, he arrived at Sir Hec 
 tor's house. 
 
 His mouth was set in a grim expression as he mounted 
 
170 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 the stairs to the drawing-room. He had a profound 
 veneration for science, and an active hatred of quacks. 
 He genuinely believed that Olivia was a conscious im 
 postor, and that Fernol West was a neurotic young mil 
 lionaire, whom she had probably hypnotised into the 
 delusion that she had cured him of some nervous dis 
 ease, and who doubtless supplied her with money. He 
 had come there that day determined to give her no quar 
 ter. He had already struck hard at her in the Press. 
 Now he had the chance of finishing her off in a personal 
 encounter. It was a great opportunity and it should not 
 find him wanting. 
 
 Miss Burnington joined him almost immediately, look 
 ing nervous, but determined. 
 
 "It is good of you !" she said. "You are a true friend 
 in need." 
 
 "I have the highest regard for you both. Is she still 
 here?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Do sit down for a moment. Take this 
 chair. I want to tell you something." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "You know that young man, Mr. West?" 
 
 "The neurotic boy she claims as a cure. I saw him 
 that once." 
 
 "Well, it's most extraordinary; he's been here again." 
 
 "Again?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't think I told you! He called early this 
 morning to ask how Hector was." 
 
 "Then he knows of this illness?" 
 
 "Evidently. Yet Miss Traill swears she never men 
 tioned my brother's name to him in connection with ill 
 ness." 
 
 Sir Mervyn smiled. 
 
 "You don't believe her?" 
 
 He smiled again, as if he considered that was quite a 
 sufficient answer. 
 
 "If she hasn't he must have guessed it somehow." 
 
 "That would be rather remarkable, wouldn't it?" 
 
THE LOST FAITH 171 
 
 "It's all inexplicable to me. Anyhow he called again 
 just now and made the most minute inquiries of the foot 
 man. He wanted to know what was the matter and 
 whether any doctor had been called in." 
 
 "And what was he told?" 
 
 "The footman said, according to his own account of 
 the interview, that he only knew that my brother was 
 keeping his room and that Miss Traill had been in the 
 house all day. Then, he said, the young gentleman 
 seemed quite satisfied and gave him a sovereign." 
 
 "Most extraordinary!" 
 
 "Isn't it? John has been with us since he was a 
 boy and would tell me everything. What do you think 
 of it all?" 
 
 "What can one think except that Miss Traill and this 
 neurotic young man are acting together ? She must have 
 told him something. I shall be very much surprised if 
 it isn't all in the papers to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Oh, Sir Mervyn! I must tell you one thing more. 
 Just before Hector was taken ill, Mr. West dined alone 
 with me and my brother. At dinner there was a dis 
 cussion about Miss Traill. Mr. West got very excited 
 because I said I couldn't be sure she had really cured 
 me of my headaches. (He had wanted me to acknowl 
 edge publicly that she had cured me.) Finally he asked 
 my brother whether if he were ill and Miss Traill seemed 
 to cure him Mr. West didn't say seemed Hector would 
 let the world know it." 
 
 "And what did Sir Hector say?" 
 
 "My brother said he would, and let them laugh at him 
 as much as they liked." 
 
 "Was your brother quite well at the time?" 
 
 "Perfectly well." 
 
 "And you say he became ill when ?" 
 
 "I thought he didn't look quite himself the very next 
 day. And from then on he grew gradually worse." 
 
 Sir Mervyn looked very grave. He sat in silence for 
 a moment while Miss Burnington watched him. 
 
172 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 At last he said : 
 
 "Had your brother ever said, or implied, that he might 
 possibly trust himself to Miss Traill if he ever were 
 ill?" 
 
 "He never said so to me, not in so many words. But 
 I think he believed Miss Traill had cured me, and when 
 he felt ill he told me he would have Miss Traill, and 
 that he had a debt to pay and was determined to pay it." 
 
 "He might have told her before he was ill that if he 
 ever were ill he would send for her," said Sir Mervyn. 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "And that young man " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "It's all very strange, isn't it?" said Miss Burnington. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What do you think?" 
 
 The doctor, who seemed sunk in deep thought, shifted 
 slowly in his armchair. 
 
 "When Mr. West dined with you, were you in the 
 room all the time?" 
 
 "Naturally that is, till I left him with my brother 
 to finish their wine." 
 
 "And then, of course, Sir Hector was with him." 
 
 "Hector came upstairs with me and went to the tele 
 phone for a minute." 
 
 "While Mr. West remained alone in the dining-room ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "Why do you ask me all this, Sir Mervyn?" Miss 
 Burnington said at last. 
 
 "Oh well! Put it down to professional curiosity." 
 
 "Professional!" 
 
 "Ah ! And now, can I see the young woman ?" 
 
 "I'll make her come down to you." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 "One moment! Suppose she refuses?" 
 
 "Surely she can't!" 
 
 "She might." 
 
THE LOST FAITH 173 
 
 "Then what do you advise?" 
 
 "If you'll allow me I'll write her a note." 
 
 He got up, went to the writing table, sat down, took 
 pen and paper, and wrote a few lines, which he enclosed 
 in an envelope. 
 
 "If she refuses you might give her that." 
 
 Miss Burnington took the note. 
 
 'Til do everything you tell me. Oh, I'm so thankful 
 you are here !" 
 
 And she hurried out of the room, while the doctor left 
 the writing table and went to stand by the fire. The 
 expression of grim sarcasm had left his powerful face. 
 As he gazed into the flames he looked profoundly 
 thoughtful and stern. 
 
 IV 
 
 It seemed a long time to Sir Mervyn before the door 
 opened and Olivia came in. She held his note in her 
 left hand and her face was white. When he turned from 
 the fire and saw her, he bowed grimly. 
 
 "I see you've read my note, Miss Traill," he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "So much the better. I'm here at the urgent request, 
 I might say on the insistence, of Miss Burnington." 
 
 "I know. She told me." 
 
 "Hadn't we better sit down? We've got to come to 
 an understanding." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Olivia sat down, and the doctor followed her ex 
 ample. 
 
 "What does this note mean?" she asked. "You say 
 in it, Tf you do not see me I shall be compelled to seek 
 information as to Sir Hector's condition elsewhere. I 
 shall be compelled to seek out your friend, Mr. Fernol 
 West.' What has Fernol West to do with Sir Hector's 
 illness? Sir Hector sent for me and I came. I have 
 a right to be here as he wishes it. I have never told 
 Fernol West about his illness." 
 
174 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "And yet he knows. He has just been here for the 
 second time to inquire about Sir Hector." 
 
 Olivia looked startled. 
 
 "Didn't Miss Burnington tell you about it?" said Sir 
 Mervyn. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then let me do so." 
 
 He repeated Miss Burnington' s account of the inter 
 view with the footman and the giving of the tip. While 
 he was speaking he kept his eyes fixed on Olivia, and 
 it seemed to him that beneath her rigid expression he 
 detected the shadow of a great fear. She sat without 
 moving till he had finished. Then she said : 
 
 "I can only repeat, I never told Mr. West that Sir 
 Hector was ill." 
 
 "Who did, do you think?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Perhaps it was unnecessary that anyone should tell 
 him," said Sir Mervyn, significantly. 
 
 After a moment of hesitation she said, slowly, and 
 with a sort of dull heaviness, 
 
 "How could that be ? Please tell me what you mean." 
 
 But he did not answer her question. 
 
 "Miss Traill," he said, with stern coldness, "don't 
 you think it would be wise to turn over this case to me ? 
 It is all very well to play about with neurotics. Nerve 
 cases may possibly be susceptible sometimes to sugges 
 tion. Wild, inconsequent boys may be influenced, for a 
 time, by a determined woman. But what can you hope 
 to achieve with a man of iron like Sir Hector? You 
 may perhaps kill him . . ." 
 
 "Oh, how dare you how dare you?" she interrupted, 
 with sudden passion. 
 
 ". . .by not treating him properly," pursued Sir 
 Mervyn inflexibly. "And even if you don't do that, you 
 may easily destroy his reputation as a man of common 
 sense, a man with a great brain, in the eyes of the world. 
 For once a man is laughed at he is diminished to the 
 
THE LOST FAITH 175 
 
 size of the ordinary fool in the sight of all those who 
 laugh at him. But cure Sir Hector of a dangerous ill 
 ness you can't. And you know that as well as I do. All 
 this faith healing bluff is perfectly useless. You have 
 nothing to gain in this house, and everything to lose. 
 For your own sake I advise you to go. If you do this 
 and if, when I examine the patient, I find no reason to 
 take any other course, I promise to let you alone/' 
 
 "No reason!" she said, in a low voice. "How could 
 there be a " 
 
 Her voice died away. She was looking at him, and 
 now he saw distinctly fear in her eyes. 
 
 "You think . . . you imagine that " 
 
 Again her voice failed, as if smothered by emotion. 
 A deep flush spread over her face and even down to 
 her neck. She bent her head like one moved almost be 
 yond endurance, clasped her hands tightly together, and 
 remained still for two or three minutes. And there was 
 something so terribly sincere in her look and attitude 
 that Sir Mervyn was taken aback in spite of himself, 
 and was conscious of pity mingled with a sudden per 
 plexity. As Olivia said nothing more, and the silence 
 at last became intolerable to him, he broke it by saying, 
 in a voice which he tried to make as hard and unemo 
 tional as possible, 
 
 "Now you have my promise, will you leave Sir Hector 
 in my hands?" 
 
 Then Olivia looked up. 
 
 "Tell me why you think I am here," she said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "To carry on your faith healing imposture, I suppose," 
 returned the doctor, trying to fight against the suddeii 
 change which he scarcely knew why had taken place 
 in his feeling towards her within the last few minutes. 
 
 "I have not been a humbug in my life," she said, with 
 intense earnestness. "I have believed in my power to 
 heal. I have believed that it was a gift made to me by 
 God." 
 
176 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "In that case you have been self -deceived. But that 
 doesn't make you any the less a public danger." 
 
 "I I will never bring danger to him," she said. Tears 
 stood in her eyes. 
 
 "You don't understand me at all," she added. 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "No; not at all. But how should you? Why should 
 I expect " 
 
 She got up. 
 
 "Please go up to him. You can tell him I asked you 
 to because I was afraid, perhaps, I wasn't capable 
 oi 
 
 She stopped. Sir Mervyn looked away from her. 
 
 "Very well," he said. "You have done the right thing 
 at last, Miss Traill." 
 
 He made a movement to go but she stopped him. 
 
 "I'll stay here. But you must come back and tell 
 me exactly what you think. I must know. I have a spe 
 cial reason. I've got to know what is the matter with 
 Sir Hector." 
 
 "Wait here then. I will come back presently." 
 
 He saw a sort of agony of inquiry in her eye? 
 
 "You promise to tell me whatever it is?" 
 
 The doctor hesitated. But something in her eyes over 
 came any reluctance which he felt. 
 
 "I will tell you," he said. 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 He left the room. As he went upstairs he wondered 
 at himself. This woman had made an impression of 
 sincerity even upon him. He found himself pitying her; 
 he even found himself liking her. 
 
 When he had gone Olivia walked about the room for 
 a few minutes, then stood at the window and looked out 
 into the square. 
 
 The twilight was falling over London. The darkness 
 of night was at hand. To-day, for the first time in her 
 life, she realised imaginatively the horror of darkness, 
 and she knew that she did this because there was dark- 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 177 
 
 ness in her own soul. As she gazed out of the window, 
 she understood that the human being carries everything 
 within those mysterious recesses which can never be fully 
 explored heaven and hell, light and darkness. 
 
 "What a mystery I am !" she thought. "And I used 
 to think I understood, even that I knew. I understand 
 nothing. I know nothing." 
 
 How incalculable are the human impulses! She 
 had entered that room a few minutes ago with the in 
 tention of fighting Sir Mervyn, in spite of the words he 
 had written, words which conveyed a scarcely veiled 
 threat. And now she had capitulated. And Sir Hector 
 would know it, would know that she had no faith in her 
 self, that she could not carry out her job, that she ac 
 knowledged herself to be a fraud. And yet she was not 
 a fraud, but a sincere and deeply loving woman. 
 
 There seemed to be no continuity in her any more. 
 Her purposes were divided, antagonistic. A hideous un 
 certainty replaced her old firmness and strength. She had 
 become the dwelling-place of warring emotions. Fear 
 had entered into her, the malady which carries disease 
 through every part of the soul. 
 
 Sir Mervyn's revelation of FernoPs second visit to the 
 house had changed a horrible suspicion into something 
 more definite, into a tremendous apprehension. Very 
 soon no doubt she would know the truth. Sir Mervyn 
 would tell her. She knew that an abominable thought 
 about her had entered his mind; she knew, or believed 
 she knew, when it had died there. He was no longer the 
 enemy he had been. But if he discovered something 
 terrible, what would he do? Would his foul suspicion 
 revive? It might. And then 
 
 She saw herself plunged in the mud of a hideous 
 scandal. 
 
 At last she came away from the window and sat down 
 near the fire. And there she remained for over an hour. 
 No one came to her. The house was silent, save for an 
 occasional footstep overhead. She had time and op- 
 
178 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 portunity for what seemed a lifetime of thought and 
 feeling. And all the time, through it all, she was wait 
 ing strung up like one accused of a crime for the verdict 
 She knew herself innocent, and yet she was weighed down 
 by a sensation of acute apprehension, almost of guilt. 
 At that moment she realised as never before the respon 
 sibility she had assumed when she undertook to heal 
 others. She had become answerable for Fernol. 
 
 Would Sir Mervyn never come down? What could 
 be happening upstairs? What could he be doing? She 
 thought of Sir Hector sleeping with her hand on his 
 forehead. He had only slept for a very short time, but 
 he had yielded to her influence. A painful jealousy in 
 vaded her as the time went on, tingled all through her. 
 She began almost to regret that she had abdicated. Per 
 haps all her fear and suspicion were ridiculous. Sud 
 denly it occurred to her that Sir Mervyn might have 
 come to the house that day with a deliberate policy. He 
 might have made up his mind to frighten her in order to 
 get her away from the patient. The medical profession 
 was notoriously prejudiced, and Sir Mervyn had shown 
 a special animosity against her ever since her arrival in 
 England, and even before he knew her. Besides, she had 
 perhaps cured the patient whom he had been unable to 
 cure. That fact alone was enough to make him hate her. 
 And as he had failed with Miss Burnington, he might fail 
 with Sir Hector. 
 
 She got up, threw his note into the fire, and went to 
 wards the door. She felt at that moment driven, and 
 capable almost of an act of violence. This prolonged de 
 lay was insupportable to her. She wished to put an end 
 to it. She would go up to the sick man's room and find 
 out for herself what was happening. But as she opened 
 the door she saw Sir Mervyn coming down the stairs with 
 Miss Burnington. At that moment she hated them both. 
 Her jealousy made her hate them. 
 
 She stopped. Miss Burnington came up to her. 
 
THE LOST FAITJI 179 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Traill," she said. "You have done 
 the right thing and I am grateful to you." 
 
 Olivia said nothing. She did not dare to speak lest 
 she should say something violent or horrible, something 
 unforgivable, which would oblige her to leave that house 
 and render her return to it impossible. Miss Burnington 
 looked at her in surprise, as if expecting some words from 
 her, and then added, 
 
 "I am going downstairs to give some directions. I 
 believe Sir Mervyn wishes to speak to you." 
 
 "Very well," Olivia forced herself to say. 
 
 Still looking surprised, Miss Burnington went on down 
 the stairs and Olivia returned to the drawing-room, fol 
 lowed by Sir Mervyn, who shut the door carefully be 
 hind him. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Olivia, as he came towards her. 
 
 "I am not certain yet, but I think he is probably in 
 the first stage of typhoid fever." 
 
 Olivia was conscious of a strange sense of deep relief, 
 as if a burden fell from her. But there mingled with it 
 a feeling of outrage. 
 
 "I thought it might be typhoid," she said. 
 
 "You didn't say so." 
 
 "What would have been the good ? What am I to say 
 anything to a doctor? But now, haven't you anything 
 to say to me ?" 
 
 The sense of outrage was growing in her. She felt it 
 burning her. 
 
 "To say ! Well, I suppose you realise now what would 
 have happened if a doctor had not been called in?" 
 
 "I didn't mean that at all." 
 
 "Please tell me what you did mean." 
 
 "Did you come here intending to frighten me?" 
 
 "I came here because I was asked begged to come." 
 
 "I daresay you did. But wasn't it your policy to 
 frighten me?" 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 
 "That note of yours for one thing." 
 
180 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Why should my note have frightened you?" 
 
 "What did you intend to convey by it?" 
 
 "Exactly what I wrote. If you had not come down 
 to see me, I should certainly have gone to see Mr. West." 
 
 "Why? What did you " 
 
 She paused. She felt like one on the edge of danger. 
 Yet something drove her to take the onward step. 
 
 "What did you suspect?" 
 
 The doctor hesitated. At last he said, 
 
 "Under the present circumstances I don't think it is 
 necessary to say." 
 
 "That means that you acknowledge how erroneous, 
 how how monstrous your suspicion was." 
 
 "You can interpret my meaning as you like," he re 
 plied coldly. 
 
 "Is that your idea of honesty? Is that the English 
 idea?" she said bitterly. 
 
 "I am not in the least ashamed of anything I have 
 done," he said, inflexibly. 
 
 "But that wasn't all. When I came down to see you 
 you hinted . . . you implied that . . . that ... I can't 
 say it!" 
 
 "Miss Traill, as you have brought up this very painful 
 subject, I am willing to say to you that I believe I have 
 made a mistake about you, though I consider it a not 
 wholly unnatural one. Since I have seen you to-day I do 
 believe in your bona fides. I thought you a conscious 
 charlatan. Now I think you merely a self-deceived 
 
 woman." 
 
 "I made him sleep only this very day when the fever 
 was on him." 
 
 "Indeed! For how long?" 
 
 "Not for long. But doesn't that show " 
 
 "It really is useless for us to argue about it. I con 
 sider all faith healing an absolute imposture." 
 
 "And Miss Burnington's cure?" 
 
 He replied to her question by another. 
 
 "And Mr. Fernol West's cure ?" he retorted. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 181 
 
 Olivia winced. Sir Mervyn saw it and mercilessly 
 pressed his advantage. 
 
 "What of that?" he said. "I have just told you that 
 I have come I scarcely know how or why to believe in 
 your honesty. Tell me- do you honestly believe you have 
 made that young fellow sound ?" 
 
 "I I thought I had. His parents, his friends, every 
 one thought I had." 
 
 "And do you think so still?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "That is honest," he said, almost with heartiness. 
 
 "You only met Fernol once. How can you " 
 
 "Miss Traill," he said. "I will match your honesty 
 with mine. To see a man like Mr. West once is enough 
 for anyone trained as I am, fortified as I am by a long 
 medical experience. Shall I tell you exactly what I think 
 about him?" 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "I think he's acutely neurotic. I'll go further. I 
 shouldn't be surprised if he has the seeds of madness in 
 him." 
 
 "Madness! Fernol!" she whispered. 
 
 He had put her fear into words, and by doing so had 
 given it a vehement life such as it had not had before. 
 
 "Why what has he done to make you think he is 
 mad?" 
 
 "I don't say he has done anything. I have no actual 
 proof of his madness. But have you never had the same 
 suspicion as I have?" 
 
 Olivia tried to say "no," but her lips made no sound. 
 
 "Such an accident as I understand he had, might easily 
 have an effect on the brain from which it could never 
 recover," said Sir Mervyn. 
 
 "Then do you still think but you say you believe it is 
 typhoid?" 
 
 "I think it probably is." 
 
 "Then " she paused, looking at him. 
 
 At this moment the drawing-room door opened and 
 
182 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Miss Burnington came in hurriedly, with a newspaper in 
 her hand. She looked greatly agitated. 
 
 "I've telephoned as you told me to," she said to Sir 
 Mervyn. "But oh, the worst that I feared has happened." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Look at this ! In the evening paper ! And I hear they 
 telephoned from the office some time ago to have it con 
 firmed before putting it in. Sidney answered and told 
 them it was nonsense, that my brother only had a slight 
 cold, but they have put it in all the same." 
 
 "Our Yellow Press!" said Sir Mervyn, taking the 
 paper from her. "Where is it ?" he asked. 
 
 Miss Burnington pointed to a paragraph. He read 
 it. 
 
 "This must be contradicted at once to-night," he ex 
 claimed. "Miss Traill read it. I shall want you to au 
 thorise a contradiction." 
 
 As he spoke he handed the paper to Olivia, and she 
 read the following words : 
 
 SIR HECTOR BURNINGTON AND THE 
 FAITH HEALER. 
 
 As we go to press we learn that the famous general, 
 Sir Hector Burnington, who has been mentioned as 
 the probable future Viceroy of India, has been seized 
 with sudden and severe illness. We are informed 
 that he has refused to call in a doctor and has placed 
 himself unreservedly in the hands of the American 
 faith healer, Miss Olivia Traill, whose name has been 
 so much before the public of late, and whose methods 
 have brought forth such severe condemnation from 
 the medical profession. This will be a hard blow for 
 the doctors. It will also probably come as a surprise 
 to the public, who, hitherto, have been under the im 
 pression that Sir Hector Burnington did not estimate 
 the capacity of women too highly. In our late edi 
 tion we hope to be able to state the exact nature of 
 the great general's illness. Our informant was un- 
 
THE LOST FAITH 183 
 
 able to satisfy our curiosity on this point. But that 
 Miss Olivia Traill is in charge of the case there is 
 no doubt whatever. 
 
 As Olivia looked up from the paper she met Miss Burn- 
 ington's eyes. 
 
 "If this isn't contradicted at once it will ruin Hector !" 
 said Miss Burnington bitterly. "What can we do ?" 
 
 Before either Sir Mervyn or Olivia could answer the 
 footman opened the door. Miss Burnington turned with 
 nervous abruptness. 
 
 "What is it, John?" 
 
 "A gentleman has called, Ma'am. He says he is a rep 
 resentative of the Evening Dispatch and begs to see you 
 for a moment. He also asked for Miss Traill, Ma'am." 
 
 "For Miss Traill? Did you tell him Miss Traill was 
 in the house?" 
 
 "He knew it, Ma'am. He said : 'I know Miss Olivia 
 Traill is in the house. Please ask her to give me a mo 
 ment. I shall only keep her a moment/ ' 
 
 "Oh, Sir Mervyn! What shall we " 
 
 "May I settle the matter?" said the doctor. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Please do what you think best." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 He turned to the footman. 
 
 "Please show the gentleman into the library, and say 
 that Sir Mervyn Butler, of Harley Street, will be down 
 to see him in a moment." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The footman went out. 
 
 "This visit is providential," said Sir Mervyn. "We 
 shall be able to get a dementi out at once and knock this 
 rumour on the head before the papers have time to turn 
 it into a sensation. But you must help us, Miss Traill." 
 
 "What do you wish me to do?" asked Olivia. 
 
 "I shall ask you to give me a written statement to take 
 to that man downstairs. Of course you realise who the 
 
184 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 informant mentioned here" he struck the paper with 
 his forefinger "must be?" 
 
 "I ? How should I know ? I have nothing to do with 
 it. When Sir Hector called me in I told him that if I 
 was able to cure him I should like him to promise me 
 never to tell anyone either that he was ill or that I had 
 been able to help him. If you don't believe me ask him." 
 
 Sir Mervyn and Miss Burnington exchanged glances. 
 
 "You really told him that!" said the doctor. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That was, I must say, very fine of you," he said. 
 "Very disinterested indeed." 
 
 "I only wanted to cure him, nothing but that." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," said Miss Burnington. "I'm 
 afraid I " 
 
 "Oh, please never mind!" said Olivia. "You have 
 both of you misunderstood me utterly." 
 
 There was an awkward silence, which the doctor broke 
 by saying, 
 
 "Surely you realise that the informant who gave this 
 information to the Press must have been Mr. West." 
 
 "Perhaps it was." 
 
 "Of course it was." 
 
 "How could I help it?" 
 
 "You couldn't. But only you can kill this rumour." 
 
 "But it was true." 
 
 "It isn't true now," said Miss Burnington. 
 
 "We must give out a statement which must go into the 
 paper to-night if possible," said Sir Mervyn, going over 
 to the writing table. "The only question is how to word 
 it." 
 
 He sat down, took a pen and drew a sheet of note- 
 paper towards him. 
 
 "If you will allow me, Miss Traill, I'll write down 
 what I think will do, read it out to you and then ask you 
 to copy and sign it." 
 
 "Very well," she said, in a dull voice. 
 
 Suddenly she felt tired. She longed to lie down, shut 
 
THE LOST FAITJI 185 
 
 her eyes and forget everything; forget her old enthu 
 siasms, forget her lost faith, forget Fernol West and the 
 devotion to her which had brought about this horrible 
 situation, forget even Sir Hector and her great love for 
 him. She knew that Sir Mervyn was right. She knew 
 that it must be Fernol who was responsible for the dread 
 ful paragraph which, perhaps, hundreds of people were 
 reading, and repeating to other hundreds at that very 
 moment. And she was scarcely able to doubt any longer 
 that Fernol was also responsible for something else 
 for something so terrible that the mere thought of it 
 would surely make her life hideous to her for ever. For 
 the first time she felt the burden of existence as a loath 
 some load which she longed to cast away from her. For 
 the first time she thoroughly understood the temptation 
 of suicide. 
 
 "Let me see !" said a meditative voice. 
 
 She looked across the room. Sir Mervyn had drawn 
 out a pair of spectacles rimmed with tortoise-shell and 
 perched them on his broad nose. Miss Burnington had 
 gone to stand near him and was looking over his shoulder. 
 She stared at them both, and they both seemed remote 
 from her. It was difficult for her to believe that this man 
 and this woman had anything to do with her. Sir Mer 
 vyn moved his lips, as if silently forming some words, 
 and frowned, wrinkling his ample forehead. Then he 
 bent over the paper and wrote, slowly, occasionally stop 
 ping for a moment to consider. Presently he paused and 
 turned towards Miss Burnington. 
 
 "Do you think that will do?" he said, in a low voice. 
 
 Miss Burnington bent nearer to the paper. 
 
 "Admirable!" she said, after a moment. "The very 
 thing." 
 
 "I think so. ... I think so!" 
 
 He looked across to Olivia over his spectacles. 
 
 "Miss Traill !" 
 
 Olivia heard a voice say "Yes." 
 
 "I'll just read out what I have written." 
 
186 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "You are listening, Miss Traill?" 
 Again the voice said, "Yes." 
 "This is it" 
 
 He cleared his throat, and leaning back in his chair 
 read in a loud and important voice: 
 
 "A paragraph in the 'Evening Dispatch' has just been 
 brought to my notice containing the statement that, seized 
 zvith sudden illness. General Sir Hector Burnington has 
 refused to call in a doctor, and has placed himself unre 
 servedly in my hands. I wish to deny emphatically tlwt 
 there is any truth in this statement. I am not attending 
 Sir Hector Burnington, who is being treated by Sir 
 Mervyn Butler, of 2 IB, Harley Street. I must ask you 
 to give this denial publicity. The fact that I have been to 
 Sir Hector Burningtoris house merely as a friend to in- 
 quire after his health has doubtless given rise to this 
 ridiculous rumour" 
 
 Sir Mervyn looked across again at Olivia. 
 
 "And then your signature," he said. 
 
 "You want me to sign that?" said Olivia. 
 
 "If you kindly will. And I shall ask you to copy it out 
 first. ... It must be in your own handwriting." 
 
 Olivia crossed the room slowly. Sir Mervyn got up 
 from the table. 
 
 "Here is the pen." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 She took it and sat down. For a moment the written 
 words swam before her eyes. Then they grew clear. She 
 began to copy them slowly and carefully. Sir Mervyn 
 and Miss Burnington, who at first had stood behind her, 
 left her and went softly over to the fireplace. She heard 
 them whispering together as she wrote. And she felt as 
 if she were writing her own condemnation. Presently 
 she came to the last sentence, to the final words: "this 
 ridiculous rumour." There she stopped. She still kept 
 
THE LOST FAITH 187 
 
 the pen in her hand ; she still leaned over the paper. Her 
 eyes stared at the word "ridiculous." That was what 
 she had become ridiculous; ridiculous in her own eyes, 
 and in the eyes of the man she loved. How had he 
 taken that confession of hers? She did not know that 
 yet. She looked across the room to those two figures 
 by the fire. They were no longer whispering together. 
 They were silent now, watching her. 
 
 "Is anything the matter, Miss Traill?" said Sir Mer- 
 vyn's voice. "Is there anything in the wording you ob 
 ject to?" 
 
 "Oh no! I have no right none to object to any 
 thing now. It is not true, of course, but how can I 
 object?" 
 
 "I don't understand. What is it then?" 
 
 And he came towards the writing table, looking curi 
 ously at her. 
 
 "What did he say when you told him ?" she asked. 
 
 "He?" 
 
 "What did Sir Hector say?" 
 
 "He was too ill to say much." 
 
 "But what did he say?" 
 
 "As far as I remember, he said, Very well if she can't 
 manage it, do the best you can/ " 
 
 "That was all?" 
 
 "He added, 'I was willing to pay my debt/ I think 
 his mind was beginning to wander." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 She leaned down over the paper, copied out the last 
 sentence, and signed her name at the bottom. 
 
 "Here it is !" she said, getting up. 
 
 Sir Mervyn took the paper and read it carefully. 
 
 "That's quite right. Thank you, Miss Traill. Now 
 I'll go down." 
 
 He turned to Miss Burnington. 
 
 "I shall only be a few minutes." 
 
 And he left the two women together. 
 
188 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Won't you come to the fire?" said Miss Burnington, 
 after a silence. 
 
 The voice was gentle, almost pleading. 
 
 "I am not cold, thank you." 
 
 "But do come and sit down. You must wait and just 
 hear the result of Sir Mervyn's interview with this man." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Olivia went over to the fire and sat down. 
 
 "I'm very sorry about all this very," said Miss Burn 
 ington in a quick, anxious voice. "I know you must 
 think me a most ungrateful woman. I am really dis 
 tressed. But but I love my brother very much. And 
 he is of such inestimable value to his country that I felt 
 obliged to do what I did. Can you understand? Can 
 you try to forgive me?" 
 
 "I understand," said Olivia. 
 
 "Anything I can do to show you how I feel about you 
 I will gladly do. If you think if it would be any good 
 I will say that I that I owe my own cure to you." 
 
 "You don't!" said Olivia. 
 
 "But surely " 
 
 "You don't. I can't heal anyone. I have no faith in 
 myself." 
 
 "But you don't mean to say " 
 
 "I say that I have deceived myself. I thought I pos 
 sessed a power which I didn't possess. You were quite 
 right not to believe in me. You saw what I didn't see, 
 what Fernol and the others didn't see. You needn't re 
 proach yourself. I didn't cure you. I didn't cure Fernol. 
 And I could never have cured your brother. I shall never 
 again attempt to heal anyone." 
 
 "I I am sorry!" said Miss Burnington, almost help 
 lessly. 
 
 Again the silence fell between them. It lasted a long 
 time. Olivia broke it at length by saying : 
 
 "Is he very ill?" 
 
 "I'm afraid he is. We've sent for a trained nurse. 
 Meanwhile, Sidney, his valet, a most devoted man, is 
 
THE LOST FAITH 189 
 
 with him. I shall go up directly Sir Mervyn comes 
 back." 
 
 "Many people recover from typhoid, don't they?" 
 
 "Yes. We we hope for the best." 
 
 Again the silence fell. And this time it lasted till Sir 
 Mervyn came back. 
 
 "It's all right," he said. "I found the young man quite 
 amenable. Your denial will appear in the late edition 
 to-night, Miss Traill." 
 
 "I am glad." 
 
 "And I've written and signed a bulletin which will be 
 affixed to the front door. That is necessary. There have 
 been several inquiries since I went down-stairs. Mr. 
 West has been again." 
 
 "Mr. West!" said Miss Burnington. "Did you see 
 him?" 
 
 "No. John told me. He came just as I was about to 
 go into the library. I forbade John to let him in, or to 
 trouble you about it." 
 
 "Does he know you are here?" 
 
 "Yes. I understand John had some difficulty in get 
 ting rid of him. But he's gone now." 
 
 Sir Mervyn looked at Olivia, who had sat in silence 
 during this short conversation with her eyes fixed upon 
 him. 
 
 "I think," he said, addressing Miss Burnington, "that 
 it would be well if you returned to your brother." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I'll go!" she said, getting up quickly. 
 
 "I'll follow you almost directly. I expect Nurse Swann 
 will be here in a moment." 
 
 Miss Burnington turned to Olivia. 
 
 "If I don't see you again to-night " she said. 
 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 Olivia took it 
 
 "Thank you for all you have done." 
 
 And she left the room. Then Sir Mervyn turned very 
 gravely to Olivia. 
 
 "I didn't wish to say anything about it to Miss Burn- 
 
190 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 ington. She has enough to trouble her already. And 
 I'm afraid undue excitement might make her ill again. 
 But I must tell you. John informed me that Mr. West 
 was in a very excited state when he called just now." 
 
 "Excited!" said Olivia. "How how did he show 
 it?" 
 
 "When he heard I was in attendance on Sir Hector 
 he became violent and wished to force his way into the 
 house. He demanded to see you. John was obliged to 
 get rid of him by telling him a lie." 
 
 "What lie?" 
 
 "John said you weren't here, that you had gone home." 
 
 "And then " 
 
 "He went away muttering angrily to himself. I'm 
 afraid we shall have trouble with him. There's no doubt 
 in my mind that a doctor ought to see him." 
 
 "Poor Fernol!" she said. "Poor Fernol!" 
 
 "It's a grievous business. Is he living quite alone?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "At the Savoy Hotel." 
 
 "It's difficult to know what to do. It would be worse 
 than useless for me to come into contact with him. He 
 has conceived a violent hatred against me no doubt. 
 He said as much to the footman. And I saw it that 
 evening I met him here. I think the best thing I can do 
 is to give you the address of a first-rate man in such 
 cases." 
 
 He took out a card and wrote on it a name and address 
 in pencil. 
 
 "You might communicate with him. He will advise 
 you better than I can." 
 
 "Who is he?" said Olivia. 
 
 "The best specialist we have for for mental cases. 
 And now I must go to Sir Hector!" 
 
 "Good night," said Olivia. 
 
 She took the card. 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 191 
 
 He stretched out his hand and grasped hers, almost 
 with cordiality. 
 
 "One word more !" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I must warn you against seeing Mr. West alone for 
 the present. Don't communicate with him. Don't let 
 him in. Have you any servants?" 
 
 "No ; I'm quite alone." 
 
 "On no account let him in." 
 
 'Thank you." 
 
 The footman opened the door. 
 
 "Nurse Swann has just come, sir." 
 
 "Good ! Send her up to Miss Burnington." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The footman went out. Sir Mervyn hesitated, al 
 though there was surely nothing more to be said between 
 him and Olivia. 
 
 "I don't quite like your going away alone," he said. 
 
 "I am accustomed to being alone." 
 
 "Yes but to-night!" 
 
 Suddenly he went to the door, opened it, and called 
 down the staircase. 
 
 "John! John!" 
 
 "Yes, sir?" came the footman's voice from below. 
 
 "Please call a cab for Miss Traill." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The doctor came back. 
 
 "Drive home. I would rather you didn't walk." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "Do you live in a flat?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "There's a hall porter?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Will you promise me to take him up with you as 
 far as your flat door?" 
 
 "I'm not afraid of anything." 
 
 "No, no; of course not. But will you do as I say?" 
 
 "If you wish it." 
 
192 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "And on no account allow Mr. West to be shown 
 up if he should call. He probably won't. But he might. 
 Good night again." 
 
 Again he took her hand and pressed it. Then they 
 parted. Olivia went downstairs and he went up to his 
 patient. 
 
 Olivia had to wait a few minutes in the hall while the 
 footman stood on the pavement with his whistle at his 
 lips. She looked into the darkness, searching for the 
 figure of a man. She saw no one. At last a cab glided 
 up. 
 
 As she drove away in the darkness she knew what 
 it was to feel lonely. Everything that had meant life 
 to her seemed to have fallen away from her suddenly. 
 She had failed in her job; or, rather, she had thrown 
 it up because she feared failure. The main purpose of 
 her existence had been withdrawn out of her reach. 
 For with the abrupt fading of her faith had vanished 
 for ever any power of healing she perhaps had once 
 possessed. She knew quite well that she would never 
 dare to try to heal anyone again. She could never be 
 such a humbug as to attempt without faith that which 
 she believed could only be accomplished with faith. Her 
 career, therefore, was at an end. The man whom she 
 loved might die. If he lived it could surely be only to 
 despise her. Her chief friend in London had become to 
 her a reason for apprehension, almost for horror. To 
 think of him was to feel a cold breath from the abyss, to 
 know the shuddering of nightmare. 
 
 Yes, she knew loneliness that night. 
 
 Sir Mervyn's reiterated warnings had not brought to 
 the birth in her any physical fear. The fear that com 
 panioned her was wholly of the imagination and of 
 she fancied the most intimate region of the heart. 
 
 "Poor Fernol !" she thought. "Poor Fernol!" 
 
 So the tragic grip had taken hold of him. The sharp 
 fangs of an evil fate had fastened themselves in him. 
 And all her energy, her will, her faith, her long effort 
 
THE LOST FAITH 193 
 
 had been wholly in vain. She thought of his mother and 
 father far away in America, and the tears rose in her 
 eyes. It was almost incredibly sad. 
 
 When the cab drew up before Buckingham Palace 
 Mansions she looked quickly out through the window. 
 There was no one waiting before the entrance. She got 
 out, paid the fare, and went in. The porter in uniform 
 stood by the lift 
 
 "Has anyone been here for me?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am." 
 
 "Mr. West?" 
 
 "No, Ma'am. Lord Sandring." 
 
 And he gave her a card with Lord Sandring's name 
 on it and some words pencilled on the back. Without 
 reading them, she stepped into the lift and was taken 
 up to her floor. 
 
 "You might just open the door for me," she said to the 
 porter. 
 
 "Certainly, Ma'am." 
 
 He inserted his key and opened the door. She went 
 into the little hall. As he was about to close the door 
 she said : 
 
 "Just a moment!" 
 
 "Ma'am?" 
 
 Sir Mervyn's last warning was present in her mind: 
 "On no account allow Mr. West to be shown up if he 
 should call." She had made no promise to obey it, 
 but now, as she recalled the look in the doctor's face, the 
 sound of his voice, she resolved that she would. 
 
 "If Mr. Fernol West should call to-night, please don't 
 show him up," she said. 
 
 "Very well, Ma'am. I'm to say you are out?" 
 
 "Yes, please. Wait! You are sure to be in the hall?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Ma'am. I shall be there." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 He left her and shut the door, leaving her to her im 
 mense loneliness. She went into the bedroom, took off 
 her jacket and hat, then walked to the little drawing- 
 
194 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 room and turned on the electric light. Lord Sandring's 
 card was still in her hand, with the card given to her 
 by Sir Mervyn. She turned the former over and read : 
 
 "Just seen the 'Evening Dispatch.' This is grand. That 
 HE should be among the believers! Ecco un trionfo! S." 
 
 Ecco un trionfo! Poor Lord Sandring ! His joy would 
 soon be turned into bitterness. She laid down the two 
 cards, and looked round the familiar little room, which 
 she had actually been able to think of as home since she 
 had been in London. Now it was the cage of her loneli 
 ness. She was confined in it with the hours. The night 
 lay before her, and then all the future. She thought of 
 beasts in captivity, going to and fro behind the bars with 
 their wild eyes fixed on the other side of the world. 
 What had she to look to ? 
 
 The two armchairs by the fire, with their suggestion 
 of repose, of meditation, or of happy talks, made her 
 shiver when she looked at them. She glanced again at 
 Lord Sandring's card. She would write to him. It would 
 be something to do and it was absolutely necessary that 
 he should know the exact position of affairs in regard 
 to herself. She owed him an immediate explanation. 
 She tore up his card, sat down, and began to write to him 
 her confession of impotence. As she wrote a sort of 
 brutal desire to hurt herself woke up in her. In the 
 strongest words at her command she described her com 
 plete disbelief in her own powers, her absolute deter 
 mination never again to attempt to heal any living 
 creature. 
 
 "You 'mil never see me again at the Bureau. I know 
 I shall cause you great pain by this letter, but anything 
 is better than pretence. I cannot play the humbug with 
 you, or with anyone. I know my own impotence t and I 
 wish everyone who has heard of me to know it too. I 
 am. not more than others; I am less, because I have made 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 195 
 
 claims which have no basis of fact. I can do no good to 
 anyone. I may have even done harm to many. I don't 
 know. But I do know that, from to-night, I will never 
 set myself up as the superior of others. As to Sir Hector 
 Burnington, I am not attending him. He knows I con 
 sider myself quite incapable of curing him of his illness. 
 Sir Mervyn Butler is with him. Forgive me the disap 
 pointment and pain this letter will cause you, and, with 
 gratitude for all your kindness, 
 "Believe me, 
 
 "Your sincere friend, 
 
 "OLIVIA TRAILL." 
 
 She put this letter into an envelope, addressed it, 
 stamped it, and laid it on the table. It could go by the 
 morning's post. She did not want to go outside the 
 flat door, or to ring and call the porter up to her. Yet, 
 perhaps, it would be best if Lord Sandring got it by the 
 first post on the morrow with the newspapers containing 
 her statement. (She had little doubt that many of the 
 papers would copy the announcement in the late edition 
 of the Evening Dispatch.) Perhaps she ought to send 
 away the letter that night. After some hesitation she 
 seemed to be made up of hesitation now she rang the 
 bell for the porter. In a few minutes he came up, let 
 himself in with his key, and opened the door. 
 
 "You rang for me, Ma'am?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She took up the letter. 
 
 "Could you put this in the post for me ?" 
 
 "Certainly, Ma'am." 
 
 She gave him the letter and he turned to go. But when 
 he was just going out of the room she called ham 
 back. 
 
 "One moment!" 
 
 "Ma'am?" 
 
 "If Mr. West should call I I think I will see him." 
 
 "Very well, Ma'am." 
 
196 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 She saw a faint look of surprise on his stolid face. 
 
 "I am to show him up then, Ma'am ?" 
 
 "Well yes. Yes, show him up. But perhaps he 
 won't call." 
 
 "I couldn't say, Ma'am." 
 
 The expression of surprise grew more definite. He 
 stood for a moment, then walked heavily out. 
 
 Had she really summoned him, not because of the let 
 ter, but on account of Fernol? She was not sure. She 
 was sure of nothing to-night. But she now felt that 
 to follow the advice of Sir Mervyn would be the act 
 of a moral coward. Fernol had come to England only 
 because of her. He had implicitly trusted her ; had given 
 himself to her in a peculiar, a touching way. His father 
 and mother had an almost childlike confidence in her, ad 
 miration for her. Could she fail their boy in what was, 
 perhaps, the supreme hour of his fate? That would be 
 on act of almost loathsome weakness on her part. Her 
 natural unselfishness rose up again in her, asserted itself 
 almost violently. After all, did it matter now what hap 
 pened to her? She had still a duty to carry out, at what 
 ever cost to herself. If she deserted Fernol now, because 
 of the horror which had attacked her imagination, no 
 shred of self-respect would be left to her. She knew; 
 that she would have to condemn herself utterly. 
 
 Suddenly the battle was over. She felt a slight sense 
 of relief. Whatever Fernol was, whatever he had done, 
 she would recognise her responsibility towards him, would 
 try to fulfil it to the uttermost. 
 
 "I don't matter any more," she said to herself. "But 
 I won't be afraid. I won't be afraid. If I am afraid I 
 am the most contemptible of all creatures." 
 
 Usually she went out at about half -past seven to 
 have her dinner at a small Italian restaurant close to 
 Victoria Station. But to-night she had resolved not to 
 go. She went into the kitchen of the flat, made herself 
 some strong tea on the gas stove, drank it, and ate some 
 
THE LOST FAITH 197 
 
 bread and butter. Then she sat down to wait for Fer- 
 nol. She now felt quite certain that he would come. 
 
 Soon after nine she heard the clang of the door-bell. 
 He had come. Again that horror of the imagination 
 seized her and shook her. But she strove to overcome it, 
 to summon up all her courage. Nevertheless as she got 
 up and went down the passage she was trembling. She 
 opened the door and saw Fernol. 
 
 "So you're here!" he said. 
 
 His angry eyes searched her face. He looked excited, 
 hostile. His face was as the face of a stranger. 
 
 "Of course I am here," she said, in a level voice. 
 "Come along in." 
 
 He frowned as he came in. 
 
 "Leave your coat." 
 
 He said nothing more, but quickly pulled off his coat 
 and threw it down on the floor of the hall. 
 
 "Please pick up your coat and hang it up properly," 
 she said. 
 
 He shot a glance at her sideways, hesitated, then 
 obeyed her. 
 
 "And now come right in." 
 
 Her instinct was to make him go in front of her, but 
 she did not give way to it. She walked on and heard 
 his step close behind her. She was glad when they were 
 in the drawing-room, and she could face him again. 
 
 "Sit down, Fernol." 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 "Anyhow, I will." 
 
 And she sat down, retaining an air of calm self- 
 possession. He stood on the hearthrug and put his hands 
 in his pockets. Then he took his right hand out and 
 fidgetted with his watch-chain. His eyes roved all over 
 the room avoiding hers. 
 
 "What's that ?" he exclaimed in a loud voice. 
 
 "What? Where?" 
 
 "There! On the table!" 
 
 She looked and saw the card Sir Mervyn had given her 
 
198 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 with the name of the specialist in mental diseases written 
 upon it 
 
 "That! Oh, it's only " 
 
 Before she could prevent it he had gone to the table 
 and picked up the card. 
 
 "Sir Mervyn Butler!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean 
 to tell me " 
 
 He turned the card over and read what was written 
 on the back. 
 
 "What's this?" he demanded, still in a loud voice. 
 "What's the meaning of this doctor's name?" 
 
 He came back to the fire with the card in his hand. 
 
 "What do you want with these cursed doctors? Why 
 aren't you with Burnington?" 
 
 "Try to behave properly and I will tell you." 
 
 "You'd better!" he retorted. 
 
 "Put that card down." 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 "Because it's mine and I tell you to do so." 
 
 He dropped it on the floor. 
 
 "I've made a nice mistake," he said, with intense bit 
 terness. "I believed in you and you're as treacherous as 
 all the rest of them. What have you done? Why aren't 
 you with Burnington? What's Mervyn Butler doing 
 there? Why is he there, I say?" 
 
 "I'm going to tell you if you'll only listen and be 
 quiet." 
 
 "Goon!" 
 
 "Fernol, did you go to the Evening Dispatch?" 
 
 "Of course I did." 
 
 "How did you know Sir Hector was ill ?" 
 
 "Never mind. That's my business." 
 
 "How could you have known?" 
 
 "Didn't he swear he would send for you ? Didn't he ? 
 Or did you tell me a damned lie?" 
 
 "Hush! He did send for me." 
 
 "Then then you're going back to-morrow? You're 
 going to throw that old humbug into the street?" 
 
THE LOST FAIT.H 199 
 
 "Sir Mervyn is not a humbug, Fernol." 
 
 "He is. He pretends to cure disease and he can't. He 
 takes money for what he can't do. All the doctors do 
 that. And you, who can cure, don't take a farthing. 
 And the world howls against you and sticks to the hum 
 bugs. But now they'll know. All London will know. 
 I'll take care of that. But you must back me up. I'll 
 bring it off. I'll work it all. That's why I'm here. You 
 need a man to run you, one that knows the ropes. See 
 how I worked the Evening Dispatch?" 
 
 He broke into a laugh. 
 
 "That was a surprise for the doctors, wasn't it ? That 
 was one from the shoulder, eh ? When are you going back 
 to throw old Butler out? I'll go with you. I want to 
 see the fun. You owe that to me, Olivia, for if it wasn't 
 for me " 
 
 He stopped short and put his hand to his mouth, and 
 a crafty look came into his face. 
 
 "Fernol, what have you done ?" 
 
 "Never mind. When are you going back?" 
 
 "I am not going back." 
 
 "Not " 
 
 He bent down and stared into her eyes. 
 
 "I'm not going back. Sir Hector is dangerously ill." 
 
 "Why not? All the better for you! Now's your 
 chance to show what you can do." 
 
 "I am not going back." 
 
 The boy's face, which had been flushed, went suddenly 
 white. 
 
 "You're going to let me down ! After all I've done for 
 you!" 
 
 After a moment of painful hesitation Olivia said, in a 
 gentle voice, which sickened her as she heard it, because 
 it sounded so false : 
 
 "Dear Fernol, if you don't tell me what you have done, 
 how can I know what I owe you? You leave me in the 
 dark. Is that friendship? How can two friends work 
 
200 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 together when one of them is left in ignorance of what 
 the other is doing? Put me wise and then " 
 
 "Yes then?" he said eagerly. 
 
 "Then I shall be able to understand thoroughly what 
 it is my part to do." 
 
 "That's horse sense, Olivia! Now you're talking!" 
 
 Again one hand went to his watch-chain. 
 
 "You will do your part if I tell you?" 
 
 "Fernol, have I ever let you down?" 
 
 She felt like a traitor to friendship as she spoke. But 
 the time for sincerity was past. At all costs she had to 
 know. 
 
 "No, never. But, if I tell you, will you go back to 
 morrow ?" 
 
 "I'll go to Cadogan Square to-morrow." 
 
 "You swear that?" 
 
 "I promise you." 
 
 His face was transfigured. 
 
 "Olivia, old girl, I've done the wonderful thing I've 
 always wanted to do for you. I've given you the great 
 chance of your life." 
 
 "How, Fernol?" 
 
 "It was I who made Sir Hector get ill." 
 
 Somehow she never knew how Olivia forced her 
 self to meet the triumph in his eyes with a look of grati 
 tude. She even held out her hand to him. He grasped 
 it. 
 
 "How did you do it?" 
 
 "Don't tell ! . . . I've got a friend in Guy's Hospital. 
 I made up to him for you, though I hate all the doctors. 
 I managed to get hold of a culture of typhoid bacillus 
 one day, when I was with him in the laboratory. (He 
 was injecting typhoid into a rat.) That night I dined 
 with Sir Hector I put some of it into his wine." 
 
 "Thank you, Fernol," she said, by a fierce effort con 
 cealing her horror. 
 
 "I gave you your chance." 
 
 "Yes, you gave me my chance." 
 
THE LOST FAITH 201 
 
 "And you won't let it slip?" 
 
 His eyes were on her; his hand was always at his 
 watch-chain, twisting it to and fro. 
 
 "You'll put that old humbug into the street? You'll 
 go there to-morrow and stay there till you've cured Burn- 
 ington ?" 
 
 After a moment of silence Olivia said slowly : 
 
 "What if I went to-night?" 
 
 The boy's face shone with enthusiasm. 
 
 "That's the way! Tackle old Butler to-night! But 
 you've never told me how he got in?" 
 
 "Miss Burnington went and fetched him." 
 
 "Just like her! But why did you let him go near Sir 
 Hector ? Why did you leave the house and let him stay 
 in it?" 
 
 "I didn't know what to do. Miss Burnington insisted." 
 
 "Isn't Burnington master in that house?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. But he's ill. And that makes it all 
 difficult. I was there all day." 
 
 "Go back now and throw Butler out. I've done my 
 part as a friend. Go and do yours now I've told you." 
 
 "Yes, I'll go and do mine," she said, faintly, in spite 
 of the effort she made. 
 
 She got up. 
 
 "I'll come with you !" he cried excitedly. 
 
 "No; I want you to stay here." 
 
 "Here? Why?" 
 
 "I'll just go and get things quite clear, and then I'll 
 come back and tell you. If you come, there'll be trouble 
 with Miss Burnington. She doesn't like you. Nor does 
 Sir Mervyn." 
 
 "I'll wring his neck if I get at him !" he said savagely. 
 
 "Let me go alone. Promise me to stay here promise 
 me!" 
 
 "Very well. I don't so much mind now you know." 
 
 His air of triumph returned. 
 
 "You know me now, Olivia," he said. "And you know 
 whether I care or not." 
 
202 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Yes, I know now." 
 
 As she left him to go to her bedroom, she bent quickly 
 and picked up the card from the floor. Instantly a sus 
 picious look came into his face. 
 
 "What do you want with that?" he said, fiercely. 
 
 "Only to throw it into the fire," she replied. 
 
 As she turned to the flames she managed to read the 
 specialist's name and address. She dropped the card into 
 the fire. Less than five minutes later she was out of the 
 flat. In the hall she found the porter. 
 
 "Mr. West is staying on in the flat," she said. "I have 
 to go out, but I shall soon be back." 
 
 "Very well, Ma'am." 
 
 She looked hard at the man. He was an old soldier, 
 sturdy and strong, with a powerful, unemotional face, 
 
 "Look here !" she said. "I am going to say something 
 to you which I beg you not to repeat." 
 
 "Honour bright, Ma'am." 
 
 "My friend, Mr. West, isn't quite himself to-night." 
 
 The porter looked much more intelligent. 
 
 "I'm going to fetch someone to see him. He's prom 
 ised to wait for me. But, if I'm delayed, he might try 
 to go. If he does, will you do your very best to detain 
 him?" 
 
 "I will, Ma'am." 
 
 "Persuade him don't let him go." 
 
 "I'll see to it, Ma'am." 
 
 "I shan't forget you." 
 
 He smiled slightly, and she hurried away. She found 
 a cab and drove to the specialist's house. Luckily he was 
 at home. He received her in his consulting room. He 
 was a big, burly man, with enormous shoulders, a kind, 
 strong face, and fearless and honest brown eyes. Olivia 
 took a fancy to him at once. As briefly as she could, she 
 laid the case of Fernol before him, after telling him that 
 Sir Mervyn had given her his address. She did not tell 
 him Fernol's terrible secret. She was resolved, if pos 
 sible, to keep that hidden for ever. But she told him 
 
THE LOST FAITH 203 
 
 quickly the history of the boy's accident, his condition 
 afterwards, his apparent cure by her, his coming to 
 London, her increasing anxiety about his state of health 
 while in London, shown by his fanatical devotion to her 
 interests, and his fanatical hatred of those whom he 
 deemed her enemies. When she came to the Burningtons 
 she found her task difficult. But she told as much as she 
 dared, not sparing herself. 
 
 "My poor friend longed for Sir Hector to fall ill, so 
 that I might cure him," she said. "And by an evil chance 
 he fell ill." 
 
 Then she described Fernol's visits to the house in 
 Cadogan Square, his tipping of the footman, and the 
 scene he had made when he discovered Sir Mervyn's 
 presence in the house. She also told about the news 
 paper paragraph. 
 
 "Sir Mervyn urged me not to see Mr. West to-night," 
 she said. "But I did. I felt it my duty to see him. I 
 I can't tell you quite all that happened, but I'm abso 
 lutely sure the poor boy is mad. I know it. I have rea 
 son to know it. I dare not let him go. He is quite alone 
 in London. To-morrow even late to-night the papers 
 will publish a statement from me saying that I am not 
 attending Sir Hector and that Sir Mervyn Butler is. 
 If Mr. West sees it I am sure something terrible will 
 happen. He is not sane. He might do anything. He is 
 waiting in my flat now. He thinks I have gone to Sir 
 Hector to turn Sir Mervyn out. Think of it! Can 
 you help me?" 
 
 "Not a doubt of it !" said the doctor, after a moment 
 of thought. "I suppose," he added, "you have told me 
 everything of importance bearing on your friend's mental 
 condition ?" 
 
 As he said this the honest brown eyes looked remark 
 ably penetrating. 
 
 "I have told you all I can tell," she answered. "He 
 is fanatical about me, because, poor boy, he thinks I 
 have cured him. It's it's very tragic for me." 
 
W4i SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Yes ; I can understand that. Well, the first thing to 
 be done is for me to see him. I'll go at once. If, when 
 I have seen him, I find clear indications of mental trou 
 ble, I can arrange for him to be under proper supervi 
 
 sion." 
 
 "You won't ... I couldn't bear for him to be put in 
 a madhouse," said Olivia. "His father is a millionaire. 
 I can cable to him. I'm sure he will come over." 
 
 "I have a home of my own at Hampstead for mental 
 cases. I could take him there and watch him." 
 
 "Yes yes. Oh, that would be the best thing possible 
 for him." 
 
 "But I must tell you that, if I don't satisfy myself that 
 his mind is astray, I can do nothing." 
 
 "I'm sure you will see that I am right about him." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 The doctor got up. 
 
 "One moment! I must go to the telephone," he 
 said. 
 
 He left the room and was away for nearly ten min 
 utes. When he came back he had an overcoat on and 
 his hat and gloves in his hand. 
 
 "Shall we go?" he said. 
 
 "I'm ready. You wish me" to take you into the flat?" 
 
 "I wish you to drive me there. On the way I'll tell 
 you what I propose to do." 
 
 They went out and got into the waiting taxicab. 
 
 When they arrived at Buckingham Palace Mansions, 
 a big motor-car was standing before the entrance. 
 
 "Now," said the doctor, "you'll remain in the cab as 
 I suggested. Have you your key?" 
 
 "Yes. Here it is." 
 
 She gave it to him. He got out, walked to the motor 
 and stood by it for a moment, evidently speaking to 
 someone inside. Then the door of it was opened, and 
 a short, strongly built man emerged and joined the doc 
 tor on the pavement. After a short colloquy the doctor 
 returned to Olivia. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 205 
 
 "I'm going to tell your man to go a little further on," 
 he said. "It may be better, in certain eventualities, for 
 you not to be just here, in front of the entrance. I may 
 be some time. Try not to be anxious. I will return to 
 you as soon as I can." 
 
 "I'll wait," said Olivia. "But hadn't I better just 
 speak to the porter?" 
 
 "To be sure. I'll find him." 
 
 He went into the building and came out almost imme 
 diately with the porter. 
 
 "Is Mr. West still here?" asked Olivia. 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am." 
 
 "He hasn't tried to leave?" 
 
 "I haven't seen him, Ma'am. I've been here all the 
 time. He must be still upstairs." 
 
 "Then please take this gentleman up." 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am." 
 
 The doctor spoke to the taxi-driver. As he turned to 
 go into the house, followed by the porter and the man 
 who had got out of the motor, Olivia's cabman drove on 
 for, perhaps, a hundred yards, and then stopped. Olivia 
 looked at her watch. It was half-past ten. She sat back 
 in the cab and waited. For a few minutes she sat per 
 fectly still, and then abruptly something within her, some 
 barrier, seemed to break, and she was shaken by a passion 
 of tears. She had controlled herself for too long, and 
 now Nature took revenge upon her. The effort she had 
 made when she took Fernol's hand after his hideous 
 revelation, the hand of one who would perhaps prove to 
 be the murderer of the man whom she loved, was the 
 cause of this sudden and tremendous reaction! She felt 
 now a sort of rage against Fernol. She hated him as 
 she wept. Her pity for him was swept away. What 
 ever his fate he deserved it. Let him pay for what he 
 had done; pay to the uttermost farthing! He had at 
 tacked the man whom she loved. And Sir Hector would 
 die. All hope of his conquering the disease which was 
 beginning to ravage him failed in Olivia at that moment. 
 
206 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 She saw nothing but blackness. She was drowned in 
 blackness; submerged with the Furies. Her body trem 
 bled from head to foot. She clenched her hands. And 
 she hated with her whole soul; hated the boy who had 
 done this deed for her sake. 
 
 "Let him pay!" her brain kept crying out. "Let him 
 pay!" 
 
 The cabman stirred on his seat Presently he half 
 turned. Then he slowly got down. The window of the 
 cab was drawn up. He approached it. Then he laid his 
 hand on the door. Olivia saw him and instinctively 
 shrank into the corner farthest from the door. The man 
 turned the handle and looked in. 
 
 "Did you call out, lady?" he said. "Did you want 
 somethin' ?" 
 
 Olivia managed to say "No." 
 
 The man muttered some words, and shut the door. 
 Then he lit a pipe and walked up and down on the pave 
 ment. His interruption, the sight of his homely and 
 moving figure, recalled Olivia to a cold sense of the 
 present realities. She heard a clock strike eleven. The 
 tears still streamed over her face, but now she began 
 to wipe them away; and presently she was able to stop 
 crying. But she kept on shivering like a child and her 
 teeth chattered convulsively. 
 
 Half an hour passed. A sort of numb calm enfolded 
 her. She felt frigid, detached and hard. The cabman 
 reopened the door. 
 
 "How long are you goin' to be, lady?" he said, in 
 a hoarse voice. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Because I don't want to be out all night. We aren't 
 made of brick nor of stone neither, whatever some people 
 
 think. There's some " he broke off, and stared down 
 
 the road in the direction of the Mansions. 
 
 "What is it?" said Olivia. 
 
 "There's someone comin' out, lady. I'm sure I do 
 'ope it's them, that I do." 
 
THE LOST FAITH 807 
 
 He still stared into the night. 
 
 "There's that car " he paused. "I do b'lieve it's 
 
 the gentleman comin' at last. Yes, it is!" 
 
 A couple of minutes later Dr. Soames appeared at the 
 window. He looked very grave. His face was slightly 
 flushed and there was a glint of something like excite 
 ment, or unusual energy, in his eyes. His coat was 
 buttoned up to the chin, and the collar was turned up to 
 his ears. 
 
 "You can drive back to the Mansions," he said to the 
 driver. 
 
 Then he opened the door. 
 
 "Shall we walk there?" he said to Olivia. "It's only 
 a step." 
 
 "I'll get out," she said. 
 
 When she was out the driver turned the taxicab and 
 drove off. 
 
 They followed on foot. 
 
 "He's gone," said the doctor. 
 
 "Gone! Where?" 
 
 "I had two men there with the car. He'll be all right 
 with them, poor fellow. They've taken him away." 
 
 "Then ?" 
 
 "You were quite right. He's not fit to be at large." 
 
 "Was he violent?" she asked, without interest. 
 
 "Yes, at the end. But I know how to deal with such 
 cases. He's being taken to the home I told you of at 
 Hampstead. He'll have every care." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "You mustn't see him for some time." 
 
 His tone was decisive. They were now in front of 
 the Mansions. 
 
 "Will you come in ?" she said, indifferently. 
 
 "I'll come in for five minutes. Then I should advise 
 you to get to bed." 
 
 "I shan't sleep." 
 
 "Yes, you will. I'll take care of that. Til only be a 
 minute," he added to the taxi-driver. 
 
208 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 The man began to grumble, but the doctor silenced him 
 with some money. 
 
 When they were upstairs Olivia led the way mechan 
 ically to the drawing-room. But she paused at the door. 
 The room was in great disorder. An armchair was over 
 turned, a small table had been broken, and the books 
 which had been on it were strewn about the floor. 
 
 "What has happened?" she said. 
 
 She turned to the doctor. "What did he do?" 
 
 "Never mind." 
 
 Quietly and swiftly he put the room to rights. 
 
 "Now sit down." 
 
 She obeyed. 
 
 "Won't you take off your coat?" she said. 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 She noticed that he still kept the collar up. He saw 
 her eyes on it, and said very simply, 
 
 "I'm not quite presentable." 
 
 "He attacked you?" 
 
 She spoke without any real interest, mechanically. 
 
 "He isn't himself. But we'll get him better in time, no 
 doubt. I should cable to his father to-morrow." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "You didn't tell me that he suffers from hallucina 
 tions," said the doctor, looking her straight in the face. 
 
 "I didn't know it." 
 
 "Well, he does," said the doctor firmly. "He thought 
 I was Mervyn Butler." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "No doubt he hasn't shown that side of his malady to 
 you. He has also acute ego-mania. He imagines that 
 he's done something very great, very wonderful. He 
 has no conception whatever of right and wrong. He's 
 in the condition when he might commit a crime and 
 boast of it to anybody." 
 
 "It's just as well I fetched you," she said. 
 
 "Yes. Now we won't talk any more to-night. I'll 
 see you some time to-morrow. By the way, the reason 
 
THE LOST FAITH 209 
 
 you mustn't see him is a painful one, but I'd better tell 
 you it. He has conceived a violent hatred for you." 
 
 "Has he?" 
 
 "Yes. He realises that you fetched me, a doctor, to 
 him. That has turned him against you. He thinks you 
 his greatest enemy." 
 
 "Perhaps I am," she said, coldly. 
 
 The doctor glanced at her, then took a small box from 
 his overcoat pocket. 
 
 "Can you get me a glass of water?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I'm going to give you a couple of these and see you 
 take them before I go. You've got to have a night's 
 sleep." 
 
 She got up heavily, went out and came back with a 
 glass of water. 
 
 When she had taken the pills he grasped her hand. 
 
 "Go straight to bed. You promise me?" 
 
 "Yes, I promise. But I know I shan't sleep." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "And I know you will. Good night." 
 
 He shook her hand and went to the door. 
 
 "Give a kind thought to the doctors," he said, and 
 went out. 
 
 "Does he know ?" Olivia thought vaguely. "Has Fer- 
 nol told him? Does he know?" 
 
 Then she obeyed his direction, went to her room, un 
 dressed, and got into bed. 
 
 She felt tremendously tired, even exhausted. Her 
 brain became dull and sluggish. It seemed to her that 
 her body was heavy like a mass of lead. 
 
 "If only I could sleep!" she thought. "But I know 
 I shan't." 
 
 That was her last thought before she slept. . . . 
 
 A month had passed, and Olivia was still in London 
 living in the little flat which had seen Fernol's tragedy. 
 Her life, which had been so active, so full of that putting 
 forth by which, as she had once said to Fernol, she drew 
 
10 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 in strength, had become lonely and monotonous. She 
 saw very few people, went out very seldom. Her name, 
 once the subject of discussion and of polemics in the 
 Press, was now never mentioned in print, and seldom in 
 any conversation. There had been a brief outburst when 
 her statement had appeared in the papers denying that 
 she was in attendance by the bedside of Sir Hector, but 
 it had soon died down. Lord Sandring was bitterly dis 
 appointed in her. Her defection had given the final 
 blow to his ambitions. After a painful interview, in 
 which he had brought all his vitality to bear in an effort 
 to persuade her to reconsider the decision so almost bru 
 tally put forth in her letter to him, he had acknowledged 
 himself beaten by closing his Bureau of Psychic Healing. 
 He had played his trump card, and fate had out-trumped 
 him. There was nothing more to be done. The most re 
 markable woman in America had laid him out. He re 
 tired to his estates, and began to breed Herefordshire 
 cattle and to go in for Miiller's exercises. Why Miss 
 Traill she was no longer Olivia to him remained in 
 England he could not imagine, unless it were on account 
 of that poor chap, Fernol West, who was still in the 
 doctors' hands, and who, of course, in such a situation 
 must not be expected to get better. 
 
 But it was not on FernoFs account that Olivia stayed 
 on, laughed at and despised when she was remembered, 
 a practically self-confessed failure. She could do noth 
 ing more for Fernol. She dared not even go to see 
 him. His mother and father had arrived from New 
 York, and therefore her responsibility was ended. And 
 Fernol's maniacal hatred for her persisted. It was a 
 fixed idea with him that she was his enemy and had de 
 liberately ruined his life by giving him into the hands of 
 the doctors. He had fought the doctors for her, and this 
 was her reward to him. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. West, in their misery, had shown the 
 greatest delicacy, the greatest kindness to Olivia. They 
 knew that she had done her very best for their son, and 
 
THE LOST FAITtf 
 
 they were still generous in their gratitude. Nevertheless, 
 it was not possible for them to feel towards her as they 
 had formerly felt. They had regarded her as the saviour 
 of their adored son. Now they could only look upon 
 her as a well-meaning and warm-hearted woman who 
 had done her utmost, and who had failed in her en 
 deavour. She felt pity concealed in their gentle courtesy 
 to her, and she could scarcely bear to be with them. The 
 look in their eyes reminded her of the belief in herself 
 which was gone for ever; the pressure of their hands 
 intensified her regret for the faith which was lost. 
 
 And Fernol, their son, hated her. She had become 
 part of his madness. 
 
 She stayed on in London because of Sir Hector. 
 
 He was still dangerously ill with typhoid fever, hov 
 ering between life and death. She could not leave Eng 
 land till she knew whether he would live or die. She 
 never went to the house in Cadogan Square. Although 
 Miss Burnington and Sir Mervyn Butler had never said 
 a word on the matter, she knew that, after the state 
 ment which had appeared in the Evening Dispatch, any 
 visit from her might revive the rumour that she had 
 gone there as a faith healer, anxious to interfere with 
 the doctors, or summoned as a last hope because they 
 could do nothing more. 
 
 She had made up her mind to complete self-sacrifice. 
 And she was not a woman who believed in half meas 
 ures. But she was kept informed of the state of the man 
 whom she loved by Sir Mervyn Butler. The almost 
 impossible had come about; her former antagonist and 
 she were now staunch friends. Sir Mervyn had rec 
 ognised the stark sincerity of the woman whom he had 
 despised and done his best to ruin when she first came 
 to London, and he had told her so in words which had 
 kindled in her generous nature a warm response. 
 Strangely, she now looked upon him as perhaps her best 
 friend in England. Sir Hector was too ill to be the 
 friend or the enemy of anyone. And Miss Burnington, 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 who had called on Olivia more than once, and tried to 
 show her the greatest kindness, was obviously never quite 
 at ease when with her. Between the two women lay 
 dividing memories, and also the knowledge of a shared 
 secret, which had never been spoken of by them, and so 
 set them apart from each other. 
 
 The fifth week of the illness was nearly over when 
 one evening Sir Mervyn Butler called on Olivia, just: 
 before she was about to leave the house for the Italian 
 restaurant where she dined modestly alone every day. 
 He came in with his usual rather ponderous dignity, but 
 there was an unusually kind look in his eyes. 
 
 "He's better!" he said, immediately, without even 
 greeting her. "The crisis is past." 
 
 "You think will he recover?" 
 
 "I don't see why he shouldn't now. But, of course, it 
 will be a long business, and I don't know whether he 
 will ever be the man he was. In fact, at his age I doubt 
 it." 
 
 Olivia said nothing. At that moment she did not dare 
 to speak. She was rejoicing, and yet she felt stricken. 
 For if that man had no great future, what would his life 
 be worth to him? 
 
 "I have two things I must tell you," continued Sir 
 Mervyn, knitting his brows and looking straight before 
 him. "Another man has got the Viceroyalty of India." 
 
 "Oh!" said Olivia. 
 
 It was a little cry, and all the pity of woman was in 
 it 
 
 "My dear, he couldn't be fit for such a post for a 
 long time, if ever. I should be against his returning to 
 a strenuous life in the East." 
 
 "But his great ambition wrecked! Oh, what will he 
 do when he knows?" 
 
 "He's a strong character. He'll take the blow; stand 
 ing." 
 
 She was silent, trying to control her emotion. 
 
THE LOST FAITJK 
 
 "The other thing I must tell you is this. He has asked 
 for you." 
 
 "For me !" she said. "Oh, no !" 
 
 "He wants you." 
 
 "He doesn't know ! He doesn't know !" 
 
 "Doesn't know what? I don't understand you." 
 
 "How can I after all that has happened Miss Burn- 
 ington would be afraid to have me in the house." 
 
 "I consider it necessary for you to go there. His 
 mind must not be troubled. He is insistent to see you," 
 
 "But is he quite himself?" 
 
 "Yes. He's terribly weak, of course, like a child al 
 most. But his mind is quite clear. Surely you won't 
 refuse to go to him?" 
 
 He was beginning to look surprised. 
 
 "I thought you had a strong regard for him." 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Then what holds you back? Miss Burnington per 
 haps ? But she wishes you to come." 
 
 "She asked you to tell me?" 
 
 "No. I should have done that in any case. My duty 
 is towards my patient. But, of course, I spoke to her 
 about it." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "She said, 'Beg Miss Traill to come. Tell her from 
 me that I hope she will let bygones be bygones.' I don't 
 think it would be like you to " 
 
 "Oh, no, no! It isn't that !" 
 
 Her intense agitation was obvious. She seemed to be 
 torn by some interior conflict. 
 
 "What will you do?" he asked. 
 
 "I'll go. If he wants me I must go. But to-morrow 
 I can't go to-night. Don't ask me to please." 
 
 "Very well. But I have your promise for to-mor 
 row?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. But if the newspapers " 
 
 "They won't, I dare say. But even if they do, it 
 doesn't much matter now." 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "No; it doesn't much matter now/ 1 she said. 
 
 "She loves him!" Sir Mervyn said to himself as he 
 descended the stairs. "What an old fool I have been not 
 to see it before." 
 
 And during his drive back to Cadogan Square he pon 
 dered over women, and came to the remarkable con 
 clusion that possibly Miss Burnington had known for 
 some time what had just come within the grasp of his 
 admirable intelligence. 
 
 "Women are quick," he said to himself. "They're very 
 unreasonable, but they're damned quick." 
 
 He knew something about them after all! 
 
 Three weeks later Sir Hector was treading slowly and 
 ,feebly on the road to recovery. His natural strength 
 was beginning at last to assert itself, and though he 
 was still very weak he was gaining every day. Olivia was 
 often at the house, sitting by him, talking to him, reading 
 aloud to him, generally books of travel or memoirs of 
 military men. One day he asked for Omar Khayyam, and 
 she read to him for an hour. 
 
 When she had just read the lines : 
 
 "One moment in annihilation's waste, 
 
 One moment, of the well of Life to taste 
 
 The stars are setting, and the Caravan 
 
 Draws to the Dawn of Nothing oh make haste!" 
 
 he stopped her. 
 
 "That's enough," he said, in the voice that was grow 
 ing stronger every day. 
 
 Olivia shut up the book. 
 
 "The old chap thought pretty much what I've been 
 thinking when I could think at all as I lay here," he 
 said. "One moment of the well of Life to taste. It 
 isn't very much, is it?" 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 "I've sometimes wondered whether I've made the most 
 of the part of the moment I've had till now." 
 
 "I'm sure you have," she said, wondering. 
 
THE LOST FAITH 215 
 
 "I'm not." 
 
 "But think of the work you've done !" 
 
 "Work isn't everything after all. What about yours?" 
 
 "Mine is over," she said. 
 
 She and he had never yet spoken of her abdication. 
 He had never alluded to it in any way since they had 
 met again. 
 
 "I heard that," he said. "And I reckon mine is over 
 too." 
 
 "Oh, no!" she said earnestly. 
 
 "Perhaps you think I don't know about the Vice- 
 royalty?" 
 
 "I I I had no idea. Your sister thinks " 
 
 "I don't ! Yes, and so does the doctor. They've kept 
 the newspapers from me." 
 
 He smiled grimly. 
 
 "No doubt they meant to ... what is called 'break it 
 to me' when I got better. But Sidney told me over a 
 week ago." 
 
 She felt shaken with pity for him. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry." 
 
 There was nothing else she could say just then. 
 
 "It's all right I shouldn't be fit for the job now," 
 he said, calmly. 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "I've always lived to do jobs," he went on, without any 
 emotion. "Perhaps I've made a mistake. How old are 
 you?" 
 
 "Nearly twenty-nine," she answered. 
 
 "And I'm hard on the way to sixty. Do you think of 
 me as an old man?" 
 
 "No!" she said, with a sudden gust of passion. 
 
 He looked at her hard from his pillow. 
 
 "Could you bring yourself to marry me?" he asked. 
 
 All the blood in her body so it seemed to Olivia 
 rushed to her face, then retreated from it. 
 
 "I !" she said. "You you don't know what you owe 
 to me." 
 
216 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Yes, I da" 
 
 "You don't ! You don't ! I never meant to tell you or 
 anyone. But now I must. It is owing to me that you 
 will never be Viceroy of India." 
 
 "How do you figure that out?" he asked, with a look 
 of keen astonishment. 
 
 Then, in plain, simple words she told him all about 
 Fernol. 
 
 "Poor boy!" she said. "He did it for me, because 
 he thought I had healed him. I have been wicked enough 
 to hate him for doing it. But he thought he was work 
 ing for me." 
 
 Sir Hector lay for a while in silence. Then he said : 
 
 "Does anyone else know?" 
 
 "I don't think so; unless in his madness he told the 
 doctor. And the doctor would probably not believe it." 
 
 "Wasn't West mad when he told you?" 
 
 "I know it is true. I know he did it." 
 
 Sir Hector stretched out his thin hand. 
 
 "You've done the right thing by me," he said, "but 
 you're a woman of courage. I knew that directly I 
 clapped eyes on you. When I get well shall you and I 
 keep West's secret together?" 
 
 Fernol West has been taken back to New York by 
 his parents. A great surgeon out there, who has re 
 cently examined him, thinks it possible that a certain 
 operation on the brain may eventually cure him. That 
 lies in the future. 
 
 Sir Hector Burnington and Olivia were married not 
 long ago. 
 
 To the great astonishment of Lord Sandring and of 
 London, Sir Mervyn Butler gave her away. 
 
THREE: THE HINDU 
 
 I HAVE a friend whom I will call Sir William Turnbull, 
 although that isn't his name. He is a famous specialist 
 in nervous diseases, lives in Cavendish Square, London, 
 and leads, I should think, a very interesting, though cer 
 tainly an arduous, life. He is a white-haired man, with 
 a long white moustache, a rather beaky nose, blue eyes, 
 and an inexpressive face. His voice is quiet; his man 
 ner is always tranquil, seldom animated and scarcely ever 
 vivid. In general conversation he says but little. But 
 when I am alone with him at night, as I am perhaps once 
 a month, he tells me interesting and sometimes fascinat 
 ing stories of the people who consult him. Of course, 
 he never reveals their real names. I have noted down 
 some of these "cases" in a book. Two or three days ago 
 I was looking over it and came upon a strange narrative. 
 It concerns a newspaper proprietor, and I call it 'The 
 Hindu." 
 
 "John Latimer came to consult me about a year ago" 
 (said the doctor, in his quiet, rather colourless voice). 
 "He owns several big papers, and is an extremely suc 
 cessful man. In person he is a large, rather burly, in 
 dividual, just over forty, with brown eyes, short brown 
 hair, a firm mouth and chin, and a straightforward but 
 unaffected manner. But when I first saw him he looked 
 very ill. He had a furtive demeanour which was at odds 
 with his dominating appearance; his large hands were 
 terribly restless, and by various other signs I was able to 
 judge of his condition. It was very bad. 
 
 217 
 
218 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 When we had had a little talk I realised that behind 
 Larimer's nervous state there was some prompting trag 
 edy, some haunting fear or misery, and that until I could 
 find out what it was I could do very little for him. I 
 told him this. 
 
 "But it will take a long time," he said. "If I'm to go 
 thoroughly into it " 
 
 "Nothing else would be of much use," I interrupted. 
 "But I can only give you half an hour this morning. 
 Could you come again" I consulted my engagement 
 book "say, on Thursday afternoon?" 
 
 "What!" said he, with a deplorable accent. "Three 
 days ahead?" 
 
 "That seems to be my first free hour," I replied. 
 
 "Oh, but " Latimer paused. Then he thrust for 
 ward his powerful head and exclaimed: 
 
 "I don't want to wait so long. Will you waive eti 
 quette and dine with me at my house, say, to-night ?" 
 
 "That's very good of you." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 His lips twisted, and his big hands shifted on his 
 knees. He clasped them tightly together. 
 
 "Good!" said he. "Why, doctor, I'm hanging on to 
 you as my only hope. I've heard that you succeed where 
 everyone else fails. Can you come and will you ?" 
 
 I said I would, and I went. 
 
 The Latimers live let us say at 4A, Portman Square. 
 I was there by half -past eight the same evening, and 
 found Latimer waiting for me in a very eccentric draw 
 ing-room, which, I have reason to believe, was a replica 
 with slight variations of an interior Mrs. Latimer had 
 seen when witnessing the Russian ballet. She came in 
 almost directly, one of the thinnest women I had ever 
 set eyes on, perhaps thirty-eight, tall, good-looking in a 
 wasted sort of way, with brown hair which framed a 
 low forehead, white cheeks, and pale observant eyes. She 
 wore jade ear-rings in her rather large white ears and 
 jade bracelets on her sticks of arms. She greeted me 
 
THE HINDU 219 
 
 quickly in a voice which sounded thoroughly over 
 worked. Almost immediately we went down to dinner. 
 
 The dinner was quite super-excellent. During it Mrs. 
 Latimer talked with a sort of anxious pertinacity. Lati- 
 mer said little. I did my best, which is pretty bad as you 
 know. When dinner was over Mrs. Latimer got up 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 "Good night," she said, in her tired voice. "I am go 
 ing to bed." 
 
 "To sleep?" I asked. 
 
 "No, to read. I'm not much of a sleeper. Good night, 
 Johnny." 
 
 Her pale eyes travelled quickly over her husband's 
 face and figure. Then she turned and went out of the 
 room, her long ear-rings swinging gently beneath her 
 white ears, one thin hand holding the jade bracelet on 
 her left arm. 
 
 "Will you smoke, doctor ?" asked Latimer. 
 
 "No, thank you, I never smoke," said I. 
 
 "And you don't take coffee. Nor do I now. Then 
 let us go to my room where we shan't be interrupted." 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 Latimer led the way to a large library on the ground 
 floor behind the dining-room. There were no Russian 
 ballet touches in it. All was plain, comfortable, and 
 practical. Books were ranged round the walls. Deep 
 armchairs were set near the fire. Dark green curtains 
 hid the windows. A telephone was handy on a big flat 
 writing table. And the silence in this sanctum seemed 
 of a special brand, heavier, deeper than the silence of the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Latimer shut the door. 
 
 "No one will disturb us here," he said. "Do sit down 
 by the fire." 
 
 "Thank you," said I. "Now you can be as long as 
 you like. You'd better tell me everything as far as you 
 can remember, until I interrupt you." 
 
 "Oh, as to that, I have an excellent memory." 
 
220 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Good." 
 
 I leaned back in my chair calmly, laid one hand over 
 the other, and gazed into the fire. I took care not to 
 look at all observant Latimer was glad of that. 
 
 "I'll smoke my pipe, if you'll allow me," he said, and 
 he filled and lighted his pipe with deliberation. Then he 
 sat down rather heavily, and began to speak in his steady 
 baritone voice. 
 
 "As you know, doctor, I'm a newspaper proprietor, 
 and control The Daily Echo, The Week, The Evening 
 Journal, and The Sunday News. Lately my control has 
 really been nominal. I've been travelling. I have no 
 children. My papers bring me in a great deal of money. 
 I'm a very successful man." 
 
 He sighed deeply, puckered his brows, and let his firm 
 chin drop for a moment, as he looked down on the 
 floor. 
 
 "My wife is clever and artistic, and, like many clever 
 women, imaginative and apt to be carried away by 
 whims. I, on the other hand, have always been looked 
 upon as a hard-headed, practical man, good at organisa 
 tion, the last sort of type, I suppose, likely to be the 
 prey of the imagination. In fact, many of my friends 
 say I haven't got one." 
 
 He smiled bitterly. 
 
 "If I had, some of them have said I should be a 
 bigger man than I am. I tell you this lest you should 
 presently be inclined to fancy that my appearance belies 
 
 me. For I know I look stolid enough. Well, now " 
 
 He drew his armchair a little nearer to mine. "It be 
 gan in this way. Do you remember, about fifteen months 
 ago, there was a great pother about psychical research?" 
 
 "Do you mean when Professor Elton launched a vio 
 lent attack in one of the papers?" 
 
 "In my paper, The Dally Echo" 
 
 "Was it? On one of the principal investigators for 
 the Psychical Research Society?" 
 
 "Yes. Till then I hadn't bothered myself about such 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 matters. I hadn't had time. But the row attracted my 
 attention, and the multitude of letters which poured into 
 the office proved to me how deep was the interest taken in 
 occult matters by men and women in nearly all walks 
 of life. I showed some of these letters to my wife, who, 
 of course, had long- ago attended seances, played about 
 with planchette, had her fortune read in her hand, and so 
 forth. She is a Christian Scientist and was a Buddhist, 
 or vice versa; I'm not quite sure. She likes plenty of 
 variety in her life. Anyhow, all these psychic matters 
 were an old tale to her. To me, however, they were not, 
 although, of course, like everyone else, I had heard a 
 good deal about them casually. 
 
 "Well, I thought I'd look into them in my off moments, 
 see for myself what I could make of them. First, I put 
 up one of my cleverest young men to make investigations 
 for me to prepare the ground as it were; and then I 
 came in. I went with this young man, not in my own 
 name, of course, to a sitting with a so-called 'psychic' 
 whom he considered to be not the ordinary humbug. I 
 went a second time, a third time. My wife didn't know 
 about it. Unless my young journalist blabbed and I 
 think I was too valuable to him for him to be such a 
 fool nobody except himself and the psychic knew about 
 it. And the psychic didn't know who I was. The re 
 sult of these investigations, although I was thoroughly 
 incredulous when I started them, was that I felt there 
 was, in the common phrase, 'something in it.' We had 
 a lot of messages which seemed to be sheer bunkum. But 
 we had one which was really remarkable. It referred to 
 my wife." 
 
 Latimer had by now finished his pipe. He knocked the 
 ashes out of it, and laid it down with a slow and care 
 ful gesture. 
 
 "This came at the last sitting I attended with my 
 newspaper man. After it I decided not to sit again with 
 him present. It informed me I tell you this because 
 I've decided to tell you everything that my wife ceased 
 
222 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 to love me in a certain month of a certain year. It, 
 moreover, stated that the reason for her change of 
 heart I believe she had been sincerely attached to me 
 was the fact that she had come under the influence of an 
 Indian, a Hindu, at the time mentioned. All this was 
 conveyed to us by the medium, who was a man, but 
 when in a trance was apparently controlled by the spirit 
 of a woman called Minnie Harfield. This Minnie Har- 
 field in real life, so the spirit stated, was a woman of 
 but humble class whom the Hindu had taken to be his 
 mistress and had discarded on meeting my wife. Owing 
 to her despair at this desertion, Minnie Harfield had com 
 mitted suicide. No doubt" here Latimer shot a self- 
 conscious glance at the doctor "all this seems to you 
 a farrago of absurdity. So it did to me. But the me 
 dium gave the Hindu's name Nischaya Varman and 
 certain details of his appearance, position and acquire 
 ments. These things, of course, had hitherto been un 
 known by me." 
 
 "And were these statements given fluently by the 
 supposed spirit?" I asked. 
 
 "No, with some apparent difficulty, and as it were 
 under cross-examination." 
 
 "By you?" 
 
 "By me. Yes. I I became interested." 
 
 "Naturally. Goon." 
 
 "When the sitting was over I walked away with 
 my journalist He's an extremely clever and shrewd 
 young man, or he wouldn't be on my staff. Neverthe 
 less, I played a part with him. There seemed nothing 
 else to do. I told him that I was totally unable to verify 
 what the medium had said, and that I absolutely disbe 
 lieved in the medium's bona fides. The Minnie Harfield 
 spirit I jeered at. I added that I was resolved never to 
 visit the medium again, and that I relied on him the 
 journalist never to speak of what had just happened to 
 anybody. He replied that, of course, he would do as I 
 wished, and that no doubt we had both been listening to 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 a series of foolish lies, deliberate inventions of the me 
 dium. And there ended my association with him in 
 occult matters." 
 
 "Can you tell me his name?" 
 
 Latimer looked surprised. 
 
 "His name is Maurice Isaacs. Needless to say he's a 
 Jew." 
 
 "Thank you. Well?" 
 
 "Well, now, doctor, I had told Isaacs that I absolutely 
 disbelieved what the medium had said about my wife and 
 the Hindu. Nevertheless, I determined to find out, if 
 possible, whether there was anything at all in it. You 
 see, I was by way of investigating eh?" 
 
 "Precisely!" I said. 
 
 "I knew that my wife was a great admirer of Mrs. 
 Sidon, the Theosophist and lecturer. I also knew, as of 
 course you do, that Mrs. Sidon, who usually lives in 
 India, has a very wide acquaintance among the natives. 
 Certain women of society occasionally gave evening 
 parties to meet Mrs. Sidon when she was in London. 
 My wife had been to these parties. It was quite probable 
 that she had met Easterns in that circle, though I could 
 not remember that she had ever spoken to me of having 
 done so. Had she ever met a Hindu called Nischaya 
 Varman? That was what I wanted to know. Chance 
 favoured my curiosity. The London season was just 
 beginning, and one evening my wife mentioned that 
 Mrs. Sidon had returned from India and was to give a 
 lecture on 'The Mysteries' at Queen's Hall on the follow 
 ing Sunday. 
 
 " 'Are you going?' I asked. 
 
 'Yes/ she answered. 
 ' 'I should like to go with you/ I said. 
 
 " 'Of course come. You've never heard her, have 
 you?' 
 
 ' 'Never/ 
 
 ' 'She speaks better than any man I ever listened to/ 
 
 "On the Sunday we went. We sat not far from the 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 platform. On it there were several Indians. I saw my 
 wife looking at them directly we had taken our places. 
 
 "'Do you know any of those dark fellows?* I asked 
 her. 
 
 " 'Yes. That* she indicated a slim boy 'is the boy 
 whom many people in India expect to develop into a 
 world teacher.' 
 
 "I knew his name and said it. 
 
 " 'And who are the others ?' 
 
 "But at this moment Mrs. Sidon came on to the plat 
 form dressed in white, and looking like a Pope, and for 
 the next hour and twenty minutes no voice was heard 
 but hers. 
 
 "When the lecture was over I told my wife I wished 
 she would take me behind and introduce me to Mrs. 
 Sidon, by whose speaking powers I had really been im 
 pressed. She seemed rather surprised by my request. 
 
 " 'She must be well worth knowing/ I said. 
 
 " 'Yes ; but she doesn't want to know everybody,' said 
 my wife rather doubtfully. 
 
 " 'Do you think she'd mind if you took me?' 
 
 " 'It's nothing to do with the newspapers?' 
 
 " 'On my word of honour not.' 
 
 " 'Then I'll find out if we can see her.' 
 
 "She did, and I met Mrs. Sidon. I also met two or 
 three of her Indian adherents, which was what I had 
 intended to do. And with one of these, a Hindu called 
 Satyavan, I managed to become so friendly in a few 
 minutes that it ended by my arranging to meet him 
 again at dinner during the following week. I did not 
 tell my wife about the dinner. She was talking to Mrs. 
 Sidon at the moment and did not hear us fixing up the 
 appointment. 
 
 "Satyavan and I did dine together at the Indian Res 
 taurant. Have you ever heard of it?" 
 
 "No, never," I answered. 
 
 "Well, it's not a hundred miles from Piccadilly Cir 
 cus, a quiet, unpretending little place on a first floor, 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 where you get native cooking that's quite good. We 
 had an excellent meal. We had to send out for wine, 
 which I drank but which was refused by my new friend. 
 I dare say you will have guessed my reason for culti 
 vating the acquaintance of Satyavan. As he was a 
 Hindu, living in London and frequenting the circle of 
 Mrs. Sidon, I thought it probable that he might know 
 Nischaya, if, indeed, such a person really existed. To 
 wards the end of dinner I drew a bow at a venture. 
 
 " 'By the way,' I said, 'you seem to know most of Mrs. 
 Sidon's followers. What has become of Nischaya Var- 
 man?' 
 
 " 'Did you know him ?' said Satyavan, fixing his deep 
 eyes upon me. 
 
 ' 'No; but I have heard of him.' 
 
 " 'He passed over to the other side three months ago/ 
 
 " 'Ah ! He was rather a remarkable man, wasn't 
 he?* 
 
 " 'Very. He had great powers, a strong, very strong 
 personality. Mrs. Sidon had a high opinion of him and 
 often consulted him when she was writing. He was in 
 communication with the masters/ 
 
 " 'But he had a a rather strong earthly side, too, 
 hadn't he?' I asked. 
 
 "Satyavan, who was lighting a cigarette, gazed at me 
 for what seemed a full minute before he said : 
 
 " 'He was a man like other men in certain ways/ 
 
 " 'Ah ! Poor Minnie Harfield !' I ejaculated. 
 
 "Satyavan's face did not change, but his unfathomable 
 and very sad eyes seemed to challenge me. 
 'You knew her then ?' he said. 
 
 " 'No; but I know all about her. She killed herself 
 on Nischaya' s account/ 
 
 "'Well, if she chose to!' said Satyavan. 'A man 
 cannot stay in one place for ever. We are travellers. 
 We pass on from one place to another, from one soul 
 to another/ 
 
 " 'From one body to another?' I hazarded. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 " The body is very little. No doubt Minnie Harfield 
 had to expiate some fault committed in a former ex 
 istence. She gave Nischaya much trouble, as did other 
 women. A man must not be the prey of women/ 
 
 " 'No, indeed. There is so much in life besides love. 
 The activities of the brain ' 
 
 "I branched off to other topics, doctor. Satyavan's 
 confirmation of the medium's statements about Nischaya 
 and Minnie Harfield made a great impression upon me. 
 Do you wonder?" 
 
 "Not altogether," said I, non-committally. 
 
 "But I had yet to confirm the most important state 
 ment of all, the one which concerned my wife. I I care 
 for my wife." 
 
 There was a moment of complete silence. Then Lati- 
 mer resumed : 
 
 "I resolved to return to the medium. I resolved to 
 try to get into communication through him, not with 
 Minnie Harfield again, but with someone else. By this 
 time I had come to believe in the medium's powers. I 
 made an appointment with him by telephone without 
 giving my name, and went to Fulham he lived there 
 alone at night. On this occasion I told the medium I 
 had come with a special purpose, but said nothing as 
 to what it was. The medium, who was a very weak- 
 looking young man, with thin, primrose-coloured hair,, 
 flabby white hands, a bending body, and a very genteel 
 Cockney accent, seemed pleased and heartened. I re 
 member he said I was very sympathetic. We sat down 
 in a small, vulgar room on the first floor, with a por 
 trait of H. P. Blavatsky on the wall, and a rep-covered 
 sofa near the window. Before we began the actual sit 
 ting, however, I inquired of the medium whether there 
 was any means of summoning a particular spirit through 
 him. He had, he had already informed me, two 'con 
 trols,' but was sometimes taken possession of by spirits 
 whom he rather irreverently spoke of as 'outsiders.' I 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 made him understand that I was there that night to 
 communicate with an outsider. How was I to do it? 
 
 "My young gentility he was very ineffective when 
 he was not entranced seemed puzzled by the question. 
 He advised me, however, as soon as he fell into the 
 trance condition to 'put my mind on' the spirit I wished 
 to communicate with. 
 
 "'Do spirits come at call, then?' I asked. 'I have 
 been told you ought never to fix your mind at a sitting, 
 but ought always to try not to force anything.' 
 
 " There are no rules as I know of,' he said weakly. 
 'They may come or they mayn't. It's just as it hap 
 pens.' 
 
 "He was not illuminating, and I let him alone. Ob 
 viously he knew little more about such matters than I 
 did. He was, perhaps, merely an instrument. Indeed, 
 I must say for him that he claimed to be nothing else. 
 
 "We sat. He fell presently into a trance. I followed 
 his suggestion. I 'put my mind on' the Hindu. In 
 deed, that night I could have done nothing else. With 
 all the mental force, the power of will, at my disposal 
 I summoned him to come and to communicate with me. 
 Presently the medium's usual controls, Katey and Jo 
 hannes, came in turn, or purported to come. They talked 
 a good deal about matters uninteresting to me, and I 
 became very irritated and almost despairing. Then the 
 medium came out of his trance. I was I confess it 
 by now in a high state of nervous tension. It may seem 
 ridiculous to you, doctor, but sitting there in that vulgar 
 little room in a Fulham slum, with that ignorant gen 
 teel young man, I was companioned by the feeling that 
 there, and only there, could I arrive at a knowledge of 
 the truth about my wife. It seemed to me of course 
 I was strung up that already I felt some influence, 
 which I believed to be the Hindu's, not far from me; 
 that it had been attracted towards me by my mental 
 demand ; that, perhaps, only a very slight obstacle stood 
 between me and it. And there, meanwhile, was the 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 medium weakly patting his white forehead with his flabby 
 hands, and murmuring that he must refresh himself with 
 a glass of sherry and water. Sherry and water! 
 
 "Well, I controlled myself. I believe I showed no 
 sign of the intense nervous irritation I was feeling. I 
 let him swallow his disgusting refreshment, and then 
 I urged him to try again. 
 
 " 'Oh, but I'm gone quite flabby with it/ he protested. 
 'They take it out of me, I do assure you.' 
 
 "I said I would double the fee. 
 
 " 'It isn't only the money/ he said. 'A man must 
 know when to stop/ 
 
 "I aimed a blow at his vanity then. Without mention 
 ing my name I told him I had great influence with the 
 newspapers, that already I was much struck by his pow 
 ers, that I sought a complete proof of them. 
 
 " 'I feel you can give it to-night/ I said. 'We were 
 on the very verge of something remarkable when you 
 came out of the trance/ 
 
 " 'How do you know that?' he asked, sipping at the 
 sherry glass with his too flexible lips. 
 
 " 'I felt it. I feel it now. There is something that 
 wants to communicate, and can't unless you are en 
 tranced/ 
 
 "He seemed impressed by my earnestness, and glanced 
 round the dingy room with his pale eyes. 
 
 " 'Well, I'll see what I can do/ he said, with the air 
 of one making a concession. 'But, my word, shan't I 
 be poor-spirited after !' 
 
 "To cut further detail, doctor, for I don't want to 
 weary you no, really the medium did eventually fall 
 once more into a trance, and that night, for the first 
 time, the spirit of Nischaya, the Hindu, purported to 
 control him, to come into connection with mine." 
 
 "You say purported!" I observed. "Then you are 
 still not thoroughly convinced?" 
 
 As I spoke I turned slightly in my armchair and 
 looked rather sharply at him. 
 
THE HINDU 229 
 
 "I want I want to be unprejudiced. I want to put 
 fancies at a distance." 
 
 Latimer suddenly sprang up from his chair, with a 
 movement almost startingly swift in so heavy a man, and, 
 standing by the fire, he continued : 
 
 "You shall be the judge. That's why I am telling 
 you the whole business." 
 
 "Give me the material necessary to form a judgment 
 on," I said. 
 
 "After the medium had been entranced for a few min 
 utes, perhaps five, a very peculiar voice spoke out of him. 
 Have you ever heard a Hindu speaking?" 
 
 "I don't think I have." 
 
 "In my opinion it was the voice of a Hindu. The 
 voice stated that it was Nischaya Varman who was 
 speaking. It seemed very reluctant to communicate. 
 In fact, the whole impression produced on me upon that 
 occasion was one of deep and almost violent reluctance. 
 You know how it is when you, as it is called, force 
 something out of a person." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The Hindu spoke like one forced to speak and almost 
 malignant under the obligation. I didn't care. I went 
 straight to the point. I spoke at once of the Minnie 
 Harfield communication, and asked for the truth of the 
 matter. There followed a long silence, during which the 
 medium seemed strangely agitated. The impression on 
 me was of a human being rent. It was almost a con 
 vulsion, and alarmed me. Nevertheless my curiosity 
 prevented me from interfering. I continued to sit. I 
 continued almost fiercely to demand the truth from the 
 Hindu. I seemed to feel opposed to me in the room a 
 tremendously strong influence which nevertheless my 
 force of will had compelled to draw near to me in de 
 spite of its own desire. I believe I have a strong will. 
 I don't like anything to get the better of me. And just 
 then the thought of my wife stiffened my will, doctor. 
 Had she been overcome by this influence when it was 
 
230 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 in life to my horrible detriment? Then it was surely 
 my part to compel it to my will now. I was resolved. 
 I was hard as steel. All dread, if I had had any, of 
 things occult utterly left me. The convulsions of the 
 medium did not deter me. I insisted. I said, 'You shall 
 not go. I forbid you to go. I brought you here. I 
 forced you to come and I'll force you to remain/ I felt 
 the thing, whatever it was, struggling against me." 
 
 "How?" I interjected. 
 
 "I can't tell you. These occult things can't always 
 be told of, even when they are known. I say to you that 
 I felt the thing struggling, like moving water all about 
 
 me." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Until it broke away, as an enemy might tear himself 
 out of your hands. It was gone. The medium awoke. 
 Poor chap! He was very exhausted that night. He 
 asked me what had happened. He seemed frightened. I 
 did my best to reassure him, for I was resolved to make 
 of him my instrument, at whatever cost to myself or 
 him, until I had got through him the information I 
 wanted. By this time I was convinced that I really was 
 in communication with some other plane, or world, call 
 it whatever you like. I know little of spiritist jargon. 
 I had momentary doubts, of course. But I know my 
 inner conviction must have been as I say because of 
 my intense preoccupation with the medium, my resolute 
 determination to use him. If I had not secretly believed, 
 I could not have been so ruthless. If I had known that 
 the weak young man in Fulham would suffer in health, 
 even would eventually die, because of the efforts to which 
 I urged him, I should not have desisted from them. 
 
 "As I said, he was very exhausted that night. When 
 he seemed a little better I paid him double his fee and 
 said I was coming again on the following evening. He 
 said that really he couldn't risk it. I replied I should 
 come. He drank some more sherry and almost piteously 
 protested. I asked him if he had any idea of what was 
 
THE HINDU 231 
 
 happening when he was entranced. He said that as 
 a rule he was quite unconscious, but that during the last 
 sitting he had been faintly aware of something which 
 had seemed to be tormenting him, doing him harm. 
 
 "'And look how it's left me!' he concluded. 'I'm 
 all to pieces, really I am. You've brought something you 
 oughtn't to 'a' brought, something bad, something with 
 too much power. I dunno !' 
 
 "His words added to my determination. The end of 
 it was, doctor, that I overcame all the objections of the 
 poor thing by sheer bribery. He found I was rich. He 
 realised that I was influential, and he became my crea 
 ture. It did him much harm. It practically wrecked his 
 health for a time. I didn't care. 
 
 "I won't describe my sittings with him in detail. It 
 isn't necessary. I'll merely give you my general impres 
 sion of the sum of them. 
 
 "During them, so it seemed to me, there began and 
 persisted a relentless struggle between two wills, mine on 
 this plane, and another the Hindu's, as I supposed 
 on some other plane. It was almost as if two men were 
 striving on either side of a doorway, one to drag the 
 other through it into the room where he was, the other 
 not to be dragged through. The wretched medium was, 
 as it were, the doorway. The door was opened only 
 by his falling into trance. At other times it was fast 
 shut. My whole being was bent upon overcoming the 
 intense resistance of the Hindu to my desire that he 
 should answer to my summons and hold communication 
 with me. 
 
 "In the first sittings three or four he came, or pur 
 ported to come, and spoke a few words. But just as I 
 was beginning to feel that perhaps my power was going 
 to prevail over his, he was gone. It was as if he died 
 out of the medium. I had the impression of a receding 
 wave. My irritation at these escapes was intense, but 
 my will was not weakened by frustration. I am accus- 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 tomed to carry through things that I undertake. I was 
 resolved to carry this thing through." 
 
 "You had come to be absolutely certain, then, that it 
 was really the spirit of the Hindu ?" I dropped out. 
 
 Strong man though he was Latimer looked shame 
 faced. 
 
 "I suppose I had. Yes, I had." 
 
 "Goon!" said I. 
 
 "I took to timing the visits of the Hindu to that vul 
 gar room in Fulham, and I found that with each sitting 
 the period during which I was in communication with 
 him grew slightly longer. This encouraged my persist 
 ence. But the creature was horribly alert, was wary as 
 a snake. His communications were fragmentary, and 
 often almost meaningless. By degrees, however, I ar 
 rived at a very definite conception of him, a conception 
 of sinuous power, of brooding imaginative thoughtful- 
 ness, varied by outbreaks of slippery cunning. And I 
 detected in him fascination." 
 
 "In what did the fascination lie ?" 
 
 "I could scarcely tell you. But well, now and then 
 there came from the lips of the medium, speaking in the 
 Hindu's voice, a phrase that pierced, or in which there 
 was poetry. And at those moments I knew that a woman 
 might be moved by such phrases spoken in such a way, 
 moved to the trembling that is like the trembling of 
 a violin string. Words catch at women when the voice 
 that speaks them in strange. Women love a strange voice 
 even when it's ugly. Haven't you noticed that in regard 
 to actors?" 
 
 He did not wait for me to answer, but continued : 
 
 "At last one night I attained my object; I forced the 
 Hindu to come directly the medium was entranced, 
 although till then he had always been preceded by the 
 medium's usual 'controls.' Not only did I force him 
 to come immediately, but I forced him to speak of my 
 wife. Hitherto, when I had mentioned my wife, either 
 I had received evasive or unmeaning replies, or the 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 Hindu had died out of the medium who had abruptly 
 returned to consciousness. On this occasion, however 
 why, I don't know I felt a power as of iron within 
 me, a merciless faculty which seemed to enable me to 
 use my power as never before. The impression I had 
 was of pinning something down, something that strug 
 gled to escape but could not. I sometimes I wish now 
 that it had succeeded in escaping." 
 
 Latimer paused. There was a dawning of horror in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Why do you wish that?" said I. 
 
 "Do you think it possible or, let me say, can you 
 imagine it to be possible, for one here on earth, on this 
 plane, so to exercise power over a being on another plane 
 that the being is in some strange way dislodged from 
 his natural sphere, and cannot regain it? Could such 
 a thing be?" 
 
 "I have had no experience in such matters," I replied. 
 
 "Or another thing might happen," continued Lati 
 mer, staring hard at me with eyes that now had an in 
 ward look. "If a man forced something to come to him, 
 when it was wholly bent on not responding to his sum 
 mons, it might afterwards refuse to go when he wanted 
 to get rid of it. It might revenge itself in some such 
 way as that" 
 
 "Do I understand then that you made the Hindu come, 
 and that he did not go as on former occasions ? Is that 
 what you mean?" 
 
 "He came yes, and he seemed to go. But that may 
 have been his cunning. Anyhow he came, and I asked 
 him about my wife. Briefly, he said he had known her, 
 had subdued her to his power. About physical things 
 nothing was said. I gathered that her mind and nature 
 had undergone the impress of his, that she had been 
 willing to do anything he told her to do, that she had 
 looked to him as her master. That was enough for me." 
 
 "You believed it then?" I said. 
 
 "That night I did. And I was seized by a sort of mad 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 rage such as I had never thought to experience. I believe 
 I was almost frenzied. I longed to get at the Hindu. I 
 was physically moved. I wanted him, this seducer of 
 women, there before me in the body. It drove me almost 
 mad to think that, having done his vile work, he had 
 tranquilly passed away into some other sphere while I 
 was unconscious even of his existence. Keep this in 
 your mind, doctor ; I wanted the Hindu in the body that 
 night that I might punish him in the body. I remember 
 clenching my fists ; I remember the perspiration breaking 
 out upon me. I am a very ordinary man, doctor, with 
 plenty of the unregenerate brute in me, and there was 
 something in my peculiar situation calculated to madden 
 such a man. At such moments men go to the animal 
 within them. I did that. I sent up to the Hindu a silent 
 cry 'Come back from the place where you are that I 
 may punish you as you deserve! Come back!' This 
 silent cry persisted in me till I felt absolutely exhausted. 
 I fell back in my chair. My eyes I remember closed. 
 My whole body became cold and almost numb." 
 
 Latimer had been speaking with unusual intensity, 
 but now his manner changed, turned to an almost frigid 
 dryness. He paused, lit a cigar with slow deliberation, 
 sat down near to me, crossed his legs, leaned forward, 
 and said : 
 
 "Now we come to the matter which altered my life, 
 sent me travelling, and at last brought me to your door. 
 
 "As on former occasions, the Hindu seemed to die 
 out from the medium, who emerged from his trance. 
 I paid a big fee and got up to go. Looking down on 
 the trembling and white-faced young man, I said : 
 
 " T may not need to come to you again/ 
 
 "He stared at me with his pale eyes. He seemed un 
 able to understand what I said. 
 
 " 'If you are ever in difficulties/ I continued, 'you can 
 always write to this address/ 
 
 "And I gave him the name and address of a confiden 
 tial secretary of mine, and went out/' 
 
THE HINDU 235 
 
 "And has he ever written to the address ?" I asked. 
 
 "He has, a good many times," answered Latimer, with 
 a hint of impatience. 
 
 "And received help?" 
 
 "Of course; liberal help." 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "That night, as it happened, I found my wife sitting 
 alone in the drawing-room when I got home. She was 
 reading the last pamphlet by Mrs. Sidon. Raising her 
 eyes from it as I came into the room, she said : 
 ' 'How ill you look, Johnnie !' 
 
 " 'I feel just as usual/ I answered. 
 
 "I glanced down at what she was reading. 
 
 " 'More of Mrs. Sidon !' I said. 'Do you think that 
 sort of thing does you much good?' 
 
 "She looked at the pamphlet. 
 
 "It's deeply interesting." 
 
 " Is it ? And where does it lead you into light, or 
 into darkness ?' 
 
 " 'Certainly not into darkness/ she answered. 
 
 "She looked at me again with, I thought, a flickering 
 of curiosity. 
 
 " 'Have you got anything against Mrs. Sidon?' she 
 asked. 'I thought you admired her. You were anxious 
 to know her/ 
 
 "I sat down rather deliberately. I was trying hard 
 to control myself, not to show the excitement, the the 
 it was almost rage that was boiling up in me. 
 
 " 'She's a remarkable woman/ I said. 'But don't you 
 think she might easily upset very sensitive people, throw 
 them off their balance?' 
 
 " 'Sensitive !' she said. 'Do you mean by that weak?' 
 f 'Why should you think so ?' I replied. 
 
 "At that moment, doctor, I was on the very edge of 
 telling her all I had learnt from the medium. I wanted 
 to tell her. I longed to disturb her equanimity, to at 
 tack her ferociously for the silence she had kept. But 
 beneath my anger, my acute sense of wrong, there was 
 
236 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 something else, something cautious it's a part of my 
 very nature, I suppose, and I have cultivated it, for I 
 know its value. And this caution lifted his voice. I got 
 up abruptly, and, before she could answer my question, 
 I had left the room. 
 
 "It was just ten o'clock. I was gnawed by a horrible 
 restlessness. I took my hat and went out, thinking I 
 would go down to the big building where my papers are 
 produced. I started to walk. It was a damp and foggy 
 winter's night. The fog was not dense, but it added to 
 the mystery and the dreariness of the darkness. I 
 crossed Oxford Street, and when I came to the farther 
 side of it decided I don't know exactly why that I 
 would not go to the office. I think I felt then a necessity 
 to be quite alone. Anyhow, I walked on and soon found 
 myself in Grosvenor Square. It seemed entirely de 
 serted, but I crossed over to the pavement that runs by 
 the railings of the square garden, and there, feeling 
 safe in my loneliness, sheltered by the softly trailing fog, 
 I walked slowly and, I think, very quietly, brooding over 
 the misery that was mine. I had walked round the square 
 more than once, always keeping to the pavement on the 
 garden side, when a man slipped by me in the fog and 
 immediately was gone. I hadn't time to see his face, 
 or even to notice how he was dressed, though it was not 
 so densely dark but that I could have got an impression 
 of him had I known he was coming upon me. His 
 passing disturbed me, indeed it distressed me strangely." 
 
 Latimer paused. 
 
 "Strangely !" I said. "What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 "Well, it made me feel uneasy," Latimer answered, 
 with an air of discomfort which almost suggested shame. 
 "I I found myself suddenly aware of the dark loneli 
 ness of the garden on my left, disliking it imaginatively, 
 I think. And this will seem very contemptible to you, 
 doctor " 
 
 "Certainly not!" said I. 
 
 "Well, I went over at once to the other side of the 
 
THE HINDU 237 
 
 square, where I had the houses close on my right. This 
 done, I walked on again slowly. 
 
 "I was just about to cross the road by the house at 
 the corner of Duke Street opposite to the Japanese Em 
 bassy, when I realised that someone was approaching 
 me. I did not hear him I knew it was not a woman 
 but I felt him coming; I felt, too, that he was the man 
 who had already once passed me when I was on the op 
 posite pavement. I stopped short. I had a mind to turn 
 sharply to my right down Duke Street, and to get away 
 from the approaching stranger. But the cessation from 
 movement seemed to recall me to my normal self, and I 
 understood at once that I think for the first time I 
 was the prey of something very like unreasoning fear. 
 The knowledge came to me like a hard blow. I tingled 
 with shame. And instantly I walked on to meet the 
 man who was approaching me. We met under a lamp. 
 He was an Indian." 
 
 "Ah!" I ejaculated. 
 
 Latimer looked at me sharply. 
 
 "Had you expected that he would prove to be an 
 Indian?" he said. 
 
 "Please go on. Don't question me," I replied. 
 
 After a rather long silence Latimer resumed : 
 
 "This Indian wore a soft black hat and a brown coat, 
 almost buff-coloured, with the collar turned up. He 
 slipped by me, without looking at me, and immediately 
 disappeared into the fog. His height was much less 
 than mine. He seemed to be very thin. I guess that he 
 had very small bones. I could, I suppose, have picked 
 him up and thrown him into the road without turning a 
 hair. Yet I felt afraid of him." 
 
 Almost furtively Latimer glanced at me, and a dull 
 flush of red showed on his powerful face. 
 
 "I can honestly say that I had never felt afraid of a 
 man till that moment," he added. 
 
 "Why did you feel afraid of this man?" I asked. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "Well, I was startled when I saw he was an Indian. 
 That seemed to me very strange." 
 
 "Because at the moment you happened to be thinking 
 deeply about an Indian." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An odd coincidence but nothing more." 
 
 "That's what I told myself. I battled with myself, 
 with a strong, almost overpowering desire to get away 
 from the square at once. And almost immediately I 
 had stopped for a moment on the pavement I went for 
 ward. As I did so I knew that in a few minutes I should 
 meet the Indian again. It was inevitable. He had 
 chosen Grosvenor Square for a nocturnal prowl as I had. 
 Perhaps, indeed, he lived, or was staying, in the square. 
 When I met him again I was quite decided not to be 
 disturbed. Well, doctor, not long after I had passed the 
 Italian Embassy and was at the end of the square near 
 est to Hyde Park, I was aware that the Indian was again 
 drawing near to me. I heard no footfall. He was a 
 silent mover. But I knew that he was close to me. And 
 this time my fear of him increased. Indeed it was only 
 by a strong effort that I checked myself from well, 
 call it bolting if you like. We met again under a lamp. 
 This time I forced myself to stare hard at the man. He 
 was certainly a Hindu/' 
 
 "What makes you think that? Did you see him 
 plainly?" 
 
 "Fairly well. He was a Hindu. He slipped by me 
 noiselessly without looking at me, and immediately dis 
 appeared into the fog. I turned. I gazed after him. I 
 listened. And, doctor, I sweated. My whole body ran 
 with sweat. After standing for two or three minutes I 
 left the square by the nearest turning. It was Upper 
 Grosvenor Street. I reached Park Lane, met a taxi, 
 hailed it and drove straight home. My wife had gone to 
 bed, but I saw her light. (We slept in communicating 
 rooms. ) I did not disturb her. I took a, cold bath " 
 
 "Very injudicious !" I said. 
 
THE HINDU 239 
 
 "Was it? And went to bed. I won't describe the 
 night. It was a bad one. During the following day 
 I attended to business as usual. I had an engagement 
 for the evening, to dine out with my wife at a house in 
 Eaton Square. About four I telephoned to her to say 
 I couldn't go with her, as I should have business to at 
 tend to late. I also telephoned to my prospective hostess. 
 I felt in no fit state for society. Besides, I wanted to 
 dine elsewhere. Soon after eight I started on foot for the 
 Indian Restaurant." 
 
 "Can you tell me exactly what led you there?" 
 
 "I felt a sort of horror of darkness, of what is some 
 times called 'colour/ Therefore I went where I knew 
 I should meet colour. That was an act of defiance. But 
 in addition I was driven by an intense, probably morbid, 
 curiosity. I wanted to see the Hindu again, to see him 
 in full light." 
 
 "Why should he be at the Indian Restaurant?" 
 
 "I thought he might be there. It is a place frequented 
 by Indians." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 "I walked rapidly from my house, crossed Piccadilly 
 Circus, and was soon at the restaurant. Mounting the 
 stairs, I entered the first room. I must tell you that 
 the restaurant consists of two rooms, or rather, perhaps, 
 I should say of one large room divided into two com 
 partments by a screen of wood and glass. In the first 
 compartment there are several small tables. In the sec 
 ond there is one long table. I don't know, but I conclude 
 that those who dine in the second compartment pay a 
 regular pension, come to the place habitually. When I 
 got in I found a party of seven people dining at a table 
 close to the window in the first compartment three In 
 dian men, an Englishman, and three Englishwomen. 
 Four more Indians were dining, each one alone, at sepa 
 rate small tables. In the compartment beyond I saw 
 three or four heads as I stood for a moment. Then one 
 pf the three young women who served gave me a smile 
 
240 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 and indicated a table. I hung up my coat and hat and 
 sat down facing the room and the screen. 
 
 "The man I had met in the square was not among the 
 diners." 
 
 "But you could not see the faces of those in the farther 
 compartment, could you ?" I interposed. 
 
 "No ; but he wasn't in the farther room. I felt it." 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "I ordered my dinner. When it came I began to eat 
 very slowly. On my right hand was the party of seven. 
 They had a couple of bottles of champagne on the table, 
 were half through their dinner, and were talking and 
 laughing in lively fashion. Solemnly the dark men at 
 the little tables ate, and smoked cigarettes while waiting 
 for food. I watched the English girls chattering to their 
 strangely expressive companions and thought about my 
 wife and the dead Hindu. Had she ever dined here with 
 him? I imagined them sitting together at one of the 
 little tables eating dishes of the East, deep in converse, 
 and the blood went to my head, doctor. I had no appe 
 tite, but I forced myself to eat. When I had finished 
 one thing I ordered another. I wished to prolong my 
 stay. Presently I asked for a bottle of wine. It had to 
 be sent out for. While I was waiting for it two or three 
 people, all coloured, dropped in and passed into the far 
 ther room beyond the screen. At last the wine arrived, 
 and the girl who waited on me came with it to my table 
 smiling. She stood in front of me to uncork it, and 
 I spoke to her. She replied. We talked for a moment, 
 and my mind was taken away from its brooding and ex 
 pectation. We were both laughing, I remember, and 
 I was looking at her while she drew the cork, when 
 I was aware that a man came in softly and quickly and 
 passed into the room beyond the screen. I saw him, as 
 it were, with the tail of my eye. He had on a soft 
 black hat, a brown, almost buff-coloured coat. I did not 
 see his face. But I knew it was the Hindu of Grosvenor 
 Square. 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 " 'Who is that?' I asked the attendant. 
 
 "She put the bottle down on my table. 
 
 " 'Who d'you mean?' she asked, looking round. 
 
 " The man who has just gone into the other room/ 
 I said. 'In a black hat and brown coat/ 
 
 " 'One of our regular people, I s'pose/ she said. 'I 
 didn't catch sight of him. Is your wine all right?' 
 
 "I sipped it and made some answer. She went away. 
 
 "I stared towards the screen. Through the opening 
 in it I saw two or three people sitting at dinner, but not 
 the man who had just passed in. Half an hour went by. 
 My seven neighbours left their table hilariously, gath 
 ered together their coats and wraps, and went laughing 
 down the stairs. Other diners finished their meals, paid 
 their bills and departed. Some came from the inner 
 compartment, but not the Hindu. I sat over my wine, 
 pretending to drink, smoking and waiting. Now and 
 then I saw the girls, when they were not attending to 
 customers, glancing at me and whispering among them 
 selves. Evidently they were surprised that I sat so long. 
 I was now the only customer on my side of the screen 
 and I could see no one at the long table in the second 
 compartment ; nor did I hear any sound of voices coming 
 to me from the hidden part of the room. Nevertheless 
 I knew that the Hindu was still there. He had gone in 
 and he had never returned. He must be there. I was 
 resolved to wait where I was till he came out. I should 
 then have a full sight of him, a full and definite impres 
 sion of him. Presently I ordered coffee. The young 
 woman, when she brought it, remarked : 
 
 " 'You're the last. We're closing in ten minutes from 
 now.' 
 
 " 'You're glad when closing time comes ?' 
 
 " 'Rather/ 
 
 " 'But I'm not the last,' I said. There's still someone 
 in the farther room/ 
 
 "She looked surprised and raised her fair eyebrows. 
 
 " 'No, there isn't,' she said. 'Everyone's gone/ 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 " 'Not the man with the black hat and the brown coat 
 whose name I asked you/ 
 
 "'Well, you are a funny one!' she said archly. 'If 
 you don't believe me come and see for yourself/ 
 
 "I took her at her word and went with her to the 
 opening in the screen. The long table was cleared. The 
 compartment was empty. And, doctor, there was no 
 way of leaving it except through the compartment in 
 which I had been sitting. 
 
 " 'What d'you say now ?' said the girl. 
 
 " 'That I made a mistake/ I answered. 
 
 "I gave her a tip, took my hat, and went off down the 
 stairs. But I had not made a mistake. The Hindu had 
 gone into the compartment beyond the screen but he had 
 never come out of it." 
 
 "Are you absolutely certain he didn't come out when 
 your attention happened to be distracted from watching 
 for him?" 
 
 "It never was distracted. I feel sure of that." 
 
 "Well, what did you make of it ?" 
 
 "I think you know," said Latimer. 
 
 "I wish you to tell me," I said firmly. 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 Latimer paused, then sat forward and closed his hands 
 into fists like a man making a strong effort. 
 
 "When I met the Hindu in Grosvenor Square I felt 
 at once that there was something dreadful, something 
 wholly unnatural about him, something which made me 
 want to get away from him. The same feeling came to 
 me in the Indian Restaurant when he passed through the 
 compartment in which I was sitting; it was with me till 
 I looked and found him gone. Then suddenly I knew 
 why his nearness had horrified me. As I made my way 
 down into the humming street I felt like a man con 
 demned. For I was certain that I had seen Nischaya 
 Varman, the man who had taken my wife from me and 
 who was what we call dead. In a wild moment of anger, 
 I had striven to summon him to me that I might punish 
 
THE HINDU 243 
 
 him. He had obeyed my summons that he might punish 
 
 me." 
 
 "So you considered yourself haunted by the Hindu?" 
 I said calmly. 
 
 "Since that night I have seldom known what it is to 
 feel safe." 
 
 "Give me the facts. You have seen the Hindu I 
 mean by that had the impression of seeing him many 
 times?" 
 
 "Many times. But do you believe the whole thing is 
 a delusion on my part ?" 
 
 "Haven't you come to me in the hope that it is so, 
 and that I may be able to prove that it is by getting 
 rid of it?" 
 
 "In my situation one hopes mad things and catches 
 at every straw," said Latimer morosely. 
 
 "Now what happened after that night at the Indian 
 Restaurant?" 
 
 "I was badly shaken but I made a fight of it. All 
 that night I fought what seemed to be my own knowl 
 edge. I told myself that I was ill. If I pulled myself 
 together, if I ceased henceforth to traffic with mediums, 
 if I drove the whole matter out of my mind and gave 
 myself up to the daily work then, I told myself, all 
 would be well." 
 
 "A very good programme, though it didn't cover quite 
 everything." 
 
 "You mean my wife?" 
 
 "Did you proceed to put it into execution?" I asked, 
 ignoring Latimer's question. 
 
 "I tried to. I put my back into it, doctor. I gave 
 myself more than ever to my newspapers, the children 
 I had created the only children and I saw scarcely 
 anything of my wife. I did not visit the medium again, 
 of course. By then I had a horror of him, and of all 
 his brethren. Several days passed without any special 
 incident occurring. But I was never free from appre 
 hension; I never even for a moment had the impression 
 
244 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 that the menace I was so conscious of had been removed 
 from me. I'll go further and tell you the exact truth. 
 I knew it had not been removed. 
 
 "One night my wife said : 
 
 " I've got a box to-morrow for the first night at the 
 St. James's Theatre. I've asked' she mentioned some 
 friends. 'Will you come ?' 
 
 "I was on the point of refusing when I noticed in 
 her eyes an expression of I thought suspicious and 
 intent inquiry. Immediately I decided to go. And I 
 went. You know what a St. James's first night is; a 
 crowd of people one has seen everywhere. The boxes 
 are very large. We had three people with us, and were 
 all able to sit in line. I was in the corner next the stage 
 and could see practically the whole of the stalls. During 
 the first act I happened to notice that one stall, rather 
 far back and well in the middle of the house, was empty. 
 Doctor, directly I saw this empty stall I knew who was 
 presently coming to fill it. I was seized with a sort of 
 horrible panic which made me know, and I did not take 
 my eyes from the little gap in the crowd till the woman 
 next me said : 
 
 " 'Do you hate the drama, Mr. Latimer?' 
 
 " 'No,' I answered. 'On the contrary, I'm fond of 
 the theatre. Why d'you ask me ?' 
 
 " 'Well, you never look at the stage/ 
 
 "She was gazing at me with an expression of definite 
 surprise which put me at once on my guard. I devoted, 
 or seemed to devote, all my attention to the stage from 
 that moment, but, doctor, I knew I'll swear it the ex 
 act instant when that empty stall was filled. I felt the 
 arrival of the Hindu." 
 
 "You didn't see him come in ?" I asked. 
 
 "No, because I wouldn't look. But directly the cur 
 tain went down I turned. And he was there looking 
 straight at me. For the first time I saw him fully, saw 
 his whole face and his head uncovered. He was in eve 
 ning dress, doctor." 
 
THE HINDU 245 
 
 so," I said casually. 
 
 "There was something intense and, I thought, unre 
 lentingly malignant in the gaze of his profound and lam 
 bent eyes. They said to me, 'I am here to punish you.' 
 I got up. My wife was lifting an opera glass. She put 
 it to her eyes and looked down upon the stalls. I saw 
 her examining the long rows of seated figures, beginning 
 with those nearest to the stage. What would happen 
 when she saw the Hindu ? I was painfully excited. I 
 longed to draw her attention to him, to say to her, 'Look 
 at that man. Do you remember him ?' But I pretended 
 carelessness. I talked to our friends. I discussed the 
 play, the people in the house. And all the time furtively 
 I was watching my wife. Presently it seemed to me that 
 she was staring through her glasses straight at the 
 Hindu. Yet her hand did not tremble, her face did not 
 change. I heard her say : 
 
 " 'What an odd gown Mrs. Lester has on !' 
 
 " 'Where is she ?' I asked, bending to her. 
 
 " 'Over there, a little to the left, near Sir Charles 
 Digby.' 
 
 "She made a gesture towards the stalls. I looked and 
 saw Mrs. Lester, an acquaintance of ours, sitting in the 
 row behind the Hindu, and perhaps three feet to his left. 
 There was a discussion between my wife and one of the 
 women in our box about Mrs. Lester's gown, which I 
 interrupted I couldn't help it by saying : 
 
 " 'What a remarkable-looking Indian that is.' 
 
 " 'An Indian ! Where is there an Indian ?' said my 
 wife. 
 
 " 'Close to Mrs. Lester, the row in front of her to 
 the right.' 
 
 " 'I don't see him/ said my wife. 
 
 " 'Nor I,' said the woman next to her. 
 
 " 'There !' I said, pointing, and leaning forward in my 
 excitement. 'Surely you must see him a Hindu/ 
 
 " 'But I don't see him!' said my wife, also leaning for 
 ward, and gazing apparently straight at the Hindu. 
 
246 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 " 'You're looking right at him now !' I exclaimed. 
 
 "As I spoke the lights went down and the curtain rose 
 on the last act. 
 
 "When the play was over and the actors were being 
 called for, I searched once more for the Hindu. But he 
 had vanished." 
 
 "And nobody saw him but yourself, so far as you 
 know?" I observed. 
 
 "So far as I know nobody." 
 
 "Now before you go on I want to ask you a few ques 
 tions," I said. 
 
 "Very well," said Latimer, more calmly. 
 
 "You've been travelling, I understand ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How many times did you see the Hindu before you 
 left England?" 
 
 "About eight or nine times in all, I should think." 
 
 "Did you ever see him in the daytime?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Did you ever try to speak to him?" 
 
 "No. I intended to, but when the moment came 
 something always held me back." 
 
 "Have you ever spoken to your wife about him, except 
 that night at the theatre?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I gather that you suffered so much from these ap 
 pearances that you decided to leave England ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "In the faint hope, I suppose, of leaving the Hindu 
 behind you in England?" 
 
 "It was very ridiculous of me, no doubt," said Latimer 
 painfully. 
 
 "It was a very natural thing to do. Change of scene 
 you know ! Where did you go, and did you go alone ?" 
 
 "You don't want to hear any more about my English 
 experiences?" 
 
 "We needn't go into them just now, I think. Well?" 
 
THE HINDU 247 
 
 "I took my man, Cradon, with me. We went first to 
 Marseilles and stayed at the Hotel du Louvre." 
 
 "I know it. Now go on. Resume your narrative." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Latimer hesitated, then refilled his pipe, lit it, and said 
 nervously : 
 
 "Let's see where was I?" 
 
 "At Marseilles, the Hotel du Louvre." 
 
 "To be sure. Yes, Marseilles." 
 
 He puffed two or three times at his pipe, staring be 
 fore him. Evidently he was trying to fix his mind which 
 had wandered away. 
 
 "When I had crossed the Channel, had left Paris be 
 hind me, and was running down South," he said at length, 
 "I had a sense of relief. A burden seemed to have fallen 
 from my shoulders. The sun shone at Marseilles. The 
 city was full of almost boisterous animation. As I 
 stepped out of the train I remember I felt more optimistic 
 than I had felt for many weeks. This happy sensation 
 persisted during the day. I intended passing a couple of 
 nights at Marseilles to well, to test a certain matter. 
 If things were satisfactory I thought of going on to 
 the Riviera. I slept well the first night, and the second 
 day was without any unpleasant incident. I began to 
 hope. I looked back on the dreadful persecution it was 
 most dreadful, doctor I had suffered in England from 
 the Hindu, and I was able to think that my tortured 
 nerves had conjured up that dark apparition. It was 
 due, perhaps, merely to a morbid condition of mind pro 
 duced by ill-health; and that ill-health I now told my 
 self had been brought about by the shock of the me 
 dium's revelation about my wife. In the bright sunshine 
 of Marseilles the blackness of the past began to fade. 
 I was even able to say to myself that out of the mouth 
 of the medium lies had come to me. I could not, of 
 course, doubt the Minnie Harfield statement about the 
 Hindu's existence and her suicide. But I tried to doubt, 
 and almost succeeded in doubting, the statement about 
 
248 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 my wife. There was, I acknowledge, little reason in 
 such a differentiation between the two statements. Never 
 theless, I think I made it. That day I was almost light- 
 hearted. But in the evening all my misery was brought 
 back by a hideous incident. You know the hall of the 
 Hotel du Louvre which fronts the covered courtyard into 
 which carriages can drive?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "After dinner in the restaurant I was sitting there, 
 smoking and reading a newspaper, when the hotel omni 
 bus drove up from the station with some newly arrived 
 travellers. I realised this, as one may realise a thing 
 when reading, without really attending to it. Travellers 
 got out I know went to the bureau, took their rooms, 
 received the tickets with their room numbers, and so 
 forth, and passed by me on the way to the lift which, 
 you'll remember, is in the centre at the bottom of the 
 staircase. I went on with my reading, knowing all this 
 and not attending to it. But suddenly a horrible sensa 
 tion came upon me. It was the sensation I had had that 
 night in Grosvenor Square, when for the first time I set 
 eyes on the Hindu. I felt that he was coming into the 
 hall, that he was passing me. I did not look up. I tried 
 to deny the assertion of my mind and body for I felt 
 him with both. With my eyes glued to my paper I said 
 to myself, 'You are a morbid fool. He is not here. 
 Some casual traveller is passing you/ And I strove to 
 read on. But something overcame my resolution. It 
 was like a sort of terrible curiosity, insistent, stronger 
 than my will to defy it. I swung round abruptly in my 
 chair and looked cowards the staircase. Doctor, I saw 
 the Hindu with his back to me on the point of entering 
 the lift which had just descended from an upper floor. 
 He wore the black hat, the almost buff-coloured coat. He 
 went into the lift. The lift man, with a click, shut the 
 gate. The Hindu turned and looked full at me. Then 
 the lift shot up, carrying him out of my sight." 
 
 Latimer's face was tormented. It was easy to see how 
 
THE HINDU 249 
 
 even the mere recollection of this incident made him 
 suffer. 
 
 "I had almost dared to think myself free," he said with 
 a hoarse note in his voice. "And now I the the thing 
 had followed me. I was conscious at that moment of its 
 horrible persistence, of the malignity by which it was 
 driven. At that moment something that was like sheer 
 desperation seized me. I threw down my newspaper and 
 got up from my chair. I saw the manager in the bureau, 
 and I went up to him. 
 
 " Those travellers/ I said, 'who have just arrived. 
 What train did they come by ?' 
 
 " The rapide from Paris, monsieur.' 
 
 " 'A traveller from London would be likely to come 
 by that train ?' 
 
 " 'If he had stayed the night in Paris, monsieur, he 
 would/ 
 
 ' 'Have you the names of those who have just come in 
 the omnibus?' 
 
 " 'Yes, monsieur. They are all in the visitors' book/ 
 "May I seek?' 
 
 " 'Certainly, monsieur.' 
 
 "He pushed it towards me. I looked. I scarcely know, 
 but I think I had a wild hope of seeing some Indian 
 name unknown by me, of finding that my fears had be 
 trayed me, and that the Hindu who had just mounted in 
 the lift was some ordinary traveller on his way to the 
 East. There was no Indian name in the book. I saw 
 surprise dawning in the manager's face. 
 
 " T thought I might find the name of of a friend,' 
 I muttered, turning away. 
 
 " 'Quite so, monsieur,' said the manager, with detached 
 courtesy. 
 
 "As I left the bureau I saw the lift standing empty with 
 the attendant beside it. I went to it and got in. The 
 man followed. 
 
 " 'Which floor, monsieur?' 
 
250 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "I told him. Directly the lift had started I pressed 
 ten francs into his hand. 
 
 " Who was that Indian gentleman you took up just 
 now?' I said. 
 
 " 'An Indian gentleman, monsieur?' 
 
 " 'Yes/ 
 
 " 'But I took no Indian gentleman/ 
 
 " 'Do you deny that a moment ago you took the lift 
 up?' 
 
 " 'Certainly not, monsieur/ 
 
 " 'Very well. An Indian was with you in the lift/ 
 
 " Tardon, monsieur, but monsieur is mistaken/ 
 
 ' 'But I saw you go up/ 
 
 " 'There was no one in the lift with me, monsieur, I 
 assure you! I took the lift up because the bell on the 
 fourth floor rang. I have just brought a lady down/ 
 
 " 'Do you deny that there was an Indian with you 
 when you went up, a man wearing a soft black hat and 
 a light brown coat?' 
 
 " 'Monsieur is mistaken. I was quite alone in the lift/ 
 
 "For over a minute the lift had been stationary at 
 my floor. The expression on the man's face warned me 
 that I was wasting my time and arousing strong sus 
 picions concerning my own sanity. Without another 
 word I got out of the lift and went to my room. Next 
 morning after a sleepless night I left the hotel. I might 
 almost say I fled from it." 
 
 "And you went to the Riviera ?" 
 
 "No. I crossed the sea. I heard there was a ship 
 starting for Philippeville in Algeria. I went on board. 
 I suppose I had a mad idea of escaping from that travel 
 ler who had pursued me from England. Of course it 
 was a crazy notion. One may escape from a living man. 
 The sea may be an effectual barrier between you and him. 
 But I was pursued by one who could overpass any bar 
 rier at will. I knew this, and yet, when we were out at 
 sea, when Marseilles had disappeared on the horizon, 
 I felt some sense of relief. After a voyage of about 
 
THE HINDU 
 
 thirty-six hours, I landed at Philippeville. I stayed there 
 one night, then took the train and went on to a little 
 place called Hammam Meskoutine, where there are hot 
 water springs impregnated with sulphur." 
 
 "What took you there?" said I. 
 
 "Hitherto I had always seen the Hindu in the midst 
 of men, either in London or in Marseilles. Hammam 
 Meskoutine I knew to be a tiny place buried in the Afri 
 can solitude, though far from the desert. I thought, 
 Terhaps he will not follow me into the solitudes. 7 
 
 "The hotel at the baths stands quite alone, surrounded 
 by a delicious flowering country, smiling and intimate. 
 The sulphur springs boil up out of the earth at a little 
 distance away. There is a small, but well-arranged, bath 
 establishment just below the hotel, which is of the bunga 
 low type, with all the rooms on the ground floor. Mine 
 opened by a French window on to a paved walk. Beyond 
 was an open space with trees bounded by outbuildings. 
 On the right, and at right angles, was a terrace backed 
 by the public room of the hotel. Few people were stay 
 ing there, only some four or five Colonial French people. 
 The landlord was cordial; the servants were friendly, 
 cheerful and attentive. And the whole atmosphere of 
 the place was serene and remote, yet eminently happy. 
 Even my man, Cradon, was struck by the sweet tran 
 quillity of this African retreat. 
 
 " Tve always liked towns, sir,' he observed, on the 
 evening of our arrival just before dinner. 'But I think 
 a man could forget all about them here.' 
 
 "Something in the commonplace words cheered and 
 almost reassured me. Suddenly it occurred to me that 
 perhaps I, for years a colossal worker, untiring in energy 
 and always living in the midst of crowds for I never 
 took a real holiday had, without being aware of it, be 
 come thoroughly overworked." 
 
 "Why not ?" I said. "What more likely ?" 
 
 "You think" a gleam of hope shone in Latimer's 
 eyes "you think overwork might " He stopped. 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "But madness would be worse than all!" he muttered, 
 as if to himself. 
 
 "Madness ! Rubbish !" I said. "You're no more mad 
 than I am." 
 
 "You are sure?" said Latimer, whose eyes at that mo 
 ment had an almost imploring expression. 
 
 "Positive," said I. "If I thought otherwise I should 
 take you to-morrow to Vernon Mansfield, the specialist 
 in lunacy if you'd come." 
 
 A faint smile flitted over Latimer's face. 
 
 "But if I'm not mad then I am really haunted, I am 
 really the victim of a diabolic persecution. There's no 
 other alternative." 
 
 "I'm not at all sure of that," I said. "No, no ; don't 
 ask me questions. Go on till I stop you. Did anything 
 happen at Hammam Meskoutine?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "Nothing happened the first night. But I felt very 
 uneasy on account of my room being on the ground floor, 
 and opening by the French window on to the paved 
 walk. There were Persiennes of wood outside the win 
 dow, and before going to bed I shut them securely, but, 
 nevertheless, I disliked the idea that anyone could walk, 
 or pause, outside within a few feet of me as I lay in 
 bed." 
 
 "But if you were haunted what was to prevent the 
 Hindu from appearing in your room, even with doors and 
 windows locked?" I asked. 
 
 "I know, I know," returned Latimer. "But that had 
 never happened, and, as a matter of fact, it never did hap 
 pen. I always saw him in circumstances which seemed 
 to make it possible that he was an ordinary man. He 
 never appeared and disappeared as so-called ghosts are 
 said to do, though on one or two occasions, as at the 
 Indian Restaurant, it was impossible for me to imagine 
 the means of his exit from the place to which I had seen 
 him go." 
 
THE HINDU 253 
 
 "So you were not afraid of seeing him with you when 
 you had locked the door and shut the window?" 
 
 "Somehow I was not. But I dreaded his coming along 
 the pavement, and, perhaps, lingering in the night outside 
 my window. Therefore I lay awake. But nothing oc 
 curred on that first night, and the dawn broke heralding 
 a day of celestial clearness, such as we never see in Eng 
 land. Insects were humming, I remember, as I came 
 out into the sunshine that morning. Two or three Arabs 
 were dreaming under the eucalyptus trees. There was a 
 marvellous peace, a clear serenity in the atmosphere, 
 which affected my spirits happily. I felt drowsy after 
 my almost sleepless night, but there was nothing to do, 
 and it occurred to me that it would be pleasant to seek 
 some shady place, to lie down among the wild flowers 
 which abound in that region, and, like an Arab, to dream 
 away the shining hours. After breakfast on the terrace 
 and a pipe, I, therefore, wandered away from the hotel 
 into the smiling and empty country, which was peopled 
 chiefly, it seemed, by butterflies. First I took my way to 
 the sulphur springs ; then I made a detour, and presently 
 came upon a most delicious stream, bordered thickly with 
 aromatic shrubs and bushes. Besides the windings of 
 this stream I strolled on for some time till I came to a 
 place where it made a loop and widened out into a sort 
 of pool. Here there were shade and silence, and I lay 
 down on the bank, pulled my hat down over my eyes, 
 and, presently, fell deliciously into a light sleep. I don't 
 really know how long I slept, but when I woke I did 
 not open my eyes immediately I knew at once that I 
 was no longer alone beside the stream. I heard no sound 
 except the wide hum of the insects, and the very faint 
 and sucking murmur of moving water against earth and 
 weeds, but I felt men near me, silent men. And in a 
 moment the faint scent of tobacco was in my nostrils. 
 Then I opened my eyes, and saw not far from me a 
 group of meditative Arabs. Three were squatting on 
 the bank at the edge of the stream, shrouded in burnouses, 
 
354 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 calmly contemplating me, and smoking. A fourth was 
 lying stretched upon the ground entirely muffled up in 
 voluminous clothing. The whole of his head and face 
 was hidden from me. I supposed him to be in a very- 
 pro found sleep. 
 
 "I gazed at the Arabs and the Arabs gazed at me 
 tranquilly. Their presence was really soothing. They 
 were picturesque and immobile. Nevertheless, as soon, 
 I think, as I was absolutely wide awake, I was aware 
 of a feeling of distress. I looked from one to the other. 
 Then my eyes fell on the sleeper and remained fixed on 
 him. He looked just like a long bundle which had been 
 flung down by the waterside. But I divined a body be 
 neath the muddle of garments. And while I looked 
 the bundle stirred and a bare leg was thrust into view. 
 The leg was dark brown and abnormally thin, as thin as 
 a stick. 
 
 "Doctor, as soon as I saw it I thought of the Hindu. 
 I stared at the leg, noting the fineness of the ankle, and 
 a sick shudder went through me. I got up. I wanted 
 to get away, and yet I felt I must see the face of that 
 sleeping man. I stood for a moment, trying to collect 
 myself, to consider what to do. Then I forced myself 
 to approach the group. I took out some money and of 
 fered it to the Arabs. They held out their hands gravely. 
 As I was giving them the money the bundle stirred. A 
 thin arm came out of the clothes. Then a face and a 
 pair of glittering eyes showed themselves. Again I 
 looked on the Hindu." 
 
 Latimer ceased speaking for a moment. He seemed to 
 be profoundly moved. 
 
 "Now you had your opportunity," I said. "Of course 
 you took it. Of course you made sure that this man 
 was a comrade of the Arabs, that they were aware of 
 his presence among them. Of course you gave him 
 money, too. Didn't you ?" 
 
 Latimer shook his head. 
 
 "I thought of that as I stood there. I meant to do it 
 
THE HINDU 255 
 
 I tried mentally to force myself to do it. But I couldn't, 
 doctor. Horror had seized me. I left them. I plunged 
 into the thick undergrowth. My only idea was to get 
 away." 
 
 "While you were there did any of the Arabs appear to 
 take any notice of the huddled figure ?" 
 
 "No. They were looking at me." 
 
 "And when the figure moved?" 
 
 "None of them looked at it Their eyes were always 
 
 on me." 
 
 "If only you could have plucked up courage on that 
 occasion," I said, with intentional brusqueness, "you 
 would have found that you had to deal with some wan 
 dering Oriental. You missed your chance." 
 
 "Possibly on that one occasion," said Latimer. 
 
 "You told me," I continued, still brusquely, "that dur 
 ing your last sitting with the medium you longed for 
 the Hindu's bodily presence that you might punish him. 
 You told me that you made an intense effort of the will 
 to force him to return to earth. According to your ac 
 count your effort was successful. Did you never attempt 
 to take advantage of your success?" 
 
 "I have thought of that too," said Latimer, with a 
 sort of morose shame. "I thought of that many times. 
 But the Hindu seemed to lay upon me a prohibition. I 
 cannot exactly explain its nature to you. His will seemed 
 to come upon me and to prohibit me from playing the 
 man. That fact was, and is, perhaps the most distressing 
 part of my whole experience. The Hindu's will bound 
 me fast in cowardice. Nevertheless I did make one at 
 tempt to break the spell. It was while we were at Tunis." 
 
 "Tell me about it," said I. "And then, perhaps, I will 
 not trouble you to give me the whole of the remainder 
 of your adventures." 
 
 "Do you have you formed any opinion?" exclaimed 
 Latimer, with sudden excitement. 
 
 "Perhaps I have. But I shall not tell it to you to- 
 
256 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 night," I answered. "Some time will be needed to con 
 firm or upset it." 
 
 "But can't you say at least " 
 
 "Not now," I interrupted. "Tell me what happened 
 at Tunis. Did you go there soon?" 
 
 "I left Hammam Meskoutine the day after I saw the 
 Hindu beside the stream, and I went straight to Tunis, 
 where I arrived very late at night. For some reason 
 I think the Foreign Minister had just disembarked there 
 from Paris to assist at some French national demonstra 
 tion the European hotels were crowded. I tried three 
 of them and could not get a room. The last I went to 
 was the Grand. There they recommended me to try 
 what they called a native hotel. It was now the dead of 
 night. The manager sent with me a Maltese man, a sort 
 of tout, I supposed, to show me the way. He carried my 
 hand luggage with the help of my man, Cradon, who 
 was by this time in a somewhat depressed, not to say, 
 surly, humour. We walked for about ten minutes, or 
 perhaps more, and came into the native quarter, close 
 to the bazaars. We turned into an alley, which had a 
 sufficiently evil look, and presently arrived at a door 
 above which was a light showing the words, 'Hotel 
 Taxim.' The guide pushed the door which opened show 
 ing a tiled stairway, up which we went and arrived at 
 a sort of large landing where, to my surprise, we found 
 three enormous women, with artificial flowers in their 
 greasy black hair, sitting solemnly on a yellow settee near 
 a cottage piano. The guide spoke in Arabic to one of 
 them, in a low voice and at considerable length. The 
 creature arose heavily, went to a bureau, found some 
 keys, and then, moving lethargically, showed me to a 
 door which she unlocked and opened carefully. Within 
 was a clean bare bedroom, fairly large, with a tiled floor. 
 The luggage was put down, and in a few minutes I was 
 alone with the door locked. Cradon, whose face had 
 been a study in respectable consternation during these 
 proceedings, was, I understood, to be lodged in some 
 
THE HINDU 257 
 
 other part of the house. I undressed at once and went to 
 bed. 
 
 "In the morning rather early I rang the bell, intending 
 to ask for coffee. After a long pause I heard a shuffling 
 sound outside as of someone moving over the tiles in 
 loose slippers. The shuffling ceased at my door, and 
 then there came a light, I might almost say a fragile 
 knock. I I felt that a very thin hand had struck that 
 blow, and I hesitated to open the door." 
 
 "Did you open it?" I asked, as Latimer was silent. 
 
 "No," he said very painfully. "I couldn't. I I was 
 afraid." 
 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "I called out in French that I wanted coffee and a 
 roll. There was no answer, but I heard the footsteps 
 shuffle away." 
 
 "A servant of the house, of course; probably a 
 woman." 
 
 "I don't know. While I waited for the coffee I tried 
 to pull myself together. I was horribly ashamed of 
 my panic. I realised that my nerves were going abso 
 lutely to pieces. It's very unpleasant for a man when 
 he he's obliged to realise that, doctor." 
 
 "Nerves can be put right," said I firmly. "And it's 
 my job to see to that." 
 
 A sort of momentary relief came into his face, but 
 it faded away immediately. 
 
 "Nerves couldn't play such tricks," he said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "If you knew as much about them as I do," I said, 
 "you mightn't be so free with your negatives. Did the 
 coffee and roll come?" 
 
 He started. 
 
 "The coffee? Oh yes, presently it did. I heard a 
 quite different footstep from the shuffling tread, and 
 there came a bang on my door. I opened, and there 
 stood my Maltese guide of the night before with a break 
 fast tray. He gave me a rough 'Bon jour/ came into the 
 
258 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 room and set the tray down. He was about to go away 
 when I stopped him. 
 
 " 'Who told you I wanted coffee?' I asked. 
 
 " The bell rang/ he replied. 
 
 " 'You didn't answer it.' 
 
 " 'But I have answered it, m'sieu P he said, pointing 
 to the coffee tray. 
 
 " 'You didn't come to take my order ?' 
 
 " 'No, m'sieu/ 
 
 " 'Someone did. Someone came and knocked, and I 
 called out. Who was it?' 
 
 " 'I don't know. There are often people about in this 
 house/ He smiled in a rather peculiar way. 
 
 " 'Could it have been a native servant? Do they wear 
 loose slippers?' 
 
 " T don't know who it was/ said he brusquely. 'You 
 should have opened the door/ 
 
 He smiled again, with a peculiarly knowing look. Then 
 he added : 
 
 " 'I heard the bell and I knew it was for coffee. And 
 there it is!' 
 
 "He pointed again with a dark brown hand, gave me 
 a monkey-like smirk, and hurried away. I noticed that 
 he wore strong boots which made a squeaking noise on 
 the tiles. 
 
 "That morning Cradon gave me certain information 
 about the reputation of the house we were in, and I 
 resolved to sally forth and see if I could bribe the 
 management of the Tunisia Palace Hotel to give me 
 rooms there. 
 
 "As I was about to descend the tiled staircase of the 
 'Taxim/ which led out to the alley through a Moorish 
 archway, I saw in the archway, leaning against the wall, 
 the thin figure of a native wearing a turban. When I 
 put my foot on the first stair he turned and looked up 
 at me. Doctor, it was the Hindu. I stood still for a 
 moment. That prohibition came upon me from him, 
 and I was afraid to go down. While I paused he moved 
 
THE HINDU 259 
 
 into the alley, crossed slowly a patch of sunlight and 
 disappeared. It was then that I made a determined ef 
 fort to break the spell which bound me to cowardice. 
 Something rose up in me which defied the will of the 
 Hindu. It was, I think, a sort of panic courage such as 
 comes at moments to the most timid of God's creatures ; 
 such courage makes men run upon danger, go out to 
 meet pain. I hurried down the stairs and into the alley. 
 I took the way the Hindu had taken. Before me I saw 
 several native figures strolling along with that sort of 
 indolent nonchalance which is so characteristic of the 
 East. They all looked much alike, and I could not iden 
 tify one as the Hindu. I followed, came up with them 
 one after the other, and looked narrowly into their faces. 
 But I did not see my man. I hurried on and found my 
 self almost immediately in the slipper bazaar. Here 
 there was already a crowd, and I despaired of coming 
 upon the Hindu, though I seemed to feel all this time 
 that he was near to me." 
 
 "What did you intend to do if you came upon him?" 
 I said. 
 
 "Lay hands on him," said Latimer. "Find out at 
 once and for ever what he was. I mingled with the 
 crowd. Flies were buzzing and men were buzzing like 
 flies. There was a tumult of voices and a silent tumult 
 of gestures. But through the tumult glided many who 
 were silent and who seemed detached. And among these 
 silent ones I sought for the Hindu. But I sought for 
 him in vain, and I grew tired. 
 
 "Presently, from a tiny hole where he sat cross-legged 
 in the midst of his wares behind a little counter, a per 
 fume-seller leaned out and called to me. I then stopped, 
 sat down on a wooden bench, and tested his perfumes as 
 he rubbed them delicately on my outstretched hand and 
 wrist. And while this happened my sense of the Hindu's 
 nearness left me. The perfumes amber, lilac, attar 
 of roses, geranium affected me, seemed to steal upon 
 my will and to lull the fever of my intention. The Hindu 
 
260 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 had escaped from me. Let him go! However, I felt 
 neither courage nor cowardice. For a brief space I 
 dropped into rest. 
 
 "I was buying a diapered bottle of geranium when 
 I realised that a man had stopped close behind me. I 
 looked round and saw an enormous Tunisian, with gigan 
 tic moustaches, and black eyes which shone with cunning, 
 who stared steadily at me. 
 
 " 'Monsieur is rich !' said he, in French. 'Monsieur 
 wishes to buy beautiful things. I will take him to Babou- 
 chi Brothers. There he will see carpets that are worth 
 millions/ 
 
 " 'Very well/ said I. 
 
 "And I paid for the perfume and followed the tout, 
 who looked and moved like the Emperor of some glit 
 tering fairy tale. When we reached his patron's bazaar 
 I found that it was really one of the finest in Tunis, if 
 not the finest. On the ground floor there was a large 
 hall lined with splendid carpets, full of embroideries, 
 weapons, ancient lamps, incense burners, screens of ex 
 quisite woodwork. Rows and rows of shelves were piled 
 with stuffs of multi-coloured hues. A fountain played 
 in a corner, throwing up scented water. From this hall 
 a staircase led up to a balcony which ran all round a 
 courtyard open to the sky, and from this balcony opened 
 a veritable network of narrow and shadowy rooms, a 
 maze crammed with all sorts of things furniture, car 
 pets, prayer rugs, bronzes, ivories, tiles, and I know not 
 what. Looking here and there into the shadowy re 
 cesses of this maze, I saw figures of dark-hued men mov 
 ing, squatting, or standing in watchful attitudes, waiting, 
 no doubt, for opportunities to display the treasures by 
 which they were surrounded. 
 
 "Doctor, when I mounted to this balcony and stood 
 in the midst of this maze, I was suddenly again aware 
 of the presence of the Hindu. I did not see him, but 
 I felt him; and I was absolutely certain that the figure 
 I had seen leaning against the archway of the Taxim 
 
THE HINDU 261 
 
 Hotel had escaped from me into this warren full of 
 hiding-places, and was somewhere quite near to me. 
 Again I felt fear, but I remembered that I had set forth 
 in pursuit of the Hindu, and I resolved to face the thing 
 out this time. I had suffered so much through yielding 
 to fear that I was driven at last into action. The most 
 intimate part of me tried to rush down the staircase, to 
 be lost in the crowds of Tunis. I defied that part, which 
 seemed me. I had just then the impression of being 
 two persons, and the weaker rose up to do battle with 
 the stronger of the two, and for the moment got the 
 better in the contest. 
 
 " 'I'll look at all your best things/ I said to the enor 
 mous tout, who was always with me. 'But first let me 
 wander about by myself/ 
 
 " 'I will show monsieur/ 
 
 " 'No/ I said, 'I wish to go round by myself. I don't 
 mean to steal things/ 
 
 "He protested volubly, but showed no inclination to 
 leave me. 
 
 " 'Very well/ I said. 'Then I won't buy anything/ 
 And I made as though to be off. This brought him 
 promptly to obedience. 
 
 " 'Go anywhere, monsieur !' he cTied. 'You are Eng 
 lish. All the English are honest/ 
 
 "He paused. 
 
 " 'And so generous F he added, showing an upturned 
 palm. 
 
 "I crossed it with silver and left him. 
 
 "Doctor, then began a hunt through that Oriental 
 maze. I entered the chamber nearest to me and went 
 slowly through it, pretending to examine the treasures 
 it contained, now and then handling a weapon, or hold 
 ing a fold of silk to the light. The native attendants, 
 I must tell you, left me alone. The tout had somehow 
 managed to convey to them a hint that I was a mad 
 Englishman, whose mania was to be allowed free scope 
 for a time. Later, of course, I was to pay for it. 
 
262 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "From room to room of the maze I went, always 
 conscious of the presence of the Hindu in some remote 
 recess of it. Sometimes he seemed almost close to me, 
 at other times he receded. I had the sensation that he 
 was playing with me, was luring me on like a malignant 
 will-o'-the-wisp. But my resolve did not falter. I had 
 braced myself to the encounter. I was on his track, and 
 I was resolved to come up with him. 
 
 "After threading several windings of the maze, I 
 was aware of a strong and drowsy smell of incense. 
 When it first reached my nostrils I was standing in a 
 small room full of prayer rugs. They lay heaped upon 
 shelves, strewn upon the floor, and in piles upon the 
 divans. Seated in the midst of them was a thin black 
 man with mournful eyes, who was twisting a necklace 
 of bright yellow beads through his fingers. As I smelt 
 the incense, which came to me from a dark chamber 
 on my right, not yet visited by me, I knew that the 
 Hindu was close by. It may seem very absurd, but but 
 the incense seemed to tell me so. I felt as if his per 
 sonality, his will, floated to me as smoke wreathes and 
 floats from an incense burner almost as if they were 
 mingled with that scented smoke of the East which per 
 fumed the maze. I remember I thought of the malig 
 nant genius who came out of his prison in smoke. 
 
 "Making a great effort to conquer my repulsion and 
 fear, I approached the threshold of the chamber beyond 
 and, without entering it, looked stealthily in. It was 
 very dark. (Afterwards I knew that thin Indian hang 
 ings obscured the light from the balcony. ) In the gloom 
 I perceived many grotesque idols arranged upon ped 
 estals, and small tables of inlaid work in which fine ivory, 
 ebony, mother-of-pearl and cedar- wood were blended. 
 They looked down, peered down fatuously or malicious 
 ly, too, from tall cabinets. Lamps of dingy metal and 
 dark-coloured glass hung from the ceiling, across which 
 carpets were stretched. The scent of the incense here 
 was very strong, almost overpowering. After a pause 
 
THE HINDU 263 
 
 I ventured into the room. It was long and much larger 
 than I had expected, running back in an almost black 
 vista peopled with curiosities. I could see no one in it. 
 Nor could I see the brazier from which the smoke of 
 the incense came. As I stood there I began to feel like 
 one coming under the influence of a drug, slightly in 
 toxicated, faintly light-headed. There was a divan near 
 me covered with embroideries. I sat down on it and 
 leaned back." 
 
 "Did you still feel the nearness of the Hindu?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes. I felt that he was almost close to me. As I 
 did not move for several minutes the black man in the 
 room I had quitted stole in, I suppose to see what I was 
 doing. He only remained for an instant, but soon re 
 turned bringing me Turkish coffee and cigarettes. He 
 set them down on a low table by the divan and vanished 
 without making a sound. I drank two cups of coffee. 
 It had a stimulating effect upon me. The queer light 
 headed sensation diminished. I stood up and looked all 
 round me. 
 
 "On every side I saw the dim faces of the idols smil 
 ing or rigid in the gloom. They seemed to me at that 
 moment to be an audience assembled there to witness 
 the encounter between me and the Hindu. I knew now 
 that he was somewhere in that room with me. We were 
 enclosed together at last, and I was resolved to face him. 
 
 "All the back part of the room was indistinct from 
 where I stood. He must be hidden there among the 
 rummage of cabinets, carpets, and ornaments. Walk 
 ing very slowly and warily, and calling all my will power 
 to fight down the unnatural fear which always over 
 took me when the Hindu was near me, I went towards 
 the back of the room. I walked on till I saw the wall 
 at the end, which was hung with carpets. Rolls of car 
 pet were stacked against it. Some of them, standing 
 on end, looked like dwarfish forms in the twilight. The 
 scent of the incense was here much stronger, and as I 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 stared about me I presently saw a faint spiral of scarcely 
 defined smoke curving quite near me. I stood still by a 
 tall cabinet. On the wall, close to my hand, there was 
 a sword with a Damascene blade. My hand went up 
 to it instinctively, took it down and gripped it. Then 
 I did what I had done in the medium's rooms at Ful- 
 ham. I sent out to the Hindu the silent cry, 'Come to 
 me from the place where you are that I may punish you !' 
 I exerted the whole strength of all my being. In a mo 
 ment among the rolls of carpet I saw something stirring 
 low down. It seemed to uncurl, doctor, to stretch itself, 
 to extend itself towards me. I saw thin arms held out 
 for an instant; then a thoroughly defined human body 
 in a long native robe rising from the place where it had 
 been crouched near the incense brazier. Beneath the 
 snow-white folds of a turban I saw a man's dark face 
 and attentive eyes. It was the Hindu. I said something 
 I don't know what, but I addressed him. There was 
 no reply. He simply stood there looking at me. Then 
 I I attacked him." 
 
 "You laid hands upon him ?" I interjected. 
 
 "No, I couldn't do that. I struck at him with the 
 blade of the sword. I scarcely know what happened. 
 The light was very dim. But he must have moved with 
 abnormal quickness. For there was a crash. The sword 
 flew out of my hand, and when the black man glided in 
 from the adjoining room a it's horribly absurd, doc 
 tor!" 
 
 "Nevermind. Tell me." 
 
 "A bronze statue of Buddha lay at my feet. The 
 sword was splintered and the Hindu was gone." 
 
 "The attendant of the room of the idols, you mean?" 
 
 Latimer said nothing, but his face was grimly ob 
 stinate, the face of the man under the obsession of the 
 fixed idea. 
 
 "And when the black man came?" I asked. 
 
 "I paid for the statue and for the sword, and got away 
 quickly." 
 
THE HINDU 265 
 
 "And since then ?" 
 
 "I have seen the Hindu on several occasions, but I 
 have never attempted to speak to, or confront him. On 
 the contrary, I have got away from him. And and 
 the persecution has increased. I know he follows me. 
 I am certain he is always seeking me." 
 
 "That will do for the moment," I said. "Now will 
 you do what I tell you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very well. To-morrow you will go into a rest cure 
 which will last six weeks. I have an establishment at 
 Hampstead arranged for nervous sufferers, with nurses 
 of my own selection. You will have a first-rate male 
 nurse. For six weeks you will be isolated from the 
 world. You will have no letters, no newspapers, no 
 visitors except myself. The Hindu will not be able to 
 come near you. Do you understand ?" 
 
 I got up and laid my hand on his forehead. 
 
 "You will not see the Hindu for six weeks," I repeated 
 in a firm voice several times. 
 
 Latimer looked at me in silence. I took away my 
 hand. 
 
 "You will call at my house to-morrow at ten with any 
 luggage you require. The male attendant who will look 
 after you and give you massage will be there to go with 
 you to Hampstead. You will be at my house punctually 
 at ten." 
 
 "I will," replied Latimer in a low voice. 
 
 "And now," said I, in a brisk and practical tone, "I'll 
 ask you to give me a couple of addresses." 
 
 "A couple of addresses?" said Latimer in a surprised 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes; the address of the medium you visited at Ful- 
 ham, and the address of the Jewish journalist who ac 
 companied you on your first visit there." 
 
 "But why do you want them? What can " 
 
 "Mr. Latimer," I said, "I am accustomed to have my 
 own way when I take up a nervous case. I have my own 
 
266 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 methods of working. Nobody need fall in with them. 
 On the other hand, I am perfectly free to refuse to treat 
 you. And I shall refuse unless all my instructions are 
 carried out." 
 
 "But what can my giving you those addresses have 
 to do with my cure?" 
 
 "Possibly everything," I replied. 
 
 Latimer looked at me for a minute in silence. Then 
 he went to his writing-table, wrote out a couple of ad 
 dresses and handed them to me. 
 
 "Thank you," said I. "And now I'll wish you good 
 night. Don't sit up. Go straight to bed, look steadily 
 at some shining object half a crown will do and say 
 aloud, 'When I have counted ten my eyes will close and 
 I shall fall into a refreshing sleep/ Say this several 
 times, and try to believe it while you're saying it. I tell 
 you now that your eyes will close and that you will 
 sleep. Good night." 
 
 He seized my hand and held it fast. 
 
 "But do you really believe that that you can bring 
 this persecution to an end?" 
 
 "I have very little doubt of it. I fully expect to get 
 rid of the Hindu." 
 
 His grip tightened on my hand. 
 
 "I shall do exactly what you tell me to do," he 
 said. 
 
 And from that moment I knew that he would. 
 
 Next morning punctually at ten Latimer arrived with 
 his luggage, and I handed him over to the nurse I had 
 spoken of. He disappeared from the world for six 
 weeks. Before he left my consulting-room he told me 
 that he had followed my directions and had slept well 
 the night before. My last words to him were: 
 
 "Remember you will not see the Hindu for six weeks." 
 
 "Thank God!" he replied. 
 
 He then went away looking almost cheerful. 
 
 I had now three things to do in connection with his 
 affairs. I had to see the medium, the journalist, and 
 
THE HINDU 267 
 
 Mrs. Latimer. I decided first to visit the medium. That 
 same evening I looked his name out in the telephone 
 book. His name, let us say, was Algernon Wigston. I 
 found it and called him up. A very soft and genteel voice 
 answered, and said: 
 
 "Yes? Beg pardon! Yes?" 
 
 "Mr. Algernon Wigston?" said I. 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" said the genteel voice. "I am Mr. 
 Wigston." 
 
 "I have heard of your marvellous powers," I said. 
 "Could you give me a sitting? It is very important." 
 
 "Oh, reely!" said Algernon. 
 
 "Money is no object," I breathed into the telephone. 
 
 "Who is it, please?" said Algernon. 
 
 "I prefer not to give my name. It's rather well known. 
 But I will pay any reasonable fee you care to name." 
 
 After a slight pause the voice said : 
 
 "I'm very much sought after. What would you say 
 to three guineas?" 
 
 "That it's extremely moderate considering your repu 
 tation," said I. 
 
 A very pleased voice made an appointment with me 
 for the following evening at nine. I kept it. 
 
 When I arrived at 2, Amelia Villas, Fulham, a small 
 maid, wearing her cap very much on one side, showed me 
 into the room Latimer had described to me, and in a 
 few minutes I was joined there by Algernon Wigston. 
 At first sight he looked a weak, well-intentioned and 
 rather foolish young man, but I had only been with him 
 for two or three minutes when I noticed that his pale 
 and wandering eyes could look very sly on occasion, and 
 that he was by no means devoid of shrewdness. I paid 
 him a few compliments, which he received with gusto, 
 but avoided answering his questions, which were directed 
 to finding out who had told me about him and his won 
 derful powers. Finally, when I had made up my mind 
 as to his character, I asked for the promised "sitting." 
 He complied with my request. We sat down at a table, 
 
268 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 placed our hands upon it, and very soon he seemed to go 
 into a trance. Something of this sort followed. 
 
 His "control," Katey, took possession of him and bab 
 bled foolishly till I made up my mind to get to business. 
 Then I said: 
 
 "I wish to speak with Minnie Harfield." 
 
 The medium jumped, and there was a dead silence. 
 
 "I am here to-night to speak to Minnie Harfield," I 
 continued. "The woman who committed suicide on ac 
 count of the Hindu, Nischaya Varman." 
 
 Silence prevailed. 
 
 "I ask for Minnie Harfield," I said in a sterner, more 
 insistent voice. 
 
 The medium writhed in his chair, breathed hard, and 
 then slowly opened his eyes showing the whites. 
 
 "They've left me," he said in a weak voice. 
 
 "Who has left you?" said I. 
 
 "The controls." 
 
 "Let us try again," I said. 
 
 "I don't feel well," he murmured. 
 
 "Take some sherry and water," I said. 
 
 Again Algernon jumped. 
 
 "Sherry ! How did you know " He stopped. 
 
 I could see by his expression that he was debating 
 what line to take with me, whether to "stand up to me" 
 or to try at once to get rid of me. He chose the latter 
 course. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's no good to-night," he said. "I don't 
 feel well. There's something wrong. I'm afraid I must 
 ask you to come another evening. As to the fee " 
 
 "There'll be no difficulty about that," I interrupted, 
 "if you answer a few questions which, possibly^ the 
 spirits might not understand." 
 
 "Questions !" he said. "I'm not here to answer ques 
 tions." 
 
 "But I'm here to get them answered," I said. "And 
 I don't mean to go till you've satisfied my curiosity on 
 certain points." 
 
THE HINDU 269 
 
 "Who are you?" he cried. 
 
 "I'm acting for Mr. Latimer," I replied. 
 
 His natural pallor was accentuated. There seemed 
 to be a touch of green in it at that moment. 
 
 "Mr. Latimer !" he said, getting up and pressing his 
 flabby white hands on the table. "Are you a a lawyer ?" 
 
 "Never mind what I am. I'm here on Mr. Latimer's 
 behalf. You've had a good deal of money from him 
 recently." 
 
 "He told me " 
 
 "I know. And you took him at his word." 
 
 "I I> ve only had " 
 
 "Half of the money sent by his secretary," I inter 
 posed. "Or perhaps less than half. The rest went to 
 Mr. Maurice Isaacs, the journalist who brought him to 
 you." 
 
 Algernon sat down. 
 
 "Has has Isaacs blabbed ?" he stammered. 
 
 "You'd better make a clean breast of it," I said. 
 "Otherwise I'm afraid you'll find yourself in very seri 
 ous trouble. Mr. Latimer isn't a man who can be tricked, 
 or even defied, with impunity." 
 
 "Has Isaacs " 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Wigston," said I. "How could I 
 know about this affair if Isaacs hadn't talked?" 
 
 That seemed to decide him. Suddenly he became shrill 
 with anger against Maurice Isaacs. 
 
 "He put me up to it!" he exclaimed. "I've never done 
 such a thing before. I'm an honest medium, I am. The 
 spirits use me. I've always lived honest. The greatest 
 people in London have been to me. I've had Royal peo 
 ple in this very room." 
 
 "But Isaacs led you astray. You're more sinned 
 against than sinning, eh?" 
 
 "That's it!" he cried. "You've got it. Isaacs tempted 
 me. That man's the devil and a Jew rolled in one. He 
 come to me" Algernon's grammar got shaky at times 
 under the influence of excitement "and he led me on; 
 
870 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 said how very wonderful I was with miraculous powers, 
 and how it troubled him to see me living so humble. 
 'You might be rollirg/ he said, 'and here you live poor 
 in the midst of plent /. Look here/ he said, Til do you 
 a good turn if you like.' And then he goes and tells 
 me one of the greatest and richest men in London, the 
 biggest newspaper owner of the day, was coming with 
 him to test me. 'Convince him of your powers!' says 
 he, 'and your fortune's made. But fail to and he'll ruin 
 you, get his knife into you in every paper in England/ 
 I fell in a sweat. I did indeed. And then he played 
 upon me. 'Suppose when I bring him/ he says, 'the 
 spirits let you down? What then?' I sat and just 
 sweated. 'Don't they ever let you down?' he says. I 
 couldn't but answer they did. 'And then you're ruined/ 
 he says. 'You're down and out.' 'I won't see him/ 
 I says. 'If you don't he'll go for you/ he says. 'Be 
 a man. Take him on and make your fortune out of him/ 
 Tut me in the way, for God's sake/ I says. And, to 
 cut it short, he put me in the way. He pitched me a 
 tale about Mr. Latimer's wife and a Hindu, and how a 
 woman called Minnie Harfield had killed herself from 
 love of the dark fellow, and a lot more. 'It's all true and 
 he don't know it/ says he. 'Dribble it out to him by de 
 grees. Start in your own way and presently get to Min 
 nie. Act according to how he acts. We'll stand in to 
 gether with regard to the cash/ Well, I did as he said. 
 I presently got to Minnie, and when he was on the string 
 I dribbled it out to him. Isaacs taught me things to say, 
 made me take things out of a book by some Indian feller, 
 called Tagory." 
 
 "Exactly. And you were never in a trance at all." 
 
 "Not with him I wasn't, but " 
 
 "I know. And the cash? How much has Isaacs 
 taken?" 
 
 Algernon grew scarlet with rage. 
 
 "Three-quarters of everything I've had, if you'll be 
 lieve me!" he almost screamed, lifting his puny little 
 
THE HINDU 271 
 
 arms. "Day in and day out he's been here. Write again 
 to the seketery,' he says. 'You can get what you like. 
 Put it across!' he says. And " 
 
 As I had learnt enough at this point I brought our 
 pleasant little interview to a close. I must confess to an 
 act of weakness. I gave Algernon three guineas. It was 
 quite wrong of me, but Well, I was pleased with my 
 self that night, and it was my egoism which gave him his 
 fee. He took it with an air of self-respect which did 
 credit to his ingenuity, and I left him to the refreshment 
 of his sherry bottle. 
 
 On the following day, again in the evening, I paid a 
 visit to Mr. Isaacs. I had taken the precaution of tele 
 phoning to him beforehand, asking for an appointment, 
 giving my name simply as Turnbull, and stating that I 
 wished to see him for a very important reason. I ven 
 tured to add that I was a friend of his employer, Mr. 
 Latimer, who had spoken very favourably of his abilities 
 to me. Apparently Isaacs had no suspicion of a trap, 
 for a suave voice replied through the telephone suggest 
 ing an appointment at a club. I answered that I would 
 prefer to call at his private address in the Bloomsbury 
 district, if it would not put him to inconvenience. After 
 a perceptible pause Isaacs agreed to the suggestion and 
 appointed the hour of nine for our meeting. I was there 
 to the minute, and rang the bell of a flat on a third floor. 
 The bell was answered almost instantaneously by a quite 
 well-dressed young Jew, with dark, crinkly, and very- 
 thick hair, clever dark eyes, good features and an air of 
 unshakable self-possession. I noticed at once that he was 
 the sort of man likely to prove attractive to unrefined 
 women, and to be attracted by them. He was smart, and 
 in a way handsome ; he looked sensual ; and he knew not 
 the meaning of shyness, a quality which is anathema to 
 the modern young woman. 
 
 "Are you Mr. Turnbull ?" said Isaacs, looking me over 
 swiftly. 
 
 "My name is Turnbull," I said. 
 
372 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 He held out a welcoming hand. 
 
 "Glad to see you. Do come in." 
 
 "This is only a bachelor flat," he remarked, taking my 
 hat and umbrella. "I live here alone." 
 
 As he spoke I noticed his forehead wrinkle in a momen 
 tary frown, as his eyes noted something in the comfort 
 able sitting-room beyond me. I walked in, he followed 
 me closely, and immediately, in a swift but casual way, 
 got rid of a woman's long white glove which was lying 
 on the back of a sofa. At the same time he shot a search 
 ing glance at me, but I was looking at some caricatures 
 of public men which hung on the wall, and I don't think 
 my expression at the moment was intelligent. 
 
 "Do sit down," he said. "Will you have a drink?" 
 
 "Thanks. No; I've just dined." 
 
 We sat down, and Isaacs said : 
 
 "Very sad about Mr. Latimer, isn't it? We never see 
 him at the office now. He seems gone all to pieces. And 
 he's such a marvellous man." 
 
 "He seems to think very well of you," I said. 
 
 A gratified smile curved Isaacs's rather thick fips. 
 
 "Glad to hear you say so. You're a friend of his?" 
 
 "I hope at any rate to prove myself so," I answered. 
 
 Isaacs looked at me narrowly. 
 
 "But I thought you said through the telephone " 
 
 he began. 
 
 "I'm attending him as a doctor." 
 
 "Oh, you're a doctor ! I hope you don't think badly of 
 his condition?" 
 
 "I expect to see him all right soon." 
 
 "That's good hearing. And now I think you said 
 there was an important matter you wished to discuss with 
 me ?" He looked sharply inquisitive. 
 
 "There is. You're a very intelligent man, Mr. Isaacs. 
 Mr. Latimer told me so, and I can see it now for myself. 
 Why d'you allow women to ruin you?" 
 
 The change in his face was startling. It grew instantly 
 harder, more common and much more animal. The cheek- 
 
THE HINDU 273 
 
 bones looked more prominent, and the lips stretched show 
 ing the large white teeth. 
 
 "Women !" he said. "What d'you mean ? What d'you 
 know about me and women ?" 
 
 "I know you've been playing a very dirty game on 
 Mr. Latimer to get money, and you spend that money 
 with women. Come, come now, Mr. Isaacs, you didn't 
 hide that white glove quite quickly enough." 
 
 "What's it to you if I choose to have women friends?" 
 he said fiercely. "And I haven't ever played dirty with 
 Lat Mr. Latimer. I work hard for him, and he pays 
 me a good screw for it. What d'you mean by coming 
 here to interfere with my private affairs ?" 
 
 He got up. 
 
 "I'll ask you to go at ence !" 
 
 "If I do, I think you'll be sorry for it," I said quietly. 
 "Do you want to be indicted for conspiracy and obtain 
 ing money by false pretences ?" 
 
 "I haven't. What do you mean?" 
 
 His eyes pierced me. 
 
 "Simply that Algernon Wigston's given you away," 
 I said. 
 
 His jaw dropped. 
 
 "Wigston you Latimer has " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "Mr. Latimer has told me of your visits with him to 
 Fulham, and Wigston has informed me of the fraud you 
 suggested and he carried out, and also of the money 
 transactions between you." 
 
 "But but Latimer does he know that that ?" 
 
 "I am going to tell him to-morrow." 
 
 Isaacs dropped down into a chair. 
 
 "For God's sake, don't. I shall be ruined." 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 "It wasn't my fault. It's the women." 
 
 "They are an expensive luxury, I know, especially 
 nowadays when they all wear silk stockings." 
 
 "They bleed a man white. Don't tell Latimer." 
 
274 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "I shall," I said. "But on one condition I'll undertake, 
 before I tell him, to get from him a promise not to 
 proceed against you and ruin you publicly." 
 
 "But he wouldn't do that," said Isaacs, sharply and 
 swiftly. 
 
 "Why not? Because of his wife?" 
 
 "Well, he wouldn't." 
 
 "He will. I'll take care he does, unless you make a 
 clean breast of the whole story of Minnie Harfield and 
 the Hindu. And be careful to stick to the truth. I am 
 going to check your story. Tell me the whole truth and 
 I'll undertake that Mr. Latimer shall let you alone. Of 
 course you'll have to leave his employment. You'll have 
 to resign from his staff." 
 
 Isaacs looked very blank. 
 
 "If you d~on't he'll kick you out, of course," I said; 
 "I can't undertake to prevent that. You can choose. 
 Either " 
 
 "Who are you?" he interrupted. "What right have 
 you, a mere ordinary doctor ?" 
 
 "I'm Sir William Turnbull of Cavendish Square," I 
 interrupted. 
 
 "What, the great nerve man !" he was good enough to 
 exclaim. 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Latimer has put himself entirely in my 
 hands. He will do exactly what I tell him to do in this 
 matter. That I can promise you. Your future lies with 
 me, Mr. Isaacs, whether you like it or not. I advise you 
 to tell me the truth." 
 
 Well, he told it to me. It seems that Minnie Harfield 
 was at one time a friend of his, that he introduced to 
 her Nischaya, the Hindu, whom he had met at one of 
 Mrs. Sidon's lectures, and that she did eventually com 
 mit suicide on the Hindu's account. So far the medium 
 had related facts. 
 
 "And as to Mrs. Latimer's connection with the story?" 
 
 I had to press Isaacs on that point. He was suspicious, 
 and wanted to know whether Mrs. Latimer had been 
 
THE HINDU 275 
 
 approached by me, whether she knew of her husband's 
 visits to the medium. I declined to satisfy his curiosity, 
 but left him with the impression that possibly I had taken 
 her into my confidence. 
 
 "She did know Nischaya," he said. 
 
 "I'm aware of that," I said blandly. 
 
 "Why d'you ask me then?" 
 
 I didn't think it necessary to inform him that I was 
 aware of it because he had just told it to me. 
 
 "Mrs. Latimer knew Nischaya, but why did you put 
 such shameful lies about her into the medium's mouth?" 
 
 "How d'you know they're lies?" 
 
 "Never mind. But I do know." 
 
 At that moment I was merely guessing, but my guess, 
 it seemed, was right. For, after a pause, Isaacs an 
 swered : 
 
 "She tried to do me a bad turn." 
 
 "But she didn't know you." 
 
 "No; but she knew my work. And she hated it. She 
 thought it beastly vulgar. And she said so more than 
 
 once." 
 
 To whom?" 
 
 "To Latimer. She wanted him to get rid of me. He 
 didn't tell me, but I got to know of it through one of the 
 editors to whom he repeated it." 
 
 "That was a very poor reason for trying to ruin her 
 reputation." 
 
 "Oh," he said coarsely, "it wasn't so much that. I 
 knew the way to get him on the string was to bring in her 
 
 name." 
 
 That same evening I drove straight to Portman Square, 
 sent in my card, and asked to see Mrs. Latimer. She 
 was at home, and I was shown into the drawing-room, 
 where she was reading by a shaded electric lamp. She 
 got up quickly when I entered, and came towards me. 
 
 "Sir William Turnbull !" she said. "He isn't worse ?" 
 
 As the footman went out and shut the door she added : 
 
 "He he's not going mad?" 
 
276 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 I took her thin hand. 
 
 "Of course not," I said cheerily. 
 
 "But what is the matter with him? Sometimes he 
 frightens me." 
 
 "His nerves have broken down through long over 
 work. But I shall get him right. And you can help 
 me!" 
 
 "How ?" she said eagerly. 
 
 "May I sit down?" 
 
 "Oh please do." 
 
 I was with her for more than an hour, and I laid the 
 whole matter before her. Latimer hadn't given me leave 
 to do so, but that didn't bother me. I was out to cure 
 him, and knew the best way to do it. She was very 
 indignant at one point of the story, and was evidently 
 deeply hurt by her husband's injurious suspicions. 
 
 "How could he believe such a thing, and about a Hindu, 
 a man whom I scarcely knew ?" she said. "A man whom 
 I only met two or three times, and always in public?" 
 
 She got up. She was naturally a highly strung woman, 
 and she was quivering with nervous excitement. 
 
 "Let me tell you a little about the nervous system and 
 about the power of suggestion," I said. 
 
 And I gave her a short lecture, which I needn't re 
 peat to you, on the tricks nerves can play on a man, and 
 on the cruel powers of neurasthenia. When I left her 
 that night I think she had almost forgiven her husband. 
 Certainly she loved him very much. 
 
 When the six weeks of Latimer's rest cure were just 
 up it was, in fact, his last night in the house at Hamp- 
 stead I sat down beside his bed, and I told him all that 
 had happened while he had been secluded. I never saw a 
 man by turns so indignant, so ashamed, and so relieved. 
 He was furious at having been taken in, bitterly ashamed 
 at having suspected his wife and at having been duped 
 by a couple of rogues, and immensely relieved at real 
 ising that he had certainly never been in communication 
 with the denizen of another , world. As we talked I saw 
 
THE HINDU 277 
 
 his fear of the Hindu die away. But presently anxiety 
 again shone in his eyes, and he exclaimed : 
 
 "But, doctor, surely I must have been mad. I saw 
 the Hindu again and again. How do you account for 
 that?" 
 
 "I believe that in Grosvenor Square you really met an 
 Indian who was out for a stroll like yourself. The en 
 counter was entirely fortuitous. It only made such a 
 deep impression upon you because of what had just hap 
 pened at the medium's. At the Indian Restaurant I be 
 lieve you saw the same man, and that he left the place 
 at a moment when your attention was distracted, al 
 though you thought that your watchfulness never ceased. 
 No doubt you saw a living Indian, though perhaps not 
 the same one, at the St. James's Theatre." 
 
 "But my wife didn't see him !" 
 
 "Merely because she had not really turned her glasses 
 upon him, though you fancied she had." 
 
 ^ "But at Marseilles!" 
 
 "On that occasion I think you were the victim of your 
 nervous system and of auto-suggestion. It is possible 
 that a dark man passed you and went up in the lift." 
 
 "But the attendant denied it!" 
 
 "Probably he had made two journeys up and down 
 while you were at the bureau, instead of one, as you be 
 lieved, and on the second of these journeys he had really 
 gone up alone." 
 
 "That's possible!" said Latimer. 
 
 "At Hammam Meskoutine you saw a native whom you 
 mistook for the Hindu. At Tunis the same thing oc 
 curred. But mind I do not exclude the possibility of 
 your having sometimes imagined that you saw a figure, 
 an appearance, before you when in fact there was noth 
 ing. You have overworked for years. There are heavy 
 penalties attached to such folly." 
 
 "But you really don't think I'm mad ?" 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 "I may possibly come to think you are if, when you 
 
278 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 go out again into the world, you continue to meet with 
 the Hindu," I answered. "But I don't think you will." 
 As a matter of fact, from that night to this Latimer 
 
 has never set eyes on the Hindu. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Sir William Turnbull paused. 
 
 "What about Isaacs?" I said. 
 
 "He cleared out without waiting for Latimer's ap 
 pearance at the office." 
 
 "And Mrs. Latimer?" I hazarded. 
 
 "She and her husband seem quite happy together again. 
 She still reads Mrs. Sidon's pamphlets. Some people say 
 that Latimer is completely dominated by her now, that 
 she rules him in everything." 
 
 "And you? What do you say?" 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, smiling. "It's generally very 
 dangerous for a man to be forgiven by a woman. Women 
 forgive and remember." 
 
FOUR: THE LIGHTED CANDLES 
 
 I AM very fond of moving about and seeing fresh places, 
 but I hate the tedium of railway travelling. On a misty 
 night, therefore, when I stepped into the Paris express 
 to go to Rome, I anticipated a long and weary journey, 
 and was in no very cheerful mood. I had engaged a 
 berth in the sleeping-car, and had stipulated that it must 
 be in a compartment that held only two, and I had some 
 hopes of having the compartment to myself. But when 
 I came into it these hopes were at once dispelled. The 
 beds had not yet been made, and on the long plush-cov 
 ered seat a traveller was already established, calmly smok 
 ing a big cigar. As I came in he bowed slightly and cast 
 an inquiring glance upon me. I returned his salutation 
 and his glance, arranged my things as conveniently as 
 possible in the small space allotted to us, replaced my hat 
 by a cap, and sat down beside him. 
 
 In a few minutes the train glided out of the Gare de 
 Lyon, and the attendant came to ask if he should make 
 our beds. I glanced at my companion and he at me. 
 
 "You wish " he began. 
 
 "No!" I said; "I'm in no hurry. I couldn't sleep so 
 early." 
 
 "Nor I. Shall we say in another hour, then ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 I told the attendant, and we were left alone. 
 
 Then I lit a cigar and looked for something to read. 
 I had with me a book which I had bought at Victoria, 
 called "Real Ghost Stories," and some papers. The 
 book I lifted up, then laid down again between me and 
 
 279 
 
280 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 my companion. I thought I would glance through the 
 French papers before I attacked anything else. The 
 papers were full of news of an upheaval in Russia sad, 
 even horrible, reading. Presently I had had enough, 
 and, turning to get my book, I met my companion's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Terrible, this Russian business, isn't it?" I said. 
 
 "Frightful. I wonder how it will end." 
 
 We fell into a desultory conversation. My companion, 
 a man of about forty, English, but an Englishman of the 
 cosmopolitan species, was agreeable and interesting. Now 
 and then he showed a gleam of imagination which at 
 tracted me. I began to be glad that I was not going to 
 be alone on the journey. After some talk about Russia, 
 he said : 
 
 "I see you've got a book about ghosts with you." 
 
 "Yes," I said. "I haven't read much of it yet. Stead 
 brought it out. Perhaps such a book would bore you." 
 
 "Not necessarily." 
 
 "In it, I see, he says something to the effect that it is 
 almost impossible to be in a company of people not one 
 of whom has seen a ghost, or had some ghostly experi 
 ence. I wonder if that is so." 
 
 "I don't know. It may be. It would be if I were one 
 of the company at least, I believe so." 
 
 "Then you have had such experience?" 
 
 "Well, I think so. And, oddly enough, it had or so 
 I must believe some connection with Russia." 
 
 "I wish you would tell it to me." 
 
 "I will with pleasure. But, if it is to be interesting, 
 my narrative must be rather detailed and long." 
 
 "Capital. I must tell you I'm a writer, so perhaps I 
 shall be the better able to appreciate your story." 
 
 "Use it, if you think it's worth using. By the way, are 
 you bound for Rome ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "So am I. And it was in Rome that these circum 
 stances took place." 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 281 
 
 "So much the better !" 
 
 He smiled. Then, as the train rushed on through the 
 night towards the frontier, he told me very quietly this 
 tale of the lighted candles. 
 
 "Although I do not claim to be unusually brave," he 
 said, "I have a peculiar dislike, I may almost call it a 
 peculiar dread, of a coward. If I may say so, it amounts 
 to this I fear fear. Nothing irritates and distresses my 
 nerves so much as the sight of an exhibition of terror. 
 Nothing makes me so uneasy as the proximity of a fearful 
 being. 
 
 "Well, three years ago I went to Rome in the autumn 
 with the intention of settling down there for the winter. 
 I wished to be quiet and my own master, so I resolved 
 to take an apartment instead of going to a hotel, and as 
 soon as I arrived I intended to visit an agent and to 
 make inquiries as to where I could find a suitable one. 
 
 "I arrived in Rome early in the morning, and scarcely 
 had I got out of the train before a porter came up and 
 asked me if I were going to a hotel or if I wanted an 
 apartment. 
 
 "Perhaps you know that a good many of the porters in 
 Rome act as touts for flat-owners, and get a commission 
 upon any business done through their means. 
 
 "I told the man that I did want a furnished apartment, 
 and he begged me to come at once with him and see the 
 one he had mentioned. He described it as bellissimo and 
 stupendo, and was so persuasive that I got into a cab with 
 him and went to look at it. 
 
 "Before I arrived in Rome I had had some idea of 
 settling in one of the old quarters, of trying to find some 
 thing in the Via Giulia, perhaps, or the Via delle Botte- 
 ghe Oscure, something with a touch of romance about 
 it, or a hint of mystery. But when I saw the porter's 
 flat it suited me in many respects so well that I decided 
 to go into it at once. 
 
 "It was a modern apartment on the third floor of a 
 good-sized house, looking out upon an open space which 
 
282 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 was rented by a man who gave lessons in bicycling. As 
 it had no houses opposite to it, and faced south, it got 
 plenty of sun, and was extremely cheerful. It was also 
 well furnished, and contained as many rooms as I re 
 quired. The rent was remarkably reasonable, and before 
 the morning was over I had taken the flat for three 
 months from its owner, an Italian woman, who kept a 
 tobacconist's shop. 
 
 "That very night I was installed in it. Now I must 
 just describe it to you. 
 
 "When you entered the flat you found yourself in a 
 hall with chairs and an oaken settle. On the right of this 
 hall were three rooms my bedroom and dressing-room 
 and the dining-room. These rooms looked out on to the 
 open space I have already alluded to. Opposite to the 
 dining-room, on the other side of the hall, was the draw 
 ing-room, which was rather dark, and had a window look 
 ing on to a small garden surrounded by the backs of 
 houses. Parallel with this drawing-room was a narrow 
 passage which led to a kitchen on the left, and which 
 ended in a servant's bedroom. Both of these looked out 
 on to the backs of the houses surrounding the little gar 
 den, and from their windows one could see the windows 
 of the staircase of the house in which my flat was. This 
 section of my flat, in fact, jutted out at right angles to 
 that part of the house which contained the staircase, and 
 was commanded by the staircase windows. I hope I 
 make myself clear?" 
 
 "Quite," I answered. 
 
 "There was also a bathroom at the end of the hall be 
 tween the drawing-room and the dining-room. 
 
 "I intended to engage a woman to act as my cook and 
 housekeeper and a man to open the door and valet me. 
 But on the first evening I was alone. The Padrona came 
 in to make my bed and see that I had candles, matches, 
 and the few things absolutely necessary. Then she with 
 drew with a buona sera, and a hope that I should be com 
 fortable. She was a large and oily Neapolitan, and as 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 283 
 
 she uttered her final remark I thought her bulging black 
 eyes rested upon me with a rather peculiar expression, 
 half -searching, half-defiant. 
 
 "When she was gone I went again over the flat. In 
 the servant's room, upon a table under the window, stood 
 a candle and a box of matches. The candle was new 
 and had never been lighted. Why I did it I don't know, 
 but I remember putting a match to it idly, holding it up, 
 glancing round the room, then setting it down again upon 
 the table, and I believe extinguishing it. 
 
 "Night had closed in, and*I presently went out, dined 
 at a restaurant, looked in at a theatre, and returned home. 
 It was late when I reached the front door of the house 
 and let myself in with one of my two latchkeys. I was 
 at once confronted by the blackness of the stone stair 
 case. All the lights were out, and I had not taken the 
 precaution of providing myself with a candle end to 
 illuminate my progress to the third storey. 
 
 "I struck a match and began to go up as quickly 
 as I could. Before I got to the first floor the match had 
 gone out, and I made some groping steps in the darkness. 
 Then I struck a second match, which lighted me to the 
 second floor. There it sputtered and died down, and I 
 stood still for a moment fumbling for a third match. 
 But there was not one. I had been smoking a good deal 
 during the evening and had exhausted my supply. 
 
 "Diavolo!" I thought. 
 
 "Then I remembered that there was a box full on the 
 little table in the hall, and I moved on cautiously, feeling 
 my way, until I reached the staircase window, which 
 looked out upon the windows of my kitchen and the un 
 occupied servant's bedroom. In the latter there shone a 
 light. 
 
 "I stood still. I was greatly astonished. 
 
 "Over the window a thin white blind hung down, 
 through which the light was visible. For some short 
 time two or three minutes I suppose I stood on the 
 staircase watching it. Who could be there, in my flat, 
 
284 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 at this time of the night? Had the Padrona returned 
 to seek something? Or had some malefactor I drew 
 out my revolver, cocked it, crept up the stairs, and very 
 quietly inserted my key in the door, after some groping, 
 as I was without a light. The door opened, I stepped into 
 the hall and felt for the matches, all the time straining 
 my ears to catch the smallest sound. I found a match, 
 struck it, and set it to the candle. Then, leaving the 
 front door open, I went on tiptoe to the entrance of the 
 passage, at the end of which was the door of the servant's 
 bedroom. It stood open, and I saw the bed and the wall 
 illuminated by the light within. I waited, listening in 
 tently. I heard nothing. Then I walked swiftly into 
 the room. It was empty. On the table under the window 
 stood a lighted candle burned down almost to the socket. 
 I took it up and went from room to room. The flat was 
 empty. Nothing had been disturbed. 
 
 "When I had finished searching I shut the front door, 
 barred it for the night, and went to bed. 
 
 "The explanation of the candle being lighted must be 
 a simple one. That was what I was telling myself. I 
 must have forgotten to extinguish it. I remembered 
 lighting the candle. I remembered extinguishing it. So 
 my mind told me. But my mind must have been playing 
 me false. I must have left the candle burning. And 
 yet I could have sworn but then we often could, couldn't 
 we?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Telling myself this, giving my own memory the lie, 
 as it were, I turned over and soon fell asleep. 
 
 "In the morning I went forth early to an agency and 
 engaged a cook, a charming woman called Lucia, a native 
 of Albano. She agreed to begin her duties with me that 
 very day. This done, I paid a visit to my Padrona di 
 casa. I had a question to ask her. 
 
 " 'I suppose there is no other latchkey to my flat be 
 sides mine?' I said to her. 'You haven't one you could 
 lend me for my servant?' 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 285 
 
 " 'No, signore, I have only the one/ 
 
 " Til have another made/ I said carelessly. 
 
 "I had been thinking of the lighted candle of the pre 
 ceding night, and had wished to find out whether the 
 Padrona had means of access to my flat. It seemed not. 
 Evidently, therefore, my memory had been at fault. 
 
 "I went to get another latchkey made for my cook, 
 and dismissed the matter of the lighted candle from my 
 mind for the time. 
 
 "Lucia was married, and lived with her husband not 
 far from me, so till I engaged a man-servant I was alone 
 in my flat at night. 
 
 "I dined at home that evening, and stayed in till Lucia 
 had gone away for the night. When the front door had 
 closed upon her, I went down the passage to the servant's 
 room. The candlestick had been moved, no doubt by 
 Lucia, and placed on a little stand beside the bed, with a 
 fresh candle in it and the box of matches laid near by. 
 Wooden shutters had been fastened over the windows. I 
 had not noticed them before. I glanced round the room. 
 Then I went out. 
 
 "I spent the evening at the Salone Margherita, reading 
 the Tribuna, and listening to a variety entertainment. 
 When I got home it was about ten minutes to twelve. 
 This time I had provided myself with a candle-end to 
 light me up the staircase, and I reached my door with 
 out difficulty, let myself in, lit my candle, barred the door 
 and went at once into my bedroom. There I began to 
 undress. 
 
 "Now, I must tell you that I am not at all a nervous or 
 suspicious man. I have been about the world and slept 
 soundly in many strange places. Yet that night, when 
 I was about to get into bed, I felt an odd uneasiness come 
 over me, as if I had left something undone, something 
 that imperatively ought to be done. I stood for a mo 
 ment in my pyjamas by the dressing-table. What was it 
 that I had forgotten to do? 
 
 "After a moment's hesitation I opened my bedroom 
 
286 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 door and looked out into the hall towards the place where 
 the passage began. A faint light issued from it. Leav 
 ing my candle in the bedroom, I went on my stockinged 
 feet to the passage and stared down it. Beside the empty 
 bed the candle was burning, the candle which, to-night, 
 I had left unlighted. 
 
 "Again I went into the room and found no one. Again 
 I went over the flat and found everything in its place, no 
 sign of any intruder. 
 
 "This time I felt really uncomfortable. It was now 
 obvious to me that someone, some stranger hidden I 
 knew not where in Rome, possessed a key of my door, 
 and, for some reason which I could not divine, visited 
 my flat at night when I was out of the way. What could 
 be this person's purpose? And why should so furtive a 
 creature be so careless as to leave a lighted candle to tell 
 me of his, or her, nocturnal entry ? I now felt quite cer 
 tain that it was not I who had left the candle lit on the 
 previous night. My memory had not betrayed me. For 
 a long time I stood wondering uneasily, and when I 
 at length got into bed I could not sleep. 
 
 "I thought again of the Padrona, that Neapolitan 
 woman with the searching eyes. But she denied having 
 a key of my door. And if she had one, why should she 
 come at night? I wondered who had been my predeces 
 sor in the flat. Whoever it was might have carried away 
 a latchkey on leaving, might have it still, or might have 
 lost it. It might have passed into other hands. All my 
 sense of comfort, of being at home in the flat, was rapidly 
 departing. 
 
 "Only towards morning did I fall asleep. 
 
 "The next day I again called on the Padrona on some 
 pretext, and in the course of my conversation carelessly 
 asked to whom the flat had been let before I took it. The 
 ;woman suddenly looked glum. 
 
 " 'To a Russian/ she answered, after a pause. 
 
 "'A man?' 
 
 " 'No, signore. The Princess Andrakov.' 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 287 
 
 "'And she has left Rome?' 
 
 " The Princess is dead, signore.' 
 
 "She shut her loose-lipped mouth with a snap. Some 
 body came into the shop, and I went away. 
 
 " 'The Princess Andrakov.' As I went out into the 
 sunshine I was mentally repeating that name and wonder 
 ing idly, I thought what the princess had been like. 
 
 "It was a glorious day, and I strolled on till I reached 
 the church of the Sacred Heart, at the top of the steps 
 that lead from the Piazza, di Spagna to the Trinita de' 
 Monte. There I paused for a moment and glanced down. 
 
 "A peculiar-looking man, young, perhaps twenty-five 
 years old, was coming up from the Piazza. He was tall, 
 fair, with a broad face, a flat nose, very prominent cheek 
 bones, and long frizzly light hair. He was dressed in 
 frayed trousers, an old green overcoat, and a soft and 
 dusty black hat. I thought he looked like a Russian 
 student. When he reached the top of the steps he 
 stopped for an instant beside me, then walked on towards 
 the Pincio. I followed I don't know why. Simply, I 
 had to go somewhere, and on a fine morning what can one 
 do better than walk towards the Pincio? Just in front 
 of the Villa Medici the young man stopped to look at the 
 view over Rome. I stopped, too, drawn to stillness by 
 the splendour of the city lying beneath the splendour of 
 the clear sky. 
 
 "And then I don't know how we were talking. I 
 and this young man, talking in French, and soon with a 
 freedom that was almost like intimacy. 
 
 "He was, I found, a Russian, and an art student We 
 spoke of art, of Rome and its wonders, of I have really 
 forgotten what else. But I know that presently, when 
 we were going to part, the young man handed me his 
 card, in foreign fashion, and I gave him mine, with my 
 Roman address written on it. He glanced at it, then 
 started, and stared at me rather oddly. 
 
 " 'Have I given you what is it?' I asked. 
 
288 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 " 'Nothing, only you are living in a house in which 
 I had once an an acquaintance.* 
 
 "The Princess Andrakov?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Yes. Did you know her, monsieur ?' 
 
 " 'No; but I have the flat she formerly occupied.' 
 
 "The young man looked at me, I thought, with great 
 attention. 
 
 " 'She is dead, I understand/ I continued. 
 
 " 'Oh, yes, she is dead.' 
 
 "'Did she die in Rome?' 
 
 " 'Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 " 'Did she die in the flat?' 
 
 " 'Yes, monsieur/ 
 
 " 'I wonder' I was thinking now of the lighted can 
 dles 'I wonder whether she was a careless person,' I 
 said, trying to speak carelessly. 
 
 " 'Careless, monsieur?' 
 
 " 'Yes.' 
 
 " 'Have you any particular reason for asking me that 
 question, monsieur?' 
 
 "I hesitated. This young man was an absolute strang 
 er to me, and I am not, as a rule, accustomed to take 
 strangers into my confidence. But there was something 
 in the look of his large, light eyes which told me I 
 might go on. And I did. I related to him what I have 
 related to you the episode of the lighted candles. 
 
 "When I had finished, I said : 
 
 " 'What I am wondering is this : whether my prede 
 cessor in the flat lost her latchkey, or gave it to one of 
 the servants.' 
 
 " The Princess had no servants,' he said. 
 
 "'No servants?' 
 
 " 'No, she was a very peculiar person/ 
 
 "'Indeed?' 
 
 " *Yes, a very suspicious nature. She was afraid to 
 have servants in Rome/ 
 
 "'Why?' 
 
 " 'She was afraid they might be got at/ 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 289 
 
 "He used a French expression equivalent to that 
 phrase of ours. 
 
 "'By thieves?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Well no. It is a disagreeable story, but the prin 
 cess is dead, and ' 
 
 "He hesitated. 
 
 " 'I knew her in Russia/ he said at last. 'Her hus 
 band was an important man, a general, at one time a 
 Governor of a province in Southern Russia. There had 
 been some trouble there, and he was sent to stamp it 
 out. His methods of stamping out trouble were not 
 appreciated either by the peasants or by the revolution 
 aries. He was hated, but the princess was more than 
 hated; she was execrated.' 
 
 " 'Why?' 
 
 " 'She was an aristocrat of the hardest, most reac 
 tionary type. She egged her husband on to excesses. 
 There is no doubt of that. She openly boasted of it. 
 He would not have done half of what he did if it had 
 not been for her. He was the Governor of a province, 
 but she was his governor. Everybody knew it. The 
 end of it was that one day at a railway station he was 
 assassinated by a young girl/ 
 
 " 'Horrible/ 
 
 " 'The girl disappeared, perhaps to Siberia. The prin 
 cess disappeared to Rome/ 
 
 "'Was she afraid?' 
 
 " 'Terrified. I must tell you that she was an old 
 woman, a skinny, coquettish old woman, years older than 
 her husband. And, as I believe sometimes happens with 
 people of advanced age, her nerves, which had seemed to 
 be of iron, suddenly snapped. In one day she was 
 changed from a cruel tyrant into a cringing, terror- 
 stricken coward. That day was the day of her husband's 
 murder. {For she, too, had been condemned, and she 
 knew it/ 
 
 'That was why she left Russia?' 
 
 " 'Yes, she fled. She came to Rome and took your 
 
290 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 flat under an assumed name. For though she was a 
 princess, her real name was not Andrakov. In Rome her 
 fear grew upon her. She believed she had been dogged. 
 She ceased to go out. She kept no servants for fear they 
 might be bribed by those who had vowed to destroy her. 
 The porter's wife brought up her food, and she received 
 it at the front door. She lived in a room at the back 
 of the house, for fear she might be seen and recognised 
 from the street if she went near to the front windows. 
 And finally she died of sheer terror in that back room. 
 A warning had been thrust into her letter-box telling her 
 that her place of retreat was known.' 
 
 " 'Then she died in the room where the candles are 
 lighted?' I asked. 
 
 " 'A back bedroom, the only one.' 
 
 " 'Yes; but, excuse me, monsieur, how do you know all 
 this?' 
 
 " 'Oddly enough, the Princess had shown me and my 
 family kindness, monsieur. She was fond of my mother, 
 who had been a reader to her. (She was a very intellectual 
 woman. ) And she partly paid for my studies in Rome. I 
 ought to be grateful to her, and so I am. But even my 
 gratitude could never make me feel any affection for her. 
 Three or four times I was admitted to see her in the 
 flat. But towards the end she became afraid even of 
 me. She was found dead in that back bedroom, with an 
 expression of abject terror on her face and a gutter 
 ing candle beside her. They broke into the flat as she 
 did not answer the door when the porter's wife brought 
 her food. It seems she had only just died. But for more 
 than twenty-four hours she had not answered the door/ 
 
 "Such was the young Russian's story of my prede 
 cessor in the flat. 
 
 "I must confess that it scarcely made my new home 
 seem more home-like to me. When I was back again in 
 it my imagination set to work. I called up mentally the 
 'skinny, coquettish old woman/ barred in alone there, 
 a prey to perpetual terror, living in solitude in the little 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 291 
 
 room that looked out upon the garden, finally finding her 
 sentence of death in the letter-box and succumbing to an 
 access of senile fear, with a guttering candle to light her 
 into eternity. 
 
 "A guttering candle beside her. The young Russian 
 ,was not without an appreciation of detail. Why had he 
 happened to mention that one? Probably because I had 
 told him of the lighted candles. The mind goes back 
 sometimes without being aware of it. Do we not know 
 this from our dreams? 
 
 "My friend of the morning had not offered any sug 
 gestion for the elucidation of my mystery. I remem 
 bered that only after I had left him. His narrative of 
 the princess had drawn him away, and me with him, into 
 another channel of thought. But, if it had not been so, 
 what explanation could he have suggested? Somebody 
 had means of access to my flat, and had used these means 
 two nights running. That was all I knew. What more 
 could this young man know? My having thus entered 
 into conversation with the only person admitted to the 
 flat while the princess occupied it was one of those 
 strange coincidences which occur continually in life. 
 
 "All that day my mind dwelt upon the Russian's nar 
 rative and the lighted candles, trying, I think now, to 
 find a link between this dead old woman of an evil nature 
 and the person who came to the flat from which her 
 corpse had been carried out. Those Russians who had 
 
 plotted her death, could they ? But at this point I 
 
 had the sense to realise that I was allowing myself to be 
 carried away into absurdity. The person, whoever it was, 
 who visited my rooms, must, of course, know that they 
 were no longer occupied by the princess. 
 
 "That night I dined at home, and when Lucia left me 
 and I had been over the flat I settled down in the draw 
 ing-room with a cigar and a book. I had extinguished 
 the gas in the hall and left the door of the drawing-room 
 open, for, to tell the truth, I had little inclination for 
 reading. I knew that I was going to listen for the sound 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 of a key inserted in my front door, for a step in the hall. 
 If the visitor of the two previous nights came a third 
 time well, he or she would find the host who had been 
 lacking before. I said to myself that, of course, no one 
 would come since I was at home. My going out must 
 have been seen. To-night the fact that I did not go out 
 would doubtless be known. No one would come. 
 
 "Nevertheless, I waited and listened with the door 
 open into the dark hall. 
 
 "In the distance I heard the muffled roar of Rome. 
 Somewhere out there was the person who came to my 
 flat by night, unless, indeed, the intruder dwelt within 
 this building full of apartments. The time wore on. 
 I read some pages of my book, but scarcely knew what I 
 read, so attentive was my ear to catch the smallest near 
 sound. 
 
 "If anyone came he should not enter without my knowl 
 edge. 
 
 "But at last the distant sounds began to die down. It 
 was deep in the night and weariness overtook me. I re 
 solved to go to bed, and got up to do so, at the same 
 time looking at my watch. A quarter to one. I had had 
 no idea that the hour was so late, and realised for the 
 first time how intently I had been listening, with what 
 anxiety I had been waiting. 
 
 "Having lit my bedroom candle, which was on the 
 writing table, I turned out the gas and stepped into the 
 hall. Owing to the situation of the drawing-room I 
 was at once opposite to the passage. It was dark, and 
 the door of the servant's bedroom was shut. Had I shut 
 it? I could not remember. I waited a moment, look 
 ing at the door. Instantly I was aware of a pale, small 
 ray of light issuing from the darkness directly before 
 me. It came through the key-hole of the door. Within 
 the room the candle was lighted. 
 
 "By whom? 
 
 "This time I held my breath. I was conscious of a 
 ^ feeling of extraordinary disquietude, almost of fear, of 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 
 
 a strong repugnance against going into the chamber of 
 the lighted candle. 
 
 "It seemed to me that, if I did so, I should find within 
 a skinny, coquettish old woman; that as I opened the 
 door all the coquetry would die out of her; that my en 
 trance would be greeted with a harsh, strangled cry of 
 fear. 
 
 "At that moment, for the first time, I seemed to be 
 conscious of the nearness to me of terror. And the 
 thought of this terror near me made my hair bristle up 
 on my head. 
 
 "What I really wanted to do just then was to go 
 straight out of the flat, down the stairs, and into the open 
 street, to find myself under the stars, to see the lights in 
 the cafes, to hear the hum of happy people. What I did, 
 after a pause, was to relight my candle, walk quickly, 
 with a firm step, down the passage, and brusquely fling 
 open the door of the bedroom. 
 
 "Silence, emptiness, and beside the bed, burning 
 steadily, the lighted candle. 
 
 "I stood looking round. 
 
 "It was a small, uninteresting room, containing a bed, 
 a chair, a table, a washhand-stand, a stand for a candle 
 by the bed. The wooden shutters were closed. From 
 the wall an oleograph of the Madonna and Child re 
 garded me with lack-lustre eyes. In that bed the old 
 princess had died of terror. Upon that stand had been 
 the guttering candle, lighted as a protection against the 
 trooping terrors of the night. 
 
 "And now who lighted the candles in this room? 
 
 "I sat down on the only chair the room contained, sat 
 down resolutely for I did it against my will and tried 
 to reason the matter out. On the previous two nights I 
 had supposed, I had felt quite sure, that someone who 
 possessed a key of the door had come in for some pur 
 pose I could not divine, had lighted the candle in order 
 to see to accomplish that purpose, and had gone away, 
 carelessly forgetting to extinguish the candle. But to- 
 
294 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 night no one had entered the flat. I had been alone in 
 it. And yet the candle had been lighted. By what? 
 And why? 
 
 "By what? I had got to this point in my thinking. 
 Was it extraordinary? There are certain things one 
 can say one knows. That night I knew that no one could 
 have come into the flat without my knowledge. It was 
 impossible to open the front door without noise with a 
 key. Without a key the front door could not be opened 
 at all. I knew that the door had not been opened. The 
 windows of the kitchen and the back bedroom were 
 securely closed and were shuttered. No one could have 
 got in by them. Nevertheless the candle had been 
 lighted. 
 
 "Therefore, I asked myself the question : by what had 
 it been lighted ? 
 
 "In the passage, when I first saw the ray of light, I 
 had felt as if the old Princess were secluded within the 
 room; as if I caught the infection of her fear. But now 
 my terror for I suppose it must have been the touch 
 of terror that made my hair rise was abated. I felt 
 calmer, and I tried deliberately to be receptive; to make 
 myself, as it were, an empty vessel into which might be 
 poured the truth of that room. 
 
 "I should tell you that, at the time of which I speak, 
 I was neither a believer nor an unbeliever in another 
 world, in spirit agencies. I kept an open mind, capable, 
 I trust, of conviction. Nevertheless, I was not prepared, 
 at a moment's notice, to swallow marvels without investi 
 gation. I cannot, however, deny that since my meeting 
 with the Russian student I looked upon this dull little 
 room with altered eyes. And now as I sat in it, I felt 
 about it strangely. 
 
 "As I told you, I was now calmj at least, I believe so. 
 I let my mind alone. I sat, if I may use the expression, 
 with all my mental muscles relaxed. The vessel was 
 empty. It seemed to me that something flowed into it 
 and filled it like a fluid ; some influence, some personality 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 295 
 
 that was inhabiting the room. It seemed to me that I 
 was conscious of the shivering touch of fear; that I 
 heard far, far off, faint and yet horrible, the shuddering 
 cry of fear; that I knew because somehow I was told 
 why that candle had been lighted ; and that it had been 
 lighted by something that dwelt in that room and was 
 abjectly afraid of being killed in the dark. 
 
 "Ridiculous, you will say. The story of the Russian 
 student peopling an excited mind with imaginations. I 
 tried to say the same thing to myself. I left the room 
 presently (carrying the candle that had been so mys 
 teriously lighted with me, and shutting and locking the 
 door behind me), saying the same thing to myself. I 
 lay awake saying it. 
 
 "You must not think I yielded feebly to crazy ideas 
 unworthy of a full-grown man. I did not. I combated 
 them as you would. And when the morning came I re 
 solved that if I had peopled the back bedroom with fig 
 ments of the imagination, I would people it now with 
 something very different. 
 
 "By lunch-time I had engaged a man-servant. He 
 was not a Roman, but a Sicilian, who had only just come 
 to Rome in the hope of earning some money. He was 
 about twenty-four, pleasant, and active-looking, and had 
 excellent references from a well-known Sicilian family 
 in Palermo. Like the cook, he was ready to come to me 
 at once, and as I was in a hurry to have him, the bargain 
 was promptly made. 
 
 "That afternoon he entered my service. 
 
 "Now, at about four the same day I was again at the 
 Pincio, strolling near the parapet of the terrace, and 
 listening to the music, when I encountered the Russian 
 student. He took off his hat and looked inclined to join 
 me. And I was nothing loth. We presently sat down 
 together on two chairs in the sunshine, and I told him 
 of the episode of the previous night. When I had finished 
 I added that I had now engaged a Sicilian man-servant, 
 
296 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 who would sleep in the back bedroom, and that he en 
 tered my service that day. 
 
 "The young Russian, who had listened to me with 
 deep attention, shook his shoulders with a movement 
 that looked like a shiver. 
 
 " 'I would not be your servant, monsieur/ he said. 'I 
 would not sleep in the bed where the old Princess ooh/ 
 
 " 'But this man knows nothing and will feel noth 
 ing/ 
 
 " What if the candle is lighted?' 
 
 "Then you ?' 
 
 "I paused. 
 
 " 'Monsieur/ he said, 'in Russia we are superstitious. 
 I am glad you have engaged this young man. You say 
 he is of the people of Sicily. The Sicilians are bold, but 
 they are sensitive. This man knows nothing about your 
 flat, about the little room, about the lighted candles. Let 
 him be a touchstone. Can I say that? If he feels noth 
 ing, if he sees nothing very well, there is nothing, and 
 there is some simple explanation of the lighted candles. 
 If not if he is affected, if he fears, then there is some 
 thing/ 
 
 "He added, after a moment of thought: 
 
 " They say, those who are superstitious, that three 
 lighted candles are a sign of death/ 
 
 " 'Many English people think that too/ 
 
 " 'Do you, monsieur?' 
 
 " 'I have never bothered about such things. The 
 strange by that I mean the abnormal, using the word 
 in the sense in which it is generally used has been a 
 stranger to me until now/ 
 
 "Giovanni, the Sicilian servant, settled in very com 
 fortably, and seemed pleased with his room. He was a 
 gay-looking youth, and that evening, when I heard him 
 laughing and talking with Lucia in the kitchen, I felt as 
 if a cloud which had been lowering over me were lifting. 
 
 "I did not go out that night, and went to bed early, 
 and slept well." 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 297 
 
 My travelling companion stopped speaking at this 
 point. 
 
 "What is it?" I asked. "Is anything the matter 1" 
 
 "Well," he answered, "I never can recall the next day 
 [without a feeling of horror." 
 
 "Why? What happened?" 
 
 "Simply this. In the morning when Lucia arrived, 
 Giovanni did not come out of his room. When I got up 
 and asked for him, she said that he had not opened his 
 door. I thought he had overslept himself, went to his 
 room, and found the poor fellow dead." 
 
 "Good heaven! Why? What had he died of ?" 
 
 "There was an expression of terror on his face. I 
 went at once for a doctor, who examined him, and said 
 that his death was caused by heart failure. Although he 
 had looked strong, he had had a very weak heart. The, 
 same day Lucia gave me warning. She said that the 
 Evil Eye had looked upon my flat." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I removed to a hotel. Do you wonder?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "Unfortunately I had taken the flat for three months, 
 and was obliged to pay the rent. I did so, and, of course, 
 it continued to be my flat, although I did not live in it. 
 Giovanni was buried and the flat remained empty, I 
 keeping the keys and able to go in and out whenever I 
 liked." 
 
 "And did you ever go there?" 
 
 "I did with the Russian student. I must tell you that 
 my acquaintance with him developed into a sort of in 
 timacy. His knowledge of the old Princess, I think, 
 attracted me to him. For I must confess that I could 
 never think of the lighted candles and of Giovanni's 
 death without thinking of her. But I soon grew to like 
 him for his own sake. There was something unconven 
 tional, enthusiastic about him that pleased me. But I 
 also had other reasons for seeking him. He puzzled me. 
 Despite his enthusiasm, his frankness, even his apparent 
 
298 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 carelessness, he was reserved. I was always conscious 
 that there were depths in this young man which I had not 
 sounded, that there were mysteries in his character which 
 I had not explored. 
 
 "It was as if one always saw a door wide open, yet 
 could never go into the room beyond, a room that was 
 dimly lit. 
 
 "I had told him about the fate of my servant and my 
 departure from the flat. He said, 'You did wisely. 
 Death is there.' 
 
 "One day, perhaps three weeks after Giovanni's death, 
 we were dining together at the Cafe Berardi, near the 
 Piazza di Spagna, when I scarcely know why I was 
 moved to tell the Russian that, though I had left the 
 flat, I was often tormented by an itching desire to go 
 back to it, if only for an hour now and then; that some 
 thing seemed to draw me to the door, yet that, when I 
 was there, I felt a reluctance to enter. 
 
 " 'Have you ever gone in again ?' he inquired. 
 
 " 'Not since the day I left Can you understand my 
 sensation?' 
 
 " 'Yes. Where mystery or fear abide there is always 
 fascination. Why, they say that even murderers find it 
 difficult to keep away from the places where their crimes 
 have been committed.' 
 
 " 'I suppose ' I hesitated. 
 
 "'Yes, monsieur?' 
 
 " 'I suppose you wouldn't come into the flat with me 
 one night say to-night and spend an hour and smoke 
 a cigar?' 
 
 "He darted at me a swift look that, I fancied, was 
 suspicious. 
 
 " 'I ?' he said. 'Why should I go there ?' 
 
 "I was surprised by his emphasis. 
 
 " 'Merely to keep me company.' 
 
 " 'Oh, I see.' His voice was changed. 'Well, why 
 not?' 
 
 " 'Perhaps you dislike the idea?' 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 299 
 
 "With a sort of sudden gush of frankness, eminently 
 characteristic of him, he said: 
 
 " 'I both dislike and am attracted by it. Why shouldn't 
 I speak the truth, monsieur? I connect your apartment 
 with horror the death from fear of the Princess, my 
 patroness therefore I am drawn to it. I have long 
 wanted to go there. Yet in all Rome there is no place 
 I dread so much. That is the truth. Make of it what 
 you can/ 
 
 " 'Let us go/ I said with sudden decision, getting up 
 from my chair. 
 
 "He seemed startled by my abruptness, but after an 
 instant's hesitation he got up too. 
 
 " 'Very well/ he said. 
 
 "And again he cast at me a glance that seemed a 
 glance of suspicion. I wondered what it meant. We 
 went out, got into an open cab, and drove to the house 
 in which my deserted apartment was. 
 
 " 'You've got the key, then, monsieur?' said the Rus 
 sian, when I gave the cabman the address. 
 
 " 'Yes/ 
 
 "He said nothing more during the drive. When we 
 reached the house it was not yet ten ; the porter was still 
 up and the lamps were still burning on the staircase. 
 The porter looked much surprised to see me. 
 
 " 'You have come back, signore !' he exclaimed. 
 
 " 'Only for a little while. I'm not going to stay/ 
 
 " 'Better not/ the old man muttered. 'Better not/ 
 
 "He glanced at my companion. 
 
 " 'But perhaps the signore is thinking of taking the 
 apartment. I have seen him here before, when the ' 
 
 " 'Bast a? said the Russian rather roughly. 
 
 "And he began to mount the stairs. 
 
 " 'This signore is a friend of mine/ I said to the 
 porter. 'He has not come after the apartment/ 
 
 "And I followed the Russian to the third floor, leaving 
 the old man mumbling to himself. 
 
 "I found my friend I will call him Drovinsky 
 
300 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 standing on the third landing, with his hand on the 
 balustrade of the staircase. As I came up he said in a 
 low voice : 
 
 " 'Now, what are we here for?' 
 
 'Why, to ' 
 
 " 'No, but what are we going to do ? Doesn't it seem 
 
 rather absurd for two grown men ?' 
 
 ' 'You want to cry off/ I said, rather bluntly, I fear. 
 
 "Again that glance of suspicion. 
 
 " 'No, monsieur. Only let us know why we are 
 doing this/ 
 
 " 'Inside I'll tell you/ 
 
 "I inserted the key in the door and we stepped into 
 the hall. In a moment I had lit the gas. 
 
 " 'There is gas in the drawing-room, too/ I said. 'Let 
 us sit there/ 
 
 "Drovinsky was standing by the hall door, which he 
 had shut. 
 
 " 'Very well/ he said. 
 
 "He followed me closely as I went to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " 'How deserted it looks already/ I said, lighting the 
 gas. 
 
 'Yes. Now, are we to sit down and smoke ?' 
 
 " 'I wonder if I can find a candle. I left some can 
 dles/ 
 
 " 'Why do you want a candle?' 
 
 " 'Merely to look into the rooms. Wait a moment/ 
 
 "I found a candle in the kitchen, lit it and went over 
 the flat. Meanwhile Drovinsky remained in the drawing- 
 room. When I came back I said: 
 ' 'It is just as I left it/ 
 
 " 'Naturally/ 
 
 " 'Yes. Well, shall we light our cigars?' 
 
 : ' 'And you will tell me why we are doing this ?' 
 
 " 'But you know already/ I said, taking out my cigar 
 case. 'You yourself have told me. Where mystery and 
 fear abide ' 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 301 
 
 "And I lit my cigar and sat down. He laughed and 
 followed my example. 
 
 " 'But, after all, do they, can they, abide here?* 
 
 "He glanced round at the very small modern furniture 
 of the small modern room, and laughed again. And his 
 own laugh seemed to answer 'Yes' to his question. 
 
 " 'I think they can abide wherever tragedy has been. 
 And tragedy has been here.' 
 
 " 'You mean that poor fellow ?' 
 
 " 'And the Princess Andrakov/ 
 
 " 'Oh, the Princess ' 
 
 " 'Could anything be more tragic than to die in terror 
 alone, at night?' 
 
 " 'She had brought terror to others/ 
 
 "His voice was suddenly hard. He had sat down near 
 me and had begun to smoke. I confess that, knowing the 
 Princess had been kind to him, I was sometimes rather 
 surprised by the way in which Drovinsky spoke of her. I 
 was surprised now. 
 
 " 'But you were a friend of hers/ I said. 
 
 " 'Scarcely that. Because she had liked my mother 
 the Princess certainly did something for me. Still, I 
 cannot be blind to her character/ 
 
 "He looked at me searchingly. 
 
 "'What is it?' I said. 
 
 " 'I wonder I wonder what your view of me would 
 be if I were to tell you something. It is very strange that 
 here, in this place where she died, I feel a strong, an 
 almost overpowering inclination to speak/ 
 
 "He stopped, still looking at me with deeply inauiring 
 eyes. 
 
 ' 'Speak then/ I said. 
 
 " 'Do you remember my saying at Berardi's that I be 
 lieved murderers often were compelled to come back to 
 the places of their crimes?' 
 
 " 'Yes/ 
 
 Well I have done that/ 
 
 "'You!' I cried, startled. 
 
302 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 " 'I killed the Princess Andrakov/ 
 
 "I sprang from my seat in horror. 
 
 " 'Wait, monsieur/ said the Russian. 'My weapon 
 was a letter/ ' 
 
 " What do you mean?' 
 
 " 'It was I who put into her letter-box the paper which 
 told the Princess that her place of concealment was 
 known, and it was the terror caused by that communica 
 tion that killed her/ 
 
 "I sat down again. 
 
 " 'You meant to warn the Princess so that she might 
 escape?' 
 
 " 'Monsieur, I wished her to die/ 
 
 "'Why?' 
 
 " 'If she had not died, I should have killed her/ 
 
 " 'Your patroness ? The woman who had been kind 
 to you?' 
 
 "I was not a free agent. I belonged to a secret so 
 ciety whose orders I had to obey. The assassination of 
 the Princess fell to my lot/ 
 
 " 'And you would have ?' 
 
 " 'If she had not died yes/ 
 
 "He spoke calmly, fatalistically, but, as he finished, he 
 glanced towards the door almost as if he expected some 
 one to come in. 
 
 " 'You were in Rome for that?' I asked. 
 
 " 'No, monsieur. It was advisable for me to get out of 
 Russia, so I came here. Because I was here I was chosen 
 to kill the Princess when it was known that she was in 
 Rome/ 
 
 " 'And you ?' 
 
 " 'No,' he interrupted. 'I did not tell them. What 
 do you think of me?' 
 
 " 'I think you have a great deal of nerve/ 
 
 "'Why?' 
 
 " 'To come into this apartment after what I have told 
 you/ 
 
 " 'But I am not alone/ 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 303 
 
 "The devil prompted me to say : 
 
 " 'Would you pass a night here alone?' 
 
 "Why should I?' 
 
 "Would you for abet?' 
 
 "I knew the man was very poor. The devil certainly 
 was at my elbow. 
 
 " 'I will bet you a thousand lire to one/ I said, 'that 
 you won't do it.' 
 " You are joking?' 
 
 " 'No, a thousand lire to one. Parola d'onore' 
 
 "I saw that he was tempted. 
 
 " 'To-morrow morning I will come here. We will 
 breakfast together, and you shall have a thousand lire.' 
 
 " 'If I do it,' he said, with obvious hesitation, 'I make 
 one proviso/ 
 
 "'What is it?' 
 
 " 'I will not go into the back bedroom/ 
 
 " 'You need not/ 
 
 " 'Very well, then, monsieur, I accept your wager/ 
 
 "Oddly enough, directly my proposition was accepted 
 I began to regret having made it. 
 
 " 'But if you feel ' I began. 
 
 " 'Monsieur, I accept your wager. Parola d'onore!' 
 
 " 'Certainly/ I replied hastily, seeing that he thought 
 I was jibbing at the idea of losing my money. 'Parola 
 d'onore.' 
 
 "There was a short uneasy silence between us, during 
 which neither looked at the other. Then I said: 
 
 " 'Well, I think I'll be off now. What time shall I 
 come to-morrow morning?' 
 
 " 'When you please, monsieur/ 
 
 '"Shall we say eight o'clock?' 
 
 " 'Certainly eight o'clock/ 
 
 " 'All right. There's the candle if you want to use 
 the front bedroom. There isn't any gas there/ 
 
 " 'Thank you, monsieur/ 
 
 "A constraint had certainly come between us since the 
 Russian's confession and my suggestion of the wager. 
 
304 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 "I went out into the hall. He followed me. 
 
 " 'You know the front rooms?' I asked. 
 
 " 'No, monsieur/ 
 
 " This is the dining-room.' 
 
 "We went into it. The shutters were not closed, and 
 I went to the window to close them. Before doing so 
 I felt the window to see if it was fastened. It flew open, 
 and, by a faint moonlight, I saw the open space opposite, 
 used by bicyclists for their lessons. A dark figure was 
 standing there motionless as if looking up at the house. 
 I stared at it for a minute. Then I shut the window and 
 closed the shutters. We went together through the two 
 remaining rooms and came to the hall door. 
 
 " 'Good-night/ I said. 
 
 " 'Good-night, monsieur.' 
 
 "Again reluctance overtook me reluctance to leave 
 him there alone. 
 
 " 'You are really going to stay?' 
 
 " 'Really.' 
 
 " 'You don't think ' 
 
 " 'I am going to stay.' 
 
 " 'His voice was strange as he said those last words. 
 I began to believe that, apart from the money, he now 
 wished to remain, that he had a more personal reason 
 for his desire. And I thought of his words about the 
 fascination of fear. 
 
 " 'Good-night, then,' I said. 
 
 "I held out my hand. He took it for a moment. His 
 hand was very cold. 
 
 " 'Good-night, monsieur.' 
 
 "His high cheek-bones, light eyes, frizzly hair, dis 
 appeared as he softly closed the door. 
 
 "I walked home to my hotel which was at some short 
 distance off, asking myself almost angrily what had 
 prompted me to make the suggestion of the bet. Why 
 should I wish the Russian to spend the night alone in 
 the flat? There could only be one reason and that con 
 demned me. I thought there was some danger there. 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 305 
 
 This bet had forced me to face a fact. I knew now that 
 I believed the flat to be still occupied by all that was 
 left of the old Princess all that was left above ground. 
 The body was hidden in the grave, but the essence of 
 that formerly terrible and latterly terrified human being 
 had been released from the body and remained where 
 the body had died." 
 
 At this moment the attendant put in his head. 
 
 "It is twelve o'clock, messieurs. Shall I make the 
 beds?" 
 
 "I've just finished," said my companion. 
 
 "Another five minutes," I said, putting five francs into 
 his hand. 
 
 He disappeared yawning into the rocking corridor. 
 
 "There really is little more to tell," said my com 
 panion. "In the morning, at eight o'clock, I was at the 
 flat door. I let myself in with my key and before I 
 had shut the door, called out in a voice which was 
 deliberately cheery and commonplace: 
 
 " 'Monsieur Drovinsky !' 
 
 "There was no reply. I opened the bedroom door on 
 the right. It was unoccupied. 
 
 "'Monsieur Drovinsky! Drovinsky!' I called again. 
 
 "Silence. 
 
 "With an effort I shut the front door, and, walking 
 softly, went to the dressing-room, then to the dining- 
 room. Both were empty. So was the drawing-room, into 
 which I next looked. I began to think that I had won 
 my bet, that Drovinsky had not remained in the flat for 
 the night. But there were still three rooms to be ex 
 amined, the bathroom, the kitchen, and but I knew 
 Drovinsky would not have entered the back bedroom. 
 When taking my bet he had made it a proviso that he 
 need not go into it. 
 
 "No one in the bathroom. No one in the kitchen. 
 
 "The door of the back bedroom was shut. I confess 
 I hesitated to open it. Of course, Drovinsky had gone 
 away. It was useless to look into this room. He had 
 
306 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 told me that he would not enter it. My task was over. 
 I turned away from the door. I even walked a few 
 steps down the passage. Then I stopped. I knew I was 
 playing the coward. I was afraid to go into that room. 
 I remembered Giovanni's death, and I threw open the 
 door. 
 
 "Drovinsky lay on the bed, his face turned towards the 
 door, the light, frizzly hair falling across his cheeks. 
 His eyes were open. The flickering flame of a candle, 
 burned down to the socket, wavered across them, the 
 semblance of the inner flame of life. 
 
 "But they were dead eyes in a dead man's face." 
 
 My companion stopped. 
 
 "But," I said, "that's not all?" 
 
 "Remember," he answered, "this is a true story. Life 
 is not an adroit novelist who gathers up all the threads." 
 
 "Why should the Russian have gone into that room ?" 
 
 "I imagine I feel sure that the fascination of fear 
 led him there." 
 
 "And you think he he was visited?" 
 
 "As Giovanni was ? What else can I think ?" 
 
 "To me," I said, "the strangest part of the whole 
 story is the lighted candles." 
 
 "The corpse candles. And to me. The first, it is true, 
 I may possibly have lighted myself. My memory may 
 have betrayed me. It is just conceivable. The second 
 may have been lighted by someone who gained access 
 to the flat while I was out." 
 
 "But the third?" 
 
 "To me the third is entirely inexplicable. I once told 
 this story to a man, however, who explained it in this 
 way. He said that Lucia, my cook, must have lighted it 
 and left it lighted by accident when she went home. I 
 told him that after her departure I had looked into the 
 room and found it in darkness. He asked me if I had 
 looked in with a lighted candle in my hand. I acknowl 
 edged that I had. Then, he said he was not convinced. 
 I myself had carried light into the room and might not 
 
THE LIGHTED CANDLES 307 
 
 have observed a light already burning in it. This irri 
 tated me, and I said, 'Then my eyes can absolutely de 
 ceive me?' 'All eyes deceive at times/ he replied. And 
 then he told me of an odd fact bearing upon his state 
 ment. It was this: 
 
 "He was in perfect health, and was staying in a 
 country house. He went in the middle of the day into 
 a small room to write a letter. This room had only one 
 door, from which you saw at once the whole of the 
 room. There was no dazzling sunshine, just ordinary 
 diffused daylight. He opened the door and saw that the 
 room was empty. This pleased him, as he did not wish 
 to be disturbed while writing. He shut the door, and, 
 walking quickly forward to the writing-table, encoun 
 tered a solid body. There was a man in the room, a 
 fellow-guest standing directly before him. For some 
 reason, quite inexplicable, he had looked hard at this 
 person and had not seen him had not seen that anyone 
 was there. He told me that when he came up against 
 this invisible man his blood ran cold with surprise, and 
 his bones seemed to turn to wax. 
 
 "So the eyes can trick. Well, it may be so with 
 me. How can I, how dare I, swear it was not so?" 
 
 "And the Russian's death?" 
 
 "Heart failure, like Giovanni's. Since then I have not 
 entered that flat, and I believe it has not been let. Be 
 fore I took it, it had got a bad name. That must have 
 been why the Padrona looked at me so strangely. She 
 was wondering if I had heard anything, wondering 
 whether I was brave or merely ignorant." 
 
 "No doubt. And one thing more. That dark figure 
 you saw apparently watching the house from the bi 
 cycling ground?" 
 
 "Ah! I have sometimes wondered whether that dark 
 figure held any key to the mystery. Could Drovinsky 
 have earned the wrath of any of his brothers in crime? 
 Could any enemy have known he was in the flat that 
 night-^have gained entrance? Could there have been a 
 
308 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 scene and could Drovinsky have died in a fit of passion? 
 Non lo so, as the Italians say. Perhaps the whole thing 
 has a natural explanation." 
 
 "But you believe the contrary?" 
 
 "And possibly I am a fool." 
 
 He threw his cigar end out of the window into the 
 darkness. As he did so the attendant came in once 
 more to make the beds. 
 
 And this time we let him make them. 
 
FIVE: THE NOMAD 
 
 THE fate of Madame Lemaire had certainly not been an 
 ordinary one. She was French, of Marseilles, as yon 
 could tell by her accent, especially when she said "C'est 
 bien!" and had been an extremely coquettish and lively 
 girl, with a strong will of her own and a passionate love 
 of pleasure and of town life. From her talk when she 
 was seventeen, you would have gathered that if she ever 
 moved from Marseilles it would be to go to Paris. Noth 
 ing else would be good enough for her. She felt herself 
 born to play a part in some great city. 
 
 And yet, at the age of forty, here she was in the desert 
 of Sahara, keeping an auberge at El-Keif under the salt 
 mountain! She sometimes wondered how it had ever 
 come about, when she crossed the court of the inn, round 
 which the mules of customers were tethered in open sheds, 
 or when she served the rough Algerian wine to farmers 
 from the Tell, or to some dusty commercial traveller 
 from Batna, in the arbour trellised with vines that 
 fronted the desert. 
 
 Marie Lemaire, who had been Marie Bretelle, at El- 
 Keif ! Marie Lemaire in the desert of Sahara attending 
 upon God knows whom: Algerians, Spahis, camel- 
 drivers, gazelle-hunters! No; it was too much! 
 
 But if you have a "kink" in you, to what may you 
 not come? Marie Bretelle's "kink" had been an idiotic 
 softness for handsome faces. 
 
 She wanted to shine in the world, to cut a dash, to 
 go to Paris ; or, if that were impossible, to stay in Mar- 
 
 309 
 
310 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 seilles married to some rich city man, and to give parties, 
 and to get gowns from Madame Vannier, of the Rue 
 de Cliche, and hats from Trebichot, of the Rue des 
 Colonies, and to attend the theatres, and to be stared at 
 and pointed out on the race-course, and and, in fact, 
 to be the belle of Marseilles. And here she was at 
 El-Keif, and all because of that "kink" in her nature ! 
 
 Lemaire had had a handsome face and been a fine man, 
 stalwart, bold, muscular, determined. He did not belong 
 to Marseilles, but had come there to give an acrobatic 
 show in a music-hall; and there Marie Bretelle had seen 
 him, dressed in silver-spangled tights, and doing mar 
 vellous feats on three parallel-bars. His bare arms had 
 lumps on them like balls of iron, his fair moustaches were 
 trained into points, his bold eyes were lit with a fire to 
 fascinate women; and well, Marie Bretelle ran away 
 with him and became Madame Lemaire. And so she 
 came to Algiers, where Lemaire had an accident while 
 giving his performance. And that was the beginning 
 of the Odyssey which had ended at El-Keif. 
 
 "Foolfool fool !" 
 
 Often she said that to herself, as she went about the 
 inn doing her duties with grains of sand in her hair. 
 
 "Fool fool fool!" 
 
 The word was taken by the wind of the waste and 
 carried away into the desert. 
 
 After his accident Lemaire lost his engagements. Then 
 he lost his looks. He put on flesh. He ceased to train 
 his moustaches into points. The great muscles got soft, 
 were covered with flabby fat. Finally he took to drink. 
 And so they drifted. 
 
 To earn some money he became many things guide, 
 concierge, tout for "La belle Fatima." He had impos 
 sible professions in Algiers. And Marie? Well, it 
 were best not to scrutinise her life too closely under the 
 burning sun of Africa. Whatever it was, it was not 
 very successful; and they drifted from Algiers. Where 
 did they go? Where had they not been in this fiery 
 
THE NOMAD 311 
 
 land? Oran on the Moroccan border had seen them, 
 and the mosques of Kairouan, windy Tunis, and rock- 
 bound Constantine, laughing Bougie in its wall by the 
 water, Fort National in the Grande Kabylie. They had 
 been everywhere. And at last some wind of the desert 
 had blown them, like poor grains of desert sand, from 
 the bending palms of Biskra to the mud walls of El-Keif. 
 
 And here God help them! for ten years they had 
 been keeping the inn, "Au Retour du Desert." 
 
 For ten long, hot, dry years, and such an inn ! Why, 
 at Marseilles they would have called it well, one can 
 not tell what they would have called it on the Canne- 
 biere! But they would have found a name for it, that 
 is certain. 
 
 It stood alone, this inn, quite alone in the desert, which 
 at El-Keif circles a small oasis in which there is hidden 
 among fair-sized palms a meagre Arab village. Why 
 the inn should have been built outside of the oasis away 
 from the village I cannot tell you. But so it is. It 
 seems to be disdainful of the earth houses of the Arabs, 
 to be determined to have nothing to do with them. And 
 yet there is little reason in its disdain. 
 
 For it, too, is built of sun-dried earth for the most 
 part, and has only the ground floor possessed by most of 
 them. It stands facing flat but not illimitable desert. 
 The road that passes before it winds away to land where 
 there is water; and from the trellised arbour, but far 
 off, one can see in the sunshine the sharp, shrill green 
 of crops, grown by the Spahis whose tented camp lies 
 to the right of the caravan track that leads over the Col 
 de Sfa to Biskra. 
 
 Far, far along that road one can see from the inn, till 
 its whiteness is as the whiteness of a thread, and any 
 figures travelling upon it are less than little dolls, and 
 even a caravan is but a moving dimness shrouded in a 
 dimness of dust. But towards evening, when the strange 
 clearness of Africa becomes almost terribly acute, every 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 speck upon the thread has a meaning to attract the eye, 
 and set the mind at work asking : 
 
 "What is this that is coming upon the road? Who 
 is this that travels? Is it a mounted man on his thin 
 horse, with his matchlock pointing to the sky? Or is 
 it a woman hunched upon a trotting donkey? Or a No 
 mad on his camel ? Or is it only some poor desert man, 
 half naked in his rags, who tramps on his bare brown 
 feet along the sun-baked track, his hood drawn above 
 his eyes, his knotted club in his hand ?" 
 
 After ten years Marie Lemaire still asked herself such 
 questions in the arbour of the inn, when business was 
 slack, when her husband was away, or was lying half 
 drunk upon the bed after an extra dose of absinthe, 
 and the one-eyed Arab servant, Hadj, was squatting on 
 his haunches in a corner smoking keef. 
 
 Not that the answer mattered. She expected nothing 
 of the road that led from the desert to her. But simply 
 her mind, stagnant though it had become in the solitude 
 of Africa, had to do something to occupy itself somehow. 
 And so she often stared across the plain, with an aimless 
 "Je me demande" trembling upon her lips, and a hard 
 expression of inquiry in her dark brown eyes, whose lids 
 were seamed with tiny wrinkles. Perhaps you will won 
 der why Madame Lemaire, having once had a passion 
 ate love for pleasure and a strong will of her own, had 
 consented to remain for ten years in the solitude of El- 
 Keif, drudging in a miserable auberge, to which few 
 people, and those but poor ones, ever came. 
 
 Circumstances and Robert Lemaire had been too much 
 for her. Both had been cruel. She was something of 
 a slave to both. Lemaire was an utter failure, but there 
 lurked within him still, under the waves of absinthe, 
 traces of the dominating power which had long ago made 
 him a success. 
 
 Madame Lemaire had worshipped him once, and 
 adored his strength and beauty. They were gone now. 
 He was a wreck. But he was a wreck with fierceness in 
 
THE NOMAD 313 
 
 it. And command with him had become a habit. And 
 Africa bids one accept And so Madame Lemaire had 
 stayed for ten long years drudging at the inn beside the 
 salt mountain, and staring down the long white road for 
 the something strange and interesting from the desert 
 that never, never came. 
 
 And still Lemaire drank absinthe, and cursed, and 
 drowsed. For ten long years ! And still Hadj squatted 
 upon his haunches and drugged himself with keef. And 
 still Madame Lemaire stood under the trellised vine, 
 with the sand-grains in her hair, and gazed and gazed 
 over the plain. 
 
 And when a black speck appeared far off upon the 
 whiteness of the track, she watched it till her hard eyes 
 ached, demanding who, or what, it was whether a 
 Spahi on horseback, a woman on her donkey, a Nomad 
 on his camel, or some dark and half-naked pedestrian 
 of the sands, that travelled through the sunset glory to 
 wards the lonely inn. 
 
 ii 
 
 Although Robert Lemaire was a wreck he was not 
 an old man in years, only forty-five, and the fine and 
 tonic air of the Sahara preserved him from complete 
 destruction. Shaggy and unkempt he was, with a heavy 
 bulk of chest and shoulders, a large, pale face, and the 
 angry and distressed eyes of the absinthe slave. His 
 hands trembled habitually, and on his bad days fluttered 
 like leaves. But there was still some force in his pre 
 maturely aged body, still some will in his mind. He 
 was a wreck, but he was the wreck of one who had been 
 really a man and accustomed to dominate women. And 
 this he did not forget. 
 
 One evening it was in May, and the long heats of 
 the desert had already set in Lemaire was away from 
 the auberge, shooting near the salt mountain with an 
 acquaintance, a colonist who had a small farm not far 
 from Biskra, and who had come to spend the night at El- 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Keif. This man had a history. He had once been a 
 hotel-keeper, and had reason to suspect a guest in his 
 hotel of having guilty intercourse with his wife. 
 
 One night, having discovered beyond possibility of 
 doubt that his suspicions were well founded, he waited 
 till the hotel was closed, then made his way to his 
 guest's room, and put three bullets into him as he lay 
 asleep in his bed. For this murder, or act of justice, 
 he got only ten months' imprisonment. But his business 
 as a hotel-keeper was ruined. So now he was a small 
 farmer. He was also, perhaps, the only real friend Le- 
 maire had in Africa, and he came occasionally to spend 
 a night at the Retour du Desert. 
 
 Upon this evening of May, Madame Lemaire was 
 alone in the inn with the one-eyed servant Hadj, pre 
 paring supper for the two sportsmen. The flies buzzed 
 about under the dusty leaves of the vine, which were 
 unstirred by any breeze. The crystals upon the flanks 
 of the salt mountain glittered in the sun that was still 
 fiery, though not far from its declining. 
 
 Upon the dry, earthern walls of the inn and over the 
 stones of the court round which it was built, the lizards 
 crept, or rested with eager, glancing patience, as if alert 
 for further movement, but waiting for a signal. A mule 
 or two stamped in the long stable that was open to the 
 court, and a skeleton of a white Kabyle dog slunk to and 
 fro searching for scraps with his lips curled back from 
 his pointed teeth. 
 
 And Madame Lemaire went slowly about her work 
 with the sand-grains in her hair, and the flies buzzing 
 around her. 
 
 Nothing had happened. Nothing ever did happen at 
 El-Keif. But for some mysterious reason Madame Le 
 maire suddenly felt to-day that her existence in the desert 
 had become really insupportable. It may have been that 
 Africa, gradually draining away the Frenchwoman's 
 vitality, had on this day removed the last little drop of 
 
THE NOMAD 315 
 
 the force that had, till now, enabled her to face her life, 
 however dully, however wearily. 
 
 It may have been that there was some peculiar and 
 unusual heaviness in the air that was generally of a feath 
 ery lightness. Or the reason may have been mental, 
 and Africa may have drawn from this victim's nature, 
 on this particular day, a grain, small as a grain of the 
 sand, of will-power that was absolutely necessary for the 
 keeping of the woman's stamina upon its feet. 
 
 However it was, she felt that she collapsed. She did 
 not cry. She did not curse. She did not faint, or lie 
 down and stare with desperate eyes at the vacant dying 
 day. She did not neglect her domestic duties, and was 
 even now tearing, with a flat key, the cover from some 
 tinned veal and ham for the evening's supper. But 
 something within her had abruptly raised its voice. She 
 seemed to hear it saying: "I can't bear any more!" 
 and to know that it spoke the truth. No longer could 
 she bear it: the African sun on the brown-earth walls, 
 the settling of the sand-grains in her hair, the movement 
 of the flies about her face, wrinkled prematurely by the 
 perpetual dry heat and by the desert winds; the brazen 
 sky above her, the iron land beneath, the silence like 
 the silence that was before creation, or the monotonous 
 sounds that broke it; the mule's stamp on the stones, 
 the barking of the guard-dogs upon the palm roofs of 
 the distant houses in the village, the sneering laugh of 
 the jackals by night, that whining song of Hadj, as he 
 wagged his shaven head over the pipe-bowl into which 
 he pressed the keef that was bringing him to madness. 
 
 She could not bear it any more. 
 
 The look in her face scarcely altered. The corners 
 of her mouth, long since grown grim, did not droop 
 any more than was usual. Her thin, hard hands were 
 steady as they did their dreary work. But the woman 
 who had resisted somehow during ten terrible years of 
 incompatable monotony suddenly died within Marie 
 Lemaire, and the girl of Marseilles, Marie Bretelle, 
 
316 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 shrieked out in the middle-aged, haggard body. 
 
 "This fate was not meant for me. I cannot bear it 
 any more." 
 
 Presently the tin which had held the veal and ham was 
 empty, save for some bits of opaque jelly that still clung 
 round its edges; and Madame Lemaire went over to the 
 dimly burning charcoal with a dirty old fan in her hand. 
 
 Marie Bretelle was still shrieking out, but Madame 
 Lemaire must get ready the supper for her absinthe- 
 soaked husband and his friend the murderer from Alfa. 
 
 The sportsmen were late in returning, and Madame 
 Lemaire's task was finished before they came. She had 
 nothing more to do, and she came out to the arbour that 
 looked upon the road. Here there was an old table 
 stained with the lees of wine. About it stood three or 
 four rickety chairs, Madame Lemaire sat down 
 dropped down, rather on one of these, laid her arms 
 upon the table, and gazed down the empty road. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" she said to herself. "Mon Dieu!" 
 
 She beat one hand on the table and said it aloud. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" 
 
 She stared up at the vine. The leaves were sandy, and 
 she saw insects running over them. She watched them. 
 What were they doing? What purpose could they have ? 
 What purpose could anything have? 
 
 Always the hand tapped, tapped upon the table. 
 
 And Marseilles ! It was still there by the sea, crowded, 
 gay with life. This was the time when the life began 
 to grow turbulent. The cascades were roaring under 
 the lifted gardens where the beasts roamed in their cages. 
 The awnings were out over the cafes in that city of 
 cafes. She could almost see the coloured edges of stuff 
 fluttering in the wind that came up from the harbour 
 and from the Chateau d'If. There was a sound of ham 
 mering along the sea. They were putting up the bathing 
 sheds for the season. It would be good to go into the 
 sea. It would cool one. 
 
 A beetle dropped from the vine on to the table close 
 
THE NOMAD 317 
 
 to the beating hand. Madame Lemaire started violently. 
 She got up, and went to stand in the entrance of the 
 arbour. Marseilles was gone now. Africa was there. 
 
 For ten years she had been looking down the road. 
 She looked down it once more. 
 
 It was the wonderful evening hour when Africa seems 
 to lift itself toward the light, reluctant to be given to 
 the darkness. Very far one could see, and with an 
 almost supernatural distinctness. Yet Madame Lemaire 
 strained her eyes, as people do at dusk when they strive 
 to pierce a veil of gathering darkness. 
 
 What was coming along the road ? 
 
 Her gaze travelled onwards over the hard and bar 
 ren plain till it reached the green crops, on and on past 
 the tents of the Spahis' encampment, near which rose a 
 trail of smoke into the lucent air; farther still, farther 
 and farther, until the whiteness narrowed towards the 
 mountains, and at last was lost to sight. 
 
 And this evening, perhaps because she longed so much 
 for something, for anything, there was nothing on the 
 road. It was a white emptiness under the setting sun. 
 
 Then the woman felt frantic, and she beat her hands 
 together, and she cried aloud : 
 
 "If the Devil himself would only come along the road 
 and ask me to go from this cursed hole of a place, I'd go 
 with him! I'd go! I'd go!" 
 
 She repeated it shrilly, making wild gestures with her 
 hands towards the desert. Her face was twisted awry. 
 She looked just then like a desperate hag of a woman. 
 
 But it was the girl of Marseilles who was crying out 
 in her. It was Marie Bretelle who was demanding the 
 joys she had flung away in her youth for the sake of a 
 handsome face. 
 
 "I'd go! I'd go!" 
 
 The shrill cry went up to the setting sun. But no 
 one answered, and nothing darkened the arid whiteness 
 of the road that wound across the plain and passed be 
 fore the inn-door. 
 
318 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 in 
 
 Night had fallen when the two sportsmen rode in on 
 mules, tired and hungry. Hadj came from his keef to 
 take the beasts, Madame Lemaire from her kitchen to ask 
 if there were any birds for her to cook. Her husband 
 gave her a string of them, and she turned away from 
 him without a word, and went back into the house. 
 
 There was nothing odd in this, but something in his 
 wife's face, seen only for a moment in the darkness of 
 the court, had startled Lemaire, and he looked after her 
 as if he were inclined to call her back; then said to his 
 companion, Jacques Bouvier: 
 
 "Did you see Marie?" 
 
 "Yes. She looks as if she had just stumbled over a 
 jackal," and he laughed. 
 
 Lemaire stood for a minute where he was. Then he 
 shouted to Hadj : 
 
 "Hadj! A Hadj!" 
 
 The one-eyed keef -smoker came. 
 
 "Who has been here to-day?" 
 
 "No one. A few have passed the door, but no one 
 has entered." 
 
 "Good business!" said Bouvier, shrugging his shoul 
 ders. 
 
 "Business!" exclaimed Lemaire, with an oath. "It's 
 a fine business we do here. Another ten years, and we 
 shan't have put by ten sous." 
 
 "Perhaps that is why madame has such a face to 
 night!" 
 
 "We'll see at supper. Now for an absinthe !" 
 
 The two men walked stiffly into the inn, put their guns 
 in a corner, went into the arbour that fronted the desert, 
 and sat down by the table. 
 
 "Marie !" bawled Lemaire. 
 
 He struck his flabby fist down upon the wood. 
 
 "Marie, the absinthe!" 
 
THE NOMAD 319 
 
 Madame Lemaire heard the hoarse shout in the 
 kitchen, and her face went awry again. 
 
 "I'd go! I'd go!" 
 
 She hissed it under her breath. 
 
 "Sacre nom de Dieu! Marie!" 
 
 "Via!" 
 
 "The devil! What a voice!" said Bouvier in the ar 
 bour. 
 
 Lemaire was half turned in his chair. His hands were 
 slightly shaking, and his large white face, with its angry 
 and distressed eyes, looked startled. 
 
 "Who was that?" he said, moving in his chair as if he 
 were going to get up. 
 
 "Who? Your wife!" 
 
 "No, it wasn't!" 
 
 "Well, then " 
 
 At this moment there was a clink and a rattle, and 
 Madame Lemaire came slowly out from the inn, carry 
 ing a tray with an absinthe bottle, a bottle of water, and 
 two thick glasses on china saucers upon it. She set it 
 down between the two men. Her husband stared at 
 her like one who stares suspiciously at a stranger. 
 
 "Was that you who called out?" he asked. 
 
 "Of course ! Who else should it be ? Who ever comes 
 here?" 
 
 "Madame is a bit sick of El-Keif," said Bouvier. 
 "That's what is the matter." 
 
 Madame Lemaire compressed her lips tightly and said 
 nothing. 
 
 Her husband looked more suspicious. 
 
 "Why should she be sick of it? She's done very well 
 with it for ten years," he said roughly. 
 
 Madame Lemaire turned away and left the arbour. 
 She was wearing slippers without heels, and went softly. 
 
 The two men sat in silence, looking at each other. A 
 breath of wind, the first that had come that day, stole 
 from the desert and rustled the leaves of the vine above 
 
320 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 their heads. Lemaire stretched out his trembling hand 
 to the absinthe bottle. 
 
 "For God's sake let's have a drink !" he said. "There's 
 something about my wife that's given my blood a turn." 
 
 "Beat her !" said Bouvier, pushing forward his glass. 
 "If you don't beat them be sure they'll betray you." 
 
 His wife's treachery had set him against all women. 
 Lemaire growled something inarticulate. He was think 
 ing of the days in Algiers, of their strange and often 
 disgraceful existence there. Bouvier knew nothing of 
 that. 
 
 "Come on !" he said. 
 
 And he lifted his glass of absinthe to his lips. 
 
 At supper that night Lemaire perpetually watched his 
 wife. She seemed to be just as usual. For years there 
 had been a sort of sickly weariness upon her face. It 
 was there now. For years there had been a dull sound 
 in her voice. He heard it to-night. For years she had 
 had a poor appetite. She ate little at supper, had her 
 habitual manner of swallowing almost with difficulty. 
 Surely she was just as usual. 
 
 And yet she was not she was not ! 
 
 After supper the two men returned to the arbour to 
 smoke and drink, and Madame Lemaire remained in the 
 kitchen to clear away and wash-up. 
 
 "Isn't there something the matter with my wife?" 
 asked Lemaire, lighting a thin, black cigar, and settling 
 his loose, bulky body in the small chair, with his fat 
 legs stretched out, and one foot crossed over the other. 
 "Or is it that I'm out of sorts to-night ? It seems to me 
 as if she were strange." 
 
 Bouvier was a small, pinched man, with a narrow face, 
 evenly red in colour, large ears that stood out from his 
 closely shaven head, and hot-looking, prominent brown 
 eyes. 
 
 "Perhaps she's taken with some Arab," he said. 
 
 "P'f ! She's dropped all that nonsense. The devil! 
 A woman of forty's an old woman in Africa." 
 
THE NOMAD 
 
 Bouvier spat. 
 
 "Isn't she?" 
 
 "Oh, don't ask me about women! Young or old, 
 they're always calling the Devil to their elbow." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To put them up to wickedness. Perhaps your wife's 
 been calling him to-night. You look behind her pres 
 ently, and you may catch a sight of him. He's always 
 about where women are." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 Lemaire laughed mirthlessly. 
 
 "D'you think he'd show himself to me?" 
 
 He emptied his glass. Bouvier suddenly looked ter 
 rible looked like the man who had put three bullets into 
 his sleeping guest. 
 
 "How did I know?" he said. 
 
 He leaned across the table towards Lemaire. 
 
 "How did I know ?" he repeated in a low voice. 
 
 "What when your wife " 
 
 "Yes. They didn't let me see anything. They were 
 too sharp. No; it was one night I saw him with his 
 mouth at her ear, coming in behind her through the door 
 like a shadow. There!" 
 
 He sat back with his hands on his knees. Lemaire 
 stared at him again. 
 
 Again the wind rustled furtively through the diseased 
 vine-leaves of the arbour. 
 
 "It was then that I got out my revolver and charged 
 it," continued Bouvier, in a less mysterious voice, as of 
 one returned to practical life. "For I knew she'd been 
 up to some villainy. Pass the bottle !" . . . 
 
 "Pass the bottle! . . . Why don't you pass the bot 
 tle?" 
 
 "Pardon!" 
 
 Lemaire pushed the bottle over to his friend. 
 
 "What's the matter with you to-night?" 
 
 "Nothing. You mean to say ... why d'you talk 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 such nonsense? D'you think I'm a fool to be taken in 
 by rubbish like that?" 
 
 "Well, then, why did you sit just as if you'd seen 
 him?" 
 
 "I'm a bit tired to-night; that's what it is. We went 
 a long way. The wine'll pull me together." 
 
 He poured out another glass. 
 
 "You don't mean to say," he continued, "you believe 
 in the Devil?" 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not! Why should I? Nobody does men, 
 I mean. That sort of thing is all very well for women." 
 
 Bouvier said nothing, but sat with his arms on the 
 table, staring out towards the desert. He looked at the 
 empty road just in front of them, let his eyes travel 
 along until it disappeared into the night. 
 
 "I say, that sort of thing is all very well for women," 
 repeated Lemaire. 
 
 "I hear you." 
 
 "But I want to know whether you don't think the 
 
 same." 
 
 "As you?" 
 
 "Yes; to be sure." 
 
 "I might have done once." 
 
 "But you don't now?" 
 
 "There's a devil in the desert; that's certain." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I tell you he came out of the desert to turn 
 my wife wrong." 
 
 "Then you weren't joking?" 
 
 "Not I. It's as true as that I went and charged my 
 revolver, because I saw what I told you. Here's madame 
 coming out to join us." 
 
 Lemaire shifted heavily and abruptly in his chair. 
 
 "Hallo!" he said, in a brutal tone of voice. "What's 
 up with you to-night ?" 
 
THE NOMAD 323 
 
 As he spoke he stared hard at his wife's shoulder, just 
 by her ear. 
 
 "Nothing. What are you looking at? There 
 isn't " 
 
 She put up her hand quickly to her shoulder and felt 
 over her dress. 
 
 "Ugh!" She shook herself. "I thought you'd seen a 
 scorpion on me." 
 
 Bouvier, whose red face seemed to be deepening in 
 colour under the influence of the red Algerian wine, 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 "It wasn't a scorpion he was looking for," he ex 
 claimed. His thin body shook with mirth till his chair 
 creaked under him. 
 
 "It wasn't a scorpion," he repeated. 
 
 "What was it, then?" said Madame Lemaire. 
 
 She looked from one man to the other from the one 
 who was strange in his laughter, to the other who was 
 even stranger in his gravity. 
 
 "What have you been saying about me?" she said, 
 with a flare-up of suspicion. 
 
 "Well," said Bouvier, recovering himself a little, "if 
 you must know, we were talking about the Devil." 
 
 The woman started and gave the table a shake. Some 
 of her husband's wine was spilled over it. 
 
 "The Devil take you !" he bawled, with sudden fury. 
 
 "I only wish he would!" 
 
 The two men jumped back as if a viper of the sands 
 had suddenly reared up its thin head between them. 
 
 "I only wish he would !" 
 
 It was Marie Bretelle who had spoken, the girl of 
 Marseilles, who still lived in the body of Marie Lemaire. 
 But it was Marie Lemaire from whom the two men 
 shrank away Marie Lemaire changed, startling, terrible, 
 her haggard face furious with expression, her thin hands 
 clutching at the edge of the table, from which the wine- 
 bottle had fallen, to be smashed at their feet. 
 
 For a moment there was a dead silence succeeding 
 
SNAKE-BITE 
 
 that second shrill cry. Then Lemaire scrambled up heav 
 ily from his chair. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he stammered. "What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 And then she told him, like a fury, and with the words 
 which had surely been accumulating in her mind, like 
 water behind a dam, for ten years. She told him what 
 she had wanted, and what she had had. And when at 
 last she had finished telling him, she stood for a minute, 
 making mouths at him in silence, as if she still had some 
 thing to say, some final word of summing up. 
 
 "Stop that!" 
 
 It was Lemaire who spoke; and as he spoke he thrust 
 out one of his white, shaking hands to cover that night 
 mare mouth. But she beat his hand down, and screamed, 
 with the gesture. 
 
 "And if the Devil himself would come along the road 
 to fetch me from this cursed place, I'd go with him! 
 D'you hear ? I'd go with him ! I'd go with him !" 
 
 IV 
 
 When the scream died away, one-eyed Hadj was stand 
 ing at the entrance to the arbour. Madame Lemaire felt 
 that he was there, turned round, and saw him. 
 
 "I'd go with him if he was an Arab," she said, but 
 almost muttering now, for her voice had suddenly failed 
 her, though her passion was still red-hot. "Even the 
 Arabs they're better than you, than absinthe-soaked, 
 do-nothing Roumis, who sit and drink, drink " 
 
 Her voice cracked, went into a whisper, disappeared. 
 She thrust out her hand, swept the glasses off the table 
 to follow the bottle, turned, and went out of the arbour 
 softly on her slippered feet. 
 
 And one-eyed Hadj stood there laughing, for he un 
 derstood French very well, although he was half -mad 
 with keef. 
 
 "She'd go with an Arab!" he repeated. "She'd go 
 
THE NOMAD 325 
 
 with an Arab !" And then he saw his master's face, and 
 slipped back to his keef-pipe. 
 
 The two Frenchmen sat staring at one another across 
 the empty table under the shivering vine-leaves, which, 
 were now stirred continually by the wind of night Le- 
 maire's large face had gone a dusky grey. About his 
 eyes there was a tinge of something that was almost lead 
 colour. His loose mouth had dropped, and the lower lip 
 disclosed his decayed teeth. His hands, laid upon the 
 table as if for support, shook and jumped, were never 
 still even for a second. 
 
 Bouvier was almost purple. Veins stood out about 
 his forehead. The blood had gone to his ears and to his 
 eyes. Now he leaned across to Lemaire. 
 
 "Beat her !" he said. "Beat her for that ! Hadj heard 
 her. If you don't beat her, the Arabs " 
 
 But before he had finished the sentence Lemaire had 
 got up, with a wild gesture of his shaking hand, and 
 gone unsteadily into the house. 
 
 That night Madame Lemaire suffered at the hands of 
 her husband, while Bouvier and Hadj listened in the 
 darkness of the court. 
 
 It was drawing towards evening on the following day, 
 and Madame Lemaire was quite alone in the inn. Hadj 
 had gone to the village for some more keef, and Le 
 maire and Bouvier had set out together in the morning 
 for Batna. 
 
 So she was quite alone. Her face was bruised and dis 
 coloured near the right eye. Her head ached. She felt 
 immensely listless. To-day there was no activity in her 
 misery. It seemed a slow-witted, lethargic thing, un 
 deserving even of respect 
 
 There were no customers. There was nothing to do, 
 absolutely nothing. She went heavily into the arbour, 
 and sank down upon a chair. At first she sat upright 
 But presently she spread her arms out upon the table, 
 
326 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 and laid her discoloured face on them, and remained so 
 for a long time. 
 
 Any traveller, passing by on the road from the desert, 
 would have thought that she was asleep. But she was 
 not asleep. Nor had she slept all night. It is not easy 
 to sleep after such punishment as she had received. 
 
 And no traveller passed by. 
 
 The flies, finding that the woman kept quite still, set 
 tled upon her face, her hair, her hands, cleaned them 
 selves, stretched their legs and wings, went to and fro 
 busily upon her. She never moved to drive them away. 
 
 She was not thinking just then. She was only feeling 
 feeling how she was alone, feeling that this enormous 
 sun-dried land was about her, stretching away to right 
 and to left of her, behind her and before, feeling that 
 in all this enormous, sun-dried land there was nobody 
 who wanted her, nobody thinking of her, nobody coming 
 towards her to take her away into a different life, into 
 a life that she could bear. 
 
 All this she was dully feeling. 
 
 Perfectly still were the diseased vine-leaves above her 
 head, motionless as she was. On them the insects went 
 to and fro, actively leading their mysterious lives, as 
 the flies went to and fro on her. 
 
 For a long time she remained thus. All the white 
 road was empty before her as far as eye could see. No 
 trail of smoke went up by the growing crops beside the 
 distant tents of the Spahis. It seemed as if man had 
 abandoned Africa, leaving only one of God's creatures 
 there, this woman who leaned across the discoloured 
 table with her bruised face hidden on her arms. 
 
 The hour before sunset approached, the miraculous 
 hour of the day, when Africa seems to lift itself towards 
 the light that will soon desert it, as if it could not bear 
 to let the glory go, as if it would not consent to be hidden 
 in the night. Upon the salt mountain the crystals glit 
 tered. 
 
 The details of the land began to live as they had not 
 
THE NOMAD 327 
 
 lived all day. The wonderful clearness came, in which 
 all things seem filled with a supernatural meaning. And, 
 even in the dulness of her misery, habit took hold of 
 Madame Lemaire. 
 
 She lifted her head from her arms, and she stared 
 down the long white road. Her gaze travelled. It 
 started from the patch of glaring white before the ar 
 bour, and it went away like one who goes to a tryst. 
 It went down the road, and on, and on. It reached the 
 green of the crops. It passed the Spahis' tents. It moved 
 towards the distant mountains that hid the plains and 
 the palms of Biskra. 
 
 The flies buzzed into the air. 
 
 Madame Lemaire had got up from her seat. With her 
 hands laid flat upon the table she stared at the thread 
 of white that was the limit of her vision. Then she lifted 
 her hands and curved them, and put them above her eyes 
 to form a shade. And then she moved and came out to 
 the entrance of the arbour. 
 
 She had seen a black speck upon the road. 
 
 There was dust around it. As so often before she 
 asked herself the question : "Who is it coming towards 
 the inn from the desert?" But to-day she asked herself 
 the question as she had never asked it before, with a sort 
 of violence, with a passionate eagerness, with a leaping 
 expectation. And she stepped right out into the road, 
 as if she would go and meet the traveller, would hasten 
 with stretched-out hands as to some welcome friend. 
 
 The sun dropped its burning rays upon her hair, and 
 she realised her folly, and took her hands from her eyes 
 and laughed to herself. Then she went back to the ar 
 bour and stood by the table waiting. Slowly very 
 slowly it seemed to Madame Lemaire the black speck 
 grew larger on the white. But there was very much 
 dust to-day, and always the misty cloud was round it, 
 stirred up by was it a camel's padding feet, or the hoofs 
 
 of a horse, or ? She could not tell yet, but soon she 
 
 would be able to tell. 
 
328 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 Now it was approaching the watered land, was not 
 far from the Spahis' tents. And a great fear came upon 
 her that it might turn aside to them, that it might be per 
 haps a Spahi riding home from his patrol of the desert. 
 She felt that she could not bear to be alone any longer ; 
 that if she could not see and speak to someone before 
 sunset she must go mad. 
 
 The traveller passed before the Spahis' camp without 
 turning aside; and now the dust was less, and Madame 
 Lemaire could see that it was a Nomad mounted on a 
 camel. 
 
 With a smothered exclamation she hurried into the 
 inn. A sudden resolve possessed her. She would pre 
 pare a couscous. And then, if the Nomad desired to pass 
 on without entering the inn, she would detain him. 
 
 She would offer him a couscous for nothing, only she 
 must have company. Whoever the stranger was, how 
 ever poor, however filthy, ragged, hideous, or even ter 
 rible, he must stay a while at the inn, distract her thoughts 
 for an instant. 
 
 Without that she would go mad. 
 
 Quickly she began her preparations. There was time. 
 He could not be here for twenty minutes yet, and the 
 meal for a couscous was all ready. She had only to 
 
 She moved frantically about the kitchen. 
 
 Twenty minutes later she heard the peevish roar of 
 a camel from the road, and ran out to meet the Nomad, 
 carrying the couscous. As she came into the arbour 
 she noticed that it was already dark outside. 
 
 The night had fallen suddenly. 
 
 VI 
 
 That night, as Lemaire and Bouvier were nearing the 
 inn, riding slowly upon their mules, they heard before 
 them in the darkness the angry snarling of a camel. 
 
 Almost immediately it died away. 
 
THE NOMAD 329 
 
 "Madame has company," said Bouvier. "There's a 
 customer at the Retour du Desert." 
 
 "Some damned Arab!" said Lemaire. "Come for a 
 coffee or a couscous. Much good that'll do us !" 
 
 They rode on in silence. When they reached the inn, 
 the road before it was empty. 
 
 "Ma foi," said Bouvier. "Nobody here ! The camel 
 was getting up, then, and Madame is alone again." 
 
 "Marie!" called Lemaire. "Marie! The absinthe!" 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "Marie! Nom d'un Men! Marie! The absinthe! 
 Marie!" 
 
 He let his heavy body down from the mule. 
 
 "Where the devil is she? Marie! Marie!" 
 
 He went into the arbour, stumbled over something, 
 and uttered a curse. 
 
 In reply to it there was a shrill and prolonged howl 
 from the court. 
 
 'What is it? What's the dog up to?" said Bouvier, 
 whipping out his revolver and following Lemaire. "The 
 table knocked over! What's up? D'you think there's 
 anything wrong?" 
 
 The Kabyle dog howled again, slunk into the arbour 
 from the court, and pressed itself against Lemaire's legs. 
 He gave it a kick in the ribs that sent it yelping into 
 the night. 
 
 "Marie! Marie!" 
 
 There was the anger of alarm in his voice now; but 
 no one answered his call. 
 
 Walking furtively, the two men passed through the 
 doorway into the kitchen. Lemaire struck a match, lit 
 a candle, took it in his hand, and they searched the inn, 
 and the court, then returned to the arbour. In the ar 
 bour, close to the overturned table, they found a broken 
 bowl, with a couscous scattered over the earth beside it. 
 Several vine-leaves were trodden into the ground near by. 
 
 "Someone's been here," said Lemaire, staring at Bou 
 vier in the candlelight, which flickered in his angry and 
 
330 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 distressed eyes. "Someone's been. She was bringing 
 him a couscous. See here!" 
 
 He pointed with his foot. 
 
 Bouvier laughed uneasily. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said "perhaps it was the Devil come 
 for her. You remember! She said last night, if he 
 came, she'd go with him." 
 
 The candle dropped from Lemaire's shaking hand. 
 
 "Damn you ! Why d'you talk like that?" he exclaimed 
 furiously. "She must be somewhere about. Let's have 
 an absinthe. Perhaps she's gone to the village." 
 
 They had an absinthe, and searched once more. 
 
 Presently Hadj, who was half mad with keef, joined 
 them. The rumour of what was going forward got about 
 in the village ; and other Arabs glided noiselessly through 
 the night to share in the absinthe and the quest, for that 
 
 night Lemaire forgot to lock up the bottle. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Bu the hostess of the inn at El-Keif has not been seen 
 again. 
 
SIX: THE TWO FEARS 
 
 MRS. ALLINGTON was afraid. She had always been 
 what is called a nervous sort of woman. Constitutionally 
 delicate, thin, small and pale, with large, anxious, brown 
 eyes, her whole appearance suggested sensitiveness and 
 an almost shrinking timidity. A widow now, she had 
 been married young to a man who did everything "in his 
 own way." 
 
 He had loved her, but in his own way. He had been 
 kind to her, but in his own way. He had eaten and 
 drunk, taken his pleasures and undergone his misfor 
 tunes, worshipped himself and paid homage to his 
 Creator in his own way. And some had thought that his 
 way was a trying one. Most of his friends and ac 
 quaintances had called him at one time or another a try 
 ing man. Several had gone so far as to say of him that 
 he had a way with him that would have tried a saint. 
 
 Mrs. Allington may, or may not, have been a saint; 
 anyhow, she never said, and never showed, that her hus 
 band tried her. She fell in with all his wishes while he 
 was alive, and appeared to mourn him with deep sin 
 cerity when he was dead. She had looked very anxious 
 while he was with her, largely presiding over her life; 
 she continued to look very anxious after he was as Miss 
 Allington, her knitting, charitable sister-in-law, put it 
 "gathered in." 
 
 It seemed as if she couldn't look anything else. 
 
 A fixed expression may with time become almost as 
 
332 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 deceptive as a mask. If a woman always looks anxious, 
 nobody bothers about her anxieties; perhaps, indeed, 
 nobody believes in them. By displaying she may actu 
 ally conceal. 
 
 So it was with Mrs. Allington. 
 
 When the European war broke out she was living in a 
 small house in Kensington with her only child, Ivo, who 
 was just twenty-five, and w r ho was doing well as a 
 journalist. 
 
 Mrs. Allington had just enough for her necessities; 
 but for her comforts, for those innumerable small things 
 which draw some of the austere harshness out of life, 
 which paint in a little warm colour on the grey, she was 
 dependent upon Ivo. 
 
 But for Ivo she must have lived in a cheap boarding- 
 house instead of in that cherished possession 247, 
 Lenorva Road, West Kensington. But for Ivo really 
 nice dresses not many, and never expensive, but in a 
 modest way satisfactory would have been "beyond her." 
 But for Ivo she could not have indulged in occasional 
 visits to the theatre and occasional pleasant afternoons 
 at the Ballad Concerts, followed by tea in Bond Street. 
 Ivo was clever and had the artistic temperament which 
 implies startling irritabilities and occasional exhibitions 
 of nerves upon the tight-rope but he was very good to 
 his mother in his own way, which was not inherited 
 from his father. 
 
 And now Mrs. Allington was full of fear connected 
 with Ivo. Two fears, in fact, possessed her soul. She 
 was afraid that Ivo would enlist in the army Kitchener 
 had begun to form for active service against the Huns. 
 That was fear number one. And she was afraid that he 
 would not enlist. And that was fear number two. 
 
 She felt that she simply couldn't bear it if Ivo enlisted, 
 and she knew that she couldn't endure it if he didn't. As 
 she said absolutely nothing about either of her two fears, 
 and merely went on looking extremely anxious, nobody 
 had the least suspicion that she was not "just as usual." 
 
THE TWO FEARS 333 
 
 Even Ivo, who was supposed to be so intuitive, and to 
 whom human nature was said to be an open book, even 
 Ivo had no notion that his mother was in any way wor 
 ried. To tell the truth, he thought he was doing all 
 the worrying that was being done at 247, Lenorva Road. 
 
 When the war broke out he had had tremendous vi 
 sions of "finding himself" as the ideal war correspondent. 
 But Kitchener everything was put upon Kitchener by 
 everybody had other views. Or so it was rumoured. 
 There were not to be any war correspondents. And so 
 for a time Ivo went on in the old way of a successful 
 young free-lance. He wrote about war in West Kensing 
 ton, and khaki began to appear in the streets. It became 
 more and more mysteriously prevalent. One saw it in 
 the Tube ; one jostled against it in the Underground ; one 
 sat beside it upon the tops of 'buses; one met it unex 
 pectedly in great abundance on coming round corners ; it 
 tramped about the parks, and did remarkable manoeuvres 
 in sunlit public gardens, and sang along the Mall, and 
 whistled its way along the Embankment beside the old 
 brown river. 
 
 And Ivo began to worry. 
 
 He was a clever boy and a good sort of boy, but he 
 was of the intellectual rather than of the muscular type. 
 He was decidedly an individualist, and, though he was 
 a journalist, he was much concerned about art. He knew 
 all the ways of the Cubists, the Futurists, the Vorticists; 
 he was very keen on the Russian ballet; he was deeply 
 interested in what Mr. George Moore was going to do 
 next, and swore almost passionately by Granville Barker. 
 
 In music his taste ran rather to Scriabine than to the 
 composer of "Tipperary." 
 
 And so he worried quite a good deal. 
 
 And in Mrs. Allington fear number two began to 
 grow and to attain conspicuous proportions. 
 
 How perfectly terrible it would be if Ivo didn't en 
 list! 
 
 The sons of neighbours and even of friends began to 
 
334 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 change colour; from the blue serge, or the dull green of 
 Harris tweed, or the black of that cloth which is made 
 up into "morning coats," they faded or was it bloomed ? 
 into khaki. 
 
 And the young men who hadn't changed colour became 
 louder in their assertion that it would be a short war, 
 "all over long before these fellows in a hurry get their 
 rifles." 
 
 Mrs. Allington lay awake night after night, and fear 
 number two crouched beside her pillow. 
 
 What would she do if Ivo didn't enlist? 
 
 ii 
 
 She and her son did not talk very much about the war. 
 Ivo honestly thought that she "didn't take much stock 
 of it," and she thought well, who knows what little 
 women think about the great things, and the men who 
 are in them ? But she noticed the khaki. She noticed it 
 so much that she saw the world clad in it. For her there 
 were no more trousers, there were only puttees. 
 
 One day, when fear number two impended over her 
 like a Colossus, Ivo said to her in a very casual way : 
 
 "I suppose you could get along on a good deal less 
 than you do, mother at a pinch, eh?" 
 
 Fear number two shrivelled and was gone, and fear 
 number one lifted itself suddenly to the height of Mrs. 
 Allington's heart; but she went on looking anxious, and 
 said in her usual voice a very light and rather faded 
 soprano : 
 
 "Yes, dear, I suppose I could, at a pinch." 
 
 "That's what I thought. It's generally possible to 
 knock off a few things. Most of us wade through super 
 fluities." 
 
 "Dear?" 
 
 "My way of saying we complicate our needs." 
 
 "Oh, I see." 
 
 But he felt perfectly certain she didn't. Ivo was apt 
 
THE TWO FEARS 335 
 
 to think that his mother didn't see things. He loved 
 her more than he knew and more than she knew, but 
 he didn't consider her at all clever. You see, he was 
 clever himself, and that fact shut certain doors against 
 him. 
 
 During the next few days Mrs. Allington was never 
 alone. Always day and night fear number one was 
 with her. 
 
 How terrible, how almost unbearable it would be if 
 Ivo were to enlist ! She looked very anxious and exactly 
 as usual. 
 
 Ivo, meanwhile, was going through a mental struggle 
 which actually made him lose weight. He wanted to 
 enlist and he hated the idea of enlisting; he longed to be 
 a patriot and to prove his patriotism, and he loathed the 
 thought of giving up his career, and still more the 
 thought of being a private in the midst of a crowd of 
 privates, of having to live always, day and night, in 
 public, hopelessly and everlastingly mixed up with all 
 sorts and conditions of men with whom probably he 
 would not have an "idea in common." 
 
 At moments he longed to be sixteen, at other mo 
 ments he pined to be forty-one, and look it. He thought 
 of Mr. Roger Fry and the Post-Impressionists, of Mr. 
 George Moore and "The Apostle/' of the Russian ballet 
 and "Thamar," of the strange and realistic novel he 
 meant to write, the novel which would take him out of 
 journalism. 
 
 He also thought of his mother. 
 
 Had he the "right" to sacrifice his mother on the altar 
 of his patriotism? He was a free lance in journalism. 
 No one would continue a salary to him if he joined the 
 colours. It would mean pinching by his mother ; it might 
 even mean the giving up of 247, Lenorva Road. Could 
 he, ought he to require this of his mother ? It would be 
 beastly sleeping in a tent in the damp perhaps on Salis 
 bury Plain with a hugger-mugger of fellows who had 
 never even heard of half the things which meant so much 
 
336 SNAKE-BITE 
 
 to him. Surely an only son oughtn't to do that when 
 swarms of brothers were showing their sleek heads and 
 fancy socks all over the country without a thought of 
 joining the Army. 
 
 But the khaki the khaki ! Everywhere it met him like 
 a summons ; and at last he said to his mother abruptly : 
 
 "They seem to want a lot of men for this war, mother 
 eh?" 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Mrs. Allington, in the faded so 
 prano. 
 
 "Kitchener seems very keen on increasing the num 
 bers." 
 
 "Does he?" 
 
 "Well, you see the appeals on all the walls. That can 
 only mean one thing." 
 
 He spoke rather irritably. 
 
 "I don't look at the walls very much, dear," said Mrs. 
 Allington vaguely. 
 
 Ivo was silent for a moment. He got up, went to the 
 window of the little sitting-room, and looked out upon 
 Lenorva Road, that stretching paradise of stucco. His 
 lips were pursed and his brown eyes stared. They saw 
 a black cat, which moved between the expressionless 
 houses like a creature whose nature belonged to the 
 jungle. 
 
 "And my nature?" he thought. "Does it belong to 
 Lenorva Road or to England?" 
 
 He turned round. 
 
 "Would you advise me to join, mother?" he asked. 
 
 Then, on either side of her stood the two fears, tall, 
 stiff, forbidding, like sentinels with fixed bayonets. She 
 waited a moment, not looking at them ; then she said : 
 
 "Well, dear, as you say, they seem to want a lot of 
 men for this war. And if Lord Kitchener is really very 
 keen on increasing the numbers, perhaps " 
 
 But at this point the faded soprano faded quite 
 away. 
 
THE TWO FEARS 337 
 
 "I'll join, mother. It may mean leaving Lenorva 
 Road." 
 
 " Whatever it means " said Mrs. Allington. 
 
 And there she stopped, perhaps because of surprise. 
 For a strange thing had happened the two sentinels 
 with the fixed bayonets had vanished. 
 
 She never saw them again. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Ivo joined never mind what regiment. Presently 
 he fell at the Dardanelles. 
 
 His mother received the telegram announcing his death 
 in a cheap boarding-house where she is living now in 
 Rova Crescent, Shepherd's Bush. 
 
 I saw her walking alone down the road not very long 
 ago. She was dressed in a very ordinary black gown, 
 not such a good gown as she used to wear in the days 
 when she lived at No. 247. But what struck me was her 
 expression. 
 
 She no longer looked anxious. If it hadn't been Mrs. 
 Allington I should have thought she looked proud, proud 
 in a beautiful way. 
 
 As I took off my hat to her I thought : 
 
 "So the widow still gives her mite.'* 
 
NRLF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ 
 
 This book is due on the last DATE stamped below. 
 
 JAN 4 77 * 
 
 50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 
 
PR6015.I4S63 
 
 3 2106 00198 9125